The night smells like wet asphalt and gunpowder.
I move through Gotham's alleys with Nightseeker's Urban Arcanum draped perfectly around me, coat collar high, hood casting my face into shadow. Coins exchanged. Gun acquired. Cash stashed.
A measure of safety.
Gotham doesn't respect safety.
It respects awareness.
Every shadow feels deliberate. Every echo carries weight. Footsteps bounce off brick and concrete, multiplying until it's impossible to tell how many people are really there. Sirens rise and fall like a sick heartbeat. Somewhere overhead, wings flutter—too heavy for a bat, too light for comfort.
"Not exactly the library I was expecting," I murmur, crouching beside a stack of rotting crates and peering down onto a dimly lit street.
The city feels alive in a way that goes beyond population density. Patterns overlap here—crime, fear, obsession—layered so densely they hum. My senses, sharpened by another life, catch things most people miss. The uneven rhythm of footsteps. The flicker of a streetlight timed too precisely. A man keeping pace with another while pretending not to.
Predator behavior.
I don't act.
Gotham punishes action.
My magic stays buried, coiled tight beneath my skin. One stray spark—one ripple in the wrong direction—and I become a problem that attracts bigger problems. The arcane answers when I test it, a soft hum of readiness, reminding me how easy it would be.
Control, I remind myself.
Always control.
I may look sixteen, but my mind is older than this city's worst secrets. Every decision is filtered through overlapping frameworks: modern social norms, Gotham's particular brand of violence, and the instincts of a spellcaster who survived wars fought in shadows and sigils.
A figure rounds the corner below.
Long coat. Gun visible. Posture relaxed in the way only armed men get. Not nervous. Not hurried.
Not prey.
I flatten myself against the wall and let the shadows swallow me. He passes without slowing. No glance upward. No curiosity.
Good.
Coins, guns, and cash won't save you if the wrong person remembers your face.
I check my pockets out of habit. Everything's where it should be. The remaining coins. The cash. The small pistol—unassuming, forgettable, deadly in the hands of someone desperate enough.
A crude solution for a crude city.
I climb higher, boots barely whispering as I reach a fire escape. From here, Gotham spreads out like a wound that never healed. Gothic spires pierce the sky. Gargoyles leer down at streets soaked in rain and regret.
Below, a group of thugs argue in low voices. A shove. A raised weapon. Someone laughs too loudly.
Then someone screams.
My muscles tense.
I could end it.
A single controlled burst. No visible light. No lingering signature if I'm careful enough. But careful isn't invisible, and invisible is what keeps you alive here.
Intervention creates patterns.
Patterns get noticed.
So I stay still.
Observation is survival.
Patience is survival.
I let Gotham do what Gotham does, even as every instinct screams at me to move. Instead, I map. Entrances. Escape routes. Blind spots. Patrol rhythms. The way the city breathes between sirens.
This isn't cowardice.
It's preparation.
A bottle shatters somewhere close—too close.
I freeze.
Breath shallow. Heart steady. Every sense sharpens to a razor's edge. For a long moment, the world holds still.
Nothing follows.
I exhale slowly.
Even without magic, even without allies, I am not helpless. But I am conspicuous—and in Gotham, conspicuous is a death sentence waiting for paperwork.
I adjust my coat, fingers brushing the hidden seams and reinforced lining. The Urban Arcanum settles around me like a second skin, silent and reassuring. My memories whisper reminders of what I am capable of—of what I must not become yet.
I am more than a sixteen-year-old with a gun.
I am Valerian Nightseeker.
And every step forward in this city will be a negotiation between knowledge, restraint, and timing.
For now, Gotham doesn't know I exist.
That must remain true.
I slip deeper into the shadows, a solitary figure against a skyline built on fear, watching and learning and waiting.
Because in a city that breeds nightmares…
…even a wizard's silence can be louder than any scream.