The rooftop was quiet again.
Too quiet.
Two bodies lay where they'd fallen, bodies turned toward a sky they would never see properly again. The Talons were motionless now, finally still, their blood dark against the concrete, their weapons scattered where nerveless fingers had dropped them.
Batman stood near the edge of the roof, cape settling slowly behind him.
Vey stood several feet away, chest rising and falling, knife still in one hand, gun in the other.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then Vey exhaled, straightened—and something in him shifted.
His posture softened just a fraction. His shoulders loosened. The hard, predatory tension drained from his eyes, replaced by something lighter. Sharper in a different way.
He tucked the knife back into its sheath, slid the gun into his inner coat pocket, and looked up at Batman with a small, almost polite grin.
"You don't know who Vey is," he said casually. "I'm Kieran Everleigh."
Batman's expression didn't change.
"Your mannerisms changed," he replied evenly. "Your speech pattern too. You were Vey before."
Kieran's grin widened by a hair.
Batman took a step closer, boots heavy against the concrete.
"Now explain," he said, voice tightening, "who sent those assassins—and how they connect to you torturing and killing Scarecrow."
Kieran blinked.
Once.
Then put a hand to his chest in exaggerated surprise.
"Scarecrow's dead?" he asked. "Wow. I had no idea. He was so nice in Arkham when we met. Real charmer."
Batman moved again, faster this time.
He stopped barely a step away, presence suddenly oppressive, shadow swallowing Kieran's grin.
"Don't play games with me."
Kieran raised both hands, palms out, stepping lightly to the side as if calming an agitated animal.
"Hey, hey," he said easily. "You don't need to be so threatening, Bats. Relax."
He tilted his head, studying Batman with amused curiosity.
"I'm actually surprised you don't already know who they are. I thought you knew everything that went on in this city."
Batman didn't rise to it.
"Start talking, Kieran."
Kieran laughed softly and shook his head.
"And what, exactly, are you going to do if I don't?" he asked.
"Beat me up? Drag me down to the GCPD by my collar?"
He gestured vaguely toward the city below.
"What have I done that's illegal, Batman? Seriously. Name it."
He shrugged.
"You're welcome to arrest me, of course. I'll go to jail again. Then I'll be freed again—legally. All very boring, very procedural. A lot of trouble, but…" he smiled faintly, "…fun in some ways, I guess."
Batman stared at him, jaw tight, eyes unreadable behind the cowl.
He didn't move.
Didn't threaten.
Didn't speak.
Inside Kieran's head, the silence didn't exist.
'This is a bad idea,' Nolan muttered.
'We should shut up. And find a way to walk.'
'He's dangerous,' Quentin added. 'He won't let us walk without telling him Nolan.'
'Which is exactly why we should use him,' Vey replied calmly. 'We can't fight the Court blind. And Batman is one hell of a battering ram.'
'We don't even know how many of them there are,' Nolan said. 'Or what else they have besides those things.'
'He'll find them,' Quentin said slowly.
There was a brief, heavy pause.
Then Kieran's smile faded.
Not into fear.
Not into anger.
Into something thoughtful.
He looked back at Batman.
"Fine," he said quietly. "You want something useful?"
Batman didn't respond. He simply waited.
Kieran took a slow breath.
"Those things?" he nodded toward the dead Talons. "They weren't hired muscle. They weren't mercenaries. They weren't even people anymore from what I gather."
He met Batman's eyes.
"They belong to a group that's been running Gotham from the shadows longer than you've been wearing that cape."
Batman's posture shifted subtly.
Kieran continued.
"They call themselves the Court of Owls."
The name hung in the air.
"They're old," Kieran said. "Old families. Old money. Old power. The kind that doesn't show up on campaign finance reports or corporate filings."
He gestured faintly at the rooftop, at the bodies.
"Scarecrow was working for them. They were funding him. Using him to attack me knowing he had an obsession."
Batman's voice, when it came, was low.
"And you?"
Kieran's lips twitched.
"They decided to 'probe' my businesses. Health inspectors. Licenses. Pressure even inviting me to a gala to tell me to fold under them. Then they sent Scarecrow after my orphanage."
A beat.
"Then they sent those things after me."
Batman's gaze sharpened.
"And Scarecrow?"
Kieran held his eyes.
"He didn't know much," he said. "Just that he was being paid by old families. One name he let slip, Kane."
Batman's fists tightened slightly.
Kieran spread his hands.
"That's all I have. I don't know where they meet. I don't know who leads them. I don't know how many Talons they've got in cold storage."
He paused.
"But they're real. And now they've decided I'm a problem."
Batman stared at him for a long moment.
The wind surged between them again.
"You're forthcoming now, did you get outvoted by the other personalities?"
Kieran smiled faintly.
"What personalities?" he said. "I just expect you to realize we're about to have the same enemy."
The wind tugged at Kieran's coat as he let out a slow, tired sigh.
"I expect you recorded this," he said lightly, "to get a nice little confession before hauling me in."
He tilted his head.
"You're going to find your recording didn't pick anything up."
Batman's jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.
He raised his gauntlet and tapped a control.
A faint playback hum sounded.
Then… nothing.
Just static. Wind. The distant city.
No voices.
No names.
No Court.
No Kane.
Batman stopped the playback.
Kieran's mouth curved into a sharp, satisfied grin.
Batman's voice came low and controlled.
"Crane didn't deserve to die. He could have been rehabilitated. Just like you can be."
Kieran's grin vanished.
He made a face—genuine irritation flickering through the polish.
"Crane was an obsessed psychopath who gassed people with a toxin that induced mass terror and psychosis," he snapped.
"He ruined lives. Businesses. Families. He tortured people. He killed people."
He took a step closer.
"You caught him. You brought him to Arkham. And then you let him escape. Again. And again. And again."
His voice sharpened.
"You let him repeat the cycle over and over because of what? A make-believe hope of rehabilitation?"
He scoffed.
"Get a grip, Batman. Your method is flawed. You let the sickness build and fester in this city. You keep putting monsters back in cages made of paper and pretending that counts as justice."
His eyes hardened.
"Crane deserved to die years ago. His death is nobody's fault but yours."
Batman's gaze darkened.
"A psychopath," he said coldly.
"A man who ruins lives. A killer. A torturer."
He took one step forward.
"Sounds like you're describing yourself, Kieran. By your own logic, you can't be saved. And you should be dead."
For the first time, Kieran didn't deflect.
He didn't smirk.
He just shook his head slowly.
"Maybe you're right."
Something shifted again.
Subtle.
Deep.
Kieran's posture sagged a fraction.
And Nolan surfaced.
He stared down at his own hands like he'd just noticed them for the first time.
"Perhaps I am too far gone," Nolan said quietly.
He looked back up at Batman, eyes tired. Honest.
"But here's the difference."
His voice steadied.
"I know I've done horrible things. For every death by my hands, I carry their soul in my own. I shoulder guilt. Sometimes shame."
A breath.
"And I still keep pushing forward."
Batman didn't interrupt.
Nolan continued.
"Why? Because I believe I can make a difference."
A bitter half-smile tugged at his lips.
"Yes, the wealth and power are intoxicating. It feels… indescribable. Control always does."
His eyes flicked to Batman's cape.
"It's like you and fear. You like the influence you carry in this city. The way criminals freeze when they see your silhouette."
He took a slow step closer.
"You might not have killed anyone. But you've crippled people. Broken people. Men who were just trying to survive in Gotham. Common thugs with no real choices."
His voice softened.
"Do you feel guilt, Batman?"
Silence.
Nolan held his gaze.
"But you keep pushing forward anyway. Always forward. Always repeating the same cycle."
A pause.
"And why?"
His eyes burned faintly.
"Because you believe—just like I do—that this city can be different."