The room had no windows.
It never did.
Stone walls curved upward into shadow, swallowing sound, swallowing certainty. Candles burned in deliberate symmetry along the circular chamber, their flames steady despite the age of the place. Masks watched one another across the polished table—white, featureless, identical save for the faint differences in carving that only those seated there could recognize.
A voice broke the silence.
"Elaine Whitmore is dead."
No gasp followed. No murmurs. Not even surprise.
"She was found on Kessler Street just before dawn," another voice continued, measured and clinical. "Face down. Left there for hours. Foot traffic contaminated the scene before police cordoned it off. Any evidence that might have existed is meaningless now."
A pause.
"Not that there would have been any."
Several heads inclined in agreement.
"She knew nothing," someone said. "Barely a pawn. Useful only as an introduction."
"And now," another replied coolly, "she is no longer even that."
The candles flickered as one of the figures leaned forward slightly.
"The point," he said, "is not her death. It is the response."
A subtle shift passed through the room.
"Kieran Everleigh," the voice continued. "We expected maneuvering. Legal obstruction. Financial counterpressure. What we received instead was… escalation."
"He captured her," someone said. "Looks like mild torture too, amateur really."
"And discarded her," another added. "Publicly."
A soft, humorless sound escaped one of the masks. "Emotional."
"A weakness," came the immediate reply. "He reacts. He does not wait."
"Or," another voice countered, "he wanted us to know."
That earned a brief silence.
"A message, perhaps," the first speaker said. "But an inelegant one. Sloppy. Leaving a body in the street invites attention."
"Everleigh owns a hotel," someone said. "His public persona can be easily changed to our whims no? We've done it before."
A mask turned slightly toward the center. "Do we escalate?"
A single word followed.
"A Talon?"
The question lingered in the air, heavier than it should have been.
"No," came the answer, immediate and firm. "Not yet."
"Why?"
"Because we do not know what he is," the voice replied. "Only what he presents himself as remember Chinatown. A Talon sent blind is a wasted asset."
"Agreed," another said. "We must move with caution when approaching the more physical side of retaliation."
A third voice joined, thoughtful. "Then perhaps we stop reaching for the blade and use the weight of the city instead."
Several masks turned toward him.
"He is a hotelier," the voice continued. "His power depends on reputation. On safety. On discretion. We need not touch him to hurt him."
A pause.
"Guests," someone said.
"Accidents," another offered.
"Rumors," a third added. "Disappearances. A whisper that his establishments are… unsafe."
The first voice returned, calm and satisfied. "Ruin his shine. Let Gotham do the work for us."
"And if he responds again?" someone asked.
A candle guttered, then steadied.
"Then we learn more about him," came the reply. "Every reaction teaches."
The masks settled back into stillness.
Elaine Whitmore was already forgotten.
***
The penthouse was quiet in the way only high places could be.
Glass stretched from floor to ceiling, Gotham spread out beneath it like a living map—veins of traffic, islands of light, shadows pooling where the city refused to look at itself too closely. Nolan stood near the window, suit jacket draped over a chair he hadn't bothered to sit in. His reflection stared back at him, fractured by the city lights behind it.
Too much movement.
Not enough clarity.
They were pushing. Probing. Not sloppy, not loud—deliberate. Elaine had been a test. Scarecrow had been a lever. The orphanage attack had been timing, not chaos.
Nolan's jaw tightened.
We're reacting, he thought. That's how they win.
Quentin sat at the table behind him, legs crossed, posture infuriatingly relaxed given the circumstances. He looked solid tonight. Too solid. Nolan still hadn't fully gotten used to that—Quentin occupying space instead of just mind.
"We need intel," Quentin said. "Real intel. Not scraps. Not theories."
Nolan exhaled through his nose. "I know."
Kieran leaned against the counter, arms folded, immaculate even when none of this was real. "We could start with Dent again."
Nolan turned slightly. "No."
Kieran raised an eyebrow. "He runs information through half the city."
"And if he knew about something called the Court," Nolan replied flatly, "he would've said the name. Dent doesn't keep secrets like that—he likes being the secret."
Quentin nodded once. "Agreed. Two-Face deals in leverage, not mythology."
Vey's voice drifted in, smooth and distant. 'Why does it matter who they are?'
Nolan closed his eyes for a brief second.
Here we go.
'They're pressuring us,' Vey continued. 'We respond. They escalate. We adapt. Knowing their names doesn't stop a blade.'
Nolan turned fully now, gaze hard. "That mindset gets us cornered."
Vey tilted his head, unbothered.
"If we don't know who they are," Nolan continued, "then every move we make is blind. We'll always be responding instead of shaping the field. And reacting leads to mistakes. Mistakes lead to defeat."
The word hung heavier than the rest.
Quentin studied him for a long moment, then sighed—slow, resigned. "You're right."
Nolan didn't smile.
"There's only one person in Gotham who keeps secrets like currency," Quentin said. "Not because he has to—but because he enjoys knowing what others don't."
Nolan's shoulders tensed instinctively.
Kieran groaned aloud. "No."
"Absolutely not," Nolan said at the same time.
Quentin lifted both hands in surrender. "I'm not happy about it either."
He stood, pacing once, then stopped. "But if anyone's heard whispers about a group that operates above the mobs, above the freaks, above even the shadows…"
He looked between them.
"…it's the Penguin."
Kieran pinched the bridge of his nose. "I hate that you're right."
Nolan stared back out at Gotham, jaw working as he weighed it. Alliances. Leverage. History. Oswald Cobblepot never gave anything away for free—but he did collect debts.
Finally, Nolan spoke.
"What are allies for," he said quietly, "if not to be used when things get unpleasant?"
Quentin smirked.
"Exactly."
***
The Batcave was never silent.
Even in stillness, it breathed—servers humming, cooling systems whispering, the faint drip of water echoing somewhere deep in the cavern. Blue-white light washed over stone and steel as Bruce stood before the main console, cape hanging motionless behind him.
A file filled the central screen.
ELAINE WHITMORE.
Philanthropist. Socialite. Board member of three charities, founder of one. Bruce's eyes tracked the data automatically, absorbing it in layers rather than lines.
A photo expanded beside the text: Elaine at a charity gala, champagne flute in hand, smile sharp rather than warm.
Below it—another image.
Kieran Everleigh.
Impeccable suit. Calm expression. Caught mid-conversation, head slightly inclined as if listening rather than speaking. The timestamp blinked in the corner.
Twenty-four hours before the orphanage attack.
Bruce didn't react. He rarely did. Instead, he pulled the timeline apart.
Another window slid into place.
Police photos. Night shots. Street-level chaos. A body under a sheet that had been disturbed too many times to count.
Cause of death: bullet wound to the head.
Time of death: estimated window wide enough to be useless.
Evidence: compromised.
"Sloppy," Bruce muttered—not of the killer, but of the aftermath.
He dragged a finger across the holo-display. The charity records minimized, replaced by municipal data streams.
Health inspections. Fire safety. Liquor licensing.
Flags appeared one by one, lighting up the map around Everleigh's holdings.
Too sudden. Too coordinated.
Bruce's eyes narrowed behind the cowl.
A final window opened—security footage stills from the orphanage opening. Fear gas rolling through the street. Press collapsing into panic. Children being ushered inside by one man moving faster and more decisively than anyone else on camera.
Kieran Everleigh.
Bruce leaned back slightly, arms folding across his chest as the pieces hovered in front of him. They didn't fit yet—not cleanly—but the shape was there.
Pressure.
Response.
Escalation.
Someone was pushing Everleigh. Hard enough to make mistakes. Hard enough to draw blood.
Bruce stared at Elaine Whitmore's file one last time before minimizing it.
"I don't know what game you're playing," he said quietly, more to Gotham than to any one man.
The cave lights dimmed as the Batcomputer continued to work.
"But I will."