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Authors Note: Finally getting to the first night out. It was a little darker than I originally intended, but we can go for a sort of Medium/High Chaos vigilante route here. It'll be interesting once I finally get around to writing the Bat Family into the story. As usual, all feedback is welcome and will be considered.

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Chapter 3: A Knife in the Dark

Gotham High was a different kind of nightmare. The building loomed in front of me like a monument to the city's decay, the bricks stained dark from years of pollution and neglect. A few windows were cracked, others boarded up, as if the very structure was struggling to hold itself together, just like everything else in this city.

Inside, the noise hit me like a wave—students packed into the hallways, their conversations blending into a dull roar. Laughter, cursing, shuffling feet. There was no order, no control—just chaos, like Gotham had infected the school with its own twisted energy.

I walked through the crowded hallway, head down, moving like a ghost through the throngs of students. I wasn't here to make friends or play by the rules. I was here because Frank wanted me to be. But every step I took felt like I was walking in someone else's shoes. This wasn't my world. Not anymore.

The Mark on the back of my hand pulsed faintly, a reminder of what I had become—what I was about to become. I clenched my fist, my fingers itching to test the limits of Blink again, to feel that surge of power under my skin. But I had to keep it together. Not here. Not now.

I spotted Rebecca leaning against a row of lockers, her arms crossed over her chest, that same lazy smirk on her face. She saw me coming and raised an eyebrow.

"Look at you, Nate," she teased, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "First day of school, and you already look like you're ready to murder someone."

I forced a smirk, though my thoughts were far darker than her joke. "Just trying to blend in."

She snorted. "Good luck with that. This place is a hellhole. Blending in doesn't really work when everyone's just trying to survive."

Her words hung in the air between us, and for a moment, I felt like she understood more than she was letting on. But I pushed the thought away. Rebecca was just a kid, like the rest of them. She didn't know what it was like to be truly alone, to carry the kind of darkness I had inside me.

"Come on," she said, pushing off the lockers and gesturing for me to follow. "I'll show you around. Not that there's much to see."

She led me through the maze of hallways, pointing out classrooms, the cafeteria, the gym. Everything blurred together, a haze of chipped paint, flickering lights, and scuffed floors. It was all so...normal. So painfully, suffocatingly normal.

Rebecca kept up a steady stream of commentary as we walked, but I barely listened. My mind was elsewhere, my thoughts spinning in circles around the same dark realization that had been gnawing at me since I woke up this morning.

What am I doing here?

This place—this school—it felt like a cage. A place where people pretended everything was fine, where they went through the motions of a life that didn't matter. But I knew better. I'd seen the truth. I'd seen the destruction that heroes and villains left in their wake, and I knew that no one here was really safe. Not in Gotham.

Rebecca nudged me with her elbow, snapping me out of my thoughts. "You paying attention, or are you too busy plotting your escape?"

I forced a grin. "Just taking it all in."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, sure. Anyway, you're in for a treat. Classes are a joke, and most of the teachers don't care if you show up or not. Just stay out of trouble and you'll be fine."

I glanced around at the students milling about, laughing, talking, living their lives as if nothing was wrong. They had no idea what was coming. No idea how quickly everything could fall apart. And that's what separated me from them. I knew the truth. And that truth had set me on a path I couldn't turn back from.

The classroom was as dreary as the rest of the school. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting a cold, harsh glow over the room. The desks were old, chipped, some with graffiti carved into the wood. The walls were bare, save for a few faded posters about "safety" and "success" that seemed more like cruel jokes than actual advice.

I took a seat near the back, keeping my head down. The teacher—a tired-looking woman with graying hair and bags under her eyes—stood at the front of the room, flipping through a stack of papers with little interest.

The students around me were already checked out, scrolling through their phones or chatting quietly with each other. It was clear no one cared about what was happening here. I could see it in their faces—the apathy, the boredom, the sense that none of this really mattered.

The bell rang, and the teacher looked up, her gaze sweeping over the room. She sighed, setting the papers down on her desk, then crossed her arms over her chest.

"Alright, listen up," she began, her voice flat and emotionless. "I know most of you don't want to be here, and frankly, neither do I. But we've got to get through this, so let's make it quick."

She paused, looking out at the sea of disinterested faces, and for a moment, something flickered in her eyes—frustration, maybe. Or exhaustion. It was hard to tell.

"You're all at the point in your lives where you need to start thinking about the future," she continued, her voice taking on a more serious tone. "I know that sounds cliché, but it's true. You're not kids anymore. You're almost adults. And that means you need to start making decisions about what you want to do with your lives."

She leaned against her desk, her gaze narrowing slightly. "Some of you are going to go to college. Some of you are going to get jobs. Some of you might join the military, or become cops, or lawyers, or doctors. The point is, you're reaching an age where you have to start planning. Because life isn't going to wait for you to figure it out. If you don't make a choice, life will make it for you."

Her words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of expectation. I glanced around the room, but most of the students weren't paying attention. They were too busy zoning out, doodling in their notebooks, or texting under their desks.

But for me...the words hit deeper.

Planning for the future. Choosing a life path.

It all felt so...pointless.

Before everything had happened—before Metropolis, before my parents' deaths—I might have cared. I might have listened to that speech and taken it to heart, thinking about college, about careers, about the kind of life I wanted to build.

But now?

Now, the future felt like a hollow concept, something people talked about but didn't really understand. Because the truth was, it didn't matter what plans you made, or what choices you thought you had. Life didn't care about your plans. Life would take everything from you in an instant, without warning, without mercy.

My parents had plans. They had lives. And in a split second, it was all taken from them. From me. Because of a fight between Superman and Metallo. Because the so-called heroes couldn't stop the destruction before it reached us.

The heroes had failed.

And they weren't the only ones.

The teacher kept talking, droning on about responsibility, about taking control of our futures. But her words felt like knives, cutting deeper into the realization that had been growing inside me for weeks.

The system had failed, too. The world we lived in—the society, the laws, the rules—it was all broken. It was built to protect the powerful, to keep the rich safe while the rest of us were left to fend for ourselves. The police couldn't stop the crime. The government couldn't stop the corruption. And the heroes, for all their power, couldn't save us.

They tried. I knew that. I knew that Superman, Batman, all the others—they were doing their best. But their best wasn't enough. It never would be. Not when they held back. Not when they had rules, limits, lines they wouldn't cross.

I felt the Mark on my hand pulse again, stronger this time, as if it was reacting to my thoughts. I clenched my fist under the desk, my nails digging into my palm.

The heroes failed. The system failed.

But I wouldn't.

The realization hit me like a punch to the gut, and I sat up straighter, my mind racing. If I wanted to make a difference—if I wanted to protect the people of Gotham, to keep them safe from the monsters that lurked in the shadows—I couldn't be like the heroes. I couldn't play by their rules. I couldn't afford to.

I had to be something else. Something darker. Something that Gotham's criminals would fear.

I didn't need a career, or a future, or a life path. I needed a mission.

And I had one now.

That night, I lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, the teacher's words still echoing in my mind. The future. Careers. Choices. All of it felt so far away now, so disconnected from the reality I was living in.

I didn't care about the future. Not the way she meant it. I didn't care about getting a job, or going to college, or any of the things people were supposed to care about at my age.

What I cared about was justice.

Real justice.

Not the kind that the police handed out, or the kind that the courts pretended to serve. Not the kind that heroes like Batman and Superman believed in. No, I wanted something more. Something that would make the criminals of Gotham think twice before they hurt another innocent person.

Fear.

That's what they needed. Fear. The kind that burrowed deep into your bones, that made your skin crawl, that made you look over your shoulder every time you walked down the street. The kind of fear that didn't fade, that didn't leave room for second chances.

Batman had made a name for himself by being feared. By using the shadows to his advantage, by making Gotham's criminals believe that he was something more than just a man.

But he still had rules. He still held back. And that's why the criminals kept coming back. They knew that no matter how bad things got, no matter how many times they were caught, they would still be alive at the end of it.

Alive to do it all over again.

I wasn't going to give them that chance.

My parents had been innocent. They had been caught in the crossfire of a battle that had nothing to do with them. They had been collateral damage, forgotten in the aftermath of a fight between gods. And no one had paid for it. Not really. Metallo had been defeated, sure. But he wasn't dead. He wasn't gone.

He would come back. They always did.

But not if I had anything to say about it.

The heroes had their rules. Their morals. Their lines they wouldn't cross. And that's what made them weak. That's what made them fail.

I wouldn't have those limits.

I wouldn't hold back.

I'd make them pay.

The days blurred together, each one a haze of preparation, of careful planning. I barely paid attention in class, my mind too focused on what I was going to do. The decision had been made. I wasn't going to stand by and watch Gotham burn. I wasn't going to let the heroes keep failing.

I was going to take matters into my own hands.

But I wasn't stupid. I knew that Gotham's criminals weren't just thugs on the street. They were organized, dangerous. They had power, connections. I couldn't just charge in, guns blazing. I needed to be smart. I needed to be prepared.

The first thing I did was gather supplies.

I didn't have much money, but I made do with what I had. I found a dark, heavy coat at a second-hand store, long enough to hide in the shadows, sturdy enough to withstand the rough streets of Gotham. It wasn't perfect, but it would do. I added a few pouches to the inside of the coat, places to store anything I might need—money, tools, weapons.

Speaking of weapons...that was the tricky part.

I wasn't about to walk into a gun shop and start buying firearms. That would draw way too much attention, and I didn't have the money for it anyway. But I had other options. I knew Frank had a stash of pocket knives in his room, hidden in various drawers and under his bed. He wasn't exactly subtle about it.

One night, after he had gone out to do whatever shady business he was involved in, I slipped into his room and grabbed one of the knives. It was small, sharp, easy to conceal. Perfect for what I needed. I tucked it into my coat, the weight of it reassuring against my side.

The mask was the hardest part.

I didn't want to be recognized. That was obvious. But I also didn't want to look like just another thug in a ski mask. I needed something different. Something that would set me apart, that would strike fear into the hearts of the criminals I went after.

I found an old, beat-up gas mask in a pawn shop. It was scratched, the lenses cracked, but it fit the image in my head. Dark, faceless, intimidating. I bought it for cheap, then spent the next few nights cleaning it up, fixing the straps, making sure it would work.

When I finally stood in front of the mirror, fully suited up, I barely recognized myself.

The coat hung heavy around my shoulders, the pouches lined with supplies. The gas mask covered my face completely, the cracked lenses giving me a distorted view of the world. The pocket knife was hidden in my coat, ready for use.

I stared at my reflection, the person I had been before Metropolis, before my parents' deaths, fading into the background. That person was gone. In their place was something darker, something more dangerous.

This was who I was now.

I was ready.

The night air was crisp and biting as I perched on the rooftop, the wind tugging at the edges of my coat. Gotham spread out before me like a maze of shadows and flickering streetlights, the sounds of the city blending into a distant hum. The streets below were empty for now, but I knew that wouldn't last.

Gotham never slept. Not really.

I crouched down, my eyes scanning the street below, the Mark on my hand pulsing softly with anticipation. Tonight was the night. My first night. The first step in a journey that would change everything.

I had spent the day gathering information, listening to the whispers in the alleyways, the rumors that floated through the underworld. And all signs pointed to one man.

Roman Sionis. The Black Mask.

He was one of Gotham's most dangerous crime lords—a sadistic, power-hungry man who thrived on violence and control. His men were everywhere, running drugs, smuggling weapons, terrorizing the city. If I was going to make an impact, if I was going to send a message, he was the perfect target.

But I couldn't go after him directly. Not yet. He was too powerful, too well-protected. I needed to start small. Take out his men, disrupt his operations. Make him feel the pressure.

And that's why I was here, perched on this rooftop, waiting for the right moment.

I spotted them a few blocks down—a group of five men, moving quickly, their eyes darting around as they spoke in hushed tones. They were dressed in plain clothes, but I knew who they were. Sionis's men. They were too careful, too focused. They were on their way to one of his warehouses, no doubt to move contraband or collect payment.

Perfect.

I waited for them to pass beneath me, my heart pounding in my chest, the adrenaline already starting to kick in. The Mark on my hand pulsed stronger, feeding off my anticipation, my hunger for action. I felt the power building under my skin, coiling like a spring, ready to be released.

I Blinked.

In an instant, I was on the rooftop across the street, moving silently, my boots making no sound on the concrete. The men didn't notice. They were too focused on their destination, too wrapped up in whatever shady business they were conducting.

I followed them from above, using Blink to traverse the gaps between buildings, my movements precise, calculated. Every step I took was measured, every Blink perfectly timed. The world shifted around me with each movement, the rush of power making my pulse quicken, my senses sharpen.

This was it.

This was what I had been waiting for.

The men led me to a warehouse on the outskirts of the city, a rundown building with boarded-up windows and a heavy steel door. I crouched on the rooftop, watching as they entered the warehouse, the door closing behind them with a dull thud.

My heart was pounding now, the adrenaline surging through my veins, but I forced myself to stay calm. This wasn't the time for mistakes. I needed to be smart, to be careful. These men were trained, armed. If I went in recklessly, I'd be dead before I even had a chance to fight.

I Blinked down to the ground, landing silently in the shadows near the side of the building. There was a window above me, cracked and dirty, but it was enough to give me a view of the inside. I peered through the glass, my breath fogging up the pane.

Inside, the men were talking, their voices low, their movements deliberate. They were packing crates—guns, drugs, maybe both. The room was dimly lit, the only light coming from a single hanging bulb that cast long, flickering shadows across the floor.

I counted seven men in total. Five from the group I had followed, and two more who were already inside. They were spread out, their attention focused on the task at hand. None of them were looking my way.

Good.

I blinked up to the roof, my body moving in fluid precision with each step. This was different from my trial runs; the stakes were real now. Every movement was part of a dance between predator and prey, and I was the one in control.

The warehouse had multiple entrances, and I quietly moved toward the back. The shadows wrapped around me as if I belonged to them now. This time, I didn't blink but crept, every step silent. I reached the back door and tested it gently—locked.

I wasn't surprised. Instead, I grinned beneath the mask and pressed my fingers against the lock, blinking inside as if I were phasing through matter.

I appeared in the far corner of the warehouse, hidden behind a stack of crates. The men hadn't noticed anything; they were too busy stacking merchandise.

The sound of cash being counted echoed faintly. I could feel the blood rushing in my veins as I tightened my grip on the pocket knife.

Seven targets.

This wasn't the time for mercy.

I moved in close, staying low, using the crates as cover. The Mark hummed under my skin, the power growing stronger with each step I took, each decision bringing me closer to the point of no return.

The first man didn't even know I was there. He was bent over a crate, his back to me, his attention focused on the task in front of him. I crept up behind him, my movements fluid, silent, and drove the knife into his side, quick and clean. He let out a soft gasp, his body stiffening before crumpling to the ground.

One down.

I Blinked to the other side of the room, moving between the shadows, my heart pounding in my chest as I prepared for the next attack. The men were still unaware, still too focused on their work to notice that one of their own was already dead.

The second man went down just as easily—a quick flick of the knife across his throat, and he collapsed, his blood pooling on the floor beneath him.

Two down.

But the third man noticed. He turned just as I Blinked toward him, his eyes widening in shock as he caught sight of the mask, of the knife glinting in the dim light.

"What the—"

I silenced him before he could finish the sentence, driving the knife into his chest and twisting it. His body jerked once, twice, before going still.

Three down.

The remaining men finally realized something was wrong. One of them shouted, reaching for his gun, but I was already moving, already Blinked to his side before he could even aim.

The knife slid between his ribs, and his gun clattered to the floor.

Four down.

The remaining three were panicking now, their movements frantic as they scrambled for cover, shouting orders at each other, their voices trembling with fear.

I could feel it—the fear. It radiated off them in waves, thick and palpable, like a scent that filled the room. This was what I wanted. This was what I had been waiting for.

I Blinked to the next man, catching him off guard as he fumbled with his weapon. The knife plunged into his throat, and he dropped, gurgling, to the floor.

Five down.

The last two were backed into a corner, their eyes wide with terror as they looked around the room, searching for an escape, for something—anything—that could save them.

But there was nothing.

I Blinked behind them, grabbing the nearest man by the throat and slamming him into the wall. His body went limp, and I let him drop to the ground, lifeless.

Six down.

The last man was trembling, his back pressed against the wall, his eyes wild with fear. He raised his gun, his hands shaking so badly that he could barely aim.

"Please," he stammered, his voice cracking. "Please, don't—"

I didn't give him a chance to finish. The knife found its mark, and he crumpled to the ground, the life draining from his eyes.

Seven down.

I stood in the center of the warehouse, the silence heavy around me, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire I had started. The crates were burning now, the flames licking up the sides, consuming the evidence of Sionis's operation.

The smell of smoke filled the air, thick and acrid, mixing with the stench of blood and death.

I watched the fire for a moment, my heart still pounding, my body still buzzing with the adrenaline of the fight. The sirens were distant but growing louder, the wail of the fire trucks echoing through the streets.

I turned, slipping out of the warehouse and into the night, my movements swift and silent. The streets were empty, the shadows deep, and I vanished into them like a ghost, the Mark on my hand pulsing with satisfaction.

This was just the beginning.

They would come to fear my name.