The warehouse smelled like gun oil, sweat, and smoke. Roman Sionis aka Black Mask stood silently in the gutted front room of the safehouse, black-gloved hands clasped behind his back. The floor was still littered with splintered crates and spent shells. Flies buzzed lazily over the bloodstains soaking into the concrete.
A trembling enforcer with a hastily bandaged arm stood in front of him, trying to speak.
"Sir, we didn't get a good look at 'em. It all happened so fast—"
Black Mask raised one finger.
The man shut his mouth instantly.
Roman turned, his skull-like mask catching the sunlight streaming through the blown-out windows. His voice was low and smooth,
"Then make me understand what the fuck happened."
The survivor flinched. Another man stepped forward, limping and bruised. "It was a setup, boss. Fire out front pulled most of us away. Looked like kids. Throwin' bottles, screamin', real messy." He spat blood on the floor. "By the time we knew something was wrong, they were already in the back."
"'They?'" Roman echoed, tilting his head. "Who is they?"
The man hesitated, glancing at the others.
"They looked… I don't know, boss. Like, maybe homeless. Dirty coats, torn gloves. You think it's payback?"
Roman's silence was its own kind of violence. He stepped closer until the man had no choice but to look him in the eyes those dead black holes in the ceramic skull.
"Say that again," he whispered.
"They looked homeless," the man muttered. "By the time we got back inside alls that wears left was the bodies. Took out the back guards quiet. Security cameras show some guy in a theater mask he snapped Roman's neck real good. We found his body by the crates."
A breathless tension hung in the air.
Black mask stared at the wall, calculating.
Then his voice dropped. "First they take my guns. Then they leave my men dead in a pile." He turned back to his crew. "And none of you dumbasses has the balls to chase down a pack of fucking rats in trench coats?"
No one answered.
Roman took a deep breath, then kicked over a metal folding chair with a crash that echoed through the warehouse. The men tensed, waiting for a bullet that didn't come.
He turned toward his second-in-command. "I want this city turned over. I don't care if they're sleeping in dumpsters or sewer grates. I want names. Faces. A trail of blood if that's what it takes."
Then he paused and muttered to himself, half in thought, half in rage:
"Homeless… I'll burn every alley in Gotham if I have to."
***
The morning air was still cool when Quentin stood over the crates, their lids pried open, metal glinting under the dusty light of the abandoned lobby. The smell of oil and steel clung to the air. Several of the more trusted leaders gathered around him, watching as he tallied and sorted the firearms they'd risked everything to steal.
"Start with five per sector," Quentin said, flipping open a small notebook with a rough map of the city sketched inside. "No one carries unless they've been vetted. I want eyes on every street corner, but no cowboy bullshit. You see trouble, you call it in first."
He handed a short-barreled shotgun to one of the leaders, a weathered woman named Reina who'd been on the street longer than most cops had been breathing. "You make sure this goes to someone who knows what they're doing."
She nodded grimly and slung the weapon over her shoulder. Others followed suit, each taking a few arms for distribution, always paired with firm instructions: who got what, how to hide it, and when to use it. Quentin emphasized again no unnecessary violence mostly for Nolan's sake. This was protection, not war. Not yet.
He moved from group to group, adjusting pairings, checking ammo loads. For those who couldn't be trusted with a gun, they received other tasks: lookouts, runners, couriers.
"And be selective with who we are relocating vet them before hand we don't want black mask to sneak his men in."
After nearly an hour, just as he was locking the last crate, his main phone buzzed in his coat pocket. He pulled it free, eyes narrowing as he read the name: Marnie LaSalle.
He answered. "Kieran speaking."
"Hey," Marnie's voice came through, slightly muffled by the echo of tools in the background. "You wanted updates on the dining room, right? Might be a good time to come check it out. Carpentry's wrapping up, and we're picking tile samples for the floor."
Quentin sighed quietly, running a hand down his face. "I'll be there in twenty. Don't pick anything without me."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
He hung up, slid the phone back into his coat, and gave one last look at the men and women arming up in silence around him. Gotham might not have noticed them yet but it would.
He turned, heading toward the elevator shaft they'd rigged to function again. It was time to go play hotel owner.
Nolan breathed a breath of fresh air as he entered his hotel, now wearing a pristine black suit after stashing his previous wardrobe. Unfortunately, he hadn't gotten much sleep but Nolan was used to it, his body was the tired not his mind.
Nolan stood with his hands in his pockets, gazing down at a fan of tile samples laid across a long folding table. The temporary light fixtures hanging from the ceiling cast warm, yellow glows across the various options matte charcoal greys, cream-colored marble, bold mosaic patterns, and deep emerald slabs veined with faint threads of gold. He crouched down, trailing his fingers along one of the cooler pieces.
"Too polished," he muttered.
Marnie stood across from him, arms crossed, a clipboard tucked into her elbow. "That's Italian marble. It says 'old money.' You sure you don't want to lean into that vibe?"
Nolan shook his head. "No. I want it grounded. Not cheap, but not like we're pretending this place wasn't left to rot for a decade either."
She gestured toward a darker piece—charcoal with faint, brushed texture and rough-cut edges. "This one's got a little grit. Picks up warmth from the wood paneling we're installing."
'Ouu pick that one!' Kieran urged
He nodded, walking a slow circle around the arrangement. "That's the one. Use it in the main dining floor. We'll border it with that slate strip, break up the monotony."
Marnie scribbled notes as a pair of workers wheeled in a box of materials, the sound of rolling casters echoing off the partially finished walls. Dust floated in the air. The raw scent of sawdust, fresh plaster, and new beginnings lingered on every surface.
Nolan took a few steps back and looked around. The dining room had changed dramatically in the past month—walls were patched, columns restored, new molding installed with subtle flourishes. Within another week, this space might host polished men in suits, homeless citizens in fresh uniforms, and fundraisers no one would believe came from a former gutter.
He stared at it all, nodding to himself, eyes distant.
It was almost hard to believe that just a few hours ago he had snapped a man's neck in a quiet room, watched the light leave his eyes. He had driven a metal file through another man's throat, felt the weight of them collapse to the floor. Blood had splattered across his gloves. His heartbeat had slowed only after the last body had dropped.
Now, he was standing beneath warm lights, picking out tile. Designing aesthetics.
The duality was truly jarring.
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A/N: I beg of you please give me a good name for this organization the best I've come up with is the "homeless society" and that's so bad