The car slowed as it turned onto the street, Gotham's neon bleeding across rain-dark pavement. Nolan watched the building rise in front of them, familiar and infamous in equal measure.
The Iceberg Lounge.
All glass and cold light, elegance wrapped around rot. A place where deals were made with smiles and paid for in blood later.
The car rolled to a stop at the curb. Nolan exhaled slowly, feeling the ache still lodged deep in his body—bruises hidden, fractures mended just enough to function. He closed his eyes.
You good? Quentin asked, already there, already waiting.
Nolan didn't answer. He didn't need to.
When his eyes opened again, the weight shifted. The exhaustion dulled. Something sharper slid into place behind them.
Quentin stepped out of the car.
The driver moved to open his mouth, to ask a question out of habit, but Quentin cut him off with a small wave. "Give me a few. Don't wander."
The driver nodded, eyes forward again.
Quentin straightened his coat and walked toward the doors.
Inside, the Iceberg Lounge was alive. Music thumped low and steady, bass vibrating through polished floors. Well-dressed patrons laughed too loudly, glasses clinked, money moved invisibly from hand to hand. It was all very civil. Very curated.
A member of staff spotted him almost immediately.
The man froze for half a second—just long enough for recognition to set in—then lifted a hand to his ear as he kept walking. His voice was low, urgent, and entirely unnecessary.
Quentin took a seat at the bar anyway.
"Whiskey," he said calmly, resting his forearms on the counter. "Something that doesn't insult me."
The bartender poured without asking questions. By the time the glass touched the wood, the staff member had returned.
"Mr. Everleigh," the man said, polite but tight. "If you'll follow me."
Quentin took the glass, downed half of it in one pull, then set it aside. "Lead the way."
They moved through the lounge, past guarded doors and up a private staircase that smelled faintly of cigar smoke and old money. The noise of the club dulled with each step until it vanished entirely.
At the top, a door opened into the Penguin's office.
Oswald Cobblepot sat behind his desk, hands folded over his cane, eyes bright with amusement. He didn't rise. He never did.
"Well I'll be damned," Penguin said, smirk curling under the edge of his monocle. "Didn't think I'd see you here so soon, Everleigh."
Quentin stepped inside without hesitation, glancing around the room like a man inspecting a hotel suite rather than a crime lord's den. "Heard the drinks were good," he said. "Figured I'd check."
Penguin chuckled, a wet, amused sound. "You don't strike me as the social type."
"Tonight's special," Quentin replied, pulling out a chair and sitting without being invited.
The door closed behind him.
Penguin's smile lingered for a moment longer before fading into something more attentive. "So," he said, leaning back. "What brings Gotham's newest problem into my office?"
Quentin didn't rush the answer. He leaned back in his chair, crossed one ankle over the other, and met Penguin's gaze evenly.
"People," he said, "with more money than sense and more reach than they should have… have been poking around my businesses."
Penguin's eyes narrowed just a fraction.
"Inspections. Pressure. Middlemen pretending they don't know who sent them." Quentin shrugged. "Nothing I can't handle. But it's coordinated."
Penguin tapped his cane once against the floor. "And you came to me because…?"
"Because if there's one thing you're good at," Quentin said lightly, "it's knowing who's pulling strings when no one wants their hands seen."
Silence stretched.
Penguin studied him now—not as a curiosity, but as a variable. "You got anything concrete?"
Quentin shook his head. "Not much. Just a name. Or part of one."
Penguin's mouth tightened. "Let's hear it."
Quentin leaned forward slightly. "They call themselves something like… the Court."
The reaction was immediate.
Penguin's eyes widened, just enough to be unmistakable. He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, the smirk gone entirely now. The room felt colder in an instant.
"…You're sure?" Penguin asked quietly.
Quentin watched him closely. Not the words—but the fear behind them.
"That's what I was told," Quentin said. "Connected. Funded. Old."
Penguin leaned back slowly, fingers tightening around the handle of his cane.
"Well," he said at last, voice carefully neutral, "that does complicate things."
Quentin tilted his head, faint smile returning. "Funny," he said. "I imagined you were going to say something like that."
He leaned forward in his chair, forearms resting on his knees, the casual ease draining out of him like a tide pulling back before a wave.
"So," he said quietly, "what do you know about them?"
Penguin hesitated.
That alone was answer enough.
He shifted in his seat, fingers drumming once against the cane before stilling. "Not much," he admitted. "And that's the problem. They don't exist on paper. No ledgers, no fronts you can trace. Just… whispers."
He glanced toward the window as if the walls themselves might be listening.
"Their full name," Penguin continued, voice lower now, "is the Court of Owls."
Quentin's eyes didn't flicker.
"A secret society," Penguin said, "made up of Gotham's oldest families. The ones who were rich before crime had names. Judges. Industrialists. Philanthropists. The kind of people who cut ribbons in the daylight and write death warrants at night."
He let out a dry laugh. "I don't know who leads them. No one does. And I don't know their endgame. Never have."
Penguin leaned forward slightly now, seriousness overtaking his usual theatricality.
"But I do know this," he said. "They are dangerous. Not loud dangerous. Not messy dangerous. They erase people. Entire bloodlines sometimes. And when they move, it's because they've already decided the outcome."
Silence settled heavy between them.
Then Penguin chuckled, shaking his head. "Looks like our little alliance might come to an end sooner than either of us expected."
Quentin's gaze hardened, sharp enough to cut.
"You'll run now?" he asked.
The question wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.
Penguin met his eyes—and for once, didn't smirk.
He shook his head slowly. "Of course not. I don't run."
A pause.
"I just don't know if you'll survive," Penguin said evenly. "Kieran Everleigh."
The name hung in the air, heavy with implication.
Quentin leaned back at last, studying Penguin like a man weighing a flawed chessboard and deciding whether to flip it or keep playing.
"Well," he said calmly, "then I suppose we'll both find out."
Quentin rose from his chair and straightened his coat as if the conversation had been nothing more than business concluded.
He extended a hand.
Penguin regarded it for a moment before taking it, his grip firm but measured. "Careful, Everleigh," he said quietly. "The Court doesn't play fair."
Quentin's mouth twitched—not quite a smile. "Neither do I."
He released Penguin's hand and turned, already finished with the room. Guards parted as he passed. The office door closed behind him with a muted finality.
His phone vibrated before he reached the stairs.
One message.
Incident at the hotel. Floor 6. Guest involved.
Quentin didn't slow.
On my way.
****
By the time the car slid to a stop beneath the hotel's awning, he was already Kieran—composed, immaculate, and carrying the kind of exhaustion that came from being too aware of how many eyes were watching.
The head concierge was waiting inside, posture tight, expression carefully neutral.
"Mr. Everleigh," he said quietly. "We have a situation."
Kieran nodded once. "Show me."
They took the private elevator. No music. No small talk. The ascent felt longer than it was.
Sixth floor.
The corridor had been cleared under the pretense of maintenance. Doors shut. Staff stationed at either end, pretending not to notice the way their hands trembled.
The concierge stopped before a room near the corner.
"Housekeeping found him," he said. "A guest. No noise reported. No witnesses."
"And you haven't called the police," Kieran said.
"No, sir."
Kieran opened the door himself.
The body lay just inside the room, positioned so it would be seen the moment someone crossed the threshold. The man was well dressed, mid-forties, face frozen in mild surprise rather than terror. His throat had been opened cleanly, efficiently. No struggle. No mess beyond what was necessary.
This wasn't murder.
It was punctuation.
Kieran stepped inside, eyes moving slowly, deliberately. He took in the lack of forced entry, the untouched valuables, the calculated neatness of it all.
Behind him, the concierge swallowed. "We… assumed you'd want to handle this personally."
"Yes," Kieran said softly. "You assumed correctly."
He straightened, already forming contingencies, when hurried footsteps echoed down the hall.
A bellhop skidded to a stop at the doorway, face flushed, breathing hard.
"Sir—" he gasped, lowering his voice instinctively. "The police are here. They say someone called in a tip. They're asking to see the room."
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then a quiet, humorless chuckle escaped Kieran's lips.
Of course.
He looked back at the body one last time.
The Court hadn't rushed him.
They'd timed it.
Kieran turned toward the concierge, voice smooth and unhurried. "Delay them. Don't be nervous and whatever you do act like it is another night. Nothing happened tonight."
"And if they insist?"
Kieran's smile didn't reach his eyes.
"Then we welcome them," he said. "Politely. Carefully."
He adjusted his cuffs, already preparing the mask.
"The Court has made another move," he thought.