The room they met in was a half-collapsed tenement on the edge of the Narrows, one of their usual haunts. A single lantern threw long shadows across the cracked walls, the table between them scavenged from three doors laid across cinder blocks. It smelled of dust, gun oil, and too many bodies packed into too small a space.
Quentin leaned against the table instead of sitting. The smoke from his cigarette curled upward, pale against the gloom. Around him, the leaders of the Underpasses had gathered: Stitch with his ever-present cap pulled low, Naima with arms folded tight across her chest, Marcy perched like a crow with a notebook balanced on her knees, Dre slouched against the wall, broad shoulders filling the space.
He tapped ash into a coffee tin and began.
"Penguin agreed to stay his hand. For now." His voice carried a deliberate calm, but the words sat heavy. "But he made it very clear we've drawn eyes. The other outfits? They don't like what we've become. And they're not going to let it slide."
Murmurs rose. Stitch muttered something under his breath about vultures circling.
Marcy spoke first, quiet but sharp. "Pressure from all sides, then. Did he name names?"
"Sort of." Quentin shook his head. "But he didn't have to. You all know who. The families, the old guard, the independents who think we've stepped into their alleys. We've been running fast. Too fast. That was the point of his warning."
Dre pushed off the wall, jaw tight. "So he's playing prophet now? We've been holding fine."
"Fine," Naima echoed, but there was no conviction in it. Her eyes stayed locked on Quentin. "The truth is, Dre, we've been skating. You know it as well as I do. We've taken on Black Mask's operations, his men, his corners. But we never stopped to consolidate. Never rooted in. If they push back now, we'll be scattered."
The words hung, sour.
Quentin drew slow on his cigarette, then let out a laugh with no humor. "You're not wrong." He looked down at the map sprawled across the makeshift table, marked with their zones in red chalk. "I've been preaching expansion momentum. But you're right. We've got territory, but territory without control is a leash waiting to choke us."
He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again, steady. "We pause. We fortify. No more grabs until what we've got is ironclad. That means patrols that actually report in, caches that stay stocked, every corner claimed gets eyes twenty-four-seven. If we're going to survive what's coming, it won't be because we ran faster. It'll be because we held the line."
Stitch leaned forward, voice low. "And what if he's wrong? What if Penguin's just trying to spook us into slowing down?"
Quentin smiled thinly. "Then we'll be overprepared. Worst case, we waste time. Best case, we live."
For a moment, silence reigned each of them weighing the truth of it.
Then Naima broke it. "Fine. We tighten the net. Nobody moves through our zones without us knowing. If the other crews come sniffing, we'll see it before it lands on us."
Marcy's pencil scratched across her page. "I'll move our stashes. More redundancy. If they come, we don't lose everything in one hit."
Dre finally nodded, resigned. "And I'll finish the tunnel system. Get the kids out of sight, make sure Croc's warned. If they try to flood us, they'll drown first."
Quentin ground out his cigarette on the table and straightened. His grin returned, sharp and wolfish.
"Good. Then we're agreed."
***
The penthouse was quiet except for the rhythmic clatter of keys beneath Nolan's fingers. The glow of the computer screen painted his face pale blue, statistics and reports scrolling past in neat columns. Lines of numbers. Movement logs. Patrol updates. Supply counts.
At the bottom of the latest report, Naima's clipped handwriting appeared in a scanned note:
Falcone men spotted near South Tracks. Keeping distance, no confrontation yet.
Whisper gang operatives watching the old rail line. Twice in three days.
Hammer crew seen sniffing around the Narrows edge.
Nolan leaned back in his chair, tapping a finger against the desk. Each group listed was a different kind of problem—and each of them circling like vultures.
Behind him, the city spread out through the penthouse's tall windows, Gotham's skyline burning faint with fog and smog. The kind of night where trouble felt inevitable.
Vey stood at his shoulder, arms folded, eyes following the glow of the monitor. His voice was calm, but there was no mistaking the weight in it.
"If this keeps up," he said, "Gotham might have a citywide gang war on its hands."
Nolan's tapping quickened, then stopped. He looked up at him.
Vey's jaw tightened. "We severely underestimated Black Mask's role. For all his madness, he was the pressure valve. He had the muscle to hold his ground, and the others knew it. He kept them at bay. Kept them from turning on each other."
He leaned closer to the screen, eyes narrowing at Naima's note. "But with him gone, they see us as weak. They'll try to bite at us. And while they gnash their teeth over scraps, the other outfits will smell blood too. One gang tests us, another retaliates to keep balance, and then another. They'll all pile in. It won't stop at our territory. It'll ripple."
Vey's gaze shifted back to Nolan, sharp as glass. "It'll be a war. A citywide fight to see who can take the throne. And if it hits full force, it won't just be our people that bleed. It'll be Gotham itself."
The weight of it settled into the penthouse. Nolan sat still, eyes flicking back to the reports on the screen. Hammer. Whisper. Falcone. Others unnamed.
For the first time in days, his hand stilled on the desk. He didn't tap. He just stared, the reflection of the numbers burning in his eyes.
The silence in the penthouse was broken by the sharp trill of Nolan's phone. He glanced down at the caller ID: Front Desk.
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, then picked up.
"Everleigh."
"Good evening, sir," came the voice, polite, professional. "I just wanted to let you know… a very important guest has just checked into the hotel. You instructed us to notify you if someone of this… profile arrived."
Nolan's brow furrowed. "Who is it?"
There was a pause, the sound of papers shuffling. "They didn't give a direct name. But…" The concierge hesitated. "They slid over a coin, sir. And referred to themselves as Cheshire. I've placed them in one of our more accommodating suites, as per your standing orders."
Nolan's grip on the phone tightened slightly. "…Very well. I'll want to meet this guest later."
"Of course, Mr. Everleigh."
The line clicked dead, and Nolan set the phone back into its cradle. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing the corners of his eyes.
"Cheshire," he muttered. "Who the hell is Cheshire?"
Quentin stretched out in his seat, a cigar dangling from his fingers. "Could be mob. Maybe Falcone sent somebody shiny with a name like that."
Kieran shuffled a card and flicked it across the table. "Or League of Assassins. They love dramatic names. Sounds like their kind of branding."
Vey leaned forward, arms folded, voice low. "Could just as easily be one of the city gangs trying to sound more important than they are. Mask, code name, coin it doesn't mean they're high profile. Could be smoke."
Quentin smirked. "What's next? Some clown prince naming his henchmen after playing cards?"
Kieran tapped his deck against the table, ignoring him. "No League of Shadows. That's what it reminds me of. Cheshire. That's the kind of name they'd use."
At that, Nolan's head lifted sharply, his eyes narrowing as something sparked. "Yeah." He sat up straighter, fingers drumming on the desk. "Yeah, that's it. League of Shadows. I remember hearing that name before. Someone connected to them goes by Cheshire."
The room stilled for a beat, each of them processing the weight of it in their own way.
Quentin blew out a slow stream of smoke. "Well. That's a hell of a guest to have checked in."
Kieran whistled low. "From Penguin one day to the biggest assassin organization the next. Busy week."
Vey's jaw flexed. "If they're League, they're not here for drinks and sightseeing. Question is are they here for us?"
Nolan didn't answer right away. His gaze drifted back to the glowing monitor, where maps and reports still flickered across the screen.
—
A/N: the groups I mentioned, hammer, whisper gang etc are all actually real originations in the Gotham city ecosystem in the comics. Pretty interesting stuff I'd say.
Now what to do with the league of shadows hmm.