Kieran adjusts his cuff as he moves through the crowd again, expression open, unhurried. He's three steps from Kane when a man angles in smoothly from the side—confident, practiced, the kind of interruption that assumes it will be welcomed.
"Kieran Everleigh," the man says, offering his hand. "Thomas Rook. I wanted to thank you for the invitation."
Kieran's smile comes easily. He takes the hand, firm but not dominant.
"Of course. I'm glad you could make it, Mr. Rook."
"Thomas, please. This place is… impressive." Rook gestures vaguely around them. "You've done a lot with the Continental."
"We try not to let it collapse," Kieran says lightly. "That's a daily victory in Gotham."
Rook laughs. "Fair enough. I work mostly on the unglamorous side of things—industrial zoning, warehouse conversions. It's not nearly as pretty as this."
"Pretty doesn't keep the city running," Kieran replies. "Warehouses do."
That earns another laugh, warmer this time.
"You sound like someone who's actually read a zoning map."
"I've lost evenings to them," Kieran says. "Nothing makes you question your life choices like discovering a parcel is six feet inside a floodplain."
Rook groans. "Don't even start. We had a project stalled six months over a drainage variance. Six months. The building was already there."
"Let me guess," Kieran says. "Historic contamination clause?"
Rook blinks, surprised. "How—"
"Because Gotham hates efficiency," Kieran finishes. "And because someone always benefits from the delay."
Rook grins, shaking his head. "You're sharper than your reputation suggests."
Kieran lifts a brow. "Is that good news or bad?"
"Good," Rook says quickly. "Very good. People like you taking an interest in infrastructure is… encouraging."
"I take an interest in anything people pretend isn't important," Kieran replies. "Those things tend to shape everything else."
They share a brief, companionable silence, the noise of the gala swelling around them.
"Well," Rook says, glancing behind Kieran, "I won't monopolize you. You've got a lot of people to charm tonight."
Kieran inclines his head.
"I appreciate you coming, Thomas. Let's talk again—preferably somewhere with fewer violins."
Rook chuckles. "I'd like that."
They part easily.
Kieran exhales once—barely noticeable—then reorients himself. This time, he doesn't hesitate.
Jacob Kane stands exactly where he left him. Same posture. Same untouched drink. Same quiet gravity that bends the room around him without effort.
Kieran approaches.
"Mr. Kane," he says, extending a hand, tone cordial and composed. "I'm glad you could make it."
The game, finally, begins.
Kieran steps into Kane's orbit as if it's the most natural thing in the world. No hesitation. No edge. Just a businessman meeting another businessman.
"Mr. Kane," Kieran says warmly, taking the offered hand. "I was hoping we'd get a chance to speak."
"Jacob please," Kane corrects, his grip firm, measured. His eyes flick once—cataloging, not judging. "The Continental suits you."
Kieran chuckles. "High praise coming from someone whose family helped build this city."
Kane allows a thin smile. "You've done more than refurbish a hotel. You've created a staple in such a short amount of time it's admirable."
"People notice anything expensive enough," Kieran replies lightly. "Attention tends to follow money whether you invite it or not."
Kane studies him for a beat, then shifts the conversation with surgical ease.
"Have you ever considered expanding?"
Kieran laughs, genuine, almost dismissive.
"Maybe someday. But Gotham is… territorial. I doubt Maria Powers would appreciate new competition encroaching on her lane."
Kane's smile deepens, just slightly. He shakes his head.
"Maria's pragmatic. She understands growth."
"Does she?" Kieran asks, tilting his glass. "Most empires don't like sharing oxygen."
"Only the insecure ones," Kane says smoothly. "She'd probably welcome it—especially if you partnered with the right people."
"Partnered," Kieran echoes, amused.
Kane gestures vaguely around the room.
"Everyone here wants the same thing. Stability. Prosperity. A Gotham that works. We're all on the same team, whether we admit it or not."
Kieran's smile widens, slow and thoughtful.
"I like the way you think, Jacob."
And in his mind, the final piece clicks neatly into place.
Maria Powers. Confirmed.
Outwardly, Kieran raises his glass slightly.
"To shared goals, then."
Kane mirrors the gesture.
"To Gotham."
They drink.
For a moment, they stand shoulder to shoulder, two men surveying the room—one believing he's guiding a promising asset, the other already mapping the architecture of the web he's standing in.
'Leave the conversation there, you don't want to spend a long time talking to him he might begin to suspect you know.'
Kieran lowers his glass, expression easy, conversational once more.
"We should talk again. Soon."
Kane nods. "I think we will."
They part without ceremony.
Kieran moves away from Kane with the same unhurried grace he arrived with, the low hum of the gala folding back around him. Crystal clinks. Laughter swells. Music drifts. Outwardly, he's just another host circulating his own party.
Inside, the room goes quiet.
'Do we do it?' Kieran asks, already seeing the words projected in his mind like a press release that hasn't been written yet.
The Everleigh Initiative for Urban Recovery.
City-wide shelter network.
Trauma counseling clinics.
Legal aid for displaced residents.
Job placement and micro-housing.
A promise big enough to shake Gotham.
Quentin answers first, sharp and immediate.
'No. Too soon.'
Images flash—headlines, interviews, crowds lining up at doors that don't exist yet.
'It's perfect bait for the Court,' Quentin continues, 'but the city won't see bait. They'll see hope. And hope creates expectations. Expectations we can't meet yet.'
Nolan steps in, quieter, heavier.
'And Kane won't sit still if you announce that. He'll interject. Publicly. Frame it as collaboration. Force a partnership before we're ready.'
Kieran exhales through his nose.
Leverage becomes a leash, Nolan finishes.
Kieran nods once, decision made.
'Not tonight.'
He veers toward the concierge stand, catching the man's eye. The concierge straightens instantly as Kieran approaches.
"Get everyone ready," Kieran says casually, voice low. "I'm about to close us out."
"Yes, sir."
As the concierge turns to go, Kieran's hand snaps out—not hard, but firm—closing around the man's forearm. The concierge stills.
"Make sure they know," Kieran says quietly, smile never leaving his face, "who's off limits. I don't want this blown because our people got greedy."
The concierge swallows, nods once.
"Of course, sir."
Kieran releases him and steps away, lifting his flute of wine as he walks. He reaches the center of the room, taps the glass once.
The sound carries.
Conversations fade. Music softens. Heads turn—not to the staff, not to the exits, but to Kieran.
As attention settles, servers begin to move through the crowd with fresh trays. Guests take glasses without really looking, eyes still fixed forward. No one notices which hands linger half a second longer than necessary. No one notices a phone returned to a jacket pocket, identical weight, identical casing. No one notices what's missing.
Kieran waits until the room belongs to him.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he says warmly, "thank you—truly—for joining us tonight. Your time is the most valuable thing you have, and I don't take it lightly."
A ripple of polite laughter.
"The Continental has always been about more than luxury. It's about discretion, safety, and community. Tonight was no different. I'm grateful for every conversation, every connection, every raised glass."
Staff finish their circuit. Trays empty. Pieces quietly put back where they came from.
Kieran lifts his flute.
"So before we all disappear back into Gotham," he says, eyes sweeping the room, briefly passing over Kane, over Powers, over Wayne, "let's have one final toast."
The room follows his lead.
"To Gotham," Kieran says, smiling. "And to the belief that it can always be better than it is."
Crystal clinks.