"How the hell am I supposed to buy a hotel if I'm still a wanted fugitive?"
Nolan stared at the ceiling, the question floating out loud more than anything. The air was thick with old radiator heat and stale takeout, the only light coming from the blue glow of his secondhand laptop.
Kieran's voice was immediate, smug. "Can't you just hack into the records and delete all the data they've got on you?"
"I can't," Nolan muttered, rubbing his face. "Not with this piece of crap. I'd need something with way more power than what I'm running. And even then, GCPD's got federal redundancy systems now. You mess with one file, it backs up somewhere else."
"You can afford a better setup," Kieran shot back.
"Sure," Nolan said. "But it wouldn't matter. I'd need something built for serious penetration military grade. And the moment I even look like I'm poking around their system, alarms go off."
A long silence followed. He could feel both of them thinking.
Then Quentin spoke, calm and strategic as always. "What if we don't go through the front door? What if we get into the precinct?"
Kieran scoffed. "You want to walk into the belly of the beast? Dress up like a janitor and sneak past the badge scanners? You trying to get us all arrested again?"
"No," Nolan said quickly. "It's too risky. Too many eyes. Too many variables."
He turned the thought over, let it simmer in the silence. What if someone else brought it in?
"…But maybe," Nolan said slowly, "maybe we don't have to break in. Maybe we just need someone already on the inside."
Kieran went quiet.
Quentin perked up.
"If we could find a cop," Nolan continued, "one that's desperate. One that can be… persuaded."
"Blackmail," Kieran murmured, liking the sound of it.
"We've got the network," Nolan said, sitting up straighter. "Cameras. Eyes on the street. We've been collecting information for months. Someone's bound to have dirt. And it's not really blackmail if the guys doing something bad right?"
No one answered.
"Right?" He asked again his cheeks reddening
"And then we hand them a flash drive," Quentin said, ignoring Nolan in pity. "A simple plug-in job. In and out. Their system gets scrubbed and no one knows we were ever there."
Nolan leaned back, the first flicker of real hope sparking behind his eyes.
It was reckless. It was dangerous.
But it was doable.
He reached for his laptop, fingers already pulling up the encrypted network interface.
"Let's find ourselves a dirty cop."
Rain thinned against the windows like static, barely audible above the hum of Nolan's computer. He leaned forward, lit only by his monitor's glow. His hoodie hung from his frame, still damp from his walk back from the shelter. His fingers danced across keys as he parsed through data lists of beat cops, badge numbers, shifts, precinct postings, and social media trails stitched together from scraps his informants passed along.
"Come on," he muttered, sifting through profiles, narrowing the list.
Quentin's voice surfaced.
'You need someone desperate. Someone scared. Someone who'll say yes before they think.'
Nolan's eyes landed on Officer Riley Danvers. Middle-aged, veteran, no promotions in years. Smiles for the press. Clean record. Too clean. Nolan frowned, double-clicked. A deep dive into utility records, GPS history, and financial threads slowly unraveled the truth.
There were three red flags:
A second apartment listed under a false name in Burnside.
Repeated trips to a bank that specialized in offshore transfers.
A woman not his wife appearing in three surveillance clips.
Nolan leaned back. "There it is."
Kieran's voice smirked in his head.
That's your guy.
Nolan got to work.
He crafted a small, sterile message. No threats. No aggression. Just the facts:
Officer Danvers,
You don't know me, but I know you.
Your second apartment. The falsified expense reports. The woman who isn't your wife. The account under the name "V. Arlen" in the Caymans.
You have a family. A wife who trusts you. Kids who think you're a hero. I don't want to ruin that.
I need your help. One thing. No risk to you.
Insert the provided flash drive into any terminal at your precinct. Three minutes. That's it.
I disappear. You go back to being a husband and a father.
There will be no second ask.
He attached three files an image of the woman entering the Burnside apartment, a scan of a falsified duty log, and a grainy photo of Danvers walking into the offshore bank.
He created a throwaway encrypted inbox and hit send.
Then he waited.
Three hours later, the reply came. One sentence.
Where do I pick it up?
The flash drive was matte black and nondescript. Quentin handled its programming a tailored data-wipe tool with an automatic self-destruct protocol. Nolan enclosed it in a small weatherproof envelope and dropped it in a broken mailbox three blocks from Gotham's 27th Precinct.
That night, he couldn't sleep.
He paced the length of his apartment, then stopped at the window, watching the city flicker and churn in shadows. He imagined Danvers getting the envelope. Imagined him reading the instructions. Imagined the tension bleeding out of his jaw when he saw the flash drive was real not a bluff. Not a bomb. Just a job.
The next morning, Nolan sat at his desk, laptop open, staring at a blank screen of code. He didn't expect a thank-you. He didn't want one.
He just waited.
Minutes passed. Then a flicker of movement a command line burst into motion, strings of code executing with surgical precision.
Quentin's voice cut through his thoughts.
We're in.
The drive's code spidered through the database, targeting files, metadata, camera logs, fingerprints, aliases anything tied to Nolan Cross. Anything that linked him to the man who had walked into a bank months ago. Or the man who had been dragged into a GCPD interrogation room. Or the man whose blurry silhouette had danced with Batman on a rooftop.
Every entry.
Gone.
The files dissolved like ash in wind.
Three minutes.
And then the screen went black.
Later that evening, Nolan sat at a diner on the south end of Old Gotham. A cheap grilled cheese on his plate. Coffee cooling in his cup. He hadn't moved in fifteen minutes.
He felt… lighter. Not free. But lighter.
No more arrest warrants. No more active pursuit. Batman might still be looking for him, but to the GCPD, Nolan Cross didn't exist anymore.
He took a bite of the sandwich. Chewed. Looked out the rain-streaked window at the buzz of neon and blurred traffic.
His phone buzzed.
Unknown number. Just a message: It's done. We're even. Don't ever contact me again.
Nolan deleted the text and slid the phone back into his coat.
Kieran's voice was the first to speak.
"Well… that was slick. You feeling it yet, your potential?"
Nolan didn't answer. He just watched the street.
Quentin spoke next.
"You have room to move now. Room to build."
Nolan finished the sandwich and wiped his hands clean.
"I guess it's time to buy us a hotel."
***
A/ : I know people are eager to see the beast but, I just can't have him show yet everything has been street level so far. I already have the set up going for the eventual release of the beast though.