The stairwell was damp, narrow, and dim. Flickering ceiling lights buzzed overhead, on the verge of dying entirely. The pale glow barely outlined the cracked walls and the mold-streaked corridor ahead.
In the shadows, something skittered.
Then another.
Every few steps, a gray rat darted across the hallway, vanishing into the darkness.
Ren followed Drake down the corridor, trying to step around garbage heaps and avoid the foul-smelling runoff snaking along the edges of the floor. But the stench was unavoidable—it hit like a wave, sour and suffocating, forcing its way up his nostrils.
"I seriously can't take this," Ren muttered, voice pinched with disgust. "I mean, okay, I get it—it's a slum. Grimy, crowded, gross. But how does it reek this much?!"
Drake's muffled voice replied, "Not sure. Could be a body rotting in one of the units again."
"...Wow. Thanks for that."
Ren turned his head, only to realize the guy had plugged his nostrils shut with tissue.
He followed suit, pinching his nose. His voice went nasal and stuffy. "What kind of idiot hides a corpse in their own apartment until it starts rotting?"
"Doesn't have to be hidden. Sometimes people just... die. Addicts overdosing. Gangsters bleeding out. Landlord told me it's happened before."
"People still rent places like this?"
"You're welcome to book the presidential suite at the Wayne Grand or sleep under a bridge. Up to you."
Ren didn't answer.
He suddenly felt very thankful for the toxic corridor and its stench of despair.
Hotels were out of the question. He had no money. As for parks or bridge underpasses—best case scenario, he'd wake up with everything stolen, clothes and all. Worst case?
He wouldn't wake up at all.
No one buries you in Gotham. You just disappear.
Drake stopped at a rusted metal door and reached for the keys, but before he could unlock it, Ren raised a hand.
"Hold up. You got anyone else inside?"
"My wife."
"Right. So... how are you planning to explain me?"
"I'll say you're a friend."
"What's my name, then?"
A pause.
An awkward silence blanketed the hallway like mildew.
Ren raised an eyebrow. "You realize with thinking like that, you've got zero future as a criminal. Honestly, you might not even have a future in Gotham."
Drake's face flushed with irritation again, but he bit it back. "Fine. What is your name?"
"Ren."
"That's... kinda weird. Sounds Asian."
Ren blinked. "And what do I look like to you?"
Drake looked him over.
"Actually… yeah. You are Asian. But you don't feel like a foreigner. You've got this whole Gotham vibe. Cold stare. Sharp jaw. Little too comfortable in dark corners."
Ren felt a strange warmth bubble in his chest. For the first time since arriving, he felt... grounded.
So the system's fake identity actually worked. Not just documents—it altered perception too.
"Name's Drake Lane, by the way."
"Then I'll call you Drake. You're not... an archaeologist or anything, right?"
"Archaeologist? No. I'm a software engineer. Why?"
"Mid-thirties?"
"Thirty-three."
Ren made a mental note, then gestured toward the door. "Still doesn't explain how a guy like you ends up in a dump like this."
Drake's hand froze on the doorknob.
After a long beat, he withdrew the key and stepped back.
"I'll tell you," he said. "But not in there. Let's talk on the roof."
They turned and headed upstairs.
The stairwell was pitch black. Only the faintest sliver of moonlight filtered in through a broken window, dim and fragmented by dust. City lights bled in from far away, casting a sickly glow on the damp, concrete steps.
Neither of them spoke.
Their footsteps echoed hollowly with each floor, creating a somber rhythm—thud, thud, thud—as if the building itself mourned the lives inside.
Four flights up, Drake pushed open a rusted metal door. The rooftop stretched out before them, empty and cracked, a rusted railing hugging the edge. A massive billboard loomed to one side, its flickering neon glow barely bright enough to make out shapes in the dark.
The city loomed around them—Gotham's skyline etched in harsh lines, drowning in shadows and drizzle.
Rain fell in slow, inconsistent droplets, drumming gently against puddles like a ticking clock.
Drake sat on a beat-up iron chair near the ledge, wiping rainwater off the seat before settling in. The metal sent a shiver up his spine.
But maybe the cold helped.
Maybe it kept him from breaking completely.
"I came here for my wife," he said.
Ren didn't interrupt.
Drake took a breath, slow and shallow.
"I used to work in Metropolis. Software engineer. Good company. I figured I'd coast along until I got laid off. Which I did. At thirty-three."
He stared out at the city without seeing it.
"Six months before that, my wife started coughing a lot. Losing hair. I kept telling her to see a doctor, but she just kept saying she needed to focus on work. Wouldn't go until it got really bad."
He swallowed hard.
"One day she came home. Diagnosis letter in her hand. Looked like she'd been crying for hours."
Ren didn't say anything. Just waited.
"We thought it was nothing. Maybe stress. Or a bad flu. But the letter said it was something rare. Real rare. Some genetic disorder with a name I couldn't even pronounce. The treatment? Experimental. The drugs? Insanely expensive."
Drake's body hunched further forward, like the guilt itself was physically crushing him.
He clutched his head with both hands and pulled—actually pulled—at his hair. A few strands came free, sticking to his fingers.
Ren winced.
"She got worse. Fast. Lost almost all her hair. Started coughing up blood. Couldn't sleep. Her organs began shutting down. I tried. I really tried. I spent everything I had—savings, loans, everything. But it wasn't enough."
His voice cracked.
Then, finally, the madness in his eyes slipped through.
"But then… someone told us about a man in Gotham. A doctor. Victor Fries."
Ren felt every muscle in his body clench.
Oh no.
No. No no no—
Please don't say it.
"A genius," Drake said, staring out into the rain. "Cryogenics. Saved his own wife by freezing her. Put her in stasis until he could cure her. They said he was in Gotham now. Hiding."
Ren's thoughts screamed like sirens.
Victor Fries.
Most people knew him by another name.
Mr. Freeze.
Holy sh—
Ice.