In the days that followed Nearithea's brief but effective demonstration of dominance, change—real, irreversible change—began to ripple outward.
Gotham wasn't just stabilizing; it was rewriting the global script. And the man now at the center of that rewrite, at least in the diplomatic sense, was none other than Bruce Wayne.
From the upper floors of Leviathan Tower, in a wing so silent it felt insulated from the world, Bruce sat alone at a broad, darkwood desk that managed to look expensive without being indulgent.
His office, like most of the tower, favored a minimalist design. Everything was either black, green, or both. Clean walls. Harsh lines. Nothing unnecessary.
Except the parts that were.
To the left, a trophy case bore medals and plaques that most men would kill for. Not awards. Agreements. Gifts. Symbols of diplomacy from presidents, monarchs, even corporations—proof of Bruce Wayne's long-standing reach, and a reminder that this wasn't new to him.
Photographs were pinned neatly along a single wall, each framed identically: Bruce shaking hands with Oliver Queen. Another with a former U.S. President. One more, oddly casual, with a sultan at what looked like a fundraiser.
They weren't there for nostalgia. They were bait. Lures for those who walked in expecting something softer than the man they were about to negotiate with.
The skyline beyond the office windows glowed faintly under a thick ceiling of Gotham's ever-loyal clouds. The morning light bled through just enough to paint the room in bruised gray and gold.
Bruce leaned back, eyes fixed on the comm unit at the far end of the desk. A voice sputtered through—filtered, foreign, uncertain.
"We are… considering your proposal, Mr. Wayne. But we require more… assurance."
Bruce's tone was flat. "Once you allow the NGOs entry to provide aid to your wounded, then we'll talk about a peace guarantee. Provided it's still up for negotiation by then."
**Click**
He cut the feed. No farewells. No sign-offs. Just silence.
Bruce exhaled slowly, flexing his fingers once before resting them against the desk. The truth was—he hated this. All of it. The politics. The facade. But even he couldn't deny the results.
In less than a week under his stewardship, nations long immune to scrutiny had buckled to diplomatic pressure. Dictators were conceding ground. Some had begun releasing political prisoners who had vanished decades ago.
Others, more image-conscious, had agreed to the forfeiture of nearly ninety percent of known embezzled assets—anything north of a million—quietly funneled through new Gotham-led redistribution programs.
There was even talk—actual movement—on nuclear disarmament. Mostly from the wealthier players, the ones who preferred buying dominance over defending it.
Bruce wasn't naïve enough to believe it would last. But it was happening. Right now.
And that was what made it worse.
The man behind it all hadn't threatened them. Not directly. He didn't need to.
Bruce rubbed the bridge of his nose and leaned forward slightly, already dreading the next negotiation, when—
**Beep**
The door to his office slid open with a mechanical whir.
He faced the door.
Arias walked in casually, wearing none of the pretense his position demanded. Brown boots. Dark jeans. A plain black shirt with an expensive-looking watch and aviators tucked into the collar. No guards. Just him.
Bruce stood, adjusting his cuffs as though the act gave him some control over the moment.
"Can I help you?" His tone was blunt. Dismissive. "I don't think our departments have business."
Arias kept his hands in his pockets, eyes drifting lazily over the office décor before settling on Bruce.
"Just checking in," he said, the corners of his mouth pulling into a half-smirk. "Wanted to see how you're adjusting. I found it amusing—someone so reluctant to take the post is now the busiest man in the tower."
Bruce didn't answer immediately. He could see it in the way Arias said it. The mockery was deliberate, but not hostile. He was pointing out the truth—that Bruce had, despite every protest, started building something that worked.
"Getting enough done," Bruce said coolly, "so I can take a few days off."
He stepped around the desk, keeping a healthy distance between them. "Don't bother trying to reach me."
Arias raised both eyebrows like someone watching a child declare their independence. He nodded once, almost as if humoring the idea.
"I wasn't planning on it."
He turned toward the door, then paused in the threshold. His next words came softer—but not gentler.
"Though I don't think Gotham… or the world… will be needing Batman right now."
And then he was gone.
Bruce stared at the doorway long after it closed, his expression unchanged but his mind busy.
The insult wasn't in the words. It was in the possibility that Arias might be right.
The elevator on the same floor was a quiet box of brushed metal and soft green light, like everything else in Leviathan Tower. Its movement was nearly imperceptible, no music, no announcements, just the occasional mechanical hum as it passed another floor.
Inside stood Dr. Moore, rigid as always, posture straight, hands clasped in front like she was waiting for a verdict. Her blouse was crisp, tucked into a black office skirt that hit just above the knee, brown pantyhose covering her legs, and polished shoes that hadn't a scuff on them.
She didn't lean against the wall. She didn't blink much either.
Nearithea, in contrast, looked like she had wandered in from a different building—and possibly a different dimension.
She leaned casually against the back panel, arms crossed, one leg slightly bent, the toe of her runner tapping against the floor.
Her white hoodie sat loose on her frame, hood down, sleeves bunched slightly at the wrists. Black leggings with neon green trim hugged her frame like armor disguised as gymwear. The glasses—round, absurdly reflective—made her look like some kind of futuristic mascot for juvenile genius.
If someone had walked in just then, they might've mistaken them for mother and daughter. Or at least assumed some kind of connection beyond what actually existed.
When the elevator dinged softly and the doors parted with a hydraulic sigh, Arias stepped in.
He didn't look at them at first—just walked in like the elevator had been summoned for him specifically.
Nearithea straightened immediately, pushing off the back wall and facing him with almost comical curiosity.
"Whose Batman?" she asked, voice light, brows raised, genuinely intrigued.
Dr. Moore turned slightly, mouth half open, clearly preparing to answer.
Arias cut in before she could. "No one important."
Dr. Moore's lips sealed again with quiet compliance.
Nearithea pouted slightly, arms crossing again. "Okay."
The elevator resumed its descent. None of them spoke again.
When it finally landed on the lobby floor, another soft ding signaled their arrival, and the doors parted.
Outside, the lobby stretched wide—modern, with long green-tinted windows and dark stone walls that absorbed sound instead of reflecting it. A few couches lined the edges, and seated around them were some of the others preparing to leave.
Diana and Harley sat closest to the central walkway.
Diana wore the kind of athletic wear that made even casual look ceremonial. Runners, black and green leggings, a cropped white shirt that stopped just above her ribs, and a light denim jacket. She sat upright, one ankle crossed over the other, scrolling something on her Leviathan-issued wrist console.
Harley, on the other hand, had clearly dressed like she'd been dared to. Brown boots, paint-splattered jeans that clung too tightly to be practical, and a black shirt with graffiti-styled text that read I'm crazy so what? in neon. Her red jacket was half-zipped and one of the sleeves was pushed up like she couldn't decide if it was hot or cold.
Across from them, Raven sat alone, hoodie drawn up, hands in her lap, eyes avoiding contact with the world. Her purple hoodie draped low enough to nearly hide her thighs, and the black-green leggings hinted at coordination she absolutely didn't care about.
Tala sat with all the composure of someone trying not to breathe the same air as those around her. Her purple office suit was crisp, pale shirt perfectly tucked, and her legs crossed so tightly they looked welded in place. Her gaze flicked up only when the elevator dinged again.
Terra sat near the edge of the group, scrolling through a tablet without reading it. Her white blouse was loose, sleeves rolled up, jeans fitted and practical, sneakers scuffed like they'd actually been used.
All heads turned when Arias stepped out, flanked by Nearithea and Dr. Moore. He didn't glance at anyone in particular. He just looked at his watch.
"We should be going," he said flatly, "or we might be late."
The lobby shifted slightly. Diana stood first, tucking her console away and falling into step with quiet readiness. Harley rolled to her feet like she was waking up from a nap, arms stretching wide and back popping crk-krk with unnecessary enthusiasm.
Tala didn't react outwardly, but she rose as well, heels clicking softly. Raven trailed behind, silent. Terra followed, glancing once at Nearithea, then away, as if looking too long might start something.
The day had begun. Whether anyone wanted it to or not.