A day later, the penthouse smelled faintly of solder and machine oil. Nolan sat at his workbench, sleeves rolled up, bent over a half-built contraption whose guts spilled wires and gears across the polished surface. The overhead light carved hard shadows across his face, the kind of focus that turned hours into seconds.
On the table beside him sat the porcelain-white theater mask, its grin watching in silence, and next to that—a freshly pressed suit, folded neat as if daring him to step back into its role.
The buzz of his phone cut through the low hum of his tools. Nolan sighed, set the soldering iron down, and answered.
"Word's out," Floyd's voice came sharp and amused through the speaker. "Told the right people you're open for business. They ain't me, because nobody's me—" he gave a short scoff, "—but you're gonna see an uptick. Contracts, jobs, blood money. That kind of thing."
Nolan leaned back into the leather chair, lips curling into a smile. "Good, man. Real good. What do you want for it?"
There was a pause. Deadshot let the silence hang, "A favor. Won't be anything crazy. Just… in the future. I think your business is about to do real well. When it does, I want my name to count for something."
Nolan chuckled, shaking his head. "You're smart, Floyd. I guess I owe you one."
They traded a few more words Floyd dropping some half-hearted jokes about the hotel's reputation, Nolan joked about him about staying cooped up in the Continental before the call ended.
The room fell quiet again, save for the tick of the cooling iron. Nolan stared at the unfinished machine, then at the mask. His thoughts sharpened. He picked the phone back up, scrolled, and pressed another number.
It rang twice. Then a rough, familiar voice, "What do you want?"
"Harvey," Nolan said evenly.
There was a pause, Nolan was sifting through the silence waiting to see if Harvey was in the mood for a conversation.
"Cut the games, Kieran. What do you want?"
"I want to meet with Crane."
Dead air. Then Harvey's tone shifted, suspicious. "You want revenge for the gala? I heard you were there."
Nolan's voice was steady, low. "No. I want to talk to him about something else."
Silence stretched on the line. Finally, Harvey muttered, "I'll see what I can do," and hung up.
Kieran's voice came sharp in the back of Nolan's head almost instantly 'Why? Why the hell Crane? That bastard?'
Nolan set the phone down, rubbing his jaw. "I know. I know. But think about it. If we can figure out a way to get microdoses of his toxin… put ourselves in those high emotional states on purpose… we might be able to control it. Learn how to use it. Better to figure it out now than be stuck later, needing it and not knowing how."
From the far side of the desk, Vey appeared, leaning forward on his knuckles, his grin sharp. "Holy shit, Nolan. You're getting smarter."
And then Quentin's laughter grating, manic echoed through the suite, bouncing off the polished glass and steel like a cruel applause.
*** Googlᴇ search ɴovᴇl_Firᴇ.ɴet
The Batcave was cloaked in its usual shadows, lit only by the bluish glow of monitors stretching across the cave wall. The hum of computers echoed faintly, broken only by the rhythmic tapping of keystrokes as Batman scrolled through hours of surveillance feeds.
Robin stood at his side, the younger vigilante's cape brushing lightly against the stone floor as he leaned in closer to the largest screen. The gala footage flickered across it—masked guests, chaos, fighting. Robin's eyes darted across the crowd until his hand shot up.
Batman froze the feed on a sharp frame—Kieran Everleigh, sharp suit, half-hidden in the swirl of motion. Robin narrowed his eyes and jabbed a finger at the man's image.
"That guy. The one who runs the homeless population."
Batman's jaw flexed, but he didn't say much. He just gave a small nod, his gaze heavy.
Robin frowned, the thought turning in his head as he replayed old encounters. "They gave me and the team some trouble. Kept vanishing Arkham escapees every time we got close. I don't get it. It's not like those escapees have anything valuable on them."
Batman leaned back slightly in his chair, still studying the screen. His voice was low, steady. "I'm not sure why either. But we will find out."
Robin exhaled sharply through his nose, then nodded. He shifted on his feet, scanning another feed. "You know, we've rounded up almost all the escapees now—with the help of GCPD. That means we're closing in on the bigger players. Do you have any idea where Crane's at?"
Batman's head shook once, almost imperceptible. "Still looking." He turned his gaze from the monitor to Robin, expression unreadable beneath the cowl. "But you have a mission. Go to your team."
Robin pursed his lips, half annoyed but used to it. He stepped back from the monitors and gave a short nod. "Yeah. Got it."
He turned and started toward the Batcave's upper platforms, footsteps echoing on the stone. Just before the elevator swallowed him into the dark, he called back over his shoulder, "Call me if you need me."
Batman didn't answer. His eyes were already back on the frozen frame of Kieran Everleigh, the man's still image flickering on the massive screen before Batman pressed play again.
The Iceberg Lounge's upper office smelled of expensive cigars and leather polish, a haze of smoke curling in the air. Penguin sat behind his heavy oak desk, a tumbler of whiskey at his elbow, the stubby fingers of one hand rolling a fat cigar back and forth before finally sparking it to life.
Across from him, one of his underbosses shifted uneasily, hat in hand. His voice was rough, but his words carried a forced confidence.
"No retaliation from the homeless yet, boss. We've hit 'em a couple times now… nothing. Haven't seen or heard a thing."
Penguin narrowed his eyes, a puff of smoke hissing out through his teeth as he leaned back in his chair.
The underboss continued, shrugging like it was nothing. "Must be scared to strike back against us."
For a moment, the room went quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside. Then Penguin's gaze snapped toward the man. Beady eyes, sharp as broken glass, locked onto him. The underboss faltered, his words drying up in his throat. He looked down, suddenly fascinated with the floorboards.
Penguin took another slow drag on the cigar, let the ember flare, then tapped the ash neatly into a tray shaped like an iceberg. His voice was low, grating, carrying that deliberate menace only he could draw out.
"I don't like it," he muttered. Smoke curled from his lips, winding like a serpent. Another drag, another exhale. "I don't like it one bit."
The underboss swallowed hard, knowing better than to answer.
Penguin sat back, the cigar glowing at the corner of his mouth, eyes still narrowed, still calculating. The silence stretched heavy in the office.