His back ached from the cracked concrete beneath him, his legs curled close to his chest in a tight ball. Nolan stirred, eyes fluttering open to the dim grey morning pressing through the narrow mouth of the alley. A nearby gutter dripped steadily. Somewhere far off, a siren wailed.
He blinked a few times. The grogginess stuck to him like wet clothes.
"Shit," he mumbled, dragging a hand over his face. "I'm still in Gotham."
He sat up slowly, joints stiff, muscles sore. His hoodie was still damp from last night's rain, and his breath puffed white in the air. The world felt too loud, too cold, and far too real. ᴛhis chapter is ᴜpdated by ɴoᴠel Fɪre.nᴇt
A half-broken burner phone that didn't even belong to him, blinking red at 5% battery.
"Great," he muttered. "Just great."
He sat in the alley for a few minutes, letting the gloom weigh on him. His fingers dug into the cracked sidewalk. He wasn't built for this. He wasn't strong, not like the others. He was smart—cautious, even clever when it mattered—but all of that meant nothing out here. Gotham chewed through people like him in hours.
"You're wasting time," whispered a voice in his head. Quintin.
Nolan flinched. "Not now," he hissed under his breath.
He got to his feet, dusting off the grime from his jacket, and started walking.
No real destination. No plan. Just the hope that something—anything—might give him a reason to keep moving.
The streets weren't much better in daylight. Trash still littered the gutters, and the smell of oil and rot clung to the air like fog. The people either kept their heads down or stared too long. Nolan wandered through alleys and backstreets, passing rusted fire escapes and boarded-up windows. The whole city felt like a dying animal, still twitching but long past saving.
"You need a goal," Quintin murmured again. "This drifting—this walking around like some lost puppy—isn't going to cut it."
"I said not now," Nolan muttered, louder this time.
He turned a corner and stopped dead.
Three men stood in the alley ahead of him, leaning against a graffiti-covered wall. They turned slowly when they saw him—eyes narrowing, interest piqued.
"Hey there," one of them said with a grin that meant trouble. "You look a little lost."
Nolan didn't answer. He didn't wait.
They chased him, their shouts echoing behind him as he ducked around a dumpster, vaulted over a broken fence, and slid between two buildings. His breath burned in his throat. His heart pounded like a war drum. But he didn't stop—not until the shouts were distant echoes.
Panting, he leaned against a brick wall, gasping.
"See?" came Quintin's voice again, low and smooth. "This is exactly what I was trying to tell you."
Nolan shut his eyes. His hands trembled.
"I can't keep doing this," he whispered. "I can't keep running with nothing."
"Then stop running. Take control. Just one job. We do it clean, fast, and smart. You let us help, and we make a new life here."
Nolan pressed his palms to his forehead.
Finally, he exhaled—a long, tired breath filled with everything he'd been holding in since the moment he'd woken up in that alley yesterday.
"Okay," he muttered. "One time. One more time."
"But if we're gonna do this," he said aloud, "all of us need to have a chat."
The bench creaked under Nolan as he sank into it, his breath visible in the morning chill. The little park was empty—just frost on the grass and pigeons picking at crumbs. He folded his arms, hugging his body for warmth, and tilted his head back against the wooden slats.
His eyes fluttered halfway shut.
Just enough to slip past the surface.
The world around him dulled, blurred… until there was only darkness.
Light bloomed above, a single bare bulb floating in the void like some reluctant star.
And beneath it: a circle of chairs. Three occupied. One empty.
Quintin sat with his legs crossed, elbows resting on his knee, a bored look on his face. The fighter—muscles tensed and eyes coiled like a spring—sat quietly, arms folded. And to the side, in the final chair, was someone new.
He looked like he belonged in a jazz lounge or a poker game: slick hair, gold ring on his pinky, and a half-smile like he was always on the edge of a good con.
"Nice to finally meet you," the stranger said, voice smooth like velvet on glass. "Face-to-face, that is."
Nolan blinked. "Who… the hell are you?"
The man tilted his head, mock offense on his face. "Oh, don't be like that. I've been with you longer than either of them." He gestured to Quintin and the fighter. "Name's Kieran. You can call me that, or whatever suits your fancy."
Nolan stood slowly, uncertain. "Kieran…"
"I handle the talking, the charm, the deals." Kieran flashed a grin. "You know, all the things you're not exactly known for."
Quintin scoffed. "Don't flatter yourself. You're a distraction with good taste in suits."
"And you're a lunatic with a fondness for chaos," Kieran shot back.
"Enough," said Nolan sharply. "All of you."
They looked at him. Really looked at him.
He felt it—the weight of three lives tethered to his. All extensions of himself. All pieces of a puzzle he never wanted to solve.
Nolan exhaled. "Why now? Why talk to me now? I've been alive for twenty-one years. Twenty-one years. And this is the first time I hear your voices clearly?"
"You never listened," said the fighter, speaking for the first time. His voice was deep. Calm. Dangerous. "You only ran. You acted like we weren't there. You buried us."
"You didn't want to believe we were real," Quintin added, brushing nonexistent dust off his pants. "You pretended we were just… episodes. Blackouts. Convenient excuses."
"Self-delusion's a hell of a drug," Kieran said, more gently now.
Nolan's fists clenched. "I was scared, alright? I am scared. I don't know what the hell is happening to me. One second I'm curled in a ball, and the next… you're killing people, or scamming hotels, or whispering plans to rob a bank!"
Then the fighter stood.
"You need us," he said simply.
Nolan turned toward him. "No, I don't. I need to be normal. I need to be whole."
"You are whole," said Quintin. "We are you. And whether you like it or not… this is your mind."
"And we've kept you alive more times than you care to count," Kieran added.
Nolan's shoulders sagged. He sat slowly in the empty chair, rubbing his face.
"So what now?" he asked, voice small.
"You already said it," Quintin leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "One job. One time. Then you can decide if you want to keep pretending we're ghosts in your head—or if you want to survive."
Kieran grinned. "It's Gotham, baby. Survival's a team sport."
The fighter just stared, saying nothing, but there was something steady in his eyes. A silent oath: You get hurt, and I take over.
Nolan closed his eyes. In the dark of his mind, beneath a single floating bulb, surrounded by pieces of himself—
"One job," he muttered. "Then we talk again."
And when Nolan opened his eyes again, the park was still empty… but the cold didn't bite quite as hard.