Batman slowly stepped back into the shadows, blending into the alley like a ghost returning to its grave.
From his belt, he tapped a device. A faint beep confirmed the tracking beacon had latched beneath the hem of Kieran's coat. Just enough to follow, to watch, to wait.
Not yet. Let him think he's free.
***
Kieran strolled down the block like a man without a care in the world, spinning a silver lighter between his fingers as Harrow's sports car purred and pulled away. He wore the smirk of someone who had played his role to perfection.
Then, without warning, the smirk faltered.
A sharp pressure pulsed behind his eyes. The air changed. Tightened.
In a blink, his posture slumped.
The swagger melted away. His jaw clenched. Nolan blinked through the sudden vertigo as control shifted. He stumbled into a narrow alley, pressing his back against the brick, breathing hard.
And then he heard it.
"He's watching," the Fighter said, voice like a blade dragged across stone. "And he left you a gift."
"What?" Nolan rasped, already scanning the dark around him.
"He tagged you."
Nolan's breath caught in his throat. He froze.
"Wha—how could you tell?" he hissed, heart racing. He frantically peeled off the overcoat, patting himself down, turning the collar inside out.
No response.
The Fighter didn't answer. He never explained. He just knew.
Nolan's fingers brushed against the inside hem and there it was. A tiny circular dot no bigger than a button, cold and humming softly against the fabric.
Tracker.
"Shit," he whispered, voice shaking.
He didn't wait. The coat hit the ground. The scarf followed. He moved quickly, ducking through side streets, back routes, sewer grates, and crumbling service tunnels only someone like him someone who had acess would know. He made every turn with the precision of a hunted man, doubling back twice, eyes scanning the skyline for even a flicker of movement.
Not until he'd reached the heart of the underground a maintenance corridor two levels beneath a old butchers shop — did he stop to catch his breath.
Only then did he resurface hours later, sliding through the back door of his apartment with the weariness of a man who'd just escaped a noose.
He locked the door. Bolted it. Latched the windows. Every curtain pulled tight.
And then, he collapsed onto the bed.
The ceiling was dark above him. Pale moonlight spilled through the blinds in strips. The city beyond still buzzed, but in here, it was quiet.
His chest rose and fell. His face was still streaked faintly with the remnants of the foundation and concealer Kieran had applied earlier. It made his reflection look like a stranger in the mirror.
He stared up in silence.
"He let me go," he said aloud, voice low.
No one answered. The voices were quiet for now.
Nolan rolled to his side, gripping the edge of the mattress.
"He could've taken me. Why didn't he?"
Because he wanted to watch.
Because this wasn't over.
Because maybe Bruce Wayne wanted to watch and see the next move Nolan would take. And then he would crack down on him in the act of something illegal.
Nolan closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, a long breath that trembled toward the end. The con was going too deep. The web was too wide. He was starting to lose the edges between masks, between voices.
Was this really worth it? A hotel?
Power, money, influence—it all sounded good in Kieran's voice. But lying here, in his own skin, it felt so fragile. One wrong step and Batman would drop the net.
He lay there for a while, lost in the quiet.
Wondering.
Should he go through with it?
Should he keep going?
Or was this where the story ended?
The ceiling didn't offer an answer. Neither did the city sounds humming behind the walls. Not even the voices stirred Quentin silent, Kieran mute, the Fighter watching but withholding his usual biting commentary.
But then—
A jolt.
Nolan sat up like someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over him. His breath sharp. Eyes wide.
"No," he muttered. Then louder—"No. Fuck that!"
He shoved himself off the bed, pacing barefoot across the cracked wooden floor.
"I came up with this idea," he said to the empty room. "Me."
He pointed at his chest, teeth gritted. "Kieran, you might've handled the talking. The charm. The suits and the fake articles and the slick little meetings—but I'm the one who started this. I'm the one who said, what if we could pull this off? What if we could be somebody in this city?"
He stopped and ran both hands through his hair, trembling.
"I know I'm never gonna be normal," he said, voice cracking just a little. "I know that. You think I don't? I've had Batman's fucking hand around my throat, I've heard voices in my head since I was six, I've killed people I don't even remember. I know."
He breathed. Deep. Shaky.
"But this… this is the one thing I chose. I chose it. I want this. And I don't care anymore if it's smart. Or safe. Or what it makes me."
His fists clenched at his sides, his shadow long in the lamplight.
"I just want to do something for myself for once. Not to survive. Not to run. Just to build something. Something that's mine. That came from me."
He paused.
Then his voice lowered, barely a whisper, almost to himself.
"I need to know if I can do this without walking away like always, I need to know if I can trust you fuckers in my head to not betray my wishes."
"I'm going to fucking do this!"
***
Nolan sat on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, staring at the screen like it might bite him.
He could feel the others watching inside his head. Kieran lounging somewhere with a smirk, Quentin quiet but alert, the Fighter just a faint, unreadable presence. But none of them moved to take control.
This was him.
Nolan.
No charm filters. No practiced lies spun with a grin and a twinkle in the eye.
Just a man, with a burner phone, calling a shark.
He scrolled to the contact labeled: Leonard Harrow.
He'd typed it in himself days ago. Kieran Everleigh had done the smiling and schmoozing and fake article-link dropping. But Nolan had logged the number.
He tapped Call before he could think too hard and brought the phone to his ear.
One ring.
Two.
Three.
"Leonard Harrow speaking."
Nolan cleared his throat. "Mr. Harrow. It's, uh… Kieran. Kieran Everleigh."
A short pause. Then Harrow's tone shifted, lighter. "Ah! Mr. Everleigh. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Nolan leaned back against the bedframe, trying to steady his voice. "I've been thinking. About what you said. The hotel."
Harrow chuckled. "Did the miracle worker decide he might want to get his hands dirty?"
Nolan forced a low laugh. It wasn't smooth. Not like Kieran's. But it would have to do.
"Maybe," Nolan said. "I'm not saying yes. I still have… hesitations. But I'd be lying if I said my interest hadn't grown."
Another pause. Harrow's voice turned just a bit more serious, "Well, I can make time," he said. "You want to talk face-to-face again? Same place?"
"Somewhere quieter," Nolan said. "I want to talk real details, not just surface."
Harrow considered. "There's a wine bar off Cortland. Low lights, good privacy. You like pinot?"
"I'll drink whatever you recommend."
Harrow chuckled. "That's the spirit. Seven o'clock tonight?"
Nolan glanced at the clock. Just enough time to prep.
"I'll be there," he said, and ended the call before Harrow could say anything else.
The moment the line went dead, Nolan let out a breath like he'd been holding it for years.
No voice rushed to take over. No Kieran stepping in with a sarcastic jab. No Quentin swooping in to clean up the edges.
"I appreciate you letting me try that, I know this is your wet dream Kieran." Nolan said as he started getting dressed
Kieran spoke softly, "You know, I always wanted to try and see you con someone. I know you have it in you but, maybe you let me take the meeting?"
Nolan snorted, "Yeah I don't think I would be able to get through the whole meeting."
***
Nolan stood before the mirror, jaw tense.
Nolan took a breath, then another—longer, slower. His fingers gripped the edge of the sink.
"You ready for this?" he asked himself.
There was a beat of silence before he closed his eyes.
"I'm ready," he whispered, and then like a changing tide, Kieran rose to the surface.
The posture shifted first shoulders rolling back, spine straightening. Then came the smirk in the mirror.
"Well, thank God," Kieran murmured. "I was worried you were going to back out."
He looked down at the makeup kit on the counter. There were still faint bruises left from the fight shadowy reminders of Batman's fist. Kieran picked up a brush and went to work.
Concealer. Powder. A little color to bring the skin back to life. By the time he finished, his face looked as untouched as the glass of wine he intended to sip later.
From the closet, he pulled out the dark navy blazer, tailored perfectly to his frame, and buttoned it over a crisp white shirt. No tie this wasn't a corporate deal, it was personal. Purposeful. A rich man's playground, not a boardroom. And Kieran was a master of playground politics.
He stepped into polished loafers, pocketed a pair of sunglasses, and ran a final hand through his now well-maintained hair before stepping out.
The vineyard sprawled like something out of a painting—endless rows of green, trimmed hedges, cobbled paths. Kieran arrived early, as planned. He took a seat at a private outdoor table overlooking the hill, ordered a glass of red Cabernet Sauvignon, vintage—and waited.
A low growl of an engine interrupted the birdsong. Harrow's sleek gunmetal-gray sports car pulled up to the front. A valet approached; Harrow tossed him the keys without even looking.
Kieran didn't stand he knew better. When Harrow finally approached, Kieran simply smiled from behind his glass and gestured at the empty seat across from him.
"You're early," Harrow said, sliding into the chair. He looked slightly amused, slightly cautious.
"You know what they say about punctuality," Kieran replied smoothly. "Being early is being on time. Being on time is being late."
Harrow snorted. "And being late is…?"
"Unforgivable."
The two men shared a quiet chuckle as the waiter came and went.
"Your call surprised me," Harrow said. "You said your interest in the property was… growing?"
"I did." Kieran swirled the wine, not drinking yet. "I gave it some thought. There's something about that building. Something with potential."
Harrow leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. "It's not in the best shape. You saw that article."
"I did." Kieran sighed, as though annoyed by the press. "It's unfortunate, the media always loves a scandal. But I see past that."
"You think it's salvageable?"
"With the right hands," Kieran said. "But I also know what kind of reputation problems like this create. Investors pull out, city inspectors pile on, guests leave bad reviews. That place won't bounce back on its own."
Harrow's smile faltered for a split second.
"And what," he asked, "are you proposing?"
Kieran finally took a sip of the wine. "I'm proposing I take it off your hands. No fuss. No long-term PR cleanup. Just a clean break."
"You're serious."
"Completely. I'll pay in all cash. No banks, no paperwork delays, no strings."
Harrow's eyes narrowed slightly. "You do know what that building's worth."
"I do. And I know what it's worth right now, after the bad press, the inspections, and the photos of you yelling at the homeless."
Harrow's jaw twitched.
Kieran leaned forward. "Let's not pretend the city hasn't turned on you a little. You'll recover. You're a man of means, and this is a single asset. Offload it quietly, rebuild your rep, and nobody has to know you took a loss."
"What are you offering?"
Kieran named a figure. Low. Criminally low. Harrow stared at him like he'd grown a second head.
"You think I'm that desperate?"
"No," Kieran said, sipping his wine again. "I think you're pragmatic. You can hold onto a sinking ship, or you can get out while you still have the wheel."
A long silence stretched between them.
Harrow exhaled through his nose. "I'll think about it."
"Of course," Kieran said, finishing his glass and rising smoothly. "That's all I ask."
He buttoned his coat and extended a hand. Harrow stared at it for a moment, then stood and shook it.
"I'll be in touch," the man said.
"I look forward to it."
As Harrow walked off, Kieran watched the man's back, that practiced, smooth smile never leaving his face.
He didn't just want the hotel. He wanted the win.
And he was already more than halfway there.
—-
A/N: dramatics aside I think this chapter could probably count as the turning point in my story. Yes Nolan has aided and even blackmailed but, for once in his life Nolan didn't have one of his personalities take over to change his mind about running away.