[10]

Nuru stood at the edge of the cracked pavement outside the apartment complex, his breath fogging the cold Gotham air. The late afternoon sun hung low on the horizon, its light muted by a veil of gray clouds. It cast long shadows across the street, stretching like dark fingers toward the alleyways and storefronts that framed the area.

He tightened the strap on his backpack, his fingers fumbling slightly as the chill bit into his skin. Beneath his hoodie, his shoulders felt taut, his nerves coiling with tension. This was it—the point of no return. For months, he'd been playing a careful game of survival, keeping his head low and using his power sparingly. But tonight, it was going to be different.

The phone in his pocket buzzed faintly, the soft vibration breaking the quiet. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen. Another notification from Troy's contacts, this one a terse message from Big Mike:

You coming or what?

He swiped the notification away, his mind racing as he pieced together his next steps. Over the past hour, he'd combed through Troy's messages and pieced together enough of the man's schedule to form a rough plan. The texts with the 'Boss' had been the most helpful, pointing to a disused factory in Gotham's industrial district. The location wasn't spelled out, but the details were just specific enough for Nuru to connect the dots.

The plan felt deceptively simple. Assume Troy's identity, infiltrate the gang, and gather information. He'd told himself it would be a slow, calculated process—weeks, maybe months of careful observation before making any bold moves. But reality had a way of unraveling even the best-laid plans.

He took a deep breath and pulled out his notebook. Flipping to a blank page, he steadied his hand and began to write.

My appearance shifts to resemble Troy McKenna. My height, as well as outfit matches his since the last time I laid eyes upon his appearance.

The words hummed with power as they settled onto the page. A familiar warmth rippled through Nuru's body, his muscles stretching and shifting beneath his skin. His limbs grew longer, his frame broadening as his features sharpened into a rough, weathered visage.

When the sensation faded, he turned toward a nearby window, catching his reflection in the faint glass. Troy stared back at him—a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark, sunken eyes and a face that looked like it had seen its share of fights. His original attire was gone now, the fabric a different material altogether with less pulling and stretching against his larger frame.

"Not bad," Nuru muttered under his breath, his voice lower and rougher than usual. He adjusted the straps of his backpack, the weight suddenly feeling lighter on his shoulders.

The walk to the industrial district felt endless. Gotham's streets were a patchwork of decay and life, each block offering a new contrast. Nuru passed graffiti-covered walls and boarded-up storefronts, the remnants of a once-thriving city left to rot.

At one corner, a woman sat huddled beneath a tattered blanket, her hands clutching a cup as she murmured something incomprehensible. A few feet away, two teenagers argued over a scuffed basketball, their voices echoing off the buildings around them.

Nuru kept his head down, his strides purposeful as he navigated the labyrinth of streets. He couldn't afford to draw attention—not now, not when he was so close to the lion's den.

The factory came into view just as the last traces of daylight faded from the sky. It loomed like a relic from a bygone era, its jagged silhouette cutting against the pale glow of the rising moon. The walls were streaked with rust, and broken windows gaped like the hollow eyes of a skull. A chain-link fence surrounded the property, its gate hanging crookedly from one hinge.

Nuru paused just outside the entrance, his gaze sweeping over the scene. The faint hum of machinery drifted from somewhere within, mingling with the occasional burst of laughter or the clink of bottles.

This was it.

He slipped through the gate, his boots crunching softly against the gravel. As he neared the main entrance, he spotted a figure leaning against the wall—a burly man in a leather jacket, a cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers.

The man glanced up as Nuru approached, his eyes narrowing briefly before recognition seemed to settle in.

"Took you long enough," the man grunted, flicking the cigarette to the ground. "Boss is waiting inside. You get held up or something?"

Nuru forced himself to shrug, his movements casual despite the tightness in his chest. "Traffic," he replied, keeping his voice gruff and clipped.

The man snorted. "Yeah, sure. Get your ass in there."

Nuru stepped through the heavy metal doors, the air inside immediately hitting him with a mix of oil, mildew, and sweat. The factory was dimly lit, the fluorescent lights overhead flickering intermittently. Machines stood silent and rusting along the walls, their hulking forms casting long shadows across the floor.

The space had been transformed into a makeshift base. Crates stacked high with stolen goods lined the perimeter, their labels bearing everything from electronics to canned food. Folding tables were scattered throughout the room, cluttered with maps, cash, and scattered weapons.

Men and women moved through the space with practiced ease, their voices low and hushed as they carried out various tasks. Nuru counted at least a dozen people, each one armed and dangerous.

He kept his movements deliberate, his posture mimicking Troy's as best he could under a multitude of assumptions as he navigated the room. His heart pounded in his chest, but outwardly, he exuded the confidence of someone who belonged here.

No one even seemed to give him a second glance, thankfully.

----------

A voice rang out, cutting through the low hum of conversation and the clatter of crates. It was sharp and commanding, tinged with irritation that demanded immediate attention.

"You're late, McKenna."

Nuru's head snapped toward the source of the voice, his stomach twisting. Near the back of the room, illuminated by a flickering overhead light, stood a figure unlike any of the gang members milling about. He was shorter than Nuru had expected, but his presence dominated the space.

Oswald Cobblepot—better known as the Penguin.

The man's round frame was encased in an impeccably tailored suit, the dark fabric immaculate despite the grimy surroundings. A black umbrella rested against the table beside him, its polished handle gleaming faintly under the light. His sharp nose and piercing eyes gave him the look of a bird of prey, and the faint sneer curling his lips made it clear he wasn't in the mood for excuses.

Nuru felt a rush of adrenaline as he recognized the infamous crime lord. The Penguin's name carried weight in Gotham, whispered with a mix of fear and respect. This wasn't some petty gang leader—this was a man who played the long game, who built empires from the shadows.

Nuru swallowed hard and forced himself to walk forward, his steps steady despite the knot of nerves tightening in his chest.

"Sorry, boss," he said, keeping his tone gruff and clipped. "Got caught up with a few things."

Cobblepot's eyes narrowed, his gaze sweeping over Nuru with the intensity of a predator assessing its prey. For a heart-stopping moment, Nuru wondered if he'd been made. But then the Penguin turned his attention to the table beside him, gesturing for Nuru to approach.

"Caught up," Cobblepot echoed, his voice dripping with disdain. "You always did have a knack for poor timing, McKenna. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to make a habit of it."

Nuru resisted the urge to wince. He stepped closer to the table, his gaze darting to the documents spread out across its surface. Maps, shipping manifests, and photographs covered the scarred wood, each one meticulously marked with notes and arrows.

"You recognize this?" Cobblepot asked, tapping a finger against one of the maps.

Nuru leaned over, his eyes scanning the lines and labels. It showed Gotham's harbor, its docks marked with bright red circles. He nodded, playing along. "Yeah. We're still running the shipments out of Dock 13, right?"

The Penguin's expression didn't change, but his eyes flickered with something unreadable. "For now. But if those shipments don't start moving faster, Dock 13 will be the least of your worries."

Nuru felt the weight of the crime lord's words, but he also couldn't help the faint flicker of satisfaction that sparked within him. Every sentence, every glance, every small piece of information Cobblepot revealed was a victory—one more puzzle piece falling into place.

He stole a glance at the others gathered around the table. They were an eclectic mix—some dressed in leather jackets and jeans, others in suits that, while less polished than Cobblepot's, still spoke of a higher rank within the operation. Their faces were hardened, their postures tense as they listened to the Penguin's instructions.

"Listen up," Cobblepot snapped, his voice cutting through the room. "The next shipment comes in tonight. Same route, same drop. I don't want any mistakes this time. You screw this up, and I'll make sure you're not around to screw up the next one."

The group murmured their assent, their heads nodding in unison. Nuru kept his expression neutral, his mind racing as he committed the details to memory.

As Cobblepot continued to bark orders, Nuru allowed himself a moment to survey the rest of the factory. His eyes darted to the crates stacked along the walls, noting the variety of labels stamped across them: electronics, pharmaceuticals, even fresh produce.

This wasn't just about smuggling. This was about control—of resources, of markets, of the city itself.

But as he absorbed the scale of the operation, he felt a prickle of unease. The longer he stayed here, the greater the risk of discovery. And the last thing he needed was for someone to notice the cracks in his act.

"McKenna," Cobblepot said suddenly, snapping Nuru's attention back to the present.

"Yes, boss?"

"You're on cleanup duty tonight. Make sure the floor's clear before the next shipment arrives."

Nuru nodded, forcing a smirk. "Got it."

Cobblepot's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before he turned away, barking more orders to the others.

As the group began to disperse, Nuru felt a wave of relief wash over him. He'd made it past the first hurdle—he was in.

He moved toward the nearest stack of crates, his mind churning with possibilities. The plan had always been to infiltrate slowly, to gather information piece by piece. But now, surrounded by Cobblepot's men and staring down the barrel of a smuggling empire, he realized just how precarious his position was.

----------

The factory hummed with activity, a low chorus of voices and the occasional scrape of crates against the concrete floor filling the air. Nuru moved through the shadows near the stacked cargo, keeping his movements deliberate but unobtrusive. He could feel the weight of every glance, every stray look that lingered just a second too long.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been inside—ten minutes, maybe fifteen—when the first sign of trouble arrived.

A faint sound reached his ears, muffled but distinct: a sharp, metallic click, followed by a soft shuffle of feet.

Nuru's instincts kicked in immediately. He ducked behind a crate, his breath hitching as he strained to hear more. The sounds came again, closer this time, accompanied by a faint rustle that set his nerves on edge.

A shout erupted near the far end of the room.

"What the—"

The words were cut short by the crack of gunfire.

The factory descended into chaos. Men and women scrambled for cover as bullets ricocheted off the metal walls, the sharp cracks echoing like thunderclaps. Crates splintered under the onslaught, their contents spilling onto the floor in a chaotic mess.

"Under attack!" someone yelled, their voice tinged with panic.

Nuru crouched low behind the crates, his heart pounding as he peeked around the edge. Through the haze of dust and shadows, he caught glimpses of their attackers—figures dressed in dark clothing, their faces obscured by ski masks.

It wasn't immediately clear who they were, but their precision suggested more than random thugs. An opposing gang, perhaps, or rivals targeting Cobblepot's operation.

Nuru's mind raced. He hadn't accounted for this—an attack from outside forces throwing the entire operation into disarray.

Cobblepot's voice cut through the noise, sharp and commanding.

"Don't just stand there, you idiots! Take them out!"

The Penguin had taken cover near the center of the room, his black umbrella clutched tightly in one hand. He barked orders at his men, his usual sneer replaced by a scowl of frustration.

Nuru pressed himself closer to the crates, his thoughts whirling. This was a nightmare scenario. He'd been so focused on maintaining his cover that he hadn't prepared for something like this—a full-blown firefight in the heart of the gang's base.

But even amid the chaos, something else caught his attention.

A shadow moved through the fray, fluid and deliberate. It moved with purpose, cutting through the confusion like a knife through fabric. Nuru's eyes widened as he caught a glimpse of a cape unfurling like dark wings, its edges rippling with every step.

Then he saw the man himself.

Batman.

The Dark Knight was a force of nature, his presence commanding and unyielding. He moved with surgical precision, disarming attackers with quick, brutal efficiency. One moment, he was a shadow; the next, he was a blur of motion, a gloved fist sending a gunman sprawling to the floor.

Nuru's breath caught as he watched the legend in action. He'd seen photos of Batman before, read about him in the newspapers and heard stories whispered on the streets. But seeing him in person was something else entirely.

Cobblepot seemed to feel the same.

"Take him down!" the Penguin roared, his umbrella swinging wildly as he gestured at the Bat.

The gang opened fire, their weapons flashing in the dim light. But Batman moved faster than their bullets, his cape billowing as he ducked and weaved through the hail of gunfire. One by one, the attackers fell, their weapons clattering to the ground as they were disarmed or incapacitated.

Nuru felt his pulse quicken as the chaos intensified. He needed to move—needed to find a way out before the situation spiraled even further.

His gaze flicked to Cobblepot, who was still shouting orders and clinging to his umbrella like a lifeline. The crime lord wasn't fleeing—not yet. But the briefcase he'd vaguely been aware the man had been guarding earlier was gone. Like he was protective of whatever was inside it, yet too prideful to put it somewhere actually safe.

Nuru scanned the room, his eyes darting between the crates and fallen bodies.

There—near the far side of the room, half-hidden beneath a pile of splintered wood. The briefcase lay untouched, its black surface gleaming faintly in the light.

Nuru moved quickly, keeping low as he darted through the maze of crates. His heart hammered in his chest, each step calculated to avoid drawing attention.

He reached the briefcase just as another burst of gunfire erupted nearby. Grabbing it, he ducked behind a toppled table, his hands shaking as he fumbled with the latches.

"What do you think you're doing?"

The voice was low, gravelly, and laced with authority.

Nuru's head snapped up, his eyes meeting the icy gaze of Batman himself. The Dark Knight stood just a few feet away, his imposing figure casting a long shadow over the area.

Nuru froze, the half-opened briefcase clutched tightly in his hands. He didn't know what to say, his mind racing as he searched for an explanation that wouldn't get him killed.

"Drop it," Batman said, his voice calm but unyielding.

Nuru's grip tightened on the case, his body tensing as he calculated his next move. Before he could act, a commotion near the back of the room drew both their attention.

Cobblepot was making his escape.

"Cover me!" the Penguin barked, his remaining men forming a loose wall of bodies as he wobbled out of sight.

Nuru took advantage of the distraction, dropping the briefcase as it slammed shut and darting toward the nearest exit. Batman's voice echoed behind him, sharp and commanding.

"Stop!"

But Nuru didn't stop. He ran, and kept running like the devil was nipping at his heels, his heart racing as he navigated the labyrinth of crates and debris. His mind was a whirlwind of fear and determination, his instincts screaming at him to flee before he was caught.

Reaching a quiet corner of the factory, he pulled out his notebook, his hands trembling as he wrote:

Return to normal.

The shift was instantaneous. His body shrank back to its natural form, his features softening as he shed the borrowed identity of Troy McKenna.

Stuffing the notebook into his bag, he adjusted the straps of his backpack, his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts.

The area he found himself in was much quieter at this point, the sounds of chaos fading into the distance. Nuru slipped out through a side door, his steps quick but measured as he put as much distance as possible between himself and the scene.

The streets were empty, save for the occasional flicker of a streetlight or the distant hum of a passing car. Nuru tried his best to keep out of sight, his eyes scanning for any sign of pursuit.

He thought he was safe.

Until he eventually felt an increasingly-familiar presence behind him.

"Turn around."

The voice was calm but carried the weight of authority.

Nuru froze, his stomach twisting as he slowly turned to face the towering figure of Batman. Why the hell didn't he go after the Penguin? The boy couldn't help but think to himself in a panic. The Dark Knight's cape billowed slightly in the wind, his eyes sharp and unyielding as they locked onto his.

"What's your name?" Batman asked, his voice softer now but no less commanding.

He swallowed hard, his voice barely a whisper as he answered. "Nuru."

The name hung in the air, a quiet declaration in the shadow of Gotham's greatest enigma.