DC Comics: Dumpstat Healer (Male SI)

[WiseGuy]

The world tilts, and my stomach lurches. The air rushes past me—cold, sharp, wrong. One second, I'm getting out of my car, and the next—I'm falling.

I don't even have time to scream before I slam into something hard. Pain explodes through my body, white-hot and absolute. My breath catches, my vision blurs—

And then it's gone.

I blink. My body feels… fine. No broken bones. No aching joints. I'm lying on pavement, rough and warm beneath my hands, but there's no lingering pain. Just a faint memory of impact, already fading.

I push myself up, my heartbeat still pounding in my ears.

Where's my car... where's my house?

The street around me is clean, almost too clean. The buildings stretch high, glass and steel gleaming in the light. Cars roll past, sleek and silent, their designs unfamiliar. People walk the sidewalks, but something about them is… off.

I notice it in the way they move. The way they glance at me—some with curiosity, others with open appraisal. I can't pin down what feels strange.

I shift on my feet, suddenly aware of how exposed I am. My clothes feel normal—t-shirt, jeans, sneakers—but the way people glance at me makes me feel like I'm missing something.

A woman approaches—tall, toned, sharp blue eyes locking onto mine. She stops just short of my personal space, tilting her head. "You alright?"

Her voice is confident, almost commanding, but there's something else beneath it. A flicker of… concern?

I clear my throat. "Uh, yeah. I think so."

She raises a brow. "You just dropped out of nowhere. You sure you're not concussed?"

I hesitate. "I don't… think so?"

She studies me for a second, then exhales. "C'mon. Let's get you checked out."

I should argue. I don't know her. I don't know anything about this place. But something tells me that standing around, confused and lost, isn't my best option.

I nod, and she gives a sharp, satisfied smile. "Good. Name's Harper. What's yours?"

"…Carter."

Harper jerks her head for me to follow. As I step into motion, I catch my reflection in a nearby window. I'm wearing my plain blue dress shirt and some dark blue Corduroys.

I follow Harper through the city, still trying to wrap my head around what just happened. She walks with an easy confidence, like she owns the pavement beneath her boots. She doesn't bother looking back to see if I'm keeping up—she just assumes I will.

I should be asking more questions. Where am I? What city is this? Why does everything feel so... off? But my brain is still catching up, still trying to rationalize the fact that I just lost time or got displaced.

We move through the towering streets, weaving between pedestrians. The glances I get from passing women feel odd—like they're measuring me up. Some smirk. Others just give me a once-over and move on. The men barely acknowledge me.

Harper takes a turn down an alleyway. I slow my steps.

"Uh… is the hospital like, kinda far from here?" I say, glancing around. The buildings are tighter here, the space darker. Less foot traffic.

Harper stops, turning to face me with a smirk. "Hospital? What gave you that idea?"

I blink. "You said I should get checked out—"

She laughs, low and amused. "Oh, I intend to check you out real thorough like. Relax, sweetheart. You're fine. Figured I'd take you somewhere a little more… comfortable."

The way she says it makes my skin prickle.

I glance back the way we came. The streets are still visible, but the main crowd is far off now. Something in my gut twists.

"You don't even know me," I say carefully.

"Not yet," she agrees. "But you seem lost. Vulnerable. Thought I'd show you some hospitality."

She steps closer. I step back.

The look in her eyes isn't concern—it's something else. Something predatory.

Should I be offended or aroused?

"Look, I appreciate the… help," I say, trying to keep my voice even, "but I should probably figure things out on my own."

Harper clicks her tongue. "You sure? A nice guy like you shouldn't be wandering around alone. City's dangerous at night."

Something tells me she isn't talking about muggers.

I tense. I don't know where I am. I don't know the rules of this place. But I do know one thing—sticking around isn't an option.

I turn—

And she moves.

Fast.

Before I can react, her hand snags my wrist, her grip like iron. I try to yank back, but she doesn't budge.

"Easy, now," she says, her voice still smooth, still playful. "No need to be rude."

It's more surprise that keeps me still than anything. She's taller, a bit buffer, sure, but I'm a guy, I could probably take her.

I wrench back my wrist again—this time, her grip slips. I stumble a step away, adrenaline spiking.

Harper's expression flickers, amusement giving way to something colder.

"That's interesting," she muses, flexing her fingers like she just felt something she didn't expect. "Didn't think you had that kind of fight in you."

Lady, you're lucky I don't beat up women... because I'd probably get arrested despite being the 'victim'.

I don't wait for her to figure out what just happened. I spin on my heel and bolt.

I make it maybe five steps before I hear her move.

The sound is barely there, just the faintest rush of air—then something snags the back of my shirt, yanking me backward with terrifying ease. I slam against the alley wall, breath leaving my lungs in a whoosh.

Strong bitch.

"Whoa, whoa, slow down, sweetheart." Harper presses an arm against my chest, pinning me like it's nothing. Her strength is unreal—she's not even straining. "I like it when they play hard to get, but you're making this difficult."

My pulse is a jackhammer in my throat. "Let me go."

She grins, leaning in, voice a purr. "Say 'please.'"

I shove against her arm. It's like trying to move a steel bar. Her free hand brushes against my jaw, slow, teasing, like she's savoring this. My skin crawls.

"Don't worry," she whispers. "You'll like it."

Then the shadows shift.

A shape drops from above—silent, seamless.

And suddenly, Harper is the one yanked back.

She lets out a startled curse as she's pulled into the darkness, and before she can react, a massive figure steps between us. A black shape, a flowing cape, eyes like white slits in the dark.

Batman?

The sight of him sends a shock through my system. He's huge. The kind of presence that doesn't just stand there—he looms. And the way Harper stiffens tells me she knows exactly what kind of trouble she's in.

Is there a convention in town?

His voice is low, dangerous. "Leave him."

Harper regains her footing, straightens her jacket, and lets out a breathy little laugh. "Bats, c'mon. I was just talking to him."

Batman doesn't move. "Walk away."

She tilts her head, considering. "You always this protective of lost little things? I found him first."

The silence that follows is heavy.

Then Batman takes a single step forward.

Harper shifts her weight, tensing like she might make a move. Then, after a second, she exhales sharply and raises her hands in mock surrender.

"Fine. Be a buzzkill," she mutters. She gives me a last, lingering glance, something between irritation and intrigue. "Guess I'll see you around, sweetheart."

Then she turns and melts into the darkness, slipping away down the alley like she was never there.

I let out a shaky breath.

Batman turns to me, eyes unreadable beneath the cowl. "Are you hurt?"

I hesitate. "I… no. I don't think so."

His gaze flicks over me, like he's assessing, calculating. Then he turns sharply. "Don't follow strangers in Gotham, it never ends well."

Gotham? Is he larping?

Batman starts walking away, his cape flowing behind him. He moves with a quiet grace, his presence larger than life. I should be relieved, but my stomach is still twisted in knots. My body is fine, untouched—but my mind is still catching up, still trying to process just how close that was.

Then—

A gunshot.

The crack of it splits the alley like a lightning strike.

Batman jerks mid-step.

His body staggers forward before he catches himself, his gloved hand snapping toward his side.

A second of pure, stunned silence.

Then, Harper's voice, sharp with panic. "Shit."

I whip around. She's at the mouth of the alley, gun still raised, her breathing hard and uneven. It's like she fired on instinct and only just realized what she did.

Batman slowly turns to face her, his cape shifting, the black fabric rippling as he moves. Even now, wounded, he's still Batman—still terrifying, still that silent, immovable force.

Wow, this guy's good.

Harper swears again under her breath. Then she spins on her heel and runs.

She's gone before I can even process what just happened.

I turn back to Batman, my pulse slamming in my ears. "You—"

Then I see it.

The dark stain spreading beneath his gloved fingers.

The way his breath hitches, sharp but controlled.

The blood.

I freeze.

Batman wobbles slightly but catches himself, bracing against the alley wall. He looks down at his side like it's just a minor inconvenience, just a setback—like he's used to this. But his jaw is tight, his breathing shallow.

"You're—" My voice catches. My stomach lurches. "You're bleeding."

Batman glances down, then back at me. Even now, even hurt, his voice is impossibly soft. "Don't worry about that."

How the hell am I supposed to not worry?

He leans against the brick wall, slow and careful, like he's trying not to scare me. Like I'm the one who needs comforting. His white eyes settle on me, his voice gentle in a way I wasn't expecting.

"It's alright."

It's not alright. He's bleeding. The most terrifying, invincible person I've ever seen is bleeding out in front of me, and I can't do anything.

I move toward him, frantic, hands hovering near the wound but not touching. "We need to—there's got to be a hospital—"

"No hospitals." His voice is firm, but not unkind.

I stare at him. "You're shot."

His lips twitch, almost like he wants to smile, but it's too much effort. "I've had worse."

His knees start to buckle. I grab his arm instinctively, trying to hold him up, but he's heavy—solid muscle and armor. He sinks down, kneeling against the alley wall, his breath coming shallower now.

A pit opens in my chest.

I've heard of roleplaying but this is ridiculous. This larper's going to get himself killed.

I feel useless. Helpless.

But Batman—he isn't panicking.

His free hand comes up, resting lightly on my shoulder.

"You're safe," he murmurs. His voice is calm, steady, like he's talking to a lost child. "She's gone."

I blink hard. "That's not—" My voice cracks. "That's not what I'm worried about."

His expression softens. "I know."

His grip on my shoulder is light, barely there, but grounding. He's the one bleeding out, but he's comforting me.

I feel something hot behind my eyes. This is wrong. So wrong.

"You shouldn't—" My breath shudders. "You shouldn't have gotten hurt."

His head tilts slightly, just enough for the cowl's lenses to catch the dim light. "That's part of the job."

His eyes close for half a second, his grip loosening slightly. His body sways, and panic claws up my throat.

No. No, no, no.

I press a hand against his wound, trying to do something, but the second my skin touches the blood, something… shifts.

There's a pulse, a warmth that blooms under my fingertips.

Then—

Batman's breath hitches, his whole body tensing for a brief second—then relaxing, the pain seemingly evaporating.

I yank my hand back, heart hammering. "What—"

The blood is still there, staining his suit, but the wound itself?

Gone.

Batman's breathing evens out. His grip on my shoulder steadies. He blinks at me, slow, calculating.

It's the first time I've seen him look truly caught off guard. Not in the way a normal person would, but in a hyper-focused, analyzing way, like his brain is already working through a hundred different theories.

And I?

Am freaking out.

I pull my hand back like I just touched fire, my breath shaky. My pulse is going a mile a minute, and my brain? Not helping.

Magic? Fake wound? Real batman?

Oh God, that's the real Batman.

I swallow hard. "So, uh—" My voice cracks, and I clear my throat. "You seem… good now, so… I should, y'know, go."

Batman's eyes narrow slightly. He's still kneeling, his cape pooling around him, but his strength is coming back fast. His posture is already straightening, his breathing back to normal.

"You healed me," he says, voice low, measured.

It's not a question.

I let out the most awkward laugh of my life. "Nope! Nope, that's crazy." I take a step back. "I think you just have, like, really good genes or something."

Batman doesn't move. He just watches me, and somehow, that's so much worse.

I take another step back. "Anyway! Uh, thanks for saving me from—y'know—that whole thing," I ramble, gesturing vaguely toward where Harper disappeared. "Really appreciate that. Solid work. Great job. But, uh, I've got places to be, and you've probably got crime to… punch, so I'll just—"

I turn on my heel to leave.

I don't get far.

Batman moves—not fast, not aggressively, just… deliberately. Before I can take more than a step, his gloved hand closes around my wrist.

Firm. Unshakable.

I freeze. My breath catches in my throat.

His grip doesn't hurt, his touch is almost careful, like he's afraid I might break if held too tightly. His voice, when he speaks, is softer than I expect. Not cold, not commanding. Just… gentle.

"You don't have anywhere to be."

I swallow hard. "That's—uh—that's an assumption."

His head tilts slightly, the white slits of his mask unreadable. "Where were you going?"

I open my mouth. Then close it.

Because I don't have an answer.

I don't know where I am.

I don't have a phone. A wallet. An apartment key. A home.

I don't have anything.

Batman watches me carefully, his grip never tightening, never forcing, just there.

When I don't respond, he speaks again. "Who are you?"

That one, at least, I can answer. "Carter."

A small pause. His voice drops even lower. "Carter what?"

I hesitate. I know my full name. It's just… suddenly, it feels wrong to say it. Not because I forgot, but because it seems like a bad idea to give it to a spandex-clad man-bat.

"Just Carter," I mumble.

Batman considers that. I can feel him filing it away, weighing it, measuring it against whatever profile he's already building of me in his head.

Then—another question.

"How did you heal me?"

I laugh as I yank my arm again. It comes out weird. "Didn't happen, pure fiction. A total fabrication."

His fingers twitch slightly against my wrist.

"I need you to come with me."

That jolts me out of my spiraling. "What? No. Nope. Absolutely not."

His brows furrow slightly, like he wasn't expecting me to push back so fast. "Carter—"

"I don't even know you!" I blurt out, pulling my arm back. He lets go immediately this time.

He exhales through his nose. "I'm trying to help you."

I shake my head. "No, see, you already helped me. You did the cool, dramatic, rooftop-landing, shadowy-hero thing, and I—" I gesture wildly at myself, "—am now choosing to take my ridiculous luck and leave before something worse happens."

Batman doesn't move.

His voice, when he speaks again, is quieter. Steadier. "You have nowhere to go."

How does he know this shit?

I force a weak grin. "I'll figure it out."

He studies me. I can tell he doesn't like that answer.

And for a second, he almost says something else—almost pushes. But then, he just nods.

Slow. Reluctant.

"…Alright."

I blink. "Wait—what?"

He doesn't answer. He just reaches into his belt, pulls something out, and presses it into my palm.

A small, sleek communicator. Compact. Heavy. A lifeline.

"If you need help," he says, "use this."

I stare at it. Then at him. "You're just… letting me go?"

Batman's expression softens, just slightly.

"I'm trusting you."

I don't know why that makes my chest feel tight.

For a long moment, I just stand there. Then, before I can change my mind, I turn and walk away, gripping the communicator like it's the only real thing in this entire, messed-up world.

I pick up the pace, moving down the alley with quick, uneven steps, my fingers still curled around the communicator like it might disappear if I let go. My breath is too fast, my hands are clammy, and my brain is running in circles.

I don't even realize I'm holding my breath until I risk a glance over my shoulder—

And Batman is gone.

I stop in my tracks. My heart is hammering. My chest is tight.

"Oh, come on," I hiss under my breath, whipping my head around, scanning every shadow, every rooftop. Nothing. Not even a hint of movement.

I exhale, shaky. My knees feel weak, but I force myself to keep moving, feet stumbling into a quick stride as I head toward the nearest street. My head is a whirlwind of thoughts, all slamming into each other at once.

That... was Batman.

Like, actual Batman.

Which means this might not be some weird dream. Or a coma. Or an elaborate prank.

Which means—

I swallow hard.

I might be in the DC universe.

I almost trip over my own feet.

Every worst-case scenario slams into me at once.

This place is a nightmare. Gotham is basically a warzone. Superman's villains are actual gods. The Justice League exists, which means the kind of threats they deal with are real. The multiverse is real. Magic is real. Darkseid is real.

I squeeze my eyes shut for half a second.

I fell. From somewhere. Into here. I have no ID, no phone, no money, no home. Also—apparently? I heal people now.

And worst of all?

I don't know how it works.

I feel a chill run up my spine. I didn't even think about it before. It just happened. When Batman was bleeding out, I panicked, touched him, and then—bam. No more wound.

And he knew. He felt it.

Batman doesn't let things slide. He's Batman. He knows I'm walking around Gotham with some kind of power, and the second I screw up, and I will screw up, he's going to use it to try to get answers I don't have.

I let out a shaky breath, my feet carrying me forward automatically.

I need a plan.

I need food. A place to sleep. I need to figure this out before someone way worse than Harper decides I'm a fun little mystery to solve.

I keep moving, my mind racing. I need a plan—any plan. I can't just wander around Gotham aimlessly.

My stomach growls, and I grimace. Food. Right. That's priority number one.

Then money.

Then, maybe, figuring out what the hell is going on with me.

For half a second, my brain latches onto the obvious solution.

I could heal people for cash.

If I do have some kind of superpower, that's a hell of a way to make money. Gotham is full of people who need help—gang members who got into the wrong fight, vigilantes who don't always make it home in one piece, rich criminals who would absolutely pay through the nose for a quick recovery.

Hell, I could set up a whole underground business. Keep it on the down-low. Make a fortune.

I stop walking. My pulse is a little too fast.

But I have no idea how my powers work.

For all I know, healing Batman just shaved five years off my life. Or maybe it takes something else from me—memories, energy, sanity. What if it doesn't always work? What if it goes wrong?

I can't risk it. Not yet.

I shake the thought off and refocus. I need something normal. Something simple.

That's when I see it.

A WcDonald's.

I blink. Then blink again.

The logo is off-brand enough to make me wince. The golden arches are upside down, the font just different enough to not get sued by the McDonald's in my world. It's ridiculous. It's so gimmicky.

And taped to the glass door?

A HELP WANTED sign.

I stop.

A job. A real, normal, boring job.

Something in my chest loosens at the thought.

Sure, it's not glamorous. It's WcDonald's. But it's cash. Food. Stability.

And right now? That sounds pretty damn good.

I square my shoulders, take a deep breath, and push open the door.

The moment I step inside, I'm hit with the smell of greasy fries, overcooked burger patties, and the faint chemical scent of floor cleaner that never quite goes away.

The place is mostly empty except for a few tired-looking customers, the kind of people who probably don't ask too many questions about their food or their surroundings. The menu is almost familiar—WcDouble Burgers, WcFries, WcNuggets—but just off enough to make my brain hurt.

I shake it off and approach the counter, where a bored-looking cashier, a girl probably in her early twenties with black hair, dark purple lipstick and an eyebrow piercing, leans against the register. Her nametag says "Kass" in marker, like she couldn't be bothered to get a real one.

She looks me up and down. "You ordering or loitering?"

I gesture toward the HELP WANTED sign in the window. "Actually, I wanted to ask about the job."

Kass raises a skeptical eyebrow. "You?"

Okay. Rude.

I nod. "Yeah. I, uh… just got to town. Looking for something steady."

She snorts. "In Gotham?"

Bitch did I stutter?

She jerks a thumb toward the back. "Talk to the manager. Through that door."

I nod my thanks, eyes still a bit squinted at her. I make my way past the counter, pushing through a grimy swinging door into the back.

The kitchen is exactly what I expect—greasy, a little depressing, and filled with the sound of a stressed-out cook swearing under her breath as she flips patties. Past that, in a cramped little office, I find the manager.

She's a stocky woman in her forties with sharp eyes and a permanent frown. Her nametag actually says "Manager", which is either a policy thing or she just doesn't care enough to wear one with her real name.

She doesn't look up from the clipboard she's holding. "You're here about the job?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She lets out a hmm and finally glances at me. "Ever worked fast food before?"

"No, but I learn fast."

She eyes me like she's heard that line a thousand times before. "You from Gotham?"

I hesitate. "...New in town."

She nods like that's answer enough. Then she flips to a form on the clipboard and starts listing off questions.

"You got any prior experience?"

"No."

"Any criminal history?"

I blink. "What?"

She looks up. "Criminal history."

I hesitate for half a second too long. "No."

Her eyes narrow slightly, like she doesn't entirely believe me but also doesn't care enough to press it.

"You got a fake ID or anything that's going to get us in trouble?"

"What? No!"

She shrugs. "Had to ask. Half the people who apply here are trying to dodge someone."

That… feels way too casual.

She checks something off and keeps going. "You okay working late shifts? Sometimes past midnight."

I nod. "Yeah, that's fine."

"You okay with the occasional robbery?"

I freeze. "...Define occasional."

She flips a hand. "Couple times a month. Usually just some punk with a knife. We got a policy, though—just give 'em the cash. Not worth fighting over."

I stare at her. "That… happens a couple times a month?"

She frowns. "Kid, this is Gotham."

Right. Of course. Stupid question.

She moves on, completely unfazed. "You got a bank account for direct deposit?"

I pause. "...can you pay in cash?"

That gets her full attention.

Her eyes sharpen, scanning me again like she's just now realizing something is off. "Why?"

I force an awkward laugh. "I, uh… just don't have an account yet. Like I said, new in town. Haven't set one up."

She doesn't blink. "You running from something?"

"No!" I clear my throat. "No, I just… I lost my stuff, okay? No ID, no bank card. Just trying to make money until I get things sorted."

She stares at me for a long moment.

Then she grunts, like she's decided I'm not worth the trouble of interrogating. "Fine. We do cash pay for first two weeks. After that, you need to get an account."

I nod quickly. "Got it."

She scribbles something on the form, then rips off a piece of paper and shoves it toward me.

"Training's tomorrow. You show up late, don't bother showing up at all."

I take the paper.

I have a job.

At WcDonald's.

In Gotham.

I nod, mutter a thanks, and slip out of the office before she can change her mind.

As I step back into the main restaurant, I exhale a shaky breath.

It's not much. But it's something.

I step out of WcDonald's and onto the cold Gotham streets, the weight of my situation settling like a brick in my stomach.

I have no money. No food. Nowhere to sleep.

That would be bad enough in a normal world, but here? In a city where loners like me are considered easy prey?

Fuck.

I pull my arms around myself, shivering as I start walking. The sun is setting, the sky turning a murky orange, and I can feel the shift in the air. The way people move changes. The way the city breathes changes.

Daytime Gotham is a mess.

Nighttime Gotham is a hunting ground.

And I?

I'm walking around like a clueless, broke victim.

I pick up my pace, scanning for any place I might be able to sleep. A bus station? A park bench? Maybe an alleyway where I can hide for a few hours?

I hate every single one of those options.

I grit my teeth, forcing my mind to focus. Think. I need something safe. Something hidden.

I pass a couple of rundown motels, but I don't bother going inside. Even if I could somehow talk my way into a room, I'd be trading something for it.

And I refuse to do that.

The streets get emptier the further I go, the streetlights flickering dimly overhead. I spot a few figures in the distance—groups of women leaning against alley walls, whispering to each other as I pass. Their eyes track me, some with amusement, some with… something else.

I don't stop.

I don't look at them.

Just keep moving.

Then, up ahead, I see it.

An old, half-abandoned construction site.

A few rusted machines. Fencing with gaps just wide enough to slip through. A gutted building that never got finished.

Perfect.

I move fast, ducking through the fence and making my way toward the skeletal remains of what was supposed to be an apartment complex. Inside, there's still scaffolding, stacks of bricks, broken drywall, and most importantly—dark corners to hide in.

I find a spot in what would've been a closet, tucked away from any direct sightlines. The floor is hard, covered in dust and bits of debris, but I don't care. It's shelter.

I sit down, pull my knees to my chest, and exhale a long, shaky breath.

I made it through today.

Tomorrow, I start my job. I make some money. I figure out what the hell is happening with my powers.

I just have to survive the night first.

Outside, Gotham hums with life—sirens in the distance, shouting down the street, laughter that sounds too sharp to be friendly.

I close my eyes and pray that, for just one night, Gotham doesn't notice me.

---

I wake up to the sound of rustling.

My brain is sluggish, still caught between sleep and reality, but something feels wrong. My body is stiff from the cold concrete, my clothes feel damp, and there's a strange metallic scent in the air.

I blink.

There's a shadow above me.

A figure crouched next to me, fingers slipping into my pockets. A woman—short, wiry, dressed in patched-up street clothes, her dark hair tied back in a messy bun.

My heart slams against my ribs as instinct kicks in.

I move.

Before she can react, I lunge, grabbing her wrist and shoving her off me. She yelps as she topples backward, hitting the floor hard.

"What the hell—" she snarls, twisting to scramble away.

I don't let her.

Adrenaline surges through me, and before I can think about it, I pin her to the ground, my knee pressing into her side.

She thrashes, kicking and cursing, but I hold firm.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I snap, my breath ragged.

Her eyes flick to my face, wild and furious.

Then they widen.

Not in protest. Not in anger.

In shock.

"No," she breathes, almost disbelieving. "No. That's not—"

I glare at her. "You were robbing me—"

"I shot you."

I freeze.

The words don't make sense at first. I stare at her, the world tilting slightly as my brain tries to catch up.

"You… what?"

She's breathing hard, her eyes darting over my face, my clothes—

My clothes.

I look down.

There's blood.

Not much, but enough. Dark, dried in splotches on my shirt, near my collar.

I lift a shaky hand, touch my forehead—

No wound. No pain.

But a drying liquid, sticky and moist.

I look at her again.

She's angry. Almost… agitated that I wasn't the easy mark she planned.

"You should be dead, you fucker!" she snaps. "I shot you in the head! Point blank! I saw you drop, I—" She shakes her head violently, like she's trying to force reality to make sense. "How the fuck are you alive?"

I don't have an answer.

But I do have an opportunity.

My pulse is still racing, my mind still playing catch-up, but my body moves on instinct. If I was anyone else, I'd be dead right now. And if she had her way, I'd stay that way.

I'm not about to let that slide.

She's still on the ground, breathing hard, too caught up in her own shock to react when I start patting her down.

"The fuck are you doing?!" she snaps, trying to jerk away, but I shove her back down, my knee pressing into her ribs just enough to make her wheeze.

"Oh, you know," I mutter, pulling open her coat pockets, "robbing you."

Her eyes go wide with fury. "You little—"

I ignore her and dig deeper.

A couple of crumpled bills. A few loose quarters. A worn-out lighter.

Then—jackpot.

My fingers close around a small, battered leather wallet. I yank it free, flipping it open.

Forty bucks.

Not much, but to me? Everything.

I shove the cash into my own pocket without hesitation. She snarls, thrashing harder, but I grab her wrist and twist, just enough to make her hiss through her teeth.

"You shot me in the head, Bitch." I remind her, my voice low, dark. "You don't get to be mad about this."

I keep going. Another pocket—three extra magazines, each half-filled. And the gun? Still on the ground beside us.

I grab it.

She stiffens as I check the magazine—one round missing. My round. The one that should've killed me.

I slide the mag back in, rack the slide, and finally—finally—point it at her.

Her whole body stills.

Should I...?

I mean, she might kill someone else.

If I bring her to the police they might ask questions I can't answer.

So kill her?

But... she's a girl.

And I don't think I'd get away with it, not with all these heroes wandering about.

I exhale sharply, my hands trembling slightly. The weight of the gun is unfamiliar, cold. But I keep my grip steady.

I let her go and back up.

"Fuck. Off."

Her lips press into a thin, furious line.

She looks at the gun.

Looks at me.

Then, slowly, she raises her hands.

"This isn't over," she mutters, voice tight with barely contained rage.

"Yeah? Well, too bad," I snap back. "Because it's over for me."

I take another step back, the gun never leaving its mark.

"Go."

She hesitates—then, finally, she scrambles to her feet, shooting me one last glare before turning and bolting into the shadows.

I don't lower the gun until I can't hear her footsteps anymore.

Then, and only then, do I let out a shaky breath and collapse back onto the ground.

My head is spinning.

I just got murdered. And I got better.

I just mugged someone.

And I have a gun now.

I look down at it, the metal still cool in my grip.

I should leave.

Staying in the same spot after someone already tried to kill me would be the dumbest thing I could do.

I shove the gun into my waistband, making sure my shirt covers it, and grab what little I have before slipping out of the construction site. My body still feels weird—like I should be sore, like my skull should still be cracked open, but there's nothing. No pain. No sign it ever happened.

Except for the blood drying on my clothes.

I move fast, sticking to the dimly lit parts of the city, keeping my head down. The streets are quieter now, most of Gotham's predators already occupied elsewhere. That doesn't mean I'm safe—it just means I haven't been spotted yet.

Eventually, I find another spot. An old, abandoned bus stop, half the roof caved in, the bench broken, not even the wood remains. It's out of the way, far from where I died a few hours ago.

I lean against the cracked wall, my heart still hammering, and slowly slide down until I'm sitting.

I keep the gun in my lap, my fingers resting lightly on the grip. It feels unreal.

I should be panicking. I was panicking. But now, all I feel is… numb.

I almost died.

I didn't even feel it.

If I didn't have these powers...

I exhale, long and slow, watching the empty street ahead of me. The neon glow from a flickering streetlight paints the pavement in sickly yellow, stretching my shadow out in front of me.

Tomorrow, I start work at WcDonald's.

Tomorrow, I pretend like I'm just another lost guy trying to make ends meet.

But tonight?

Tonight, I sit here, staring at the city that just tried to kill me, and wait for morning.

---

Morning comes slow.

I don't sleep. Not really. I just sit there, eyes half-lidded, my body too wired to fully relax but too exhausted to do anything else. The city never stops moving—sirens, distant shouting, the occasional car screeching past. But nothing finds me.

When the sun finally starts creeping over the skyline, I push myself up, stretch out the stiffness in my limbs, and start moving.

I need new clothes.

I find a Salvation Navy a few blocks away, the sign hanging crooked above the entrance, flickering like it's one power surge away from giving up completely. The inside is a mix of stale air and fabric softener, racks of secondhand clothes lining the narrow aisles.

The lady behind the counter barely looks up when I walk in, too busy flipping through an old magazine.

I move fast, grabbing whatever looks decent. A plain gray t-shirt. Some dark jeans. A hoodie that doesn't look too bad. The prices are dirt cheap—three to four bucks per piece—so a full outfit will only set me back ten bucks.

Which is fine, because that's all I can afford right now.

I head to the dingy changing room in the back, peeling off my mildly bloodstained shirt and stuffing it deep into the trash can. My jeans aren't as bad, but I still swap them out, shaking off the lingering paranoia that someone will walk in.

The mirror above the sink is cracked, but I catch my reflection anyway.

I look… better.

But not good.

There's still blood in my hair. Dark streaks near my temple, crusted at the roots. A sick reminder of what happened last night.

I head out of the changing room and move to the bathroom.

I try to wash the blood out as best I can, splashing cold water over my face, scrubbing at my scalp with my fingers. It helps, but not enough. I still look like I survived something.

I sigh, run a hand through my damp hair, and head out.

By the time I get to WcDonald's, I'm still damp from the half-assed sink shower, my hoodie clinging slightly to my arms. The morning rush hasn't kicked in yet, but the smell of grease and burnt coffee is already thick in the air.

Kass, the cashier from yesterday, is leaning against the counter, sipping from a WcFlurry cup like she hasn't had a good night's sleep in years.

She spots me immediately and snorts.

"Jesus. You look like shit."

"Yeah, well," I mutter, adjusting my hoodie, "you should've seen me before I cleaned up."

She raises an eyebrow, eyes flicking to the damp patches in my hair, the faint red that still lingers at the edges. She doesn't ask.

She just shakes her head and jerks her thumb toward the back. "Manager's waiting. Don't be late, newbie."

I nod and step inside.

The manager barely acknowledges me when I step into the back. She shoves a cheap, paper-thin uniform into my hands—yellow polo, black visor, grease stains already included at no extra cost—and starts talking.

No pleasantries. No nonsense.

"Register first," she says, flipping through a clipboard. "We'll train you on the fryer later. Customers can smell fear, so don't freeze up. If someone robs the place, don't play hero, just give 'em the money. And don't—" She stops, eyes narrowing slightly as she actually looks at me.

I freeze under her stare.

Her gaze lingers on my hair. The dried blood I couldn't wash out completely.

She doesn't ask.

But I can tell she wants to.

Instead, she exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Just… try not to get anything in the food, yeah?"

I nod stiffly. "Got it."

She mutters something under her breath, then waves me off.

"Alright. Get to work."

And just like that—

I'm officially working at WcDonald's.

The shift is long. And boring.

I spend most of it at the register, punching in orders, dealing with impatient customers, and trying not to burn my hand on the heat lamp when I bag food. The whole place smells like fryer grease, and by the second hour, I'm already sick of the smell of fries.

Kass is working too, moving between the drive-thru and the front counter with the same bored, vaguely irritated energy she had earlier. She's quick, sharper than I expected—no wasted movements, no unnecessary words.

She also does not act like any girl I've met before.

She doesn't do the things I'd expect—no forced politeness, no bubbly customer service voice. If anything, she's blunt. When a guy at the counter fumbles his order, she cuts in and fixes it before he even finishes stammering. When the fryer beeps, she doesn't ask for help—she just points at me and says, "Get that."

It should be annoying.

Instead, I catch myself watching her.

She's… kinda cute.

Not in a traditional way. Her dark lipstick is smudged, her eyeliner a little uneven, and her uniform isn't buttoned all the way up. But there's something confident about her. Like she knows exactly who she is and doesn't care if anyone else approves.

I shake the thought off and refocus. Work first, distractions later.

By the time the lunch rush hits, I notice something else.

People are staring at me.

Not in a bad way. Not like Harper.

More like… sympathy.

A woman in her thirties orders a WcCombo, then gives me the softest, most concerned look I've ever seen. "You doin' alright, sweetie?"

I blink. "Uh. Yeah?"

She tsks under her breath. "You sure? You look like you've been through it."

I force a smile. "Just a rough night."

She sighs, shaking her head like I just admitted to something tragic. "Well, you take care of yourself, honey."

I stare as she walks away.

Then it happens again.

And again.

An older lady hands me a five-dollar bill for her WcMuffin and pats my wrist. "You poor thing."

A woman with a baby in one arm gives me a warm, pitying smile. "You're doing so good, sweetie."

Even some of the guys act weird—more distant, keeping their eyes low, not engaging. Like they don't wanna risk talking to me too much.

I rub the back of my neck, feeling deeply confused.

I'm twenty.

I don't look like a kid.

Why do people keep calling me sweetie?

The shift finally ends, and I feel like I've been standing for twelve years. My back aches, my hands are stiff from handling greasy paper bags, and my brain is numb from repeating the same phrases over and over.

But at least I made it through.

I step into the manager's office, expecting the usual end-of-shift rundown. Instead, she just pulls out a wad of cash and starts counting it.

I blink. "Uh… what's this?"

She doesn't look up. "Your pay."

I hesitate. "Wait—I thought I'd get paid weekly or something."

She snorts. "Normally, yeah. But it's real clear you need the money." She finishes counting and slaps the bills into my hand.

I look down.

It's ninety-six dollars.

Twelve bucks an hour. Eight-hour shift.

I actually made money today.

I swallow, fingers tightening around the cash. "Thanks."

She waves a hand. "Don't get used to it. Next payday's in a week like everybody else."

I nod, slipping the money into my pocket. That's… more than I expected. Enough for food. Maybe a cheap place to stay—

As if reading my mind, she tilts her head. "You got somewhere to sleep tonight?"

I hesitate.

Lying is pointless. She wouldn't ask if she didn't already know.

"…Not yet."

She sighs, rubbing her forehead. "Figures."

Then she reaches into her desk, grabs a flier, and hands it to me. I study it, frowning as I look it over.

"Wayne Outreach Shelter for Men – Safe, Secure, Low-Cost Shelter"

I raise an eyebrow.

"I thought… I thought they only had places like this for women."

She just stares at me, like I just said something truly stupid.

I shift awkwardly. "What?"

She shakes her head. "Kid, you hit your head or something? They only set these up for men."

I freeze.

"…Only men?" I echo.

She frowns. "Well, yeah. I mean, women can deal with the generic shelters, there's no reason to separate them by gender."

My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

An eccentricity of this dimension?

I force a weak laugh, rubbing the back of my neck like I just had a dumb moment. "Oh, yeah. Duh. I guess I just got mixed up."

She still looks vaguely amused but doesn't question it. "Yeah, well, if you need a place, that one's decent enough. It's not fancy, but they keep guys off the streets, and they don't ask too many questions."

I nod like that makes sense.

"Uh… how do I get there?" I ask.

She gives me a look. "Just put the address in your phone."

I shift uncomfortably. My pride is already taking hit after hit, but I don't have a choice. I sigh and admit, "I… don't have a phone."

The amusement in her face flickers.

For just a second, she looks genuinely sad.

Like the idea of someone walking around without even a phone is the most pitiful thing she's ever heard.

She exhales sharply, shakes her head, then pulls out a notepad and scribbles something down.

"There," she mutters, tearing off the page and handing it to me. "Directions. Shouldn't take you more than twenty minutes on foot."

I take it carefully. My pride is screaming, but I swallow it down. I need a place to sleep. I need food. I need a damn break.

I force a nod. "Thanks."

She just waves me off. "Go. Get some rest. You look like you need it."

I don't argue.

The walk to the male housing shelter is quiet.

The city's a little calmer in the evening—less people on the streets, the sky bleeding into an orange-gray haze. I keep my head down, my hands shoved into my hoodie pockets, the small stack of bills pressing against my fingers.

This place seems a little different than the comics.

I pick up the pace and keep my head down.

I'll figure this out.

But first—

I need to survive the night.

The male housing shelter is an old brick building, worn but sturdy, tucked between taller, more modern structures. The sign above the door is simple—faded letters spelling out "Wayne Outreach Shelter for Men"—and the entrance is well-lit, which is already a step up from where I slept last night.

Of course Bruce would be the sponsor.

I step inside, the air smelling faintly of cheap cleaning supplies and coffee. The lobby is quiet, just a few guys sitting around, keeping to themselves. The whole place has this weird, low-energy hum, like everyone here is trying not to be noticed.

I walk up to the front desk, where a man—mid-thirties, neatly dressed, with soft features and a carefully trimmed beard—greets me with a polite, almost delicate smile.

"Hello," he says, voice light, careful. "How can I help you?"

I clear my throat. "Uh, I was wondering if you had a room available. Just for a little while."

His expression doesn't change. "Of course. How long do you think you'll need it?"

I hesitate. "I… don't know yet."

"That's alright," he says smoothly, already flipping open a ledger. "What's your income situation?"

I shift slightly. "I, uh… just started at WcDonald's."

His eyes flick up, and for a second, I swear I see pity.

"Alright," he says, nodding. "In that case, there's no cost."

I blink. "Wait. What?"

He tilts his head slightly. "It's income-based. Since you've only just started working, there won't be a charge."

I stare at him. "Seriously?"

He gives me a small, patient smile, like this is completely normal. "Yes, dear."

The word hits me weird, but I don't comment on it.

Instead, I just nod slowly. "Uh… thanks."

He reaches into a drawer, pulls out a key, and hands it over. "Your room is on the second floor, third door on the left. There's a shared bathroom down the hall, and breakfast is served in the common area from six to nine in the morning."

I take the key carefully, half expecting him to change his mind. "That's… really generous."

He just smiles again. "We're here to help."

I nod again, mutter another thanks, and turn toward the stairs, still feeling like I just got away with something.

I don't get this city.

But for now?

I have a place to sleep.

And that's more than I had yesterday.

I make my way up the stairs, still half-expecting someone to stop me and say Oops, sorry, we made a mistake—you actually have to sleep in the alley again.

But no one does.

The second floor is quiet, the kind of silence that feels carefully maintained. A few doors are slightly open, revealing glimpses of pastel-colored, clean rooms. The hallway smells like lavender air freshener, which is… weirdly nice.

I reach my door—third on the left—and unlock it with a small click.

The room is… pink.

Like, aggressively pink.

The walls are a soft pastel, the bedspread has little embroidered flowers, and even the lamp on the nightstand has a delicate lace trim. The air smells faintly of vanilla, and the furniture is light wood, all rounded edges and zero sharp corners.

It's weird.

But also?

It's free.

I sigh, stepping in and tossing my hoodie onto the bed. It's way cleaner than anywhere I've stayed in the last two days, so I'm not about to start complaining about the color scheme.

I sit on the edge of the bed, running a hand down my face.

I'm exhausted.

I have a job. I have a bed. I have money—not a lot, but enough to eat tomorrow.

For the first time since I fell into this city, I feel like I'm not about to keel over and die.

I exhale slowly, staring at the ceiling.

Tomorrow, I figure out what the hell is going on with me.

Tonight?

I sleep.

 

[WiseGuy]

I wake up feeling better.

Not great. Not normal—because nothing about this situation is normal—but better. My body isn't aching from sleeping on concrete, and I didn't wake up to someone shooting me in the head. So, yeah. Improvement.

I sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The pink walls are still pink, but I'm too tired to care. The bed is soft. The room is safe. That's what matters.

I glance down at my hoodie, grimacing.

I smell.

The communal bathroom is down the hall, and it's honestly nicer than I expected. Clean tile floors, stalls with actual doors—not just cheap curtains—and a row of sinks with a big mirror stretching across the wall.

A laminated sign near the entrance catches my eye:

Welcome to Wayne Outreach Housing for Men!
Amenities provided:
– Towels and washcloths (please return after use)
– Soap, shampoo, and conditioner
– Razors and shaving cream
– Blow dryers available at the counter

At the bottom, in bold letters:

Respect each other's space. No roughhousing. No loitering.

Simple enough.

I grab a towel from the stack near the showers, find an empty stall, and strip down.

The water is hot, and I let out a breath as it runs over my shoulders.

I grab the soap from the wall dispenser and start scrubbing. The scent hits me immediately—fruity. Like strawberries and something vaguely floral.

I freeze for half a second.

Then sigh.

Of course it is.

But whatever. It's free.

I work the lather into my hair, scrubbing hard to get the last bits of dried blood out. The water turns pink as it swirls down the drain. It's unsettling, seeing the evidence of what happened last night wash away like it never happened.

I exhale, shaking the thought off.

For now, all that matters is getting clean.

I finish up, towel off, and step out feeling almost human again.

Almost.

I throw on my dirty hoodie. I don't have any other clothes, so I can't really use the washers I saw downstairs, but at least I don't reek of blood and street grime anymore. I make a mental note to buy another set of clothing once I get paid again.

For now?

Free breakfast.

I follow the faint smell of coffee and toast downstairs, stepping into the common area. It's a large, open room with a few tables scattered around, some occupied by guys who look just as tired as I feel. The air is filled with the quiet clatter of plates and the low murmur of conversation.

Near the back, there's a serving table set up with trays of simple breakfast food—scrambled eggs, toast, oatmeal, some fruit, and a massive coffee pot that looks like it's been working overtime for years.

A guy at the counter—older, soft-spoken, wearing an apron that says "Good Morning, Beautiful" in faded letters—waves me over.

"First time here?"

I nod. "Yeah."

He smiles warmly. "Help yourself, sweetie."

I ignore the weird feeling in my chest at being called that again and grab a plate.

The food is basic but warm. The eggs are a little rubbery, but the toast is decent, and I don't even care that the oatmeal is too sweet. I pile on way too much and find a seat in the corner, keeping my head down as I eat.

No one bothers me. A few guys give me polite nods, but no one asks questions. It's quiet. Peaceful.

And for the first time since I fell into this world, I don't feel like I'm one wrong move away from disaster.

I sip my coffee, stare at my plate, and let myself breathe.

Today, I work.

Tomorrow?

I'll cross that bridge when I get there.

I head to WcDonald's , feeling marginally more human than I did yesterday. My hoodie is still a little damp from my shower, but at least I look like a regular guy now instead of some bum.

The morning rush is already starting when I walk in. Kass is behind the counter, looking as unimpressed as ever, tapping at the register with the kind of dead-eyed efficiency that only comes from too many early shifts.

She glances up when she sees me—

And then her eyes widen a bit, and she looks away.

…Weird.

I don't think too much about it. Instead, I grab my uniform from the back, swap out my hoodie for the grease-stained polo, and slap the stupid WcDonald's visor onto my head.

When I step back to the front, Kass is definitely glancing at me sporadically.

Like, quick little looks.

It's strange, because yesterday? She was blunt, borderline rude , and couldn't have cared less about my existence. But now , she keeps fidgeting—tapping her fingers against the counter, adjusting her visor, shifting her weight like she suddenly can't stand still.

And whenever I catch her looking?

She immediately snaps her gaze somewhere else and pretends like she wasn't.

…Huh.

Maybe she's just annoyed I didn't quit after one shift.

I step up next to her, punching in to start my shift. "Morning."

"Uh—yeah. Morning." She clears her throat, staring very hard at the register screen.

I raise an eyebrow. "You good?"

She visibly tenses. "I—yeah. Obviously."

I shrug. "Alright."

I try not to worry about it. Kass is weird, but this whole city is weird, so I chalk it up to general Gotham nonsense and get to work.

The shift is going as expected—boring, repetitive, and just a little soul-crushing. The line moves, orders come in, food goes out. I'm halfway through bagging an order when the bell above the door dings, and a woman steps inside.

She looks shady as hell.

Ripped jeans, scuffed-up jacket, hoodie pulled low over her face. She walks in like she belongs, but there's something about her too-casual stride that makes my stomach knot.

Nobody reacts.

Not the customers. Not Kass. Not even the manager, who's lurking in the back, barely paying attention.

I glance at Kass. She's not even looking at the woman. Just keeps tapping at the register, looking more focused on whatever I'm doing than the walking red flag that just strolled in.

I frown, glancing back at the woman—

She's holding a gun.

A cheap, rusted piece, small enough to fit in her jacket, but still a gun.

And she's pointing it right at me.

"Alright, sweetheart," she says lazily. "Empty the register."

My brain short-circuits for half a second.

I open my mouth, trying to think of something—anything—to say, but Kass beats me to it.

"Yeah, yeah," she mutters, already opening the till. "Keep your pants on."

I stare at her.

She looks annoyed. Not scared. Not even surprised.

Just mildly inconvenienced.

Kass pulls the bills from the drawer, slaps them into a bag, and hands it over like she's handing out napkins.

The robber snatches it, giving me a once-over. "Damn," she mutters, tilting her head. "You're kinda cute."

My entire body locks up.

Kass scowls.

"Move along, psycho," she snaps.

The woman grins, like she enjoys the reaction, then backs toward the door. "Pleasure doing business," she says, tipping an invisible hat.

Then she steps outside—

And Batgirl swings into her at full speed.

One second, the robber is smugly walking away. The next, a red-haired blur slams into her midair, boots colliding with her chest while swinging from a grappling hook like a wrecking ball.

The impact is brutal.

The woman flies back, crashing into the pavement with a sound that makes my stomach turn. Before she can even react, Batgirl is on her, flipping her onto her stomach, twisting her arm behind her back in one fluid, practiced motion.

The robber lets out a choked wheeze, face pressed against the concrete.

Batgirl doesn't say anything at first. Just wrenches the woman's arm higher, making her cry out, then finally speaks.

"You done?"

The woman groans, clearly very done.

Inside WcDonald's, I'm frozen.

The restaurant stays quiet, like this is just another Tuesday in Gotham.

I'm still standing there, my heart not caught up with the rest of my body, while Batgirl finishes zip-tying the would-be robber. A moment later, she grabs the bag of stolen cash and steps inside, the bell above the door dinging again like she's just another customer.

She moves with easy confidence, her red hair flowing freely, the signature black and yellow suit looking almost too clean considering she just body-checked someone into the pavement.

She strides up to the counter and drops the bag of cash in front of me.

"All yours," she says, flashing a grin.

I stare at it. Then at her.

"…Thanks?"

She tilts her head, arms crossing over her chest like she's waiting for something. "That was a close one, huh? You doing okay?"

I blink. "Uh. Yeah. I guess."

She lets out a low whistle, rocking back on her heels. "First time getting robbed?"

"First time at gunpoint," I mutter.

While I was awake, I suppose.

Batgirl grins, like she finds that funny. "Oh, yeah? Big milestone, then."

I squint at her. "That's… not really how I'd put it."

Kass, who has been visibly annoyed since Batgirl walked in, snatches the bag of cash off the counter and tosses it under the register. "Cool. Thanks for doing your job. See you later."

Batgirl doesn't even look at her.

She's still watching me, her expression way too amused for someone who just tackled a criminal at Mach 3.

"You must be new," she says, still grinning.

I hesitate. "…What makes you say that?"

She gestures at me. "You still look shocked when this happens."

I clear my throat. "Well, yeah. I don't exactly wake up expecting this kind of thing."

"Give it a few weeks," she teases. "You'll start yawning through it like everybody else."

I let out a weak laugh. "That's… not comforting."

She shrugs. "Gotham's not a comforting city, cutie."

I freeze.

Did she just—?

No, she's just being nice. People have been calling me dear and honey all day. I guess cutie is similar?

But before I can even process that, Batgirl leans on the counter, propping her chin up with her hand.

"You sure you're okay? That lady looked like she had a bit of an interest in you."

I rub the back of my neck. "I, uh—yeah, no, I'm fine."

Her smirk widens, like I just confirmed something for her.

"Good," she says, pushing off the counter. "Wouldn't want Gotham scaring you off too soon."

She taps the counter twice, like a playful little pat, then turns and strolls toward the door, humming to herself.

I watch her go, my brain still lagging.

Kass scowls as the door swings shut behind Batgirl. Her fingers drum against the register, just a little too aggressively, like she's holding back the urge to punch something.

I turn back toward her, still trying to shake off the weird energy in the air. "She comes in here a lot?"

Kass snorts, not looking at me. "Unfortunately."

I frown. "She seemed nice."

Kass's fingers tighten on the counter. "Sure. Real nice."

I blink at her tone but don't push it. Maybe she just doesn't like dealing with capes.

Or maybe it's something else entirely.

Either way, Kass doesn't bring it up again. She just tosses a rag at me and gestures to the counter. "Wipe that down before the next rush."

I catch it and get to work, the weird tension hanging over us like a cloud.

The rest of the shift is uneventful.

After the robbery, the usual flow of customers feels almost relaxing in comparison. A few people give me the same sympathetic looks as yesterday, but no one else pulls a gun on me, so I consider that a win.

Kass is quieter than usual. Still snippy, but there's an edge to her that wasn't there before. She doesn't look at me as much. Or when she does, it's quick—like she doesn't want me to notice.

I let it go.

I'm exhausted by the time my shift ends, my arms sore from working the fryer and my brain fried from too many weird interactions in one day.

But at least I made it through.

I drag myself back to the men's shelter, my body heavy with exhaustion. My feet ache, my arms feel like I've been carrying bricks all day, and my brain is just done.

The moment I step into my room, I toss my hoodie on the floor and collapse onto the bed, already half-asleep before I even kick off my shoes.

Then—

A faint, electronic chirp.

I groan, rolling over, expecting it to be some kind of building announcement or fire alarm or—

Then I remember.

The communicator.

My heart jolts as I sit up, reaching into my hoodie pocket. Sure enough, the sleek little black device Batman gave me is lit up, the screen pulsing with a red SOS alert.

I press the button. A distorted voice crackles through.

"This is Robin. Took out a group of Falcone's goons—got hit. Can't move. Send backup."

The transmission ends, and a GPS marker pops up on the screen, pinpointing a location not far from here.

I stare at it.

My stomach twists.

Robin. The Robin.

One of Batman's sidekicks, Gotham's youngest crime-fighting badass, and apparently, currently bleeding out in an alley somewhere.

I rub my face.

This is not my problem.

The smart thing—the normal thing—would be to ignore it. Batman, Batgirl, Nightwing—somebody is bound to respond. He's not alone in this city.

…But what if no one gets there in time?

What if Batman is dealing with something bigger, and all the usual backup is tied up?

What if Robin dies because I just assumed someone else would help?

I grit my teeth, staring at the screen.

I don't respond.

Because if I answer, that means I'm expected to help. That means it's on me if I get there and he's already dead.

I'm not a hero.

I'm just a guy who happens to heal things.

But… I can't just sit here, either.

I grab my hoodie, shove the communicator into my pocket, and slip out of the shelter.

I'll go.

But if someone else beats me to it?

No one will ever know I was even there.

I walk fast, gripping the communicator like a lifeline, my free hand resting near the pistol tucked in my waistband.

The streets are eerily quiet, the usual Gotham chaos giving way to an almost unnatural stillness. Every shadow feels deeper, every alleyway like it's hiding something.

The GPS marker guides me closer.

And, of course, it leads to the docks.

Because where else would a bloody, beaten Robin be except the most stereotypical Gotham crime scene possible?

I slow my pace as the water comes into view, the faint scent of salt and rusted metal mixing with the distant hum of city life.

Then I see them.

Bodies.

Not dead—at least, I don't think so—but a bunch of female goons sprawled across the pavement, some groaning, some completely still. Most are wearing suits, their weapons either knocked out of reach or still gripped loosely in unconscious hands.

I swallow hard.

Robin did this.

A sixteen(ish)-year-old took down a whole crew and still had time to call for help.

I suddenly feel very out of my depth.

But I'm here. I came all this way. I have to at least check.

I pull out my pistol, finger off the trigger, arms steady, like I actually know what the hell I'm doing.

I've used some guns in the Boy Scouts, but those were rifles and shotguns, a pistol feels... different.

Then I inch forward, trying to clear the area like I've watched a thousand videogame protagonists do before.

I step over one of the downed goons, keeping my gun up.

Another step.

Another.

I feel ridiculous.

But I also feel very, very mortal, and I'm not about to let some hidden straggler jump me in a dark corner.

I keep moving, breath tight, eyes scanning for red and black.

Robin's here somewhere.

I just have to find him first.

I round the corner of a shipping container, my heart hammering, my grip white-knuckle tight on the pistol.

Then I see him.

Robin.

Leaning against a crate, half-slumped but still tense, his gloved hands clutching a batarang like he's ready to throw it at the first thing that moves. His suit is ripped in places, the red and black fabric dark with blood. His breathing is shallow but controlled, like he's keeping himself together through sheer willpower.

His head snaps up when he sees me.

The batarang comes up in an instant, aimed right at my face.

"Back. Off." His voice is sharp, full of barely restrained aggression.

I freeze.

He doesn't throw it yet, but his eyes—fierce, calculating, like a cornered animal—don't leave me.

I slowly lower my gun, raising my other hand. Then, without a word, I pull out the communicator and hold it up.

Robin's glare flickers.

He hesitates—just for a second—before his gaze narrows again.

"…You?" He sounds almost confused. Like he expected someone else to answer the SOS.

I don't say anything. Just keep the gun lowered and step closer.

Robin winces, shifting slightly. He's trying to mask the pain, but I see it—the way his grip on the batarang weakens for a split second, the way his shoulders sag just a little before he catches himself.

"I need to get somewhere safe," he mutters, his tone all business. "Need to—" He grits his teeth, his breath shuddering. "Patch myself up."

I take another step forward.

Robin stiffens, clearly not trusting me yet—but he doesn't stop talking.

"There's a spot—safe house—if I can get there, I'll be fine." He exhales sharply, like the words alone take effort. "Just need to—"

I step forward again, close enough to reach him but Robin moves fast.

His arm lashes out, knocking my hand away before I can get any closer. It's a weak hit—weaker than I bet he wanted—but still solid enough to make me flinch back.

"Don't." His voice is sharp, warning. Still defensive, still cornered.

I hold my hands up, showing I'm not a threat. "I'm trying to help."

Robin doesn't lower the batarang. His breathing is heavier now, labored, but his glare stays locked on me. "I don't know who the hell you are."

I exhale slowly. "I answered your SOS." I tuck the communicator back in my pocket. "You asked for backup. This is me. Backing you up."

He hesitates.

His eyes flick to my hands, still raised. Then to my face. His expression flickers, like he's running calculations, measuring the risks.

Then he grimaces, shifting against the crate like just sitting up is taking everything he's got.

That's my in.

"If you want my help, I have to get closer," I say carefully. "I can't do anything from here."

Robin huffs, half a laugh, half a pained breath. "You a doctor or something?"

"Or something." I snip.

His brow furrows.

I take the gamble.

I move, slow, careful.

Robin watches me the whole time, his grip on the batarang not loosening, but he doesn't stop me.

When I'm close enough, I kneel beside him. I hesitate, then reach out—fingers brushing lightly near his worst wound, just above his ribs.

Nothing happens.

Robin grits his teeth, shifting uncomfortably under my touch. "The hell are you—?"

I focus, pressing my palm against his side, begging whatever the hell my power is to do something.

Nothing.

Not even a flicker.

Shit.

Robin scoffs, wincing as he moves. "Yeah, that's great. Love the dramatic hovering, but maybe—ngh—maybe actually try something useful."

I clench my jaw.

Come on. Work.

I press my hand against his shoulder, near another wound—blood, torn fabric, bruised muscle.

Heal.

Nothing.

Robin exhales through his teeth, definitely not impressed.

My fingers tighten against his suit, frustration and desperation building in my chest. "Come on."

And then—

Warmth.

A pulse, soft at first, then stronger.

Robin inhales sharply, his body tensing as the wound under my palm knits together. The bruises fade. The torn skin closes.

His breath shudders, his fingers twitching.

I exhale.

It's working.

Robin notices.

His eyes widen, his whole body going still.

I move to the wound on his ribs next. I press my palm over it, fingers spread out, willing it to heal. The warmth builds, sinking into his skin, undoing the damage.

Robin lets out a breathless curse.

"What the hell?" His voice is low, disbelieving.

I don't answer.

I just keep healing.

The worst of Robin's wounds fade away under my hands.

His breathing steadies. His grip on the batarang loosens. The tension in his body eases, like the weight of his injuries had been the only thing keeping him on edge.

I sit back on my heels, exhaling shakily. My hands feel warm, like the power is still lingering in my fingertips, but I don't think about it too hard.

I did what I came to do.

I push myself up, brushing my hands off against my jeans. "You good?"

Robin blinks at me, still catching up. His gloved hand prods at his side, where the worst of the bleeding had been. No pain. No wound. Just torn fabric where the injury used to be.

"…Yeah," he mutters, flexing his fingers experimentally. "I guess I am."

"Cool," I say, already taking a step back. "Alright. Bye."

Robin's head snaps up.

He stares at me, incredulous, like he can't believe I'm actually just—leaving.

"That's it?" he says.

I don't answer. I just keep walking.

I'm tired. I just worked an entire shift, got caught in a robbery, and now I've played mystical field medic for a kid who, frankly, would've been fine without me.

This was the exception, not the rule.

Now that I know how this power works? I'm going to get rich.

Forget capes and crime-fighting. Forget dodging bullets in Gotham's back alleys. If I can heal actual injuries like that, then hospitals are going to pay out the nose for what I can do.

I can fix terminal patients, take cash under the table—hell, people go bankrupt trying to afford medical care. I could charge half what a hospital does and still walk away with a fortune.

Easy money. Safe money. Smart money.

Behind me, Robin pushes himself up, rolling his shoulder like he's still processing the fact that he isn't dying anymore.

"Hey," he calls after me. His voice is still edged with annoyance, like he's actually irritated that I don't want a gold star for saving his ass. "You might want to wear a mask next time."

I don't stop walking.

I just toss a lazy wave over my shoulder. "Not planning on a next time."

Robin scoffs, muttering something under his breath that I don't catch.

I don't care.

This whole Gotham nonsense is not my problem.

Let the capes handle it.

I've got real money to make.

I make my way back to the shelter, exhaustion settling into my bones with every step. The streets are still quiet, the usual Gotham hum reduced to the occasional passing car and distant sirens.

By the time I reach my room, I barely have the energy to lock the door before collapsing onto the bed.

I don't think. I don't reflect.

I just sleep.

---

Morning comes too fast.

I wake up groggy, my body aching in that way that only comes from stress and bad sleep. For a second, I forget where I am. The pink walls throw me off again. Then everything clicks back into place.

WcDonald's. The robbery. Batgirl. Robin.

And the fact that I can literally heal people with my hands.

I groan, rubbing my face, and drag myself out of bed. My hoodie is rumpled, my jeans feel gross, and I still smell faintly like grease and stress.

I need a shower.

The communal bathroom is mostly empty this early, which is a small miracle. I grab a towel, step into one of the shower stalls, and turn on the water.

I stand outside the water awkwardly for a few moments before the water gets to a tolerable temperature.

I step in and let it run over my shoulders, scrubbing at my arms and neck, watching the faint grime of the past twenty-four hours swirl down the drain.

I feel lighter when I'm done.

Physically, anyway.

My brain? Still a mess.

But first things first—I need to eat, get through my shift, and figure out how to start making money with this power.

Because if Gotham's going to be this insane every night, then I need to start cashing in before it kills me.

I make my way to WcDonald's, my brain still running in circles about how to approach the hospital.

Do I just walk in? Find some desperate rich person in need of a miracle cure? I can't exactly stroll up to the front desk and say, "Hey, I can fix your terminal patients. Wanna pay me under the table?"

There's gotta be a better angle.

By the time I get to work, I'm still debating it.

Kass is already behind the counter when I walk in, tapping at the register with her usual mildly-annoyed expression.

She glances up when she sees me—then immediately looks away, clearing her throat like she wasn't just watching me walk in.

Weird.

I grab my uniform from the back, swap out my hoodie for the grease-stained polo, and get to work.

The morning rush comes and goes, and I finally get a second to breathe. Kass is leaning against the counter, sipping a WcShake with the straw between her teeth.

I take the opportunity.

"Hey," I start, keeping my tone casual. "Can I ask you something?"

She gives me a quick side-eye. "You just did."

I roll my eyes. "I mean—hypothetically."

Kass raises an eyebrow, but doesn't argue.

"If someone had, I dunno, a skill that could really help people—like, life-changing—but they wanted to, y'know, make money off it, how do you think they should go about it?"

Kass blinks at me. "You trying to get into pyramid schemes?"

I groan. "No. I mean—real help. Like, imagine if someone could just… fix sick people. Instantly. How would they turn that into a business?"

Kass hums, swirling the shake in her cup. "You mean, like, a doctor?"

"Kind of. But more… immediate. No surgery, no treatment, just—" I snap my fingers. "Fixed."

She tilts her head. "So, magic."

"Hypothetically."

Kass smirks. "Okay, hypothetically, if I was some magical healer or whatever, I'd probably start by helping someone rich. Someone who'd pay out the nose to keep it quiet. Hospitals aren't going to pay out properly, they'd want a huge cut."

That… actually makes sense.

I nod, thinking it through. "So, like, find a dying billionaire and charge him a fortune?"

Kass shrugs. "I mean, yeah. If you're not gonna do it for free, you might as well go big."

I chew on that, running through scenarios in my head.

I could scope out private hospitals, maybe find someone with more money than options. Hell, Gotham's probably full of rich crime lords with terminal illnesses.

It's risky.

But I don't want to live in a shelter forever.

Kass watches me for a moment, then leans a little closer, resting her elbow on the counter. "Why? You got some secret miracle cure you've been hiding?"

I snort, shaking my head. "Nah. Just a thought experiment."

She hums, tapping her straw against her lips. "Right. Thought experiment."

She's still watching me, her expression unreadable, but there's something soft in her eyes.

I don't think much of it.

I just get back to work, my brain still spinning with possibilities.

As I wipe down the counter for what feels like the hundredth time, my mind keeps spinning.

Rich people. Sick rich people. Who would actually pay?

My first thought? Lex Luthor.

Every version of him—comics, animated series, reboots—dude always ends up getting cancer from kryptonite exposure. Every time. Like, you'd think after the fifth time, he'd just, I don't know, stop carrying radioactive space rocks in his pockets.

But nah. Baldie's committed.

If this world's Lex is anything like the others, he's probably dealing with some mysterious illness right now. The guy's rich. Insanely rich. He'd probably pay millions to get fixed up.

…But would he actually follow through?

That's the part that makes me hesitate.

Luthor isn't just rich—he's a control freak. He'd want to own me, figure out how my powers work, maybe even replicate them. I'd go in for a one-time payday, and suddenly, I'm locked in a lab somewhere, getting poked and prodded by a bunch of scientists who think I'm the next step in human evolution.

Not exactly a great retirement plan.

I scrub a little harder at a grease stain, frowning to myself.

It's not just Luthor, either.

Anyone powerful enough to afford me is gonna want control.

I need someone desperate, but also trustworthy enough to not disappear me. Someone dying, but with enough integrity that they won't screw me over.

Someone who doesn't just make people vanish once they get what they want.

I lean against the counter, tapping my fingers.

There has to be a way to do this smart.

Kass side-eyes me from the register. "You look way too serious for someone working at WcDonald's."

I blink, shaking off my thoughts. "Huh? Nah, just thinking."

She smirks, nudging my side with her elbow. "That's dangerous. You might hurt yourself."

I roll my eyes but can't help the small huff of amusement.

Still, the thought lingers.

Lex Luthor is out.

But I need to find someone before my next shift kills me.

I keep scrubbing the counter, my brain running through other options.

Then it hits me.

Victor Fries.

Mr. Freeze.

He's not exactly rich, but his wife, Nora, is terminally ill. Every version of him, his whole deal is trying to save her. That's why he went down the villain rabbit hole in the first place.

If I could fix her, he'd owe me.

And while he doesn't have money, he does have something way more valuable.

His freeze ray.

I pause, my rag stilling on the counter.

If I could get him to hand it over, or at least give me the plans, I could sell it. Someone like Bruce Wayne would definitely pay to keep it out of the wrong hands. Or maybe even reverse-engineer it into something useful.

And if that fails?

There are plenty of people in Gotham who would pay stupid money for a literal freeze gun.

Would it be dangerous?

Absolutely.

Would it be worth it?

Also absolutely.

I shake my head, shoving the thought away for now. First things first—I need to figure out where Freeze is hiding.

I wipe the counter clean, lost in thought, already planning my next move.

I decide that if I'm going to find Victor Fries, there's really only one place to start.

Noonan's Bar.

Every low-level villain, merc, and career criminal passes through that place at some point. If anyone knows where Freeze is holed up, it'll be someone in there.

Of course, there's one small problem.

I'm a nobody.

I don't have connections. I don't have backup. I don't even have a reputation—unless you count being the cowardly cashier at WcDonald's.

Going to Noonan's as an unknown guy is basically asking to get jumped, robbed, or worse.

But then again…

I did get shot in the head and survive.

I absently rub my temple, where the wound should be.

If I can shrug off a bullet, what's a few bruises? A knife to the gut? Another headshot?

If walking into a den of killers is what it takes to become rich, to never have to work a soul-crushing WcDonald's shift again, then…

Screw it.

What's the worst that could happen?

I wipe my hands off on my jeans, mind already set.

Tonight, I go to Noonan's.

---

The end of my shift finally rolls around, and I swear, if I have to smell the fries for another minute, I might actually lose my mind.

I clock out, rubbing the back of my neck, already thinking about my next move. Noonan's is a great place to pick up rumors, but I should do some research first. Where the bar actually is, maybe something on recent Freeze sightings—anything to keep me from walking around like a total idiot.

As I'm pulling off my stupid visor, Kass leans against the counter, arms crossed. "Hey, you doing anything after this?"

I barely look up. "Yeah, I got plans."

I don't even think about it.

Kass freezes for half a second. Just a beat too long. Then her expression shifts—this weird, almost awkward half-smile, like she's trying really hard not to look disappointed.

"Oh," she says, voice suddenly way more neutral. "Right. Cool. Yeah."

I nod, stretching out my arms. "Yeah, just some stuff I gotta take care of."

"Right," she says again, picking at the edge of the counter. "Totally. No big deal."

I pull out my communicator, flipping through the built-in map feature. It technically works, but the thing is barebones as hell—just a bunch of grayscale blocks, no labels, no names. Not super helpful when I have no idea what half the city even is yet.

I glance toward the back, where my manager is going over inventory.

"Hey," I call, stuffing the communicator back into my pocket. "Where's the nearest library?"

She barely looks up. "What do you need a library for?"

"Computers," I say. "They got public ones, right?"

That actually gets her attention. She frowns, setting down her clipboard.

"…You don't have a phone. And now you need a library computer?"

I shift uncomfortably. "I just need to look something up."

She gives me a long look, like she's putting together a puzzle piece she doesn't quite understand yet.

Then she sighs, scribbles something on a sticky note, and hands it to me.

"Nearest one's about ten blocks from here," she says. "Opens late. Don't get yourself mugged on the way."

I take the directions.

I do not promise not to get mugged.

Because, let's be real—I'm literally walking into Noonan's tonight.

If I don't get at least a little mugged, it'll be a miracle.

The library is surprisingly busy.

I don't know why that surprises me—maybe I just assumed Gotham was too full of crime and corruption for people to still be out here checking out books. But no, the place is packed, mostly with students and people trying to mind their own business.

I keep my head down as I walk in, scanning for the computer stations near the back. I don't want to draw attention. I just need to do my research, get what I need, and get the hell out.

Then I see someone I unfortunately recognize.

Barbara Gordon.

Batgirl.

She's sitting at one of the tables with a couple of friends, surrounded by textbooks and notes, clearly studying.

I freeze for a second, my stomach twisting.

Crap.

I do not want to deal with her right now.

Her friends don't seem familiar—one's a darker-skinned guy with blonde hair and bright blue eyes, flipping through a book with unnatural calmness. The other is a tall, blonde girl, built like she could casually bench press a car, scribbling something down in a notebook.

Probably heroes, hard to tell without a comic filter over them.

I don't linger.

I pretend I didn't see them, keep my head low, and make my way to the computer stations.

I log into one of the terminals, the screen flickering for a second before loading 'Loogle'.

Alright. Noonan's Bar.

I type it in, scanning for any useful information. Most of the results are just people recounting horror stories—robberies, brawls, one guy claiming he saw Killer Croc using the urinal—but nothing that tells me exactly where it is.

Finally I find a program, Loogle Maps, and pull up the address directly, trying to discreetly match the building with what my communicator shows.

I sigh, rubbing my temple.

Then I glance over my shoulder.

And she's right there.

I nearly jump out of my damn skin.

Barbara Gordon is right next to me, standing way too close, arms crossed, a little smirk playing on her lips.

I have no idea how long she's been there.

Worse?

She's looking at me.

Not at the screen. Not at my research. At me.

My stomach twists.

Why is she this close? What does she want? Did I do something wrong?

"Hey," she says, casual, like she didn't just materialize out of thin air. "Haven't seen you around here before."

I hesitate. "Uh. Yeah. First time."

She tilts her head, studying me like I'm a puzzle she's piecing together. "You a student?"

I don't know why I lie, but I shake my head. "Nah. Just needed a computer."

Her smirk widens slightly. "Right. And an excuse to bump into me, right?"

I blink. My brain slows to a crawl.

"…What?"

Barbara laughs, like she expected that answer. Like she's enjoying this. "Relax, I'm messing with you."

I force an awkward chuckle, because what else am I supposed to do? "Right. Gotcha."

She leans against the chair next to me, clearly not in a hurry to leave. "So, guy. What's your name?"

I hesitate for a second too long. "Carter."

"Carter." She says it like she's testing how it feels. "I'm Barbara."

I nod. "Cool."

Silence.

Why is she still here?

"Do you, uh… need this computer?" I ask, gesturing vaguely at the screen.

She shakes her head, smiling just a little too much. "Nope. Just saw you sitting here and figured I'd say hi."

Why though. Why.

I nod politely, attempting not to draw attention to the screen as I desperately try to ignore how intently she's watching me.

Then—

"Can I get your number?"

I freeze.

What?

Does she think I'm on to her?

Is she trying to track my phone?

My brain short circuits for a second, and the only thing that comes out of my mouth is the worst possible response.

"Oh. Uh. Sorry, I don't own a phone."

Silence.

Then, from her table nearby—

Her friend absolutely loses it.

The blonde girl barks out a laugh, practically slamming the table as she leans into it. The other guy—the calm one—just smirks, flipping a page in his book like this is the best entertainment he's had all day.

Barbara sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Ignore them."

I glance between her and the two very obviously eavesdropping friends.

"…Should I ask why they're laughing?"

"No," she says, deadpan. "Absolutely not."

I don't get it, but I also don't care.

Barbara exhales like she's making a decision, then steps in close—way too close—and presses a small slip of paper into my hand.

"Then here's my number."

I blink.

I stare at the paper in my palm, then at her.

She just smirks, arms crossing again. "In case you ever get a phone."

The blonde girl at the table actually wheezes, and the guy with the book chuckles under his breath, shaking his head.

I don't process any of it. I just nod stiffly, mutter, "Uh, okay, cool, thanks,"

And then I bravely advance in the opposite direction.

Very quickly.

I'm outside in less than ten seconds, my legs moving on autopilot, my brain still catching up.

What the hell was that?

I shake my head, shoving the piece of paper into my pocket and focusing back on the actual plan.

I pull out the communicator, flipping back to the map. I still don't have labels, but now that I've seen where Noonan's is, it's easier to match the shape of the buildings to the map layout.

I start walking.

The deeper into Gotham I go, the worse the streets get. More potholes. More graffiti. Less streetlights that actually work. The distant hum of traffic and city life starts fading, replaced by something… quieter.

Not peaceful. Just empty.

Like even Gotham's criminals don't want to hang around here.

I clutch my communicator in one hand, the pistol in my waistband pressing uncomfortably against my lower back.

If I don't get mugged before I even reach Noonan's, it'll be a miracle.

---

There's no bouncer outside. No doorman. No line.

Just a rusted metal sign, a dimly flickering light, and an unspoken rule—if you're crazy enough to walk in, you're welcome.

I hesitate for half a second before pushing open the door.

Inside, the air is thick with cigarette smoke, alcohol, and bad decisions. The lighting is low, the walls covered in old posters, faded photos, and what I'm pretty sure are bullet holes.

A few heads turn when I step inside.

Some are just curious. Others? Calculating.

I recognize some faces.

At one table, Cheetah is leaned back, idly swirling a drink, her red hair draped behind her. Her inhuman golden eyes flick to me for just a moment before returning to her conversation.

Wow, she's like, completely naked.

At another, Killer Frost, legs crossed, cold mist curling around her fingertips as she talks to some thug I don't recognize.

Hot. But also very dangerous.

I keep my head down and head straight to the bar.

The bartender—a heavy-set guy with a scar along his jaw—barely looks up as I slide onto a stool.

I don't know what the protocol is here, but I figure if I act like I belong, I might not get stabbed before I finish my drink.

I clear my throat. "Old Fashioned."

The bartender doesn't ask for ID.

He just grabs a glass and starts making it, like this is the most normal thing in the world.

I try to play it cool, keeping my back straight, pretending I don't feel like a deer that just wandered into a den of wolves.

Then I hear footsteps behind me.

Slow. Deliberate.

I glance to my side, catching the hulking shape of a goon—tall, built like a fridge, definitely some crime family muscle.

He steps closer.

I don't turn fully, but I let my hand drop to my waistband, fingers grazing the grip of my pistol.

Just enough to show it.

The goon pauses.

His eyes flick down—to my hand, to the gun.

He exhales sharply through his nose. Then?

He backs off.

Huh.

Guess an equalizer's good enough.

The bartender slides my drink in front of me.

I take a sip. It's… actually pretty good.

I set the glass down, clearing my throat. "Need you to pass a message along."

The bartender raises an eyebrow. "To who?"

"Mr. Freeze."

That gets a reaction. Not a big one—just a flicker of interest behind his tired eyes.

"What's the message?" he asks, tone still casual.

I lean in slightly. "Tell him I have what he's looking for. And I'll be back here tomorrow."

The bartender's brow furrows. "And what is Freeze looking for?"

I meet his gaze.

"A cure."

That makes him pause.

Just for a second.

Then he nods, grabbing a rag and wiping down the bar like he doesn't care either way. "I'll see if the right ears hear it. Payments on his side, obviously."

I nod and reach into my pocket, pull out a hundred-dollars, all mixed bills, and slide it across the counter.

"Still, for the drink," I say. Then I tap the bills twice. "And the message."

The bartender pockets it without a word.

I down the rest of my drink, set the glass down, and stand.

I don't look around. I don't make eye contact with anyone.

I just walk out, feeling a dozen unseen eyes on my back.

Outside, the Gotham air is cold, damp, and full of regret.

I exhale, shoving my hands in my pockets, and start walking back toward the shelter.

Tomorrow?

I find out if Mr. Freeze actually takes the bait.

 

[WiseGuy]

I walk, hands shoved in my pockets, trying to shake off the tension from Noonan's.

The city is quiet, in that way Gotham never really is—like it's holding its breath, waiting for the next thing to go wrong.

Then, after a few blocks, I get a feeling.

An itch at the back of my neck.

I keep my pace steady, my heart picking up just a little. I don't look back.

Somethings wrong.

But I can't look like I know that.

I listen.

Soft footsteps. Light, deliberate. Someone keeping just far enough not to draw attention.

I round a corner fast, ducking into a side alley. The second I'm out of sight, I whip out my pistol, leveling it at where they'd have to come through.

I wait.

Five seconds.

Ten.

Fifteen.

No one rounds the corner.

My grip tightens.

I take a slow step forward, then another, peeking around the edge—

They're gone.

I scan the street, the rooftops, the alleys.

Nothing.

The hair on my arms stands on end.

Did they bail? Did they see me round the corner and decide it wasn't worth it? Or are they watching me from somewhere I can't see?

I don't have an answer.

I don't like that I don't have an answer.

But I can't stand here all night waiting for something to jump out of the shadows.

I lower the gun, tuck it back into my waistband, and start walking again, this time a little faster.

By the time I reach the shelter, my pulse is steady again, but the unease sticks with me.

I don't know if they were just curious, if they were trying to jump me, or if they were sent to watch where I went.

None of those theories strike me as good.

---

The next day drags.

I'm back at WcDonald's, working the same mind-numbing shift, but my brain is nowhere near the register.

I keep thinking about tonight.

Was one day enough time?

Did Freeze even get the message? Did he take it seriously? Or did it just pass through some random goon who tossed it aside because some nobody at Noonan's made a vague claim?

I don't know how organized Freeze's operation is. Maybe he's desperate enough to show up. Or maybe he won't risk it, thinking it's a setup.

Can I even cure illnesses like that?

I healed Robin's wounds, but that was external damage. A gunshot, some cracked ribs.

A disease? A degenerative condition that's been worsening for years?

That's completely different.

What if I show up, Freeze brings his dying wife, and I can't do a damn thing?

If Freeze does show up, and I fail?

He's not exactly the kind of guy to take disappointment well.

I keep running through scenarios in my head. Best case? I fix Nora, Freeze owes me, and I get something valuable in return. Worst case? I can't fix her, Freeze gets pissed, and I end up frozen solid, shoved in a warehouse somewhere.

Not great odds.

I sigh, rubbing my temples as I bag another order.

"Dude," Kass mutters next to me. "You've rung up the same burger three times."

I blink. "Huh?"

She points at the register.

I look down. I have.

"Sorry," I mutter, clearing it.

Kass gives me a look. "You okay? You've been weird all day."

I force a half-smile, shaking my head. "Just thinking about something."

She leans in a little, narrowing her eyes. "Are you sure? I don't want to see you ending up on the news or something because you pissed off the wrong gang or something."

I hesitate.

I don't answer.

Which, apparently, is enough of an answer, because she huffs, shaking her head.

"You've got a look in your eye like you're gonna do something stupid. Don't. Stupid people don't survive Gotham."

I don't deny it.

I just keep working, counting down the hours.

By the time my shift ends, my nerves are shot.

It's almost time.

The city feels different tonight.

Darker. Louder.

I walk the same route as last night, but this time, my chest feels tight. My palms are clammy, and my mind won't shut up, replaying a million different ways this could go wrong.

I pass dimly lit alleys where figures linger just out of sight. I step over broken glass and cigarette butts, my eyes scanning the streets like someone's watching me.

By the time I reach Noonan's, I know something is off.

The place is fuller than yesterday.

Way fuller.

The inside hums with low conversation, the air thick with tension and smoke. Every booth, every barstool, every corner of the room is occupied.

And these aren't just random thugs.

I recognize faces.

At a booth near the back, Deadshot leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching everything like he's waiting for something interesting to happen.

By the bar, Cheshire sips a drink, her mask pushed up just enough to take a slow, deliberate sip—like she has all the time in the world, like she's already got the upper hand in whatever game is being played tonight.

To my left, Copperhead stretches her arms, snake-like movements unnerving in person, her eyes lazily flicking over the room.

There are more.

I can feel it.

The bar is buzzing with an unspoken energy, like everyone is here to see something.

And I'm pretty sure that something is me.

I spot him immediately.

He's standing near the center of the room, making no effort to keep a low profile.

Victor Fries.

Even knowing exactly what to expect, seeing him in person is different.

The man is huge, encased in his cryo-suit, the glass dome over his head reflecting the dim bar lights. His eyes—icy, calculating, hollow—sweep the room slowly before locking onto me.

The air around him is colder, literally. Frost clings to the floor near his boots, a thin layer of ice creeping along the edges of the bar where he stands.

He's making a spectacle of this.

I swallow hard and step forward.

The room quiets slightly.

Not much. But enough that I feel it.

Freeze doesn't move at first. He just studies me, his expression unreadable.

When he finally speaks, his voice is a bit Russian, mechanical, emotionless.

"You are the one who claims he is able to cure my Nora?"

It's not a question.

It's a challenge.

Like he's daring me to waste his time.

I exhale slowly, feeling like a child being scolded. "Yeah."

His gaze doesn't waver.

"I have heard many false promises," he says. "Miracle cures. Medical breakthroughs. Lies from desperate men who believe they can swindle a grieving husband."

I nod, letting him talk.

"But," he continues, his tone shifting slightly, "I do not throw away possibilities."

I nod once, keeping my breathing steady. The room is watching.

Every villain, every mercenary, every hired gun here tonight—they're waiting to see if I can deliver, or if I'm dead meat.

Mr. Freeze studies me, his expression cold and unreadable behind the glass of his cryo-suit. "Then tell me," he says, voice smooth, calculated. "How do you propose to accomplish what no doctor, no scientist, no man of medicine has done?"

I don't look away. I can't.

I really didn't want to say this in front of a group of supervillains, but it's pretty clear the alternative is death.

My throat feels dry, but I force myself to speak. "I can heal people, it's like, a superpower."

The moment the words leave my mouth, the room shifts.

It's subtle—just a flicker of movement, a couple of heads turning, a few murmurs just loud enough to be heard.

Across the bar, Harley Quinn, who I hadn't even noticed until now, lets out a sharp, barking laugh.

"Pfft—what?" she snickers, leaning forward on her elbows, grinning like she just heard the funniest joke of her life. "You sayin' you got magic hands or somethin', sweetie? Cuz lemme tell ya—I've heard that one before."

A few other villains chuckle darkly.

She tilts her head, eyes sparkling with amusement. "Oh, wait—yer serious?" She lets out another high-pitched giggle, like she can't believe what she's hearing. "Oh, honey, ya better watch what ya promise, 'cause if ya ain't tellin' the truth—" she drags a gloved finger across her throat and makes a cute little choking noise.

More laughter.

I try not to react.

Freeze doesn't laugh.

He just watches. Calculating. Deciding.

Then, without a word, he pulls a sidearm from his belt and shoots the woman to his right in the stomach.

The gunshot is deafening.

The goon—a random thug, someone nameless, unimportant, replaceable—drops immediately, gasping, clutching her gut as blood spills out between her fingers.

The laughter dies instantly.

A few chairs scrape back as people instinctively move away. Even the bartender stops cleaning his glass to glance over.

The goon gurgles, hands shaking, her breath coming out in wet, broken gasps.

I freeze, my own breath hitching.

What the hell just happened?

Then Freeze steps aside, clearing a path between me and the dying girl.

He tilts his head slightly, tone still soft, still measured.

"There is your patient."

I swallow hard.

Freeze watches me, his icy blue eyes glinting behind his helmet. "You claim to heal. Then heal."

I hesitate.

Not because I don't want to help, but because everything in me is screaming that this is a trap.

Freeze doesn't move, doesn't blink, doesn't react beyond those cold, calculating eyes watching my every move. He's standing too close, looming over the woman like a statue made of ice and death.

I really don't want to get that close to him.

But the girl on the floor is dying.

I force myself forward, dropping to my knees beside the goon.

she's still struggling, her fingers trembling as they try—and fail—to hold her insides together. her breath rattles, the kind of sound that means she's not gonna last another minute.

The blood is hot under my hands as I press them against the wound, focusing the way I did before.

Nothing happens at first.

The room stays silent, the only sound the wet, shuddering breaths of the woman beneath me.

My stomach twists.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Come on.

My fingers press harder.

Work.

Heat blooms beneath my palms, slow at first, then stronger—a deep, radiating warmth that spreads from my hands into the dying woman's flesh, pulling the organs in, knitting the flesh back together, undoing the damage.

Something is pressed outward, a blob of blood and something else starts separating from the girl's mass.

The bullet drops to the ground with a small 'clink'.

The wound closes.

The blood slows.

Then stops.

The woman lets out a sharp inhale, her whole body jerking, like something inside her just reset.

Her fingers unclench from her stomach.

The pain is gone.

The gasping stops.

And then—

She lifts her hands, staring at her clean, uninjured skin with wide, disbelieving eyes.

The bar is dead silent.

I pull my hands back, stained red with blood.

Freeze watches, his expression unreadable.

The goon scrambles to sit up, hands shaking as she pats herself down, like she can't believe she's actually alive.

Her breathing is ragged, her chest rising and falling in disbelief.

Then, finally—

She laughs.

Not loud. Not immediately. But a small, breathless, hysterical chuckle, like she just escaped death itself.

"Holy shit," she mutters. "Holy shit."

The bar stays silent for a long moment.

Then Harley, still lounging on her seat, whistles low.

"Well, well, well," she purrs, drumming her fingers on the bar. "Ain't that somethin'?"

A few murmurs rise from the other patrons. Some of the watching villains exchange curious glances, others just stare at me like I just sprouted a second head.

Freeze?

He doesn't move.

He just watches me closely, his lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line.

Then, finally, he speaks.

His voice is calm, but heavy with meaning.

"It is... sufficient," he says, slow and deliberate. "What matters now… is whether you can do it again."

I know what he means.

This wasn't the test.

This was just the prelude.

The real question is:

Can I bring back Nora Fries?

I exhale, my pulse still racing, and wipe my bloody hands on my hoodie. My brain is still catching up to what just happened, but I force myself to focus.

I look up at Freeze. "Where's she at?"

Freeze doesn't respond right away. He just studies me for a long moment—measuring, calculating.

He turns and starts walking toward the door.

I push myself to my feet and follow, ignoring the whispers behind me.

As we step out into the Gotham night, the chill from Freeze's suit intensifies, mixing with the already cold air outside.

We don't stop at the curb.

He leads me down the street, past the rusted, abandoned buildings, past the scattered streetlights.

Then, finally, we reach a black, heavily armored car, lined with frost along the edges.

Freeze steps around to the driver's side and nods toward the passenger door.

"Get in."

I hesitate.

Freeze notices.

"You are already committed, are you not?" he asks, tilting his head slightly. "You would not walk away now."

He's right, but that doesn't mean I like the idea of getting into a villain's car.

Still—this was always the deal.

I take a slow breath and open the door.

The inside of the car is cold as hell, but strangely clean, almost clinical. The dash is sleek, modified, definitely not stock.

I sit down, my fingers clenching slightly as I shut the door behind me.

Freeze starts the engine, the car humming smoothly as he pulls onto the road.

The city moves past us in quiet motion, neon lights reflecting against the windshield.

I shift slightly in my seat. "So," I say, forcing my voice to stay even. "Terms."

Freeze nods, keeping his eyes on the road.

I force myself to breathe steadily, to think, despite the fact that I'm sitting in a car with a man who has zero reason to let me live if this doesn't work.

"You want Nora fixed," I say, keeping my tone even. "I want payment."

Freeze doesn't react beyond the faintest tilt of his head. "State your terms."

I pause, debating my next words carefully.

"I want your cold gun," I say. "And the design to make more."

Freeze doesn't even hesitate.

"Agreed."

I blink.

I was expecting negotiation, maybe a half-hearted threat, but no. He just says yes like it doesn't matter.

That throws me off more than anything.

"You're not even gonna argue?" I ask, frowning slightly.

Freeze finally glances at me, his expression unreadable behind the icy glow of his lenses. "No."

"…Why?"

His hands remain steady on the wheel, his voice soft-spoken, measured.

"If you succeed, I will have no further use for such things."

I stare at him for a moment.

He's serious.

The Cold Gun, his suits, all the tech that made him one of Gotham's most dangerous villains—if I actually save Nora, he doesn't care.

Because, for him, being Mr. Freeze was never the goal.

It was just a means to an end.

A way to get his wife back.

His voice lowers, almost distant. "Without Nora, I am a man lost in time. With her…" His fingers tighten slightly on the wheel. "There is no need for any of this."

I swallow. That's heavy.

His tone shifts, growing sharper, colder.

"But."

There's always a but.

His gaze flicks toward me, the faintest hint of a threat in his voice.

"If you fail."

The car feels smaller, the cold more suffocating.

I don't need him to finish.

I already know.

If I fail?

If I mess this up?

If I give him hope, only to rip it away again?

I die.

Simple as that.

I nod slowly. "Understood."

Freeze says nothing else.

He just drives, the streets of Gotham passing by in a silent blur.

I grip my knees to steady myself, trying not to think about what's to come.

The car slows, turning off the main road onto a smaller, darker path. The city's glow fades behind us, replaced by twisting iron gates and rows of shadowed headstones.

A graveyard.

I blink.

What?

Freeze doesn't say anything, just drives deeper in, following the winding path through the silent tombstones and towering mausoleums.

Finally, the car rolls to a stop.

I stare out the window, my breath fogging slightly in the freezing air.

"…Okay," I say slowly. "Not what I expected."

Freeze kills the engine, then unbuckles his seatbelt with calm precision. "What did you expect?"

"Not a cemetery," I mutter.

He doesn't react. Just steps out of the car and starts walking.

I hesitate for half a second before following, my shoes crunching softly against the frozen ground.

The graveyard is eerily quiet—no wind, no city sounds, just the faint hum of Freeze's suit machinery as he moves.

We pass rows of old, crumbling gravestones, their names worn down by time, before stopping in front of a larger mausoleum—a structure of polished white stone, untouched by decay.

At the top of the entrance, one name is engraved in bold, perfect lettering:

Nora Fries.

My stomach tightens.

"Okay," I say, slowly. "You buried her?"

Freeze finally turns to face me. His expression is unchanged, but his voice is quieter now.

"No."

Then, without another word, he presses his gloved hand against the stone door.

With a faint hiss, the mausoleum's entrance shifts, hidden locks releasing with a mechanical click.

The door swings inward, revealing something impossible.

A staircase.

Descending deep into the earth.

Cold air billows up from below, curling around my legs like an invitation—or a warning.

Freeze steps inside, his boots echoing against the smooth stone.

I hesitate at the entrance, staring into the darkness below, my pulse suddenly too loud in my ears.

"Well," I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck. "This is definitely a bad idea."

Then, against every instinct screaming at me not to, I step inside and follow him down.

The staircase winds deeper and deeper, the air growing colder with every step.

The stone walls are smooth, reinforced, not the decayed ruins you'd expect from an old crypt. This isn't some forgotten tomb—this place is meticulously maintained.

Freeze says nothing as we descend.

He doesn't have to.

The moment we step into the lab, I understand everything.

The room is dimly lit, bathed in an eerie blue glow from the cryogenic equipment lining the walls. Machinery hums softly, frost clinging to every surface.

And at the center of it all—

A cryopod.

My breath catches.

The pod is sleek, pristine, encased in thick glass. Through the icy layer of condensation, I can just barely make out the woman inside—motionless, untouched by time.

Nora Fries.

Frozen in perfect stillness.

Her white hair floats slightly, her features soft, peaceful—like she's simply sleeping, not locked in ice for years.

Freeze moves toward her with slow, measured steps, something different in his posture now.

He reaches out, placing a gloved hand against the glass.

For a long moment, he says nothing.

Then, in a voice softer than I've heard from him, he speaks.

"My love."

I almost feel like I shouldn't be here.

Like I've stepped into something too personal, too sacred for an outsider to witness.

Freeze's shoulders rise and fall with a slow breath, frost forming on the glass where his hand lingers.

"I have not spoken to you in some time," he murmurs. "Forgive me."

His fingers twitch slightly, his gaze fixed on her face, unblinking.

"The days pass… and yet I remain frozen with you." His voice is forlorn, tinged with something almost broken. "I have done terrible things to keep you here. I have forsaken my name, my reputation, my very soul… all for the hope that one day, I could see your eyes open again."

His other hand tightens into a fist at his side.

"They call me a monster for it," he whispers. "Perhaps they are right."

The words linger in the cold air, heavy, unshakable.

I swallow, unsure if I should speak.

Then Freeze finally turns to me.

His gaze is sharp, unreadable.

"The time for mourning is over," he says, his voice regaining its hard edge. "Now, we see if you are truly what you claim to be."

I nod slowly, my hands cold and clammy, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I take a steadying breath, my fingers curling into fists to keep from shaking.

"I need to touch her," I say. "Unfreeze her."

Freeze's gaze lingers on me for a moment—then he turns, moving to the control panel beside the pod. His hands move with precision, pressing a series of keys, flipping switches with practiced ease.

The cryogenic machinery whirs to life.

A hiss of pressurized air escapes as the frost-covered glass begins to thaw.

Slowly, the ice around Nora melts, the condensation sliding down in thin rivulets, revealing more of her face.

As she thaws, her chest begins to rise and fall.

She's breathing.

The cold has preserved her just before her condition could take her.

The frost on her eyelashes melts away.

Then, with a final release of steam, the pod clicks open.

The air is thick with chilled mist, the lab suddenly too quiet as Freeze steps forward.

His hands are gentle as he touches her cheek, his voice softer than ever before.

"Nora…"

She doesn't respond.

She's alive, but weak.

I don't hesitate.

I step closer, pressing my hands to her skin, feeling the fragile warmth beneath the fading cold.

And I focus.

Heal. Please work. Don't let this guy kill me.

Nothing happens at first.

Then—heat.

Deep, radiating, coursing from my palms into her body.

The sickness inside her, whatever it is—it's there. I can feel it. A slow, creeping poison, woven into the fabric of her body.

I have a vague feeling of its severity.

It's worse than I expected.

The power inside me flares, pushing back against the sickness, burning it away piece by piece.

Nora's breathing deepens, her face losing that sickly paleness.

The fragile, dying thing inside her—it's fading.

Freeze takes a sharp step forward, his eyes widening behind the glow of his lenses.

His hands curl into tight fists, his breath hitching in disbelief.

"…It is working," he murmurs, barely above a whisper.

For the first time, his voice is not cold, not calculating—it's raw, desperate, shaken to his core.

I don't answer. I can't.

I'm pouring everything I have into this.

My head pounds. My muscles ache.

But finally—finally—I feel it break.

The disease is gone.

Her body is whole again.

I pull my hands away, staggering back, my breath coming in shaky gasps.

Freeze moves immediately, hovering over her, his gloved hands brushing against her skin, scanning for any sign of life.

Nora doesn't wake up.

She's healthy, but still unconscious, her body adjusting to the sudden change.

Freeze's excitement vanishes.

His hands still.

The air in the lab grows colder.

His voice, when it comes, is low, hollow, breaking at the edges.

"…No."

I barely have time to react before his hand is around my throat.

The world tilts as I'm yanked off my feet, slammed against the cold metal of the lab wall.

My vision flares with white, my pulse hammering in my skull.

His grip tightens.

"You lied," he murmurs, more forlorn than furious, his voice a shattered whisper. "You gave me hope for nothing."

His fingers squeeze tighter, frost curling from his suit, creeping up my skin.

My hands claw at his wrist, but I can't break free.

I healed her. I know I did.

She's fine. She just—

Then, from behind him—

A voice.

Soft. Weak.

But real.

"…Victor?"

Everything stops.

Freeze's grip loosens.

I cough, sucking in air as he slowly turns his head, his body going completely rigid.

I follow his gaze.

Nora's eyes are open.

And she's looking right at him.

Freeze steps away from me like I no longer exist.

His hands tremble as he turns fully, his entire body going still as he stares at the woman he's spent years trying to bring back.

"…Nora?"

His voice is softer than I've ever heard it—fragile, like he's afraid she'll disappear if he speaks too loud.

She blinks slowly, her body weak, still adjusting. "Victor…?"

Her voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.

He takes a slow, reverent step toward her, his gloved hands hovering over her skin, like he's afraid to touch her.

Like he thinks she'll break.

Her gaze flickers, trying to focus, her brow furrowing. "I… feel strange." She swallows, her fingers twitching against the cryopod's edge. "Did it… work?"

Freeze exhales—shaky, uneven—like he's been holding his breath for years.

"Yes," he whispers. "It worked."

Her lips part slightly, her confusion deepening as she finally takes him in—the bulky cryosuit, the pale blue skin, the cold mist curling from his form.

She stares, struggling to reconcile what she's seeing with the man she knew.

"…Victor?" she murmurs again. "Your face. Your voice. What… what happened to you?"

I'm still rubbing my damn throat, watching all of this while feeling pretty damn offended about the whole getting choked nearly to death thing.

But I don't interrupt.

Because now, Freeze looks uncertain.

Not cold. Not unshakable.

Just… human.

He moves slowly, kneeling beside her with the kind of care that makes my chest feel too tight.

"There was an accident," he finally says, his voice almost too soft for the room. "After you were placed in cryostasis… something went wrong in the lab. A containment failure. I was exposed to a supercooled cryogenic compound—an experimental coolant designed to preserve you. It altered me… at a cellular level."

Nora's brow furrows. "Victor…"

He lowers his head slightly. "It changed me," he murmurs. "My body… it cannot survive outside of sub-zero temperatures. I require the suit to live."

Her expression shifts into something deeply pained, her fingers reaching out weakly toward him. "Oh, Victor…"

Freeze catches her hand immediately, gently, his massive gloved fingers enveloping hers like she's made of glass.

His head tilts slightly, like he can't quite believe she's real, breathing, warm beneath his touch.

"You are alive," he whispers. His voice is cracking at the edges now, like he's holding something together by force of will alone.

Her fingers tighten around his.

"And you saved me."

A sharp breath escapes him—almost a sob, almost a prayer.

I shift awkwardly.

I rub my sore throat again, grimacing. "Damn," I say, voice dripping with sarcasm, "if only you knew someone who could heal illnesses like that."

Freeze doesn't even look at me.

"I have already promised you the gun and the designs for it," he says, his voice back to that smooth, measured calm. "I have nothing left."

I tilt my head. "That's not true."

That gets his attention.

He turns, slowly, his icy lenses locking onto me.

I keep my expression neutral, but inside, my nerves are screaming at me not to push my luck.

"You can do something for me," I say evenly.

Freeze sighs, deep and weary, like he expected this.

Because of course he did.

That's how the world treats villains, right?

He's probably waiting for me to demand something impossible—for me to use him like everyone else has, like I'm just another person looking to leverage his desperation.

He waits.

Watching.

Even I have to tip the scales the other way once in a while.

I exhale, rolling my shoulders back, trying to steady myself before I say something stupid.

"I want you to get a job."

Freeze blinks.

I keep going before he can interrupt.

"No more villainy. No more running around freezing people because you need to provide for Nora or something." I motion vaguely at his suit. "You're too smart for that, Victor. You don't need to be a criminal anymore."

He stares at me, silent.

I can't tell if he's processing what I just said or if he's about to blast me with his freeze gun for suggesting it.

Behind him, Nora shifts slightly, her expression still hazy with exhaustion, but her eyes sharpen just a little as she listens.

"I don't expect you to suddenly go back to being a normal citizen," I continue, forcing my voice to stay even, steady, like I know exactly what I'm talking about. "But you were a scientist before all this, right? A good one."

Freeze's lenses glint under the cold blue lights of the lab.

"…What are you suggesting?"

I lean against the nearby table, crossing my arms. "Wayne Enterprises."

Freeze stiffens.

I push forward anyway.

"They've got the resources. The funding. The kind of labs that'd make anyone's head spin." I tilt my head. "You walk in with the kind of cryogenics knowledge you have? They'll hire you in a heartbeat."

The silence stretches.

For a long moment, Freeze says nothing.

I start to wonder if I pushed too hard.

Then—

A low, humorless chuckle escapes him.

It's not angry. Not mocking.

Just tired.

"You are naïve," he murmurs. "You believe Gotham will allow me to simply… walk into a laboratory and be accepted? That they will ignore my past?"

I shrug. "You might do some jail time, but Bruce Wayne is big on redemption stories. He's probably dying to slap your face on a 'Former Villains Turned Model Employees' brochure."

Freeze tilts his head, watching me with that same unreadable intensity.

I exhale, shifting my weight. "Look, I'm not asking you to be a hero. I don't even care what you do with your life. I just…" I glance at Nora, still weak, still adjusting, but alive. "I just don't want to have to see you on the news a month from now because you went back to crime because you think you couldn't be anything else."

Something in Freeze's expression flickers.

A small shift.

Barely there.

His shoulders loosen, just slightly.

"…You are an unusual man," he murmurs.

I sigh. "Yeah, I guess I am."

Freeze is quiet again, thinking.

Then, finally, he speaks.

"I will try."

There's something in his tone, something heavy—like he's testing the weight of what he just agreed to.

Like it's the first time in years he's considered a future that isn't just cold vengeance and desperation.

That's enough for me.

I nod. "Good."

I straighten up, shaking out my hands. "Alright, next thing—give me some part of you to heal."

Freeze tilts his head, confused.

I gesture vaguely at his suit. "I need contact to heal people. You can't exactly go to Wayne Enterprises still needing a personal ice cube to function."

His lenses glow faintly as he considers this.

Then, after a moment, he shifts slightly, reaching toward one of the seals on his glove.

I don't expect the hesitation.

His movements slow, deliberate, like he's bracing himself.

And then I remember—

This is going to hurt him.

The moment his skin touches normal temperatures, even for a second—it'll be agony.

I watch as he flexes his fingers slightly, then finally peels back the glove, exposing pale, frostbitten skin beneath.

The moment the air touches it, he flinches, his breath sharpening.

I don't hesitate.

I grab his wrist, pressing my hand to his exposed skin, and focus.

My own hand stings as I grab him, but it's not as bad as I expected.

The heat spreads immediately, pushing back against the unnatural cold, weaving through his cells, restoring everything that was lost.

The moment the frostbite vanishes, Freeze gasps sharply.

His hand jerks, but I don't let go—not until I know for sure it worked.

Then, suddenly—

His whole body shudders.

His breathing stumbles, and before I can ask what's wrong, he lets out a choked noise, staggering back.

Nora sits up fast, eyes wide. "Victor?"

I barely have time to process before I realize—

His body no longer needs the cold.

His lungs suck in air differently, his entire system regulating itself back to normal—and suddenly, a normal, healthy body is trapped inside a sub-zero suit.

Oh shit.

"Get the suit off him!" I snap, moving fast.

Nora is already there, frantically working the seals.

Freeze is struggling, muscles locking up from the sudden drastic shift. His breath turns ragged, his body sweating inside the insulated cold that's no longer needed.

I grab at the main chest seal, yanking it free just as Nora pries off the helmet.

A burst of freezing mist rolls into the air, curling like smoke, but within seconds, we strip away the upper part of the suit, exposing Freeze's bare skin—red, blotchy, and marked with patches of stark white where the cold had burned him.

His body reacts immediately. A sharp, shuddering gasp escapes him, his muscles seizing as the pain from thawing nerves floods his system. His breath turns uneven, ragged, his limbs trembling—not just from the lingering cold, but from the sheer shock of sudden exposure.

The burns stand out against his skin, angry red streaks where the freezing metal pressed too long, paler patches where circulation struggled to keep up. His chest rises and falls in erratic, shallow breaths, every movement an effort.

He collapses back with a sharp exhale, sweat breaking out across his face as his body tries—and fails—to adjust quickly. Even warmth must feel like an assault now, his nerves caught between burning and numbness.

Nora grabs his face gently, her hands cradling him, her voice urgent but thick with relief.

"Victor—breathe, love. Just breathe."

He gulps air like he's learning how to exist again.

I lean back against the table, exhaling hard. "Jesus."

Nora laughs wetly, relief clear in her voice.

Freeze?

He just sits there, staring at his own hands—bare hands, warm hands—for the first time in years.

"…I feel the heat," he murmurs.

His voice is shaky, and small.

I nod. "Yeah. That's called being alive, dude."

Then I poke him.

Victor flinches, blinking up at me like I just slapped him instead of… well, gently prodding him with one finger.

"What are you doing?" he asks, his voice still hoarse from the whole coming-back-to-life ordeal.

I keep my finger on his shoulder, not really wanting to go full contact with a naked ex-supervillain, but also not wanting to see what untreated cryo-burns do to someone suddenly reintroduced to normal body temperatures.

"Fixing the rest of you," I mutter, concentrating.

I don't have to pour as much energy into it this time, just a slow, steady pulse of healing to erase the lingering burns, the residual damage, making sure he doesn't suddenly lose an ear or a couple fingers to necrosis later.

It takes a second, but once I'm sure he's good, I pull my hand away and shake out my fingers. My skin tingles from the constant use of my powers.

Freeze exhales slowly, flexing his hands, testing his now-warm, fully-healed skin. His body is lean, built from years of carrying that heavy-ass suit, but thin, like the cold had been eating away at him for years.

Nora presses a hand to his chest, feeling the warmth beneath his skin. "You feel…" She swallows, blinking rapidly. "You feel normal."

Freeze's expression shifts, something heavy in his gaze as he looks at her.

"…It has been a long time," he murmurs.

She smiles, pressing her forehead to his. "Too long."

I clear my throat, feeling wildly out of place. "Uh—right. You're healthy now, congrats. Maybe put on some pants?"

Freeze snaps out of it, nodding slowly. "Yes. I believe that would be… appropriate."

Nora laughs softly, shaking her head.

He stands unsteadily, but he's strong enough to manage on his own now. He moves toward a storage area at the back of the lab, where normal clothes—stiff with age, but still intact—are folded neatly on a shelf.

I watch as he pulls on a dark turtleneck and slacks, adjusting them like they feel foreign on his skin.

I exhale, relaxing slightly.

Now that the life-threatening part is over, it's time to get what I came for.

"So," I say, crossing my arms. "About that freeze ray and the designs?"

Victor finishes rolling his sleeves down, his movements calmer now, more measured, like he's slipping into an old version of himself—the scientist, not the criminal.

He nods. "I am a man of my word."

He moves toward a secured cabinet, pressing his hand to a biometric scanner. The lock clicks open, revealing a sleek, silver weapon—the iconic Freeze Gun, its surface lined with faint, glowing blue tubing.

Next to it?

A thick folder of schematics, neatly stored, detailing everything about its construction.

Victor picks up the gun, turns it once in his hands, then holds it out to me.

"It is yours," he says simply.

I stare at it for a second.

Then I take it.

And just like that?

I own a Freeze Gun.

I grip the gun tightly, the weight of it heavier than I expected. It's not just some prop or a piece of junk—it's solid, humming faintly with power, holding technology that could probably change the world if it weren't mostly used for crime.

I glance at the folder of schematics in my other hand, then back at Victor and Nora.

They're lost in each other now.

Victor is touching her face, his hands careful, reverent, like he's afraid she'll disappear if he blinks.

Nora just smiles at him, her fingers tracing the new warmth of his skin, whispering something I can't hear.

I feel like I'm watching something too private, something that shouldn't have an audience.

Time to go.

I clear my throat, shifting awkwardly. "Uh… I'm just gonna—" I gesture vaguely toward the stairs. "Y'know. Go."

Victor barely acknowledges me, just gives me a small, tired nod, like he's already moved on to the next phase of his life.

Which is fine by me.

I back away, making for the exit, my shoes clicking softly against the frozen floor.

The air warms slightly as I get further from the core of his lab, but the chill still clings to my clothes, making me pull my hoodie tighter around myself.

Then I reach the stairs leading up to the mausoleum.

I glance back one last time.

Victor is still with Nora, his forehead resting against hers, his eyes closed.

I exhale, then turn and start climbing.

Each step feels strange.

Like I just walked through some insane fever dream and now I'm just returning to the real world, except this isn't the real world.

It's still Gotham.

And I just made a deal with a supervillain, healed someone who was basically dead, and walked away with a freeze ray and its blueprints.

…This doesn't feel real.

I push open the heavy mausoleum door, stepping back into the cold Gotham night.

The graveyard is still silent, the city buzzing faintly in the distance.

I glance down at the Freeze Gun in my hand.

Then up at the sky.

The moment I step out of the mausoleum, I know something is wrong.

The air feels different.

Still.

Heavy.

Like the moment before a storm hits.

I freeze mid-step, my instincts screaming at me to turn back, but it's too late.

A shadow shifts near the cemetery gates. Then another, higher up, perched on a weathered angel statue.

Before I can react, something lands in front of me.

Hard.

A figure—blonde, muscular, wearing a white and red suit—hits the ground with enough force to crack the pavement.

Wonder Girl.

My stomach plummets.

Before I can even register that, another figure steps into view—tall, calm, controlled. Dark skin, blonde hair, a trident strapped across his back.

Aqualad.

I barely have time to process before the last one drops down from the trees.

Red hair.

A black and yellow suit.

Batgirl.

Oh. Fuck.

They're blocking my way out, standing in a loose formation, not quite attacking, but not relaxed either.

My grip tightens on the Freeze Gun.

Batgirl's eyes flick down to it immediately.

"That," she says, voice tight, "is a bad look, sweetheart."

I force my shoulders to stay loose, even though my heart is going a mile a minute.

"…Okay," I say slowly, keeping my voice calm, neutral, like I'm not actively losing my mind. "This is—whatever you think this is, it's not that."

Wonder Girl crosses her arms, looking less amused and more seconds away from punting me across the cemetery.

"Really?" she says, tilting her head. "Because from where we're standing, it kinda looks like you just came out of Mr. Freeze's secret villain hideout, carrying one of his signature weapons."

Aqualad's expression doesn't shift, but I can feel the judgment radiating off him.

Batgirl's gaze sharpens. "Tell me, Carter," she says, and hearing my name from her lips sends ice down my spine, "why exactly were you in there?"

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I don't know how much they know.

I don't know if they saw me go in, if they had been tracking me since the bar, or if this was just a lucky find for them.

I swallow hard, my fingers flexing against the cold metal of the gun.

They're not giving me much room to move.

And they're not in a mood to talk.

They think I'm working with Freeze.

 

[masninja25]

It seems like gender roles are reversed but Batman is still Batman. Please continue writing! Watched!

 

[Yzarc]

Yes. This is a hell of a lot interesting. Please continue this.

 

[WiseGuy]

I shift my grip on the Freeze Gun, not raising it, but not letting it go either.

My brain is running at full speed, trying to figure a way out of this, but there's one angle I might be able to play—

Batgirl knows my name.

But only Barbara should.

I narrow my eyes at her. "How do you know my name?"

Her expression doesn't change, but I see the slightest hesitation.

Because I already know how she knows.

I just also know she doesn't want me to figure it out.

Then—

She shrugs. "Saw it on your nametag at WcDonald's."

I blink.

"Oh."

…Well.

That's annoyingly reasonable.

"Shit."

Behind her, Wonder Girl snorts.

Batgirl tilts her head, eyes narrowing slightly. "Now, how about you answer my question, sweetheart?"

She gestures at the gun.

I lift it slightly, keeping my hands loose.

"I just made a trade," I say carefully. "With Freeze. That's it."

There's a beat of silence.

Then—

"Bullshit."

That comes from Wonder Girl, who looks about two seconds away from beating me into a coma.

Aqualad is watching me closely, his body language shifting, like he's already preparing for a fight.

Batgirl, though?

She just smiles—sharp, knowing.

"And what exactly did you have that Victor Fries wanted?" she asks, stepping closer.

I exhale sharply, trying to think fast. They're already expecting a lie—if I try to dodge the question, I'll just make it worse.

So I tell them the truth.

"I fixed his wife."

That makes them pause.

Batgirl's smile falters, just a fraction. Aqualad's brow furrows slightly, his stance shifting. Wonder Girl? She lets out a short, barking laugh, like she can't believe what she just heard.

"That's cute," she says, shaking her head. "Really. You expect us to believe you—some random guy—figured out a cure for Nora Fries before Batman did?"

That makes my stomach twist.

Because… yeah.

Now that I hear it out loud, it does sound ridiculous.

Batman's been working on a cure for years. Hell, the Justice League's best minds have probably tried by now, and none of them could do it.

So how the hell could I?

I feel my grip on the gun tighten, frustration rising. "I don't care if you believe me. She's fine now."

"Sure she is," Batgirl says, her voice too even. "And I suppose next, you'll tell us you did it with a magic spell."

I grit my teeth. "I have healing powers."

Wonder Girl snorts again. "Yeah, okay. You and every two-bit con artist in Gotham."

I fight the urge to groan. This is going nowhere.

Then Batgirl's eyes flick back to the Freeze Gun, and I know what's coming next before she even says it.

"Regardless," she says smoothly, "we'll be confiscating that."

My stomach drops.

Oh, hell no.

I step back, shaking my head. "No way."

Batgirl lifts a brow, like she expected that response. "It's a dangerous weapon, sweetheart. Can't exactly let you walk around Gotham with it."

"It's mine," I snap. "I traded for it. Fair deal."

Aqualad finally speaks, his voice calm but firm. "A deal made with a criminal does not grant you ownership."

I clench my jaw. "He's not a criminal anymore."

Wonder Girl scoffs. "Oh, right. You fixed his wife and now he's gonna go live a peaceful life, settle down in the suburbs, maybe take up gardening?"

"He might!" I bark back unconvincingly.

I don't know.

But I have to act like I believe he will.

Maybe Freeze really will get a job at Wayne Enterprises. Maybe he won't. But I know one thing for damn sure—

I'm not handing this over.

Batgirl takes another step forward, her voice still light, still playful—but now there's an edge to it.

"C'mon, Carter," she says. "Don't make this hard."

My pulse spikes.

They're closing in.

This isn't a conversation anymore—it's a decision.

They don't believe me.

And they've already decided what happens next.

I grip the Freeze Gun tighter, my fingers twitching on the handle.

Aqualad shifts slightly, his muscles tensing.

Wonder Girl rolls her neck, like she's getting ready for a fight.

Batgirl sighs. "Alright," she mutters.

Then her smile disappears.

"We'll ask the questions after we bring you in."

Shit.

I barely get a chance to think before Aqualad strikes.

A torrent of water slams into my chest, hitting me like a truck.

I don't even have time to process the pain before I'm airborne, my body flipping once, twice, before I crash down hard into the cemetery dirt.

Holy fuck.

My ribs feel like they just got caved in, my vision blurs, and for a second, I genuinely think I might have died on impact.

Then—

The pain vanishes.

I breathe in.

No broken ribs. No bruising. Nothing.

Instant healing. Right.

I stay down.

Not because I can't fight back, but because I really, really don't want to get hit like that again.

Jesus.

That hurt.

Through my haze of annoyance, I hear shuffling footsteps—they're approaching slowly, like they expected more resistance.

I can feel the way they hesitate.

Like they thought I was going to put up a fight.

I could.

I could lift the Freeze Gun, fire a wall of ice, and book it.

Or I could go for the pistol in my hoodie pocket—

But then what?

What am I gonna do, shoot them?

No.

These are actual superheroes, not some street-level thugs.

A Freeze blast to the wrong place? I could shatter a limb. A bullet? Definitely not non-lethal.

So, instead?

I lie in the dirt, scowling at the sky, feeling sorry for myself.

A boot nudges my side.

I grunt, swatting weakly at it. "Don't touch me."

Batgirl crouches next to me, peering down like she's reevaluating everything she thought about me.

"You, uh… you good?" she asks.

I glare at her.

She tilts her head, studying me.

"…You're not even trying to get up," she mutters, like she just realized.

Wonder Girl leans down, hands on her hips. "Wait a second." Her expression shifts. "You're not even a meta, are you?"

I grumble something incoherent, still not moving.

Aqualad exhales sharply, clearly recalibrating the entire situation. "You truly are just… a normal civilian," he says, like he's almost sorry for hitting me that hard.

Not exactly, but thanks for noticing after you wrecked my shit, Aquaman Jr.

I don't say that out loud.

But I want to.

Instead, I mutter, "I can heal."

Batgirl tilts her head while putting handcuffs on my wrists. "What?"

I exhale through my nose, glaring at the sky. "I can heal."

They all wait for me to continue.

I don't.

Batgirl blinks. "That's it? You're not gonna elaborate?"

"Nope."

Wonder Girl scoffs. "What, like you regenerate? Like Doctor Who?"

I shrug.

Aqualad crosses his arms. "You understand that refusing to cooperate will only make things more difficult for you?"

I shrug again, this time with extra bitchiness.

Batgirl sighs and rubs her temples. "Great. He's one of those guys."

Wonder Girl smirks. "Difficult for the sake of it?"

"Looks like it."

Excuse you, I'm literally in handcuffs.

Batgirl grabs my arm and hoists me to my feet.

I grunt, stumbling slightly, but I don't fight her. It's not like I have a choice.

She gives me a look. "You gonna be difficult?"

I blink innocently at her. "I dunno, you gonna hit me again?"

Aqualad sighs audibly, like he's already so tired of me.

Wonder Girl smirks. "He's got a mouth on him."

I roll my eyes, but freeze when Batgirl reaches into her belt again.

I expect more cuffs, maybe some kind of sedative—

But instead, she pulls out a black cloth.

I frown. "What's that for?"

She doesn't answer.

She just steps behind me and pulls it over my eyes.

Everything goes dark.

My heart kicks up a little, but I keep my expression neutral.

Okay. Cool. Blindfolded now.

So we're doing the full kidnapping thing. Awesome.

They don't say where we're going, don't give me any idea of what's happening next.

I just feel hands on my arms, guiding me forward, leading me somewhere.

Batgirl, mutters under her breath:

"This is going to be so much paperwork."

I count the steps as we walk, not because I have some brilliant escape plan, but because what else am I supposed to do?

I hear the city around us—the distant hum of traffic, the occasional blare of a horn, a few stray voices.

We're walking, so I guess we're not going far.

That's good, right?

Maybe they're taking me to some super-secret superhero base, some high-tech underground bunker where Batman will personally interrogate me—

Or.

They're dragging me into a random-ass warehouse like every other Gotham kidnapping.

The second my feet hit concrete, I know we're indoors.

It smells like dust and old metal, like a place that's been abandoned for years but still gets used for shady shit on occasion.

Yep. Definitely a warehouse.

I hear what I assume is a large metal door roll shut behind us, then feel hands on my shoulders as they guide me further in.

Then—

They shove me into a chair.

Not hard, but firmly enough that I stumble a little before I drop into it.

Well. This is humiliating.

I huff out a breath, my wrists still cuffed behind me, shifting to try and get comfortable.

Not happening.

Batgirl's voice cuts through the silence. "Let's start with something easy."

I hear footsteps as she moves in front of me.

"Why were you at Noonan's?"

I don't answer immediately.

I let the silence stretch, just long enough to be annoying.

Then I shrug.

"I wanted a beer."

Batgirl sighs audibly.

Wonder Girl snorts, and I can already tell she's grinning. "Oh yeah?" she says. "And how old are you?"

I tilt my head like I'm thinking about it. "Dunno."

Batgirl's voice is flat. "What do you mean, dunno?"

"I mean dunno," I repeat. "You guys keep treating me like I'm twelve, but then you beat the shit out of me like I'm forty, so who's to say?"

Aqualad exhales slowly, like he's already losing patience. "You expect us to believe you went to one of the most notorious villain bars in Gotham… because you wanted a beer?"

I nod. "Yup."

I can imagine Batgirl crossing her arms, not buying it. "Try again."

I pause for a beat.

What's something just stupid enough to believe?

"Well, I guess I was also looking for a date."

Silence.

Aqualad blinks audibly. "A… date?"

Wonder Girl lets out a short laugh, like she's waiting for the punchline.

Batgirl, however, sounds like she's already regretting everything about tonight. "…With who?"

I shrug again. "Hot villain chicks."

Another silence.

Aqualad seems genuinely confused. "Why?"

I huff out a breath, tilting my head like it should be obvious. "How else do you meet them? Not like they're on dating apps."

Wonder Girl sounds way too entertained now. "Wait. No. You walked into a den of criminals… to hit on them?"

I nod, completely serious.

I can almost see Batgirl pinching the bridge of her nose, like she can't believe she's having this conversation. "That is not how you meet women."

"Clearly you've never tried it."

She lets out a slow breath, like she's fighting the urge to strangle me.

Aqualad shifts slightly, still trying to make sense of it all. "Even if that were true—why would you go ater a villain?"

I lean back in the chair, letting my voice get a little dreamy. "You ever met a villain girl? They're crazy, sure, but that just means they love hard."

Wonder Girl chokes on a laugh. "Oh my God."

I keep going, fully committing now.

"Think about it—Harley Quinn? Cheetah? They get attached. That kinda devotion? It's rare." I nod sagely. "Besides, most of them got some kind of abandonment issues. You play it right, you got a girl who'll literally kill for you."

There's a beat of stunned silence before Wonder Girl loses it.

"Oh my God, you're serious," she wheezes. "This is so much worse than I thought."

Batgirl says nothing. But i can feel her staring at me, face unreadable, I can tell she's somewhere between horrified and fascinated.

Aqualad, bless him, is still trying to engage with this like it's a real conversation. "You do realize they would kill you just as easily, right?"

I shrug, as if that's a risk I'm willing to take.

"I mean, yeah, probably. But that's what makes it exciting."

Batgirl finally snaps out of it. "We are not having this conversation."

I smirk. "We literally are."

"No, we're not."

Wonder Girl is still laughing, wiping her eyes. "He's an idiot, but, like, it's true!"

Batgirl ignores her, focuses back on me. "So you're telling me you just happened to meet Mr. Freeze there, and then you just happened to go with him to a cemetery?"

I pause.

Okay, yeah.

That does sound bad.

I open my mouth to come up with something—

And then my brain hits a new idea all at once.

I shift ever so slightly in my seat.

I remember the communicator they took from me.

I take a slow breath.

Then—

I let out a tired, exasperated sigh, like I've just been caught doing something I wasn't supposed to be doing.

"…Fine," I mutter. "You got me."

Batgirl parrots. "Got you?"

I lift my chin slightly, adopting a vague, self-important expression.

"I'm a hero."

Silence.

Batgirl leans forward slightly. "You're a what?"

I huff, shifting in my seat like this is so inconvenient for me.

"A hero," I repeat, like it should be obvious. "I was undercover."

Wonder Girl lets out a sharp snort. "Oh, this is great."

Batgirl, to her credit, does not immediately call bullshit.

Instead, she just tilts her head slightly, her tone dry as hell. "You're telling me… you're a superhero."

I nod.

"Who just so happened to be… working alone?"

Another nod.

"And Batman gave you this communicator?"

I have to assume she's holding it up.

I hesitate for just a second, but then double down.

"Yeah. I work off the grid."

Aqualad's voice is pensive. "And what is your hero name?"

I pause.

Shit.

I did not think that far ahead.

"Uh—Vive," I say, improvising desperately.

Batgirl retorts, completely deadpan. "Vive?"

I nod confidently. "Yeah. Vive. You know—revive? Survive? Healing? It makes sense."

She's clearly unimpressed. "I've never heard of you."

"Well, I'm pretty low-key." I shrug. "Clearly you guys don't keep track of everyone running around Gotham."

Wonder Girl makes a noise somewhere between amusement and disbelief. "You're serious right now?"

Oh wait...

I set my jaw, playing up the annoyance. "Yeah. Ask Robin if you don't believe me."

Batgirl's tone changes instantly. "Robin?"

"I healed him a couple nights ago," I say casually, latching on to the train of thought. "At the docks. He was hurt. He put out an SOS on the communicator."

Batgirl hesitates. I hear the faint rustle of her shifting her weight, the small click of her own communicator being taken out.

She exhales quietly, clearly not thrilled with having to call for confirmation. "Hang tight," she mutters, stepping slightly away from me. I hear the faint sound of her tapping something on her communicator.

There's a brief silence. Then—

Robin's voice crackles quietly from her communicator. "Robin here. Go ahead, Batgirl."

Batgirl sounds just slightly exasperated. "We've got a guy here. Calls himself 'Vive'."

There's a confused silence on the other end.

"...Who?"

I grimace slightly. Great start.

She sighs. "He says he healed you? Claims you two met a couple nights ago—at the docks?"

"Oh, wait," Robin's tone shifts, recognition dawning. "You mean the weird guy?"

Dude, what the hell.

Batgirl pauses. "Define 'weird'."

Robin's voice sounds both baffled and vaguely amused. "Shortish, blonde, kind of twitchy, awkward as hell? Doesn't really talk. Apparently heals people by poking them? That guy?"

Wonder Girl snickers softly in the background.

Batgirl sighs. "Did he heal you or not?"

"Uh, yeah," Robin admits after a pause. "He did. Honestly, I don't even know how. One second I'm bleeding out, next I'm fine. And then the guy just leaves without saying much of anything. Super weird."

Batgirl exhales audibly. "Great. Thanks, Robin."

"No prob—wait, is he with you? What'd he do?"

Batgirl clicks the communicator off abruptly, ignoring his question.

There's silence for a beat.

"…See?" I mutter smugly. "Told you."

Batgirl sighs. "Alright, fine. Robin backs up your story." She sounds reluctant. "But you're still cuffed until we clear this up."

I huff dramatically, shifting in my seat. "Unbelievable. I saved one of you guys and I'm still treated like a common criminal!"

Batgirl ignores me. "Alright, let's go back to the important part. If you were really at Noonan's looking for a date as a cover"—I can hear the skepticism dripping from her voice—"why the hell did you leave with Freeze?"

Gay route?

Nah.

I take a beat. Then shrug. "Side quest."

Batgirl pauses. "...What?"

I nod like this is the most reasonable thing in the world. "I'm such a good hero that I figured, hey, while I'm here, why not try to rehabilitate one of Gotham's biggest criminals? Knock out two birds with one stone."

Aqualad makes a quiet noise, like he's actually considering it.

Batgirl turns toward him. "Don't encourage him."

I keep going, fully committed now. "I mean, think about it—Freeze isn't like the other villains. He's not out there robbing banks for fun or trying to burn Gotham down just for kicks. He's doing all of this for his wife. But what happens if she's not dying anymore?"

Silence.

Batgirl opens her mouth, then closes it.

I press forward. "I saw an opportunity, okay? A chance to turn Freeze's whole life around. No more crime sprees, no more icy revenge plots—just a normal guy with a second chance. Because of me."

Batgirl groans, running a hand down her face.

"You are insufferable."

I scoff. "Wow. That's what I get? No 'thank you, Vive, for potentially stopping a lifelong criminal from ever committing another crime?'" I shake my head, deeply offended. "I risk life and limb trying to turn Gotham into a better place, and this is how you treat me? This is the justice system at work?"

Wonder Girl snorts, but Batgirl isn't having it.

She gestures vaguely at me, frustrated. "You're still walking around with a Freeze Gun!"

I scoff again. "Oh, so now it's illegal to carry cool gadgets? Are you gonna turn in all your Bat-Tech, or is this a one-way street?"

Aqualad grunts like he's getting a headache.

Batgirl, to her credit, isn't backing down. "You left with a supervillain, disappeared to a cemetery, and came back with one of his signature weapons. And we're supposed to just believe you were playing Gotham's favorite redemption arc?"

I nod sagely. "See, I knew you'd get it."

Batgirl sounds like she wants to throw something.

Wonder Girl, meanwhile, is trying very hard not to laugh.

I lean back in my chair, adopting my best wounded expression. "I mean, seriously. I try to do one good deed, and I get accosted by Gotham's finest. No one trusts me. No one believes me. It's honestly sad."

Aqualad moves before Batgirl can argue further.

I feel the hands at the back of my head first—light but deliberate—before the blindfold is pulled away.

The dim warehouse lights flare into my vision, making me squint for a second.

Then I blink a few times, adjusting.

Aqualad is standing beside me, calm as ever, already unfastening the cuffs around my wrists.

Batgirl stares at him.

"What are you doing?" she asks, her voice tight, like she's barely restraining herself.

Aqualad, as calm and steady as ever, just says, "We do not have sufficient evidence to keep him here."

Batgirl's mouth opens, then closes.

I smirk.

Aqualad continues, completely unfazed. "Given the testimony from Robin and his account of Mr. Freeze, it would seem that we have not only apprehended an innocent man, but we have also done a good person a disservice."

I beam.

Batgirl pinches the bridge of her nose.

Wonder Girl just lets out a quiet laugh, shaking her head.

The cuffs click open, and I rub my wrists dramatically, like I've just been released from years of wrongful imprisonment.

I sigh deeply, shaking my head, voice dripping with moral superiority.

"Well. Finally. Someone with a sense of justice."

Batgirl looks like she's fighting a personal war inside herself.

I stretch my arms lazily, rolling my shoulders. "You know, it's honestly disgusting how I've been treated here. Me, a humble Gotham citizen—no, a hero—being manhandled by the very people who should be celebrating me."

Batgirl's eye twitches.

Wonder Girl, biting back a grin, nudges her.

Batgirl turns to her so fast it's almost superhuman.

Wonder Girl holds up her hands like whoops, I didn't say anything!

I continue, placing a hand over my heart, really selling it. "I mean, I didn't have to heal Robin, did I? I could have let him bleed out in an alley somewhere. But no—I, out of the goodness of my heart, stepped in. And this is my reward?"

Aqualad nods solemnly.

Batgirl stares at him in absolute betrayal.

I sigh deeply, shaking my head, looking so disappointed in them all.

"Honestly," I mutter. "Gotham's heroes should be ashamed of themselves."

I cross my arms, standing firm, my righteous indignation at maximum levels.

"Now," I say, slowly, clearly, so there's no room for confusion. "Give me back my Freeze Gun and my blueprints."

Batgirl stares at me. "No way."

I huff. "Excuse me?"

She folds her arms. "We're not just handing you a dangerous weapon."

I gasp, looking properly offended. "Oh, so now you're thieves, too?"

Batgirl groans. "We are not stealing from you."

I tilt my head. "Really? Because I distinctly remember bartering for that tech with Freeze. That makes it mine. And now you've taken it."

She narrows her eyes. "So?"

I grin smugly. "So I'll sue."

Batgirl actually laughs once, sharply. "On what grounds?"

I shrug dramatically. "On theft of bartered property."

Aqualad, to his credit, actually considers it.

"What are you going to do with it?" he asks.

I straighten up, putting on my most self-righteous expression. "I'm going to get it into the right hands."

Batgirl narrows her eyes. "What hands?"

"Why, Wayne Enterprises of course," I say smoothly.

A beat of silence.

Batgirl's expression flickers.

Aqualad, still calm as ever, asks, "And why would Wayne Enterprises need Mr. Freeze's technology?"

I tilt my head, absolutely hamming it up. "Because they could research it. Find new uses for cryogenic science. It's the right thing to do."

(Also, they're going to pay me a stupid amount of money for it.)

Batgirl chews the inside of her cheek, clearly debating.

Aqualad, though, nods slowly. "It is… not an unreasonable plan."

Batgirl glares at him. "Are you kidding me?"

Wonder Girl shrugs. "I mean… it's not the worst idea."

Batgirl throws her hands up. "I hate all of you."

They debate it quietly for a moment, but eventually, Batgirl huffs and tosses the Freeze Gun back to me.

I catch it gracefully.

I hold out my other hand.

"The communicator and designs too."

Batgirl grumbles and shoves the folder and communicator against my chest.

I beam. "See? That wasn't so hard."

Batgirl mutters something under her breath that's probably not very nice.

I sling the gun over my shoulder and shake my head. "Man, the Justice League really is stuffy."

A beat.

Batgirl frowns. "The what?"

I blink. "The Justice League."

She stares.

Aqualad tilts his head. "What… is a Justice League?"

I feel my stomach drop.

I let out a short, awkward laugh. "You know, the Justice League?"

Still nothing.

I frown, shifting my weight slightly. "Like, a team of superheroes? A big, official group? The best of the best? Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman, all of them working together?"

Batgirl's expression remains completely unimpressed. "That is the dumbest thing I've ever heard."

I stare. "How?"

She gestures vaguely. "Why the hell would a bunch of people who barely tolerate each other team up like that? What, do they have matching uniforms too?"

I feel my stomach twist, but I keep my face neutral.

"Well, no..."

No Justice League.

Not yet.

But the Justice League's not some natural thing that just happens—it's something that gets forced into existence.

By something big.

Something bad.

I try not to panic. "Then why are you guys together?" I ask, forcing a casual tone.

Aqualad shrugs, his posture relaxed but his words careful. "We met while fighting crime. We realized it was… practical to coordinate when necessary."

Batgirl crosses her arms. "It's not a big thing. We just run into each other a lot. Gotham's not exactly huge."

Wonder Girl stretches her arms behind her head. "Yeah. It's easier to watch each other's backs when we work close together, but it's not like we have a name or anything."

I nod slowly, heart beating too fast.

So they're just… loose allies. Not an actual team yet. No big leadership. No organization.

That means whatever brings the Justice League together hasn't happened yet.

That means something—something massive—is coming.

I don't know what.

I don't know when.

But if this world follows the pattern of the comics, then there's no avoiding it.

A world-ending event.

I swallow, my mouth dry.

They're watching me, waiting for a response.

I force a half-smirk, like I don't care. "Huh. Well, I guess that makes sense."

Batgirl narrows her eyes, like she doesn't quite believe me.

I stuff my hands into my hoodie pockets, gripping the inside fabric like it'll keep me steady.

I clear my throat, shifting my weight. "Well. This has been… enlightening." I glance at the warehouse door. "I should probably head out."

Batgirl steps forward immediately, clearly ready to argue—but before she can, Aqualad raises a hand.

"Wait."

I pause.

He hesitates, then levels me with a serious look. "I have a proposal."

I blink. "…Okay?"

Wonder Girl frowns, and Batgirl groans. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me—"

Aqualad ignores them. "I have never encountered a hero with your abilities before." His voice is calm, measured, and weirdly formal. "Your ability to heal others is a power that has been absent from our ranks. Our recovery time is often dictated by the extent of our injuries, forcing us to withdraw from conflict or be left vulnerable."

I squint slightly.

Is he… recruiting me?

"I believe your presence would be invaluable," Aqualad continues. "A skill like yours could tip the balance of many encounters. Should you choose to work alongside us, I am certain your contributions would not go unnoticed."

Wonder Girl tilts her head, arms crossed. "Okay, but also—it took one hit to take him out."

Rude.

Batgirl nods aggressively. "Exactly! He's a coward."

Aqualad, still calm, turns to her. "No. He is cautious."

I raise a finger. "Actually, coward was probably more accurate—"

Aqualad shakes his head. "You have the ability to recover instantly. You could have gotten back up. Instead, you remained on the ground." He pauses, studying me. "Because you understood that continuing the fight would have been a poor decision."

I blink.

Okay. That sounds way better than "I just really didn't want to get hit again."

Batgirl throws up her hands. "That's literally just a smart coward! You're rewarding him for not fighting?"

"Yes," Aqualad says, like it's obvious. "He is pragmatic. We need more of that."

Wonder Girl makes a face. "Ehhh, I don't know. Seems like he's just gonna run the moment things get bad."

"That is exactly what I would do," I say cheerfully.

Aqualad nods once. "And yet, despite that, he still went to assist Robin when he was wounded."

I open my mouth to argue, but then pause.

…Oh.

Batgirl groans. "You're seriously trying to tell me we need a guy whose best strategy is laying on the ground?"

Aqualad looks unbothered. "His ability is one we lack. And his mindset is one we could benefit from."

I raise my hands. "Flattered, really, but hard pass."

Batgirl grins smugly. "See? Even he knows it's a dumb idea."

I shrug. "Sorry, you need me, but I don't need you." I tap the communicator. "If you're dying, hit me up. But I'm not going around punching people in spandex for free."

Wonder Girl lets out a short laugh. "Damn. Didn't even hesitate."

Batgirl looks so satisfied. "Finally. Some common sense."

Aqualad watches me carefully, then nods, like this is just another piece of information to store away. "Very well."

I grin and take a step back, already turning toward the door. "Pleasure doing business with you."

Batgirl mutters under her breath.

Wonder Girl waves lazily.

Aqualad just watches as I head for the exit, completely unreadable.

I walk out into the Gotham night.

My heartbeat is still too fast.

The Justice League doesn't exist yet.

But it will.

Because something big is coming.

I step out into the Gotham night, the warehouse door creaking shut behind me.

The air is cold, the streets damp from some earlier rain, and the dim, flickering streetlights do nothing to make this city feel any safer.

I take a slow breath, rolling my shoulders, and try to shake off the last hour of insanity.

Alright. Time to go home.

I turn left.

Then pause.

…Wait.

I turn right.

Then pause again.

Shit.

I have no idea where I am.

I drag a hand down my face, letting out a quiet groan.

This is what I get for blindly following a bunch of superheroes to an undisclosed location.

I didn't even know where that cemetery was to begin with.

Now?

Now I'm in some random part of Gotham, in the middle of the night, carrying a highly illegal weapon wrapped in a hoodie, with no clue how to get back to the men's shelter.

I grip the Freeze Gun tighter, bundling the fabric around it so it doesn't look like I'm obviously carrying a gun down the street like an idiot.

Deep breath.

Okay. Think.

I could ask for directions.

Except—no.

Not happening.

Because one, I have no idea what neighborhood I'm in.

And two, I'm a lone guy wandering Gotham at night, which means I'm probably looking real vulnerable right now.

The last time I was wandering around lost, I almost got killed.

Not looking for a repeat of that experience.

I glance around, trying to get my bearings.

The street is mostly empty, but there are a few people lingering near an alleyway, a couple others standing outside a neon-lit bar, smoking.

I don't make eye contact.

I just keep moving.

One step at a time.

Just need to find a street name or a landmark or something that doesn't scream 'mugging in progress.'

I pick a direction and start walking, my shoulders hunched, my hands gripping my hoodie tight around the Freeze Gun.

This city feels different at night.

Darker. Louder.

Like it's watching.

I take a few more steps down the street, eyes scanning for any kind of street sign, when—

Footsteps.

Fast. Close.

I don't turn around. Not yet.

But my grip tightens on my bundled-up hoodie.

Then—

A voice, low and gruff.

"Hey, sweetheart."

I grimace.

Here we go.

I slow down, just slightly, my pulse kicking up.

Another set of footsteps closes in.

"Don't make this difficult," the voice says.

I finally turn, and—

Yep.

Mugger.

A woman, probably mid-thirties, with a messy ponytail, a scar across her nose, and a rusted knife clutched in one hand.

She's close, but not too close. She's done this before—not dumb enough to be in arm's reach in case I try something.

I let out a long, tired sigh.

"Seriously?" I mutter.

Her grin is all teeth. "What can I say? You look lost. Figured I'd help you out—lighten your load."

I glance down at the knife. Then back at her.

Then I pull out my pistol.

And suddenly?

She doesn't look so confident anymore.

Her grin flickers. "Whoa—"

I level it at her chest, my expression flat.

"Give me directions," I say politely.

Her eyes widen slightly. "W-what?"

I tilt my head, keeping my voice calm, even, and absolutely kind.

"Directions," I repeat, finger just outside the trigger guard. "To the library."

Her grip on the knife tightens, but she doesn't move.

She's smart enough to know that a knife is not a match for a gun.

Still, she hesitates.

I exhale, shifting the pistol just slightly. "Come on. Don't be rude. I asked nicely."

She licks her lips, glancing around. Checking if anyone's watching.

The street is too empty.

No backup.

No one to help her.

Just me.

And the very loaded gun.

She grits her teeth. "Two blocks down, turn left at the light. Big building, can't miss it."

I stare at her, making sure she's not lying.

Her face is tight with frustration. Annoyed, but not confident enough to bluff.

I nod. "See? That wasn't so hard."

She scowls. "You really gonna rob me for directions?"

I blink slowly.

Then I gesture with the gun. "You were literally mugging me."

She huffs, clearly pissed. "Yeah, well. Didn't think you'd be packin'."

"That's your problem," I say, tucking the pistol back into my waistband.

She glances at it, clearly weighing whether she still wants to try something.

I tilt my head. "Don't."

She clenches her jaw.

Then she spins on her heel and storms off, muttering curses under her breath.

I watch her go for a few seconds, just to make sure she's not dumb enough to come back.

Then?

I turn and start walking.

Two blocks down.

Turn left.

Library.

From there?

I can backtrack to the WcDonald's and then finally get back to the male shelter.

I roll my shoulders, shaking off the tension.

Getting lost in Gotham?

Not fun.

At least now I have a plan.

---

By the time I drag myself back to the male shelter, I feel like my body is running on fumes.

Everything aches—not because I'm hurt, but because I'm hungry and exhausted.

Mentally. Spiritually.

I trudge up the stairs to my room, my brain barely processing anything except the overwhelming desire to collapse onto the bed and cease to exist for eight solid hours.

The moment I step inside, I lock the door behind me, untangling the Freeze Gun from my hoodie and setting it down gently on the nightstand.

I don't even bother changing.

I just kick off my shoes, flop onto the bed, and let out a long, tired groan.

I stare at the ceiling, thoughts sluggishly swirling.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow I find Wayne Enterprises.

If everything goes right?

I won't have to eat WcDonald's for every lunch and dinner for the rest of my life.

I close my eyes, letting my body sink into the thin mattress.

For now?

Sleep.

---

I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the stiffness in my muscles.

Today's plan:

Survive another shift at WcDonald's.

Find Wayne Enterprises.

Negotiate with Bruce Wayne.

Profit.

Solid plan.

I throw on my hoodie, immediately regretting it.

It smells.

Not, like, horrible, but bad enough that I wrinkle my nose. Same with my pants.

I sigh, rubbing my temples. I should've thought about this yesterday.

The shelter has a laundry room, right?

I don't have enough cash to buy more clothes, not after stupidly dropping a hundred on a bartender for no reason.

Alright. Bite the bullet.

I grab my clothes, shuffle downstairs, and sure enough—there's a tiny laundry room in the back, tucked away past the main lobby.

A couple of old washers and dryers, humming faintly. Some shelves with detergent. A bench against the wall.

Nobody here.

Perfect.

I strip down to my underwear, tossing my hoodie and pants into the nearest washer, dumping in some soap, and start the cycle.

Then I lean back against the wall, arms crossed, waiting.

No big deal.

It's just laundry.

It's not like I'm naked.

Five minutes later, the door creaks open.

I glance up as two younger guys—probably in their early twenties—walk in, chatting about something.

Then they see me.

Their conversation dies immediately.

They stare.

I stare back.

Their expressions are… weird.

Like, a mix of confused, uncomfortable, and—blushing?

The guy in front clears his throat, shifting awkwardly. "Uh."

The second guy avoids eye contact. "We'll just… come back later."

They back out of the room.

I blink.

Whatever, I get it's a bit strange, but I don't have other clothes so...

I shake my head, not really caring.

I lean back against the wall again, waiting for the cycle to finish.

Then, a few minutes later—

The door opens again.

This time?

It's one of the shelter staff members.

Older guy, maybe late forties, dressed in a worn sweater, looking like he's been through some shit in life.

He steps in, takes one look at me standing there in nothing but my boxers, and immediately frowns.

I cross my arms. "What?"

He lets out a long sigh, rubbing his forehead like this is some moral crisis.

Then he gives me a look.

"Young man," he says, tone disappointed, "you can't be walking around like that."

I frown. "Like what?"

He gestures vaguely at me. "Like that. You can't just be sitting around in your underwear like it's nothing."

I squint. "Why?"

He stares, like he genuinely doesn't understand how I don't get it.

Then he exhales sharply, like he's about to have The Talk™.

"You have to have more decency than this," he says, voice patient but firm. "How do you think you're going to find a wife acting like this?"

I blink.

The whiplash from that sentence is insane.

"Excuse me?" I ask flatly.

The guy shakes his head. "Look, I understand. You probably only have one set of clothes. But if you need something to wear, you come ask, alright? You don't just—just sit around like some shameless kid who don't know better."

I stare.

My pride takes another hit.

I want to argue. I really do.

But… I literally don't have anything else to wear, and honestly?

The guy seems genuinely concerned.

So, with a begrudging sigh, I nod. "Yeah. Sorry."

The staff guy nods back, satisfied. "Good. Hold on dear."

He disappears for a minute, then comes back with a pair of sweatpants and a plain T-shirt.

"Here." He hands them over. "They're not fancy, but it'll do until your clothes are clean."

I take them, feeling… weirdly grateful.

"Uh. Thanks," I mutter, pulling the shirt on.

He waves it off. "You're welcome, dear. If you need anything, you ask. It's what we're here for."

I hesitate.

Then, after a second, I ask, "What was your name again?"

He raises a brow, like he wasn't expecting that.

Then he grins slightly. "Hector."

I nod. "Cool."

Hector nods back, then claps a hand on my shoulder before stepping out.

I exhale, staring down at the borrowed clothes.

…Okay. That could've been worse.

I lean back against the wall again, waiting for the laundry to finish.

Later?

Wayne Enterprises.

But for now?

Just trying to survive Gotham without embarrassing myself any further.

---

I finish washing my clothes, tossing them into the dryer and waiting while the machine rattles noisily in the otherwise quiet room.

The moment they're done, I yank them out, still warm, and throw them on, relishing the feeling of clean fabric on my skin.

Much better.

I bundle up the borrowed sweatpants and shirt, then make my way back to the front desk.

Hector is there, flipping through a worn-out newspaper like he's been reading the same article for the last decade.

I drop the folded clothes onto the counter. "Thanks for this."

Hector glances up, eyes flicking over me, making sure I look presentable. Then he nods. "No trouble, dear. You gonna be alright?"

I force a tired smirk. "No promises."

He huffs a little but doesn't push. "If you ever need anything, don't wait until you're half-naked in the laundry room, alright?"

I grimace. "Noted."

Then I head out the door and toward WcDonald's.

Back to Work

By the time I get there, I already regret everything.

The WcDonald's hums with the usual early shift energy. Grease sizzles from the kitchen, the faint smell of burnt coffee lingering in the air.

I clock in, throwing on my uniform with all the enthusiasm of a death row inmate, and head to the front counter.

And of course—

Kass is already there.

She looks up when I walk in, visibly perks up, then immediately looks back down at the register like she wasn't just sneaking a glance at me.

Classic Kass.

I slide into place next to her, tapping my knuckles on the counter as a greeting. "Morning."

Kass clears her throat, fiddling with the touchscreen. "You're late."

I glance at the clock. "By, like, two minutes."

She shrugs, but I catch the way her fingers keep tapping the counter. Restless.

Alright. Something's up.

I lean against the counter, scanning the line of customers. "Busy morning?"

"Same as usual." She side-eyes me, like she wants to say something but isn't sure how.

I raise an eyebrow. "You good?"

"Yeah, fine." Kass forces her focus back on the register, clearly overthinking something.

…Whatever. If it's important, she'll say it.

The shift passes in the usual mind-numbing haze.

Taking orders. Filling bags. Trying not to die inside.

At one point, I make the mistake of muttering, "Might not be doing this much longer."

Kass snaps her head toward me. "What?"

I blink at her, caught off guard by the intensity. "Uh. Nothing."

She narrows her eyes. "No, no. What do you mean 'not much longer'?"

I scratch the back of my neck. "I mean… I might quit soon."

Kass stares.

Like I just said something insane.

Her lips press together. "You just got this job."

I shrug. "Yeah, well. I got other things going on."

She glares at the register. "Right."

The vibe shifts immediately.

She barely looks at me the rest of the shift, but I can feel her stealing quick little glances.

Like she wants to ask something.

But she doesn't.

…Okay. Weird.

Whatever.

Once I get my money from Wayne Enterprises, none of this will matter.

The lunch rush dies down, leaving only the low hum of the fryers and the occasional beeping from the kitchen.

Kass hasn't said much since I let slip that I might quit soon, but I can feel her side-eyeing me every few minutes.

Eventually, she folds her arms and turns toward me completely.

"Why are you quitting?" she asks.

I sigh, already regretting bringing it up. I can't tell her about the freeze gun, so I settle for:

"This job was always temporary."

She frowns. "Temporary how? What, you just needed to make some quick cash?"

I hesitate. Then, with a tired sigh, I admit, "I don't have an ID. And WcDonald's only pays cash for the first two weeks. I can't set up a bank account so I can't do direct deposits."

Kass blinks.

"You don't have an ID," she repeats.

"Correct."

She squints at me, thinking. Then, before I can shut the conversation down, she tilts her head.

"And I always see you come in with the same clothes."

I freeze.

Crap.

Kass narrows her eyes slightly. "Are you homeless?"

I immediately stiffen. "What? No."

She raises an eyebrow. "Then where do you live?"

I grimace.

This is getting way too personal.

I shift uncomfortably, avoiding her gaze. "Around."

Kass doesn't look convinced.

She leans on the counter, still studying me like she's piecing something together. Then she asks something I wasn't expecting.

"Alright, then give me your number."

I blink. "Huh?"

"For after you quit." She shrugs, trying to play it off like it's not a big deal. "In case you wanna grab a drink or something."

I open my mouth. Then close it.

Well.

This is awkward.

"Uh…" I scratch my cheek, forcing an awkward chuckle. "Yeah, about that…"

Kass's eyes narrow. "Don't tell me—"

"I don't have a phone."

Kass stares.

Like I just said something insane.

"Dude," she says flatly. "You don't have an ID. You don't have a phone." She gestures at my clothes. "You wear the same stuff every day. Are you seriously telling me you're not homeless?"

I scowl. "It's not like that."

"Then what's it like?"

I hesitate.

She's getting too close to the truth, and I really, really don't want to have to explain that I've been sleeping in a men's shelter, eating breakfast there and WcDonald's for every other meal, and making life decisions based on the fact that I got shot in the head and lived.

I try to brush her off. "It's complicated."

Kass does not look satisfied with that answer.

"Where do you live, then?"

I freeze again.

Kass isn't playing around anymore.

She's watching me, waiting.

And for some reason, I panic.

Because if I keep rejecting her, it's gonna start looking like I'm hiding something or just don't want to talk to her after quitting.

Which is not the case.

I actually like Kass.

She's funny, blunt, kinda cute in a roughed-out sort of way.

I just… don't want her knowing how pathetic my life is right now.

So, I take a page out of Barbara's book.

"…Give me your number instead."

Kass blinks.

Surprise flickers across her face for a half-second.

Then she quickly frowns. "Oh? So can't call me with the phone you don't have?"

Crap.

I resist the urge to sigh.

Still, I commit to the bit. "It's just practical," I say casually. "In case I get a phone later."

Kass tilts her head, smirking just a little. "And if you don't?"

I shrug. "Then I guess I'll never call."

She snorts, shaking her head. "Wow. You suck."

But she pulls out a receipt paper, scribbles something on the back, and hands it to me anyway.

I take it, trying not to look like I just won some impossible boss battle.

Kass leans on the counter again, watching me tuck the number into my pocket.

Then, after a beat, she says, "Seriously though, you sure you're not homeless?"

I immediately turn back to the register. "Don't you need to stock more napkins or something?"

She groans loudly, giving up—for now.

By the time my shift ends, I'm more than ready to get out of here.

The entire day, Kass has been giving me looks—some amused, some suspicious, and now, as I'm finally punching out for what's probably the last time?

Sad.

Like, genuinely sad.

I turn, and she's standing there behind the counter, arms crossed, watching me with this expression that almost makes me feel guilty.

Almost.

I lift a hand in a half-wave. "Later."

She exhales through her nose, shakes her head, and waves back. "Yeah. Later."

But I can hear it in her voice.

She doesn't think I'm coming back.

She might be right.

I step outside, pulling my hoodie tighter as the Gotham air settles heavy on my skin. It's not as cold as last night, but it still clings to my bones.

The walk back to the shelter is quiet.

Familiar.

I step inside, nod at Hector—who nods back but doesn't say anything—and head straight to my room.

My hands move automatically, checking under the thin mattress where I stashed the Freeze Gun and the blueprints.

Still there.

Good.

I wrap the gun back up in my hoodie, tuck the blueprints into the inner pocket, and step out again.

---

The library is busier than I expected.

I duck inside, avoiding eye contact, and thank every higher power in existence that Barbara Gordon isn't here today.

That would be a disaster.

I log onto one of the public computers, pull up the Loogle Maps, and type:

Wayne Enterprises - Gotham HQ

Immediately, a dozen results pop up.

Main corporate office. R&D labs. Subsidiary branches.

I narrow it down to the big one.

The skyscraper in the heart of the city.

Looks like a massive glass and steel monolith, reaching into the sky like it owns the place.

I memorize the location, shut down the computer, and step out.

---

The building is even bigger in person.

I stand at the base of Wayne Enterprises HQ, craning my neck to take in the sheer size of the thing.

Glass reflects the city lights, stretching so high it almost disappears into the night.

I swallow.

Okay.

In and out, 30 minutes tops.

 

[WiseGuy]

I hesitate outside Wayne Enterprises HQ, staring up at the skyscraper that feels more like a monument to power than an office building.

I breathe in. I can do this.

Then I breathe out, and the reality of where I am—and what I'm about to do—settles in.

This is Bruce Wayne's turf.

And by extension, this is Batman's turf.

I don't know how I'm going to negotiate with a man who punches A-listers into paste on the regular.

I force my feet forward and step inside.

The moment I enter, the temperature feels like it drops.

The lobby is massive, sleek, and spotless, a high-end corporate space designed to make people feel small the second they step in.

And it works.

Behind the massive reception desk, a male secretary sits, tapping at a sleek computer.

Around the room, security guards stand near the walls—big, professional-looking girls, built like they wrestle bears for fun.

Well, mark me down as scared and horny.

They aren't paying attention to me.

But they don't have to.

Just knowing they're here makes my stomach twist.

I'm very aware of how out of place I look.

Sweatpants. plain shirt. Carrying a freeze gun wrapped up in my hoodie like an idiot.

I swallow, stepping up to the counter.

The secretary looks up at me, professional and unreadable.

I clear my throat. "Hi, uh… my name's Carter. I—"

Before I can finish, he interrupts me.

"Mr. Wayne has been expecting you."

My brain stalls.

My hands clench slightly at my sides.

Don't like that.

Don't like that at all.

My heart jumps in my chest, and suddenly, I feel watched.

Like there are a thousand eyes on me right now.

Like someone is observing my every movement—tracking me, analyzing me, figuring out everything they need to know about me in real time.

"...He... has?" I squeak.

The secretary nods, reaching under the desk.

He pulls out a plastic key card and slides it across the counter.

"Take the elevator to the top floor. Go all the way down the right hall."

I stare at the key card like it's rigged to explode.

I feel trapped already.

Like the moment I step into that elevator, I'll be locked in with nowhere to run.

I almost don't take the key card.

But not taking it would make me look guilty.

So, after a too-long pause, I force myself to reach out and grab it.

It's cold in my fingers.

The secretary smiles politely, but there's something about it that unnerves me.

Like he knows something I don't.

Like everyone here knows something I don't.

I swallow, turning toward the elevator.

Every step I take, I feel like I'm walking into a trap.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime.

I step inside, every nerve in my body screaming that this is a mistake.

The second the doors shut behind me, I feel completely isolated.

Just me, the hum of the elevator, and the little plastic key card burning a hole in my pocket.

My pulse drums against my skull.

This is too much.

Bruce Wayne—Batman—knew I was coming.

Which means he's been watching me.

Tracking me.

Knows who I am, what I'm doing, what I have.

I stare at the floor numbers flashing above the buttons.

Each one brings me closer to whoever is waiting at the top.

Closer to him.

I grip my hoodie tighter, feeling the hard shape of the Freeze Gun wrapped inside.

For the illusion of security.

Because if it comes down to it?

If I have to make a decision?

I don't think a single weapon on Earth is gonna help me.

The elevator chimes again.

The doors slide open.

A short walk to the end of a picture-covered hallway.

And I step into hell.

The first thing I notice?

The air is warm.

Too warm.

Like a perfectly temperature-controlled space that makes you forget the world outside exists.

The second thing I notice?

The office is weird.

Not what I expected from a billionaire CEO.

The walls are soft pastels, paintings of flowers and beach scenes hanging neatly in decorative frames.

The furniture is plush, elegantly feminine, with throw pillows and glass sculptures that don't feel corporate at all.

Even the desk, a massive, ornate thing, has little candle holders and a crystal dish filled with chocolate truffles.

I step in, every instinct in my body telling me to back the hell out.

And then—

"Oh my gosh, there you are!"

My stomach drops.

Across the room, Bruce Wayne stands from his desk, a dazzling, almost exaggerated smile on his face.

His voice is warm, lilting, almost… effeminate.

Like a socialite greeting a guest to brunch.

He moves with an easy, relaxed grace, not a single sign of the predator underneath.

He waves me forward, gesturing to the seating area by the massive windows. "Come in, come in, I've been dying to meet you!"

Who... who the hell is that?

I do not move.

This is worse than I thought.

I expected Batman.

Or Bruce Wayne.

Not this soft, smiling, third thing.

I expected a dark, brooding, calculating presence waiting to corner me, interrogate me, dissect me with his eyes.

Or a playboy who talks down to others, carefree and masculine.

I did not expect this.

This version of Bruce Wayne—this overly compassionate, overly friendly, too-polished persona—is so much worse.

I stand there, frozen, gripping the bundled Freeze Gun under my hoodie like it's going to save me from this insane nightmare.

Bruce tilts his head, smiling brighter, stepping closer.

"Oh no, don't tell me you're shy," he says, his voice soft, teasing, like he's talking to a nervous debutante at a gala.

I flinch.

Batman should not sound like that.

Batman should not be like this.

Batman should not be scary in a way I can't understand.

And yet.

Here I am.

I force myself to breathe.

I keep my feet planted, every instinct in me screaming that I should run.

But I don't.

I can't.

Not when I'm standing in front of the most dangerous man in Gotham, wearing the most disarming mask I've ever seen.

A man with perfectly styled hair, flawless skin, and an energy that should not be intimidating—

But is.

Because I know the truth.

And yet—

"Oh, Batman mentioned you'd be stopping by!"

I nearly choke.

His voice is too bright, too airy, like he's chatting with friends over brunch.

I stare at him, my brain struggling to connect this person with the cold, terrifying shadow I saw the other night.

This can't be the same man.

It's too convincing.

The way he moves, the way he tilts his head just right, the way his hand gestures are so effortlessly graceful, like a woman raised in high society—

It's unnerving.

I feel like I'm in a horror movie, except instead of a dark alley and a knife, I'm in a lavish penthouse and being offered flavored sparkling water.

Bruce Wayne beams at me, clapping his hands together softly, the delicate jewelry on his wrist jingling lightly.

What the hell am I looking at?

"You poor thing," he coos, stepping closer like I'm a lost child, "you must've been running all over the city trying to get in here."

I take an automatic step back.

I don't even realize I'm doing it until his smile flickers—just for a second.

Then it's right back.

Bigger. Brighter.

"I know how hard it is to get an appointment," he continues, gesturing vaguely. "But don't you worry, sweetheart, you're here now."

Sweetheart.

I feel my soul leave my body.

Bruce doesn't even flinch.

Instead, he turns smoothly, walking toward the seating area by the window—a lush couch, soft cream-colored pillows, a tray with delicate little cookies and tea like I just walked into a Victorian social club.

It's so much worse than the Batcave.

This is worse than the cowl, worse than the voice, worse than the unstoppable force of nature I saw in that alley.

Because that Batman?

I could understand.

That was rage. Precision. Calculated terror.

This?

This is unpredictable.

This is smothering warmth and open arms when I know damn well there's a blade behind his back.

My body is locked up because of how wrong it is.

Bruce gestures to the couch, all elegant and inviting. "Please, sit down. Let's talk."

I do not move.

His smile softens. "Oh, come now," he pouts, just slightly, like some kind of soft-spoken noblewoman disappointed in my manners, "I don't bite."

I swallow hard.

Every hair on my body is standing up.

I need to get out of here.

I need to get out now.

But if I run, that's it.

So instead?

I force my body forward, stiff and mechanical, and sit.

I barely sink into the couch before I tense up again.

Bruce glides down into the seat across from me, crossing one leg over the other with the kind of poise I have only ever seen in rich women.

I feel like I'm gonna puke.

I grip my bundled-up hoodie tighter, feeling the weight of the Freeze Gun inside.

It's useless.

It may as well be made of plastic.

Bruce exhales softly, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. "So," he says, tilting his head like we're gossiping at a spa, "why don't you tell me what brings you here?"

I can feel my pulse in my throat.

I swallow hard, gripping my hoodie like it's some kind of lifeline.

I try to meet his eyes, but I can't.

They're warm, open, curious—like a socialite humoring a new acquaintance, not like a man who could break my ribs in the blink of an eye.

I clear my throat. "I—uh. I came to—"

Bruce tilts his head, waiting oh-so-patiently.

I exhale sharply and force myself to focus.

Right. The plan.

I'm here to sell the Freeze Gun and schematics. Get paid. Move on.

Simple.

I straighten up, keeping my tone as businesslike as possible. "I wanted to offer Wayne Enterprises an exclusive deal. I have possession of some… very valuable cryogenic technology."

Bruce's eyes glimmer with feigned interest. "Oh?"

I nod. "It's—"

I hesitate for a second too long.

His smile grows.

I press forward, trying to ignore how I feel like a mouse dangling over a snake pit.

"It's Victor Fries' gun and schematics," I say carefully. "I bartered them off of him, fair trade, all legal."

Bruce leans forward slightly, resting his chin in his palm, delicate, watching me with fascination.

"Bartered," he echoes, amused. "And what did you trade for it?"

I stiffen.

Crap.

I shift slightly, choosing my words carefully. "I… provided him with a service."

Bruce doesn't react right away.

I can feel him watching me—closely—assessing every little tic and movement.

I keep my hands still.

I don't fidget.

I keep my voice calm.

I do everything right.

But it doesn't matter.

Because he already knows.

Bruce's lips part slightly, like he's realizing something. "Oh."

Oh?

What oh?

He smiles again, but this time?

It's different.

Not the empty charm from before.

Not the polite curiosity.

This is sharper.

Like he just figured out a puzzle piece he didn't even know he was missing.

I don't like that at all.

I rush forward, trying to regain control of the conversation. "I think Wayne Enterprises would benefit from studying Freeze's tech. I wanted to talk to a rep—"

Bruce waves a hand, cutting me off like I'm a child rambling about nonsense.

"Oh, there's no need for that, dear," he hums. "We can discuss it right here."

I clench my jaw.

I shift slightly, gripping my hoodie tighter. "Right. Well."

I take a breath, steadying myself. I have to stay in control of this conversation. I have to keep things on track.

I clear my throat. "Like I was saying, I have Mr. Freeze's gun and schematics. I figured Wayne Enterprises could use them—"

"To do what, exactly?" Bruce asks, voice still light, but his eyes watching me too closely.

I push through. "To improve cryogenic technology or uh, invent it? I don't really know how far along other people are with this stuff. Maybe even find safer medical applications for it. Save people. You know, like your—uh, Batman's colleagues would probably say."

I'm surprised how well this is going.

"I got the gun fair and square," I press on. "I helped Freeze. He gave it to me willingly."

Bruce tilts his head slightly. "Helped him… how?"

I hesitate, but at this point, lying would be worse than just owning it.

So I tell the truth.

"I healed his wife."

The room goes completely silent.

The warmth in Bruce's face has faded at some point, just slightly.

I grip my hoodie tighter, suddenly feeling like I just stepped over a line I didn't even know was there.

Bruce is still watching me, his smile not quite reaching his eyes anymore.

"…You healed Nora Fries."

Again, not a question.

I nod once, swallowing hard. "Yeah."

A pause.

Then—Bruce leans back in his seat.

The smile is still there, but now it's too polite.

Too measured.

Like he's weighing something very, very carefully.

I suddenly feel way too exposed.

"So." His voice is softer now. Smoother. Almost gentle.

"You're telling me you have the ability to heal?"

As if you didn't already know.

I hesitate.

Then, slowly, I nod. "…Yeah."

Bruce taps a manicured nail against his armrest, humming thoughtfully.

"That's quite the gift."

I say nothing.

I can't tell what he's thinking, and that's what scares me the most.

I just healed the wife of one of the most dangerous men in Gotham—and Bruce, Batman, is looking at me like I might be the most interesting thing he's ever seen.

Like he's already wondering what he could do with that information.

I feel like I just made a huge mistake.

The room feels colder.

Bruce hasn't moved much, but his energy has.

Before, it was all warmth, all disarming charm and soft edges.

Now?

Now it's measured. Slower. More deliberate.

The shift is subtle, but I feel it—in the way his tone lowers, the way the affectionate little terms of endearment start disappearing, one by one.

"Oh, I can imagine how that kind of power might be useful," Bruce muses, tapping a single finger against the armrest. "You could do a lot with a skill like that."

I nod stiffly. "Uh. Yeah. I guess."

His gaze flickers, taking in my reaction. "And it's not just injuries?"

I blink. "Huh?"

"You healed a terminal illness."

I grip my hoodie tighter, suddenly feeling like I walked into a trap. "…Yeah."

Bruce hums again, this time lower, more thoughtful. He shifts slightly, draping an arm over the chair, fingers tapping an absent rhythm.

"It's rare," he says, like he's thinking out loud. "Powers that work so cleanly. No drawbacks?"

I hesitate. "…Not that I've noticed."

Bruce's lips twitch slightly. "Lucky."

I don't like the way he says that.

His tone is too flat, too knowing.

It's like he already knows more than I do.

I force myself to stay calm. "I just figured Wayne Enterprises could—"

"Wayne Enterprises does not buy illegal technology," Bruce cuts in smoothly.

I freeze.

He watches me, expression perfectly neutral.

"You bartered for it," he continues, tilting his head slightly. "That's what you said."

I nod carefully. "Yeah."

"So you didn't steal it."

I shake my head. "No."

"Good," he says, almost like he believes me. Almost.

Then, casually, he leans forward.

Bruce smiles again, the softest I've ever seen.

"Oh, right," he says smoothly. "I never got a chance to thank you."

I blink. My pulse spikes. "For… what?"

His smile doesn't change. "For healing that bullet wound."

"Oh," I say quickly, "yeah, no problem! Seriously, I was just happy to help. I mean, I don't know how bad it was, but, you know, I figured you probably get into all sorts of situations in your position."

Bruce hums, nodding slightly, like he's encouraging me to keep going.

And I do.

Because I'm an idiot.

"I mean, it was honestly an honor, you know? Getting to help someone like you, especially after—uh, after what you do for the city and all. You put yourself on the line every night and—"

My voice slows.

Because Bruce has stopped responding.

His smile is still there, but it's frozen in place, his eyes locked onto me, waiting.

And I realize—

I never healed Bruce Wayne.

I healed Batman.

I slipped.

A pit forms in my stomach, spreading ice-cold terror through my veins.

I see it in his eyes—he's already confirmed it.

I try to keep my expression neutral, but my breathing has changed. I know it has. I can feel the panic creeping up my throat, trying to claw its way out.

And that squishy version of Bruce?

Is gone.

Batman remains.

The air feels thicker, like the walls are pressing in, like the city outside doesn't exist anymore.

It's just me.

And him.

He doesn't blink. Doesn't move.

But his voice drops into something low, something too controlled, too deliberate.

"You know."

Every hair on my body stands up.

I feel suffocated.

"No I don't." My voice cracks slightly, but I push forward. "I don't know what you're talking about, man."

He doesn't react.

He doesn't argue.

He just sits there, watching me, giving me the space to let my own fear sink in.

I can't stand the silence.

So I fill it.

I laugh—too sharp, too fast. "I mean, I don't even know why you'd think that—"

"You healed me."

The way he says it is absolute.

A fact. A piece of evidence, placed neatly on the table.

I shake my head quickly. "I healed a lot of people—"

"Not Bruce Wayne."

My throat locks up.

"You healed Batman," he says, the weight of his words crushing me.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

Bruce leans forward just slightly, his posture loose, casual—like a shadow stretching toward me.

"You're lying." His voice is soft. Certain. "I can hear it in your breath."

My stomach twists violently.

My hands clench harder around my hoodie. "No, I—"

"I can hear it in your heartbeat."

My entire body locks up.

Can he?

Does Batman hear hearts?

I want to say no, but I feel like my chest is about to explode with how hard my heart is slamming against my ribs.

"Th—that doesn't mean anything—"

"You're panicking," Bruce says smoothly. "Your pupils are dilated. You're sweating, even though the room is climate-controlled."

My breath hitches.

"Lying to me is a mistake," he continues, unshaken. "I don't tolerate mistakes."

I swallow hard. "I—I swear, I don't know anything."

He tilts his head slightly. "That's another lie."

I whimper.

I force myself to breathe, to think, to say something that won't make this worse.

"L-look, even if I—if I did heal Batman—"

"You did."

I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, shaking.

"Even if I did," I force out, voice weak, pathetic, "I wouldn't know who he is. I don't—I don't know anything, man, I just—I was just trying to help."

Bruce leans forward just slightly, and suddenly—

I feel small.

I feel like I could disappear in this room and no one would ever find me.

His voice is barely above a whisper now.

"But you do know, don't you?"

Tears prick at my eyes.

I shake my head desperately. "No. No, I don't."

His silence is deafening.

I can feel my hands trembling in my lap.

Bruce waits.

Just waits.

And it's worse than if he were yelling. Worse than if he had grabbed me. Worse than anything else.

I can't take it.

I can't handle the silence. The weight of it. The certainty of it.

So I start talking.

Babbling.

"I don't know," I blurt, too fast, too desperate. "Because if I did know—if I knew Batman was, was you, then—"

I gesture vaguely, hands flailing because my mouth is running ahead of my brain now, full-speed into a brick wall of panic.

"—Then I'd be a liability," I rush out. "And then you'd have to do something about me, right? Like—like fake my death or wipe my memory or—I don't even know how that works, do you have someone for that? You'd have to have someone for that, I mean, you're Batman, you have people—"

Bruce doesn't move. Doesn't interrupt.

Just watches.

Waiting.

I keep going, spiraling faster.

"And then maybe I get put in some underground bunker where Alfred slides food under a door or something, and I never see the sun again. Or—or maybe you ship me off to the League of Assassins because they owe you a favor and then I get trained into some kind of—of rogue vigilante and I don't even know my own name anymore because the brainwashing kicked in—"

My breathing is shaky now. My hands are shaking.

Bruce is still watching.

He hasn't blinked.

He hasn't denied any of it.

I start choking on my own words, my throat tight, but my mouth keeps running because stopping is worse.

"—Or maybe I have to join a hero team, right?" My voice cracks, breath hitching. "And then I fuck it up. I—I get in too deep, and I die, except I don't die because I can't, so now everyone's looking at me like I'm some kind of freak and it—it keeps going, and I—I watch my whole team die—"

I suck in air, vision blurring.

Bruce still hasn't moved.

I can't stop.

"—And then its just me and then I have a thousand enemies and they burry me in cement because they can't kill me—"

Tears sting at the corners of my eyes.

I can't breathe.

I shake my head violently, ripping my hands through my hair, trying to ground myself, to stop the spiral, to do anything—

"I don't know," I gasp, breaking down now, my voice shaking, raw. "I—I don't know, okay? I don't know, I won't know, I—I can't know—"

And then—

Bruce finally moves.

His chair shifts ever so slightly.

Then—

A single, slow exhale.

Measured. Even. Calculated.

"Alright."

I freeze.

The word hits me like a gunshot.

Not because it's loud.

Because it's final.

Like a verdict.

Like my fate's already been decided.

My whole body locks up, my breath caught in my throat, my fingers clenched so tightly into the fabric of my hoodie that I feel the edges of the freeze gun pressing through.

Bruce leans forward, his posture still calm, still composed, but everything about him is different now.

There's no warmth. No pretense.

Just cold, hard reality.

And then—his voice.

Steady. Unshaken.

"You're going to tell me why you're really selling this gun."

My pulse spikes hard, but he doesn't pause.

"Then, you're going to go home."

Home.

Like I have one.

"And when I call that communicator—" his voice sharpens, not loud, but like a blade against my skin. "You will answer."

The words settle heavily into my chest.

Not a threat.

Not a request.

A fact.

A certainty.

Like the sun rising, like the city's filth, like the inevitability of Batman always knowing where you are.

My mouth is dry.

I try to force out some kind of response, but it catches in my throat.

Because I can't say no.

I know I can't say no.

Not without making everything so much worse.

So I sit there.

Silent.

Trapped.

The silence drags on.

I can feel my heartbeat in my throat, the weight of Batman's stare pressing down like a stone, suffocating, crushing.

"Explain."

His voice is sharp, uncompromising.

I swallow hard.

I have two choices here:

Lie. Tell the truth.

Option one will get me killed.

Option two will also probably get me killed, but slower.

I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, trying to shove the panic down, trying to breathe normally.

Then, finally, my voice—shaky, hoarse, but there.

"I—" I swallow again, my throat dry as hell. "I just… I wanted the money."

Silence.

I rush forward, like I have to get the words out before he decides I don't need vocal cords anymore.

"I'm poor, okay? I'm broke. I live in a shelter. I eat WcDonald's every day because I work there. I don't even have a phone anym—" I cut myself off, shaking my head violently. "I just—I needed cash. I figured Freeze's gun would be worth at least a million if I sold it to the right people."

I glance up, just barely, to gauge his reaction.

Nothing.

No shock, no anger, no pity.

Just analysis.

Like he's taking my words apart, breaking them down, looking for cracks.

I grit my teeth. "That's it. That's the reason."

Batman tilts his head, like he's considering something.

Then, calmly—

"Where did you come from?"

I blink.

"…What?"

His tone doesn't change. "Where did you come from?"

I hesitate, hard.

"I—I just told you, I live in a shelter—"

"No," he cuts me off, voice steady. "Where did you come from before Gotham?"

My stomach turns.

I don't like where this is going.

I force a weak chuckle. "Look, man, I don't—"

"There is no documentation of you anywhere," he states, like it's a fact, not a theory. "No birth certificate. No medical records. No ID. No history."

My hands clench.

"I know every undocumented person in Gotham," he continues. "You are not one of them."

My breath hitches.

I can feel my heartbeat slamming against my ribs.

He's not guessing.

He knows.

I shake my head, struggling to think. "I—maybe I just fell through the cracks, maybe my records got lost, I don't—"

"You don't exist," he interrupts smoothly, easily. "Not here."

I freeze.

My whole body locks up.

Not here.

Batman's gaze sharpens, and his voice drops low.

"So."

He leans forward, his shadow stretching over me, like a black hole swallowing everything whole.

"Where are you from?"

I inhale sharply.

I can't lie.

Not to him.

Not when he's already this close.

My fingers dig into my hoodie, my throat tightening.

I open my mouth.

And—

"A parallel reality."

The words fall out before I can stop them.

The words hang in the air.

Heavy. Wrong.

I regret saying them immediately.

Batman doesn't move. Doesn't react.

He just stares.

Like he's running through a thousand possible explanations in his head, testing each one, breaking them down, discarding them.

His silence is somehow worse than if he'd just called me an idiot to my face.

I grip my hoodie tighter, my fingers shaking.

Then, finally—

"…Continue."

His voice is even, but there's something different in it now.

Something tighter.

Like he's actually considering that I might be telling the truth.

I swallow hard, trying to steady my breathing.

"Uh." I lick my lips, forcing myself to think. "Okay. Right. Um."

Where do I even start?

I shift slightly, the chair beneath me suddenly uncomfortable as hell.

"My world—" I pause, then correct myself. "Reality, whatever you wanna call it—it's normal. Boring." I exhale sharply, rubbing the back of my neck. "No superheroes. No villains. Just... people."

Batman doesn't react.

So I keep going.

"There's still crime. War. People being assholes to each other." I gesture vaguely. "But no one's running around in spandex, trying to blow up cities, or stop them from being blown up."

Still no reaction.

I shake my head. "No world-ending events. No god-tier aliens." I snort, humorless. "No billionaire vigilantes beating the hell out of people in alleys, either."

Batman steeples his fingers, watching me. "Go on."

I swallow again, shifting uncomfortably. "I had a—" I hesitate, like I forgot my past life for a second.

Then it hits me.

I had a life.

A real one.

Not this.

I let out a slow breath. "I had a house," I mutter. "A car. A degree in mechanical engineering."

Batman's expression doesn't change, but I see the slight flicker in his eyes.

Like he wasn't expecting that.

I huff a laugh, but it's bitter. "Had a kinda okay family. Not great, but not awful." I shake my head, staring at my hands. "I had—" My throat tightens. "I had things figured out."

My grip tightens on my hoodie.

"And now?"

I exhale sharply, voice flat, eyes burning.

"Now I live in a shithole city, in a shelter, working at a fucking WcDonald's."

The bitterness in my voice is impossible to miss.

Batman doesn't flinch.

Doesn't argue.

Doesn't even deny it.

Because we both know I'm right.

I look away, jaw clenched.

Silence.

The weight of his stare feels like a damn guillotine over my head.

Finally, I force out a weak, humorless chuckle.

"So, yeah." I shrug stiffly, not looking at him. "That's where I'm from."

I exhale, hands clenching and unclenching.

Batman doesn't respond immediately.

He just sits there, watching me, thinking.

The silence stretches long enough to make my skin crawl.

Then, finally—

"How did you know?"

I tense.

My grip on my hoodie tightens.

I swallow hard. "What?"

Batman tilts his head slightly. "That I was Batman."

I force my breathing to stay even, but my fear is real.

I don't have to fake it.

I shake my head quickly. "I—I didn't know, man, I just—"

"Don't lie." His voice is flat, cutting through me like a scalpel.

I flinch.

The panic spikes again.

Okay. Okay. I can't tell him the truth.

I can't tell him I know from comics. That in my world, he's a fictional character, and I grew up seeing his face on movie posters, watching his origin story play out a thousand different ways.

I can't tell him I knew before I even met him.

But maybe—

Maybe I don't have to lie completely.

I swallow again, licking my lips. "It wasn't—it's not that hard to figure out."

Batman doesn't react.

I exhale, shaky, shifting in my seat. "I mean, the voice is—" I gesture vaguely, trying to look like I'm struggling to explain myself, when really, I'm just stalling for time. "It's distinct."

No reaction.

I push forward. "And the mask—it's not like a full helmet. You can see a lot of the face. The jawline. The mouth. If you've seen both people in person, like—up close, it's—" I hesitate, "it's… not impossible to put together."

Still nothing.

I force myself to keep going.

"Plus, like, body language." I throw that out there like it's an afterthought. "Even when you're playing the billionaire thing, you move like someone who's trained. And you were expecting me." I let my voice crack a little, still feeding off the very real fear pooling in my stomach. "That means you knew I was coming. And Batman has all those gadgets and cars and planes, he has to be rich. With your relationship with Batman—" I swallow. "I mean, it's just a logical conclusion."

Batman still hasn't moved.

Hasn't blinked.

I shift in my seat, feeling like the walls are closing in.

The truth is, I knew instantly. The moment I realized this wasn't earth, it was like getting hit with a bucket of cold water.

But I can't tell him that.

So I sprinkle in just enough truth to make it believable.

Hopefully.

Finally, Batman exhales.

A slow, measured breath.

Then—

His voice lowers.

"You're afraid of me."

It's not a question.

I don't deny it.

I can't.

I just nod, stiff, forcing myself to look him in the eye.

Because, yeah, I'm afraid.

I might heal instantly, but I've seen what he's done to people.

I force myself to breathe evenly, but it's hard. My chest feels tight, like a steel wire is wrapped around my ribs, pulling tighter with every second.

Batman watches me like he can hear my pulse racing—like he's already calculated every excuse I might try to make.

So I don't try.

Instead, I lick my lips, swallow hard, and say what I've been thinking since the second I walked into this office.

"Batman doesn't kill."

The words feel weak in the space between us.

But then I exhale, shifting slightly.

"But I don't die."

There it is.

His eyes flicker slightly. The only sign that anything I said actually hit.

A slow, unreadable nod.

And then, his voice levels out, cold and firm.

"Five hundred thousand."

I blink. "What?"

"For the Freeze Gun," Batman clarifies, gaze steady. "You asked for a million. I'm offering half."

My stomach twists. I'd planned to negotiate, but I don't think I have any leverage here. None.

He's not offering me five hundred grand because it's fair.

He's offering it because it's what I'm going to take.

My mouth opens—maybe to argue, maybe to plead—but his expression sharpens.

A warning.

I close my mouth.

Then, slowly, stiffly, I nod.

"…Okay."

Batman leans back slightly, like this was always going to be the outcome.

"When the communicator rings," he says, voice flat, final, like a blade pressed against my neck.

"You answer it."

I nod again, feeling trapped.

Feeling owned.

His gaze lingers for just a second longer—like he's making sure I understand.

Then, finally—

"Go."

I don't need to be told twice.

I unwrap the freeze gun, place it on the table with the designs, and hold my balled-up hoodie in my hands.

I push up from the chair, keeping my movements slow, controlled, like sudden motions might get me snapped in half.

I turn. Walk. Force my feet forward, even though every nerve in my body is screaming at me that I'm still not safe.

I make it to the door.

Hand on the handle.

I don't look back.

I just leave.

The elevator ride down is slow. Too slow.

I stand in the middle of the polished steel box, my reflection warped along the walls, my face pale and drawn.

I exhale sharply, trying to push the tension out of my shoulders. It doesn't work.

I don't feel safe.

Even though I'm leaving, even though the deal is made, I still feel like there's a cord wrapped around my throat, and at any moment, Batman could yank it.

The elevator dings. The doors slide open.

I walk out, forcing my legs to move, my breath controlled, measured.

The lobby is the same as before—too sleek, too clean, the guards standing like statues, the receptionist tapping away at his keyboard.

I don't make eye contact.

I just keep moving.

Through the glass doors.

Out into the Gotham streets.

And then I breathe.

My body shakes with the exhale.

I made it. I'm out.

And now?

Now I have five hundred grand coming my way.

I should be ecstatic. This is more money than I've ever had in my life. I should be thinking about the future.

But all I can think about is running.

Just leaving Gotham.

Ditching the communicator, buying a fake ID, and getting as far away from this city as possible.

But…

I look down at the device in my hands.

The one he gave me.

If I leave—

He'll find me.

He'll hunt me down, the same way he hunts every criminal in this city.

It's what he does. It's what he's best at.

And I don't have the strength, the connections, or the guts to fight that.

I feel like a rat in a cage. No way out. No doors. No escape.

I grit my teeth, forcing my hands into my hoodie pocket to keep them from shaking.

I head back to the shelter, my head down, my thoughts a hurricane of paranoia and fear.

Every shadow feels like it's watching me.

Every alleyway feels like it's waiting for something to happen.

By the time I get back to my room, I feel like I'm crawling out of my skin.

I shut the door behind me.

Then I just stand there.

The weight of everything crashes over me like a tidal wave.

I feel like I can't breathe.

I sit on the edge of the bed, grip my head, and try to think.

What the hell am I going to do?

What the hell happens next?

I don't know.

---

I don't remember falling asleep.

One minute, I'm staring at the ceiling, trying to think my way out of this mess. The next?

Beep. Beep.

My body jerks awake.

The room is dark, the air stale.

I blink, trying to figure out where the sound is coming from, until—

Beep. Beep.

My stomach twists.

I turn my head slowly.

The communicator.

It sits on the nightstand, the little screen glowing in the dark, a single notification flashing on the display.

Incoming message.

My breath catches.

I stare at it.

The buzzing in my ears grows louder.

I sit up, my hands clenched in my lap.

The device keeps beeping, steady, waiting.

I reach for it, then stop.

I don't have to pick it up.

I could ignore it.

But my pulse is already hammering in my throat, because I know.

If I ignore this?

He will come.

And I really, really don't want him to come.

Swallowing down my fear, I force my fingers to grab the communicator, my grip tight.

I click the button.

A beat of silence.

Then—

His voice.

Low. Controlled. Uncompromising.

"Come to the address marked on your communicator."

I swallow hard.

My throat is dry.

My voice comes out hoarse. "Do I have to?"

Silence.

Then—

"You will."

Not a threat. Not a command. Just a fact.

The line goes dead.

I stare at the communicator, my chest tight.

I don't want to do this.

I really, really don't want to do this.

But I also need that money.

---

The air is damp, thick with the scent of saltwater and rusted metal.

Gotham's docks never sleep. Even in the dead of night, there's movement—distant figures unloading crates, the hum of machinery, the occasional flickering streetlamp barely pushing back the darkness.

I keep my head down as I walk, my hoodie pulled tight around me.

My shoes echo against the wooden planks, every creak setting my nerves on edge.

I hate this.

I hate that I'm here.

I hate that Batman can make me show up to some shady-ass meeting in the middle of the night like I'm some goon getting summoned by the mob.

But more than that?

I hate that I came.

The warehouse looms ahead, its metal siding rusted from decades of Gotham weather.

The communicator led me here. The coordinates were exact.

I push open the door, stepping inside.

The space is empty.

Cold air seeps through the cracks in the walls, and the only sound is the faint dripping of water from somewhere in the rafters.

Dim, flickering industrial lights cast long, eerie shadows across the floor.

I wait.

I don't call out.

I know better.

I know he's already here.

A second passes. Then another.

Then—

A whisper of movement behind me.

I freeze.

Then—his voice, right at my back.

"Your story checks out."

I barely suppress a flinch.

I hate how quiet he is.

I turn, and there he is—Batman.

Not Bruce Wayne. Not the socialite. Not the perfectly manicured billionaire with the airy voice and the delicate gestures.

The real one.

Dark. Towering. Cloaked in shadows.

I swallow hard, my throat dry.

"Yeah?" I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

He doesn't respond right away. Instead, he pulls out a thin, black folder.

He holds it out.

I stare at it.

Then at him.

Then back at the folder.

"What is this?" I ask carefully.

Batman says nothing.

I hesitate, then slowly take it from his hand.

The leather is smooth, the edges crisp. I flip it open—and my breath catches.

Inside?

It's clear from the first page.

A new identity.

Birth certificate. Social Security number. The works.

My pulse kicks up.

I don't like this.

I don't like why he did this.

Batman doesn't do favors.

I glance up at him, my fingers tightening around the folder.

"…Why?"

Batman watches me, unreadable. Then—

"You'll need it."

His voice is low, firm.

Like he knows something I don't.

Batman watches me. His eyes glint beneath the cowl, shadows deepening the lines of his face.

Then, in that same low, steady voice, he speaks.

"People are going to need you."

My stomach twists.

I hate where this is going.

I shake my head, already stepping back. "No."

Batman doesn't react.

"Whether you like it or not," he continues, "you have a responsibility."

I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "A responsibility? To who?"

"To the people who can't save themselves."

His tone is unshaken, unwavering.

Like he's explaining something inevitable.

"You have a power that no one else does," Batman says. "You can do something no one else can. That comes with weight. With expectation. With duty."

I hate how easy it is for him to say that like it's fact.

I take another step back, gripping the folder tight in my hands.

"Yeah? Well, maybe I don't feel the need to hold myself to that standard."

Batman's gaze doesn't shift.

"Most people don't."

I scoff. "Well, that's convenient, isn't it? Just throw 'duty' at people and hope they don't argue."

"This isn't an argument."

His voice is sharper now. He steps forward.

"You are in a position to change things. You are in a position to save lives. That's not something you get to ignore."

What am I supposed to do?

Get myself killed trying to save people I don't even know?

I just don't have that in me.

"You know what I think?" I say, stepping forward now, jabbing a finger at him. "I think you're using that whole 'responsibility' speech because you want me on your leash."

Batman doesn't flinch.

"I want you to do what's right."

"No, you want me to be another tool in your belt!"

My voice rises. I can feel my breath picking up.

I shake my head. "You think just because I can do something, I should?"

"Yes."

I hate how fast he answers.

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Well, that's some self-serving bullshit."

"You don't have to like it," Batman says evenly. "You don't have to want it. But it's the truth."

I grit my teeth.

"No. You don't get to decide that."

"Neither do you."

His voice is quieter now, but heavier.

Like a weight pressing down on my ribs.

"The world decides," he continues. "The people who need you decide."

I shake my head violently. "That's not fair."

"It's not about fair."

Is annoying how calm he is.

How he says things with so much certainty.

Like this isn't even a discussion.

Like he's already won.

My voice wavers, cracking at the edges.

"I don't owe anyone anything."

"That's a lie."

"No, it's not."

"It is."

His words are razor-sharp.

"Because you can walk away, but the people who need you can't."

I swallow hard. "It's not my job."

"No. But it's still your problem."

My hands shake.

"I never asked for this."

"Neither did they."

My breath stumbles.

I can't win this.

I can't beat him in this.

Because he's Batman.

Because this is what he does.

Because he's not just some vigilante in a suit—he's an unstoppable force of nature.

He knows how to break people down.

He makes you see what he wants you to see.

I shake my head, turn away, and mutter:

"…I can't be you."

Silence.

Then—

"No," Batman says.

His voice is quieter.

"You can't."

I squeeze my eyes shut.

"You have to be better."

I exhale sharply, my hands curling into fists. "That's not happening."

Batman watches me, silent for a long moment, and then, finally, he speaks again. "I don't need to convince you."

I stiffen. "...What?"

"You'll come when you're needed."

His voice is even, absolute—like he already knows. Like he's already decided how this will play out.

I shake my head, but I can't find the words to argue.

I swallow, my throat dry. "And if I don't?"

Batman doesn't blink. Doesn't shift. Doesn't even seem fazed by the idea.

"You will."

I want to tell him he's wrong. That I don't care. That I'm not going to pick up every time this stupid communicator beeps. But I don't say it.

I can't.

Batman steps back, like the conversation is over. Like there's nothing left to say.

And then, without another word, he vanishes into the dark.

I stand there for a long moment, staring at the empty space where he was.

I squint into the shadows. "…So he can really do that?"

I turn in a slow circle, scanning the warehouse. It's completely silent, save for the distant sounds of the city outside. The dim security lights cast long, empty stretches of darkness across the walls and ceiling.

No movement.

No sound.

Just… gone.

I frown, crossing my arms. Did he actually leave? Or is he just lurking in a dark corner somewhere, watching me?

Would he do that?

Yes.

Absolutely yes.

I clear my throat, shifting uncomfortably. I'm not about to stand here waiting for Batman to materialize behind me again, so I shake my head and start toward the exit.

As I step outside, the cool night air hits me, and I instinctively pull out the communicator.

The screen flickers to life.

And I stop in my tracks.

Because the map is different.

The blank, gray spaces that once covered most of Gotham?

They're filled in.

Street names. Landmarks. Buildings labeled where before there had been nothing.

Wayne Enterprises.

Noonan's Bar.

Even the damn shelter.

I swallow hard, my thumb hovering over the screen.

Batman must have… upped my clearance or something. Given me more access.

I don't know if I like that.

Actually, no—I do know.

I hate it.

Because that means I'm in deeper than I thought.

I stare at the device, my grip tightening, my chest twisting with something I don't want to name.

Then I sigh, shove it back in my pocket, and start walking.

It's late.

I need sleep.

And more than anything, I need to not think about the fact that Batman just made it a hell of a lot easier for me to navigate Gotham.

Like he's making sure I stay.

---

I make it back to the shelter, slipping inside quietly. Most of the guys are already asleep, the dim glow of the hallway lights barely illuminating the rows of bunks. I drag myself to mine, dropping onto the thin mattress with a heavy sigh.

I feel like I've been awake for days.

My body is screaming for sleep, but my mind refuses to settle.

With a groan, I sit up and pull the folder Batman gave me out of my hoodie. I flick on the tiny bedside lamp, letting the yellow light spill over the pages as I start sifting through them.

New identity.
New paperwork.
New bank account.

I find a debit card tucked neatly inside a small sleeve. The bank's name is printed on the front—Gotham National Bank. A separate sheet of paper lists the account details, but… no balance.

I frown.

I better have that five hundred grand waiting for me.

No way am I getting used by Batman without getting what I'm owed.

I wonder if mobile banking exists here. It's gotta, right? But even if it does, it's not like I can check—because I still don't have a phone.

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose.

Fine.

Tomorrow, I go to the bank.

I set the debit card aside and keep flipping through the documents.

And then—

I see it.

My new name.

Carter Wayne.

I freeze.

Stare.

You've got to be kidding me.

I grip the paper, feeling something between rage and exhaustion settle into my bones.

That scarred billionaire psychopath actually gave me his last name.

A bitter laugh escapes me, low and tired.

It's a joke.

A cruel joke.

Because he knows. He knows I don't belong here. He knows I don't have roots in this world, no paper trail, no past. And instead of just letting me be, he slaps his name on me like I'm some lost stray he picked up off the street.

I feel something bitter curl in my stomach.

I had a perfectly good last name.

Pack.

That name meant something. It was mine.

I had a family—have a family, even if they're not here. Even if they might as well be on the other side of the universe.

They weren't perfect. God knows they weren't. But they were mine.

And I am not giving up my family name just because Bruce Wayne says so.

I set the papers down with more force than necessary, rubbing my face, exhaling sharply.

Tomorrow, I'll deal with the bank.

Tonight?

I just want to pretend, for a few hours, that my life isn't spiraling into something I don't understand.

 

[Shadestyle]

Chapter 4 seems to be missing?

 

[WiseGuy]

Chapter 4 seems to be missing?

Click to shrink...

it got flagged and needs to be moderated, its out of my hands

 

[Whynot]

I shrug. "Sorry, you need me, but I don't need you." I tap the communicator. "If you're dying, hit me up. But I'm not going around punching people in spandex for free."

Click to shrink...

Maybe I'm just pettier than the MC, but I would not be offering healing to the people that just basically mugged me on very thin evidence anything was wrong, then proceeded on like nothing happened once they were shown they were in the wrong.

No to mention instantly using potentially lethal force against a guy they had no idea about, who wasn't threating anyone.

 

[TwilightSPARK]

So maybe I'm spiteful and selfish but for once, the MC is more right than Batman, no one forced Batman to be Batman, no one forced Superman to be Superman, certainly "with great power comes great responsibility" but I always took this adage as a warning and not as an order.
Yes you can and you should help your neighbor if the opportunity is given but you are not obliged to sacrifice yourself for a man/woman you don't know, it is a moral choice not an obligation.
This adage for me but also warns against the reckless use of a power but let's be honest 2 seconds here, his power have 0 power of destruction, certainly there are cruel ways to use it but it is certainly not a Superman or Flash level of destruction, if he uses it in a selfish way by monetizing his care it would be the same for the world in general.

It's basically exactly the same moral paradox as Panacea (from Worm), she blames herself by treating so many people every month and always telling herself that she could do more but in the end, even if she was in the hospital 24/7 it would only be a drop in an ocean of sick people, in the end this routine and self-inflicted guilt will just lead her straight down a slippery slope (which could have largely been avoided if she had been a little more selfish and taken time for herself).
Plus, a lesson in responsibility coming from people who break every bone in your body before asking you a single question is really the height of it. Because there from a purely external point of view we just saw Batman putting pressure on someone to do the "right thing", if that's not excessive use of his power I don't know what is.

In addition, the MC is putting pressure on himself for nothing, let's say he refuses, leaves Gotham and does not answer the communicator, what will Batman do? Yes, he will follow him, maybe put pressure on him and? If it is indeed a "classic" Batman, he will of course try to put pressure on him, but in reality? He has done nothing reprehensible, illegal or immoral, Batman has nothing so he will not do anything physical (normally), yes, maybe he will try to drag him to Gotham again but (in my opinion) it is totally contrary to Batman's philosophy.
For me the smartest thing would be:
A-Open a pseudo Hospital that treats everyone for money (a bit like a neutral ground like the hospital in Crime Alley)
B-Open a Hospital that only treats the "good" people for money

 

[WiseGuy]

I wake up to the distant sound of traffic outside, the usual dull hum of Gotham's streets. The mattress beneath me is stiff, the pillow lumpy, but none of that matters.

Because today, I get my $500,000.

No more WcDonald's.

No more shelters.

No more dealing with Batman—at least, not for a while.

I sit up, running a hand through my hair. My hoodie from yesterday is still draped over the chair. I grab it, toss it on, and pocket my new debit card. I don't bother looking in the mirror before heading out. It's not like I have a brush or anything to fix my hair.

The walk to the bank is long—longer than I'd like. Gotham National Bank is in a much better area, far from the rundown part of town where the shelter is. The air is cleaner, the streets aren't littered with trash, and the people? Way different.

Here, everyone looks polished, expensive. Confident. I keep my head down, hands in my pockets, trying to avoid eye contact as I make my way inside.

The second I step in, I know I don't belong here.

The floors are spotless. The walls are some kind of polished marble. And the men behind the counters are wearing suits.

I shift awkwardly, glancing around. A few customers—mostly women, some with their husbands—are waiting at the counters, dressed in elegant business attire, perfectly manicured nails tapping against their purses or phones. A couple glance at me and whisper. I ignore it.

I step forward, joining the shortest line. The man behind the counter is in his late 30s, neatly groomed, with a plastic smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. When it's my turn, he offers the kind of patient, condescending look you'd give someone who doesn't really know what they're doing.

I already hate him.

"Good morning, sir," he says, voice smooth but slow, like he's explaining something to a child. "How can I help you today?"

I already regret this.

I sigh and pull out my new ID, placing it on the counter along with the debit card. "I need to check my account balance."

The teller picks up the card, glances at it, then at my ID. His polite smile sharpens just slightly.

I brace myself.

The Name Problem

"Ah, Mr. Wayne," he says, and my stomach drops. "Welcome. You should've told me sooner—I'd have directed you to one of our private offices."

I want to die.

"No, no, no," I say quickly, waving a hand. "I'm not related to Bruce Wayne. It's just a name. Just—just check my balance."

The teller does not believe me. His eyes flick up, skeptical but still smiling. "Of course, sir. One moment."

He types something on his computer. The seconds drag.

I tap my fingers against the counter, resisting the urge to groan. Why the hell did Batman do this to me? Did he do this just to mess with me? Is this his idea of a joke? Does he think I'm just gonna roll over and accept it?

I bet he's laughing in his stupid Batcave right now.

Finally, the teller nods, looking back up. "Your balance has been successfully deposited."

"Yeah?" I lean forward. "How much?"

His smile widens.

"Your balance is five hundred thousand dollars and thirty-six cents."

I blink.

It's actually there.

For a few seconds, I don't say anything. I just stare.

$500,000.

I could leave Gotham. I could buy a new identity. A new life. I could get a phone, an apartment, real food. I could stop being scared all the time.

I could be free.

Something in my chest loosens, just a little.

"Is there anything else I can assist you with?" the teller asks, still smiling.

I shake my head, pocketing my debit card. "No. Thanks."

"Of course, sir. Have a wonderful day."

I don't respond.

I just turn and leave.

The second I step outside, I let out a breath I didn't even realize I was holding. My hands clench at my sides, and for a moment, I just stand there, letting it sink in.

Half a million dollars.

For once in my life, I'm not broke. I'm not struggling to figure out where my next meal is coming from. I'm free.

A grin creeps onto my face before I can stop it.

I pump my fist in the air.

Yes!

It's small, barely more than a reflex, but the second I do, I hear someone chuckle. A woman's voice, warm and amused.

"Oh my god," she says. "That was adorable."

I freeze, the thrill of victory instantly evaporating.

Turning my head slowly, I spot her—standing near the bank's entrance, dressed in a sharp business suit, coffee in hand, watching me like I'm some kind of cute puppy that just did a trick. She's tall, blonde, and clearly entertained at my expense.

I want to die.

"Uh," I mumble, shoving my hands back into my hoodie. "Cool. Uh. Yeah. Bye."

Then I speed walk down the sidewalk, putting as much distance between myself and her as possible.

I don't look back.

Once I get a few blocks away, I slow down, my brain switching back to more important matters. Like getting a phone.

I spot a sleek electronics store not far from the bank. The windows are lined with advertisements for the newest models, all boasting "Unbreakable Glass!" and "Next-Gen Security!"

Sounds perfect. I push open the door.

The inside is just as polished as the bank—clean, bright, expensive. Rows of phones sit on displays, and a few sales associates stand at the ready, offering customer service smiles to the well-dressed people browsing.

One of them spots me and immediately switches to that same patronizing-but-patient expression the bank teller had.

"Hello, sir!" he says, voice way too friendly. "Are we looking for a phone today? Do you need help picking one out?"

I open my mouth, ready to brush him off and just grab something, but then it hits me.

I have no idea what I'm looking for.

I don't know phone brands. I don't know models. I don't know specs. Hell, I don't even know what the latest software is called. I haven't owned a phone since before I got dumped into Gotham.

Crap.

"Uh," I say, scratching the back of my neck. "Yeah. I… need a phone. But, like. A good one. Fast, waterproof, unbreakable, preferably something that can survive getting thrown off a building—hypothetically, of course."

The sales guy doesn't even blink at that. Either because he deals with Gotham customers regularly, or because he thinks I'm an idiot. Could go either way.

"Of course, sir," he says, his voice smooth. "Would you like me to walk you through our best models?"

I sigh. "Yeah. Probably a good idea."

The guy perks up immediately, gesturing toward a display with the two biggest brands.

"So, in Gotham, most high-end phones come from two major manufacturers," he explains. "WayneTech and LexCorp. Both have their pros and cons, but it really depends on what you're looking for."

He gestures first to the WayneTech models.

"WayneTech phones are considered the most secure in the world. Advanced encryption, real-time malware scanning, and anti-hacking protocols. Built with military-grade durability—practically indestructible. Plus, they sync automatically with Gotham's infrastructure, so you get better signal, faster processing, and priority network access."

I nod along, mostly understanding.

"Downside?" I ask.

He gives me a knowing look.

"Performance," the sales guy says. "WayneTech prioritizes security over speed. Their processors are a generation behind, their AI is more restrictive, and their software updates are slow because they manually screen everything. If you're looking for top-tier speed, customization, and cutting-edge tech? LexCorp has them beat."

He gestures to the LexCorp display.

"LexCorp phones have the best hardware. Faster processors, better cameras, longer battery life. Their AI assistants are more advanced than WayneTech's—smarter, more adaptable, less restricted. And their app store? Completely open-source. No corporate micromanagement."

I frown. "And the catch?"

The sales guy grimaces. "LexCorp's privacy policies are… dubious. There have been multiple allegations of data mining. Some claim their AI collects more information than it should. And there's a conspiracy theory that Lex Luthor himself has a backdoor into every LexCorp device."

I stare at him. "You say that like it's not just a theory."

He shrugs. "Nothing's been proven. But—" He leans in slightly. "Let's just say, if the government ever decides to crack down on LexCorp's practices, no one's gonna be surprised."

Fantastic. My choices are:

- WayneTech: Slower, but trustworthy. Owned by a company that at least pretends to care about people.

- LexCorp: Faster, better tech—but probably tracking my every move and selling my data to the highest bidder.

I already know Batman has a file on me. He definitely has my communicator bugged. Hell, he probably has satellites tracking me as we speak.

So, really… what's one more spy device?

"WayneTech," I say with a sigh. "At least I know who's watching me."

The sales guy smiles like I made the right choice. "Excellent decision, sir. Now, did you want the standard Titanium Edge, or the more durable Urban Knight Edition?"

"…Urban Knight," I mutter. If I'm already getting a Batphone, might as well go all in.

I pay way too much money for this thing ($1,799, because of course), let the guy set everything up for me, and finally walk out of the store with a brand-new phone.

The second I step onto the sidewalk, I immediately start messing with it.

Time to find a place to live.

As I scroll through Loogle, I adjust my search filters. No more budget places. I have money now, so I'm not settling for some rundown shoebox with a leaky ceiling and a landlord who "forgets" to fix things. I'm no Peter Parker. But I also don't need a penthouse with bulletproof windows and a butler.

I set my price range: $2,500 - $4,000 per month.

That's reasonable, right? Expensive enough to be in a safe area, but not so much that I'll be living next to Gotham's elite. The last thing I need is to end up in the same building as someone like Bruce Wayne or Lex Luthor.

Non-Negotiables

I narrow down my search based on three important criteria:

An extra bedroom. Not because I need a guest room—I don't have friends—but because I know some bullshit is going to happen. Maybe I'll need storage. Maybe I'll need to hide someone. Maybe I'll wake up one day and have a kidnapped sidekick dumped on my doorstep. I don't know. But I'd rather be prepared.

A massive jacuzzi tub. After months of living in a shelter with the world's smallest, worst showers, I miss soaking in an actual tub. A big one. One of those ridiculously deep, borderline mini-pool tubs. If I'm spending money, I'm getting something I'll actually enjoy.

Safe but not flashy. No luxury high-rises. No "historic Gotham" buildings that scream "the mob owns this place." Just a decent, modern apartment in a building that won't get burned down in a supervillain attack every other week.

I scroll through dozens of listings. Too small. Too expensive. Too haunted. (Yes, Gotham has those.) Then, I finally spot something perfect.

Listing: 2-Bedroom Apartment in Bristol District – $3,750/month
✔ 1,100 square feet – big, but not stupidly huge.
✔ Second bedroom for storage and emergency situations.
✔ Brand-new kitchen. (Not that I cook, but still.)
✔ A big-ass jacuzzi tub in the master bathroom.
✔ Good security. (The building has a private entrance, and there's an on-site doorman. Not bad.)
✔ Decent neighborhood. (Bristol is technically where Bruce Wayne lives, but I'm pretty sure his mansion is miles away. No chance of bumping into him at the grocery store.)

I bookmark it and immediately call the landlord.

Making the Deal

The phone rings a few times before a crisp, no-nonsense voice picks up.

"Yes?"

I clear my throat. "Uh, hi. I'm calling about the apartment listing in Bristol. Is it still available?"

There's a pause. I can hear papers shuffling.

"It is," she confirms. "Are you interested in a viewing?"

"Yeah. As soon as possible."

Another pause. "Your name?"

…Crap.

I hesitate for half a second before sighing. "Carter… Wayne."

There's a longer pause this time. Then:

"…Wayne?"

"No relation," I say quickly. "Just a weird coincidence. Seriously."

She doesn't sound convinced, but after a beat, she says, "Alright. Can you come by this afternoon?"

"Yeah, that works."

"Good. Bring proof of income and identification. If you like the unit, we can move forward with an application."

"Great. See you then."

I hang up.

Reality Check

Okay. I have a viewing. That's good.

Now I just need a few things:

Proof of income. I have $500,000, so that should be fine.

Identification. Thanks to Batman, I have an official ID with Wayne on it.

And to not screw this up.

I glance at my reflection in a nearby store window. Worn hoodie, messy hair, definitely looking like I do not belong in a high-end district.

…Might need to fix that before meeting the landlord.

I could go to a real clothing store. I have the money now. I could walk into some fancy boutique, let a sales associate dress me up in something high-end, and call it a day.

But instead, I find myself heading to Salvation Navy.

Because old habits die hard.

Even with half a million in my account, I can't shake the instinct to save where I can. Spending nearly two grand on a phone already made my stomach churn—I'm not about to drop ridiculous money on clothes I'll probably never wear again.

Besides, a dress shirt is a dress shirt.

The moment I step inside, the familiar scent of old fabric and industrial detergent hits me. The place is mostly empty—just a couple of older guys browsing and one tired-looking cashier scrolling on her phone.

I head straight to the men's dress shirts section, flipping through the racks. Most of them are hideous—bright patterns, weird textures, button-ups that look like someone's dad wore them in the '80s. Strangely the girl's thigh high socks are in this section too.

Who wants hand me down socks?

But after some digging, I find a solid selection:
A crisp white dress shirt. (A little big, but it'll do.)
A light blue button-up. (Simple, clean, makes me look like I have my life together.)
A pair of black dress pants. (Surprisingly decent quality.)
A brown leather belt. (Doesn't match the pants, but whatever.)

I'm still using my shoes from the real earth, but whatever, they're fine.

The grand total? $22.50.

I swipe my brand-new debit card, nodding at the employee.

Once I'm done, I head back to the shelter.

I step into my tiny room, toss the thrift store bag onto the bed, and swap my usual hoodie and jeans for the new outfit.

I button up the white dress shirt, tuck it in, and step in front of the tiny mirror by the door.

…Okay. I don't look half bad.

I mean, I still look like me—but me if I had my life slightly together.

I shove my old clothes into the closet, run a hand through my hair, and take a deep breath.

Time to go get my apartment.

The bus ride to Bristol is similar to the walk to the bank.

For one, the streets are actually clean. There's no graffiti, no overflowing dumpsters, no homeless camps tucked into alleyways. The buildings are sleek, modern, and don't look like they're one bad thunderstorm away from collapsing. I get off the buss and look around more.

The people? Different, too.

I get a lot of looks as I walk down the sidewalk toward the apartment complex. Not outright hostile, but definitely curious. Like I'm not the kind of guy who usually walks around this neighborhood.

Which, fair. I'm not.

But I ignore it and keep walking.

Because if all goes well?

By the end of the day, I'll actually belong here.

As I look at people, I notice the men look softer, almost no muscle, and wear lighter color clothes. I don't spend much time watching them though.

Maybe I should have grabbed something lighter? Nobody's staring like I don't belong, but I do get a few weird looks from passing women.

It's subtle. Just quick glances, smirks, side-eyes that I can't quite read.

I brush it off. Probably just because I look slightly less like a hobo today.

The apartment complex is just as nice as I expected. Not some towering high-rise, but a mid-rise luxury building with sleek glass windows and a gated entrance.

At the front entrance, a tall woman stands by the door, arms crossed. She's in a well-fitted security uniform, broad-shouldered, standing with the kind of posture that says "I could probably throw you across the street if I wanted."

She's also… kind of hot.

In an "I could crush your skull with my bare hands" way.

As I approach, she gives me one long, slow glance, looking me up and down in a way that makes me uncomfortable but I don't know why.

Then she scoffs. "Tch. Figures."

I blink. What?

Before I can ask, she pushes open the door for me with zero effort, her eyes still locked on me.

"Go on in, pretty boy. Sales lady's waiting."

I freeze.

Did she just call me—

Nope. Not questioning it. I just mumble, "Uh. Thanks," and step inside.

I hear her chuckle behind me as the door shuts.

The Apartment Viewing

The leasing office is bright, modern, and way too professional for me. Behind a glass desk, a well-dressed woman sits flipping through a folder.

She looks up when I enter and instantly shifts into sales mode.

"You must be Mr. Wayne."

I flinch.

I don't even try to hide it.

"Just Carter," I say quickly, rubbing the back of my neck. "Please."

She pauses for half a second, like she wasn't expecting that response. Then she smiles politely. "Alright, Carter. Let's begin the tour."

As we walk through the unit, I can tell right away that the listing wasn't exaggerating.

✔ Spacious living room with actual sunlight (a rarity in Gotham).

✔ Modern kitchen with brand-new appliances (which I probably won't use, but nice to have).

✔ A second bedroom for storage, last-minute guests, or whatever nonsense the city throws at me.

✔ High ceilings, hardwood floors, and best of all—

I step into the master bathroom and immediately grin.

✔ A massive jacuzzi tub.

Deep, sleek, big enough to stretch out in. After months of freezing shelter showers, this is heaven.

I don't even try to hide my excitement.

"Like the tub?" the sales lady asks, clearly amused.

"You have no idea," I mutter, already picturing myself spending an entire day in there.

She laughs. "Glad to hear it. The building also has 24/7 security, keycard access, and an on-site gym. The landlord is selective about tenants, but given your financials, I don't think that'll be a problem."

I nod along, only half-listening at this point. The place is exactly what I wanted.

I want it.

And lucky for me? I can actually afford it.

I lean against the leasing office desk, tapping my fingers idly as she organizes the paperwork. Something nags at me, though.

"You mentioned the landlord is selective," I say. "Who exactly owns the building?"

The sales lady brightens, like she's genuinely impressed by whoever it is. "Ms. Selena Kyle. She personally oversees all major tenant approvals, but since you qualify financially, it shouldn't be an issue."

I freeze.

Selena Kyle.

Shit.

I keep my face neutral, nodding like that name doesn't make me want to turn around and walk out.

Selena Kyle. Catwoman. The legendary Gotham thief, occasional villain, occasional hero, and—oh yeah—Batman's on-again, off-again love interest.

I briefly consider scrapping the whole thing. There are other apartments. There are plenty of places I could live that aren't secretly owned by one of Gotham's most infamous criminals.

But then I glance around the office, think about the apartment again. The second bedroom, the security, the giant tub.

What are the odds I ever actually run into her?

Probably low.

I mean, she's a billionaire at this point. She probably has a dozen penthouses scattered across the city. It's not like she's gonna be hanging around the lobby, checking the mail with the rest of us.

Yeah. Yeah. It's fine. I'm overthinking it.

I clear my throat. "Alright. Let's do it."

The leasing agent smiles. "Great! I'll just need your first and last month's rent, plus the deposit."

I sigh, but I don't hesitate. I tap my Wayne-branded debit card on the reader, and just like that—

I have a home.

"Welcome to Bristol, Carter," the sales lady says as she hands me the keys.

For the first time since arriving in Gotham, I actually feel like I belong somewhere.

I head back to the shelter one last time, pushing open the door to my tiny room. It's barely more than a closet—just a bed, a rickety nightstand, and a small dresser that I never actually used.

Doesn't take long to gather my things.

I grab my hoodie, extra pants, and my one other shirt, stuffing them into a plastic bag. That's… pretty much it. Everything I own.

It feels weird.

Not sad, exactly. Just… strange.

I don't linger. I step out, walking toward the front desk where Hector is sorting through paperwork.

He looks up, eyes widening. "Carter? Something wrong?"

"Nah," I say, shifting my bag. "Just… moving out. Got an apartment."

Hector immediately straightens, eyes going glassy.

Oh, no.

I internally brace myself, but before I can react, he's already getting emotional.

"Carter, that's wonderful!" he says, voice thick with actual tears. "You're getting back on your feet, just like we always hope for. This is why we do this—so good people like you can find stability and hope again—"

Oh god.

I glance around, a little uncomfortable. The few guys in the shelter lounge don't seem to find this weird, but I do.

"I mean," I say, shifting awkwardly. "Yeah. Thanks. Appreciate it."

Hector sniffles.

"You've come so far," he continues, like we're best friends. "When you first arrived, you had nothing, and now look at you. You worked hard, you found your way, and I just—" He clutches his chest like this is a movie scene.

I have no idea how to react to this.

"Uh," I say, nodding stiffly. "Yeah. Again. Thanks."

That should be the end of it. That should be the part where I walk out.

But then Hector pulls me into a hug.

A full, crushing, emotional hug.

I go stiff as a board.

I am not a hug person.

I have known Hector for maybe a couple of days. He is a good guy. His organization helps people. I appreciate him.

But we are not hugging level close.

I pat his back—twice. That should be enough, right?

He sniffles again before pulling back, gripping my shoulders. "Promise me you'll come visit sometime."

I nod way too fast. "Yeah. Sure. Absolutely."

I have no intention of doing that.

"Good," he says, giving me one last emotional look. "You deserve this."

I mumble something vaguely agreeing, then speed walk out the door.

I don't stop until I'm halfway down the street, finally exhaling.

That was… a lot.

Not bad, exactly. Just way more feelings than I know what to do with.

I shake it off. I've got bigger things to focus on.

Like actually moving in.

I make it back to my new apartment, stepping inside and locking the door behind me. The place still smells faintly new, like fresh paint and recently installed hardwood. The keys feel weirdly heavy in my pocket—like I'm not used to owning something this stable.

I set my plastic bag of clothes in the second bedroom. The space is bigger than my entire room at the shelter, and I have no idea what to do with it.

I flop onto the couch, staring at the ceiling.

So… what now?

For the past week, my life has been about surviving. Finding food, keeping a low profile, avoiding getting stabbed in an alley. But now, money isn't a problem. Rent's paid. I can get food. I don't have to work—not for a while, at least.

And Batman hasn't called.

Which means, for the first time since I landed in Gotham… I have nothing to do.

Hmm...

I pull out my new phone, flipping through the empty contact list. Right. I should probably add those numbers.

First, I grab the receipt paper from my hoodie pocket—the one Kass gave me back when we worked at WcDonald's together. I type it in manually.

Then I hesitate.

I also have Barbara's number. She gave it to me at the library, scribbled onto a piece of paper like she wanted me to have it.

But I don't trust her.

Barbara definitely had it out for me. She was asking weird questions, watching me too closely, and then she gave me her number. I'm pretty sure she wanted to track me through my phone.

And, oh yeah—she, Aqualad, and Wonder Girl beat the absolute shit out of me and kidnapped me when they thought I was working with Freeze.

I'm not salty.

But.

I begrudgingly type her number in anyway, but I don't text her. Just in case.

Kass, though? That's different. She was one of the few people in this city who didn't treat me like a criminal, a victim, or a waste of space. I actually liked working with her at WcDonald's.

I shoot her a quick text.

Me: Hey, finally got a phone.

Her response is instant.

Kass: Took you long enough, dumbass. I thought you died.

I smirk.

Me: Nope, just broke. And then suddenly not broke.

Kass: Mysterious. I like it. So what, you finally gonna stop slumming it at WcDonald's?

Me: Yeah, I'm done. Got an apartment now.

Kass: An apartment? Damn, Carter. Where's my cut?

Me: You want five bucks?

Kass: I want you to owe me five bucks, actually. That way, you have to see me again to pay it back.

I pause, rereading that.

It's just Kass messing around, right?

Me: Fine. Next time we meet up, I'll give you five bucks.

Kass: Looking forward to it, rich boy.

I chuckle, tossing my phone onto the couch.

At least one person in this city is normal.

I kick back on the couch, scrolling through my phone with absolutely no responsibilities. No work, no stress, no Batman. Just me, my overpriced phone, and the ability to waste time however I want.

This is nice.

Then, it happens.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

I freeze.

I know exactly what that sound is.

Slowly, I turn my head and stare at the communicator sitting on the table. The one Batman gave me.

The one I have been pretending does not exist.

For a second, I consider ignoring it.

I mean, what's the worst that could happen?

...Okay. No. That's a dangerous question to ask in Gotham.

I picture it. Batman tracking my location. Batman appearing in my apartment window. Batman remotely disabling my bank account because he can probably do that.

I shudder. Fine. I'll answer it.

I snatch it off the table and press the button.

Before I can say anything, Batman's voice comes through, flat and emotionless.

"Car's outside. Get in."

Then the line goes dead.

I blink.

I stare at the communicator.

Then, in pure petty protest, I deepen my voice and mutter:

"Get in the random ass car outside. I'm Batman. I have no social skills."

God I hate that guy.

I groan, dragging myself up from the couch.

I take the elevator down, stepping out onto the sidewalk.

And there it is.

A limousine.

Batman sent a limo.

What, was the Batmobile too dramatic?

The driver's door opens, and a tall, older man in a crisp black suit steps out. His expression is calm, composed, and just the right amount of unimpressed.

I recognize him immediately.

Alfred Pennyworth.

I've never met him in person, but I've always liked Alfred.

He looks me over, nodding. "Master Wayne."

I flinch.

"No."

He raises an eyebrow. "No?"

I cross my arms. "Don't call me that. Not my name."

Alfred doesn't argue. He just inclines his head slightly. "Very well. Master Carter, then."

I hesitate. That's… not as bad.

I sigh. "Fine. That works."

He nods. "Alfred Pennyworth. Butler, confidant, and the one who cleans up after Master Wayne's… endeavors."

Alfred gestures to the limo door. "Shall we?"

I grumble the entire way into the car.

The limo is exactly what I expected. Smooth leather seats, polished wood paneling, the faint scent of something expensive. The kind of luxury I should be impressed by—but I mostly just feel annoyed that Batman is spouting orders at me.

Alfred pulls away from the curb, driving as if this is completely normal.

For a few minutes, it's silent.

Then, Alfred speaks.

"Master Bruce has been rather… sparse on the details regarding your situation."

I blink. Is Alfred making conversation?

I glance at him through the rearview mirror. He looks calm, composed, as if this is just another day at work. But I can tell he's curious.

Batman just added a Wayne out of nowhere, and Alfred is too polite to ask what the hell is going on.

I sigh, shifting in my seat. "Yeah. That makes two of us."

Alfred hums thoughtfully. "I was quite surprised to hear that Master Bruce had… ah, 'acquired' another family member, so to speak."

I groan. "I am not a Wayne."

"Of course, Master Carter."

I squint at him. His tone is neutral, but there's just the faintest trace of amusement.

I cross my arms, staring out the window. "I don't know what he told you, but I'm not some long-lost relative. I don't have some tragic backstory. I'm just… some guy."

Alfred doesn't react immediately. When he finally speaks, his voice is calm, measured.

"I see," he says. "Then I must ask… why did he involve you?"

I don't answer right away.

Not because I don't know, but because I don't like the answer.

I sigh. "Because he doesn't trust me."

Alfred glances at me in the mirror, clearly considering that.

Then, to my surprise, he actually smiles slightly.

Alfred keeps his eyes on the road, but I can tell he's still thinking over what I said.

"You believe that is the only reason?" he asks.

I scoff. "Yeah. What else would it be?"

Alfred doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he takes a slow turn, the city lights flashing past the tinted windows.

"Master Bruce is a complicated man," he finally says. "But his actions, however cold they may seem, are rarely without purpose. If he wished only to keep you contained, he could have done so without granting you a new life."

I roll my eyes. "Oh, yeah, super generous of him. Slaps his name on me, puts me on a leash, and now I get to be useful when he decides I am. Great deal."

Alfred exhales through his nose—not quite a sigh, not quite amusement.

"It is an unfortunate reality that duty often feels like a burden," he says. "Especially when we do not ask for it."

I stiffen slightly. I know exactly what he's referencing.

Batman already gave me his whole 'you have a responsibility to help those who can't help themselves' speech. As if I don't already know I can heal people. As if I don't already know exactly what's expected of me.

I cross my arms, leaning back in the seat. "Right. And let me guess—he thinks I need to be pushed into it."

Alfred is quiet for a moment, and then—to my surprise—he actually chuckles.

"Master Bruce often believes he knows what is best for others," he admits. "And while his wisdom is vast, his bedside manner is… lacking."

I snort. "Yeah. Noticed that, too."

Alfred's expression softens just slightly in the mirror. "But I would caution you, Master Carter. Distrust is easy. It shields us, keeps us from disappointment. But it can also blind us to intentions that may not be as selfish as we assume."

I frown.

Alfred doesn't press any further. He simply drives, letting me sit with my thoughts.

I turn back to the window, watching Gotham blur by.

The city starts fading behind us, the streets thinning out, buildings giving way to long, winding roads surrounded by trees. The atmosphere shifts. Less Gotham, more secluded rich guy retreat.

Then, through the trees, I see it.

Wayne Manor.

Even though I hate everything about this situation, I have to admit… the place is ridiculously impressive.

It's massive, looming over the landscape with old money gothic architecture, giant windows, and probably more rooms than I could ever count. The whole thing radiates power—not in a flashy way, but in an 'I've had money for generations and don't need to prove it' kind of way.

The front gates silently slide open as we pull up the long driveway. Manicured hedges, stone statues, an actual fountain in the front. This place is so rich it hurts.

I'm staring. I know I'm staring.

I force myself to look unimpressed, just on principle.

Alfred, of course, notices.

"Striking, isn't it?" he says, that faint British amusement in his voice.

I shrug. "It's alright."

Alfred definitely knows I'm lying.

He pulls up to the front steps, puts the car in park, and steps out like this is just another Tuesday.

"Right this way, Master Carter."

I grumble under my breath but follow him.

Inside, Wayne Manor is just as ridiculous.

High ceilings, chandeliers, old portraits that probably cost more than my apartment. The whole place is somehow both grand and eerily quiet.

I resist the urge to touch anything, mostly out of spite.

Alfred doesn't lead me to some dramatic meeting room, though. Instead, he walks past the grand staircase, through a side hallway, and into what looks like a study.

Big fireplace. Lots of bookshelves that definitely aren't for show. And against the far wall, an old grandfather clock.

Alfred stops in front of it.

For a second, I think he just got distracted by time.

Then he reaches forward and adjusts the hands to 10:47 PM.

The clock clicks.

Then it swings open like a door.

I blink. "…Seriously?"

Alfred steps aside, gesturing to the stone staircase spiraling downward into darkness.

"After you," he says.

I hesitate, staring at the clearly ominous descent.

This feels like the start of a horror movie.

I shoot Alfred a look. "You sure this isn't a trap?"

He just raises an eyebrow. "If it were, Master Carter, you would have never seen the entrance."

…That's fair.

With a deep sigh of regret, I step forward and start heading down.

The descent is long. The stone steps curve downward, cold air hitting my skin the further we go. The walls are carved rock, dimly lit by industrial lights embedded into the stone.

Then the staircase opens up—

And I see it.

The Batcave.

It's insane. A massive underground cavern filled with more technology than a government facility. Giant computer monitors glow in the distance, crime reports flickering across the screens. Batmobiles are lined up like a freaking showroom. There's even an actual waterfall somewhere deeper in the cave.

I stop at the bottom of the stairs, staring despite myself.

This is Batman's home base. His actual headquarters. The place criminals whisper about, wondering if it even exists.

And I'm just standing here.

I shake off my awe as quickly as possible. No way in hell am I giving Batman the satisfaction.

Alfred steps past me nonchalantly.

"Master Bruce is waiting for you," he says, walking toward the main platform.

I sigh. "Of course he is."

I really should have ignored that call.

The stone staircase keeps going. And going. And going.

I can see the end, but that doesn't make it any closer.

I swear we've been walking for minutes.

I glance at Alfred, who seems completely unbothered. Meanwhile, I'm just trying not to trip and tumble to my death.

"Ever think about installing an elevator?" I mutter.

Alfred doesn't even break stride. "Master Bruce prefers the stairs."

Of course, he does.

Finally, we reach the bottom.

And there he is.

Batman sits in front of the Batcomputer, the glow of the monitors casting his silhouette in peak dramatic lighting. His cape is perfectly draped, his posture straight.

I stand there, waiting for him to say literally anything.

Instead, he just stares at the screens, flipping through WayneTech documents like I'm not even here.

I shift my weight, cross my arms. "You called me all the way out here. You gonna say something, or is this one of those silent intimidation things?"

Finally, he turns.

Because of course, he does.

"Training."

I blink. "What."

Batman stands and walks off without looking back. "Follow me."

I glance at Alfred, who hasn't moved.

And that's when I notice something in the back of the cave.

An elevator.

I stare at it.

I stare at Alfred.

Alfred does not meet my gaze.

I narrow my eyes. "You told me he prefers the stairs."

Alfred adjusts his cuffs. "That he does."

"Uh-huh."

Before I can call him out on his obvious betrayal, Batman disappears into another room.

I sigh and follow, grumbling the entire way.

The room he leads me into is… empty.

It's all white panels, walls blending into the ceiling and floor like some sterile sci-fi nightmare. No equipment, no gear, just unsettling emptiness.

I glance around. "So, what? Is this where you brainwash people?"

Batman does not answer.

Instead, he walks over to a control panel and presses a button.

The floor shifts.

I take a step back as something rises from the ground—a massive treadmill, sleek and high-tech. The kind of thing that looks like it belongs in a top-secret government lab.

I squint at it.

Then at him.

Then back at it.

I cross my arms. "Yeah, no. Not doing anything until you tell me why I'm here."

Batman stares at me.

I stare back.

Silence.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he speaks.

"I need a baseline."

I frown. "Baseline for what?"

Nothing.

I wait.

Nothing.

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "See, this is why no one likes working with you."

Still, I step onto the treadmill.

Because I already know he'll try some shit if I don't.

It hums to life as Batman presses something on the control panel. The belt starts slow at first, so I jog just to play along.

Batman says nothing.

I keep jogging.

He still says nothing.

I glance at him. "You're not even gonna tell me how long I have to do this?"

Nothing.

I roll my eyes and keep going.

A few minutes pass.

Then more.

And more.

And I realize something weird.

I'm not tired.

I should be. I've never been one of those "oh yeah, I run five miles for fun" people. My stamina has always been terrible. But now?

I'm just… not winded. At all.

I frown, glancing down at my feet. I've been running way longer than I should be able to, and my legs don't even feel sore.

Okay. That's weird.

I slow a little, about to step off, but Batman finally speaks.

"Are you winded?"

I blink, looking up. "Uh. No?"

Batman doesn't react. "Then keep going."

I stare at him.

"Yeah, but I don't want to."

Still nothing.

I exhale sharply. "Look, just because I'm not tired doesn't mean I wanna keep running. Especially when I don't know why."

Batman doesn't blink. "Your healing factor is preventing fatigue."

I pause. "…What."

"It is likely that your regenerative ability eliminates lactic acid buildup in your muscles before it can cause exhaustion."

I squint. "You're saying my healing stops me from getting tired?"

"Yes."

I process that. "That feels unfair."

Batman ignores that.

Instead, he presses another button on the control panel. The treadmill speeds up.

I glare at him. "Are you serious?"

He ignores me again. "If you train under these conditions, you will see rapid strength development at a rate faster than normal humans."

I cross my arms while still running. "That was the nerdiest way possible to say 'if you work out, you'll get ripped.'"

Batman just stares.

I groan and keep running.

This was definitely a mistake.

I glance at Batman, who has pulled out a tablet at some point. He's watching it intently, occasionally swiping across the screen.

I narrow my eyes. "What's that?"

"Your vitals."

I blink. "You've been tracking my vitals this whole time?"

"Yes."

I scoff. "That's not creepy at all."

He doesn't even look up. Just keeps staring at the screen like I'm a science project.

I sigh, still running, because apparently, this is my life now.

Eventually, Batman presses something, and the treadmill slows to a stop.

"Are you tired?" he asks.

I wipe nonexistent sweat from my forehead. "Tired of you? Yes."

Batman does not react.

Before I can complain more, I hear footsteps.

Then a voice.

"Hey, I got the recon report from—"

The voice stops.

I turn just as Barbara Gordon walks in like she owns the place.

She's not in costume. Just regular clothes, her red hair loosely flowing. Clearly, she wasn't expecting anyone but Batman.

She's mid-stride, moving toward Batman, but the second her eyes land on me, she freezes.

I stare. She stares.

She immediately raises her hands, trying (and failing) to hide her face.

It's way too late for that.

At least I can stop pretending not to know.

I blink. "Barbara.."

She visibly flinches.

Batman doesn't even look up. "Batgirl, meet Carter."

She slowly lowers her hand, eyes flicking between Batman and me like she's debating whether or not to commit a crime.

I raise an eyebrow. "Wow. You're a terrible spy."

Her jaw clenches.

I can practically see the gears turning in her head.

She's definitely frustrated, but not just because I recognized her.

She remembers our last encounter.

When she, Aqualad, and Wonder Girl beat the shit out of me.

When they kidnapped me because they thought I was Freeze's new sidekick.

When I was extremely sassy during the interrogation.

Fun times.

I smirk, just to be annoying. "Told you I was a hero."

Barbara scoffs immediately. "Oh, please."

Before she can get a real insult in, Batman shuts it down.

"You're not," he says, without even looking up from his tablet. "Not yet."

I narrow my eyes. "Wow. Thanks for the support."

Barbara, however, perks up at that. She smirks like she just won a bet. "See? Even Batman doesn't think you count."

I point at her. "You literally kidnapped me because you thought I was a criminal."

"And I wasn't wrong."

"You were way wrong!"

She rolls her eyes, but there's an edge to it. Like she's both irritated and entertained.

But then, just as quickly, she switches gears. She looks at Batman, her tone much more serious.

"Why is he here?"

Batman barely glances at her. "He's needed."

Barbara does not like that answer.

I can see it all over her face. Not just because it's vague, but because she now has to deal with someone she barely knows knowing her identity.

She crosses her arms, tilting her head at Batman. "And you thought about telling me this… when, exactly?"

"Now," Batman says flatly.

I snort.

Barbara shoots me a look.

I just shrug. "Look, if it makes you feel better, I wasn't gonna say anything about it."

Barbara narrows her eyes. "It dosen't."

I sigh dramatically. "Man, no one ever trusts me."

"Gee, I wonder why," she mutters.

This is already way too fun.

She's gonna hate having me around.

Before Barbara can verbally shank me, Batman flips a switch.

The walls shift again, panels sliding open to reveal rows of weapons.

Blades. Staffs. Grappling hooks. Smoke pellets. All the fun murder-adjacent gadgets Batman hoards like a paranoid dragon.

"Choose anything in the room," he says.

I glance around, rubbing my chin like I'm actually considering it.

Then I pull the pistol from my waistband.

"Got mine already."

Batman stops moving.

Slowly, he turns to face me, and I can already tell I have activated the Bat Lecture.

His voice is even flatter than usual. "No guns."

I raise an eyebrow. "What?"

"No guns," he repeats. "Ever."

I blink. "Are you—" I gesture vaguely at the armory. "You literally have bat-shaped throwing knives that explode."

"That is different."

I scoff. "Oh, is it?"

Barbara groans, already sensing where this is going.

But it's too late.

I cross my arms. "Listen, buddy. I'm an American. It is my God-given right to defend myself with a firearm. It is in the Constitution."

Batman stares.

Barbara rubs her temples. "Oh my God."

I keep going. "You expect me to run around Gotham unarmed? Have you seen this city?"

Batman says nothing.

So obviously, I keep talking.

"You know what stops a bad guy with a gun? A good guy with a gun. That's just basic logic. I don't make the rules. The Founding Fathers do."

Batman continues to say nothing.

Barbara looks like she wants to correct me on something, but chooses not to get involved.

"And another thing—" I start.

Batman cuts me off.

"You're not carrying a gun."

"Why not?"

Batman steps forward, looking directly at me. His voice is low, measured.

"Because when you pick up a gun, you stop thinking."

I pause.

Not because I agree, but because that was a very dramatic way to say that.

I tilt my head. "Yeah, that sounds like something a guy with ninja training would say."

Barbara throws her hands up like she physically cannot deal with this conversation anymore.

Batman, stone-faced as ever, just gestures to the weapon racks again.

"Pick something else."

I sigh dramatically but tuck the gun back into my waistband.

"Fine. But just so we're clear, I'm not getting rid of it."

Batman says nothing.

I press on. "I'm serious. I won't use it unless it's a last resort, but I'm not gonna pretend this city isn't full of psychos who can eat a punch to the face like spaghetti."

Batman is still silent.

I roll my eyes. "Cool. Glad we had this conversation."

Barbara mutters, "This is actually going to kill me."

I ignore her and turn back to the weapons, actually considering them.

I scan the weapon racks, actually giving it some thought this time.

I need something useful—something that works with my abilities.

Because unlike everyone else in this cave, I have options.

Batman, Barbara, the other caped lunatics—they have to pull their punches. I don't.

If I hit too hard? I can fix it.
If I mess someone up? I can undo it.
That means I can afford to go a little harder than the average Gotham vigilante.

I eye a staff, but I don't really see myself flipping around like Nightwing. I glance at a pair of escrima sticks, but those seem pretty useless in a fight.

Then my eyes land on something beautiful.

Something stupid.

It's… a metal baseball bat.

And engraved on the side, in tiny but unmistakable letters…

"Bat Bat."

I pick it up immediately.

Barbara groans. "No."

I turn to Batman, dead serious. "This is the greatest weapon ever made."

Batman stares at me.

I test the weight. It's actually pretty solid. I don't know what it's made of, but it feels like it could crack a rib without even trying.

"I love this," I say, giving it an experimental swing. "This is the peak of human innovation."

"Your not using The Bat Bat," Batman says, like he is personally offended.

I squint at him. "You named it The Bat Bat."

"I did not name it."

"Yeah, well, someone did, and they deserve a raise."

Barbara rubs her temples. "Oh my God."

But as much as I love the sheer idiocy of The Bat Bat, I think about it a little longer.

A blunt weapon like this relies on power. Raw strength.

And, uh. I don't really have that.

Batman punches through walls. Nightwing has acrobat muscles. Red Hood is basically a tank.

Me?

I've been living off dollar-menu cheeseburgers for way longer than I've been in superhero land.

Even if my healing keeps me from getting tired, I don't have the raw force to make a blunt weapon worth it.

I sigh and reluctantly put the Bat Bat back.

Instead, my eyes land on something simpler.

A plain, double-edged sword.

No fancy tech. No retractable blades. Just a sword.

I pick it up, testing the weight. It's light, sharp, and balanced.

And best of all? It gives me options.

I don't have to swing like a madman. I can control my cuts, adjust my force, use precision instead of raw strength.

I turn to Batman. "I'll take this one."

He nods slightly. "Good choice."

Barbara gestures wildly. "You're actually giving him a sword?"

Batman does not respond.

I smirk. "What, you scared?"

Barbara glares. "No, just preparing to be deeply frustrated when you inevitably do something stupid with it."

"Joke's on you," I say, sheathing the sword. "I do stupid things regardless of weapon choice."

Her eye twitches.

This is so much fun.

 

[RandomAnon37]

Top tier story, Poor dude is going to be obliviously breaking their norms causing fun reactions all around.
We will be following your career with great interest.

 

[MaimakteriAnn]

He's very fun and clever a lot.

But also sometimes he is so unthinkably stupid. I couldn't do that bad a job selling a freeze gun to Bruce Wayne if i literally rolled a d20 to decide what i was saying every sentence.

EDUT: Having had time to sleep, now im adding my thoughts about the gender reversal. It's ok, you're treating it a little simplistically by essentially writing normal female experiences and swapping pronouns and descriptions.

The concept could be stronger and more incisive if you gave each gender stereotypes related to their actual attributes, and interpreted them reversed instead. Dont make all the construction workers women, make them men, but replace the history of valorisation with the way our culture considers house cleaning to be "a woman's job".

"Women are doctors, men are nurses, because men are too dainty for the academic rigor and emotional strain of losing patients" = fine, I guess. Plain he for she.
"Women are doctors, men are orderlies, because the big meatheads are useful for their size and mass, so they never bother to learn real science" = a parallel of real stereotypes that inverts the attitudes between sexes and illustrates the themes clearly.

Instead of swapping he for she, swap attitudes toward productive and reproductive labour. "He gets to spend his day out with mates, basically just lifting. Meanwhile she's putting in the hard graft of educating the next workforce."

 

[WiseGuy]

I don't get a real chance to admire my new sword.

Because the second I finish my little victory over Barbara, Batman presses another button.

The room shifts again. The weapons slide away, the walls rearrange themselves, and suddenly—

I'm standing in what looks like a sparring arena.

I squint. "Oh no."

Batman, of course, does not acknowledge my distress. He just steps onto the mat calmly, like this is just another day of emotionally scarring his students.

"Stand across from me," he says.

I do not move.

"Uh," I say, pointing at the sword in my hands. "Just so I'm clear, I don't actually know how to use this."

"That will change."

I stare at him. "See, that sounds like you're gonna teach me."

"I am."

"Right, but like, with words, right? Not with—"

Before I can finish, Batman moves.

I barely see it.

One second, he's standing there, all broody and dramatic. The next, he closes the distance in a blink.

I don't even have time to process what's happening before his fist slams into my ribs.

Hard.

Pain explodes through my ribs.

I don't even process what's happening before I'm on the ground, gasping.

There's no mat. No soft padding. Just cold, unforgiving stone.

I choke out a pained wheeze. "You—" I push myself up. "You absolute—" I clutch my side. "Psychopath!"

Batman does not care.

He just looks down at me, like this is a normal part of his day.

"Get up."

I do not want to.

But the alternative is getting hit again while I'm down, so I scramble to my feet.

I grip my sword tightly, holding it up. "I thought you were gonna teach me!"

"I am," Batman says. "You learn best under pressure."

I stare. "I disagree!"

"Raise your guard."

"I don't know how!"

Batman moves again.

I panic-swing my sword.

He dodges easily, steps in, and slams his fist into my gut.

I collapse immediately.

I curl up on the ground, groaning. "What the hell, man?"

Batman waits.

I wheeze, rolling onto my back. My body already starts healing, the pain fading almost instantly. But that does not make this okay.

I sit up, pointing at him accusingly. "You're just beating the shit out of me!"

Batman nods. "Yes."

"That's not training!"

"Yes, it is."

I gawk at him.

Barbara, who is standing off to the side, crosses her arms. "I mean… technically, it is."

I glare at her. "You are not helping."

She shrugs. "Look, it worked for me."

"Yeah, because you're a crazy person!"

Batman does not wait for me to recover.

He moves again, forcing me to scramble back to my feet.

"Grip higher," he instructs, while actively trying to hit me. "Angle the blade."

I try. I really do. But I am a complete novice, and I learn very slowly when actively getting punched in the ribs.

I swing again.

Batman counters instantly. He uses the guards on his gaunlets to grab the blade, twists my arm, and slams me back onto the floor.

I groan. "I hate this. I hate this so much."

"You're improving," Batman says.

I don't believe you.

He waits.

I sigh, forcing myself to stand up again.

My body is fine. My bones are healed. But my soul is exhausted.

Batman watches me carefully. "Again."

I want to die.

I keep trying.

Not because I want to, but because every time I hit the floor, Batman waits.

And if I don't get up fast enough, he starts moving again.

So I keep getting up. Keep getting hit. Keep getting knocked on my ass every single time.

And despite my instant healing, it still hurts.

There's no lightness. No kind words. Just stone tiles and Batman's absolute lack of concern for my well-being.

Eventually, I stop thinking.

I stop trying to use technique.

I stop worrying about my stance.

At first, I was scared.

Then I was annoyed.

Now?

I just want to stab this stupid billionaire in his stupid bat face.

But It doesn't matter.

Batman dodges effortlessly, every single time.

He barely even moves. Just sidesteps, counters, and knocks me down again.

I hit the floor for the twentieth time.

Or maybe the fiftieth. I've lost count.

I lay there, flat on my back, staring at the ceiling.

Batman waits.

I count the tiles on the ceiling.

"Get up," he says.

I close my eyes. "Nah."

There's a pause.

"Get up."

I open one eye. "You gonna hit me again?"

"Yes."

I sigh. "Then I'm good."

Another pause.

Barbara snorts.

Batman steps closer. "Carter."

I stretch my arms out across the cold stone floor. "I'm a grown-ass man, Batman. You can't make me."

"You are lying on the floor."

"Yup."

"Like a child."

"Yup."

Batman stares.

I wait. Fully committed to dying on this floor.

I don't care what lesson he's trying to teach me. I have free will. And I am choosing to stay right here.

Eventually, he moves.

But instead of trying to kick me up, he walks over to a nearby storage compartment, pulls something out, and tosses it onto my chest.

I flinch slightly, then look down.

It's… a mask.

A really ugly mask.

It's a comedy mask, like one of those old Greek theater ones—but really bad.

The exaggerated smile is too wide, the eye holes are slightly uneven, and the paint is chipped in places, revealing old, yellowed material underneath.

It looks like something a failed clown would wear during a bank heist.

I pick it up between two fingers, disgusted. "What the hell is this?"

Batman, in his perfectly serious Bat-voice, just says:

"Your new disguise."

I sit up, holding it up to the light. "Okay, first of all, no. Second of all, why does it look haunted?"

Barbara peeks over my shoulder and grimaces. "Ugh. That thing is horrible."

Batman does not acknowledge the criticism.

I squint at him. "Did you pull this out of a dumpster?"

Barbara snickers.

Batman doesn't flinch. "You need a disguise. This will do."

I hold it up next to his perfectly crafted, high-tech, multi-million dollar Bat-cowl.

Then I look back at my discount party store nightmare.

I sigh, shaking my head. "Unbelievable."

Batman doesn't respond. He just watches, waiting for me to put the mask on like I'm supposed to accept this monstrosity without question.

I toss it onto the floor next to me instead.

"Yeah, that's gonna be a hard pass," I mutter, still sitting there.

"You'll need it," he says simply.

I squint. "For what? Haunting a Chuck E. Cheese?"

He does not dignify that with a response. Instead, he turns and starts walking.

I frown, watching him go. And then I realize—

He's walking toward the Batmobile.

I immediately scramble to my feet.

Is it still bait if you really want it?

Barbara groans. "You're so predictable."

I do not care.

I rush past her, already following Batman to the sleek, absolutely gorgeous jet-black machine that is the Batmobile.

Because listen.

I hate that he's been kicking my ass all night.

I hate that he's making me train.

I hate that he gave me a haunted nightmare mask.

But this?

This is the Batmobile.

And I'm about to ride in it.

The Batmobile Experience™

The closer I get, the more details I notice.

The armor plating.

The custom engine, humming like a caged animal.

The cockpit-style interior, filled with buttons I absolutely should not touch.

I slide into the passenger seat like I belong there.

"Wow," I say, running my hand over the dashboard. "This is actually pretty nice. Was expecting more 'haunted Victorian orphanage' aesthetic based on your whole deal, but this is sleek."

Batman ignores me.

I keep going. "You ever let Robin drive this? Oh wait, you've had like twelve of those, right?"

Nothing.

I press my luck. "Does this thing have cup holders, or do you just stare menacingly at your coffee until it disappears?"

Batman, still ignoring me, starts the car.

The engine roars to life.

I grin, leaning back, pleased with myself.

Then the car jolts forward at a speed that should not be legal.

I yell, grabbing onto the sides.

"OKAY, COOL, GUESS WE'RE JUST GONNA HIT MACH SPEED IMMEDIATELY."

Batman does not acknowledge my terror.

I swear, he floors it even harder.

The cave exit blurs past us, and suddenly, we're out in the city, weaving through Gotham's streets like traffic laws don't exist.

For the first few minutes, I'm too busy holding on for dear life to question anything.

But once I adjust to the death trap on wheels, I start to notice something.

We're heading deeper into the city.

I frown.

"Uh," I say, glancing at him. "Not to sound ungrateful, because this is the coolest thing that's ever happened to me, but… where exactly are we going?"

Batman does not answer.

I sit up straighter. "Hey, wait. Are you—" I look at the passing street signs. "Are you taking me to fight crime? Cuz I might not die, but getting hurt hurts. I'm not tanking a bullet for somebody just because I can."

Nothing.

Just driving.

I squint.

This can't be good.

We pull up in front of Gotham General Hospital.

I stare at the building, then at Batman.

Then back at the ugly mask still sitting in my lap.

Batman is already getting out of the car.

I hesitate, gripping the mask like it might bite me. "Do I really have to wear this?"

"Yes."

I groan. "This thing looks like a haunted porcelain doll that saw too much at an orgy."

Batman does not care.

I exhale sharply and reluctantly put it on. The inside feels weirdly smooth and sturdy, but I still hate it.

I pull the hood of my hoodie up over it, making myself look as unrecognizable as possible.

Batman, already walking toward the entrance, does not check to see if I'm following.

I am, but only because I have no idea what's going on.

The moment we step inside, I get the distinct feeling that Batman is not actually supposed to be here.

Like, legally.

But nobody stops him.

No doctors question him. No nurses look surprised. Even the security guards don't make a move.

They just watch him pass.

Which is insane.

"Are we—" I lower my voice. "Are we allowed to be here?"

Batman does not answer.

I glance around. Not a single person gets close. Some even go out of their way to avoid crossing his path.

I lean in slightly. "Is this, like, a normal thing? Do hospitals just let you stroll in like you own the place?"

Batman still does not answer.

He just walks.

Like he already knows exactly where to go.

I sigh and follow.

We move past hallways lined with beds, patients sleeping or recovering. Some hooked up to IVs, others with injuries that look bad.

Then Batman stops.

I glance at the room in front of us.

He doesn't speak right away, but I can already tell this is what he came for.

Then, finally—

"A week ago," he says, voice even, "Joker detonated an explosive in a residential building. A woman in the apartment adjacent to the blast was caught in the fire."

His tone is clinical. Precise. No emotion.

Like he's recounting evidence, not describing a person's suffering.

Then, without waiting, he walks inside.

I hesitate for half a second before stepping in after him.

Inside, a woman—early thirties, dark hair, olive skin—is lying in the hospital bed. She looks half-awake, groggy, probably from pain meds.

And she's badly hurt.

Her right arm is missing past the elbow, bandaged up but clearly fresh. Her left side is covered in burn scars, some old, some new.

I stare, my gut twisting.

She blinks at Batman, then at me, her expression wary.

"Batman," she mutters, her voice raspy. "Didn't know you made house calls."

Batman, of course, says nothing.

He just looks at me.

And suddenly, I realize why we're here.

I feel my stomach drop.

Oh.

Oh, hell.

My hands clench and unclench as I glance between him and the woman.

He doesn't say it outright. Doesn't tell me what to do.

He just waits.

Because we both know what I can do.

I glance at the woman again. She looks tired. Not just in the way of someone recovering from serious injuries, but in the way of someone who's been through it.

I exhale through my nose and step closer, pulling up a chair beside the bed.

She shifts slightly, eyeing me warily.

I don't say what I'm actually here for. Because I don't know if this will even work, and I'm not about to give her false hope.

So instead, I keep my voice even. "Just wanna check your injuries."

She gives me a look, like she doesn't quite buy that, but she doesn't stop me.

I glance at Batman, who is watching way too closely.

Then, carefully, I reach out and rest my hand over the burns on her arm.

It happens instantly this time.

That now-familiar warmth rushes from my fingers, sinking into her skin. The burns—raw, uneven patches of scar tissue—start fading, softening, smoothing out.

Her breathing hitches.

I focus, pressing my palm against her forearm. I don't think, I just push.

The scars melt away, skin knitting itself back together as if the injuries were never there.

I feel it happening, like I'm taking something a step back, back to the way it was supposed to be.

The pain lines in her face ease. The tightness in her expression relaxes.

Then—

I feel something else.

A sort of barrier.

A block.

I don't know what it is, but I can push against it.

So, I do.

Softly. Just a little.

Beneath my hand, something stirs.

I feel muscle shift, stretch.

It's slow, foreign, wrong—but also right.

The rounded stump of her arm twitches. Skin ripples. Beneath it, something presses outward, like it's trying to form, like it's responding to me.

And then—

The bone starts to grow.

It pushes forward in small, uneven increments, white slivers pressing against the skin before it stretches to accommodate it. Ligaments and tendons knit themselves together, muscle creeping along the new framework like vines growing over a trellis.

It's slow. It's raw.

And then—

She wrenches her hand away.

She stares, wide-eyed, at what's left of her arm—still incomplete, flesh outreached.

Her breath comes quick, uneven.

She looks up at me, then at Batman, then back at her arm.

I rub the back of my neck. "Uh."

She swallows thickly. "What—" She stops, shakes her head. "What the fuck did you just do to me?"

I glance at Batman, who is watching intently, then back at her.

I exhale, holding up my hands. "Okay. So. First of all, I probably should've warned you."

She gawks. "Probably?!"

"Second of all," I continue, ignoring the panic, "I'm… a healer. I guess. That—maybe—might be able to regrow limbs."

She stares at me like I just said I can breathe fire.

Batman, meanwhile, says nothing.

I sigh, gesturing at her half-formed arm. "Look, my powers are new. I don't know how they work. But it feels like… I don't know. Like I can do this. Like it's possible."

She doesn't respond immediately.

Then, slowly, she turns her wide, shaken eyes toward Batman.

"You brought him here," she says, almost accusing.

Batman, in classic Batman fashion, simply responds:

"Yes."

That's it.

That's all he says.

She looks at me again, disbelief still plain on her face. "You're telling me you can regrow my arm?"

I rub my neck. "Uh. Maybe?"

A long, heavy silence.

Then, quietly, she asks:

"…What's your name?"

I blink.

Oh. Right. I have a creepy haunted mask on.

"Uh." I glance at Batman. "Do I use a code name, or…?"

He doesn't answer.

Great. Helpful.

I sigh. If I'm doing this whole 'mystery vigilante' thing, I might as well go all in.

"Vive," I say.

She squints at me. "Vive?"

"Yeah." I shift a little, scratching the back of my neck. "Y'know. Like 'revive'? But shorter. Also, it sounds cool."

She raises an eyebrow. "You picked that yourself, didn't you?"

"Absolutely."

She exhales sharply, almost amused—almost. Then she looks back at her half-formed arm.

"Its Elena." She says in a pondering tone.

Her expression turns more serious.

"So." She swallows, voice lower, more controlled. "You think you can finish it?"

I hesitate. "I think so."

Elena studies me carefully, like she's trying to figure out if I'm full of shit.

Then, finally, she begrudgingly extends her arm again.

"But if you try anything without asking," she says, dead serious, "I'm gonna kick your ass."

I nod immediately. "You got it boss."

Elena extends her arm, jaw tight, eyes locked on me like I might screw this up at any second.

Which, honestly? Fair.

I rest my hand over the unfinished limb, skin still uneven, tissue still raw and forming.

The moment I make contact, that warmth surges again.

I push.

The barrier—that invisible block I felt earlier—is still there, but I know how to press against it now.

So I do, a little harder this time.

And the arm starts growing again.

The exposed bone creeps forward, inch by inch, pale and wet like something freshly unearthed. It extends further, then stops.

Then the rest follows.

Thin cords of muscle wind around it, stretching, knitting themselves together in waves. Tendons snap into place, some of them twitching like they're testing their own movement.

Skin forms last.

It spreads slowly, unevenly, pulling itself over the raw tissue, sealing everything in. The color is a little off at first, like fresh scar tissue, but then it settles, taking on the same natural tone as the rest of her arm.

And then—

She moves it.

Before it's even fully finished, her fingers—still partially forming—twitch.

Elena freezes.

I watch as her expression shifts, her brain clearly trying to process what she just did.

Carefully, like she doesn't fully believe it, she lifts her half-formed hand, curling the fingers experimentally.

Her breath shudders.

I don't say anything. I just focus.

The last of the tissue finishes forming, the skin finally sealing.

And then, just like that—

It's done.

The Aftermath

I exhale and pull my hand away.

Elena stares at her arm, flexing her fingers, pressing her palm against the sheets, turning it over like she can't quite convince herself it's real.

I don't blame her.

Then—

I sway slightly.

It's not much, but I feel it. A sudden, unexpected drop in energy.

My breathing is a little heavier.

I blink a few times, adjusting.

And of course, Batman notices.

"Are you alright?" His voice is sharp, assessing.

I hold up a finger, still catching my breath. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine."

"You hesitated."

I roll my eyes. "I just regrew an entire arm. Give me a second."

Batman does not look convinced.

I shake my head. "Seriously. I'm good. Just—" My stomach growls violently.

I blink.

Oh.

I'm just hungry.

"Okay, never mind." I lean back in my chair. "Apparently, healing just makes me starve immediately. Cool. Good to know."

Elena finally looks away from her arm, raising an eyebrow. "You didn't know that before now?"

"Lady, I didn't even know I could do this."

Elena snorts, shaking her head like she can't believe she's talking to me.

But she doesn't look annoyed anymore.

Instead, she stretches her new arm out, rolling her wrist, flexing her fingers. Testing everything.

And then, just as casually, she punches me in the arm.

I blink.

"Ow?"

"That's for not telling me what you were doing," she says.

I rub my arm, even though it didn't actually hurt. "Okay, well, maybe warn me before you start hitting people with your brand-new, recently gifted arm."

She smirks. "Feels pretty solid, huh?"

I squint at her. "You bully all of your saviors?"

She shrugs, looking way too pleased as she keeps moving her arm, testing every little motion like it's the best thing that's ever happened to her.

Which, you know. Fair.

But before I can get too full of myself, Batman turns and starts walking toward the door.

"Let's go."

I blink. "Wait, already?"

Batman does not slow down.

I glance at Elena, who is still very focused on her arm.

"You're just gonna let him boss you around like that?" she teases.

I sigh. "Apparently."

She smirks. "Well, if you're ever near Gotham Tower Apartments, come say hi. Preferably when I don't look like I just crawled out of a morgue."

I grin. "Yeah, yeah. Try not to get exploded again."

She snorts, amused.

And with that, I reluctantly follow Batman out the door.

The drive back is silent.

I think about what just happened. About what I just did.

I just regrew a whole arm.

That's insane.

And for once, Batman doesn't say anything. No lectures. No 'you have a duty' speech. Just… silence.

Which, honestly? Weirdly unsettling.

When we finally get back to the Batcave, I half expect him to start training again.

Instead, he leaves.

Just walks off without another word.

Which, whatever. Fine. I'm too hungry to care anyway.

Luckily, Alfred is already waiting.

And because he is the only decent person in this cave, he takes one look at me and immediately asks if I need anything.

I do.

I'm half-joking when I ask for Lobster Thermidor.

I don't expect Alfred to actually make it.

But he does.

And when I take the first bite—

I forget everything.

The exhaustion. The pain. The fact that Batman spent the last two hours using me as a human punching bag.

It's all worth it.

I groan. "Alfred, this is the best thing I've ever eaten."

Alfred smiles politely. "I'm pleased to hear that, Master Carter."

I pause mid-chew.

"Okay, but actually, I might die if I don't get more of this."

Alfred just chuckles.

---

After finishing the life-changing Lobster Thermidor, I lounge in my chair for a solid ten minutes, just digesting.

Then, because I have nothing better to do, I decide to wander the manor.

And, more specifically, mess with Bruce's stuff.

Look, I don't know what I'm expecting to find. Maybe something ridiculous. Maybe something that makes him seem like a real person instead of a brooding cryptid that lives in a cave.

Instead, I settle for being annoying.

I flip random books upside down on the shelves.

I uncenter a few paintings by an inch, just enough that someone with OCD would suffer.

I move one chair in the parlor slightly out of alignment.

I don't know why this is so funny to me. Maybe because it's the least threatening way to rebel against Batman. Maybe because I know he'll notice immediately.

Or maybe I'm just petty like that.

Either way, it's deeply satisfying.

At least, until he finds me.

I'm in the middle of flipping another book, smirking to myself, when—

"You're weak."

I yelp and nearly drop the book.

I turn to see Batman standing in the doorway, arms crossed, face completely unreadable.

I squint at him. "You creep up on people like that on purpose, don't you?"

He ignores me. "You lost stamina after regenerating a single limb."

I blink. "Okay? And? I still did it."

"Your abilities are unreliable."

I scoff. "They're better than what you can do."

Batman narrows his eyes.

For a second, I think I finally pissed him off.

Then, in classic Batman fashion.

"We'll be testing them every day from now on."

I freeze. "Wait, what?"

"You'll heal. Every day. Until they improve."

I let out a long, slow sigh.

"Yeah, I kinda figured."

Batman just stares. Probably waiting for me to argue, like an idiot.

But honestly? At this point, I know better.

Of course, he's gonna use me as a science experiment. Of course, I'm gonna be subjected to daily healing trials.

This is Batman.

He doesn't do things halfway.

I rub my face. "So what, I just wake up and show up at the Batcave like it's my day job now?"

"You'll be called when needed."

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, of course. Because it's not creepy at all that you can call me whenever you want."

Batman does not care.

Instead, he shifts slightly, like he's already mentally moving on.

"Training is done for today. I have to check on some suspicious activity at Wayne Tech," he says, completely serious.

I blink. "Cool. Good luck with that."

Batman just nods. Like he needed my approval.

Then, without even looking at me—

"Alfred will take you home."

And just like that, he leaves.

No goodbye. No further instructions.

Just vanishes into the manor like a cryptid.

A few minutes later, I'm back in one of Wayne's too-fancy cars, riding in the back while Alfred drives like this is completely normal.

The manor fades behind us, disappearing into the distance.

I sink into my seat, rubbing my face.

"Long night, Master Carter?" Alfred asks, amusement clear in his voice.

I let out a groan. "Man, I am already sick of Batman's extracurriculars."

Alfred chuckles. "You wouldn't be the first."

I glance at him. "So, uh… how long before he stops being weird and scary about all this?"

Alfred smiles politely. "I'm afraid I wouldn't know. I have yet to see that day myself."

I snort.

By the time Alfred drops me off at my building, it's past midnight.

The lobby is mostly empty, the kind of quiet that makes the whole place feel bigger than it really is. I step into the elevator, watching the floors tick up, and lean against the wall.

I'm home.

Not a shelter.

Not a cot in some overcrowded room.

Not Batman's punching bag dungeon.

Just my place.

The apartment is still as nice as I remember. Spacious, modern, clean. The couch in the living room looks ridiculously comfortable.

I sigh, tossing my hoodie onto the armrest.

And then, because my brain just now catches up, I realize something.

I have no blankets. No pillows. No bed.

The apartment came with a couch, some dressers and that's it.

I groan, rubbing my face.

Technically, I don't have to sleep.

It's weird, but ever since I got dumped into Gotham, I don't get tired like I used to. My body never feels worn down or sluggish. I don't get that heavy-eyed, dead-on-my-feet exhaustion.

But.

I like sleeping.

So, I do.

Even if I don't need it, even if it doesn't feel like my body's demanding it, it's still nice.

Still normal.

I sigh, pulling out my phone.

I flop onto the couch, scrolling mindlessly.

I check the news. More Gotham nonsense.

I check the weather. Rain. Again. Obviously.

I check my texts. Kass messaged me twice more.

Kass: Dude. U still alive?

Kass: I take it back if ur dead. Don't haunt me.

I smirk, tapping out a reply.

Me: Yeah, I'm alive. Just busy.

Kass responds immediately.

Kass: Wow. Rude.
Kass: What, you get a fancy new phone and suddenly forget your fast food roots?

I snort.

Me: Never. WcDonald's will always haunt me.

She sends back a string of laughing emojis, then:

Kass: Good. Anyway, when r u free?

I hesitate.

I don't actually know when I'm free. Batman has made it very clear that he can call me at any time for his mandatory healing science fair project.

But Kass doesn't need to know that.

Me: I'll let you know. Things are kinda weird right now.

Kass: You're weird.

I grin.

Me: You're stuck with me anyway.

Kass doesn't respond immediately.

Then:

Kass: Yeah, yeah. Get some sleep.

I don't bother answering.

Instead, I lock my phone and toss it onto the rug.

I settle into the couch.

It's comfortable.

But also… not bed-level comfortable.

I groan, dragging a hand down my face.

I should've stopped at a store before coming back. Could've grabbed blankets. A pillow. Literally anything.

Instead, I have nothing.

The cushions are a little stiff, but I'll live.

I roll onto my side, staring at the ceiling.

I sigh, letting my eyes drift shut.

And even though I don't need to sleep, I do.

Because I like it.

Because it still feels human.

---

I wake up to sunlight streaming through the windows.

For a second, I just lay there, disoriented.

Then I remember—right. I have an apartment now.

It's still a little weird, having my own space again.

I sit up, stretching, and immediately notice a problem.

I have nothing.

No food.
No toiletries.
No dishes.

I literally just moved in and somehow forgot all the things that make a place livable.

I sigh. Guess I'm going shopping.

The nearest supermarket isn't too far, so I just walk it.

The whole time, I keep mentally listing off what I need:

Toothpaste. (I forgot this at least three times while thinking about it.)

Toothbrush. (Kinda need this to go with the toothpaste.)

Plates and utensils. (Because eating everything with my hands is not ideal.)

Food. (Obviously.)

Glasses. (Not prescription—just a few cheap ones for water.)

I wander the aisles, grabbing what I need and trying not to get distracted.

It's honestly kind of nice to just do something normal. No Batman, no hospitals, just errands.

Then, as I'm looking at different brands of coffee, I hear:

"Hey, cutie."

I glance over.

A woman, mid-twenties, confident smile, leaning on her cart like she owns the place.

I blink. "Oh. Uh. Thanks?"

She tilts her head. "You live around here?"

"Yeah, just moved in." I gesture vaguely. "Getting my place set up."

She smirks. "Bet it looks nice with you in it."

I shrug. "Yeah, it's not bad."

She laughs, shaking her head. "You're adorable."

"Uh. Cool?"

I have no idea what's happening.

She just gives me one last look, then winks and pushes her cart away.

I watch her go, completely confused.

Huh. That was nice.

People in this neighborhood are pretty friendly.

By the time I check out, I realize my mistake.

I bought way too much stuff.

I struggle to carry all the bags, arms full, barely managing to get a grip on everything.

I must look ridiculous.

I sigh, adjusting my grip as I walk back toward my apartment.

At least I'm in a good area now.

Still...

I shrug.

If anyone jumps me, I'll just pull my pistol on them.

It's worked pretty well so far.

But for once, nobody tries to rob me.

It's weird.

Kinda nice, though.

Maybe this whole "not living in a crime-ridden hellscape" thing is actually working out.

---

Getting back to my apartment is one thing.

Getting all these bags up to my place is another.

The elevator ride is awkward. I keep shifting my grip, trying not to drop anything, while an older woman watches me with mild amusement.

"You need help, dear?" she asks, lips twitching.

I grunt. "Nope. Got it."

She just hums knowingly.

When the elevator dings open, I awkwardly shuffle out, bags dangling from my fingers.

By the time I get to my door, I'm seriously regretting my life choices.

I fumble for my keys, nearly drop a bag, somehow manage to get inside, and then—

Finally.

I dump everything onto the kitchen counter with a heavy sigh.

I take my time, sorting everything.

Food goes in the fridge and cabinets. Plates and utensils go in the drawers. Toiletries go in the bathroom.

The whole process is weirdly satisfying.

I haven't had my own place to stock up in a long time.

I pause for a second, just looking around.

Yeah. This is nice.

Then I remember—

I wasn't able to brush my teeth this morning, or floss and brush last night.

It's the one thing I usually do every day.

I grab my brand-new toothbrush and toothpaste, head to the bathroom, and get to work.

The first brushstroke is heaven.

I didn't even realize how much I dislike dirty teeth.

After a solid two minutes of aggressive scrubbing, I rinse and finally exhale in relief.

I stare at myself in the mirror, toothpaste still faintly minty in my mouth.

"Look at that," I mutter. "You're a real person again."

After brushing my teeth, I flop onto my couch and pull out my phone.

I idly wonder what's been going on in the superhero world.

I start scrolling through news articles, half-interested, half-killing time.

And then I see a headline.

"Superman Disarms the World's Nukes"

I frown, clicking on the article.

Apparently, every country on Earth agreed to nuclear disarmament, and Superman personally oversaw the process, ensuring every single nuke was decommissioned.

I blink.

Didn't that cause problems?

I swear I remember something about that going badly.

Somehow it screws us over.

I rack my brain, but I can't quite place it.

It's been years since I last watched Justice League.

Eh. Probably fine.

I back out of the article and keep scrolling.

I search for Wayne Tech, remembering Batman said he was checking on something there last night.

And sure enough, I find something weird.

"Wayne Tech Deep Space Communications Center Destroyed"

I sit up a little.

The article says that a radio telescope at Wayne Tech's Deep Space Communications Center was completely destroyed.

The kind of telescope used for deep-space signal tracking.

I frown.

Wait a minute.

That sounds familiar.

I stare at my screen.

Wayne Tech's radio telescope. Destroyed.

Fuck.

In Justice League, that's how the invasion started.

I squint at my phone.

Aliens are going to attack, aren't they?

And not just any aliens.

The really tough ones.

The tall, building sized, white biomech-looking guys.

I let out a slow breath.

"Huh."

Then, after a pause—

"Yeah, that's not great."

I stare at my phone for a long moment, then glance at the communicator Batman gave me.

I could call him.

Tell him about the alien invasion that's totally about to happen.

But then… how do I explain it?

If I just say it outright— "Hey, Batman, I just magically know that aliens are gonna attack,"—he'll start asking questions.

Questions I do not want to answer.

The more people that know about future knowledge, the less useful it becomes.

I frown. Maybe if I claimed I got a tip?

No, he'd want details.

Maybe I could say aliens attacked in a similar way on my Earth?

No, that'd just make him want more information.

I sigh, rubbing my face. Okay, focus.

What's the actual important thing here?

Does anyone die?

I try to remember.

It's hazy.

I remember the invasion. The weird biomech alien warriors. The Justice League forming.

But I don't remember if they solved it without any civies dying.

That's probably… not great.

I sigh again, tapping my fingers against the couch.

Batman needs to know.

But I am not explaining how I know.

And I am definitely not telling him in person.

Because that is terrifying.

I grab the communicator.

And after one last internal debate, I press the call button.

The communicator rings exactly once.

Then—

"What."

I flinch.

He answered immediately.

Jesus.

I clear my throat. "Uh. Hey. It's me."

"I know."

Great. Love that.

I take a breath. "Listen, I, uh… I have reason to believe aliens are gonna attack."

Silence.

Then—

"Explain."

I shift uncomfortably. "Can't."

Silence again.

It stretches just long enough that I start regretting this.

Finally, Batman breaks it.

"What do you know?"

I exhale.

"I know their entrance. The radio telescope getting destroyed? That's how it starts. Then they like, hatch out of meteors that crash down. Their… biomechanical, uh, vessels are tall as buildings, white, way durable, like superman durable. And they don't come alone. When they invade, they bring a full force."

Another pause.

Then—

"How certain are you?"

I hesitate.

Then, finally:

"like ninety-fiveish?"

I hear something on the other end.

Not words.

Just movement.

Like he's already getting ready for something.

"Where are you."

I blink. "Uh. My apartment?"

"Stay there."

And then—

The line goes dead.

I stare at the communicator.

Then, after a moment—

I sigh.

"Yeah, that's about what I expected."

This is exactly what I didn't want to happen.

Now Batman's probably in full paranoia mode, already running his insane detective brain at 500 miles per hour, and I'm gonna have to deal with him in person.

I let out a slow breath, trying to stay calm.

But the waiting eats at me.

Every passing minute, my anxiety ramps up.

Is he bringing backup? Is he gonna drag me to the Batcave for questioning?

I check my phone. Nothing.

I check the window. Nothing.

I run a hand through my hair. Why is this taking so long?

Then—

"Carter."

I flinch. "Jesus Christ!"

He's just standing there, like he materialized out of the air.

In my apartment.

Like it's the most normal thing in the world.

I put a hand on my chest, heart pounding. "You ever heard of knocking?!"

Batman ignores that completely.

"Explain."

I let out a breath, collecting myself.

"Look. The more people that know, the less useful it is. I need things to play out as naturally as possible. Especially you."

He doesn't blink. "Why?"

"Because it's future knowledge, and it turns out pretty well," I say honestly. "I don't want you thinking too hard about it. You do that, and suddenly, we're in uncharted territory."

Batman's posture shifts slightly. Not much. Just a tiny, almost imperceptible adjustment.

I press on.

"But I also don't want people dying. So I need you to do one thing: Evacuate the city."

Batman's expression is unreadable.

"Evacuating an entire city requires evidence."

I nod. "Yeah, I figured you'd say that."

I cross my arms, thinking.

"The reason they took down the radio telescope?" I say. "It wasn't random. They did it to obscure their approach."

Batman narrows his eyes.

I keep going.

"They're coming in meteor ships, right? But they don't want people to see them before they land. That's why they hit the telescope first. So, if you want your proof?"

I avoid his gaze.

"Go find the meteor. Track where it's going to land. That's your evidence. Evacuate that area."

Batman doesn't respond immediately.

His gaze drills into me.

Calculating.

Assessing.

Then, finally—

He turns toward the window.

"I'll find it."

And just like that, he's gone.

I let out a long breath, rubbing my face.

Then I flop onto the couch, exhausted.

"That was terrifying."

I don't know if Batman believes me.

And I don't know how he's going to find that meteor.

But I've done my job, the rest is up to the real heroes.

I sink deeper into the couch, staring at the ceiling.

I did my moral duty. I gave a warning.

And, most importantly? I am not a hero.

Batman said it himself.

This is Justice League business. Superman, Wonder Woman, Green Lantern—this is their problem.

I'm just some guy.

With healing powers.

And a sword.

And a Bat communicator.

And a history of being dragged into things I don't want to be part of.

I sit up slowly.

"...Crap, they're gonna get me, aren't the?"

Before I can fully spiral, my communicator beeps.

I freeze.

Batman could not have found that meteor this fast.

I sigh, rubbing my face. Please don't be him again.

I press the button.

"Yeah?"

A voice comes through.

"Oh my god, finally. Took you long enough to answer."

I blink. That is not Batman.

It's higher-pitched, vaguely annoyed, and also vaguely familiar.

I frown. "Who is this?"

"Seriously? It's Robin. Have you already forgotten about me?"

I pause.

Oh.

What happened to the deep voice?

"What do you want?" I ask, half-expecting an interrogation.

"I'm hurt."

I raise an eyebrow. "How bad?"

"Not bad, but I figured since we have a healer now, I might as well use him."

I narrow my eyes. "Batman told you to call me, didn't he?"

Robin pauses.

Then—"No?"

I squint at the communicator.

That was a lie.

But then, before I can call him out, Robin keeps talking.

"Anyway, where are you? I'll come to you. I've got nothing else to do tonight."

I frown. "Aren't you supposed to be, I don't know, patrolling? Fighting crime?"

Robin huffs. "Ugh, I've been at it all day. I could use a break. And besides, it's not like Gotham is gonna fall apart if I sit out for a bit."

I blink.

That was shockingly casual.

I mean, it makes sense, technically. Even heroes take breaks. But for some reason, hearing Robin say it like that is weird.

He continues before I can respond.

"I bet you're just lounging around right now, huh? Sitting on your couch, being all mysterious?"

I sit up a little, frowning.

"Are you watching me right now?"

Robin pauses.

A little too long.

Then—"No."

I squint at the communicator.

Another lie.

I sigh, rubbing my temples. "If you already know where I am, just come inside, you freak."

Robin laughs.

Then—click.

The line goes dead.

I stare at the communicator for a second.

Then at my apartment door.

I swear to God—

A few minutes later, there's a knock.

I drag myself off the couch and open the door.

Robin—in full costume—leans against the frame like this is some casual social call.

I raise an eyebrow. "Secret identities? Ever heard of them?"

Robin shrugs, completely unbothered. "You know ours, so…"

I blink.

He tilts his head. "Just don't tell anyone outside the Bat family, okay?"

I squint at him. That was way too trusting.

But before I can push that thought, Robin grins and steps inside like he owns the place.

As soon as he does, he stretches dramatically.

"Man, it's always nice to have more male superheroes," he says.

I pause.

"Why did you say it like that?"

Robin gives me a knowing look. "You know. Boy power."

I blink. "I—what?"

Robin sighs, like he's explaining something obvious. "Boys in female-dominated spaces. Representation matters."

I stare.

Robin just nods proudly.

I suddenly have so many questions.

"Boy power?" I repeat, like the phrase physically hurts me.

Robin nods enthusiastically. "Yeah, you know. Gotta support each other. It's rough out here."

I squint. "What are you talking about? I thought Batman and Superman were the big heroes."

Robin makes a face. "I mean, they're popular, yeah. But they're secondaries."

I blink. "Secondaries?"

Robin shrugs. "Wonder Woman and Black Canary are the top heroes."

I pause. Processing.

"But—Batman's Batman," I say, bewildered.

Robin waves a hand. "Yeah, yeah, people respect him and everything, but a lot of girls just think of him as, like… a hot piece of goth ass."

I choke. "I'm sorry—what?"

Robin keeps going. "And Superman's basically the same, but, like, the good boy version. A lot of girls are just into them because, you know, muscles, broody or soft, depending on the flavor."

I stare.

"What the hell," I mutter.

Robin laughs. "Dude, it's just how things are. We'll get there eventually, but theres a lot of people who dont even think guys should be heroes."

I take a slow breath.

"Okay. Nope. We're changing the topic."

Robin blinks. "What? Why?"

I point at him. "Because I refuse to acknowledge this deranged version of reality you live in."

Robin smirks. "Denial isn't healthy, Carter."

"I'll take my chances," I mutter, shaking my head. "Now sit down so I can fix whatever injury you're complaining about."

Robin hops onto the couch, rolling up his sleeve like this is a casual doctor's visit.

There's a shallow cut along his forearm. Nothing serious, but I get why he called.

I rest my palm over the wound and push.

The warmth spreads immediately, his skin knitting back together.

Robin leans back, completely relaxed.

And then, casually as I work, he pulls a newspaper out of his belt.

I glance at it, distracted.

Then I do a double-take.

Because the headline is staring me in the face:

"GOTHAM'S UGLIEST VIGILANTE HEALS WOMAN'S ARM"

The front page picture is a blurry picture of me wearing my hood up in that awful mask.

I freeze.

Robin grins.

I snatch the paper from him. "Are you kidding me?"

Robin snickers. "Look, dude. I'm just saying. You could do better."

I glare at him, flipping through the article. "Who even wrote this? Why is this news?!"

Robin shrugs. "You went viral. People saw you in that mask, heard about the healing thing, and boom. Front page."

I skim the article, offended.

"'A mysterious new vigilante, dubbed Vive by sources, shocked the city last night when he reportedly regrew a missing limb. Witnesses described him as "unsettling," "kinda creepy," and "like if a haunted ventriloquist dummy was also a person."'"

Robin bursts out laughing.

I throw the newspaper at him.

"Oh, shut up!"

Robin dodges easily, still grinning. "I mean… they're not wrong."

I groan, rubbing my face. "I hate everything about this."

Robin smirks. "So, you wanna go shopping for a new mask, or…?"

I point at the door.

"Get out."

He does not.

In fact, he gets more comfortable.

He kicks his feet up on the coffee table, flipping through the newspaper like he lives here.

I cross my arms. "You do realize I said 'get out,' right?"

Robin doesn't even look up. "Yeah, but you didn't mean it."

I narrow my eyes. "You don't know that."

Robin glances at me, grinning. "You didn't say it with your chest."

I exhale sharply, pinching the bridge of my nose.

This little shit.

At this point, I'm pretty sure Batman sent him to keep an eye on me.

I don't say it out loud, but…

He just so happened to get injured right after I gave Batman insane future knowledge.

He just happened to want to hang out.

He refuses to leave.

Yeah.

Robin finally sets the newspaper down and looks around my apartment.

He tilts his head. "Huh."

I frown. "What?"

Robin gestures vaguely. "Your place looks kinda… plain."

I raise an eyebrow. "It's a new apartment."

Robin shrugs. "Yeah, but it looks like a girl's house."

I blink. "What?"

He waves his hand. "You know, like—no personality, no decorations, kinda sterile. You need, like, some cute stuff. Candles, some wall signs—oh! Maybe one of those little embroidered placemat things."

I squint at him. "A… doily?"

Robin snaps his fingers. "Yeah! A doily! See, you get it."

I stare. "No, I don't."

Robin grins. "Dude, you need decorations. Live, laugh, love signs. A couple scented candles. Maybe some of those little decorative rocks people put in vases. Your place is way too empty."

I blink slowly.

"...I don't need any of those things."

Robin gasps dramatically. "Excuse you? Do you not care about aesthetic?"

I rub my temples. "Okay, first of all, no. Second of all, I am not putting a 'Live, Laugh, Love' sign in my apartment."

Robin crosses his arms. "Well, maybe not that one. We could find something cooler."

I stare.

Robin's expression brightens suddenly.

"Oh! Boys' night!"

I frown. "What?"

Robin sits up. "We should totally go out shopping. It'll be fun!"

I shake my head immediately. "Absolutely not."

Robin pouts. "Why noooot?"

I narrow my eyes.

I'm starting to think this version of Robin is just gay.

Not that I care. But this is the second time tonight he's acted weirdly excited about doing things I would never associate with superheroes or guys.

"Robin," I say carefully. "I don't need decorations. I don't need candles. And I sure as hell don't need a doily."

Robin clicks his tongue. "Wow. You're really committed to being boring, huh?"

I throw my hands up. "It's called having a normal apartment!"

Robin leans back, smirking. "Well, if you change your mind, let me know. Boys' night is happening eventually."

I groan loudly.

This little gremlin is never leaving, is he?

I sigh, running a hand through my hair.

"Okay, fine. I do need to buy some things. A TV. A car."

Robin's eyes light up.

I immediately regret saying anything.

"So, I guess," I say, dragging out the words, "you can come along."

Robin squeals.

Actually. Squeals.

It's high-pitched and way too excited and makes me want to die instantly.

I flinch. "Never do that again."

Robin ignores me.

Instead, he jumps up from the couch. "Okay, okay, give me a sec—I need to change!"

I blink. "You—what? Right now?"

Robin is already moving.

Before I can even react, he darts into my bathroom and slams the door.

I stare.

What just happened?

Where is he even getting clothes from?

After a moment, I hear movement.

Then—

"You have a really basic toothpaste brand, by the way!"

I squint at the door.

"Are you—going through my stuff?!"

"No!" Robin yells. "Just making an observation!"

I rub my temples.

I should've just gone alone.

A few minutes later, the door swings open, and Robin steps out.

In full civilian mode.

Robin steps out of the bathroom, grinning ear to ear.

And I—

I pause.

Because what he's wearing is…

A choice.

He's got on a cropped hoodie, fitted just right to show a sliver of his stomach. The sleeves are a little oversized, covering part of his hands. Paired with it are high-waisted jeans that somehow make him look even smaller than he already is, and some white sneakers that look brand new.

I blink.

Robin twirls.

Yes. Twirls.

"So?" he asks, grinning. "How do I look?"

I rub my face. "Soft."

Robin laughs. "Mission accomplished!"

I just stare. "Where did you even get those clothes?"

He winks. "Trade secret."

I glance at the bathroom.

There is no bag in there. No backpack, no duffel, nothing that would indicate he brought clothes with him.

Robin just smiles.

I exhale slowly. "Alright. You're not my problem."

Robin bounces excitedly, clasping his hands together. "I can't believe this is happening. Do you know how rare this is?"

I frown. "What?"

Robin leans in slightly, eyes shining.

"Batman never lets us expose our identitys outside the Bat family."

I pause.

Robin nods rapidly. "Even with other heroes, I have to be careful. No names, no details, nothing."

I frown. "But I know your name."

Robin grins. "Exactly!"

I stare at him.

He's way too happy about this.

Meanwhile, I'm just accepting the fact that I have somehow become this kid's designated loophole.

Robin claps his hands. "Alright! Let's go spend your money!"

I groan loudly.

This was a mistake.

 

[Mythraal]

I can't wait for the moment when he finally realizes that this is a reversed gender roles world

 

[Synergy]

I think he realizes, he's just steadfastly ignoring it because its too weird to acknowledge.

 

[Horned_one]

I could heal people for cash.

Click to shrink...

And that's how you get chained up in a villains basement.

 

[Isebas]

I find this version of heroes to be petty assholes. Seriously. By what right does anyone have to tell the MC what he should or shouldn't do with his life and/or powers. Batman at least could have asked the MC is he wanted training and to use his powers. Being a tyrant and forcing them only breeds dislike and resentment.

 

[Synergy]

Something I've been thinking about is Batman's constant refrain, "You will."

It's not like he's commanding Vive to do anything. He's saying that he knows he's going to do it either way. I think Batman is just blazing a trail through Vive's own internal blocks about what the "sensible" thing to do is and going straight to what he sees in Vive underneath that: the desire to help people.

 

[Weinerspeil]

pLEASE LET HIM HIT CHEETA FROM BEHIND NO ONE EVER DOES THAT CHARACTER

 

[Lostinfantry]

Ok. This story is definitely...... something. But in a great way. I've read stories with the whole R.S.M. idea but it's usually only existed to justify porn fantasy. I've never seen it taken this far into actual behavior and interacting among characters. I feel as off-centre as Carter seems to be. It's wicked! Can't wait to see this continue.

 

[Axiomatic]

Something I've been thinking about is Batman's constant refrain, "You will."

It's not like he's commanding Vive to do anything. He's saying that he knows he's going to do it either way. I think Batman is just blazing a trail through Vive's own internal blocks about what the "sensible" thing to do is and going straight to what he sees in Vive underneath that: the desire to help people.

Click to shrink...

My interpretation was that Batman is the negation of the idea that you don't owe anyone anything. Carter owes it to humanity to heal people, but not because he's one of the select few. No, every human has a debt to every other human. Carter merely has a way of helping that isn't available to anyone else, but those powers aren't why he has to help - he has to help because we're all stuck in this bitch of a world together.

 

[Axiomatic]

And that's how you get chained up in a villains basement.

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You mean rescued and prince-carried by Wonder Woman?

 

[A A RON]

pLEASE LET HIM HIT CHEETA FROM BEHIND NO ONE EVER DOES THAT CHARACTER

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IM WITH THIS GUY^^^^^^