The hidden entrance didn't have a sign It didn't need one to those in the know.
A steel service door recessed into brick, unmarked, camera tucked beneath the lip of a drainage pipe. It opened only after three precise knocks and a pause that meant something to people who lived violent lives.
The man who stepped through it left a faint trail behind him.
Blood.
Not enough to collapse. Enough to hurt.
Inside, the corridor was warm and quiet, carpet swallowing the sound of his boots. A chandelier glowed at the far end, and beneath it stood the concierge—immaculate suit, cufflinks polished, expression pleasantly neutral.
"Good evening," the concierge said, as if greeting a diplomat rather than a man clutching his side.
The assassin didn't waste words. He reached into his coat and produced a heavy gold coin. It caught the light briefly before he held it up between two fingers.
"Room," he muttered. His voice was strained. "Medical."
The concierge accepted the coin with a small, professional smile, examining it only long enough to confirm weight and stamp.
"Of course, sir."
He stepped aside and gestured down the hall.
"No weapons discharge within the premises, as always. Our physician is on call. We'll make you comfortable."
They walked slowly. The assassin's boots dragged just slightly at the edges of each step. His breathing grew heavier the farther they went.
They reached the main corridor that connected to the private floors.
Nolan was already there.
He stood near the elevators, reviewing something on his phone, posture relaxed but deliberate. He looked up as they approached.
The concierge gave him a subtle nod.
Nolan's gaze shifted to the injured man, taking in the torn jacket, the darkened fabric at his ribs, the controlled aggression in his stance.
"Rough evening?" Nolan asked lightly.
The assassin didn't smile. "Open question."
Nolan stepped closer, hands loosely clasped behind his back.
"I hope you enjoy your stay."
The assassin exhaled sharply—half laugh, half pain.
"How long," he asked through clenched teeth, "is my stay permitted?"
Nolan didn't hesitate.
"Four days."
The man frowned. "Four?"
"A single coin," Nolan replied smoothly, "covers four days' accommodation and medical attention. Discretion included."
The assassin muttered a curse under his breath. "I'll need longer."
"Then you'll need another coin."
The man's jaw tightened. Sweat had begun to bead at his temple now. The adrenaline was wearing thin.
"How," he asked bluntly, "do I get one?"
Nolan's smile widened—not mocking, not kind. Just interested.
"We can discuss opportunities," he said evenly, "after you're patched up."
The concierge stepped forward at that cue, sliding a keycard from his sleeve.
"Doctor is already preparing," he assured.
The assassin stared at Nolan for a moment longer, measuring him. Then he gave a single nod and allowed himself to be guided toward the elevator.
As the doors closed, Nolan's expression settled back into something unreadable.
Four days.
More than enough time to see what the man was worth.
***
Maria stood at the foot of her husband's bed, posture straight, hands lightly clasped in front of her. The steady beeping of the monitors filled the quiet space between her and the attending physician.
"When," she asked calmly, "do you expect him to regain consciousness?"
The doctor adjusted his glasses, glancing at the chart in his hands. "The trauma was significant, Mrs. Powers. We've reduced the swelling, and there's no immediate sign of intracranial bleeding. That's encouraging. But head injuries are unpredictable. It could be hours. It could be a day or two."
Maria's expression didn't shift.
"And cognitively?"
"We won't know the extent of impairment until he wakes."
She nodded once. Efficient. Controlled.
A soft knock came at the door. One of the hospital administrators stepped inside, posture tight.
"Mrs. Powers," he said carefully, "there's someone here to see you. She insisted."
Maria turned her head slightly.
"Dr. Isabella Haas."
For the first time, something sharper than concern crossed her face.
A frown. Brief. Heavy.
"Of course she is," Maria murmured.
The administrator hesitated. "Shall I—"
"I'll handle it."
She stepped into the hallway, already retrieving her phone. Her heels clicked softly against the polished floor as she walked toward the elevator lobby.
She paused near a window overlooking the city and made a call.
Her voice, when she spoke, was low. Controlled.
Then she ended it.
No hesitation.
By the time the elevator doors opened on the lower level, Maria's expression had smoothed into something warm and composed.
Dr. Isabella Haas stood near the reception desk, impeccably dressed in a charcoal coat, dark hair swept neatly back. She looked less like someone arriving for emergency consultation and more like she had stepped out of a board meeting.
"Maria," Haas greeted, stepping forward with measured warmth. "I came as soon as I heard."
Maria offered a gentle smile. "Isabella. That's very kind of you."
They exchanged a light embrace—polite, familiar.
"I can't imagine how difficult this must be," Haas continued, her tone smooth. "Head trauma requires delicate handling. I reviewed the preliminary reports on my way over. If there's any concern about swelling near the frontal lobe—"
Maria's hand touched Haas's forearm lightly. Friendly. Grateful.
"Regrettably," she said, her voice tinged with what sounded like genuine apology, "we already have someone on the way."
Haas's brow creased just slightly.
"My husband has kept a neurosurgeon on retainer for years," Maria explained. "A precaution, given the nature of our lives. He should be landing within the hour."
A beat of silence.
Haas's expression tightened—barely perceptible—but the warmth returned quickly.
"Of course," she said. "That's understandable."
Maria inclined her head. "I do appreciate you coming personally. It means a great deal."
Haas studied her for a fraction longer than polite conversation required.
"Well," she replied smoothly, "I'll remain available. If there's any complication. Any second opinion needed."
"I wouldn't hesitate," Maria assured.
They held eye contact for a moment.
Two women smiling.
Neither conceding.
"Thank you, Isabella."
Haas gave a final nod before turning toward the exit, heels echoing softly down the corridor.
Maria remained where she was until the doors closed behind her.
Only then did the pleasantness fade from her face.
***
The penthouse hummed with the faint sound of jazz, Nolan bobbed his head softly to the music as if the sound lulled him to a calm state of mind.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the river, lights from the docks blinking steadily in the distance. The city felt smaller from up here. Manageable.
He stood near the bar, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. Across from him, his in-house physician—coat traded for a dark sweater—reviewed notes on a tablet.
"The bleeding's contained," the doctor said. "Whoever shot him missed anything critical by centimeters. He's lucky."
Nolan hummed faintly. "Lucky men don't usually end up in my hallway."
The doctor allowed himself a thin smile before continuing. "He'll walk without assistance in three days. Four, if he pushes it. But that's optimistic. If he wants to be in condition for anything… strenuous?" He shook his head. "A week. Minimum."
Nolan nodded slowly, absorbing the timeline.
"His stay is four days," the doctor added. "That's what your concierge told me."
"It is."
"So unless you plan on comping him—"
"I can think of something," Nolan replied evenly.
The doctor studied him for a second but didn't press. In this building, "something" often meant leverage.
He turned to leave. "I'll check on him again in the morning."
Before he reached the door, Nolan's phone vibrated against the counter.
He glanced at the screen and answered without greeting.
"Yes."
A voice filtered through—low, efficient. One of his watchers at the hospital.
Nolan listened, expression unreadable.
"Turned away?" he repeated mildly.
A pause.
"What was her name?"
Another pause.
Nolan's gaze sharpened slightly.
"Isabella Haas," he said aloud while jotting it down
Across the room, the doctor stopped mid-step.
Nolan continued into the phone, voice casual. "Find out what you can about her. Background, affiliations. It's probably nothing—but I'd like to know who offers charity visits to private wings."
He ended the call.
Silence lingered.
He looked up to find his doctor staring at him.
"What?" Nolan asked.
The doctor stepped back into the room slowly. "You said Isabella Haas?"
"Yes." Nolan tilted his head slightly. "Do you know her?"
The doctor let out a short, incredulous breath. "Know her? She's the foremost expert in neurosurgery in Gotham."
Nolan leaned back against the counter, folding his arms.
"She's consulted on experimental cortical reconstruction. Speaks at international conferences. There's a waiting list just to be evaluated by her team." He shook his head. "There's no scenario where someone 'turns her away.'"
"None?" Nolan asked lightly.
"She costs a fortune to even consult. Hospitals compete for her presence. If she walked into an operating room, people would step aside."
Nolan went quiet.
He stared past the doctor for a moment, mind shifting pieces across an invisible board.
"So," he said slowly, "you're telling me she's the top of the top? In all of Gotham?"
"Yes," the doctor replied without hesitation.
Nolan's eyes narrowed just slightly.
Maria Powers had refused her.
A woman protecting her husband would accept the best. She would beg for the best.
Unless the best was something else entirely.
Nolan's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly as a thought settled into place.
Interesting.