The mess hall was strangely quiet.
Not silent, of course. Trays still clattered. Plastic forks scraped against ceramic bowls. A few low conversations murmured through the air. But something was… off.
Nolan sat across from Harvey at their usual corner table, lazily dragging his spoon through the bland oatmeal they'd been served that morning. The consistency was half-paste, half-concrete. He wasn't hungry anyway.
It wasn't the food that had his nerves twitching—it was the atmosphere.
The orderlies were everywhere. Usually, they lingered near the doors or stood by the far wall, chatting, eyes half-focused. But today? Today they were posted at every exit. One paced along the outer edge of the room, fingers twitching near the taser clipped to his belt. Two more stood near the food line, tense and unmoving.
Even some of the other patients were unusually reserved, eating quickly, heads down.
Nolan glanced up from his bowl and whispered, "Did something happen?"
Harvey looked up mid-bite, one brow cocked. Then, with a chuckle, he said, "Oh. Right. You missed it. You were with your shrink."
Nolan blinked. "What happened?"
Harvey leaned back a little, tossing his plastic spoon into his empty tray. "Singer boy. The one that kept everyone up at night." ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ɴo(v)elFɪre.ɴet
Nolan's face went still.
Harvey grinned in that half-warped, crooked way of his. "He went off the deep end last night."
"What do you mean?" Nolan asked, his voice careful.
"I mean completely. Started shouting at shadows, talking to voices that weren't there—louder than usual. Got worse during breakfast. Real show. Faces were melting into other people, he said. Everyone became someone else. Started clawing at people, screaming about his mother, his brother… stuff nobody here even knew."
Nolan's mouth had gone dry. "And then?"
Harvey's tone darkened slightly. "The orderlies tried to get him under control. He fought like hell. Bit a guard's nose off, would you believe that? Blood everywhere. Guy was screaming. They tranquilized him but before it kicked in…"
He gave Nolan a sidelong glance. "He bashed his head against the table corner. Hard. Over and over. Until well. You can figure the rest."
Nolan's spoon froze halfway to his mouth.
"He died?" he asked, too quietly.
Harvey gave a single, slow nod. "Cracked his skull open. Right there on the floor. Screaming make it stop the whole time."
The hum of the cafeteria felt like it was ringing in Nolan's ears.
"Did he have a… condition? Anything like that?"
Harvey raised an eyebrow. "Nope. Wasn't on the danger list. Just a loudmouth with off-key taste in lullabies. You ask me, though?" He jabbed at his now-empty bowl. "You were lucky you had a session it was a brutal sight too much for a simple hotel owner I reckon."
Nolan didn't answer right away. His mind was already spinning.
Harvey, seeing the tension in Nolan's posture, just smirked and added, "Still… won't miss him. Not one bit."
Nolan exhaled sharply through his nose, offering a weak, awkward chuckle. "Yeah… at least now we can sleep peacefully."
Harvey grinned again, wider this time. "Finally. Arkham's first miracle."
They didn't speak much after that, Nolan didn't have the heart to ask why Harvey has been disappearing lately.
The hotel the jury had been sequestered in was discreet, polished, and quiet perfect for keeping the press out and the jurors in. Denise Harper, Juror #7, was on her third smoke break of the day. The trial was wearing her thin, her nerves frazzled by the weight of it all. She wasn't used to being cooped up no personal calls, no contact with the outside world, no release.
The side door clicked shut behind her, and she stepped into the small alley beside the hotel's kitchen. Concrete walls rose on either side, damp with the humidity of the Gotham evening. A figure was curled up beneath a pile of old blankets near the dumpsters, looking like every other unfortunate soul who might have wandered into this alley for rest.
She paid him no mind.
Lighting her cigarette, she leaned against the brick and exhaled slowly, eyes to the sky.
"Affairs are messy," the figure said softly.
The man didn't move, didn't look at her. His voice was calm, unassuming, almost bored.
"I'm just saying," he continued, "a married woman sleeping with her manager… that's the kind of story that spreads like wildfire if someone lights a match."
Her cigarette trembled in her fingers. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about."
"No? Hm. Must be someone else who drives a silver sedan, parks it behind the manufacturing plant on lunch breaks. My mistake."
She stared, breath shallow.
"Thing is," the man said with a tired stretch, "this ain't a threat. This is a courtesy. The truth gets out, you don't just lose your job. You lose your marriage. Your kid ends up splitting time between homes. You end up explaining a lot of things you don't want to. It's not fun. But none of that has to happen."
"I don't want anything from you," the man added, finally shifting to sit up slightly. His face stayed hidden beneath the brim of a ragged hoodie. "Just… when it comes time to deliberate, maybe you lean the way the wind's already blowing. That's all."
She stood paralyzed a moment longer, then dropped the cigarette and turned to head back inside.
"Smoke break's up," the man called lightly. "Wouldn't want anyone to start wondering where you are."
She didn't look back.
Once she was gone, the man stood, shook off the blanket, and disappeared into the dark already dialing his burner.
Target softened. She won't talk. She's ours.
The whiteboard stood tall against the back wall of the hideout a grim, meticulous web of names, roles, and vulnerabilities. Faces had been printed and taped beneath a cleanly divided set of headings. Each section of the board was labeled in red ink:
Too Risky / Untouchable
There were twelve names underneath small jury ID photos eleven jurors and an alternate. Beneath Secured, only one photo sat: Denise Harper. A green sticker had been placed beneath her name.
Terrell leaned against the far corner of the table, arms crossed, denim coat as rumpled as always. "Denise was the low-hanging fruit," he said, "Smokes three times a day. Out alone. Already nervous. Guilt we could play with."
"Yeah, well, that was the easy win," Marcy Liu muttered. She was standing beside the board, her fingers stained slightly with dry-erase residue from shifting tiles and names. "We're not getting another clean shot like that. They're not leaving the hotel anymore. Most of 'em only come out with two guards and a chaperone."
Naima Rez sat on a crate, flipping through a small black notebook. Her voice was calm, clinical. "Security's tightened since the stupid article speculating jury tampering the reason being the jury is sequestered. We only get one move per person maybe two before we're burned. We need to pick the next one carefully."
Dre Matthews grunted from the corner. He'd been setting up a crude 3D mockup of the hotel lobby and entrances with bottle caps and sugar packets. "If they're holed up, we start thinking sideways. Maintenance staff. Drivers. Catering. Someone's always going in and out."
Marcy pointed at another name under Possible. "What about this one Andrew Kale. He used to drive for Gotham Taxi, right? We've got a file on his past DUI charges from the Black Mask records. That could rattle him."
"Only if we have someone he still talks to," Terrell said. "He's been clean for years. Might not scare easy."
The board loomed over them like a map of war.
A/N: I promise Arkham arc is ending soon. Sorry for the drag