Six months before the world would start calling them heroes, Gotham was still learning how to bleed quietly.
That suited me just fine.
I move across the rooftops in a slow, deliberate pattern, not hunting, not fleeing—surveying. Gotham's skyline isn't random. It's a system built on fear, money, and architecture that rewards anyone patient enough to read it.
High ground belongs to the vigilant.Low ground belongs to the desperate.
The spaces in between are where people like me survive.
I stop on a cathedral rooftop overlooking the Tricorner district. Gargoyles loom at my sides, stone wings curled like they're listening. From here, I can see three neighborhoods, two major traffic arteries, and enough fire escapes to disappear in a dozen directions.
I don't linger.
Lingering gets you catalogued.
Instead, I move again, marking mental lines as I go. Areas with consistent police presence. Areas where patrols never reach. Buildings abandoned long enough to be useful but not long enough to draw attention. Places where noise disappears into the city's background static.
Safehouses aren't hidden.
They're ignored.
I drop onto a mid-rise apartment block, landing softly behind a rusted HVAC unit. The roof access door is chained, but the lock is old. I don't touch it. Broken locks invite questions.
The building itself tells a better story—utility usage steady but low, structural neglect without full abandonment. Someone lives here. Several someones. None of them important.
Perfect.
I note it and move on.
Halfway across the district, the air changes.
Not magically.
Intentionally.
The city tightens around me in a way I recognize immediately. Footsteps slow. Sirens fade. Even the wind feels like it's holding its breath.
I stop moving.
That matters.
You don't run when you don't know who's watching.
I stand beside a rooftop water tower and let myself become part of the scenery. Coat still. Breathing shallow. No magic. No scanning. Nothing that could ripple outward.
Seconds stretch.
Then—
A shadow shifts where no shadow should.
High. Fast. Controlled.
I don't look up.
That would be a mistake.
Gotham's apex predator doesn't announce itself. It observes. Tests. Waits for reactions.
So I give it none.
I adjust my stance just enough to look like a bored teenager cutting across rooftops where he shouldn't be. One hand rests casually in my pocket. The other hangs loose.
A shape passes overhead, silent as a thought.
I feel it rather than see it.
A presence calibrated for intimidation, discipline, and relentless follow-through.
Batman.
Not a myth yet. Not a symbol.
Just a man who doesn't miss patterns.
I keep walking.
Not away.
Not toward.
Across.
That's important.
Predators notice flight. They notice pursuit. They notice fear. What they struggle with is irrelevance.
I hop a narrow gap, boots scuffing intentionally. Let myself slip just a little on the landing, like someone with more confidence than experience.
Teenager behavior.
The pressure eases—not gone, but redirected.
Good.
Two rooftops later, I duck into a stairwell and descend three floors, exiting through a side door into a half-lit alley. I don't rush. I don't check behind me.
I count steps.
At forty-seven, I turn a corner.
At sixty-two, I stop.
Nothing follows.
That doesn't mean I wasn't seen.
It means I passed the first filter.
I exhale slowly once I'm underground, leaning against a brick wall and letting the city noise swallow me. My pulse stays even. That's a victory.
I pull a folded scrap of paper from my pocket—not a map, not yet. Just lines and notes. Mental impressions turned physical.
Three viable safehouse candidates.Two emergency exits per location.One confirmed aerial patrol.
And one very clear rule:
Do not attract the Bat.
I tuck the paper away and disappear into the pedestrian flow, just another shadow among thousands.
Six months.
That's how long I have before the world changes shape. Before sidekicks become teammates. Before secrets start colliding.
Plenty of time.
If I don't get noticed again.
Above me, unseen, a pair of white lenses lingers on an empty rooftop a moment longer than necessary.
Then the night moves on.