Ed Nygma Gotham Novels & Stories

Niya mumbled, shaking her head as if it'll some how clear away the unsettling thoughts. “Vantablack Temple,” Rina replied coolly. Niya huffed, though her heart wasn’t in the gesture. “I know what it’s called.” “One of New York’s most exclusive lounges,” Rina continued, unfazed by Niya’s tone. “Billionaires strike deals here. Mafia boys toast to blood contracts here. You don’t get in unless you’re somebody... or you know somebody.” Niya’s pulse quickened. “I knew somebody,” Rina's smirk stretched her glossy lips. “Saved a hotshot lawyer’s ass a few years ago, got him out of a domestic charge. Rode him right there,” she pointed past the glass to the left.

I need to handle my own business. I drive my matte-black Lamborghini out of the hospital parking lot. The engine roars, a powerful beast beneath me. I leave the polished streets of the rich behind, watching the tall, glass skyscrapers fade into the distance. The scenery changes quickly. The buildings get shorter, the walls are covered in jagged graffiti, and the streets are littered with trash and broken glass. This is the rougher, more dangerous part of New York City the parts people like the Backwoods and Carters pretend don't exist.

Blood soaked the ground like a river. Beyond them, Inayat and the others were cornered. And then she appeared. Nagma. Draped in dark leather armor, her blade curved and poisoned, her movement was like smoke in the wind — silent, swift, and lethal. Her mask fell away, revealing her face. The attendants gasped. Aabroo’s eyes widened. "Nagma?!" one cried. Inayat did not flinch. Nagma laughed coldly. "Too late for realization, women."

Nobody thinks to check the pipes until water’s pooling at their feet. Nyxara stood in her command room, bare feet pressed against cool tile, her hair twisted up and out of her way, sleeves rolled to her elbows. The city’s neon flickered in the background, but she didn’t see it. Her world was distilled into twelve monitors casting a blue glow, each one a window into the veins of global commerce and crime. None yet showed the vault. That was by design. Patience was a knife she’d learned to hold carefully. “Phase one,” she breathed, and the gears began to turn.

My throat felt raw, as if I had swallowed grit. "Secure the Asset! Get her underground! Now!" Viggo surged from the shadows of a collapsed storefront. He did not wait for the order. His massive frame moved with a sudden, violent displacement of air. He lunged for Neoma. His hands—wide, callused, and shaking—reached for her waist. "Neoma, let's go!" Viggo shouted. His voice was a subsonic vibration that rattled my ribcage. She did not look at him. Her violet eyes remained fixed on Nergal. Her pupils had contracted into sharp vertical needles.