Batman: Nightwalker PDF by Marie Lu

Wonder Woman: Warbringer by Leigh Bardugo Batman: Nightwalker by Marie Lu Catwoman: Soulstealer by Sarah J. Maas — COMING SOON — Superman by Matt de la Peña  Batman created by Bob Kane with Bill Finger This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, p...

Wonder Woman: Warbringer by Leigh Bardugo Batman: Nightwalker by Marie Lu Catwoman: Soulstealer by Sarah J. Maas — COMING SOON — Superman by Matt de la Peña  Batman created by Bob Kane with Bill Finger This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 2018 DC Comics. BATMAN and all related characters and elements © & TM DC Comics. WB SHIELD: TM & © WBEI. (s18) RHUS38064 Cover art by Jacey All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York. Random House and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC. Visit us on the Web! GetUnderlined.com Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Lu, Marie, author. Title: Batman : Nightwalker / Marie Lu. Other titles: Nightwalker Description: First edition. | New York : Random House, | Series: [DC Icons] | “DC Comics.” | “Batman created by Bob Kane with Bill Finger”—Title page verso. Identifiers: LCCN 2017021544 | ISBN 978-0-399-54978-6 (hardback) | ISBN 978-0-399-54977-9 (lib. bdg.) | ISBN 978-0-525-57856-7 (int’l) | ISBN 978-0-399-54979-3 (ebook) Classification: LCC PZ7.L96768 Bat 2018 | DDC [Fic]—dc23 Ebook ISBN 9780399549793 Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read. v5.1 ep  Contents Cover Other Titles Title Page Copyright Dedication Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23  Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 One Month Later Chapter 27 Acknowledgments About the Author Excerpt from Catwoman: Soulstealer Excerpt from Wonder Woman: Warbringer  FOR DIANNE: Bruce Wayne would be lucky to have you as a friend. The blood underneath her nails bothered her. Cheap, stupid, useless gloves, the girl thought in annoyance. She had even worn two layers of them tonight, but a rare errant slash from the knife had sliced through both layers, and now the blood had gotten on her hands. Stupid. On any other night, she would have stopped and—carefully, methodically—scraped the scarlet flakes out from under her nails, one line after another. But she had no time right now. No time, no time. Moonlight cut across the floor of the mansion, illuminating part of the man’s naked body. He bled strangely, the girl thought, compared with the others. The blood just pooled beneath him in a perfect circle, like a disk of smooth frosting on a cake. She sighed again and stuffed her canister of red spray paint into her backpack, then grabbed a few of the rags strewn on the floor. On the wall beside her was the symbol she had just hurriedly finished drawing. They had mistimed everything tonight, from the unexpected complications of Sir Robert Grant’s security system at the entrance of the mansion to the surprise of him seeing them first instead of being sound asleep. They were running late. She hated running late. She hurried around the bedroom chamber, gathering their tools and stuffing them all into her backpack. The moonlight illuminated her features in regular intervals as she moved past the row of windows. Her mother used to tell her that she had doll-like features, had been doll-like since birth—large, liquid-dark eyes; long, long lashes; a slender nose and a rosebud of a mouth; porcelain skin. Her eyebrows cut straight and soft across her brow, giving her an expression that looked permanently vulnerable. That was the thing about her. No one ever saw what mattered until it was too late. Until their blood stained her fingernails. Her hair had come undone in all the rush, tumbling in a river of black over her shoulders, and she paused to whip it back up into a knot. No doubt a strand or two had come loose and were now lying somewhere on the floor, leaving a clue for the police to follow. But no matter—if she could just escape from here in time. What a messy getaway, so uncharacteristic of her. I’m going to kill them, she thought bitterly. Leaving me to clean this up— Somewhere in the night came the wail of sirens. She froze, listening intently. Her hand flew instinctively to rest on one of the knives strapped around her thigh. Then she started to run. Her boots made no sound—she moved like a shadow, the only noise being the faint bump of her bag against her back. As she went, she pulled her black scarf up across the bottom half of her face, hiding her nose and mouth from view, and fitted her pair of dark visors over her eyes. Through the visors, the mansion transformed into a grid of heat signals and green lines. The sirens were closing in rapidly. She paused again for a breath, listening. They came from different directions—they were going to surround her. No time, no time. She darted down the mansion’s staircase, her figure lost entirely in the shadows, then made a sharp turn at the bottom to head not for the front door but for the cellar. The security system had been rewired to seal the front door’s lock from the inside, but the cellar was their getaway route, all alarms cleared and window locks ready for her command. As she reached the cellar, the sirens outside turned deafening. The police had arrived. “Window A open,” she muttered into her mouthpiece. At the other end of the room, the rewired window unlocked with a soft, obedient click. The police would gather at the front and back doors, but they wouldn’t think to look on the side of such a huge house yet, not without knowing there was a tiny window at ground level. She ran faster. She reached the window and started pulling herself up and through it, snaking her way out in the span of a second. On the front lawn, she could hear a police officer shouting into a megaphone, could see the heat signals of at least a dozen guards in heavy body armor crouched around the mansion’s perimeter, their faces hidden behind helmets and their assault rifles all pointed toward the door. She leaped to her feet in the darkness, pulled her visor up, and prepared to dart away. A blinding light flooded over her. “Hands in the air!” Several voices were shouting at her at the same time. She heard the clicks of loaded weapons, then the furious barking of police dogs barely restrained by their partners. “On your knees! Now!” They had found her. She wanted to spit out a curse. No time, no time. And now it was too late. At least the others on the mission had already fled. For a fraction of a second, she thought about pulling out her knives and throwing herself at the closest officer, using him as a hostage. But there were far too many here, and the light had blinded her enough to make her vision inaccurate. She didn’t have the time to make such a move without the police unleashing the dogs, and she had no desire to be mauled to death. So instead, she put her hands up. Officers shoved her hard to the ground; her face scraped against dirt and grass. She saw a glimpse of herself reflected in the police’s opaque helmets, and the barrels of guns pointed directly in her face. “We got her!” one shouted into his radio, his voice hoarse with excitement and fear. “She’s in custody! Stand by—” You got me, she echoed to herself as she felt cold cuffs snap onto her wrists. But with her cheek pressed against the ground, she still allowed herself a small, mocking smile behind her scarf. You got me…for now. If Bruce Wayne belonged in any car, it was this one: a brand-new, custom Aston Martin, mean and sleek and charcoal black, embellished with a stripe of metallic shine along its roof and hood. Now he pushed the car to its limits, indulging in the roar of its engines, the way it responded to his slightest touch as it hugged the sunset streets right outside Gotham City. The vehicle was a gift from WayneTech, fitted with the latest WayneTech security features—a historic collaboration between the legendary carmaker and the Wayne empire. Now the tires screeched in protest as Bruce hit another sharp turn. “I heard that,” said Alfred Pennyworth from the car’s live video touch screen. He gave Bruce a withering look. “A bit slower on the turns, Master Wayne.” “Aston Martins weren’t made for slow turns, Alfred.” “They weren’t made to be wrecked, either.” Bruce smiled sidelong at his guardian. The setting sun glinted off his aviator sunglasses as he turned the car back in the direction of Gotham City’s skyscrapers. “No faith in me at all, Alfred,” he said lightly. “You’re the one who taught me how to drive in the first place.” “And did I teach you to drive like a demon possessed?” “A demon possessed with skills,” Bruce clarified. He spun the steering wheel in a smooth motion. “Besides, it’s a gift from Aston Martin, and it’s armed to the teeth with WayneTech security. The only reason I’m driving it at all is to show off its safety capabilities at the benefit tonight.” Alfred sighed. “Yes. I remember.” “And how can I do that properly without testing what this masterpiece can do?” “Displaying WayneTech security at a benefit isn’t the same thing as using it to tempt death,” Alfred replied, his tone drier than ever. “Lucius Fox asked you to take the car to the party so that the press can do a proper write- up about it.” Bruce made another hairpin turn. The car calculated the road ahead instantly, and on the windshield, he saw a series of transparent numbers appear and fade. Responding with uncanny precision, the car was in perfect sync with the road as it mapped out the surrounding terrain down to the last detail. “That’s exactly what I’m doing,” Bruce insisted. “Trying to get it there on time.” Alfred shook his head tragically as he dusted a windowsill at Wayne Manor, the sunlight casting his pale skin in shades of gold. “I’m going to kill Lucius for thinking this was a good idea.” An affectionate smile lingered on Bruce’s lips. Sometimes he thought his guardian bore a remarkable resemblance to a timber wolf, with his attentive, world-weary, winter-blue gaze. A few strands of white had started to streak Alfred’s hair over the past few years, and the crow’s-feet lining the corners of his eyes had deepened. Bruce wondered if he was the reason for it. At the thought, he slowed down just a little. It was that time of evening when people could catch a glimpse of bats heading out into the night to hunt. As Bruce reached the inner city, he spotted a cloud of them silhouetted against the dimming sky, circling out of the city’s dark corners to join the rest of their colony. Bruce felt the familiar tug of nostalgia. His father had once designated land near the Wayne mansion as one of the largest bat havens in the city. Bruce still had childhood memories of crouching there in awe on the front lawn, his toy gadgets forgotten as Dad pointed out the creatures streaming into the dusk by the thousands, sweeping across the sky in an undulating stripe. They were individuals, Dad had said, and yet they still knew, somehow, to move as one. At the memory, Bruce’s hand tightened against the steering wheel. His father should be here, sitting in the passenger seat and observing the bats with him. But that, of course, was impossible. The streets turned grungier as Bruce got closer to downtown, until the skyscrapers blocked out the lowering sun and shrouded alleyways in shadows. He streaked past Wayne Tower and the Seco Financial Building, where a few tents were pitched in its alleys—a stark contrast, poverty right next to a rich financial beacon. Nearby was the Gotham City Bridge, its repainting half finished. A collection of dilapidated, low-income homes sat haphazardly underneath it. Bruce didn’t remember the city looking this way when he was younger —he had a memory of Gotham City as an impressive jungle of concrete and steel, filled with a rotation of expensive cars and doormen in black coats, the scent of new leather and men’s cologne and women’s perfume, the gleaming lobbies of fancy hotels, the deck of a yacht facing the city lights illuminating the harbor. With his parents at his side, he’d only seen the good—not the graffiti, or the trash in the gutters, or the abandoned carts and people huddled in shadowed corners, jingling coins in paper cups. As a sheltered child, he’d seen only what Gotham City could give you for the right price, and none of what it did to you for the wrong one. That had all changed on one fateful night. Bruce had known he would be lingering on thoughts of his parents today, the day his trust funds opened. But as much as he braced himself for it, the memories still cut at his heart. He pulled onto the road curving toward Bellingham Hall. A red carpet spanned the front sidewalk and went up the steps, and a bevy of paparazzi had gathered beside the road, their cameras already flashing at his car. “Master Wayne.” Bruce realized that Alfred was still talking to him about safety. “I’m listening,” he said. “I doubt that. Did you hear me tell you to schedule a meeting with Lucius Fox tomorrow? You’re going to be working with him all summer— you should at least start putting together a detailed plan.” “Yes, sir.” Alfred paused to fix him with a stern look. “And behave yourself tonight. Understood?” “My plan is to stand still in a corner and not make a sound.” “Very funny, Master Wayne. I’ll hold you to your word.”  “No birthday wishes for me, Alfred?” At that, a smile finally slipped onto Alfred’s face, softening his stern features. “And happy eighteenth, Master Wayne.” He nodded once. “You are Martha’s boy, hosting this event. She would be proud of you.” Bruce closed his eyes for a moment at the mention of his mother. Instead of celebrating her birthday every year, she would throw a benefit, and the money raised went straight into the Gotham City Legal Protection Fund, a group that defended those who couldn’t afford to defend themselves in court. Bruce would carry on her tradition tonight, now that the responsibility for his family’s fortune had officially fallen on his shoulders. You are Martha’s boy. But Bruce just shrugged off the praise, unsure how to accept it. “Thanks, Alfred,” he replied. “Don’t wait up for me.” The two ended the call. Bruce pulled to a stop in front of the hall, and for a heartbeat he let himself sit there, stilling his emotions while the paparazzi shouted at him from outside the car. He had grown up under the spotlight, had endured years of headlines about him and his parents. EIGHT-YEAR-OLD BRUCE WAYNE SOLE WITNESS TO PARENTS’ MURDERS! BRUCE WAYNE SET TO INHERIT FORTUNE! EIGHTEEN-YEAR-OLD BRUCE WAYNE NOW THE WORLD’S WEALTHIEST TEEN! On and on and on. Alfred had filed restraining orders against photographers for pointing their long lenses at Wayne Manor’s windows, and Bruce had once run home from elementary school in tears, terrified of the eager paparazzi who had nearly hit him with their cars. He’d spent the first few years trying to hide from them—as if holing away in his room at the manor somehow meant that the tabloids wouldn’t make up new rumors. But either you hid from reality or you dealt with it. And over time, Bruce had built up a shield, had negotiated an unspoken truce with the press. He would show up with his carefully cultivated public demeanor, let them take the photos they wanted. In return, they’d shine the spotlight on the issue of his choice. And right now that issue was WayneTech’s work to make Gotham City safer—everything from new security technology for the city’s bank accounts to drones that aided the Gotham City Police Department to auto safety features that WayneTech would release for free, open-source technology to all carmakers. Over the years, Bruce had spent countless nights hunched at his bedroom desk, listening obsessively to police scanners and following cold cases on his own. He had burned out dozens of lightbulbs while deconstructing WayneTech prototypes under his desk lamp in the darkness before dawn, holding up glittering microchips and artificial joints, studying the technology his corporation was making to improve the city’s safety. If forwarding that agenda meant being in the news, well then, so be it. As a valet rushed over to open his car door, Bruce veiled his discomfort, stepped out with a single, graceful move, and gave the reporters a flawless smile. The cameras went into overdrive. A pair of bodyguards in black suits and dark shades shoved people back, clearing a path for him, but the reporters still crowded in, their microphones extended, shouting questions. “Are you looking forward to your graduation?” “Are you enjoying your new wealth?” “How do you feel about being the world’s youngest billionaire?” “Who are you dating, Bruce?” “Hey, Bruce, look this way! Give us a smile!” Bruce obliged, offering them an easy grin. He knew he photographed well—long and lean, his blue eyes dark as sapphire against his white complexion, his black hair perfectly smoothed back, his suit tailored and oxfords polished. “Good evening,” he said as he stood for a moment in front of the car. “Bruce!” one paparazzo shouted. “Is that car your first purchase?” He winked. “Enjoying your trust fund already?” Bruce just looked at him steadily, refusing to take the bait. “This is the newest Aston Martin on the market, fully equipped with WayneTech safety technology. You are welcome to explore its interior tonight for an exclusive first look.” He held his hand out toward the car, where one of his suited guards had opened the door for the press to peek in. “Thank you all for covering my mother’s benefit tonight. It means a lot to me.” He continued talking for a bit about the charity that the event would support, but everyone shouted right over him, ignoring his words. Bruce faced them wearily, and for an instant, he felt alone and outnumbered. His gaze scanned past the tabloid paparazzi, searching for the journalists from official papers. He could already see the headlines tomorrow: BRUCE WAYNE BLOWS NEW MONEY ON MILLION-DOLLAR CAR! TRUST FUND BABY WASTES NO TIME! But interspersed with those would hopefully be a few true headlines, detailing the work being done at WayneTech. That was what mattered. So he lingered, enduring the photos. After letting the cameras flash wildly for a few moments, Bruce made his way up toward the hall’s entrance. Other guests mingled at the top of the stairs—members of Gotham City’s upper class, the occasional council member, clusters of admirers. Bruce found himself categorizing everyone in the crowd. It was a survival skill he’d learned since his parents’ deaths. There were the people who’d invite him to dinner only in an attempt to get gossip out of him. The people willing to betray friends in order to become his. The occasional wealthy classmate who’d spread lies about him out of bitter envy. The ones who’d do anything to get a date with him and then share the details with the rags the next morning. But on the surface, he kept his cool, greeting everyone politely. Only a few more steps until he’d reach the entrance. All he had to do was make it inside, and then he could find— “Bruce!” A familiar voice cut above the chaos. Bruce looked up to where a girl was standing on tiptoe and waving at him from the top of the stairs. Dark hair skimmed her shoulders, and the hall’s floor lights highlighted her brown skin and the round curve of her hips. There was glitter woven into the fabric of her dress, shimmering silver as she moved. “Hey!” she called. “Over here!” Bruce’s careful demeanor dissolved in relief. Dianne Garcia. Category: genuine. As he reached her, she instinctively turned her back on the crowd stuck behind the velvet rope at the bottom of the stairs in an attempt to shield him from the flashing cameras. “Fashionably late on your birthday?” she said with a grin. He gave her a grateful wink and leaned down closer to her ear. “Always.” “This benefit is epic,” she went on. “I think you might set a new record for how much money it’ll raise.” “Thank god,” he replied, throwing an arm around her neck. “Otherwise I’d have put up with all the cameras down there for nothing.” She laughed. This was the girl who had once punched a tooth out of a kid for harassing her friends, who had memorized the entire first chapter of A Tale of Two Cities in senior-year English to win a bet, and who could spend an hour staring at a menu only to order the same burger she always got. Now Dianne shoved him off in affectionate protest, grabbed his arm, and led him through the open doors of the hall, leaving the paparazzi behind. Inside, the lighting was dim, an atmospheric blue, and chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, glinting bright silver and white. Ice sculptures and spreads of food covered long banquet tables, while another table was lined with rows of auction items, all trembling slightly from the beat of the music. “I thought you had a college interview today,” he said over the noise as Dianne swiped a lemon tart from one of the dessert stands. “Not that I’m complaining about you being here, of course.”  “It was earlier,” Dianne replied through a mouthful of pastry. “It’s okay. My lola needed me home in the afternoon to pick up my brother, and besides, I couldn’t bear the thought of robbing you of my company tonight.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to an ominous whisper. “That was my way of saying I didn’t get you anything.” “Nothing at all?” Bruce put a hand over his heart in mock pain. “You wound me.” “If you’d like, I could always bake you a cake.” “Please don’t.” The last time Dianne had attempted to make cookies, she’d set Bruce’s kitchen on fire, and they’d spent the next hour hiding the scorched kitchen drapes so that Alfred wouldn’t know. Dianne squeezed his arm once. “You’ll just have to settle for diner food tonight, then.” Years ago, Bruce, Harvey, and Dianne had all agreed to forgo birthday presents in exchange for an annual date at their favorite local diner. It would be where they’d meet up tonight, too, after the benefit ended, and Bruce could shed the billionaire and just be a boy on the cusp of graduating from high school, getting teased by two of his best friends over fat burgers and thick milk shakes. He smiled in anticipation at the thought. “Well?” he asked Dianne. “How’d the interview go?” “The interviewer didn’t faint in horror at my answers, so I’m going out on a limb to say it went well.” She shrugged. And that was Dianne’s way of saying she’d aced it, just like she aced everything else in life. Bruce had come to recognize her shrug whenever she tried to downplay an achievement—getting a perfect score on her entrance exams, being admitted to every university she applied to, and speaking as their class valedictorian at graduation next month. “Congratulations,” he said. “Although you’ve probably already heard that from Harvey.” She smiled. “All Harvey’s done tonight is beg me not to leave him alone on the dance floor. You know how much his two left feet love to dance.” Bruce laughed. “Isn’t he alone on the floor right now?” Dianne grinned mischievously. “Oh, he can survive for two minutes.” The music grew louder and louder as they neared the dance floor, until finally they stepped through a set of double doors and onto a balcony that overlooked a packed space. Here, the music shook the floors. A haze of mist hugged the ground level. On the stage below was an elaborate stand, behind which stood a DJ, bobbing his head in time to the beat. Behind him, an enormous screen stretched from floor to ceiling and played a series of moving, flashing patterns. Dianne cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted down at the crowd. “He’s here!” An enormous cheer exploded from the dance floor, drowning out even the music. Bruce looked on as the crowd’s roar of “Happy birthday!” filled the room. He smiled and waved, and as he did, the DJ sped up the track. Then the DJ dropped the beat hard, and the crowd became a sea of pumping limbs. Bruce let the pounding music fill his senses, and whatever unease he’d felt now faded away. Dianne led him down the stairs and into the mass of guests. As he greeted one person after another, pausing to take selfies with some, he lost Dianne in the tangle of bodies, until all he could see was a blur of familiar and strange faces, every outline lit up in slices of neon and darkness. There she is. Dianne had reached Harvey Dent, who looked chalky under the club lights as he tried his best to move with the beat. Bruce smiled at the sight, then started making his way across the dance floor toward them. They waved him over. “Bruce!” He turned at the voice, but before he could even reply, somebody was clapping him hard on the shoulder. A face came into focus, grinning harshly, his white teeth even whiter against his pale face. “Hey—happy birthday, man!” Richard Price, the son of Gotham City’s current mayor. Bruce blinked in surprise. It had been months since they last talked, but Richard had already grown a few inches taller, so that Bruce had to look up slightly to meet the other boy’s gaze. “Hey,” he replied, returning Richard’s embrace. “I didn’t think you’d come.” “And miss your shindig? Never,” Richard replied. “My dad’s here—out in the auction hall, anyway. He never missed any of your mom’s benefits, and he won’t do it now.” Bruce nodded warily. They had once been best friends—they lived at opposite ends of the same neighborhood of exclusive estates, had attended the same middle school and the same parties, had even taken kickboxing classes at the same gym. They’d played video games in Bruce’s theater room, laughing themselves silly until their stomachs hurt. Even now Bruce felt a pang at the memory. But things had changed as they grew older, and Richard had gradually fallen into a specific category of his own: the kind of friend who called you only when he needed something from you. Bruce wondered what it would be tonight. “Hey,” Richard said now, his eyes darting to one side. He kept his hand on Bruce’s shoulder as he gestured up to the exit. “Can I talk to you somewhere? Just for a sec?” “Sure.” Bruce’s ears rang as they headed off the dance floor and into a quieter hall. There, Richard turned around and looked at Bruce with an eager grin. In spite of himself, Bruce could feel his spirits lift at the expression—it was the same grin Richard used to give him when they were kids and Richard had found something exciting that he had to share. Maybe he really was here just to celebrate Bruce’s birthday. Richard stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Look,” he said. “Dad’s on my case. He keeps asking me if I’ve got an internship lined up for the summer. Can you help me out?” Bruce’s moment of hope flickered out, replaced by a familiar sinking feeling of disappointment. Richard needed something again. “I can recommend you to Lucius Fox,” he started to say. “WayneTech is looking for interns—” Richard shook his head. “No, I mean, I don’t actually want to be at the internship. Just, you know, put in a word for me with my dad, tell him I’m doing stuff at WayneTech this summer, and let me into the building a couple of times.” Bruce frowned at him. “You mean, help you fake that you’re at an internship, just so your dad won’t bother you anymore?” Richard gave him a halfhearted nudge. “It’s the last summer before college starts. I don’t want to spend it working—yeah, you know how it is, Wayne, right? Just tell my dad I’m working with Lucius. It won’t be a big deal.” “And how are you going to keep it up?” “I told you—just let me into WayneTech every now and then. Take a photo of me in the lobby or something. It’s all my dad needs to see.” “I don’t know, man. Lucius will just tell your dad the truth if he gets wind of it.” “Oh, come on, Bruce! For old times’ sake.” Richard’s grin was still on as he reached to shake Bruce’s shoulder once. “It’s your company, isn’t it? You’re gonna let that nerd tell you what to do?”  Bruce bristled. Richard had fawned all over Lucius when he’d first met him. “I’m not covering for you,” he said. “If you want to tell your dad you’re interning at WayneTech, you’ll have to actually do the internship.” Richard made an annoyed sound in his throat. “What’s it to you?” “Why are you insisting?” “All you have to do is mention it once or twice to my dad. It’s not like it’ll cost you anything.” Bruce shook his head. When they were younger, Richard would show up unannounced at his front gate, talking breathlessly over the intercom, holding the latest game or the newest set of action figures. At some point, their hangouts shifted from debates about what their favorite movies were to requests from Richard to copy Bruce’s homework or for Bruce to finish their group projects on his own or put in a good word for him for jobs. When had he changed? Even now Bruce couldn’t understand when or why it’d all gone wrong. “I can’t,” Bruce said, shaking his head again. “I’m sorry.” At that, Richard’s eyes seemed to shutter. He searched Bruce’s gaze as if expecting a different answer, but when it didn’t come, he grimaced and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, whatever,” he muttered, stepping around Bruce to head back down the hall. “I see how it is. You turn eighteen and get the keys to your empire, and suddenly you’re too good to help out your friends.” “Richard,” Bruce called out. The other boy paused to look over his shoulder. Bruce stared at him for a moment. “If you hadn’t wanted my help, would you have come to the party tonight?” There was a pause, and Bruce knew that the answer was no. Richard just shrugged at him, then turned around and continued down the hall without answering. Bruce stood there for a moment, alone, listening to the pounding music coming from inside. He felt a sudden rush of not belonging here, not even at his own event. He pictured the crowd of his classmates and friends on the dance floor and wondered if, aside from Dianne and Harvey, any of them would be here if it weren’t for his family name. The paparazzi outside wouldn’t, that was for sure. If he were just Bruce Wayne, the boy next door, would anyone care? Instead of heading back to the dance floor, Bruce made his way down the hall and through a nondescript door that led outside. He walked around the building until he reached the front entrance, where the cameras had already gotten what they wanted from the Aston Martin and were now clustered at the top of the stairs, waiting for special guests to enter or leave. Unnoticed, Bruce reached the car and got in. One of the bodyguards watching the paparazzi at the entrance spotted him right as he shut the car door and revved the engine. “Mr. Wayne, sir!” the man said, but Bruce just gave him a terse nod. Through the window, he could see some of the paparazzi turn in his direction and realize that he was leaving. Their eyes widened, and their chatter morphed into shouts. But Bruce slammed his foot down on the gas pedal before anyone could reach him. In the rearview mirror, the hall shrank quickly away. Maybe it was rude of him to leave his benefit so soon, to get some time alone when everyone wanted his time for themselves. But he didn’t slow down, and he didn’t look back. Neon lights smeared across the evening streets of Gotham City. Few cars were on the road at this hour, and all Bruce could hear was the rush of pavement and wind, the sound of his car tearing down the freeway. That was what drew him to machines. They followed algorithms, not emotion; when Bruce pushed his foot down on the pedal, the car only responded in one way. Somewhere behind him, he could see the headlights of paparazzi attempting to follow him. Bruce allowed himself a cynical smile and edged the speedometer higher and higher. The world blurred around him. A harsh beep rang out in the car, followed by an electronic voice. “Speed not recommended for this road,” it said, and at the same time, one corner of the windshield lit up with a recommended speed and a blinking marker telling Bruce to slow down. “Override,” Bruce replied. The alerts faded. He could feel the car lock itself tighter in position on the road, so that if he seemed to be even slightly shaky, the car would compensate by steadying itself. At least WayneTech’s features were working as they should, he thought darkly. Lucius would be happy to hear it. The car’s phone rang, echoing in Bruce’s ears. When he glanced down at the caller ID, he saw that it was Dianne. Bruce let it ring a few times before he finally answered. Dianne’s voice filled the car, along with the din of the party behind her. “Bruce?” she shouted over the noise. “Where’d you go? I saw you step away with Richard, but then I heard you left, and—” “I did leave,” Bruce replied. “What? Are you okay?” That was Harvey’s voice, anxious. “I’m fine,” Bruce reassured them. “Don’t worry. I just needed to get some air and clear my head.” There was a pause on the other end before Dianne spoke up again. “Do what you need to do,” she replied. “And if you need us,” Harvey added, “we’ll head to you.” Bruce relaxed a little at their words. The three of them had all gotten to the point where they could sense each other’s moods, so that none of them needed to explain a thing. They just knew. “Thanks.” Then he hung up. He had no idea where he was driving to, but after a while he realized he was taking a long route back in the direction of the manor. Bruce exited the freeway onto a local street, passing rows of dilapidated apartment buildings, their walls permanently stained from decades of water and filth. Clothes hung limply on lines strung from one window to another. Steam billowed up from vents. He swerved neatly through traffic, then made a sharp turn at an intersection, where he paused at a stoplight. Outside his car window, an old man was crawling into his makeshift tent, while at the end of the block another man was stuffing old newspaper into his shoes. A pair of kids played in an alley piled high with trash. Bruce looked away. He shouldn’t be here. And yet here he was, driving through the slums in a car that probably cost more than what a person living here could earn in a lifetime. Did he have a right to ever feel sad, with everything he had in his life? These were the streets that his parents had fought all their lives to improve, and they were the same streets where their blood had been shed. Bruce took a deep breath as the light turned green and he revved his engine. Gotham City was broken in many ways, but it wasn’t beyond repair. He would find a way to fix it. It was the mantle he’d been handed. Soon the streets changed back to unbroken streetlights and unbarred windows. The paparazzi were slowly but surely gaining on him; if he didn’t throw them off now, they would end up parked outside his mansion gates, fabricating tabloid headlines for why he left his party early. Bruce’s eyes darkened at the thought, and he sped up until the car’s warning beep went off again. It wasn’t until he reached another series of stoplights that he heard the echo of police sirens. Bruce wondered for an instant if the sirens were for him, the police busting him for speeding. Then he realized that the sound was coming from somewhere up ahead—and not just from a single vehicle, but from what must be dozens. Curiosity cut through his dark mood. Bruce frowned as he listened to the wails. He had spent enough time following criminal cases on his own that the sound of sirens always made him sit up straighter. For this area of the city, an upscale shopping neighborhood, the sheer intensity of them seemed out of place. Bruce took a detour from the route that would have taken him back toward Wayne Manor, and instead headed in the direction of the sirens. As he rounded another bend, the wails suddenly turned deafening, and a mass of flashing red and blue lights blinked against the buildings near the end of the street. White barricades and yellow police tape completely blocked the intersection. Even from here, Bruce could see fire engines and black SWAT trucks clustered together, the silhouettes of police running back and forth in front of the headlights. Inside his car, the electronic voice came on again, followed by a transparent map overlaid against his windshield. “Heavy police activity ahead. Alternate route suggested.” A sense of dread filled his chest. Bruce flicked away the map and pulled to an abrupt halt in front of the barricade—right as the unmistakable pop-pop-pop of gunfire rang out in the night air. He remembered the sound all too well. The memory of his parents’ deaths sent a wave of dizziness through him. Another robbery. A murder. That’s what all this is. Then he shook his head. No, that can’t be right. There were far too many cops here for a simple robbery. “Step out of your vehicle, and put your hands in the air!” a police officer shouted through a megaphone, her voice echoing along the block. Bruce’s head jerked toward her. For an instant, he thought her command was directed at him, but then he saw that her back was turned, her attention fixed on the corner of the building bearing the name BELLINGHAM INDUSTRIES & CO. “We have you surrounded, Nightwalker! This is your final warning!” Another officer came running over to Bruce’s car. He whirled an arm exaggeratedly for Bruce to turn his car around. His voice harsh with panic, he warned, “Turn back now. It’s not safe!” Before Bruce could reply, a blinding fireball exploded behind the officer. The street rocked. Even from inside his car, Bruce felt the heat of the blast. Every window in the building burst simultaneously, a million shards of glass raining down on the pavement below. The police ducked in unison, their arms shielding their heads. Fragments of glass dinged like hail against Bruce’s windshield. From inside the blockade, a white car veered around the corner at top speed. Bruce saw immediately what the car was aiming for—a slim gap between the police barricades where a SWAT team truck had just pulled through. The car raced right toward the gap. “I said, get out of here!” the officer shouted at Bruce. A thin ribbon of blood trickled down the man’s face. “That is an order!” Bruce heard the scream of the getaway car’s tires against the asphalt. He’d been in his father’s garage a thousand times, helping him tinker with an endless number of engines from the best cars in the world. At WayneTech, Bruce had watched in fascination as tests were conducted on custom engines, conceptual jets, stealth tech, new vehicles of every kind. And so he knew: whatever was installed under that hood was faster than anything the GCPD could hope to have. They’ll never catch him. But I can. His Aston Martin was probably the only vehicle here that could overtake the criminal’s, the only one powerful enough to chase it down. Bruce’s eyes followed the path the car would likely take, his gaze settling on a sign at the end of the street that pointed toward the freeway. I can get him. The white getaway vehicle shot straight through the gap in the barricade, clipping two police cars as it went. No, not this time. Bruce slammed his gas pedal. The Aston Martin’s engine let out a deafening roar, and the car sped forward. The officer who’d shouted at him stumbled back. In the rearview mirror, Bruce saw him scramble to his feet and wave the other officers’ cars forward, both his arms held high. “Hold your fire!” Bruce could hear him yelling. “Civilian in proximity —hold your fire!” The getaway car made a sharp turn at the first intersection, and Bruce sped behind it a few seconds later. The street zigzagged, then turned in a wide arc as it led toward the freeway—and the Nightwalker took the on-ramp, leaving a trail of exhaust and two black skid marks on the road. Bruce raced forward in close pursuit; his car mapped the ground instantly, swerving in a perfect curve to follow the ramp onto the freeway. He tapped twice on the windshield right over where the Nightwalker’s white vehicle was. “Follow him,” Bruce commanded. It was a feature meant to make it easier for two cars to caravan with each other. Now a green target highlighted over the white car, and the Aston Martin’s voice spoke up: “Car locked on.” A small map appeared on the corner of the windshield, showing exactly where the getaway car was in proximity to Bruce. No matter how much the white car tried to escape now, it wouldn’t be able to shake him. Bruce narrowed his eyes and urged the car faster. His entire body tingled from the rush of adrenaline. “Override,” he said the instant the car tried to get him to slow down. He snaked between cars from one lane to another. The Aston Martin responded with blinding accuracy, knowing exactly when he could cut into a narrow space and how fast he needed to be. Already Bruce was catching up to the Nightwalker’s car, and the Nightwalker knew it. The other car started to cut wildly back and forth. The few vehicles still on the freeway swerved out of their way as they wove between lanes. A spotlight flooded Bruce and the freeway in front of him. He glanced up to see a black chopper flying low and parallel to their chase. Far behind him were the flashing lights of the GCPD cars, but they were a distant sight, getting rapidly smaller. What the hell am I doing? Bruce thought in a feverish daze. But he didn’t let up on the gas. Instead, he leaned back and floored the pedal. His eyes were fixed on the swerving white car before him. Just a little more. Bruce was so close now that he could see the driver look back to glare at him. The white car swerved around a truck carrying a load of enormous pipes, forcing the driver into Bruce’s lane. The Aston Martin beeped a warning as it automatically veered to the side. Bruce yanked the steering wheel sharply. For an instant, he thought he would hit the side of the truck—but his car slid into the lane by the barest of margins, a perfect fit.  In this moment, in spite of everything, Bruce felt invincible, even natural, his focus narrowing in on nothing but the sight of his target and the thud of his heart. Overhead, the voice from the chopper’s megaphone called out to him. “Pull over,” it shouted. “Civilian, stand down. You will be arrested. Stop your vehicle!” But Bruce had caught up to his target. Almost there. He tightened his grip on his steering wheel, hoping his calculations were correct. If he clipped him in the rear correctly, the Nightwalker car’s speed and friction would probably flip him. It ends here. Alfred’s going to kill me. Bruce patted the steering wheel once. His heart twisted for an instant at what he was about to do. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he murmured to the Aston Martin. Then he sped up. The car tried to stop him this time, and he felt the resistance in the steering wheel against his move. “ALERT! Collision ahead!” “Override,” Bruce shouted, then rammed his vehicle into the back of the Nightwalker’s car. The crunch of metal slamming into metal. Bruce felt a shock wave ripple through his body as his neck whipped sideways and he was hurled in an arc, his seat belt cutting into his chest from the force. The other car’s tires screamed against the pavement—or maybe that was Bruce, he wasn’t sure—and he saw the vehicle flip, momentarily airborne. The world streaked around him. For an instant, he caught a glimpse of the driver’s face—a man, eyes wide, his pale skin dotted with blood. The white car crashed upside down. Glass exploded out in all directions as the metal frame crushed into a gnarled mass. Even though Bruce knew, as he shook his head groggily, that everything must have taken less than a second, he felt like he could see the metal twisting section by section, the million individual splinters of the windows cutting through the air. Police swarmed the white car, their rifles pointed directly at the driver inside. He looked conscious, if barely. “Don’t move, Nightwalker!” an officer yelled. “You’re under arrest!” Bruce felt another wave of dizziness hit. As one of the officers approached him, shouting angrily now, Bruce heard his car issue a voice call alerting Alfred as well as sending his coordinates to him and the police. Bruce’s guardian answered on the first ring, voice tense and frantic. “Master Wayne! Master Wayne?”  “Alfred,” Bruce heard himself say. “Could use a pickup.” He couldn’t understand what Alfred said in reply—he wasn’t even sure if he could hear Alfred’s words. All he remembered was slumping in his seat, and the world going dark. Interfering with a crime scene. Disobeying a police officer’s orders. Obstruction of justice. If Bruce had been hoping to avoid news coverage after the flurry on his eighteenth birthday, slamming his brand-new car into a criminal’s vehicle was probably not the best way to do it. Especially not so soon before graduation. At least the headlines had veered away from talk of his parents and his money, focusing instead on questions about Bruce’s well-being and splashing photos of his ruined car on their front pages. Rumors of his possible death had swirled online almost instantly after the wreck, along with speculation about whether he was driving while intoxicated or escaping the police. “An eventful couple of weeks?” said Lucius Fox from across the table. They sat together in a waiting room at the courthouse, watching as the TV news repeated the footage of his Aston Martin crashing into the getaway car. Two weeks had passed since the crash, and Bruce still had a mild headache from the concussion he had suffered. He’d missed a full week of school because of it, and spent the second enduring questions from classmates and swarms of reporters hanging out at the manor’s gates. Still, he couldn’t help feeling a hint of satisfaction at the TV’s news coverage. It was clear to everyone who watched it—even Lucius—that the car would have escaped from the police had Bruce not intervened.  Not that it mattered to the court. “Well, our car did everything it should have, right?” Bruce ventured. “How was that for a test of its safety features?” Lucius raised an eyebrow at him, unable to hide a slight smile at his comment, then sighed and shook his head. At least he didn’t have the panicked look on his face today that he did when he first visited Bruce at the hospital and saw him strapped to an IV. “It’s my fault,” he replied. “I shouldn’t have asked you to take that car to the benefit in the first place.” “Well, I ended up in the right place at the right time.” “Or the wrong place at the wrong time, Bruce. Why did you do it? You suddenly felt a need to dole out justice?” It was the question the police had asked him first, too, but Bruce still wasn’t sure how to answer. “Because I knew I could stop him, I guess,” he replied. “And the police couldn’t. Was I just supposed to stand by and watch?” “You’re not in law enforcement, Bruce,” Lucius said. “You can’t just intervene like that.” The man’s eyes turned stern for a moment. “If you didn’t look the way you did, the police might have shot you dead for pulling a stunt like that.” Guilt hit him, and Bruce couldn’t answer. If he could have intervened in that alley where his parents died so many years ago, his life might have turned out very differently. Lucius was right, of course, and it sent a thread of shame through him. His pale skin may have saved his life. “I won’t do it again,” he said instead, softly. The video panned to police shouting at the other driver to come out, and the man being pulled out of the wreckage. “A low-ranking member of the Nightwalkers,” the reporter said. “Little is known about the group, although authorities have released their symbol, one that appears at the locations of each target.” Nightwalkers. Bruce recalled the word being shouted by the police that night. He’d heard this group’s name mentioned on the news more frequently over the past year; in fact, the primary suspect in the murder of that businessman—Sir Robert Grant—was considered a Nightwalker, too. On the TV, an image appeared of a coin engulfed in flames, then of that symbol sprayed on the side of buildings at various crime scenes. There was something ominously personal about the symbol, the burning of wealth, like the Nightwalkers would gladly do it to Bruce himself if given the chance. “Well, Bruce,” Lucius said as the footage began to repeat. He leaned back in his chair, running a hand absently over his closely cropped dark curls. The lights in the room cast a faint blue highlight against his brown skin. “I suppose our summer plans will have to change.” Bruce turned to face his mentor. For being the new head of research and development at WayneTech, Lucius Fox was remarkably young. His smile was quick, his eyes bright and alert, and his step energetic in a way that made it seem like he was perpetually eager to change the world. “I can still come into the lab in my spare time,” Bruce suggested, giving Lucius a hopeful look. “Just make sure I’m not the one driving.” Lucius let out a soft laugh at that. “We’ll figure things out around your new schedule.” He nodded toward a tablet lying between them on the table. “The world’s more dangerous than you give it credit for, Bruce. We’re just trying to watch your back, okay?” Bruce studied the tablet. It was currently logged in to his bank accounts, accessible only with his fingerprints and a code, showing off the new security technology Lucius and WayneTech had developed. If your accounts are opened suspiciously, say, with the wrong code, Lucius had told him, it’ll send our security network an alert and remotely disable the offending computer in an instant. Bruce gave Lucius a nod. “Thanks for this,” he said. “I’m looking forward to seeing all your team’s been up to.” Lucius’s brown eyes lit up. “Our security drones aren’t ready to patrol Gotham City just yet—although we’ve already successfully pitched our Advanced Defense Armament to Metropolis. They’re going in on a huge buy for us.” The Advanced Defense Armament project. It was a mission that Lucius and Bruce shared a common passion for—encryption tech to secure Gotham City’s banks just as it secured Bruce’s accounts, drone machines to secure the city’s streets. Technology, on all fronts, to save them. “That’s good. This city needs to be safer,” he said quietly. “We’ll make it happen with this—I’m sure of it.” Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce could see the news once again showing footage of the Nightwalker. He had killed himself in jail by slashing both his wrists with a smuggled razor the day before detectives were going to interrogate him. The police still had no idea what the Nightwalkers had been up to inside that building—and now, with their only suspect dead, they had lost their biggest lead. Bruce studied the mug shot on the screen, trying to come to terms with the fact that this man he’d seen alive just two weeks ago was now dead. The thought made his stomach turn. This guy must have been either intensely loyal to or terrified of his boss, whoever that was. Lucius nodded at the TV. “With Nightwalkers in the streets, it needs to happen sooner rather than later.” A silence lingered between them, the memory of his late parents suddenly heavy in the air, before Lucius finally got to his feet. He walked over to Bruce’s side and put a hand on his shoulder. “Steady, Bruce,” he said kindly. Bruce remembered this look from when he would visit WayneTech with his father and listen as Lucius—then a promising intern—gave his father a rundown of new projects he was working on. Now Bruce smiled back at his mentor. “Sorry for the trouble, Lucius.” Lucius gave him another pat on the shoulder. “Someday I’ll let you in on all the trouble I got into when I was your age.” Then he bid him goodbye and stepped out of the room. Bruce’s phone dinged. He looked down to see a group text from Harvey and Dianne. Harvey: hey, so, what’s the official verdict? Bruce: What else? Guilty. Harvey: sorry, man. What’s your sentence? Bruce: Probation for five weeks, and community service. Harvey: nooooo. Dianne: that’s like half the summer! and finals and graduation are coming up! Did they say where you have to do it? Bruce: Not yet. Harvey didn’t respond to that, but Dianne texted back a string of sad- face emojis. Let’s hang out soon, she said. To celebrate that you survived without breaking your neck. We’re overdue for our birthday diner trip. A pause. You’re going to be ok, ok? Bruce cracked a smile at that. Thanks, he texted back. Just when he was starting to wonder how much longer he’d have to stay in the room, two police officers stepped inside. One of them nodded for Bruce to follow them out. “You’re free to go,” he said. “We’ll take you home. Your guardian will meet you there, along with Detective Draccon.” “Detective Draccon?” Bruce asked as they went. “She’s discussing your sentence with Mr. Pennyworth.” The officer looked uninterested in saying more on the subject, leaving Bruce to speculate on who the detective might be. Half an hour later, they pulled up at the elaborate, gilded gates of the Wayne estate. The four pillars bordering the manor’s front entrance came into view, along with the set of stone stairs leading up to the massive double doors. Twin towers rising three stories high peaked at either end of the manor. Iron light poles, their lamps not yet lit in the early afternoon, adorned the sides of the cobblestone path leading from the gate up to the stairs. Bruce saw a blue car waiting outside the gate, the words GOTHAM CITY POLICE DEPARTMENT emblazoned prominently in bold white across the doors. Standing in front of the driver’s side was Alfred, and beside him waited a woman in a light silk shirt that contrasted with her black skin, her long tan coat draped neatly across her shoulders. She straightened as their car approached. While Alfred gave the car a quick wave, the woman’s eyes fixed on Bruce. “You’ve kept me waiting,” she said to the officer in the driver’s seat. “Sorry, Detective,” he replied. “Hit some traffic on the way over.” “Bruce,” Alfred said, leaning down to peer into the car, “this is Detective Draccon.” The detective rested a hand against the open window on the passenger side. Bruce noticed the simple silver rings on her dark fingers, and her impeccably polished nails, painted a clean brown nude. “Nice to meet you, Bruce Wayne,” she greeted him. “Glad you’re not the one driving.” Then she turned away. The windows in Wayne Manor’s parlor had been thrown open to the air, letting in dappled sunlight and a breeze. Bruce walked through the front entrance into a grand foyer that opened up to a high ceiling. A staircase adorned with wrought iron railings curved up to a balcony that overlooked the living and dining rooms. At the moment, everything seemed in a state of disarray; white canvas was draped over all the living and dining room furniture, protecting it while workers refinished the walls, and part of the stairs remained blocked off because a few loose banisters needed replacement. Alfred was busy directing two people from the garage to the kitchen as they delivered groceries in preparation for the week’s meals. It all seemed like a normal afternoon scene, except that Bruce found himself sitting across from a stern detective, who now observed him from behind red-rimmed glasses, her stare discerning. Everything about her was perfectly put together—not a single wrinkle in her clothes. Her black hair was pulled back into rows of orderly braids that formed a thick ball on top of her head. No curl seemed out of place.  Bruce tried to figure out what category to put her in. He’d met few people in life who weren’t either cozying up to him in an attempt to get something or bullying him out of envy. But the detective—she didn’t want anything from him, she wasn’t jealous of him, and she certainly didn’t seem to have any ulterior motives. Right now she wasn’t trying to hide how much she disliked him. He wondered about her work, what cases she must have investigated over the years. Draccon tightened her lips at the light of interest in his eyes. “An officer at the precinct told me he still remembers you as a small boy. Definitely didn’t see your publicity stunt coming.” “It wasn’t a publicity stunt,” he replied. “I get enough attention already.” “Oh?” she said in a cool, calm voice. “Is that so? Well, you’re not very good at avoiding it, are you? Lucky for you, you have an army of lawyers to help you get off easy.” “I’m not getting out of anything,” he protested. Alfred cast Bruce a warning glance as he placed the cheese platter and a tray of tea on the coffee table between them. Detective Draccon leaned forward to pick up her teacup, crossed her legs, and gestured once at Bruce. “Have you ever done menial work in your life?” “I used to help my parents in the garden, and my dad in the garage,” he answered. “I volunteered with them at soup kitchens.” “So, in other words, you haven’t.” Bruce opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. No. He hadn’t. Alfred managed a staff of a dozen employees to keep the mansion perfectly maintained; they were paid well to do a professional job and to keep out of sight as much as possible. Dirty dishes vanished from the kitchen, and fresh towels appeared folded and ready in the bathrooms. Bruce could recall the occasional sound of a broom in the halls, a pair of shears snipping at the hedges outside. But, with a twinge of shame, he realized he didn’t know a single staff member at Wayne Manor. “Well, you’re about to do some real menial work,” the detective went on. “You’re going to be under my supervision for your community service, Bruce. Do you know what that means?” Bruce tried to keep his face calm as he met her eyes. “What?” “It means I will make sure you never want to run afoul of the law again.” Draccon took a delicate sip of her tea. “And where are you assigning me?” he asked. She put her cup down on its saucer. “Arkham Asylum,” she replied. “Arkham Asylum,” Harvey mused as he and Dianne lounged around Bruce’s kitchen island that evening. “Doesn’t that prison house the criminally insane? I didn’t know a place like that could even be a community service option.” Bruce picked at his food. He had ordered burgers and milk shakes for them so that they wouldn’t have to go to the diner, but none of them seemed able to work up much of an appetite. “I heard the inside of Arkham is a nightmare,” Dianne added with a frown. “Does Draccon really think it’s okay to send you there? How are you going to concentrate on studying for finals?” “You’re studying for finals?” Bruce gave her a wry grin. “Most dedicated senior I know.” “I’m serious, Bruce! Arkham is dangerous. Isn’t it? My mom said those prisoners are guilty of some of the most horrific crimes in Gotham City’s history. And there are always jailbreaks and fights….” Harvey grunted as he glided a quarter back and forth along his knuckles, his movements slick as water. He flicked his wrist once, sending the quarter into a perfect spin on the island counter. “No different from the world outside,” he muttered, slapping the coin down on the surface when it refused to topple over fast enough. It came up heads. Bruce tried not to cast a sympathetic look at Harvey. His friend was here for moral support, of course, but Harvey was also holing up at Bruce’s mansion because he was avoiding his father, who had stumbled home again tonight as a drunken mess. When Harvey had tried to hang up his father’s coat, which he’d tossed onto the floor, the man had turned on him, yelling something about how his son didn’t think his father could take care of himself. There was always some tiny thing that set him off. The bruise on Harvey’s jaw had already turned purple. “You’re staying the night, right?” Bruce asked as Harvey started flipping his coin along his knuckles again. Harvey messed nervously with his blond hair, his eyes downcast. “If Alfred doesn’t mind,” he said. “Sorry I keep—” “You don’t need to apologize. Stay as long as you want.” Bruce jutted his chin in the direction of the living room’s staircase. “Guest room in the east wing’s all ready for you. Just watch the shaky banisters on the stair railings. There’s a closetful of clothes for you here, all ready to go.” “I can afford my own clothes,” Harvey replied sharply as he pushed up the sleeves of his worn hoodie. Bruce cleared his throat. “What I meant was, you don’t have to grab anything from home. It’s all here. If you need anything else, just ask Alfred.” “Thanks. I’ll only stay the night. Dad’ll expect me back tomorrow. He’ll be sober by then.” Dianne exchanged a glance with Bruce, then reached out to touch Harvey’s arm. “There’s no rule saying you have to be there in the morning,” she said gently. “He’s my dad. Besides, if I’m not there, I’ll just make it worse for myself.” Bruce tightened a fist against the table. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d reported Harvey’s father to the police, but every single time social services went to visit their home, the elder Dent seemed put together and calm. “Harvey,” Bruce tried again, “if you report him, you won’t have to go back home. You can just—” “I’m not turning on him, Bruce,” Harvey interrupted, spinning his coin hard enough to send it skipping off the counter. It clinked on the floor tiles. Bruce sighed inwardly. “Well…you can stay longer, okay? If you want.” “I’ll think about it.” But Harvey was already shrinking away from the questions, and Bruce knew that lingering any longer on the topic would be going too far. On his other side, Dianne was giving him a pointed look. Leave him be, she was trying to say. Suddenly, the punishment of doing community service inside Arkham seemed light, even trivial, compared with what Harvey had to face every time he went home. Harvey bent to retrieve his coin and started spinning it again. “So,” he muttered, changing the subject, “did the detective say why she was sending you there?” “She didn’t need to say anything,” Bruce replied. “I think she picked a place where I’d be most likely to learn my lesson.” “What’s your lesson?” “To not help the police?” he guessed. Harvey sighed. “To not interfere with the police. It’s not up to you to save the world, Bruce.” “I know, I know.” Bruce grimaced, picked up Harvey’s coin, and inspected it. “I’m just being difficult about it. I was really looking forward to spending most of our last summer together.” Dianne nudged Bruce once with her elbow. “Well, you were going to work on security projects with Lucius at WayneTech this summer, weren’t you? Maybe seeing the inside of Arkham will give you some ideas.” Some ideas. Bruce lingered on her words for a moment. She had a point. He’d obsessed over criminal cases since he was young—but reading mystery novels and listening to a police scanner in the middle of the night would be nothing like seeing the inside of a prison with his own eyes. Maybe his time at Arkham could be his own personal study on how justice worked, a close look at how the asylum’s prisoners behaved and at the prison’s security system. It was a better way of thinking about his sentence. “I’ll try to get on Draccon’s good side,” he said. “Maybe the whole thing won’t be too bad.” “Well, at least you can say you’ve crossed paths with the most dangerous criminals in the city,” Dianne added as she bit into her burger. “I mean, when will you get to do that again?” — Bruce had once watched a documentary about the Elizabeth Arkham Asylum when he was still a freshman in high school. It was a sixty-minute exposé about the prison system in the entire country, and Arkham, on the outskirts of Gotham City and fully overseen by the city government, had been singled out as a particularly controversial penitentiary. If it were truly a prison, critics said, it should be called one, and if it were truly a hospital, it should be restructured as a ward, a mental health facility, or a rehabilitation center. Asylums were relics of a darker time and should be left in the past. Bruce knew of several petitions that had circulated recently in an attempt to change Arkham’s name and upgrade the facility to the modern era. But as Alfred drove Bruce along the bleak road curving out of the city and into a stretch of forest, then up a hill of yellowing grass and sheer rock, Bruce didn’t think Arkham’s grounds looked like a place that could change. Or that had ever changed. The long road approaching the asylum’s gates was lined with skeletal trees that were bare even now, in early summer. Aging signs warned against picking up any hitchhikers. In the distance was an old tower, also a part of the penitentiary, that had in the past shone its lights upon escaping inmates who had been lucky—or unlucky—enough to get past the prison’s walls. What a way to spend a Saturday, Bruce thought glumly. He wondered what this area must have looked like when the asylum was still new. He couldn’t picture the place with flowering trees or green lawns. Maybe it had always been dying. Arkham loomed at the top of the hill. The prison’s outer gates looked like an antique from a bygone era, tall and menacing and gothic, with the name ARKHAM ASYLUM spelled out in rusted iron across its spiked bars. On either side of the gates, twin statues leered down at them, their bodies bony underneath their carved hoods, their brows serious and their cheeks sunken. One of them held a balance scale in its frozen grasp. Bruce couldn’t tell if the figures were supposed to represent justice or death. Perhaps here, there was no differentiating between the two. Arkham Asylum was shaped like a giant U, a monstrosity of stone and spires, with some floors lacking windows altogether. Four tall watchtowers overlooked the complex, along with a main building rising high in the center of the grounds, its roof coming to a sharp point. More towers lined the perimeter of both the outer and inner gates, and even from inside the car, Bruce could see the guards in the posts with their rifles drawn, the narrow gun barrels stark against a gray sky. As they drove through the concrete field, Bruce spotted Draccon— looking as polished as ever, her black braids tied up into the familiar neat bun —already waiting for them near the enormous front doors, with two guards and a short, round woman in a plain black shirt. Bruce took a deep breath. He shouldn’t be this nervous, but when he looked down at his hands folded in his lap, he noticed they were shaking. He squeezed them together. Passing through the gates of Arkham reminded him of how impenetrable this place must be and gave him the unpleasant feeling that he was now a prisoner who had been sentenced here. How inmates had ever escaped in the past, he had no idea. You won’t be here long. Five weeks will fly by, he tried to tell himself. “Good luck today, Master Wayne,” Alfred said as they stopped at the steps leading up to the front doors. Bruce looked away from the windows to the rearview mirror, where he could see Alfred’s familiar eyes. With a sigh, he nodded at his guardian, then pushed open the car door and stepped out to meet the people waiting for him. As he approached, the woman in the black shirt uncrossed her arms and stretched one hand out toward him. She was shorter than Bruce, but Bruce still winced at the strength of her handshake. Her skin was light brown, her hazel eyes as hard as marbles. Bruce noticed that the guards on either side of her wore bulletproof vests with bold white SECURITY inscriptions. “You’re early,” the woman grunted. She peered over his shoulder at Alfred’s car, which had turned around to leave. “Glad you hired a babysitter who knows how to tell time.” “His name is Alfred,” Bruce said. “He’s my guardian.” The woman just grinned at him. “Yeah, and I’m sure he doesn’t ever think of you as a baby he has to sit for.” “Bruce, this is Dr. Zoe James,” Draccon said with a sigh as she adjusted her glasses. “The head warden of Arkham. You’ll report directly to her.” “The detective thinks I’m difficult.” Dr. James winked once at Bruce. “But we’ll make this visit of yours fun, won’t we, Wayne?” “You are difficult,” Draccon replied, rolling her eyes. “Don’t make me regret this, James.” “I’ve never been anything but the sweetest.” And before Draccon could reply, James whistled a cheery jingle and waved for them to follow her. She glanced over her shoulder at Bruce. “You’ll need to sign in at the front desk every time you’re here, and then get my signature, or your hours will count as invalid. So play nice, or we can make this game real hard for you.” They stood before the front doors. Only now did Bruce see that the doors were solid metal, a modern design that stood out from the gothic architecture. James placed her hand against a palm pad on one side of the doors, then punched in a long code. The doors gave a loud clank, gradually pulling to either side to reveal a dimly lit lobby. Bruce followed Dr. James and Draccon to a small counter protected by a wall of thick glass. Behind them, the front doors slid shut with a bang, sealing them in.  A surly attendant looked up at them and smacked gum loudly between his teeth. His chewing paused for a moment at the sight of Bruce. One edge of his lips tilted up. “It’s the kid,” he said, narrowing his eyes as he passed Bruce a note card through the small gap at the bottom of the window. He nodded once at James. “Don’t look as rich as the TV makes him.” Bruce kept his head turned down, hoping the man didn’t notice the slight coloring on his cheeks, and filled out the note card as quickly as he could. He passed it back. Draccon and James led him farther into the building, where they passed through a pair of barred sliding doors flanked on either side by guards armed with live weapons. They were inside the halls of Arkham. The first thing that struck Bruce was how coldly lit the halls were. Fluorescent lights beamed icily across the tiled floors and speckled walls, casting everything in a sickly green. The walls gave Bruce the distinct feeling that they were closing in from all sides, that eventually they would crowd around him and crush him like a bug. From somewhere in another hall came the echo of angry shouts and a wild peal of what could be either laughter or sobs. “Mayor Price’s administration oversees this place,” James said as they went. “The fact that they keep such close watch over everything here—our guards, tech, facilities, workers—should tell you everything you need to know about how dangerous the city considers these criminals.” A couple of prison guards marched down the hall, not making eye contact with them as they half dragged an inmate with a jagged scar running down his face. The prisoner turned alert as they passed. “Well, well,” he said, craning his neck. He scowled at Bruce. “What’s this delicate little piece of flesh doing in a place like this?” And before anyone could stop him, he lunged for Bruce. Bruce instinctively fell into his fighter stance. But James was already there, grabbing the prisoner’s right arm, twisting him around, and pinning him against the wall hard enough to make his cheeks turn bright pink. “Nice reflexes,” Draccon commented in mild surprise at Bruce. Bruce’s heart pounded furiously in his chest. “Guess the gym’s good for something,” he managed to reply. “Another display like that,” James warned the prisoner, “and I’ll add years to your sentence. I know how much you enjoy our time together.” She gave him a bitter smile, and the prisoner snarled back at her. His eyes settled on Bruce again, and when they did, he allowed himself a grim little grin.  “Skin’s too soft and clean for this place, pretty boy,” he spat out. “If you need some scars, you come find me.” Bruce looked away, his heart still hammering, as the guards continued dragging the man down the hall. He tried to imagine the man as a child, as himself, a boy sitting on the front lawn with his father and watching the bats stream out into the evening. Maybe some people were never young. At his side, James watched him with her arms crossed. “What are you thinking, Wayne?” “I’m wondering at what point someone makes the flip from a child into a killer.” “Ah. Interested in criminal psychology, are you?” James replied. “Well, you’re in the right place. Our inmates would make you tremble in your boots. That man you just saw? He killed four people in a café.” A chill swept through Bruce. “Yeah, he seemed pleasant,” he muttered. “Dr. James has been the head warden here for a decade,” Draccon added. “As you can see, it takes a certain level of steel to manage a place like this.” They left the small corridor, and suddenly the space opened into a huge, vaulted ceiling where they could see floors and floors of jail cells. Bruce froze in place at the sight of Arkham’s entire expanse. This was a gateway to hell. “What’s the matter?” Draccon said dryly. “Finally regretting your joy ride?” “This is the female east wing,” James called out as they walked to the right. “Men are kept in the west wing. Medical facilities are in the center halls connecting the two.” That explains the U shape, Bruce thought. “There is an additional level below our feet that houses our intensive-treatment inmates. You are going to sweep and then mop the halls in the female wing, as well as scrub the toilets the guards use. Tomorrow you’ll clean the basement level. We’ll work around the remainder of your school year, but once your summer starts, I expect to see you in here every morning. Our janitors have no trouble keeping this place spotless, so I think a billionaire should easily be able to do the same. I suggest you learn quickly.” Bruce looked inside one of the cells. A female inmate in an orange uniform leaned against its bars, and when she caught his gaze, she sneered at him. “Hey, ladies!” she shouted as they passed. “Looks like they upgraded our guards!” The others took up the cry, yelling vulgar suggestions at him. Bruce gritted his teeth and kept his gaze firmly on the hall. He’d seen guys catcall Dianne, had even gotten into fistfights with a few of them over it. But this was the first time he’d ever experienced it directly. Why don’t you smile, Bruce? It reminded him of the way the paparazzi swarmed around him like flies, peppering him relentlessly, punishing him when he didn’t respond accordingly. He caught a glimpse of Draccon’s face; despite the detective’s desire to punish him, even she seemed to sympathize a little. They finally, mercifully, reached the end of the wing. James led them through the medical halls and past workers fixing the doors, through more of the fluorescent, cold green corridors. They used an elevator to reach the basement level. It was dark, dank, and moist, an air of permanent staleness permeating the space. A sign hung over the entrance: ARKHAM ASYLUM INTENSIVE TREATMENT. “The worst of the worst stay down here, Wayne,” James said over her shoulder. “I’d try to do my work quickly in this hall, if I were you.” Two workers were reprogramming the door’s security lock. Bruce noted the security cameras regularly dotting the ceiling. The cell doors were solid metal down here, smaller versions of the heavy sliding doors at the asylum’s main entrance and noticeably more fortified than those along the upper corridors of Arkham. Each cell door had a window of what must be bulletproof glass, through which Bruce could occasionally see a prisoner sitting inside a stark room. The uniforms they wore down here differed from the orange ones of the other inmates. They were white, as if to mark them as a special breed of dangerous. “More than usual down here, James,” Draccon said as they went. James shrugged. “More crimes than usual,” she replied. “We had three Nightwalkers moved here just yesterday from Gotham City Penitentiary.” At that, Draccon shook her head in frustration. “Still no luck figuring out what the hell they were up to that night, huh?” James asked. “I’m afraid not.” “The Nightwalkers?” Bruce asked, grateful for something to think about other than his sentence. “Just how many of them are out there?” “Don’t worry about it, Wayne,” came Draccon’s stern reply. “Be grateful that this isn’t your business.” Several voices came from one of the cells near the end of the hall. As they approached it, James nodded toward the cell door. “That’s one of the new transfers I was talking about,” she said. “Trickiest Nightwalker we’ve ever gotten.”  Through the window, Bruce caught a glimpse of the scene. Three men— one dressed like a detective, the other two in police uniforms—were crowded around someone, interrogating the inmate. The frustrated voices were coming from the police. “You think this is funny, don’t you?” Bruce heard one officer snap. “Cutting an old man’s throat, watching him bleed out? How did you get into his accounts? What’s your team doing with all those millions? No answer, huh? You better wipe that smirk off your little face.” “Before we do it for you,” the other officer added. “Who else was with you?” the first growled. He said it as if he’d asked the question repeatedly. Bruce tried to see who the inmate was, but then they passed the window, and his chance was gone. The shouts turned muffled and faded away. James shook her head. “She still hasn’t talked.” “I ordered that one transferred myself,” Draccon said, glancing coolly at Bruce. “Don’t worry. They always crack.” As they left the hall, the angry questions continued to drift after them. Bruce found himself dwelling on what the police were trying to get out of the inmate. He would be down here often—he’d probably see this same scene play over and over again. Maybe by the time he came through once more, the police would have gotten the inmate to talk. And maybe Bruce would catch a glimpse of who the inmate was. Who she was. “What’s the matter, handsome? Never dirtied those clean hands before?” Arkham, day one. Inmates leered at Bruce through the bars as he cleaned, their grins fixated on him and their taunts echoing down the halls. Boots and toothbrushes clanked against cell bars. His appearance today was a stark contrast from the way he’d shown up at the benefit on his birthday, clad in his tailored suit and standing beside his custom Aston Martin. Now he wore a blue worker’s uniform from head to toe, his hands hidden underneath a pair of yellow cleaning gloves. Ignore them. Just concentrate, Bruce reminded himself as he made his way steadily along the corridor. They wanted to see his expression change, get a rise out of him. “Girls, we got a billionaire mopping up our mess.” Another catcall. “Damn! Guess money don’t buy what it used to.” “He’s cute, though, isn’t he?” “I’d go to jail just for a piece of that. Come on, Bruce Wayne. Give us a smile.” “Tell you what—we’ll stop giving you such a hard time if you take your shirt off and use it to scrub the floor.” Snickers rippled down the hall.  They continued throughout the day, one hall after another, until they all melded together into a single train of sound. Bruce kept his head down. James checked on him three times—and even though she never gave Bruce so much as a sidelong glance and a sniff, he still found himself looking forward to her presence. The inmates quieted whenever she appeared, and stayed taunt-free for a good few minutes after she left, giving him moments of reprieve. Finally, at the end of the day, James came up to him. “Get out of here, Wayne.” She nodded for him to follow her down the hall. “You’re so tired that you’re just smearing dirt around on the floors.” It wasn’t exactly pity, but Bruce decided it was close enough. He barely remembered signing out. He couldn’t even recall climbing into Alfred’s car. All he could register was being grateful to sink onto the cool leather seats, and waking up the following morning in his own bed. — “How is it so far?” Dianne asked him the next day as they headed to their English class together. Bruce tried to tune out the whispers and glances from classmates passing them in the hall. He could hear his name on their breath, along with snatches of rumors about why he’d crashed his car. Drunk. Cocky. Temper problems. The light coming in from the academy’s windows stretched everyone’s shadows out into long stripes down the hall, encasing the school behind bars. Bruce sighed, forcing himself to stare straight ahead. Yesterday had seemed to go on forever—and he would have to go back to that real prison over and over again for weeks. “Could’ve been worse,” he replied, then launched into the details as they reached their English room and settled into their seats. Dianne gave him a pitying shake of her head. “Ugh. Sounds awful. Five more weeks of that?” “It wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for all the catcalls.” Bruce texted a few of the more memorable taunts he’d gotten to her, so he wouldn’t have to say them out loud. She grimaced. “Yeah, well, I know what that’s like. And it’s not right.” Bruce shook his head. “I’m sorry, Di. I hate that you’ve had to deal with that.” Dianne put a reassuring hand on his arm. “You’ll make it. We’re all getting out of here in a few weeks, and—” She cut off as the bell rang, then went on in a lower voice. “And your time at Arkham will be over before you know it.” Her words brought some small measure of comfort. Bruce took a deep breath and tried to take them to heart. “Before I know it,” he echoed. — After all the jeers yesterday, the intensive-treatment basement of Arkham Asylum seemed eerily quiet by contrast when Bruce arrived after school. The silence raised the hairs on the back of his neck. If he didn’t know better, he could swear that this was a hall straight out of a horror film—the pale green cast of light, the bare walls, the faint echo of his boots. If ghosts were real, they would live here, whispering in the air. As he started down the hall, he listened for the voices of detectives coming from the last cell. Maybe they were interrogating the prisoner again today. Bruce had just made his way toward the first cell window when a loud slam echoed from it. Instantly, he jumped back a step—and saw an inmate staring at him through the window. “Well, well, well,” the man said. “It’s the new boy. You look good enough to carve.” He practically spat out the words, and as he did, he stirred the rest of the hall to life, until other shouts echoed along the corridor. Bruce looked away and concentrated on the floor before him instead. “What’s the matter, boy?” the inmate said. “What got you into this slum in the first place, eh, cleaning up our sh—hey, hey! Where the hell you think you’re going?” He rapped madly on the glass when Bruce took a step away. “You know what I did to get into this place? I carve. I carve real good.” He made a cutting gesture along his neck and down his arms. Bruce sped up, trying to purge the haunting sound of the man’s voice from his mind. The next cell was no better—it held an enormous man, who looked even bigger in his jumpsuit, with every inch of his exposed olive skin tattooed, including his face. He let out a laugh as Bruce went by, and didn’t break his stare until he was completely out of sight. Then he rammed his giant shoulder against the glass, making the entire pane shiver. A third inmate was tall and eerily handsome, his veins visibly blue against his skin. Bruce recognized him from the news, a serial killer convicted of at least two dozen murders carried out in gruesome fashion. The fourth inmate was bald and thick-necked, with eyes as pale and clear as water, pacing from one end of his cell to the other, until his shoes bumped against the walls. These were murderers who had terrorized Gotham City when they roamed free, who had dominated the news cycles. Now the only thing separating Bruce from each of them was a layer of metal and glass. Finally, he reached the end of the hall. He slowed, then stepped closer to the last cell, where the officers had been interrogating the prisoner several days before, their voices raised and frustrated. His thoughts lingered on the inmates he had just passed, their twisted smiles and stares, their unspeakable crimes. If they were the sort who stayed down here, then what did it take to command the police’s undivided attention? Who sat in that last cell? The window on the cell’s door stretched about half his body length, enough for him to see most of the inner room. It was plain, like the others, with nothing but a mattress and a toilet and sink. His eyes went to the lone figure sitting inside, pressed against one corner, legs stretched out, dressed in a long-sleeved white uniform. It was the woman. No, that wasn’t right—the girl. She didn’t look a day older than Bruce himself, sitting languidly with her head leaning back against the wall, her expression empty like a doll’s, her eyes staring out at nothing in particular. They were very, very dark eyes. Her hair was long and straight and so black that its highlights appeared blue, and her skin was so pale under the light that it looked dusted with flour. Her mouth was small and rosy, her face heart-shaped, her neck arched and slender. Bruce blinked. This was the inmate the Gotham City police were interrogating? He didn’t know what he’d expected to see, but she didn’t look anything like what he’d imagined. She looked like she belonged in his class at the academy, a girl far too young to be in a place like Arkham. In this fortress of the violent and broken, she seemed calm as death and starkly out of place. And yet. There was something off about her gaze…something that sent a shiver down his spine. The girl’s slender eyes shifted. She looked at him without moving her head. Bruce startled, taking a step back from the window. Those eyes. They didn’t just appear dark—there was something more in those depths, something lurking and guarded, calculating. They were windows into an intelligent mind, and right now they were analyzing Bruce. He had the strange sensation that she was memorizing everything about him, that she could read his thoughts. When he glanced down at her hands, he noticed that she had folded a napkin into the intricate shape of a flower…but whenever she twisted her wrists, the flower unfurled into the shape of a scorpion. Back and forth it transformed. Impossible, he wanted to think, to fold something that intricate with just a napkin. It reminded him of the precise way his mother used to fold letters before sending them, carefully sharpening the creases of the paper with her nail so that each segment of the paper lined up perfectly. They stared at each other for a moment longer. Then Bruce stepped out of her line of sight and let out his breath. His mind spun. Maybe the staff had moved the original inmate somewhere else and put this girl here instead. That would make more sense. Bruce frowned as he returned to work. What had she done to end up at the intensive-treatment section of Gotham City’s most notorious prison? He thought of his system of categorizing people. Where did she fit? When he couldn’t linger anymore, he packed up his supplies and turned to the exit. As he went, he got one more glimpse into the cell. He half expected the girl to still have her eyes turned to him, dark and depthless, searing straight through his bones. But she had returned to staring off into space. She didn’t stir. The origami in her hands was back in the shape of a flower. Bruce thought about it for a moment, then shook his head as he stepped through the exit door. Perhaps she hadn’t noticed him at all, and he had imagined the whole thing. Bruce was still thinking about the girl as the evening drew to a close and he headed out of Arkham’s doors to get into Alfred’s waiting car. “How was it today?” Alfred asked. Bruce cast his guardian a dry look through the rearview mirror. “Had the best time,” he replied. “I highly recommend it.” Alfred frowned at him. “Where do you inherit all this sarcasm from, Master Wayne?” “I don’t know.” Bruce leaned forward and hung an arm over the side of Alfred’s seat. “Maybe it’s from you.” “Me? Sarcastic?” Alfred sniffed, the barest hint of a smile appearing on his lips. “It’s as if you think I’m British.” Despite the long day, Bruce couldn’t help but grin at the retort. He watched the dead limbs of trees blur past the window. The girl’s face lingered in his thoughts, and when he let himself dwell too long, he could see her eyes flashing by in rhythmic intervals between the trunks, darker than night. A few minutes later, they pulled up to the training gym where Bruce spent many of his evenings. Bruce took a deep breath as he got out of the car, pulled open the gym door, and stepped inside. He needed a good, clean workout to clear his head, to shake the girl from his thoughts. The gym was an exclusive club where the coach—Edward Chang, an Olympic gold medalist in boxing and wrestling—only accepted students to train on a case-by-case basis. Bruce’s gaze swept across the massive unbroken space, ending at the ceiling, which yawned a good two stories over his head. Blue mats were set up in various configurations all around the floor, and an octagon ring lay in the center, where official spars happened between Bruce’s coach and his students. There were dozens of stations with weights and jump ropes, punching bags and padded gear, multiple rock-climbing walls. At one far corner, there was even a swimming pool with eight lanes. He went to the locker room and changed quickly, wrapping each of his hands in white gauze and dusting them with powder, and then took a pair of slim aviator goggles from his locker and pulled them on. The facilities were impressive, but what made the gym so expensive was the technology behind these goggles. With them over his eyes, Bruce could now see labels—MATS and RING and POOL—hovering over each area of the room. A central panel showed him a carousel of rotating landscapes he could set himself in while he trained. Bruce scrolled through them until he found his preferred setting. He reached out in midair to tap the option, and the world around him darkened into blackness. In a flash, it reset—and he found himself standing on the edge of a tower that disappeared into a bank of sunset clouds, staring out at a sea of glittering skyscrapers all connected to each other with cables in such a way that he could do a run between them. Stairwells curved around the outside of each building in spirals. Overhead hung a virtual night sky. When he looked down, the height seemed so realistic that he felt his head spin. The skyscrapers and obstacles all matched up with the layout of the gym itself, the mat formations and the octagon fighting ring and so on, the virtual stairwells syncing up with real, physical steplike mats laid out in circles. Bruce could select a mode on this landscape, too; if he wanted to run between the skyscrapers and up and down the stairwells, then the cables and stairwells would be highlighted, turning bright white to make it easy for him to see. If he wanted to scale the sides of the buildings, then footholds along the sides of the buildings would be highlighted instead, all matching up with the rock- climbing walls. Bruce chose the option to highlight the cables and stairwells. They lit up in white, startling against the sunset scene. He stretched in relief, ready to shed the image of Arkham’s dark halls from his mind and let himself stare down the dizzying side of the skyscraper. Then he jumped. He landed on a cable that ran between him and the nearest skyscraper. Instantly, he began to run it, his balance unwavering, footing accurate from years of practice. When he reached the end, he took a flying leap to grab onto the bars of the building’s outer stairwell. In real life, he hooked onto the metal monkey bars hanging over a series of blue mats, and his wrapped hands sent up a cloud of white dust. Bruce pulled himself up in a single motion, his arm and back muscles wound tight, then rolled onto the stairwell and continued running. Up a stairwell, then a flying leap, then another cable line. Sweat beaded his brow. With each passing minute, the warm-up exercise calmed him, and he could concentrate on nothing other than the steady pounding of his heart. “Bruce!” Bruce paused the simulation, then pulled his goggles up to see Coach Chang emerge from his office down the back hall to wave at him. Bruce smiled. “Coach.” The man nodded at the greeting. His hair was shaved short on the sides, tapering into a fauxhawk on top, and when he folded his arms, his muscles bulged. His ears were scarred, hinting at his wrestling past. “Nice work on those runs.” Bruce was about to respond, when a second figure followed Coach out onto the gym floor. Richard. Richard forced a smile. “Hey, Bruce,” he said, flexing his wrists once. “Richard told me he’ll be out of town the night he usually trains,” Coach said. “I hope you don’t mind that I have him here tonight. The pair of you can partner up like you used to.” Like you used to. It’d been years since he and Richard had wrestled together as friends. So much for a relaxing workout session, Bruce thought. Richard nodded. “Like old times.” Bruce heard the note of exaggeration in his voice, the sarcasm. Their coach seemed oblivious to the tension between them as he dropped a bunch of equipment on the floor. Then he glanced down at his phone. “Warm up a little, loosen yourselves up. We’ll get started on a routine in a bit.” He held his phone up to his ear and stepped away, leaving them alone in the room. They moved to a sparring mat, where Richard started circling Bruce. “Heard you left the benefit early,” Richard said. “Did I really bother you that much?” “I just needed to clear my head.” Bruce searched for an opening, his eyes fixed on the other boy.  Richard let out a humorless chuckle. “Please. You think I don’t know you well enough to t