Nolan stayed at Marcy's bedside long after he should have stepped away. He couldn't tear his eyes from her—her chest rising shallowly, the monitors trembling with every fragile heartbeat, her skin pale beneath the overhead light. The doctor moved with crisp precision, barking orders to his assistants, never once losing composure. He was good. Better than good. Nolan had hand-picked him for exactly this.
And still Nolan had put a gun to the man's head.
He knew it was stupid. Reckless. A symptom of losing control.
But he couldn't help it. Not with Kieran snarling commands in one ear, Vey pacing and whispering blood-drenched thoughts in the other, and Quentin pushing icy logic into the center of his skull. They had rules—rules they all agreed to. None of them were supposed to wrestle for control unless Nolan invited them.
But when Marcy collapsed into Dre's arms, bleeding from the thigh and shoulder, gasping like she was trying to pull air through water…
All those rules broke.
Nolan clenched his jaw as the doctor applied pressure to one of Marcy's wounds. He wanted to blame Kieran for pushing him to act like a boss. Blame Vey for amplifying the rage. Blame Quentin for demanding rationality at the exact moment Nolan needed emotion.
But the truth sat in his chest like a knife.
He was the one who opened the routes.
He was the one who believed they could unify the smaller factions.
He was the one who thought the gangs would band together against a common threat.
He was the one who was wrong.
He was foolish.
"The situation is looking better, sir," the doctor said quietly, his voice steady even after the earlier threat. "She's not stabilized, but… she's trending in the right direction."
Nolan's shoulders dropped a fraction. A breath he didn't know he'd been holding slipped out.
"Good," he murmured, a thin smile touching his lips. "Good. Keep going."
He stepped out of the room as his phone buzzed in his pocket. The moment the door clicked shut behind him, he answered.
"Go ahead."
Dre's voice came through low and vibrating with controlled fury.
"It was the Sevens."
Nolan exhaled through his nose—half anger, half exhaustion. "Are you sure?"
A pause. Not hesitation—rage.
"Our spotters saw them," Dre said. "Not just roaming. They were packing gear they shouldn't have. Military-grade vests. Rifles Falcone doesn't pass out to anyone but his top men. Clean comms. Organized formations." His voice hardened. "Falcone gave them everything. That's why their attack was so brutal. That's how they cut off our vans with perfect timing."
Nolan closed his eyes, leaning back against the wall.
Steel Sevens.
The bottom-feeders of the East End. Enforcers for hire. No ambition, no territory worth keeping. They should not—could not—have executed a city-wide ambush with precision. They were supposed to be too stupid, too scattered.
But with Falcone's hand behind them…
It all made sense.
"Boss," Dre continued, breathing heavy, "they knew our routes. They knew which vans held supplies. They knew which drop points were our weakest. None of that comes from scouting. Someone talked. Someone fed the Sevens our movements verbatim."
Nolan felt something tighten behind his ribs.
A slow, simmering burn.
"So the Sevens took the deal," he said quietly. "And they delivered."
"They slaughtered our people," Dre snapped. "The underpass crew, the Dockyard Dogs who joined us, three of my rooftop boys—they lined them up. Marcy only got out because the tunnels were close."
Nolan's fingers flexed at his side.
He could hear Vey whispering kill them all.
He could hear Kieran muttering this is what happens when you pretend alliances are charity.
He could hear Quentin, cold as ice, murmuring calculate. Reassess. Respond.
Nolan swallowed hard.
"Alright," he said softly, but his voice carried a deadly promise. "If the Sevens want to throw in with Falcone… then they've chosen their grave."
He pushed off the wall and straightened his jacket.
"Dre. Bring me every file we have on the Steel Sevens. Every hideout, every lieutenant, every hanger-on. I want locations in front of me in twenty minutes."
"Yes, boss."
"And Dre?"
"Yeah?"
Nolan's voice dropped into something colder, quieter, and infinitely more dangerous.
"Be prepared to spill some blood tonight."
***
The penthouse was silent when Nolan entered—too silent. The hush felt weighted, like the air was listening.
He moved straight to the wardrobe built into the wall, sliding the panel aside to reveal the hardened suit waiting within. Each piece hung with surgical precision: matte-black, reinforced, flexible enough for movement but strong enough to take a blade or a round.
Nolan stripped off his blood-smudged shirt, stained with the blood of one of his closest allies His hands were steady now—not calm, but focused. The kind of steady that came only when the anger sharpened into purpose.
He pulled on the undersuit first, tightening the straps across his ribs. Then the tactical vest. Then the reinforced overcoat with its subtle plating woven beneath dark fabric. Bit by bit, the man who stood in the hall outside the medical room was buried beneath something colder.
Something that didn't break.
Something that didn't hesitate.
The last piece waited on a velvet stand.
The theater mask.
A face that meant nothing…
and everything.
He lifted it with both hands and lowered it over his face. The world narrowed behind the eye slits. His breathing became controlled. The voices in his head—Kieran whispering logic, Quentin murmuring strategy, Vey roaring for violence—clicked into alignment, behind him rather than against him.
He was whole in a way that was dangerous.
Nolan straightened.
Time to work.
He stepped to the table where his phone lay, pressed a few commands, and opened a secure multi-line channel. The screen populated one by one:
Mei-Lin – Jade Leopards
Jace – Dockyard Dogs
Deacon Malley – The Deacons
Naima Rez – Central Docks
Four names. Four pieces of the machine he'd been building.
He hit connect.
Static crackled—then four voices joined the line.
"Quentin?" Jace grunted. "This better be important my people died tonight."
"We heard what happened," Naima said sharply. "Your people took losses."
Mei-Lin said nothing, but her silence carried weight.
Nolan's voice came through even, smooth, controlled—yet edged like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath.
"I'm sure you've all heard about tonight."
The line went still.
"The Steel Sevens betrayed us," he continued. "After everything we built. After we agreed on mutual friendship and partnership. After I opened routes—for all of us."
A beat of silence.
Mei-Lin spoke first. "They drew blood. That cannot go unanswered."
"Damn right," Jace snarled.
"The Deacons stand ready," Malley added.
Nolan nodded to himself. Good. They were exactly where he needed them.
"It's time," he said, "for us to show Gotham—and Falcone—that we are not weak. That betrayal carries a price none of his people can afford."
He reached for the rooftop comms switch beside him, flipping it. Lights in the penthouse dimmed. The network awakened. Screens lit up with tunnel schematics, gang territories, and Steel Seven safehouses.
"Here's what we're going to do—"
***
Vey opened his eyes inside Nolan's skull.
The shift wasn't subtle. It crashed through the mind like a metal door being ripped off its hinges. Breath sharpened. Muscles tightened. Vision tunneled into a predatory focus. All hesitation vanished.
He stepped out onto the rooftop where the first wave waited—Underpass fighters in patchwork armor, Dockyard Dogs carrying heavy tools and short-barrel shotguns, Deacons with their church tattoos and trench coats, Jade Leopards poised like coiled blades.
Vey didn't give a speech.
He simply said:
"Follow."
The Steel Sevens holed up in an old warehouse above the river, thinking a few scrap-metal barricades would protect them. They thought Falcone would stay by them.
They were wrong.
Three Jade Leopards ran ahead, sleek and silent, tossing Molotovs through shattered windows.
The fire bloomed instantly—orange teeth chewing through wooden beams.
Screams erupted.
From behind them came Vey's squad, ten Underpass fighters moving like a single organism under his command, firing controlled bursts to herd Steel Sevens out into the open.
One gunman stumbled out coughing—
Only to meet Vey.
Vey didn't waste a bullet.
He stepped inside the man's guard, caught his wrist, twisted, crack, then drove the man's own pistol up under his jaw.
The trigger squeezed.
Red mist sprayed across Vey's mask.
He didn't flinch.
Another Steel Seven charged with a pipe. Vey shot him twice in the knee, then spun behind him as he fell, wrapping an arm around the man's neck and firing at two more attackers while using the crippled body as a shield.
The shots hit home—one skull burst, the other throat opened like wet paper.
Vey dropped the shield and kept walking.
Behind him, the Dockyard Dogs slammed a reinforced door off its hinges. The Deacons stormed in, chanting half-mad hymns as they opened fire. The Jade Leopards finished off the wounded with clean, efficient steel.
The warehouse fell in six minutes.
The Steel Sevens regrouped at their motorcycle garage. Vehicles screamed onto the street—chains, knives, stolen SMGs.
Vey walked straight into them.
Gun in his right hand.
Knife in his left.
A biker swung a chain at his head.
Vey ducked low and shot upward beneath the helmet, sending the rider flipping off the bike. Before the body hit the ground, Vey was already carving the next attacker across the inner arm, pivoting behind him and shooting him point-blank in the spine.
A motorcycle roared toward him at full speed
Vey sidestepped at the last second, grabbed the handlebar with one hand, and slammed the rider off the bike, driving his skull into the pavement so hard the helmet cracked.
The Jade Leopards flanked the street, firing in precise three-round bursts that cut down fleeing riders. Dockyard Dogs blocked exits with their vans. Deacons dropped from the fire escapes like shadows, stabbing anyone who tried to climb out of the chaos.
The fight didn't last long.
It didn't need to.
The Steel Sevens' last hideout was a riverside shanty and storage yard—rusted metal, tarp roofs, flooded concrete.
They thought the darkness would protect them.
They were wrong.
The Underpass killed their lights.
The Jade Leopards tossed in flashbangs.
Dockyard Dogs rammed a truck through the side.
And then Vey moved.
He leapt onto a stack of pallets, firing into the crowd below—controlled bursts, every shot a kill. A man tried to tackle him from behind—Vey spun, brought his forearm across the man's throat, and drove him through the railing into the water.
Another swung a machete.
Vey blocked with his pistol slide, kicked the man's knee backward, and stabbed him twice—
Once in the thigh,
Once in the throat.
The machete clattered to the floor.
Vey didn't stop.
He fired both guns—one stolen, one his—crossing his arms and pivoting through the cramped space like a dancer in a storm of violence. Bodies dropped in a circle around him.
The remaining Steel Sevens fled out the back.
They didn't make it far.
Dockyard Dogs cut them down with shotgun blasts that echoed over the river. Deacons finished the stragglers with boots and blades. A final Molotov arced overhead, smashing onto the last shack.
Flames ate the night sky.
The riverfront hideout burned behind him, reflecting orange across the dark water as Little Tao sprinted down the cracked boardwalk. His breath tore through his lungs. Every step sent a pulse of terror through his spine.
His men were dead.
His safehouses destroyed.
Falcone had promised backup.
Falcone had lied.
Little Tao stumbled over an old mooring rope, caught himself on a rusted railing, and kept running. He didn't dare look back. He could feel it—
A presence stalking him.
Heavy. Cold. Patient.
The boss of the Underpass.
That mask.
That thing.
Tao ducked behind a line of abandoned shipping crates, heart hammering. He pressed his back to the metal, swallowing panic.
Maybe he lost him. Maybe—
A voice drifted through the dark.
"Running is pointless."
Not shouted. Not angry.
Just stating a fact.
Little Tao's knees almost buckled.
He spun, firing blindly into the dark with his last pistol—
Muzzle flashes lighting the boardwalk.
Empty.
He fired again.
Click.
The gun ran dry.
Silence answered him.
Tao turned, panting, desperate.
Vey stepped out from behind the crate.
No rush.
No theatrics.
Just the slow, deliberate walk of a predator closing the last few feet to its prey.
Smoke clung to his suit. Blood spattered his mask like abstract paint. The white porcelain smile caught the firelight—half serene, half monstrous.
Little Tao dropped the empty gun and raised both hands.
"H-Hey—hey, listen," Tao stammered. "It—it was a mistake. We didn't mean to cross you—Falcone pushed us—he made us—"
Vey tilted his head, the cracked blue eye of the mask glinting.
"You sold out my people."
Tao's breath hitched. "I—I didn't have a choice!"
Vey's leg shot out hitting Tao's knee shattering it in just the right spot. Little Tao yelled in pain. Vey lurched forward grabbing his shirt and began to wail into little Tao's face.
Bone thudded against bone. Blood sprayed against the crate, splattering like dark paint. Tao's head snapped back with each impact—cheek splitting, nose flattening, teeth cracking.
Vey snarled, a low animal sound vibrating under the mask.
Then a voice tore through the haze:
"Let me have some fun!"
Quentin surged forward, seizing control with manic glee. His entire posture shifted—looser, more feral, movements jittering with excitement.
He threw Tao to the concrete so hard the man bounced.
Quentin stomped down—
Once.
Twice.
A third time—
Ribs broke like brittle wood.
"Traitor bastard!" Quentin roared, voice cracking into laughter. "Where's Falcone now, huh? WELL WHERE IS HE?!"
Little Tao coughed blood, trying to answer, but only a wet gurgle escaped.
Quentin drew his boot back for another strike—
"Oh, gosh, Quentin, don't be so mean!!"
Kieran's voice burst out, bright, almost cheerful— First controlling the mouth, then sliding smoothly into the body.
The shift was unnerving.
Kieran stood taller, shoulders adjusting, breathing calming, expression under the mask shifting into theatrical delight.
He pulled out the gun with a flourish.
"I'm not one for violence," Kieran sing-songed, "but… I feel so roguish today."
He shot Little Tao once in the shoulder—
The one that matched Marcy's wound.
Tao screamed weakly.
Then Kieran shot him again—
Lower, in the side, mirroring the hit she'd taken.
"Symmetry is important," Kieran explained patiently before looking down and blanching, "Oh my this is disgusting."
Behind them, Underpass fighters, Jade Leopards, Dockyard Dogs, and Deacons all watched in shocked silence.
The boss's personalities tearing into a dying man in front of them—
Switching voices, mannerisms, violence styles—
It was horrifying.
Little Tao's breath hitched in tiny, shallow gasps—
The sound of a man barely tethered to life.
Then—
A third voice settled over the body.
Steady.
Heavy.
Tired.
Nolan.
The frenzy drained out of the limbs. The stance softened. He dropped to his knees beside Tao, lifting the man's head into his lap with surprising tenderness.
Nolan brushed the blood from Tao's cheek with a thumb, almost fatherly.
"Why did you do this?" Nolan whispered, voice breaking. "Why did you do something so foolish…"
Tao's eyes rolled, unfocused.
"The Steel Sevens…" Nolan murmured, "you could have been great. We could have been great."
Tao trembled, barely conscious.
Nolan's hand slid from Tao's cheek to the side of his neck.
Gentle.
Comforting.
The way someone might soothe a scared child.
The onlookers held their breath.
Nolan's thumb stroked the pulse point.
A moment of quiet compassion.
Then the fingers tightened.
And tightened.
And tightened.
Tao struggled feebly, a soft whimper escaping.
Nolan's voice dropped to a hollow whisper:
"You didn't have to betray us."
Then—
CRACK.
Little Tao went limp instantly.
Nolan lowered the body to the ground with reverence, as if laying a friend to rest.
Behind him, no one spoke.