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Authors Note: This is a new story. A bit of a crossover between DC comics and Dishonored. This will mostly take place in Gotham and stick to street level fights as I'm not a huge fan of main characters going from zero to one hundred in terms of power. As usual, all feedback is welcome and will be considered.

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Chapter 1: A City of Shadows

I used to think the sky could hold back the weight of the world.

Back in Metropolis, when I looked up, I could see it—the endless blue, almost comforting, like it could stretch out forever. Superman flew up there, a dot against the sun, his shadow passing over the streets like some kind of divine omen. We all thought the same thing: as long as he was up there, we were safe. The problems down below were trivial, the collateral damage something that someone else would clean up. A part of me still clings to that, still believes in the illusion of safety.

That part of me died with my parents.

I don't know what hit them first—the blast from Metallo's fusion core or the collapsing debris. All I remember was the noise, the crackling scream of twisted metal and the way the earth trembled as buildings crumbled. Metropolis was supposed to be untouchable. We were supposed to be untouchable. But that day proved something to me: heroes don't save everyone. Some of us are just…collateral.

Now, standing here at the edge of Gotham's streets, I can't help but feel like I've been thrown into the opposite end of the universe. Metropolis, with its gleaming towers and golden statues, is a world away from the grime and rust of Gotham. Here, the air feels heavy, saturated with secrets and smoke. The shadows seem thicker, like they cling to you. In a way, Gotham feels honest. It's not pretending to be anything it's not—a cesspool of crime, corruption, and all the things people like Superman don't look down on from above.

Maybe that's why my uncle fits in here.

"You good, kid?"

I blink, pulling myself back from the abyss of my thoughts, and look at my uncle standing next to me. His name's Frank. No one ever called him 'Uncle Frank' or even 'Frankie.' It's just Frank—sharp, short, no room for anything more. He's rough around the edges, his face pockmarked with lines that come from a life of violence and hard choices. A cigarette dangles from his lip, burning low, and the smoke curls lazily into the Gotham air like it's always been part of the landscape.

"I'm fine," I answer, my voice sounding hollow to my own ears.

Frank grunts, not pressing further. He hasn't asked about my parents since I got here. It's like he knows that the moment those words come up, I'll shatter all over again. Or maybe he just doesn't care. Hard to tell.

He flicks the cigarette into the gutter, a little trail of embers floating down as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his beat-up jacket. "C'mon. Let's get you settled."

We walk through the narrow alley leading to his apartment. The walls are damp, covered in graffiti, and the streets themselves are slick from the recent rain. Gotham never looks clean. Even when it's not raining, the streets are soaked in this…thickness. You can almost feel the weight of the city pressing down on you, like it's swallowing everything alive.

When I first arrived, the ride from the train station to Frank's place felt like a blur of gray. I remember seeing the skyline—nothing like Metropolis' sleek towers, but more like broken teeth, jagged against the backdrop of the sky. Wayne Tower stands out like a middle finger to the rest of the city, looming over it like it owns the place. Everything else? Crumbling. Forgotten.

Just like me.

Frank lives in a rundown building on the east side of Gotham, the kind of place that looks like it's been abandoned but somehow still holds onto life. We climb the stairs, each step creaking like it might give way at any second. When we reach the fourth floor, Frank unlocks the door with a quick flick of his wrist.

The apartment is…functional. Bare walls, mismatched furniture, a couch that's seen too many years. The kitchen is cramped, and the smell of old coffee and stale cigarettes hangs in the air. It's clear Frank's been living alone for a long time, and the idea of having someone else in his space is about as foreign as Gotham having a sunny day.

"You can crash in the back room," he says, pointing to a door down the hall. "Ain't much, but it's got a bed. Bathroom's down the hall. Make yourself at home, or whatever."

There's no warmth in his words, but I don't expect any. Frank isn't the kind of guy who goes out of his way to make you feel comfortable. I walk past him, my footsteps quiet against the worn floorboards, and open the door to the room.

It's small. The bed takes up most of the space, with just enough room for a small dresser and a window that looks out onto the street below. The walls are bare, save for a single crack that runs down one corner, like the building itself is splitting apart.

I drop my duffel bag onto the bed and sit down, the mattress sagging under my weight. The room smells like dust and old wood. It's a far cry from my bedroom in Metropolis—sleek furniture, bright lights, and a view that stretched for miles. Now, I have a view of a fire escape and the brick wall of the building across the street.

"Thanks," I say quietly, though I'm not sure if Frank hears me.

He doesn't respond, but I hear him moving around in the living room, the soft clink of bottles as he rummages through the fridge. A moment later, I hear the sound of the TV flicking on, the volume turned low. He's giving me space. Or maybe he's just avoiding me. Either way, I'm grateful for the silence.

After unpacking what little I have, I venture back into the living room. Frank's sitting on the couch, one arm slung over the backrest, his eyes fixed on the TV. It's some local news station, the kind that thrives on Gotham's endless cycle of crime and misery. A reporter is talking about a robbery that went wrong somewhere in the Narrows. No one's surprised.

I sit on the edge of the couch, not too close to Frank but not far enough to make it awkward. He glances at me out of the corner of his eye, then reaches for the bottle of beer on the coffee table, taking a long drink before setting it back down with a dull thud.

"So," he says after a while, not looking at me. "You planning on going back to school?"

The question catches me off guard. School feels like something that belongs to a different life, one where my biggest worry was passing a history test or getting to class on time. Now, it feels trivial. Who cares about school when your parents are dead?

"I don't know," I admit. "Haven't thought about it."

Frank nods, as if that's the answer he expected. "Probably should, though. Ain't much for a kid your age to do in this city if you ain't in school. Trust me."

There's something in his tone, a bitterness that creeps in around the edges. I wonder how much Frank knows about what it's like to grow up in Gotham, how much of his own life he's trying to keep hidden from me. I haven't asked him about his job yet, and he hasn't volunteered any information. But there are signs, little things that don't quite add up.

Like the way he always has cash, even though he doesn't seem to have a steady job. Or the fact that I've seen him talking to some shady-looking guys in the alley behind the apartment building. The way he glances over his shoulder when we walk through certain parts of town, like he's expecting someone to be watching.

I should probably be more curious about it, but part of me doesn't want to know. Not yet. Not when I'm still trying to figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do with my own life.

Frank shifts on the couch, the leather squeaking under his weight, and takes another drink of his beer. "Look, kid… I know this ain't exactly the Ritz. But it's better than the streets, and it's better than a foster home. You stick with me, you'll be fine. We'll figure it out."

I want to believe him. But there's a part of me that wonders if maybe the streets would be safer.

After that brief conversation with Frank, we sit in silence for a while, watching the news unfold like some tragic comedy. Gotham's nightly crime reports are just a rotation of the same stories: robberies, murders, assaults, always punctuated by a footnote about Batman's intervention, always another villain stepping out of the shadows. It's all noise to me.

Eventually, I excuse myself. Frank doesn't protest when I head to the back room, giving me a quick nod before I disappear down the hall.

Once inside, I close the door softly, the click of the latch oddly loud in the quiet of the apartment. The room still smells faintly of dust and the street grime that seems to permeate every inch of Gotham. I drop onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling, where a single lightbulb casts a weak, yellowish glow over the room.

My mind starts to wander again, like it always does when the world outside gets quiet.

I used to hate silence.

Back in Metropolis, silence meant everything was over—whether it was a test, a game, or even the brief moments when the city slept. Silence meant nothing was happening. It was peaceful.

Now, silence feels like the weight of everything pressing down at once.

I shift on the bed, trying to get comfortable, but the mattress is lumpy and the sheets smell faintly musty, like they haven't been washed in weeks. The city outside hums with the distant roar of traffic, the occasional siren wailing as it passes by, but none of it reaches me in here. Frank's apartment feels like it's sealed off from the rest of the world, locked in its own little bubble.

I close my eyes, hoping sleep will come. But my mind is a minefield, every thought ready to explode the moment I let it wander too far. Every time I blink, I see my parents, hear the crash of the building, feel the way the earth buckled under my feet. I see Superman, a distant figure in the sky, and I wonder if he even noticed the people he didn't save.

I wonder if he noticed me.

I turn over onto my side, clutching the blanket close to my chest like it'll hold me together. But it doesn't help. The room feels too small, the walls too close. My chest tightens, my breath coming shallow, like the air itself is being sucked out of the room. I want to scream, to throw something, to punch the walls until my knuckles are bloody and raw. But I don't. I just lay there, staring at the cracks in the ceiling.

Eventually, my eyes start to droop. Sleep drags me under, pulling me into its depths.

I don't wake up in the same place.

It's like I blink, and suddenly the world is gone.

The room, the bed, the soft hum of Gotham's streets—it all disappears, swallowed up by a suffocating darkness that stretches out endlessly in every direction. I try to move, but my limbs feel heavy, like they're sinking into the blackness. I can't tell if I'm standing, lying down, or just floating in some endless void.

There's no sound, no air, nothing. Just me and the dark.

Panic grips me. My breath comes in sharp, ragged gasps, but there's no air to fill my lungs. My heart pounds in my chest, the sound deafening in the silence. I try to scream, but no sound comes out. The darkness presses in, tightening around me, suffocating me.

Then I see him.

At first, it's just a flicker at the edge of my vision, a shape moving in the shadows, so subtle I almost miss it. But then he steps closer, and the darkness shifts, parting like a curtain to reveal a figure standing before me. His face is pale, almost luminescent in the void, eyes like black holes that seem to swallow everything they look at. He's wearing a long, flowing coat that ripples with the absence of light, and his hands—thin, skeletal things—rest calmly at his sides.

The Outsider.

I've never seen him before, but I know who he is. I can feel it in my bones, in the marrow of my soul. He's not like anything else in this world. Not human. Not god. Something else entirely.

He smiles, a slow, deliberate curl of his lips that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Welcome," he says, his voice soft and cold, like the whisper of wind through a graveyard. "You've traveled far, haven't you?"

I try to speak, to ask him where I am, what's happening, but the words get stuck in my throat. All I can do is stare, frozen in place.

The Outsider steps closer, his movements fluid and unnaturally graceful, like he's not bound by the same rules of physics the rest of us are. "You're lost," he continues, his tone almost…sympathetic. "Torn between worlds. Between light and dark. You don't belong in Gotham any more than you belonged in Metropolis. You're caught in between."

His words hang in the air, echoing in the space around me, though I still can't tell if this place even has space. It's like being in a dream, but more vivid, more real than anything I've ever felt before. And the Outsider's presence—cold, distant, yet somehow intimate—sends a chill down my spine.

"What do you want?" I manage to croak, my voice barely more than a whisper.

The Outsider tilts his head slightly, regarding me with those black, empty eyes. "What do I want? It's not about what I want, my boy. It's about what you need. About what you're going to become."

I don't understand. None of this makes sense. But there's something in his gaze, something ancient and unyielding, that tells me he's not here to explain. He's here to show me.

"You've been touched by death," the Outsider says, his voice lowering to a murmur, almost conspiratorial. "You've seen the world's ugly truths. The lies of heroes, the false promises of gods. They can't save you. They didn't save your parents."

The words hit me like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of me. My hands curl into fists, anger surging through me like a fire I've been trying to smother for weeks.

"They didn't save them," I hiss, the bitterness in my voice surprising even me.

The Outsider smiles again, but there's no warmth in it. "No. They didn't. And they won't save you, either. But that's not why I'm here."

He reaches out one of those pale, skeletal hands, and for a moment, I flinch, thinking he's going to grab me. But he doesn't. Instead, his fingers hover just inches from my chest, and I can feel the cold radiating from him like an open grave.

"I'm here because you've been chosen," he says softly, almost tenderly. "You've been marked by fate. By something far older and darker than the battles of men and gods. And now…you will carry my mark."

Before I can react, his hand grabs my own. It's cold—so cold it burns, the icy fire searing through my skin, into my bones, my very soul. I cry out, a wordless scream that echoes in the void, but the darkness swallows the sound.

And then, just as suddenly, it's over.

The Outsider steps back, his hand falling to his side, and I'm left gasping for breath, clutching at my hand. There's no wound, no blood, instead something else is there, something new and foreign, like a brand burned into my skin. A weight I didn't have before.

The Outsider watches me, his expression unreadable.

"You'll understand in time," he says, his voice distant now, as if he's already fading away. "The power you've been given. I wonder what path you will walk. We'll talk again soon."

I want to ask him more, to demand answers, but the darkness is closing in again, swallowing me whole.

And then I wake up.

My eyes snap open, and I'm back in Frank's apartment, lying in the same bed, the same cracks in the ceiling staring down at me. My heart is pounding in my chest, my skin slick with sweat, and for a moment, I wonder if it was all just a dream.

But then I feel it.

The Mark.

It's there, just on the back of my hand, humming with an energy I can't explain, a power that feels ancient and raw. I don't know what it means yet, but I know it's real. The Outsider wasn't a dream. He was real, and he's left something inside me—something that's going to change everything.

I sit up slowly, my hands trembling as I reach for the edge of the bed. My head is spinning, my thoughts racing, but one thing is clear: whatever path I was on before, it's gone now.

There's no going back

I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at my hands like they belong to someone else. My fingers tremble, and beneath the surface, I can feel it—the Mark. It hums, a steady, quiet pulse, like a second heartbeat that only I can hear. It's not painful, not in the way it was when the Outsider pressed his hand against mine, but it's there. Always there.

My breath comes in shallow bursts as the reality of what just happened sinks in. It wasn't a dream. I didn't imagine it. The Outsider was real, and he's marked me with something far beyond my understanding. I don't know what it is yet, or what it means, but it feels…powerful. Dangerous.

I reach up to touch the mark, expecting to find some sign deformity—scars, a burn, something—but there's nothing there. My skin is smooth, unblemished, barring the new tattoo. The energy beneath it, the weight of the Mark, is undeniable. I can feel it thrumming in my veins, a silent whisper that tugs at the edges of my mind.

What does it want from me?

The question lingers, unanswered, as I stand up from the bed and pace the small room. I feel jittery, like my body can't settle, like there's something bubbling under the surface, waiting to break free. Every sound in the apartment—the creak of the floorboards, the distant murmur of the TV in the living room—feels magnified, sharper. My senses are on overdrive, hyper-aware of everything around me.

I glance at the clock on the wall. It's just past midnight, but it feels like hours have passed since I fell asleep. The darkness outside the window is thick, oppressive, and the street below is empty, save for the occasional flicker of a passing car. Gotham's shadows are always hungry, always watching.

I close my eyes, trying to calm my racing heart, but all I can see is the Outsider's face—pale, cold, those eyes like black holes swallowing everything in their path. His voice echoes in my mind, over and over.

You've been chosen.

Chosen for what? I didn't ask for this. I didn't ask to be part of whatever dark game the Outsider is playing. But I can feel the weight of his words settling over me, a mantle I didn't choose but can't refuse. There's no escaping it. The Mark is part of me now.

I sit back down on the bed, my head in my hands, trying to make sense of it all. Everything feels surreal, like I've slipped into some twisted version of reality where nothing is certain, and everything is dangerous. The Outsider said I'd understand in time, but how much time? How long before this Mark starts to change me? Before I start to lose control?

A part of me wonders if I should tell Frank. He might not believe me, but he's seen things. He's lived in Gotham long enough to know that the world doesn't operate by normal rules, not here. Maybe he could help. Maybe he knows something about the Outsider, about what this Mark means.

But another part of me—deeper, darker—says no. Tells me to keep this to myself. The Outsider came to me for a reason, and whatever power he's given me, it's mine. Frank doesn't need to know. No one does. This is my burden to carry.

I don't know where that thought comes from, but it feels right. It feels like the Mark is speaking to me, a quiet voice at the back of my mind, urging me to stay silent. To keep this secret close. Power, after all, is a dangerous thing when it's in the wrong hands.

I look down at my hands again, turning them over in the dim light of the room. I can almost see it now—the energy, the power, coiled beneath my skin, waiting. It's like a spark, ready to ignite at any moment, but I don't know how to control it. Not yet.

But I will.

I have to.

Morning comes too quickly. The light filtering through the grimy window wakes me, though I don't feel like I've slept at all. My body is sluggish, my mind still heavy with the weight of everything that happened last night. I lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, wondering if maybe it was all just a bad dream after all.

But the Mark is still there. I can feel it, a constant presence now, a reminder of the path I've been set on. There's no escaping it.

I hear Frank moving around in the kitchen, the clatter of pots and pans, the low hum of the stove. The smell of burnt coffee wafts down the hallway, and I force myself to get up, pulling on a hoodie and some jeans before shuffling into the kitchen.

Frank's standing at the stove, flipping something that vaguely resembles scrambled eggs. He looks up when I enter, his usual gruff expression softening just a bit. "Morning," he grunts.

"Morning," I mutter, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

"Didn't hear you get up last night. You sleep alright?" He asks, though it's more of a formality than genuine concern.

I hesitate for a moment, the memory of the Void and the Outsider flashing in my mind. For a brief second, I consider telling him, laying it all out there. But the voice in the back of my head—the voice of the Mark—stops me.

"I slept fine," I lie, forcing a smile. "Just…trying to get used to the new place."

Frank nods, turning back to the stove. "Yeah, it's not much, but it's home. You'll get used to it."

I sit down at the small kitchen table, my mind still racing. Frank isn't the sentimental type, and he's certainly not the kind of guy who's going to give me any answers about what's happening to me. Whatever he's hiding, whatever world he's wrapped up in, it's not the same as mine. Not anymore.

We eat breakfast in silence, the only sounds are the clink of forks on plates and the distant hum of the city outside. I try to act normal, to pretend like everything's fine, but it's harder than I thought it would be. The Mark feels heavier now, like it's weighing me down, pulling me into something I can't escape.

Frank finishes his food and leans back in his chair, eyeing me across the table. "You should get out today," he says. "See the city. Get a feel for Gotham. Ain't Metropolis, but you'll figure it out."

I nod, though the idea of wandering Gotham's streets feels daunting. It's not like Metropolis, where everything is clean and bright, where people smile at each other on the sidewalk. Gotham is…different. Darker. Colder.

But maybe that's what I need right now.

After breakfast, I head back to my room to grab my jacket. As I'm pulling it on, I catch a glimpse of myself in the small mirror hanging on the wall. My reflection stares back at me, but there's something different about it now. Something in my eyes, the way they seem darker, more hollow than they were before. The Mark has changed me, even if it's only on the inside for now.

I push the thought away and head out the door.

The streets of Gotham are alive with activity, even in the early morning. People move through the city like ghosts, heads down, shoulders hunched against the cold wind that blows in off the bay. The buildings loom overhead, casting long shadows across the narrow streets, and every corner feels like it's hiding something.

I walk without a destination, letting the city guide me. The Mark is quiet for now, but I can still feel it, a constant presence beneath my skin. It's strange—comforting in a way, like I'm never truly alone anymore.

As I make my way through the maze of Gotham's streets, I start to notice things. The way people avoid eye contact, the way they move quickly, always looking over their shoulders. It's a city on edge, a place where fear is as much a part of life as breathing. And yet, there's a strange beauty to it. A rawness that Metropolis never had. Metropolis was all polished surfaces and gleaming towers, but Gotham…Gotham wears its scars openly.

I pass by a group of kids about my age, hanging out on the corner, their voices low as they talk in hushed tones. For a moment, I think about approaching them, maybe trying to make some kind of connection. But I don't. There's a distance between me and everyone else now, a barrier that the Mark has built. I can feel it, even if I can't see it.

I keep walking.

By the time I make it back to Frank's apartment, the sun is starting to set, casting long shadows over the city. I climb the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. When I finally reach the door, I hesitate for a moment, hand hovering over the knob. Something feels different. Off.

I push the door open.

Frank's sitting on the couch, his face pale, a cigarette dangling from his lips. But there's something in his eyes—something hard, cold. Something I haven't seen before.

"Sit down, kid,"