Nolan's penthouse was quiet except for the distant hum of Gotham far below. The morning light cut through the floor-to-ceiling windows, washing the room in pale gold. Nolan sat on his sectional sofa, posture straight despite the ache twisting beneath his ribs. The doctor had insisted he shouldn't walk much—not after the blunt trauma, the bruised bone, and whatever hell The Beast had put his body through.
Elias Cordain stood a respectful distance away, planner in hand, shoes silent against the polished floor. Even here, in the privacy of Nolan's own domain, the concierge maintained perfect composure.
"As of this morning," Elias began, flipping a page, "everything for the gala is in place. The ballroom staging is done. The auction items are secured. Catering is locked. The congressman and his entourage have confirmed the itinerary. Press restrictions are approved."
Nolan nodded once, slow, careful. A breath too deep still tugged a bolt of pain through his ribs.
Elias continued, "The speeches are loaded into the teleprompters. The security teams are rotating as scheduled. Transportation for the donors has been arranged. And your requested changes to the lighting and stage placement were implemented overnight."
He paused.
"But," Elias said softly, "there is one matter, sir, which I would prefer to raise here—rather than in front of the staff."
Nolan looked up from the muted television playing the morning news, giving Elias his full attention.
"What matter?"
Elias closed the planner gently. "I am concerned, sir, about… overlap. Some of our more unorthodox guests—those who frequent the restricted wings—may inadvertently cross paths with the gala attendees. Particularly with law enforcement present for the congressman."
Nolan breathed out through his nose, easing back against the couch.
"I already handled it," he said. "Everyone downstairs has been given updated routes. New entrances. New exits. They won't come within thirty feet of the gala floor."
Elias blinked, visibly relieved. "Excellent. I had hoped as much."
"I told them," Nolan added, "Even if they did get spotted it wouldn't matter as much as you would imagine anyways. We don't refuse service and they wouldn't be able to pin anything on us."
A small smile ghosted across Elias's lips. "Very well put, sir."
Nolan's doctor leaned in from behind the couch, "You shouldn't be sitting upright this long," he muttered. "Your ribs are still recovering, and your abdominal bruising hasn't-"
"I'm fine," Nolan said, though the thin tremor in his breath betrayed him.
Elias straightened. "Then, unless you have additional changes, I'll proceed with the final preparations."
Nolan nodded. "Keep everything tight and make sure to let Floyd know his role, I don't want any surprises."
"Always, sir." Elias bowed his head slightly and stepped toward the private elevator.
When he disappeared behind the doors, Nolan let his shoulders sag for a moment—just one—before the doctor returned with fresh bandages.
"Your face looks like hell boss, how are you going to attend?"
***
Nolan stared at his own reflection for a long moment, breaths shallow, the sterile bathroom lights outlining the faint swelling along his jaw. He splashed cold water over his face, letting it sting, letting it wake him. When he finally reached for the towel and lifted his head again—
Kieran Everleigh stared back.
He blinked once, wincing.
"Bloody perfect," he muttered, rolling his sore neck. "I get stuck with the pain, I don't know how you guys do it."
He leaned closer to the mirror, prodding a tender spot beneath his cheekbone, "Oh, this is going to be a fun night."
With a practiced exhale, he set the towel aside, opened Nolan's neatly arranged cosmetics kit, and got to work. The pain didn't slow him; he'd worked through worse with a smile before. His hands moved with expert precision, brushing foundation across the faint purpling under his eyes, airbrushing the discoloration along his jaw, and layering concealer over every trace of swelling.
A dab of powder.
Light contouring to return symmetry.
A faint highlighter to draw the attention away from anywhere it shouldn't go.
Within minutes, Nolan's injuries were gone—hidden beneath a master illusion of grooming and poise.
"Handsome as ever," Kieran said dryly to himself.
Then he pushed up his sleeves and sighed at the mottled bruises running along his forearms.
"Honestly, Beast, you absolute bastard."
He retrieved the small sealed packets from the drawer—thin sheets of high-end synthetic cosmetic skin. He peeled one open, pressed it gently over a gash near his wrist, smoothing it carefully until the seam blended. Then another. Then another. The false skin melded seamlessly, disappearing under a thin layer of foundation.
A final dusting of setting powder.
A last check of the mirror.
And the illusion of perfection was restored.
Kieran smiled with practiced charm, though his eyes flickered with exhaustion.
"All right," he said to the empty room, straightening his collar. "Let's go fool some snobs."
'Says the biggest snob of them all.' Quentin said rolling his eyes
The elevator slid open with a soft chime, and Kieran Everleigh stepped out onto the mezzanine overlooking the Continental's grand ballroom. Music drifted upward — strings warming up, quiet conversations beginning to layer across one another, the gentle clink of crystal under chandeliers that looked like suspended constellations.
He adjusted his cufflinks, straightened his jacket, and adopted the easy, graceful posture Nolan could never maintain when he wasn't—well—Kieran.
Tonight, he had to be flawless.
The gala had only just begun, guests filtering in like a slow-moving tide of wealth and influence. Kieran descended the polished staircase, greeting familiar faces with practiced warmth until he reached the congressman and his aides near the stage.
"Congressman," Kieran said, extending a perfectly steady hand. "Welcome back to the Continental. I hope tonight marks the beginning of a long and fruitful partnership."
The congressman smiled, a politician's smile — genuine enough to pass inspection. "Mr. Everleigh, the pleasure is mine. The orphanage project is exactly what Gotham needs. Your commitment to it is admirable."
"I'm merely providing the space," Kieran replied with a gracious tilt of the head. "The real reward will be seeing it open its doors soon."
They exchanged a few pleasantries — funding updates, public expectations, the press coverage scheduled for the evening. Reyes promised his continued support; Kieran promised an unforgettable night.
Then Kieran made his rounds.
A handshake here. A compliment there. A light laugh, an artful turn of the wrist, effortless charm coating every interaction. His face never faltered, not even as the makeup beneath subtly tugged at bruised skin.
He was in complete control—
Until he saw him.
Bruce Wayne walked through the double doors with that casually confident stride that belonged only to a man with more money than the room combined and more secrets than anyone dared guess.
Kieran stopped.
Just—stopped.
A cold jolt of fear cracked through his chest like a snapped wire. His heartbeat stuttered. For a split second the bruises beneath his cosmetics pulsed hot, throbbing with phantom impact. Batman's hits. Batman's hands. Batman standing over him as Vey's mask cracked.
Kieran forced his breathing to steady.
Smile.
Relax your shoulders.
Walk.
He raised his chin and glided forward, every inch the immaculate host.
"Mr. Wayne," Kieran said warmly as he approached, no tremor in his voice despite the adrenaline flooding his system. "I wasn't aware you'd be joining us tonight. What an unexpected pleasure."
Bruce Wayne turned, that perfect billionaire-playboy grin settling onto his face — and yet his eyes, sharp and too perceptive, flicked over Kieran with unsettling precision.
Kieran kept smiling.
He had to.