The glass in his hand caught the city lights like diamonds.
Nolan stood at the edge of the penthouse balcony, tailored suit clinging to him like a second skin, every line sharp, every thread seamed to be so perfect, so yes Kieran picked it out. The wind teased at the tips of his hair as Gotham sprawled out beneath him, glittering, restless, and oh so chaotic.
He raised the drink to his lips neat scotch, something rare, aged well beyond most lifespans and took a slow sip.
The warmth in his throat settled with satisfaction. He let the silence of the moment linger.
A small smile played at the corner of his lips. Not smug. Not triumphant.
Like something had finally slid back into place.
He exhaled softly, eyes still locked on the glowing skyline.
"This city missed me," he murmured.
And then, after a beat "It's good to be back, to have an actual bed." He grinned
He finished the drink in a smooth tilt of the wrist, set the glass down on the marble ledge, and turned away from the view without a second glance.
The warehouse was quiet when he arrived.
Hidden in the industrial zone, sandwiched between forgotten factories and rows of silent machinery, it looked like nothing from the outside. But the moment Nolan stepped through the metal door, it was like a switch flipped.
And then shouts reached his ears.
Before he could fully step inside, Dre Matthews surged forward and pulled him into a crushing hug, lifting Nolan half an inch off the ground before setting him back down with a laugh.
"Damn, man," Dre grinned, stepping back, "You look like you stepped outta a fashion mag."
Marcy Liu was quiet and usually unreadable it wasn't out of character to not be the first to speak. She just moved in and wrapped her arms around him tight, head tucked under his chin. Nolan let her. She finally pulled back, eyes misted but steady.
"Told them you'd walk free," she muttered. "Told them. You know I don't think we even needed to bribe anyway to hard." She laughed softly
Stitch came in last, arms out, a massive grin splitting his face. "We were ready to bust you out, you know that? Naima had the trucks loaded. I had blueprints of the courthouse. Whole nine yards."
"I'm touched," Nolan said dryly, as he clapped Stitch's back. "But I like the clean way better."
Naima Rez stood behind them all, arms crossed stern, unreadable, until Nolan met her eyes.
Then the edges of her mouth twitched.
"We kept the city warm for you."
He nodded. "And I'll be needing it."
For a moment, the leaders of Gotham's hidden underground scraped from the streets, hardened by war just stood there around him.
And Nolan let himself have it. Just for a moment.
He took a slow breath and looked around the room.
Nolan sank into the cracked leather seat at the head of the table, his finely tailored suit barely creasing. He leaned back, loosened his tie with a flick, then pulled a cigar from his inner pocket fat, dark, expensive.
A silver cutter flicked open.
The end fell to the floor.
He popped it between his teeth, rolled it a little with his tongue.
Then he glanced across the table at Stitch and grinned wide too wide.
"This seat's cold as hell," he muttered around the cigar. "Where's the whiskey at, my man?"
You could feel it. Like the temperature dropped three degrees, or gravity tilted just a little.
Marcy straightened and sighed.
Stitch's mouth opened in a smirk as he reached under the table and slid over a bottle of Glenlivet.
"Good to see you again, Quentin."
Naima didn't say a word. She just nodded once, slow. A quiet salute.
Quentin—because that's who sat in the chair now erupted with sudden, barking laughter that filled the warehouse and echoed off the rafters.
"Now it's good to be back!"
He bit down on the cigar, let it hang loose from the corner of his mouth, and struck a match with his thumbnail. The flame licked up, and soon the air was tinged with sharp smoke and something dangerous.
He took a long puff and exhaled toward the ceiling.
Then leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes glinting.
"So as you all know…" he said, voice shifting, words slower, smile sharper, "a lot of my mentally disabled friends have recently joined us in the ever-living expanse of homelessness." Follow current ɴᴏᴠᴇʟs on NovᴇlFir(e).nᴇt
A few chuckles bubbled out from the table.
"Escaped Arkham in the chaos. Lost souls. Scared. Confused. Possibly still hallucinating on horse tranquilizers."
"They're in need of our assistance."
He let that word hang—assistance—like it meant something more than just food and blankets.
"You all remember what I said, right?" he asked, gesturing vaguely with the lit cigar. "This was gonna be bigger than ever. Not just turf wars and smuggling runs anymore. Not just scraps and handouts."
He sat back again, pleased.
"But first, we need to talk about the hotel."
They leaned in because when Quentin talked like that, something big was coming.
"What we want with the hotel isn't just luxury. No, no, no. What we want… is specific high-value targets. The kind of guests you don't want to mess with. The kind of guests that governments hesitate to spy on. People with teeth. People with secrets. Deadshot was a good call, glad you guys secured his booking."
A slow drag of smoke slid from his nose.
"If we build a clientele of those individuals," he went on, "not only do we gain influence we gain protection. And more importantly…"
He gestured toward the crew with the cigar like a conductor with a baton.
"More money. More money means more shelters. More food. More gear. More power. We're not just building a gang anymore. We're building an empire here, we have the potential to run this city."
He smirked and looked around the room.
"Who's ready to make Gotham ours?"
Just then the door burst open, "Woah oh my hey boss!" A young voice called he was slightly panicked, "Good to see you back but um we have a small problem."
Quentin arched his eyebrow, "What kid?"
"Something weird is happening in our sewer systems."