Morning did not arrive so much as it asserted itself.
Light seeped into the city through narrow channels—between buildings, through grimy windows, along the edges of steel and glass that refused to soften no matter how the sun pleaded. Gotham accepted daylight the way it accepted everything else: with suspicion.
He observed it from above.
The rooftop was flat, unfinished, forgotten by everyone except pigeons and weather. He had climbed there before dawn, moving along fire escapes and maintenance ladders with a care that bordered on reverence. Each rung had been tested before weight was committed. Each landing had been checked for sightlines and sound. By the time the sky began to pale, he had already chosen this place.
Elevation provided perspective.
Not safety—never safety—but options.
He crouched near the edge, balanced easily on the balls of his feet, coat pulled close against the wind. Below, the city stretched outward in blocks and arteries, a vast machine whose purpose was unclear even to itself. Cars moved like blood cells, obeying signals that were sometimes honored, sometimes ignored. People emerged from buildings carrying fatigue like an accessory, their routines etched into posture and pace.
He watched.
Not with curiosity.
With calibration.
Patterns revealed themselves quickly when one did not look for stories. Delivery trucks favored certain routes. Pedestrians avoided others without knowing why. Police presence thickened and thinned in waves that did not always correspond to crime. There were invisible currents here—fear, habit, desperation—flowing beneath the surface of concrete.
He felt them brush against him.
Some glanced off. Others slowed, as if confused by his outline.
A woman across the street stopped abruptly, frowning, then shook her head and continued walking. A man on a fire escape paused mid-cigarette, eyes narrowing, then shrugged and went back inside. The city noticed him the way a body notices a splinter it cannot yet locate.
He shifted slightly, adjusting his silhouette against the sky.
Contain.
The rule applied not only inward.
He climbed down once foot traffic thickened, melting into the street with practiced timing. He kept his head level, gaze unfocused, posture unremarkable. Looking like you belonged was less about confidence and more about predictability.
He walked three blocks before anyone spoke to him.
"Hey, kid."
The voice was rough but not hostile. He stopped without turning, listening first. Footsteps approached—one set, uneven, carrying weight low in the body. Not a runner. Not a fighter.
"Kid," the voice repeated, closer now. "You lost?"
He turned slowly.
The man was older, maybe fifty, wearing a maintenance uniform faded to anonymity. His eyes were sharp in a tired way, assessing rather than threatening.
He considered several responses.
Silence would escalate.
Honesty would invite questions.
Confidence would provoke challenge.
He chose neutrality.
"Looking," he said.
The word felt… adequate.
The man studied him for a moment longer, then nodded. "Yeah. City does that to people."
He gestured vaguely down the street. "Shelter's two blocks that way. If that's what you're after."
Shelter.
The word settled into place, aligning with plans already forming. Information acquired without effort was still information.
"Thanks," he said.
The man grunted and moved on, satisfied. No alarm raised. No curiosity sparked.
As he resumed walking, he noted the exchange not for what was said, but for what was allowed. The city permitted this contact. Which meant it did not yet consider him dangerous.
That would change.
Everything that existed outside narrative order eventually drew attention.
He passed a newsstand displaying headlines heavy with familiar fear: crime spikes, corruption rumors, masked figures whispered about in careful tones. He did not linger, but his eyes caught fragments—patterns of escalation, cycles of violence normalized into background noise.
Something in him reacted—not emotionally, but tactically. This was a place where symbols mattered. Where perception shaped reality as much as action.
Masks would come later.
Not yet.
A tremor passed through him as he crossed an intersection—a subtle misalignment, like a step taken half a heartbeat too early. The world blurred at the edges, space thinning again, offering itself. His vision darkened for a fraction of a second, as if depth had collapsed inward.
He stopped.
Pedestrians flowed around him, irritated but uninterested. No one noticed the way the air seemed to fold, then snap back into place.
His hand tightened at his side.
Not here.
The pressure inside him surged—not violently, but insistently. It wanted release. Expression. Motion without restraint. He pressed it down with an effort that felt practiced beyond reason.
Contain.
He moved on, faster now, seeking quieter streets.
By midday, he had secured what he needed: a location where he could rest without being seen, access to water, proximity to movement without exposure. An abandoned upper floor above a closed bookstore offered all three. The stairs creaked, but predictably. The windows faced inward toward an alley that smelled of ink and dust rather than rot.
He sat on the floor, back against the wall.
The building hummed faintly, as if remembering its purpose.
For the first time since waking, he allowed himself to close his eyes.
Images stirred.
Not memories—structures.
A battlefield without sound.
Hands forming patterns too precise to be random.
A woman's voice, calm and absolute, speaking of seals and balance.
Eyes that saw too much and chose silence anyway.
He opened his eyes again.
Sweat beaded at his temples.
Whatever lived beneath his awareness was beginning to test the surface.
Across realms beyond measure, something ancient marked the moment.
Noted, Dream wrote, reluctantly.
The city continued to watch.
And for the first time, it wondered whether it was being watched back.