The night sky stretched wide and cold over Gotham, its skyline cut into black teeth by the fog. The penthouse above the continental glowed faintly against that darkness a modern sanctum lit by monitor light and the occasional flick of a cigarette ember.
Nolan sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled, a pen trapped between two fingers. His eyes flicked from the open spreadsheet of projected orphanage expenditures to another monitor beside it one alive with shifting feeds from police scanners, encrypted channels, and his own people's chatter. Every few seconds, another voice whispered through the speakers. Another alert from the city below.
He typed something, paused, then jotted a note into the leather-bound journal lying beside him:
Third test run will be soon. Still deciding on the color we want to test. Blue seems pretty straight forward seeing as red seemed to be manic anger blue is 90% likely to be sadness.
He tapped the pen twice against the paper, then leaned back in his chair. The hum of the city bled faintly through the glass.
And then—
'Still think the position on the rails is the weakest.'
The voice came from nowhere and everywhere deep, gravely and unmistakably vey.
Nolan didn't flinch, it was amazing how used to everything he was now, hell Nolan could barely recognize himself in the mirror. Truthfully he was proud of himself for changing.
He only glanced up from the monitors.
'Since our last takeover of the Whisperer's stretch, they've been fighting harder. We lost two more from the South Tracks in the last skirmish.'
"Yeah," Nolan murmured, eyes following a police dispatch scrolling across the second screen—an arrest near the East End tunnels. "They're adapting and increasing their intensity."
'We should move on them before they dig in too deep,' Vey pressed. 'Take the whole territory in one sweep burn it clean. These drawn-out skirmishes are a waste of bodies.'
Nolan's jaw flexed. He nodded once, slowly. "You're right. It's dragging on far too long. We make a move sooner rather than later. Before they regroup."
There was a low chuckle rougher, sharper. Quentin.
'That's not our only problem.'
The tone changed. Focused, wary.
Nolan nodded while plucking a cigarette.
'The Odessa Crime family's still breathing down our necks. They've been sniffing around the docks again, and they're not exactly hiding their intentions. You go for the rails, and they'll hit us from behind. We'll be too split to do a damn thing about it.'
Nolan exhaled through his nose, thoughtful. "You're not wrong. The Odessa leaders aren't stupid, they're patient. We'll need something to stall them if we go on the offensive."
There was a pause.
Then, Kieran's voice overtook his thoughts and Nolan changed his grip of the cigarette.
'I'm working on something for that. Not ready to share yet, but it could keep them quiet for a while. Let me think it through.'
Quentin's scoff cut through like a knife.
'What, afraid you'll sound stupid?'
'No, just trying not to act before thinking—something you should try once in your life.'
The air in the room seemed to tense, even though only Nolan sat there. The faint buzz of electricity filled the silence until Nolan chuckled under his breath.
"Come on, you two," he said, leaning forward, elbows on the desk. "We've got enough enemies without you two sniping at each other."
For a moment, the voices fell quiet. Only the sound of the city remained sirens, wind, distant thunder.
Then Vey spoke again, quieter this time.
'We strike soon, then.'
Nolan looked out the window at the smoldering city below.
"Soon," he said before smiling, "and the hotel staff, vey? How do you think they're adapting to Deadshots teachings."
'Too soon to tell.'
The phone rang dragging Nolan from his thoughts as he snagged the phone from the stand, "Speak."
The nervous voice of the concierge sounded through the other end, "Boss uh, someone broke the rules."
***
Nan dialed the number he'd saved under Floyd and listened to the ring once, twice.
"Floyd?" he said when the line clicked. His voice was calm; the room swallowed the weight beneath it.
"Yeah, go ahead." came the flat reply
"Congratulations. You've got your first rulebreaker." Nolan said while rubbing his brow in frustration
There was a beat of silence as Deadshot processed it. Then, "Is he…?"
"Room fifteen. Critically wounded. Might not make it. I've got our doctors on him now." Nolan's fingers drummed the desktop in a steady rhythm. "Looks like whoever was in room fourteen is the culprit. I'll send you their info."
Floyd made a soft, humorless noise. "You want it handled quietly."
"No," Nolan said. "Make it loud, but coded. I want it to be obvious to those who know what to look for, but invisible to anyone else. Make sure the message reads: 'We don't tolerate rulebreakers.'"
Another pause. "Tricky," Floyd said. "so make sure people know the Continental's involved, but only the right people."
"Exactly," Nolan said, and the smile in his voice was thin. "It's about reputation. We have to enforce our rulebook without starting a public war. Make it precise, it will serve as a warning. No collateral that bites us back."
Floyd sighed. "I just got hired and already somebody breaks the rules. I might be a bad luck charm."
Nolan's jaw lifted in a private grin. "Can you do it?"
Deadshot's scoff came soft, like a man checking his watch.
The line hummed a second longer then Floyd clicked off, and Nolan set the phone face down, eyes going to the green vial on the desk. He watched his reflection in the dark window for a moment: neat suit, clean smile, and a city that apparently didn't want to give a simple hotel owner a break.
The rain had tapered to a stubborn drizzle by the time Floyd Lawton stepped out of the shadows. He moved like a man who didn't waste energy on ceremony no swagger, he was a professional. just a jacket pulled tight and eyes that had learned to measure distance in an instant.
The target had already left the Continental an hour ago. A low-level contractor who'd thought himself clever enough to break the house rules and disappear into the city. Floyd had followed the paper trail, the meaningless small talk at bars, a taxi receipt handed to a girl with shaky handwriting. He'd watched the man slip down alleys, head bowed against the weather, and then stop at a convenience store under a flickering red sign to buy cigarettes he didn't want.
Floyd didn't chase. He stepped into place, took the warm, mechanical rhythm of the city into his lungs, and waited until the mark stepped out into the pool of sodium light and took two careless steps toward the curb.
There was no flourish. A single crack, like a snapped twig — and the man folded as if he'd found sleep. People screamed. The street light blinked over him. One passerby called the police; another bent down and checked for breath. Sirens in the distance started to grow louder.
Floyd watched for the reaction he wanted. He wanted the crowd to think this was another stray bullet, another piece of Gotham grief; he wanted the wrong people to see the wrong things. But he also wanted a signal something small and unmistakable to the few who knew how to read it.
From his inner pocket he pulled something no one on the sidewalks would ever notice: a little strip of fabric, crimson on one side and black on the other, folded around a gold coin. It was the continental coin, and old hotel handkerchief. Only a few would recognize the coin and that's what was needed.
He didn't leave it on the body like a mockery. He slid it under the man's cuff, a private note tucked into a coat that would travel with the body.
He didn't stick around to watch the detectives. He melted into the wet alleys as a tide of police cars waded past and the first uniforms took control of the street. His job was the signal, and the signal was clean.
Back in the penthouse, Nolan's phone chimed before the coffee had cooled. The first image came from a private channel—a grainy photo of a cuff, a smear of red in the dim light. Another message followed, a short, clipped, single-line delivery: Done. No more, no less.
Nolan looked at the picture and felt the same thin smile climb into the corner of his mouth that he always got when something tidy clicked into place. He tapped a single reply: Good.
On the street, the corpse was a story. The cops would mark the case as another random act. The tabloids would sniff for angles and find none but in less than five minutes be distracted by another dead body in another street.
After all what was one more dead body in Gotham?