The street in front of the building was almost unrecognizable.
What had once been a neglected stretch of cracked pavement and shuttered storefronts had been scrubbed clean, cordoned off with temporary barriers and lined with city vehicles. Banners hung from light poles, bright and hopeful in a way Gotham rarely managed without irony. A modest stage had been erected near the entrance, flanked by podiums and microphones already bristling with station logos.
The orphanage was finally open.
Nolan stepped out of the car and paused, taking it in.
Cameras flashed immediately. Reporters called his name. A familiar hum of attention settled over him like static. He adjusted his coat and moved forward at an unhurried pace, offering polite nods and practiced smiles as microphones angled toward him.
Inwardly, he exhaled.
Of course Harold Kinsey had turned this into a spectacle.
The councilman stood near the stage, already deep in conversation with a cluster of donors and aides, his smile wide and his gestures expansive. He looked like a man savoring the moment—soaking in the cameras, the applause, the implication that this was his victory as much as anyone's.
Nolan couldn't even begrudge him for it.
Let him grandstand, Nolan thought. If this is the price of getting the doors open, it's a cheap one.
Children's laughter drifted faintly from inside the building, muffled but unmistakable. That sound cut through the noise of the press, grounding him in a way nothing else could. For all the politics, the speeches, the maneuvering—this part was real.
He felt it then. A quiet sense of finality.
This wasn't a promise anymore.
It wasn't a talking point.
The orphanage existed.
As Nolan moved toward the entrance, flashes continued to pop, reporters shouting questions about philanthropy, about Gotham's recovery, about his partnership with the city. He answered just enough to keep the mood favorable, eyes occasionally flicking back to the building itself.
Whatever games were being played around him—by Kinsey, by donors, by forces still lurking in the city's shadows—this had crossed the line from idea to reality.
And that mattered.
Today, at least, Gotham was opening a door instead of closing one.
Councilman Harold Kinsey stepped up to the podium as the murmur of the crowd settled. The press leaned in as one, microphones lifting, cameras adjusting focus. Kinsey spread his hands, basking in the attention with the ease of a career politician.
"Today," he began, voice carrying cleanly down the street, "is about renewal. About taking something broken and giving it purpose again. Gotham has suffered—violence, fear, loss—but we refuse to let those things define us."
Polite applause rippled through the crowd.
Kinsey continued, warming to his theme. He spoke of community partnerships, of private citizens stepping up where the system had failed, of hope—that favorite word of every speechwriter in the city. He gestured toward the building behind him.
"This orphanage stands as proof that Gotham can still build something good. That we can protect our most vulnerable and—"
The sound cut through his words like a blade.
An engine roared at full throttle.
Nolan's head snapped toward the far end of the street just as a dark van tore through the barricade, metal screaming as it clipped a police cruiser and sent it spinning. The vehicle didn't slow. It surged forward, exhaust coughing violently—
—and thick, pale gas billowed out behind it.
Fear gas.
For a fraction of a second, everything slowed.
Nolan saw it all at once: the way the cloud expanded unnaturally fast, the press closest to the street turning in confusion, cameras still rolling as the first tendrils reached them. He saw Kinsey freeze mid-sentence, mouth open. He saw a child near the doorway blink, confused.
Anger flared in Nolan's chest—hot, immediate, demanding release.
The Beast stirred.
He crushed it down with practiced force.
Not here. Not now.
Nolan moved.
He was already shouting before anyone realized what was happening. "Inside. Now. All of you—inside!"
He grabbed the nearest staff member, steering them toward the entrance, then dropped to a knee in front of the children, his voice firm and controlled. "Hey. It's okay. We practiced this, remember? Just like a drill."
Confusion wavered, then trust won out.
He ushered them through the doors, one hand braced against the frame as the gas rolled closer, thickening the air. Screams erupted behind him as the press took the brunt of it—reporters coughing, some dropping their equipment, others already clawing at their own faces as the toxin took hold.
A cameraman shrieked and bolted into traffic.
Another collapsed, sobbing.
Nolan slammed the doors shut and threw the internal locks, sealing the building just as the first wisps of gas licked against the glass. He dragged a heavy interior bar into place, chest rising and falling, ears ringing with the sounds of chaos outside.
Through the reinforced windows, he watched the street dissolve.
Reporters scattered, some screaming about spiders crawling under their skin, others begging for help from people who weren't there. Police shouted orders that dissolved into panic. The gas swallowed the podium, the banners, the symbols of hope Kinsey had just been praising.
And somewhere beyond the fog, Nolan knew exactly who had done this.
This wasn't random.
This wasn't spectacle.
This was a message.
And as Nolan stood between the children and the madness outside, jaw clenched, anger coiled tight and contained, he understood it perfectly.
He refused their offer and they tried and succeeded in ruining the orphanage opening.
Sirens came in waves.
Red and blue lights washed over the street as patrol cars skidded into place, followed closely by ambulances and hazmat trucks. Officers moved with urgency, masks already in place, corralling the screaming and disoriented away from the thickest pockets of gas while medics dropped to their knees beside the fallen press.
Stretchers appeared almost immediately.
Councilman Harold Kinsey was found near the overturned podium, eyes wide and unfocused, mumbling half-formed sentences about shadows crawling under his skin. Two medics lifted him carefully, strapping him down as he thrashed weakly.
"Easy—easy—he's exposed," one of them called.
Kinsey was loaded into the back of an ambulance, doors slamming shut as it peeled away, siren wailing. Cameras—those that still worked—caught the image, already broadcasting it across Gotham.
Inside the orphanage, the world was quieter.
Nolan stood just inside the doors, watching through the reinforced glass as responders worked. He turned to the caretakers, his voice calm but unmistakably firm.
"Get the kids to their rooms," he said. "Close the internal vents. Keep them occupied—books, games, anything. This doesn't change anything."
One of the caretakers hesitated. "Mr. Everleigh, maybe we should—"
"We're still open," Nolan cut in gently but decisively. "This was an attack, not an evacuation order. The building is sealed. They're safer here than anywhere else."
The caretakers exchanged looks, then nodded. They moved quickly, ushering the children down the hallways, keeping their voices low, steady, reassuring.
When the last child was out of sight, Nolan turned back toward the entrance.
A uniformed officer was already waiting for him, mask hanging loose around his neck, eyes sharp with exhaustion and adrenaline. "You in charge here?"
"I am," Nolan replied. "Kieran Everleigh."
The officer nodded, pulling out a tablet. "We're going to need a statement. Everything you saw. Everything you did."
Nolan didn't hesitate.
He walked them through it—when he heard the engine, when he saw the gas, how he moved the children inside and sealed the doors. He answered every question cleanly, precisely, without embellishment. He gave descriptions of the vehicle, the timing, the direction it fled.
Another officer joined them, then another.
They asked about security.
About threats.
About prior warnings.
Nolan answered all of it the police surprisingly didn't hassle him. It was an odd change of pace.
"No," he said when asked if he'd received any direct threats.
"No," when asked if he recognized the attackers.
"Yes," when asked if he'd cooperate fully.
He didn't raise his voice.
He didn't bristle.
He didn't try to control the narrative.
He simply told the truth.
When the questions finally slowed, one of the officers glanced back at the orphanage doors, then at Nolan. "You did good getting them inside," he said. "Could've been a lot worse."
Nolan nodded once. "That was the point."
As the police resumed their work and the street slowly returned to something resembling order, Nolan stood alone for a moment, hands folded behind his back, eyes on the chaos being packed up and hauled away.
The message had been sent and he would be damned if he didn't send one of his own.
***
Night pressed against the glass of the penthouse, Gotham spread out below in layers of light and shadow. Nolan sat alone on the couch, jacket draped over the armrest, sleeves rolled up as a faint ache pulsed through muscles still healing faster than they had any right to.
The laptop rested open on the low table in front of him.
A satellite map of Gotham filled the screen—clean, precise, clinical. Streets reduced to lines. Buildings to blocks. Lives to coordinates.
Two dots blinked steadily.
One pulsed a soft blue in Bristol Township, settled deep inside a manicured neighborhood tucked behind iron gates and old money trees, Elaine. The organizer. Planted during the hug.
The second blinked red across the river, closer to the city's edge, in a renovated brownstone overlooking a private marina. The man. The shitty threats. Planted during the hand on the shoulder.
Neither dot had moved since shortly after the charity ended.
Clothes discarded.
Jackets tossed aside.
Trackers forgotten.
Homes revealed.
Nolan leaned back slightly, fingers steepled as he watched the dots blink in quiet rhythm. No anger on his face now. No visible tension. Just apathetic calculation.
"They think they're subtle," he murmured to the empty room
He reached forward and tapped a key. The map zoomed in, pulling property records, ownership shells, tax histories. Names led to trusts. Trusts led to boards. Boards led to other boards.
A web began to form.
Nolan exhaled slowly, then picked up his phone.
One ring.
Two.
The line clicked.
"Yes boss?"
"I need you to send a message of our own."
—
A/N: hope you all had a good Christmas!