The Continental's private gym was still and hushed, save for the clang of iron plates. Early morning light bled through the tall windows, painting streaks of pale gold across polished machines and gleaming mirrors. Nolan's muscles strained as he pressed the bar upward, sweat beading along his forehead before dripping down onto the bench.

He racked the weight with a metallic thud, sitting up, his breath heavy. The city outside was quiet, but inside his head, the council wasn't.

"You did good, Vey," Nolan said aloud, wiping his face with a towel. Gratitude, genuine, colored his tone. "That could've gone a hundred ways wrong. Penguin folded because of you. Thank you."

Vey's presence loomed cool and composed, his voice cutting through Nolan's mind like glass. 'I didn't do it for thanks. I did it because hesitation gets us killed. He needed to see us as more than rats nipping at his heels.'

Quentin scoffed, almost pouting. 'Tch. And what's the point of talking, huh? You had him in your sights, Vey! We could've ended him. Put one between his eyes, walked out, problem solved!'

Nolan grimaced, moving to the pull-up bar, his arms pumping as if he could drown Quentin out with sheer motion. "Killing Penguin isn't a solution. It's a declaration of war we're not ready for."

Quentin sneered in his ear. 'We're already at war!'

Kieran cut across smoothly, his tone laced with irritation, measured and cold. 'What I don't understand, he said, is why you didn't take anything. The paintings, the desk trinkets—one or two of those pieces could bankroll months of operations. Instead, you walked out empty-handed like a fool.'

Vey's chuckle was low, humorless. 'Because it wasn't about plunder. It was about message. If I'd touched a thing, he would've smelled theft instead of diplomacy. And our "neutral grounds" talk would be dead in the water.'

Nolan gripped the bar tighter, teeth gritted as his muscles burned. He lowered himself down, sweat dripping onto the mat below, heart pounding in rhythm with the storm of his fractured selves.

"Enough," Nolan muttered aloud, breath ragged. He dropped from the bar and paced, towel slung around his neck. "Penguin's watching us now. Which means the window to move before he acts is closing fast. If this truce happens… we need to be ready. And if it doesn't…"

His eyes flicked toward the gym's dark mirror, catching his reflection and behind it, in his mind, the faint shimmer of Vey's mask, Quentin's smirk, Kieran's cold sneer.

"…then we make sure we're the ones still standing when the dust settles."

The weights hit the rack with a final metallic clatter, echoing through the empty gym. Nolan wiped his hands down with a towel, chest rising and falling hard, the tang of sweat and iron thick in the air. His muscles burned, but the workout had done its job his head was clearer, sharper.

The buzz of his phone cut across the silence. He snatched it from the bench. The screen glowed with a name: Harvey Dent.

Nolan pressed the receiver to his ear.

"Dent."

Two-Face's rasp slithered down the line, half-smooth, half-gravel, "I've got something for you. Jonathan Crane. Tonight, old slaughterhouse on the East Docks. Word is he'll be meeting some buyers. Thought you might want to… pay him a visit."

Nolan's lips curled into the ghost of a smile. "Appreciate the tip, Harvey."

There was a short silence before the harsher voice bled through the line, sharp and bitter, "Don't thank us. Just remember who gave you the chance."

The call clicked dead.

Nolan exhaled, pocketing the phone, and made his way upstairs through the hushed, opulent halls of the Continental. In his suite, the air was cooler, scented faintly of cologne and polished wood. He pulled a pressed suit from the wardrobe dark, tailored, with his tailor Hopper's careful hand evident in every stitch and draped it neatly across the bed.

The shower hissed alive, steam filling the marble bathroom. Nolan stepped inside, letting the water beat across his shoulders, scalding away the last remnants of sweat and iron. By the time he emerged, he was clean, refreshed, his mind already running through contingencies.

He dressed with practiced precision, cufflinks clicking into place, tie drawn sharp and perfect. As he smoothed the lapel, another sound intruded: the soft trill of the phone on his desk.

Not the burner, not Dent's line the Everleigh phone. His public face and Kieran's favorite phone in the history of phones.

Nolan strode across the suite, picked it up, and answered smoothly, his voice transforming as if by instinct,

"Kieran Everlay speaking. Who am I speaking to?"

For a heartbeat, silence reigned supreme then a woman's voice, crisp yet carrying a nervous edge, "Mr. Everleigh. This is Miss Lange."

Nolan froze, his mind flashing back to the glittering ballroom, the fragile strings of music, and the chaos that Scarecrow's fear gas had unleashed moments later.

He leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable, though his mind sharpened. "Miss Lange. Of course. What can I do for you, finally take up my offer to check out Lange hall?"

Kieran leaned back in his chair, one hand resting on the armrest while the other held the phone loosely to his ear.

On the other end, Ms. Lange's gentle laughter spilled through. "No, Mr. Everleigh. I'll be sure to let you know when I want to visit Lange Hall. But the reason for my call was to offer an apology about what transpired at the gala." He heard her sigh softly, the weight of that night still lingering in her voice. "It didn't go as anyone expected it to."

Nolan—Kieran—nodded even though she couldn't see it. His reply was steady, gracious. "I completely understand. There's no apology needed. It's Gotham, isn't it? Throwing a gala here is practically an open invitation for some psychopath to come along and ruin it. Really, I'm surprised this isn't just another Tuesday for people like us."

His dry laugh drew a genuine one from her. "Yes," she agreed warmly, "that's Gotham for you. Still, I felt I had to call. I just feel terrible about it."

"The thought is appreciated," he said smoothly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "But really, Ms. Lange, you've nothing to apologize for."

There was a pause, then she shifted the subject. "How's the hotel faring?"

"Wonderfully," Kieran answered without hesitation. "We've had another uptick in business recently. Truthfully, you should stop by sometime, see what you've invested in with your own eyes."

A wistful note touched her laugh. "Only if I had the time, only if I had the time. I do hope your hotel becomes a big success, Mr. Avalay."

The mispronunciation of his name made him crack a small smile. "Why's that?" he asked lightly, amused.

"Because it's always fun to have a new player in town with money to spend," she teased.

Kieran chuckled, shaking his head. "I don't know if I'll be reaching your level any time soon."

"Well, I'm glad you're so forgiving, Mr. Avalay," she said, deliberately repeating it the same way. "I hope to see you again at future events."

"You can count on it," he replied smoothly. "The moment an invitation comes across my desk, I'll make sure to be there."

"Good. Well, I won't keep you any longer," she said.

"Until next time, Ms. Lange."

The line clicked as the call ended, and Kieran sat for a moment, the faint smile still on his lips, "What is up with that women?"

'Avalay!' Quentin roared in laughter his figure floating around Kieran as he pointed and laughed, 'And you didn't even correct her oh my god! This is too great!'

Kieran cracked a smile, "You know you have been Mr. Everleigh too right? It's the same damn body!"

Quentin's smile plummeted to the depths of hell, 'That bitch!'