[4]

Nuru pulled his jacket tighter against the biting wind, his breath clouding the icy air. Gotham in the early morning was eerily quiet—no car horns, no shouting, just the occasional creak of old buildings settling and the distant hum of traffic from a bridge far off. The city felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for something to shatter the calm.

He stopped in the shadow of an old warehouse, rubbing his numb hands together. His fingers ached from the cold, and his shoes, barely held together by duct tape, offered little protection from the slush soaking into his socks. He'd been walking for hours, driven by equal parts instinct and desperation.

Park Row wasn't far behind him now, its cracked sidewalks and graffiti-smeared walls giving way to the industrial sprawl of the Bowery. Rusted fences and abandoned factories dominated the landscape here, a skeletal remains of the city's manufacturing past. It wasn't much, but it offered something Park Row couldn't anymore: anonymity.

Nuru's eyes landed on a narrow alley between two warehouses, its entrance partially blocked by a sagging chain-link gate. A dumpster sat crookedly near the back, surrounded by scattered trash. It wasn't pretty, but it was dry, and no one seemed to be around.

"This'll do," he muttered.

The first thing he did was scout the area, keeping to the shadows as he checked for signs of other squatters or potential dangers. The buildings here were mostly empty, their windows boarded up and doors chained shut. The alley itself had seen better days, but it wasn't completely trashed. He even spotted a rusted drainpipe that might work as a way to climb up to the warehouse roofs if he needed a better vantage point.

Satisfied that he was alone, Nuru turned his attention to making the space livable. He pulled out his notebook, flipping through the pages until he found a blank one. His fingers trembled slightly as he gripped his pen. He'd used his powers sparingly since leaving the tunnels, afraid of drawing attention—or worse, creating something he couldn't undo. But now, with the cold biting into his skin and hunger gnawing at his stomach, he didn't have much choice.

An old tarp, clean enough to use as a cover, is caught on a nearby fence.

The words settled onto the page like weights, the faint hum of his power thrumming in his chest. A gust of wind stirred the trash in the alley, and Nuru caught a flash of blue fabric flapping in the corner of his eye. He turned to see the tarp tangled in the jagged edges of a fence a few feet away.

"Perfect," he said under his breath.

He pulled it free, shaking off the worst of the dirt before draping it over a patch of dry ground near the wall. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

Over the next few days, Nuru settled into a rhythm. He scavenged what he could from the surrounding area—scraps of wood for a makeshift barrier, an old plastic crate to use as a seat, and a few empty cans he'd cleaned out for water collection. He avoided using his notebook too often, relying on it only when absolutely necessary. Even then, he kept his changes small: a lost bag of rice left behind near a loading dock, a broken radio still capable of static-filled tunes to drown out the silence.

But as the days stretched into weeks, he realized he couldn't survive on scraps forever. The hunger was constant now, a dull ache that made his hands shake and his thoughts blur. If he wanted to stay here—if he wanted to live—he needed more than a tarp and scavenged scraps.

He needed a plan.

----------

The idea came to him on a frigid night, the wind howling through the cracks in the alley like a living thing. Nuru sat huddled under his tarp, his notebook open in his lap. He wasn't writing, just staring at the pages as his mind wandered.

The Bowery wasn't as crowded as Park Row, but it wasn't empty. Gangs moved through here, using the warehouses to stash stolen goods or hide out from the cops. Nuru had seen them from a distance—burly men in patched jackets, their laughter harsh and mocking as they carried crates into the shadows.

He didn't know much about them, but he knew enough. They weren't the big players, like the Maroni's or the Falcone's. These were smaller-time crooks, looking to make a quick buck in Gotham's endless churn of crime.

And where there were crooks, there was opportunity.

The first time he saw them up close was late one night, the moon hidden behind thick clouds. Nuru was perched on the roof of one of the warehouses, watching as three men hauled crates out of a rusted van. They worked quickly, their movements tense and sharp.

Nuru crouched lower, his breath fogging the air as he watched. His notebook rested in his lap, the pen hovering over a blank page. He didn't know exactly what he was planning yet, but he knew he needed to make this work.

One of the men trips, dropping a crate. Its contents spill onto the ground.

The words felt heavier this time, their weight pressing against his chest as he wrote. Below, one of the men stumbled, the edge of his boot catching on a stray piece of debris. He cursed loudly as the crate slipped from his hands, crashing to the ground with a loud thud.

"What the hell, man?" one of the others snapped.

"Wasn't my fault," the first man grumbled, kneeling to gather the spilled contents.

Nuru's eyes narrowed as he caught a glimpse of what was inside: small, clear bags filled with white powder.

Drugs.

----------

The discovery was a turning point. Nuru had always avoided the gangs in Park Row, keeping his head down and staying out of their way. But now, with his options dwindling and the harsh reality of Gotham pressing in, he realized he couldn't afford to avoid them forever.

If they had resources, he could take them. If they made money, he could skim off the edges. He didn't need to get involved—just close enough to survive.

The next time he saw the men, he was ready.

It started small: a bag of food left unattended, a wallet dropped during a deal. Nuru watched from the shadows, his notebook his only weapon. He wrote carefully, deliberately, crafting moments of chance that left the men frustrated but none the wiser.

The longer this went on without catching their notice, the bolder he became. He started listening to their conversations, piecing together names and routes. They called themselves the Red Knives, a small-time operation trying to carve out territory in the Bowery.

Nuru didn't care about their plans or their rivalries. All he cared about was staying one step ahead.

But Gotham wasn't a city that let you go unnoticed for long.

One night, as Nuru spied on another deal being made near his hideout from behind some cover, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. He turned, his heart hammering in his chest, and saw a figure standing just a few yards away.

It wasn't one of the gang members. This man was taller, leaner, his movements fluid as he stepped into the moonlight. His face was obscured by a hood, but there was something unmistakably deliberate about the way he carried himself.

"You're pretty good at hiding and concealing your presence for a child," the man said, his voice smooth and cold. "But then again, like anyone who begins to grow complacent, you eventually get sloppy."

Nuru's grip tightened on his notebook, his mind racing. He didn't know who this man was, but he knew danger when he saw it.

And for the first time since leaving the sewer tunnels, he realized he might have gotten in over his head.