Limousines slid up to the curb in a steady procession, black paint gleaming beneath the streetlamps like wet stone. Engines purred, doors opened, and Gotham's elite stepped out as if the night itself had rolled out a carpet just for them.
Men in tailored suits adjusted cufflinks worth more than most people's homes. Women draped in silk and diamonds laughed softly, already performing for rooms they hadn't entered yet. Chauffeurs moved with rehearsed precision, hands folded, eyes down.
The hotel's entrance almost seemed to glow gold.
Inside that glow stood the Continental's security team—impeccably dressed, unassuming, and lethal in the quiet way professionals always were.
To the guests, they were courteous.
To the system Nolan designed, they were meticulous.
Every vehicle slowed just long enough for a discreet camera sweep. License plates were captured, time-stamped, and instantly mirrored to an encrypted internal server that did not officially exist. Secondary angles confirmed make, model, and any modifications. Tires were scanned for unique wear patterns. Exhaust heat signatures were logged.
No one noticed.
They never did.
As guests passed through the front doors, staff greeted them by name with practiced warmth.
"Welcome to the Continental, Ms. Powers."
"Good evening, Mr. March."
Smiles. Nods. Polite conversation.
Behind those smiles, data flowed.
Arrival time.
Companion count.
Physical distance between couples.
Subtle behavioral tells—who walked half a step behind, who spoke first, who touched whose arm.
A hostess adjusted her tablet slightly as Maria Powers entered on Joseph's arm, their pace synchronized but their attention already drifting elsewhere. The tablet didn't look special. It wasn't connected to the hotel's public network.
It didn't need to be.
A valet leaned casually against a pillar, thumb flicking across his phone as he logged a second arrival from the same vehicle—someone who hadn't exited until the last possible second. The delay was noted. Flagged. Stored.
Inside the lobby, staff moved like parts of a living machine.
Bartenders memorized faces before orders were placed.
Concierges noted who avoided eye contact.
Bellhops tracked which guests glanced up at the cameras—and which didn't bother pretending not to.
Everything was subtle. Nothing was rushed.
Kieran Everleigh stood above it all.
From the balcony overlooking the grand atrium, he watched the flow of people arrive with a champagne flute untouched in his hand. His posture was relaxed, almost bored, but his eyes missed nothing.
He looked every bit the host—immaculate suit, composed expression, an easy half-smile that suggested confidence without arrogance.
Inside, his mind was razor-sharp.
'I sure know how to throw a party,' Kieran thought, amused.
The security feeds played behind his eyes in quiet parallel. Names matched to faces. Faces matched to histories. Histories matched to lies.
Clusters began to form—not physically, but statistically.
Old money gravitated toward old money.
Political influence arrived earlier than corporate power.
Those who truly mattered never arrived first—and never last.
Interesting.
He noted which guests arrived alone despite public spouses. Which couples spoke too softly. Which assistants weren't really assistants.
The Continental absorbed it all without a sound.
No whispers traveled beyond its walls. No recordings existed that could be subpoenaed. No logs were stored in a single place long enough to be discovered.
If anyone ever asked, the hotel would have nothing.
Kieran took a slow sip of his drink at last.
Down below, another limousine arrived.
The security team adjusted imperceptibly.
New plates logged.
New faces recorded.
New threads added to a growing, invisible web.
Kieran's smile deepened just a fraction.
'Come in,' he thought, 'Show me who you really are.'
The gala had begun and finally the star of the show arrived.
Longer than most. Older model. Immaculately maintained. The kind of vehicle that did not need to announce importance because Gotham had already learned to recognize its mere silhouette.
Kieran's eyes narrowed slightly.
The rear door opened.
Jacob Kane stepped out.
He moved with the quiet certainty of a man who had never been told no in any meaningful way. No wasted motion, no need to look around. He already knew where he was. He already knew who would be watching.
A cane rested in his left hand—not for balance, Kieran noted, but for something else. The butler followed half a step behind, posture rigid, eyes scanning in a way that mirrored trained security rather than domestic staff.
Inside, the system reacted.
Arrival logged.
Plate archived.
Escort noted.
Kieran didn't smile.
Instead, he leaned forward slightly against the railing, attention sharpening as Kane entered the lobby.
It wasn't dramatic. It never was. But people oriented themselves in his direction without realizing it—subtle turns of the body, conversations trailing off mid-sentence, eyes flicking toward him and then away.
Kane did not approach anyone.
He didn't need to.
They came to him.
A city councilman first. Then an industrialist Kieran recognized from shipping interests along the Narrows. A woman in a slate-gray dress whose family foundation owned half the hospitals in the city. Each greeted him warmly, deferentially, as if proximity alone conferred legitimacy.
Kieran watched carefully.
Who leaned in too close.
Who kept polite distance.
Who spoke briefly and left—as if reporting rather than socializing.
Patterns formed.
Then another arrival drew his attention.
A far more theatrical entrance.
A sleek, modern car—sportier, louder than the rest. Not obscene, just deliberate. The valet's posture changed the moment the door opened.
Bruce Wayne stepped out grinning, already mid-sentence to someone on his phone.
"—no, no, I'm telling you, if the wine's bad I'm suing someone," Bruce laughed, slipping the phone away as he straightened his jacket. Perfectly tailored. Effortlessly expensive. Hair just disheveled enough to look accidental.
Kieran exhaled through his nose.
Of course.
The system logged him instantly.
And just as instantly—
He knows, Kieran thought.
Bruce's eyes flicked—not up at the cameras, not directly at the staff—but to reflections. Polished marble. Brass trim. Glass doors. He took in the angles in a way no civilian ever did, smile never faltering.
Within seconds, Bruce Wayne had mapped at least half the visible surveillance.
Probably more.
Kieran's grin twitched despite himself.
Welcome to the party, Batman.
Bruce moved easily into the crowd, laughter following him like static. He greeted people loudly, slapped backs, accepted compliments with exaggerated humility. Yet his path was not random.
It curved.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Toward Kane.
Kieran shifted his focus back to Kane just in time to see Bruce enter his periphery. Kane turned his head a fraction, just enough to acknowledge him.
They exchanged words.
Kieran couldn't hear them from this distance—but he didn't need to. Bruce's body language was loose, careless. Kane's was controlled, neutral.
A predator humoring a peacock.
Interesting.
Kieran stayed where he was, watching the web tighten. Who hovered near Kane when Bruce arrived. Who excused themselves. Who suddenly found another drink urgent.
Time passed.
Music swelled softly through the atrium. Glasses clinked. Laughter rose and fell like practiced waves.
Then Kieran straightened.
He drained his glass, set it aside, and descended the stairs.
The movement was subtle but effective. Staff adjusted positions. Conversations shifted. A quiet cue passed through the room.
Kieran took the microphone from a waiting attendant and tapped it once.
The sound carried.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said smoothly, his voice warm, confident, disarming. "If I could steal just a moment of your evening."
The room turned toward him.
Kane watched from where he stood, expression unreadable.
Bruce Wayne leaned against a pillar, smiling, eyes sharp.
Kieran smiled back at the crowd.
"Thank you all for joining us tonight at the Continental. Your presence honors us more than you know. Gotham thrives on connections—on dialogue, on shared vision—and tonight is about celebrating exactly that."
A pause. Just long enough.
"Please enjoy the evening. The drinks are flowing, the doors are open, and the night is young."
Polite applause followed, refined and measured.
Kieran stepped away from the microphone, his smile never fading.
The gala settles into its rhythm quickly—strings humming low, crystal clinking, voices layered like silk over steel. Kieran moves through it the way a seasoned swimmer moves through water: no wasted motion, never cutting straight for his destination.
He shakes hands. Laughs at the right moments. Lets others believe they found him.
A city council donor complaining about zoning restrictions. A venture capitalist fishing for relevance. A judge's wife pretending she doesn't recognize him from the trial coverage. Kieran gives each of them exactly what they want—attention, validation, a sense of proximity to something sharp.
All the while, his eyes keep drifting.
Jacob Kane remains near the eastern wall of the ballroom, back to a marble column, drink untouched. People orbit him. He does not orbit back.
Predator behavior, Kieran thinks. Or priest.
Before he can begin that approach, a voice intercepts him—smooth, amused, just a touch sharpened.
"Well. If it isn't Kieran Everleigh."
He turns, already smiling.
Maria Powers stands there with a champagne flute held delicately between two fingers, her posture relaxed in the way only someone with real money ever manages. Her dress is understated—no flash, no hunger. Old Gotham wealth always dresses like it has nothing to prove.
"I'm almost offended," Kieran says lightly. "You said my full name. Makes me feel like I'm in trouble."
She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes.
"I was surprised by the invitation," she says. "Given that we're… competitors."
Kieran laughs, genuine enough to sell it.
"Competitors?" He tilts his head. "Maria, your enterprise spans three boroughs, two ports, and a hospitality chain older than half the families in this room. My little operation barely qualifies as ambition."
She raises a brow. "Funny. That's not how people talk about you."
Good, he thinks. She listens.
"I think people like myths," Kieran says. "They're easier than spreadsheets."
He gestures toward the bar. "Walk with me?"
She does. That alone is data.
They move slowly, deliberately—not toward Kane, not away from him. Parallel. Always parallel. And he notices just out of the corner of his eye, Kane is looking at Maria intently.
"You've made quite a recovery," Maria says casually. "From Arkham, I mean. Most people don't bounce back socially."
Kieran chuckles. "Most people don't have the benefit of discovering who their friends aren't."
Her lips curve. "And who they are?"
He considers her for half a beat.
"I'm still mapping that."
They reach the bar. He doesn't order immediately. Neither does she.
"You run the Powers Hotel," Kieran says. "One of the few places in Gotham where deals are made without contracts, it's inspiring."
Maria's eyes flicker—brief, but there.
"Discretion is a service," she replies. "One people pay for, you might get there someday."
"And protect," Kieran adds.
She finally takes a sip of her drink. "Protection is expensive."
"Only if you buy it late."
There it is. A crack—not in her composure, but in her interest. She studies him now, really studies him, as if recalibrating where to place him on an internal board.
"You seem very comfortable talking about power for someone so new to Gothams elite," she says.
Kieran shrugs. "I grew up around people who pretended not to have it. I find honesty refreshing."
"And dangerous."
"Only to people who think they're invisible."
That lands. He watches her carefully as he says it—no accusation, no emphasis. Just a statement placed gently on the table between them.
Maria exhales, soft laughter following.
"You're an interesting man, Kieran Everleigh."
"Most people say 'trouble,'" he replies. "Interesting feels like an upgrade."
She turns slightly, angling her body—not away from him, not fully toward him. Defensive neutrality.
"Tell me," she says, "do you believe Gotham is run by chaos… or design?"
Ah. There it is.
Kieran doesn't answer right away. He lets the silence stretch just long enough to feel intentional.
"I think," he says finally, "that people who benefit from design prefer others to believe in chaos."
Maria's smile sharpens—almost imperceptibly, "And what do you do when you discover the design?"
Kieran meets her gaze, calm, curious, unthreatening.
"You ask who built it," he says. "And whether they're still paying attention."
For the first time, she looks away first.
"Enjoy your evening," Maria Powers says, inclining her head. "We should talk again."
"I'd like that," Kieran replies. "You're very… well connected."
She pauses. Just a fraction too long.
"Connections," she says, "are everything in Gotham."
She melts back into the crowd.
Kieran watches her go, the smile never leaving his face—but something colder settles behind his eyes.
Not confirmed, he thinks.
But close enough to smell the feathers and treachery. 'I can confirm it later tonight easily enough.'
His gaze shifts, inevitably, back to Jacob Kane.
You're next, he decides.