The explosion was followed by a sound I knew intimately from a thousand hours of video games and action movies: the cacophony of automatic gunfire.
And my first thought wasn't "Oh god, we're all going to die." It wasn't "I need to protect Chloe." It wasn't even "I should call the police."
My first thought was: Oh, hell yes. It's happening. First night and I already get a tutorial mission. Best. Isekai. Ever.
Around me, the restaurant erupted into chaos. Crystal glasses shattered as people dove under tables. Someone was screaming about calling 911. The elegant jazz music cut off abruptly, replaced by the sound of chairs scraping against marble floors and the muffled sobs of terrified diners.
But all I could feel was this incredible, electric rush of pure adrenaline. This was it. This was the moment every comic book fan dreamed about. Real superhero stuff was happening right outside, and I was no longer just some guy who had to watch it on the news.
I was the guy who got to do something about it.
"Dick!" Chloe grabbed my arm, her perfectly manicured nails digging into my suit jacket. "What's happening? What do we do?"
I looked down at her – and was surprised by how calm and controlled my voice sounded when I spoke. "It's okay. We're going to be fine. Get under the table, right now."
My hands moved with practiced efficiency, guiding her down beneath the white tablecloth while my body automatically positioned itself between her and the windows. Muscle memory. Dick Grayson's muscle memory, trained by years of crisis situations and Batman's paranoid contingency planning.
It felt amazing.
"Stay low, don't make any noise," I murmured to her, my voice carrying that perfect balance of authority and reassurance that probably came from years of talking scared civilians through dangerous situations. "This will be over soon."
Meanwhile, my brain was practically vibrating with excitement. Real gunfire. Real bad guys. Real chance to test out these new abilities. This is like Christmas morning except the presents are probably going to shoot back.
Through the restaurant's floor-to-ceiling windows, I could see the street scene unfolding like something straight out of a movie. An armored car had crashed into a fire hydrant, water geysering into the air. Money – actual stacks of cash – were scattered across the asphalt like confetti. And standing around the wreckage, looking like they'd stepped right out of the pages of a comic book, were four figures in playing card-themed costumes.
The Royal Flush Gang. Holy shit, it was actually the Royal Flush Gang.
Ten was lean and wiry, his costume covered in the appropriate number of suit symbols. Jack looked like a medieval knight who'd been hit by a truck full of neon lights. Queen was tall and imposing, her outfit a disturbing fusion of playing card imagery and practical body armor. And King – King was clearly the muscle, wearing what looked like a mechanical exo-suit with a crown motif that was probably supposed to be intimidating but mostly just looked like someone had bedazzled a forklift.
They were professional, efficient, and armed to the teeth. Perfect tutorial-level enemies for a newly-minted superhero's first night out.
I could hear police sirens in the distance, but they sounded far away. Too far away. These guys would be long gone before the first patrol car arrived, which meant–
"Everyone stay calm!" King's voice boomed as he and Queen stepped through the restaurant's main entrance, their weapons trained on the cowering diners. "Nobody moves, nobody gets hurt! This is just a simple withdrawal from the First National Bank of None-of-Your-Business!"
Okay, that was actually a pretty good line. I had to give him credit for that one.
"All we want is to finish our business outside," Queen added, her voice cold and professional. "Stay down, stay quiet, and we'll be out of your hair in five minutes."
This was perfect. They were providing the exact distraction I needed.
I squeezed Chloe's shoulder gently. "Listen to me very carefully," I whispered, leaning down close to her ear. "I need you to stay exactly where you are and don't make a sound, no matter what happens. Can you do that for me?"
She nodded frantically, her eyes wide with terror.
"Good girl." I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile. "I'll be right back."
"Where are you going?" she whispered.
"Men's room," I said, which was technically the direction I was headed. "Nerves, you know?"
And then, taking advantage of the fact that King and Queen were focused on controlling the main dining room, I did something that felt as natural as breathing: I vanished.
One second I was crouched next to Chloe under the table. The next, I was moving through the restaurant's shadows like I'd been doing it my entire life. My feet found the quietest spots on the floor automatically. My body flowed around obstacles without conscious thought. I slipped past a panicked waiter, through a gap between two service stations, and into the kitchen without making so much as a whisper of sound.
Batman training for the win. Holy crap, this stealth thing is like having superpowers.
The kitchen was empty – the staff had probably bolted the moment they heard gunfire, which showed excellent survival instincts. I made my way to the back exit, my mind racing with excitement and possibility.
Time to see what this body could really do.
The back alley behind The Cormorant was narrow, dimly lit, and absolutely perfect for what I needed to do. I found a spot between two dumpsters where the shadows were deepest and started exploring my outfit with the kind of methodical precision that felt like muscle memory.
The expensive dress shoes weren't just expensive dress shoes. There were hidden panels in the heels that opened at the touch of a concealed button, revealing compartments packed with what looked like the world's most advanced collapsible technology. The jacket had a secret lining that felt like regular fabric but unfolded into something that was definitely not regular fabric.
Wayne-tech. Actual, honest-to-god Wayne-tech. This is like having Q from James Bond as your personal equipment manager.
My fingers moved with practiced efficiency, assembling pieces that fit together with satisfying clicks and whirs. The mask was a masterpiece of engineering – lightweight, perfectly fitted, with lenses that enhanced my night vision the moment they activated. The suit itself was like wearing liquid midnight; it moved with me, breathed with me, felt like it had been tailored specifically for my body.
Which, I realized as I pulled on the fingerless gloves, it probably had been.
The escrima sticks were the final touch. Twin batons that extended with a flick of my wrists, perfectly balanced, crackling with some kind of electrical charge that made the air around them hum with barely contained energy.
I caught my reflection in a grimy window and nearly laughed out loud.
I look like a superhero. I actually look like a legitimate, honest-to-god superhero. This is the coolest thing that has ever happened to anyone in the history of anything.
The gunfire outside had stopped, which probably meant the Royal Flush Gang had finished loading their haul and were getting ready to make their exit. Time to crash their party.
I made my way to the mouth of the alley, my body moving with a fluid grace that felt effortless. Every step was perfectly balanced. Every breath was controlled. I felt like I could run up walls or leap across buildings without breaking a sweat.
The street scene was exactly what I'd expected: organized chaos. The gang had clearly been planning this job for weeks. They'd positioned their getaway vehicle – a modified van with playing card decals and what looked like armor plating – at the perfect angle for a quick escape. King was directing the loading operation while Ten and Jack kept watch. Queen was scanning the perimeter with the kind of professional awareness that suggested military training.
They were good. Competent. Experienced.
They just weren't prepared for me.
I took a deep breath, feeling my heart pounding with anticipation, and made my entrance.
The fire escape ladder was exactly where my instincts told me it would be. I grabbed it, used my momentum to swing myself up and around, and launched myself into the air with a twist that felt like pure poetry in motion. Triple flip – no, quadruple flip – stick the landing right between the gang and their van.
Nailed it. Oh my god, I actually nailed it. That felt incredible. My spleen is now somewhere in the vicinity of my throat, but holy crap, that was the coolest thing I've ever done.
"What the hell–" King spun around, raising his weapon.
I struck a pose that felt both natural and completely ridiculous – one escrima stick extended, the other spinning casually in my grip, mask gleaming under the streetlights.
"You guys look like a tough hand to beat," I said, putting every ounce of Dick Grayson's natural charisma into my voice. "Good thing I'm an expert at shuffling the deck."
The silence that followed was profound.
Oh god. That was terrible. That was possibly the worst one-liner in the history of crime fighting. Abort. Abort mission. Retreat to base and reconsider life choices.
"Who the hell are you supposed to be?" King demanded, his mechanical suit whirring as he turned to face me fully.
"Nightwing," I said, because apparently my mouth was committed to this whole 'confident superhero' thing even while my brain was cringing. "And you're about to fold."
Stop. Stop with the card puns. You're embarrassing yourself in front of the criminals.
Ten was the first to move, raising his automatic weapon with military precision. But the moment he pulled the trigger, my body reacted without conscious thought. I was already moving, already in the air, flipping sideways as bullets whined through the space where I'd been standing half a second earlier.
The world slowed down. Not literally – I wasn't suddenly the Flash – but my perception shifted into what I could only describe as 'combat time.' Every detail became crystal clear. The muzzle flashes. The trajectory of the bullets. The way Jack was moving to flank me while Queen tried to circle around behind.
This is amazing. This is like being inside the world's most advanced video game except the graphics are perfect and the physics engine is actual physics.
I landed in a crouch, rolled forward, and came up swinging. My right escrima stick caught Ten across the wrist, sending his gun spinning away into the darkness. The left one found the nerve cluster in his shoulder with surgical precision, dropping him to his knees with a grunt of pain.
Muscle memory for the win. I have no idea how I just did that, but it felt awesome.
Jack came at me with what looked like an electrified sword, because apparently the Royal Flush Gang had a theme and they were sticking to it. He was fast, well-trained, and probably dangerous under normal circumstances.
These were not normal circumstances.
I ducked under his first swing, pivoted on my heel, and swept his legs with a move that flowed so naturally it felt like dancing. As he went down, I tried to add a little flourish – a spinning kick that was supposed to look really cool – and nearly face-planted when my foot caught on absolutely nothing.
Okay, note to self: stick to the moves that the muscle memory knows. Adding freestyle choreography while in actual combat is apparently a bad idea.
I caught my balance just in time to dodge a blast of energy from Queen's weapon, which looked like someone had crossed a crossbow with a plasma cannon. The shot sizzled past my ear, close enough that I could smell ozone and singed hair.
Too close. Way too close. This is the part where people actually die in real life, isn't it?
But instead of fear, all I felt was this incredible rush of aliveness. Every nerve was firing. Every sense was heightened. I felt like I could take on an army and come out winning.
I closed the distance to Queen with a series of acrobatic moves that would have made a circus performer weep with envy – handspring, cartwheel, forward flip – and landed right in her personal space. Her weapon was designed for medium-range combat; she couldn't bring it to bear when I was close enough to see my reflection in her visor.
My escrima stick found the power coupling on her weapon with a precision strike that sent sparks flying. Her backup knife appeared in her hand like magic, but I was already moving, grabbing her wrist and using her own momentum to send her stumbling into Jack, who was just getting back to his feet.
They went down in a tangle of limbs and frustrated cursing.
Two down, one to go. This is actually working. I'm actually winning.
Which left King.
King, who was easily twice my size and wearing what amounted to a mechanized suit of armor. King, who looked like he could bench press a small car and probably had. King, whose weapons systems were built into his exo-suit and couldn't be easily disarmed.
He was grinning at me through his armored visor, the kind of grin that suggested he was about to enjoy this way too much.
"You're fast, kid, I'll give you that," he rumbled, servos whining as he raised his gauntleted fists. "But let's see how you handle some real firepower."
The mini-missiles launched from his shoulder mounts with a sound like angry wasps. I threw myself sideways, rolling behind the crashed armored car as explosions peppered the street where I'd been standing. Chunks of asphalt rained down around me, and I could feel the heat from the blasts singeing the back of my suit.
Okay, this is significantly more dangerous than the other three. This guy could actually kill me if I'm not careful. Think, think, think. What would Dick Grayson do? What would Batman do? What would someone who actually knows what they're doing do?
I peeked around the edge of the armored car, studying King's suit with the kind of analytical focus that felt half like Dick Grayson's training and half like my own years of obsessing over superhero technology. The exo-suit was impressive, but it was also clearly not Wayne-tech. It had that slight jankiness that came from being built by people with more ambition than budget.
And there – right there on his left knee – was exactly what I'd been hoping to find.
The hydraulic joint looks like it was installed by the lowest bidder. That's not military-grade engineering; that's 'we got this from a construction equipment surplus catalog' engineering. Time to exploit some shoddy workmanship.
I moved fast, using the wreckage as cover to circle around behind him. King was tracking my movement, but the bulk of his suit made it hard for him to turn quickly. I waited for him to commit to a direction, then darted in from his blind spot.
My escrima stick, charged with whatever Wayne-tech wizardry made it hum with electricity, found that weak hydraulic coupling with surgical precision.
The effect was immediate and catastrophic. Sparks flew. Hydraulic fluid sprayed everywhere. And King's left leg simply stopped working, sending him crashing to the street with a sound like a collapsing construction crane.
"Son of a–" he started to say, trying to bring his weapons to bear from his prone position.
But I was already there, both escrima sticks pressed against the collar of his suit where the armor was thinnest. The electrical charge flowed directly into his nervous system, and he went limp with a sound that was half grunt, half electronic whine.
And that's game over. Holy crap, I actually did it. I beat the Royal Flush Gang. I beat actual supervillains on my first night out.
I stood there for a moment, breathing hard, looking down at the four unconscious criminals scattered around the street like discarded playing cards. My body was singing with adrenaline and the deep, satisfying ache of muscles that had been pushed to their limits. I felt like I could run a marathon or lift a truck or–
Police sirens. Getting closer.
Time to go.
I gathered up the scattered money as quickly as I could – no point in letting the city's budget department wonder where their tax dollars had gone – and deposited it in the back of the armored car. Then I activated some kind of beacon device that I found in one of my suit's many hidden pockets, which would presumably signal the authorities that the criminals were secure and ready for pickup.
The whole cleanup took maybe thirty seconds, but by the time I was done, I could see the first police cruiser turning the corner two blocks away.
I looked up at the fire escape ladder I'd used for my dramatic entrance, calculated the distance and angle, and jumped.
Please work. Please let the superhero thing work for the dismount too.
It worked. I caught the ladder, swung myself up and over the edge of the building, and vanished into the shadows just as the police cars screeched to a halt in front of the crime scene.
Best. Night. Ever.
Getting back into my civilian clothes was almost as impressive as the suit-up had been, in reverse. The Nightwing gear collapsed back into its component parts with engineering precision, fitting perfectly into the hidden compartments of my dress shoes and jacket. Within two minutes, I looked like Dick Grayson again – albeit slightly disheveled and covered in a fine layer of dust that I really hoped looked like bathroom powder rather than 'I just had a fight with four supervillains' residue.
The restaurant was still in chaos when I slipped back through the kitchen, but it was controlled chaos now. The Royal Flush Gang members who'd been inside were gone – presumably they'd left when they heard the sounds of their teammates getting systematically defeated outside. The diners were starting to emerge from under tables, talking in hushed, excited whispers about what they'd seen and heard.
Chloe was exactly where I'd left her, still huddled under our table, still wide-eyed with terror.
I slid back into my seat with what I hoped was a perfectly natural movement, picked up a napkin, and started wiping a smudge of grime off my cheek that definitely hadn't been there when I'd left for the 'men's room.'
"Sorry about that," I said, giving her my most reassuring smile. "Got a little turned around looking for the men's room. Did I miss anything?"