The tunnels hummed with low voices, bootsteps slapping water, and the scratch of makeshift tools against stone. The Underpass was awake. Lanterns strung along pipes threw orange halos against the dripping brickwork, their light catching on scavenged sheet metal that had been hammered into barricades. Children carried buckets of rubble, and older hands were weaving barbed wire scavenged from a train yard into chokepoints along the narrower tunnels.
Dre Matthews stood in the middle of it all, his broad frame damp with sweat and sewer mist. He moved with easy authority, a bandana tied over his mouth to keep the stench out, eyes constantly scanning the work.
"Reinforce that corner. If they push through here, it funnels straight into the market," he barked, pointing with a length of pipe. "Don't want some trigger-happy bastard throwing grenades where your kids sleep."
One of the younger men, skinny, barely out of his teens, wiped his brow and looked up at him. His voice carried an edge of fear. "Dre… is it true? They say… they say there's gonna be a war. Not just crews brawlin' like usual. An all-out war."
The tunnel went quiet for a moment. Even the drip of water seemed louder.
Dre lowered the pipe and looked at the kid. He let the silence stretch, let everyone nearby lean in on his answer.
"You ever seen rats fight when food runs short?" His voice was steady, grim. "They turn on each other. Tear each other apart till there's nothing left but bones. That's what's comin' topside. Every gang, every boss, sniffin' blood. Black Mask gone left a hole, and now they all want a piece."
The kid swallowed hard. A few others looked down, uneasy.
Dre planted the pipe into the wet ground, his gaze sweeping over his people. "But here? We ain't rats. We got walls, we got traps, and we got each other. Let them bleed each other dry up there. Down here, we hold."
That brought murmurs of agreement, some nods. The tension in the air eased, replaced with a brittle determination.
A woman with braided hair jogged up from one of the side passages, a makeshift map rolled in her hands. "Dre. We spotted new markings near the Canal entrance. Looks like some boys have been sniffing around."
Dre took the map, squinting at the charcoal scrawls. His jaw tightened. "Then double up patrols on that route. If they step one foot down here without my say-so…" He tapped the pipe against the wall, metal ringing sharp in the damp air. "…they won't be stepping out."
The woman nodded, hurrying off.
Dre leaned back against the wall, listening to the scurrying workers, the clang of tools, the rhythm of his people fortifying their world. The war was coming hell, it was already here in whispers and rumors but the Underpass would meet it on their terms.
***
The South Tracks groaned under the weight of the city above rusting steel, concrete supports cracked with age, and the constant rumble of trains passing like distant thunder. Fires burned low in oil drums, their smoke curling up to vanish into the blackness overhead. Naima Rez stood near one of the pillars, arms folded, her sharp eyes flicking between the men and women stationed along the tracks.
Her crew moved with quiet purpose. Two lookouts were perched high in the steel lattice, shadows against the half-light, binoculars sweeping the yards. Another group checked tripwire rigs stretched across the narrower tunnels leading into their camp. Others worked at sorting crates canned food, jugs of water, boxes of ammo their stockpile stacked tight against the walls.
"Rez," one of her lieutenants said, approaching with a furrowed brow. He was middle-aged, weathered, a man who'd spent too many nights out in Gotham's cold. "Supplies are running thinner than I'd like. If this war drags on…" He trailed off, glancing at the crates. "We'll burn through this in weeks, not months."
Before she could answer, a younger woman spoke up from nearby, voice edged with worry. "It's not just supplies. Rez, how're we supposed to compete with outfits like the falcons or the triad? They've been around longer than we've been breathing. They've got money, guns, friends in high places. We've got… scraps. People call us rats and beggars."
A hush rippled through the camp. All eyes flicked toward Rez.
She took her time. Letting the rumble of a freight train echo past before she finally spoke, her tone even, precise. "Rats and beggars, huh? Maybe that's what they see." Her gaze swept across the crew, hard as steel. "But rats don't starve, the scavenge. Rats don't beg, the find a way. Rats cling. To every scrap, every chance, every crack in the wall nobody else sees. While the bigger fish tear each other to pieces, we'll be the ones left standing. Not because we're stronger. Not because we're richer. But because we refuse to let go."
Her words settled like iron. The tension eased not gone, but shaped into resolve.
The older lieutenant gave a slow nod. "Cling to everything we can." He repeated it like an oath.
Rez inclined her head. "Every opportunity. Every resource. Every lifeline. That's how we win. Not in a single blow, but by outlasting. By bleeding less than they do."
From above, one of the lookouts whistled sharp the signal for movement. Everyone froze.
Rez's eyes flicked up, and the lookout gestured toward the far yard. Figures were moving between rusting boxcars. No uniforms, no steady rhythm. Too cautious for rail workers.
Rez's jaw tightened. "Scouts. Probably testing the fence line."
The older lieutenant's hand drifted toward his pistol. "Want me to—?"
Rez shook her head, voice cold. "No. Let them sniff. Let them think we're shadows under the rails. If they push closer, then we teach them the price of trespass."
She turned back to her crew. "Until then, eyes open. Hands ready. We can't afford to blink."
***
The ballroom shimmered with light, chandeliers spilling golden glow across velvet-draped tables and crystal glasses. Gotham's upper crust had gathered in force, far more than the last gala where Scarecrow's terror gas had turned laughter into screams. Tonight, the air buzzed with a strained cheer, as though the guests were determined to overwrite memory with champagne.
Kieran Everleigh stepped in with the quiet poise of someone who belonged black suit cut sharp, tie knotted just so, his expression warm but unreadable. Heads turned as he crossed the threshold, the hotelier turned rising social figure, the man with enough wealth and daring to buy and refurbish the Arden when everyone else called it a lost cause.
His eyes skimmed the crowd lawyers, judges, financiers, old families with names carved into Gotham's foundations. A perfect hunting ground.
Near the buffet, he spotted her: Assistant District Attorney Eleanor Briggs, mid-thirties, sharp-featured, hair pinned neatly. She held a glass of wine but looked restless, her gaze drifting away from the social chatter. Kieran slid toward her with smooth precision.
"Ms. Briggs," he said warmly as she turned. "Kieran Everleigh. A pleasure."
She gave him a polite smile, one eye narrowing slightly. "Mr. Everleigh. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't surprised you showed up tonight."
"I could say the same," he replied, extending a hand. She hesitated before shaking it. His grip was firm, his smile disarming. "I read about your last case. The one that… fell through. You worked hard, didn't you?"
Her jaw tightened, but she kept her poise. "Hard work doesn't always mean victory in Gotham."
"True," Kieran said, lowering his voice just enough to give the exchange intimacy. "Still, it's a shame when that effort is wasted chasing ghosts. Or perhaps someone else's idea of ghosts." He tilted his head, the smile never fading. "Whoever pushed you into going after an innocent man like me is… well, a bastard, wouldn't you agree?"
Her lips parted, but no words came. He let the silence hang, then clinked his glass lightly against hers. "Here's to better pursuits ahead. Perhaps we might discuss what those could be… over lunch sometime?"
Before she could answer, he'd already moved on, leaving her with the seed planted curiosity and irritation intermingled.
Kieran drifted into the circle around Councilman Harold Kinsey, who was mid-story, clearly proud as he gestured with his glass.
"…and the initiative at the Old Gotham Station tunnels has already shown results. Less loitering, cleaner grounds, even a proposal for a small community kitchen."
The donors nodded, smiling. Kinsey basked in it.
Kieran waited for the pause, then stepped in with an admiring tilt of his head. "I have to say, Councilman, I've seen the changes myself. Remarkable work."
Kinsey glanced over, recognizing him. "Ah, Mr. Everleigh. Glad you noticed."
"I did more than notice," Kieran said, his tone smooth but touched with genuine enthusiasm. "I was inspired. Gotham rarely gets projects that stick the way that one seems to. It shows that with the right push, even our most neglected corners can have new life." He took a sip of his drink, eyes flicking to the donors before returning to Kinsey. "I'd be very interested in helping with the next phase, if you'd allow it. Whether that's funding, hosting events, or… well, whatever use a man like me could be."
Kinsey puffed up, clearly pleased. "That's exactly the kind of attitude we need more of. Private initiative stepping up to support public works."
Kieran inclined his head humbly. "Consider me at your service. I'll have my office reach out. Perhaps we can meet soon to discuss how I might be of use."
The donors murmured their approval, and Kinsey clapped Kieran's shoulder as though he'd already become a patron of the project.
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A/N: Next chapter is pretty cool imo, Kieran is a bastard to the da of course and I wanted to dedicate some time to show his territory leaders have some good leadership skills