Falcone sat stone-faced, barely breathing, as a half-dozen rapid-fire reports came through encrypted lines from across Gotham. He didn't move, didn't blink—just listened with that quiet, murderous stillness only a man like Carmine Falcone could command.
In front of him stood one of his oldest capos, Angelo Ricci.
Angelo had been with him since the East End wars. He'd carved men open in back alley basements, survived shootouts that left others in morgues, and walked through horrors most gangsters still whispered about.
And yet Falcone saw raw fear trembling behind the man's eyes.
Not fear of Falcone.
Not even fear of death.
Fear of something else.
"Explain to me," Falcone said, voice like gravel dragged across steel, "how we managed to botch Chinatown so thoroughly and completely."
His grip tightened around the wine glass until it creaked like a bone under pressure.
Angelo nodded once, throat working. "The night started as planned. We hit Chinatown same time as expected—but the cartel struck too. They must've gotten the same intel as us. A three-way shootout broke out between their advance squads, the Triad's defenders, and our boys."
Falcone's eyes narrowed. "I understand that much. Get to the point."
Angelo winced at the sharpness in the words.
He swallowed, shallow and shaky.
"The Underpass crews were waiting on the rooftops," Angelo said. "They had to have known this was coming—I don't know how, but they knew. Soon as the shooting started, they opened fire on all of us from above. High-caliber, coordinated. We lost a large number in seconds."
He rubbed his temples, remembering the carnage.
"Then their ground teams arrived. We were outplayed, Boss—but it was still salvageable. We could've pulled back. We could've escaped."
Falcone leaned forward. "Then what happened?"
Angelo's voice dropped to a whisper.
"…The Bat arrived."
Falcone's jaw tightened.
"Yes," Angelo continued, "Batman showed up with his sidekicks. Red suits, yellow capes, all of 'em. They started rounding everyone up—Triad, cartel, us—didn't matter. And Batman went straight for the masked man working for the Underpass."
A shudder rippled down Angelo's spine.
"And then… everything went to hell."
Falcone's eyes sharpened. "What do you mean?"
Angelo stared at the floor as if he could still see the blood pooling there. "Triad turned on Triad. Cartel boys shooting their own. Our men going rabid. It was chaos, Boss—pure chaos. Like something got inside everyone's heads and twisted." His voice trembled, losing its usual hard edge. "We thought Batman beat the masked man… until we heard it."
Falcone waited.
Angelo whispered, almost reverently, "That scream. That primal, animal scream. It cut through the whole street. Then that… thing… crawled out of the shadows wearing that mask. Gods, Boss—" His voice cracked. "I never want to see that mask again. Not in this life. Not in the next."
Silence fell over the room, broken only by the soft ticking of the antique clock on the mantel.
Falcone didn't speak for a long time.
Then, finally—a sigh.
A long, heavy, defeated exhale.
"Consolidate our power," he muttered. "The war is over. And if we don't move now, we'll be weaker than ever." His eyes hardened. "I'll call a meeting with what's left of the families. You'll be there."
He gestured toward the door.
"Get some rest, Angelo," Falcone said quietly. "You look like hell."
Angelo didn't reply—he simply nodded and left, the fear still clinging to him like smoke.
Falcone watched him go.
Similar conversations were playing out around Gotham.
The most common factor of them all was simple.
Who was the masked man, and how do they fight something like that?
***
The penthouse was quiet, the curtains half-drawn so the early afternoon light washed the room in a soft gray glow. Nolan sat sunk into the long leather couch, shirtless except for the gauze strips running across his ribs and shoulder. Every breath carried a muted ache, but the worst of the fire in his bones had faded.
On the table, the massive TV murmured with the voice of Commissioner Gordon, mid–press conference.
"…in total, one hundred and eighty-three individuals tied to the Falcone family, the East Side cartel, The Underpass and multiple Triad-linked factions were apprehended during the coordinated sweeps," Gordon said, cameras flashing around him. "Thanks to rapid deployment from GCPD and SWAT, as well as immediate response to the Chinatown incident two nights ago, we were able to prevent further escalation. We are still processing evidence, but early reports indicate this may be the most significant blow to Gotham's organized crime in over a decade."
Nolan's expression stayed neutral, unreadable, though a shadow of something—amusement, maybe—touched the corner of his mouth.
Behind him, Dr. Reeves stood with a clipboard, tapping lightly on a tablet while peeling back a bandage at Nolan's side.
"Hold still," the doctor muttered. "You split two sutures again."
"Walking upstairs," Nolan said smoothly.
Havel shot him a skeptical look. "Walking upstairs doesn't tear sutures in normal people, Mr. Everleigh."
Nolan smirked faintly.
The doctor resumed fussing, palpating along Nolan's ribs with careful fingers. "Bruising is down significantly. Inflammation almost gone. The fracture lines are already knitting. Honestly…"
He leaned back, brows pulling together as he checked yesterday's scans.
"…you're recovering remarkably well."
Nolan reached for the remote and raised the volume slightly as Gordon continued talking about interdepartment cooperation and gang consolidations.
"What's that mean?" Nolan asked, not looking away from the screen. "I'm healing fast? Or are we talking superhuman fast?"
He said it with a chuckle—light, almost teasing.
Dr. Reeves didn't laugh.
"I wouldn't classify it as superhuman," he said after a moment, adjusting his glasses, "but you're definitely healing faster than you should be. Considerably faster."
Nolan finally turned his head, meeting the doctor's eyes with a calm, knowing look.
"Well," he murmured, "let's hope it keeps up."
"About the other night Doctor." the doctor stopped his work to look intently at Nolan
"Sir?"
"I must apologize." Nolan continued, "When I saw Marcy on that table I wasn't in the right headspace and I threatened you. Truth if I value your work and the contribution you and your team bring to my organization. I shouldn't have made you more tense in that situation it was probably stressful enough."
The doctor nodded, "I understand sir, I grew up here you know? I have been threatened with worse and in far less stressful situations. Being a doctor in Gotham is a blessing and a curse." The doctor hesitated, "Are you okay though sir?"
Nolan looked at his doctor, his eyes were tranquil even as he heard the beast stalking through his new prison in the back of his mind.
"never been better."