The underpass was quiet tonight.
The usual shuffle of crates, low murmurs, and the buzz of old generators filled the edges of the silence, but in the central chamber converted into their war room it was all business.
Marcy Liu, sat with a half-cracked laptop and a dozen printed dossiers laid out like playing cards across the concrete table. A stained thermos of black coffee steamed by her elbow. Her braid, fraying near the base, swayed slightly as she leaned forward to read.
Stitch stood behind her with his arms crossed, scar stretched taut as his jaw tensed. "That's the last of them?" he asked.
Marcy nodded. "All twelve jurors and four alternates."
Wall and Naima stood near the corner, going over their own lists routes, names, hiding spots, backup plans. But they paused now, attention shifting to the matter at hand.
Marcy tapped the edge of the first list. "We split them into three categories."
She gestured toward a row of names paperclipped with red tags.
"These?" she said. "No go. No dirt. Squeaky. We dug into everything—old employers, school records, social media history. Nothing but tax-paying, oatmeal-eating citizens. Even their skeletons are in perfect alphabetical order."
Naima raised a brow. "You sure they're not just smart enough to cover their tracks?"
"Possible," Stitch muttered. "But the trail's too clean. If they've been scrubbed, they were scrubbed years ago. Probably before they were even selected."
Wall picked up one of the red-tagged sheets and squinted. "This one works at a children's cancer foundation."
"Exactly," Marcy said dryly. "Next pile yellow tags—iffy. There's some stuff, but it's weak. One guy missed a bunch of alimony payments in 2017. One woman's son got caught boosting bikes when he was a teen. Nothing we could use, not unless we want the whole jury seizing up with sympathy."
"And then—" she pulled forward the final stack. "These are the ones we own. Or will." Follow current novᴇls on N(o)vᴇl(F)ire.nᴇt
Blue tags. Five of them.
"One has serious gambling debts. Another did time for assault back in '08 and lied about it during selection. This one?" She tapped a sheet toward the bottom. "She's having an affair with her supervisor and she doesn't know we know. It's all here. Photos. Statements. Confirmed timelines."
Naima leaned over and studied the files. "We push too hard, they squeal. We push too soft, they flake. We need subtle pressure. Gentle reminders of what's at stake."
"Already lining up messengers," Stitch said. "Familiar faces. People who know how to say the right words without making threats."
"We'll approach the three softest ones first," Marcy said. "We don't need to flip them. We just need them to hesitate when it matters, when our people go innocent they will hesitate and join the crowd."
Wall cracked his knuckles. "And the alternates?"
"One's rock solid. Other three are workable. We'll approach two. Keep the third in our pocket for insurance."
A pause stretched as the team leaned back, weighing the risk.
Then Naima asked, "And the judge?"
Marcy leaned back in her chair and let out a sigh. "Judge Ethan Rowe."
Stitch scoffed. "They call him the white knight of Gotham courts. Guy's been throwing gangbangers and corporate scum in prison for years. Never once took a bribe."
"Has a daughter in med school," Wall added. "Lives in the suburbs. No mistresses. No shady properties. s to wildlife conservation and teaches law classes at Gotham U."
"Too clean," Naima said flatly. "No one survives in this city that long without compromise especially someone in a position such as his."
Marcy nodded slowly. "Exactly. Either he's very lucky… or someone's protecting him. Or grooming him."
"Grooming him for what?" Stitch asked.
They exchanged a long look.
Wall finally broke the silence. "I don't like it. We can't afford any surprises in that courtroom."
Marcy tapped her finger once on the judge's file. "We'll keep watching him. Quietly. Don't spook him. If there's something there, we'll find it."
The underpass hummed faintly as the generator kicked back to life.
They said nothing more just watched the lists in front of them.
Justice in Gotham wasn't blind.
But they were going to make damn sure it looked the other way when Nolan, Kieran or whatever his name is Everleigh stood trial.
That was the first strange thing.
He always woke up humming something—an old show tune, a lullaby, something stuck in the back of his brain like gum under a table. But this morning?
No melody. No rhythm. No need.
He blinked up at the ceiling of his Arkham cell and furrowed his brow. His throat felt dry. His mouth tasted like rust.
When the guard shouted for lineup, he sat up slower than usual, rubbed his temples, and mumbled something incoherent. His jumpsuit rustled as he stood, but for the first time in years, the sound felt… loud. Too loud. The scrape of his boots on the concrete echoed through his skull.
And then came the first one.
A flutter of movement just at the edge of his vision, near the corner where the cracked paint peeled near the ceiling. He turned his head fast.
He frowned, blinked again. "Just tired," he muttered, rolling his shoulders.
In the hallway, while he stood in the lineup with the others, he swore the shadows along the wall twitched. Not the normal flicker of the busted fluorescents twitched like something was hiding just behind the veil of his perception.
He kept glancing sideways. The guard told him to knock it off.
And then the voices began.
Soft. Whispering. Familiar.
He froze as a high-pitched giggle echoed near his ear.
"What?" he barked, whipping his head around. "Who said that?"
The inmate beside him took a half-step away.
They walked to the mess hall, the clatter of trays and low murmurs usually comforting. But today, it was like listening to an orchestra where every instrument was a different species of dying animal.
He sat alone, his tray in front of him. The slop that passed for breakfast was cold. The voices were not.
"You little embarrassment," his mother's voice rasped near his neck.
"You ruined everything," came his brother's voice, oozing venom from the other side.
He stabbed his plastic fork into the mashed gray mound and ground his teeth together.
He didn't realize he'd said it aloud until the man across the table frowned and scooted away.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Nolan rise. The new guy. Calm, quiet, and last night… glaring like he wanted him dead.
"Going to see the shrink," the singer muttered. "Yeah. Course you are."
He scratched his scalp hard, like the voices might be hiding in his skin. He tapped his temple once. Then twice. Then faster. Faster.
Another inmate stared. The singer snarled back at him, then shot to his feet, tray in hand. As he walked toward the drop-off bins, the whispers got louder—hissing and buzzing, overlapping like static and screams.
His steps faltered. He stumbled.
The faces around him began to change.
The inmate by the water dispenser had his uncle's eyes. The woman in the corner looked like his old school counselor. The guard at the far side of the room morphed into his childhood pastor, face half-melted but recognizable.
He dropped his tray. It clattered and echoed like a gunshot.
Someone brushed his shoulder.
He screamed—a high, animal shriek and lunged across the table, slamming another inmate to the ground.
Tables overturned. Trays skidded across the floor.
He grabbed a man by the neck and bit—hard. The man screamed. Blood sprayed.
"STOP! STOP TALKING! STOP LOOKING AT ME!"
Guards swarmed. Batons struck flesh. A needle was drawn. One tried to grab his arm
He bit the guard's nose clean off.
The scream was deafening.
Another guard tased him. It didn't stop him. He clawed at the air. Tears streamed from his face as he begged:
"MAKE IT STOP! PLEASE! I'M SORRY! I DIDN'T— I—MAKE IT STOP—"
They pinned him. The tranquilizer was plunged into his shoulder. His body jerked once.
But before the sedative could take hold—
He whipped his head forward.
And bashed his skull against the metal edge of the overturned lunch table.
The room went dead silent.
His body slumped forward. Blood oozed from the shattered crown of his skull.
The whispering stopped.