The cold, salty breeze from the bay swept through Alex's repurposed office on the top floor of the former Gotham Chemical Works factory. The smell of rust and sea seeped through cracks in the film-covered windows, while the distant creak of dock cranes echoed Gotham's eternal vigilance. Alex sat behind a new, sturdy desk—steel frame, oak tabletop—a symbol of their growing influence amid the ruins. Today was the 15th, the day Geo, the man who could shape earth like clay, was due to arrive. In the corner, littered with rolls of paper and drafting tools, the French architect hunched over her desk. The glow of her lamp highlighted her focused face and the swift strokes of her pencil, sketching the outlines of an underground "anthill"—their future stronghold. Her green eyes behind glasses were sharp as a scalpel, cutting away anything superfluous.
Alex's mind, his constant companion and tool, buzzed relentlessly, calculating the cost of this audacious venture. Numbers swirled in his head, adding up to a staggering sum:
Geo: Five million dollars a month for his unique power—digging tunnels, raising impenetrable walls, shaping underground spaces.
Architect: Two million monthly for her brilliant calculations and blueprints, capable of harnessing Geo's power into a precise instrument.
Floravita Industries: Ten million to buy out the dilapidated Gotham Bay Builders, a battered construction company with valuable licenses and old equipment, now registered under Pamela Isley's name. Its new name and slogan—"We heal the planet, one cell at a time"—were not just marketing but a statement of intent: to begin cleansing Gotham from these poisoned docks.
Mercenaries: Two dozen vetted fighters, recruited through anonymous channels and paid in cash. Three million a month for their loyalty and readiness to hold the district when the mob war spills onto the streets. Their leader, a tall man with a scar on his temple, wasn't just muscle—he was a fanatic, believing in their shared goal and commanding absolute trust from his men.
Real Estate: Fifteen million to acquire key dock properties: the factory itself, two massive abandoned warehouses, an old dockers' office, and a repair workshop. All deals were routed through a maze of shell companies to sever any ties to him or Pamela.
Materials and Logistics: One and a half million for steel, concrete, equipment, cranes, trucks, and fuel. Everything was recorded only on paper, safely locked in a safe. Digital trails were bait for Batman and his ilk, and Alex had no intention of making their job easier.
The architect looked up from her blueprints, adjusting her glasses. "The main base's designs will be ready by tonight," she said, her light, melodic French accent cutting through the air. "But your 'earth sculptor' needs to work with surgical precision. Gotham sits on a powder keg—old mine workings, layers of industrial toxins, underground voids. One wrong move, and your tunnels will collapse like a house of cards or won't withstand even a nearby blast. My calculations account for this geological anarchy, but he must follow them to the centimeter."
"He'll manage," Alex replied confidently, tapping a finger on the desk. "You provide the plan, he executes. No questions."
The architect merely huffed, diving back into her world of lines and numbers.
"Time to move," Alex said, standing. "Our earthmover's waiting."
***
They stepped into the night. The air was cold and damp, heavy with salt and the stench of decaying metal. Ten minutes later, they reached the designated spot—a half-ruined warehouse at the water's edge. The shadows here were thick and restless. From behind a pile of rusted barrels, a familiar figure in a dark hooded jacket materialized. Geo. Spotting the architect beside Alex, he seemed to come alive. Stepping forward, he spoke in rapid, excited French: "Ma chère, vos cheveux châtains sont comme une cascade d'automne…" (My dear, your chestnut hair is like an autumn waterfall…) His voice trembled with genuine admiration. "…et vos yeux verts brillent comme des émeraudes sous la lune. Votre posture élégante… c'est une œuvre d'art!" (…and your green eyes shine like emeralds under the moon. Your elegant posture… it's a work of art!)
The architect flushed, instinctively stepping behind Alex as if seeking cover from the flood of compliments. Alex barely suppressed a smirk.
"Geo," he cut in firmly, halting the poet. "You ready to work? The blueprints are waiting."
Geo grinned widely, his gaze still fixed on the architect. "With her, boss? To the ends of the earth and back! Absolument!"
Alex nodded, his eyes scanning the outlines of their future empire: the grim bulk of the factory, the towering shadows of the warehouses, the leaning office, the workshop sheds. Soon, this would be an impregnable fortress. Pamela, meanwhile, was back at the greenhouse, preparing special seeds to cleanse the soil. Gotham simmered like a powder keg, but with Geo, the architect, and their loyal soldiers, they would ignite a new, unprecedented light here.
***
A month passed at the breakneck speed of a Gotham bullet in a dark alley. Alex sat in his factory office again. Outside, in the gray dawn light, the ruins of warehouses and twisted dock structures remained unchanged. But beneath the surface, their quiet triumph thrived. Thanks to Geo's power, which proved even greater than expected, and the architect's precise calculations, they'd achieved the impossible. Two underground complexes now stood:
Root Citadel: Their main base. A multi-level, fortified bunker designed to withstand a direct missile strike. Steel beams, Geo-reinforced rock, traps, and hidden exits.
Ark Sanctuary: A space for five thousand people, meant to save dock residents when the inevitable Falcone-Maroni war turned the streets into hell. The bases were largely autonomous: Pamela's specially bred plants provided air purification, water filtration, and even food through fast-growing, nutrient-rich fruits. Electricity remained a weak link, but fresh fruit in a crisis mattered more than bright lights.
Alex unrolled a worn Gotham map on his desk, covered in his handwritten notes. The situation was heating up. Falcone's stash of their unique herb was dwindling, his warehouses emptying. Street demand had skyrocketed, and without Pamela, Falcone was doomed. His dealers scrambled in panic. Meanwhile, Maroni wasn't sleeping. His men were actively loading weapons at other docks, preparing for a decisive strike. The wheel of destruction was ready to spin off its axis.
This chaos was exactly what they planned to exploit. While the mob tore each other and the city apart, Floravita Industries would bid on a government reconstruction contract. Their target: key sites that couldn't simply be bought. The central police station, the courthouse on Falcone Square, the city archives—all symbols of the rotten system—would fall or suffer in the war's chaos. Then they'd step in—with blueprints, resources, and Pamela's power—to rebuild a green, clean, safe district on the ruins. Pamela's seeds, already secretly planted across the docklands, awaited her signal to transform the streets into impassable jungles overnight, creating an illusion of protection and the might of their new authority.
***
The office's silence shattered with a sharp knock. The mercenary leader—the one with the scar on his temple—entered. His usually stoic face betrayed a hint of wariness.
"Someone's asking for you," he said, voice low and firm. "One guy. Gave the code: 'The falcon hunts in shadow.'"
The corners of Alex's mouth twitched in anticipation. Falcone. The wheel was turning. "Let him in," he ordered.
In slunk Falcone's familiar scrawny, sweaty assistant—the one always buried in their financial reports. He shifted nervously from foot to foot.
"You… you have to resume the shipments!" he blurted, trying to sound menacing but betraying fear. "The boss demands a meeting. Now!"
Alex raised an eyebrow, as if surprised by the audacity. He opened a desk drawer and pulled out an old, battered flip phone—a relic from a bygone era, leaving no digital trace.
"Call your 'boss,'" he said, tossing the phone onto the desk.
The assistant frantically dialed. After a couple of rings, Carmine Falcone's voice crackled through—hoarse, full of rage and fading strength, like the grinding of worn gears.
"Where's my supply, you punk?!" he roared. "Think you can jerk me around?! Hold me by the throat?!"
Alex picked up the phone. His smirk widened, venomous as Pamela's deadliest creations. When he spoke, his voice was low, cold, and dripping with contempt:
"Carmine. You and your pathetic band of parasites have been leeching off Gotham for decades. You fancy yourself a king, a mover of fates? You're nothing but an empty suit worth a grand, clinging to a sad parody of power. Your 'empire' is a house of cards on the edge of a cliff. And me? I'm holding the match. Want your weed? Kiss my ass. Then maybe I'll think about it."
The dead silence on the line was sweeter than any victory. Falcone's assistant stared at Alex like he'd just set his boss's entire world ablaze. Pamela, standing off to the side and watching the scene, narrowed her eyes slightly, but a glint of hard approval flashed in her green gaze.
Alex leaned back in his chair, tossing the phone back onto the desk. His eyes fell on the Gotham map spread before him. The wheel of destruction had gained momentum. And he and Pamela stood at its epicenter, ready to steer its course. The real game had begun.