normal

The city was quieter in the early morning. The fog hung low over the alley like the smog had forgotten how to rise. Nolan crouched behind a dumpster, his back pressed to the cold brick wall, his chest still heaving from the escape. His hoodie was torn, his hands scraped raw, and his breath came in shallow bursts like his lungs couldn't decide if they were finished panicking.

His body ached. His soul ached more.

The silence dragged.

He waited for the sirens, but none came not yet.

Nolan finally stood, his legs trembling beneath him. He made his way through backstreets and broken fences, stumbling into a fenced-in lot behind a condemned laundromat. A few rusted-out machines were still scattered in the dark, and a half-collapsed couch sat beneath the remnants of a ceiling. He dropped into it with a sigh that felt like his lungs giving up.

His mind spun. Images blurred in his memory the interrogation, Montoya's eyes, the cuffs, the blood, the sudden snap as Quentin had taken control, then the crash of violence and movement and-

Freedom. If you could call it that.

He stared up at the broken ceiling, where the first light of dawn was bleeding through the cracks.

There was no going back now.

No restaurant job.

No coworkers.

No Maria.

He could still see her face when the cops arrived. Her horror. Her confusion. She saw him kill someone. No—she saw him become someone else. He wasn't sure what was worse.

For a long time, Nolan sat with that. Just… sat.

Eventually, Quentin's voice slithered up from the depths.

"We're going to have to eat, you know. Hide. Survive."

Then Kieran.

"There are easier ways to make money than breaking your back over dishes."

Even the Fighter rumbled somewhere inside, silent but present. Always present.

Nolan closed his eyes. He tried to pretend it wasn't happening. That he was just tired. Hungry. Grieving, maybe.

But then he said it aloud.

"I'm not normal," he whispered to the empty lot.

The words hung there. Heavy. Honest.

"I'm never going to be normal."

No one answered, and yet—he felt the shift. A quiet acceptance. Not relief. Not surrender.

Just truth.

Then he stood up.

He needed a shower. New clothes. Food. Money.

Stealing wasn't glamorous. It was desperate. But desperation was what he had now. Not dreams. Not peace. Just the next step.

Nolan tightened his hoodie around his face and stepped back into the shadows of Gotham's alleys.

He didn't know what he was becoming.

But he knew now what he wasn't.

Normal.

And maybe that was a kind of freedom too.

**

The sun had started climbing by the time Nolan circled back to his apartment building.

He approached from across the street, hands in his pockets, hood up. The early city haze did little to blur the two squad cars parked out front. A couple of officers leaned against one, sipping coffee, while another casually scanned the entrance.

Nolan didn't panic.

He just kept walking.

Not fast. Not slow. Just steady.

He passed by his own building without a glance, then ducked into the alley on the side and took the long way around, weaving through the backstreets until he emerged into the bustle of a nearby market district.

"Guess that's gone," he muttered to himself. He felt the ache deep in his chest — not for the apartment, but for the illusion it offered. The illusion that he might've had a shot at something quieter.

Now there was only the street, and the people crowding it.

Next he checked where he kept his duffle, from a distance he saw police talking to the sketchy owner.

"Are you serious?" What ever happened to Gotham commradery

He stepped into a shaded alcove beside a pawn shop, stared at the traffic, the wallets, the open purses. His shoulders sagged slightly.

Then, he whispered under his breath, "Kieran… take it."

It was like exhaling a breath he didn't know he was holding.

The moment Kieran slipped into the driver's seat, Nolan's posture shifted. He rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, ran a hand through his hair like he was smoothing down charm itself.

"Oh, darling," Kieran purred to no one in particular, "let's see what Gotham has for us today."

He moved through the crowd like a current in a stream, invisible and fluid. First mark: a businessman talking too loudly on a phone. Clean swipe. Wallet and watch in one motion.

Second: a distracted tourist with a fold-out map. Purse tug, smooth as silk.

Third: a man in a suit, visibly drunk for this hour. Kieran bumped him lightly and offered a laugh and apology. The guy never even felt the phone leave his inner pocket.

Three marks, five minutes. A little under a hundred dollars in cash, plus valuables for later.

"Ha." Kieran laughed awkwardly, "Maybe Gotham citizens like using card more?"

Kieran dipped into a bathroom at the back of a corner café, locked the door, and looked at himself in the mirror.

Then he said softly, "Your turn, Nolan."

And just like that, he was gone.

Nolan lurched forward, one hand gripping the edge of the sink.

The transition was never easy. When it was this fast, it was like being thrown back into your own skin after someone else stretched it out.

His heartbeat didn't match his thoughts. His fingers twitched like they remembered actions he didn't commit. He stared at the mirror and felt like he was looking at a stranger wearing his face.

He wiped sweat from his brow, splashed cold water on his face. It helped, but not much.

"Okay," he said quietly. "Okay."

He took the stolen cash and stuffed it into his pocket. Then the phones. He powered them off. He didn't know yet what he'd do with them, but for now, they'd be useful. Or sellable.

Stepping back onto the street, Nolan walked slower than Kieran had. More cautious. His eyes flicked to every siren echo, every reflection in a store window.

He was on his own again.

No apartment. No job. No fallback.

He thought of Maria, and what she must think of him now. Thought of the way Montoya had looked at him during interrogation. Thought of the cops searching for him, maybe pulling up every frame of security footage they could find.