uh ohh

Rain blurred the alleys again.

The homeless man ran like hell. One shoe on, one off. A wild breath tearing through his chest. His coat flapped behind him like wet paper. Every footfall echoed too loud, too close. Someone was following.

He turned a corner, slipped in a puddle, scrambled back up. Eyes darted, heart hammering. Then

Thud.

Arms around him. A hood yanked over his face. He kicked and cursed. A fist in his gut shut him up.

The van door slammed. The engine purred to life, then nothing but darkness and rubber and the rattling metal cage of the floor.

He didn't know how long they drove. Just knew it was far enough that the city noise started to fade and the air grew colder. When they pulled him out, the bag stayed on. He heard music now classical, strings over jazz playing soft and smooth like velvet. Somewhere close: laughter, the clink of glass.

Footsteps. Then a pause.

The bag came off.

The room glowed blue. Ice sculptures, mirrors, and glass—every surface reflected light in a way that made the space feel endless, crystalline. The Iceberg Lounge's private rooms. High-end. Quiet. Cold.

And behind the desk, draped in a tailored coat, tipping a glass of something expensive, stood a man with a crooked nose and colder eyes.

Oswald Cobblepot. The Penguin.

He wasn't smiling.

"You're a hard one to catch," Penguin said, swirling his drink. "But not too hard. You street rats always think the alleys'll protect you. They don't."

The homeless man swallowed hard, still hunched, arms wrapped around himself like armor. "I-I didn't do anything."

Penguin stepped around the desk slowly, cane tapping the marble floor with a measured rhythm. He studied the man like a rat in a cage. "That's the thing. You didn't. But you delivered."

He reached into the man's coat pocket the one they hadn't checked yet, and pulled out a cheap burner phone.

Penguin turned it over, inspecting it like it was some foreign artifact. "You and your little friends have been moving product off my streets. My product. Only, it ain't drugs or guns or girls. It's people."

He stepped closer. "Whispers in the dark. Shooters vanish. Runners disappear. Safe houses pop up like mushrooms. And nobody not even the Bat knows who's behind it."

He let the words hang in the silence. The man shivered.

"So here's what's going to happen," Penguin said, voice low. "You're going to press redial. You're going to give me this phone. And if he's smart, if he wants to keep playing this up, he'll talk to me."

He extended the burner. The man hesitated. Penguin's grip tightened on his cane.

The man took it with trembling hands and hit redial.

The phone rang. Once. Twice.

Then, a click.

"Yeah?" came Quentin's voice on the other end. Calm. Measured.

The Penguin smiled, a sharp and dangerous thing. He put the phone to his ear.

"Hello there. I believe we need to have a conversation."

***

The moment Quentin heard the word "conversation," his eyes narrowed.

In the quiet apartment, Nolan's body went still, except for the subtle shift of posture. A beat passed. Then a smirk slid across his face, and the voice that came next wasn't Quentin's.

"Who am I speaking too?"

"Oswald Cobblepot and I would very much like to know who you are."

"Ah… Oswald Cobblepot," Kieran drawled smoothly into the phone, leaning back in the creaky desk chair, one leg folding over the other. "A pleasure. I've been wondering when we might have a little… chat."

There was a pause on the other end.

"So your the imbecile stepping on my toes?" Penguin asked slowly, like he already knew the answer.

"In a manner of speaking," Kieran said, plucking invisible lint from the sleeve of Nolan's cheap-but-pressed suit. "Let's just say I handle the public relations."

Penguin's voice shifted, testing him. "You're stepping on my turf, and hiding behind the homeless to do it."

"Oh, I'm not hiding," Kieran said, still smiling. "I'm reclining."

A beat.

Not even a chuckle.

"I want to meet," Penguin said, tone hardening. "Face to face."

Kieran clicked his tongue. "Ah… no can do, I'm afraid. I prefer working from where I'm comfortable. Big fan of slippers. Tea. Security systems."

"You really think this network of yours gets to operate without my say-so?"

Kieran's voice remained pleasant. "Now, Oswald… you and I both know your say-so has limits. Your interests are vast, impressive, certainly… but not exclusive."

The Penguin's voice dropped. "If I find out any more of my operations are being touched, I start cutting throats. I start with the ones sleeping under my buildings. I'll make it so cold this winter, you'll think Hell's frozen over."

Kieran's smile never faltered.

"Come now, let's not be cruel to the little people. Besides…" He leaned forward slightly, resting an elbow on the desk. "I'd hate to inconvenience you by reminding you that Darryl – the one who runs security on your upper floors at the dockside casino – yeah, he was relocated by us three nights ago after he had that unfortunate fallout with one of your capos."

Silence.

"Oh, and that stash you had on 2nd and Garnett, beneath the pawn shop?" Kieran said lightly. "Did you know the ventilation down there is terrible? Really not safe for long-term storage. I would relocate those crates if I were you."

Penguin didn't respond. The silence stretched taut, a wire between two wolves in suits.

"I'm not threatening you, Oswald," Kieran said gently, voice like silk on steel. "You're a businessman. I'm a businessman. We don't burn down the bridges we might need tomorrow, do we?"

Penguin's tone finally returned, slow and measured. "You got guys kid, I'll give you that."

"And you've got reach," Kieran replied. "Let's keep it civil. I stay out of your trades, you stay out of mine. No missing people from your inner circle. No surprises from me."

Penguin breathed heavy through his nose, then gave a low, reluctant chuckle. "You're a slick bastard."

"I've been told," Kieran said. "Now, I imagine this number's going to be deleted by you in a minute or two, so allow me to wish you a very pleasant evening."

The line went dead.

Kieran smiled to himself, then slowly leaned back again, folding his hands over his stomach. "Well," he muttered to the empty room, "that could've gone worse."