Gotham didn't sleep after Chinatown.
It tried to, in the way a city always does after violence—lights dimmed, doors locked, televisions left murmuring in empty rooms—but rest never quite came. The night stretched long and thin, and when dawn finally arrived it brought no relief. It only made the damage visible.
In a warehouse off Burnside, a shipment meant to move before sunrise sat untouched, engines idling until the drivers killed them one by one. The radios crackled intermittently, nothing coherent coming through—just bursts of static and something else beneath it, a low rasp that might have been interference or might not. No one wanted to find out. By the time a supervisor arrived, the trucks had already been rerouted on his own authority. He didn't file the paperwork until later. He didn't bother explaining why.
In the Narrows, a fixer tore a contract in half mid-conversation, the paper splitting cleanly between nicotine-stained fingers. The other party protested briefly, then stopped when the word Underpass was spoken aloud. A penalty was paid without negotiation. No one smiled because they understood.
It was not the time to mess with anything related to the underpass right now.
Elsewhere, a Russian crew abandoned a warehouse entirely after a lookout spotted fresh paint beneath a fire escape—nothing elaborate, just a symbol laid down with intent. It wasn't a warning. It was a statement the underpass was around. By morning the building was empty, doors hanging open, whatever couldn't be carried left behind as tribute to nobody in particular.
The stories spread the way they always did in Gotham—not in headlines, not in official channels, but in murmured exchanges and half-finished sentences. Chinatown had burned hot and fast, a war that should have raged for weeks collapsing into a single violent convulsion. Arrests had followed. Bodies too. Batman, inevitably, had been there.
But none of that was what unsettled people.
It was the scream.
No one described it the same way twice, but the reactions were universal: eyes unfocused, voices dropping, hands shaking around cigarettes they never finished. Something had moved wrong. Something had fought like an animal, and not a cornered one—a predator unleashed. Men had turned on each other, faces red with rage they couldn't explain, loyalties evaporating in seconds.
Whatever the Underpass had done, it hadn't just won.
It had announced itself in the most brutal fashion possible. People that doubted and mocked them now had no choice but to show respect and a healthy amount of fear.
In precinct briefing rooms, detectives argued over jurisdiction maps that no longer made sense. Patrol routes were redrawn, erased, redrawn again. Someone circled Chinatown in marker, crossed it out, then circled it harder, as if pressure might force clarity from chaos. Commanders spoke in careful language, emphasizing success, emphasizing control—but their eyes lingered too long on certain photos.
The war was over.
The consequences were not.
Gotham adjusted the only way it knew how. quietly, cautiously, and with a growing sense that the ground had shifted beneath its feet.
***
The meeting space reflected the shift Gotham was undergoing—but Quentin barely registered it beyond a professional acknowledgment.
Neutral ground. Old infrastructure reclaimed for temporary diplomacy. Concrete walls worn smooth by time, exposed beams overhead, the air tinged with oil and damp stone. A place meant to remind everyone of their first meeting like this.
Except now their was one less faction in play.
Which, in a way, was the point.
A long table sat at the center of the room, dragged into place and wiped down, its surface bare except for neatly arranged glasses and folders. No banners. No colors. No flags laid claim.
This wasn't a victory lap.
It was maintenance.
The Jade Leopards arrived first, right on schedule. Their representatives moved with the quiet cohesion of people used to thinking several steps ahead. Their leader—calm-eyed, silver-threaded cuffs immaculate despite the week Gotham had endured—took her seat and inclined her head slightly toward the empty chair at the head of the table.
Dockyard Dogs followed, bulkier, louder by nature but noticeably restrained tonight. Their usual bravado was tempered, not gone—just… redirected. They clustered closer together than necessary, voices low.
The Deacons came last, deliberately measured in their timing. Not late enough to insult, not early enough to seem eager. Their leader paused near the doorway, scanning the room, then nodded once and sat.
The room filled with cautious conversation—nothing of substance, just enough noise to avoid sitting with their thoughts.
Then Quentin entered.
Nolan's body carried him differently when Quentin was at the surface. Not aggressively. Just… precisely. Every movement intentional, economical, free of wasted energy.
The conversations thinned and then stopped, not because anyone was afraid to speak, but because the meeting could finally begin.
Quentin took his seat, offering a nod around the table.
"Thank you for coming," he said. "I know the last few days have been… disruptive."
That earned a few dry smiles.
"One way to put it," the Dockyard Dogs' representative muttered.
Quentin allowed the comment. "Chinatown forced a lot of things into the open," he continued. "What worked before doesn't work the same way now. That's not a failure—it's information."
He slid a folder forward, not pushing it toward anyone in particular.
"I took the liberty of mapping the current pressure points," he said. "Police movement, public attention, where things are tightening—and where they're likely to loosen."
The Jade Leopards' leader opened the folder, scanning it slowly. "You're expecting heat to stay high in the east."
"For about ten days," Quentin replied. "Then resources shift. Chinatown drew almost everything."
She nodded thoughtfully. "We were already considering rerouting."
"Which is why this works," Quentin said. "Underpass can help cover transport during that window. Shared visibility, reduced risk."
There was no demand in his voice. Just an offered solution.
"Reasonable," she said after a moment. "We can support that."
Quentin turned slightly toward the Dockyard Dogs.
"The docks are holding," he said. "Better than most expected."
One of them shrugged. "We got lucky."
"You were prepared," Quentin corrected. "There's a difference. My suggestion is you hold where you are for now. Expansion draws eyes. Stability lets things cool."
The Dogs exchanged looks, then nodded.
"Fair," their lead said. "We can sit tight."
Quentin shifted his attention to the Deacons.
"You took some losses," he said evenly. "Not catastrophic, but enough to warrant caution."
The Deacon leader stiffened, then exhaled. "We felt it."
"I'd recommend pulling back from the Narrows temporarily," Quentin said. "Not abandoning it—just… reducing your footprint. Less exposure until things settle."
"And in return?" the Deacon asked.
"In return," Quentin said, "we keep lines open. Information flows both ways. If retaliation comes, you're not handling it alone."
The room was quiet for a moment.
"That," the Deacon said finally, "I can agree to."
A pause settled over the table—not tense, but reflective.
"Chinatown changed how people see things," the Jade Leopard said softly. "Including us."
Quentin nodded. "It did."
"And nothing like Chinatown will happen again if it isn't a necessity."
No one said more. They didn't need to.
They discussed contingencies next. Communication protocols. Mutual alerts if police sweeps shifted unexpectedly. Nothing flashy. Just the slow work of making sure another night like Chinatown didn't happen again.
By the time agreements were finalized, the room felt… steadier.
Not unified.
But aligned.
Quentin rose from his seat.
"This isn't about control," he said. "It's about making sure none of us stand alone when they come for us again."
Heads nodded around the table.
As Quentin turned to leave, there was no scrape of chairs born of fear—only the quiet understanding that something fundamental had changed.
The Underpass hadn't seized power.
It had earned a seat at the center.
And they realized as they watched him depart, the deal they made with the underpass during the heat of war.
Might've just changed their lives forever.
***
Miles beneath Gotham's restless streets, behind reinforced doors and air systems designed to scrub the atmosphere down to nothing, Dr. Jonathan Crane worked.
The laboratory bore no resemblance to the cluttered spaces of his past. This was not a hideout. It was an operation. Stainless steel surfaces gleamed under clean white lighting. Industrial ventilation hummed steadily overhead, calibrated to exact tolerances. Along the walls, canisters sat in ordered rows—some clearly labeled, others marked with coded symbols, a few left intentionally blank.
This was funding made manifest.
Crane moved through the space with quiet purpose, gloved hands adjusting a compound's density, eyes sharp behind wire-rimmed glasses. Assistants kept their distance, efficient and disciplined, aware enough not to speak unless spoken to.
Fear did not require chaos.
Chaos was crude.
A screen came to life at his gesture, surveillance footage from Chinatown playing without sound. The camera angles were poor, the resolution imperfect—but the moment was unmistakable. The masked man fell. And then something else stood up.
Crane leaned in slightly.
No flinch.
No fear none at all, and it annoyed crane to no end.
He slowed the footage, frame by frame, studying the movement. Musculature pushed past natural limits. Adrenal response spiking beyond any safe threshold. Hormonal saturation so extreme it should have crippled the host.
It didn't.
"Fascinating," Crane murmured. "Not madness."
He straightened, turning back to the lab where new delivery systems awaited refinement—compact, elegant, designed to bypass expectations. Not gas. Not anymore.
Fear had evolved.
So would he.
An assistant hesitated, then spoke. "Doctor… what's the priority target?"
Crane didn't look away from the frozen image on the screen.
"Not the city."
He adjusted his gloves, voice calm, precise.
A thin smile curved his lips.
"Every monster believes they're immune," Crane said softly.
"That's usually when they're most honest."
Unlimited funds to take down his enemy.
The machines continued their work.
And somewhere above, Gotham drew another uneasy breath, unaware of the shape fear was about to take.