[9]

The cab rattled along Gotham's uneven streets, its interior filled with the faint smell of stale cigarettes and leather polish. Nuru sat low in the back seat, his hood pulled just far enough over his face to obscure his features. The driver hadn't asked any questions—thanks to the extra cash Nuru had slid across the seat—and Nuru wasn't about to volunteer anything.

The cityscape began to change as the cab neared Alleytown. The high-rises and polished facades gave way to tightly packed rowhouses, their brickwork weathered by decades of neglect. The streets narrowed, and the sidewalks became busier, crowded with pedestrians.

Alleytown was a place of motion. People bustled in and out of corner stores, their arms loaded with bags. Vendors hawked everything from roasted chestnuts to knockoff watches, their voices loud and insistent. Kids darted between the adults, their movements quick and deliberate. Nuru's eyes followed one boy, maybe nine or ten, as he brushed past an older man and slipped a wallet from his coat pocket with practiced ease.

Pickpockets, Nuru thought grimly, his fingers tightening around the strap of his backpack. Alleytown had a reputation for its 'little shadows'—kids who survived by stealing from anyone careless enough to let them. Nuru had no intention of becoming a target.

He reached for his notebook, pulling it slightly from his jacket. The children passing by fail to notice me, he wrote in small, deliberate letters. The faint hum of his power rippled through him, and he tucked the notebook away again.

The cab came to a stop near a corner where several buildings converged, their rooftops slanting together like puzzle pieces. Nuru handed the driver the rest of his fare and stepped out onto the cracked sidewalk.

Alleytown had its own rhythm, one that Nuru found both fascinating and unnerving. The architecture felt claustrophobic, the buildings leaning into each other like old friends with secrets to share. Rooftops seemed to flow together in waves, broken only by the occasional water tower or stray antenna.

Nuru moved carefully through the streets, his eyes scanning the faces around him. People here dressed in layers, bundling themselves against the cold with mismatched scarves and patched jackets. Conversations were quick and hushed, punctuated by the clink of coins or the rustle of paper bills.

In one alley, a group of teenagers leaned against a graffiti-covered wall, their voices low as they exchanged something small and wrapped in plastic. Across the street, a vendor selling roasted peanuts shouted at a man who had walked off without paying.

The chaos felt alive, buzzing around Nuru as he made his way toward his destination. He checked his phone and noted the time. The sun had lowered slightly, its pale light barely breaking through the overcast sky. Still plenty of daylight left, though, just not as much as he would have liked.

Nuru adjusted his hoodie, which fit snugly against his frame. He liked it—liked how it made him feel less exposed. But he couldn't shake the cold that seeped into his bones, no matter how many layers he wore. A hot shower was all he could think about now.

When Nuru finally reached the address, he paused at the corner to take it in. The apartment building wasn't anything special—a squat, three-story structure with chipped paint and iron bars over the ground-floor windows. A faded awning hung over the front entrance, its once-bright green fabric now dulled to a sickly gray.

Nuru's eyes darted to the alley beside the building. The narrow passage was littered with scraps of cardboard and broken glass, but it was quiet. He moved quickly toward it, slipping between the buildings and scanning for another way inside.

Halfway down the alley, he spotted it. A rusted fire escape, its ladder hanging just out of reach. Nuru frowned, stretching his arm toward the ladder and finding it at least a few feet too high.

Pulling out his notebook, he flipped to a blank page and wrote: The ladder slides down to ground level.

A faint creak echoed through the alley as the ladder groaned and slid lower, its metal joints protesting loudly, the sound of ice frosted across the metal breaking reaching his ears. Nuru grabbed hold of it, his heart racing as he climbed toward the second floor.

The window he reached was blurry with grime, its surface streaked with dirt and smudges. Nuru pressed his ear against the glass, straining to hear any sound from inside. Nothing.

Taking a deep breath, he flipped open his notebook again. The window latch unlocks.

A soft click rewarded his efforts, and he eased the window open, its frame sticking slightly before giving way. Nuru hesitated for a moment, glancing over his shoulder to make sure the alley was still empty. Then he slipped inside, landing lightly on the worn carpet.

The apartment was small, its layout simple: a living room with a sagging couch, a kitchenette tucked into one corner, and a short hallway leading to what he assumed was the bedroom and bathroom. The air smelled faintly of cigarettes and cheap perfume, the kind of scent that clung to the walls and refused to leave.

Nuru moved cautiously, his footsteps soft as he took in his surroundings. The coffee table was littered with magazines and empty takeout containers, and a pair of high heels lay discarded near the couch. A quick glance toward the bedroom confirmed his suspicions—the bed was unmade, and the closet door hung open, revealing a jumble of clothes.

The woman who lived here wasn't home. That much was obvious. And judging by the state of things, she wasn't the most conventional of tenants.

Nuru's gaze lingered on a framed photo sitting on the counter—a blurry shot of a young woman with dyed blonde hair and heavy makeup, her arm draped around a man who looked vaguely familiar.

She's a prostitute, Nuru realized, piecing it together. Her texts with Troy, the late nights, the worn-down state of the apartment—it all fit.

His stomach twisted as he thought about how easily she might return. The idea of being caught here, alone and uninvited, sent a jolt of panic through him.

But the thought of a hot shower was stronger.

The bathroom was cramped but functional, its tiles cracked but clean enough. Nuru turned the shower handle, and after a moment's hesitation, steaming water began to pour from the showerhead. He stripped quickly, his skin prickling in the cold air, and stepped under the stream.

The water hit him like a revelation, washing away layers of dirt and grime that had clung to him for months. He let out a low sigh, tilting his head back as the warmth seeped into his muscles.

It felt like heaven.

For a long time, he stood there, letting the water run over him as if it could cleanse more than just his skin. He closed his eyes, his mind drifting as the heat wrapped around him like a blanket.

When he finally opened his eyes, the bathroom was filled with steam, and the water had started to cool. Nuru reached for his phone off to the side, his heart skipping a beat as he checked the time again. Nearly an hour and a half had passed.

"Crap," he muttered, quickly shutting off the water. He grabbed a towel and dried himself off, pulling on his new clothes with shaking hands as the smell of shampoo and conditioner filled his nostrils. It was honestly kind of a struggle to recall the last time he smelled this good.

Opening the bathroom door, he stepped into the hallway, his ears straining for any sound. The apartment was silent.

Nuru exhaled slowly, his shoulders relaxing as he realized he was still alone. For now, at least. However, the amount of time that something like that would last was very likely running out.

----------

Nuru perched on the edge of the couch, the stolen phone resting in his palm as he scrolled through Troy's text history. Steam from his earlier shower still clung faintly to his skin, leaving his dark complexion warm and refreshed for the first time in months. He tugged absentmindedly at the sleeves of his hoodie, the new fabric soft and snug against his arms.

The texts between Troy and the woman whose apartment he now occupied were transactional, much like the nature of their relationship. Still, Nuru couldn't help but wonder how long this arrangement had lasted. How far back did this story go?

He scrolled upward, each flick of his thumb revealing more messages. The woman—her texts marked by that heart emoji in Troy's contact list—was consistent, replying promptly and often with playful, slightly guarded remarks. Troy's tone was more casual, his responses clipped and direct.

Nuru scrolled faster, his movements rhythmic as the timestamps blurred together. Minutes passed before he finally hit the top of the thread.

The first exchange was dated mid-February, nearly ten months ago.

Troy: Saw you at the party tonight. You free later?

❤: Depends. Got cash?

Troy: Always. What's your number for next time?

❤: Here it is. Don't waste it.

He lingered on the messages for a moment, his thoughts turning. Nearly three-fourths of a year—this wasn't some fleeting connection. Considering it was late November now, they must have met not long after the new year began. Nuru pocketed the phone, leaning back slightly against the sunken cushions of the couch.

He didn't care much about Troy or the woman's relationship—what mattered was what this connection could give him. But even as he thought that, he felt the tug of curiosity gnawing at him. A year ago, Troy had probably been just another low-level thug, scraping by in Gotham's underbelly. Now he was a cog in something bigger, something that had nearly cost Nuru his life.

And now, Nuru had his face.

He pulled out his notebook, flipping to a blank page. This wasn't the first time he'd experimented with his power, but tonight was different. He was done thinking so simplemindedly.

Standing, he crossed the room to the smudged hallway mirror near the bathroom. His reflection stared back at him, his freshly washed face framed by the snug hood of his dark green hoodie. The sight of himself like this—clean, alive—was still strange after so long on the streets.

He took a deep breath, holding the pen steady as he began to write.

The small scar above my left eyebrow vanishes.

The shift was immediate, the faint mark disappearing as though it had never been there. Nuru leaned closer, brushing his fingertips over the smooth skin. He hadn't even noticed the scar much before, but its absence now struck him like an itch he couldn't quite scratch.

He flipped to another page.

My jaw becomes more defined.

The warmth returned, spreading through his lower face as the angles of his jaw subtly sharpened. It was minor—nothing dramatic—but the change was undeniable.

For a moment, he hesitated. What he was about to try next was bigger than anything he'd done before. The thought of altering himself entirely felt both exhilarating and terrifying.

My features shift to resemble Troy McKenna. My height matches his as well.

The notebook hummed in his hands, the air around him growing heavier. This time, the change wasn't subtle. His entire body tingled as though he were standing too close to a live wire.

Nuru stumbled slightly as his perspective shifted—his head rising higher, the floor seeming farther away. He reached out instinctively, his hand gripping the edge of the counter to steady himself.

When the sensation subsided, he looked up.

The man staring back at him in the mirror was taller, broader, with a weathered face and an expression that wasn't entirely his own. His skin tone had lightened slightly, closer to Troy's more paler hue, and his features were sharper—more aged. His hoodie felt like it was damn near about to explode, stretched to its absolute limits across his newfound body the way it was.

Nuru had a weird feeling that his power might've actually had a hand in preventing his clothes from pretty much just exploding the moment his height and body size abruptly increased by such a large margin, and even manipulated them to be just stretchy enough so that, by the time he reverted to normal, it would be like it had never occurred.

But the most striking change was his height. Nuru had spent his life looking up at the world, but now he stood eye-to-eye with an imagined adult version of himself. His legs felt longer, his arms heavier, the space around him suddenly smaller.

He touched his face, running his fingers along his jawline, the bridge of his nose, his temples. The reflection in the mirror mimicked every movement, but it wasn't his. It was Troy's.

"Holy crap," Nuru muttered under his breath. His voice sounded deeper, richer. It sent a shiver through him, both thrilling and unsettling.

The stories he'd written as a child—of heroes and villains transforming into anything they wanted—suddenly didn't feel so fantastical anymore. This was real. He was real. And it made the world feel impossibly large and infinitely smaller all at once.

For a brief moment, he felt a pang of anger. People like Superman and Batman made headlines. The world had, very slowly, begun to embrace the idea of what people were starting to call metahumans and larger-than-life heroes for decades, like back during the forties when the Justice Society of America, which was also known as the All-Star Squadron in wartime, had been founded. Why hadn't it ever occurred to him that he might be capable of something extraordinary?

But the anger passed quickly, replaced by determination. This wasn't about being a hero or a villain. It was about surviving. About adapting.

He pulled out his notebook again, the pen poised above the page.

Return to my normal form.

The transition back was seamless. His height shrank, his features softened, and his reflection once again became that of an eight-year-old boy. He exhaled slowly, his heart still pounding as he set the notebook down on the counter.

Looking into the mirror, Nuru didn't feel like the same person he'd been an hour ago. His power had always been a tool for survival—a way to find food, escape danger, or make his hiding spots more secure. But now?

Now it felt like a weapon.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he tucked the notebook into his jacket. He'd been running for too long, living in the margins of a city that didn't care whether he lived or died.

But things were different now.

It was time to stop running.