WebNovels

Chapter 131 - hope

The old building stood only a block from the Continental—its brick walls stained with decades of soot, its windows boarded but still hinting at the grandeur it once had. Morning light broke through the cracks, catching motes of dust as Kieran Everleigh walked alongside Councilman Harold Kinsey, their polished shoes echoing in the empty halls.

"Here it is, Councilman," Kieran said, gesturing toward the high, arched ceiling. "The one I told you about. Structurally sound, only needs some hard work. It would be perfect for an orphanage." 

Kieran smiled faintly. "True. But the bones are good. You can feel it, can't you? It has potential. The kind of story Gotham needs right now."

Kinsey nodded slowly. "You really think we can turn this around fast enough to make an impact?"

"With the right permits and your foundation's support, absolutely," Kieran replied smoothly, gesturing toward the wide stairwell. "By the time the election cycle hits full swing, this place could be the centerpiece of your campaign's humanitarian push."

The councilman chuckled. "You really don't waste words, do you?" 

"I find efficiency helps in Gotham," Kieran said. "Especially when the city's bleeding as much as it is."

They passed a long hallway where faded murals of children still clung to the walls — chipped, half-smeared with grime. Kinsey stopped, gazing at one of the drawings: a stick figure family holding hands beneath a bright yellow sun. For a moment, something softened in his face.

"I grew up near Burnley," he murmured. "Knew a few kids who'd have killed to end up in a place like this. Guess I'm getting sentimental in my old age."

Kieran didn't interrupt. He simply let the silence linger before saying, "You're not sentimental, Councilman. You're realistic. You know what the city needs—and what it rewards."

That drew a small smirk from Kinsey. "And what it rewards," he repeated. "Right."

They entered what had once been a cafeteria — open space, cracked tile, sunlight streaking through. Kieran turned, his expression calm but purposeful. "This could be the heart of it. We'll clean it up, line the walls with tables, build a small stage for events. Imagine a photo of you here, shaking hands with the first batch of children who move in."

Kinsey gave a small laugh. "You really have this all pictured, don't you?"

"I like to stay several moves ahead," Kieran said simply. "We both know Gotham eats its dreamers alive." 

The councilman adjusted his tie, looking around again. "What did you end up deciding for the name? Still 'Hope Orphanage'?"

"Yes," Kieran replied. "I still think it fits." 

Kinsey hummed, hesitant. "Sure, sure… though, if we're being practical—maybe the name should reflect where the funding's coming from. Let people know who's behind this."

Kieran tilted his head, and when he spoke again, it was with the soft cadence of persuasion—gentle, reasonable, but with purpose woven into every word. "Imagine this instead, Councilman. You open it as Hope Orphanage. The focus stays on the children—on the idea, not the politics. Then the papers start writing their own stories: how you were the driving force behind it, how you stepped up when no one else would. That kind of narrative… it sticks. It's genuine. It gives you credibility no campaign can buy."

Kinsey hesitated, caught between ego and instinct. He could already hear the future news headline in his mind. His lips curved slowly. "You know, Everleigh… I like the way you think. Not bad. Not bad at all."

Kieran smiled, polite and measured. "We'll have your foundation listed on the main plaque, of course. A gesture of gratitude. But the story—the real story—will belong to the city. And to you, naturally, as its champion."

Kinsey's grin widened. "Send me a breakdown of costs, permits, whatever you need. I'll have my people draw up the paperwork. Let's get this moving quickly—God knows Gotham could use a win right now."

"Of course," Kieran said, shaking his hand firmly. "No time to waste." 

As they stepped out into the sunlight, the city's noise pressed in around them—car horns, sirens, and the faint echo of chaos that never seemed to leave Gotham.

Kieran's smile lingered as he watched the councilman's car pull away. "Hope Orphanage," he murmured 

'I feel, happy. So fucking happy, my goodness Nolan you're going to turn me into a saint!' 

****

The Continental's private gym smelled of rubber mats and old sweat. A single bank of brutalist fluorescent lights hummed overhead. In the center of the room, Floyd Lawton stood with confidence. Around him were four of the hotel's staff not glamorous security contractors, but the sort of people Nolan had pulled up from the streets and given a paycheck: a doorman with a chipped tooth, a bellman who kept his hair braided tight, a housekeeping lead with knuckles burned from a hundred late-night scuffles, and one of the new night concierges who looked like he'd never held a firearm before today.

Floyd's face didn't smile. He liked money, and he liked clean work, and both were reasons he'd answered the call. He cracked his knuckles, spoke slow and deliberate.

"You all know why you're here," he said. "Everleigh wants his people able to live another day if something goes sideways. I'm not gonna make you Navy SEALs in a week. I'm not even gonna make you soldiers. What I give you works both ways: it saves you, or it makes you useful enough they don't shoot you first."

A ripple of nervous laughter. Floyd let it die.

"First rule, awareness. We train to notice before we have to act. Second rule — keep your hands where you can use them. Third rule — if something goes wrong, make the bad choice harder to make for the other guy than for you." He tapped a battered crate where a stack of training pistols lay. "We're not firing live rounds today.We will do dry drills, manipulations, speed work without live ammo. You learn the muscle. You learn the calm."

He handed out weighted, inert pistols the kind that felt like the real thing but couldn't end a life. Everyone took one like it was a curious animal.

"First drill," Floyd said, "stance and breathing." He demonstrated not with a lesson in angles or millimeters, but with an image, "Feet stable. Chest steady. You want your body to hold a shot like a tree holds a storm. Breathe slow, then make the motion when your lungs are steady. Quickness without panicked urgency." 

The doorman tried it awkwardly; his shoulders were too high. Floyd stepped over, placed a palm on the man's shoulder, and said without any drama, "Relax your jaw. Your hands follow that." He moved back, watched the man lower his shoulders like a man coming down from a tiered rooftop. No diagrams, no jargon just feel.

"Next," Floyd continued, "we practice transitions. You will be in a scuffle. Your first move shouldn't be a heroic circus trick. It should be something that buys you space. You'll learn two or three body moves that work with your training. Not novel. Not stylish. Useful."

He showed them a compact set of motions controlled, repeatable — and the staff mimicked, clumsy at first, then with growing rhythm. Floyd barked corrections shorter, cleaner, don't overreach — but he never spelled out mechanics that would read as a manual. He corrected posture, cadence, the small cruelty of habit that cost men their nerve.

"Reloads," someone blurted, the bellman's voice shaking a bit.

Floyd's expression went flat. "I'll show you a safe sequence with dummy gear. You'll practice until your hands do it without thinking. But live rounds, live reloads, that's later and under tighter control. Today you learn the gestures. Next session depends on your bosses plan for that, Understand?" He let the question sit; they all nodded.

He moved them into pairs. One partner ran a dry-fire sequence — press, reset, press — and the other called cadence, counted the rhythm. Floyd circled them, eyes like a hunter. He didn't shout; he subtracted bad habits. He praised the ones who kept calm.

"Your chances improve when you make decisions inside a rhythm," he said, watching the concierge finally hold his breath steady while calling a simulated shot. "Panic shreds rhythm. Rhythm creates a second in which you exist in a calm state. I have heard people call it the 'flow' state but I much prefer rhythm. Your body should move within practiced beats."

When a housekeeping lead fumbled the motion and cursed, Floyd didn't lecture. He leaned close and said one sentence that made the room still: "Mistakes get you dead if you don't fix them fast. Fix them now."

They practiced silence and movement until shoulders loosened and the room stopped feeling like practice and started feeling like preparation. Floyd moved from person to person, correcting grip, steadying a wrist, shifting weight. He told a joke once — dry, about bad coffee in a bad sniper hide — and a corner of someone's mouth lifted. Laughter was small medicine. 

As the session wound down, Floyd gathered them in a half-circle, "You didn't perform terribly, next session will be the same though I don't know when you four will be on rotation again. Keep practicing what you can every night, I'm sure your boss can get you practice weapons." 

"Dismissed." 

A/N: Hopefully I didn't mess up the training stuff

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