Nolan did not like stagnation it stressed him out more than most things do. And that's saying something.
He stood in front of the wall display in his penthouse, arms folded, jaw set as footage cycled silently across the screens. Time stamps flickered in the corners. Angles shifted. Security stills layered over traffic feeds.
Maria Powers moved through each frame with frustrating composure.
Hospital corridors.
Private vehicle transfers.
Short, controlled meetings with attorneys.
Two visits to one of the family's holding companies.
No sudden withdrawals.
No visible outreach to known Court affiliates.
Nolan frowned.
He rewound one segment and watched again as she exited the hospital wing, posture straight, expression unreadable. No shaking hands. No whispered urgency. No emotional tells.
She was containing her anger too well.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
"She's disciplined," he muttered.
Too disciplined.
He had expected at least one obvious move. A rushed consultation. A misstep in fear. Something exploitable. Something loud enough to wedge deeper into the fracture he'd created.
Instead, she was consolidating quietly.
That irritated him.
On another screen, financial summaries scrolled past—minor asset reallocations, nothing dramatic. A shift in private security contracts. Additional background checks authorized. Tightening, not flailing like a wrecking ball he expected.
Smart.
He dragged one frame larger with a flick of his fingers: Maria standing outside the hospital, phone pressed to her ear, face calm.
No visible panic once again oh how he wished he was dealing with someone more emotional.
Which meant her anger was being stored.
And stored anger, if not directed, could turn unpredictable or worse she could figure out this wasn't the courts doing.
Nolan stepped back from the screens and ran a hand along his jaw thoughtfully.
He didn't need her reckless.
He needed her decisive.
There was a difference.
He crossed to the bar but didn't pour a drink. Instead, he rested both hands on the marble and stared at the city beyond the glass.
"If you won't move," he murmured quietly, "I'll move you."
'I have a plan.' Quentin whispered in his mind
'Let's hear it.' Nolan replied after some thought
His irritation faded and quickly it was replaced by hesitance. He tapped his chin rapidly in thought. On one hand he like Quentin's train of thought.
On the other hand he wished he didn't.
He turned back toward the screens, eyes sharpening.
'Okay.' he thought, 'If that's what you think would make her move'
'Trust me it will.'
***
His name was Rowan Kells.
No nickname or mythology attached to it. No whispered legend in other cities. He wasn't the kind of assassin people built stories around, he wasn't a deadshot nor a league assassin.
He was just a Gotham born killer looking to make do in the city and it just so happened he was good at his job.
Rain soaked through the shoulders of his coat as he moved across the adjacent rooftop, boots scraping softly against gravel and tar. Every step tugged at the stitches along his ribs. The bandages beneath his shirt felt tight, damp, uncomfortable.
He muttered under his breath. "Better not get sick on top of this."
The wind answered by driving rain sideways into his face.
Four days.
Loan.
He didn't like owing anyone. Especially men who smiled too much.
Rowan forced himself up the final service ladder and rolled onto the uppermost roofline across from Gotham General's private wing. He lay there for a moment, catching his breath, letting the pain crest and settle.
Then he got to work.
The rifle came out of a narrow case wrapped in oilcloth. Black, compact, built for distance but optimized for urban angles. He assembled it methodically, hands steady despite the ache in his shoulder.
Bolt seated.
Scope locked.
Suppressor twisted into place.
He winced once as he adjusted into prone position and slid a folded tarp beneath his chest to keep the rifle stable on the wet surface.
Two pain pills followed, dry-swallowed. He wished he brought water his mouth was getting dry.
Through the scope, the hospital windows sharpened.
He reached into his coat and pulled out the file.
The file was laminated, which was kind of funny to him he hasn't seen that before.
Inside was a concise briefing.
Dr. Malcolm Virelli.
Neurologist. Mid-fifties. Silver at the temples. Specialist in traumatic brain injury and long-term cortical monitoring. On retainer for the Powers family for over a decade.
Private jet landed this afternoon. Personal security light but professional.
Rowan studied the attached photo again.
Kind face. Intellectual eyes. The sort of man who spent more time with MRIs than people.
He flipped to the last page.
Objective: Make the shot before departure to his hotel from the hospital.
Payment: One Continental coin.
Rowan closed the file and slid it back into his coat.
Through the scope, he saw him.
Dr. Malcolm Virelli standing inside the private hospital wing, speaking to a nurse near the glass partition of Mr. Powers' room. Calm, focused and completely unaware.
Rowan exhaled slowly, letting the crosshairs drift just off-center.
Not yet.
The job was cleaner outside. Less security complication. Less risk of tracing angles.
He would wait.
Rain tapped steadily against the rifle barrel as he settled in, pain humming low in his ribs.
Four days bought him shelter and he was hiding from some bad people right now.
This shot would buy him more.
He watched the neurologist turn and begin walking toward the corridor exit.
Rowan adjusted the scope slightly.
And waited for the moment the doctor stepped out into the open.
***
Dr. Malcolm Virelli removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose before sliding them back into place.
The private hospital wing was quieter now. Machines hummed. Nurses moved softly not daring to risk upsetting the powers. The storm outside pressed rain against the windows in restless waves.
He turned to Maria Powers, who stood near her husband's bedside, posture as composed as it had been all evening.
"I've done everything that can be done tonight," he said gently. "The swelling is controlled. The scans are stable. I'd prefer to let his brain rest before we attempt further stimulation."
Maria inclined her head slightly. "And in the morning?"
"In the morning," Virelli replied, voice steady and reassuring, "we reassess. With a little luck… and skill… your husband should wake without complication."
He offered her a small, professional smile.
"I see no immediate reason why he wouldn't regain full control of his body and mind."
Something in her shoulders eased—barely perceptible, but real.
"Thank you, Doctor," she said quietly.
He gathered his coat and leather portfolio. Maria walked him toward the secured elevator personally, security trailing at a respectful distance.
"You've always been thorough," she added as they waited.
"And you've always insisted on it," he replied kindly.
The elevator doors opened. They descended in near silence.
At the lobby exit, one of Maria's security men stepped forward, opening the outer door as wind shoved rain against the glass.
Maria reached for an umbrella from a stand near the desk and handed it to the lead guard.
"Make sure he gets to his car," she instructed.
"Of course, ma'am."
The guard opened the umbrella and stepped out first. Dr. Virelli followed, pulling his coat tighter against the cold.
The rain was heavier now.
Parking lot lights shimmered in the downpour. His sedan sat thirty feet away, dark and waiting.
He walked steadily, shoes splashing through shallow puddles. The guard stayed just behind and to his left, scanning the perimeter.
Virelli thought about the scans again. About cortical response times. About how fortunate the Powers patriarch truly was.
He was two steps from the driver's side door.
The sound came sharp and sudden.
Thunder rumbled in the sky.
For half a second, he didn't understand what had happened.
Then warmth burst across his chest.
Blood sprayed outward in a fine mist against the rain.
His legs buckled.
The umbrella fell first. Then he did.
The pavement struck him harder than he expected.
The world tilted sideways.
He tried to breathe.
Air wouldn't come.
The rain felt colder now—unnaturally cold—as it soaked into his collar and pooled beneath his shoulder.
Somewhere, someone was shouting.
The guard's voice.
Another crack split the air mocking him.
Virelli's vision blurred at the edges, lights stretching into streaks above him.
He couldn't feel his hands.
He thought, distantly, absurdly, that he still had charts to review in the morning.
The cold crept deeper.
And the world went dark around the edges.