The Batcave's central display glowed with data points and fragmented footage, each one pinned and analyzed by Bruce's tireless hands. Surveillance stills rotated slowly on the overhead monitors—each one showing the same young man from different angles, different settings, but always with something slightly… off.
The facial structure matched. So did the bone structure, height, weight, even the walk—until it didn't. The way he tilted his head in the interrogation room versus the way he grinned while holding the duffel bag of stolen cash. The clipped military-like movements on the rooftop. It was the same person, but split like a shattered pane of glass.
Bruce stared at the footage of the rooftop escape again. The mask coming off. The shout.
"Goddamn it, just take control!"
He keyed in the timeline. Video from the interrogation room months earlier.
"I-t wasn't me, it wasn't me."
Same voice. But not the same man.
A small ping echoed across the cave.
Footsteps approached.
"Could've sworn you said this guy was a no one," Robin's voice rang from the metal steps above.
The boy dropped down with a practiced ease, cape fluttering behind him, a half-eaten apple in hand. He took one look at the footage on the screen and raised an eyebrow.
"Is that the same kid from the robbery?"
Bruce nodded once. "And the interrogation room. And the transport attack tonight."
Robin took a bite, chewing slowly.
"He's good," Dick said finally, mouth full. "Not trained. But slippery. That escape was messy, but it worked. You get his name?"
"First name only. Nolan. No last name. No known records before he walked into that bank."
Dick tossed the apple core into a bin and turned back toward the screen. "He doesn't move like a pro. The guy who fought you at the end? That wasn't the same one who planned the heist. Or the same one who got chatty at the station."
"He's not one person," Bruce said. "He's several."
Bruce opened the psychological profile, the words Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) highlighted on the top.
"Multiple personalities?" Dick asked.
Bruce nodded again. "Each with unique skills. The criminal. The personality. The muscle."
"And the scared one in the mirror," Dick added.
Bruce didn't correct him.
"He's fractured," Bruce said. "The body language between personas changes. Speech patterns. Reactions to conflict. Even his tolerance for pain. That outburst on the rooftop—he wasn't calling for backup. He was calling for someone else inside his own head." Follow current novᴇls on NovᴇlFire(.)nᴇt
Robin paced slowly in front of the monitors. "So what? He's some unstable vigilante? A walking time bomb?"
"No. Not yet," Bruce said. "But he's building something. A network. Underground. Smart. Quiet. Tied to the homeless community. He's shielding people and criminals. Penguin's been sniffing around, which means Nolan's work is interfering with real operations. Not to mention the convoy was one of penguins men which means Nolan probably is in bed with him."
Robin folded his arms. "Then why not shut him down?"
Bruce was silent for a long moment.
"Because I don't think he wants to be doing this."
He tapped a key. Footage played—Nolan sitting in the interrogation room. Scared out of his mind, his expression haunted.
"He's not a criminal in the way Penguin is," Bruce said. "He's just… surviving. Pushed too far. Pulled too many ways."
"So?" he asked. "What do we do?"
Bruce turned to face the full display wall. Nolan's face reflected back at him in a dozen angles. Young. Lost. Haunted.
The door slammed shut behind him.
Nolan stood alone in the dim apartment, his clothes clinging to him with sweat, blood still crusted around his knuckles. His breath was ragged—like his lungs couldn't keep up with what his mind had just endured. He staggered past the couch and leaned against the kitchen counter, his fingers curling around the edge of the sink like it was the only thing tethering him to reality.
The apartment was quiet. No sirens, no shouting. Just the hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the floorboards settling.
Quentin's voice, gentle for once. Not calculating. Not in control. "I didn't mean for it to go that way. I thought we could—"
Nolan's voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper.
"Just listen. You were spiraling. I needed to step in. I didn't want us to get—"
He slammed his fist against the counter, hard enough to rattle a mug off the shelf. It hit the tile and shattered.
"I said no," Nolan growled, pointing a shaking finger at nothing, at everything. "I said I didn't want to do it."
He stepped back into the living room, kicked off his shoes, and sank down onto the worn couch. His head fell into his hands. The pressure behind his eyes built like a storm surge, and finally, it broke. Tears slipped down his cheeks—hot and angry and endless.
"You used me," he muttered. "You—you made me hurt people. You lied to me. You promised it wasn't going to be like last time."
The voices always had something to say. Always knew better. Always had a plan. But not now.
Now it was just him. Just Nolan. Tired, bruised, hunted.
He looked up. Across the room, the mirror on the wall caught his reflection. He didn't recognize the man staring back. Eyes sunken. Lip split. Red-stained bandage around his ribs. A ghost in his own skin.
"Is this who I am now?" he asked the mirror.
He rose. Stumbled toward it.
"I said, is this it?"
He punched the glass. It cracked down the middle with a spiderweb shatter. Blood welled instantly from his knuckles, but he barely felt it.
He stared at the fractured version of himself, each shard showing a different piece. A reflection for every voice.
He sank down to his knees, back against the wall, cradling his hand. His breath hitched and his chest shook as more sobs slipped through.
"I didn't want this," he whispered.
His knuckles were raw. Blood trailed from his right hand.
The mirror across stood cracked spiderwebbed from where he'd slammed his fist into it.
"I didn't want this…" he muttered again. His voice was hollow. "I didn't ask for any of this."
His breath hitched. It started small, a quiver in his chest. Then his shoulders jerked forward, and he choked out a sound like a cough—only it broke halfway through and turned into a sob.
"You didn't give me a choice," he whispered.
No one answered. But the silence was crowded. He could almost feel them in his head, watching.
The mysterious fourth.
They said nothing now. Not gloating. Not triumphant.
"I didn't want to fight Batman…" He pulled his knees tighter to his chest. "I didn't want to do that job. I just wanted to stay quiet. Help people. I didn't ask for any of this!"
His voice cracked again. He grabbed his coat and hurled it across the room. Then his phone. It hit the wall, bounced, and slid beneath the coffee table.
"You made me do this!" he shouted at the walls. "You made me—! I didn't want—!"
"Goddamnit! It's happening all over again why do you insist on ruining my life when it starts to become normal!"
Tears spilled freely now, hot and stinging. He stumbled to his feet, tripped on his own exhaustion, and staggered toward the mirror. His reflection stared back—splintered across broken glass.
He stared at his own face—dozens of versions of it, twisted through the cracks.
The words hung in the air.
Then his fist flew again.
The glass shattered, shards raining down like silver rain, cutting his knuckles deeper. He didn't care. He leaned his forehead against the wall, breathing hard.
He stayed like that for a long time.
His hand trembled as he slid down to the floor again, pressing his palm against the bleeding cuts. His voice was quieter now, more tired than angry.
His eyes fluttered closed, but rest didn't come. The voices were still quiet.
But is was so damn loud.