The lobby of the Continental was hushed, dim light cast small shadows in the corners while the night staff moved seamlessly throughout the hotel. Nolan Everleigh pushed through the revolving doors with the easy calm of a man who belonged, his polished shoes clicking softly on marble. The only thing out of place was the duffle bag he carried in his right hand.
The doorman straightened at his approach, hand brushing the brim of his cap. Nolan didn't pause, but as he passed, his left hand rose and gave the man's shoulder two light taps. A simple, practiced rhythm.
"Keep the house safe," Nolan said quietly, the words carrying more weight than their plainness suggested.
The doorman's jaw tightened in acknowledgent. "Of course, boss."
The exchange lasted less than two seconds, but the man was already subtly shifting his stance, eyes sharper, posture rigid. To anyone else, it was just a guest leaving a hotel. To Nolan, it was confirmation that the fortress behind him was in good hands. Every cog in the machine knew its role.
He turned the corner, and the warmth of the Continental's lanterns slipped away behind him. The city opened in front of him like a living maze.
Rather than hail a car or step into the flow of traffic, Nolan cut into the shell of a condemned textile mill. A rusting sign dangled from broken chains, its windows blackened and forgotten, but inside, past collapsed beams and dust-caked machinery, was a rusted service hatch hidden under rotting planks. He pulled it open and descended.
The air grew damp, cool, humming faintly with the electric buzz of repurposed wiring. The holess under his command had carved the bones of Gotham into sothing far more efficient than the city planners ever had. Sewers, forgotten subway shafts, drainage conduits—mapped, fortified, connected. What had once been ruin was now a circulatory system. His circulatory system.
This route wasn't novelty. It was necessity. Aboveground, every block ant caras, witnesses, unpredictable traffic. Taking a car through the normal streets to the East Docks would have taken an hour in Gotham's gridlock, and it would have lit up every pair of eyes watching for him. Down here, it was fifteen minutes of shadows. Invisible. Untouchable.
Nolan's boots tapped along stone, his movents swift, guided by painted glyphs on the walls that glowed faintly under scavenged fluorescent strips. At an intersection, one of Stitch's n nodded to him, layered jacket hanging loose, a shortwave radio dangling at his side.
"Safe run tonight," the man murmured.
Nolan returned the nod, no need for more.
The tunnel spat him into another ruin, this one collapsed into the girders of the East End overpass. He climbed a ladder up through cracked concrete and erged onto a rooftop where the wind tugged at his coat. Thin plank bridges stretched across alleys, letting him glide from building to building while traffic stread obliviously below.
When rooftops gave way to wider streets, the system adapted. A beat-up sedan idled in a side alley, its headlights dimd. The driver, an old woman with weathered hands, didn't look at him as he slid inside. No words exchanged. The car rged into traffic, weaving effortlessly through backroads, peeling off two miles later into another forgotten structure where Nolan vanished underground again.
By the ti he surfaced once more, the air had changrd, sharp brine, oil, and rush ah the stench of the Docks.
Through a bent chain-link fence, the slaughterhouse lood. Its corrugated iron walls reflected the harbor's dull glow, its smokestacks long cold, its yard cracked and slick with grease that never washed away.
Light burned in its windows. Ard n shuffled inside, restless silhouettes against the glass. And in the heart of it all, Jonathan Crane was gathering buyers, moths to a fla drawn by fear in bottled form.
Nolan adjusted his cufflinks, gaze narrowing. He had arrived without a ripple on the surface of Gotham.
***
The slaughterhouse lood in the distance, all rusted siding and shattered windows, its chimneys coughing a faint black haze into the night sky. Nolan—no, Vey—stood just outside the periter fence, the quiet hum of the docks in his ears.
He lowered the duffel bag to the ground with deliberate care. For a mont, he just stayed there, crouched, fingers on the zipper. His eyes slid shut. One long inhale. One exhale.
When they opened again, they were sharp, cold, and unyielding. Steel. The flicker of Nolan was gone. Vey was here.
The zipper rasped open. From the bag ca the smooth porcelain gleam of his signature theater mask. He raised it in one hand, and with practiced ease, slipped it over his face. The world narrowed behind its sculpted lines—expressionless, alien, unnerving.
Next ca the pistol. Black, compact, and balanced, he checked the slide, then slid it against his ribs beneath his jacket. After that, a combat knife single-edged, matte-finished to kill any shine. That found a ho strapped against his side under the suit jacket, hidden but ready.
Rising from the crouch, Vey rolled his shoulders once, settling into the predatory rhythm. Then he moved, soundless on the broken concrete as he closed in on the slaughterhouse.
Two guards stood lazily near a side entrance, cheap submachine guns hanging at their sides. They never had a chance. Vey slipped behind the first, a clean hand over the mouth, blade across the throat in one precise draw. The body sagged noiselessly into the shadows. The second turned half a step, puzzled by the faint shuffle—Vey's knife punched into the side of his ribs, twisted, and eased him down. Both corpses were dragged just out of sight, into the black mouth of the dockside refuse.
He moved inside.
The interior reeked of rust and stale blood. Chains swung from overhead beams, and a long, scarred table had been dragged into the center of the floor. Around it sat Scarecrow and half a dozen buyers, all twitchy, ard, desperate n. Vey ghosted along the edge of the room, the pistol easing into his grip.
The first bullet cracked clean through the skull of a man leaning back in his chair. Chaos erupted instantly. Another thug jerked sideways with a hole in his chest before he'd even gotten his gun up. Shouts, the scrape of chairs, gunfire sparking in the dark but Vey was already moving.
He dropped behind a rusting at hook column, slid out, and put two shots center mass into a thug sprinting for cover. Another rushed with a shotgun, barrel half-raised Vey's knife flashed, burying in the man's throat as he tore past. The shotgun clattered harmlessly to the ground.
The buyers panicked. They weren't soldiers. They were businessn, cowards with cash. One tried to run Vey's pistol barked once, and the man crumpled, blood pooling under him.
In under a minute, silence fell. Bodies sprawled across the stained floor.
Only Scarecrow remained.
He had retreated to the far wall, spindly fra trembling inside the sackcloth mask. Hands clutched a small canister, and with a frantic flick, he triggered it. A hiss filled the air, yellow-green vapor curling into the room, thickening with every second.
"Let's see how you scream…" Crane rasped, eyes gleaming through the burlap.
But Vey only straightened, hands loose at his sides, the theater mask fogging faintly before clearing again. The built-in filters humd, cycling clean air into his lungs.
A low, humorless chuckle slid from behind the mask as he stepped forward, boots crunching over shell casings and broken glass. Each stride cut the distance, the gas swirling harmlessly around him.
"Boo."
Crane flinched hard, back striking the wall as though he could lt into it. His voice cracked under the weight of panic.
"W- who are you? What do you want?"
Vey tilted his head beneath the theater mask, shoulders rising with a slow, steady inhale. Then his posture shifted tense lines softening into sothing uneven, twitchy. A grin crawled across his lips under the mask as Quentin slipped forward, pushing Vey down into silence.
"I just want what they want," Quentin said, voice light, sing-song, almost innocent. His fingers twitched at his side. "It's really simple, Crane. Just give the gas."
Crane blinked, confusion flickering across his gaunt features. Then a small exhale of relief escaped him, as though a noose had been loosened from his throat. "Oh. You're… you're a buyer." His voice steadied, business-like now. He straightened his back, though his hands still fidgeted on the case. "I'm only offering small vials at the mont. New blends. Enough for… targeted applications. You just crack them open—" He demonstrated with his gloved fingers miming a snap. "A whiff and the fear sets in. Strong, effective. A couple people, maybe a room if it's sealed."
He set the tal case on the table, flicked the clasps open with a tallic clack. Inside, neat rows of glass vials glimred faintly, each filled with shifting liquid that caught the dim light. Crane gestured with a thin, long-fingered hand. "See for yourself."
Quentin leaned in, humming softly as if admiring a display of candy in a shop window. "I like it," he breathed, nodding.
"You have money?" Crane pressed, tension ebbing from his shoulders now. "I don't do favors, I don't—"
Quentin snatched the crate before he could finish, jerking it up into his arms. The suddenness of the motion made Crane jolt back, blinking. Quentin laughed, the sound sharp and unhinged, filling the echoing space of the slaughterhouse.
"Money?" Quentin cackled. He tipped the case to his chest like a child hugging a toy. "Your life, Crane that's the paynt. You keeping your life is the price!"
Crane stiffened, his jaw working as anger began to set in, "You want to steal from ?"
Quentin shook his head, "Of course not, in the future if I want more I'll pay but, I don't take kindly to people who try to gas crane."
Scarecrow stepped forward his hand reaching backward, "You ca in here and attacked first." He hissed in anger, "I simply wanted to defend myself."
Quentin shrugged uncaringly as he gazed at scarecrow, "I wouldn't continue what your doing if I were you."
'Shoot him!' Kieran cheered while Nolan stayed silent oddly so
Scarecrow narrowed his eyes angry and confused, he didn't like being corner.
No not at all.
"Fine." He bit out as he stepped out of the slaughter house leaving Quentin all alone with a plethora of dead bodies
Nolan soon took his place and looked down at the fear gas in his hands and then back up toward the blood that pooled across the slaughterhouse.
He realized he was numb to the deaths.
Oh so numb.
-
A/N: be honest did I ss up scarecrows personality? I think I did good but it might be bias
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