By now, the night was in full swing. Kieran Everleigh had already carved out a presence not dominating the floor, but effortlessly slipping into circles of conversation, leaving impressions wherever he paused. A laugh here, a thoughtful nod there. People were noticing.
As he stepped away from a group of financiers, Elena Stokes reappeared at his side, a knowing smile tugging at her lips.
"Mr. Everleigh," she said, her voice just loud enough to cut through the hum of the gala, "I believe there's soone you should et."
Kieran turned — and found himself face-to-face with Gotham's mayor, Hamilton Hill. The man looked every inch the politician: broad-shouldered, impeccably tailored, with that easy confidence of soone used to commanding a room.
"Mayor Hill," Elena announced, "this is Kieran Everleigh, the gentleman behind the Continental."
Hill's handshake was strong, practiced. "Ah, the man of the hour. I've been hearing about your hotel all evening seems half the city has a story about it."
Kieran allowed himself a polished smile. "I hope most of them are good ones."
Hill chuckled. "Good enough that even City Hall is talking. You've done sothing rare in Gotham given us a landmark that feels both new and tiless."
Kieran dipped his head slightly. "That's kind of you to say, Mayor. The city gives plenty of inspiration one only has to look closely."
"Speaking of inspiration," Hill said, his tone shifting, "I hear you've got an appreciation for art. But tell
do you hunt?"
Kieran arched a brow, amused. "Hunt? Not with any great skill, I'm afraid. My talents are more… dostic. Though," he added with an understated grin, "I can appreciate the artistry of the pursuit. The patience, the calculation. It's a kind of chess, isn't it?"
That lit sothing in Hill's eyes. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough to create intimacy. "Exactly. The world thinks hunting is about trophies. It isn't. It's about discipline, respect for the challenge. A lion doesn't co easy. A stag knows when it's being watched. You learn sothing about yourself when the prey bolts."
Kieran swirled the champagne in his glass, studying the mayor as if weighing the words. "I admire that outlook. It isn't the kill that defines the hunter
it's the restraint, the patience, the understanding of when not to take the shot."
Hill gave a broad, approving laugh, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. "You've got the mind of a hunter, even if you don't take to the field. Gotham needs more n who think that way."
Elena bead, clearly pleased with the rapport forming. "Perhaps this is the start of a very productive friendship."
Kieran's smile remained warm, but there was sothing sharper beneath it a flash of calculation. "I'd like that, Mayor. After all, the hunt cos in many forms."
The mayor's voice rose above the gala chatter. "Bruce! Bruce Wayne!"
Heads turned as the billionaire philanthropist cut through the crowd, tuxedo sharp, smile easy and rehearsed. Hamilton Hill waved him over, clearly delighted. "Bruce, you must et Kieran Everleigh. He recently opened the Continental. Quite an impressive feat, don't you think? To pull people off the streets and give them a better life?"
Bruce's smile never wavered. "I couldn't agree more," he said smoothly, his tone that perfect balance of admiration and casual charm. His eyes flicked to Kieran, and for the briefest mont, there was sothing sharper than the playboy act but then it was gone, hidden behind the grin. "We've actually t a couple tis now, I think."
"Yes," Kieran replied, voice calm, asured. "I believe we have."
Hamilton clapped his hands together once, pleased with the connection forming before him. "Good n of vision, both of you. Gotham needs more of that."
The three of them carried on, their conversation flowing from developnt to philanthropy, polite nods and political flourishes masking deeper gas underneath.
****
The Hamr Gang moved like a dark tide, shadows stretching against rusting steel and derelict freight cars. Molotov cocktails clinked softly in a crate one man carried, the bottles swishing with gasoline. Another had a shotgun slung over his shoulder, barrel gleaming faintly under the weak light of a flickering yard lamp.
"Boss says we make it loud," one muttered, adjusting a bandana over his face. "Show the rats the rails ain't theirs."
Guns were cocked. Safety catches clicked off. The group of a dozen pressed closer toward the underpass entrances, eyes sharp for lookouts.
***
Back in the ballroom, laughter rippled as Mayor Hill launched into a story about an old hunting trip in Zimbabwe. Bruce played the attentive audience, chuckling at the right beats, sipping champagne. Kieran listened, offering a polite remark here, a wry comnt there.
"You see," Hill said, leaning forward, "the beauty of a hunt isn't the kill it's the anticipation. The stillness before the strike. That's when the heart beats the loudest."
Bruce grinned, raising his glass. "Sounds not unlike running a company boardroom, Mayor."
Kieran smiled faintly at that, but his gaze had drifted across the gala floor—sensing a different kind of hunt was already underway.
***
The Hamr Gang struck first. Bottles ignited, flas licking up rag-cloth fuses. A man hurled one against the mouth of a tunnel. Glass shattered, fire whooshing across the concrete, painting the entrance in orange light.
Gunfire cracked a second later sharp, brutal, echoing through the steel caverns. The underpass answered in kind. From within the darkness of their claid tunnels, defenders fired back, muzzle flashes flaring in bursts. Bullets sparked off rail cars. Soone scread. Another Molotov arced high, bursting against a parked freight container. The air slled of smoke and gasoline, chaos igniting in seconds.
***
In the ballroom, a server passed with a tray of champagne. The mayor's laughter bood again, oblivious to the war beginning miles away. Bruce lifted his glass for a polite sip, though his eyes flicked curiously at Kieran, as if sensing a faint disturbance.
That's when Kieran felt the buzz in his jacket pocket. Not his main phone but the secondary.
He pulled it free, glanced at the screen. The na flashing there froze him just enough for his jaw to tighten. He smoothed it over instantly, slipping into effortless grace.
"Gentlen," Kieran said with a warm smile, "if you'll excuse , I need to take this."
He moved away from the mayor and Bruce, weaving through the glittering crowd until the noise dulled behind him. Finding a quiet alcove near the back corridor, he lifted the burner to his ear.
The voice on the other end was ragged, panicked, drowned in the distant roar of gunfire, "Boss, it's the South Tracks. The railroads are under attack!"
Kieran's eyes narrowed, the mask of the polished hotelier faltering just enough for sothing colder to surface.
The gala music swelled behind him, strings and piano filling the air. But in his ear, there was only the sound of war.
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