Chapter 299: Boring day

Kieran was beginning to suspect that Metropolis had a talent for making even the wealthiest people in the world profoundly uninteresting. He stood near one of the ballroom’s tall windows, a crystal glass of whiskey in hand, listening to a businessman explain the importance of infrastructure in the modern economy with the enthusiasm of a man who had mistaken a captive audience for an appreciative one.

Roads, railways, shipping terminals, municipal contracts, and the ever-increasing demands of an expanding population. The man spoke as though he had personally discovered the concept of construction, pausing occasionally to emphasize some supposedly revolutionary insight that Kieran could have found in a decade-old business magazine.

Kieran maintained the appropriate expression of polite interest, nodding at the right moments and offering the occasional murmured acknowledgment, all while wondering how much longer he would have to endure the conversation before it became socially acceptable to abandon the man in the middle of a sentence.

The worst part was that the fellow might actually have had something worthwhile to say. Kieran simply couldn’t remember his name, and that alone had effectively disqualified him from receiving a single dollar of investment. He could have been an industrial genius with a brilliant proposal and a business plan capable of doubling every penny Kieran put into it. None of that mattered if he couldn’t hold Kieran’s attention long enough to make himself memorable.

There were too many people in Metropolis who believed that a large bank account, an expensive suit, and a firm handshake constituted a personality. Kieran had spent enough time among Gotham’s elite to know that wealth was rarely as interesting as the lengths people would go to acquire it, and the lengths they would go to keep it.

Gotham’s galas had at least offered some entertainment. Everyone arrived with an agenda, and most were sufficiently dishonest to make concealing it an art form. Beneath the polished conversation and carefully arranged smiles, there were feuds, blackmail, political ambitions, criminal partnerships, and the occasional supervillain attack.

Metropolis, on the other hand, seemed determined to prove that a person could be extraordinarily wealthy and still possess all the conversational charm of a damp sock. Tonight’s event was no exception. The drinks were mediocre, the music was forgettable, and the ballroom was filled with people who seemed more interested in hearing themselves speak than in discovering anything about the people around them.

Even the decorations felt excessive without being particularly imaginative, with elaborate floral arrangements and enormous chandeliers competing for attention beneath a ceiling high enough to accommodate a small aircraft. The city had a reputation for grandeur, and its wealthiest residents appeared determined to ensure that nobody could accuse them of lacking the resources to display it. Unfortunately, money could purchase a great many things, but it seemed incapable of purchasing taste.

The evening’s host, Randall Jeffries Jr., was apparently celebrating another outstanding year in the banking business. Kieran had read enough about the man to understand what that meant in practical terms and when he met him at Lex’s lunch his hunches were confirmed.

Jeffries had expanded his influence, secured several lucrative financial arrangements, and strengthened his position among Metropolis’s most powerful business interests. All admirable accomplishments, certainly, but the gala itself had little to do with celebrating the industry. It was an opportunity for Jeffries to remind everyone in attendance that he was wealthy, influential, and important enough to justify an evening in which several hundred people would drink expensive liquor and applaud his success. Kieran suspected that the speech would be longer than the entertainment, and he had already begun considering how soon he could leave without insulting the host.

His current conversational partner was making that decision considerably easier.

"And that’s why I believe the next decade will be defined by those who understand the relationship between infrastructure and capital," the businessman declared, leaning forward as if he were imparting a secret that might change the course of civilization. "The cities that invest in the right networks now will be the ones that dominate the future. I’ve been developing a proposal that I think could be of particular interest to someone with your portfolio."

’Of course you have,’ Kieran thought.

He took a small sip of his whiskey, suppressing a grimace at the taste. Whatever the hotel had paid for the bottle, they had paid too much. "An interesting perspective," he replied, wearing the easy smile that had served him well in rooms far more dangerous than this one. "And I certainly agree that infrastructure presents some compelling opportunities, particularly when the investment is paired with reliable local management and a clear understanding of the communities involved."

The man brightened immediately, apparently mistaking Kieran’s generic observation for genuine enthusiasm. "Precisely! That’s what most investors fail to understand. They look at the figures without considering the human element, and that is where the greatest opportunities are lost. Now, if I could just arrange a proper meeting with you, perhaps sometime next week, I could show you the preliminary numbers and explain how we intend to—"

"I would love to hear more," Kieran interrupted, delivering the words with such warmth that the businessman seemed almost ready to embrace him. "Unfortunately, I have a rather pressing engagement that requires my attention."

The man’s face fell for the briefest moment before professional courtesy restored his smile. "Of course. I wouldn’t dream of keeping you. It has been a pleasure speaking with you, Mr. Everleigh. I hope we can continue this conversation soon."

"Yes, let’s." Kieran extended his hand. "A pleasure."

He shook the man’s hand firmly, maintained eye contact, and offered a smile so genuine that the fellow left the conversation looking as though he had just secured a promising business partnership. Kieran watched him disappear into the crowd, wondering whether the man would remember anything they had discussed beyond the fact that Kieran had been pleasant. It was a useful talent, making people feel important without actually promising them anything. In another life, he might have made a career out of selling expensive watches to gullible tourists.

With the conversation finally behind him, Kieran slipped through the crowd and made his way toward the ballroom’s adjoining corridor. He ignored the curious glances of a few guests who seemed eager to catch his attention, navigating around a waiter carrying a tray of champagne before pushing through the doors leading to the restrooms. The noise of the gala faded behind him, replaced by the muted hum of ventilation and the soft, distant sounds of traffic outside. For the first time that evening, he could hear himself think.

He entered the men’s room, glanced at the row of polished sinks and mirrors, and decided that even standing there would be preferable to returning immediately. The room was immaculate, its marble surfaces gleaming beneath recessed lighting, and the faint scent of expensive soap did a reasonable job of masking the unpleasant reality that hundreds of wealthy men had been using the facilities throughout the evening. Kieran checked his reflection out of habit, straightened the cuff of his jacket, and entered the nearest unoccupied stall. He closed the door, lowered the lid, and sat down.

For several seconds, he simply stared at the opposite wall.

He was exhausted. He had delegated as much as he reasonably could, yet somehow every time he removed a responsibility from his own shoulders, two more appeared in its place.

The thought of returning to the ballroom was almost enough to make him consider climbing out through the bathroom window.

Almost.

Kieran exhaled, planted his hands on his knees, and pushed himself upright. He had obligations, after all, and abandoning a gala because the conversation was dull would be a rather pathetic way to exercise his newly acquired freedom. He opened the stall door, already preparing to arrange his face into another pleasant smile, and stepped into the main room.

Then he stopped.

Randall Jeffries Jr. stood near the far row of sinks, his polished shoes scraping against the marble as he struggled to remain upright. Behind him, the businessman Kieran had just been speaking with stood close enough to press his chest against Jeffries’s back. A thin cord was drawn tightly around the banker’s throat, disappearing around either side of his neck before vanishing into the assassin’s clenched fists. Jeffries’s hands clawed desperately at the garrote, his face darkening as he fought for air, while the assassin leaned backward with the controlled, practiced movements of someone who had performed the same task before.

For one absurd instant, Kieran’s mind refused to accept what he was seeing. The man had been discussing infrastructure less than five minutes ago. He had smiled, shaken hands, and spoken about future opportunities with all the bland confidence of an ambitious financier. Now he was trying to strangle one of the richest men in Metropolis in a bathroom that was probably cleaned more frequently than most people’s kitchens.

The assassin noticed Kieran almost immediately.

Their eyes met in the mirror.

The man did not release the cord, nor did he appear particularly startled by the unexpected witness. His expression changed only slightly, the faintest tightening around the eyes betraying the calculation taking place behind them. Kieran recognized that look. The assassin was assessing distances, exits, and the amount of time it would take to silence another person before anyone noticed something was wrong. The ballroom was just beyond the doors, crowded with guests who had no idea what was happening a few dozen feet away. There were no security personnel in the room, no convenient bodyguard standing beside Kieran, and no reason for the assassin to believe that his second victim would present a serious obstacle.

Jeffries made a strangled noise and sagged against the man’s chest.

Kieran’s thoughts accelerated. If he shouted for help, the assassin would likely kill Jeffries immediately and attack him before security could arrive. If he tried to leave, he would be surrendering his back to a trained killer, and there was little chance the man would allow a witness to walk away. Even if Kieran somehow escaped, the assassin would know his face, his name, and his connection to the Continental. The possibility of a clean exit had vanished the moment the stall door opened.

There was, however, another consideration.

Randall Jeffries Jr. was a powerful man, a wealthy man, and a man whose death would leave an enormous vacuum in Metropolis’s financial community. More importantly, if Kieran could save him, Jeffries would owe his life to the person who had intervened. Gratitude was an unreliable currency, but a debt born of genuine desperation could be remarkably useful, especially when the debtor possessed enough money and influence to make repayment worthwhile.

’Well,’ Kieran thought, a cold smile forming somewhere beneath the surface, ’this is an opportunity.’

The assassin began to shift his weight, preparing to release Jeffries and close the distance between them. He had reached his decision. One victim was nearly dead, and the other would have to follow.

Kieran felt Vey rise.

The change was immediate. The weariness drained from his posture, his breathing settled into a controlled rhythm, and the uncertainty that had accompanied the first instant of surprise disappeared beneath the fighter’s practiced awareness. His gaze moved over the assassin’s stance, the angle of his elbows, the tension in his wrists, and the length of cord between his hands. He registered the wet shine of the marble floor, the narrow space between the sinks, and the metal edge of the counter. The room was no longer a bathroom. It was a confined fighting space with limited movement, hard surfaces, and an opponent who had committed himself to an attack before properly understanding the man standing in front of him.

"Put him down," Vey said.

His voice was quiet enough that the words might have been mistaken for a conversational request, but there was nothing polite about the tone.

The assassin’s eyes narrowed. He released the garrote with one hand, allowing Jeffries to collapse against the sink, and reached inside his jacket. Vey moved before the weapon cleared the fabric.

He crossed the distance in two hard steps, driving his forearm into the assassin’s wrist and knocking the hand sideways. The concealed knife flashed beneath the lights, its blade scraping across the marble counter as it was redirected away from Vey’s body. The assassin reacted quickly, abandoning the draw and slamming his shoulder into Vey’s chest in an attempt to drive him backward. Vey gave ground just long enough to absorb the impact, then pivoted, catching the man’s arm and using his momentum to send him crashing into the row of sinks.

Porcelain cracked beneath the impact. Water erupted from a broken faucet, spraying across the counter and splashing onto the floor as the assassin twisted free. He struck back with a short, vicious elbow aimed at Vey’s jaw, but Vey slipped inside the blow and drove a fist into his ribs. The man grunted, stumbled, and answered with a knee aimed at Vey’s abdomen. Vey turned his hips, took the strike across the side, and retaliated with a sharp palm strike beneath the assassin’s chin.

The man’s head snapped backward, but he stayed on his feet.

That, at least, was interesting.

Vey had expected a competent opponent from the way the man had applied the garrote. The assassin’s composure confirmed it. He recovered quickly, abandoning the knife entirely as he lunged forward and caught Vey around the waist. They slammed into the counter together, scattering soap dispensers and glass bottles across the marble. Vey felt the edge of the counter dig into his lower back, and the assassin used the contact to drive him sideways, trying to pin him against the wall where there would be no room to maneuver.

Vey planted one foot against the base of the counter and shoved hard. The assassin lost his balance for half a second, just long enough for Vey to turn and bring his elbow down across the man’s upper back. The blow forced him to release his grip. Vey seized the opportunity, caught him by the collar, and drove him face-first into the counter.

The impact shattered a mirror.

Fragments scattered over the sinks and floor, glittering among the splashes of water. The assassin staggered away, one hand pressed to his face, but the pain seemed only to make him angrier. He swung wildly, forcing Vey to lean back as the fist passed close enough to brush his cheek. A second strike followed immediately, more controlled than the first, aimed at Vey’s throat. Vey knocked it aside and drove his shoulder into the man’s chest, forcing him backward toward the row of stalls.

The assassin caught himself against a partition and kicked off it, turning the retreat into a counterattack. His fist struck Vey across the cheekbone. The blow carried enough weight to snap Vey’s head to the side, and a bright flash of pain burst across his vision. He absorbed it without complaint, stepped back into range, and answered with a hook to the body that folded the assassin just enough for Vey to seize his jacket and throw him into the nearest stall door.

The door buckled under the impact. The assassin hit the partition with a metallic crash, then shoved himself upright with a snarl. For the first time, the calm mask had slipped. His eyes were fixed on Vey with an intensity that suggested he had begun to understand the mistake he had made, though he was evidently unwilling to accept it.

He lunged again.

Vey met him halfway, caught the incoming arm, and drove a knee into his stomach. The assassin doubled forward, but instead of retreating, he grabbed Vey’s jacket and dragged him down with him. They crashed onto the wet floor, striking the base of the partition hard enough to rattle the entire row of stalls. The assassin came up on top, trying to use his weight to pin Vey’s shoulders while his free hand searched for the knife that had fallen somewhere beneath the counter.

Vey trapped the searching wrist and twisted. The assassin’s elbow bent at an ugly angle, forcing him to abandon the attempt with a sharp curse. Vey drove his forehead into the man’s face, then shoved him off and scrambled to his feet. Before the assassin could rise, Vey kicked him in the side, sending him rolling across the slick marble.

The man hit the base of the sinks and struggled to stand, breathing hard now, blood running from a cut above his eyebrow. Vey straightened his jacket, though one side had torn near the seam, and took a measured step forward. The fight had been loud, messy, and far more involved than he would have preferred. A cleaner approach might have involved breaking the man’s knee before he could react, but the narrow space and Jeffries’s presence had limited his options. He needed the assassin alive long enough to learn who had sent him, and preferably conscious enough to understand that continuing was a poor decision.

The assassin glanced toward the door.

Vey saw the calculation and moved to cut him off.

Instead, the man snatched the garrote from where it had fallen near Jeffries’s body and swept it toward Vey’s throat. The cord caught across the front of Vey’s neck, and the assassin immediately threw his weight backward, attempting to drag him off balance. Vey’s hands shot up, fingers slipping beneath the cord before it could tighten fully. The thin wire bit into his skin, and pressure began to build around his throat as the assassin pulled with both hands.

For a moment, they stood locked together, each fighting for control of the cord. The assassin had the advantage of leverage, but he had made the same mistake twice: he had committed himself to a weapon without considering what would happen if his opponent refused to cooperate. Vey lowered his center of gravity and stepped forward instead of fighting the pull. The sudden movement stole the assassin’s balance, forcing him to stumble closer.

Vey caught the man’s wrist, twisted it outward, and drove his shoulder into the assassin’s chest. The cord slackened for an instant. That was all he needed.

He ducked beneath the wire, turned sharply, and seized the garrote with both hands. Using the assassin’s own grip against him, Vey pulled the cord across his opponent’s forearm and wrenched his elbow away from his body. The man’s wrist buckled under the pressure. Vey stepped behind him, hooked one foot around the assassin’s ankle, and dragged him backward onto the wet floor.

The assassin hit hard, but Vey did not give him time to recover. He dropped a knee between the man’s shoulder blades and pulled the cord tight around his neck, reversing their positions so quickly that the assassin barely had time to understand what had happened. His hands flew to the wire, fingers clawing desperately at the thin loop as Vey leaned back and used his body weight to maintain the pressure.

The struggle was immediate and violent. The assassin bucked, twisted, and tried to roll onto his side, but Vey shifted with him, keeping the man’s shoulders pinned and the cord drawn taut. A heel struck Vey’s shin. Another scraped across the floor in search of leverage. Vey ignored both, tightening his grip just enough to prevent the assassin from slipping free while keeping his own breathing controlled. The man who had entered the room believing himself in complete control was now fighting for the same air he had stolen from Jeffries.

"Should have left when you had the chance," Vey muttered.

The assassin’s movements grew less coordinated. His hands slipped against the wire, then found it again, pulling uselessly as his strength began to fail. Vey held him down until the fight drained out of him, then eased the pressure and rolled him onto his side. He kept one hand on the man’s wrist and the other on the cord, watching for any sign that the assassin intended to resume the struggle.

For several seconds, the only sounds in the room were the hiss of the broken faucet and the ragged breathing of the man beneath him.

Vey rose carefully, dragging the assassin away from the shattered glass before securing his wrists with the length of garrote. The man’s knife lay beneath the counter, and Vey retrieved it with the toe of his shoe before kicking it well out of reach. Only then did he turn his attention to Randall Jeffries.

The banker had collapsed against the sinks, one hand wrapped around his throat, coughing so violently that he could barely draw a full breath. His collar was twisted, his tie had been torn loose, and the immaculate suit he had worn to celebrate his success was soaked from the water spilling across the counter. His eyes widened when Vey approached, and he flinched despite the obvious difficulty of moving.

"Easy," Vey said, crouching beside him. "Don’t try to stand yet. Take slow breaths. If you can speak, tell me whether anything else hurts."

Jeffries stared at him, then managed a strained shake of his head. He tried to speak, but only a harsh rasp emerged. Vey nodded and looked toward the door. The fight had been too loud to remain unnoticed for long. Someone would come to investigate, and the ballroom was full of people who would be eager to turn the night’s entertainment into a spectacle.

That was fine. In fact, it might work to his advantage.

Kieran had wanted to build relationships in Metropolis. He had spent the evening enduring tedious conversations in the hope that one of them might produce a useful connection, only to stumble into an opportunity that no amount of networking could have arranged. Randall Jeffries Jr. owed his life to him now, and a man like Jeffries would not forget such a debt easily. Whether that gratitude translated into financial backing, access to the city’s banking establishment, or a favor that could be called upon later remained to be seen.

Vey glanced down at the unconscious assassin and tightened the improvised restraints around his wrists. They would need to find out who had hired him, and whether Jeffries had been the only target. That could wait until the man woke up.

"It’s alright, remember me from Lex’s little gathering?" Vey said batting Jeffries on the back all the while focusing on the emotions surrounding him

He turned the emotion of happiness up a tad, then fear slowly balancing the emotions surrounding Jeffries forming a beautiful display of colors just for Vey’s eyes.

"We made a lot of noise someone should have barged in by now." How strange, "Means this guy isn’t alone he has a partner and somehow they are controlling the situation outside."

"What do we do?" Jeffries asked nervously

Vey looked around them back at the assassin before looking back at Jeffries. Then back at the assassin.

Then back at the assassin one more time, "The fuck?" He muttered

The assassin was still there unconscious but instead of the man he saw earlier he was greeted at the sight of a tall lanky man in his early thirties.

"Meta human." Vey muttered

He looked at Jeffries, "Who did you piss off to have a meta human assassin squad sent to kill you? If this guy is a meta human I guarantee the person outside is too."

"Fuck I don’t know!" Jeffries was terrified then looked back at vey, "You have to help me Everleigh, you can deal with this stuff right." He was implying Vey’s connection to the underpass

And he wasn’t subtle at all, "Hmm." Vey smiled, "Well it won’t be cheap, but what are friends for?"

—

A/N: some action, this is not random to the story I realize it might look like it considering I said I was looking for action last Chapter. The assassin and his group are DCU but are kind of unknown? Don’t worry next couple Chapters will increase the tempo of plot progression by quite a large margin.