The restaurant sat high above the street, all glass and quiet confidence, the kind of place that didn't advertise itself because it didn't need to. Linen-draped tables, muted conversations, the soft clink of crystal and cutlery. Gotham's elite liked to pretend places like this were neutral ground—above crime, above blood—but Kieran had learned long ago that power loved comfortable rooms.
He arrived precisely on time.
The maître d' barely glanced at his reservation before smiling and gesturing him through. Richard Canva was already standing when Kieran approached the table near the window, tall and impeccably dressed, the city skyline stretched out behind him like a promise.
"Kieran," Richard said warmly, extending a hand. "I'm glad you could make it."
"Richard," Kieran replied, shaking it firmly. "Thank you for inviting me. I've been looking forward to this."
They exchanged the easy pleasantries of men who moved in the same circles—comments about the view, about how quickly Gotham changed when you weren't looking, about the gala the night before and how exhausting charity season always seemed to be. Nothing forced. Nothing false. At least not on the surface.
They sat, menus opened between them.
"I recommend the duck," Richard said casually. "They do it properly here."
Kieran glanced down, then smiled. "I was thinking the same. And perhaps the sommelier's suggestion for a pairing?"
Richard nodded approvingly. "Excellent taste."
The waiter came and went. Wine was selected. Water poured. The ritual completed. Only then did the conversation shift, subtle as a blade sliding free of its sheath.
"I'll admit," Richard said, leaning back slightly, fingers resting on the stem of his glass, "I was surprised to hear from you so soon after the gala. Not that I mind. Just… surprised."
Kieran smiled at that—not the sharp one, not the knowing one. This was softer. Earnest.
"I get that," he said. "But I had an idea, and I didn't want it to sit too long. Sometimes the best things lose momentum if you hesitate."
Richard's eyes sharpened with interest. "I'm listening."
Kieran folded his hands on the table, posture relaxed, voice measured but warm.
"The gang war did a lot of damage," he said. "Everyone talks about the bodies, the property loss, the headlines. But what lingers is quieter. People displaced. Families pushed out. The homeless population's already growing, and winter doesn't care about city politics."
Richard nodded slowly. "True enough. Soup kitchens help, but—"
"They're a bandage," Kieran finished gently. "Necessary, but temporary. They keep people alive, not stable."
The food arrived then, steam rising, aromas rich and comforting. For a moment they ate in silence, the kind that felt thoughtful rather than awkward. Kieran waited. Let the idea breathe.
When he spoke again, his smile returned—radiant, unguarded, almost boyish in its optimism.
"I've been thinking about shelters," he said. "Real ones. Not overcrowded emergency rooms with cots lined wall to wall. Proper facilities. Clean. Safe. Spread throughout the city so no single neighborhood feels overwhelmed or targeted."
Richard raised an eyebrow. "That's… ambitious."
"It has to be," Kieran replied. "Gotham's problems don't respond to half-measures. I want to work with the city—zoning, funding, public-private partnerships. Something sustainable. Something that actually gives people a chance to get back on their feet."
He leaned in just slightly now, enthusiasm genuine and infectious.
"I can bring capital. Influence. I can get meetings most people can't. But this works better if it isn't just me. If it looks like a coalition. People who care. People the city already trusts."
Richard studied him over the rim of his glass, saying nothing.
"I want you in on this," Kieran continued. "Your foundation. Your name. We could make this real. Not in ten years. Now."
For a moment, the city outside the window seemed very far away.
Richard set his glass down carefully. "You're serious."
"Completely," Kieran said without hesitation.
There was no flicker of doubt in his eyes. No calculation visible. Just conviction.
Richard exhaled, a slow breath, then smiled—small, thoughtful.
"Well," he said, "I can't say I expected this pitch over lunch."
Kieran chuckled softly. "I figured if I was going to ask you to help change the city, I should at least buy you a good meal."
Richard laughed at that, the tension easing just a touch. "Let me think on it. This isn't small. But… it's compelling."
Kieran lifted his glass. "That's all I ask."
They clinked crystal gently, the sound lost among a hundred others.
***
The call clicked on.
"You hear what Everleigh's trying to do now?" the first man asked. No theatrics, just irritation. "He thinks he can convince the city to build homeless shelters all over Gotham. City-funded. Practically building his own goddamned bases for the underpass."
There was a short pause, then a quiet laugh on the other end. Not mocking—more surprised.
"That's… bold," the second man said. "I'll give him that."
"Bold is one word for it," the first replied. "He's acting like the city's his to reorganize."
"Well," the second man said, more thoughtful now, "ambitious people usually do."
Another pause.
"So what do you want me to do about it?" the second man asked.
"Nothing. For now."
"Nothing?"
"Yeah. Let him try. Let him spend political capital, money, goodwill. If it works, we learn something. If it doesn't, the fallout does the work for us."
The second man hummed quietly. "And if he pulls it off?"
"Then we adjust," the first said simply. "But I don't think he realizes how many people will push back once he starts stepping on toes and it won't only be us."
The second man exhaled. "You think he's that dangerous?"
"I think he's confident," the first replied. "And in this city, that usually means he hasn't hit the wall yet."
"Alright," the second man said. "I'll keep an eye on it."
"Do that."
The line went dead.
***
Kieran didn't even bother with the mirror this time.
One blink, a quiet shift behind his eyes—and Quentin was there.
By the time Marcy arrived, he was already seated, posture loose but alert, fingers drumming once against the table before stilling. The room was quiet, insulated, the kind of place where information mattered more than appearances.
Marcy slipped in without ceremony, tablet already in hand. There was an energy to her she didn't bother hiding—focused, contained excitement. She took the chair beside him instead of across, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed as she brought the screen to life.
"So," she said, tapping rapidly, spreadsheets cascading into place. "I used the tracking programs you had me integrate—the ones that cross-reference vendor shipments with shell distributors."
Quentin glanced at her, motioning for her to continue.
"At first it was noise," Marcy went on. "Medical supplies are everywhere. Clinics, universities, private buyers. Same with lab equipment. But once I filtered for frequency, quantity, and off-the-books routing…" She flicked her finger, isolating a cluster of highlighted routes. "Patterns started forming."
She paused, clearly enjoying this part.
"I couldn't trace who's paying," she admitted, her expression tightening just a fraction. "Too many layers. Charities, grants, dummy corporations. But I did manage to track where the shipments are going."
She turned the tablet toward him.
"Four locations."
Quentin took it from her hand, his eyes moving fast as he absorbed the data. Addresses, delivery schedules, types of equipment. Refrigeration units. Chemical precursors. Protective gear.
A slow smile spread across his face.
"Four locations," he echoed, almost to himself.
Marcy nodded. "I sent runners to quietly check the surroundings. No logos. No obvious security, but…" She glanced at him. "The patterns are wrong. Too careful. Too clean."
She inhaled, then said, "I think one of these is the current lab of—"
"The Scarecrow," Quentin finished, without looking up.
He finally met her eyes, the smile still there, sharper now. Satisfied.
"Good job," he said. "Very good job, Marcy."
Her lips curved despite herself. Praise from Quentin wasn't casual—he didn't give it unless it was earned.
He set the tablet down between them, tapping one of the locations with a knuckle.
"I'm glad you thought of this" he continued, voice calm, pleased. "We can apply the same system to a lot more."
His eyes gleamed, already calculating.
"And now," Quentin said softly, "we have our prey."