The hotel was silent. Its lobby once filled with forced smiles and the low hum of failing machinery was now empty, echoing Nolan's footsteps as he made one final walk-through. A printed sign on the front doors read:
"Temporarily Closed for Renovations. Thank you for your patience."
The paperwork had gone through. The permits had been filed under the fake real estate entity Kieran constructed, and the skeleton staff that had once barely held the place together had been let go with small payouts and kind lies about "revitalization." It was done. The hotel was his.
As he stepped into the back office what used to be Harrow's office and what would soon be gutted along with everything else Nolan closed the door behind him and let out a long, breathless sigh. He pulled off the blazer, removed the Kieran Everleigh glasses, and tossed them onto the desk.
His phone buzzed on the desk. He picked it up, saw the email header: "Historical Survey Results: 1849 Broderick Property." A slight hesitation, then a tap.
Nolan read it again. No evidence of the building being constructed on top of a protected historical site. The fake articles had done their job long enough to get Harrow paranoid and desperate but now that inspectors had done a real sweep, the bluff was up.
"Even I was nervous to see the results and I'm the one that made it up," he muttered, sinking into the dusty office chair.
"Yeah," Kieran's voice drawled inside his head. "It happens."
"We did win," Quentin chimed in. "We have the property. That was the goal."
Nolan stared up at the ceiling. "No. The goal is to make it work. We have an empty, dying hotel with decades of neglect and no money to fix it."
"Then let's fix it," said the Fighter simply.
Nolan grabbed a marker from the desk drawer, walked over to a whiteboard left behind by a former manager, and scrawled a messy title across the top:
"HOW TO FUND RENOVATIONS."
Below it, he drew three columns.
Column One: Direct Income
Underground poker nights?
One-night "themed" speakeasy events?
Luxury room rentals for black market elites?
Temporary rentals for "quiet" business?
Column Two: Funding/Investments
Anonymous pitch to morally gray investors
Laundering routes already known—loop back in favors
Approach Penguin again? (Absolute last ditch effort…)
Fake non-profit historical restoration fund? (If we fake credentials…)
Column Three: Asset Utilization
Sell off valuable hotel art and furniture
Lease kitchen to underground chefs/pop-ups
Use basement as a secure meeting spot for Gotham's less-than-legit circles
He capped the marker and stepped back. The source of this content ɪs N(o)vᴇl(F)ire.nᴇt
Quentin spoke first, methodical as always. "The kitchen leasing might work. Host chefs who can't go mainstream ex-cons, exiles, or rogue talents. There's a market for exclusivity in Gotham."
"Themed rooms," Kieran said with a smile. "People would pay stupid amounts to sleep in a room designed like a noir film or an old Gotham crime boss's den. It's trashy, theatrical, but it works."
"We run the place with respect," said the Fighter. "Nothing like Harrow's exploitation. If it's for the right kind of people ours, people who need it we build something real. But you still charge top dollar for the ones who can afford it."
Nolan sat on the desk, arms crossed, staring at the board. The ideas were absurd. Ambitious. Messy. But then again so was he.
"…We'll need permits for half of this," he muttered.
"Or fake ones," Kieran whispered. "You forget who you are?"
"Not anymore," Nolan said, a small grin rising. "I'm the guy crazy enough to buy a hotel while Gotham wants him behind bars."
He grabbed the marker again and scrawled one final note at the bottom:
"Hmm." Nolan tapped his chin in thought with the marker, "Here's an idea, how about hiring a new chef and making some of the rooms look nice and proper. I know we get complaints from some of the more rich clients about our safe houses. Turn a couple rooms into high end hideouts just to build some cash for a while."
Quentin snickered, "It could work but we don't really deal with the high end. The amount of rich clients we have had could be counted on one hand not to mention they wouldn't need help every week."
"Right." Nolan sighed, "It was worth the thought maybe that's and idea for later."
Kieran's voice slid in smooth, like a velvet ribbon wrapping around Nolan's thoughts.
"You know, while I was at the lounge, sipping that overpriced cabernet," he began, "I heard something interesting."
Nolan raised a brow. "Oh?"
"A gala," Kieran said, his tone thick with amusement. "Next weekend. Old money, new money, foundation folks—the whole peacock parade. Hosted by the Edevane Trust. Exclusive, obviously, but I think you could wriggle your name onto the guest list."
Nolan turned away from the whiteboard. "You want me to go to a gala?"
"No," Kieran replied smoothly. "I want us to go to a gala. You get us on the list, I'll wear the suit."
Nolan crossed his arms. "Even if I do get you on the list, what's the point? We're not taking investors. Not giving any piece of this hotel away."
"Oh, of course not," Kieran said, mockingly horrified. "Perish the thought."
Nolan frowned. "Then why go?"
Kieran chuckled. "Nolan, Nolan, Nolan. You're still thinking like a man who's been hiding in basements too long. This city is built on performance. These galas aren't about money, they're about myth."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"We don't need investors with contracts," Kieran continued. "We need believers with egos. People who want to feel like they're part of something good. Something noble. Something Gotham can point to and say, 'See? We're not all bad.'"
Nolan stared. "No one in Gotham wants to see anyone else succeed."
"They do," Kieran said, smirking, "when it makes them look like saints."
He moved closer in Nolan's mind, his voice lowering like a confidant sharing a secret. "You make it about charity. Revitalization. A place for the forgotten. A symbol of hope built on the bones of an old failure. Wrap it in enough romantic garbage and they'll throw money at us just to make themselves feel cleaner."
Nolan sat down on the edge of the desk, rubbing his jaw. "You think that'll work?"
"I think," Kieran said, "that if we show up in style, dressed like promise incarnate, with a few good soundbites and a tragic little story about the old hotel we're trying to save… it'll work like a charm."
Nolan sighed. "Alright. I'll see if I can slide our alias into the list."
"Excellent," Kieran purred. "I'll begin working on my beggars smile."