The last of the limousines pulled away from the curb in smooth, unhurried lines, red taillights bleeding into the Gotham night. The Continental exhaled. Music died. Laughter faded. Security doors slid shut and locked with soft, final clicks.
Kieran didn't move until he was certain.
He watched through the mirrored glass as the final guest cleared the lobby, watched staff reset their posture from gracious to alert, watched the invisible machine of the hotel shifted back into its natural state—neutral ground sharpened into a blade.
Only then did he turn.
His shoes echoed softly as he crossed the marble floor toward the private elevators, jacket slung perfectly, tie loosened just enough to signal relief without carelessness. One hand reached up, tugging at the collar as if the fabric itself had finally started to suffocate him.
"Throwing parties now?"
The voice came from the shadows near the bar, dry and amused.
Kieran stopped, already giving a small laugh as he turned. Floyd Lawton stepped out from the dim, suit jacket open, posture relaxed in the way only someone lethally confident ever managed. No guns visible. Which, Kieran knew, meant at least three were within reach.
"Deadshot," Kieran said pleasantly. "You stayed for the cleanup?"
Floyd shrugged. "Habit. Also curiosity." He tilted his head slightly, eyes sharp. "You really think it's smart to keep hosting events like this? Half the people sleeping in your hotel get paid to kill people like you."
Kieran laughed—genuine, easy.
"Well, I'd be offended if they weren't professionals," he said. "Besides, this place runs on rules. Even killers appreciate structure."
Floyd snorted. "That's one way to put it."
Kieran stepped closer to the elevator bank, glancing back at the staff moving with precise efficiency through the lobby. Two security members repositioned subtly as a late-night maintenance crew rolled carts past.
"And I've noticed something," Kieran added casually. "The way my people move now. Cleaner. More aware. Faster reactions."
He looked back at Floyd.
"Your training is paying off."
Floyd studied him for a moment, then gave a faint, crooked smile. "They listen. That helps."
"It does," Kieran agreed. "So—thank you."
The elevator chimed softly behind him, doors sliding open.
Kieran adjusted his cuffs, exhaled. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get out of this suit before it finishes strangling me."
Floyd stepped aside. "Try not to get yourself killed upstairs, boss."
Kieran stepped into the elevator, glancing back just once.
"No promises," he said lightly.
The doors closed.
As the elevator rose, the smile faded. The hotel hum disappeared beneath him. The night settled in.
The penthouse closed behind him with a quiet click.
Kieran shrugged out of his jacket as he walked, loosened the tie completely, then crossed the living space without turning on the lights. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed Gotham like a living organism—veins of traffic, arteries of light, something restless and never sleeping.
He stopped at the command desk.
Screens bloomed to life at a touch, cascading layers of encrypted systems, private hotel architecture bleeding seamlessly into something far more predatory. This wasn't hospitality software. This was a nervous system.
Kieran exhaled once, then tapped a secure channel.
"Marcy."
The line connected instantly.
Her face appeared on one of the displays, lit by harsh underground fluorescents. She looked tired. Focused. Alive.
"Evening, Mr. Everleigh," she said. Then paused. "Or…?"
Kieran's posture shifted. Shoulders squared. Eyes hardened.
Nolan stepped forward behind the eyes.
"Status," Nolan said.
Marcy didn't miss a beat. "Everything's running clean. Sync lag dropped under half a second about ten minutes ago. Our people got their hands on more than we thought."
Nolan's fingers moved.
He authorized a bridge.
The screens reconfigured—Gotham unfurled in three dimensions, a living map stitched together from traffic cams, hotel surveillance, private feeds, and things that didn't officially exist. One by one, dots began to appear across the city, radiating outward from a single point.
The Continental.
Each dot moved. Each dot was a person.
Nolan zoomed in, isolated one.
A name populated the screen.
THOMAS ROOK
A profile unfolded beside the map—age, address, shell corporations, political donations, travel history. Then another window opened.
A mirror of a phone.
Messages scrolled. Call logs. Calendar entries. Photos. Nolan watched a text come in live, the timestamp ticking forward like a pulse.
Cloned clean and quietly.
Nolan smiled faintly.
"Confirmed," he said. "They took the bait."
Marcy leaned closer to her camera. "What do you want done?"
Nolan's fingers paused above the glass.
"Set up monitoring teams," he said, then clarified, already knowing she understood. "Data-side. I want eyes on everything we're pulling in."
Marcy nodded once. "Already pulling people off rotation."
The map fractured into layers as Nolan gestured—call metadata, financial pings, encrypted app traffic, burner cross-usage. Streams of information began threading themselves together, Gotham's elite reduced to habits and tells.
"I want analysts assigned by category," Nolan continued. "Communications, finance, movement patterns. No conclusions yet. Just correlation."
He selected Thomas Took again. The phone mirror expanded—deleted messages resurrected themselves, calendar entries revealed private dinners that never made press releases, contact names saved under aliases that meant nothing until they didn't.
"Anyone tied to legacy real estate, old money trusts, or redevelopment boards gets priority," Nolan said. "Especially the ones who never text, never email, and only talk in person."
Marcy exhaled softly. "Ghosts."
"Exactly."
She glanced off-screen, barking orders Nolan couldn't hear. When she looked back, there was a glint of satisfaction in her eyes.
"We'll have people watching the watchers," she said. "Shift leads rotating every six hours. No one sees the whole picture unless you want them to."
Nolan leaned back, the city reflected faintly in the glass of his screens.
"That's fine," he replied. "The picture isn't for them."
Dots continued to move across Gotham, each one now bleeding information into the system—unaware, unguarded, exposed not by force, but by their own complacency.
"Let me know when the first patterns emerge," Nolan said.
Marcy smiled thinly. "Oh, they will."
The connection cut.
Alone again, Nolan watched the data flow. It was endless.
Nolan poured himself something expensive—crystal decanter, amber liquid catching the low light of the penthouse like it was alive. The kind of bottle that didn't advertise itself. He swirled it once, just enough to wake it up, then took a slow sip.
The burn hit exactly where it was supposed to. Down the throat, into the chest. It was grounding in a way.
He exhaled through his nose and finally started shedding the night—jacket first, then the tailored shirt, cufflinks clicking softly as they hit the glass surface of the nightstand. The rest followed without ceremony. When he was done, he set the drink down carefully, placed the bottle beside it, labels turned outward by habit more than intent.
Then he dropped back onto the bed.
The mattress took him, the city noise dulled, and for the first time since the gala ended, the weight lifted. Kane. The Court. Batman's stare. All of it receded, like a tide pulling away from shore. His breathing slowed. The ceiling blurred.
And then he wasn't there anymore.
He was standing in Arkham.
The version that lived only in his head—too clean, too symmetrical, fluorescent lights humming with a pitch that crawled under the skin. The hallway stretched out in both directions, doors lining the walls like accusations. Waiting.
They were already there.
Kieran leaned against the wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Quentin sat on a bench that shouldn't exist, restless energy coiled tight, eyes sharp. Vey stood a little apart from the others, head tilted, watching Nolan like he was measuring something fragile.
"You sure about this?" Kieran asked, casual tone failing to hide the edge beneath it.
Quentin snorted. "Last time didn't exactly end well."
Vey didn't speak. He didn't need to.
Nolan looked at them—at all of them—and nodded once.
"Yes."
Silence followed. Heavy. Loaded.
He turned away before they could argue, before doubt could creep in. Walked down the corridor, footsteps echoing too loudly, too clearly. One door at the far end stood open, spilling darkness instead of light.
Behind him, the others remained where they were.
Watching.
Waiting.
Nolan didn't look back as he stepped through the threshold and left them behind.
He stepped through and the corridors stretched out before him—Arkham, but not entirely.
Some of it was familiar: cracked tiles, institutional green walls, the echo of distant doors slamming that never quite happened. But threaded through it were other passages that didn't belong. Corridors that were pristine. Polished. Walls so white they almost hurt to look at, seamless and endless, reflecting him back at himself in distorted fragments.
He knew these halls.
The recognition hit like a dull ache behind the eyes.
Not Arkham. Not Gotham. Somewhere older. Somewhere buried. From a life that wasn't supposed to exist anymore.
"No," he muttered to himself, pushing forward. "Not now."
He forced his feet to keep moving, purpose anchoring him. This wasn't nostalgia. This wasn't memory. He didn't come here to wander.
Then he heard it.
Thudding footsteps.
Heavy. Irregular. Too fast for something human.
The sound rolled through the corridor like distant thunder, growing louder with every second. Nolan stopped, breath catching, and turned just as a massive shape rounded the corner ahead.
The Beast.
It filled the hallway, hunched and broad, muscles coiled like cables under ruined flesh. Its eyes locked onto him and it roared—not pain, not fear, but raw fury—and charged.
For a split second Nolan didn't move.
Then he blinked.
The world snapped.
They were suddenly on opposite sides of the corridor, an invisible line between them like a fault in reality itself. The Beast slammed into it, claws scraping against nothing, snarling as if the barrier was an insult.
Nolan raised his hands instinctively. "Wait—wait. I don't want to fight you."
The Beast paced, massive shoulders rolling, breath coming out in wet, furious huffs.
"I just want to talk," Nolan said, voice cracking despite himself. "Please. Just—just talk to me."
The Beast threw its head back and roared again, the sound rattling the white walls.
"RELEASE ME," it bellowed. "LET ME OUT."
The words hit harder than the charge ever could.
Nolan took a step closer to the barrier. "Why?" he shouted back. "Why do you exist?"
The Beast snapped its gaze back to him, eyes burning. Nolan pressed on, the question spilling out before fear could stop it.
"Vey fights. Vey protects the body. That was his role. That was enough." His voice rose, echoing down the corridor. "So why did you come to pass? Why did I make you?"
The Beast slammed a fist into the unseen wall, the impact reverberating through Nolan's bones. The frustration curdled into rage, muscles bunching as it snarled at the barrier itself.
Silence.
Then—slowly—a smile spread across the Beast's face.
Not wide. Not wild.
Vicious.
"Why did you make me?" it repeated softly, savoring the words. "Why did you make any of us, Nolan?"
It began to pace, claws clicking against the floor as it spoke.
"Kieran was everything you wished you could be in rooms full of people you despised. Smooth. Untouchable. The man who never had to beg for a seat at the table."
A low chuckle.
"Quentin was your defiance. Your courage when you were too afraid to stand up. The one who said no when the world expected you to kneel."
The Beast stopped pacing.
"Vey…" it said, and for a moment there was something almost respectful in its tone. "Vey was always your protector. The one who took the hits so you didn't have to."
It turned back to Nolan, smile sharpening.
"And you all hate me. You all fear me."
Its hand pressed flat against the invisible divide.
"But you birthed us. You birthed me—and then you locked me away."
Nolan swallowed hard. His voice dropped to a whisper.
"Why did I birth you?"
The Beast leaned in, eyes burning.
"To spread hate," it said quietly. "Pain. Agony."
Each word landed like a blow.
"To turn all of that back onto the people who wronged you. To make them feel even a fraction of what you felt when you were powerless."
The smile twisted, feral now.
"You made me because you wanted suffering," the Beast snarled, voice rising. "You always have, Nolan."
It slammed its palm against the barrier again, eyes locked onto his.
"And I am the strongest part of you—never forget that."
Nolan peeled from his mind, his eyes rapidly blinking against the dim light from his lamp.
"Be quiet!" he hissed, not even noticing the others hadn't said a word.
His hand found the bottle, leaving the glass behind.
Nolan drank as he gazed at the city from his bed.
Nolan just drank.