Nolan sat alone in the dim glow of his penthouse office, the city muted behind reinforced glass.
His laptop screen cast pale light across his face. A familiar, clinical layout filled the display.
Dr. Isabella Haas
He had started with the obvious.
Credentials. Publications. Awards. Fellowships in Zurich and Vienna. A meteoric rise through Gotham General. Chair of Neurological Surgery before forty-five. Consultant to private institutions that did not advertise their clientele.
Philanthropy listed in neat bullet points.
Board memberships.
Invitations to closed symposiums.
Nolan scrolled slowly.
The doctor in his employ had not exaggerated. She was the best. The kind of surgeon heads of state quietly flew across oceans to see. The kind of name whispered in private wings and sealed medical floors.
And yet she had appeared, personally, at Thomas Powers' bedside.
Uninvited.
Unnecessary.
He clicked through citations, opened archived interviews, cross-referenced photographs from galas and charity events. Faces blurred into patterns. Patterns into alignments.
There.
A charity banquet five years ago. A masked theme. Discreet donors.
Another event—an architectural restoration initiative tied to one of Gotham's oldest families.
Another photograph—barely visible in the background, but unmistakable to someone who knew where to look.
He leaned back slightly.
The Court did not advertise its members.
It didn't need to.
Court of Owls operated through prestige. Through lineage. Through influence that never needed to be spoken aloud.
And Dr. Isabella Haas fit the pattern too perfectly.
Elite education. Quiet discretion. Access to Gotham's most powerful bloodlines. Surgical expertise capable of altering minds and repairing damage that others could not.
Or creating it.
The more Nolan read, the more the certainty settled into something solid and cold.
She was theirs.
Which meant—
He stared at the screen for a long moment, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
Maria Powers had turned her away.
Turned away the foremost neurosurgeon in Gotham.
A protective wife would cling to the best surgeon money could buy.
Unless she believed that surgeon was the threat.
Unless she had been warned.
Unless the seed he planted had taken root.
Slowly, deliberately, a smile curved across Nolan's lips.
Their plan had worked.
Maria was suspicious of the Court.
He closed the laptop.
The city lights reflected in the glass as he stood. His posture shifted subtly—shoulders rolling back, head tilting at a slightly sharper angle.
The smile remained, but it changed.
Cooler.
Sharper.
More deliberate.
Nolan receded like a tide pulling from shore.
Quentin stepped forward.
The elevator doors parted with a quiet chime on the fourteenth floor.
Quentin stepped out, hands clasped loosely behind his back, expression composed. The hallway here was different from the public levels—thicker carpet, soundproofed walls, cameras positioned discreetly but thoroughly. This floor did not appear on the hotel directory.
He stopped at a door marked only with a small brass number and knocked twice.
A strained voice from inside answered, "Enter."
Quentin opened the door and stepped into the suite.
The curtains were half drawn. Medical equipment—portable, efficient, expensive—sat beside the bed. The man lying there was heavily bandaged along his ribs and shoulder, one eye still faintly swollen. A bottle of prescribed painkillers rested on the nightstand beside a glass of water and a disassembled handgun.
Quentin smiled faintly.
"You look considerably better than when you arrived."
The assassin shifted, suppressing a wince. "Feel worse," he muttered. "Four days isn't going to cut it."
Quentin chuckled softly and pulled a chair closer to the bedside, sitting with deliberate ease. "Recovery is rarely convenient."
"I need longer," the man pressed. "Couple more days at least."
"We can work something out," Quentin replied smoothly.
The assassin exhaled sharply. "Come on. Just tell me how to get another coin."
Quentin nodded once, as if pleased by the directness.
"The coin system," he began, reaching into his inner pocket, "is elegantly simple."
He withdrew a gold coin and let it catch the light between his fingers.
"One coin," he continued, "grants you access to anything within these walls. A room. Medical care. Protection from outside interference. Equipment. Ammunition. Discretion."
The assassin watched the coin carefully.
"But," Quentin said mildly, "coins are not gifted."
The man gave a dry, humorless laugh. "Yeah, I figured."
"You see," Quentin went on, folding his hands loosely over the coin, "people in your profession are exceptionally good at one thing."
"Killing," the man spat.
Quentin's smile widened just slightly. "Yes. Killing."
He leaned back.
"Occasionally, individuals require… problems resolved. They issue contracts. If a contract is completed satisfactorily—"
He flicked the coin lightly with his thumb and caught it again.
"—a coin is awarded."
The assassin frowned. "Yeah, the coin's nice and all, but you're telling me I won't get paid in cash?"
Quentin tilted his head.
"What good is your cash doing you right now?"
The man glanced around the room—the private suite, the medical equipment, the stitched wounds that would have killed him in any other setting.
"…That's fair," he admitted.
"But," he added, grimacing as he adjusted against the pillows, "I'm in no condition to do a contract right now."
Quentin leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice.
"We can call it a loan."
The assassin's eyes narrowed.
"A contract came in this morning," Quentin continued calmly. "A delicate one. I believe you're uniquely suited for it."
"I can barely stand."
"You won't need to move much," Quentin replied.
The room fell quiet.
The assassin studied him. "What's the target?"
Quentin's smile did not reach his eyes.
***
The meeting was not held in a warehouse this time.
No rusted beams. No folding chairs. No exposed brick dust and oil stains.
Instead, the room was private and immaculate—top floor of a restored heritage building overlooking the harbor. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the night skyline. A long black walnut table sat beneath a modern chandelier. Crystal glasses. A decanter of aged scotch. Soundproofed walls. Two silent guards stationed outside the door.
Power had evolved.
And so had its setting.
Three factions occupied the room.
At the head of one side sat the Jade Leopards—precise, composed, dressed in tailored suits of deep green and charcoal. Their leader, the madam, rested manicured fingers against a porcelain teacup, her expression unreadable.
Across from them lounged the Dockyard Dogs—thick-necked, weather-worn men in clean but utilitarian attire. Their leader, leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, steel prosthetic hook glinting beneath the chandelier light.
Nearest the window stood the Deacons—three men in dark clerical black, white collars stark against their skin. Their spokesman, the Bishop folded his hands calmly, posture immaculate, eyes sharp and measuring.
The room hummed with restrained hostility.
Then the door opened.
Quentin stepped inside.
No announcement. No hesitation.
He wore a simple dark suit, no tie, gloves fitted cleanly against his hands. His smile was warm—almost charming.
Almost.
"Good evening," he said lightly as the door closed behind him cigar already in hand
All eyes shifted.
He walked to the head of the table as if it had always been his seat.
"I think," Quentin began, folding his hands before him, "it's about time I introduced you all to some recent challenges."
He paused deliberately.
"But first…"
His smile widened just a touch.
"Tell me—how have you all been?"
-
A/N: shorter chapter coming off a small cold. Wanted to dedicate this one to Quentin