[7]

The diner was a tomb of forgotten stories. Nuru stood near the entrance, his footsteps kicking up faint puffs of dust as he scanned the space. The windows were boarded from the outside, faint slivers of moonlight piercing through the cracks to cast pale lines across the linoleum floor. Booths lined one side of the room, their once-red vinyl seats cracked and faded. A counter stretched along the other side, dotted with rusted stools bolted to the floor.

A sign above the counter, barely legible through layers of grime, read: Maggie's Diner—Good Eats Since 1978. The good eats hadn't been served in a long time.

Nuru adjusted the straps of his backpack and exhaled slowly. "Better than nothing," he muttered.

He couldn't shake the nervous energy thrumming through his body. The phone in his pocket felt like it weighed a ton, its screen a reminder of the threat still hanging over his head. A 'cleaner' had been sent to check out the area where a bunch of members of the Red Knives had gotten their asses kicked. The one-eyed stranger from earlier had spared him, but he wasn't foolish enough to think his luck would hold.

First things first: make the space secure.

Nuru moved through the diner quietly, his eyes darting to every shadow and corner. A quick search revealed a few points of concern. The front door had a busted lock, its deadbolt useless against anyone determined to break in. One of the back windows was cracked open, its glass jagged, while the rear door to the kitchen hung slightly ajar.

"Figures," he muttered, dragging a crate to wedge it under the front door. He found a stack of warped trays in the kitchen and used them to block the broken window, weighing them down with old cans.

As he worked, he ran his fingers over the edges of his notebook. He hesitated before flipping it open, the pen trembling slightly in his hand.

A loose hinge fixes itself. A wooden plank is just strong enough to hold the door in place.

He wrote the words carefully, keeping his requests small and specific. The hum of his power rippled through the room, subtle but undeniable. When he pushed the rear door shut, it settled firmly into the frame, the hinge no longer groaning with age.

Satisfied, Nuru set his bag down in one of the booths and sat heavily on the bench. The vinyl creaked under his weight, and a faint puff of dust rose into the air. For the first time that day, he allowed himself to exhale fully.

He pulled out a can of beans he'd taken from the warehouse and eyed it skeptically. The back of the diner still had its industrial stove, but he doubted it worked—and he wasn't about to eat cold beans. He wandered into the kitchen, running his fingers over the stove's greasy knobs and tarnished surface.

"Guess we'll see," he muttered, opening the notebook again.

The stove works just long enough to cook a meal.

The notebook warmed in his hands as the words settled onto the page. A faint click echoed from the stove, followed by the soft hiss of a burner igniting. Nuru grinned despite himself, the heat from the flame chasing away some of the cold that had settled into his bones.

It wasn't long before the beans were bubbling in an old saucepan he'd found in a cabinet. The smell filled the air, mixing with the faint scent of mildew and rust. Nuru carried the pan back to the booth, his hands cupped around its edges to savor the warmth.

He ate slowly, his gaze drifting to the phone lying on the table in front of him. The cracked screen reflected the dim light from the boarded windows, its presence a constant reminder of the tangled mess he'd stumbled into.

As he ate, his mind churned with possibilities. He could keep running, find a new hiding place and hope the 'cleaner' or boss of the Red Knives never thought to look for him. But that didn't feel right anymore.

Ever since he'd arrived in Gotham, it felt like all he'd done was survive—scavenging scraps, dodging danger, always one step away from disaster. He'd never felt in control, never had a moment to decide what he wanted for himself. But sitting here, eating a meal he'd cooked with his own strange, impossible power, something inside him shifted.

He thought of the stranger who'd taken down the Red Knives with nothing but raw skill. He thought of the voice on the other end of the phone, cold and commanding, pulling strings from the shadows.

For the first time, the idea of hiding didn't feel like enough.

Nuru pushed his empty pan aside and leaned back against the booth, staring at the ceiling. He was tired of running. Tired of being scared.

"I'm done hiding," he murmured, the words surprising even himself.

The first rays of dawn were creeping through the cracks in the boards when Nuru finally drifted off. He stayed in the booth, his head resting on his folded arms, the notebook tucked safely under his jacket.

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When he woke, the light was brighter, casting long shadows across the dusty floor. Nuru sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes and wincing at the stiffness in his neck. He stretched, blinking as he tried to piece together where he was and why his back hurt so much.

Then the events of the night before came rushing back, and his gaze snapped to the phone still sitting on the table.

His plan wasn't fully formed yet, but the outlines were there. It didn't feel like he could take on the Red Knives, but if he got close to them, he could potentially learn more. Maybe even figure out who this 'boss' of theirs really was.

But first, he needed to stop looking like a kid who crawled out of a gutter, which was a bit more literal than he'd like to admit.

Nuru moved through the diner, searching the kitchen and storage rooms for anything useful. He found an old rag to wipe his face, but it didn't help much. His clothes were still tattered and filthy, and he didn't even want to think about what his hair looked like.

He needed a real change. New clothes, a shower—maybe even a haircut. The idea of walking into a mall or store like a regular person felt laughable, but he didn't see any other option.

He flipped open his notebook, his pen hovering over the page. He could write something to help, but the thought made him hesitate. He'd already pushed his power a lot in the past few days, more than he really ever had since knowing about it. What if it pushed back or something?

But as he stared at his reflection in the window, the dirt and exhaustion written all over his face, he knew he didn't have a choice.

The closest mall is quiet today, with few people paying attention to strangers.

The words settled on the page, and Nuru felt the faint tug of his power pulling at the edges of his thoughts. He didn't know if it would work, but it was worth the risk.

He slipped the notebook into his jacket and slung his backpack over his shoulder. He'd have to move quickly—mall security wouldn't look kindly on someone like him wandering around, and he didn't want to leave too many traces behind.

As he stepped out into the morning light, a new kind of energy hummed in his chest. For the first time in a long time, he wasn't just surviving.

He was planning.

And if everything went the way he hoped, nobody would ever see him coming.

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Once we reach the point where Nuru is going to be taken in by Bruce, should he actually don the Robin namesake? Maybe just for a little while? Then switch to another? If so, I'm thinking something along the lines of Cardinal. Or something. It's the first thing that popped into my head, and I felt like it sounded pretty cool.

Also, doesn't the Robin, and I'm talking about the actual bird in this case, represent good luck or divine intervention? Or something? Both of those concepts, I feel at least, could most definitely be attributed to Nuru, or his power more specifically. In certain ways, at least when it comes to how his power can be utilized, I could imagine him being seen as a pretty lucky dude when, say for instance, if he were ever in a gunfight, all shots aimed in his direction somehow miraculously missed their target. You get what I'm saying?