The wind rolled across the rooftop in slow, steady gusts, tugging at Nolan's suit and whispering through the metal fixtures bolted to the concrete. The city stretched out below them in a sprawl of amber lights and distant sirens, Gotham breathing in its usual, restless rhythm.
Nolan exhaled through his nose and tilted his head back, looking up at the cloud-choked sky.
"So," he said quietly, almost tired. "What's it going to be? We fight again, you drag me off in cuffs, and I get arrested and freed?"
A faint, humorless huff escaped him. "We're getting awfully predictable, you and I."
Batman stood a few paces away, cape hanging still, the cowl casting his face into shadow. He took a single step forward, heavy boot grinding softly against gravel.
"This might be the first time I've talked to the real Nolan," he said, his voice low and even. No growl. No theatrics. Just controlled gravity.
"You're a broken man with a system of beliefs that justifies anything you want to do. You tell yourself it's for Gotham. You tell yourself it's necessary."
Batman's eyes stayed locked on him.
"Those ideologies will lead you to make a mistake again," he continued. "And when you do… I'll be there. I will always be there to stop you."
Nolan held his gaze. His jaw tightened, just a fraction.
"I see," he said softly.
He looked away, shaking his head once, as if to clear something heavy from his thoughts.
"I hope we can talk again, Batman," Nolan went on. "Maybe even help each other out with the Court. They're dangerous."
He paused, then added, quieter still:
"And they've been rotting your city from the inside for a long, long time."
Batman didn't answer right away.
The silence stretched. Ten seconds. Twenty. The only sound was the distant rush of traffic and the low moan of wind curling around the rooftop's edge.
Batman studied him.
Not just his posture or the angle of his shoulders—but his eyes. The exhaustion there. The conviction. The fracture lines barely held together by willpower and intellect.
Nolan felt the weight of it and forced himself not to flinch.
Finally, Batman spoke.
"I don't trust you," he said flatly. "And I don't believe your methods are justified. You're not a solution. You're another variable Gotham doesn't need."
A beat.
"But the Court is real. And they're a threat bigger than either of us."
Batman stepped back, cape shifting with the motion.
"I'm not taking you in. Not tonight."
His voice hardened.
"Don't mistake that for mercy."
He turned slightly, then stopped.
"I will be watching."
And then he was gone—melting back into the shadows between one heartbeat and the next, leaving Nolan alone on the rooftop with the wind, the moon, and the uneasy knowledge that whatever came next… neither of them was walking away from it.
The rooftop felt emptier once Batman was gone.
Not quieter—Gotham was never quiet—but hollow in a way Nolan couldn't quite put words to. The wind pressed in around him again, messing up his hair, carrying the distant echo of sirens and horns and a city that never stopped grinding people down.
His gaze drifted to the two unmoving Talons on the concrete.
His mouth tightened.
"…Damn it."
He reached into his inner breast pocket, pulled out his phone, and brought it to his ear. One number. No hesitation.
"Roof," he said when the call connected. "Penthouse building. We've got a mess up here. Two bodies. I want them gone, and I want the surface cleaned like nothing ever happened."
A pause.
"Yes. Tonight. Now."
He ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket, eyes lifting to the skyline again.
That was when the others came.
They didn't arrive with drama or spectacle. They were just… there. Shapes resolving beside him, around him, reflections of thought given form.
Kieran stretched his shoulders like he'd just woken from a nap and let out a low whistle.
"Well," he said lightly, a crooked grin pulling at his lips, "we just narrowly escaped Batman. That's a pretty big win if you ask me. I say we celebrate. Whiskey. Something expensive. Something irresponsible."
Quentin barked out a sharp, humorless laugh.
"Don't be naïve."
He turned toward Kieran, eyes cold and bright.
"Batman didn't 'let us go' out of the kindness of his little bat-heart. He just realized there's an organization controlling Gotham that he didn't even know existed."
Quentin stepped closer to Nolan now, voice lowering.
"And the only concrete thing he does know about them… is that they're coming after us."
Kieran's grin faded a notch.
Quentin continued, relentless.
"He also knows we won't sit still. We can't. We're going to fight back. Which means every move they make toward us creates noise. Creates patterns. Creates leads."
Vey folded his arms, eyes narrowing in thought.
"…Which makes us bait," he said flatly.
Nolan let out a quiet breath.
Kieran opened his mouth to argue—
Then stopped.
"…Yeah," he admitted. "That tracks."
Nolan finally turned away from the skyline and looked at them all.
A small, tired smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"You're probably right," he said. "We are bait."
He glanced back at where Batman had stood only minutes ago.
"But Bruce would never risk using us like this if he thought he could actually lock us up for good."
A beat.
"Our only saving grace is that there's still no evidence tying us to anything concrete," Nolan went on. "No witnesses. No forensics. No paper trail."
His smile thinned.
"…Yet."
He exhaled through his nose.
"And I'd bet every dollar I own that he's already working on changing that."
***
Kane stood alone in the study, hands clasped behind his back, staring out through the tall arched windows at Gotham.
The city glowed in fractured amber and white, a living thing spread out beneath him. Normally, the sight brought him a sense of continuity—of lineage, of quiet dominion passed down through generations of men who understood that Gotham was not meant to be ruled loudly.
Tonight, it brought him irritation.
"They failed," he said softly.
Two Talons. Deployed with precision. Given a simple directive.
Kill Kieran Everleigh.
Neither had returned.
Kane's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Not dead, then. Not yet.
He turned from the window, crossing back toward the desk at the center of the room. His fingers rested on its polished surface, pressing just enough for the leather beneath to creak faintly.
"So," he murmured to the empty room, "he's more than we thought."
Not a criminal dilettante.
Not merely another ambitious Gotham power broker.
Something else.
Something troublesome.
A knock came at the door.
Soft. Controlled. Exact.
Kane's expression smoothed instantly, the flash of irritation buried beneath decades of cultivated restraint.
"Enter," he said.
The door opened, and his butler stepped inside—an older man in a perfectly tailored suit, posture rigid, hands folded neatly in front of him.
"Pardon the interruption, sir," the butler said. "This arrived in the post earlier today. It was addressed to you personally."
He crossed the room and presented a single envelope on a silver tray.
Kane's eyes dropped to it.
Black paper.
Heavy stock.
An ornate wax seal stamped with a stylized "C."
The Continental.
His brow furrowed slightly as he took the envelope.
"A letter," Kane said quietly. "How quaint."
The butler inclined his head. "It appears to be an invitation, sir."
Kane broke the seal and slid the card free.
——
Gala Invitation
The Continental Hotel
Formal Attire Required
You are cordially invited to attend an exclusive evening of philanthropy, diplomacy, and discretion.
Hosted by:
Kieran Everleigh
——
The date and time were printed beneath in elegant script.
Kane stared at the name.
Once.
Twice.
Then his lips pressed into a thin, contemplative line.
"…Everleigh," he murmured.
He lowered himself slowly into the chair behind his desk, the card still held between two fingers.
A quiet, humorless breath escaped him.
"So," he said softly, "the hotelier is hosting galas now."
A pause.
"Charity. Diplomacy. Discretion," he repeated, eyes narrowing faintly. "Ambitious branding."
He set the invitation down neatly on the desk, aligning it with the edge.
To him, it read as nothing more than a well-connected social climber making a calculated play—courting Gotham's old money, inserting himself into circles he didn't belong in yet.
He was a threat.
But Certainly not a man who knew anything about the Court than what they let him know.
"Very well, Mr. Everleigh," Kane said quietly