Buzz.
Nolan flinched as the phone buzzed in his pocket. He fumbled it out with clammy fingers.
"Yo, your stuff's here. Front of the Monarch Hotel. Tall guy, brown coat. Hurry up, yeah?"
Nolan grabbed the hoodie off the back of the chair and slipped it on over the hotel robe. He tucked the phone into the pouch pocket, smoothed down his wet hair, and stepped into the hallway.
Halfway to the elevator, he heard it:
"Hey! That's him!"
Nolan turned.
A man in a charcoal suit, red-faced and furious, pointed at him from down the hall. Several uniformed hotel guards flanked him.
Nolan's stomach dropped. Shit. The real Mr. Becket.
"Stop right there!"
Nolan didn't.
He bolted.
Backpedaled, turned, sprinted in the other direction. The sound of heavy boots echoed after him. His bare feet slapped the carpet as he rounded a corner and shoved open the stairwell door. Cold metal and concrete swallowed him as he flew down the stairs three steps at a time.
"Security to lobby—kid in robe and hoodie headed down!" barked a voice over a radio above.
Gotta go faster. Gotta go now.
Nolan hit the ground floor, slammed through the stairwell exit, and stumbled into the lobby like a wild animal. Heads turned. A security guard near the concierge desk clicked his earpiece.
"There he is!"
Not today.
Nolan ducked past a velvet rope and slid between two guests hauling luggage. He slipped through, dodged a hand that grabbed for him, and burst out the front doors—
There.
The delivery guy, leaning against the hotel wall, bag at his feet, scrolling his phone.
Nolan shoved a crumpled wad of cash into the guy's chest. "Keep the change."
"What the hell—?"
He didn't stop to explain. Nolan swiped the bag, turned hard down the sidewalk, and ran.
The sound of shouting and confusion melted behind him, fading into the din of Gotham traffic. Neon signs blurred. Sirens howled somewhere far off. His lungs burned like they'd been lit with a match.
Eventually, he ducked into an alley and crouched behind a dumpster, heart jackhammering in his chest. He clutched the bag of clothes like it was a lifeline.
And then… the voice.
"You know what you need to do to settle in this city, right?"
Nolan flinched. "No," he whispered. "No, shut up. I'm not listening to you."
"Come on," the voice said smoothly, confident, almost amused. "You're the one who always needs a plan. You don't survive in Gotham without a stake. There's a bank just three blocks down. Let me take control, Nolan. Just for a little while. I can fix this."
Nolan squeezed his eyes shut. "No. You got us locked up in that damn mental institution, in the first place. You think I forgot that? You think I forgot what happened last time I let you out? Just because your the only one that talks to me doesn't mean I'm going to listen anymore."
"Oh please," the voice—Quintin—scoffed. "That wasn't my fault. That was a misunderstanding. You give a guy one chloroform-soaked napkin and suddenly you're the 'unstable one.'"
Nolan hissed under his breath. "You almost got us killed."
"And yet, here we are. Breathing. With a suite, food in our stomach, and a free escape. You're welcome, by the way."
"You're a parasite."
"I'm a solution."
Nolan shook his head, pushed himself up, and found a more secluded corner of the alley. He stripped the robe off, slipped into the new jeans and t-shirt. The boots were a tight fit, but they'd do. He wrapped the hoodie around himself and took a long breath.
"Just shut up, Quintin. I need to sleep."
"Sure, sure. You rest that big brain of yours. I'll be here when you wake up. Like always."
Nolan climbed behind a stack of crates, tucked himself against the wall, and curled into himself like a folding knife.
Despite the cold, the noise, the city… he slept.
He woke up with a sharp breath.
Only… it wasn't him.
The eyes that opened were no longer wide with caution, but half-lidded, calculating. There was a swagger in the silence.
Quintin stretched the body with a catlike ease and grinned into the darkness.
Gotham's streets were quiet at this hour—only the truly desperate moved through them.
"Let's see what kind of trouble this city's banking on."
He dusted himself off and stepped into the shadows, scanning the buildings, alleys, traffic patterns.
He didn't move with Nolan's caution.
He moved with intent.
The bank wasn't far. Just a street over, tucked behind a courier's office and across from a donut shop that didn't bother closing after midnight.
Quintin didn't get close yet. He watched from across the street, leaning against a power box, arms folded.
Studying.
Casing.
Plotting.
Because if Nolan wouldn't do what needed to be done…
Quintin would.
***
There was no sound in the void.
No wind. No echo. No hum.
Just silence. And the faint, almost imperceptible flicker of a lightbulb.
It hovered in the air, not suspended by any wire or support. It simply was. It cast a dull white glow in a perfect cone below it, like the eye of some unseen god looking down.
Directly beneath it sat a silver chair.
In the chair: Quintin.
His legs were crossed, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes half-lidded and glittering with mischief. His clothes were sharp, even here—dark slacks, vest, and sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows. Shadows danced on the floor below him, their edges curling like smoke.
Off in the darkness, curled up on a phantom mattress that didn't exist in the real world, Nolan slept, unaware. His chest rose and fell with a quiet rhythm, face turned away from the light.
"Still resting," came a voice from the side.
From the edge of the light stepped a figure—tall, wiry, wearing a scuffed leather jacket and combat boots. His knuckles were cracked and red. He had the look of a man who enjoyed the sound of bone breaking beneath his hands.
This one had no name, not yet.
Quintin turned his head slightly. "Was wondering when you'd show up."
"I always show up when he's pushed too far," the fighter said, crossing his arms. His tone was sharp, like gravel scraping pavement. "And you're pushing him, again."
A second figure joined them, sliding into the light on polished shoes. Slick-backed hair, white smile, street-smart posture. He looked like he'd just walked out of a poker table with someone else's wallet in his coat pocket.
"I think we're all here because we need something," he said, voice warm and oiled. "Let's not make this into one of those chest-beating moments."
"Speak," said the fighter.
"Quintin wants to knock over the bank," the con man said with a nod toward the chair. "He's casing it already. Doesn't want Nolan waking up poor and lost. Thinks if we do it right—just once—we set ourselves up. Clothes. Shelter. Connections. Hell, maybe a real life."
The fighter's mouth twitched. "You always talk like this is a team."
"Isn't it?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, the fighter looked past both of them, toward the sleeping boy in the dark. His voice dropped low.
"You keep putting the body in danger, he will wake up."
The air changed. Cold spread out like spilled ink.
The con man's bravado faltered. His smile dimmed.
"You know I hate it when you say that," he muttered, rubbing his neck.
"Then stop tempting fate."
Quintin sat forward in the silver chair. His voice was soft now, precise.
"We're not asking for a war. Just one job. Clean. No bodies. In, out. We each play a part. You"—he gestured toward the fighter—"keep any thugs off our back. You"—he flicked his gaze to the con man—"charm the systems and get us inside. I'll keep things cool. Nolan stays asleep."
The fighter stared. "And if he wakes up?"
Quintin's jaw tightened. "Then we don't get another chance."
The con man shook his head. "It's not like Superman's gonna drop out of the sky and zap us. We're nobodies. Bottom-feeders right now."
"And yet," the fighter replied, "we've been caught before."
"Because we got greedy," the con man shot back. "This time is different. We help him once. One heist. Then we go quiet."
A long pause.
Then the fighter gave a small nod. "Once. We help once. And if you screw it up, Quintin, I'll make sure you never see the inside of the mind again."
Quintin smiled.
"I wouldn't expect anything less."
The lightbulb above flickered once.
In the shadows, Nolan stirred.