At the far end of the docks, a boy in a torn parka waited until the Dockyard Dogs' lookouts turned away. He shuffled up to their foreman, a barrel-chested man with oil on his hands, and offered the folded scrap without a word.
The foreman frowned, broke the seal, and read the short message inside:
"Wintergreen platform. Midnight. One guard each. No weapons. Opportunity waits for those who show."
He turned the coin over in his palm. Gold and heavy. Whatever this was, it wasn't something someone just liked to throw out. He grunted, stuffed it into his coat, and muttered, "Tell the boys we're going out tonight."
***
In Chinatown, the air steamed with broth and exhaust. A man sleeping by a noodle stall stirred when a woman's voice called his name softly. She wasn't one of them — too clean, too alert. She slipped him a slip of paper and disappeared into the street crowd before he could blink.
The message found its way to Mei-Lin, lieutenant of the Jade Leopards, by sundown. She read it twice and tapped her lacquered nail against the coin that came with it.
"Someone with taste," she murmured. Then to her guard: "Prepare the car."
***
Over in Burnley, inside a run-down arcade now serving as a gambling den for the Five Fingers, a bartender found the same folded paper wedged behind the till. He took it upstairs to his boss — Sal, a man with a smile sharp enough to cut glass. Sal read the message, flipped the coin, and said, "Somebody's got manners. We'll hear him out."
****
Across the river, in an old church turned hideout for The Deacons, one of Tolliver's men found the note tucked into a hymnal. He took it to the reverend's second-in-command, who read it by candlelight.
"Could be a trap."
"Could be a chance," the other said.
They both nodded. "We go."
***
By nightfall, even the Steel Sevens — a half-forgotten gang clinging to the riverfront — had gotten theirs. A cigarette pack left on a railing. Inside: a coin, a folded slip, and that same mark. Their leader, Little Tao, laughed under his breath. "Someone's trying to unionize the gutter."
***
Hours later, the abandoned Wintergreen freight platform came alive again.
Five groups arrived one by one, each bringing a single bodyguard, each stepping with caution. Flashlights cut brief tunnels through the dark.
They met in the old loading bay five shadows circling a rusted table. At its center lay one of the gold-sealed letters.
No host. No guards. No traps that anyone could see.
Knuckles from the docks grunted first. "So you guys got a letter too huh?"
Mei-Lin smirked faintly. "Whoever he is, he's got reach and there's only one person we know who uses homeless people."
Sal cracked his knuckles. "Or he's got a death wish. Trying to unite the us small fry is ballsy." Most frowned at his description of themselves
From the darkness, a thin voice spoke — one of the homeless couriers, face half-hidden by a hood.
"Word of warning, the boss is kind of eccentric." He didn't want to say crazy
No one moved. The coin gleamed under the hanging light.
The courier checked his watch, "He will be here soon."
And then he was gone.
The room had gone silent after the courier left. The hanging bulb buzzed faintly overhead, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. The faint drip of a pipe somewhere in the corner was the only sound.
Then, the door creaked open.
A man stepped inside tall, lean, and dressed in a black and gray suit, his posture calm but deliberate. What caught their attention first wasn't his build, or even the quiet confidence in his stride — it was the mask.
It wasn't the sleek theater mask that had become infamous across Gotham's underworld — the mask that meant violence was about to erupt. No, this one was stranger. It was porcelain white, painted with a lazy, lopsided grin and mismatched eyes: one bright gold, the other a dull, cracked blue. The edges were uneven, like it had been hand-cut. Almost comical — until you looked too long. Then it became unnerving.
Nolan personally thought the mask was a smart idea to make people assume the person in the theater mask was someone else entirely and not the boss.
A few of the gang leaders shifted uneasily.
One finally spoke. "So, you're the boss of the Underpass, huh? I was expecting someone a little more… well homeless I guess."
Another leaned forward. "How can we trust a man who hides his face?"
Quentin tilted his head slightly — the gold eye glinting. "There's not a lot of trust going around these days," he said evenly. "But if I ever feel that changes… maybe I'll leave the mask at home. You can call me Quentin."
That earned a few smirks.
"So," said Sal, "you're the one pulling the strings over at the docks and down below. Gotta say, it's impressive what you've built. Real impressive."
Quentin dipped his head, a gesture somewhere between acknowledgment and dismissal. "Appreciated."
The leaders exchanged glances. "We're not looking to be absorbed," one of them said flatly. "We came to this meeting 'cause it sounded interesting, not 'cause we're looking for a boss."
Quentin clasped his gloved hands behind his back and began to pace slowly. "Good," he said. "I didn't invite you here to come under anyone's banner — least of all mine."
That made them pause.
He continued, his tone calm but sharp. "You've all seen it. Falcone. Penguin. The Triads. The Cartel. They're devouring everything smaller than them. Taking over or burning down anyone who won't kneel. The city's being carved up as we speak, and soon there won't be anything left to fight over."
He stopped pacing and looked at each of them in turn. The crooked grin of the mask seemed to widen in the low light.
"When that happens," he said, voice low, "they'll turn their eyes on what's left. On you. On me. On anyone still standing outside their shadow. And when that happens — if we stay scattered — we'll be swept off the board before we can blink."
He leaned forward slightly, his tone measured but intense. "I'm not asking for loyalty. I'm offering strategy. Cooperation. When this war ends — and it will end soon — we should be standing together, not left out in the cold. We don't have to be the biggest to survive. We just need to be smart enough to still be here when the smoke clears."
The room stayed quiet for a long time. Then one of the gang leaders, a woman with a scar cutting across her cheek, exhaled slowly. "And what would you call this little… arrangement?"
Quentin chuckled softly behind the mask. "Let's not call it anything yet," he said. "Names make people nervous. Let's just say… it's the start of a great friendship."
Quentin placed a bag on the table, "There is a phone inside for each of you. In it you will see a group chat. Please take as long as you need to think over my offer. Ah but, not too long that would be awkward if the war ended before we could agree on a friendship y'know."
"I see what we get out of this but what are you getting? Your underpass has been thriving so far." Mei Lin pointed out whilst grabbing one of the phones
Quentin smiled brightly under his mask, "Didn't I already tell you? Friendship of course!"
—
A/N: sorry ik my chapters aren't the longest and these last two feel like a lot of setup. I've been adjusting and refining my outline to achieve what will hopefully be a snowball of growth, action, and more!