The car rolled through a part of Gotham most people pretended didn't exist.
Streetlights were sparse here, many of them broken or flickering, casting uneven pools of amber across cracked pavement. Storefronts sat dark and abandoned, their windows painted over or boarded up years ago. Patrol cars didn't cruise these streets unless they were lost or desperate. Whatever passed for order here was old, local, and carefully balanced.
Nolan watched it all from the back seat, one hand resting loosely against his thigh, the other tracing idle patterns against the glass. His driver didn't speak. He never did unless spoken to. That, Nolan had decided, was one of his better qualities.
The old courthouse loomed ahead, squat and solemn even in decay.
Its stone façade was stained with time and neglect, pillars chipped and weathered but still standing—defiant in a way that felt almost personal. The Gotham Municipal Courthouse had been shuttered years ago after structural issues, budget cuts, and one too many "incidents." The city had abandoned it. Everyone else had learned to use it.
The car slowed and stopped at the curb.
Nolan stepped out first, adjusting his coat as his shoes met the pavement. The air smelled like dust and old rain. His driver exited a half-second later and fell into step just behind him, close enough to intervene, far enough not to crowd.
They reached the courthouse doors.
They opened without a sound.
Inside, the lobby was dimly lit by hanging bulbs strung where chandeliers once were. Marble floors were cracked but clean. The echoes of their footsteps carried farther than they should have.
Men emerged from the shadows.
White suits. Immaculate despite the surroundings. White fedoras pulled low, faces hard, expressions unreadable. There were four of them, spaced evenly, hands visible but never far from where weapons would be.
One stepped forward.
"State your business."
Nolan didn't slow. "I have a meeting with Harvey."
The man studied him for a moment too long, then glanced sideways at one of the others. A subtle nod passed between them.
"He's good," the second man said. "Let him through."
The first stepped aside.
The driver stopped at the threshold of the inner hall. Nolan continued alone.
The courtroom doors were open.
Inside, the space had been transformed without erasing its purpose. The benches were still there, worn smooth by decades of shifting bodies. The jury box remained intact. A table sat at the center of the room now, sturdy and deliberate, and atop it rested a chessboard—pieces arranged mid-game, neither side clearly winning.
And in the judge's chair—
Harvey Dent sat comfortably, one leg crossed over the other.
Two-Face.
The coin flashed once between his fingers before disappearing back into his palm. One half of his face caught the dim light cleanly. The other swallowed it.
Nolan paused just inside the room, then smiled.
"Honestly," he said, gesturing lightly around the courtroom, "this is a better atmosphere than Arkham. Less fluorescent lighting."
A rough chuckle escaped Harvey—half amusement, half something sharper. He rose from the judge's chair and descended the steps, his footsteps echoing as he approached the table.
"Depends on the verdict," Harvey replied.
He pulled out a chair and sat, nudging the chessboard slightly to center it. Nolan took the seat opposite him without being invited.
The board sat between them like a neutral ground.
Harvey flipped the coin once more, caught it, and didn't look at the result.
"So," he said, resting his elbows on the table. "You don't come to my courthouse for pleasantries."
Nolan's eyes flicked briefly to the chessboard, then back to Harvey.
"No," he agreed. "Unfortunately that will have to wait for another day."
The pieces waited.
And somewhere in the building, doors closed quietly, sealing the game inside.
Harvey reached out and moved first, sliding a pawn forward with casual confidence.
"White's always suited you," he said, eyes never leaving the board. "Still hasn't helped, though. You've never beaten me."
Nolan smiled as he answered with his own move, a knight gliding into position. "Statistically, that just means I'm due. Maybe tonight's the night I get lucky."
Harvey snorted softly. "Luck's a dangerous thing to rely on."
They played in silence for a few moves, the soft clack of carved pieces the only sound in the cavernous courtroom. The game settled quickly into something complex—no reckless gambits, no flashy traps. Two men who understood patience.
After Nolan placed his bishop, Harvey leaned back slightly and finally looked up at him.
"You didn't come here to lose another game," Harvey said. "Just ask what you came to ask."
Nolan nodded once, accepting the invitation.
"I'm sure you saw the news," he said. "The orphanage. The gas. The timing."
Harvey rolled the coin across his knuckles without flipping it. "Hard to miss."
"I want to know where Scarecrow is."
Harvey laughed—short, sharp, humorless. "How should I know?"
Nolan moved another piece, unhurried. "Because you keep track of the people who upset Gotham's balance. And because Scarecrow doesn't make a move like that without someone clearing the board for him."
Harvey studied the board, then answered with a move of his own. "You give me too much credit."
"You like pretending you're unpredictable," Nolan replied. "But you're meticulous. You always have been."
Harvey's jaw tightened on the scarred side of his face. He stared at Nolan for a long moment, then looked back down at the chessboard.
"I don't know where he is," Harvey said finally. "If I did, we wouldn't be having this conversation."
Nolan didn't react. He simply waited.
"What I do know," Harvey continued, "is that he's not in that rat-hole lab he used to skulk around in. The one with the leaky pipes and stolen equipment."
He moved his queen, pressing the board subtly, deliberately.
"Scarecrow's upgraded," Harvey said. "New lab. New toys. Clean funding. The kind that doesn't come from robbing pharmacies or shaking down chem students."
Nolan's fingers paused briefly over a piece before completing his move.
"Powerful people," Nolan said.
Harvey smiled, the expression splitting unevenly across his face. "Very."
The coin finally flipped.
Harvey caught it, glanced down, then looked back up at Nolan.
"And when people like that start backing someone like Scarecrow," he added, "it's not because they like fear gas."
The chessboard sat between them, pieces tightening into conflict.
"It's because they like leverage and want to point him at someone. You happen to be that someone."
Harvey continued, "Crane knows it, he just doesn't care and deludes himself into thinking he is the one playing them."
Nolan sighed as he realized he was about to lose, "When I find him I will kill him Harvey, I hope you know that." His eyes never left those of his opponents
Harvey didn't blink, "We have history. I appreciate the concern Kieran but, this is Gotham everyone dies eventually. Crane has made one too many enemies it seems."
***
Night settled over Bristol Township like a held breath.
Elaine's house sat back from the road behind wrought-iron fencing and manicured hedges, tasteful and discreet in the way old Gotham money preferred. The lights inside were low, warm pools behind tall windows. To a passerby, it looked peaceful. Untouched.
Two guards stood watch near the front gate, jackets zipped against the chill, their attention drifting between idle conversation and the occasional sweep of the street. They didn't see the figures move along the darker edge of the property, shadows flowing where hedges met stone.
The fence was never climbed.
A section simply opened—quiet, precise—and closed again without a sound.
They moved in pairs, disciplined and silent, timing their steps with the guards' blind spots. One guard turned to light a cigarette. Another checked his phone. Neither noticed the absence of the soft crunch of gravel that should have followed passing feet.
At the back of the house, a small device was pressed gently against the exterior wall beneath a window. A faint pulse of light flickered once, then died.
Inside, security feeds looped. Alarms slept.
The kitchen door unlocked with a muted click.
They were already gone from the doorway by the time the sound might have registered.
The house smelled faintly of lavender and polished wood. Art lined the walls. Family photos. A life carefully assembled and carefully protected—until now.
They moved upstairs, shoes never touching bare wood, every step placed where rugs swallowed sound. At the end of the hall, light spilled from beneath a bedroom door.
Elaine lay asleep beneath crisp sheets, one arm flung loosely across the pillow. A book rested open on the nightstand, unread past the first few pages.
The door opened an inch.
Then two.
A figure slipped inside and closed it again.
Elaine stirred as a shadow fell across her, brows knitting in confusion just as she inhaled.
The cloth pressed gently—but firmly—over her mouth and nose.
She fought for a moment. A muffled gasp. A twitch of resistance. Then her body softened, tension bleeding out of her limbs as consciousness slipped away.
She never screamed.
They worked quickly after that—efficient, practiced. Wrapped her in a blanket. Lifted her carefully, as if she were fragile cargo. The door opened. The hallway swallowed them whole.
Down the stairs. Through the kitchen. Out the back.
By the time one of the guards outside shifted his weight and glanced toward the house again, everything was exactly as it had been.
Lights low.
Windows dark.
No alarms.
No sound.
Elaine's bed lay empty upstairs, sheets still warm.
Nolan picked up the phone as it rung on his desk, "Go ahead." He said as he poured a glass of whisky
"Got her boss." The man on the other end said
Nolan smiled, "Good, what about the man?"
"We haven't heard back from the second team yet, though I'm guessing they will give you a call soon."
"Okay, bring her to the drop off. Good work."
"Thank you sir."
Just as they hung up Nolan received another call, "Do you have him?" He asked
"Sorry boss whole building was empty gutted to hell. I would say he was tipped off if it wasn't for the fact I don't think this building has had anyone living in it for a while."
"Why do you say that?" Nolan asked leaning forward on his desk
"Place is dusty as hell."
A sigh escaped Nolan's lips, "oh well, good job anyways. Get some sleep."