Nolan sat behind his desk, a neat stack of papers spread out in front of him, though "neat" was quickly becoming an optimistic description as he worked through them. Reports, invoices, supply orders, staffing notes—actual business, the kind that required attention to detail instead of strategy and force.
He flipped a page and paused, staring at it for a second longer than necessary before letting out a quiet breath.
"Right," he muttered. "I do, in fact, own a hotel."
The realization came with a faint smirk as he leaned back slightly in his chair. It was almost ironic how easily he slipped into one role over the other. Running operations in the shadows, coordinating people, managing risk—that felt natural now. Instinctive.
This, on the other hand, required a different kind of discipline.
He looked back down at the papers, picking one up and scanning it more carefully this time. Food supply discrepancies. A note from the head chef. A complaint about delayed deliveries.
Nolan's smirk returned, softer this time.
"Can't have the chefs revolting," he said under his breath.
Of all the things that could go wrong in his operation, upsetting the kitchen staff was higher on the list than most people would expect. A well-run hotel depended on more than security and influence. It depended on consistency, on experience, on the illusion of perfection.
And that started with the basics.
He made a quick note in the margin, adjusting an order, then moved to the next document. His posture relaxed as he settled into the rhythm of it, the work grounding in a way that was almost… normal.
For a few minutes, it was just paperwork.
Just business.
No assassins. No secret societies. No masked vigilantes.
Just a man making sure his hotel ran the way it was supposed to.
Nolan flipped another page, scanning it quickly before nodding to himself. The smirk lingered as he reached for the next document, already anticipating what small problem he would have to solve next to keep everything running smoothly.
Even in a city like Gotham, some things still came down to making sure the kitchen stayed happy.
Nolan continued working through the stack of documents, flipping pages with steady efficiency as he made notes and small corrections where needed. The rhythm had settled in now, his focus split between numbers, logistics, and the quiet satisfaction of keeping things running smoothly.
His phone buzzed against the desk.
Nolan glanced at it, then paused when he saw the name.
He picked it up.
"Cobblepot," he said as he answered, his tone calm but faintly amused. "This is an unexpected call."
Even as he spoke, he felt the shift inside.
Kieran stirred first, interest sharpening immediately, while Quentin followed close behind, both of them drawing nearer, attentive and ready.
On the other end, Oswald Cobblepot let out a low laugh.
"I know we made our agreement," Cobblepot said, his voice carrying that familiar blend of charm and calculation, "but I have been hearing things about this… Court situation of yours."
Nolan leaned back slightly in his chair, a small smile forming.
"Oh yes," he replied. "Not long ago, I came to you and mentioned that someone was trying to screw me over."
A brief pause.
"I found them."
Cobblepot huffed lightly.
"I did not realize," he said, "that you were planning to go to war with some of the most influential people in Gotham. Makes a man reconsider whether being your ally is going to sink his ship along with yours."
Inside, Kieran shook his head.
Quentin moved without hesitation.
The shift was seamless.
"War?" Quentin said, his tone smooth, almost conversational. "You misunderstand the situation, Cobblepot. No one is going to war."
He leaned forward slightly, his smile faint but present.
"If you do not want to involve yourself, then do not," he continued. "But do not expect the same restraint from me."
There was a slight pause on the line.
"Is that a threat?" Cobblepot asked.
Quentin let out a quiet breath, something between amusement and mild disbelief.
"It is interesting," he said, "when you phrase something, it is considered advice. When I return the sentiment, it becomes a threat. Funny how that works."
He tapped a finger lightly against the desk.
"I doubt you interrupted my day just for that," he added. "So why the call?"
The line went quiet for a moment.
When Cobblepot spoke again, his tone had shifted.
"Five years ago," he began, "a group of six men decided it would be a brilliant idea to stash some goods inside an abandoned building. The catch was, that building was an old Gotham landmark."
Quentin said nothing, listening.
"They figured no one would check it," Cobblepot continued. "So they broke in and started setting up. According to the story, they found a tunnel beneath the place. Not just any tunnel either. Something deeper. Beneath the sewers."
Quentin's expression stilled slightly.
"They thought they had struck gold," Cobblepot went on. "A perfect safe house. Hidden. Untouchable."
A pause.
"One of them made it out," he said. "Just one."
The room seemed quieter somehow.
"He claimed 'bird men' killed the others. Said they moved like monsters. Swore they were immortal."
Another pause, heavier this time.
"He did not last long after that. Official story was suicide."
Cobblepot let out a soft breath.
"I had my suspicions."
Quentin's fingers stilled against the desk.
"Everyone thought he was crazy," Cobblepot added. "Myself included. Right up until I saw the photos of the ones who came after you."
A slight shift in tone.
"They look an awful lot like bird men to me. Don't they to you?"
Quentin remained silent, his mind already working through the implications, connecting threads that were no longer abstract.
"I am not going to bother asking how you got those photos," Quentin said at last. "But I am curious why you are telling me this for free."
Cobblepot chuckled quietly.
"We are allies," he said. "I would hope that, in the future, you might return the favor."
A brief pause.
"Good luck."
The line went dead.
Quentin lowered the phone slowly, his expression thoughtful as the weight of the story settled in.
"The sewers they were beneath the fucking sewers the whole time!"
Joy filled his being, finally they have a location after so long. The needed to look at the Gotham catacombs, but there was a problem a major one at that.
They need to find a map and there is only one person in his mind who could possibly have a map of the land beneath Gotham.
Fuck, he needs to meet Batman again surely he will be more reasonable this time around.