Two short weeks passed in what felt like the blink of an eye. Since the dinner at LexCorp, Nolan had barely found a moment to himself. One meeting had led to another, a discussion with an architect had turned into an argument over building materials, and a disagreement about the placement of emergency exits had somehow consumed the better part of an afternoon. Before he knew it, he had spent an entire week in Metropolis, overseeing the construction of the new Continental and coordinating with the architects, engineers, and planners responsible for turning their plans into something tangible. He had always known that establishing a hotel from the ground up would be complicated, but he had severely underestimated how much of his time would be consumed by decisions that seemed trivial until someone explained the consequences of getting them wrong.
The irony was that Lex Luthor's dinner had made the entire process considerably easier. Nolan had expected little more than an evening of political posturing and an opportunity to assess one of the Light's more ambitious members. Instead, the connections he had made around that table had proved unexpectedly useful. When the Continental's construction team encountered difficulties securing the necessary energy permits, the issue threatened to delay several stages of the project. Nolan had expected weeks of paperwork, inspections, and increasingly frustrated calls between departments. Instead, a single conversation with one of his new acquaintances led to a phone call, which led to another phone call, and before the day was over, the permits were moving through the system with a speed that would have been laughable under ordinary circumstances.
The same pattern had repeated itself with other problems. A supplier who had been reluctant to honor their agreement suddenly became accommodating after an introduction. A planning official who had insisted that a particular modification would require months of review found time to examine the proposal almost immediately. None of the favors had been particularly extravagant, and Nolan had made a point of returning every courtesy with the appropriate degree of gratitude. Nevertheless, the cumulative effect was undeniable. Doors that should have taken weeks to open were swinging wide before he had even finished knocking.
It felt good to make progress without having to threaten someone, bribe an intermediary, or send Terrell to discover which relative a stubborn official might be concerned about. Nolan had built much of his organization around finding solutions that other people overlooked, but there was something satisfying about discovering that a few well-placed acquaintances could accomplish in a day what an entire team of specialists might struggle with for a month. It was almost enough to make him appreciate the value of high society.
Almost.
The nagging suspicion that Lex had anticipated this outcome refused to leave him alone. The man had not invited Nolan to dinner simply because he wanted another face around his table. Every guest had served a purpose, and Lex was far too calculating to overlook the potential consequences of introducing a relatively unknown businessman to people with substantial influence over Metropolis. Perhaps the dinner had been a test, an opportunity to see how Nolan handled himself among the city's elite. Or perhaps Lex had intended precisely this outcome, knowing that Nolan would eventually find himself benefiting from the connections and, by extension, becoming more deeply entangled in the network Lex had assembled.
Favors had a way of becoming obligations. Obligations became debts, and debts could be called in at the most inconvenient possible moment. A man did not need to place a chain around someone's neck if he could convince them to fasten it themselves, one generous gesture at a time. By the time the unfortunate recipient recognized the weight of what he owed, the chain might already be too tight to remove.
Nolan could practically imagine Lex watching the process unfold with that infuriatingly composed expression of his, confident that every favor granted would eventually become another thread tying the Underpass to his interests. Perhaps Lex hoped to make Nolan dependent on his circle, to surround him with enough obligations that refusing a request would become more costly than accepting it. Perhaps he wanted to bring the Continental into his orbit before Nolan realized how much influence he had surrendered in exchange for a few convenient introductions.
If that was the plan, Lex was in for a rude awakening.
Not all of Nolan's personalities placed the same importance on honoring debts, and even those who did had their limits. Nolan himself believed in repaying kindness when it was freely given, but he had never agreed that accepting assistance meant surrendering his independence. Kieran could navigate the social obligations without allowing them to become a leash, while Quentin would cheerfully dismantle the entire arrangement if he decided the price had become unreasonable. Vey would be less concerned with the etiquette of refusing a favor and more interested in ensuring that nobody could use it to threaten them. Whatever Lex thought he was building, Nolan had no intention of allowing himself to become another carefully cultivated asset.
He had accepted the help, certainly. He had also learned something valuable about the people sitting around Lex's table, and that knowledge was worth far more than a few expedited permits. If Lex had intended to create a debt, Nolan would make certain that the balance remained open to interpretation.
For now, however, he had more immediate concerns.
Nolan drew a deep breath as he stepped out of the car and into the Gotham air. The familiar smell of exhaust, damp concrete, and the city's less appealing alleys somehow felt heavenly after a week in Metropolis. There was a comfort to Gotham's ugliness that he had never expected to develop. Its streets were rougher, its buildings older, and its people generally less inclined to pretend that the world was a fair place, but at least Nolan understood the rules. Metropolis had been a useful change of scenery, yet the city carried a peculiar sense of artificial polish that made him feel as though he were walking through a carefully maintained display. Gotham, for all its problems, felt lived in.
Unfortunately, his stay would be brief. He had arrived that morning and would be leaving for Star City the following day, after which he would have to return to Metropolis to check on the construction. The schedule had become an endless rotation of flights, meetings, and hurried inspections, with just enough time between destinations to remember what city he was currently in. When he had first acquired the ability to travel almost anywhere at a moment's notice, he had thought it was wonderful. There was something intoxicating about knowing that distance no longer had to dictate his decisions. If someone needed him, he could be there. If a problem emerged, he could respond before it had time to grow.
Now he was beginning to suspect that the ability had simply made it easier for everyone to demand his presence everywhere at once.
He had become the sort of person who spent a morning discussing plumbing in Metropolis, an afternoon settling an organizational dispute in Gotham, and an evening preparing to visit Star City, all while trying to remember whether he had eaten lunch. He was starting to miss the days when his greatest concern had been finding a quiet place to sleep without someone trying to rob him.
At least today's appointment promised to be more pleasant than another construction meeting.
"So this is the place," Nolan said as he approached the building, a smile gradually spreading across his face.
Naima walked beside him, her gaze sweeping over the renovated facade with the habitual attentiveness of someone who never entirely stopped assessing her surroundings. The building was modest by Gotham's standards, nestled between businesses that had seen better decades, but it had been cleaned up considerably. The exterior had been repaired, the windows replaced, and the entrance reinforced without making it look like the front door of a military installation. The result was unassuming, which was precisely what Nolan wanted. A charity building should look like a place where people could walk in without feeling that they had stumbled into a private club or a government office.
"The renovation was easy," Naima explained as they entered. "The building was in better shape than we expected. The others are taking longer because some of them were practically skeletons when we acquired them. This one only needed new plumbing, electrical work, and some repairs to the interior. Once the contractors finished the unpleasant parts, everything else moved quickly."
Nolan looked around the reception area, taking in the fresh paint, the repaired floors, and the simple furnishings. The building had been designed to feel welcoming rather than impressive. There were no grand marble columns or expensive decorations meant to convince visitors that their problems had suddenly become important. Instead, the rooms were clean, well lit, and furnished with practical pieces that could withstand years of use. He liked it. More importantly, it looked as though the people who would eventually work here might take pride in the place.
The charity's official name was still being finalized. The Crane Foundation had been intended as a straightforward tribute to its founder's family, but Gotham had a complicated relationship with that surname. The association was too strong, and not necessarily in a way that inspired confidence. Nolan had already suggested that they find a name that would not make potential donors wonder whether their contributions were about to fund a laboratory full of hallucinogenic gas. The paperwork was still being sorted out, but the uncertainty had not delayed the work itself. Whatever name they ultimately settled on, the building would serve its intended purpose.
Naima led him past the public offices and down a quieter corridor, where the sounds of the street gradually faded behind the walls. They passed a storage room and a small staff area before arriving at the far end of the building. There, a large painting hung above a modest table, its frame slightly crooked in a way that made it seem as though nobody had bothered to straighten it after hanging it. Nolan glanced at it, then at Naima, whose expression had taken on the faintly smug look of someone preparing to reveal a particularly satisfying secret.
She reached up, tilted the painting aside, and pressed her palm against a concealed section of the wall. A mechanism clicked behind the plaster, followed by the low groan of a latch releasing. The wall shifted inward, revealing a narrow entrance that had been carefully concealed behind the surrounding paneling.
"Crane won't be any the wiser," Naima said with a smirk as she stepped aside to let him enter. "We've already got our people filling the positions out front. As far as anyone needs to know, this is a charity office with a few storage rooms and a back corridor. The staff have their instructions, and the people who need to use this room know where to find it."
Nolan's smile widened as he passed through the opening.
The room beyond felt as though they had stepped backward through time. Gone were the computers, monitors, and blinking electronic equipment that had come to define the Underpass's more modern operations. In their place stood rows of sturdy desks, filing cabinets, and mechanical typewriters. Metal tubes ran along the ceiling and disappeared through openings in the walls, connecting to a network of pipes that extended far beyond the room itself. A series of labeled slots lined one side of the chamber, each corresponding to a different destination. The lighting was simple and practical, and the walls were thick enough to muffle the noise from the building outside. Even the chairs seemed to have been chosen for durability rather than comfort.
It was gloriously low-tech.
Nolan took a slow step into the room, looking around with undisguised pleasure. "So this is the first network."
Naima watched him carefully, apparently expecting the sight to provoke a more practical response. Instead, Nolan's expression softened into something approaching genuine wonder.
"It's beautiful," he murmured.
"I thought you'd say that, boss." She folded her arms, a hint of amusement creeping into her voice. "Want to try it out?"
"Of course."
Nolan moved to one of the desks and settled into the chair. A sheet of paper waited beside the typewriter, along with a small collection of prepared message forms. He rolled the paper into the machine, adjusted it, and began typing. The keys struck with a satisfying mechanical clatter, each letter appearing on the page with a little more force than he was accustomed to applying to a keyboard. He found himself enjoying the sensation more than he expected. There was something reassuring about a machine that did exactly what his hands told it to do, without wireless connections, software updates, or the possibility of someone sitting thousands of miles away reaching through a network to take control.
He finished the message, pulled the paper free, and folded it neatly before sliding it into a small cylindrical capsule. The capsule was sealed and placed into the receiving slot. For a moment, nothing happened. Then a sharp hiss sounded from the wall, and the capsule shot into the pneumatic tube with a hollow rush of air. The sound travelled away through the building, fading into the network of pipes hidden beyond their sight.
Nolan glanced at his watch. Less than a minute later, his phone vibrated.
Received.
A laugh escaped him, genuine and unrestrained. He leaned back in his chair, looking as pleased as a child who had just discovered that a toy worked exactly as advertised. "Perfect. Absolutely perfect. With Otis designing and overseeing the network, our information flow just became considerably more reliable."
Naima nodded, although her expression remained skeptical. She had learned to respect Nolan's instincts, but she also had a practical streak that made her question any plan that seemed to involve more work than necessary. "I understand why we needed to get away from the electronic systems after Batman started breaking into them. I do. But wouldn't it be easier to build a more secure digital network? We could encrypt everything, establish independent servers, and route our messages through systems that don't rely on pipes running through half the city. And even if this works in Gotham, we can't exactly run a network like this all the way to Star City or Metropolis."
"That's not what we're trying to do," Nolan replied, carefully removing the remaining paper from the typewriter. "Not exactly."
He rose and gestured toward the pipes overhead. Otis had been instrumental in designing the system, drawing on his knowledge of Gotham's forgotten infrastructure, its abandoned maintenance corridors, and the old utility networks that had been buried beneath decades of redevelopment. The city was full of forgotten passages and disused service lines, many of them still accessible if someone knew where to look. Some had been built for old pneumatic delivery systems, others for industrial utilities, and still others had been repurposed so many times that the municipal records no longer accurately reflected where they led. Otis had spent months mapping what remained, identifying viable routes and finding ways to connect them without drawing attention to the work.
"Electronic systems are more efficient for certain things," Nolan continued, "and we're not abandoning them altogether. But efficiency isn't the only consideration. A digital network is only as secure as its weakest point. We learned that the hard way. You can encrypt your messages, isolate your servers, and spend a fortune on security, but if someone gains access to the right system, they can still watch what passes through it. They can copy it, alter it, or make the entire thing disappear. The more dependent we become on one network, the more damage someone can do by compromising it."
Naima glanced at the typewriter. "And nobody can hack a typewriter."
"Not remotely, at least." Nolan grinned. "They can steal the paper, intercept a capsule, bribe someone with access, or physically destroy part of the network. Every system has weaknesses. The trick is to make sure one weakness doesn't bring down everything else."
He walked toward the wall and tapped one of the metal tubes with his knuckle. "But the real advantage isn't the messages themselves. Look at the size of these pipes and the routes Otis has found. Some of the larger lines can carry considerably more than a paper capsule. With the proper modifications, sections of this network can move cash, small weapons, and other compact goods through the city without requiring someone to carry them across the street. We can establish secure transfer points in buildings we already control, move things between neighborhoods, and use the public-facing businesses as cover for a system that most people will never realize exists."
Naima's skepticism gradually gave way to understanding. She looked back toward the entrance, then up at the pipes, considering the scale of what Nolan was describing. A conventional information network could tell them where something was happening, but it could not necessarily get the tools, money, or people they needed to respond there. The Underpass had always relied on the people who knew Gotham's streets better than the police did, using personal relationships and improvised routes to move information and supplies. This would give those operations a permanent infrastructure, one that could function regardless of whether the electronic systems were compromised.
"And the pipes can connect to places where people already live and work," she said slowly. "Safe houses, storefronts, shelters, the back rooms of businesses. We could move messages without forcing someone to travel across the city, and the same routes could support our other operations."
"Exactly." Nolan's grin returned, broad enough that his cheeks began to ache. "Imagine having a reliable way to move information across Gotham almost instantly, without relying on phones or the internet. Imagine being able to move a package from one neighborhood to another without putting a runner on the street or asking someone to risk being followed. It won't replace every courier or every digital system, but it gives us options that our competitors simply won't have."
He glanced toward the ceiling again, imagining the network as it might look when the remaining routes had been mapped and connected. It was not merely a collection of pipes and hidden rooms. It was another layer of the city, one that existed beneath the familiar streets and businesses, carrying information and goods through a structure that most people would never notice. The Underpass had always thrived by finding value in things the rest of Gotham ignored. Now they were turning the forgotten parts of the city itself into an advantage.
"Give it time," Nolan said. "If Otis can bring the full network online, the Underpass will have one of the fastest and most reliable systems for information and small-scale goods movement in Gotham. We won't be invincible, and we certainly won't be able to do everything through these pipes, but the gap between us and everyone else is going to widen considerably."
Naima swallowed, her eyes lingering on the nearest tube. She had seen what happened when the Underpass gained an advantage over its rivals. A little more information could turn a losing fight into an ambush. A reliable supply route could keep an entire neighborhood operating when its streets were blocked. A message that arrived thirty seconds sooner could mean the difference between escaping a raid and being trapped inside one. She had initially regarded the project as an eccentric solution to a security problem, but she was beginning to understand that Nolan had been thinking on an entirely different scale.
"If it works as intended," she said, "nobody will be able to compete with us on our own streets."
"That's the idea."
Nolan gave the room one last satisfied look before turning toward the concealed entrance. There would be plenty of problems to solve before the network reached its full potential, and Otis would undoubtedly discover new complications as construction continued. Still, the foundation was there, and that was enough for today.
"Come on," he said, straightening his shirt. "We've got another appointment."
****
"So, chess?"
Nolan's expression fell so abruptly that Harvey Bullock burst out laughing.
"You know," Nolan said, following the older man into his office, "I've been thinking about this for a while, and I genuinely don't remember you enjoying chess nearly as much before we met."
"That was before I discovered that playing against you guarantees a win." Harvey settled into his chair and began setting up the board with the confidence of a man preparing to enjoy a familiar ritual. "It's a wonderful game. Strategic, intellectually stimulating, and an excellent way to remind certain people that they aren't nearly as clever as they think they are."
"I'm beginning to think you only invite me here to insult me."
"Now you're learning."
Harvey finished arranging the pieces and leaned back, gesturing toward the chair opposite him. Nolan regarded the board as though it were a particularly unpleasant contract he had been asked to sign. He had tried to improve at chess on several occasions, mostly because he hated the idea of Quentin being better at something than him, but every attempt seemed to end with someone explaining why he had just made a terrible decision. Quentin's advice tended to involve sacrificing pieces for elaborate traps that rarely worked in practice, while Vey preferred to point out mistakes after they had already cost Nolan the game. Kieran, predictably, treated every match as an exercise in manipulation and somehow managed to make Nolan feel guilty for moving a pawn.
None of them had made him a better player.
Nolan checked his watch and let out an exaggerated groan. "Fine. One game. Make it count, because I have a flight to catch."
"Am I taking up your precious time?" Harvey scoffed, moving a pawn into position. "To think I helped you back in the day, and this is the gratitude I get."
"Helped me with what, exactly?" Nolan asked, taking the seat opposite him.
"This and that."
"That clears everything up."
Harvey gave him a look that suggested he was welcome to leave if he found the conversation so difficult, then returned his attention to the board. For all his teasing, there was a reason Nolan continued making time for him. Harvey had been one of the few people in Gotham who had dealt with Nolan as a person rather than a problem to be solved. He had helped him navigate the city's less obvious rules, offered advice when he could have simply demanded payment, and occasionally provided a warning before trouble found its way to Nolan's door. Their relationship had never been particularly sentimental, but it was built on a foundation of favors, familiarity, and a mutual understanding that neither man was entirely what he appeared to be.
"You're the big man in this place now," Harvey continued as he developed his knight. "You've got people working for you all over the city, hotels popping up in places where nobody thought they could make a decent living, and enough money moving around that I occasionally wonder whether you've started printing it in the basement. Surely you can spare a little time to play a game every now and then."
"Perhaps I can." Nolan studied the board, trying to decide whether Harvey was baiting him into a trap or merely moving pieces at random to make him paranoid. "I am a busy man these days, though. You'll have to forgive me if I can't spend every afternoon losing to you."
"That's the spirit."
Nolan moved his bishop, then glanced toward the doorway. Naima had remained outside with Brock, giving the two men a little privacy, though he suspected she could hear enough through the door to follow the conversation if she cared to. He had brought her along for a reason beyond security. She was one of the people he trusted to make decisions without needing him to supervise every detail, and he wanted her to become more familiar with the figures who helped keep Gotham's underworld functioning. The Underpass could not expand indefinitely if every relationship had to pass through Nolan himself. He needed his people to establish their own connections, learn the city's unwritten rules, and understand that power was often maintained through conversations that appeared insignificant to anyone watching from the outside.
"Speaking of busy," he said, "have you met Naima properly?"
Harvey followed his glance toward the doorway and nodded. "I've met her. Hard to miss her, really. The streets have been talking."
"They do indeed."
"Mostly about how unpleasant it is to get on her bad side."
Nolan smiled. "That sounds like her."
"Where did you find her?"
"Somewhere she wasn't being used to her full potential."
Harvey gave him a skeptical look but let the answer pass. He had been around long enough to recognize when someone was giving him the truth without giving him the whole story. Naima had a reputation that preceded her, and Harvey had heard enough about her work to know she was not simply another enforcer with a talent for frightening people. She understood the streets, had a good sense for danger, and could make decisions under pressure without waiting for someone else to tell her what to do. Those qualities were valuable in Gotham, particularly for an organization expanding as quickly as the Underpass.
"I was hoping the two of you might find time to play a game or two at my place," Nolan said, moving his knight forward. "Nothing formal. I think you'd get along, and it would be good for her to meet some of the people who have been around Gotham longer than we have."
Harvey did not answer immediately. He studied the board, then glanced at Nolan with the thoughtful expression he tended to wear when a conversation was becoming more serious than its opening suggested. His fingers found the coin he habitually carried, rolling it across his knuckles with practiced ease. The motion was almost absent-minded, a familiar ritual that had accompanied countless decisions over the years. The coin flashed beneath the light as it passed from one finger to the next, then rose into the air with a clean, effortless flick.
For a brief moment, Harvey watched it spin. Then he caught it and closed his hand around the result.
"Well," he said, opening his fingers just enough to look at the face that had landed upward, "a game or two couldn't hurt."
Nolan was pleased with himself. He had not been entirely certain Harvey would agree, but the older man was curious by nature, and he respected competence wherever he found it. A few chess games would give Naima the opportunity to become familiar with him without the awkwardness of a formal meeting, while Harvey might learn that the Underpass's new leadership was more than a collection of people who had appeared from nowhere and started taking over territory.
Nolan moved his knight again, then looked up from the board. "So, now that we've established that you'll be visiting, why did you actually want to meet?"
Harvey did not look up. His attention remained fixed on the pieces, and his fingers continued to toy with the coin as though he were considering a second toss. "I wanted to ask you something."
"Go ahead."
"Rupert Thorne. Do you have any business with him?"
The question changed the atmosphere of the room, though Harvey's tone remained casual. Nolan leaned back slightly, allowing himself a moment to consider the name. Rupert Thorne was not someone who could be dismissed as an ordinary gangster. He had spent years cultivating influence through money, political connections, and the sort of quiet intimidation that allowed a man to control others without needing to personally involve himself in every dirty transaction. Nolan had dealt with people connected to Thorne during the court ordeal, when alliances and temporary arrangements had been necessary to keep several problems from becoming considerably worse. Since then, however, he had made a point of cutting those ties.
"Perhaps for a time, during the court ordeal," Nolan replied. "But all business between us has been concluded. I haven't had any reason to contact him since, and I certainly haven't been looking for an excuse to reopen negotiations."
Harvey finally lifted his eyes. "Good. Then I can ask you something else."
"I'm beginning to suspect this isn't about chess."
"Don't be ridiculous. Chess is very important." Harvey moved his rook, then continued as though the conversation had never strayed from the board. "Suppose Thorne decides he'd like to reignite some old business. Suppose he finds himself in a position where he needs protection, a place to conduct a few meetings, or a way to move something through Gotham without drawing too much attention. If he comes to you, can I count on you turn him away?"
Nolan regarded him for a moment. The request was straightforward, but the implications were not. Harvey was not asking whether Nolan would shelter a frightened businessman or offer a favor to an old acquaintance. He was asking whether the Underpass would provide Thorne with a degree of protection if the man returned to Gotham's criminal landscape. Such a promise could be valuable, but it could also place Nolan between two men with conflicting interests, neither of whom was likely to appreciate being treated as a secondary consideration.
"And if he offers me a deal I would be a fool to turn away?" Nolan asked.
Harvey's grin spread slowly across his face. "See? I did teach you something."
"I'm touched."
"Don't be. It's embarrassing for both of us."
Harvey set the coin down beside the board and leaned forward, his expression becoming a little more earnest. "I'm not asking you to turn down business before you've heard what it is. That would be stupid, and I know better than to expect you to operate that way. But if Thorne comes to you, talk to me first. Let me know what he's offering and what he wants. If I can match the deal, or come close enough that you don't lose anything important, then perhaps we can arrange something that works for everyone."
"And if you can't match it?"
"Then I suppose you'll have a decision to make."
There was no anger in the answer, nor any attempt to disguise what Harvey was asking. He wanted Nolan to give him the first opportunity to negotiate, but he was not pretending that their relationship entitled him to control every decision the Underpass made. Harvey knew the world they inhabited too well to believe loyalty could be demanded without limit. He was offering Nolan the chance to preserve an existing relationship before accepting a potentially lucrative arrangement with someone whose ambitions might eventually conflict with his own.
Nolan appreciated that. He had no intention of promising Harvey exclusive access to every deal that crossed his desk, but neither did he want to discover that a business arrangement with Thorne had placed him in the middle of a dispute he could have avoided with a single conversation. The old man had helped him before, and Nolan was willing to return the courtesy. How far that obligation extended would depend on what Thorne wanted and what Harvey could offer in return.
He glanced down at the board and realized, with a sinking feeling, that Harvey had been maneuvering him toward a trap for the past several moves. His knight was exposed, his bishop had nowhere useful to go, and the rook Harvey had moved earlier was now positioned to punish the obvious escape route. Nolan stared at the arrangement for a few seconds, hoping that some hidden alternative would reveal itself if he looked hard enough.
It did not.
"Fine," he said, shaking his head. "If Thorne approaches me, I'll hear him out, and I'll speak with you before I agree to anything substantial. But I'm not promising to reject a good deal just because it comes from someone you don't particularly like."
"I wouldn't ask you to." Harvey's grin returned
Nolan nodded but frowned, "I must remind you though Harvey, if he brings a coin to my hotel I will honor everything it entails."
"Then let's hope he doesn't have one."
Nolan laughed as he pushed his chair back. "I suppose we'll leave it up to fate, then. Good luck with your hunting, Harvey."
"You too, kid. Try not to buy another city before I see you again."
"I'll do my best."
Nolan stood, straightened his shirt, and headed for the door. Naima and Brock fell into step beside him as he left Harvey's office, the sounds of Gotham's busy streets filtering through the windows beyond the corridor. He had a flight to catch, a trial to monitor, and a construction project waiting for him in another city. Somewhere in the middle of all that, he was apparently expected to become better at chess.
He suspected that last task would take the longest.
Behind him, Harvey looked down at the board, studied the final position for a moment, and moved the last piece with a satisfied little nod. The game was over, and Nolan had lost again.
Naturally.