I let the HUD ping me again with that same gentle pulse toward the Gotham National Bank - Branch 07B. The kind of place designed not to be noticed unless you were already looking for it.
The sidewalk was still damp, slick with morning dew or something more suspicious. I tried not to think about it. A pigeon with only one eye tracked me as I passed, like it knew something I didn't.
Gotham National Bank didn't look like much on the outside—just old stone and reinforced glass, wedged between the remnants of a failed nightclub and a pharmacy that still sold homoeopathic arsenic. Which was ridiculous with the crime rate but what do I know.
But inside, it was cool, efficient, and quiet in the way morgues are. The banking desk clerk looked up, gave me the once-over, and frowned slightly. Not hostile. Just… confused.
"Name?" they asked.
"Caspian Echo," I said as I slid my driver's licence into the brass dish at the base of the window.
That got a reaction. A flicker of recognition in their eyes, then a subtle glance down at the terminal. Fingers tapped quickly across a keyboard. A soft chime. She slid my ID through a scanner before pushing it back to me.
Their fingers stilled over the keyboard for half a second. Recognition. They keyed in something manually and then nodded once, curt. "You're in the system. Back hallway, second floor. Room twelve."
I nodded and headed where I was told. The corridor smelled like bleach and printer ink.
I made my way through hallways lined with security cameras, the kind that definitely fed into something more than a recording device. The door at the end opened with a click, revealing a private room.
Inside, the office looked like every other mid-tier bank space I'd ever seen — faux wood desk, filing cabinets stacked with binders, and a desktop computer that still had a wired mouse. Ms. Lin stood when I entered.
"Mr. Echo," she said. "I'm sorry for your loss."
I didn't respond. It didn't feel like mine to claim.
"Mr. Echo," she said, voice clipped and formal. "My name is Lin. I'll be overseeing the finalisation of your inheritance transfer today."
There she was, I had vague memories of her at dinner with my parents, a woman in her fifties, waiting behind a desk. Silver hair pulled back, nails matte black, demeanour like a crow perched too long on a windowsill, in a crisp grey suit, who looked like she hadn't blinked in a decade.
"Right," I said, slipping into the chair across from her.
"There are a few procedural requirements, but nothing complex. Your parents' estate was mostly consolidated under a trust. Though they retained their own accounts. You're the sole beneficiary."
She tapped on her computer. A moment later, a digital document loaded up on the second screen, which she rotated so I could also see.
INHERITANCE RECORD – CASPIAN ECHO Verified by ID
Included Assets:
House- Number 42, Canterbury Street, Old Gotham
The house and its contents have been undisturbed and remain locked.
Apartment – Unit 512, Talwyn Heights, Upper Newtown District
Fully owned, no outstanding mortgage or lien
Physical key and building access fob enclosed in an envelope
Basic building security (buzz-in system, standard locks)
Echo Trust Bank Account – Gotham National, Account Ending 9062
Balance: $689,570.22
Withdrawals limited to $2,000/day for the next 90 days pending estate audit
Ambrose Echo, Bank Account – Gotham National, Account Ending 9149 (Father)
Balance: $453,782.62
Joyce Echo nee Carroll, Bank Account – Gotham National, Account Ending 8157 (Mother)
Balance: $296,625.84
Storage Unit – Gotham Memorial Storage, Locker 773-C
Manual padlock; key will be mailed to your new address within 48 hours
Miscellaneous Items
Two sealed boxes of personal belongings were delivered to the apartment ahead of your arrival.
-
She slid a sealed manila envelope across the table. Inside: two keys, a black plastic key fob with the building logo, and a printed list of itemised contents.
"Just sign here to acknowledge transfer and release."
I took the pen and signed my name. Not because it felt right — it didn't — but because it felt necessary.
"Do you need anything else?" she asked.
I shook my head.
She stood, collecting the printed copies to hand to me. "Welcome back to Gotham, Mr. Echo."
I left the room with a respectful nod and headed out of the bank, shoving the envelopes in my bag. Breathing in relief that atleast I wasn't broke. The thing that reincarnated me, atleast, had the mercy to make sure I was in a body with assets.
I mean, sure, I wasn't filthy rich, but I knew I didn't have to worry about finding work in Gotham, atleast for now.
-
The walk took twenty minutes. I passed graffiti-tagged brick walls, flickering LED signs, and a boarded-up bodega. Gotham's way of decorating, honestly, could have been worse.
Talwyn Heights sat like a forgotten relic — too old to be modern, too expensive to be condemned. Seven floors, fire escapes like iron ribs, and a rusting buzzer panel with a piece of duct tape over Unit 512's label.
I pressed the fob to the reader. The front door clicked open after a delay that made me wonder if it still worked.
The elevator was out of order. Of course. I took the stairs.
The apartment door was plain. Dark wood, brass number plate, scratched keyhole. I used the key from the envelope. It turned stiffly but gave with a groan.
Inside, the place was clean in a way that suggested someone had recently passed through with gloves and a checklist. It wasn't home — not yet — but it wasn't abandoned either.
I set my bag down by the door and took a slow walk through.
A small kitchen, with a fridge buzzing like it was thinking too hard. Living room, sparsely furnished — couch, coffee table, a flat-screen TV mounted but unplugged. A bedroom with sheets still folded at the foot of the bed. The closet was filled with garment bags, labelled with shipping information still. A vague memory remembered a phone call to this body's mother, telling her to just hang them up and leave them.
A few boxes sat in the living room. One labelled "PERSONAL – CAS E." Another said, "PHOTOS & DOCS."
Then I found the door.
It looked like a closet. But the handle didn't turn. Locked from the inside — no keyhole, no padlock, just stuck. No tools left behind. No hint of what was beyond it.
I didn't force it. Not yet.
Instead, I cracked open one of the boxes. A photo album, a few books, a note scrawled in handwriting that mirrored mine but didn't quite feel like it belonged to me.
"Keep your head low, your back straight, and your eyes forward. You're not done yet. –C"
I sat back on the couch, key fob still in my hand, the silence loud around me.
This place was mine now. Whether I wanted it or not.
I sat there, scrolling through this body's phone, reading over emails and looking for any hints of schedules this body had before I took over that weren't clear in the memories I was given.
The apartment had grown quiet again. The kind of silence that makes you notice every creak in the floorboards and the ticking of your own pulse. The boxes sat unopened, the light through the blinds casting broken stripes across the floor.
I should've unpacked.
Instead, I sat on the edge of the couch, phone dying on the couch cushion next to me, the apartment too still, like something was holding its breath.
Then it happened.
A flicker at the edge of my vision. Like static. Like a UI glitch. I blinked. Nothing. Then again, just above my right eye, not in the air, but in my head. Something was overlaying my vision.
[SYSTEM RECOGNIZED – ECHO INTERFACE BOOTING]
The words shimmered faintly, like screen burn on an old monitor. I didn't move. Didn't breathe.
Then a sound, low, distorted, like a cassette tape being fast-forwarded in reverse.
And then:
CHARACTER SHEET – ECHO PROTOCOL // D20-5E FORMAT
[VERSION: REDACTED | SYSTEM STATUS: GLITCHED]
NAME: Caspian Echo
CLASS: [Cleric]
LEVEL: 3
SUBCLASS: (UNDEFINED)
BACKGROUND: [STUDENT – GOTHAM UNIVERSITY]
ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Neutral
RACE: [HUMAN*]
ABILITY SCORES
(Note: Some values appear to shift when not directly observed.)
Score Value Modifier
Strength 11 +0
Dexterity 14 +2
Constitution 15 +2
Intelligence 17 +3
Wisdom 18 +4
Charisma 17 +3
PROFICIENCIES
Languages: English, Latin, Gaelic,
Tools: Disguise Kit, Calligraphy Set
Skills: Investigation (+5), Insight (+7), Deception (+5), History (+4), Perception (+7)
Saving Throws: Charisma, Intelligence
FEATURES & TRAITS
Second Sight (Glitched): Occasionally detects falsehoods, illusions, or concealed paths.
Subconscious Auto-Save: Unclear. Possibly trauma-based memory recall loop.
Missing Data: Several abilities redacted or locked.
*Comprehend Languages Feat: Adaptive Translation, you understand the literal meaning of any spoken language that you hear. You also understand any written language that you see, but you must be touching the surface on which the words are written. (Screens Included)
*Shapechanger: You can change your appearance and your voice. You determine the specifics of the changes, including your colouration, hair length, and sex. You can also adjust your height and weight, and can change your size between Medium and Small. You can make yourself appear as a member of another race, though none of your game statistics change. You can't duplicate the appearance of an individual you've never seen, and you must adopt a form that has the same basic arrangement of limbs that you have.
*Darkvision. You can see in dim light within 60 feet of you as if it were bright light, and in darkness as if it were dim light. You discern colours in that darkness as shades of grey.
*Deathless Nature. You don't need to breathe.
*Spider Climb. You have a climbing speed equal to your walking speed. In addition, at 3rd level, you can move up, down, and across vertical surfaces and upside down along ceilings, while leaving your hands free.
*Taken from D&D 5e*
INVENTORY
Apartment Key
Gotham University ID
Phone (Battery: 24%)
Silver Ring (Engraving worn)
EQUIPPED
Clothes: black shirt, jeans, black leather boots.
Status Effect: Mild fatigue, latent cognitive pressure
Unknown passive: [??] "Hidden until triggered"
The sheet glitched once more, briefly flashing what looked like a distorted image of dice — a d20 flickering in static, spinning midair before vanishing.
Then, a faint [CLOSE] prompt hovered in my vision.
I blinked again. Gone.
I sat there a while, not moving, not speaking. I didn't feel crazy. I felt... catalogued. Like something had been watching and had finally decided I was worth sorting. Maybe whatever entity set up something like reincarnation.
It wasn't magic. It wasn't tech. It was something in between — a character sheet for a game I never signed up to play. After all, it wasn't supposed to be my adventure at all. But I was going to make the most of it nonetheless.
The interface vanished as suddenly as it appeared, leaving behind the faintest hum in my bones, like something mechanical deciding to go dormant for a while. I sat there for a few more seconds before finally pushing up off the couch with a sigh.
"Yeah, alright," I muttered, more to myself than anything else. "Let's pretend I'm normal for a bit."
There were six more boxes stacked neatly by the kitchenette. Cheap tape. Black marker labels that I vaguely recognised — Bedroom, Books, Misc, Clothes – Winter, Documents, and one simply labelled C.E.
The first thing I did was fish out the charging cable from Misc. My phone was nearly dead from the trip, and frankly, I didn't like walking blind. Plugged it into a two-prong wall adapter beside the window. The blue charging light blinked to life.
Next, I opened the box labelled Clothes – Winter. Hoodies, black jeans, a few familiar shirts. Faded band logos. Mostly dark colours. Someone, probably the estate executor, had packed it all neatly. I ran my hand over one of the hoodies — soft, familiar in a way that made my chest hurt. Like it belonged to someone else, and I'd stolen the memories.
Too quiet.
I stood up, stretched, and kicked off my shoes by the front door before heading toward the bathroom. The tiles were slightly cold under my socks, but clean. The apartment still smelled faintly like paint and new carpet — like it hadn't been lived in, at least not in a long time.
The bathroom mirror caught me as I passed. Tousled hair, half-red under the black dye. The green eyes were brighter now that I was indoors, even in the bad lighting. I didn't really look like me, not fully, not yet, but I looked like someone I could get used to being.
I stripped off my clothes and tossed them into the corner hamper. Turning on the shower, I let the water run until the fog began to creep up the mirror. The shower pressure wasn't bad. Not amazing, but it didn't feel like needles or drizzle either.
Steam filled the air fast, warm and thick. I stepped in and let it wash over me — the heat slapping the cold out of my bones.
The grime from the train ride, the lingering scent of metal and bodies and cheap station food, the weird psychic chill that had followed me since stepping off the platform — all of it slid off with the soap and shampoo. I'd have to get this body some new, better quality products when I figured out where I was able to get them from in Gotham.
I stood there longer than I probably needed to, letting the water run down my back, hands braced against the tile. It wasn't about getting clean. Not really.
It was about anchoring.
Touch. Warmth. The smell of shampoo that wasn't quite right. The simple, grounding feeling of hot water hitting skin.
When I finally stepped out, wrapped in a towel I'd pulled from the Misc box, it was large enough but stained with use from black hair dye. The mirror was fogged up completely.
I wiped a hand across the surface, and for a second, just a flicker — my reflection didn't match me. Like it was a few milliseconds behind.
Then it caught up.
"Right," I said to the ghost in the mirror, still panting slightly from the heat. "We're doing this."
Back in the living room, my phone buzzed faintly from where it was charging on the windowsill. Finally, the wifi had come on. A couple of notifications blinked to life. I ignored them.
For now, I had clean skin, a half-unpacked apartment, and time. No expectations yet. No looming classes. Just a slow, quiet beginning.
--
I pulled on fresh clothes — black joggers, a t-shirt, one of the old hoodies that still smelled like fabric softener and autumn. Then I padded barefoot over to the C.E. box and opened it last.
Inside: a leather-bound notebook with a broken elastic strap, a beat-up d20 nestled in the corner, a single framed photo of a younger me — well, this body's version of me — with two older people who must've been the parents I'd inherited. They looked kind, the way people look in filtered memories. Soft focus. Unreachable.
I set the photo on the shelf.
Moving through to the bedroom, dragging one of the boxes with me, I got to work unpacking the boxes and garment bags.
I was halfway through re-folding the clothes I'd hastily pulled out earlier — stacking black jeans and faded shirts onto an empty shelf — when there was a knock at the door.
Not a hard knock. Just three soft, measured taps. Not urgent, but intentional.
I froze, hoodie still in hand.
I hadn't ordered anything. No one was supposed to know I was here.The email I had read had said utilities and paperwork were all set up ahead of time. Mail forwarding wouldn't kick in for a few more days. I hadn't even texted anyone with the address yet. Not that I had anyone to text.
---
This time, it wasn't polite. Just two short raps, spaced a little too long apart. The kind of knock that didn't ask to be answered. It is expected to be.
He paused, chest tightening slightly. It was too early for anyone from the university, and no one else was supposed to know he lived here.
He approached the door cautiously, looking through the peephole.
It was a guy — maybe mid-thirties, stocky build, hair buzzed down to the skin on the sides, heavy stubble like he'd stopped caring a week ago. His hoodie had a faded Falcone's Gym logo across the chest, and he wore the look of someone who'd gotten in one too many bar fights and only walked away because he was meaner, not faster.
Caspian cracked the door but didn't remove the chain. "Yeah?"
The guy didn't smile. He leaned in just slightly, enough that Caspian could smell the stale energy drink and menthol on his breath. "You're the owner of 512?"
Caspian nodded once. "Just moved in."
"Right." The guy scratched his jaw. "Name's Doyle. I'm 412. Just figured I'd say — keep your noise down, yeah? This place has thin walls. Don't care what you do, just don't make it my problem."
Caspian arched a brow. "Not planning on throwing any parties."
"Good. And don't leave trash in the hallway. Last guy did that, it's not that type of building."
There was no actual threat in Doyle's voice. But something about the way he said it — like he was daring Caspian to make the same mistake — made his knuckles itch.
"Understood," Caspian replied flatly.
Doyle gave a curt nod and turned, muttering something under his breath as he walked back toward the stairwell.
Caspian shut the door, deadbolted it, and let out a long breath.
So this was the welcoming committee.
[12:39 PM – UNPACKED, MOSTLY]
The boxes were mostly broken down now. Clothes folded. Books on shelves. Kitchen stocked with the basics he'd brought. My phone had finally charged to a solid 82%, and a quick scroll confirmed that nothing world-ending had happened while I was offline, at least nothing new.
The apartment looked lived-in now, if just barely. Still smelled like cardboard and drywall dust, but that would fade.
Grabbing a tote bag and checking my wallet cards, still where I saw them this morning, a small wad of cash stuffed into the side. I slid on a jacket, tied my boots, and took one last look at the apartment.
I'd need actual groceries if he were going to survive here more than 24 hours without living off stale granola bars and tap water. And if there was one thing I knew about Gotham, you're not supposed to drink the tap water.
---
Locking up behind him, he made his way out of the building.
The street-level air was thick with exhaust and fried oil. A few kids skateboarding wove past pedestrians like sharks in the current. Across the street, a pawn shop blinked an "OPEN" sign behind metal bars that never quite got taken down.
"K & M Grocery" wasn't much to look at — yellowed signage, a corner entrance with a bell that didn't ring right. But it was close. And cheap-looking. Caspian pushed inside and was immediately hit with the smell of freezer burn and discount soap.
The produce section was… optimistic. A few half-bruised apples, tomatoes that had seen better days. He grabbed what looked salvageable and then moved on to the shelves: rice, pasta, canned soup, some boxed meals he could microwave. Gotham wasn't exactly a city known for its farm-to-table culture anyway.
He paused at the back fridge and grabbed oat milk, not out of taste, but habit. Some preferences carried over, even through reincarnation.
As he made his way to the counter, the clerk barely looked up, just scanning items with one hand while tapping a phone screen with the other. The total came to $41.32. Caspian paid in silence.
Plastic bags crinkled in his grip as he stepped out into the daylight again. A breeze tugged at his coat, and somewhere in the distance, sirens sang their usual lullaby.
Back to the apartment, he told himself. Groceries now. Figure out how to survive Gotham later.
-
By the time I made it back up to the apartment, my arms ached from carrying bags and dodging every Gothamite who didn't understand the concept of a sidewalk. I fumbled with the key, stepped in, and kicked the door shut behind me.
The place was warmer now. Still empty in the way new apartments always are, but the edges were starting to feel lived-in. I dropped the bags onto the kitchen counter and started unpacking, sorting everything out into cabinets and the small fridge. Going back to the front door and remembering to bolt it.
I tossed a frozen burrito into the microwave, not glamorous, but it'd do and leaned back against the counter while it spun on its slow, sad rotation like a spaceship on life support. A few minutes later, I was settled on the couch with the burrito wrapped in a paper towel and a bottle of water in hand.
I grabbed my phone off the coffee table, thumbed it open, and finally tapped into GothamNet, the local feed that blended news, crime alerts, and social media like some twisted lovechild of Twitter and the police scanner. I figured I should know what kind of hell I'd walked into, beyond what I already knew from memory fragments and preloaded nostalgia.
#GothamWatch was trending. Again.
@WrenJournalism: "Unconfirmed reports of gang movement near South Burnside. GCPD has issued a soft curfew. If you don't have to be out tonight, don't."
@batfansunited: "Red Hood spotted near 7th and Knoll again last night. Three guys in traction, one with a broken collarbone. The helmet is still shiny. #vigilantewatch"
@kane4truth: "Can we talk about the literal explosion outside the Falcone warehouse and how nobody's talking about the fact that no fire department responded for 22 minutes??"
@thatgothambarista: "Some guy came into Oracle Grounds earlier asking if we 'had coffee blessed by the Bat.' If I quit tomorrow, you'll know why."
I scrolled down past shaky cellphone footage of a burning van, something about a missing councilman, and a blurry photo of what someone insisted was Batgirl, even though it could've easily been someone in a ski mask and yoga pants.
The app had a local safety map — not unlike the minimap tucked in my HUD — and I tapped through it to check my new neighbourhood. Nothing immediate. A little blip down in South Tricorner, but that was far enough. For now.
I took a bite of the burrito. It was hot enough to burn the roof of my mouth, and somehow still tasted like cardboard. Comforting, in its own depressing way.
Some part of me hoped I'd see something familiar. A name. A handle. Something from my old life, or someone who felt like they existed in the same story I'd just walked into.
Instead, it was just Gotham being Gotham. A slow, inevitable descent into chaos held together by duct tape and people too stubborn to leave.
I leaned back into the cushions, letting my eyes drift across the screen.
So far, I hadn't made a ripple. That was good. I could still settle in before the city decided what role it wanted me to play.
The burrito was gone before I even realised I'd eaten the whole thing. My stomach was vaguely satisfied but not exactly thrilled. I tossed the paper towel into the trash from where I sat and missed. Of course. I sighed, leaned forward, grabbed it off the floor, and finally stood to get the apartment properly locked up for the night.
I double-checked the front door the second deadbolt slid into place with a solid clunk, then pulled the blinds shut over the balcony windows. The Gotham skyline blinked back at me in fractured reflections, like the city couldn't decide what version of itself it wanted to show tonight.
My phone buzzed once with a news alert about the curfew zone expanding, and I ignored it. No plans to go back out tonight. I was tired in a way that settled in the joints, in the parts of me still figuring out how to feel like home in this new body. It wasn't exhaustion from the move, not really. It was the kind that came from trying to pretend everything felt normal when nothing was.
I flicked on the bedroom light. The mattress was bare except for the folded sheets I'd unpacked earlier. Basic. Functional. Still smelled faintly like plastic packaging, but at least it was mine now. I made the bed in a half-assed way, tossing the duvet over the mattress and collapsing on top of it fully clothed.
I let my phone sit on the nightstand while I scrolled a bit more through GothamNet on my laptop. Luckily, the passwords were ingrained in me, before opening the digital copy that had finally been sent to me, the one with all the inheritance details and property access stuff. Some of the legalese made my brain fog, but it boiled down to this: I had enough money to last a few years if I was careful, and the apartment was paid off. No one was watching me too closely. Yet.
There were a few flagged files. Notes left from the estate lawyer, a few forms that needed digital signatures, and something labelled "Counselling Services - Voluntary." I didn't open that one. Not tonight.
Eventually, I closed the screen and lay there in the dark, listening to the sounds outside the window. Gotham didn't sleep; it shifted. Like a beast turning over, restless in its own skin. I could hear sirens in the distance. A loud engine was rumbling down the street. Laughter that didn't sound happy.
And underneath all that, the hum. The low, almost imperceptible buzz of the city itself, like it were thinking. Watching.
My body still didn't feel fully mine — a little too tall, muscles that twitched when I wasn't asking them to. But it was getting easier to move in it. Easier to breathe in it.
I watched the ceiling for a long time, the glow of the streetlights slicing faint lines across the white plaster. I wasn't scared, exactly. Just… unsettled. Like I was waiting for the world to notice I'd arrived. Like at any moment, something could knock on the door again, and this time, it wouldn't just be a nosy neighbour with a power complex.
Eventually, I pulled the blanket over myself and let my eyes close.