The paperwork should have been boring.
Nolan sat at the table near the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse, the city spread out below him in steel and glass, the late afternoon light casting long shadows between buildings. Contracts, inspection reports, donor follow-ups—nothing urgent, nothing dangerous. The kind of work that meant things were working.
His shoulder still ached when he shifted, a dull reminder of Chinatown, but the pain was manageable. The doctor's words echoed faintly in his mind: astonishing recovery. Nolan hadn't commented on that again.
He was just glad he was recovering that fucking super bastard hit hard.
He flipped a page, signed, slid it aside.
Another form. Another signature.
The Continental below him hummed with quiet efficiency. He could feel it even from here—the building settling into its rhythm. Guests checking in. Staff rotating shifts. A machine running exactly as designed.
The phone rang.
Nolan frowned slightly. It wasn't the public line.
He answered. "Everleigh."
There was a pause on the other end—just long enough to register.
"Sir," the concierge said, voice careful, professional. "I apologize for the interruption, but we have a situation downstairs."
Nolan leaned back. "Define situation."
"City Health and Safety arrived unannounced," the concierge replied. "Full inspection. They're… thorough."
Nolan's expression didn't change. "We passed last quarter."
"Yes, sir. They're citing revised compliance standards. Retroactive ones."
That earned a blink.
"Put them in conference room three," Nolan said. "Have legal sit in. I'll review the report when it's done."
"Of course, sir."
The line went dead.
Nolan stared at the phone for a moment, then set it down and returned to the paperwork.
Thirty seconds passed.
The phone rang again.
This time, it was legal.
"Mr. Everleigh," the lawyer said, skipping pleasantries, "we've been notified of an administrative review of your liquor license."
Nolan closed the folder in front of him.
"On what grounds?"
"An anonymous complaint," the lawyer said carefully. "No details yet. The review doesn't imply wrongdoing, but it does place a temporary hold on service pending evaluation."
A silence stretched.
"How temporary?" Nolan asked.
"Days," the lawyer replied. "Possibly a week."
That was… inconvenient.
Not devastating.
But precise.
Nolan felt it then—not fear, not anger, but something colder. Pattern recognition.
"Handle it," he said. "Quietly."
After the call ended, Nolan remained seated, eyes drifting toward the city beyond the glass.
Inside his mind, Quentin stirred—not alarmed, not agitated.
Interested.
"This isn't random," Quentin said calmly.
"No," Nolan agreed. "It's clean."
"Which means it's intentional."
"If it was just one of the two I wouldn't be as annoyed but a health inspector and pulling my liquor license in one day? Someone wants to make it known they can fuck with my business."
Nolan exhaled slowly.
Below them, the Continental continued to operate. Guests laughed in the lobby. Valets opened doors. Life went on.
Somewhere in Gotham, someone was watching to see what Kieran Everleigh would do when the city gently pressed its thumb against his throat.
***
Nolan didn't stand right away.
He sat at the table a moment longer, fingers steepled, eyes unfocused as the shape of the problem resolved itself. Two pressures. Separate departments. Separate excuses. Arriving within minutes of each other.
A test.
He rose slowly, shoulder protesting as he did, and crossed the penthouse to the secondary terminal built into the wall. With a few practiced gestures, he brought up internal dashboards—staff schedules, vendor contracts, compliance histories. Nothing red. Nothing sloppy.
Good.
He tapped once, opening a secure channel.
"Stitch," he said.
Terrell Gaines answered on the second ring, voice low. "You need something moved?"
"Information first," Nolan replied. "Health and Safety, liquor licensing. I want to know who filed the complaints, where they came from, and who signed off on escalating them."
A pause. Nolan could picture Stitch already working it out in his head.
"That's municipal," Stitch said. "Not street."
"Everything touches the street eventually," Nolan replied. "Find me the touchpoint."
"Give me a few hours."
Nolan ended the call and opened another channel.
"Marcy."
The Whisper's voice was soft, as always. "I saw the inspectors arrive," she said before he could speak. "Word travels."
"I need favors," Nolan said. "Quiet ones. Consultants. Former regulators. People who know how to make problems shrink."
"I can do better than that," Marcy replied. "There's a private catering cooperative the city trusts when venues get flagged. If they certify you independently, it undercuts the inspection."
"How fast?"
"Tonight."
"Do it."
He moved on without ceremony.
Dockyard Dogs handled logistics. If liquor service was suspended, private tastings could be reclassified. Invite-only events. No transactions, no violations. The Dogs knew which suppliers asked fewer questions—and which trucks were never inspected twice.
Naima handled security. Additional exits rerouted. Inspectors escorted politely but persistently. Nothing illegal. Just inconvenient enough to slow them down.
None of it was loud like a attack on the docks nor was it reckless.
It was just fucking annoying.
Quentin watched from the back of Nolan's mind, approval humming like a low current.
"You're treating this correctly," Quentin said. "No confrontation, escalation would leave us looking vulnerable."
"They want to see how I move," Nolan replied quietly. "So I'll show them."
By the time the sun dipped low enough to bleed gold between the towers, Nolan's phone buzzed again.
This time, it wasn't a problem.
It was an invitation.
He scanned the message once, then again.
The Gotham Renewal Fund
Annual Black-Tie Benefit
Cause: Post-Violence Family Rehabilitation & Displacement Relief
Hosted at a private estate in Bristol Township.
Tomorrow evening.
Nolan's mouth twitched, not quite a smile.
"They're not subtle," Quentin observed.
"No," Nolan agreed. "They're not and I'm guessing they will be a lot more aggressive if the night goes poorly."
The charity was impeccably chosen. Families displaced by gang violence. Counseling services. Emergency housing. The kind of cause no one in Gotham could publicly oppose.
Including him.
"They want to see me outside my building," Nolan said. "In someone else's house."
"And surrounded by donors," Quentin added. "Foundations. Old money."
Nolan closed the message and leaned back against the counter, gaze drifting once more to the city below.
"They pressed," he said. "Now they're inviting."
Quentin's voice softened, sharpened all at once.
"Which means you passed the first test."
Nolan straightened, reaching for the jacket draped over the chair.
"Then let's not disappoint them."
***
Under the city, far from penthouses and charity halls, there was a room that did not exist on any map.
Its walls were old stone, older than zoning laws, older than Gotham as most people understood it. The light was low and deliberate—lamps placed to illuminate faces without ever fully revealing them. Masks rested nearby, not yet worn, their presence felt even when untouched.
Several figures sat around a circular table.
No one spoke at first. They never did until everyone had arrived.
"He navigated the probes efficiently," one voice finally said, measured and dry, "They were made to be easy to navigate anyhow."
Another answered, faintly amused. "As expected. He's not reckless. That makes him dangerous."
A third leaned forward, fingers interlaced. "We have already made first contact."
That drew their attention.
"Indirect," the speaker clarified. "Charitable channels. Social invitations, I'm sure he understands."
A pause followed. Consideration. Calculation.
"The event tomorrow," someone said. "It places him in the correct environment. Outside his fortress. Among people he must impress."
"And if he refuses to fall in line?" another asked.
Silence again—longer this time.
Then the answer came.
"Then our new associate is given latitude."
No name was spoken.
None was needed.
"He's eager," one of them noted. "Well-funded. His work has… progressed."
"Fear is an effective corrective," a voice replied. "Especially for men who believe they can shape Gotham with speeches and smiles while simultaneously running one of the most prominent criminal organizations right now."
A soft sound followed—something like disapproval.
"Kieran Everleigh's rhetoric is becoming a liability," the first voice said. "He speaks of tumors. Of excision. Of reform we cannot let him spread his ideologies it will just make him a bigger threat in the long run."
"He will use his ideas of reform to build his criminal empire." another added
The light dimmed further as one by one, they rose.
"The path remains open," the speaker said calmly. "Compliance or consequence."
A hand brushed against a waiting mask.
"Tomorrow will tell us which he chooses."