The smoke between them seemed to hang heavier with every breath. The broken station's silence pressed in, broken only by the faint hum of dripping pipes overhead.
Penguin leaned back in his chair, cigar glowing faintly as he smirked across the table. His voice was smooth, but the bite underneath was unmistakable.
"Neutrality doesn't exist in Gotham, Everleigh. Don't fool yourself. This city runs on blood and tribute. Always has."
He let the words sit, puffing leisurely, as if he had all the time in the world. Then, with a slow glance around the abandoned station, he went on.
"You and I both know what's coming. You're new, your people work fast, sure. I'll give you that. Semi-competent. But you expanded too quickly. And in Gotham, expansion makes enemies. Black Mask wasn't the only one you cut into. Every other outfit in this city is watching you, and they don't like what they see."
He tapped ash into the tray, his eyes never leaving Quentin. "Absorbing Sionis' scraps? Maybe you start cutting into their trade next. Maybe you start setting your sights higher. You think they'll just sit there and wait? They won't. They're going to react. Hard. I just happened to move first."
Naima's face stayed stone-still. Dre's jaw flexed as his hand hovered near the edge of the table, itching for something more physical. Quentin only leaned back, smiling faintly behind the smoke.
Penguin's smirk grew thinner, his tone almost cordial again. "So here's how I see it. Survive that storm—survive what's about to come down on you from every side—and then we'll talk about neutrality, about even ground. Until then…" He spread his hands in a mock gesture of mercy. "…I'll do you a kindness. I won't help them crush you. That's the best you're getting from me today."
The air went still. Both sides sat locked in the fog of smoke and silence, the tension coiled tight like a spring, waiting for the next move.
Quentin leaned back, smoke curling from the end of his cigar. For a long moment he just smiled at Penguin, as if weighing the words, tasting them. Then he leaned forward again, elbows on the table, eyes gleaming with a glint that was neither fear nor concession.
"People coming for my businesses doesn't bother me," Quentin said lightly. "It just means I've got something worth taking. And I don't lose what's mine."
Penguin's smirk faltered for the briefest flicker before he masked it again with another puff of smoke.
Quentin tapped ash onto the cracked surface of the table. "But I'll take your… gesture. For now. Consider it noted, Oswald. I hope our next meeting can be more joyous than this one." He stood, smoothing his jacket with an almost casual flick, then glanced around the freezing, dripping station. "And warmer."
Dre let out the faintest grunt of amusement. Even Naima's stern mouth twitched before settling back into its unreadable line.
Penguin's gaze stayed locked on Quentin as both men rose, smoke still hanging between them. Neither offered a hand. The meeting was done no alliance sealed, but neither war declared. Only the thick, dangerous silence of Gotham's underworld, waiting to see whose fire would burn hotter first.
The car rumbled softly as it cut through Gotham's midnight streets, rain slicking the pavement and neon bleeding across the windows. Penguin sat in the back, cigar smoke curling in lazy tendrils around him, his expression unreadable. The meeting had left him restless, his mind turning over every angle of Everleigh's words, every smirk and every laugh that man had let slip behind that mask of confidence.
From the front, one of his men twisted in his seat. "Uh—boss," the henchman said, voice tentative, "I think I got something you wanna look at."
Penguin lifted his eyes, annoyance flashing, but held out a stubby hand. "What am I lookin' at?"
The henchman handed back a tablet, screen already lit. "Couple nights ago, slaughterhouse over in the East Docks got lit up. One of our guys on the corner swears he saw someone goin' in. Theater mask—smilin' on one side, cryin' on the other. Fits that jester-look you told us to keep an eye out for. He said shots rang out not long after. By the time he worked up the stones to peek, the guy was gone."
Penguin puffed on his cigar, narrowing his eyes at the grainy footage frozen on the tablet. "And the bodies?"
"Bloodbath," the henchman confirmed. "We sent some boys down, quiet-like. No IDs at first, but I had one of our friends at the precinct feed me the early reports." He leaned closer, finger swiping across the screen to zoom in on a photo of a bagged corpse. "This one? Outta Blüdhaven. Known procurer—deals in high-risk shipments. Weapons, toxins, that sorta thing. Only comes to Gotham for serious trades." He swiped again, another blurred face of a corpse. "This one, precinct thinks he's connected to Crane. Not directly, but loose ties. Buyers. Middlemen."
Penguin's jaw tightened, smoke hissing out from between his teeth. He stared at the images, his expression flattening into something cold, calculating.
The henchman shifted under the weight of his silence. "So… yeah. Whoever this mask freak is, boss, he just tore through Scarecrow's deal. Walked right in, walked right out."
For a moment, Penguin said nothing, just tapped the ash off his cigar into the tray by his knee. Then, with a curt snap, he shut the tablet and handed it back.
His eyes narrowed to icy slits, and he muttered low, almost to himself, "Interesting."
The car rolled on, the Iceberg Lounge looming in the distance, its lights a beacon in the Gotham dark.
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Quentin walked with his coat drawn tight, the crunch of boots behind him steady Naima at his left, Dre looming at his right, and the other two shadows he trusted enough to bring into that viper's nest trailing close. None of them spoke at first. The silence was heavy, all of them letting the words from the negotiations settle.
Finally, Quentin exhaled, his voice even, clipped. "We need a meeting with the others. As soon as possible."
Dre gave a grunt, no argument there. His bulk shifted, but Quentin's eyes were already on him. "Continue your work in the sewers." he ordered, tone firm. "Push it as far as you can, situate the plans the best you can manage. And…" his mouth twitched into the barest of grins, "give a good warning to our crocodile friend. Tell him there might be some savory fellows slipping into the tunnels soon. That's his backyard. His jaws'll keep it safe, don't you think?"
Dre cracked a smile, short and wolfish. "Yeah, he'll like that."
Quentin turned then, his gaze landing on Naima. The faint glow from a passing streetlamp carved sharp lines across her face. "The tracks," he said, his voice quieter, but carrying. "I want your people casting a net. Nothing moves in or out without eyes on it. Not a single soul should step foot in our zone without someone knowing who they work for." He paused, and the cold steel in his words left no doubt it wasn't a request.
Naima inclined her head, measured, disciplined as ever. "Consider it done."
Quentin slowed, letting the group close in tighter, their shadows pooling together as one. His eyes lifted to the Gotham skyline dark, but full of opportunity like no other and he let the silence stretch just long enough before he spoke again, voice edged with heat.
"Look alive, people. We're about to carve our place in history."
The words hung in the air like a vow, carried on the cold wind back into the sprawl of Gotham.