Nolan was stretched out on the cot, one arm behind his head, staring at the cracked ceiling above him. He had counted the pattern of paint bubbles at least twenty times in the last two days.
The jingle of keys and the metallic clunk of the door latch snapped his eyes downward.
"On your feet," a guard grunted.
Nolan sat up slowly. "Court again already?"
"Visitor," the guard said, unlocking his cuffs with brisk, practiced motion. "Come on."
Nolan didn't ask questions. He fell into step behind the man, his slippers scuffing quietly against the floor. They passed the usual visitor center, where glass partitions and scratchy intercoms separated inmates from their guests. But the guard kept walking.
Instead, he stopped in front of an unmarked door, knocked once, and opened it. Googlᴇ search ɴoᴠel Fɪre.nᴇt
Nolan stepped inside.
The room was plain. No cameras. No glass. Just a simple table and two chairs, sterile walls painted a lifeless gray. His lawyer sat inside, suit sharp, briefcase at his feet. A styrofoam cup of vending machine coffee steamed gently between his hands.
"Well," the lawyer said, smiling faintly as Nolan entered, "I was starting to think they'd forgotten how to open doors in here."
Nolan sat down without responding. His eyes flicked once to the corners of the room—no red blinking lights. No hum of cameras. Secure.
"Why the special treatment?" Nolan asked, voice low.
"Legal privilege," the lawyer said, sipping his coffee. "This room's reserved for confidential strategy discussions. Can't bug it. Can't monitor it. Judge's orders."
He set the cup aside and slid a manila folder toward Nolan.
"Here's what you're facing going into trial," he said. "Prosecution's built their argument around your supposed double life—Mr. Everleigh by day, Gotham's next Two face by night. They've tied in the Janus robbery, the arms from the Black Mask sweep, and surveillance linking you to known syndicate associates. That said…" He pulled out a few sheets, tapping them once. "The evidence, while convincing, is circumstantial. There's no first-person testimony. No recovered weapons or direct links to your orders. Which means we still have angles."
Nolan nodded faintly. He was listening but he could feel something else coming. A shift in tone.
The lawyer paused, glancing at the door, then leaned down and popped open the locks on his briefcase.
"I brought you something," he said quietly.
From a hidden false bottom, he lifted a disassembled flip phone a battery and SIM along with the casing, screen, and separated circuit boards.
Nolan's eyes narrowed.
"You're not going to say anything," the lawyer murmured, voice nearly inaudible, "but I trust you'll know what to do when the time comes. All you need to do is play this smart your people are very thorough."
Nolan nodded, once. It was almost imperceptible.
The lawyer folded the phone parts back into the compartment and sealed the case shut.
"Now," he said, raising his voice again, tone returning to professional ease, "about your next court date we'll be pushing for dismissal of several counts due to procedural overreach. We'll also be moving to challenge the psychological detainment, but that one's a longer play. Keep cool. Don't get erratic. And keep talking to Halvorsen. The man's thorough, but not immune to persuasion. Other than that, if our motion gets thrown out we will move to jury selections."
Nolan leaned back in the chair. "Understood."
The lawyer stood, briefcase in hand. "Your allies are loyal. But let's not keep them waiting forever."
The conversation with his lawyer wound down. Files were tucked back into place, coffee drained. The disassembled phone parts rested in the hidden compartment for one last second as Nolan reached down, taking them out without a word.
The lawyer gave a quick glance toward the door, it was still closed.
Nolan worked fast and silent.
The SIM and battery slipped into the arch support beneath his left shoe, nestled behind the liner. The casing and keypad slid into a fold he had stitched in the lining of his waistband weeks ago with a thread he plucked from the hem of his bedroll. The final chip, smallest and most fragile he carefully slipped into a tightly folded paper napkin and then into the edge of his undergarments where the elastic sagged slightly near the hipbone. Not exactly comfortable. But better than getting caught.
He dusted his hands on his thighs, cleared his expression.
The briefcase snapped shut.
"I think that's all for now," his lawyer said, louder this time.
Nolan stood as the guard opened it. Just another quiet, neutral face in Arkham, following orders.
Night in Arkham was a slow bleed into silence it was horribly unpleasant.
Nolan sat hunched on the edge of his cot, elbows on his knees, the steel frame groaning softly beneath him. The overhead light buzzed faintly, the flickering fluorescence giving the cell a pulsing, jaundiced glow. Most of the inmates had quieted by now, save for the occasional cough or deranged muttering echoing down the corridor.
His fingers worked with calm precision.
From beneath the lining of his left shoe, he slipped out the SIM card and the phone's back casing. The battery had been tucked into the folded hem of his waistband, and the microchip wedged just behind the tag of his prison shirt. One by one, the components emerged like contraband puzzle pieces.
There was no commentary from Vey, Quentin, or Kieran.
They were watching silent, observant, almost proud?
Nolan rested the parts on the mattress beside him, flattening out his sheet to use as a work surface. He moved slowly, confidently, like someone used to doing this in worse conditions.
The last piece slid into place, and the phone's screen came to life with a faint blue glow. It was a burner stripped down, disposable. Nothing fancy. But it was on.
Nolan stared at the "1 Bar" in the corner for a long moment, jaw tight.
He could send a text.
He needed a call. This kind of conversation the kind that couldn't be misread or traced needed tone, hesitation, certainty. Text was too easy to misunderstand.
And more importantly… he didn't know who might be listening.
Not just through the phone. But the walls. The ceiling. Arkham was old, but it had changed. The guards looked at him longer now. Some of the staff sent him strange looks, and Nolan knew he could be paranoid he could be letting the mad house claw at his brain.
But what is safety without a little paranoia?
He slipped the battery out again and quietly disassembled the device, returning each piece to its hiding place. When the last part was back beneath the insole of his shoe, he sat in the dim light for a moment longer, staring down at the floor.
Tomorrow, maybe. Or the next day.
He'd know when the moment was right.
But tonight, the phone was ready and so was he.