Nolan sat behind his desk staring absently at the spread of documents covering the polished surface. Financial reports, surveillance photos, shipping manifests, and handwritten notes formed an organized chaos only he fully understood. One monitor displayed news coverage muted silently in the corner while another showed live camera feeds from various parts of the hotel.
Despite the amount of work in front of him, his attention had drifted elsewhere entirely.
His fingers tapped slowly against the armrest of his chair as different possibilities turned over inside his mind. The Court was weakening faster than even he originally expected. Every new development piled pressure onto an organization already beginning to fracture internally.
Which made the next move critical.
A sharp knock against the office door pulled him from his thoughts.
Nolan blinked once before pressing a discreet button beneath the desk. Heavy locks inside the reinforced door clicked open with a muted metallic sound.
"Come in," he called calmly.
The door opened immediately afterward.
Floyd Lawton stepped inside wearing casual clothes beneath a long coat, though nothing about the man truly looked relaxed. Even half awake, Deadshot moved with the awareness of someone constantly evaluating exits, angles, and threats. He shut the door behind himself before fixing Nolan with an unimpressed look.
"This better be important," Floyd muttered around a yawn. "I've got plans later today I'd rather not miss."
Nolan smiled faintly, "I wouldn't have called you if it wasn't important."
Deadshot wandered toward one of the chairs without invitation and dropped into it comfortably. He looked far more rested than when Nolan first recruited him to train the Underpass fighters, though the perpetual exhaustion behind his eyes never fully disappeared.
"How's business?" Nolan asked casually. "I know you've started taking contracts again."
A smirk tugged at Floyd's mouth.
"As usual. Gotham never runs out of rich people wanting somebody dead." He leaned back slightly in the chair. "Your people are improving though. I'll give them that."
Nolan raised an eyebrow slightly.
"Oh?"
"Yeah," Floyd replied. "The ones you picked for advanced training actually listen. That already puts them above most idiots with guns." He shrugged lazily. "But if you want them getting any better, you'll need somebody else."
Nolan stayed quiet, allowing him to continue.
"I was hired to get them to a certain level," Floyd explained. "Discipline. Shooting fundamentals. Small-unit movement. Basic survival." He gestured loosely with one hand. "Anything beyond that starts crossing into my actual tradecraft, and that costs a hell of a lot more money than what you're paying me now."
A grin spread slightly across Nolan's face.
"I'm simply glad they're trained at all," he replied honestly. "I never misunderstood the deal we made." His fingers folded together atop the desk. "Frankly, hiring you was one of the best decisions I've made so far."
Deadshot snorted softly.
"Flattery from a rich psychopath. That's new."
Nolan ignored the comment completely.
"No," he continued smoothly, "I called you here because I'd like to offer you a job."
That finally caught Floyd's full attention. His eyebrows lifted slightly in surprise before a slow grin spread across his face.
"You're finally deciding to hire me for what I'm actually good at?" he asked. "I was wondering how long it'd take."
Nolan opened one of the desk drawers and removed a thin black folder.
Without speaking immediately, he slid it across the desk toward Floyd.
Deadshot picked it up and flipped it open casually. The moment he saw the photograph inside, his expression sharpened slightly.
"Lincoln March," Nolan said calmly.
Several photographs rested inside alongside background information, known movements, financial connections, and surveillance shots collected over recent weeks. Floyd skimmed through them quickly, his eyes moving faster the further he read.
Nolan watched him carefully while speaking.
"He's a senior member of the Court of Owls. Wealthy. Connected. Politically insulated." Nolan leaned back slightly. "Recently he's become a recluse, obviously he and the other higher ranking members are worried,"
Deadshot flipped another page, "Looks expensive," he muttered.
"He is."
"And you want him dead."
Nolan smiled faintly, "I want you to do your job."
Floyd closed the folder halfway and looked back toward him.
"That's a pretty big escalation from your usual games," he observed. "You've spent weeks pushing everyone else into hitting the Court instead of doing it yourself." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Why now?"
Nolan's expression remained pleasant, though something colder lingered underneath it now.
"Because pressure only works for so long before people adapt," he replied. "Right now the Court is frightened, fractured, and suspicious of itself." He tapped one finger lightly against the desk. "If a senior member suddenly dies…" His smile widened slightly. "…the paranoia becomes uncontrollable."
Deadshot studied him quietly for several seconds, "You want them turning on each other completely."
"I want them incapable of functioning."
Floyd leaned back again, flipping through the folder once more.
"This guy'll have security," he said eventually. "Real security."
"He will. Talons too probably."
"And if the Court realizes this wasn't gang-related?"
Nolan shrugged lightly, "They will, you have a MO after all." His tone remained disturbingly casual. "Take that into account of course."
Deadshot laughed softly under his breath, "There it is," he muttered. "That thing you do."
Nolan tilted his head slightly, "What thing?"
"It's nothing."
Nolan's smile brightened politely, "Can I count on you, Floyd?"
Deadshot looked down at the file one final time before shutting it completely.
Then he grinned.
"Oh," he said, standing slowly from the chair, "this sounds fun."
***
Marcus Reed stood quietly in his kitchen staring at the coffee machine while Gotham's morning news played softly from the television in the adjacent living room. The apartment itself was small but comfortable enough for a family of four. Toys sat scattered near the couch despite his repeated promises to clean them up, and one of his daughter's school projects still occupied half the kitchen table because nobody had the heart to throw it away yet.
Outside the apartment windows, rain painted the city gray.
Again.
It felt like Gotham had only two settings lately: raining or about to rain.
"Daddy, cereal's gone."
Marcus blinked from his thoughts and looked down toward his youngest son holding up an empty box dramatically like evidence in a murder trial.
"You used the last of it yesterday."
"No I didn't."
"You absolutely did."
His wife laughed softly from the stove while flipping eggs onto plates. "Don't argue with him before work," she warned. "You'll lose."
Marcus snorted quietly and finally poured himself coffee.
The television shifted to another story.
"…additional arrests were made overnight connected to the underground gambling and blackmail operation discovered earlier this week…"
Marcus looked toward the screen automatically.
The footage showed wealthy Gotham socialites being escorted through crowds of reporters while flashes from cameras lit up the rainy streets outside police headquarters. Underneath the report ran another headline discussing the recent hospital attack involving Maria Powers.
Another shooting.
Another scandal.
Another crisis.
His wife noticed him staring, "They still talking about that Court thing?"
Marcus shrugged tiredly, "Feels like everybody's talking about it."
Which was true.
A month ago the Court of Owls was little more than a creepy Gotham story people joked about in bars or whispered about online. Now it dominated every conversation in the city. The news couldn't stop talking about secret societies, gang retaliation, corrupt elites, Batman raids, assassinations, and bodies turning up in alleyways.
His wife slid a plate toward him.
"You think any of it's true?"
Marcus took a bite before answering.
"I think Gotham's crazy enough that all of it might be true."
That earned a dry laugh from her.
Honestly, most people he knew felt the same way.
At first the recent gang war had been terrifying. Entire neighborhoods turned into battlegrounds almost overnight. Gunfire echoed constantly after dark. Businesses shut early. Parents stopped letting their kids outside unless absolutely necessary.
For a while it genuinely felt like the city was collapsing again.
Then suddenly—It stopped.
Now instead of gangs killing each other openly, rich people were getting arrested and mob bosses were apparently holding meetings together instead of shooting one another.
None of it made sense anymore.
Marcus finished breakfast quickly before grabbing his coat and heading out into the rain.
The subway platform downtown looked as miserable as always. Exhausted people stood shoulder-to-shoulder pretending not to look at one another while old advertisements flickered overhead. A pair of transit cops lingered near the stairs looking more nervous than usual.
Everyone looked nervous lately.
Marcus boarded the train and squeezed into a spot near the door as Gotham rolled past outside in endless gray concrete and flickering lights.
Two men nearby were already arguing about the news.
"I'm telling you," one insisted, "Batman's finally going after the rich people now."
The other scoffed immediately.
"Bullshit. Rich people don't go to prison in Gotham."
"They arrested like twenty of them!"
"Yeah, and they'll all be out by next week."
Nobody nearby bothered disagreeing. That part at least felt believable.
Marcus arrived at work forty minutes later soaked despite the umbrella he carried. The office itself sat inside an aging accounting building downtown where half the lights buzzed constantly and the elevator occasionally stopped between floors for no reason.
Typical Gotham.
By lunchtime the entire office had devolved into discussing the latest insanity happening around the city.
"You hear about the hospital attack?" one coworker asked while stirring sugar aggressively into bad coffee. "Some rich lady almost got killed."
"Yeah," another replied. "Apparently mercenaries stormed the place or something."
Marcus leaned back in his chair.
"Mercenaries," he repeated tiredly. "Do you hear how insane that sounds?"
Nobody argued. One of the older workers shook his head slowly while looking out the office window toward the rain-soaked skyline.
"This damn city," he muttered.
That got several tired laughs.
"Seriously though," another coworker added, lowering his voice slightly, "what if that Court stuff is real?"
"Oh come on."
"No, think about it. Rich people getting arrested. Secret clubs. Politicians involved. Batman hitting their operations." He pointed vaguely with his coffee cup. "And then all those gang killings right after?"
Marcus rubbed at his forehead.
"I stopped trying to understand Gotham years ago."
"That's probably healthier," someone muttered.
A brief silence settled over the breakroom after that. It was not a uncomfortable silence, everyone was just tired.
Because beneath the jokes and complaints sat the same shared feeling nearly everyone in Gotham carried now:
Things were getting worse again.
Nobody knew who was fighting who anymore.
The gangs were quieter but somehow scarier.
Batman was appearing more frequently.
Wealthy people were suddenly dying or disappearing.
And every night the news seemed to unveil another layer of corruption hidden beneath the city. Marcus looked back toward the rain outside.
Somewhere out there, powerful people and masked lunatics were apparently waging war for Gotham itself.
Meanwhile normal people still had bills due Friday.
His phone buzzed with a message from his wife asking him to remember milk on the way home.
Marcus stared at it for a second before laughing softly under his breath.
Then he typed back, "Sure."
****
The sky above Gotham was clear for once.
Cold wind moved between the skyscrapers while the city below glowed in pale whites and muted golds. Traffic crawled through downtown streets, distant sirens echoed somewhere far below, and high above it all Floyd Lawton lay perfectly still atop an unfinished construction site overlooking Gotham Harbor.
Through the scope of his rifle he watched Lincoln March's residence several blocks away.
A private penthouse occupying the top floors of one of Gotham's oldest luxury towers.
Lincoln March had become careful lately.
After the arrests, Batman's raids, the gang retaliation, and the growing paranoia spreading through the Court, he had almost completely isolated himself from public life. Meetings were remote whenever possible. Travel routes changed daily. Every visitor was screened personally by trusted staff.
And most importantly—Lincoln trusted almost no one anymore.
Which meant Floyd couldn't simply bluff his way inside.
That was fine.
People always assumed Deadshot's skill began and ended with shooting.That misconception killed a lot of people.
Floyd lowered the scope slightly and looked toward the neighboring building connected to March's tower by a private enclosed skybridge on the twenty-ninth floor.
That building mattered far more than the penthouse itself. Because Lincoln March's personal physician maintained a private office suite there.
Dr. Elias Warren.
Age fifty-seven.
Twice divorced.
Excellent cardiologist.
Routine-driven.
Most importantly, every Wednesday night he conducted private evaluations for March personally before being escorted upstairs.
Tonight was Wednesday. Floyd checked the time.
9:11 PM, right on schedule.
Three floors below him, inside the neighboring building's underground parking garage, Dr. Warren exited his vehicle while reviewing something on his phone. The older man looked tired. Irritated even. Gotham's wealthy had been demanding constant reassurance lately after all the recent violence.
He never noticed the figure descending silently behind him.
Floyd moved like a shadow through the garage.
By the time Warren sensed movement it was already too late. A gloved hand covered his mouth while another pressed a needle cleanly into the side of his neck.
The sedative worked almost instantly.
Floyd caught the collapsing doctor carefully before lowering him gently beside the vehicle.
Within four minutes Floyd wore the physician's coat, glasses, and ID badge while the unconscious doctor rested zip-tied inside the trunk beneath emergency blankets.
Then Floyd calmly entered the building through the physician access entrance.
Nobody stopped him.
Why would they?
People saw what they expected to see.
The elevator carried him upward while Floyd adjusted the glasses slightly and reviewed the final details in his head. He had spent days studying Warren's mannerisms from surveillance footage Nolan provided. The doctor walked slightly unevenly due to an old knee injury. He kept one hand in his pocket habitually. Rarely made eye contact with staff.
Tiny details mattered.
Especially around paranoid people.
The private office suite on the twenty-ninth floor remained mostly empty this late at night. A secretary offered Floyd a tired smile as he passed.
"Long night, doctor?"
"Seems like Gotham's been having a lot of those lately," Floyd replied casually.
The secretary laughed weakly.
That was the terrifying thing about professionals like Floyd.
He didn't feel dangerous.
He felt ordinary.
A few minutes later Floyd crossed the enclosed skybridge connecting directly into March's residential tower. Security there was heavier. Real security. Armed guards positioned near elevators and hallways.
But none of them questioned the physician they had seen weekly for years.
Floyd noted something else immediately. Everyone around him was security, the random woman reading a book, the gardener, the maid. Everyone was trained.
He could feel eyes on his back, talons most likely hidden in the shadows. They were here to protect March, that was their downfall. They didn't see him as a threat.
Lincoln March sat inside his private study overlooking Gotham Harbor when Floyd finally entered. The room smelled faintly of whiskey and cigarette smoke despite the expensive ventilation system. Papers littered the desk while muted news coverage played silently across a television mounted nearby.
Lincoln looked exhausted.
Dark circles rested beneath his eyes and tension visibly sat in his shoulders. Weeks of pressure were eroding him slowly.
"Doctor," Lincoln greeted tiredly barely looking up. "Tell me you brought something stronger this time."
Floyd closed the door behind himself calmly.
"Your blood pressure remains dangerously elevated," he replied in Warren's voice. "If you continue like this your heart will eventually give out." He held a clipboard covering the bottom half of his face
Lincoln laughed humorlessly while rubbing his temples.
"At this point maybe that would be a mercy."
Floyd approached carrying the medical bag calmly while Lincoln turned his attention back toward the television. Another news segment discussed the Court rumors spreading through Gotham alongside reports of additional gang violence downtown.
The city was eating him alive.
Good.
Floyd removed a small syringe from the medical kit while speaking casually.
"This should help you sleep tonight at least."
Lincoln extended his arm without even looking.
He trusted the doctor he's been his primary physician for years.
That was the fatal mistake. The needle slid smoothly into the vein.
Lincoln barely reacted beyond a tired exhale.
"There," Floyd said calmly while disposing of the syringe. "You should start feeling calmer shortly."
Lincoln leaned back into the chair slowly.
"God I hope so."
The toxin entering his bloodstream would stop his heart within the hour.
Instead it would appear like exhaustion finally overwhelmed a man already visibly deteriorating under immense stress.
Floyd packed the medical bag slowly before turning toward the door.
"Try to rest tonight, Mr. March."
Lincoln gave a tired wave without looking back.
Floyd exited calmly into the hallway.
—
A/N: there might be some confusion. in the media Lincoln has been in he is usually the face of the court along with his wife, I did not realize this until I already wrote Kane as the leader (my mistake as I was looking at two separate wikis) for the purpose of this story he is high ranking as is his wife but he is NOT the leader.