Rain ticked softly against the tall windows, turning the skyline into a smear of blurred gold and red. Incense burned somewhere unseen. The guards outside the doors did not move, did not speak.
Madam Jiang did not waste time on pleasantries.
"Everything on our end is being handled swiftly," she said in her calm, measured tone. Her fingers rested lightly against a porcelain teacup, steam curling around her knuckles. "Supply routes are restored. Harbor control has been stabilized. There has been no retaliation from the Triad since the war ended."
A faint pause.
"No probing attacks. No silent assassins. No whispers or hints of anyone going after us."
Her dark eyes lifted to Quentin.
"That silence is… unexpected."
Across the lacquered table, Quentin leaned back in his chair as if this were a casual business brunch instead of a summit between power brokers. The cigar glowed faintly at the tip as he took a slow pull, smoke coiling upward toward the dim chandelier.
He nodded once it was measured and approving. His happiness was clear for all to see but behind his eyes paranoia began to sprout.
"Good," he said simply.
Madam Jiang set her cup down with a soft click. "Now that stability has been established, I would like to breach the topic of expansion."
Her gaze sharpened.
"However." A faint irritation entered her voice. "You have been… absent, Quentin."
Not accusatory.
But not forgiving, either.
"In the weeks following the war, when consolidation required guidance, you were not present instead you wined and dinned the cities elites. Attending social events and opening orphanages. You were needed, this is an alliance it does not work with silence."
The silence in the room thickened, Jace the dockyard dogs leaded nodded to her words as did the bishop.
Quentin held her gaze for a moment — then lifted both hands slowly in exaggerated surrender, cigar still balanced between his fingers. A playful admission of fault.
"Guilty," he said lightly.
A corner of his mouth twitched.
"I've been… occupied."
He leaned forward slightly now, resting his elbows on the armrests rather than the table — deliberate body language. Not defensive. Not evasive. Just relaxed.
"But you're right. Expansion." He nodded again. "I'm happy to talk expansion."
Smoke drifted between them like a lazy curtain.
"If your people need support — infrastructure, enforcement, capital, logistics — there are others within my organization you can speak to directly. You don't need me holding your hand for every step and I would not expect you to."
A subtle statement.
He trusted her.
Or at least wanted her to think he did.
"But," he added, lowering his hands, letting the playful air settle into something quieter, "you're also right about my absence."
The humor faded just slightly from his eyes.
"There's a reason I've been… hands-off lately."
He tapped ash into a crystal tray.
"And I promise," he said calmly, "that will be explained shortly. But first Jace and Bishop how have your organizations fared?"
Jace leaned forward.
He didn't rush when he spoke. Dockyard men rarely did.
"The Dockyard Dogs," he began, folding his hands atop the table, knuckles scarred and sun-browned, "have had perfect shipment routes these past few months. Not one crate misplaced. Not one container flagged. Customs has been blind, and the Coast Guard's been chasing phantoms."
There was quiet pride in his voice, but not arrogance. Pride earned.
"We've actually had a surge of recruits since the war," he continued. "Men who saw which banners stayed standing. Word spreads when stability wins."
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"But don't worry," he added, glancing toward Quentin briefly before shifting his gaze to Madam Jiang. "I thought about the possibility of plants. Everyone wants to crawl close to power after blood's been spilled. So I've been selective. Background checks through three channels. Loyalty tested twice before they even see the docks."
He paused, letting that assurance settle.
Then his attention fixed fully on Madam Jiang.
"If you're serious about expansion," he said smoothly, "my people would be happy to help. We've got good imports coming in clean and quiet—electronics, precursors, high-demand commodities. Whatever direction you're looking to grow, I can make sure supply isn't your bottleneck. If you told us sooner I could have had the shipments ready."
Madam Jiang nodded, "My apologies I guess I too have to work on this new alliance ."
His smile widened just slightly.
"For you," he added, "I'll shave the margin. Call it a stability discount. Just let me know what you need."
"It is appreciated."
For a time, Bishop said nothing.
He had remained still through Madam Jiang's steadfast ambition and Jace's assurances, hands folded loosely on the table, posture immaculate beneath the dark clerical coat he still wore despite everything he now oversaw.
When he finally spoke, his voice was soft enough that the others leaned in without realizing it.
"When I first began," he said, eyes drifting toward the rain-streaked windows, "it was not meant to be a gang."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"If you could even call it that."
He looked down at his hands as though seeing a younger version of himself there.
"It started on a cracked basketball court behind the apartments where I grew up. The local church had just gone through another scandal. Embezzlement. Abuse. Hypocrisy layered over scripture." He exhaled quietly. "People were angry. Disillusioned. Lost."
His gaze lifted again.
"So we gathered. Not to rebel. Not to organize. Just to pray."
The admission hung strangely in the room.
"Men with records. Women the church elders called disruptive. Boys who'd already decided God had no interest in them."
A low, self-deprecating laugh escaped him.
"Look at me now," he murmured. "A criminal. A murderer."
He didn't flinch from the words.
"No collar can hide that."
Silence answered him.
"But something happened," he continued. "Word spread. People who had been turned away by polished pews came to us instead. They wanted forgiveness without judgment. They wanted purpose. Protection."
His eyes sharpened slightly.
"And when you give people purpose… they are willing to defend it."
He leaned back in his chair now, the weight of the past settling comfortably rather than painfully.
"The Deacons grew. Slowly at first. Then faster than I anticipated. Convicts asked if they could pray with us after release. Dockworkers. Women from shelters. Even former gang members."
A small nod.
"Things have only improved since the war ended. More have expressed their desire to pray." He glanced briefly at Jace, then Madam Jiang. "And their desire to protect."
He rested his hands on the table once more.
"My only wish going forward," he said honestly, "would be to own a church. A real one. Brick. Bell tower. A place that belongs to us."
He gave a small, almost embarrassed shrug.
"I just don't know how to go about such a thing, to be honest."
The confession was simple.
Not weak.
Just real.
Across the table, Quentin studied him for a long moment.
Then he nodded once.
"It will happen, Bishop."
Quentin let the silence linger a second longer.
Then he slid the cigar back between his teeth and clapped his hands once, sharp and deliberate.
"Alright," he said, settling back into his chair. "Now for my piece."
A thin curl of smoke escaped as he spoke.
"I'm sure you've seen me in the news. I don't say that to brag, of course."
There was the faintest hint of humor in his voice.
"Despite my apparent success, there has actually been some trouble."
The word trouble felt intentionally understated.
His eyes moved between the three leaders, measuring reactions before continuing.
"There's been a shadow war playing out behind everything else. Quiet. Surgical. Expensive."
He tapped ash into a crystal tray.
"You likely haven't heard of them. Most haven't. They prefer it that way."
He leaned forward slightly.
"They're called the Court Of Owls."
No one in the room reacted with recognition.
"As expected," Quentin murmured. "They are an organization run by some of the most powerful people in Gotham. Old money. Older influence. Judges, executives, philanthropists. The kind of names carved into libraries and hospitals."
He gave a small shrug.
"A guiding hand, if you will. They believe Gotham belongs to them. That it must be steered… pruned."
His gaze sharpened.
"Unfortunately, they didn't like how I operated."
Madam Jiang's expression cooled. Jace's jaw tightened slightly. Bishop remained still.
"They sent assassins," Quentin continued. "Not the kind that miss. Not the kind that negotiate."
He paused just long enough to let the weight of that settle.
"These men do not fight like normal killers. They don't panic. They don't retreat. And they do not seem to stay down."
Jace frowned at that.
"I put one through the wringer," Quentin said calmly. "Crushed his ribs. Snapped his spine, stabbed it, shot it."
He lifted his eyes.
"He stood back up."
A faint tension crept into the room.
"It took complete destruction of the head to keep him down."
Unfortunately this was not a embellishment nor was he playing up the challenge.
"I don't know what the court calls them though I'm sure they have a name," he added. "Think of them as investments. Expensive ones."
Madam Jiang's fingers tapped once against the table. "And how many of these… investments exist?"
"I don't know," Quentin replied evenly.
He leaned back again.
"I tell you this for two reasons. First, to explain my recent absence. My attention has been divided."
They needed to understand.
"Second, as a warning."
The cigar ember glowed faintly in the dim room.
"If they view any of you as destabilizing their preferred balance, they will not send a message. They will send a assassin."
He let that sink in before continuing.
"But understand this—"
His voice cooled, steel beneath silk.
"They made a mistake."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"They assumed I would react loudly. Carelessly. Instead, I have been learning."
His eyes drifted briefly toward Madam Jiang.
"And we may have already shifted one of their pieces without them realizing it."
He folded his hands.
"For now, remain steady. Strengthen your internal structures. Increase vetting. Tighten communication."
A pause.
"This war exists whether we acknowledge it or not. I would prefer you prepared rather than surprised."
The room felt heavier now.
More serious.
More unified.
Quentin gave a small nod and a brilliant smile.
"Questions?"