The morning sun crept through the slats of the blinds, casting pale stripes across the hardwood floor. Nolan sat at the small table in the kitchen, nursing a cup of black coffee, steam curling up toward his face. His laptop sat open in front of him, documents and spreadsheets scattered across the screen like the digital version of a messy desk.
He stared at it, expression neutral, eyes glazed with thought.
"You know what I just realized?" he said aloud to no one in particular.
There was a brief pause in his head. Then, "What?" Kieran asked, half-interested.
Nolan scratched the back of his neck. "We don't have a real bank account."
Silence. Then Quentin groaned like someone who had just remembered they left the stove on three hours ago.
"You're kidding."
"Nope." Nolan took a sip of coffee. "We've been using plain cash, burner cards, and back-end drop accounts for so long that I forgot if someone wanted to wire us actual, legitimate money, there's nowhere for it to go."
"I mean we had to pay Leonard in actual cash, how did we not think of that sooner?" Nolan groaned
"Jesus Christ," Quentin muttered.
"Okay, that's kind of hilarious," Kieran said, laughing softly. "We've got a hotel, fake permits, multiple IDs, three laptops running anonymous ops, and a wine fridge full of prepaid phones but no basic-ass business checking account."
Nolan pushed himself up from the table and stretched. "Alright. That changes today."
A nondescript black hoodie, jeans, and Nolan's most forgettable sneakers made the perfect uniform. His hair was clean but slightly tousled, enough to blend in. He had a briefcase in one hand, a folder of fake business registration papers and tax documents in the other.
The bank was quiet when he stepped inside polished floors, sterile white light, and a line of sleepy morning clients moving like zombies.
He approached the woman at the desk with practiced calm.
"I'd like to open a small business checking account," he said, slipping into his best slightly-nervous-but-earnest persona.
She smiled, nodded, and gestured toward one of the private cubicles.
Thirty Minutes Later
"You're all set, Mr. Everleigh," the banker said cheerfully, handing him the welcome folder and temporary checks. "It's always exciting when someone opens something community-based. I saw your mission statement. Helping the homeless that's really beautiful."
Nolan gave her a grateful smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Thank you. I really believe in it."
As he stepped back out into the street, he could already hear Kieran chuckling.
"We've officially joined the ranks of society. A legitimate businessman."
"Don't get comfortable," Quentin said, dry as ever. "It's still Gotham."
Nolan didn't say anything. He just kept walking, the weight of the folder under his arm, and something almost like pride building in his chest.
***
The door creaked open with a long, low groan, revealing the suite above the penthouse—untouched, unsold, and all but forgotten. A private residence meant only for the owner of the Arden. Nolan stepped inside and shut the door quietly behind him, the lock clicking in place like the end of a long breath.
It was quiet up here.
A high ceiling arched overhead, stained with age but still holding some trace of grandeur. Dust coated the shelves and the corners of the hardwood floors, the air holding that still, undisturbed weight that only time could settle. The light streaming through the tall, narrow windows painted gold bars across the room. He stepped through them, duffel bag in hand.
No one had lived here in decades, maybe longer. Which was perfect.
He dropped the bag near the foot of the unused bed queen-sized, ornate but modest. A carved oak frame. The sheets were yellowed, dry. He stripped them off in one pull, tossing them into a corner before hauling out the fresh ones he'd picked up during his supply run. Crisp white cotton. He'd never admit how good it felt to lie down in clean bedding. But it did. It really did.
The place had a kitchenette, a bathroom with chipped tile and a rust-stained sink, and a single armoire with mirrored doors. Everything else had to be brought up or built in. Kieran would complain it wasn't glamorous enough. Quentin would point out the strategic advantage of having private elevation access to the top floor. The Fighter would simply like the height, the vantage point.
Nolan just liked that it was quiet. His.
He walked to the window, looking down over the city. The Arden had once been a jewel of the skyline. Now, it stood forgotten. He pressed his palm lightly to the glass and said under his breath, "Let's see what we can do with you."
He spent the next couple of hours unpacking. The essentials. A laptop. Notebooks filled with scribbled plans and logistics. Two backup phones. A flash drive with identities on it that didn't exist, except in the cracks between systems. His main phone already buzzed a message from someome confirming the last investor interest from the gala. Things were moving.
The closet was mostly empty. He hung what few clothes he had mostly clean, pressed suits for Kieran to wear. He set up the bathroom with his own toothbrush and razor. He took out the small tin of ointment, applied some to the fading bruises on his side, and then stared at himself in the mirror a while. Hair slightly messy.
He looked like someone who'd been through it.
He also looked like someone who is about to become something far more than he imagined.
By nightfall, the room started to feel a little more lived in. A little more like his. Nolan lay back on the freshly made bed, lacing his fingers behind his head. The creaks in the old floorboards above and below seemed to breathe with him. He closed his eyes.
For the first time in a long while, he wasn't in someone else's place. Not the ratty apartment. Not some borrowed safehouse. Not even a hotel room paid for in cash under a name that wasn't his.
This was the Arden. His Arden.
And even if the road ahead was still messy—he was here now.
He let out a quiet laugh to himself, just a little breath of disbelief. Then turned toward the nightstand, opened the drawer, and slid the burner inside.
Tomorrow, they'd start making this place breathe.
—
A/N: usually don't do this but if you think this is slowing down in about 3 chapters the action picks ups significantly.
might post one more chapter today because this one's kind of short.