CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: WHISPERS OF THE LEAGUE

Something was wrong. 

Taylor had spent the past few nights on patrol, listening, watching. She had expected the gang war to keep escalating in the usual way—more shootouts, more turf grabs, more bodies in the alleys. But this wasn’t just street-level posturing anymore. The violence was spreading, but in a way that felt controlled. Directed.

Someone was pushing it forward, guiding it with an invisible hand.

She had overheard hints of it in recent days. Snatches of conversation about new players in the game, whispers of “foreigners” operating in Gotham’s shadows.

Tonight, she was determined to find out more.

Velvet’s bar at the edge of the East End was exactly what she was looking for—seedy, dimly lit, and full of people who knew more than they should. Its flickering neon sign cast weak light onto the cracked pavement, and once she slipped in, the air inside was thick with the scent of cheap beer and cigarette smoke. Fortunately for Taylor, it was the kind of dive that didn’t card, and if you had the cash, didn’t care.

She kept her head down as she made her way to a shadowed corner booth. She ordered a drink to blend in but didn’t plan on touching it. She was here to listen.

A handful of patrons huddled around the bar, murmuring in low voices. But it was the two men at a nearby table that caught her attention. They leaned in close, speaking in hushed tones, their expressions tense.

“You hear about that warehouse hit last night?” one asked.

“Yeah. Black Mask’s boys didn’t stand a chance. They were wiped out before they even knew what hit ’em.”

The second man shifted uncomfortably. “Word is, it wasn’t Penguin’s crew. It was them—the foreigners.”

Taylor’s pulse quickened.

“You serious?”

“As a damn bullet.” His voice dropped lower. “I saw one of ’em once. Tall guy, dressed sharp, but with a sword strapped to his back. Moved like a ghost.”

The first man whistled softly. “Damn. What the hell are they even doing here?”

“Don’t know. But they ain’t just muscle.”

“You think…?”

The second man exhaled sharply. “I’m telling you, it ain’t Penguin or Black Mask calling the shots. Someone else is pulling strings. Someone bigger.”

The other scoffed. “Yeah? Who?”

A pause. Then, lower: “The Shadows.”

The second man stiffened. “Not the Court of Owls? The Whisper Gang?”

“You ever seen them move like that?” the first man muttered. “Nah. These Shadow guys, they don’t talk, they don’t brag, they just act. And anyone who gets in their way…”

He dragged his thumb across his throat.

Taylor forced herself to keep her breathing even. The Shadows. The League of Shadows.

She had suspected that the gang war wasn’t just about territory, but this changed everything. The League wasn’t some street gang fighting over Gotham’s scraps. They were something else entirely—silent, methodical, ruthless. If they were involved, then this war wasn’t about power. It was about destabilization.

The gang war was just the surface of something far more dangerous.

She needed more information. Taylor’s evenings at the Gotham Public Library had not prepared her for this.

. . . . .

Elsewhere in Gotham…

The Calculator adjusted his glasses, his fingers drumming against the polished surface of the conference table. The room was quiet save for the low hum of the monitors lining the walls, each one displaying live feeds of their efforts in Gotham—warehouse raids, street brawls, weapons being tested in real-time firefights.

Across from him sat a woman shrouded in the League’s signature dark robes. Her posture was relaxed, but there was no mistaking the controlled danger of her presence—an unspoken promise of violence if she deemed it necessary.

The Calculator offered a thin smile. “I assume you’re satisfied with the results.”

Talia al Ghul inclined her head. “The weapons perform well.” Her voice was smooth, almost pleasant. “But there is still much to be done.”

The Calculator laced his fingers together. “We’re ahead of schedule. Gotham’s already tearing itself apart. Penguin and Black Mask may suspect they are being played, but they are too busy trying to gut each other to do anything about it.”

He leaned back in his chair. “And the Bat?” His smirk widened. “Busy.”

Talia didn’t react. “We require more.”

The smirk faded quickly. “More?”

She nodded. “Ra’s al Ghul does not tolerate hesitation. The chaos must escalate. The city must be pushed further.”

The Calculator’s fingers tapped once against the table. Then twice. He didn’t like being rushed.

“We increase distribution,” Talia continued, tone unwavering. “More weapons. More instability. If Gotham is to be reforged, it must first be broken.”

The Calculator exhaled slowly, then nodded. “Fine. I’ll move up the timetable.” He adjusted his glasses again, glancing at one of the monitors. “But you’d do well to remember that while you want Gotham broken, I need it functional enough to be profitable.”

Talia rose from her seat with fluid grace.

“Our goals align, Calculator.” A faint smirk ghosted across her lips. “For now.”

And then, like a whisper in the wind, she was gone.

The Calculator stared at the empty chair for a moment before turning back to his screens. His fingers danced over the keyboard, issuing new orders, redirecting shipments, setting new directives in motion.

Gotham would burn faster; he didn’t really have a choice. 

And anyone meddling in his operation—like the masked troublemaker in the Narrows—they’d burn with it.