Nolan sat hunched in front of his computer, eyes bloodshot, fingers tapping idly against the keys. The monitors flickered with data patterns, routes, names, addresses all tied to one man: Leonard Harrow. Nolan had been compiling information for days now. Not just about Harrow's movements, but about his personality, habits, and soft spots. Where he dined. Who he talked to. What brands he wore. How he spoke to people he thought were beneath him.
The deeper Nolan dug, the clearer the picture became. Harrow was arrogant and methodical. He liked his routines tight, and he liked to be admired. He didn't respect people unless they walked like they had power. He spent his mornings at an upscale café called Briar & Co., had standing lunch reservations at an exclusive steakhouse three blocks from the hotel, and kept appointments with a private tailor twice a month. Harrow was the kind of man who paid more for bottled water than most people made in a day and he expected the world to thank him for it.
Nolan leaned back, rubbing his face. His body ached from long nights, but his mind was sharp. Focused. This wasn't just a target anymore. It was a challenge.
A soft voice rolled in his head. "If we're gonna play this game, we better dress for it."
Kieran.
Nolan glanced at the reflection in the darkened screen.
Kieran continued, half-laughing. "Look at you sweats, ratty hoodie, and hair like a mop. What are we doing, planning a con or digging through a dumpster?"
Nolan sighed. "Don't start."
But Kieran wasn't backing off. "You want Harrow to notice you? To let you anywhere near the kind of circles he walks in? You can't show up looking like a burnout hacker. We need to buy a proper suit actually it might be best to buy a couple ."
Quentin's voice chimed in, cold and analytical. "He's right. Presentation matters in a world like Harrow's. A tailored suit. Classy watch. Subtle but expensive cologne. Confidence is half the con."
Nolan shook his head, chuckling dryly. "So what, we're gonna throw on a suit and waltz up to him? Invite ourselves into his world?"
"Not yet," Kieran said, smug. "But you can't bluff your way into a high-stakes table with rags and bad posture. This is how it starts."
"We've been watching him long enough," Quentin added. "The patterns are locked in. Now it's time to make a move."
Nolan sighed, pushing his chair back. The apartment felt smaller than usual. Too hot, too quiet. The only sounds were the occasional horn outside and the rustle of cheap blinds swaying in the breeze.
He stood, grabbing his wallet and slipping on a black hoodie. "Alright," he muttered. "Let's go get fitted."
—
The suit shop was tucked away in an alley off a nicer part of Gotham, one of those bespoke places that didn't advertise. Nolan had passed by it twice before he found the right buzzer to press. Inside, the walls were lined with bolts of dark fabric and mannequins clad in sleek designs. It smelled like cedar, starch, and ambition.
Kieran surged forward, subtly straightening Nolan's back and setting his walk with a new rhythm cool, confident, not quite arrogant but close enough to pass. The tailor, a wiry man with silver hair and sharp eyes, barely looked up as Nolan approached.
"I need something sharp," Nolan said. "Something that says, 'I belong in any room you walk into.'"
The tailor raised an eyebrow, then smirked. "I think I can manage that."
Measurements followed, quick and clinical. Kieran handled the small talk. Mentioned a business venture, spoke vaguely about "client-facing work." The tailor didn't press. He'd heard stranger things in Gotham.
When it was done, Nolan stepped out into the sunlight, the suit packed in a long black bag slung over his shoulder.
"Step one," Kieran said, satisfied.
Nolan didn't reply. He was thinking ahead already.
—
Back at the apartment, Nolan compiled everything they'd learned. He mapped Harrow's movements, using timestamps from phone footage, business directories, and chatter picked up through burner phones. His own information network built out of necessity, curiosity, and the loyalty of people society had forgotten was thriving now.
He watched a clip from a phone camera across the street from Harrow's hotel. The man was barking orders at his security again, shooing a group of homeless people from the sidewalk like they were stray dogs.
Nolan paused the footage and stared.
This wasn't just about power. This was about ownership. Harrow saw Gotham's streets as his territory and anyone who didn't match his aesthetic got pushed out.
***
The morning light slanted through the blinds of Nolan's apartment, streaking golden lines across the hardwood floor. He stood in front of the mirror, eyes tired but sharp. A beat passed, and then Kieran exhaled and smiled into his own reflection.
"God, finally," he muttered, rolling his neck and cracking his knuckles. "Let's get you cleaned up, kid."
He tossed Nolan's ratty hoodie to the side like it offended him and dug into the closet for a plain black tee and fitted jeans—nothing flashy yet, but better. Just the prep work.
First stop: the barbershop.
Kieran walked with the kind of rhythm that made people instinctively get out of the way. Every step had intention. Every glance, a calculation. He checked his reflection in the dark windows as he passed them sizing up not just his appearance, but his posture, his energy. Presence was everything.
He slipped into a sleek little spot on 9th and Archway, the kind of place that charged extra if you asked for "the usual." The barber didn't ask many questions Kieran had that look about him, like a man who knew what he wanted and wasn't looking for opinions.
"Fade on the sides. Keep the top sharp. Classic, not boring," Kieran said, sliding into the chair.
As the clippers hummed, he closed his eyes and let himself enjoy the moment. Each snip felt like another layer of grime falling away another piece of the old life discarded.
Twenty-five minutes later, Kieran emerged from the chair looking like someone who didn't just belong in a suit but owned the room when he entered it.
He smirked at his reflection. "Now that's better."
Next on the list, eyewear.
He found a boutique tucked between a jazz bar and a vintage bookstore, the kind of shop that didn't bother putting prices on the shelves. He spent twenty minutes trying on frames, not because he needed them—but because sometimes, the right pair of glasses could change how someone saw you. A subtle psychological edge.
He settled on a pair of slim, matte-black rectangular frames. Polished. Authoritative. Intellectual, but with a blade underneath.
"Sold," Kieran said to the clerk, flashing his grin like a black card. He dropped cash, didn't wait for change, and walked out before the receipt finished printing.
Then: the real fun began.
He hit up a theatrical supply store on the edge of Old Gotham. The place was dusty and smelled like powdered latex and old wood. It was a treasure trove.
Kieran moved through the aisles like a man picking out weapons in an armory. He grabbed spirit gum, silicone scar patches, a few latex molds, skin tone makeup palettes, high-end wigs, and even a prosthetic nose that could change the shape of Nolan's face entirely.
He tested a few fake mustaches in the mirror, smirking at his own reflection. "Hello, Officer," he said in a husky drawl, tipping an imaginary hat. "Name's Jacobs. I handle the gas lines on 32nd."
He laughed softly. "Quentin's gonna lose his mind."
'I'm right here! And buy a painters uniform, those always come in handy.'
Kieran whistled as tune as he ignored Quentin but picked up the uniform anyways.
Kieran checked out with two large bags of materials, still grinning like a fox who found the henhouse unlocked. The clerk gave him a curious look, but didn't say anything. Gotham was full of weirdos. One more charming one didn't raise any red flags.
As he stepped back into the late afternoon light, he paused at a coffee stand on the corner. Ordered a flat white. Watched the crowds pass.
Everyone was in a hurry. Everyone was rushing to be something. Someone.
But Kieran?
He already was.
He sipped the coffee, leaned against the wall, and said to no one in particular, "This is the game, boys. And we're about to start playing in suits."
'Your dramatic one liners are getting weird.' Nolan grumbled
Back at the apartment, he laid everything out on the bed like an artist preparing for a masterpiece. Wigs. Foundation. Adhesive. Contacts. Hair bleach. Tooth caps. The works.
Nolan's body was a blank canvas. And soon, he could be anyone.
As he peeled off his shirt and stood before the mirror once more, Kieran gave himself a nod.