casing the joint

"So… does it have to be a bank?" Nolan asked, pulling his coat tighter as the wind whipped through the narrow alleyway.

Quentin didn't respond right away. Not verbally.

In his mind's eye, Nolan saw him—pacing in that shadowy circle of chairs—then stopping.

"A convenience store?" Quentin said slowly, like the words physically offended him. "Are you joking? Are you stupid?"

"I'm just saying," Nolan muttered. "It seems easier, less security, fewer witnesses—"

"Blasphemy!" Quentin's voice rose like a manic sermon. "A convenience store? A dirty, neon-lit shack on the corner selling cigarettes and expired milk? No! No, no, no. It must be a bank. It has to be a bank!"

"Why?"

Quentin laughed, a jittery sound, far too entertained. "Because, dear Nolan, it's not about the money. It's about the art. The risk. The thrill of walking into a place that dares to say you can't take what's theirs… and proving them wrong."

Nolan hesitated, then asked the question like he already knew the answer. "How is it even possible to rob a bank with one person?"

"Oh," Quentin said, voice laced with delight. "But you're not one person. That's the beauty of it."

He stepped closer in Nolan's headspace, eyes gleaming beneath the floating bulb.

"Now, for the first time in three years… will you relinquish control to me, willingly?"

Silence.

Nolan closed his eyes. He could feel his pulse hammering in his neck. The fear still clawed at his insides—but beneath it, there was something else.

Curiosity.

Resolve.

He took a long breath. "…Fine. Take over."

And with that, Quentin opened his eyes.

The world was clearer somehow, more focused. The colors sharper, the noise of the street less overwhelming. His posture shifted effortlessly—shoulders squared, gait confident. Even the cold didn't seem to bite at him quite the same.

He grinned.

"Finally."

Casing a bank was like ballroom dancing.

Every movement had rhythm, every step had timing, and only a fool let his partner step first.

Quentin started with the basics—blending. He borrowed a jacket two sizes too big from a sleeping drunk, messed up his hair, and smeared some soot on his cheek. The look of someone who didn't belong. The kind people ignore.

Then he watched.

Not just the bank—though that was, of course, the crown jewel—but everything around it. The pedestrian flow, the street vendors, the rhythm of cars at the nearby light, the security guard rotations, the camera positions, the reflection of the vault room in a mirrored panel of the building across the street.

He smiled at the guard and noted who smiled back. He bought a pretzel from the vendor outside and watched the motion sensors above the doors while pretending to argue about mustard. He dropped his phone—Nolan's half-dead stolen one—just to see if someone would pick it up and hand it to him. They did.

"Too polite," he murmured. "Interesting."

He circled the block twice, walking in different directions. He crossed the street and timed how long it took traffic to stop at the light. He made mental notes of when the courier van came by. He counted how many steps it took from the nearest alley to the service entrance, how long the door stayed open when a manager came out for a smoke.

Quentin didn't need blueprints.

He needed rhythm.

And the bank was starting to hum to him.

He dipped into a diner across the street, nursing a cheap coffee with a line of cream spiraled into the shape of a question mark.

His fingers tapped the counter lightly.

"I'm going to need gloves. Maybe a maintenance badge. Something to bypass the outer security without triggering suspicion," he whispered to himself. "Timing's the trick. And misdirection…"

He trailed off, eyes flicking to the mirror behind the counter, where he could just barely see the corner of the bank's east-side entrance reflected.

Quentin's lips curled into a small, satisfied smile.

Plans were already blooming in the depths of his mind

**

Quentin stood across the street from Gotham Trust & Savings, leaning casually against a lamppost as dusk draped the city in rust-colored shadow. His eyes weren't on the front door anymore—they were on a particular man locking it.

Mid-thirties. Balding, with a nervous twitch in his left eye. Standard button-up shirt, khakis, ID badge clipped crookedly to his belt. The kind of man who didn't stand out in a crowd. exactly the kind of man Quentin loved.

Assistant Manager. Worked the evening shift. Stayed until close. Never locked the front alone—except tonight.

Quentin's smile was subtle, hidden behind the collar of his coat.

He followed the man at a distance, hands in his pockets, pace relaxed. The man moved through the city like someone who always looked over his shoulder—nervous, habitual glances into shop windows to catch reflections, quick steps between streetlights.

Eventually, the man ducked into a narrow stairwell beneath a cracked building façade. Quentin clocked the keypad on the door—cheap, unmonitored, probably just locked to feel "secure."

He waited five minutes. Then ten.

And then…

A flicker.

Something switched.

Gone was the sharp, predatory calm of Quentin. In its place came Kieran—the walk looser, the smile playful, the eyes gleaming with mischief. Even the way he cracked his neck seemed charismatic.

"Well, this will be fun," Kieran whispered.

In one smooth motion, he crossed the street and slipped down the stairwell like a shadow caught on a breeze. The door hadn't latched properly.

Typical.

Inside, the apartment was dark save for a flickering kitchen light. Kieran didn't pause. He moved like he belonged there. He passed the half-open bedroom door, heard snoring, and zeroed in on the worn briefcase by the couch.

He popped it open.

Inside: an ID badge. A security fob. A crumpled bundle of small bills—probably lunch money and cab fare. Kieran took them all with a casual ease, like plucking apples off a tree. He even took a granola bar for good measure.

As he slipped out the door, the switch flipped again.

Quentin blinked.

He was outside the building, walking, clutching the stolen items under his coat. The switch between him and Kieran had been near-instant. So quick that even Quentin hadn't felt the full transition.

But it didn't matter.

He had what he needed.

The pawnshop smelled like dust and oil. Rows of old electronics and busted tools lined the walls like forgotten memories.

Quentin didn't speak to the man behind the counter. He simply placed a few bills down and nodded toward the shelf of fake prop weapons behind the wire glass.

"Forty," the guy grunted. "Comes with a holster."

Quentin passed the cash, grabbed the fake Glock, and pocketed the holster. Next stop: a hardware store.

He emerged twenty minutes later with a spray can of matte black paint, a pack of latex gloves, and a cheap plastic mask shaped like a smiling jester's face—gaudy and cracked at the edges. Perfect.

Back in a quiet alley, beneath a flickering light, Quentin began the transformation. He laid out his tools, coated the plastic gun in even, slow strokes of black paint until it gleamed like real steel.

Then he studied the jester mask for a long moment before whispering, "You'll do."

He stuffed everything into a satchel, wiped down his prints, and tossed the receipt into a storm drain.

As he zipped the bag shut, a slow grin spread across his face.

The board was set.

The targets identified.

The masks were ready.

And for the first time in a long while… the game was on.