The limousine glided to a stop in front of the brightly lit entrance, its glossy black frame reflecting the glow of golden sconces and camera flashes. Inside, Nolan leaned back in his seat, eyes scanning the crimson-carpeted steps and the line of guests filtering in under a marble archway.
A slow breath. The faintest shift in his posture. The subtle adjustment of his cufflinks. When the door swung open, it wasn't Nolan who stepped out it was Kieran Everleigh. Shoulders squared, jaw set just so, his expression wore the quiet confidence of a man born to move in these circles.
The valet shut the door behind him as Kieran buttoned his jacket, the sleek midnight fabric catching the light. He walked toward the entrance, shoes clicking against stone in measured rhythm. A security officer in a tailored black suit extended a gloved hand.
Kieran produced it without hesitation, the cream cardstock crisp between his fingers. The guard's eyes flicked over the name, then up at his face. "Mr. Everleigh. Glad to have you sir, you may head inside."
Kieran gave a courteous nod, slipping past the checkpoint into the grand foyer.
The shift in atmosphere hit immediately marble floors polished to a mirror sheen, chandeliers dripping with crystal, laughter and clinking glasses echoing under high vaulted ceilings. The air was rich with the scent of expensive perfume and aged wine.
He slowed for a moment, taking it in. In his mind, the image of cracked sidewalks and flickering streetlamps in the Narrows bled into the glittering scene before him, and the contrast was almost absurd. Same city, but yet, completely different worlds.
A quiet murmur rippled through the crowd as he stepped further inside. He could feel eyes on him measuring, whispering. Not just at the sight of a new face at their galas, but that face. The man who'd been in Arkham. The one they'd read about in headlines.
He ignored the weight of their stares, plucking a flute of champagne from a silver tray carried by a passing waiter. The glass was cold in his hand. He let the corners of his mouth curl into the faintest smile, not because he was enjoying himself but because in a room full of people judging him, he was already calculating which ones might be useful in the future.
The polished marble beneath his shoes reflected every shimmer of the chandelier light above as Kieran drifted through the mingling crowd. He'd only just taken his first sip of champagne when a familiar voice cut through the polite chatter.
He turned, his smile blooming instantly when he spotted her. "Miss Lange," he greeted warmly, stepping forward to meet her halfway. "You look wonderful tonight. I was surprised to receive your invite, but I can't say I'm unhappy about it. This is a wonderful gala you've put together."
She offered a tight smile. "Mr. Everleigh, I was surprised to see you in the papers after I invested so heavily in your restoration project at the Arden."
Kieran brushed it off with an easy shrug. "The hotel is booming, Miss Lange. You don't have to worry about all that. People are… jealous, and they like to talk. That's all." He met her eyes with deliberate calm, "We never talked about return on investment do you want a return?"
She shook her head lightly. "I'm just glad the hotel is doing well. I haven't been able to visit Lange Hall like you promised."
Kieran chuckled. "Lange Hall is one of our most exclusive strips of the hotel. I'd be happy to show you around. I forgot sorry, I didn't have enough time to invite you during renovations but I'm glad you invited me. You're welcome to stop by anytime. Just say the word."
Their conversation lingered, warm on the surface but edged with quiet discourse.
Across the room, Kieran spotted Bruce Wayne deep in conversation with a pair of sharply dressed men. He didn't react his expression remained relaxed as he turned back to Miss Lange. They spoke a little longer before parting, each slipping back into the ebb and flow of the crowd.
That was when he noticed the faint hiss from somewhere above.
At first it was subtle almost the sound of an old radiator sighing. But then his gaze flicked toward the vents along the vaulted ceiling. Wisps of something pale and hazy curled outward, swirling in the golden light.
It was so gradual at first that no one noticed until the first man stiffened, eyes going wide in terror. His champagne flute slipped from his hand, shattering on the marble. A woman near the buffet shrieked, clawing at her own face. Another guest began thrashing against an invisible horror, screaming until his voice cracked.
The gas was spreading.
Kieran's stomach tightened instantly. He'd heard stories about this. He didn't need to guess who was behind it.
The crowd began to stampede for the doors only to find them sealed from the outside. Fists pounded against the ornate brass handles. Panic bloomed like wildfire.
Inside his own mind, Kieran's voice sharpened, 'Guys, tell me one of you can handle this gas better than me, because I'm pretty sure I can't.'
Nolan's tone was flat. 'I'm not going to be able to handle that gas at all.'
Kieran clenched his jaw. 'Fine, fine, fine — I'll take the gas.'
The haze descended toward the floor, curling around the guests like some living thing. Kieran's eyes scanned the chaos just in time to catch a flash of familiar features — Bruce Wayne, already slipping quietly toward a side hallway.
'Of course,' Kieran thought bitterly. 'The Batman's going to save the day.'
Then the gas reached him.
It hit like a silent punch a creeping distortion at the edges of reality. The polished marble and gilded railings warped. The chandeliers sagged like melting wax. The champagne in his hand curdled into stagnant water.
And then it showed him. ɴᴇᴡ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀʀᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ɴovᴇl(F)ɪre.ɴet
His penthouse was gone. His suits, gone. The hotel, gone. He was back on the street — sleeping under a wet cardboard flap while cold rain soaked his clothes. Coins rattled in a paper cup at his feet. Every shred of control he had fought for was stripped away.
"No, no, no, no…" His voice cracked as the vision wrapped around him. "This can't be happening… this can't be happening."
In the real world, his eyes were darting wildly. The gas kept warping his vision gilded frames dissolving into rot, champagne fountains turning to oily sludge.
"Hey… Nolan? Quentin? Talk to me!" he said sharply inside his head.
His breath quickened. "No, no, no, no… don't do this to me! TALK to me!"
But there was nothing. No familiar banter, no steady voice. Just emptiness.
His worst fear was not the poverty — it was being alone. Utterly, completely alone. No brothers. No allies. No one.
His body shook, pressing against the wall as his knees drew to his chest.
Through the haze, faint shimmering colors began to coil around the moving shapes of Scarecrow's men slipping into the room. The colors twisted and shimmered without his conscious control — a raw, subconscious flare of his mind reacting to terror.
But Kieran barely registered it.
He cowered there, trembling, as the nightmare wrapped tighter around him.
The room was a storm of choking fog and flailing bodies. Kieran had sunk into the corner, knees pulled tight to his chest, the swirl of his worst fears coiling around him like a snake. The skylight above shattered without warning, raining glass in glittering arcs.
A black shape plummeted through the gap, landing in a crouch on the center table with a deep, concussive thud. Batman rose to his full height, cape spilling wide like wings in the gas-hazed light.
A small, metallic sphere clinked from his glove and rolled across the floor. In an instant, it hissed alive, whirring like a vacuum from the depths of hell. The edges of the room began to clear as it pulled the sickly yellow haze into itself, the thick choking air thinning with every breath.
Gas still clung stubbornly in the corners, but Batman wasn't waiting for the machine to finish. He surged forward, slamming into the first knot of Scarecrow's men with bone-snapping precision. A forearm across a jaw. A boot to a knee. A quick, crushing punch to the solar plexus.
That's when he saw them another group, further down the hall. They had full gas masks, their posture sharp, their weapons ready… and yet they weren't moving on him. They were turning on each other.
It began with muffled shouts through the filters, fingers pointing. Then a shove. Then another. Someone drew first. Muzzle flash lit the haze, and the hallway exploded into chaos. Gunshots cracked, and they screamed like cornered animals. The fight devolved into pure madness—bullets chewing through armor, masks shattering, bodies crumpling until the last man's weapon clicked dry.
He slumped against the wall, gasping through a cracked visor, before pitching forward onto the growing heap.
Batman's eyes narrowed, scanning the scene for the cause. Nothing about it fit—not the masks, not their sudden frenzy. He pivoted back toward the gas-clearing machine. The air was nearly clean now.
He stalked the rest of the room, dismantling the last pockets of resistance with brutal efficiency. A baton swept one man's legs. A gauntleted fist ended another's charge. None of them were Scarecrow.
When the last man hit the floor, Batman straightened, breathing slow and controlled. His boots echoed across the stained hardwood as he walked toward the bodies of the gas mask unit. He crouched, scanning the empty visors, the pale, twisted faces beneath.
Nothing, Batman couldn't detect anything leaving him with no answers and unfortunately the worst thing to give the bat so many questions.
Somewhere outside, the distant wail of sirens cut through the night. Batman glanced toward the skylight, cape stirring with the wind. A moment later, he was gone, melting into the darkness before the first police boots hit the pavement.