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Noah slept deeper than he expected.
It wasn't the comfortable kind of sleep—no warm blankets or familiar sounds—but the kind that came after fear finally loosened its grip. When he woke up, it took him a second to remember where he was. The ceiling was stained with old water marks. The air smelled faintly of detergent and dust. A cheap motel. Gotham City.
Right.Different world. DC world.
His heart kicked once, fast, then slowed.
He sat up slowly and rubbed his face. No alarms. No sirens. No masked vigilante crashing through the window. Just morning light pushing through thin curtains like it had every right to be here.
"Still alive," Noah muttered.
That felt like a win.
After a quick shower that alternated between lukewarm and cold like it was personally offended by him, Noah checked his wallet again. Sixty-nine dollars. Still sixty-nine dollars. He snorted quietly.
"Immortal cosmic traveler," he said under his breath. "Budget: fast food."
The motel had a small cafeteria attached to it—more like a converted room with plastic tables and a bored-looking cashier scrolling through her phone. Noah stood in line for all of thirty seconds before ordering the cheapest thing on the board.
Scrambled eggs.One cup of coffee.
Ten dollars.
He carried the tray carefully, as if it might vanish if he didn't respect it enough, and sat by the window. The eggs were bland, slightly rubbery, but warm. The coffee was bitter and weak, but it was coffee.
He ate slowly.
With every bite, the reality of things settled in again—not crashing this time, just pressing down.
He was in Gotham.
Not the fun comic-book version either. The air outside the window looked gray even in daylight. People walking past didn't smile much. Everyone moved with purpose, eyes forward, shoulders tight.
This wasn't a place you messed around in.
Noah stirred his eggs with a plastic fork, thinking.
Money. That was the immediate problem. Sixty-nine dollars minus motel costs minus food didn't stretch far. He could survive a few days, maybe a week if he pushed it. After that?
He didn't want to steal.
Not yet.
And he definitely didn't want to draw attention. Destroying that mech had already been a mistake—an accident born from panic and adrenaline. If Batman was already investigating, that meant eyes. Cameras. Patterns.
"I don't even know what I can do," Noah whispered.
After finishing his food, he tossed the tray and stepped outside. The air was cool, heavy with the smell of concrete and something metallic he couldn't place. Gotham felt like it was always waiting for something bad to happen—and usually getting what it wanted.
He walked.
No destination. Just moving.
Eventually, he found himself in Gotham Park. It wasn't pretty, but it was green. Trees lined cracked paths. Benches were scattered beneath them, some occupied, some empty. Couples passed by, talking quietly. An old man fed birds from a paper bag. A woman jogged past with earbuds in, eyes sharp even as she ran.
Noah sat on an empty bench.
He leaned back, resting his arms along the worn wood, and stared at the sky through the branches. Clouds drifted slowly, indifferent to everything below.
For the first time since arriving, he felt… still.
"I don't want to hide forever," he said softly. "But I can't just… jump in either."
He had no training. No combat experience. No idea how strong he really was. One bad move and he'd be dead—or worse, locked in some underground cell being studied.
Hiding didn't mean running away. It meant preparing.
A breeze brushed past him, rustling leaves. For a moment, Noah almost felt like he could reach out and change the way it moved—just a little. The thought startled him enough that he dropped his hand back to his lap.
"…Yeah. Not doing that here."
He closed his eyes and focused inward, like he'd done the night before in the motel. The presence was still there. That quiet awareness at the back of his mind. Not a voice exactly—but close enough.
Hey, he thought. You there?
There was a pause. Not silence—more like something turning its attention toward him.
[Acknowledged.]
He exhaled slowly. "Okay. Good. Not insane."
He kept his eyes closed, speaking internally now.
I need to know what I can do. What powers I actually have.
Another pause.
[Primary Ability: Minor Reality Manipulation.][Scope: Localized. Low-scale. Intent-based.]
Noah frowned. Define "minor."
[Minor: Unable to overwrite established cosmic constants.][Able to influence probability, material arrangement, and situational outcomes within personal vicinity.]
"…That's still vague," he muttered.
[Clarification: You may alter outcomes that are plausible but unlikely.][You may rearrange existing matter into logically achievable configurations.][You may not create from nothing.]
That caught his attention.
So… I can't just spawn money.
[Correct.]
But I could… He hesitated. Make things line up. Get lucky.
[Yes.]
Noah opened his eyes and stared at the path ahead of him. A man dropped his phone a few steps away. It bounced once, didn't crack.
Luck.
His chest tightened—not with fear this time, but with something sharper.
"Okay," Noah whispered. "Okay… that's something."
He wasn't powerless. He just wasn't invincible.
He could find a cheap apartment. Not by snapping his fingers, but by nudging things—landlords with vacancies, prices just low enough, paperwork going smoothly. He could find work. Temporary jobs. Under-the-table stuff. Nothing flashy.
He could survive.
For now.
Noah leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching people pass by. Everyone had somewhere to be. Someone waiting. A routine.
He wondered how long it would take before Gotham noticed him.
Before Batman connected dots.
Before this city decided whether he was another problem… or something worse.
A faint smile tugged at his lips despite himself.
"Man," he said quietly, "my life was boring yesterday."
The wind shifted again, leaves fluttering like laughter he couldn't quite hear.
---
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