The meeting took place in one of the hotel's lower conference rooms, stripped of any of the usual polish. The table was solid, functional. No decorations, no distractions. Just three men and the work in front of them.
Nolan sat at the head, a tablet resting near his hand, its screen dimmed for the moment. Across from him, Dre leaned back slightly in his chair, one arm resting along the back as he spoke. Terrell sat to the side, more relaxed but just as attentive, his posture loose in a way that hid how closely he followed the conversation.
"Business is picking up," Dre said. "More than we expected this early. A couple of shops, small operations mostly—but they're coming to us. Asking for protection." He shook his head slightly, almost impressed. "If we keep this pace, profits are going to climb fast."
Nolan gave a small nod, absorbing that without interruption.
Terrell leaned forward a bit, resting his forearms on the table. "Speaking of expansion," he said, "I've got a contact over in Blüdhaven. Small crew, nothing major, but they've got reach in their area. They're looking for supplies."
Nolan's gaze shifted to him.
"They want to be clients?" he asked.
"Yeah," Terrell said. "They don't have the infrastructure to source steady, and they know it."
Nolan considered it for a moment, fingers tapping lightly against the table as he thought it through.
"It's possible," he said finally. "But we don't move blind. Our operations here work because we control the flow—middlemen, transport, distribution. We're not just selling product, we're managing access." His eyes stayed on Terrell. "Most of what we push comes through the Dockyard Dogs' shipments. We move it, we take our cut, and everyone stays predictable."
He leaned back slightly.
"Blüdhaven is different," he continued. "Different players, different expectations. If we step into that without the right assurances, we're not gaining a client—we're creating a problem."
Terrell nodded, already expecting that answer. "I can set up a meeting," he said. "Feel them out first. Make sure they're worth the risk."
"Do that," Nolan replied. "And keep me informed. I want to know exactly who we're dealing with before we commit to anything."
Terrell grinned. "Sounds good to me, boss. I'll handle it."
Nolan gave a slight nod, then let the topic settle before shifting gears.
"Now," he said, his tone sharpening just a bit, "let's talk about last night. I've been hearing things."
Dre straightened slightly, the casual edge dropping as he focused. "Yeah," he said. "There were incidents. Word is the Khadym hit the Rileys. Not subtle either. Loud, messy."
Terrell added, "And not long after, the cartels had a clash. Penitente and Escabedo."
Nolan's expression didn't change, but his attention sharpened.
"Two in one night," he said. "That's… poorly timed."
Dre nodded. "Exactly. From what we know, all four of those groups are still recovering from the last war. None of them should be looking to start something new right now."
"The Khadym especially," Terrell added. "They came out of it better than most, but they had an understanding with the Rileys. This breaks that."
Nolan was quiet for a moment, turning that over.
"Either something changed," he said slowly, "or someone wants it to look like it did."
Neither Dre nor Terrell spoke immediately.
Because they were thinking the same thing.
Nolan let the silence sit for a second longer before a quiet laugh slipped out of him, breaking the tension he had just created.
"I'm messing with you," he said, leaning back slightly. "I know for a fact someone wants it to look that way."
Dre exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. Terrell leaned back in his chair with a small grin, though there was a trace of irritation there.
"Yeah, figured," Dre muttered.
"Had us thinking for a second," Terrell added.
Nolan didn't respond to that. Instead, he reached for the tablet and woke the screen with a swipe.
"Marcy sent these over this morning."
He turned the display so they could see.
The first image showed a van pulled along a curb, doors open mid-drop. Figures stepping out—dressed in Khadym colors, posture confident, movements deliberate.
Another swipe.
A second set of images appeared—multiple vehicles this time, staggered arrivals. Different location. Different group. The supposed cartel team filtering out into the street.
Nolan tapped the edge of the screen lightly.
"Even when people know who we are," he said, "we're still invisible to them. Homeless, transient—something to look past, not at. It works in our favor."
His eyes flicked between the two of them.
"Our people took these," he continued. "Watched the drop-offs, documented the movement, sent it in before anyone else even realized what they were looking at."
Dre leaned forward slightly, studying the images more closely.
"You could argue it's legit," he said. "Van shows up, guys step out, dressed right…"
"You could," Nolan agreed. "If you stop at the surface."
He zoomed in on one of the images, highlighting a face.
"Look closer."
Terrell narrowed his eyes. "Never seen him before."
"Exactly," Nolan said. "And you won't find him in any Khadym circles. Same goes for the rest of them."
He swiped again, pulling up another frame, this time focusing on one of the cartel impersonators.
"Same pattern here. Faces don't match known players. Movements are coordinated, but not familiar. It's trained, not lived."
Dre nodded slowly. "So they're not just dressing the part. They're drilling it."
"Right," Nolan said.
He tapped the screen again, zooming in further—this time on the markings along one of the men's arms.
"The tattoos," he said. "That's where they slipped."
Terrell leaned in. "Too clean?"
"That and they are too convenient," Nolan corrected. "Placed where they'd be seen. Fresh. No wear, no inconsistency. They're identifiers, not identity."
He leaned back, letting the tablet dim slightly as he pulled his hand away.
"Real members don't need to advertise like that," he continued. "Not in a situation like this. These were meant to be noticed. Remembered. Reported."
Dre sat back, processing it. "So someone's manufacturing conflict."
"Not just conflict," Nolan said. "Narrative."
Terrell let out a low whistle. "And it's working."
"For now," Nolan replied.
His gaze shifted between them, sharper now.
"This is obviously the work of the court, we can use this. We need to set up a meeting before anyone makes rash decisions."
Dre leaned back slightly, his expression tightening as he thought it through. "We can probably set something up with the Khadym and the Rileys," he said. "There's still enough structure there to talk. But the cartels?" He shook his head. "That's a harder sell. Last I checked, neither of them appreciates us existing."
Terrell drummed his fingers lightly against the table, considering. "Maybe," he said slowly. "I grew up with a guy who ended up with Escabedo. We weren't close, but it's a line. I could reach out, see if he even answers."
Nolan was already shaking his head. "Don't bother. If I want a meeting, I can—"
His phone rang. The interruption cut cleanly through the room.
Nolan frowned, pulling it from his pocket and glancing at the screen. "Naima," he muttered, then placed it on the table and tapped it onto speaker. "You're on with Dre and Terrell."
"Boss," Naima's voice came through, tight and controlled, "the Jades just got hit. You're probably about to get a call."
Nolan's posture shifted slightly. "Who did it?"
"The Neon Dragons," she replied. "At least, that's what it looked like."
"What do you mean 'looked like'?"
"They hit inside Jade territory," Naima said. "Some of our people were nearby. We engaged. Killed most of them—two still breathing. They're not talking."
Brief silence stretched through the room, "Do me a favor if you're there with them check the tattoos." Nolan asked.
"We already did, they were fake," she said immediately. "Not even good fakes. Fresh Smudging already."
That was enough. The shift happened instantly.
Nolan's stillness broke—not outwardly, not in any obvious physical way—but something behind his eyes sharpened, tilted. Quentin surfaced.
A smile spread across his face, wide enough to feel unnatural, stretching just a bit too far as the pieces locked into place.
"Don't touch anything," he said, voice lighter now, almost energized. "Tell the Jades to gather the bodies don't dispose of them."
There was a beat of silence on the line.
"We've hit a goldmine here, Naima," Quentin continued, leaning forward slightly, fingers pressing into the table. "I want photos, close-ups, everything. Faces, tattoos, gear. And keep those two alive—we might not need them to talk, but I want the option."
Naima didn't hesitate. "Understood."
Quentin's smile didn't fade.
"Good," he said. "Good we have to move fast."
***
The club had been shut down hours ago, its doors locked and lights dimmed, but the street outside was anything but quiet.
Engines rolled in one after another, headlights cutting across the pavement as vehicles pulled up in staggered formation. Doors opened, men stepped out.
Victor stepped out without hesitation, his presence steady, followed closely by his people who spread out with practiced awareness. He looked furious at the idea of his people acting rogue.
Madam Jiang arrived next. Her entrance was quieter, but no less commanding. The Jade Leopards moved with discipline, positioning themselves with clean lines of sight, their attention already sweeping the area before she even reached the door.
The Neon Dragons' representative came third. Younger, sharper in movement, his confidence edged with nervousness, his people were new and he wasn't used to being in rooms with these people. His people followed close, tighter than the others, eyes moving more than they should.
Then the cartels arrived. Both of them unfortunately at the same time. That was where control nearly broke.
The moment the Penitente and Escabedo groups laid eyes on each other, voices rose immediately. Hands went to weapons, tension snapping tight as accusations started before anyone even crossed the threshold.
"Watch yourself—"
"You think we wouldn't show after what you did—"
Men moved quickly, stepping between them, forcing space where there wasn't any. It took several seconds of sharp commands and physical separation to keep it from turning into something else entirely.
Barely contained, they were ushered inside. Quentin was already waiting.
He stood near the center of the club floor, Dre and Naima positioned nearby, while his own people were spread throughout the room—subtle, but ready. Every angle was covered. Every movement watched.
"Thank you for trusting me enough to meet here," Quentin said, his tone smooth, measured. "I know tensions are high."
"Get to the point," El Penitente cut in immediately. "I was promised proof. My people did not attack Escabedo."
Manuel Escabedo stepped forward, anger barely restrained. "He better have some good proof," he said. "Because this doesn't just disappear."
Quentin nodded once, as if he expected nothing less.
"Of course," he said. "I won't waste your time."
He gestured toward a table set off to the side.
"I present the first set of photos."
They moved in, not together, but close enough to see. Eyes scanned quickly, then slowed as details began to register.
"Some of these are from the Khadym incident," Quentin continued. "Others from the Penitente operation. Note the similarities—transport methods, deployment style."
One of the Khadym men leaned closer, frowning. "I don't recognize any of them."
"You won't," Quentin replied. "Because they aren't yours."
Riley's jaw tightened as she looked up. "That's not enough," she said, anger bleeding through her voice. "My people are dead. This needs more than pictures."
Quentin's smile didn't falter.
"Of course," he said. "Which is why I brought something more… direct."
He turned slightly, "Bring them in."
The back door opened.
His people entered first, carrying weight.
Five bodies were dragged into the room and laid out without ceremony. Behind them came two more men, alive, bound, forced forward under firm grips.
"These," Quentin said calmly, "are the individuals responsible for the Jade attack. Allegedly Neon Dragons."
The young Dragon representative stepped forward instantly. "Those aren't my people," he snapped.
"We know," Madam Jiang said before Quentin could respond, her voice cold. She gestured toward one of the bodies. "The markings are wrong. The ink hasn't even set."
Quentin inclined his head slightly.
"As you can see," he continued, "someone is attempting to manufacture conflict between all of you. We intercepted this group mid-operation. From the reports, they were trained—disciplined. Not street-level fighters."
"Mercenaries," one of the cartel bosses muttered.
"Most likely," Quentin agreed.
He let that settle for a moment, then gestured lightly toward the two bound survivors.
"Well," he said, his tone almost pleasant, "we don't have to speculate."
All eyes shifted.
"They're still alive," Quentin added. "You're welcome to ask them yourselves."
The room went very still.
Because now—They had something real to direct their anger at.
The screaming had come in waves at first, sharp bursts of pain and denial, then stretched into something rawer as the questions kept coming and the answers followed whether the two men wanted them to or not. By the time it ended, the silence that replaced it was heavier than the noise had been.
No one spoke immediately.
Some of them stood with arms crossed, others paced slowly, working through what they had just heard. A few didn't bother hiding the blood on their hands.
Quentin remained where he was, composed, as if the last ten minutes had been nothing more than a formality.
Finally, he broke the silence.
"To summarize," he said, his tone even, cutting cleanly through the room, "they were paid to incite conflict. They don't know who hired them. Compartmentalized work. They were given resources, targets, and timing—nothing more."
He gestured lightly toward the bodies.
"They had accurate information for each hit. Enough to be convincing. Enough to make you all turn on each other."
His gaze moved across the gathered leaders.
"The only reason this one failed," he continued, "is because they didn't account for us. Our presence disrupted the operation."
"And finally," Quentin added, "they confirmed there were three separate teams deployed."
That pulled the room tighter again.
"Three," someone repeated under their breath.
"Which means this isn't random," another added.
Manuel Escabedo stepped forward, anger no longer restrained. "Which bastard would do this?" he snarled. "We have agreements for a reason. No one benefits from tearing everything apart again."
A few voices rose in agreement, frustration spilling over now that it had somewhere to go.
Quentin let it build for a moment. Then he smiled. It wasn't wide this time.
"I might have a suggestion," he said.
That was enough to quiet them.
"Has anyone here," Quentin continued, his voice measured, "heard of the Court of Owls?"