Kieran stepped down from the podium to a renewed swell of applause and immediately disappeared back into the tide of bodies and champagne flutes.
He moved the way he always did in rooms like this—unhurried, approachable, a warm smile worn just loose enough to invite conversation without offering too much. Donors intercepted him in ones and twos.
"I would love to be on the ground floor Mr. Everleigh." A donor said with a smile, "I have been looking for ways to improve my outreach in the community."
Kieran smiled brightly, "The more support the better but, I must apologize I haven't caught your name."
"Richard Canva."
"Well it's a pleasure to meet you, please leave your info with my concierge before you leave. I would be more than interested in seeing what we can do together."
It wasn't long after they finished talking more people came by.
Kieran thanked them all, committed nothing concrete, remembered every name. Even those who obviously didn't have any serious plans to commit to anything.
Then someone spoke behind him.
"You have a talent for turning outrage into purpose."
The voice was calm. Old. Confident in the way only money that had outlived generations could be.
Kieran turned.
The man was tall, with salt and peppered hair, but Kieran wouldn't call him old. dressed in a tailored charcoal suit that didn't advertise wealth—it assumed it. His eyes were sharp, observant, and unsettlingly patient.
Kieran inclined his head slightly. "I'm afraid you have the advantage. I haven't had the pleasure."
The man smiled faintly. "Harrison Kane."
There it was.
A few nearby conversations softened—not stopped, but thinned. The name carried weight.
Kieran didn't react outwardly though his heart beat a little faster.
This was a whale.
Instead, he offered his hand.
"An honor," Kieran said smoothly. "One of Gotham's founding families. My father used to tell stories about the Kanes shaping this city when it was still figuring out what it wanted to be."
Kane's grip was firm, testing. "We prefer to think we helped it survive."
Kieran smiled. "Survival is an underrated achievement."
Kane's eyes flicked briefly toward the podium, then back to Kieran. "Your speech was… candid. Not many men speak about gangs with that level of disgust while being so close for their power of retaliation."
"Power should be uncomfortable," Kieran replied lightly. "Otherwise it grows complacent."
A hum of approval—or curiosity—passed through Kane's expression.
"And the orphanage," Kane continued. "You truly believe that's where Gotham's recovery begins?"
"I believe," Kieran said, voice soft but unwavering, "that if we don't intervene early, the streets will happily raise the next generation for us. And they are far crueler teachers than I care to be."
Kane studied him in silence for a moment longer than politeness required.
"Interesting," he said at last. "Gotham could use more men willing to think long-term."
Kieran met his gaze evenly. "Gotham doesn't survive on short games."
Kane chuckled under his breath. "No. It never has."
He stepped back, lifting his glass slightly. "I suspect this won't be our last conversation, Mr. Everleigh."
"I'd welcome that," Kieran said with a small smile
***
The penthouse doors swung shut behind Kieran with a soft, expensive hush, sealing out the last echoes of the gala.
The city sprawled beyond the glass walls—Gotham lit in fractured gold and white, unaware of how close it had come to tearing itself apart again. Kieran loosened his tie as he crossed the living room, every movement practiced, unhurried.
Then he blinked.
The posture shifted. The tension in his shoulders softened. The confidence bled away like a receding tide.
Nolan stood there instead, swaying slightly as the adrenaline finally drained from his system.
"…I didn't even do the work," Nolan muttered, rubbing a hand down his face. "And I'm still exhausted."
A quiet laugh echoed in his head.
'You try smiling through pain and scrutiny for three hours straight,'Kieran replied, 'amused. It's more cardio than you'd think.'
Nolan snorted despite himself. "You looked fine."
'Because I made it look fine.'
'Fucking braggart.' Quentin huffed, 'I could have done that easily.'
Kieran erupted into laughter, 'I'm sure you can little guy.'
'Fuck you say!'
Nolan sighed and turned toward the bathroom.
The lights came on automatically, bathing the marble in clean white. He leaned forward over the sink, staring at his reflection—polished, flawless, untouched by violence.
Kieran stopped arguing with Quentin and his voice softened, slipping into something closer to instruction than banter.
'Slow. Don't rush it. The makeup's layered—pull too fast and you'll reopen something.'
Nolan nodded and reached for the remover Kieran had set out earlier. He soaked a cloth, pressed it gently against his cheek, and waited.
The illusion began to melt.
Foundation wiped away first, revealing yellowing bruises beneath. Concealer followed—dark purples and blues blooming like ink under skin. A thin cut along his jawline reappeared, angry and half-healed.
"Jesus," Nolan breathed. "You're a wizard with makeup."
'and you with technology' , Kieran replied lightly. 'We all have our talents.'
Nolan worked methodically, just like Kieran had drilled into him. Dab. Don't drag. Clean the cloth. Repeat.
His hands came next.
He peeled away the cosmetic skin carefully, exposing split knuckles, swelling, faint tremors he hadn't noticed until now.
By the time he finished, the mirror told the truth again.
Nolan straightened slowly, exhaustion finally settling into his bones.
"…Thanks," he said quietly.
His phone rang right as he headed for bed. Checking the number he sighed, "You couldn't call earlier?"
"I didn't want to ruin your big night." The man replied and Nolan rolled his eyes
"I'm sure." He checked the calendar and frowned, "I don't see anything for us scheduled."
"Well the way I see it the war is over now. That means new terms have to be met no?" The man said and Nolan could hear the cigar drag behind the speaker
A smile touched Nolan's lips, "I couldn't agree more. Let's say two days from now?"
"Two days, I can manage that. Same spot?"
"If you feel safer that way."
A scoff came over the line, "Well why don't you come to my place then?"
Nolan laughed, "Maybe after the new terms."
"Same spot then."
"Same spot, see you in two days cobblepot."
***
A black shape cut across the water, fast and silent.
The boat killed its engine well short of the shore, gliding the last stretch on momentum alone before bumping gently against the rocks. Cheshire stepped out, boots hitting stone without a sound. Infinity Island loomed above her—ancient, overgrown, bristling with hidden defenses that never announced themselves twice.
She didn't slow.
Paths twisted through jungle and ruin, each turn known by memory or instinct. Guards watched her pass from the shadows, recognized her, and let her through. No challenges. No questions.
She reached the inner compound and descended into stone corridors cooled by the sea. At the end waited a single chamber—spartan, dim, power humming just beneath the walls.
Cheshire stopped at the threshold.
"The gang war in Gotham is over," she said, voice even. "Triads broken. Cartel gutted. Falcone took heavy losses. Police are still sweeping, but the damage is done."
She stepped inside.
"When the smoke cleared," she continued, "one faction walked away with intact infrastructure, minimal arrests, and expanded influence."
A pause.
"The Underpass."
From the darkness, a figure shifted. Not fully revealed. Never was.
"So," the voice said calmly, "the streets belong to them now."
"No not completely, Cobblepot still holds a majority of the influence. Falcone although gutted has failsafes and is still bigger than most," Cheshire replied. "The underpass played it clean. Let everyone else bleed and consumed all they could, they moved from small fry's to major players in Gotham."
Another pause.
"The hotel you told me about."
Cheshire's eyes narrowed just slightly.
"Yes," she confirmed. "They own it. The Continental."
Silence stretched—heavy, thoughtful.
"…Interesting," the figure finally said.