They sat around the long steel table in the back room of the Continental a map tacked to the wall, cups of bad coffee cooling, the low hum of the building overhead. Nolan stood at the head, fingers splayed on the tabletop, eyes shadowed from a long night.
"First," he said, voice steady though his fingers trembled a little, "Dre, you made the right call with the sewers. That system is far too important to call a full retreat. We couldn't have known Falcone was going to throw that much muscle at it. We'll fix that." He looked each of them in turn. "More people. More guns. Better fallback routes. The sewers stay a priority. From your report it sounds like you salvaged a bit of good gear."
Dre nodded, jaw tight. "We'll deepen the patrol loops, put spare mags at every checkpoint. Triple the rooftop overwatch on the mouths. We found some gear that wasn't ripped to shreds by croc, but we really need to find our own supplier."
Nolan nodded before he turned to Naima. "Naima, Whispers how's their pressure?"
Naima folded her hands on the table like a blade. "They're poking around. Looking for holes. But they're busy on another front Irish mob pushed into one of their other yards. That's giving us a sliver of breathing room."
Marcy rubbed her knuckles. "If the Whispers are busy, that's our window. But Odessa's moving fast on the docks. They're not subtle; when they pick a lane, they flood it. If Odessa takes too much of the docks, they'll bleed south into our rails."
Nolan closed his eyes for a second, then opened them like someone pulling a plan into focus. "Then we press while they're tied up. We don't hit the docks blind we take the rest of the Whisper network that's within striking distance. Deny Odessa the leverage. The faster we consolidate the rails, the better positioned we are to defend against Odessa's push."
He stabbed a finger at the map. "I'll go with you on the next tag team to clear that Whisper outpost. Marcy I want supply lines ready. Batteries, heaters, extra ammo, jammers. If we're moving quick, we can't be slowed by logistics."
Marcy barked a short laugh. "I'll have three drop points and a reroute plan within the hour. If Odessa sniff it, they won't find the real cache. The whispers would be to occupied to even search for it right now. I will also look into finding suppliers for more gear, our relocation business has slowed but we still have some favors to leverage."
Naima tipped her head. "I'll reposition lookouts to report Odessa movements. If the Irish mob collapses on the Whispers, we push. If Odessa pokes, we tighten and bait. They are far too eager."
Nolan's fingers tightened around the edge of the table for a beat, then relaxed. A small, grim smile ghosted his face. "Also send a word of thanks to Croc for me Dre. He held up his word and that means a lot."
Dre's grin was ugly and honest. "Already did. He don't want 'thanks' but he heard. He'll keep an ear in the muck."
Nolan let the plan settle between them like an agreed breath. "All right. We move in four hours. Marcy, get the lines positioned. Naima, feed us Odessa's movements as they happen. If anything moves toward the tunnels, we lock the mouths and bait them into a choke they won't like. I want you to be over watch Naima, you're a good commander I'll lead the charge."
He looked around the table, meeting each face. "We stabilize the rails first. Consolidate what we have. Then we push to deny Odessa any claiming stride. We keep our people safe, and we make sure the Batman prioritizes the other gangs."
Hands came together fists on the tabletop, a lit, practical kind of oath. Nolan nodded, and the tiredness around his eyes sharpened into purpose.
"Good meeting. Move out."
***
The rail yard stank of oil and rust. Every step on the gravel crunched like brittle bones. The wind whistled through the husks of abandoned boxcars, but one of them painted matte black, streaked with soot was alive with quiet, electric purpose.
Inside, the hum of machines filled the cramped space. Old monitors lined one wall, running on spliced power cables fed through broken couplings. The glow of multiple screens painted the walls in pale blues and greens: maps of Gotham's lower east quarter, drone feeds, a few shaky camera angles from hidden street eyes. Someone had spray-painted "THE NARROWS BELONG TO US" over a panel of rust.
Naima Rez stood at the far end, headset on, one boot planted on a crate. Her eyes flicked from screen to screen, calm but sharp.
Vey leaned over the central table, fingers drumming near a rough map of the Whisper territories zones scrawled in marker, circled, slashed, and connected by lines of red tape. A cigarette burned low between his fingers, its ash forgotten.
"Intel says they regrouped in the old textile yard," Naima said, voice clipped. "Small cell. Eight, maybe nine to twelve left. They've been moving gear, likely trying to set up another camp."
Vey nodded once. "You're running comms here?"
"Always."
He flicked his eyes to the team standing in the doorway seven men and women, all ex-street, lean and cold-eyed. They'd been forged in the recent blood between gangs and police raids; now they looked like real soldiers in tactical layers and scavenged body armor.
Vey straightened. "We move quiet. No shouting, no celebrating till the job's done. The Whispers thought they could come back in through the tunnels tonight we close that hole for good."
He checked his wristwatch. Its face was cracked, but the hands still worked. Then he said, almost absently, "keep an eye on bat reports."
He turned, and the team followed him out into the night.
***
They geared up near the outer yard, where a circle of fire barrels cut through the fog. Guns were cleaned, magazines checked, knives drawn and sheathed again. Someone muttered a quick prayer. Someone else tied a red ribbon to the barrel of their shotgun a ritual for luck, old Narrows tradition.
The cold bit into Vey's exposed hands. He didn't mind. It kept him sharp.
He checked his sidearm, the small metal vials clipped to his belt, the vial he carried like a totem. Each vial glowed faintly under the moonlight that bled through the cracks, one was marked with a black cap.
He stared at it for a moment, the glass trembling slightly in his fingers. "You ever feel your pulse in your teeth?" he muttered to himself.
The Fear Vial wasn't meant to be used lightly. Even he wasn't immune to its side effects. But when he needed precision when he needed to see the world not as it was, but as it truly moved he didn't hesitate.
He cracked the vial lifted his mask and inhaled. The burn spread like wildfire through his veins. His breath came faster, chest tightening, every nerve lighting up. He closed his eyes as the edges of vision began to swim shadows stretching, breathing, whispering nonsense. He gritted his teeth and shoved it all away.
"Stay with it," he whispered. "Stay on the target."
When he opened his eyes again, the night looked different.
Every living thing burned with color. His crew were steady flares of amber and crimson fear and focus, aggression pulsing like heat signatures. In the distance, through the mist and the chain-link fences, he could see the faint outlines of other shapes nine figures glowing faintly in pale blue. The Whispers.
"Move," he rasped.
They slipped forward across the gravel, shadows among shadows.
***
The Whisper outpost was nothing more than a crumbling warehouse at the edge of the old textile yard. Tarps hung over broken windows, and a pair of lookouts smoked on a platform above the loading dock, rifles slung lazy across their chests.
Vey crouched behind an overturned generator, signaling the others into position. Two on the right flank, two sweeping low through the side entrance, one setting up a scope from a rusted container.
Naima's voice crackled faintly in his earpiece. "Eyes on. You have confirmation?"
"Visual," Vey said, his voice low, tight.
"Proceed when ready."
He closed his eyes again and let the world reduce to light. The Whispers' auras flickered in his mind restless, twitchy. Paranoia, fear, exhaustion. He found two at the back of the building, hunched near a fire barrel, one arguing, one laughing too hard.
Perfect.
He reached for the green vial hanging at his belt. The liquid shimmered like molten emerald. He didn't inject this one; he only needed to direct it. The aura manipulation wasn't a power in itself it was an infection, a psychic contagion riding the edge of his chemically heightened perception.
Vey extended a trembling hand toward the warehouse, fingers clawed slightly as if grasping invisible strings.
His whisper cut through the static of his own heartbeat. "Let them rest."
The green light seeped into the air only faintly visible, like heat haze. It touched the two figures and spread like mold beneath their skin.
At first, they didn't react. Then one of them smiled. Slowly. Too slowly.
The other began to laugh again, but softer now, dreamy. He turned his head toward nothing, eyes glinting with tears.
"What…?" the lookout near him asked.
The man didn't answer. He dropped his gun. He walked forward, unblinking, toward the sound of rats scurrying through a hole in the wall.
"Hey, what the hell are you doing?"
The second one followed, arms slack, smile serene. They both kept walking, eyes wide open, until the edge of the hole met them—and they stepped off without a sound plummeting down.
The bodies hit the concrete below with a pair of wet, final cracks.
The lookouts shouted.
Vey's voice came through the comms: "Now."
Gunfire erupted like thunder.
His team surged forward. Bullets tore through wood and metal. The remaining Whispers scrambled for cover, but the confusion spread faster than any bullet. One of them screamed that something was crawling inside his head; another dropped his weapon and begged forgiveness from the shadows. The green light had bled further than Vey intended—seeping through the cracks, infecting minds too weak to resist.
He rose from behind cover, eyes sharp, expression cold. The fear still clawed at the edges of his perception, but he held firm, every motion precise.
When the gunfire died, only the hiss of wind remained. The Whisper outpost was silent, its leaders sprawled like broken dolls.
Vey lowered his weapon and breathed out slowly. The color began to fade from the world the auras dissolving into darkness.
One of his soldiers, a woman with a scar across her jaw, stepped beside him. "What the hell did you do to them?"
Vey looked at the fallen men, their peaceful smiles frozen on dead faces. "Gave them exactly what they wanted," he said. "A little peace."
He turned back toward the train yard, voice low into the comm. "Naima. It's done. Dock the bodies. Collect what's left of their comms. We're moving before sunrise."
"Copy that," came her reply. "You all right, boss?"
He hesitated. His pulse was still racing, teeth grinding from the Fear Vial's bite. For a second, he swore he heard the sound of chains breaking.
Then he blinked, and they were gone.
"Yeah," he said. "Just fine."