Two hours.
It took Vey two full hours to limp his way out of the swamp and into the fringes of Gotham proper. Dawn had already cut a pale line across the sky, painting his battered body in sickly light. Every step was pleasure, pleasure he knew was wrong.
So fucking wrong.
A shambling figure drenched in blood and mud wasn't the ideal look for a man who, on paper, owned a luxury hotel.
Vey stayed to the shadows, avoiding main streets, slipping behind dumpsters and chain-link fences, hugging alleys like they were lifelines. By the time he reached one of the underpass's smaller satellite encampments, he could barely feel his legs.
Two watchmen sat near a pair of tents, half-dozing with cigarettes in hand. One of them spotted the silhouette approaching and froze.
"Boss!?"
Brandon was on his feet instantly, sprinting over. Shock widened his eyes when he realized who it was, and he ducked under Vey's arm, supporting his weight.
"Jesus—sir—we thought you were a goner."
He looked over his shoulder. "Mitch! Call Terrell! Tell him the boss is alive and needs immediate transport!"
Mitch scrambled out of the tent, already pulling a burner phone from his pocket.
Vey forced himself into a sitting position on a crate, his lungs burning like acid.
"What's your name?" he asked his brain still jumbled
"Brandon, sir."
"Well met, Brandon." Vey smiled thinly, "How'd you hold up through the night?"
Brandon exhaled sharply, "Shit got crazy for a bit there, boss. But the cops shifted everything toward Chinatown. They swept this whole section by—"
The roar of an engine cut him off.
A matte-black van rolled into the alley, headlights off, tires whisper-quiet. The door slid open before it even stopped.
Terrell Gaines jumped out, eyes widening the second he saw Vey.
"Ah, hell—get him in, now."
Between Terrell and Brandon, they loaded Vey inside. The interior lights flicked on—soft, surgical white—showing just how bad he looked. Blood soaked through the bandages he'd haphazardly wrapped around himself hours ago.
The ride was fast, smooth, silent.
By the time they pulled into the Continental's private garage, Vey was barely conscious.
***
The moment Terrell hauled Vey out of the van, the hotel's private doctor, was already rushing them into a sterile room.
"Put him down. I need space. Now."
Terrell lowered him onto the medical bed. The doctor leaned in—and froze.
"Good God… you're still conscious?"
Vey coughed out something halfway between a laugh and a groan, "Unfortunately." It seemed Nolan was letting up on the manipulation pain was starting to come back to him
And he was grateful.
The doctor didn't waste time—slicing away fabric, stitching, disinfecting wounds that should have knocked a man out hours ago.
Terrell stood against the wall, arms crossed, jaw clenched. He looked angrier by the minute.
"You shouldn't even be alive," the doctor muttered. "Your adrenaline levels… your blood pressure… this is insane."
Vey swatted at the doctor's wrist weakly.
"Doc… stop narrating. Hurts worse."
Terrell stepped forward. "Boss. What happened out there?"
Vey didn't answer right away. He forced himself upright, ignoring the doctor's exasperated hiss.
"Terrell… get Dre… Naima… and Marcy."
He took a slow breath, steadying the tremor in his voice, "We need a debrief. Now."
Terrell blinked, "Right now? Boss, you just came back half-dead."
"I'm aware." Vey's eyes sharpened. "But they need answers before rumors start twisting this into something worse. Go."
Terrell hesitated—but only for a heartbeat—then nodded sharply and strode out.
The doctor stared at Vey in disbelief.
"You're… you're still awake," he murmured. "How the hell are you still awake?"
Vey gave a thin, humorless smile.
"…bad habit."
Dr. Reeves worked with fast, precise hands—cutting away ruined clothing, pressing along ribs, checking swelling, cleaning blood that kept reappearing no matter how much he wiped. The table beneath Vey was already stained crimson.
"Hold still," the doctor muttered, palpating along Vey's side with two fingers. Vey hissed, breath catching.
"What is it?" he asked through clenched teeth.
"Blunt trauma everywhere," Reeves said flatly. "Your ribs are bruised at best, possibly cracked. Your left clavicle is swollen and misaligned—might be a hairline fracture. There's deep contusion along the spine, and your right shoulder… God, it looks like you were slammed into concrete."
He looked up sharply.
"You should not be awake for this. I should put you under. This level of pain—this kind of treatment—shouldn't be done on a conscious patient."
Vey glared at him, eyes glassy yet unyielding.
"I'm not going under."
His breathing hitched as the doctor pressed on another bruised section.
"I need to speak to my people. Just… work, doctor. Do your job."
Reeves exhaled sharply but didn't argue. "Fine. But don't blame me when you pass out mid-sentence."
***
The door slid open.
Terrell stepped in first—broad-shouldered, tense—pushing Marcy Liu in her wheelchair. Her sharp eyes swept over Vey, widening with alarm.
Naima entered seconds later, boots silent against the tile, her expression cold and controlled.
Vey let out the smallest breath of relief.
"Good… you're all here," he murmured, forcing a weak smile.
They all looked like they always do although perhaps a little more beat up. They looked releieved to see him.
And yet…
And yet Vey could see their fear, he could see they witnessed the worst side of him. He could see they now knew what type of man they worked for, what type of man they put their future in the hands of.
He ignored it.
"Give it to me straight. What's the damage? How many of our people were captured? Did we lose any territory?"
Terrell answered first.
"Some of ours got scooped up, yeah. But not many. Not compared to Falcone, the cartels, the Triad. They got torn apart tonight."
Naima folded her arms.
"Most of our territory held. Cops started sweeping the outer camps at first but the gunfire in Chinatown pulled nearly every unit away. That distraction saved most of our perimeter."
Marcy nodded, her fingers drumming quietly on her wheelchair arm.
"We're running a headcount, but so far? Minimal loss compared to the others. Underpass remains intact."
Vey closed his eyes for a second—relief, exhaustion, pain all mixing.
"And our allies… the Jade Leopards?" he asked. "They got hit early. How are they faring?"
Marcy leaned forward, voice steady.
"They're alive. They moved most of their operations before things popped off. They took a hit, yes—supply caches, a few runners, one safehouse burned—but nothing fatal. They'll need a little time to rebuild, but they'll bounce back."
Terrell added, "Compared to literally everyone else? They're practically the lucky ones."
Vey nodded slowly, absorbing it.
"Good," he whispered. "Good. It could have been far, far worse."
Dr. Reeves pressed a cold instrument against Vey's ribcage—Vey stiffened violently, teeth gritting—but he kept his eyes on his commanders.
"Alright," he said, voice low but sharpening with resolve.
Vey inhaled slowly, steadying himself as Dr. Reeves tightened another band of medical tape along his ribcage. Pain spiked white-hot, but he kept his eyes on his people.
"Alright," Vey said, jaw stiff. "Here's what happens next."
The room straightened—Terrell, Naima, Marcy, even the doctor paused slightly, recognizing the shift in his tone.
"First—hold our territory," Vey ordered. "Lock down the perimeter, no unnecessary movement. If the Jade Leopards, Dogs, or deacons need support, supplies, bodies—give it. They helped us before, we return that favor. Also don't be afraid to ask them for something. We need to show we aren't charity."
Terrell nodded immediately.
"Next—our transportation routes." Vey winced as another bolt of pain shot down his arm but pushed through it. "We get them open as soon as possible, but we don't rush. We don't force anything. No sloppy mistakes. Wait until we know exactly who we have left, and who we don't."
Naima gave a firm nod. Marcy tapped something on her tablet.
"Once the count is complete," Vey continued, "we start repairing everything that got torn down last night. Lighting. Tunnels. Safehouses. Anything the cops or other crews messed with."
He paused, breath shallow.
"And… we need public faces back up. Everyone's hiding, everyone's scared. Not us." His eyes hardened. "We show we're still strong. Still standing. Still organized."
Terrell smirked slightly. "Make the city think we barely felt the punch."
"Exactly." Vey angled his head toward him. "If anyone asks for a meeting—Cartel remnants, Triad lieutenants, Falcones, whoever—tell them I'll get back to them. Schedule anything important for a later date."
He leaned back, breathing heavily.
"We set the pace. Not them."
There was a moment of silence.
Then Dre—who had been unusually quiet—shifted beside Marcy's wheelchair.
"Boss," Dre said slowly, "I think… we got a closer issue at hand."
Vey lifted an eyebrow.
"Go on."
Dre cleared his throat, glancing at the others.
"You got a charity gala next week. At the Continental."
He looked directly at Vey.
"For the opening of your orphanage."
Another beat.
"With the congressman attending."
The room went still.
Vey stared at him.
Blankly at first.
Then he muttered something sharp and bitter under his breath, almost a growl.
He turned to Dr. Reeves.
"Doc. Are any of my bones actually broken? Am I going to need a cast?"
The doctor tightened the brace around Vey's ribs and gave a curt nod.
"Yes. At least one rib is fractured, and your clavicle needs immobilization. A cast or sling would help stabilize it and speed recovery. Without it, you'll tear it worse."
Vey closed his eyes, exhaling through his teeth.
"Perfect," he mumbled.
He opened them again and looked around at his people—Dre, Naima, Marcy, Terrell—who waited for his call.
"I'll figure it out," Vey said, voice returning to that cool, unshakable cadence.
"Don't worry about the gala. It'll go smoothly."
Terrell tilted his head skeptically.
Naima arched a brow.
Marcy just whispered, "If you say so, boss…"
But Vey only smiled faintly, wounded but defiant.
"I've been worse," he said.
"And I've bullshitted through bigger crowds."