It had been a week since I'd heard from Erick. Seven whole days without a message, without a sign of life beyond the team's casual updates at Mount Justice. He'd mentioned, in passing, during our last night patrol, that he'd bought a new house—something about "a better place for the family"—but he didn't go into details. It was as if he'd thrown the information out there and let the wind carry it away. And then, he disappeared. No calls, no "hey, let's patrol today?".
Just silence. I wasn't the type of girl to obsess over someone, but it bothered me. Erick was busy, I knew—always locked in his basement tinkering with who-knows-what crazy inventions—but a whole week? It seemed... deliberate. As if he were dealing with something big enough to ignore the outside world, including me.
I woke that morning with the sun filtering through the thin curtains of my room, the cramped room with peeling walls and the lingering smell of dampness that never quite went away. My mother was already in the kitchen, the sound of banging pots echoing through the small apartment. I stretched, my muscles still aching from the solitary training session the night before—high kicks against the punching bag on the roof, repeating the sequences Dinah had forced us to practice on the Mount. My phone vibrated on the bedside table, a low sound that made me jump. I picked it up, expecting a message from the team—maybe Kaldur scheduling another boring simulation.
It was Erick.
"Come to the address: [coordinates]. Code: Echo-7-Bravo. See you there."
My heart skipped a beat. The security code — Echo-7-Bravo — was our personal signal, something we'd agreed on weeks ago to confirm the messages weren't traps. No hackers or imposters. It was him, without a doubt. But the address... I typed it into the phone's map and frowned.
Crestview Heights? Gotham's wealthy neighborhood, where old families like the Waynes and the Kanes lived in secluded mansions, surrounded by high walls and private security. What the hell was he doing there? He'd said he bought a new house, but... there? That didn't make sense. Erick wasn't one for ostentation; he was practical, almost minimalist. Or maybe I didn't know him as well as I thought.
I jumped up quickly, throwing a jacket over my old t-shirt and workout shorts. "Mom, I'm going out for a minute. I'll be back for lunch."
She appeared in the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Again, Artemis? You're hardly ever home lately. Does it have anything to do with that boy? Erick?"
I rolled my eyes, but felt a warmth rise up my neck. "It's nothing like that. Just... a workout. I'll be right back."
She sighed, but didn't insist. "Be careful out there. Gotham doesn't forgive distractions."
I left the apartment, descending the creaking stairs of the old building, the smell of accumulated garbage in the hallway making me wrinkle my nose. Outside, the humid Gotham air hit me like a slap—cold and sticky, with a gray sky promising rain. I called a taxi using the app—no patrolling in the morning; I wasn't in the mood to jump over rooftops for no reason. The car arrived quickly, a dented sedan smelling of old cigarettes. "Where to, miss?"
"Crestview Heights. Exact address here." I showed her my cell phone.
The taxi driver raised his eyebrows in the rearview mirror. "There? Okay. But it's far—it'll cost a fortune."
"No problem."
The journey took almost 40 minutes—leaving the cramped, decaying neighborhoods, climbing the wooded hills where the air was cleaner, the asphalt smoother, and the houses further apart. We passed mansions behind ornate gates: gray stone facades with pointed towers, immaculate gardens with fountains spouting crystal-clear water, and uniformed security guards patrolling the entrances.
It was the kind of place where old money was hidden, families like the Waynes living in secluded palaces while the rest of Gotham rotted. The taxi stopped in front of a colossal gate—more than four meters high, ancient wrought iron covered in thick vines that snaked through the bars as if nature were trying to reclaim the metal. Above, engraved on a polished bronze plaque, "Smith Residence." My stomach clenched. Smith? Erick Smith? This was his new house? A mansion in this neighborhood? How? He hardly ever talked about money, and now this?
I paid the taxi driver—a large bill, as he had warned—and he turned around at the fountain in front of the gate, an ancient stone structure with sculptures of nymphs and dolphins, now dry and covered in moss, as if it hadn't been used for years. The car drove away the same way, leaving me alone in front of the gate. I pressed the button on the intercom beside it—a modern metal box, contrasting with the old iron. A familiar voice, distorted by the loudspeaker, answered: "Artemis? Come in."
The gate swung open with a hydraulic hum, the vines trembling slightly. I stepped inside, the gravel crunching beneath my boots, and followed the path that snaked through a wild garden—overgrown shrubs, wildflowers encroaching on the flowerbeds, but with obvious potential for beauty beneath the neglect.
The mansion loomed before it like an awakened giant: three stories of dark gray stone, pointed towers at the corners, tall windows with faded stained glass filtering the gray morning light in subtle shades of blue and red. The facade was Gothic, like something out of a dark talebook, with gargoyles on the eaves and a marble staircase leading to the main door, flanked by statues of winged lions.
Erick waited at the top of the stairs—casually dressed, dark jeans and a black shirt that accentuated his defined shoulders, his black hair messy as always. He seemed... different. More relaxed, his shoulders less tense, as if an invisible weight had been lifted. His blue eyes shone with restrained excitement, and he descended the steps to meet me. "Artemis. I'm so glad you came. Let's go inside—I have something to show you."
I followed him, climbing the stairs and passing through the main door—a solid wooden door carved with nautical motifs, like ships and waves. The entrance hall hit me like a punch: colossal, with a black and white checkered marble floor, a crystal chandelier hanging from the high ceiling like a crown of dusty diamonds, and double staircases leading up to the second floor with wrought-iron railings. The walls were lined with dark wood paneling, with faded portraits of ancestors in gilded frames, and the air had an old smell of dust and polished wood. It was surreal—a period house, Gothic and luxurious, as if I had entered a living museum.
"Wow, Erick," I murmured, turning slowly to take it all in. "This is the new house you mentioned? This isn't a house—it's a palace. How did you... how did this happen? You said you bought a house, not a whole mansion in the rich neighborhood."
He smiled, slamming the door shut behind us with a resounding thud. "I made some deals. I sold some inventions to Bruce Wayne—exclusive rights to Wayne Enterprises. The patents brought in enough for that and then some. The royalties will keep everything running. But come on, I'll show you the rest later. I want to show you something first."
I followed him down the corridors—we passed empty rooms with carved marble fireplaces, auxiliary kitchens with weathered granite countertops, and even a music room with an antique piano draped in a dusty sheet. The mansion was gigantic, each room larger than my family's entire apartment, with high ceilings and plaster moldings that looked like works of art. I thought: He really is a genius. Selling inventions to Wayne? That explains his disappearance—he was busy becoming a millionaire. But why call me here? To show off the luxury? Or is there more to it?
We arrived at a reinforced metal door at the end of a more secluded corridor—unlike the old wooden doors, this one looked modern, with an electronic lock beside it. I noticed the cameras: two above the door, focusing on the access, and two behind us in the corridor, covering blind spots. Erick's paranoia, I thought, but I admired it. He typed in a long password—I counted at least 10 seconds of rapid keystrokes, without looking at any paper, memorized by heart. The door opened with a hydraulic click, revealing an old wooden staircase, robust as the roots of a centuries-old tree, descending into the shadows.
He went in first, and I followed. As soon as we passed through, he closed the door—a heavy thud, followed by automatic locks activating like a bank vault. "Welcome to my world," he said, descending the steps.
The basement opened up like an underground cavern—gigantic, stretching beneath the entire mansion, with branches that disappeared into the shadows. The ceiling was high enough to accommodate a second floor, supported by ancient stone arches that intertwined like the ribs of a leviathan.
Erick began presenting as we walked: "This is where I'm going to set up the new lab. The contractor I hired has already done the bulk of it—they installed the main wiring, reinforced the structures, and set up a private gym over there in the corner." He pointed to an area with pull-up bars, punching bags, and rubber mats. "But the scientific part, the sensitive projects... I do that myself. I can't leak that information to outsiders."
We stopped in front of a cooler room—the air conditioning hummed low, keeping the temperature low. Inside, a gigantic computer dominated: at least ten curved screens in a semicircle, forming a command station that enveloped the ergonomic chair in the center. Custom keyboards, tactile control panels, servers humming in the background like a mechanical heart.
"This is my fortress of solitude," he said with a satisfied smile. "Welcome to my world, Artemis."
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