Location: Gotham
POV: A weary man, around 30, wandering the rain-soaked streets at night
The city breathes with its own rhythm—the sharp pulse of neon signs, the distant wail of sirens, the muted footsteps of lost souls treading familiar paths. Gotham never sleeps, yet tonight, it feels abandoned, as if even the shadows are reluctant to keep him company.
Water pools beneath his boots, soaking through worn leather as he walks without direction. He doesn't know why he keeps moving. Maybe it's the hope that the cold might numb the weight pressing against his ribs, the heaviness of choices made and roads lost. Maybe it's just instinct—the same stubbornness that has kept him afloat all these years, even as everything else crumbled.
He hasn't spoken to anyone in hours. Or maybe days. Time feels irrelevant when you have nowhere to be.
Then, his gaze lifts—through the curtain of falling rain, something catches his eye.
A sign.
Bright against the night, yet oddly understated. Gold lettering that gleams under the flickering streetlamp:
"THE ENDLESS – All You Can Eat – Serving Since The Creation."
It wasn't here before. He's sure of it. He's walked these streets too many times. And yet, now it is.
There's warmth spilling from within, golden and inviting, cutting through the chill that has settled into his bones. The restaurant itself is a quiet anomaly—its exterior is simple, yet elegant, nestled between two aging brick buildings. Its translucent windows glow softly, revealing a cozy diner-style interior. The kind that feels timeless, like it belongs to every era at once.
Through the window, polished booths curve gently beneath warm overhead lighting, casting golden pools onto dark wooden floors. The counter gleams, lined with sturdy stools that have seen a thousand conversations. The scent of something rich and familiar lingers in the air—comforting, nostalgic, the kind of meal you only get once in a lifetime.
A quiet corner of Gotham that shouldn't exist, but does. And for some reason, he can't resist stepping inside.
The moment he steps through the door, the rain disappears—cut off as if the world outside never existed. The quiet hum of the city fades, replaced by something warmer. Something… safe.
A soft jingle echoes in the still air.
It's a sound so simple, so ordinary—a gentle chime as the door swings open—but in that moment, it feels like a whisper of welcome, an unseen force acknowledging his arrival.
The restaurant is unlike anything he's ever seen, yet it feels oddly familiar, like a distant memory he can't quite place. The air carries the rich aroma of slow-cooked meals, the kind crafted with care rather than haste. It smells like home. But whose home, he doesn't know.
The diner-style setting is simple, yet timeless—curved booths lining the walls, sturdy stools at the counter, the polished surface gleaming under soft golden light. The translucent windows shimmer faintly, their glow neither harsh nor dim, as though adjusting to whatever the moment requires.
It isn't bustling, yet it isn't empty either. It simply exists.
There's no menu in sight, no waiters moving about—just the quiet hum of existence, waiting. The counter stretches before him, inviting, and for the first time in days—maybe longer—he feels the pull of something other than exhaustion.
He swallows hard. The weight in his chest hasn't lifted, but here, it feels manageable. Contained. He doesn't know why, but something in him whispers that he won't leave this place the same.
His gaze moves beyond the counter.
A figure stands behind it, tending to silverware with deliberate precision. Their posture is calm, composed—neither hurried nor idle. Their presence is tangible, yet distant.
The faint clink of metal against ceramic punctuates the silence.
A subtle movement—a polished knife placed gently into its rightful spot, a fork aligned just so. Every action purposeful, yet strangely effortless, as if time itself bends to the rhythm of their hands.
He doesn't speak.
Instead, he moves forward, sliding onto a stool at the counter. The worn leather creaks beneath his weight, settling into the familiar grooves shaped by countless visitors before him. His fingers graze the countertop absently, tracing invisible patterns against the polished surface.
The silence stretches between them—not uncomfortable, but expectant.
The quiet hum of the restaurant lingered as the man settled into his seat. His hands rested on the countertop, fingers tracing unseen patterns against the polished surface, the weight in his chest slowly shifting—not gone, but somehow contained.
Behind the counter, a rhythmic clink of silverware echoed—deliberate, methodical, yet effortlessly precise. It wasn't hurried, nor was it idle. It was purposeful in a way that most things in Gotham rarely were.
Then, finally, the movement ceased.
"Welcome."
The voice carried warmth—steady, unremarkable yet undeniably soothing. It wasn't grand or imposing, but it resonated in the quiet space, slipping past the rain-slicked exhaustion clinging to the man's bones.
A slight pause. His fingers flexed against the countertop, then curled inward, as though grounding himself against something unseen.
"Rough night?"
The question wasn't invasive. It wasn't prodding. Just an acknowledgment—an invitation to respond, or to say nothing at all.
His jaw tensed slightly, a muscle in his cheek twitching before he gave the smallest nod. Not quite a confirmation, but not a denial either.
A subtle pause followed. A glass was retrieved, filled with water, then set before him without fanfare.
He stared at it for a moment, watching the way condensation gathered against the smooth surface, a single droplet tracing a slow path down its side. He exhaled, fingers hesitating before wrapping around it—not drinking, just holding.
"Weather's unforgiving tonight," the voice mused, glancing toward the translucent windows where raindrops shimmered like scattered diamonds. "Always a bit harsher in Gotham—like the city wants to remind people it doesn't bend easily."
The man huffed softly—just a breath, barely audible, but carrying the faintest trace of agreement. He lifted the glass slightly, letting the cool surface rest against his palm before taking a small sip.
Only then did he truly look at the one standing before him.
The figure's presence was undeniable—poised, yet effortless, as if gravity itself responded in kind. Long silver hair cascaded down their back, tied loosely yet never unkempt, flowing like strands of moonlight. A well-fitted vest over a dark long-sleeved shirt, tailored trousers, polished boots—modern, yet timeless, fitting into Gotham's gritty backdrop while remaining subtly out of place.
But it was the round sunglasses that caught his attention.
Something about them felt deliberate—not just an accessory, but a barrier. A veil between perception and truth.
For the briefest moment, as they tilted their head slightly, dim light caught beneath the lenses—revealing a glimpse of something impossible.
A shifting tapestry of cosmic hues, intricate and endless, like galaxies woven into their irises. Eyes that did not merely see, but understood.
[image]
He stiffened, fingers tightening momentarily around the glass.
"Anything I can get you?" they asked, tone casual, as if this moment had already been set into motion long before he stepped through the door. "If you don't know what to order, I can recommend something—something warm, something familiar."
Their gaze—hidden yet knowing—felt steady. There was no expectation, no pressure. Just patience. Just quiet understanding.
The man shifted, his eyes flickering down to the countertop. A pause. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, then, slowly, he exhaled.
"Something simple," he murmured, voice rough from disuse. "Something that sits easy."
A fleeting silence followed, and then—just the faintest trace of a smile.
"I think I have just the thing," they replied, turning toward the kitchen.
The faint click of the stove being lit broke the quiet, followed by the soft sizzle of ingredients meeting heat. The air shifted, filling with warmth—notes of butter, a trace of garlic, something nostalgic yet indefinable.
He watched without meaning to, gaze flickering to the steady movements behind the counter. Precise, effortless, familiar—not rushed, not hesitant, as if each action had already been decided long before the meal was even chosen.
"You're in luck," they remarked, stirring gently. "This is an old favorite—simple, hearty. Nothing fancy, just something that settles right."
Their voice carried a quiet familiarity, though something in their expression—just for a moment—seemed distant, as if they were elsewhere.
Perhaps remembering.
The aroma grew richer as steam curled upward, filling the space with something warm, something ancient in its simplicity.
"Had a different name once," they murmured, almost absentmindedly. "Before diners, before taverns… before cities like this ever existed. There was always a version of it. Something warm served by firelight, passed between weary hands. The ingredients shift with time, but the intent stays the same."
The man inhaled slowly, letting the scent curl into his senses.
"Yeah," he muttered. "That… sounds good."
Silence lingered between them, not awkward, not heavy—just present.
"You from Gotham?"
A shake of the head.
"Was." A pause. "Been drifting lately."
"Drifting's not always bad. Sometimes you need distance before things make sense."
The man gave the faintest scoff—short, dry. "If that were true, I'd have figured something out by now."
A quiet flicker of movement—ingredients shifted, steam curling softly from the pan.
"What were you trying to figure out?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, his fingers traced absent circles on the countertop, gaze unfocused.
"I don't know."
It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth either.
"College?"
The breath he let out was just short of a laugh—brief, almost bitter.
"Yeah. Tried. Dropped out."
"Didn't like the field?"
Another pause. A slow exhale.
"Didn't pick it." He rolled his shoulders slightly, the weight creeping back in. "It was just… what everyone else was doing. Business, economics, law—one of those things you choose when you don't have anything else in mind."
"And you didn't have a goal then?"
A slow shake of the head.
"Didn't think it mattered." His fingers tightened slightly, just for a moment. "Figured, if I followed the safe road, something would click along the way. Guess it never did."
The faint clatter of a spatula meeting ceramic. A plate set down gently before him—the kind of meal made with intention, rather than routine.
For just a second, the one behind the counter lingered. Their fingers brushed the edge of the plate—silent, reflective.
"Always a favorite," they mused, almost to themselves.
The man stared at the dish, warmth curling against his skin, the simple familiarity grounding him more than he expected.
"And now?"
He swallowed. Now?
That was the real question, wasn't it?
The warmth of the meal lingered between them, steam curling softly in the dim light. The man let his fingers hover over the plate, feeling the quiet radiance against his skin before picking up the fork.
He wasn't hungry. Not really.
But something about the way it had been prepared—the unspoken care behind it—made eating feel less like a necessity and more like an anchor.
He took a slow bite, chewing absently, gaze drifting toward the translucent window where streaks of rain painted restless patterns against the glass.
"Ever hear that thing people say?" he murmured, barely lifting his gaze. "That life has a way of working itself out?"
Silence stretched, calm, expectant.
"Been waiting on that for a while."
He swallowed, setting the fork down.
"Past was… messy. Not the worst—not tragic—but not good either." A short huff—dry, dismissive. "Guess I thought if I kept moving forward, kept my head down, things would straighten themselves out. Thought I'd find something eventually."
A pause.
"Still waiting."
His fingers tapped idly against the countertop, once, twice, before he exhaled slowly.
"Didn't plan on winding up here. Didn't plan on winding up anywhere, really."
He shifted, finally lifting his gaze toward the one standing before him. The sunglasses reflected back just enough light to blur their expression, but their presence remained steady—watching, listening, without pressing.
A beat passed.
Then—just slightly—his lips quirked. Not quite a smile, not quite anything at all.
"By the way," the words came slow, deliberate. "I'm Aaron."
A quiet moment lingered after his introduction, the warmth of the meal still rising between them. The figure behind the counter—poised, effortless—gave the faintest nod.
"Elric."
The name settled into the space as if it had always belonged there, neither offered too freely nor withheld. Just stated, as simple and steady as the presence behind it.
Aaron glanced down, tapping a finger absently against the side of his plate before looking back up.
"This place… is this new?" He furrowed his brows slightly. "I've walked this route before, but I don't remember seeing it."
Elric didn't answer immediately. Instead, he wiped his hands with a careful precision, then rested his palms against the counter, leaning forward just slightly—casual, but intentional.
"People miss a lot when they don't take a moment to breathe," he mused, voice carrying no judgment, only observation.
His fingers traced an absent pattern against the polished surface, as if marking the faint outlines of things long past—memories of conversations that had echoed in places like this, in eras before.
"The world moves fast. Expectations pile up. People chase, compete, stretch themselves thin—convincing themselves they'll pause later." A subtle tilt of his head, glasses reflecting the light just enough to obscure his gaze.
"But later rarely comes."
Aaron sat back slightly, gaze flickering toward the door, toward the rain-slicked streets beyond the translucent window.
"So you're saying I just… never noticed it before?"
Elric offered a quiet smile.
"I'm saying most people don't."
Aaron huffed softly, shaking his head before picking up his fork again.
"Yeah, well… suppose that tracks."
And just like that, the conversation settled again—no pressure, no urgency—just an exchange left to linger, the meaning sinking in however it wished.
Aaron let his gaze linger on the plate before him, steam curling in lazy trails, warmth settling into the space around him. The meal had no grand complexity—just something simple, something steady. A meal made with purpose rather than routine.
He shifted slightly, tapping a finger absently against the countertop before glancing up at Elric.
"You ever meet someone who just… knew what they were supposed to do?"
Elric didn't answer right away. Instead, he picked up a cloth, wiping down the counter with quiet precision—not rushed, not idle. Just present, as if the moment needed space to breathe before being filled.
"Some people know early," he finally said, voice even. "Some take time. Others… don't know until they're already walking the path."
Aaron scoffed lightly, shaking his head. "Wish I had that kind of luck."
Elric set the cloth aside, resting his palms against the counter, tilting his head slightly.
"Abraham Lincoln didn't know either."
Aaron blinked. "Lincoln? That Lincoln?"
Elric gave a faint nod. "Before the speeches, before the presidency, before history cemented his name—he was just a man who didn't have a plan."
Aaron frowned slightly, skeptical but intrigued.
"Failed in business. Went bankrupt. Lost elections. Tried different jobs—store clerk, postmaster, surveyor. None of them fit. Even went into law—not because it was his passion, but because it was practical." Elric's tone held no dramatization, just quiet reflection.
"But life didn't hand him direction. Experience did. The failures. The uncertainty. The moments where he was convinced he had nothing left to offer."
Aaron sat back slightly, fingers trailing against the edge of his plate.
"And then he found it?"
Elric's lips quirked, just slightly.
"Or perhaps, it found him."
Silence settled between them, not heavy, not expectant—just present, the meaning resting there, allowing Aaron to take it in however he wished.
Aaron sat back, the quiet weight of conversation settling between them. Elric didn't press forward—not yet. Instead, his gaze flickered toward the soft steam curling from the meal, the scent drifting gently through the space.
Unnoticed, unseen, a memory surfaced.
A different time. A different place.
The worn wood of an old tavern, candlelight flickering unsteadily against stone walls. The air carried the scent of roasted grain, the faint musk of damp parchment.
And there—at the farthest end of the counter—a man sat, shoulders hunched in quiet thought, a quill rolling absently between his fingers.
"They expect nothing from me," the man had murmured, voice low, roughened by years of restraint.
Elric had simply watched. Listened. Waited.
"Born shackled. Raised a servant. Told to stay in my place." The man exhaled sharply, shaking his head before tapping the quill against the table. "What future does a man have when the world never intended to give him one?"
A pause. A flicker of candlelight catching against knowing eyes.
"The kind you carve yourself."
The man scoffed—but didn't disagree. He ran a hand over the worn pages scattered before him—fragments of words, thoughts, ideals not yet realized, not yet accepted.
"Do you think they'll listen?"
Elric had tilted his head slightly, gaze steady. "They might not now. But in time? A voice carries further than you think."
The man's lips pressed into a thin line, silent for a long moment.
Then—quietly—he picked up the quill.
Ink met paper. Words formed. The first of many.
Ignatius Sancho had written letters that would reshape perceptions. His words—once dismissed, once unheard—had pushed forward a movement beyond what he ever imagined.
Not out of ambition. Out of necessity. Out of defiance.
The memory slipped away, fading like mist into the present.
Elric blinked, gaze refocusing. The restaurant, the dim glow of Gotham's streets beyond—the moment had returned, untouched, unbroken.
And across from him, Aaron sat, staring absently at his plate, lost in his own thoughts.
Elric exhaled slowly, fingers tapping once against the counter.
"Not everyone is Lincoln," he murmured, voice carrying the weight of something long remembered. "Not everyone is Rowling."
Aaron glanced up, brows furrowing slightly at the shift in tone.
"Some carve their future not because they see it, but because they refuse to accept what was given to them."
Elric leaned back, arms resting easily against the counter.
"What do you refuse to accept, Aaron?"
The quiet hum of the restaurant lingered, the warmth of the meal settling into the space between them. Aaron sat back slightly, fingers tracing absent patterns against the countertop, his gaze distant.
Elric watched—not pressing, not expecting—just waiting.
"Do you believe in God?"
The question slipped out before Aaron could stop it, his voice carrying no real weight, just curiosity, maybe even skepticism.
Elric didn't react immediately. Instead, he wiped his hands with quiet precision, setting the cloth aside before resting his palms against the counter.
"Do you?"
Aaron exhaled sharply, shaking his head.
"Does it matter?" His tone was dry, edged with something unspoken, something tired. "God won't help me. I've asked for it for years now."
A pause.
"And?"
Aaron scoffed, shaking his head again.
"Nothing. No signs, no miracles, no answers. Just silence."
Elric tilted his head slightly, gaze steady behind the round lenses.
"Silence doesn't mean absence."
Aaron frowned slightly, but didn't interrupt.
Elric leaned forward, fingers tapping once against the counter.
"There's a verse," he murmured, voice carrying the weight of something long remembered.
"Be ye steadfast in trials of many kind," he murmured, voice carrying something aged, something timeless. "For the proving of thy faith bringeth forth patience, and patience must have her perfect work, that ye may be whole and lacking in naught."
The words settled into the space—gentle yet weighted, like something pulled from a time long passed, meant not to preach but to endure.
Aaron furrowed his brows slightly.
"Old English?"
Elric gave a faint nod, tapping a finger lightly against the counter.
"James 1:2-4. 'Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.'"
Aaron scoffed lightly, shaking his head.
"So what? Struggle is supposed to make me stronger?"
Elric exhaled slowly, shaking his head.
"Struggle is but a forge. Endurance is the shaping."
Aaron sat back, fingers tightening slightly against the countertop.
"And what if I don't want to endure anymore?"
Elric's lips quirked—just slightly, just enough to carry something knowing.
"Then thou wouldst not be here."
Silence settled between them, the meaning resting there—waiting, not demanding—just present, meant to be considered.
The last bite of his meal settled warm against his chest—comforting in a way he hadn't expected. He set his fork down, exhaling slowly, letting the quiet hum of the restaurant soak in.
Elric had already moved.
A soft clink—a cup placed before him, steam curling in delicate swirls, carrying the rich, earthy scent of well-brewed tea.
Aaron blinked. "Didn't ask for this."
Elric offered a faint smile, resting his palms against the counter.
"You needed it."
Aaron huffed lightly, fingers trailing against the side of the cup. Warm. Steady.
"Nice setup you've got here," he muttered, lifting the cup, letting the heat settle against his fingers before taking a slow sip. "Food, wisdom, free tea... Suppose I should ask what the bill is before I get too comfortable."
Elric tilted his head slightly, barely suppressing an amused glance.
"Your first visit is on the house."
Aaron raised a brow. "Yeah?"
Elric nodded once.
"Every customer's first time is free."
A beat passed. Then—lighthearted, dry—Aaron shook his head.
"That's either a short path to bankruptcy or the fastest way to fill every seat in here."
Elric leaned back slightly, tapping a finger gently against the counter.
"And yet, neither have happened."
Aaron exhaled, staring down at the cup, his fingers tightening slightly against the ceramic.
Aaron stared at the tea, fingers resting lightly against the ceramic, warmth pressing against his skin. The quiet hum of The Endless wrapped around him—not loud, not overwhelming—just present, just there.
Elric leaned back slightly, arms resting against the counter.
"People spend their time chasing shadows," he murmured, voice calm, steady. "Looking ahead, looking behind—always searching, always regretting. The future grips them with promises yet unfulfilled. The past holds them hostage with moments they cannot undo."
He tapped a single finger against the counter.
"And the present?"
Aaron huffed lightly, shaking his head.
"Gets lost somewhere in between."
Elric's lips quirked, just slightly.
"Not every good thing shouts to you, announcing itself as worthy."
Aaron glanced up slightly, watching him.
"Good things knock once—quietly, briefly, like a breath against a doorframe."
Elric tilted his head, glasses reflecting the soft glow of the lights above.
"If you're too busy worrying about yesterday or reaching for tomorrow... you won't hear it."
A beat passed.
Aaron exhaled, shaking his head with a small scoff—but he didn't disagree.
Aaron sat in silence, fingers still wrapped around the warm cup. No grand realization. No sudden clarity. Just quiet. Just presence.
For the first time in a while, he wasn't thinking ahead. He wasn't looking back.
Just here. Just now.
Elric wiped down the counter with the same quiet precision, never pressing, never rushing, as if he already understood.
Aaron took another slow sip, exhaling softly. The taste settled—not just on his tongue, but somewhere deeper.
A pause.
Then—lighthearted, subtle—he glanced up.
"What kind of tea is this?"
Elric smiled faintly.
"The kind you needed."
A beat passed.
Aaron scoffed lightly, shaking his head—but this time, without dismissal.
Without resistance.
Location: Gotham – Outside The Endless
POV: Aaron
The door swung shut behind him, the quiet hum of the restaurant fading into the steady rhythm of Gotham's streets. The air was crisp, cool against his skin, the scent of rain still lingering from earlier showers.
Aaron stood there for a moment, hands stuffed into his pockets, staring absently ahead.
The conversation hovered at the edges of his mind—not intrusive, not demanding, just present. Like the last notes of a song that refused to fade completely.
He exhaled.
It was ethereal, wasn't it? The way the place felt, the way Elric spoke. The way the tea tasted—like something meant to be there before he even asked for it.
He could dwell on it. Could pick it apart, analyze every word. Try to convince himself there was something odd about it, something unnatural.
Instead, he shook his head. Let it settle.
Some things didn't need to be explained. Some moments just were.
His gaze drifted upward—Gotham's skyline stretching high above, neon flickering in the distance, the murmur of life moving forward.
And so would he.
No more sinking into what was, no more chasing what might be.
Just here. Just now.
That was enough.
He stepped forward, hands still tucked deep into his pockets, shoulders squared against the cool night air.
The Endless remained behind him, warm light spilling faintly onto the sidewalk—waiting, undemanding.
Aaron kept walking.