[1]

The winters in Gotham City weren't just cold—they were cruel. They sank into your skin, clawing at your chest until every breath burned. For someone like Nuru Kamau, the chill wasn't just a fact of life—it was the sharp edge of survival, constant and unrelenting.

He pulled his knees closer to his chest, huddled beneath a flimsy tarp that sagged under the weight of melting snow. The alley was quiet tonight, save for the occasional scuffle of rats or the hum of a passing car in the distance. His hands were numb, shaking as he clutched his most prized possession: a battered notebook with fraying edges, tucked beneath his jacket for warmth.

It had been three months since he'd come to Gotham, though it felt like years. The city wasn't kind to anyone, let alone an eight-year-old with no family, no money, and no home.

But then again, neither had Blüdhaven.

Nuru had left Blüdhaven with nothing but a backpack of essentials and a heart full of stories. He hadn't planned to leave; the decision had been made for him the night the fights between his parents finally spilled over into something worse.

His father's anger had always been volcanic—unpredictable, explosive, and far too often aimed at Nuru and his mother. But that night was different. That night, Nuru had been woken by the sound of something crashing in the kitchen. He remembered creeping to the door of his room, peeking out, and seeing his mother trying to shield him from the storm with her body.

The yelling, the smashing of glass, his mother's cries—all of it blurred into one horrible cacophony. Then silence.

When Nuru dared to step out, he found her slumped on the floor. His father was gone.

He hadn't waited for the police to arrive. He didn't want to hear the sirens or face the questions. He just... ran.

Gotham had seemed like the place to disappear. It wasn't far from Blüdhaven, and he'd heard stories from older kids on the streets about how big the city was—how easy it was to get lost. That sounded perfect.

But the stories left out the truth about Gotham: how every corner felt like it was watching you, and every shadow carried the weight of a thousand desperate souls just like you. Winters here weren't harsher than Blüdhaven's in temperature, but in Gotham, the cold felt personal. It wasn't just the air or the wind; it was the way the city stripped you down to nothing and left you to fend for yourself.

Nuru had learned quickly that the rooftops and alleys weren't enough to survive the frost. He'd tried sleeping near subway grates for warmth, but the older homeless claimed those spots fast, leaving kids like him with the dregs—places like this alley, where snow seeped in through the cracks, and the garbage bins offered no real protection.

The first time he'd met them—the people who called the sewers home—it had been an accident.

He'd spent hours searching for a place to stay dry, his breath forming small clouds that disappeared into the bitter night. His hands were shaking too hard to write, his notebook untouched for the first time in weeks. But when he'd tried to slip into an old subway tunnel for shelter, he'd stumbled onto a gathering of Gotham's hidden homeless, huddled around a barrel fire.

It was Marie who had noticed him first, her sharp eyes cutting through the dim light. "You look like you're about to fall over," she'd said, handing him a tattered blanket without waiting for an answer.

He'd learned later that Marie had been a teacher once, before Gotham chewed her up and spit her out. She was the unofficial leader of the small group who'd turned these forgotten tunnels into something resembling a community. It wasn't much—just a few sleeping areas, scavenged furniture, and whatever food they could scrape together—but it was warm. And in Gotham, warmth was a currency more valuable than gold.

Marie had let him stay on one condition: he had to contribute. That meant anything from hauling supplies to keeping an eye out for trouble. At first, Nuru had just nodded and followed the others' lead. But as the days turned to weeks, he realized he could contribute in a different way.

He wasn't sure when the stories started to bleed into reality.

Maybe it was the night he wrote about a rat finding a stash of uneaten bread—and woke to find an actual loaf sitting by his head. Or the time he scrawled a story about a frozen pipe bursting, and minutes later, the group had water for the first time in days.

At first, he thought it was coincidence. But the more he tested it, the more he realized there was a pattern. The things he wrote—small, unassuming details—started to come true. Only when he stopped writing did the notebook's influence fade, as though it needed his imagination to breathe life into its pages.

Marie didn't know about it. None of them did. Nuru wasn't ready to share it—not even when the cold gnawed at his fingers, begging him to conjure something warm and permanent. The notebook scared him as much as it fascinated him. It made him feel powerful, but also fragile. Like one wrong word could unravel everything.

Tonight, as the snow fell heavier, Nuru's stomach growled. His share of the day's scavenging had been slim—a stale roll and half a can of beans—and now, hunger gnawed at him like the cold. He flipped open the notebook, his breath fogging the page as he thought.

A warm fire appears nearby, crackling with life. Enough for one boy to feel safe.

The pen hovered over the page. He wanted to write it. To feel the warmth he could already picture so vividly. But what if someone saw it? What if it made things worse?

His thoughts were interrupted by a faint noise—a commotion, coming from somewhere above. Shouts echoed in the night, followed by the heavy crack of gunfire. Nuru froze, his grip tightening on the notebook.

This wasn't new. In Gotham, violence was the backdrop to every story, the ever-present hum of the city's heartbeat. But something about this was different. Louder. Closer.

The pen trembled in his hand.

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I'm rather tempted to make Nuru a part of the Batfamily. This universe, which is obviously going to be an alternate variant, is currently set within the first couple of years after Bruce Wayne's return to Gotham City and Batman's subsequent debut. Should the MC take Richard's place as the first Robin? With a power that only Nuru will be aware of, since I don't believe in all that sharing unnecessary secrets bullshit, there would certainly be some interesting routes to go with it all.

Kind of reminds me of Duke Thomas, who was also a black metahuman in the Batfamily. (Can't wait for the questionably-racist people on Webnovel that, once they realize the MC isn't white, are immediately going to drop the story. Just kidding, but not really at the same time. I'm not actually sure that's going to happen, I just recall seeing a bunch of people doing it one time on somebody else's story a few years ago lol)

Anyway, I'd definitely like to hear some suggestions, considering this'll be a first for me.