I slipped out of the diner just as the last of the emergency vehicles peeled away, leaving only police tape and a few shaken witnesses behind. My burger sat unfinished, congealing on the plate. Appetite long gone.
The cool afternoon air bit sharper now. Not because of the cold — I'd been around enough weird in my life to know when the air felt wrong. There was still a chill hanging in it, not from the weather, but from Mr. Freeze's presence. Residual magic, tech, or whatever his icy aftermath left behind.
I tugged my new jacket tighter and shoved my hands deep into my pockets, head down, trying to stay small as I made the walk back to the flat.
Every glance from a passing stranger felt like it might be a test. Like someone — maybe Signal or Black Bat, or hell, even Tim Drake — had marked me with a mental sticky note: Strange energy. Worth watching.
I tried not to think about it.
By the time I got back to the apartment, dusk had started bleeding across Gotham's skyline — orange and grey smudges behind silhouetted rooftops and towering antennas. I locked the door behind me, dropped my bag onto the couch, and stood in the middle of the living room like I didn't quite belong in the space yet.
Still didn't feel like mine. None of this did.
The magic buzzing under my skin, though? That felt real. And after today… I needed to stop pretending I could keep ignoring it.
I stepped into the middle of the room, rolled my shoulders, and took a breath.
"Okay," I muttered to myself. "Let's see what this body can do."
I opened the mental "character sheet" I'd been slowly mapping out in the back of my mind. A weird thing to have in the real world, but I'd stopped questioning it. Like it had been coded into my nervous system the same way muscle memory works — just… game-logic bleeding into real life.
I couldn't shake the thought: if I'd gone in, could I have helped?
Probably not. Not yet.
But I had to stop sitting on this power like it was a curse or a costume. I needed to understand it — to know what I was working with before the next Freeze, or worse, decide to make Gotham their playground. The chance I could get caught in the crossfire was real, and I didn't want to die a second time.
I grabbed a small notebook and started writing down everything I remembered about my old D&D character, whom I had based my new life off. It took a good hour or two before my makeshift "character sheet." It had scribbles, half-remembered spell names, and little symbols that matched what I'd seen in the books I had in my last life. I could only hope that enough of it was the same, as I kept checking the weird burnt pixel hologram at the edge of my vision.
Cleric. Level 3.Not that the levels made much sense anymore, but… it was something. I could only hope that I'd get the death domain, it's the one I knew best, I had spent every friday for 5 years playing that domain, it was second nature.
I locked the door, drew the curtains tight, and pulled the rug back to give myself some space on the hardwood floor. A circle of symbols — sketched with chalk and instinct — marked the ground. Some part of me knew them. They came easier now, like muscle memory I never earned.
I sat cross-legged and placed both palms on the floor.
"Let's see what's real."
The air in the room shifted. Subtle. A drop in temperature, like the moment before a storm rolls in.
I started with something small — the cantrip that had hovered at the edge of my awareness since waking up in this body.
Spare the Dying.
I didn't need a corpse. I just needed focus.
I exhaled and reached toward the corner where a dead houseplant sat, long since withered. A move thing from my 'mother' something to give the place life.
I whispered the name of the spell like a prayer, and my fingers glowed faintly, not warm, not radiant. Cold. Like moonlight over frost.
The plant didn't come back to life. That's not what this spell does. But the light settled over it like a shroud, stilling even the decay. Death paused. Just for a moment.
I shivered. It was real, I could see that much, and it worked off a weird mix of imagination, belief and instinct.
I sat there a moment longer, staring at the faint afterglow where my fingers had touched the tile.
Spare the Dying.Simple. Quiet. Undeniable.
I looked down at my hands, still trembling slightly, not from fear now, but from potential. Whatever this magic was, it didn't hum with the warmth of healing or holy fire like I'd seen in the books. No, this wasn't golden light and angelic choirs. It was colder. Older.
I pulled my knees up, resting my arms across them, and leaned my forehead forward. My breath fogged just a little in the chill. Either I was doing this wrong… or it was working exactly the way it was supposed to.
I flipped open the notebook again and turned to a blank page.
Test Log – Day One.Spell Used: Spare the Dying.Effect: Functional. Visual indicators – pale, cold light. Application – halts decay, doesn't restore life. No material components needed.Notes: Magic manifests on intent and focus. Words are optional but help stabilise the process.
I tapped the pen against the margin and underlined one word I'd written earlier:
Cleric.
It didn't feel quite right yet — the title. Like I was borrowing it from someone else. But when the magic moved through me, it fit better than anything else had in this world.
I turned the page again.
Spell Progression:
Cantrips known: Spare the Dying, Thaumaturgy, Toll the Dead (maybe).
Level 1 Spells (estimated): Cure Wounds, Bless, Command, maybe something darker...
Level 2 Spells (theory): Gentle Repose, Hold Person... Spiritual Weapon?
I underlined Toll the Dead. That one called to me, even more than the rest.
I didn't want to test it in here. Not yet. I could feel the energy coiled behind the name, like a loaded trap — resonant and hungry. That was the problem with death magic. It always wanted to be used.
I set the notebook aside, wiped my palms on my jeans, and stood.
I needed to clean up. If anyone ever came in and saw this mess, the explanations would be impossible.
I glanced down at the chalk circle. Scattered lines. Faintly glowing residue in that bluish hue, like dying embers in a hearth that had never burned wood.
My first thought was to wipe it up with a rag.
My second… was more ambitious.
"Prestidigitation," I muttered, almost without thinking, reaching out with two fingers and flicking them in the way I half-remembered from every wizard at the table.
Nothing happened.
Of course. That was a wizard spell. Not Cleric. Not me.
I sighed and turned away.
But something tugged at the edge of my mind — not a voice, but a notation. Like a reminder written in invisible ink, only visible when I paid attention.
Try again.Not as a spell slot. Not as a prepared spell.As a cantrip, flavoured differently.
I turned back, focusing not on the name of the spell, but the intent. What was Prestidigitation? Minor magic. Cosmetic manipulation. The divine equivalent would be—
"Thaumaturgy," I whispered this time, steadier.
I reached out toward the chalk again, but not to clean it. Not directly. I focused instead on shifting the floor, willing the loose dust to tremble, willing the house itself to respond to me like it was part of some stage, and I, the hidden stagehand.
The light in the room dimmed. The hardwood creaked. A faint gust pushed inward from beneath the closed window.
The chalk dust stirred. Then scattered.
My jaw dropped.
It wasn't Prestidigitation. Not quite. But it was close. Thaumaturgy couldn't clean per se, but if I applied it right, nudged it with my will, focused on intent over rule text, I could repurpose it.
Like reflavoring a spell at the table. Same mechanics. Different feel.
I bent down and waved my hand across the floor again, pushing harder with the image in my mind: the circle gone, the residue erased, the space normal.
The wind followed my fingers.
The chalk lifted into the air, swirled, and dispersed like a dying breath.
When it settled, the floor was clean.
I grinned. For the first time since waking up in this world, I grinned without fear behind it.
I may not have had Prestidigitation.
But I didn't need it. But I wanted it, Maybe I could try to level up and get it as a cantrip as part of a feat?
I was a Cleric. And the rules?They were starting to bend with me.
I closed the notebook and let it rest on the desk beside the old lamp. The room still felt charged, like something ancient had brushed past the veil and left a thumbprint behind. Or maybe that was just adrenaline.
A part of me buzzed with questions. Not just what I could do… but how far I could take it.
Level up.
It sounded ridiculous in a Gotham apartment with water-stained ceilings and a leaky faucet that still dripped once every six seconds. But I'd said it out loud, even if only in my head.
Could I?
Did experience matter here?
Was it measured in hours, in effort, in risk? Or something deeper — moral alignment, fate, some unknowable divine metric?
I knew what level three meant in the game: a subclass. The moment the Cleric chose a domain and stepped into a role larger than themselves. War. Life. Light. Trickery.
Death.
I didn't want to admit it yet, even to myself, but my magic didn't feel like it came from sunlit altars or hymns sung in cathedrals. It came from shadows and memory and stillness. From silence.
I rubbed my fingers together, still faintly chilled.
There had to be a way to expand. To learn more. Maybe through feats, maybe just by pushing the boundaries and acting like a Cleric until the world responded.
Magic obeyed belief, didn't it?
If I believed enough that I could earn a feat, maybe Magic Initiate, just like in the Player's Handbook, maybe the thing controlling this would recognise that. Let me dip into wizardry just enough to grab Prestidigitation. Maybe Mage Hand. Maybe even a little Find Familiar, if I stretched the flavour.
The glow in my fingertips finally faded as I turned away from the centre of the living room.
My stomach growled. Loudly.
Right. Magic or not, I still had to eat.
The apartment didn't have much — a half-stocked fridge with what I bought yesterday, some eggs, a few packets of microwave rice, and a suspiciously soft onion. I made do. Cooking felt weirdly grounding. There were no levels, no dice rolls, no divine checks to make — just heat, oil, and timing. A different kind of ritual.
I cracked the eggs into the pan, watching them bubble and sizzle. Tossed the rice in with a bit of soy sauce and stirred it all together. It smelled like something close to comfort. Almost like the game nights back home, when we'd eat whatever we could throw together before diving back into dungeon maps and character drama.
I reached for the cupboard for a chipped plate—
clink.
The sound froze me mid-reach.
It hadn't come from inside.
I turned my head slowly toward the fire escape.
Clink—scrape.
Metal against metal. Light enough to be wind… but too deliberate. Too slow. Not rhythmic like rust settling or pipes shifting.
I killed the gas on the stove and stepped silently to the kitchen window.
The curtain moved as if tugged by a breeze, but the window was sealed shut.
I held my breath.
The shadow shifted on the fire escape outside my window.
A figure slipped into view, silhouetted by the dim glow of a flickering streetlamp.
Red Hood.
But something was off. He wasn't just passing by, he was fumbling with the fire escape door, trying to get inside.
His movements were tense, hurried, like he was desperate.
Blood seeped through the armoured red fabric near his ribs, staining the metal railing as he leaned against it for support.
He pulled out a small device, a scanner of some sort, and cursed under his breath.
"This isn't it..."
He was trying to enter my apartment.
Not realising it, he'd mistaken this place for one of his old safe houses. An easy mistake to make, there were three buildings next to this one that were practically identical.
His breathing was ragged, shallow, he'd been shot clearly.
Whatever he was doing to the door, it worked, unlatching as I stood frozen in the kitchenette.
The fire escape door creaked open with a heavy groan.
Red Hood stumbled through the gap, clutching his side where blood seeped through the armour.
His eyes darted around, scanning the dim room.
"This can't be right..." he muttered, voice low, rough with pain.
I stood in the kitchen, hands raised slowly, palms open and visible.
"No sudden moves," I said quietly, trying to keep my voice steady.
He took a tentative step forward, wincing as he shifted weight away from the wound.
His gaze locked on me, sharp and calculating despite the blood and fatigue.
"You're not supposed to be here," he growled, voice thick with suspicion.
I kept my hands raised. "I think you're in the wrong place. This is my apartment."
He eyed me for a long moment, then nodded slowly, the tension easing just enough.
"Figures," he said, almost bitterly. "Wrong building. Fuck."
He leaned heavily against the wall, the fight draining out of him for now.
I swallowed, waiting to see what happened next.
I kept my hands raised, voice calm but firm."Here, let me help. I have a phone you can use to call someone if you need."
Red Hood glanced at me, hesitation flickering across his face before the pain took precedence."Nah, I can't use a civvies' phone for this, sorry for breaking into your place," he admitted, voice low.
I moved slowly to the counter, careful not to make any sudden moves."Hold still," I said softly.
He shifted his armour enough to expose the wound, dark, seeping blood, not good."I've got a clean towel," I added, pulling one from under the sink and folding it carefully.
I handed it to him. "Press it against the wound. It'll help slow the bleeding."
He took the towel with a grunt of acknowledgement, pressing it firmly over the torn armour."Thanks," he muttered, eyes locking with mine for a moment, vigilant, but a trace of something else, maybe relief.
The apartment was silent except for his ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city outside.
I wondered what kind of trouble Red Hood had stumbled into, and if my accidental involvement was just beginning.
Something deep stirred in my gut at the sight of the blood. It was weird in a way, maybe whatever the character creation had meant by vampiric just means I got the short end of the stick and had a blood kink.
I couldn't help but realise, as I backed away to find a first aid kit for the crime lord currently sitting in my living room, that this was the first time my new body had reacted to something outside of my control since I got it.
As I dug out the first aid kit I had put away from the Misc box the other day and took it through to the living room, I could smell the blood in the air.
The coppery scent was sharp, like rust and adrenaline, and it hit me harder than I expected. Not in a nauseating way — more like a tug. A whisper at the base of my skull. Instinct, maybe. Or something worse.
I shoved the thought down as I approached the couch, keeping my movements deliberate, non-threatening.
"Got a kit," I said, crouching beside the armrest. I opened the box, laying out gauze, antiseptic, gloves — the usual. Not much, but better than nothing.
Red Hood watched me in silence. His hand stayed near his sidearm, but he didn't draw. That was something.
"Not the first time you've patched someone up, I take it?" he asked, voice tight but a bit more grounded.
I shook my head. "Not exactly. I did some Pre-Med courses at Uni, but aside from that, not much."
I slipped on the gloves and gestured for him to peel back a bit of the towel. The bleeding had slowed, but the wound was deep — a clean bullet graze, no exit. Looked like it hadn't hit anything vital, which explained why he was still conscious.
I didn't ask how it happened. That felt like a good way to get myself shot.
"May I?" I held out a pair of long tweezers, antiseptic swabs and gauze "This'll sting," I warned.
"Bring it," he muttered.
I cleaned the wound in silence, feeling his gaze flick to me every so often, as if trying to figure me out. A college kid with a pan on the stove, notebooks everywhere and a first aid kit in his lap. He had to be wondering what kind of civilian just lets Red Hood all over their furniture without freaking out.
Honestly, I was wondering the same thing.
"You're lucky," I said, taping a bandage in place. "Few inches the other way, and you'd be on the floor of the alley instead of in my living room."
"Not luck," he muttered, leaning back with a grunt. "Habit. Got sloppy, though."
"That doesn't surprise me, given you climbed the wrong fire escape while bleeding."
He snorted, then glanced around again, eyes narrowing slightly at the details in the room — the half-prepped dinner, the faint remnants of chalk still in the grooves of the floorboards.
"What were you doing before I crashed the party?"
I froze for just a second. Then shrugged."Cooking. Kind of."
It wasn't a lie, exactly.
He didn't press. Just nodded slowly, then winced again.
I stood, peeled off the gloves, and tossed them into the trash."You'll want to keep pressure on that until you can get someone to look at it properly."
"I know," he said, already adjusting the towel. "Not gonna be able to move for a little while though."
"Do you wanna stay here?"
That earned me a long stare — the kind you only get from someone who's spent their whole life calculating threats, angles, and intent.
"You offering?"
I hesitated… then nodded."Yeah. Guess I am."
He looked at me for a beat longer, then finally said, "What's your name?"
"…Caspian."
He nodded once. "Thanks, Caspian."
He relaxed, moving onto the couch slowly but steadily, and holstered his weapon.
"Next time I break into your place, I'll try not to bleed all over it."
I smiled faintly. "Appreciate it."
'Wait what the fuck does he mean next time he breaks into my place.'