I've lived in Gotham my entire life. Sixteen years of smoke, shadows, and sirens. I've never stepped outside the city limits, not once. Sometimes I think about what it'd be like to breathe air that doesn't taste like ash or hear something other than gunshots and distant screams when I fall asleep. I dream about it. Quiet nights. Real stars.
But deep down, I know even if I left, I'd come back. Gotham has a way of keeping hold of its broken pieces. I should know, I've been one ever since the fire.
These streets are awful. Crawling with crime, sleaze, and rot. They chew people up and spit out what's left, and half the time, that's the lucky outcome. But still… they're my streets. Call me dumb if it helps you sleep at night, but I'm a Gothamite. That means something. I don't know what exactly, but it does.
I sit in the backseat of a long, black car watching the skyline roll by, tall buildings hunched together like they're conspiring. The orphanage fades into the rearview, a crumbling red-brick box I spent less than a week inside. That was more than enough. I don't carry any fond memories of the place, just the heavy silence and the smell of mildew and wet concrete.
Mostly, it reminded me of what I lost. Of the flames. Of the screaming. Of a mother and father who no longer exist in this world. Sometimes I still hear them when I close my eyes.
I shake my head, dragging myself back to the present. Up front, driving in silence, is a tall, broad-shouldered guy in a black suit and matching fedora. He looks like he belongs in an old gangster film, the kind that gets colorized for re-release. His name is Thomas. Tommy, as he insists.
Uncle Tommy.
He hasn't said much since picking me up. Just asked if I was alright, and then nothing but engine noise and passing streets. I keep sneaking glances at him in the rearview, trying to get a read on the guy. I know I have an Uncle Thomas, Dad used to mention his little brother now and then, but never fondly. Always with a wrinkle in his nose or a shake of his head, like just the name tasted bitter.
The weird part? I've never seen a picture of the man. Never met him. For all I know, this guy could be a complete stranger.
Which would sound crazy anywhere else. Who pretends to be your uncle just to adopt you? But this is Gotham. Home of masks and madness. You can't be too careful.
So yeah, I'm ready to bolt the second something feels wrong.
We pull up to a narrow brick building in Little Italy. It's tucked between a pawn shop and a corner bodega, with a faded sign that reads Luigi's Pizza in red-and-green neon. Real subtle. Kinda milking the whole Italian thing, huh?
Still… something about the place tugs at a memory.
"Wait," I murmur. "Dad… he used to bring pizza home from here."
He never took me along. Never explained where it came from. Just walked through the front door smelling like wood-fired crust and garlic, muttering something about how this was the only place worth getting a slice. I guess now I know why.
Tommy cuts the engine and steps out. He's tall, real tall, and walks with a kind of weight that makes the sidewalk seem unsure. He rounds the car and opens my door for me.
I step out and crane my neck up at him. At 6'2", he's got me beat by a few inches, and up close, it feels like a lot more. He offers a sad smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes and shuts the door behind me.
"Welcome home, kiddo," he says quietly. "I used to dream about this. Maybe you'd come down for Christmas or Thanksgiving. I'd introduce you to the family, show you the ropes in the business. But your old man, he…" His voice fades, and the smile disappears. "Never mind. Come on in. I know you're tired, but there's a lot we need to talk about."
I hesitate. My legs want to follow him, but my brain's already drawing escape routes. Why didn't Dad ever introduce me to his own brother? If Tommy was alive this whole time, where was he? Why now?
Still, I follow. Curiosity wins.
Inside, Luigi's is… normal. Disappointingly so. A couple of red-checkered tables, a silent TV mounted in the corner, and a faded aroma of oregano that clings to the air like old smoke. There's no music, no customers, and no staff.
Tommy locks the door behind us.
Click.
I freeze. My eyes shoot to the entrance. The only exit. Locked. My fingers curl slightly at my sides, blood pumping just a little faster now.
I scan the place without turning my head too much. The counter's clean, a little too clean. There's a camera above the soda machine that swivels slightly, following movement. No pizza smells. No warmth from an oven.
"Relax," Tommy says without turning around. "You're not wrong to be on edge. Good instincts. I'm not a man most people should trust. But you?" He finally turns, eyes sharp. "You're family. I'd slit my own throat before I hurt you. That's a promise."
I want to believe him. Maybe I even do. But I still don't let my guard down.
"Now," he says, a grin spreading slightly, this one real, but dangerous. "Come on, everyone's been waiting to meet you."
"…Everyone?" I echo, glancing around the empty dining room.
Tommy smirks, stepping toward the back wall. He taps a panel under a faded poster of a 1950s Italian landscape. With a soft click, part of the wall slides open, revealing a dim hallway behind it.
I blink. Okay… not so normal after all.
As Tommy disappears inside, I hesitate at the threshold. The hallway smells different. Cleaner. Colder. The faint scent of cologne, gun oil, and something I can't place.
I take a deep breath and follow him into the shadows.