The city above moved like a machine, smooth and unaware. Midtown's lights glowed sterile and polished, reflecting off glass storefronts and corporate towers. Janus Cosmetics stood in the center of it all pristine marble entry, pastel signage, digital window ads cycling images of smiling influencers pushing creams and serums. To the average passerby, it was just another overpriced boutique.
But the people watching from the underground knew better.
Two figures sat on a rooftop across the street, half-hidden behind a rusted HVAC unit. They wore threadbare jackets and fraying gloves, faces smudged with grime, but eyes sharp behind cracked lenses and narrowed lids. One held a pair of binoculars, the other scribbled notes into a weather-stained notepad.
"That's the third time today that white van pulled up," the watcher murmured, tracking it as it idled at the curb. "Same guy driving, same two unloading the boxes."
"Time?" asked the second man Bill, a lanky figure with a sunken face and a stutter that vanished only when he's focused.
"Four-oh-eight. Mark the plate: YXK nine-five-six."
Bill grunted and jotted it down in tight, legible letters.
Below, the van's back doors opened. Two men emerged, dressed like warehouse workers safety vests, gloves, clipboards but moved too clean, they're heads swiveled almost as if looking for danger. They rolled a single crate into the side entrance, not the storefront, disappearing behind a metal door that required a code.
"Side entry again," the binoculars-man muttered. "That's four times this week."
A third voice crackled softly through a salvaged radio. "Front's busy. Counted sixteen walk-ins so far, mostly women, no repeat customers. All surface-level shoppers. Civilians."
"Copy that," Bill replied, pushing his hood up against the wind. "Any guard rotation?"
"None visible, but that guy with the coffee he's been out front since noon. Might be watching."
Binoculars-man leaned forward, adjusting the focus. "Beard, dark coat, earpiece?" He paused. "Yeah. He's not security for the boutique. Feet too wide, eyes never settle. That's a False Face goon in sheep's clothing."
They all knew what to look for by now.
From another block over, hidden in the skeletal shell of a half-renovated office building, a woman lay prone under a tarp, scope trained on the alley behind Janus. She keyed her mic. "No dumpster runs since last night. Delivery route hasn't changed—trucks come through 7 AM and 3 PM, both times the alley's cleared for three minutes flat."
"Timing it?" asked Bill.
"Yeah. Each drop is under ninety seconds. The van from earlier? Never even cut the engine."
Bill underlined that, flipping to the next page. The notebook was half-filled already, packed with notes, timestamps, license plates, crude diagrams. All of it would go back to Quentin tonight.
On the street, a mother and child passed the boutique, laughing at something in the glass display. The guards didn't flinch. The place was designed to disappear into Gotham's high-end landscape, masked with light and luxury.
But the watchers in the dark were peeling it back. Slowly. Carefully.
Binoculars-man shifted again, wincing at a twinge in his side. "How much more we need?"
"Two more days. Then we pass the pattern up the line." Bill looked across the street, eyes lingering on the gleaming sign above the entrance. Janus. "Every place has cracks. We just gotta find 'em."
"And when we do?" the man asked.
Bill smiled faintly, notebook clutched in gloved hands.
"The boss will make his move don't worry."
"Yeah what do ya think of the boss?"
"He's a good one I think not sure haven't interacted with him much, heard he's a little mental."
"I heard that too old frank said he seen him talking to himself."
"Mental I tell ya."
***
The Arden had never looked better.
The top floors gleamed with new life fresh marble tile replacing the cracked ones, gold-trim fixtures now polished and untouched by smoke or soot. Chandeliers once lost to dust now sparkled again. The penthouse had been restored to its former glory and then some. Clean lines. Deep blues. Custom molding. Art that meant something.
Nolan stood in the lobby, arms behind his back, watching the staff line up for drills. They wore tailored suits—dark slate, crisp collars, silver tie bars. Not a hair out of place. Many of them had slept on asphalt just a month ago.
Now they moved like professionals, albeit a little stiff.
"Good posture, Jonas," Nolan said as one man practiced greeting an imaginary guest. "But you're not defusing a bomb. Relax the shoulders."
"Yes, Mr. Everleigh"
Another staff member, a woman in patent-leather heels, took notes on a guestbook simulation.
"Excellent, Renée," he murmured as he passed her. "Offer them water before they ask. Show them they're home."
Behind him, workers still bustled with finishing touches installing baseboards, painting trim, replacing sconces. It was chaos in the corners, but order where Nolan walked. The Arden would open on time. A week and a half, Marnie had promised. He believed her.
Then his phone buzzed in his jacket.
He stepped away from the lobby, ducking into the quiet of the ballroom where the chandeliers still hung under protective plastic. He answered.
"Talk."
A voice crackled back, low and uneasy. "Boss. It's about last night."
Nolan's brow furrowed. "Go on."
"There was a shootout near the River Street encampment. One of Black Mask's crews showed up, just like we expected. Our guys were prepped. Got the drop on them."
Nolan exhaled. "So what's the problem?"
There was a pause.
"Batman showed up."
Silence stretched for a moment too long.
"What?"
"He dropped in during the fight. Took out everyone. Ours. Theirs. Non-lethal, but hard. Then he told one of our guys, quote—'Tell your boss this needs to stop. He knows better.' End quote."
Nolan felt a chill settle through his spine. His jaw clenched.
"…Was anyone followed?"
"No. We're clean. He didn't linger."
He nodded slowly, despite no one being there to see it. "Understood."
He tapped the red icon on the screen but didn't lower the phone just yet. His eyes stared into the middle distance, mind racing. That voice he knows better. Batman knew about the war, why hadn't he came to apprehend him?
especially after the beast fiasco.
Odd.
A voice echoed from the lobby.
"I'm sorry, sir, we're not open yet—"
Another voice, warm and disarming, cut in.
"Oh my God, you're—"
Nolan turned.
Footsteps crossed the marble. He still held the phone to his ear as a tall figure entered the room, flanked by an apologetic junior staffer.
Bruce Wayne.
Perfect hair, tailored coat, that casual power that made rooms lean toward him.
Wayne stopped a few feet away, his familiar blue eyes flicking over Nolan, recognition dawning.
Nolan stared.
The staffer stammered, "I didn't know he—he just walked in—"
Bruce offered a small, polite smile. "Sorry for barging in. I was just passing by and heard about the renovations. Thought I'd see how things were coming along."
Nolan's voice was calm, but his spine had gone rigid.
"I understand," he said quietly into the phone. "I'll handle it."
He ended the call.
Then he looked up.
"Mr. Wayne," Kieran said, voice smooth, mask locked in place. "What a surprise." The transition was seamless