News of the docks hit the underworld faster than gunfire.
Every fence, runner, and washed-out ex-cop with a police scanner was talking about it by dawn: Odessa's main docks were gone.
No one knew at the moment who had taken them only that Batman and the kids had hit first, and someone else had swept in after the smoke cleared.
Some said it was the underpass but others argued it was a bigger organization.
In a dim, nicotine-stained bar on Kane Street, a half-dozen men huddled around a splintered table. Russian voices mixed with the crackle of an old radio.
"Odessa's finished," muttered Mikhail Korovin, the scar-jawed captain of the Volkov Bratva, Gotham's smaller but hungrier Russian outfit. He leaned forward, cigarette trembling between thick fingers. "Their warehouses off Falcone Boulevard? Empty. Their safehouse on Brighton? Police tape and no guards."
His second, Pavel, grinned through a gold tooth. "Then we take it. Odessa always looked down on us. Now, we pick their bones dry."
A third man, older, more cautious, stirred his drink. "If Batman was involved, those places are still hot. Cops, capes, who knows. We move too fast, we burn."
Mikhail crushed his cigarette into the ashtray, eyes glinting with greed. "We move before anyone else. You think Falcone won't hear? You think Maroni's dogs won't sniff around? No. We hit tonight. Quiet. We grab their arms stash first — the one under the ice plant. Then their gambling house in the Narrows."
Around the table, the men nodded, the hunger too strong to deny.
Across town, in a cramped garage lit by a single flickering bulb, Trey Delgado of the Steel Serpents got the same whisper from one of his runners. He smiled wide, flashing a mouth full of silver caps.
"The Russians gonna make a play? Then we make one too. Odessa's land, their smuggling routes — all up for grabs."
He holstered his pistol and clapped his lieutenant on the shoulder. "Tell the boys we're movin' on Odessa turf before nightfall. Fast and loud!"
By midday, Gotham's criminal web was thrumming a dozen calls, a dozen crews.
Every gang that had ever envied Odessa's reach now smelled blood in the water.
And in the silence of the commandeered dockhouse, Naima Rez's people worked, unaware that the sharks were already circling the city's corpse — all of them hungry, all of them headed straight toward the same battlefield.
But even if they did it wouldn't matter, they had one job now taking the docks for all their worth.
***
The skyline outside the continental was awash in amber light, the city still shaking off the grime of night.
Inside, Nolan sat at his desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a calm rhythm guiding his fingers across the keyboard.
Blueprints and 3D mock-ups glowed across his screen — Hope Orphanage, the name printed at the top of every document. He was reviewing correspondence from an architect in Metropolis, another in Blüdhaven, and a design consultant specializing in adaptive housing for the disabled. The emails were measured, thoughtful and Professional.
A glass of red wine caught the light beside him, untouched for now, the scent of oak and berries drifting faintly in the room.
"Maybe a glass dome over the garden wing," he murmured to himself. "Open air, sunlight, clean water… something worth the name 'Hope.'" He couldn't help the chuckle that escaped his lips
"Yeah right sun in Gotham, what is this a fantasy?"
He leaned back, the faint strains of jazz spilling from the speakers. A quiet hum left his throat tuneless but content — as he scrolled through estimates and blueprints.
For once, the city felt distant.
The blood and the smoke, the alleys and the whispers — all of it below him, both physically and emotionally.
For once, the peace almost felt real.
***
In the Narrows, a black SUV screeched to a stop beside a shuttered casino. Mikhail Korovin's men spilled out, clad in leather jackets and armed with submachine guns. Their target — one of Odessa's night clubs, still heavy with uncollected cash and recurring revenue.
"Quick," Mikhail barked, "before someone else gets here."
But someone else already had.
A spray of bullets ripped through the doorway as the Steel Serpents came crashing in from the opposite alley, their machetes glinting. "You Russians think you can jack our prize?" Trey Delgado shouted, vaulting over a parked car, teeth flashing silver under the sodium lights.
The two crews clashed hard — gunfire lighting up the street, glass raining from windows, one of the Odessa signs falling in shattered pieces. Blood ran along the curb like spilled oil.
***
Back at the continental , Nolan scrolled down a pricing estimate. His brow furrowed — then relaxed again.
He picked up the wine, took a sip, and let the jazz wash over him.
Outside, lightning flickered faintly beyond the glass.
He didn't look up.
***
By the far north docks, another property burned. The Red Vultures, a Latin gang from Bowery, had ambushed one of the Odessa storage yards, only to be counter-attacked by the Volkov Bratva from the north. What began as a quiet takeover turned into chaos. Grenades rolled under trucks, a fuel line caught fire, and one of the cranes collapsed with a thunderous crack.
Men screamed. Gunfire echoed off the water.
"Don't even think about going towards that!" Naima snapped at her people hearing the distant but distinct sound of gunfire
***
In the sewers, Dre leaned over a new laptop, eyes fixed on live camera feeds from around Gotham, they had set up. It was nothing fancy but the cameras were good for spots his people couldn't be found usually.
He exhaled sharply and pressed dial on his phone.
"Boss," he said, voice low. "We're picking up movement all across Odessa's old turf. Bratva, Serpents, Vultures — all hitting each other hard. You want us to move in? We could take it easy while they're bleeding each other dry."
There was a moment of quiet on the other end — the faint hum of jazz still audible through the line.
Then Nolan's calm voice reached his ears,
"No. Not now. Let the wolves tear each other apart. The one left standing will be easier to kill."
Dre chuckled dryly. "Copy that. I'll keep eyes up."
The line clicked dead.
***
Nolan hummed softly, sipping from his glass again. His reflection shimmered faintly in the window — tired eyes, faint bruising on his jaw, the weight of too many lives in his command.
But he smiled.
Peace, however fleeting, still felt like peace.
***
Somewhere far from the continentals glow, mud churned under the weight of something massive.
A hulking figure lumbered in the darkness of the city.
The figure tilted his head, listening.
He could hear the faint thunder of explosions, the screams of men killing men.
A rumble shook his chest as his cracked lips parted.
And he turned curious, and walked toward the gunfire.
—
A/N: not spoiling anything but, Grundy will be seen multiple times throughout this story. Starting off using him for a very specific purpose!