Batman arrived without sound.
The building was dark, power cut cleanly, the kind of silence that felt deliberate rather than abandoned. His boots touched concrete where others had stood not long ago, impressions still faint in the dust. The air carried a sterile sharpness beneath the decay—bleach, cordite, something chemical that lingered just enough to register.
He moved toward the center of the room.
Jonathan Crane sat bound to a chair.
Batman stopped a few feet away and took him in all at once, then began to break the scene apart piece by piece.
Three gunshot wounds.
One to the chest—precise, centered, lethal. Two to the head, delivered afterward. Execution, not panic. No hesitation in the placement. Whoever had done this had decided, cleanly, that Crane was not leaving alive.
Batman crouched.
He leaned closer, eyes narrowing behind the cowl as he examined the rest of the body. There were bruises along Crane's face and ribs—nothing excessive, but enough to tell a story. Blunt force. Controlled. Interrogative rather than rage-driven.
His gaze dropped to Crane's wrists.
Reddened skin. Raw in places. The marks weren't from restraints being tightened—they were from resistance. Crane had pulled hard against them. Repeatedly. Long enough for blood flow to be restricted, long enough for skin to break.
Batman's jaw tightened.
He lifted Crane's chin slightly, careful, clinical.
The pupils were still dilated.
Not postmortem dilation. Not fully. They hadn't had time to settle.
Fear, Batman thought.
Intense. Prolonged.
He noticed the tracks on Crane's cheeks next—tear lines, only partially dried. Not chemical burns. Not residue from gas. Human tears.
Luckily the blood from the bullet wounds didn't cover the evidence.
Batman straightened slowly, the weight of the details settling into place.
Crane hadn't just been killed.
He had been unmade first.
Batman activated a scan, sweeping the room for residual compounds. His display flickered, numbers scrolling fast—trace fear toxin in the air, already dissipating. Recent. Very recent.
But something else lingered too, something his equipment couldn't quantify.
Emotion, pressed into the room like a fingerprint.
Batman looked around.
No bodies besides Crane. No shell casings left behind. No tools. No signs of a prolonged struggle beyond what Crane himself had inflicted on his restraints. Whoever had been here knew how to erase themselves.
Too well.
Batman's gaze drifted toward the walls, the corners, the places people stood when they didn't want to be seen. He could almost map their movements in his head—where they would have entered, where they would have positioned themselves, how they would have controlled the space.
Scarecrow had been taken alive.
Interrogated.
And executed.
Batman rose to his full height, cape settling around him like a shadow reclaiming its shape.
"The Underpass," he said quietly to the empty room, "Their gone by now." He eyed Crane's dead body and remembered all of the times he personally caught Crane
How many times he stopped Crane from hurting the city and…
How many times he failed to stop him.
'How' he thought, 'Does Crane connect to the people who are messing with Kieran's Hotel.'
****
The penthouse was quiet in the way only high places ever were.
Not peaceful—just distant. Gotham's noise reached this high as a dull, constant murmur, like the city breathing far below him. Nolan stood near the windows at first, hands resting against the cool glass, the lights of the city reflected faintly over his face.
His mind wouldn't slow.
Scarecrow came first.
Jonathan Crane's face surfaced uninvited—the way his body had tensed, the sudden panic that hadn't come from gas or needles or chemicals. Fear, raw and absolute. Nolan could still feel the moment Vey had touched him, could still sense how quickly it had all unraveled.
Too quickly.
That was the part that lingered.
Crane had been a man who built his life around terror. He had studied it, refined it, worshiped it. And yet when Nolan's power had turned on him—when fear hadn't been administered but imposed—there had been no resistance. No adaptation. Just collapse.
Broken in seconds.
Nolan exhaled slowly.
There was relief there, undeniable. Crane was gone. The orphanage would sleep easier. Gotham would breathe, at least for a little while. A weight had lifted from his shoulders—
—and yet, almost immediately, another had settled in its place.
Because now Nolan knew.
Not just that he could do it.
But how easily.
That kind of power demanded understanding. Control. Exploration. He couldn't afford to leave parts of himself unexamined anymore—not after seeing how fast something like that could end a man. Yes he used it during the gang wars but that was against thugs, not geniuses like crane.
He remembered when he tried to use it against Batman and he failed. He thought Crane would resist.
He pushed the thought aside, deliberately.
Later.
His gaze drifted back toward the city as his mind shifted again, turning over the other truth Crane had left behind.
The Kanes.
A founding family.
One of the names etched into Gotham's bones, woven into its infrastructure, its politics, its charities, its history. The kind of influence that didn't need to threaten openly because it had already shaped the rules everyone else lived under.
If the Kanes were part of the Court… then they weren't alone.
There would be others. Old money. Old power. Families that had survived Gotham's cycles of collapse and rebirth by standing just far enough away from the violence while quietly guiding it.
Nolan's jaw tightened.
Taking down gangs was one thing. Criminals operated in shadows, yes—but they were still visible if you knew where to look.
This?
This was rot in the foundation.
He wondered how many hands were involved. How many smiling donors. How many ribbon cuttings and charity galas and civic initiatives hid something darker beneath.
And more importantly—how you fought something that had been entrenched longer than he had been alive.
Eventually, Nolan sighed.
He rolled his shoulders, stretching out the lingering stiffness in his body, feeling the familiar aches protest before slowly easing. The tension didn't leave entirely, but it loosened enough for him to breathe.
A quiet chuckle escaped him, humorless but genuine.
"Well," he said aloud, voice echoing faintly in the open space, "how long do you think it'll take before Batman comes knocking?"
The room remained empty.
It never answered out loud.
But Nolan felt them there anyway—Quentin's calculation, Vey's focus, Kieran's wry anticipation—all circling the same inevitability.
Soon.
Batman wouldn't ignore this.
****
The Court convened at dawn.
News, when it came, was delivered without ceremony.
"Jonathan Crane is dead."
The voice echoed softly through the chamber before fading into silence.
There was no gasp. No ripple of alarm. Only the faint sound of fabric shifting as one member adjusted their posture.
"Unfortunate," another said at last, tone idle. "He was… useful."
"A blunt instrument," a different voice replied. "But an effective one."
Several heads inclined in agreement. Crane had been a weapon—volatile, yes, but pointed outward. Fear gas destabilized neighborhoods, flushed prey into the open, softened targets. He had served his purpose.
"And he knew nothing," someone else added, dismissively. "At least nothing of us."
That settled the matter for most of them.
Crane had always been kept at arm's length. Funding passed through intermediaries. Instructions filtered down through shells and shadows. He had believed himself clever, indispensable—never realizing how little he'd actually been trusted with.
"If he talked," one voice said calmly, "we would already know."
A pause followed. Then another member spoke, quieter, sharper.
"The concern is not Crane."
Eyes turned—subtly, almost imperceptibly—toward the speaker.
"It's Kieran."
The name carried weight now. Not fear—not yet—but irritation. A variable. An unknown that had begun interfering with plans long set in motion.
"He's too visible," one member said. "Too disruptive."
"And too confident," another added. "That kind of man doesn't stay small."
There was a murmur of assent.
"He took Crane," the first voice continued. "Not for spectacle his group didn't broadcast it. Not for message. But for revenge and information."
That drew more attention.
"And what he learned," someone else said slowly, "we cannot be certain."
Silence again.
Then, inevitably, the word surfaced.
"A Talon," one of them said.
It wasn't spoken lightly.
The chamber seemed to grow colder at the suggestion.
"A direct response invites scrutiny," a dissenting voice offered. "This city is already restless."
"But it also sends clarity," came the reply. "Kieran is not a gang leader. Not a vigilante. He's something else. And he's testing boundaries."
Several members considered that.
"He has resources," another said. "Followers. Influence among the undesirables."
"And confidence born from success," someone else added. "That makes him dangerous."
The discussion circled, measured and precise. Pros weighed against risks. History invoked. Precedent cited.
At last, the voice at the head of the table spoke.
"We do not send Talons for curiosity," they said. "We send them to end problems."
A pause.
"Kieran has proven he is one."
No one argued this time.
"Deploy them," the voice concluded. "And let's be done with this mess."
Masks inclined in unanimous consent.