Steam clung to the glass as Nolan stood beneath the spray, head bowed, water tracing lines down bruised skin that had already begun to fade. The heat loosened the tightness in his shoulders, washed away the copper smell that still lingered in his memory more than on his body. For a few quiet minutes, there was nothing but the sound of water and the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing.
When he stepped out, he toweled off methodically, movements practiced, controlled. He caught his reflection in the mirror—eyes tired, face composed—and then turned away, already reaching for his clothes.
The suit went on piece by piece. Shirt. Cufflinks. Jacket laid carefully across the back of a chair while he adjusted the rest. He was halfway through tying his tie when the penthouse phone rang.
He paused, then tapped the receiver.
"Go ahead."
The concierge's voice came through, respectful and relieved. "Sir, the police have left. They bagged all of the… evidence they found. They said we're clear to clean the room."
Nolan nodded to himself, fingers stilling at his collar. "Did they mention any follow-up? Any intent to return?"
"No, sir. If they're being honest, they seemed confused. Whatever they thought they were walking into—it wasn't there."
A faint smile touched Nolan's lips. "Very well. Proceed with cleanup. Dispose of everything properly. I don't want remnants—physical or otherwise."
"Of course, Mr. Everleigh."
The line went dead.
Nolan finished tying his tie, smoothing it once, then twice. As he straightened, the room subtly changed—not physically, but perceptibly. Presences coalesced where there had been empty air moments before.
Quentin leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, expression tight.
"How do we counterattack," he said flatly, "if we don't know what we're supposed to be attacking?"
Vey stood closer, gaze distant, already mapping possibilities. "They don't move like gangs. No colors. No territory to pressure. No lieutenants to squeeze." His jaw tightened. "We need confirmed members of the Court. Names. Faces. Something real."
Nolan exhaled slowly, adjusting his cuffs. "Which means patience," he said. "They probe. We endure. And when they slip—because everyone does—we're ready."
Quentin snorted quietly. "They're testing boundaries."
"And we're still standing," Nolan replied.
Nolan was mid-thought when he felt it—that subtle hitch, the momentary stillness that meant Kieran had stopped reacting and started plotting.
Kieran's eyes unfocused for half a second.
Then they lit up.
A slow, dangerous smile crept across his face.
"I have an idea," Kieran said lightly. "Hear me out here."
Instantly—
"No."
"No."
"Absolutely not."
The words overlapped, Nolan, Quentin, and Vey all speaking at once.
Kieran blinked, mildly offended. "You didn't even let me finish."
Quentin pushed off the wall, already shaking his head. "We don't need you finishing. We know exactly where that thought went."
Vey sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Every time you get that smile, something explodes. Or someone ends up on fire. Or both."
Kieran spread his hands. "All I'm saying is—it's a good idea."
Nolan let out a tired breath, the tension cracking just enough for a short, humorless laugh. He shook his head slowly.
"I understand why you'd suggest it," he said. "I really do. But bringing his attention into this is a last resort."
Kieran's smile softened, turning thoughtful instead of reckless. "Last resorts still exist for a reason."
Quentin shot him a look. "And they stay last until we're out of options."
Silence settled again, heavier this time—not disagreement, but uneasy agreement.
***
Nolan left the penthouse without ceremony, the doors sliding shut behind him as he crossed into the private conference room.
The underpass figureheads were already there.
No suits—but noticeably cleaner jackets, fitted hoodies, pressed jeans. Clothes chosen with intent. The kind that said we can blend when we want to.
Nolan paused just inside the doorway, eyebrow lifting.
"Well," he said dryly, "look at that. You all dress up for me?"
Dre Wall Matthews snorted, leaning back in his chair. "Man, you don't know how much I miss my puffy coat," he said with a grin. "But we figured it'd be good to remind people—we don't gotta look homeless all the time."
That got a short laugh out of Nolan as he took his seat at the head of the table.
"Fair enough," he said. Then, more casually, "Speaking of homeless—do you need anything?"
The room quieted just a little.
"Supplies. Apartments. Transport routes," Nolan continued. "Your groups are mostly self-sufficient now, but I noticed a slight dip in material distribution over the last two weeks."
Marcy didn't hesitate. She shook her head once, "That was me."
She reached into her bag, pulled out a tablet, and slid it across the table toward him.
"I cut a few outgoing supply runs," she said evenly. "Some of it was going to waste. Too much redundancy. I thought it made more sense to start stockpiling—quietly—in case of another war or disaster."
The tablet lit up with maps, flow charts, storage locations marked in layered colors. Redundancies trimmed. Caches hidden. Routes that could vanish overnight.
Nolan leaned forward, actually studying it.
Seconds passed.
Then he nodded once.
"Smart," he said. "Forward-thinking. You're assuming conflict instead of hoping it doesn't happen."
Marcy inclined her head slightly. Praise accepted, not celebrated.
Nolan tapped one of the marked storage zones with his finger.
"This one though—move it one block east. Adjacent block, different access points. It's a little too close to Penguin's territory for my liking."
Marcy's fingers were already moving. "Done."
Nolan let the moment breathe, then tilted his laptop slightly and glanced around the table.
"Alright," he said. "Let's talk Underpass. How are things actually holding?"
Naima Rez was the first to answer.
"The docks are solid," she said, arms folded, posture straight. "No flare-ups. No serious pushback. Most of the longshore crews know who keeps things calm now."
Nolan's fingers moved across his keyboard. He pulled up a set of ledgers and satellite stills, eyes scanning quickly.
He nodded once.
"I saw," he said. "Dockfront stores, repair shops, even a couple of shipping offices—they're paying for our protection now. Quietly. On time."
He looked up at her.
"You've been doing fantastic work, Naima. Clean. Disciplined. Exactly what that area needed."
Naima didn't smile, but there was a faint easing in her shoulders. "Good," she said simply. "That's the goal."
Dre leaned forward next, elbows on the table.
"Sewers are good," he said. "Real good, actually. We've fortified the main arteries—reinforced walls, choke points, fallback routes. Made it more… homely."
That earned a short huff of amusement from Stitch.
Dre continued, "I've also been spreading our influence topside. Bars, clubs, underground venues. War took out a lot of the old leadership—power vacuums everywhere. Owners want stability. We're offering it."
Nolan nodded slowly.
"That tracks," he said. "Those places are information hubs as much as revenue streams."
He closed the laptop halfway and looked directly at Dre.
"Pursue it. Carefully. No overt pressure. Let them come to us."
Dre grinned. "Already are."
Nolan leaned back, folding his hands for a moment as he looked around the table—at people who, not long ago, had been dismissed as ghosts, nuisances, collateral.
Now they were infrastructure.
"Overall," Nolan said, "this is good. Very good. The Underpass is stable, expanding, and smart about it. That's exactly what we need right now."
His tone softened just a fraction, "Because what's coming next won't be fought with brute force alone."
Nolan straightened, the easy tone fading from his voice. The room seemed to follow suit—chairs stilled, eyes sharpened, the casual confidence giving way to focus.
"There's something else," he said. "And it's the reason I wanted everyone here."
He tapped a key and the screen behind him flickered to life. No logos. No names. Just a simple symbol rendered in gray: an owl, wings spread.
"The Court of Owls," Nolan said.
Marcy's eyes narrowed immediately. Dre's grin vanished. Naima didn't react at all—she just listened.
"They're a secret society," Nolan continued. "Old. Gotham-old. Elites, money, influence. The kind that doesn't show up in ledgers or elections but somehow always gets its way."
He folded his arms.
"They don't operate like gangs. They don't move territory. They don't make noise. They fund people. Nudge things. Point disasters in the right direction and let everyone else bleed."
He glanced at each of them in turn.
"I don't know their leadership. I don't know their full structure. And I don't know how deep they go. What I do know is this: they've been poking at my businesses, my reputation, and now my people."
A brief pause.
"They think that makes me emotional. Predictable. Weak."
His mouth twitched, humorless.
"They're wrong—but they're not stupid."
Nolan leaned forward, palms resting on the table.
"I don't want panic. I don't want overreaction. And I absolutely don't want anyone making it obvious we're looking."
He looked to Marcy first.
"Information that feels too clean. Funding that appears out of nowhere. Contractors, donors, inspectors, middlemen who don't quite add up."
To Dre.
"Bars and clubs are chatter hubs. Listen. Don't ask questions—let people talk themselves into mistakes."
To Naima.
"Docks, shipping manifests, shell companies. Anything that moves without a clear owner."
Then to all of them.
"If you hear the word owl. If you hear court. If you hear about people who never seem to exist on paper but somehow own half a block—bring it to me."
He straightened again, voice steady, controlled.
"Do not confront them. Do not provoke them. Do not let them know we're aware."
"We've survived because we move quietly and think three steps ahead. That doesn't change now."
His gaze hardened just slightly.
"They made the first move. We're going to make sure they regret every one after it—without ever realizing when it happened."