Now the story begins
“So let me get this straight, Jason—some new stray meta not only hacked our system but also left Damian unconscious, Tim with a sprained ankle, and you with a broken rib?”
Jason stared at the floor, jaw clenched beneath his helmet. He didn’t bother taking it off—not yet. Maybe the faceplate would absorb the full force of Bruce’s disappointment.
“Could’ve been worse,” he muttered.
Bruce’s eyes narrowed. He crossed his arms, posture taut and imposing as ever. The Batcave was quiet aside from the soft beeping of the computers behind them, but the tension was thick enough to cut through.
“I don’t want worse,” Bruce snapped. “I want answers.”
Tim was sitting on a stool near the medbay, ankle wrapped in gauze, arms crossed as he glared at the floor with his usual simmering frustration. Damian was still out cold, lying on the med table. Alfred was tending to him with clinical precision and a distinct air of concern.
Barbara’s voice crackled through the comms, cutting through the silence. “Facial recognition was a dead end. Whoever this kid is, he’s not in any known database.”
Jason finally looked up, helmet sliding off with a hiss. His face was pale under the bruises. “I’m telling you, B. This wasn’t just some wannabe vigilante. The kid moved tactically. He was fighting to escape not win.”
“He disabled us,” Tim added, his voice edged with frustration. “Like we were obstacles, not threats.”
“That would explain the precision,” Barbara said. “He took down all of you in under two minutes and got away clean. Not exactly your average Gotham meta.”
Bruce walked toward the Batcomputer, eyes flicking over the security footage playing back in muted colors his hood revealed a small bit of his hair. Brown curly, blurry shots of his punches, and a flash of movement no one had been able to follow.
“Let me guess,” Bruce said tightly, not taking his eyes off the screen. “You engaged him without backup, without identification, and without authorization.”
Jason rolled his eyes. “You want to tell that to him? He was already gone by the time we had eyes on him. And what would I even tell him? Hey random kid I've never seen im a very friendly person who is just wondering who you are”
Barbara exhaled through the comms. “He’s good, Bruce. Like really good. The agility and knowledge”
The silence after that was deafening.
“I want that kid found. Now Before he crosses paths with the wrong people in this city.”
Jason straightened up, cracking his neck. “You think he’s a threat?”
“I think he’s scared,” Bruce said quietly. “And scared metas in Gotham don’t tend to last long.”
At that moment, Damian stirred on the table, groaning softly as his eyes flickered open.
“He got away?” Damian rasped, his voice hoarse with disbelief and fury.
Jason smirked and patted his arm. “Yeah, welcome back, demon brat. Don’t worry—we’re making a second impression real soon.”
Bruce turned back to the monitors, the shadows of Gotham spreading across the screen.
“Track everything. Street cams, patrol sightings, heat signatures. And if any of you see him again… do not engage until I say so.”
The bell above the coffee shop door gave a soft jingle as Peter stepped inside. Warm air and the rich scent of ground beans greeted him like an old friend. He sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing just a bit.
It was a small place—worn, a little crooked, but alive. A quiet murmur of conversation hovered in the background, blending with the soft hiss of the espresso machine.
Peter walked up to the counter and held up the slightly crumpled coupon Mitch had handed him.
“Coffee?” he asked hopefully.
The barista gave the paper a glance and a nod, then pointed toward a seat near the back. “Go ahead and sit. I’ll bring it over.”
Peter nodded and made his way to a corner booth. The cracked faux leather seat groaned under him as he sat. He exhaled slowly, the weight of the city pressing just a little less heavily on his back for once.
When the mug arrived—black coffee, no frills—he wrapped his hands around it, letting the warmth seep into his fingers. He took a sip and smiled faintly.
After a few minutes, the chair across from him slid back with a screech, and Mitch dropped into it, setting down a bottle of water and a foil-wrapped sandwich.
“Knew I’d find you here,” Mitch said with a smirk, unwrapping his food.
Peter gave him a skeptical look. “I’m that predictable, huh?”
“Well, it’s this or the bus stop across from that boarded-up bar. Not a hard guess.”
Peter huffed a tired laugh. “Fair.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the kind that didn’t need to be filled.
“You settling in okay?” Mitch finally asked between bites.
Peter hesitated, then gave a small shrug. “Still weird”
“Yeah,” Mitch said, nodding. “Gotham’s not exactly known for its warm welcomes.”
Peter took another sip of coffee, watching people pass by outside the window. It was almost peaceful.
Mitch leaned back in his seat. “You gotta hide not being a local better”
Peter gave him a look. “That obvious?”
“You walk differently. Look people in the eye too much. And you said ‘thank you’ to a guy who stepped on your foot the other day.”
Peter chuckled. “Guess I’m not doing a great job blending in.”
“Nah, you’re doing alright. Just… watch your back. This city eats nice people for breakfast.”
Peter nodded slowly. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
They sat a bit longer, chatting about nothing and everything—bad diner food, strange folks on the street, the ever-present smell of rain and exhaust that never seemed to leave Gotham. For a moment, things almost felt normal.
Eventually, Peter checked the time and stood, stretching his arms with a wince.
“Better head back,” he said, pulling up his hood.
“Don’t get mugged,” Mitch replied with a half-smile.
Peter smiled back. “No promises.”
The streets were quiet which was good for Peter's sensitive hearing. Peter walked with his hands shoved deep in his hoodie pocket, footsteps echoing faintly off the damp sidewalk. Gotham never fully slept, but tonight it was quieter—uneasy, like the city was holding its breath.
That’s when he felt it.
A flicker at the edge of his awareness, like static crawling up his spine.
He stopped and glanced around. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just streetlights humming, trash skittering across the pavement, the distant rumble of a train.
But someone was watching him. He could feel it.
“Karen?” he whispered instinctively—then shook his head. She wasn’t on yet.
Old habits.
He slowly turned, scanning the rooftops and alleys. His vision adjusted in the dim light, and for a second, he thought he caught movement—a blur slipping behind a chimney, just out of reach.
He narrowed his eyes, but when he took a few steps toward it, the shadows swallowed whatever—or whoever—it had been.
He waited a moment longer.
Nothing.
“Okay then…” he muttered.
He could’ve chased it down. Whatever it was. But instead, he turned and kept walking, forcing himself not to look back again.
Let them watch. He had nothing to hide.
Except everything.