Nolan nursed a cup of coffee between both hands, gently blowing across the surface every few moments before risking another sip. The rich aroma filled the penthouse suite, but each mouthful reminded him just how spoiled he had become. Somewhere between Gotham and Star City, his staff had perfected the art of making coffee exactly the way he liked it—strong enough to wake him without tasting like molten steel. This, on the other hand, seemed to have been brewed directly from the Earth's core.
A slight grimace crossed his face after another careful sip. "I've become spoiled."
"You have," Kieran replied with a knowing grin. "Give it another year and you'll start complaining about the thread count in hotel beds."
"I already complain about thread counts."
"I rest my case."
A quiet chuckle escaped Nolan as he reached for the folder lying beside his breakfast. It contained the day's schedule along with another stack of contracts waiting for his approval. Construction permits, revised engineering plans, supplier invoices, staffing proposals, and inspection reports filled page after page. There was nothing particularly exciting about any of it, but Nolan had grown to enjoy this side of the business. Every signature represented another piece of the Continental becoming bigger and bigger. Every approved document meant another team could continue working without interruption. It wasn't glamorous like Kieran's tasks, yet there was something deeply satisfying about watching an idea slowly transform into a building.
He had nearly finished reviewing the first packet when his eyes drifted absentmindedly toward the digital clock mounted above the kitchenette.
"Hm…"
The coffee paused halfway to his lips.
His brow furrowed.
Then his eyes widened.
"Oh…"
He looked back at the paperwork.
Then at the clock again.
"…Fuck."
The mug landed on the counter with a soft clink as he shot to his feet. "I'm late!"
Kieran laughed openly while Quentin doubled over inside his mind, thoroughly enjoying the rare sight of Nolan losing track of time. Even Vey looked faintly amused, though he wisely kept that observation to himself.
The ride to the construction site took nearly half an hour. Morning traffic flowed smoothly through the immaculate streets of Metropolis seriously they were way too nice, skyscrapers reflecting brilliant sunlight across polished glass until the city itself almost seemed to glow which somehow didn't blind the drivers. Nolan watched the skyline pass beyond the tinted window while mentally reviewing today's inspections.
It was then he decided he finally figured out why whoever built metropolis made it this way. It was brighter, cleaner, and somehow almost impossibly optimistic. Yes optimistic as if anything is possible in the city of dreams.
Eventually the convoy slowed before turning into the sprawling construction site that would one day become the Metropolis Continental. Tower cranes stretched overhead like mechanical giants while workers hurried across unfinished floors carrying steel beams, drywall, electrical conduit, and bundles of copper wiring. The constant rhythm of machinery echoed across the property, accompanied by shouted instructions, reversing alarms, and the sharp crackle of welding torches. It was organized chaos—the kind Nolan had come to appreciate.
The moment his car came to a stop, the site's project manager hurried toward him carrying a hardhat beneath one arm. "Mr. Everleigh! It's good to see you again."
"It's good to see you too." Nolan accepted the hardhat with an apologetic smile before fastening it beneath his chin. "Sorry I'm late."
The project manager checked his watch before waving the apology away. "Only eight minutes. Compared to most developers, that's practically early."
"I dislike being even one minute behind schedule."
"I'll see what I can do about slowing down time."
Nolan laughed softly as the two men entered the construction site together.
The next two hours passed in a blur of inspections and paperwork. They walked through the future grand lobby where polished marble would eventually replace rough concrete. They climbed skeletal staircases overlooking what would become luxury suites, examined the reinforced walls surrounding the hotel's more discreet accommodations, and reviewed revised floor plans for the ballroom after engineers recommended expanding its capacity. Nolan listened carefully to every explanation before offering small suggestions of his own, approving most changes while occasionally asking for adjustments that subtly improved guest flow or operational efficiency.
When they reached the future executive offices overlooking the entrance, another stack of forms awaited him. Fire suppression revisions, updated electrical certifications, union compliance paperwork, structural inspection approvals, environmental assessments, and supplier contracts covered the conference table. Nolan read every page with deliberate care before signing each document in neat, practiced handwriting. The project manager patiently answered questions whenever they arose, occasionally making notes whenever Nolan requested small alterations.
"I've also got revised landscaping proposals," the manager said, sliding another folder across the table. "The city requested additional green space near the front entrance."
Nolan studied the drawings for nearly a minute before tapping one particular illustration. "Move these trees."
The manager leaned closer. "Sir?"
"They're blocking the hotel's façade." Nolan traced a finger along the sketch. "The landscaping should complement the building, not hide it. People should see the Continental the moment they arrive."
The project manager examined the plans again before nodding in agreement. "You're right. I'll have the architects revise it this afternoon."
By the time the last document had been signed and the final inspection completed, the afternoon sun hung high over Metropolis. Nolan shook the project manager's hand, thanked several foremen working nearby, and made his way toward the waiting convoy parked outside the construction gates.
Unfortunately, someone else had been waiting for him as well.
Camera flashes erupted almost immediately, followed by the familiar chorus of reporters calling his name. Microphones rose above the crowd while photographers jockeyed for better angles, forcing his security detail to instinctively step between Nolan and the gathering press. Nolan, however, simply raised a hand.
"It's alright."
The guards hesitated before reluctantly stepping aside.
Reporters rarely bothered him. They were simply doing their jobs, much like everyone else.
As he approached, his eyes wandered across the assembled journalists more out of curiosity than caution. Local television stations, business publications, construction magazines, and city newspapers all seemed to have representatives present. Then one face stood apart from the others.
Brown hair.
Slightly oversized glasses.
A somewhat wrinkled suit that somehow still looked respectable.
Instead of aggressively pushing forward with the others, the reporter simply stood patiently near the back, notebook already open, waiting for an opportunity to ask a question rather than shouting over everyone else.
Clark Kent.
Nolan recognized him almost immediately.
Inside his mind, Quentin couldn't contain himself.
"Well," he said with an unmistakable grin in his voice, "isn't this wonderfully ironic?"
Nolan already knew where this was going.
"We're meeting Superman…"
"…while preparing to accidentally run into the other threat," Quentin finished.
Kieran sighed dramatically. "You really do have a gift for making perfectly innocent meetings sound like the opening chapter of a conspiracy."
"I choose to view it as optimism."
Nolan ignored them both.
His attention remained on Clark.
Unlike nearly everyone else present, Clark wasn't trying to force his way to the front. He simply waited, allowing the louder reporters to exhaust themselves first. It was a small thing, but Nolan appreciated patience. Eventually the shouting settled enough that individual voices became distinguishable.
Nolan raised a hand and pointed toward the quiet reporter standing near the back.
"You haven't asked anything yet."
Clark looked momentarily surprised before stepping forward. "Clark Kent, Daily Planet."
"I know who you are."
Several heads turned toward Clark as mild surprise flickered across his face.
"My question is fairly straightforward," Clark began, opening his notebook. "You've expanded rapidly over the past few years. Gotham, Star City, and now Metropolis. Most developers would call that an incredibly ambitious pace. Why choose Metropolis, and why now?"
Nolan smiled.
It was a far better question than asking how much money the hotel would make.
"I think people misunderstand expansion," he said calmly. "They assume it's about building hotels. It isn't."
Clark tilted his head slightly.
"No?"
"No." Nolan turned just enough to gesture toward the towering skeleton of the Continental rising behind him. "Hotels are simply the result. What we're really building is confidence. Every time someone invests in a neighborhood, they're making a statement. They're telling employees, suppliers, investors, and local businesses that this place is worth believing in."
Clark scribbled several quick notes before looking up again.
"So why Metropolis?"
Nolan's smile softened drawing from his earlier inspiration.
"Because if there's any city in the world capable of making tomorrow better than today…" His gaze lingered briefly on the skyline stretching toward the clouds. "…it's this one."
Clark lowered his pen for a moment.
For reasons Nolan couldn't quite explain…
He had the distinct feeling that answer mattered more to Clark Kent than it did to the rest of the reporters.
****
Warm amber light spilled across polished mahogany and crystal glass as the evening crowd filled one of Metropolis' most exclusive restaurants. Conversations drifted lazily between tables while a string quartet performed somewhere below, the soft melody blending seamlessly with the muted clinking of silverware and expensive wine glasses. Waiters glided effortlessly between guests dressed in tailored suits and elegant evening gowns, each movement practiced until it appeared almost effortless.
Above the main dining floor, tucked behind a carved walnut railing overlooking the restaurant, the private VIP mezzanine hosted only a handful of tables. It was intentionally secluded, granting its guests privacy without completely removing them from the atmosphere below.
The peace was promptly broken by a rich, infectious laugh rolled through the room.
It wasn't obnoxious.
Nor was it restrained.
It was the kind of laugh that made nearby patrons glance over despite themselves, curious what joke could possibly have been so entertaining.
Kieran Everleigh sat comfortably at the center of the table, one hand wrapped around a crystal glass while the other rested against the back of his chair. His suit, as always, managed to strike the perfect balance between expensive and approachable. He looked every bit the successful hotelier, yet somehow lacked the stiffness that often accompanied immense wealth. Around him sat nearly a dozen men and women—event planners, architects, decorators, entertainers, chefs, and marketing specialists—the very people responsible for designing the grand opening of the Metropolis Continental.
"…and then," Kieran managed between another fit of laughter, "he actually asked if the fireworks budget included replacements in case Superman accidentally flew through them."
The table erupted into laughter once more.
"I'm serious!"
"No…"
"I swear on my hotels."
One of the event coordinators shook her head while wiping tears from the corner of her eye. "Please tell me you said yes."
"I told him we'd charge Superman for damages."
Another wave of laughter swept around the table.
Kieran leaned back in his chair, allowing the conversation to continue naturally while he watched everyone interact. This was precisely why he insisted on dinners like these before every major opening. People planned better when they genuinely enjoyed working together. They challenged one another's ideas, built upon each other's creativity, and stopped worrying about impressing the boss.
Oddly enough… he owed the idea to Oliver Queen.
Their first dinner together in Star City had been loud, relaxed, and surprisingly productive despite barely discussing business. Somewhere between Oliver's constant jokes and effortless charisma, Kieran had realized something important.
People remembered how you made them feel long after they forgot the meeting itself.
It was a lesson worth stealing.
"So," one of the designers asked while flipping through several concept sketches, "what exactly are you hoping people remember when they leave opening night?"
Kieran considered the question thoughtfully before answering.
"I want them to remember feeling welcome."
The table quieted.
"They'll remember the architecture because it's beautiful. They'll remember the food because you've made sure it's exceptional. They'll remember the music because our orchestra is among the best in the country." His smile softened. "But those things fade. What lasts is how people feel when they walk through our doors."
One of the chefs nodded slowly.
"So hospitality first."
"Always."
Another planner scribbled something onto her notepad.
"I like that."
"It makes every decision easier," Kieran replied. "Whenever you're unsure about something, ask yourselves one question."
"What question?"
"Does this make our guests feel welcome?"
"If yes?"
"We're probably making the right decision."
The discussion flowed naturally from there, ideas bouncing back and forth across the table as decorations, seating arrangements, entertainment schedules, and charity invitations were debated with remarkable enthusiasm. Kieran offered suggestions without dominating the conversation, occasionally steering discussions back on course whenever they drifted too far into unnecessary extravagance.
The Continental didn't need to overwhelm people.
It simply needed to impress them.
Footsteps approached from behind.
Kieran glanced over his shoulder just as a member of the restaurant's security staff came to a respectful stop beside the table.
"Excuse me, sir."
Kieran immediately smiled.
"Yes?"
"I hate to interrupt, but we've received a few complaints regarding the noise level."
Kieran's eyebrows lifted.
"Have we really?"
"I'm afraid so."
"My sincerest apologies." He placed a hand over his chest with theatrical sincerity. "Clearly we've forgotten we're surrounded by civilized company."
A few chuckles escaped those seated around the table.
"We'll keep it down."
"Thank you, sir."
As the guard turned to leave, Kieran's gaze naturally drifted past him toward the neighboring VIP section separated only by a decorative partition.
His expression brightened instantly.
"My goodness…"
Before anyone could stop him, Kieran rose smoothly from his chair.
The security guard blinked in confusion as Kieran stepped past him, somehow finding himself just slow enough to react. It wasn't anything deliberate. The man simply hesitated for the briefest fraction of a second.
The security guard hadn't hesitated in fifteen years of service.
"My goodness!" he exclaimed warmly, extending both hands as though greeting an old friend. "Lex Luthor! I hadn't realized I was disturbing your dinner." He shook his head with exaggerated embarrassment before offering an easy smile. "Here I thought we were the important table this evening. Instead I'm apparently dining in the presence of greatness."
Several heads turned.
At the neighboring table sat Lex Luthor.
Impeccably dressed in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, he possessed the quiet confidence of a man who had spent decades walking into rooms already knowing he was the smartest person present. A half-finished glass of red wine rested beside his plate, though it had clearly gone untouched for several minutes. He regarded Kieran with calm, unreadable blue eyes before a small, measured smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.
"It seems," Lex replied evenly, setting down his fork with practiced elegance, "that it is I who find myself in the presence of greatness… if today's newspapers are to be believed."
Kieran laughed, waving the compliment away as though embarrassed by it.
"Oh, don't trust newspapers. If they praised me yesterday, they'll be predicting my bankruptcy next week."
"They are rather fickle."
"They're professionals."
Lex's smile grew by the slightest fraction.
"They certainly are."
For a brief moment the two men simply regarded one another. Neither appeared rushed.
Neither seemed eager to seize control of the conversation.
Each quietly measured the other beneath polite smiles and impeccable manners.
Then Kieran inclined his head ever so slightly.
"I don't believe we've had the pleasure."
"No," Lex agreed as he rose from his chair, extending a hand across the small distance separating them. "I don't believe we have."
"Kieran Everleigh."
"I know."
Lex's handshake was firm without becoming domineering.
Almost clinical.
"My name is Lex Luthor."
Kieran's grin widened.
"Well I had gathered as much."
****
"Rat catcher? He calls himself Rat catcher?" Marcy was in disbelief
Naima tried and failed to hide her amusement, "Yes." Something horrible resembling a laugh left her lips, "Yes he does."
"He would be invaluable." Marcy lamented, "But boss will want to vet this guy personally."
"I agree. Let's send him a dossier, he is supposed to be back in Gotham in a week at the earliest."