Nolan's alarm buzzed at 7:00 a.m., dragging him out of a dreamless sleep. His body still ached from the last few weeks bruises that hadn't fully healed, a dull tightness in his ribs when he twisted too fast. But he got up anyway. No rest for the kind of life he lived now.
He dressed in a plain tee and joggers, threw on a hoodie, and headed out.
The gym was mostly empty this early, which was exactly how he liked it. He started on the treadmill, a slow jog at first, trying to get the rhythm back in his body. His mind wandered thinking about Sherry, her granddaughter, Cadmus, and the latest package drop-offs he needed to schedule. Then he cranked the speed up.
Thirty minutes later, drenched in sweat, he moved to weights. Nothing crazy just enough to feel like he still had control over something. His body, at least.
Back at his place, he showered, downed a protein bar and a bottle of water, then opened the burner phone he used for the organization. Four missed calls. Two texts. One voice message.
He handled them efficiently. Sylvia needed extra meds at Safehouse Six. One of the newer runners had dropped a package too close to the GCPD watch zone. A contact up north was asking for temporary relocation for a man with heat on him from someone 'dangerous'.
Probably a gang.
He answered all three before finishing his first cup of coffee.
Everything ran smoother now. Even when he wasn't micromanaging, the homeless had built a rhythm routes, alerts, check-ins. It was more than a network now. It was alive.
And that scared him a little.
He set the phone down, exhaled, and stared out the window at the skyline. Gotham never slowed down. Never quieted. Just kept churning.
A pause.
Then, a voice in his head calm, charming, too smooth to be anyone but—
"Alright, sweetheart," Kieran said, surfacing like a smirk. "You planning on showing up to Harrow's doorstep looking like a meat sack that picked a fight with an iron bar?"
Nolan winced, instinctively brushing his hand over the fading bruise on his jaw. "You know he won't even see me for a few days."
"Doesn't matter," Kieran replied. "We make a first impression before we even say a word. The way you look right now? That impression is 'punchable.'"
Nolan didn't respond.
"Look," Kieran said, taking control gently—like slipping into the driver's seat of a car someone else had parked, "we bought all that makeup for a reason. Time to use it."
Nolan watched in the mirror as his own hands moved with a steadiness he couldn't always muster himself.
Kieran opened one of the boxes and pulled out a small palette, flipping it open. Concealer, corrector, skin tone foundations most of it mid-range, some high-end. He dabbed a sponge in a warm-toned cream and began smoothing it gently beneath Nolan's eyes.
"You've got a bruise under your left eye that makes you look like you owe someone money," Kieran muttered. "Can't exactly pitch a real estate play when the concierge might call security on sight."
He dabbed more across the cheekbone, careful, practiced.
Nolan tried to focus on the feel of it Kieran's calm, confident precision. It was oddly soothing, watching his own reflection soften, the damage fade under expertly blended layers.
"You ever done this before?" he asked quietly.
"You don't pull half a dozen long cons in New Orleans without learning to paint a new face," Kieran said, adding just the faintest shadow to contour the jawline. "Besides, I wasn't exactly born looking this good. Had to fake it until I made it."
"You fucker! That's what happened In New Orleans!? I was put in an institute for that."
"To be fair you weren't really present, it was during one of your episodes." Quentin commented dryly
A smirk curled in the mirror, "Nolan you should be thankful, I get to use those skills now! Plus that's ancient history at this point."
"Better already," Kieran muttered, reaching for the setting powder. "We've got to look like we belong in a lobby with gold-plated ashtrays and hand-stitched carpets."
He paused, tilted Nolan's/ his head? slightly, then nodded in approval. The bruise was gone. The redness around his right temple? Disappeared. A few slight tricks with concealer and suddenly Nolan looked… fresher. Rested. Capable.
"Now onto the knuckles." He said while carefully placing the small strips of fake skin on his knuckles while blending it in to match his skin tone
Finally most of all he looked clean.
"Now we just need the suit," Kieran said, dusting his hands and stepping back from the mirror. "Then we make our move."
Nolan blinked at his reflection. For a moment, it wasn't clear which of them he was looking at.
"Just a little paint," Kieran said, softer now. "But sometimes that's all it takes to change everything."
"So, what's the point of us doing this now? I thought we weren't going to start for a couple of days." Nolan asked
Kieran huffed, "You have so much to learn."
***
A velvet-paneled lounge hummed with the low murmur of old money and quiet power. The kind of place with no sign on the door, no menu online—just a name whispered among those who mattered. And tonight, Kieran planned to be one of them.
He walked in with a subtle smile, wearing a deep navy suit that hugged his frame, a crisp shirt, and polished leather shoes that clicked softly on the black marble floor. His hair was trimmed and styled to perfection, glasses perched on his nose, adding a touch of academic charm. The bruises that had once marred Nolan's face were long hidden beneath carefully applied makeup. His reflection in the mirror earlier had almost surprised him.
"Damn, I look good." He'd meant it.
He ordered a drink at the bar an Old Fashioned, stirred not shaken and took it to a low table near the corner of the lounge. He sat with a view of the room, legs crossed, exuding a quiet confidence. He didn't stare, didn't seek out his target. He simply waited. Observed.
And then, right on cue, Leonard Harrow walked in. Flanked by two quiet men who knew their place, Leonard moved through the lounge like he owned the place. He didn't. But he did own the building across the street, and at least three hotels in the surrounding district. Including the one that had sneered at the homeless days ago.
Kieran let his gaze flick toward him once—no more than a passing glance. A sip of his drink. A tap of his finger on the rim of the glass. Leonard Harrow chose a booth not far off, one with a commanding view of the room, and sent his entourage to the bar.
Opportunity walked on two legs and poured its own scotch.
Kieran waited a minute. Then two. Then rose, drink in hand, and made his way casually toward the bar. As he passed the booth, he slowed, looked toward Harrow with a polite, practiced smile.
"Evening," he said, as if recognizing a familiar face from somewhere.
Leonard looked up, neutral but observant. "Evening."
Kieran paused, tilted his head like he was trying to place the man. "I'm sorry, I could swear I've seen you at a summit in Metropolis. Or maybe a convention in Chicago? Real estate, right?"
Leonard gave a faint, amused smile. "You're not far off. I own a few hotels."
"Ah," Kieran said with a light chuckle. "Knew I recognized that look of someone who's too rich to be drinking here and too smart to go anywhere else."
That earned him a smirk. "And you are?"
"Kieran Everleigh," he said smoothly, extending a hand. "I'm just getting my feet wet in Gotham. Looking into acquisitions."
Leonard took the hand. "Leonard Harrow. And acquisitions, you say?"
"Mostly properties in flux," Kieran said, leaning lightly against the booth. "Places on the edge of revival or total collapse. I've done well enough in a few smaller markets. Thought I'd test the waters in a city with a bit more bite."
Leonard gestured to the empty seat across from him. "Well, Mr. Everleigh, if you don't mind sharing a drink with a stranger, I'm always curious about the newcomers."
Kieran gave a gracious nod and slid into the booth. "You might regret opening that door. I'm told I talk too much when the liquor is good."
Leonard chuckled. "Then we'll keep the liquor average."
The conversation rolled from there, casual and deliberate. Kieran played the role of the eager investor perfectly new enough to seem harmless, sharp enough to warrant interest. He asked just the right questions, offered just enough insight to pass as someone with genuine resources, and made sure to let Harrow do most of the talking.
By the end of the conversation, they hadn't discussed anything of value directly. But contact numbers were exchanged. Names had been shared. And when Kieran stood to leave, he did so with a parting line:
"If you ever find yourself looking to offload one of your hotels, Mr. Harrow, I wouldn't mind the first call."
Leonard lifted his glass slightly. "We'll see how serious you are when that day comes."
Outside, the cold Gotham air kissed Kieran's cheek as he stepped out of the lounge, the quiet buzz of success humming in his chest.
"Subtle. Elegant. Effective," he whispered with a grin.
"We've got his attention."
And somewhere beneath the surface, Nolan stirred gobsmacked at Keiran's skill