Sweat rolled down Dre's face in slow beads as he sat alone inside his modest office overlooking the Continental. The room was quiet, almost painfully so, yet his mind refused to grant him the same courtesy. It was astonishing how quickly a man could go from feeling on top of the world to feeling as though it were collapsing around him. Lately everything had seemed possible. Nolan had entrusted him with Star City's operations, praising him, believing in him, giving him responsibility that Dre had never imagined someone like him would one day hold. Tonight, all he could think about were the fifteen men who would never walk through those doors again.
His right hand tightened around the phone until his knuckles turned pale. If phones were living things, this one would have suffocated several minutes ago beneath the crushing force of his grip. Part of him almost wished it would simply die. A drained battery, a shattered screen, some miraculous mechanical failure—anything that would excuse putting off the conversation for another hour. Another minute. Anything.
Unfortunately, the phone remained stubbornly alive.
Dre let out a slow breath and rubbed a hand across his face. He had to call Nolan. No… he had to call his boss. Somehow the distinction mattered. Ever since Nolan had trusted him with Star City, Dre had been walking around like a man ten feet tall. Every successful shipment, every recruit, every new foothold in the city had only reinforced the feeling that maybe—just maybe—he really belonged where he was.
Now he had to explain how fifteen of their people had died on his watch.
His stomach twisted into a knot.
"Boss probably already knows," he muttered to himself, staring down at the glowing screen. "Hell… he always knows."
That thought did little to comfort him.
Nolan wasn't magical, Dre knew that. He wasn't omniscient. Yet somehow he always seemed to have the answer before anyone else had even finished asking the question. It was unnerving in a way Dre couldn't quite explain.
He brought the phone up between both hands, bowed his head for a brief moment, and whispered quietly, "Please… don't offer to come back. Let me fix this. I can fix this."
Taking one final steadying breath, Dre exhaled through his nose, squared his shoulders, and pressed the call button before he could lose his nerve.
The phone barely rang once.
"Good evening, Dre."
Quentin's warm voice answered almost immediately, carrying the relaxed confidence of a man who had expected the call long before it came.
"I was expecting to hear from you earlier."
Dre grimaced despite himself. "Sorry, boss. Everything happened so damn fast after the shooting. We were treating the wounded, securing the remaining shipments, making sure nobody had been followed. I wanted to call sooner, but I didn't want to waste your time until I had something concrete."
"You've got me now," Quentin replied evenly. "Start from the beginning."
Dre nodded instinctively, forgetting for a moment that Quentin couldn't see him. "We were unloading one of tonight's larger shipments at Warehouse Twelve near the industrial district. It was clean… at least we thought it was. Then the shooting started. Whoever hit us knew exactly where we'd be and roughly how many men we'd have. They came in from elevated positions, boxed us in, and laid down enough fire that we couldn't maneuver without taking casualties."
He paused, swallowing hard before forcing himself to continue.
"We lost fifteen men, boss. Seven more are injured. Five of them should recover fully, two are still in surgery."
The silence on the other end wasn't uncomfortable. Quentin simply let the information settle before asking his next question.
"And the shipments?"
"We saved most of them. Lost a couple vehicles and some equipment, but the important cargo made it through. They were trying to bloody our nose more than rob us."
"Hm."
Dre leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he reached for the notes scattered across his desk. "I've had our people digging ever since the shooting stopped, and I think we've got a name."
"I'm listening."
"Danny Brickwell."
The name hung in the air between them.
"They call him Brick on the street. Word is the bastard's built like reinforced concrete. Some people swear he's borderline superhuman, that bullets barely slow him down. I don't know how much of that's true, but I know enough men who believe it to take the rumors seriously."
He flipped another page before continuing.
"The more we investigated, the clearer the picture became. Brick isn't just running another gang. He's been consolidating power throughout the Glades for years. Protection rackets, drug routes, gambling, extortion—if it happens in the Glades, chances are Brick gets a cut. From everything we've uncovered, his end goal isn't Star City."
Dre's expression hardened.
"He wants the Glades."
"All of it."
"And then we showed up."
A faint chuckle escaped Quentin's lips.
"So from his perspective…"
***
"We've started building a castle in the middle of his kingdom."
A faint sneer tugged at Quentin's lips as the words settled between them. Star City was supposed to have been the easy expansion.
Compared to Gotham, the city was almost peaceful. There were fewer gangs, fewer established criminal powers, and less of the entrenched corruption that had made Gotham such a brutal proving ground. That had always been the appeal. A cleaner slate. A place where the Underpass could establish itself before anyone truly understood what was happening.
Instead, the city had revealed its own obstacle.
Danny Brickwell.
Quentin leaned back into his chair, his fingers lazily tapping against the armrest as he considered everything Dre had just told him. Brickwell had managed to build an empire beneath Green Arrow's nose without attracting enough attention to warrant being dismantled. That alone spoke volumes. Men didn't hold onto that much territory by being loud or reckless. They survived by knowing when to fight, when to hide, and most importantly, when to let others underestimate them.
That made him dangerous.
Perhaps…
Perhaps he should return early.
Metropolis could wait another few days if necessary. A quick trip back to Star City, eliminate the problem before it grew roots, and then continue as planned. The Glades were simply too valuable to leave contested for long. If Brickwell believed the Underpass could be intimidated this early, that misconception needed to be corrected before it spread.
'Discard that thought.' Vey's voice cut through his mind with the sharpness of a drawn blade.
Quentin frowned, 'Why?'
'Because we need to deal with it,' he argued internally. 'A rival this early isn't something we ignore.'
'No,' Vey answered immediately, his tone carrying the same unyielding authority he used during combat. 'Dre needs to deal with it.'
Quentin's irritation deepened, 'He just lost fifteen people.'
'Exactly,' Vey replied. 'And what lesson do we teach him if we immediately come running the moment something goes wrong?'
The question lingered.
Vey continued before Quentin could interrupt.
'We've talked about this for months. We're expanding. That means responsibility has to expand with us. Marcy, Naima, Terrell, Dre… eventually they'll all have territories and operations of their own. If every difficult decision ends with us stepping in personally, they'll never learn to command without leaning on us.'
There was a brief silence inside their shared mind.
Then Nolan spoke.
'I agree with Vey.'
A moment later Kieran sighed dramatically, 'As much as I hate agreeing with Mr. Military over there… he's right. If we keep solving every problem ourselves, we'll spend the rest of our lives putting out fires instead of building something that lasts.'
Quentin grimaced.
He hated democracy, "…Vote," he muttered bitterly.
Three votes.
Against one.
Quentin pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Vey well…"
The terrible joke earned three simultaneous groans from somewhere deep within his own mind.
Before any of them could continue arguing, Dre's uncertain voice drifted through the phone.
"Uh… boss? You still there?"
Quentin blinked, returning his attention to the conversation as though only a second had passed.
"I am."
He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the desk.
"You are going to handle this yourself, Dre."
Silence.
"I'll give you every resource you require. Intelligence. Money. Personnel if absolutely necessary. But this decision, and the ones that follow, belong to you."
Dre didn't answer immediately.
Quentin continued calmly.
"I want a report every day. Not because I intend to micromanage you, but because I need to understand how you think. If the situation begins slipping beyond your control, I'll pull the plug and intervene personally."
For several long seconds, nothing came from the other end of the line.
Then Quentin heard it.
A slow exhale.
Relief.
"Thank you, boss."
There was something different in Dre's voice now. The anxiety remained, but beneath it was determination.
"I won't waste the trust."
"I know you won't."
Dre straightened in his chair, already sounding more composed than when the conversation had begun.
"I'll start with intelligence. Figure out Brick's organization from the inside before I make any moves. If he wants the Glades, then somewhere in that empire he's got cracks. I'll find them."
A genuine smile crossed Quentin's face.
"Good."
Not because Dre had chosen the correct strategy.
Because he had chosen a strategy.
That was the first step toward becoming a leader.
"Keep me informed," Quentin said as he reached for the cigar resting in the ashtray. "And Dre…"
"Yeah, boss?"
"Don't win quickly." There was a moment of confusion "…Sir?"
Quentin chuckled.
"If Brickwell is as intelligent as you believe he is, then rushing him will only force him to become cautious. Learn him first."
His smile widened as smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling, "If he becomes too bold. stomp. him. out!"