Marco's hand landed on his shoulder, pressing him firmly back down.
"Chief, get your speech ready. I'll handle the welcoming committee."
He slipped toward the conference room door. But this particular visitor clearly had no intention of giving anyone time to prepare a proper greeting or organize a reception line.
Bruce walked into the East End precinct like he owned the place, which, given how much money he'd dumped into Gotham over the years, wasn't entirely inaccurate. He ignored the administrative officers who tried to intercept him with clipboards and pleasantries, brushed past the desk officer who'd started to stand, and strode directly through the doorway into the shabby conference room with several well-dressed attendants trailing him.
The officers might not recognize every billionaire in America, but Bruce's face was plastered across gossip columns and financial news with enough regularity that even the most oblivious beat cop knew who he was. Whispers erupted immediately, spreading through the crowd. Reporters' cameras swiveled away from Oliver, lenses refocusing on the new arrival. Flashbulbs exploded in a frenzy several times more intense than anything Oliver had received.
Bob stood on the small stage, clutching his prepared remarks in one hand. Marco moved forward quickly, extending his hand.
"Mr. Wayne, what an honor. If you'd given us advance notice, we could've prepared a proper..."
Bruce didn't even glance at the outstretched hand. Instead, he reached out and clapped Marco on the shoulder, then walked right past him. His gaze locked onto Oliver.
"Marco, you didn't mention we'd have such interesting guests today."
He didn't break stride, moving directly toward Oliver. When he reached the man, he extended his hand.
"Oliver Queen? Bruce Wayne. Welcome to Gotham."
Oliver shook his hand.
Bruce turned slightly, gesturing to the lean man who'd followed him in. "Lucius Fox. Chief Technology Officer at Wayne Enterprises, and the man who knows how everything works."
Lucius stepped forward with a smile. "Mr. Queen. A pleasure."
"Lucius," Bruce continued, turning back to Oliver, "this is the gentleman I mentioned, the up-and-coming philanthropist from Star City making waves in the charitable sector."
Oliver forced his expression to remain pleasant as he shook hands with both men.
"Mr. Wayne, I believe I've got a few years on you. Though I have to say, your bold approach to business and philanthropy is certainly something people notice."
"Hmm." Bruce's smile didn't waver. He glanced past Oliver toward Bob, who was still frozen on stage, then raised one hand in a casual wave.
"Please, Chief, don't let us interrupt. We're just here to watch."
With that, he led Lucius and his assistant toward a cluster of empty folding chairs that had been set up in the back corner of the room. He sat down, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back slightly.
Bob's forehead immediately broke out in a fresh sheen of sweat. He'd dealt with plenty of difficult situations in his career, but somehow, having Bruce sitting in his conference room watching him felt more dangerous than all of those combined.
He glanced around, looking for support. His gaze landed on Marco, who gave him a slight nod and a gesture that clearly meant: keep going.
He cleared his throat twice, squared his shoulders, and forced his voice through the microphone.
"Once again, our heartfelt thanks to the Queen Foundation for this incredibly generous donation! This contribution will make a difference in our ability to serve the people of Gotham and maintain safety in our community!"
He turned to Oliver and extended his hand, accepting the oversized ceremonial check with its printed figure: $3,000,000. They both turned toward the cameras, smiling.
Flashbulbs popped. Reporters scribbled notes. Officers applauded with enthusiasm, three million was serious money.
Bob felt relieved. Okay. They'd gotten through it. No disasters. He was just about to announce the end of the formal ceremony and transition into the networking portion when movement caught his eye.
Bruce's hand was raised.
"Chief, mind if I say a few words?"
Bob swallowed hard. He could refuse, theoretically. But refusing Bruce in front of a room full of reporters and officers seemed like a bad idea on multiple levels.
He plastered his best smile on his face.
"Of course, Mr. Wayne! Please, the floor is yours."
The applause that followed was notably more enthusiastic than what Oliver had received. Some of the officers were clapping harder, leaning forward in their seats. Bruce was Gotham royalty. Oliver was an outsider, no matter how much money he threw around.
Bruce rose from his seat and straightened his jacket. Then he walked toward the podium at an easy pace, and as he passed Oliver on the way to the stage, their eyes met.
He took the microphone from Bob, who practically thrust it at him before scurrying back to give him space. He stood at the center of the small stage, and let his gaze sweep across the room.
"Thank you, Chief. And thank you, everyone, for having me. First of all, on behalf of Gotham, I'd like to welcome the Queen Foundation. Thank you for coming to Gotham, and thank you for your interest in our public safety. Three million dollars." He let the number sit for a moment. "That is, without question, a substantial amount of money. It could certainly help improve conditions here at the East End precinct. Better equipment. Improved facilities. Maybe even..." He glanced around at the shabby conference room, the stained tablecloths, and the folding chairs. "...an upgrade to the ventilation system?"
A few people laughed.
"However, I think it's important to be realistic about what we're dealing with here. Gotham isn't like other cities. The challenges facing the GCPD aren't the kind that can be solved with a single donation, no matter how generous."
He turned slightly, his gaze landing on Oliver.
"Mr. Queen comes from Star City, a wonderful place, from what I hear. It's probably difficult to really grasp the scope of what Gotham deals with on a daily basis. The depth and... intensity of our particular situation. So, to demonstrate Wayne Enterprises' ongoing commitment to protecting Gotham, and to ensure that our friends from Star City don't carry this burden alone, I'm announcing an additional donation from Wayne Enterprises to the East End precinct."
Every eye in the room was on him. The reporters had their pens poised. The cameras were recording. Even the officers who'd been half-paying attention were fully focused now.
"Three million and five hundred thousand dollars."
The room exploded.
Officers shouted, reporters surged forward, cameras clicking like machine gun fire. The flashbulbs turned the shabby conference room into a lightning storm.
Oliver's expression went slightly dark. His spine straightened, and his eyes locked onto Bruce. Beside him, John's hands curled into fists. Marco could see the tension radiating off both men.
The atmosphere shifted instantly.
Oliver opened his mouth.
Marco moved.
"This is fantastic!"
He was already halfway to the stage before most people realized he'd left his seat. He clapped his hands together—loud, sharp sounds that demanded attention.
"Thank you!" He positioned himself between Bruce and Oliver, still clapping like a maniac. "Heartfelt thanks to the Queen Foundation for their incredible generosity in our time of need! And equally heartfelt thanks to Wayne Enterprises for their ongoing support!"
He turned to face the audience, gesturing broadly at both men.
"The sense of civic responsibility demonstrated by these two gentlemen is truly inspiring! Both committed to Gotham's public safety. But if you two keep competing like this, the East End precinct might end up with more money than the city's entire annual budget. Which would make the mayor look pretty bad, honestly."
A ripple of laughter spread through the officers. The tension in the room eased slightly.
"So here's what I'm thinking," Marco said, glancing between Bruce and Oliver. "How about we make this interesting? Turn it into a game. Let fate decide the final donation amount. What do you say?"
Bruce raised one eyebrow. He looked genuinely intrigued. Oliver said nothing, but his posture shifted slightly.
"You gentlemen ever play darts?"
Both men nodded.
"Perfect. Give me a few minutes to set something up."
Marco gestured to two nearby officers and jogged toward the back offices. The reporters immediately swarmed forward, shouting questions at Bruce and Oliver, microphones thrust toward their faces.
"Mr. Wayne, was your donation a direct response to—"
"Mr. Queen, do you feel that—"
"Gentlemen, can you comment on—"
Neither man answered. They just stood there, separated by maybe three meters of scuffed linoleum, watching each other like boxers between rounds.
---
Marco returned five minutes later pushing a large sheet of cardboard mounted on a wheeled stand. Someone had cut ten holes into the board in descending sizes, arranged in a neat vertical line. Next to each hole was a number, ranging from $10,000 at the largest down to $100,000 at the smallest.
The $100,000 hole was barely wider than a coin. Just a slit, really.
The two officers followed behind with two plastic bins full of quarters, which they set down beside Bruce and Oliver respectively.
"The rules are simple," Marco announced, loud enough for everyone to hear. "You take turns tossing quarters through the holes. Whatever you score, that's your donation."
Bruce examined the board. The cut marks were fresh, definitely not prepared in advance. His gaze lingered on the smallest hole, the one marked $100,000.
So he really is just trying to prevent a confrontation.
He nodded slightly. The cop was greedy, sure, that much had been obvious from their previous interactions, but he was also smart enough to recognize when a situation was about to spiral out of control.
"I'm in. What about you, Mr. Queen?"
Oliver felt a weight lift off his chest. A Gotham playboy would be lucky to consistently hit the $50,000 hole. Maybe not even the $10,000 one.
If Marco was giving him an out, he'd take it. The precinct would lose some money, but avoiding a public feud was worth the cost. He'd have to thank them properly later.
"I'm in."
"Excellent!" Marco clapped his hands again. "Ms. Thea and Officer Patterson will keep score for Mr. Queen. Mr. Fox and Officer Goodman will keep score for Mr. Wayne." He paused, scanning the crowd. "Officer Wilson, put your hand down. You can't even count your own paycheck correctly."
Laughter rippled through the room. Darnell, who'd been raising his hand to volunteer, dropped it with a sheepish grin and retreated to the back of the crowd.
"Since you're our guest," Bruce said, gesturing toward Oliver, "please, go first."
Oliver didn't hesitate. He plucked a quarter from the bin, held it between thumb and forefinger for a moment, then flicked it forward in a smooth, practiced motion.
Thup.
The coin sailed through the air in a perfect arc.
Clink.
It slipped through the narrowest slit, and dropped into the collection box behind the board with a satisfying metallic sound.
The room went silent for half a second. Then Thea let out a whoop.
"One hundred thousand! First throw!"
The Star City playboy had some training. His control over the throw was precise. Bruce picked up a quarter, barely glanced at the board, and tossed it with the same casual ease most people used to flip coins for decisions.
Thup. Clink.
"Mr. Wayne, one hundred thousand," Lucius announced calmly.
A murmur ran through the crowd.
Oliver smiled. So the Gotham billionaire wasn't completely soft. Good. That made it more interesting.
Thup. Clink.
Thup. Clink.
While everyone's attention was locked on the contest, Bob sidled up to Marco and leaned in close, his voice barely above a whisper.
"What the hell are you doing?" Bob's face was tight with stress. "We could've walked away with six million and five hundred thousand, easy. Now we're going to lose at least a million, maybe two."
"Maybe," Marco murmured back, not taking his eyes off Bruce and Oliver. "But I figure they'll be lucky to land ten or twenty shots. Call it two, three million from each. We'll still come out ahead."
Bob grunted. "Yeah."
---
The contest accelerated.
Quarter after quarter turned into streaks of silver light, both men aiming for that impossibly narrow gap. Their movements grew faster.
The crowd's noise faded into silence, broken only by the whistle of coins cutting through air and the sharp clink of metal hitting metal in the collection boxes. Then even that silence was overwhelmed by gasps and shouts of disbelief.
"How are they doing this?"
"The gap's thinner than a needle!"
"Go Mr. Wayne!"
Most of the cheers favored Bruce, hometown pride and all that. But Bob led a small group of officers in cheering for Oliver too, just to maintain some semblance of balance. The reporters had given up trying to ask questions. They just kept shooting photos, knowing that regardless of the final score, this display alone would dominate tomorrow's front page.
The quarters kept flying. The bins kept emptying.
This wasn't luck anymore.
Finally, they reached the end.
The last two quarters flew almost simultaneously, and slipped through the $100,000 slot like they'd been magnetized.
Lucius glanced down at Bruce's empty bin, then looked up.
"Mr. Wayne: fifty throws, fifty hits. All at one hundred thousand. Total: five million dollars."
On the other side of the board, Thea bit her lip, took a deep breath, and announced, "Mr. Queen: fifty throws, fifty hits. One hundred thousand each. Total: five million dollars."
The room erupted again.
Ten million dollars.
Bob's face drained of color, then flushed red, then went pale once more. His vision blurred as dark spots danced at the edges, and he grabbed the back of a nearby chair to keep himself upright. His body swayed twice before he slowly turned his head to stare at Marco.
One thought pushed through the haze in his mind.
If I had another daughter to marry off, we'd be set for life.