Gotham City—
Wind howled around him like a screaming ghost.
Ethan's eyes snapped open, catching flashes of blurred motion. Sky above. A streak of clouds slicing through deep twilight. Below—metal, stone, and smog: Gotham.
The name tore itself from his lips in stunned recognition. "Gotham…!"
His voice was nearly lost to the roaring air. Wind lashed his cheeks, his clothes fluttered like paper. Then came the gut-sinking realization: he was falling.
He looked down. The city stretched beneath him like a crooked puzzle of cracked rooftops and flickering lights. His heart leapt—but it wasn't fear. No. It was awe. Confusion. Anticipation.
And then—he looked at himself.
He was glowing. Blue, ethereal, his body barely translucent. A soul. That's what he was. He looked like something pulled from the realm between life and death, caught in some impossible limbo.
Then, without warning, his ghostly form spiraled downward—toward an apartment building's roof.
He clenched his eyes shut, bracing.
But instead of pain—heat.
A familiar warmth brushed his skin, like sunlight pressing into muscle. Like stepping into a memory. He opened his eyes with a gasp, lungs pulling air for the first time in… how long?
He blinked.
No sky. No wind.
He stood upright, balance shaky but solid. Feet pressed against tile.
"Wait—"
He looked down at his hands. Real hands. Flesh and bone. He flexed his fingers, opened them again, grinned.
"Yes!" he barked, laughter bubbling in his throat as he sprang to his feet. "I'm physical! I'm actually here!"
The apartment around him was modest—walls painted in pale, washed-out gray. A couch sat in the corner, worn but clean. A flat-screen TV was bolted to the far wall, black and dead like the city's soul. The place felt... lifeless. Not unclean, but soulless, sterile, like it hadn't seen a real moment of joy in years.
Ethan tilted his head.
"Huh... familiar," he muttered, stepping forward. "Guess Gotham apartments are all like this. Minimalist... depressing. Probably cheap rent, though."
He rubbed his chin. "Though utilities must be hell. Pipes bursting from Joker bombs. Riddler screwing with the water flow. Scarecrow infecting gas lines. Tuesday stuff."
He walked deeper into the apartment, still adjusting to the weight of a body that felt like a second skin he never quite took off. His muscles remembered motion even as his mind tried to catch up.
On the wall—a note, pinned like an afterthought.
Ethan approached it slowly, warily. He plucked it off the drywall and read it aloud:
"[The body you now inhabit is a carbon copy of your previous body, at least in appearance. Don't worry, this body never existed before you arrived. Reality was altered a bit for your sake.
Enjoy,
Dead Knight~]"
Ethan's lips twitched.
He smiled—genuinely smiled—as the note dissolved into golden particles, vanishing like glitter in the wind.
"Nice touch," he muttered.
Curiosity tugged him toward the bathroom. He flicked on the light. A dim flicker revealed a mirror above a rust-specked sink. He stepped closer.
And stared.
"Well, damn," he whispered, fingers brushing his cheek. "He didn't lie. It really is me. Every scar, every blemish,even my stupid O shaped birthmark. It's all here."
He had a birthmark thag resembled a halo on his right shoulder blade.
An idea.
Something primal ticked inside him.
He left the mirror and wandered into the kitchen, grabbed the nearest knife, and hesitated before.... "Alright, Dead Knight… let's test your powers."
He braced.
Then sliced a shallow line across his index finger.
Blood pooled, red and thick… and then? It retracted. Skin knit back together in seconds. He regenerated.
"Holy hell." His voice cracked with astonishment. "That was... fast. Slower than I expected for Dead Knight, but still—amazing. Very amazing."
He rushed to the bedroom where a small desk and an computer sat humming. He opened the laptop. It flickered to life.
He pulled up a blank document and began typing everything he remembered about Dead Knight.
But then—his fingers moved on their own.
Not in a possessed kind of way—more like muscle memory hijacked by something bigger. Something divine.
Line after line filled the screen:
1. Superhuman Healing:
Dead Knight can heal rapidly. His cells are overcharged and expand/multiply constantly. He doesn't feel pain during regeneration. If he dies, he resurrects after seven days—but the moment he comes back, he experiences all the pain his body couldn't feel while regenerating.
2. Weapon Summon:
Dead Knight can summon his armor and sword at will. If they are destroyed in battle, they regenerate by the next summon.
3. Superhuman Physique:
Enhanced strength, speed, stamina, flexibility, and durability. Dead Knight is peak-human and beyond.
4. Special Sense:
Dead Knight can sense danger—not as precise as Spider-Man's Spider-Sense, but effective. He knows that something will happen, not how, and must respond manually.
Ethan's hands stilled.
"What the hell just happened?" he muttered. "That's not what I designed..."
Dead Knight, as he'd originally envisioned him, was an unstoppable shadow-wielding juggernaut—a being that could birth nightmares from nothing, spawn minions, endure anything. Painless. Emotionless. A weapon.
This? This was more... balanced.
"Could it be... the God of Fiction?" he whispered. "Did he change it? Made it more interesting? More narratively viable?"
He exhaled.
Either way—it was time to test the limits.
Ethan stepped outside and breathed in the cold, metallic Gotham air.
The city was exactly how he'd imagined it.
A mix of Chicago's steel, New York's chaos, New Jersey's grime, and something wholly unique—dread soaked in rain. Buildings leaned close together like they were whispering secrets. Sidewalks were cracked, neon signs buzzed half-dead. Every alley threatened mystery or menace.
Everything was either dreary... or wet.
"Gotham, baby,Ah.....the memes....the memes.." Ethan muttered, grinning.
As he turned the corner, a large figure rammed into his shoulder. He staggered slightly.
"Uh, sor—" Ethan paused as he looked up at the gigantic figure.
The man was tall. 6'6, maybe 250 pounds. Built like a tank. Black hair. Young face. Handsome in an everyman kind of way. Not flashy, not flamboyant.
Familiar. Unmistakably familiar.
"You seem new," the man said casually, barely breaking stride.
Ethan blinked. "Hi, I'm Ethan Morgan," he offered, but the man was already jogging away, absorbed into the city's rhythm.
He frowned.
"Wait...! introduce yourself at least."
Although Ethan hadn't recognised.
It was Bruce Wayne.
But not the cape-wearing brooding knight of the comics. This was Bruce from The Absolute Universe—real, three-dimensional, unmasked. That's why he hadn't recognized him.
A: He'd only seen Bruce in the suit.
B: He'd only seen him as 2D comic art. Not flesh and blood.
"Buff guys in Gotham aren't uncommon I guess," he muttered, half-laughing as he continued his walk.
Eventually, he found a warehouse at the edge of the Gotham Port District.
An old structure, forgotten by time. Rust devoured its walls. The name etched into the entrance was unreadable—just a mess of peeled paint and dust.
He stepped inside.
Light filtered through the tall, narrow windows—pillars of sunlight slicing through darkness like divine lances. Steel beams lay scattered, their edges jagged and tired. Old bags of sand rested in heaps, forgotten tools leaning against walls.
Ethan stood in the center.
He spread his arms, breathing deeply. The scent of metal and mold filled his lungs. He looked around and grinned like a madman.
"Perfect."
This would be his dojo, his training ground, his fortress.