The bell over the pawn shop door rattles like it's about to give up on life.
"Shop's open," a voice growls from behind bulletproof glass. "If you're here to steal, you picked the wrong—"
He stops when he sees me.
That's useful.
I stand just inside the doorway, rain-dark coat dripping onto cracked linoleum, hood down but collar high. The Nightseeker's Urban Arcanum doesn't look out of place here—more trench coat than robe, more urban than arcane. Black on black. Clean lines. The kind of outfit that says trouble without explaining what kind.
I look young.
I also look like I've seen things.
That usually evens it out.
"I'm not here to steal," I say calmly. "I'm here to sell."
The man behind the glass squints. Late forties. Scar across the cheek. Gotham native. The kind who survives by never being the dumbest guy in the room.
"Sell what?"
I don't answer immediately. Instead, I walk to the counter, boots echoing softly. Every step is deliberate. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Confidence sells better than any item.
I reach into my inner coat pocket and place three coins on the metal tray.
They land with a sound that's… wrong.
Too heavy.
Too clean.
Gold. Silver. Old designs—too old. No mint marks anyone in this city would recognize.
The pawn broker's eyes flick down. Then sharpen.
"…Where'd you get these?" he asks.
I shrug. "Inheritance."
He snorts. "Kid, if that's—"
"Test them," I cut in. Polite. Firm. "Acid. Weight. Whatever you use."
Silence stretches.
Then he grunts and slides the tray through a slot. He picks up the gold coin first, weighing it in his palm. His expression changes again—micro, but I catch it. Density checks out. Purity too high for costume junk.
"Sit," he says, nodding to a chair bolted to the floor.
I sit.
That's important too. I'm not in a rush. People rush when they're desperate or lying.
He disappears into the back. I listen.
The shop smells like oil, dust, and old metal. A TV murmurs somewhere, news talking about another gang shooting in Burnley. Gotham being Gotham.
I glance at my reflection in a cracked mirror behind the counter.
Sixteen.
That's the truth.
But I'm tall, shoulders set right, expression practiced. Eighteen is believable. Nineteen, maybe, if the light's bad and the mood's worse.
I can work with that.
The pawn broker comes back, slower now. Respect mixed with suspicion.
"These are real," he says. "Not plated. Not modern. Gold's… weirdly pure."
"Yeah," I say. "They don't make them like they used to."
He studies me. "You got more?"
"Yes."
"How many?"
"Enough to make this conversation worthwhile," I reply. "Not enough to flood your books."
That earns a thin smile. Smart answers.
"Alright, kid," he says. "Let's say I buy. You want cash?"
"Yes."
"Untraceable?"
"As untraceable as this city allows."
He nods. "And?"
"And I want something else."
His eyebrow twitches. "Of course you do."
I lean forward slightly, lowering my voice—not because I'm afraid of being overheard, but because this is the kind of thing you don't say loudly in Gotham.
"I want protection."
He chuckles. "This ain't a gun shop."
"I know," I say evenly. "That's why I came here."
The chuckle dies.
He looks at me again, really looks this time. The coat. The posture. The eyes that don't dart like a kid's should.
"…You know the rules," he says carefully. "No questions. No warranties. No guarantees you walk out alive if you misuse it."
"That's fine," I reply. "I'm not looking for a hero fantasy."
Another pause.
Then he exhales through his nose. "Jesus. How old are you?"
"Old enough to know I don't want to rely on luck in this city."
That's not an answer.
It's the right kind of non-answer.
He taps the glass twice. "One gold. Two silver. That'll get you cash, a piece, and something light. No serials. You didn't get it from me."
I glance at the coins still on the tray.
I nod once. "Deal."
He slides a form toward me. Blank. Just a pen.
"No names," he says.
I don't hesitate. The pen scratches.
A moment later, he disappears again.
I sit back, heart steady. Not racing. Not cold.
This isn't a moral compromise.
It's an adaptation.
Gotham doesn't care if you're good. It cares if you're prepared.
When he returns, the package is small. Wrapped in oilcloth. He sets it down without ceremony, along with a stack of bills held by a rubber band.
"Welcome to Gotham," he says flatly. "Try not to die."
I stand, pocketing the cash, tucking the bundle into my coat like it belongs there.
"Planning on it," I reply.
At the door, I pause and glance back.
"Oh," I add casually. "If anyone asks—these coins?"
He meets my gaze. "Never seen 'em."
Good man.
The bell rattles again as I step back into the rain, coat settling around me like a second skin.
I walk three blocks before ducking into an alley and stopping.
My hands shake. Just a little.
I breathe until they don't.
No spells. No shortcuts. No unseen advantages.
Just a sixteen-year-old in Gotham, buying his first insurance policy.
I look up at the skyline, rain streaking past gargoyles and broken angels.
"Alright," I murmur to myself. "We're doing this the hard way."
And for now?
That's exactly how it has to be.