Batman's expression somehow managed to harden even further, the already immovable mask turning colder still.
Inside, Quentin let out a sharp laugh.
"You're a dumbass," he muttered. "Great negotiation tactics. Really winning him over."
Kieran grumbled back, unapologetic.
"Couldn't help myself."
The silence between them stretched again, heavier this time, no longer neutral but charged with opposing intent.
Kieran finally exhaled and lifted his glass slightly before setting it back down.
"So?" he asked, his tone edging with impatience. "Why did you want to talk? I've said everything I needed to say."
"I doubt that, Kieran."
Batman stepped closer as he spoke, his presence pressing in, deliberate and controlled.
Kieran frowned up at him.
"Stop leaving me in suspense," he said.
Batman stopped just a few steps away, looking down at him.
"This is my city, Everleigh," he said. "You and the other gangs are a cancer. You make everything worse."
There was no heat in his voice.
No anger.
Just certainty.
"You're lucky the police don't have enough to hold you for life."
Kieran tried to suppress it.
He really did.
But the smirk broke through anyway, sharp and proud, like he had just been complimented instead of threatened.
"Stop going after the Court," Batman continued. "I will handle it, like everything else in this city."
A brief pause.
"Then I will find a way to get you help."
That wiped the smirk away.
Kieran's expression fell, the shift immediate and genuine. He knew exactly what that meant. Arkham. Doctors. People like Dr. Halvorsen picking apart his mind piece by piece.
It held no appeal.
None at all.
He opened his mouth to respond—
Then stopped.
A voice cut through inside.
"Switch with me."
Nolan.
Kieran hesitated.
"Are you sure?"
There was no hesitation in the reply.
"Yes. Switch with me."
For a brief moment, Kieran looked at Batman—really looked at him.
Then he let go.
Nolan settled into the body with a slight jolt, a quiet grunt escaping him as the pain in his leg flared sharply. His hand instinctively tightened against the arm of the chair before he forced himself to relax.
He looked up at Batman.
There was no adjustment period. No confusion.
Just recognition.
And he knew, immediately, that Batman saw it too.
"God, Batman," Nolan said, his voice rougher, edged with irritation and something deeper, "you are so full of shit it is honestly disgusting."
He leaned forward slightly despite the pain, eyes locked onto him.
"Get me help?" he continued. "Are we even living in the same reality? Because from where I am sitting, you might need it more than I do. Your morals bend so easily when it suits you."
A bitter edge crept into his tone.
"Maybe if I were a cat burglar with a pretty face, you would be a lot more willing to work with me to take down the Court."
That got a reaction.
It was small, but Nolan caught it instantly.
Batman's lips tightened into a faint frown, and his eyes narrowed just enough to confirm it.
Selena.
Nolan saw it and pressed immediately.
"Yeah," he said, a sharp, humorless smile forming. "That got your attention."
He shifted forward again, ignoring the strain.
"Help me understand something," Nolan continued. "You are refusing help against an enemy that clearly affects both of us, just because I do not fit into your neat little categories."
His voice hardened.
"What is the point of being this stubborn?"
He gestured outward slightly, frustration building.
"People like Joker get recycled every time they show up. He tears through the city, kills, destroys, and what happens? A revolving door. In and out, over and over again."
Nolan shook his head.
"But the second someone tries to actually change the structure of this city—tries to fight something bigger than street-level chaos—you shut it down."
He let out a short breath, anger simmering.
"God forbid someone tries to help this city in a way you do not approve of."
Nolan pushed himself up slightly from the chair as if to stand, but the moment pressure hit his injured leg, pain shot through him. His expression tightened, and he dropped back down into the seat with a sharp exhale.
"Yeah," he muttered under his breath. "Still there."
Batman's gaze hardened into something colder, more focused, as he took a step closer. When he spoke, his voice was low and controlled, but it carried a weight that pressed down just as heavily as his presence.
"We keep having the same conversation, Nolan," he said. "And every time, you rewrite it to suit yourself."
His eyes did not leave Nolan's.
"You talk about helping the city," he continued, "but you leave out what that twisted reality actually looks like. You kill. You steal. You destroy lives and call it strategy."
A brief pause followed, not for effect, but to let the words settle.
"Do you think the men who died in that war did not have families?" Batman asked. "People who depended on them. People who are waiting for someone who is never coming back."
His tone sharpened slightly.
"You made those decisions. You pulled that trigger."
Nolan did not respond, and Batman pressed on.
"And the doctor," he added. "Do not pretend I do not know."
There was something different in his voice now. Not anger—certainty.
"You can hide behind your… condition for now. But that will not last. When it is proven, you will answer for it."
He stepped closer still, closing the distance between them.
"He was a husband," Batman said. "A father."
Each word landed with deliberate precision.
"You turned his wife into a widow. You left his children without a father."
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
"For what?" Batman asked quietly. "To provoke the Court? To send a message?"
His jaw tightened.
"You are not saving this city, Nolan. You are feeding the same cycle you claim to hate."
Another step closer, until he stood directly in front of him.
"You want to compare yourself to the Joker?" Batman's voice dropped further. "At least he does not lie to himself about what he is."
A beat.
"You wrap it in purpose," he finished. "But the result is the same."
"It is always the same."
Nolan could not meet Batman's eyes.
For the first time since the conversation began, the certainty in him cracked. Batman's words did not bounce off; they sank in, heavy and undeniable, echoing thoughts Nolan had buried and refused to linger on.
He exhaled slowly and set his glass down on the table with a quiet clink.
Then he stood.
Pain shot through his leg immediately, sharp and insistent, but he ignored it. He straightened anyway and began to walk past Batman, each step measured despite the strain.
Batman did not stop him.
As Nolan passed, he paused just long enough to turn his head and finally meet his gaze.
"You're right," he said.
There was no sarcasm in it. No deflection.
Just truth.
"I am a profoundly broken person," Nolan continued, his voice steady but quieter now. "And my morality…" He gave a faint, humorless breath. "It bends. Not unlike yours, in certain ways."
He held Batman's gaze for another moment.
"But you do not know me," he went on. "You know pieces. Fragments. Not the whole."
There was something resolute in his expression now.
"I hope that one day I can look back at everything I have done and say that it was worth it," he said. "Until then, I do not have the luxury of standing still and questioning every step."
He shifted slightly, favoring his injured leg as he turned toward the rooftop exit.
"I can only move forward."
His hand found the door.
"That is why I am going to continue going after the Court," Nolan said. "You can work with me, and we can bring them down together. They can face your version of justice."
He paused, fingers resting on the handle.
"Or you can work against me," he added. "It will make things harder. Slower. And yes… people will die because of it."
A small pause followed.
"I will mourn them," he said quietly. "But I will still move forward."
Nolan pulled the door open, the stairwell light spilling out across the rooftop.
He stopped just before stepping through and glanced back one last time.
"It is up to you, Bruce."