Chapter Text
It’s been two weeks, and I still haven’t come to terms with the fact that this is my new reality. Not that I miss my world much. Can you blame me? There wasn’t exactly a lot to miss.
The money didn’t last long. I didn’t expect it to, but still—it’s frustrating. I needed to eat, so I did what any totally sane, well-adjusted vigilante in my position would do: I stole from criminals. Ethical? Who’s to say? But Robin Hood did it, right? So, how’s that any different? Stealing from those who prey on the innocent doesn’t feel so wrong when you look at it like that.
I mean, it’s not like I’m out here mugging grandmothers or ripping off innocent bystanders. These are people who’d stab you in the back just for breathing near them. If anything, I’m doing the city a favor.
Maybe I’m just justifying it. Hell, maybe I’m not. But when you’re hungry, you do what you gotta do.
The phone I “borrowed” from the mugger? Lifesaver. It finally gave me a chance to catch up on this strange world I’ve landed in. The history here? Yeah, it’s a trip.
For starters, Superman isn’t a tyrannical warlord stomping across the globe in the name of “peace.” So, we’re already off to a fantastic start. This Clark Kent still looks… like a hero. It’s unnerving, honestly. But I’ll take it.
Wonder Woman? Still the powerhouse I remember, but here, she’s a diplomat. A peacemaker. She hasn’t led armies to overthrow governments or gone full warrior-queen mode. In fact, this Diana seems like someone you could actually have a conversation with—one that doesn’t involve swords or ultimatums. Another point for this reality.
And Batman? He’s alive, which is more than I can say for mine. Still the same brooding, shadow-dwelling vigilante from the limited amount of pictures I could find. That’s comforting, in a weird way.
Then there are the wild cards—heroes I don’t recognize at all. New faces. Some of them look like they’ve barely hit puberty, but they’re wearing capes and masks like they’ve earned it. Whole teams of them, too: something called the Teen Titans, and another group called Young Justice. Kids. With powers and sidekicks of their own.
Back in my world, there wasn’t room for that kind of optimism. Would’ve been nice to have some hero friends my age when I first started out. But, oh well.
It’s a lot to process. Hopeful, sure, but overwhelming. Trying to wrap my mind around it feels like drinking from a firehose.
What hits me the hardest, though, is how different this world feels. It’s… cleaner. Brighter. The kind of place where heroes smile. Where civilians don’t freeze up in terror when they see a cape flying overhead. There’s trust here—something I haven’t seen in a long time. Maybe not since I was a kid.
It’s all so unfamiliar, yet something about it stirs a memory—distant and faint, like a half-remembered dream.
So, yeah. This place seems like rainbows and sunshine. But I’ve seen this kind of world before—where life looks good, and the next thing you know, you’re living under the iron rule of a God for two years. So, forgive me if I don’t get my hopes up just yet.
Speaking of rainbows and sunshine, Arkham Asylum still looms over Gotham like a festering wound. Even in this world, it’s the same decaying fortress of nightmares, housing the worst of the worst.
A quick search dredged up names I haven’t seen in a while: Scarecrow, The Riddler, Poison Ivy, Two-Face, Jo—.
I stop myself. Even thinking his name feels like tempting fate. No point stirring up old ghosts when I’ve already got enough demons clawing at me.
The point is, Arkham hasn’t changed. It’s still the same rotten revolving door, churning out maniacs who thrive on chaos. The only difference? Here, they don’t own the city like they did back home.
In my Gotham, the rogues ran wild. They carved up the streets after the spoils of war, each of them claiming their little piece of hell. Crime was more than rampant; it was institutional. Every block, every shadow, every breath felt like it belonged to someone dangerous.
But here? Here, they’ve been kept in check—pushed into the corners, their reigns clipped. And it’s not because of luck or better policing. No, this is his doing.
This world’s Batman.
Back in my world, Bruce fought tooth and nail for Gotham. But the city? It never felt like it was his. Not really. It was a war zone, and he was just its best soldier, fighting battles he knew he’d never truly win.
Here, though? It’s different. This Gotham doesn’t just fear him; it respects him. Maybe even reveres him.
And that’s what makes it so strange. Because for all the similarities, for all the shared horrors between my world and this one, this Gotham feels Like it hasn’t been completely consumed by the madness.
It’s unsettling. Inspiring. Confusing. All at once.
I can’t argue with the results, though. His methods work. The city isn’t perfect—no Gotham ever is—but it feels more… stable. Controlled.
But for how long?
That’s the thing about Gotham. No matter how tightly you hold on, it always finds a way to slip through your fingers. This city doesn’t play fair, and it doesn’t care how good you are. Sooner or later, it drags everyone down.
Even him.
I shake the thoughts out of my head. Sitting here, overanalyzing every little thing, isn’t going to get me anywhere. It’s late, and Gotham is alive in the way only it can be at night—a city teeming with crimes of opportunity, shadows waiting to swallow the unwary whole.
That’s what’s familiar to me. The one thing I can count on, no matter the world.
I glance at the tattered duffel bag in the corner of the room. It’s not much, but it holds the most important thing I’ve got: my suit.
For the past week, this has been my routine: suit up, head out, and be Batman. Even if it’s only for a few hours, it’s enough to keep me sane—or something close to it.
It’s strange, though. People here don’t react to me the way they did in my Gotham. Back there, they usually ran for their lives—either out of fear or desperation. Here? They actually put up a fight.
I’m not him. Not their Batman. And they know it. Maybe it’s the way I move, the way I fight, or the way I don’t bother with the theatrics. They notice the difference.
But by the time they figure it out, it’s already too late.
It doesn’t matter. Let them wonder. My job isn’t to make them comfortable.
It’s to make sure they stay afraid.
I unzip the duffel bag, pulling out the suit piece by piece. It’s not pristine anymore—far from it. The cape is frayed at the edges, the chest plate dented and scratched, and the paint on the cowl is chipped in more places than I can count.
But it’s still mine. And that’s enough.
Piece by piece, I put it on. The weight settles over me—not just the physical weight of the armor but the crushing, familiar pressure that comes with it. The responsibility. The expectation.
The first time I wore this suit back home, I was terrified I’d never live up to Bruce’s legacy. Maybe I didn’t. Maybe I never could. But here? It’s not about legacies. It’s not about proving anything.
It’s about surviving.
I pull the cowl over my head, feeling it click into place. The faint hum of the lenses coming to life fills the silence, casting a cold blue glow across the dim, crumbling walls of the abandoned building I’ve been calling home.
The climb to the rooftop is second nature now. Rusted metal stairs groan under my boots, but I don’t stop. The night air hits me as I step onto the roof—cool, sharp, alive.
Gotham stretches out before me, its pulse thrumming in the distance. This city feels like an echo of my own. Similar enough to haunt me. Different enough to keep me on edge.
But it’s all a distraction.
When I don’t fight, my mind wanders. And when it wanders, the panic sets in—the slow, suffocating realization that everything I ever called home is gone.
The good, the bad. All of it. Gone.
For better or worse, all I have left is this responsibility. This title.
So I let the night consume me.
Whatever’s out there—whatever’s waiting in the shadows—I’ll handle it.
It’s all I’ve got left.
And it’s all I know how to do.
A string of muggers, a gang shaking down a corner store, and a drug deal that got messy before I even had the chance to break it up. Nothing new, nothing I haven’t handled before.
But as the adrenaline fades, I feel the weight creeping back in—heavier with each passing hour. The city may not sleep, but I have my limits.
I’m perched on the edge of a billboard, catching my breath and scanning the streets below. That’s when I hear it.
“ You don’t belong here. ”
The voice cuts through the quiet like a blade, sharp and cold. I freeze. I didn’t hear anyone approach.
turning my head slowly toward the voice. He’s standing on the rooftop across from me—a man in a leather jacket, a red helmet concealing his face, and twin pistols holstered at his hips.
I don’t recognize him. But it's clear he has no issue approaching me.
I drop from the billboard to the rooftop below, keeping my movements slow. I don’t say anything, but my stance shifts subtly. Ready.
The man tilts his head, almost casually, as he studies me. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue? Or are you one of those ‘strong, silent type’ Bat-imitators?”
Bat imitators? What the hell is he talking about? Then it clicks—right, I don’t exist in this world. To them, I’m just some wannabe, a poor imitation of the Batman they know. But that doesn’t explain this guy.
“I don’t know who you are,” I finally say, my voice low and calm. “But you’ve got about five seconds to explain yourself.”
Before I can say another word, my gaze catches something—the bat symbol on his chest. It’s different from mine. But it’s still a bat symbol. My chest tightens, a knot of unease forming in my gut.
He chuckles—dry, humorless. “That’s cute. You’re trying to act like you know what your doing. Newsflash, pal: you’re in my Gotham, running around in a Bat suit. And I don’t like people I don’t know playing dress-up.”
He takes a step forward himself, closing the distance between us. “You’re either brave, stupid, or both, running around Gotham like this. So, what’s it gonna be? Are we doing this the hard way, or are you gonna explain what the hell you’re doing here?”
I don’t move. My body stays tense, ready for the fight I’m certain is coming.
Then he says something that stops me cold.
“Because if you think you can pull this off without Batman finding out, you’re an idiot.”
The mention of Batman makes my chest tighten. My mind races. This guy knows Batman—works with him?, it doesn’t matter. The connection is there. But is he a threat to me?
I straighten slightly, keeping my voice steady. “You’re a Bat.”
The man tilts his head again like he’s deciding whether to take that as an insult or a compliment. “Yeah. And you’re not. So, let’s get to the point: Who are you, and why are you running around Gotham pretending to be him?”
“I’m not pretending to be anyone,” I reply, my fists tightening. “And I don’t owe you an explanation.”
He laughs again, short and sharp like he’s testing me. “Wrong answer.”
In a flash, his hand drops to one of his pistols, but he doesn’t draw it. Instead, he takes another step closer, his body language shifting just enough to be threatening.
“See, I’ve been watching you,” he continues, his tone darkening. “You’re good. Too good to be some random guy playing vigilante. So, that leaves two options: You’re some sort of replacement Bat, Batman didn’t tell us about—which I doubt—or you’re here for something else entirely.”
His words hit harder than I’d like to admit. He’s been watching me? For how long? And who’s “us”?
“You’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?” I say, my voice sharpening. “But you’re still here, asking questions. So maybe you’re not as clever as you think.”
“You’ve got guts,” he says, his tone sharper now. “But guts don’t mean much in Gotham. And they won’t save you from Batman when he comes for you.”
The mention of Batman again makes my jaw tighten. I meet his gaze—or at least the glowing red lenses of his helmet—and let my voice drop, colder now. “What makes you so sure he doesn’t already know?”
For the first time, his posture shifts, stiffening ever so slightly, a crack in his composure. It’s subtle, but it’s there. His voice, however, doesn’t waver. “Because if he did, you’d already be in cuffs—or worse.”
Before I can respond, the sound of distant sirens cuts through the night air, sharp and urgent. It’s quickly followed by the rapid, unmistakable pop of gunfire.
Red Hood’s head snaps toward the sound, his entire body going still. He tilts his head slightly as if listening, the faint light catching on the red of his helmet. For a moment, he doesn’t move. His shoulders tense, and I can almost see the gears turning behind that impassive mask.
When he finally turns back to me, his stance shifts subtly, less confrontational, more measured. He folds his arms across his chest, his fingers tapping lightly against his bicep as if weighing a decision. The sirens grow louder, the urgency in the air thickening, but he doesn’t seem rushed.
“Alright,” he says, at last, his voice lower, almost thoughtful. “We don’t have time for this ‘who’s who’ game right now. You coming or not?”
His gaze locks onto mine, expectant. For a split second, the tension from earlier seems to hang between us like a thread, ready to snap. Then I nod, stepping up beside him.
“Let’s move.”
Red Hood’s helmet tilts slightly as he glances at me. “Got a name?”
I hesitate, but only briefly. “Batman.”
There’s a beat of silence before he lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Of course it is.” He shakes his head, muttering under his breath, “Figures.” Then, louder, he says, “Alright, ‘Batman.’ Try to keep up.”
Without another word, he turns and leaps off the rooftop, his movements fluid and effortless. I follow, landing on the adjacent building with practiced precision.
The city becomes a blur beneath us as we race across the rooftops, the wail of sirens and the distant crackle of gunfire drawing us closer to the chaos.
For now, the questions, suspicions, and unspoken challenges are set aside. Gotham’s darkness doesn’t wait for grudges to be resolved.
There’s work to do.
Ok, so Red Hood , as he calls himself, isn’t all bad. Sure, his methods might be “questionable”—but so are mine. Who am I to judge?
We’re perched on a rooftop, the city sprawled out beneath us, after a few hours of taking down crime together. Red Hood leans against a rusted air duct, arms crossed, his red helmet faintly gleaming in the dim light.
“So,” he starts, breaking the silence, “you’re not half bad. For a guy running around in someone else’s cape.”
I glance over at him, but don’t respond immediately. Instead, I focus on the city below, the distant wail of sirens gradually fading into the night.
“I could say the same about you,” I reply finally, my tone even.
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Oh, I don’t run around in anyone’s shadow. This city’s big enough for more than one Bat, don’t you think?”
“That what you tell yourself?” I shoot back, my gaze fixed on the skyline.
“Funny,” he says, his tone sharp but not entirely unfriendly. “But seriously, what’s your deal? You show up out of nowhere, playing dress-up, and somehow you’re not dead yet. That’s impressive, but also suspicious as hell.”
I don’t answer right away. I could lie, but something tells me he’d see through it. Red Hood doesn’t strike me as the trusting type—and I can’t blame him for that.
“I’ve got my reasons,” I say carefully, my voice steady but measured. “You don’t have to like it, but I’m not going anywhere.”
Red Hood narrows his eyes, sizing me up as if trying to peel back whatever layers I’m hiding. Then, without missing a beat, he cuts through the silence. “Why’d you fight Red Robin?”
His question hits me like a sharp jolt. I freeze for a moment, my pulse spiking. Red Robin? I fought Robin ? The thought lingers, but it doesn’t quite add up. I replay the encounter in my mind—the unfamiliar gear, the unfamiliar face. Then it hits me. I never considered that they might not look the same here. This isn’t my world, after all. There’s no guarantee most would.
Before I can spiral further, Red Hood continues, not giving me the chance to recover. “Don’t act surprised. He told me about it.”
I tighten my jaw, instinctively bracing myself. How much does he know? And why does it matter? “And?” I finally ask, my voice cool, wary.
“And,” he says, folding his arms across his chest, his stance unwavering, “you didn’t fight me. Why’s that? You took on Red, but with me, you just played it cool. What’s the deal? You scared or something?”
His words hang in the air, but they don’t sting the way he probably intended. It makes sense—if Red Hood works with Batman, he’d know when his teammate gets attacked. I take a step toward him, my posture calm but firm, meeting his gaze with a quiet intensity.
“I didn’t fight you because I didn’t need to,” I say evenly. “With Red Robin, I didn’t know who he was or what he wanted. You? You made it clear. You’re not my enemy—unless you want to be.”
Red Hood tilts his head, considering my words. “Huh. So, you’ve got restraint. That’s a first for anyone in a Bat suit.”
“Or maybe I just don’t feel like wasting my time,” I counter.
He smirks faintly beneath the helmet. “Yeah, I figured that much.” He leans his head back against the duct, his tone shifting to something almost casual. “You’ve got the stubborn part down. But if you’re sticking around, you’d better be ready. Gotham doesn’t take kindly to pretenders. And neither do the rest of us.”
“Noted,” I reply, keeping my tone neutral.
The tension lingers, but it’s different now—less hostile, more like a test that I’ve managed to pass. For now, at least.
Red Hood takes a breath, glancing toward the horizon where the first hint of dawn is creeping over the city. The distant lights of Gotham blur together in the fading darkness, the city just starting to wake up. The sirens that had been wailing not too long ago have softened into the background noise as if Gotham itself is taking a brief moment to breathe.
He shifts his weight, his posture easing a bit. “Guess we’ve done enough for tonight.” His tone is casual, almost reluctant, as though the thought of calling it quits goes against his nerves. “Don’t know about you, but I’m not exactly in the mood to take on the whole city all day.”
I glance at him, then at the faint glow of early morning light spreading across the sky. My muscles ache from hours of non-stop work, and the adrenaline that had kept me sharp is finally starting to wear off. This isn’t new for me. Back in my world, there were nights when patrol stretched into days, and home was little more than a place to catch a few hours of sleep—if I even made it back at all.
But this world is different. Here, Gotham has more than one protector. This Batman isn’t alone. He has allies—people he can count on to shoulder the burden and keep the city safe. That thought offers me a sliver of peace, a feeling I can’t quite place. It’s not comfort exactly, but it’s close enough.
“I hear you,” I say, my voice quieter now, more measured. “Think it’s time to call it a night.”
Red Hood snorts softly, his helmet glinting in the dim light. “It’s practically morning. Hell, I’m surprised you lasted this long without crashing.”
I don’t respond to the jab. Instead, I glance down at the city one last time. There’s still so much to be done, but for tonight, I’ve done my part. Without a word, I push off the ledge of the rooftop, landing lightly on the next building.
Red Hood follows, keeping pace with ease as we move toward the edge of Gotham’s skyline. The quiet hum of the city below, the distant sound of traffic, and the soft chirp of birds signal that this night is finally over.
As we near the point where our paths will diverge, Red Hood casts a glance my way. The rising sun paints the edges of his red helmet with a faint golden glow, giving it an almost ethereal sheen. His tone is equal parts warning and challenge as he speaks. “Don’t get too comfortable, Batman.”
I meet his gaze, offering a single nod. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
With that, Red Hood turns and disappears into the shadows, his form seamlessly blending with the dark corners of Gotham. I linger for a moment, watching his retreating figure, before I turn and make my way back to my temporary hideout.
“Weird guy,” I mutter under my breath as I leap to the next rooftop. I had expected him to try and take me in, especially if he’s working with Batman—or at least for him. But he let me go. Whatever that means, I decide not to dwell on it too much.
The city is quiet as I move through its shadows, the first rays of sunlight brushing against the rooftops. By the time I slip into my hideout, Gotham feels like it’s holding its breath again, waiting for the night to return.
For now, I’ll take what little rest I can get.
The bell rings, sharp and grating, signaling the start of another day at Gotham Academy. I’m sitting at my desk in AP Physics, tapping my pen against the edge of my notebook, trying to focus on the problem set in front of me. It’s not working.
All I can think about is him . The so-called “Batman” who popped up out of nowhere, fought me like I was just another thug, and then went off on his merry way, playing hero in our city. Like he owns the place. Like he’s earned it.
The pen in my hand snaps. Great. Another one bites the dust. I sigh, setting the broken pieces aside. A classmate glances at me from the corner of their eye, but I ignore them. Not like I can explain why I’m this frustrated—not in a way they’d understand, anyway.
It’s been two weeks since our little rooftop dance, and I’m no closer to figuring out who he is. Not for lack of trying, though.
I pull out another pen and stare at the textbook in front of me, but the numbers and equations blur into a meaningless jumble. My brain is stuck replaying the last few nights. Cass and Duke? Off with the Titans. Damian? Doing God-knows-what with Bruce and the League. Jason? A complete non-factor—he’s as likely to ghost us as he is to help. And then there’s Katherine. Missing in action, as usual. Where the hell is she when we need her? Every time I try to reach out, it’s like trying to find a needle in a haystack. No answers, no leads. She’s just... gone.
So that leaves me, Steph, Dick, and Babs. And we’re stretched thin. Gotham doesn’t exactly run on a skeleton crew, but here we are.
I’ve been running myself ragged trying to figure out this new guy, this so-called Batman. I’ve been working every angle I can think of—surveillance footage, fighting style, tech—nothing. The city’s too big, and the problems are piling up, but I can’t let this guy slip through the cracks.
Surveillance footage? Useless. All I’ve got is a grainy video of him saving people from that building fire, and that’s it. Fighting style? No match for anyone I know—not Bruce, not any of us. His tech? Doesn’t line up with any known manufacturers, and definitely not Wayne-tech. Even hacking into the GCPD’s files turned up nothing. It’s like this guy doesn’t exist. And that’s impossible. No one just appears in Gotham. Not without leaving a trail. So where is he hiding it?
I grind my teeth, sneaking a glance at the clock. Five minutes into the period. Fantastic. At this rate, I’m going to lose my mind before the end of the day.
“Mr. Drake,” the teacher’s voice snaps through my spiraling thoughts, sharp and impatient. “Would you care to explain why your notebook is blank?”
I blink down at the empty page in front of me. Physics. Right. “Uh, just...thinking through the problem,” I lie, forcing a weak smile.
The teacher narrows their eyes but doesn’t press, moving on to another unlucky victim. I exhale, slouching back in my chair as I rake a hand through my hair.
This is insane. I’m Red Robin. I’ve solved cases twice as complicated as this. Why is this guy with his knockoff Bat gimmick so hard to pin down?
I grip my pen and start writing—not physics notes, but a list. Origins. Tech suppliers. Possible motives. Anything that might crack this thing open.
By the time the bell rings, I’ve filled half a page with scribbles, arrows, and underlines. And I’m no closer to an answer than when I started.
Grabbing my bag, I head for my next class, my thoughts still racing. He might think he can swoop into Gotham and play Batman, but he’s got another thing coming. No one walks into this city without consequences.
And I’m going to find out who he is—even if it drives me insane in the process.
A few hours later, lunch finally rolls around, and I’m more than ready to escape the classroom. I grab my tray, trying to push the thoughts of the new Batman out of my mind for a moment. But it’s impossible. Every time I try to focus, my mind drifts back to him—who he is, where he came from, why he’s doing this. I need answers, and it’s driving me crazy that I’m no closer to finding them.
Steph spots me from across the cafeteria and waves me down with that grin she always wears when she’s up to something. Of course, she’s already got her usual plate of weirdly healthy, but somehow delicious, food. She’s always got everything together, even when I can barely get my brain to focus on something other than Gotham’s latest enigma.
“Hey, Tim!” she calls out, leaning across the table to pull out the chair next to her. “Sit. You look like you need a break.”
I slide into the chair, dropping my tray in front of me and not bothering to mask my frustration. The whole morning has been one long spiral of thinking about the case, and I’m worn thin.
Steph raises an eyebrow, her gaze flicking to my tray and then back to me. “You’ve been grinding yourself into the ground, haven’t you?” she teases, her voice full of amusement. “Not finding, you know who, finally getting to you, huh?”
I let out a deep breath, feeling the weight of her words. "Yeah, you could say that," I mutter, not bothering to hide the annoyance in my tone. "This guy’s like a ghost. No leads, no clues, nothing.”
Steph watches me for a beat, clearly amused, but then her expression softens. “You know, you don’t have to carry all of this on your own,” she says, nudging my tray lightly with her elbow. “Take a break. Get some sleep or something. You’re running on fumes.”
I glance up at her, forcing a weak smirk. “Yeah, because getting some sleep will magically solve Gotham’s problems.”
She shrugs, unbothered. “Well, it might not solve everything, but it’ll help. You look like you haven’t had a real break in weeks.”
I know she’s right. Between school, patrols, and everything else pulling me in a million directions, I’ve been stretched too thin. But I can’t stop. Not when there’s someone out there, wreaking havoc, and I have no idea who they are.
“I’ll be fine,” I say, my voice a little sharper than I intended. “I just need a lead on this guy. Once I have something solid, then I’ll rest.”
Steph just shakes her head with a soft chuckle. “You’re so stubborn. Honestly, sometimes I don’t know how you do it.”
I pull my tray closer, picking at my food, but my appetite’s nowhere to be found. “I just do what needs to be done.”
“Right,” she says, the humor still there, but with a subtle hint of concern in her voice. “Well, don’t burn yourself out, okay? You’ve got more than enough people around here who can help, even if it’s not always obvious.”
I glance at her, a little taken aback by the shift in tone. “What do you mean?”
She grins, clearly holding something back, before taking another bite of her lunch. “Just... don’t forget you’ve got people who’ve got your back.”
That’s nice to hear. I appreciate it more than I let on. Still, one thing’s for sure: until I get some answers, I’m not stopping.
Teaming up with Red Hood for the night made me start thinking—about a lot of things, actually. For one, where’s Batman? Gotham’s a big city, sure, but even I know that if someone were running around dressed as me in my Gotham, I’d be on it immediately. No hesitation. No playing around.
Maybe he sent Red Hood to scope me out, which makes the most sense given what I’ve seen so far. But if this Bruce is anything like the one I knew, he’d be more direct. This whole shadow game doesn’t feel like him—at least not when it comes to something as serious as someone taking up the mantle without permission.
I’m walking through the city now, not in the suit, just wearing plain clothes. It’s what I’ve been doing during the day—watching, learning, figuring out how things work here. I don’t have much else to do.
Sleep? I only manage three, maybe four hours on a good day. It’s a habit I’ve picked up over the past few years. Enough to function—enough for me. Sure, it’s not the healthiest lifestyle, but it works, and that’s all that matters. For now.
But as I wander the streets, that one question keeps trailing me like a shadow. Why hasn’t he shown himself yet? Is he testing me? Waiting to see how far I’ll go before making his move? Or is it something else? Something worse?
Something I’m not ready to face.
I’m overthinking again. It’s a habit I can’t seem to shake, but at least this time, it’s working up an appetite. Luckily, most of the food spots in this Gotham are familiar—same menus, same smells. It’s almost comforting, like one of the few constants between worlds.
Walking down the street, I spot a Chinese place tucked between a laundromat and a pawn shop. The faded neon sign in the window flickers, half the letters burned out, but the aroma wafting out is enough to pull me in.
The place has a certain charm—if you’re into the run-down vibe. The walls are faded, the chairs are mismatched, and the counter looks like it’s been here since Gotham was founded. Still, these kinds of spots are usually the best. I’ve lost count of how many nights I’ve spent in places like this back home.
I step up to the counter, scanning the handwritten menu taped haphazardly to the wall. It’s a mix of English and Mandarin, and I settle on something simple: fried rice, dumplings, and a couple of egg rolls. The guy behind the counter barely looks up as he takes my order, shouting it into the back before going back to wiping down a section of the counter.
I take a seat by the window, watching the street as I wait. The familiar buzz of Gotham is alive outside—cars passing, people moving, the faint sounds of the city’s chaos carrying on in the background. It’s weirdly peaceful, in its own way.
The clatter of pans and sizzle of oil fills the air, and soon enough, my order is called. I grab the tray and settle back into my seat, ready to enjoy the meal. The first bite confirms my hunch—this place might look rough, but the food? Perfect.
I’m halfway through my plate when the door jingles open. At first, I don’t pay attention, figuring it’s just another customer. But the atmosphere shifts. The chatter in the kitchen quiets, and the guy behind the counter stiffens.
Two men walk in, their heavy jackets hanging loose over bulky frames. Their presence is hard to miss—one has a scar running down his cheek, and the other’s face is hidden under a baseball cap pulled low. They don’t bother looking at the menu or taking a seat. Instead, they head straight for the counter.
“Time to pay up,” the one with the scar says, his voice loud enough to echo in the small space.
The guy behind the counter doesn’t say anything at first. He just exhales sharply and reaches for the register, his shoulders sagging like this isn’t the first time. His movements are slow, reluctant, but he doesn’t argue.
My eyes narrow as I watch. The men don’t notice me—or maybe they don’t care. But as the owner slides a wad of cash across the counter, I catch him glancing my way for a split second, his expression tense.
“What’re you looking at?” the guy with the cap snaps, turning toward me. His tone is sharp, dripping with the kind of arrogance that comes from being used to people backing down.
I meet his gaze, calm and steady, not letting my expression shift. My appetite’s gone now, replaced by a familiar itch—the kind that tells me things are about to go sideways. The urge to act buzzes in the back of my mind, but I know better than to move impulsively.
“Just finishing my meal,” I say evenly, setting my chopsticks down and leaning back slightly in my chair.
Scarface smirks, taking a step toward me as he plants a hand on the counter. “Yeah? Then maybe you keep your eyes on your plate, unless you’re looking to chip in too.”
I glance between the two men and the owner. The defeated look on his face twists something in my chest, but I know how this plays out. If I step in now, it’ll only make things worse for him later. These guys aren’t the type to let a public humiliation slide—they’d come back, probably with more friends, and make the owner pay for it.
“Didn’t mean to intrude,” I reply, keeping my tone neutral. My fists clench under the table, but I don’t let it show. I rise from my seat, leaving my unfinished plate behind, and force myself to walk toward the door.
Cap sneers, clearly satisfied as he watches me go. “Smart move,” he calls after me, his voice laced with smugness.
The door jingles as I step outside, the cold air biting against my face. My jaw clenches, frustration burning just beneath the surface. It’d feel so good to turn around, march back in there, and break their faces in—wipe those smug looks off for good. But I know better. That kind of move would only make things worse for the owner. Playing hero right now isn’t the answer—not now, anyway.
Still, it doesn’t mean I’m letting this go. They’ll regret crossing my path soon enough—just not here, not now.
A few hours later, the restaurant is quiet again. The door jingles as it swings closed behind the two thugs, the lingering scent of grease and soy sauce still hanging in the air. Inside, the owner’s shoulders are slumped, his eyes downcast as he retreats to the back, avoiding any gaze. The two men step into the back alley, their boots echoing sharply on the cracked pavement.
Scarface, the one with the jagged scar running down his cheek, pulls a thick wad of cash from his jacket, counting it with a satisfied grin.
“Not bad for a few hours of work,” he mutters, his voice rough and content.
Cap, the man with the baseball cap pulled low over his face, glances down at another stack of cash he’s found in his jacket. He lights up a cigarette, the orange glow briefly illuminating his face. "Yeah, not bad at all. Some of these places are easier to scare than others. That old guy in the restaurant was a piece of cake."
Scarface laughs, his scar stretching with the motion. "Yeah, poor bastard’s been paying up for months now. I’m guessing he’s got a nice little stash for us to take whenever we feel like stopping by."
Cap gives a half-hearted nod, tapping his cigarette on the side of the van. "Boss’ll be pleased."
“Good,” Scarface says, rubbing his hands together as he pulls out his phone. He scrolls for a moment before making the call. "We’ll be heading out for more after this. The boss likes the numbers up, not down."
Cap scoffs, his voice thick with cigarette smoke. "Yeah, yeah. They always pay eventually. Boss doesn’t like anyone thinking they can get away from him. The old man was scared enough. Weakling." He inhales deeply, eyes narrowing as he exhales through the cracked window. "We’re just doing our part. Same old routine, right?"
Scarface nods absently, still staring at the cash, his grin widening. "Easy money."
The two men settle back into the van, the engine humming steadily as Scarface flips through the cash, counting it again for good measure. Cap takes another drag from his cigarette, his eyes flicking out the window as they drive through the darkened streets.
“Easy money,” Scarface repeats, his grin stretched across his face. His thoughts keep circling back to the old man at the restaurant—something about the way he handed over the cash so quietly, so defeated. Scarface chuckles. "Some people are just born to bend, huh?"
Cap doesn’t answer. He’s too busy flicking his cigarette out the window, watching the city blur by in a sea of lights and shadows. They pass through a few more blocks before Scarface presses a button on the dashboard, adjusting the radio volume. Static and the occasional commercial hum faintly, then he turns it off, sinking back into his seat.
The ride is silent now, only the rumble of the van’s engine and the low hum of tires on wet asphalt filling the air. It feels like the usual routine—hit a few spots, collect the cash, scare the weak, then head home to count their spoils. But as they turn into a side street, something feels off.
The van lurches suddenly, its engine sputtering, then dies completely. Cap glances over at the dashboard, where the fuel gauge is nearly empty. He lets out a sharp curse.
"Great," he mutters, slamming his palm against the wheel. "Just great. This damn thing's on its last legs."
Scarface curses under his breath and kicks the side of the van in frustration. "Perfect timing. Just what we need, huh?"
They sit in the van for a moment, the quiet of the alley pressing in around them. The streetlights flicker overhead, casting long, eerie shadows across the broken pavement. A couple of stray cats dart across the road, their eyes glowing in the dim light. The silence is only broken by the sound of wind and their own annoyed breathing.
Cap shakes his head. "I’ll check the engine. Maybe the alternator’s shot."
“Don’t care. I’ll check it anyway,” Cap snaps, pulling open the door and stepping into the cold night air. “Go out and see if you can flag down a cab or something.”
“Alright, alright, jeez,” Scarface mutters, watching Cap walk off. A scowl forms on his face as he reaches for his phone again, scrolling through contacts. Scarface slams the van door and walks away from the alley, his footsteps echoing in the quiet.
“Should’ve gotten a new van,” Scarface grumbles under his breath.
Outside, Cap approaches the front of the van, frustration flickering across his face as he opens the hood. The engine sputters and clicks, refusing to start. He clicks on his flashlight, its beam jittering across the tangled mess of wires and machinery. Cap lets out a sigh, shaking his head in frustration as he leans in closer to inspect the mess.
As he works, a sound catches his attention—the slow, rhythm of footsteps approaching from the direction Scarface had just gone. Cap freezes, wiping his hands on his pants. His mind races, but he doesn’t look up at first, assuming it’s just Scarface coming back.
“Hey, Scar, you find a cab or what?” Cap calls, his voice thick with irritation as he keeps his focus on the engine.
But as he turns around, his eyes widen, and the words freeze in his throat.
A figure emerges from the shadows. The man is tall and wiry. His clothes are stained, mostly with dark splotches that could be grease, but the color seems too thick, too red. The butcher’s apron he wears is caked in grime and blood, clinging to his thin frame, the fabric seemingly a part of him.
But it’s the mask that grabs Cap’s attention—a grotesque, pig-like face. Hollow eyes, too dark to reveal any hint of emotion and a twisted, mocking smile that only heightens the sense of unease. The mask seems too large for the man’s face, hanging loosely but still twisted in its grotesque realism.
The figure’s hand grips a weapon—a large butcher’s knife, gleaming, dripping blood in the low light.
Cap’s heart skips a beat. His hand instinctively reaches for his gun, but his thoughts scramble as his eyes never leave the masked figure.
“What the hell is this?” Cap demands, his voice tense, a pit forming in his stomach.
The figure tilts his head, an eerie silence stretching between them. Then, without warning, the masked man lunges, a flash of steel cutting through the air. Cap barely has time to react before the figure is on him, the knife striking.
The pain is sudden and overwhelming—Cap gasps, his hand fumbling for his gun, but the figure is faster. In a single motion, the masked man pins Cap to the cold, wet pavement, the knife now hovering dangerously near Cap’s throat.
Cap’s pulse races, his breath shallow. He struggles beneath the weight, but the figure’s strength is unnerving, impossible to escape.
And then, with a disturbingly playful tone, the man leans in closer, his voice cold and mocking.
“Oink... oink.”