The apartment smelled faintly of oil and metal, the air tinged with the constant echo of work. Nate sat in the middle of his new space, the soft hum of machines below him drifting upward through the floorboards. He had finally moved out of his father's home, a step that felt both liberating and weighty. Above the warehouse, this single-bedroom apartment was not much, but it was his.
The room was sparse, deliberately so. A mattress pushed against one wall, a metal desk crowded with notebooks and sketches, and shelves stacked with scraps of composite material and unfinished gadgets. Tools lay scattered across the desk and floor, pliers, soldering irons, screwdrivers, beside half-assembled gloves and plates of reinforced polymer. It was not a home in the traditional sense; it was a war room in progress, a place where business plans and secret preparations bled into each other without boundary.
He leaned back in his chair, eyes flicking across the clutter. Pages of designs filled the notebooks, schematics for body armor, modular gear, tracking devices. Some were business proposals for CrossTech Solutions, others were private concepts never meant to see the light of day. To anyone else, it would look like chaos. To him, it was the foundation of a future.
Nate's phone buzzed. He glanced at the caller ID: Marcus Cross. His father's voice, steady and professional, came through the line.
Marcus: "You ready for today? Captain Hall is expecting you at the precinct. Try not to bury him in too much tech jargon."
Nate: smiling faintly "I'll keep it simple, Dad. Durable, affordable, reliable, that's the pitch." Marcus: "Good. These are men and women on the street, not engineers. They want to know if it works when their lives are on the line." Nate: "I understand. Thanks for setting this up." Marcus: "Don't thank me yet. Impress them first."
The meeting with the police department was scheduled in a modest conference room. Nate set his prototype armor on the table, along with gloves and reinforced pads. Several officers and procurement officials sat across from him, their expressions skeptical but curious.
One officer picked up the gloves, flexing the reinforced knuckles.
Officer: "Feels light. But does it actually hold?"
Nate: "Go ahead. Hit the table."
The officer smirked and slammed his fist down. The impact echoed sharply, but he didn't even flinch. He flexed his fingers in surprise.
Officer: "Not bad. Shock absorption?"
Nate: "Layered polymers with reinforced padding. Distributes impact evenly. Cuts down fatigue during extended use."
A captain leaned forward, tapping the armor plates Nate had laid out.
Captain Hall: "These panels, our guys are wearing thirty pounds of gear already. You expect them to add more?" Nate: "Not more, less. These replace existing panels at half the weight with greater resistance. Field tests show a thirty percent improvement in mobility."
Murmurs filled the room. The skepticism hadn't disappeared, but Nate could see cracks forming in their doubt.
Later that week, he met with the Brooklyn Fire Department. The fire chief, a broad-shouldered man with soot permanently etched into his skin, examined a reinforced glove designed for extreme heat.
Fire Chief: "We go into burning buildings with equipment that fails half the time. You saying these hold in a blaze?"
Nate: "Heat-resistant to 1,500 degrees, tested in simulated conditions. Flexibility maintained, grip improved. They'll save lives."
Fire Chief: grunting approval "If you're right, son, you'll have more orders than you can handle."
These meetings marked the beginning of CrossTech's credibility. It was no longer just a young man tinkering in a warehouse, it was a company delivering practical, lifesaving gear. Marcus occasionally stepped in to help with contacts, but never pushed too far. He believed his son was finally finding a professional calling.
At night, however, Nate's focus shifted. The city did not sleep, and neither did he. Sitting in his apartment, he sifted through police scanners, news reports, and online forums. Patterns emerged, petty crimes escalating into organized operations, unexplained disappearances, whispers of growing gang wars.
The most troubling reports came from Hell's Kitchen. Violence was escalating there, with gang wars threatening to spill into surrounding areas. Brooklyn, while quieter, was far from safe. Petty thefts, drug trafficking, and extortion rings gnawed at its edges.
On the wall above his desk, Nate began building his first crime map. Photos, notes, strings connecting names and locations, it grew night by night, mirroring the methodology he once used in Gotham. The faces were different, but the corruption felt familiar.
Weeks of sketches and prototypes culminated in his first functional suit. It was not the refined, theatrical armor of Gotham, it was practical, rugged, and designed for stealth.
Armor: Lightweight, modular plates from CrossTech prototypes, painted matte black to avoid reflection.
Mask: Simple, shaped vaguely like a bat, more anonymity than symbol, a crude beginning.
Gear: Reinforced gloves, a utility belt with tracking devices and reinforced rope tools.
He donned the suit for the first time in the mirror, flexing his hands, testing mobility. It was imperfect but functional. More importantly, it was a start.
The city air was cold as Nate stood on a rooftop, the Brooklyn skyline stretching out before him. His breath fogged in the mask as he crouched, muscles tense, chakra flowing through his veins to sharpen his senses.
The streets below bustled with late-night activity, bars, corner stores, and alleys where business was conducted away from the public eye. He moved silently across the rooftops, testing his agility, learning the rhythm of the city from above.
Then he saw it, a drug deal in a dimly lit alley. Two men handed over small bags while another counted cash. Nate observed, memorizing faces, the make of the car parked nearby, every detail. He pulled out a burner phone and dialed 911, reporting the crime anonymously. Then he waited.
Minutes later, a police car pulled up. Two officers stepped out. For a moment, Nate felt satisfaction, until he saw the exchange.
The gangster handed over a wad of cash. One of the officers pocketed it casually.
Gangster: "That's all of it. You keep the street clear, and we keep business moving."
Corrupt Cop: chuckling "As long as the cash flows, I don't see a thing. You boys stay quiet, I stay blind."
Gangster: "Pleasure doing business with New York's finest."
Nate's fists tightened around the ledge. Rage simmered in his chest, but he forced himself to stay still. He wasn't ready, not yet. Revealing himself now would waste everything he had been building.
He slipped away into the shadows, but the image burned into his mind. Corruption was not an exception, it was part of the system.
Back in his apartment, Nate shed the suit and sat heavily at his desk. He scribbled detailed notes in his journal, faces of the officers, names of the gang, the location. Every piece of data mattered.
He stared at the crime map, the red strings, the growing picture of decay. The city needed someone who could see clearly, someone who couldn't be bought or silenced.
His thoughts hardened, quiet but resolute:
"If the law is compromised, then justice has to come from outside it."
The night stretched on, but Nate did not rest. For the first time since his rebirth, he felt the path beneath his feet.