The train screeched into Gotham Central with a metallic howl, brakes screaming like some wounded beast. The station reeked of oil, piss, and hot iron.
Colt Mercer stepped down from the passenger car with the slow grace of a man twice his age. Black duster brushing his boots, spurs giving a faint clink with every step, hat brim pulled low. A bandana hung loose at his neck, and smoke curled lazy from the cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth.
He paused at the platform, letting the city wash over him. Gotham loomed like a bad omen—its skyline all jagged teeth, neon bleeding into the dusk, and shadows gathering in every corner.
A drunk staggered past him, muttering curses. Colt tipped his hat polite, though the gesture carried more mockery than manners.
"Much obliged," he drawled, voice honey-slow, before stepping forward, satchel hanging at his side.
He moved through the crowded station with the unhurried air of a man who owned it, eyes calm, scanning. Men in coats bumped shoulders, women clutched their purses, and every now and then someone's gaze lingered just a little too long on the kid who looked like he'd walked out of a dime novel.
Outside, Gotham night rolled in thick and heavy. Streetlamps flickered against the mist. Sirens wailed in the distance. Somewhere, a gun popped.
Colt Mercer stopped just outside the station doors, struck a match on the brick, and lit a fresh cigarette. He exhaled, slow.
"Well," he murmured to the city itself, a faint grin tugging his lip, "reckon we'll see who chews up who."
Colt stepped off the curb like a man testing the ground of a new frontier. His spurs clicked faintly against wet pavement, swallowed up by the hum of the city. Gotham was restless—neon buzzing, traffic snarling, and the shadows always whispering.
A kid in ragged clothes darted past, nearly colliding with him. The boy glanced up at Colt's hat, at the smoke curling from his lips, then bolted off again into the dark.
Colt smirked. "Quick on his feet. He'll do fine," he muttered to himself.
Up ahead, a weary-looking woman stood under a flickering streetlamp, juggling two grocery bags. One slipped from her grasp, apples spilling across the sidewalk.
Colt crouched, scooping one up with a gloved hand, and tipped it toward her like he was offering a fine gift.
"Ma'am."
She blinked at the sight of him, gaze lingering on his coat and the iron at his hips. "Uh… thank you."
"Don't mention it." His grin cut sideways, playful but sharp. "Though I'll admit, this city don't strike me as the apple-pie sort."
She gave a nervous laugh, clutching her bags tighter, and hurried away.
Colt let her go, smoke trailing from his lips as he continued his slow walk. The streets grew rougher the further he drifted from the station—alley mouths alive with muttered deals, silhouettes leaning close in the glow of neon signs.
He stopped by a newspaper stand, flipping a coin onto the counter. The vendor barely looked up, just shoved a folded paper across.
Colt didn't read it. He just tucked it under his arm, tapped the brim of his hat, and kept moving.
Colt strolled down a narrow side street where the neon ran thin and the shadows pooled deep. Three men huddled near the mouth of an alley—cheap jackets, cheaper knives, one with a pistol that had seen better days. Their laughter was sharp and nervous, the kind of sound hyenas make when they think they smell blood.
Colt slowed, struck a match against the brick, and lit his smoke. He tipped his hat toward them with that lazy grin.
"Evenin', gents. Might I trouble you for directions? Lookin' for a bar where a man can find whiskey that won't kill him outright."
The three exchanged glances, then laughter bubbled again. The tallest stepped forward, blade catching the lamplight.
"Yeah, cowboy. We got directions. First, you hand over that satchel."
Colt's eyes never flinched. He drew in smoke, let it curl from his nose. "Now, that don't sound hospitable."
Another stepped out, the one with the pistol. He raised it, hand shaky. "Drop the bag, country boy. Don't make us paint the street with you."
Colt's reply came in motion. A blur of coat, a crack of thunder. His revolver barked twice, the pistol-man's chest blooming red as he crumpled. The knife-man lunged—and Colt's second shot tore through his throat, sending him staggering back into the alley wall, clutching at the blood pouring between his fingers.
Only the third remained, frozen, wide-eyed, piss already soaking his pants. Colt leveled the revolver steady at his face, calm as Sunday morning.
"Now then," Colt drawled, voice low, "I'll ask again. Where can a man like me find himself a drink… and maybe some work while he's at it?"
The thug stammered, words tripping over themselves. "Th-the Black Rose. Down by Crime Alley. B-bartender knows who needs muscle. Don't—don't kill me—"
Colt tilted his head, studying him. Then he lowered the revolver, sliding it back into its holster with a showman's spin.
"Much obliged." He flicked his cigarette into the alley, the ember sparking near the dying men. Then he stepped over the body at his boots, spurs clicking faintly as he walked toward the dark heart of Gotham.
Colt trekked through Gotham's streets like smoke on the wind, unhurried, unbothered. The city breathed around him—steam hissing from grates, neon flickering like false stars, the stink of trash and gasoline mixing thick in the damp air. Every corner had eyes: kids crouched in alleys, old men hunched in doorways, women smoking under broken streetlights. Gotham didn't watch you outright—it just waited for you to trip.
He passed a pawn shop with barred windows, a church with its doors chained shut, and a diner that looked like it hadn't served food in a decade. His boots rang against wet pavement, steady as a clock, the faint jingle of spurs swallowed by the night.
From a corner, an old man on a crate called out in a cracked voice, "You're lost, son."
Colt didn't slow. Just tipped the brim of his hat. "Darlin', I been lost all my life. Just lookin' for a place serves whiskey in a clean glass."
The man cackled, toothless, and waved him off like a ghost passing through.
Further down, the streets narrowed, crooked signs hanging over doorways—half-lit, half-broken. The laughter and music of Gotham's nightlife started to bleed through: a piano thumping somewhere, a woman's laugh sharp as a knife, the low murmur of a crowd.
Colt stopped at the corner. Ahead, tucked between a boarded-up pharmacy and a crumbling hotel, sat a door painted black with a red rose stenciled across it. Above it, a neon sign buzzed faintly, letters half-dead: The Black Rose.
A bouncer sat on a stool outside, heavyset with a scar across his cheek. He gave Colt a long, slow once-over. Hat. Duster. Guns. Spurs. Then he smirked like he'd seen a ghost from another century.
Colt flicked his cigarette into the gutter, the ember hissing out in the rain. He adjusted his coat, pulled the bandana loose at his neck, and mounted the steps.
"Evenin'," he said smooth, already reaching for the door.
The bouncer muttered something low—maybe a warning, maybe a prayer—but Colt didn't wait to hear. The door swung open, and the noise of Gotham's underbelly rolled over him like a tide.
The Black Rose smelled of whiskey, cigar smoke, and bad intentions. Light hung low and red from stained glass lamps, painting everything in the glow of a wound. A piano clattered in the corner, the player drunk but enthusiastic, and over it all came the din of laughter, shouts, and the occasional crash of glass.
Colt stepped in like he belonged there, though he was about twenty years too young for the crowd. Heads turned anyway. Not many kids walked into a Gotham dive wearing spurs and a duster like the Wild West had never ended.
He strolled to the bar, leaned against it casual, and caught the barkeep's eye.
"Whiskey. Somethin' strong enough to kill what ails me."
The barkeep raised a brow but poured. Colt downed it in one smooth motion, then set the glass upside down like it owed him money.
"Not bad," he said, voice low and amused. "Though I've drank better out of a boot."
That got a laugh from a few tables nearby. Colt turned, grin sharp, and gave them a look that dared someone to push back.
Near the piano, a card game was in full swing—five men hunched over, smoke curling, money piled in the center. Colt's eyes lingered there. He sauntered over, spurs clicking, and rested a hand on one man's chair.
"Gentlemen," he drawled. "Mind if I buy my way into this here congregation?"
One of them snorted. "Kid, this ain't for storybook cowboys."
Colt flipped a silver coin, caught it, and set it in the pot without blinking. "Then I reckon I'll be the first."
The men sized him up. One shrugged. "Your funeral."
Cards slapped the table. Colt took his hand slow, fanning them with the lazy ease of a man sorting through Sunday mail. He didn't flinch when one of the men—a scarred fellow with yellowed teeth—leaned forward to glare at him.
First hand, Colt played loose, folding early with a grin.
"Gentlemen, I just come to learn the lay of the land," he said, tossing his cards down like trash.
The others chuckled, assuming he was green.
Second hand, he won with a neat pair of jacks. Didn't crow about it—just tapped the brim of his hat and gathered the pot like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Lady Luck seems fond of me tonight," he drawled.
Third hand, Colt went all in with nothing but a busted straight. When the others laughed, he leaned back, sipping from the glass the barkeep had slid him. The scarred man called him, smug—only to curse when Colt flipped his last card and pulled the straight clean.
"Now that's a preacher's miracle if I ever saw one," Colt said, stacking the bills neat, his grin wicked.
By the fourth hand, tension thickened. The men weren't laughing anymore. One muttered about "damn kids with beginner's luck," while another just stared at Colt like he was trying to read through his skull.
Colt toyed with his cards, spinning a silver dollar across his knuckles with the other hand. He didn't look nervous. Didn't even look interested. Just calm, collected—like a wolf at the edge of the fire, waiting.
The big one at the table finally slammed his hand down. "You're cheatin'," he barked, spittle flying.
Colt raised his eyes, slow as dawn, and smiled.
"Friend," he said, voice soft, "if I was cheatin', you'd be sittin' here in your drawers drinkin' piss water, wonderin' how a boy half your size walked off with your dignity."
The table burst into laughter. Everyone but the big man. His face burned red, fists curling.
Colt just leaned back in his chair, unbothered, fingers still idly turning that silver coin.
The big man's chair creaked as he leaned forward, knuckles white against the table. The piano faltered, a sour note ringing as even the drunk player sensed trouble.
Colt didn't flinch. He rolled that silver coin once more, caught it clean, and set it down on the table with a soft clink.
"Now," Colt said, tone smooth as good bourbon, "I can see you're the sort gets riled easy. Ain't no shame in it. Some men got tempers, some men got luck." He tapped his cards, grin sharp. "Seems tonight, I got the latter."
The table chuckled again, and the barkeep barked a short laugh. Even a few onlookers leaned in, amused. The big man's anger cooled just enough under the sting of humiliation hidden in Colt's honeyed words.
"Tell you what," Colt continued, voice low and deliberate, "how 'bout this next hand, I don't play a card till the last bet's down. Hell, I'll even sweeten the pot with somethin' shinier than paper."
From his satchel he drew a small silver flask, polished and gleaming under the red lamp-light, and set it in the center like it was solid gold.
That got the table murmuring. Even the big man hesitated, greed sparking in his eyes.
"See, gentlemen," Colt went on, leaning back easy, "I'm here to make friends as much as I am to make money. Ain't no fun takin' all your cash if you don't get a fair chance to win a story to go with it."
The dealer dealt again, shuffling quicker now, the mood at the table lightening just enough. Colt let his cards sit face down, fingers nowhere near them, sipping his whiskey slow. He watched the others bet and bluff, eyes calm, almost lazy—but anyone looking close enough could see him reading every twitch and hesitation.
By the time it came around to him, the pot was fat, eyes hot with anticipation.
Colt finally leaned forward, flipped his cards over—two aces staring back up at them.
"Well, gentlemen," he drawled, grin spreading slow, "reckon the house likes me after all."
The table groaned, laughter breaking the tension. Even the big man cursed under his breath but shoved his cards away, beaten.
Colt raked the winnings toward himself, neat and unhurried, when a chair screeched back from the table.
"You think you're clever, kid?" one of the card players snarled. His face was red, drink shining on his lips, eyes hot with humiliation. "Ain't nobody pulls that many aces without stackin' the deck."
The room shifted. Conversations dimmed, eyes turning toward the table. The piano player, sensing the storm, let his tune stumble into silence.
Colt leaned back, casual, the silver coin rolling across his knuckles as calm as a preacher's prayer. "Now, friend," he said, tone smooth as smoke, "you wound me. If I were cheatin', I'd hardly have the gall to do it in front of a man with such a sharp eye as yours."
That got a few chuckles from the crowd. The drunk man's fists clenched tighter. He shoved Colt's flask back across the table hard enough that it rang against the wood.
"You laughin' at me, boy?" he hissed.
Colt tilted his head, eyes narrowing just enough to sharpen the grin on his face. "Not at all. I'm laughin' with you. Question is—" He stood slow, the tails of his duster brushing the chair legs, spurs clicking as he shifted his weight. "—are you the sort of man who laughs, or the sort that makes a fool of himself in front of a whole room?"
The drunk lunged, hand shooting for Colt's collar.
The crowd gasped. Chairs scraped.
But Colt was already moving, slipping sideways with the grace of a saloon brawler, whiskey glass still in his other hand. He let the drunk's momentum drag him forward—then tapped him once in the ribs with the edge of the glass. Not enough to kill, but enough to drop him to a knee, breath wheezing out of him.
Colt leaned close, voice soft enough for the table but sharp enough for the whole room to hear.
"Careful, partner. You go reachin' for me again, and I'll show you just how unfair I can play."
The drunk staggered back, clutching his ribs and wheezing, when a shadow fell over the table.
A mountain of a man—head shaved, arms like tree trunks—stepped in and clamped a meaty hand on the drunk's shoulder. "That's enough," the bouncer growled. His voice rolled like gravel, final and cold.
The barkeep leaned over the counter, wiping a glass that didn't need it. "Sit your ass down, Franklin, before you bleed customers instead of money."
The drunk spat on the floor, rage still simmering, but one look at the bouncer's grip and the smirks from the crowd drained most of his fire. He muttered something foul, shoved his chair, and slumped back to the table, nursing his pride more than his ribs.
Colt never broke his grin. He tipped his hat toward the barkeep, then toward the bouncer.
"Much obliged, gentlemen. Was about to ruin a perfectly good whiskey over that fool."
A ripple of laughter spread across the bar, easy and approving. The piano man struck up again, livelier this time, as if giving the room permission to breathe.
Colt slid his winnings into his satchel, slow and deliberate, making sure every eye saw the boy in the duster walk away with a grown man's money. He downed the last swallow of whiskey, savoring it, then tapped the glass back to the bar upside down.
"Reckon Gotham's got some spirit after all," he said, half to himself, half to anyone listening.
The barkeep smirked, pouring him another on the house. "You ain't seen nothin' yet, cowboy."
Colt had just finished the second glass when a man slid onto the stool beside him. Mid-thirties, slick hair, cheap suit that used to be nice, and a smile too sharp to be friendly.
"You've got sand, kid," the man said, voice oily smooth. "Playin' cards like that, keepin' your cool when Franklin's about to take your head off. Most fold under pressure."
Colt didn't look at him right away. He swirled the whiskey, let the silence stretch, then finally glanced over with that lazy grin.
"Figure pressure just sorts the wheat from the chaff. Now, which one you reckon I am?"
The man chuckled. "That's exactly the kind of talk I like. I could use someone like you. Simple work—quick money. Interested?"
Colt leaned back, considering, then tapped ash from his duster sleeve though no smoke lingered. His grin sharpened.
"Reckon I might be. But a deal's too fine a thing to spoil with all this noise."
He set his glass down, stood, and adjusted his hat brim low.
"Why don't we step out back? Rain adds a bit of atmosphere to business, don't you think?"
The man smirked, intrigued by the boy's theatrics. "Heh. You've got style, I'll give you that."
They pushed through the back door into the narrow alley behind The Black Rose. Rain was coming down steady, tapping against trash cans and puddling in the cracks of the cobblestones. A lone lamp above buzzed, painting everything in sickly yellow light.
Colt tipped his hat back a little, letting the water run off the brim, and leaned against the wall casual. He didn't reach for his bandana, didn't so much as twitch toward iron—just kept that lazy grin.
"Now," he said, voice smooth and low, "why don't you tell me what kind of trouble a man can get paid for in this city."
The slick-haired man lit a cigarette, shielding the flame from the rain with a cupped hand. He took a long drag, smoke curling past the drizzle.
"Couple things, depends on how far you're willing to go. Could be as simple as putting the fear of God into some shopkeeper who's late on his dues. Or… could be making sure a certain package goes from point A to point B without anyone askin' questions."
Colt's eyes glinted under the brim of his hat. He shifted just enough for the spurs on his boots to give a soft jingle.
"Either way," he said, voice cool, "you pay me fair, I'll see it done."
The man smirked. "Thought you might say that. Consider this a test run." He flicked the cigarette into the gutter and stepped closer.
The rain had picked up, pattering against Colt's hat brim in a steady rhythm. He kept the package tucked snug in his satchel, one hand resting near the flap. Not too heavy. Not too light. Whatever was inside, it wasn't his business — not yet, anyhow.
He cut down crooked alleys, boots splashing through shallow puddles. The deeper he walked into Gotham, the more the city shifted around him: neon giving way to busted streetlamps, laughter replaced by hushed voices and muffled arguments behind locked doors.
A stray dog trotted across his path, ribs showing. Colt tipped his hat to it with a crooked grin.
"Evenin', partner."
The streets narrowed, brick walls closing in tight. Somewhere far off, sirens wailed. Closer still, a bottle shattered, followed by angry shouting. Colt didn't break stride. He carried himself like the whole world was just background noise — the city testing if it could shake him, and finding it couldn't.
Up ahead, the drop spot came into view: a shabby tenement with a rusted fire escape and a flickering light above the side door. Just as the man at the bar said.
Colt stopped across the street, the rain dripping steady off his hat brim. He looked at the building, then down at his satchel, then back again.
Before crossing, he tilted his head skyward. Gotham's night was a heavy quilt of clouds, but through a break he caught the glow of a searchlight stabbing the sky. Not the clean white of police work — no, this beam was shaped, twisted into the silhouette of a bat.
Colt smirked around the rim of his hat, letting the rain run down his face. "Well now," he muttered, amused, "looks like this town's got its own ghost stories."
He tipped the brim low again, eyes cutting back to the tenement.
"Well. Time to see what kinda hand I've been dealt."
Colt tugged the bandana high, cloth shadowing everything but his eyes under the brim of his hat. Rain rolled off his duster as he stepped across the street toward the crooked-lit doorway.
He knocked—two quick, one slow.
A slit scraped open. A pair of eyes glared out. "You the one bringin' the package?"
Colt's voice came low, muffled through the mask. "That's me."
The door cracked wider. The man spotted the satchel in Colt's hand and snatched it like a starving dog with a bone. "Good. You're done."
Colt tilted his head, the mask hiding the smirk that pulled at his mouth. "Music to my ears."
The door slammed. For a moment he stood in the rain, listening to it hiss against the pavement, then turned back toward the street.
That's when the racket hit—boots pounding, wood shattering, glass crashing down. Shouts rose sharp and frantic from inside.
Colt hiked a few steps down the alley, boots splashing through shallow puddles. A stack of old wooden pallets leaned crooked against a brick wall. He settled onto them, duster spreading out, rain dripping slow from the brim of his hat.
The building across from him groaned like a wounded beast—gunfire cracking inside, followed by the crash of furniture, men shouting in panic. Light flared in jagged bursts from shattered windows, shadows dancing across the rain-slicked street.
Colt leaned forward, forearms on his knees, eyes sharp through the slit of his bandana. From one window he caught sight of a thug flung like a rag doll, smashing into a table before crumpling to the floor. Another man screamed, then silence—broken by the sound of fists, hard and sure, landing with bone-snapping precision.
A figure moved through the chaos. Just a glimpse at first—blue across black, a staff snapping open in one smooth arc. Colt's breath hitched behind the cloth, not out of fear, but fascination. Whoever it was, they moved like lightning bottled up in a man's skin.
For half a heartbeat, the figure turned, light from a busted lamp cutting across the mask, the streak of blue on his chest.
And then—gone. The shadow swallowed him, as if he'd never been there at all.
Colt leaned back on the pallets, rain sliding down his bandana, eyes still fixed on the chaos inside. A slow chuckle escaped him.
"Well now," he muttered, voice low. "Gotham's got itself a ghost in blue."