Chapter 300: insight

Vey broke down and deconstructed the events he just witnessed and took part in. His mind analyzing every little detail.

The plan had been too elaborate to dismiss as the work of an ordinary contract killer, and the assassin’s abilities complicated matters further. Meta humans were not cheap to hire for assassinations and one with the ability to change his appearance must be one of the most expensive abilities.

There was also the matter of the intended victim. Jeffries wasn’t merely a wealthy banker who happened to be attending his own celebration. He was one of the most influential financial figures in Metropolis, a man whose death would send ripples through the city’s business community. If the assassin had been working alone, the choice of location would have been reckless. If he had partners, however, the situation became considerably more interesting. One operative could impersonate a guest and murder Jeffries while another manipulated the scene, controlled the witnesses, or prepared a convenient scapegoat. A shapeshifter could assume the appearance of someone with a reason to hate the banker, leaving behind a trail of circumstantial evidence that pointed toward an innocent rival. Alternatively, the team might have intended to kill Jeffries and eliminate anyone who could identify the killer, turning the gala into the perfect opportunity for two murders disguised as one.

Vey glanced toward the bathroom doors. Their fight had been anything but quiet. They had smashed mirrors, broken a sink, and sent furniture crashing across the marble floor. The noise should have drawn the attention of the guests in the ballroom, if not the security personnel stationed throughout the venue. Yet nobody had come running. Not a guard, not an employee, not even some drunken businessman looking for a private place to relieve himself. Jeffries, meanwhile, had been without his usual security detail. A man of his standing did not wander through a public event without protection, particularly when he was wealthy enough to afford a small army of bodyguards. The absence of those guards was more troubling than the silence itself. Someone had ensured that they would not intervene, and that suggested the assassination team possessed abilities beyond simple shapeshifting.

Vey considered the possibilities. Invisibility might explain the missing guards, but it would not account for their failure to hear the fight. Teleportation could remove them from the area, though that seemed unnecessarily complicated. The simplest explanation was a second metahuman with mental abilities, someone capable of influencing the perceptions of people nearby. The partner might have convinced the guards that Jeffries no longer needed them, redirected them toward another part of the building, or clouded their awareness enough that they never realized their employer was in danger. The same ability could explain why nobody had investigated the noise. If the assassin team had prepared the area in advance, they might have been able to kill Jeffries, escape through the crowd, and leave the police with a mystery that would take months to unravel.

Vey had no intention of allowing that to happen.

He rose to his full height and reached down for Jeffries, who remained slumped against the sink with one hand wrapped around his throat. The banker’s breathing had improved, though each swallow still seemed painful, and his eyes carried the dazed, unfocused look of someone who had not yet fully processed how close he had come to dying. Vey had been careful with his emotions during the fight, suppressing the worst of the panic before it could overwhelm him. Now he eased that influence back, allowing Jeffries’s natural feelings to settle into something manageable. It was a delicate adjustment. Too much interference could leave the man suspicious or disoriented, while too little might allow terror to take control again. Vey wanted him frightened enough to understand the danger, but calm enough to follow instructions.

"Why are you here without a guard?" Vey asked, helping him straighten.

Jeffries blinked several times, his brow furrowing as he tried to make sense of the question. "I... I don’t know." His voice was raw, barely more than a rasp. He pressed his fingers against the bruised skin of his throat and grimaced. "They were with me earlier. I remember them being there. I think."

"You think?"

"I don’t know!" The answer came out sharper than he intended, and Jeffries immediately flinched at the sound of his own voice. He drew a shaky breath and squeezed his eyes shut. "I’m sorry. I just... I can’t remember. I was talking to someone. There was a man who said he had information about the bank’s expansion, and then..." His hand tightened around his throat. "Then I was here."

Vey watched him carefully. The confusion seemed genuine, and the emotional turmoil beneath it was too disorganized to suggest that Jeffries was deliberately withholding information. That didn’t prove the banker had been manipulated, but it made the possibility more likely. A mentalist might have removed portions of his memory, altered his perception of time, or simply encouraged him to dismiss the absence of his guards as unimportant. Whatever the precise method, Jeffries had not seemed aware of the gap until Vey pointed it out.

"All right," Vey said, keeping his tone even. "Don’t force yourself to remember. We’ll deal with that later."

He turned his attention back to the assassin. The man was still breathing, though his condition was less than ideal, and Vey could feel the faint pulse of movement beneath the restraints as he checked them. There would be time to interrogate him once they were somewhere more private. For now, the priority was controlling the scene before the assassin’s partner realized what had gone wrong. If the second operative possessed mental abilities, there was no guarantee that Vey could identify them through ordinary observation. He would have to watch people’s behavior and, where possible, their emotions. The assassin team had been careful, but no plan survived contact with an unexpected variable without leaving something behind.

Jeffries was an unexpected variable of his own. Vey could have left him to his security detail and disappeared into the night, but that would have wasted the opportunity presented by the attack. The banker would remember the man who had saved his life, and the story would spread quickly among the people whose money and influence shaped Metropolis. More importantly, Vey could establish the relationship before Jeffries had time to become suspicious of his motives. There was a difference between demanding a favor and allowing a man to convince himself that repaying a debt was his own idea. Kieran understood that distinction instinctively. Vey was perfectly capable of applying it when the circumstances called for it.

He helped Jeffries stand, keeping an arm beneath the man’s shoulder until he was confident that his legs would support him. "You still have to make your speech, don’t you?" Vey asked, glancing toward the door. "It would be a shame to let a little attempted murder ruin an otherwise successful evening."

Jeffries stared at him as though he had just suggested they stop for coffee. "My speech?"

"Your guests are out there waiting to hear how wonderful your year has been. You can’t disappoint them now." Vey offered a reassuring smile, borrowing just enough of Kieran’s effortless charm to make the words sound like friendly advice rather than an instruction. "Besides, I won’t tell a soul about what happened in here. I hear assassination attempts can be dreadful for one’s public image. The last thing you need is a hundred reporters asking whether your security arrangements are inadequate."

The banker looked toward the body on the floor, his expression twisting with disgust and lingering fear. "What about him?"

"Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it."

"You’ll take care of him?" Jeffries repeated, looking between Vey and the bound assassin

Vey smiled again, the expression warm enough to invite trust without revealing anything of the calculations behind it. "Of course I will, as I said before what are friends for if not helping each other out like this?"

Jeffries stared at him for another moment, then gave a weak, disbelieving laugh that turned into a cough. "You saved my life, thank you Kieran."

"Of course."

Despite himself, Jeffries managed a small smile. The fear had not disappeared, but Vey could feel it beginning to give way to anger. The change was useful. Fear left people hesitant and vulnerable; anger gave them something to direct their attention toward. Jeffries was already beginning to focus on the violation of his security, the humiliation of being attacked at his own event, and the thought that someone had come close to killing him while his guests drank champagne a few rooms away. Vey allowed those feelings to develop naturally, nudging them only enough to keep panic from reclaiming the ground.

"There is one small favor I need from you," Vey continued. "For the moment, I’d prefer to keep this contained. Have your security block off this section of the building, and make sure nobody wanders in here until I’ve removed our guest. I’ll also need a few people I can trust to help move him. Quietly, if possible. The less attention we draw, the easier it will be to determine who arranged this little surprise."

Jeffries’s expression hardened. "If someone arranged it, I want to know who."

"So do I. That’s why we’re going to handle this properly instead of announcing to the entire city that one of its most prominent bankers can be attacked in his own bathroom." Vey gestured toward the door. "You can start by getting your people under control. I’ll take responsibility for the rest."

The banker hesitated, then nodded. Vey guided him toward the exit, keeping his pace slow enough that Jeffries could manage without aggravating his injuries. The moment they stepped into the corridor, Vey’s attention widened. He studied the guests nearest the entrance, the employees moving between the ballroom and the service passages, and the security personnel stationed along the walls.

He watched their faces, but he paid even closer attention to their emotional responses. Surprise, curiosity, annoyance, anxiety—each had its own character, and while Vey had no illusions about being able to read minds, emotional manipulation left traces when someone reacted to an event that should have been impossible to ignore.

Jeffries’s sudden appearance drew a few glances. A man with a bruised throat and a loosened collar was hardly the sort of sight one expected at a banking gala, but most guests were too absorbed in their own conversations to investigate. A waiter carrying an empty tray paused when he saw them, then continued toward the service corridor. Two security guards turned at the sound of Jeffries’s voice, their expressions changing the moment they noticed his condition.

"Get the head of security," Jeffries ordered, his voice still rough but gaining strength. "Now. I want this area closed off, and nobody is to enter the men’s room until we know what’s happened."

The guards straightened immediately. One moved toward the bathroom while the other called for assistance. Jeffries continued issuing instructions, demanding that the nearest entrances be watched and that his personal detail be located. Vey stayed beside him, letting the banker take control of his own security rather than drawing attention to himself.

The arrangement had the added advantage of making their presence together appear natural. A guest who had suffered a minor medical emergency and the man who had helped him out of the bathroom would attract far less attention than a visibly battered assassin being dragged through the building.

Then Vey felt it: a brief, sharp spike of surprise.

He turned his head slightly, careful not to make the movement obvious. A waitress stood several yards away, holding a tray of untouched drinks. Her face remained perfectly composed, her expression no different from that of any other employee working a demanding event. She did not stare at Jeffries, nor did she look toward the bathroom. Instead, she turned smoothly and began walking in the opposite direction, slipping between a pair of guests before disappearing into the crowd.

It would have been easy to dismiss the reaction as ordinary concern. Jeffries was visibly injured, and anyone who noticed him might have been surprised. But the waitress’s emotions had changed before her face did, and the reaction had been too brief, too controlled.

Vey narrowed his eyes.

There you are.

He couldn’t be certain that she was the assassin’s partner. She might have been another operative, a lookout, or an employee who had been paid to keep an eye on the target. Nor could he rule out the possibility that the mentalist had already influenced her emotions or that the waitress was merely frightened by something unrelated. But the timing was suspicious enough to warrant attention. He memorized her appearance, the direction she had taken, and the point where she vanished into the crowd. He would have someone review the venue’s security footage later, assuming the assassin team hadn’t already tampered with it.

For now, he had to resist the temptation to pursue her. Jeffries was still vulnerable, the assassin remained in the bathroom, and Vey couldn’t risk leaving the banker unattended while an unknown metahuman operated somewhere inside the building. If the waitress was involved, she would have to wait. Vey had no intention of letting the second operative dictate the pace of the evening.

Jeffries turned toward his head of security, a broad-shouldered man who arrived with two additional guards and immediately began assessing the situation. "I want this man given anything he asks for," the banker said, gesturing toward Vey. "Anything. If he needs personnel, equipment, a vehicle, or access to the security system, you provide it. Understood?"

The security chief glanced at Vey, taking in his torn jacket and the bruising around his cheek before returning his attention to Jeffries. He was clearly struggling to reconcile the order with the fact that he had no idea who Vey was, but he had enough sense not to challenge his employer in front of the other guards.

"Understood, sir."

"And get me an ascot. Or a scarf. Something that covers my throat." Jeffries touched the bruised skin gingerly, wincing as his fingers brushed the marks left by the garrote. His face tightened, and the last remnants of confusion gave way to a fury that Vey could practically feel radiating from him. "I am not going to stand in front of three hundred people looking like I’ve just been dragged out of an alley."

"Of course, sir."

Jeffries straightened his jacket with trembling hands, attempting to restore the dignity that had been stripped away from him in the bathroom. He was still shaken, and his voice occasionally faltered, but the anger had given him something to hold on to. He turned to Vey once more, his expression considerably more serious.

"You have my gratitude Kieran. Whatever you need from me, we will discuss it when this is over."

Vey dipped his head. "I look forward to it."

The promise was enough. Jeffries returned to the ballroom under the protection of his security team, and Vey turned his attention to the work that remained.

****

With Jeffries’s cooperation, the rest of the operation proceeded quickly. Vey summoned a small number of trusted personnel from his own security detail, keeping the request discreet and avoiding any unnecessary communication through the venue’s systems. He didn’t know how much the assassin’s partner could perceive, and he had no intention of giving a potential mentalist an opportunity to interfere with the extraction. Two men entered the bathroom under the supervision of Jeffries’s head of security, found the assassin still bound near the sinks, and carried him out through a service corridor after Vey confirmed that the restraints were secure.

"Keep him unconscious," Vey ordered as they prepared to move the prisoner. "There’s no need to be delicate. Just don’t damage anything we might need during questioning."

One of the men glanced at the assassin’s face, then at the broken mirror and the cracked porcelain sink. "What happened in there?"

"Doesn’t matter just do as I ask."

The man accepted the answer without further questions. Vey watched as they carried the prisoner away, taking care to ensure that the assassin’s head remained supported. The man’s breathing was shallow but steady. Vey had no desire to kill him before learning who had sent him, what his partner could do, and whether Jeffries had been the only intended victim.

Once he received confirmation that the prisoner was on his way out of the venue, Vey allowed himself a final sweep of the surrounding area.

He watched the guests, the security personnel, and the staff moving through the corridors, but the waitress had disappeared. He didn’t spot anyone else whose emotions seemed out of place, although that proved little. A capable mentalist could hide their own intentions as easily as they manipulated those of others, and Vey had no reason to assume that the assassin team was limited to two people. For all he knew, the woman had been a decoy intended to draw attention away from the real partner.

He filed the possibilities away for later.

Then he yielded control.

The transition was subtle, a shift in posture and expression rather than anything visible to the people around him. Vey’s cold focus receded, and Kieran emerged wearing the familiar composure of a man who had spent the evening making pleasant conversation with people he barely remembered. He glanced at his reflection in a nearby window, adjusted his collar to conceal the worst of the damage, and smoothed the front of his jacket. The bruising on his cheek was less convenient, but it could be explained away as an unfortunate encounter with a misplaced elbow or a careless guest. The torn seam would require more attention. He made a mental note to have the jacket replaced before his next public appearance.

Then he returned to the ballroom.

He arrived just as Randall Jeffries Jr. reached the end of his speech. The banker stood beneath the chandeliers with an ascot wrapped neatly around his neck, concealing the worst of the bruising while lending him an air of old-fashioned elegance. His voice remained slightly hoarse, but he had regained enough composure to deliver the prepared remarks about another successful year, the importance of financial stability, and the bright future awaiting Metropolis’s business community.

What a bunch of bullshit. He was bragging that’s all.

Kieran took a glass from a passing waiter and settled near the edge of the crowd, watching Jeffries with renewed interest. The man’s performance was impressive. Whatever else could be said about him, he possessed the discipline to stand before hundreds of people and pretend that nothing had happened. His anger remained beneath the surface, but he had enough control not to let it disrupt the event. That would serve him well in the days to come.

When Jeffries finally concluded his remarks, the ballroom erupted into applause. Kieran joined in, wearing an expression of polite admiration as the banker thanked his guests and invited them to continue enjoying the evening. Their eyes met briefly across the room. Jeffries gave him a small, deliberate nod, and Kieran returned it with a faint smile. No words were exchanged, but the understanding between them had already begun to take shape. Jeffries knew who had saved him, and Kieran knew that the banker would remember.

Eventually, Kieran decided he had fulfilled his social obligations. He excused himself from a conversation about municipal bonds, handed his empty glass to a waiter, and made his way toward the exit. Brock was waiting outside with the rest of the security detail, his broad frame making him easy to identify among the people gathered near the entrance. He gave Kieran a brief look at the bruising on his face but wisely refrained from asking questions in front of the other guards.

"How was the evening?" Brock asked once they were clear of the entrance.

"Educational," Kieran replied, settling into the back seat of the waiting car. "I’ve learned that Metropolis has terrible whiskey, worse conversation, and at least one person with a rather unhealthy interest in strangling bankers."

Brock stared at him through the open door. "I’m sorry, what?"

"Later." Kieran adjusted his cuffs and looked toward the driver. "Take us to the gym."

The driver pulled away from the curb, and the gala disappeared behind them as they merged into the city’s nighttime traffic. Rain had begun to fall, light at first, then steadily enough to turn the streets into dark ribbons of reflected light. The weather report had predicted storms moving in from the west, and the clouds gathering above the skyline suggested that the forecast had been optimistic. Thunder rumbled somewhere beyond the city center, low enough to be mistaken for distant construction.

Kieran watched the rain strike the window and thought about the assassin’s partner. A shapeshifter and a mentalist working together would be dangerous enough in ordinary circumstances. Given the target, the location, and the apparent ease with which they had isolated Jeffries, the team might be part of something considerably more dangerous.

The Light had access to metahumans, and Lex Luthor’s growing interest in Metropolis made the timing difficult to ignore. That did not mean the Light was responsible, of course considering Lex is apart of the light and wants Jeffries support.

By the time the car reached the property, the rain had become a downpour. Water streamed from the roof and spilled over the gutters, while the wind pushed against the building hard enough to rattle the loose sign above the entrance. Brock stepped out first, checked the street, and opened the door for Kieran. The rest of the security detail followed, moving quickly through the rain before securing the entrance behind them.

Inside, the gym smelled of old leather, rubber flooring, and the faint metallic tang of equipment that had been recently cleaned. Most of the main training area was dark, illuminated only by the security lights above the entrance and the weak glow spilling through the windows. Kieran crossed the floor, passed the rows of heavy bags, and headed toward the locker rooms. The sound of the storm grew muffled as he moved deeper into the building, replaced by the occasional drip of water from a leak that had not yet been repaired.

The assassin had been secured in one of the locker rooms, bound to a heavy chair with his wrists restrained behind him and his ankles fastened to the legs. A cloth had been placed beneath his head to keep him from striking the floor if he regained consciousness too quickly. His face was pale, and his breathing remained shallow, but he was no longer in danger of slipping free. The men assigned to guard him stood near the doorway, their attention fixed on the prisoner.

Kieran took in the scene without comment. He removed his jacket, inspected the torn seam, and handed it to Brock. "See if you can find something to clean this up with. And have someone bring me a fresh shirt."

Brock glanced at the unconscious man. "Anything else?"

"Coffee. Oh and whisky... oh and a cigar maybe two."

Brock gave him a long-suffering look but left without arguing. The other guards remained at their posts until Kieran dismissed them with a gesture. He wanted as few people as possible in the room when the questioning began.

Kieran pulled a chair around and sat facing the assassin. Outside, thunder rolled across the city, followed by the steady drumming of rain against the roof. The prisoner stirred, his head shifting slightly as consciousness began to return. His fingers twitched against the restraints, and a faint crease appeared between his brows. He was beginning to remember the fight, though it remained to be seen how much he understood about the situation he had awakened in.

Kieran leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. The pleasant mask he had worn at the gala had vanished, replaced by the easy, dangerous amusement that belonged to Quentin. He had no intention of beginning with threats. Threats were crude, and the man before him had already demonstrated enough competence to warrant a more careful approach. First, Quentin wanted to know what the assassin believed had happened, what he remembered about the fight, and whether he understood that the people who had sent him might already consider the operation a failure.

The man’s eyelids fluttered. He drew a rough breath, shifted against the restraints, and began to open his eyes.

Quentin smiled.

"Wakey, wakey."

—

A/N: An insight into Veys thought process.