"Well," Quentin said slowly, eyes flicking to each of them, voice lowering like the weight of what he was about to say could crack the air around them, "I have one idea."
The room stilled. Even the shifting of boots and the creaking of old beams above them seemed to pause, held by the gravity in his voice.
"We've been hitting his low-tier operations. Pickups. Drops. Safehouses run by nobodies with a pistol and a burner phone. And that's gotten us some ground, sure. But it's also scattered. A dozen small wounds that Black Mask can cauterize without losing sleep."
He stepped toward the map and tapped a blank, unmarked square in the center of Gotham's upper midtown.
Naima furrowed her brow. "That's… retail. What is that? A boutique?"
"Janus Cosmetics," Quentin said, letting the name hang in the room like a trap being set. "It's one of Black Mask's biggest legitimate fronts. Fancy storefront. Clean licenses. PR team, even a fake ass 'wellness' blog. But under all that polish? There's a tunnel system that leads to a fortified underground vault. That's where he keeps the heart of his day-to-day operations, cash drops, drug stashes, weapon shipments. This place isn't just a front for his empire. It is a major part of it only second to Sionis industries."
Dre whistled low. "Janus? You sure?"
Quentin nodded. "Positive. Intel came from one of the lookouts we turned. Place runs deep. And it's quiet. Not flashy like his warehouse operations or the dead-zone blocks. Because it has to be. He launders millions through that store every quarter. It's the base layer to the False Face Society's legitimacy." He lied about where he knew the information from seamlessly
Marcy leaned forward, arms folded. "That's not just a hit, we would be stepping into the spot light. The big players probably see this as a skirmish for now, if we hit black mask we will officially step into the game."
Quentin met her eyes. "Good. That's exactly what it's meant to be."
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Terrell let out a low, impressed chuckle.
"So how we doin' it? Walk in the front with shopping bags and a smile, or we burn the place down and pull the loot out of the ashes?"
Quentin turned back to the map. His hand moved to a side alley marked in faded pencil just a block away from the Janus storefront.
"There's a maintenance tunnel behind the building, locked up since the city restructured its sewer access. No one's touched it in years. But one of our guys has been living under that block. He says it runs close real close to the foundation of the Janus store."
Naima frowned. "And the guards? Cameras? Civilians?"
"We go in after hours. Skeleton crew only. Two guards on rotation if the info's still accurate. Internal cameras are routed through a private server, not GCPD's feed, which means if we jam it before going in, no one sees us coming. The vault is down two floors. We break in, strip everything guns, cash, dope, records. Leave the rest behind."
Dre raised an eyebrow. "Records?"
Quentin nodded. "Names. Contacts. Shipping manifests. If we get that data, we don't just rob him. We consume him."
Marcy leaned back in her chair, staring up at the cracked ceiling. "Damn. If this works…"
"It won't just be a robbery," Quentin said. "We will become bigger than ever, our operations will soar and when those 'big players' as you said it, take notice? Well they will hesitate."
Terrell grinned wide. "So what's the play? You want us all in?"
"I want crews," Quentin said. "Three teams. One to breach through the tunnel and secure the vault. One to jam the signals and watch the storefront. And one to be ready in case things go loud. We leave nothing behind. We take what's his. And then we vanish before he can blink."
Naima tapped a knuckle on the table. "And when he retaliates?"
Quentin's voice hardened. "Since we are cutting out his legs, if and when he retaliates we will go for his head."
No one spoke for a moment. The firelight flickered across their faces worn, hungry, bruised by weeks of guerrilla war. But something new passed through them now.
Quentin looked around. "We do this right, we'll gut him where it hurts. And the city will know Black Mask doesn't own Gotham's streets anymore."
Terrell cracked his knuckles. "Just tell me when to gear up."
Marcy gave a quiet nod. "I'll pull together my medics. We'll be ready for aftermath."
Dre exhaled. "I'll get my lookouts posted by the block. No one's movin' in without me knowing." ᴛhis chapter is ᴜpdated by ɴovᴇl_Firᴇ.ɴet
Naima's eyes narrowed with a grim kind of pride. "We need someone for the computer stuff."
Quentin stepped away from the map, eyes alight with purpose.
"I got that handled, let's get to work."
The rain fell in sheets over Gotham, hammering the rooftops and choking the gutters with its weight. Neon signs blurred against the downpour, flickering in weak defiance of the storm. In an alley near the Narrows where the buildings leaned too close together almost forming the perfect alleys for crime.
Two figures darted behind a rusted dumpster, boots splashing in runoff. One clutched a scavenged pistol, the other a sawed-off shotgun held tight to their chest. Across the alley, barely visible through the cascading rain, a trio of Black Mask's enforcers fanned out, weapons drawn and faces hidden behind the signature blank visors of the False Face Society.
There were no cries, no declarations. Just movement. Just violence.
A flash of muzzle fire cracked the silence. The dumpster sparked and ricocheted. One of the defenders fired back, striking a thug in the knee. He dropped with a howl, clutching his leg, only to be dragged back by his companion, out of the line of fire.
The defenders didn't celebrate. They shifted position, running toward a shattered doorframe on instinct. They knew this alley. Knew every rat hole and escape hatch. It was their home.
The gangsters didn't care. They advanced anyway, driven by orders and paychecks and fear of what Black Mask would do if they failed.
Another shot rang out closer this time. A defender dropped, a gasp swallowed by the rain. The other fired blindly in rage, forcing the gangsters back behind cover.
From the fire escape above, a homeless lookout fired a flare—green smoke spiraling into the stormy sky. A signal.
More defenders emerged from the shadows. From trash piles. From behind broken fences and sewer grates. Dozens. Armed with old revolvers, stolen rifles, lead pipes, and sheer desperation.
The gangsters hesitated. Then opened fire.
Bullets tore through wooden crates and shattered windows. Sparks rained down from a busted transformer. Screams mixed with thunder. Someone threw a molotov, and fire danced along the slick concrete before dying under the weight of the rain.
Bodies fell. On both sides.
The False Face Society had the gear, the training. But the defenders had nothing to lose. And in Gotham, that kind of fury was dangerous.
A thug sprinted forward, shotgun blazing only to be tackled into the mud by two figures who beat him with bricks and fists until he stopped moving. Another defender was caught trying to flank, his leg ripped open by gunfire. He crawled behind a dumpster, dragging a trail of blood.
One of the gangsters tried to retreat panic rising but a bullet punched through his shoulder and slammed him against the wall. He screamed. No one went to help him.
Then, the shadows deepened.
Without warning, without sound, something dropped into the alley like a curse.
A shape cloaked in black.
The air shifted. Gunfire faltered.
A thug turned—too slow. A gloved fist cracked into his face, snapping his visor. He dropped like a puppet with cut strings.
Another tried to fire his rifle was yanked upward by a grappling hook, and before he could react, the dark figure was there, sweeping his legs out and slamming him into the pavement.
The defenders paused briefly for the first time unsure whether the newcomer was friend or foe.
He didn't speak. He didn't look at them.
A baton cracked against a ribcage. A cable snapped around another attacker's neck, yanking him backward and into unconsciousness. Three more tried to converge on him, but the shadows swallowed them whole. Only the sound of grunts and crashing metal gave any hint of the fight.
Within minutes, the battle shifted.
The last of the gangsters, bloodied and beaten, tried to crawl away only to be lifted by the collar and slammed against the wall with enough force to crack brick. A hiss of pain, then silence.
Batman stood at the center of the ruined alley, cape draped and rain glistening off his armor. He scanned the fallen, ensuring they still breathed barely. Then turned his gaze on the defenders.
They stared at him. Mud-soaked. Exhausted. Not moving.
Batman stalked closer to the homeless, "tell your boss to stop this war." He growled
The homeless tried to scoot back fear colored their expressions.
They blinked and he was gone.