The kid stepped out of the alley like a ghost, blood still dried on his collar, a trembling hush wrapped around his bones. He hugged himself against the cold. His ribs ached with every breath, and his eyes flinched at every loud sound. Gotham didn't stop for people like him. The horns, the flickering streetlights, the sick yellow fog in the air—it all moved on without him.
The streets were unfamiliar, tall buildings hunched over him like watchmen. Gargoyles above, rats below, and the in-between stank of gasoline and broken promises.
He walked with a limp. Not dramatic—just enough to show life hadn't gone easy on him.
"Shit," he mumbled. "Where am I?"
A rusted shopping cart rattled to his right. He turned, flinching, only to see an old man with a beard like snow and eyes like rust. The man was bundled in rags, sitting under a broken bus stop bench with a cardboard sign that read: GOD BLESS THE COLD-BLOODED.
"Gotham," the old man croaked, like he'd read the question straight from the kid's face.
The boy froze. "What?"
"You're in Gotham, son. You got that look. Like someone who just found out hell ain't underground—it's paved and full of taxis."
The kid blinked. "Gotham," he echoed, the word like poison on his tongue. "I'm so screwed."
"Depends," the old man muttered. "Name?"
The boy hesitated. He hadn't thought about it. The name came out like it'd been pulled from a hidden pocket.
The old man tilted his head. "Last name?"
Nolan glanced up at the skyline, lips twitching. "…Vey."
The man squinted, then chuckled. "Nolan Vey? Like 'no one'? Clever."
Nolan gave a weak smile. "Guess so."
He wandered on, hands deep in his stolen hoodie. The name didn't feel like a lie. It felt like armor.
He had nowhere to go. He knew no one. Every alley looked the same, and Gotham's underbelly was all jagged teeth and shadow. He was shivering. His fingers were numb. The sounds of police sirens wailing far off made his stomach twist. They were always hunting something here.
Then… something shifted.
He stopped walking. His eyes narrowed slightly. Shoulders straightened. A quiet, slick confidence draped over him like a well-tailored coat. That cold in his limbs? Gone. His smirk? Instant.
Nolan Vey tilted his head like he'd just remembered a tune he loved.
"Okay, time to dance," he muttered.
The hotel was one of those ridiculous Gotham towers with fountains in the lobby and elevator music that probably cost more than a car. Bellhops in pressed vests. Security guards with earpieces. Everyone moving like they had a purpose.
Nolan strolled in with a limp turned swagger.
He walked right past the concierge desk like he belonged there, adjusting the cuffs of his tattered sleeves with all the poise of someone wearing a designer suit.
"Excuse me?" a desk attendant called. "Sir, may I—"
Nolan stopped, spun on his heel with a charming smile. "Hi, sorry, I'm in a bit of a rush. Which room did my assistant book for me again? He said it would be ready."
The woman frowned, checking the system. "Your name?"
"Right, yeah. Blake Halvorsen," he said smoothly, eyeing her screen as she typed.
Her brows knit. "I don't see a—"
"Wait, try under Becket. Sometimes my manager books things under his name. Terrible habit."
She hesitated, typing again. "Suite 904?"
"That's the one!" Nolan beamed. "Thank you, you're a lifesaver. I left my wallet in the car, but my assistant should be on the way up to handle the card, yeah?"
Before she could object, Nolan leaned in and lowered his voice just enough.
"Look, if this is about the deposit, don't worry. We've stayed here before. I'll have it settled in twenty, thirty minutes tops. Just let me freshen up and make some calls. You've got that 'Gotham's Finest' look about you, you can trust me."
She blinked, cheeks faintly red. Then she reached behind the desk and slid him a keycard.
"Suite 904. Please don't take long."
He turned, waved once, and strutted toward the elevator like a man on a mission.
The suite was enormous. Glass walls. Marble counters. Rainfall shower. Gotham glittered beyond the window like a broken crown.
"Nice pick, Blake," he muttered.
He tossed the hoodie to the side and walked around the space, flicking light switches and examining the minibar. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey, cracked it open, and took a swig.
He leaned against the wall, closing his eyes.
Then—like a glass shattering in reverse—his expression twitched. His posture sagged. The bottle nearly slipped from his fingers.
"…what the hell just happened?" he whispered, staring at his reflection in the black mirror of the window.
The mirror didn't answer him.
It only stared back, fogging slightly from the steam now curling into the bathroom as Nolan twisted the shower handle and stripped off the blood-stained clothes. His reflection was a puzzle with too many missing pieces. Hair stuck to his forehead. Bruises blooming like ink on his ribs.
He stepped into the water and let it scorch.
It grounded him. Heat seared the surface, but it quieted the storm inside—at least for a minute. He scrubbed hard, rinsed fast. The clock was ticking. The suave one—whoever he was—had bought him maybe twenty minutes before someone noticed the trick.
Nolan stepped out of the shower and dried off, wrapping himself in a plush hotel robe. It hung off him like it belonged to someone else. Everything felt like it belonged to someone else.
He walked back into the suite, barefoot, hair dripping, and grabbed the notepad from the bedside table.
4. Exit before owner shows.
He nodded to himself and crossed off the first.
"Okay," he muttered, then picked up the room phone and dialed room service. New ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄhapters are published on ɴovᴇl(ꜰ)ir(e).nᴇt
"Hello, yes, this is… Mr. Becket in 904. Can I get something simple? Toast, eggs, coffee—black. Quick as possible."
The voice on the other end confirmed the order.
Nolan hung up, then moved to the closet. Empty. Not a surprise—whoever booked the room hadn't arrived yet.
"Clothes," he whispered, chewing his nail. "Think, think…"
He pulled out the stolen phone from the thug back in the alley. It was cheap, cracked, and grimy—but still functional. No passcode. Lucky. Probably used for burner jobs.
He opened the browser. His fingers moved fast, uncertain but methodical.
Search: Gotham clothing delivery. Pay on arrival.
He found a few shady services—late-night runners that didn't ask too many questions. One claimed it could "get your style in under 15." He scrolled quickly, found an option to place an order anonymously, and filled it out.
Jeans, black hoodie, plain t-shirt, boots. All in his size. Delivery to the hotel entrance, payment in cash.
He had just enough from looting the alley. Barely.
He confirmed the drop, gave the runner a made-up name: Jude Quinn.
Nolan exhaled. Okay. Step three in motion.
The knock came at the door right then—room service.
He padded over, opened it a crack, and took the tray with a polite, mumble-mouthed thank-you. The server didn't even blink. Probably assumed he was just another hungover heir to something criminal.
He sat cross-legged on the bed, devouring the eggs and toast. It tasted like nothing. Just fuel.
The plan was coming together. Move fast. Get dressed. Leave no trace. Don't be here when the real Mr. Becket showed up.
He stared at the city again through the suite's massive window.
Gotham had swallowed people smarter than him.
But it hadn't spat him out yet.
He looked down at his notepad and scrawled one more word under the list: