I woke to a dull, distant thump. Not the kind that says someone dropped something, but the kind that carries through concrete, air, and your bones all at once. For a moment, I was disoriented — foreign ceiling, unfamiliar sheets, the taste of last night's cheap burrito still lingering on my tongue.
Right. Gotham. Day two.
I pushed myself upright, groaning as the stiffness from yesterday's travel made itself known in my shoulders. The apartment was still mostly dark, blinds cracked just enough to let in a sliver of ash-grey light. The kind of light that told you the sun was up, but not particularly interested in trying.
The old radiator in the corner was rattling in protest, barely doing anything to beat back the early morning chill. I wrapped myself in a hoodie that still smelled faintly like laundry detergent and something older—maybe the drawer it'd been stored in for months before I got here.
My phone buzzed on the charger. I picked it up and blinked through the notifications.
7:42 AM No new messages. A couple of emails, mostly university admin stuff. And three news alerts.
I squinted at the headlines.
BREAKING: Arkham Asylum Reports Overnight Breakout. Multiple Inmates Escaped Custody."Sources confirm at least six escapees, including one unidentified 'meta-class' individual. The GCPD urges all citizens to remain vigilant and avoid the Amusement Mile area…"
Arkham. Great.
I tapped the screen off and leaned back, rubbing a hand over my face.
Of course, Gotham would wait until after I got settled to turn up the chaos.
After a quick shower to wash the grime off me, I dressed in something plain: black jeans, boots, and layered a long-sleeved shirt under a jacket. Something comfortable, functional, forgettable. Hair towel-dried, slightly tousled — which, honestly, worked better for me expected better than trying to style it. The red undertones still caught the light when I turned my head.
A final glance in the mirror. Green eyes, sharp canines just barely noticeable when I didn't smile. Not that I should be smiling in Gotham if there's anything I knew from reading about this place back before, it was that I didn't want to be a target.
--
Outside, the city already sounded anxious. Sirens echoed off the buildings in waves, not frantic yet, but close. The sidewalk buzzed with early commuters, a little faster-paced than yesterday. Eyes darted. Conversations were hushed. Every few steps, I caught the same headline flashing from phone screens and newspapers.
The walk to the university was a blend of old architecture and modern decay. Brick walls covered in layers of graffiti, scaffolding that looked permanent, and corner stores that advertised both textbooks and prepaid burner phones. It felt like a place built on contradictions — history and entropy shaking hands in every alley.
Gotham University finally emerged ahead of me. The front gates were wrought iron, spiked and heavy, more ceremonial than practical. Beyond them, the campus sprawled in a controlled chaos of old buildings, rusted plaques, and ivy-stained walls. The main quad was dotted with students, all trying their best to look nonchalant in a city that was anything but.
I crossed the quad toward the administration building — a square, ugly block of stone with peeling white columns that gave the illusion of grandeur. Inside, it smelled like cold coffee and too much printer toner. A bored security guard waved me through after I showed my student ID — laminated and still too new to feel real.
The admissions office was on the second floor, past a vending machine that looked older than I was and a hallway lined with bulletin boards advertising everything from occult studies book clubs to "Gotham Paranormal Film Night." A folded paper poster with a bat drawn on it read: "Are You Being Watched? Come Talk About It."
Comforting.
I pushed open the door to the admissions office and stepped inside. Warm fluorescent lighting buzzed overhead. There was a counter separating the waiting area from rows of desks in the back, where staff were typing furiously or talking on headsets like they were running PR for a disaster zone. Which, considering the city, might've been true.
Behind the counter, a woman in her mid-30s with rectangular glasses and a deeply caffeinated aura looked up from her computer. Her nametag read "T. Moreno – Admissions Officer."
"Erm, hello, I need to check in for orientation and my schedule for the autumn term."
"You must be Caspian Echo?" she asked without needing confirmation.
"That obvious?" I offered with a crooked grimace.
She gave me a flat look — not unkind, but definitely exhausted. "You're the only transfer student from overseas who hasn't checked in yet, and the accent is a giveaway. Welcome to Gotham."
"Ah, I was born here, my parents sent me away for school," I mumbled in correction.
"Well then, welcome back to Gotham." She glanced back down at her computer. "Should have stayed away while you could," she muttered under her breath.
"Thanks. Hope the place doesn't eat me alive."
"That depends on how well you read the fine print." She handed me a clipboard with a couple of forms. "Fill those out, sign at the bottom. We already have your transcripts and proof of finances on file. You'll need to get your student ID activated before classes start next Monday, but other than that… you're all set."
"Easy enough," I said, glancing down at the paperwork. One page was a liability waiver.
She leaned forward slightly. "One more thing. If you hear alarms on campus, shelter in place. Don't run. Don't play hero. We have protocols."
"Alarms?"
"This is Gotham, it's a necessity," she said with a raised brow. "You'll get used to it. They only work half the time anyway."
I gave her a nod, took the clipboard to one of the chairs along the wall, and started filling out the forms with a borrowed pen. As I scribbled in my address and emergency contact — still blank for now — I could feel her watching me. Not suspicious, exactly. Just… assessing.
When I finished, I handed it back.
"Great," she said. "You're officially part of the insanity. Welcome to Gotham University, Your class group are meeting in 30 minutes in the quad near building B to show you emergency exits, the library, study rooms and of course, where your main classes are held."
I stepped back out onto the quad. The wind had picked up, cold and dry. In the distance, I could see a pair of police drones buzzing low over the rooftops. Their blinking lights looked almost festive if you didn't know what they were for.
The campus still buzzed with a kind of normalcy, but beneath it, everything felt just a little too tense.
It was my second morning here. And now I was going to have to interact with people, if I didnt automatically want to get labeled as the new nutcase.
sighed and glanced at the time on my phone, still a good twenty-five minutes to kill before I had to pretend I wasn't allergic to small talk. I wandered across the quad slowly, tracing a path through worn footpaths and fallen leaves, keeping my head down as much as I could without looking too antisocial.
A few students had already gathered near Building B, mostly first-years, by the look of them. Clutching tote bags with worn shoulder straps, awkwardly adjusting hoodies or jackets that didn't quite fit the season, yet. They formed loose cliques without even realising it. Some stood alone, scrolling their phones with practised intensity. I recognised that look, please don't talk to me, written across their faces.
Same.
I hovered near the edge of the group, just enough to be included without inviting conversation. From here, I had a good view of the surrounding buildings: faded bricks, oxidised signage, and windows that reflected the grey sky like a bad omen. Gotham U had charm, sure — but it was buried beneath a layer of old ghosts and newer disappointments.
Eventually, someone in a navy windbreaker with the university logo on it stepped in front of the group and clapped their hands.
"Alright, folks! Welcome to Gotham University Orientation. My name's Mika, they/them, third-year psych major, and I'll be your glorified campus tour guide-slash-emergency warden for today."
A few people chuckled. Most didn't.
Mika didn't seem bothered. "We're gonna keep this short and practical, because I know most of you don't want to be here. And if you've lived in Gotham longer than a month, you already know half of this. But in case you haven't—" they pointed to the nearest emergency call post, a metal pole with a flickering blue light. "—these are panic beacons. If something goes sideways and you can't get inside, hit one. Campus security'll either show up or send a drone. I give it a 60% success rate. Maybe 70 if you're lucky."
I wasn't sure whether to laugh or be worried.
The tour moved through the basics — library hours, cafeteria that probably wouldn't give you food poisoning, study rooms you had to book six months in advance if you actually wanted to use them. Mika kept things light but didn't sugar-coat. There were off-hand remarks about muggings near South Hall, graffiti that mysteriously reappeared no matter how often it was scrubbed, and a faculty member who went "missing" last semester but allegedly "just transferred."
Gotham normal.
When we finally stopped near the arts building, Mika turned to the group again. "And this is Building B. For most of you — history, philosophy, literature, psych — this'll be your academic hell for the next few years."
I scanned the crowd, catching snippets of nervous chatter. People are pairing off. Laughing too hard. Someone is already offering to start a group chat. I made sure to add my number to the list getting added.
"And hey," Mika added, as if reading the group's nerves. "It's okay if you're not making friends on day one. Most people don't. Just don't be a dick, don't get caught tagging the old chapel, and if you see a guy with a burlap mask handing out pamphlets, walk the other direction."
The group laughed. Nervously.
Mika smiled. "That's it for the tour. If you've got questions or need help finding your department head, I'll be sticking around for a bit. Otherwise — welcome to Gotham U. And good luck."
As the crowd started to dissolve into scattered conversations and half-hearted friend-making rituals,
I turned to make my escape — just a clean break, no eye contact, no awkward pause that could turn into small talk.
"Hey—wait up!"
Damn it.
I glanced over my shoulder. A guy, maybe a year older than me, jogged up. Wiry frame, faded hoodie under a denim jacket covered in band patches. Messy hair, but intentional. He had that kind of Gotham energy — part grunge, part side-eye.
"You were on the tour, right?" he said, catching up. "I saw you hanging back. You new too?"
I nodded slowly. "Yeah. Just got in yesterday."
He grinned like I'd said something funny. "Welcome to the circus. I'm Felix. Lit major. Technically second year, but I took a break last semester — long story."
I didn't ask for the story.
"Caspian," I said instead, out of politeness or instinct. "First year here, but I did 2 years of Uni in the UK."
Felix gave a half-nod, half-tilt of the head like he was filing the name away for later. "Cool, cool. Just figured I'd say something. People either vanish here or try way too hard to be your best friend on day one. You've got that middle-ground energy."
"I was aiming for forgettable, but thanks."
He snorted. "Trust me, forgettable's a survival tactic around here. Smart."
There was a pause — not awkward, exactly, but hanging on the edge of it.
"You headed back to the dorms?" he asked. "Or off-campus?"
"Off," I said. "Inherited a place in the city."
Felix let out a low whistle. "Damn. Lucky. I'm stuck in Blackstone Hall — plumbing screams at night, and I'm pretty sure one of my suitemates is slowly building a sword collection."
"That feels… very not at all a safety risk."
"Oh, it is. If I disappear, tell my mom I got out clean."
He grinned again, but there was an edge to it this time. Everyone here wore their humour like armour. I respected that.
"Anyway," he said, starting to back off, "just figured I'd say hey. Orientation groups tend to scatter fast, and half of 'em never talk again. If you're ever stuck on campus and need someone who knows which vending machines don't eat your money, hit me up."
He flicked a card out from his pocket — Weird art and a book quote on one side, messy scrawl of a Discord tag on the back.
"Thanks," I said, taking it.
"No problem. Stay weird, Caspian."
And with that, he turned and disappeared into the thinning crowd.
I slipped the card into my jacket and started back toward the city.
Weird. I could handle weird. The rest… I was still figuring it out. The knowledge that some form of discord or a similar app was here, though, was mildly comforting; everything wasn't completely different.
I was just stepping off campus grounds, cutting down the side path toward the convenience store across the street, when someone nearly slammed into me from the other direction.
I stumbled back a step. "Dude—"
"Whoa! Sorry, man," the guy said, catching his coffee before it could tip. He had one hand full with a plastic cup from Brew'd Awakening and the other loosely gripping a skateboard, which he now pulled up under one arm with a practised move.
He was shorter than me, wiry, black hoodie half-zipped over a red Gotham Knights tee, dark hair a little messy like he'd rolled out of bed and styled it with wishful thinking. His expression was wide-eyed but easygoing, somewhere between boy genius and too-tired-to-care. About eighteen, maybe nineteen tops.
I adjusted my bag, giving him a quick once-over. "You alright?"
"Yeah, yeah," he said, blowing at the lip of his coffee like it had personally offended him. "Just late. Again. Which is ironic because I built an app to stop that from happening. And yet, here we are."
I huffed out a laugh despite myself. "Welcome to Gotham."
"Thanks. Been here my whole life. Still can't get a cup of coffee without dodging someone's bad day." He gave me a grin and tilted his head. "You're new, right? Saw you around the quad earlier."
"Yeah. Caspian."
He shifted his skateboard under his arm and held out his free hand. "Tim."
We shook. His grip was quick but solid, not trying to prove anything. I recognised the name a beat later. Tim Drake.
Wait— Tim Drake.
The gears in my head spun a little too fast. I tried not to stare. Tried not to look at the subtle bruising just under his jawline, the faint scuff on the knuckle of his left hand, the skateboard that looked more like a decoy than a real hobby, the tired eyes that had definitely seen more than computer screens.
Red Robin.
I almost dropped my phone.
"Oh," I said, too casually, like my brain hadn't just slammed a thousand comic panels into the front of my skull. "Right. Tim. Cool. Nice to meet you."
He cocked a brow but didn't say anything. Just sipped his coffee again, watching me over the rim. I forced myself to keep moving, stepping back onto the sidewalk like I wasn't internally spiralling.
He kept pace for a second.
"You good?"
"Yeah. Totally." I coughed, waved a hand. "Just—y'know. Long day. Weird weather."
"That's Gotham," he said with a wry smile. "Three things you can count on: bad coffee, weird weather, and worse nights."
I laughed, a little too loudly, then immediately regretted it. My heart was still thudding against my ribs like it wanted out. I was having a conversation with someone who probably fought the Riddler on a Tuesday and cracked corporate encryption over breakfast.
I stole another glance at him. His hoodie was standard, but under it… Maybe body armour? His shoes looked worn but reinforced. His whole casual skater-guy vibe was just off enough to feel staged if you knew what to look for.
And now I did.
¬_¬ Tim ¬_¬
I didn't mean to nearly run the guy over, but in my defence, I hadn't slept much and the coffee hadn't kicked in yet.
The dude I bumped into — Caspian — was taller, kind of scruffy in a moody art-school way. Hoodie, black jeans, beat-up sneakers. Looked like he'd either just moved in or had been up all night fighting with a printer. Classic new student energy.
We did the usual awkward shuffle, he asked if I was alright, and I did my best to sound casual instead of caffeine-deprived. He laughed, which earned him points. Most people in Gotham were too stressed to laugh at anything.
Then he looked at me.
Like, looked at me.
A little longer than usual, eyes flicking from my shirt to my shoes, up to my face. Not weird exactly. Just noticeable.
I gave him a sideways smile, sipping my coffee like I hadn't just noticed him scanning me top to bottom. He was trying to be subtle about it, too, which was sort of charming in its own way.
He told me his name — Caspian — and I offered mine. He shook my hand like someone who actually paid attention to handshakes. Strong grip, no ego. Huh.
When I pulled my board under my arm, I caught him still looking.
Not uncomfortable. Just… curious.
I'd been clocked before — not that kind of clocked — but, well. Yeah, maybe that too. Wouldn't be the first time someone clocked me in both ways and didn't know what to do with it. I was wondering if this guy had realised I was Tim Drake, or If he was just checking me out like he somehow knew I was bi
I kept it cool, didn't say anything. Let the silence linger just long enough before giving him a parting nod.
"Catch you around, Caspian," I said, stepping past him toward the crosswalk.
As I rolled off down the street, I resisted the urge to glance back.
Was he just curious about the guy with the coffee and skateboard?
Or was that something else?
Wayne Enterprises had the kind of security that made airport checkpoints look like lemonade stands. But once I was in the building and waved past the front desk — coffee still warm, skateboard tucked under my arm — I made a straight line to one of the less conspicuous server terminals on the 27th floor.
Technically, I was here for a logistics meeting.
Unofficially? I had some free time and a curious itch.
Who the hell is Caspian?
I didn't recognise the name. And I know most people on campus, at least by face or file. Caspian had that new-to-Gotham energy, and something else under the surface. Not suspicious, exactly. Just... out of sync. Like he was figuring out how to be a person in real time.
Or trying to hide something.
I slid into a side office, locked the door behind me, and pulled up a secure terminal. I could've used the Batcave systems, sure, but I didn't want to light up the bigger flags until I had something worth flagging.
Wayne's server access was enough to poke around publicly available records, plus a few extras most people didn't realise were public.
First: birth records. Caspian Ambrose Echo. Born in Gotham's Mercy Hospital. No siblings. Parents: deceased. The estate was handed off through an obscure legal trust. That explained the off-grid vibe.
Then I ran his name through school enrollment records. Two years at a small private prep school. Boarding School in England for a while. A few semesters at a University in England, then nothing. Until now.
No red flags, no warrants, no juvenile records. Just… gaps.
Big ones.
Too clean, in that way, people with weird pasts or sealed files tend to look.
I leaned back in the chair, fingers drumming the desk.
He hadn't asked weird questions, hadn't done anything shady. But that vibe was sticking with me — like he knew more than he let on. Like, he recognised me and was playing dumb. But he hadn't flinched, hadn't blurted "Tim Drake!" or stared too long.
Just... looked at me.
Measured me.
That kind of stare doesn't come from a freshman hoping to pass his psych class. That's someone who's seen things. Maybe been in things.
I brought up his name on the GCPD index.
No hits. No aliases.
But someone had run a background check on him three weeks ago. A big one — pulled by a private firm with connections to federal systems. Shielded request, so I couldn't trace who asked for it. Probably not a coincidence that he showed up in Gotham shortly after.
"Alright, Caspian," I murmured to myself. "What are you doing here?"
I glanced at the clock. Meeting in fifteen.
I logged out of the terminal and grabbed my coffee, already thinking about how I could casually bump into him again.
I grabbed my skateboard and slipped out of the office, pretending to be all business as I headed toward the meeting room. But honestly? My mind was still orbiting Caspian Echo.
I wasn't sure if he was just sizing me up or if there was something else behind those eyes, like he was trying to figure out who I really was without tipping his hand.
That made me nervous in a way that rarely happened. Usually, I was the one doing the watching, the digging, the figuring out. This time, I felt like the subject.
There was something about him that didn't quite fit the usual "new kid trying to survive Gotham U" mould. And the sealed files, the gaps in his history—they screamed "story behind the story."
But for now, I pushed it aside. I had a meeting to pretend to pay attention to, a day to navigate.
Still, as I rolled out into the city streets, I kept one eye peeled for Caspian. Because Gotham was a small town when you knew where to look.
And I wasn't about to let this mystery walk away.