Nolan couldn't help himself.
The moment he finished reading Dre's report, laughter burst from his chest—full, genuine, and completely unrestrained. It echoed through the quiet penthouse as he leaned back in his chair, one hand covering his eyes while the other still held the report. It had been a long time since something had amused him this much.
"He actually did it…" he murmured between laughs.
The plan was almost identical to something he did in the past.
It was a strategy born back in Gotham during the gang war, when the Underpass had still been little more than an ambitious idea stitched together by desperate people. Nolan could still remember that night with startling clarity. Falcone attacking, lured into a trap they hastily made up to attract Batman.
The memory brought another chuckle to Nolan's lips.
"Dre remembered," he said quietly. "Not just the tactic… the lesson behind it."
He reached for a pen, scribbling a short note in the margin of the report.
Commend Dre. Excellent initiative.
The words had barely dried before another voice drifted through the room.
"I told you he was ready."
Nolan glanced up to find Vey standing beside the desk as though he had always been there. As usual, the larger man's posture was perfectly straight, his expression unreadable save for the faintest hint of satisfaction hiding beneath his stoic exterior.
Nolan's smile only widened.
"Oh?"
He tilted his head, studying Vey with exaggerated curiosity.
"Is that smugness I detect?" He tapped the end of his pen thoughtfully against the desk. "No… it's more than that."
He narrowed his eyes dramatically, "Is that… pride?"
Vey's expression didn't change.
Not outwardly. But Nolan had spent enough time with him to notice the microscopic tightening around his eyes.
"There might be a little."
Nolan laughed again, "I never thought I'd live to see the day."
"He worked for it."
"He did."
"And he listened."
Nolan nodded slowly.
"He always listened."
Before either of them could say anything more, Quentin wandered into the conversation with all the subtlety of a hurricane. He dropped into one of the nearby chairs, stole Nolan's untouched cup of coffee without asking, and took a leisurely sip before speaking.
"Let's not pretend this is entirely Vey's masterpiece."
He pointed lazily toward himself, "I shaped Dre too."
Vey looked at him.
Then deliberately looked away again. The silence was somehow more insulting than a response.
Quentin frowned.
"Oh, that's cold."
Nothing.
"You know, ignoring me doesn't make me wrong."
Still nothing.
Nolan pinched the bridge of his nose before the inevitable argument could begin.
"We have a meeting later today." The change in subject worked immediately
Quentin straightened in his chair.
Vey folded his arms.
Both focused on him.
Nolan stood, carrying his coffee toward the large map of Metropolis spread across the wall. His eyes settled on the district circled in red.
"The Suicide Slums."
The words carried a different weight than they had a week ago.
"Today's meeting is important. If everything goes well, we'll have our first legitimate foothold in Metropolis. If we can get this deal through and expand with more properties then by the time the hotel opens we will be in business."
Quentin studied the map for a long moment before letting out an irritated sigh.
"I still don't understand why I'm not handling these negotiations."
Nolan looked back at him.
"You know why."
"I know your answer."
Quentin gestured toward himself with visible annoyance.
"I just disagree with it. Kieran shines when he's charming millionaires and politicians. These aren't Gotham elites. They're businessmen trying to survive in one of the roughest districts in America. That's my kind of conversation."
"It is," Nolan admitted without hesitation.
That answer seemed to catch Quentin slightly off guard.
Nolan smiled.
"I'm not saying you'd do poorly."
"You'd do well." He took a sip from his cup "Very well, actually."
He set his coffee down before continuing.
"But Kieran would do better."
Quentin opened his mouth.
Nolan raised a finger.
"Hear me out." He leaned back against the table, folding his arms.
"Kieran doesn't just know how to talk to wealthy people. He knows how to make everyone feel important. Rich investors. Waiters. Construction workers. Reporters. Homeless veterans. Politicians. He naturally adapts to whoever is standing in front of him."
Nolan shrugged.
"I can't do that."
"You can't do that."
"Vey certainly can't do that."
Quentin clicked his tongue but didn't interrupt.
Nolan continued.
"Just like I wouldn't ask Kieran to organize an expansion of the Underpass."
He nodded toward Vey, "And I wouldn't ask Vey to negotiate hotel acquisitions."
Finally, he looked back at Quentin.
"And I wouldn't ask you to host charity galas."
A grin slowly spread across Quentin's face, "…I'd be terrible."
"You'd be arrested before dessert."
"I'd at least make the speeches entertaining."
"They'd certainly be memorable."
The room shared a quiet laugh before Nolan's smile softened.
"I understand why you're frustrated."
His tone had changed. It carried a sincerity that immediately drew Quentin's attention.
"Metropolis is going to rely on Kieran far more than Gotham ever did."
Nolan looked down at his own hands.
"I know what that's like."
Quentin frowned slightly.
"When I watch you manipulate a meeting between gangs…" Nolan continued, "…I wish I could do it."
He looked toward Vey.
"When I watch Vey train…"
Another small smile crossed his face.
"I train every single day."
"Every day."
"And I still don't come close."
Vey gave a small shrug, "You don't need to."
"Maybe not." Nolan laughed quietly.
"But it doesn't stop me from wishing I could."
Silence settled over the room. It was not an uncomfortable silence, frankly they all enjoyed moments like these sometimes.
Quentin stared at Nolan for several seconds before suddenly breaking into a grin bright enough to light the entire penthouse.
"I suppose you're right." He leaned back comfortably. "Kieran would make a terrible gang leader."
From somewhere deeper within Nolan's mind came an immediate explosion of outrage.
"HEY!"
"THAT'S NOT WHAT HE SAID, YOU ASSHOLE!"
Quentin burst into roaring laughter, nearly spilling the coffee he'd stolen, while even Vey's lips twitched ever so slightly before he turned away to hide it.
Nolan simply sighed.
Some days…It really did feel like living with siblings.
***
Later that afternoon, the polished marble and towering glass of downtown Metropolis gradually gave way to older streets where the city's prosperity seemed to lose momentum. Gleaming skyscrapers still dominated the skyline, but their shadows stretched over cracked sidewalks, aging brick storefronts, and apartment buildings that had clearly been forgotten by the wave of redevelopment sweeping through the rest of the city. It was a district caught between two worlds—close enough to see Metropolis' success every day, yet just far enough away that very little of it ever arrived.
Nestled on a quiet corner sat a modest lounge. Its sign had been repainted so many times that the grain of the old wood peeked through the faded lettering, and although the windows were spotless, years of weather had left permanent scars around the frames. Inside, however, the building told a different story. The hardwood floor had been polished until it gleamed, every table was free of dust, and the leather chairs had been lovingly maintained despite their age. Soft jazz drifted lazily through hidden speakers while the aroma of fresh coffee mingled with the scent of old oak. It wasn't luxurious, nor did it try to be. Instead, it possessed the quiet confidence of a place that had survived because someone refused to let it die.
Kieran Everleigh sat comfortably in one of the leather chairs, a cup of coffee resting untouched before him. His charcoal-gray suit was tailored to perfection, but it wasn't the sort that screamed wealth from across the room. There were no flashy cufflinks, no extravagant tie pin, and no ostentatious patterns woven into the fabric. Even the watch around his wrist seemed strangely understated. It was obviously expensive to anyone who appreciated craftsmanship, yet years of regular wear had softened its finish, leaving faint scratches along the polished steel. It looked like something he had owned for years rather than something purchased simply to impress.
Across from him sat the owner of the lounge.
The older man had clearly prepared for this meeting. His navy-blue suit had been freshly pressed, every wrinkle chased away with painstaking care, though the fabric itself had begun to show its age around the elbows and cuffs. It wasn't cheap, but it wasn't new either. It was the sort of suit a man reserved for the most important occasions, hoping no one would notice it had spent far more time hanging in a closet than being worn. In contrast, the watch around his wrist sparkled beneath the afternoon light, its polished face almost blindingly clean. The protective film had only recently been removed.
Kieran noticed the contrast immediately.
More importantly, he noticed the subtle habits that accompanied it. Every few minutes the man unconsciously adjusted his sleeves, smoothed imaginary wrinkles from his trousers, or rested his hands carefully atop the table as though afraid of damaging something. He wanted to make a good impression.
Without realizing it, he relaxed the moment he looked across the table.
Kieran's clothes were nicer.
But they weren't too nice.
His watch had history instead of shine.
His smile was warm instead of rehearsed.
The distance between businessman and businessman suddenly felt much smaller.
"So…" the older man finally began, breaking the comfortable silence with an uncertain laugh. "I'll admit, Mr. Everleigh… you aren't what I expected."
Kieran smiled over the rim of his coffee. "I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific."
The man chuckled, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "When people told me the owner of the Continental wanted to meet with me, I imagined someone arriving with a convoy of black SUVs and enough lawyers to fill my dining room."
"I left the convoy around the corner."
The older man laughed harder this time.
"I knew it."
"I've found conversations tend to go much smoother when there aren't six attorneys reminding everyone what they're allowed to say."
"I'll drink to that."
The laughter lingered for a few moments before fading into another easy silence. Neither man seemed eager to rush into business, and strangely enough, that suited them both. The owner eventually leaned back in his chair and exhaled through his nose, his expression becoming more thoughtful as he looked around the lounge he had spent decades building.
"I suppose I should ask."
"You should."
"Why this place?"
Kieran glanced around the room before answering with complete sincerity. "The coffee's excellent."
"It is."
"I like the music."
"So do I."
"The chairs are comfortable."
"Kieran…"
The smile on Kieran's face widened ever so slightly.
"I know."
"You understand what I'm asking."
"I do."
The owner folded his hands together and sighed. "You want to buy my lounge."
"I do."
"In the Suicide Slums."
"I noticed."
The older man shook his head with another weary laugh. "Then you've probably also noticed this place barely breaks even."
"I've read your books."
The man blinked.
"You actually went through my financial statements?"
"I wouldn't make an offer otherwise."
That answer seemed to surprise him more than anything else said so far. He stared across the table for a few seconds before slowly nodding to himself.
"Then you know exactly what you're buying."
"I believe I do."
Silence settled between them once again, though it no longer carried uncertainty. Instead, it felt reflective, almost nostalgic, as the owner's eyes drifted toward the front windows where pedestrians wandered past without ever glancing inside.
"You know…" he said quietly, "…it wasn't always like this."
Kieran remained silent.
There was no need to hurry him he obviously wasn't the best at negotiations.
"I bought this building twenty-three years ago." A faint smile appeared as old memories resurfaced. "Back then everyone kept saying this part of Metropolis was next. Every newspaper talked about redevelopment. Investors couldn't stop buying property. Politicians gave speeches promising that within five years this neighborhood would look just like downtown."
His smile faded, "So I emptied my savings."
His gaze wandered around the lounge.
"I believed them."
Another quiet chuckle escaped him, though there wasn't much humor left inside it.
"They rebuilt every neighborhood that needed rebuilding."
He looked back toward Kieran, "Except this one."
The room seemed quieter after that.
"I kept waiting. Every election somebody promised change. Every election they remembered us just long enough to get our votes before forgetting we existed again." His fingers idly traced the edge of his coffee mug. "People kept telling me to sell. Said I was throwing good money after bad."
"Why didn't you?" The question came gently.
The owner smiled.
"Somewhere along the way…" He looked around the room one more time, "…this place stopped being an investment."
His voice softened.
"I know every regular by name. I know whose wife is going through chemotherapy. I know who always orders pie but pretends they're only here for coffee. I know which old couple sits by that window every Thursday because it's where they had their first date." He laughed quietly to himself. "I even know who's been secretly watering the flowers outside before I open every morning."
His shoulders sagged ever so slightly.
"I'm just…" He searched for the right word. "…tired."
Kieran let those words settle naturally before answering. There was no rush. Some confessions deserved room to breathe.
"You've accomplished something remarkable."
The owner frowned.
"I've watched people with ten times your money build restaurants that failed within a year," Kieran said, glancing around the room with genuine admiration. "You've kept this place alive for over two decades in one of the hardest neighborhoods in the country. That's not failure."
"It doesn't feel like success."
"No," Kieran admitted. "I imagine it doesn't."
He folded his hands atop the table.
"But let me ask you something."
The owner looked up.
"If you woke up tomorrow and this neighborhood finally became what everyone promised it would become twenty years ago…" Kieran paused, allowing the question to settle. "…would this lounge survive?"
The answer came without hesitation.
"It'd thrive."
"I think so too."
The owner studied him carefully.
"…Which brings me back to my original question."
He leaned forward slightly.
"Why buy a struggling business in the most dangerous part of Metropolis?"
Kieran smiled, not because he had prepared an answer, but because he genuinely believed what he was about to say.
"I don't think it's a struggling business."
The owner blinked.
"I think it's a good business that's been waiting for the city to catch up."
He gestured toward the windows overlooking the streets outside.
"Most people look at this neighborhood and see crime. I see thousands of people. They look at these buildings and see decay. I see affordable property. They look at businesses barely hanging on. I see owners who've already proven they can survive almost anything."
The older man didn't interrupt.
Kieran continued calmly.
"I've learned something over the last few years. Cities don't change because someone builds another skyscraper. They change because enough ordinary businesses decide they're worth believing in. Hotels help. Apartments help. Investment helps. But neighborhoods are built by cafés, lounges, bookstores, mechanics, bakeries, and people who open their doors every morning whether anyone notices or not."
A small smile returned to his face.
"I'd like to be one of those people."
The owner searched Kieran's expression for several long seconds, almost as though expecting to find the hidden angle behind the offer. He found no smugness, no impatience, and no sign that the younger man was trying to outmaneuver him.
"So…" he said slowly, "…what exactly are you offering?"
Kieran reached into his briefcase and slid a neatly organized folder across the table.
"I'd like to purchase the property."
The owner opened it.
His eyebrows immediately shot upward.
"This is…"
He looked up again, "…more than the building is worth."
Kieran shook his head.
"I disagree."
Before the older man could protest, Kieran continued.
"I'd also like you to stay."
The owner frowned.
"Stay?"
"As the general manager."
For perhaps the first time during the entire meeting, the older man looked genuinely speechless.
"You… want me to keep running the place?"
"I do."
"But surely someone with your resources could hire someone with decades more experience."
"I could."
Kieran smiled.
"But they wouldn't know every regular by name."
The older man stared at him.
Neither spoke for several seconds.
Then, for the first time since the meeting had begun, the owner looked around his lounge not with exhaustion.
But with hope.
****
Gothams sewers were never a peaceful place but the underpass liked to think of it as one of their most valuable assets.
A group of four made their rounds checking their defenses and shooting the shit when they heard the chitter of rats.
"Damn that's a lot I thought they were all scared off to the shittier sections."
"Tell me about it I found a swarm the other day, little fuckers took my lunchbox."
As they passed another connection tunnel they heard more than rats, a footstep. All four quickly turned and unholstered their weapons.
"We heard you come out nice and slow."
One of the underpass touched a radio by his side, "Got movement in section five, need some lurkers."
As he finished his sentence a figure walked out of the shadows his hands held passively up in the air, "I heard you guys were hiring." The figure had a gas mask of some sorts on
"The fuck?"
—
A/N: for that one guy you know who this is. Also it won't happen all at once but each personality will more than likely get a business. Guess who the parlor is for??