Quentin's laughter still echoed faintly in the rafters when Nolan pulled himself back up. The manic glee shrank into silence, replaced by the sharp clarity of his own mind. He stood there in the slaughterhouse, surrounded by broken bodies, the air sharp with the smell of blood and Crane's chemicals.
The case was heavy in his hand, filled with trembling glass vials. Nolan stared at it for a long moment, then let his gaze wander to the carnage scattered around the floor. Limbs at unnatural angles. A man's face slack with terror, eyes glassy. Another with his jaw blown half away. All of them dead by his hand yes his hands he wanted it and knew what was going to happen when he let vey act.
And he felt nothing.
No horror, no guilt. Just a flat calm.
That realization sat with him longer than he liked. His fingers tightened against the handle of the case, and he frowned, jaw working as if chewing the thought. How many more times could he do this before there was truly nothing left of him to pull back?
He shook his head sharply, breaking the spiral. Not now. Not here.
Turning, Nolan slipped out of the slaughterhouse. The night air was cooler than he expected, and he let it wash over him as he disappeared back into the alleys, taking the quick route home.
***
The Continental greeted him in silence, its marbled halls and polished brass untouched by the filth of the outside world. Nolan moved through it wordlessly, the doorman offering him a respectful nod and nothing more. Upstairs, the suite's door closed behind him with a muted click.
He stripped down and stepped beneath the shower's hot spray. Blood and grime washed away in red-brown rivulets, circling the drain until nothing remained. He braced his hands against the tile, bowing his head as the water beat down, steam filling the room. No thoughts just the heat, the sound, the silence.
When he finally emerged, he toweled off and dressed in clean clothes, then dropped onto the couch in his living room. The case sat on the low table before him, its steel surface catching the dim light. Nolan flipped it open, the breakaway slips gleaming like venom in their neat rows.
Fear itself, captured in such a small container.
He sat back, staring at them. "Test subjects," he muttered to himself. His voice sounded heavier in the quiet room. "I need test subjects."
The thought twisted in his mind. He didn't want innocents. He wouldn't cross that line not yet, not ever if he could help it. The ones who deserved it the predators, the traffickers, the filth that fed on Gotham's weak, yes they would serve well.
Still, a sigh dragged out of him. He closed his eyes and let his head sink against the back of the couch, letting the weight in his chest press him down. For a brief moment, there was nothing but the steady rhythm of his own breathing and the distant hum of the city below.
The slips sat untouched, gleaming in the quiet like waiting eyes.
After a while, Nolan opened his eyes again. The fear gas still sat before him, but the heaviness in his chest had dulled into something quieter something manageable. Slowly, he pushed himself upright, bones aching with the weight of the night.
He crossed the suite and settled in at his desk. The computer flickered to life beneath his fingertips, the soft blue glow lighting his face. With a practiced motion, he typed in his access codes, the system opening into the carefully webbed networks of his businesses.
Tomorrow weighed on him the meeting with the Penguin. Neutral ground had been chosen carefully, negotiated back and forth until both sides could stomach it: the abandoned Wintergreen Rail Station, a cavernous relic beneath Gotham's east end. Too public to be a trap, too old and forgotten to be crowded. Both sides would bring only small entourages. If this meeting went sideways, the fragile balance in Gotham's underworld would fracture yet again.
He needed it to go well. The underpass needed it to go well. And, though he hated to admit it, Gotham itself needed it to go well.
Nolan scrolled through the numbers on his screen. The underpass wasn't just surviving anymore it was truly a piece of art. What started as scattered souls beneath the city's skin was slowly hardening into an major organization. Networks, supply chains, hierarchy structure where there had once been only chaos. It was becoming something that could last.
He flipped over to the Continental's systems. Profits were steady, bookings strong. Word had spread after certain figures had checked in killers, mercenaries, people whose very presence meant the hotel was once again the city's quiet center of gravity. The notifications blinked at him, subtle but undeniable: business was good.
Nolan found himself smiling. Almost unconsciously, his hand rose, fingertips brushing the line of his jaw as if to ground himself in the reality of it. After all the blood and fire, after the heartbreak and beatings he had taken while clawing at Gotham's throat, there was proof yes proof it wasn't for nothing.
He leaned back in his chair, eyes on the glow of the monitors, and whispered into the silence:
"Worth it. It's all worth it."
****
The slaughterhouse still stank of rust, blood, and rot when the shadows shifted near the rafters. A gloved hand caught steel piping, and Batman dropped silently to the concrete floor, cape settling around him like smoke.
He didn't need long to realize what had transpired. His lenses flickered faintly as he switched to different filters, scanning the air.
"Trace particulates," his voice was low, gravel edged. The onboard systems in the cowl whirred, registering a faint chemical signature. Fear toxin unstable, already dissipating, but present enough to leave its mark.
He stepped further in. Bodies lay sprawled across the floor, some twisted in unnatural positions, others with rictus masks of terror frozen on their faces. He crouched by one, fingers brushing the lapel of an expensive jacket. A face he recognized—Denton Vale. Vale was a mid-level broker who specialized in connecting arms buyers with suppliers. Another body nearby, a bald man with snake tattoos across his scalp Orson Kreel, an enforcer who had moved black-market weapons through Blüdhaven.
"Buyers," Batman muttered, voice like stone breaking. "Known arms clients. No coincidence they're here."
His eyes traced the room. Scuff marks on the concrete floor near the far wall—drag marks, quick, deliberate. He followed them to where a metal case had been set down, a faint outline of condensation still visible in the dust. The hinge marks told him it had been opened here.
A deal.
He rose slowly, piecing it together in his head, voice low and precise, as if cataloguing for the record.
"They came to buy. Scarecrow delivered. Fear gas… but not in large quantities. Samples. Vials." He looked again at the corpses, the unnatural poses, the way terror still lingered in their eyes. "It was opened here. Enough to terrify them before they died."
Batman walked toward the exit, but stopped. The case wasn't here anymore. Gone. Taken. His mind ran through probabilities.
"Someone else was present. Intervened after the demonstration."
He crouched again, hand grazing the edge of a shattered table. The wood was splintered outward, a sudden violent impact, not methodical. Rage had been in the room. Violence sharp and quick. The spacing of the fallen men efficient kills, fast takedowns.
Batman's jaw tightened beneath the cowl.
"Not Crane. Crane doesn't kill like this. This was someone else."
His eyes scanned higher, finding faint footprints in the dust near the exit door size consistent with a man, weight shift irregular, as though the gait changed mid-stride. Unpredictable.
Batman's mind assembled the chain, 'Scarecrow brings his toxin. Buyers arrive. A third party intervenes someone dangerous, someone erratic. The buyers die. Scarecrow flees. The case… stolen.'
The Dark Knight exhaled slowly, his breath warm inside the mask. Whoever had taken Crane's product wasn't just another criminal buyer. They were something else something that left even Scarecrow running, a professional they had a way to not be affected by the gas.