**Gotham International Airport - Sunday Evening**
Nemuri looked out the airplane window, watching the city sprawl beneath her in the fading evening light. The pilot's voice crackled over the intercom, American accent thick and tired: "Ladies and gentlemen, we're beginning our final descent into Gotham International. Local time is 6:47 PM. Weather is overcast, temperature 52 degrees Fahrenheit. For those of you visiting Gotham for the first time, please be aware that the city has specific safety protocols. Stay in well-lit areas, avoid traveling alone after dark, and follow local advisories. GCPD and emergency services can be reached at 911, though response times may vary. We hope you have a safe stay, and thank you for flying with us."
*Response times may vary.* That was one way to describe a police force that had essentially given up on helping normal people.
Nemuri collected her single suitcase from baggage claim, she'd packed light, mostly civilian clothes with one concealed copy of her hero costume just in case, and made her way through customs. The agent barely looked at her Japanese passport, stamped it without questions, and waved her through with the bored expression of someone who'd processed thousands of travelers and couldn't bring himself to care about one more.
The airport's main terminal was more crowded than she'd expected, but the crowd had a different quality than Tokyo's organized chaos. People moved with wariness, maintaining personal space, watching each other with the constant low-level alertness of those who'd learned that danger could come from anywhere.
She found the taxi stand outside, where a long line of yellow cabs waited in varying states of disrepair. She chose one that looked relatively maintained, a good sign of a driver who cared about their work, and slid into the back seat.
The driver was a Black man in his fifties, with graying hair and eyes that had seen too much. He glanced at her in the rearview mirror as she gave him the address of her hotel.
"First time in Gotham?" His voice carried the exhausted pragmatism she was learning to recognize as Gotham's default tone.
"No but it is the first in a long time"
"Ha, then allow me to welcome you back." He pulled into traffic—aggressive, fast, typical big-city driving. He navigated through this traffic with practiced ease though, Nemuri noticed he avoided certain areas completely, taking longer routes that skirted around neighborhoods that looked particularly rough.
"Advice?" the driver continued, his eyes constantly scanning the streets. "Don't go out after dark. Don't flash money or expensive electronics. Don't make eye contact with anyone who looks like they're having a bad day, which is everyone. He turned down a street that looked like it was too nice to be in Gotham.
"Where you staying?"
"The Clocktower Hotel."
"That's one of the better ones. Good choice. They got actual security, generators for when the power goes out, and they're partly owned by Wayne industries, plus there's no major villain in that territory, so it's safer than most."
They drove in silence for a few minutes, and Nemuri watched the city pass by her window. The decay was overwhelming, abandoned buildings on every block, graffiti declaring territory for various gangs, businesses with heavy security or no security at all, people huddled in doorways or walking with purposeful speed. Occasionally she'd see evidence of violence: burned-out cars, broken windows, bullet holes in walls.
This was where her son had grown up. This nightmare was his normal.
"That explosion last night," the driver said suddenly, breaking her thoughts. "You hear about that?"
"No, I just arrived. What happened?"
"Old Coal plant in the industrial district. Blew sky-high around 2 AM. The driver shook his head. "Used to be you could predict where trouble would be. Now it's everywhere, all the time. Used to be the mob ran things and at least there was order. Now you got supervillains trying to create anarchy with us regular people just trying to survive."
They were entering downtown now, the buildings getting taller and slightly better maintained. The Clocktower Hotel appeared ahead.
The driver pulled up to the entrance, where a doorman in a uniform waited. "That'll be forty-five dollars."
Nemuri paid, adding a generous tip. "Thank you. For the advice and the information."
"Just trying to keep another body from turning up."
She exited the cab, grabbed her suitcase, and headed into the hotel while the taxi pulled away. The doorman held the door with professional courtesy, the Clocktower Hotel's interior showed its age but maintained dignity. The staff looked professional and a team of armed security guards watched the entrance,
"Ms. Kayama, welcome to Gotham. We have you in room 847, that's a corner room with city views on the eighth floor. Breakfast is served from 6 to 10 AM, room service is available until midnight. Please note that we have security protocols, after 10 PM, all entrances except the main lobby are locked, and you'll need your room key for elevator access. If you experience any emergencies, dial 0 for front desk assistance."
"Thank you. Quick question is the surrounding area safe"
The clerk's expression became carefully neutral. "I'd recommend staying within three blocks of the hotel if you do go out after dark, and staying on well-lit main streets. Avoid the alleys and side streets. The area is relatively safe compared to other parts of the city, but Gotham doesn't really have genuinely safe areas anymore. Many of our guests prefer to order food delivery rather than venture out at night."
"Understood. Thank you."
Nemuri took her room key and took the elevator to the eighth floor to her room.
Room 847 was clean, spacious, and the windows—
The windows offered a panoramic view of Gotham City stretching out in the gathering darkness.
Nemuri stood at the window for a long time, just staring out at the city. Lights were coming on as true night fell, but unlike Tokyo, Gotham's illumination was chaotic, some areas bright, others completely dark.
And somewhere out there, possibly, was her son.
Nemuri closed the curtains, shut out the view of Gotham's darkness, and began unpacking her limited belongings. She found an emergency beacon Principal Nezu had insisted on and placed it on the nightstand, then pulled out her laptop and began reviewing the research she'd compiled before coming here.
First on her list: the apartment building where she'd abandoned her infant son all those years ago.
If Suguro Crane had survived, that was where his story had begun. And maybe, just maybe, someone there would know something.
**Monday Morning - West End Narrows**
Nemuri had barely slept. By 8 AM, she was in a taxi heading toward the West End Narrows, one of Gotham's poorest neighborhoods, where the address she'd memorized fifteen years ago waited like a wound that had never healed.
The morning light didn't make Gotham look better—if anything, it made the decay more visible. At night, shadows could hide the worst of the damage. In daylight, there was no hiding from the reality of abandoned buildings, streets full of potholes, businesses with permanent "CLOSED" signs, and people who moved through the morning with the defeated posture of those who'd given up on things improving.
The taxi driver, a different one from yesterday, a young Latina woman with multiple facial piercings and the same exhausted expression everyone in Gotham seemed to wear, had been reluctant to take her there at all.
"You sure about this?" she'd asked. "West End is rough. What's your business there?"
"Looking for someone. Or someone who used to live there."
The driver had shrugged. "Your funeral. I'll drop you off, but I'm not waiting around. That neighborhood, a nice cab like mine would be stripped for parts in under an hour. You want to leave, you'll have to call our company again and hope someone's willing to pick you up."
Now, as they drove deeper into the West End Narrows, Nemuri understood the concern. Buildings that should have been condemned years ago still had people living in them, children played in streets filled with trash and broken glass, groups of young men stood on corners with concealed weapons.
This was where she'd left her infant son. This nightmare had been his home.
The taxi pulled up to a building that made Nemuri's chest physically hurt to look at. Seven stories of water-stained concrete, broken windows, a front entrance with the door hanging at an angle, graffiti covering every available surface. It looked like it should be demolished, but she could see curtains in some windows, and evidence that people actually lived here.
"This is it," the driver said, sounding genuinely concerned. "You sure about this?"
"I'm sure."
"Okay. Good luck, I guess." The driver took Nemuri's payment and pulled away immediately, clearly uncomfortable remaining in this neighborhood for any longer than absolutely necessary.
Nemuri stood on the sidewalk, staring up at the building. She'd been here once before, nineteen years ago, to hand over her infant son to his grandmother.
Now, she forced herself to really see it, to understand what she'd condemned her son to.
The building's entrance door had been broken for so long that no one had bothered to fix it. Nemuri pushed it open carefully and stepped into a lobby. The floor was cracked, the walls were covered in more graffiti, and the elevator had a permanent "OUT OF ORDER" sign that looked like it had been there for years.
Seven floors. She'd have to climb seven floors of stairs that she could already tell would be even worse than the lobby.
She started climbing, her footsteps echoing in the stairwell. The stairs were concrete, cracked and damaged. Occasionally she'd pass a door to one of the floors, hearing sounds from behind them televisions, arguments, children crying, the ambient noise of people surviving in terrible conditions.
By the time she reached the seventh floor, she was breathing hard not from the physical exertion, though that was substantial, but from the emotional weight of understanding what every day had been like for a child living here.
Apartment 7C. The number was still there, painted on the door in fading white paint. The door itself was scratched and dented, with multiple locks installed—evidence of either paranoia or genuine security needs in a building where break-ins were probably common.
Nemuri stood there for a long moment, hand raised to knock, trying to gather courage. Then she made herself do it, knocking firmly on the door.
No answer.
She knocked again, louder, and waited. Still nothing.
The apartment was clearly empty, probably for years. She'd expected this, but the disappointment was still sharp. She'd hoped for some clue, some sign, some evidence of what had happened here.
She was about to turn away when she heard a door open down the hall. An elderly Black woman peered out, her expression wary.
"You looking for someone?" Her voice was rough from years of smoking, but not unfriendly.
"Yes, actually. I'm trying to find information about the people who used to live in 7C. The Crane family."
The woman's expression shifted to something that might have been pity. "Crane. That's a name I haven't heard in a while. You family?"
"Something like that. Do you know what happened to them?"
The woman studied Nemuri for another moment, then said, "You'd better talk to Jerome. He's the building manager, has been for thirty years, knows everyone and everything. His office is on the first floor, near the entrance. Can't miss it."
"Thank you. I appreciate it."
"Word of advice?" The woman's expression became more serious. "be careful in this building. We got good people here, but we got bad ones too, and strangers attract attention."
Nemuri nodded her understanding and headed back down the stairs, her mind already racing with what she might learn. A building manager who'd been here thirty years would remember the Crane family, would know what happened, might have information she desperately needed.
The manager's office was exactly where the woman had said, a small room near the entrance, Nemuri knocked, and after a moment, heard shuffling from inside.
The door opened to reveal a man in his sixties, overweight, unshaven, wearing sweatpants and a stained t-shirt. His eyes were bloodshot, and even at 8:30 in the morning, she could smell alcohol on his breath.
"Yeah?" His voice was rough, impatient.
"Are you Jerome? The building manager?"
"That's me. What do you want?"
"I'm looking for information about Apartment 7C. The Crane family. I understand they lived here several years ago."
Jerome's expression shifted from impatient to wary. "You a cop? Social worker?"
"Neither. I'm… I was connected to the family. From out of town. I lost contact years ago and I'm trying to find out what happened."
He studied her for a long moment, clearly trying to decide if she was trouble. Finally, he stepped back and gestured for her to enter. "Come in. But make it quick—I got shit to do."
His office was cluttered with maintenance requests he clearly had no intention of fulfilling, paperwork stacked in precarious piles, and bottles, empty and half-empty, scattered across every available surface.
"7C," he said, reaching for a bottle and taking a drink despite the early hour. "Old lady Crane's place. She's been dead, what, four years now? Maybe five. I'd have to check records."
Nemuri's heart was pounding. "What happened to her?"
"Jumped off a building during some kind of psychotic episode. Real mess, brains all over the sidewalk. Cops said it was a mental breakdown, maybe she was off her meds or something." He said it with the casual callousness of someone who'd seen too much death to be particularly moved by it.
"She had a grandson," Nemuri managed, her voice shaking despite her efforts to control it. "Do you know what happened to him?"
Jerome took another drink, his expression considering. "Yeah, I remember the kid. Quiet, kept to himself. Used to see him going in and out, always alone. Old lady Crane was a piece of work, heard her screaming at him through the walls plenty of times. Pretty sure she hit him too, but nobody ever called social services. In this building, people usually mind their own business."
He scratched his stubbled chin, thinking. "After the old lady died, social services were supposed to pick the kid up. I let them into the apartment, showed them around but the kid was gone. Vanished. Took some stuff with him, clothes, some books, whatever cash was in the apartment. Smart enough to disappear before they could stick him in the system."
"Do you have any idea where he went?"
"Kid that age, on his own in Gotham?" Jerome shrugged. "Either dead in a ditch somewhere, or got picked up by one of the gangs. That's what happens to runaways in this city most times you don't see them again at all."
Each word was like a knife to Nemuri's chest. She forced herself to keep asking questions. "Is there anything left? Any belongings, papers, anything that might tell me more about what happened to him?"
Jerome rummaged through his files closet, clearly trying to remember. "Building owner cleaned out the apartment years ago, sold what had value, trashed the rest. Furniture, clothes, most personal effects are all gone. But…" He pulled out a battered cardboard box, setting it on his desk. "There was this, I kept thinking maybe someday he'd come back for it, or someone would claim it. Never happened though."
He dumped the contents on his desk: a few photographs, some official-looking papers, and an envelope yellowed with age, addressed in careful handwriting: *To Suguro Crane*.
"You can take it if you want," Jerome said. "Not like the kid's coming back for it now."
Nemuri's hands trembled as she reached for the envelope. "May I look at the photographs first?"
"Knock yourself out."
There were three photos, old and faded. The first showed a woman Nemuri didn't recognize, presumably Suguro's grandmother, younger, scowling at the camera with obvious displeasure. The second was a school photo, the kind that came in cheap packages: a boy, maybe seven or eight years old, with dark hair and eyes that looked far too old for his face. He wasn't smiling, just staring at the camera with an expression of complete neutrality that was somehow more disturbing than sadness would have been.
That was her son. That was Suguro at seven or eight, alive, existing, already showing signs of damage in those eyes.
The third photo made her breath catch. It showed the same boy, slightly older standing next to a middle-aged woman in front of what looked like a library. The woman had her hand on the boy's shoulder in a gesture that seemed protective, almost paternal. Suguro's expression in this photo was different: not happy, exactly, but less empty. There was a note on the back in neat handwriting: *Suguro and Dr. Webb, after our first successful chemistry experiment. He has an extraordinary mind. - Dr Webb
"Who was Dr. Webb?" Nemuri asked, her voice thick with emotion.
"No idea."
With shaking hands, Nemuri took and opened the yellow envelope, carefully pulling out several pages covered in neat script. As she began reading, tears started streaming down her face despite her desperate attempts to maintain composure.
After reading it Nemuri couldn't stop the tears anymore. She sat in that cluttered office, holding a letter from a stranger who'd shown her son more kindness than she ever had, and sobbed.
Jerome shifted uncomfortably. "Hey, lady, you okay? You need water or something?"
"I'm sorry," Nemuri managed, wiping at her face. "This is just… it's a lot."
"Yeah, I can see that." He actually looked sympathetic now, the alcohol and cynicism fading slightly. "You really cared about this kid, huh?"
"He's my son," Nemuri whispered, the truth spilling out. "I left him here when he was a baby. I thought his grandmother would take care of him, or I told myself I thought that. Really, I just didn't want the responsibility, didn't want my career destroyed by being a single mother. And I left him here, in this place, with that woman, and I never checked on him, didn't send money, didn't do anything. And now I come back and find out…" She couldn't finish.
Jerome was quiet for a long moment, then took another drink. When he spoke, his voice was less harsh. "Lady, I don't know if this helps or makes it worse, but that kid was tough. Smart. Whatever he went through up there, he survived it. The fact that he disappeared instead of letting social services take him means he had a plan. Smart kids with plans sometimes make it in this city."
Jerome slid the box across the desk to her. "Take it all. The letter, the photos, whatever else is in there. Maybe you can find some kind of peace in it, and if you do find the kid, if he's still alive somewhere maybe don't lead with 'I abandoned you for your entire life.' Start with something softer, you know?"
Despite everything, Nemuri almost laughed at that advice. "Thank you. For keeping these things, and talking to me."
Nemuri gathered the box and stood to leave. At the door, she paused. "Do you remember anything else about Suguro? Anything at all about what he was like?"
Jerome thought for a moment. "Kid was quiet, like I said. But there was something about him that was… off, you know? Not in a bad way necessarily, just different. He'd look at you like he was studying you, analyzing. Never saw him smile or cry or show much of anything. Just that blank look, like he was watching the world from behind glass. Made sense after I heard about the grandmother, kid who gets beat down that hard learns not to show emotion. Safer that way."
"Thank you," Nemuri said again, and left the office before she broke down completely.
She made it out of the building and around the corner before she collapsed against a wall, clutching the box to her chest while sobs wracked her body. People passed by without stopping, in Gotham, a woman crying on a street corner was too common to merit attention.
She'd left her son here. In that building, with that woman, in this neighborhood.
What had he become to survive that?
Nemuri pulled out her phone, managing to request a taxi through her shaking hands. While she waited, she carefully examined the other contents of the box: a few more school photos showing Suguro at different ages, always with that same blank expression. A report card from when he was nine, straight A's in every subject, with teacher comments like "Exceptionally bright but socially withdrawn" and "Advanced far beyond grade level but shows no interest in peer interaction."
The taxi arrived—the driver took one look at her tear-stained face and had the grace not to ask questions. Nemuri gave him the address of her hotel and spent the ride staring out the window, seeing nothing, her mind spinning.