Kieran's lungs burned as though the air itself had turned into smoke. His knees dug into the polished floor, his body curled against the corner of the ballroom wall. The phantoms around him shrieked and swarmed, clawing at his chest with invisible hands. He could still see them twisted versions of faces, warped into terrors that didn't blink or breathe.

Then, cutting through the storm, came voices.

"It's all right, Kieran. Breathe." Nolan's calm tone pressed steady and deliberate, like a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't let it take you. You're here. With us," Vey's sharp voice followed, lower and clipped but insistent, almost growling against the chaos.

And then Quentin, loud and brash, filling the void with his bark: "C'mon, boss, you're tougher than this. Look at me! Right here, you hear me? Right here. You're not alone."

The pressure in his chest eased. Slowly, the jagged figures in the gas began to blur, then dissolve into nothingness. Kieran gasped—one, two, three shaky breaths until the room started coming back into focus. He wasn't the only one; scattered around him, other guests blinked awake, sobbing, coughing, brushing at their gowns and suits like shaking off spiderwebs. Fear left like a fading storm.

Kieran pressed a hand to the wall and forced himself upright. His legs trembled, his breath unsteady, the taste of bile sour in his throat. He dragged in air like it might run away from him if he didn't take enough.

"Steady," Nolan's voice urged inside him, softer now.

But it was Quentin who pulled forward next. The transition was seamless, Kieran slipping back into the haze while Quentin squared his shoulders, straightened his coat, and stepped into the tide of shaken, murmuring partygoers making for the exits.

The sirens outside were growing louder. Officers flooded the doors, steering survivors toward safety, pens already out for statements.

One uniform stopped Quentin at the edge of the stairs. "Sir, need a word. Did you see—?"

Quentin cut him off with a crooked smile and a gravel-edged voice: "I don't know what the hell just happened in there, officer. But I'll tell you one thing—" he exhaled hard, running a hand through his hair—"I think I'm done with galas for a little bit."

The officer blinked, uncertain whether to laugh or keep writing, but Quentin didn't stick around to clarify. He slid past, descending the steps until a sleek black limo eased from the curb. The rear door opened, swallowing him whole.

The ride back was quiet. The city outside blurred past in streaks of neon and sirens, a reminder of the chaos he'd just fled. By the time the car rolled to a stop in front of the Arden, Quentin had already let go, retreating back into the folds of their fractured mind.

The elevator carried them up into silence. When the doors parted, it was Kieran again, shoulders sagging as he trudged into the penthouse suite. His coat slipped from his arms onto the floor, uncared for. He dropped into the couch like the air had gone out of him and pressed his palms against his temples, dragging in another shaky breath.

"That was intense," he muttered, his voice hoarse.

He blinked once, and Nolan was there—steady, calm, reclaiming the body with quiet control. The room filled, not with people, but with the subtle, spectral echoes of the others.

Kieran reappeared across from him, slouched in an armchair, bottles of imagined liquor lined on the side table. He grabbed one, twisted off the cap with trembling fingers, and drank greedily, though it was all smoke and memory. "I don't like that. At all," he spat, dragging his sleeve across his mouth. "That was horrible."

Vey leaned against the wall, arms folded, silent, eyes narrowed like a hawk. Quentin lounged carelessly across the arm of the couch, watching Kieran with an almost amused shake of the head.

Nolan didn't answer right away. He sat in the quiet, letting the sounds of the city hum through the glass walls, his own breathing the only anchor against the ghosts of fear that still lingered.

Silence stretched, heavy and brittle, before Nolan finally exhaled, voice low. "Scarecrow won't stop." he muttered. "Not until someone puts him down for good. And I don't want to be caught in a situation like that again."

He rubbed his jaw, thinking aloud. "We need to find a countermeasure… some way to keep that toxin from tearing us apart from the inside." His gaze flicked toward the others, but settled on Kieran. "And… I hate to say it, but… you were probably the best one of us to take the gas." Nolan's voice softened, almost apologetic. "I'm sorry. How the hell did you manage it?"

Kieran was slumped on the opposite end of the couch, still clutching the phantom bottle of liquor he'd conjured in his haze. He let out a shaky laugh, his eyes unfocused but fighting their way back to clarity. "It's alright, boss," he said with a faint, weary grin. "I'll be alright. That's what we do, right? We… take the hits no one else can." The 'you can't' was obvious as he spoke

He tipped the fake glass back, swallowed nothing, then exhaled slow and shaky. "God, I hated every second of it, though."

For a moment the room was quiet, the kind of silence that lingered heavy after too much had happened too fast.

Then Nolan broke it. His voice carried across the room, odd in its certainty. "Emotional distress."

Everyone turned.

Nolan blinked at their stares, then shrugged like it should've been obvious. "You noticed it too, right? The haze of colors. The way those guys with the masks just… lost it." His eyes flicked to vey then Kieran. "It happened at Arkham too. When we made that guard lose his mind. Both times…" He hesitated, searching for the words. "Both times, we were under pressure. First me. Then Kieran. Emotional distress."

The weight of the words hung in the air.

Nolan leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable.

He pressed on, more confident now. "That's what triggered it. That's the key. Whatever's wrong with us—" his eyes flicked to Kieran again, "—whatever this power is, it only shows up when the emotions are too much to handle."

Kieran's grin faded. He stared down at his hands, still trembling faintly, like the gas clung to him in invisible traces.

Vey finally broke the silence, nodding once. "He's right. It fits. It wasn't random." Her voice was calm, pragmatic. "Emotional distress is the trigger. Fear. Pain. Anger. Whatever this ability is, it doesn't surface without it."

He leaned back in his chair, arms folded, eyes narrowing like he was piecing together a puzzle. "Then that means…" He let out a sharp breath. "We need to figure out a way to train it. To control it. Harness it." He tilted his head toward Kieran, his expression firm. "Because if you can actually direct this thing, instead of it just flaring out when you're panicked or broken down… it could be useful. More than useful. It could change everything."

The room went still again. The idea sat between them, dangerous and tempting in equal measure.

***

The safe house didn't look like much. Just another damp stretch of concrete beneath the underpass, scattered with blankets, broken shopping carts, and burn-barrels smoking in the dark. A handful of ragged figures lingered around the fire, coughing, muttering, passing a bottle. To anyone walking by, it was just another pocket of Gotham's forgotten.

But to the Underpass Society, it was a cache. Supplies, medicine, weapons—all hidden here. Guarded by eyes that never stopped watching.

Through the alley, a group came marching. Penguin's men. Their steps were heavy, their shapes thick with coats that hid rifles. They moved in formation, scanning the shadows like predators circling prey.

The men by the fire hardly stirred, only hunching deeper into their coats.

Penguin's crew slowed, spreading out, weapons rising. One muttered with a grin:

"Line up the rats. Make it quick."

The rifles lifted higher. Fingers curled on triggers.

Then the night split open.

Gunfire tore from both sides of the alley, muzzle flashes flaring in the dark. The attackers jerked and fell, cut down in a vicious crossfire. A few tried to shout, to return fire, but the bullets came too fast, too precise. Within seconds, the concrete was slick with their blood.

The "homeless" shapes at the barrel fire scattered, not in panic, but to draw pistols, eyes sharp now, no trace of drunkenness left. The ambush had been waiting.

When the echoes finally died, a few defenders stepped forward. One crouched by a body, yanked the jacket open, and cursed.

"Yeah. Penguin's men. No mistake."

Another looked up, scanning the dark. His jaw tightened.

"They're pressing harder. Won't stop till we're gone."

The scarred one at the front straightened, his voice flat, decisive.

"Yeah, contact the boss we need to sort this shit out fast."

The fire crackled in the silence.