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Noah woke up sore.
Not the bad kind—the earned kind. His shoulders ached when he rolled out of bed, and his legs complained the moment his feet hit the motel floor. He stood there for a second, blinking, letting the stiffness settle.
"…Okay," he muttered. "That means yesterday actually counted."
After a quick wash and another sad breakfast of instant noodles, he headed out early. Same route as before. Same long walk away from Gotham's noise. Same open field waiting for him like it hadn't moved an inch overnight.
It felt good to come back.
Like this place was becoming his.
The grass was damp from morning dew, soaking into his shoes as he stepped into the field. The sky was pale blue, still waking up. No one around. No cars. No sirens.
Noah dropped his bag and stretched, arms over his head, back arching until it popped.
"Alright," he said out loud. "Harder today."
Yesterday had been about understanding. Today was about limits.
He set up his "training gear"—which was really just more cans, a couple of broken bricks he'd found nearby, and one heavier object: a rusted metal plate he'd dragged over from an old fence.
He started small. Always small.
One can. Gentle pressure. Controlled crush.
Easy.
Two cans stacked together. Same result, but slower. The pressure resisted him more this time, like reality pushing back just enough to remind him not to get lazy.
"Okay," he breathed. "I feel you."
He wiped sweat from his brow and moved on.
The brick was next. He didn't try to crush it—he wasn't stupid. Instead, he focused on cracking it. A flaw. A weakness.
There's always a weak point, he told himself.
He pressed his intent into the brick, imagining stress lines forming, pressure concentrating in one spot.
The brick trembled.
Noah's jaw clenched. His head buzzed, faint but sharp.
Then—crack.
A thin line split the brick in two.
Noah stumbled back, laughing breathlessly. "Oh, hell yes."
His hands shook, but this time it wasn't fear. It was effort. Like lifting a weight that was just barely within his limit.
"That's new," he said. "Definitely new."
He rested longer between attempts now. Sat down. Drank water. Let his breathing settle.
He was learning something important: this power wasn't just mental. It pulled from him. His stamina mattered. His focus mattered. His body mattered.
So he worked on that too.
Push-ups in the grass. Short sprints across the field. Squats until his legs burned. Then back to using his power while exhausted, testing how well he could control it when his body wanted to quit.
Not great, it turned out.
When he tried to bend the metal plate while his heart was racing, the pressure went wild. The plate twisted unevenly, screeching as it bent in places he hadn't intended.
Noah dropped his hand immediately, backing away.
"Yeah—nope. That's dangerous," he said, breathing hard. "Good to know."
He sat down heavily, staring at the warped metal.
Control drops when I'm tired, he thought. Which means using this in a real fight while exhausted is a bad idea.
The realization sobered him.
This wasn't a cheat code. It was a skill. And like any skill, it punished mistakes.
He trained until late afternoon, stopping only when the headache returned, stronger this time. Not blinding—but insistent. Like a warning knock.
"Alright," he sighed. "I hear you."
He lay back in the grass, staring up at the sky, chest rising and falling.
Today had been harder. Slower. More frustrating.
But also better.
"I'm not just guessing anymore," he said quietly. "I'm learning the rules."
That thought stuck with him on the walk back to the city.
Rules meant predictability.
Predictability meant survival.
Back at the motel, Noah showered, letting hot water pound against his sore muscles. He leaned his forehead against the tile, eyes closed, letting the day catch up to him.
I'm really doing this, he thought. I'm actually training like some kind of… protagonist.
The thought made him snort.
"Still can't fly," he muttered. "Still can't shoot lasers. Don't get ahead of yourself."
He dressed, collapsed onto the bed, and stared at the ceiling again—only this time, the stains didn't bother him as much.
A soft vibration buzzed from his pocket.
Noah frowned and reached for his phone.
Unknown contact.
His heart skipped once. Then twice.
No way.
He answered before he could overthink it. "Hello?"
"Hey," came a familiar, calm voice. "It's Pamela."
Noah sat up instantly. "Oh—hey. Hi."
There was a brief pause on the line, like she was smiling on the other end. "Hope I'm not calling too late."
"No, no," he said quickly. "I mean—yeah, it's fine. I was just… uh… resting."
"Long day?"
"You could say that."
She hummed softly. "I was thinking… would you like to have dinner tomorrow?"
Noah blinked, staring at the wall.
Dinner.
With Poison Ivy.
Tomorrow.
"Yeah," he said, a little too fast, then cleared his throat. "Yeah. I'd like that."
"Good," she replied. "I know a place. I'll text you the details."
"Looking forward to it."
"Me too, Noah."
The call ended.
Noah stared at his phone for a long moment.
Then he fell back onto the bed, covering his face with his arm.
"…Okay," he said to the ceiling. "Training arc and a date. Gotham is officially unhinged."
Despite himself, he smiled.
Tomorrow, he'd train again.
And tomorrow night… things were about to get complicated.
---
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