"Has anyone here," Quentin continued, his voice measured, "heard of the Court of Owls?"
The Neon Dragons' representative let out a short, disbelieving laugh, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "The hell do you mean they're real? I thought that was just bait. Something people spread to distract us."
"Of course they're real," Manuel Escabedo replied immediately, his tone sharp with irritation. "I had my people dig into it the moment their name started spreading. Too many were talking about them for it to be false. That doesn't happen by accident." He frowned slightly, thinking it through. "The real question is why they'd start something like this."
Quentin's expression didn't change. Inside, however, the calculation was immediate and precise. He already knew the truth—or at least enough of it. This wasn't random. It wasn't even purely strategic. It was a reaction to him and Batman raiding the court.
But that wasn't something he could share. Not here with these men.
Too many of their people had died. Too much damage had already been done. If they connected this back to his actions—if they realized the Court had been provoked—they wouldn't care about nuance. They would care about cost. And they would come looking to collect it.
So Quentin gave them something cleaner. Something that was still close to the truth. Just not all of the truth.
"Precisely because of what you just said," he replied, tone calm, almost analytical. "Their name is everywhere right now. On the streets, in conversations, in rumors. Everyone's heard of the Court of Owls at this point."
He let that settle for a moment.
"That's the opposite of what an organization like that wants," he continued. "Groups like that survive by staying in the dark. Influence without attention. Control without exposure."
El penidente's gaze sharpened slightly. "So you're saying this is damage control?"
"In a way," Quentin said. "If the city is focused on a gang war—real or manufactured—then attention shifts. People stop asking questions about shadows when there's fire in the streets."
The Neon Dragon leader frowned. "So they're lighting the fire themselves?"
Quentin inclined his head slightly. "It's the most logical explanation."
Manuel crossed his arms, jaw tight. "Then they're playing a dangerous game."
"They always do," Quentin replied.
The room grew quieter now that they had something concrete to point at—something above them, beyond them.
And more importantly— Something they could all agree to hate.
One by one the factions filtered back out into the night.
The tension hadn't vanished, but it had changed shape. Men who had arrived expecting blood left with something else entirely—direction, suspicion, purpose. Vehicles disappeared from the street in staggered waves until only a handful remained outside the club.
Inside, the atmosphere settled into an uneasy calm.
Dre stood near the entrance speaking quietly with a few Underpass members while Naima remained closer to Quentin, arms crossed as she watched the Jade Leopards still occupying part of the room. Madam Jiang had not left with the others.
Neither had the people she brought.
The Jade members lingered in disciplined silence, spread carefully through the club without appearing overtly threatening. But everyone present understood the truth—they stayed because their leader wished to continue the conversation privately.
Madam Jiang finally stepped closer, heels clicking softly against the floor before stopping a few feet from Quentin.
"What's your plan?" she asked directly.
Quentin looked toward her, then shrugged lightly. "I'm not sure yet."
It wasn't the answer she expected.
"The Court is elusive," he continued calmly. "That's what makes them dangerous. Criminal organizations like ours are visible once you know where to look. We recruit openly within territories. We hold blocks, neighborhoods, fronts, warehouses." He gestured vaguely toward the city outside. "You can hurt us. Burn our operations. Kill our people. Territory can be mapped."
His expression sharpened slightly.
"The Court doesn't work that way."
Naima remained silent nearby, listening.
"They don't centralize," Quentin said. "They diffuse. Successful businessmen, politicians, developers, investors. They sit inside legitimate systems while funding illegitimate ones." He tilted his head slightly. "A gang loses a warehouse and suffers. The Court loses one member and continues functioning without disruption."
Madam Jiang studied him carefully. "Then how do you fight something like that?"
Quentin's smile returned faintly, though there was little humor in it.
"You don't attack the body," he said. "You attack the structure holding it up."
He walked toward the table where the photos and documents still rested scattered from the earlier meeting.
"The Court survives because Gotham supports it," he continued. "Money. Real estate. Political influence. Shipping routes. Construction contracts. Banks." His fingers tapped lightly against one of the papers. "Every member represents a pillar. Alone, none are essential. Together, they create stability."
Dre frowned slightly. "So you're talking about economic warfare."
"In part," Quentin replied. "Exposure too. Pressure. Fear."
Madam Jiang's eyes narrowed. "You think gangs can threaten people like that?"
Quentin looked toward her.
"I think," he said carefully, "that people with power panic harder than anyone when they realize their status can disappear."
The room fell quiet for a moment.
Outside, distant sirens echoed faintly through Gotham.
"The Court has spent decades convincing themselves they're untouchable," Quentin continued. "That's their weakness. They don't think like people forced to survive every day. Most of them have never truly been vulnerable."
Naima finally spoke. "And once they feel vulnerable?"
Quentin's smile widened slightly.
"They'll start making mistakes. We just need someone to start the chain reaction someone to get these others to start moving. My bet is the escabado, the court made a mistake messing with them."
***
The law firm occupied the upper floors of a polished downtown tower, the kind of place built to project power without ever needing to say it aloud. Marble floors reflected warm lighting. Quiet music drifted through the lobby. Men and women in expensive suits moved with rehearsed confidence between offices and elevators.
The front doors opened.
Five men entered together.
Fedoras shadowed their faces, long coats hanging neatly from their shoulders despite the weather outside. Nothing about them immediately caused panic. Not at first.
The receptionist looked up from her desk with practiced professionalism. "Good evening, how can I help—"
They walked past her.
Her smile faltered instantly.
"Sir?" she called after them, standing halfway from her chair now. "You can't go back there without—"
None of them acknowledged her.
The woman's expression tightened. She reached for the phone beneath the desk immediately.
"Security to lobby," she said quickly, trying to keep her voice level. "Now."
The men ignored the elevators entirely.
Instead, they headed for the stairwell.
Two security guards intercepted them near the entrance to it, both already moving with the confidence of men used to handling disruptive clients rather than actual threats.
"Hey," one barked, holding up a hand. "You need to stop right—"
The first man struck him before he could finish.
A baton cracked into the side of the guard's knee hard enough to fold the leg sideways. Before the second guard could react, another attacker stepped in close and drove an elbow into his throat. The man collapsed against the wall choking as fists and boots finished the job with brutal efficiency.
The group continued upward immediately, boots echoing through the stairwell as alarms began spreading quietly through the building below.
Phones started ringing.
Police dispatch picked up the first emergency calls.
By the time officers were being routed toward the tower, the men had already reached the top floor.
The owner's office sat behind heavy glass doors etched with gold lettering. One of the intruders simply smashed the lock apart with the butt of his weapon before pushing through.
Inside, the owner jolted upright from behind his desk.
"What the hell is this?" he snapped, fear and outrage mixing together instantly. "Do you know who I—"
One of the men stepped forward calmly.
A silver coin flipped into the air.
The owner faltered slightly, confused enough by the gesture to stop yelling for half a second. The coin spun once, twice, before slapping neatly back into the man's palm.
He looked down at it.
Then nodded once.
The owner's face changed.
"You can't just walk in here and—"
The guns came up.
The office exploded with sound.
Muzzle flashes lit the room in violent bursts as bullets tore through the desk, the shelves behind him, and the man himself. He stumbled backward under the impacts, collapsing into shattered glass and paperwork as the gunfire continued another second longer than necessary.
Then silence.
Smoke drifted slowly through the office.
One of the attackers calmly stepped around the ruined desk. From beneath his coat he removed something large and circular, setting it directly atop the bloodstained wood.
A giant owl face.
And painted across its forehead—A bright red bullseye.