Gotham City
The faint hum of traffic leaks through the cracked window. The room smells faintly of disinfectant and cold coffee.
The alarm blares cutting through the morning stillness.
Casey groans with his hand slamming down on it. The sound dies, but the weight of the day already sits heavy on his shoulders.
He sits up on the edge of his bed, blond hair a mess, eyes sunken with fatigue. Twenty-four years old, and already carrying the exhaustion of someone twice his age.
He showers quickly, the water lukewarm at best, then checks the clock on his phone.
6:25 AM.
Work starts at seven. Another shift, another day.
He runs a hand through his damp hair and heads down the narrow hall. The apartment is dim with wallpaper peeling, floorboards creaking but it was lived in. Family photos still cling to the walls with his father in a faded hockey jersey, him and Stephanie smiling back when smiles came easier.
He pushes open a door softly.
Inside, Marianne Jones lies awake in bed. Her breathing is shallow but steady, and the weak morning light catches the silver in her hair. An oxygen tank hisses faintly beside her.
She turns her head and smiles when she sees him.
"Morning, sweetheart."
Casey forces a grin. "Hey, Ma. You should be asleep."
"I could say the same to you." She studies him and sees the dark circles under his eyes, the stiffness in his movements. "You barely slept again, didn't you?"
He shrugs. "I'm fine. Just got a long day ahead, that's all."
She frowns softly. "Casey, you've been saying that every day this week."
He avoids her gaze, busying himself by straightening the blankets at the end of her bed. "Someone's gotta keep the lights on."
"You've been keeping everything on, baby," she says quietly. "But you can't run on fumes forever."
He chuckles, trying to make light of it. "Sure I can. Got it from you, remember, stubbornness runs in the family."
She smiles faintly, but her eyes glisten. "Stubborn, maybe. But not invincible."
Casey finally meets her gaze but there's a crack in his voice when he speaks.
"I can't stop, Ma. If I do... if I rest, things fall apart. Steph's got school, you need your meds, rent's due next week....."
"Casey," she interrupts gently, "you're killing yourself trying to save us."
He looks down, fists clenched. The old floor creaks beneath his boots.
"I just... I don't want you or Steph to worry. I can handle it."
Marianne reaches for his hand. Her fingers are cold but steady, gripping his tightly.
"I do worry. Every time you walk out that door with those tired eyes, I pray you come back in one piece."
He swallows hard, blinking fast. "You don't need to....."
"Yes, I do," she says, voice trembling. "You're my boy, Casey. I don't care how grown you are, or how much you've done. You still deserve to rest. To breathe."
Silence fills the room for a long beat. The city hums faintly outside.
Finally, Casey squeezes her hand, then gently sets it back down. "I'll rest after this week. Promise."
"You said that last week."
He forces a smile, backing toward the door. "Then I guess I'm consistent."
She watches him with that same tired loving look only a mother can give.
"Just... be careful out there, okay?"
He pauses in the doorway, eyes softening.
"Always, Ma."
He leaves before she can see the lie in his face.
He grabs his jacket and makes some coffee and heads to his sister room to wake her up.
The floor creaks under his boots as he stops at the last door on the left and it was painted purple years ago by a kid who wanted to make the world brighter.
He raises his fist and bangs on it.
Casey yells "RISE AND SHINE BRAT!" A groggy voice groans from inside.
"You're worse than the alarm clock!"
Casey smirks. "That's 'cause I'm louder."
He bangs again, harder this time, just to mess with her.
The door flies open. Sixteen-year-old Stephanie Jones stands there, hair a messy halo, drowning in an oversized T-shirt that says STAR CITY HOCKEY CAMP 2017.
She glares at him, half-asleep. "You're proud of yourself, huh?"
He sips his coffee, deadpan. "Very."
"Congratulations. You've ruined my dream about Bruce Wayne."
"Again?" Casey grins. "Kid, at this point, it's just weird."
She laughs despite herself, trying to push him away from the doorway. "Go to work, loser."
He steps aside with an exaggerated bow. "As your humble provider, I accept your disrespect."
Stephanie rolls her eyes and turns back toward her bed. He catches her shoulder before she can retreat.
"Hey."
She looks up. His tone softens.
"You got that math test today, right?"
"Yeah..." she says, a little unsure.
"You'll crush it," he says. "You're a Jones. We don't quit even when we probably should."
That gets a smile out of her. "You're such a dork."
He leans down and plants a quick kiss on her forehead. "A dork who pays the bills."
"Barely."
"Rude."
She laughs again, that warm, genuine sound that makes the cracked apartment walls feel a little less cold.
As he starts to walk away, she calls after him, her voice softer this time.
"Hey, Case?"
He glances back over his shoulder.
"Thanks... for everything."
He shrugs, trying not to let it show how much that hits him. "Just don't be late, alright?"
She nods. "Love you, idiot."
He smirks. "Love you too, brat."
Then he's gone with the door swinging shut behind him, leaving Stephanie smiling to herself in the soft morning light.
Casey steps out of his building, pulling his jacket tighter around him as the cold bites through. Coffee in hand, lunchbox under his arm wearing the uniform of the working poor.
He adjusts the strap on his tool bag and starts walking.
A homeless vet mutters to himself on the corner, holding a cardboard sign that reads
"WILL FIGHT CRIME FOR FOOD."
Casey drops a dollar into his cup without slowing down.
Across the street, a car alarm blares with a kid no older than twelve sprints off with someone's wallet. A couple of pedestrians glance over but keep walking. In Gotham, looking too long can get you killed.
Casey just keeps his head down.
He's seen too much of this city to be shocked anymore. The Narrows breed desperation, and desperation doesn't sleep.
As he walks, the cracked pavement gives way to an industrial zone with cranes, rebar, and skeletons of half-built towers loom over the smog. The sign at the fence reads
"WAYNE CONSTRUCTION - BUILDING A BETTER TOMORROW."
He snorts. "Yeah, right."
He flashes his worn ID to the gate guard, who barely glances at it before waving him through.
Inside, the air smells like diesel and dust. Men shout over the rumble of machinery. Sparks fly from welding torches. A jackhammer rattles the ground.
Casey ties on his hard hat and gloves, climbs up the steel frame of a half-finished skyscraper, and gets to work.
Every motion is muscle memory now lift, weld, hammer, repeat. Sweat runs down his neck even in the cold. His hands are rough, scarred from 4 years of work that doesn't pay enough to matter.
The foreman yells at a guy for dropping a beam too soon. Someone curses in Spanish. A crane groans overhead.
Casey barely hears any of it.
He just keeps his focus on the rhythm, on the noise, on anything that keeps his mind off the bills stacked on the kitchen counter or the sound of his mom coughing through the night.
At lunch break, he sits on the edge of the scaffolding, hundreds of feet above the city. Gotham stretches out below with endless rooftops, alleyways, and shadows.
From up here, it looks almost peaceful. But Casey knows better. Down there, someone's getting robbed. Someone's bleeding. Someone's giving up.
He takes a bite of his sandwich, stale bread and all, and stares out at the skyline and at the gargoyles watching over the city that never learned how to save itself. Then he looks in the sky and sees the Bat-Signal.
A soft sigh escapes him.
Casey thinks to himself "This place breaks everyone eventually. I just hope it breaks me last."
He finishes his lunch, stands, and goes back to work. The hammer meets steel again.
The shift ends after dark.
The air tastes like dust and metal, the kind of air that sticks to your lungs.
Casey wipes the sweat and grime from his face as he leaves the construction site. His shoulders ache, his boots are heavy, and the city's noise presses down on him like a weight with sirens in the distance, a couple fighting in an alley and a bottle shattering somewhere close.
He keeps his head down.
Just a few more blocks.
He's thinking about bills, about dinner, about how Steph always leaves the TV on when she falls asleep and that's when he hears it.
A scream.
High-pitched. Terrified.
A woman's voice.
He stops. For a moment, he tells himself it's just Gotham. Screams are part of the soundtrack here and you don't survive by following them. You survive by pretending you didn't hear.
He takes another step forward.
Then the second scream cuts through the air.
And this time, it's not just any voice.
It's hers.
"STEPHANIE!"
The name tears out of him before he even realizes it. His heart slams in his chest. His body moves before his mind catches up.
He runs.
Faster than he ever has in his life. Boots pounding against cracked concrete. The world blurs with streetlights streak past and faces turn in confusion but the city feels like it's closing in.
He turns a corner into an alley, lungs burning.
Two guys scatter at the sight of him with one clutching a torn purse and the other holding his cheek like he's been hit. They bolt into the night. Casey doesn't chase them.
He only sees her.
Stephanie sits on the cold pavement, one hand pressed to her face. Her backpack's spilled with books, papers, and a cracked phone scattered across the ground. Her eyes are wide, shaking but alert.
Casey drops to his knees beside her.
"Steph! Steph, hey, it's me. Look at me."
She blinks, tears welling up. "They tried to take my bag. I-I fought back, I swear....."
He cuts her off, pulling her into his arms. "You did good. You did so good."
She trembles against him, and for a second he just holds her with the adrenaline, the fear, the relief all crashing together.
Then he pulls back, brushing her hair aside. That's when he sees it.
A bruise is already blooming under her eye, dark and ugly.
"Jesus..." His voice cracks. "They hit you?"
She nods, small and ashamed. "I didn't-I didn't wanna call for help, but...."
"Hey." He lifts her chin gently. "You did the right thing, okay? You called, I came."
She manages a small, shaky laugh. "You came pretty fast."
"Damn right I did," he says, trying to smile but his jaw's trembling.
He glances toward where the men ran, and something hard flickers in his eyes. A deep, burning rage that doesn't belong to a brother but it belongs to something darker.
Stephanie notices, her voice soft. "Casey... it's fine. I'm fine."
He nods, but the look doesn't leave his face.
"No, Steph," he murmurs, barely above a whisper. "It's not fine."
He picks up her things, helps her to her feet. His hand never leaves her shoulder, as if she might vanish if he lets go.
As they walk home under the flickering streetlights, Casey's heart still hammers. Every sound, every shadow feels like a threat.
And somewhere deep inside, something shifts.
For the first time, Casey Jones doesn't just feel tired.
He feels angry.
The door slams behind them.
The apartment feels smaller than ever with the flickering kitchen light and the hum of the old fridge but the silence between them is loud.
Stephanie sits at the table, her shoulders drawn in tight. The adrenaline's gone now, replaced by exhaustion. She's holding a tissue to her face, but the bruise is already blooming, a deep purple shadow under her eye.
Casey moves fast, too fast, like if he stops moving, he'll fall apart. He rips open the freezer, grabs the first thing he sees which is a half-used bag of frozen fruit and presses it into a towel.
"Hold still," he mutters.
She flinches slightly when he presses it to her face, but he steadies her hand against it, his touch trembling.
"You gotta keep it on there," he says quietly. "Helps with the swelling."
Stephanie nods. Her voice comes out small. "It's just a bruise, Casey. I've had worse."
He stops moving. Slowly looks at her.
"You shouldn't have any," he says, voice cracking on the last word.
She tries to smile. "You should see the other guy."
He exhales. "God, Steph..." He sits down across from her, elbows on the table, head in his hands.
For a long moment, the only sound is the hum of the fridge.
"You scared the hell outta me," he finally says, voice raw. "I thought....." He can't finish the sentence.
Stephanie lowers the ice pack and looks at him. "I'm okay, Case. Really. They didn't....they just wanted my bag."
"That's enough," he says sharply, then softens when he sees her eyes widen. "I mean... that's enough for me. Enough reason."
He looks up, and she sees it.....that look. The same one he had when their father died, when the rent came due and the world felt unfair. That cold, focused anger that scares her more than anything else.
"Casey," she says quietly, "don't do that. Don't make that face."
He shakes his head. "I'm just... tired of this city taking from us. Every damn day it's something. The bills, the streets, the people. And I keep telling myself I can handle it, but then I see you...."
He stops again. His throat tightens.
Stephanie reaches across the table and takes his hand. "Hey. You are handling it. You've been handling everything."
He lets out a bitter laugh. "Yeah, well... look how that's going."
She squeezes his hand tighter. "You can't fix Gotham, Casey. You just have to survive it."
He stares at her for a long moment. The bruise under her eye, the strength in her voice. It was too much strength for a sixteen-year-old.
"I don't want you to have to survive it," he says quietly. "I want you to live."
Her lips tremble, but she smiles through it. "Then you gotta do the same."
The words hit him harder than she knows. He looks away, blinking back the sting in his eyes.
After a while, she leans her head against his shoulder. He wraps an arm around her, holding her close.
They sit like that for a long time.
Casey Jones closes his eyes and makes a silent promise.
Never again.