Terry didn't say anything at first.
He just stood there, damp cigarette between his fingers, glancing sideways at the stranger who had appeared like a ghost out of nowhere.
The streetlamps flickered over the nearly deserted road, their glow—faint and filthy—barely brushing the stranger's coat, as if even the light itself was too afraid to shine on him fully.
"Thanks for earlier…" Terry muttered, not quite turning to face him.
"I thought you didn't need the help."His voice was deep. Dry, but with something in it that made you listen.
"I wasn't talking about the fight," Terry added, exhaling the smoke slowly. "I meant the blackout."
Thunder growled above Neo-Gotham. For a split second, both of them were lit up. The streetlamps sputtered, unsure whether to stay on. The figure didn't flinch. He only asked, calmly, "Why do you think it was me?"
Watching how the man kept his distance, never letting his face be seen…
"I don't know…" Terry's eyes drifted back to the corrupt jewel of a city stretched out before him. "It's the way you appear and vanish like that. Either you're a hallucination… or you've got more tucked under that hat than you let on."
The other didn't answer right away. He let the silence stretch. As if weighing something.
"Mind if I ask you something, kid…?"
Terry nodded slightly without looking back, taking another drag from the damp cigarette.
"Why fight in a place like that?"The voice had changed. It wasn't cold, or judgmental. Just… curious.
"I need the money," Terry said bluntly, with a shrug. He didn't bother dressing it up. It was the truth—raw and unpolished.
"There are easier ways… faster ones. Illegal ones."
Terry turned. Slowly. His expression wasn't hostile, but there was something hardened in his gaze. The rain carved fresh scars into his already bruised face.
He remembered all the times someone had offered him a "quick fix": dirty jobs, shady drops, favors that came with no names. Sometimes they were tempting enough to actually consider.
And instead of answering honestly, he gave a crooked half-smile, tinged with sarcasm, and said:
"My mom raised me, that, right."
But the figure, soaked and still beneath the rain, didn't buy it.
"I'm serious, kid. All these years… you never stole, never crossed the line. Even though you could have. Even knowing how. Why?"
This time, his voice had shifted. Still firm, but now—something else. It sounded personal. Urgent.
As if the answer mattered more to him than to Terry.
Terry tensed. It unsettled him. Not the question itself… but the fact that this man seemed to know so much about his life.
"Old man—" he began, annoyed. But when their eyes met—dry, direct, like he needed to know—something inside Terry deflated.
His shoulders dropped a little. He exhaled.
"If I crossed that line… if I took the easy way out… how far would I fall?"
He stared at the shattered reflections of light in the stagnant puddle beneath his boots, as if trying to glimpse the life he never chose.
"One mistake's all it takes. To end up behind bars."
And he'd already been too close. Way too fucking close. Even with the Streamer incident still gripping his neck like a leash.
"I can't afford that…" he murmured.
It wasn't about high ideals or some abstract sense of morality.It was survival—emotional survival.If he went to prison, his brother would be alone.He'd have failed her.
And that—that—was a line he couldn't cross.
Looking forward again, Terry added, "And… I meant what I said about my mom." His voice was lower now, softer. "I don't think she'd like seeing me turn into a criminal."
Maybe it was the rain.Maybe the exhaustion.Or that damn hologram, smiling at no one—stirring up that familiar, gnawing loneliness.
Or maybe…Maybe he just needed to say it out loud.
Whatever the reason, Terry spoke the truth to the man behind him, while staring out at the city he both loved and hated—The city where the people he loved still lived, and...
The man in the hat didn't reply.He didn't need to.
But for the first time, his chin dipped—just slightly.
An involuntary gesture. As if Terry's answer had confirmed something he didn't want to admit, even to himself.
That's when the kid, still not looking back, asked:
"Can I ask you something?"
[…] Taking the silence as a yes. "Who are you?" And turning around, he added, "And why were you at my mom's funera—?"
But the question never finished.
There was no one there to answer it.
The figure was gone.
Only the rain, the empty road, and the distant breath of the city—flickering and pulsing with broken lights—remained around Terry.
As if he'd never been there.Or if he had…He'd vanished without leaving a single trace.
-
A few minutes later…
The lock gave way with a dull click, and the door creaked open slowly—just enough for Terry to drag himself across the threshold.
Helmet dangling from one hand, soaked hood hiding most of his face, except for the blood crusted at the corner of his mouth.
The apartment reeked of damp air, reheated food, dirty laundry… and the old man's booze.
No sound, except for the steady drum of rain against the windows.
Everything was dark.
Not because no one was home—but because Matt saved power like he was the one paying the bills.
Terry left his soaked boots by the door and stepped inside, leaving a trail of dirty water behind him.He walked in silence, careful, measured steps.He knew exactly where to step so the floor wouldn't creak.
Until—click—The lights snapped on as he crossed the living room.
"Where the hell have you been?"
The voice didn't come from some pissed-off dad or an adult in charge, but from a twelve-year-old kid on the couch, sitting there in the dark—waiting for him.
In front of him: a low table cluttered with noodle wrappers, empty bottles,and an open first-aid kit.
"Hey… what's up, Matt." Terry blinked against the sudden light, shoulders flinching out of habit.
"Don't give me that 'hey' crap." Matt's tone was sharp—but not cold.
It was the kind of anger that didn't want to hurt, just tried to cover the fear underneath.
The fear that one night, his brother wouldn't come back.
Terry paused, caught off guard. Then let the words out, low and tired.
"You should be sleeping…"
Matt didn't even bother responding. Instead, he got up, flicked on the headlamp strapped to his forehead, and motioned toward the couch.
"Sit. I need to close those wounds before they get infected."
Terry just wanted to collapse in bed and forget the world existed—but he sighed… and obeyed without protest.
Matt started cleaning the cuts with meticulous, almost surgical focus.
He'd taught himself, watching tutorials online, practicing over and over… with his brother as the test subject.
Despite his age, he made good use of those small hands—stitching, stapling, disinfecting like some old battlefield nurse. Not from textbooks—but from muscle memory and routine.
"You've got a real knack for this, y'know…? I barely feel your stitches anymore."
"Well… that's how it's supposed to work, right?" Matt didn't look up from the gash on Terry's forehead, sewing it shut like a total pro. "Like in games. My first-aid skill level must be pretty high by now…"
Then he glanced up at his patient, eyes sharp with reproach as he added: "Thanks to someone."
"…Sorry," Terry muttered, shrinking slightly. Then, trying to shift the mood, he grinned weakly. "So, what do you think, Dr. McGinnis?"
Matt froze for a beat, tweezers still in hand.
For just a second, it looked like he might smile. Just a flicker—like the idea almost made him happy… or maybe it hurt. Because it vanished as quickly as it came.
"It's expensive," he said, voice serious— almost out of sync with how young he sounded."Takes years before it pays off… and with all the AIs in medicine now, only the top of the top even get noticed."
Terry didn't see the problem. "Well, you could be one of those top guys, yeah?Tell me how many kids your age can stitch people up like this."
"Don't push it. You know what college costs." Matt's tone was firmer now. "I've got other plans… jobs I can start when I'm a bit older, while I'm still in the high sc—"
"Forget that." Terry cut him off, voice low. "You just focus on school and figuring out what you want to study. That's it. I'll handle the Eddis."
"But if I work too… and you pick up something part-time, we could cover rent. That way you wouldn't have to keep… getting into fights."
He said it with total seriousness, even if it was a little naive— as if life could be solved with simple math.
Naive, sure. But still perfectly in line with his age, despite how grown-up he tried to be.
Terry looked at him for a long second—a mix of guilt and warmth in his eyes—while Matt kept stitching.
He reached out, gently taking his wrist, making him look up.
"You're getting it twisted, little brother. I don't fight just for the money. It's something I… need to do. It's my shit. It's got nothing to do with you. Got it?"
Matt looked away, lips pressed tight. He nodded—but not like he really believed it.
A brief silence followed, until Terry spoke again—after a sigh loaded with all the things he wanted to say… but couldn't, or wouldn't.
"This is for you." His eyes lit up slightly as he pulled the Eddies from his wallet. He slid his thumb along the side of his neck, accessing the port just beneath the skin, and ejected the chip—freshly loaded.
Holding it out between two fingers, he added, "That should cover the whole month at the school cafeteria. And a little extra. In case you wanna buy something you don't actually need."
Matt took it like it was gold. After checking the balance, mentally subtracting food costs and calculating what he'd have left over, he asked, a bit unsure, "I can really spend this?"
"Of course. Treat your friends to a holo-room. Buy a couple games you've been eyeing. Do whatever you want. It's yours."
Matt smiled. Small. Tired. Genuine. "Thanks, Terry."
"Think of it as payment for a job well done," his brother replied, now fully stitched up and already starting to heal.
Before he could say anything else, the sound of a creaking door echoed from down the hall.
A staggering figure appeared in the doorway—sweaty shirt stuck to his chest, glazed-over eyes, and a half-empty bottle in his hand.
Jack.
"Terry! I need money. Now!"
Matt went rigid. Terry didn't get up from the couch. He didn't even change his expression. He just looked up—calmly, painfully calm.
Watching his father sway, glancing over his shoulder like someone might be following him, Terry muttered, "Betting with money you don't have again, old man?"
"Not your damn problem!" Jack barked, stumbling closer, his voice turning mean and low like some two-bit thug. "Give me what you've got."
Terry let out a dry laugh. Hollow. Humorless. But full of contempt. "You'd have better luck selling your ass in an alley than getting a single Eddie out of me."
Jack looked at him like a cornered dog—rage, fear, and rotting pride all tangled in his eyes.
"DON'T YOU FUCKING MOCK ME!" he screamed, lunging when words failed to erase the disgust in his son's face.
But Terry wasn't a kid anymore. Not someone to be shoved around and treated like garbage.
He stood up.
Slowly. Calmly.
Two quiet cracks sounded as he rolled his neck, then leaned in slightly—having to look down to meet his father's eyes, now hunched from booze and kidney damage—and invited him.
"Come on, old man. Let's dance."
No need to raise his voice to be intimidating—unlike the man in front of him
Jack froze. He was met with a bruised face and those piercing blue eyes—so cold they put pressure on his chest. He instinctively took a step back.
But even drunk, he couldn't stop spewing venom just to feel like he still mattered.
"Ungrateful little shits… just like their whore of a mother…"
Terry didn't care what Jack said anymore. But Matt...
Matt lowered his head. His lips trembled, and with the chip Terry had just handed him clutched in one hand—like it weighed too much—he murmured:
"If you really need it... I could give him something."
Terry looked at him, stunned… and Jack, hopeful.
"What!?" they both blurted out, though their tones couldn't have been more different.
Looking at his brother, puzzled, the boy explained, "You said I could spend it on whatever I wanted, didn't you?"
"Matt..." was all Terry managed to say, as if the kid's good intentions weren't worth the pain that would follow.
"If you won't let me do that, then what's the point?" the boy replied—once again sounding far too mature for his age… at least for certain things.
Knowing him well, and expecting nothing good from Jack, it hurt Terry just to imagine what was coming... but even so, he nodded.
"Thanks," Matt added with a sad smile, like deep down, he already knew too.
The chip blinked with a faint blue LED at his neck as it transferred the "extra" to Jack's IDn.
Seconds later, Jack received the notification. When he saw the amount—something meaningful for a twelve-year-old, but not nearly enough for a forty-something drunk drowning in debt.
"That's it?" he scoffed, clicking his tongue. "That's on me… What was I expecting from a damn kid…"
Figuring it might at least be enough to call back the car waiting for him out in the rain, he turned around and stumbled off.
Once Jack was gone, the silence inside the house turned… thick. Bitter.
Only broken by the furious drags of the cigarette Terry lit in a desperate attempt to calm himself enough not to go out there and beat the shit out of the drunk who had just hurt his little brother again.
In a low, almost inaudible voice, Matt turned toward Terry, who was silently smoking.
"Sorry… It was your money. You were right. I shouldn't have done it."
Terry didn't respond right away. He let out a long cloud of smoke. Then, without even looking at him, shook his head.
"You did good."
Matt frowned, confused.
"Giving money to that Drunk?"
Terry finally looked at him. His eyes were tired, but honest.
"No."
He took another drag, then added:
"For choosing to try and help someone… instead of wasting it on dumb stuff. That says a lot about you."
Matt looked up. His eyes were still hurting, but no longer broken. A small smile grew—not for a father who had wasted the moment, but for a brother who hadn't.
Just then, his IDn pinged: a transfer received.
Exactly the same amount he had given away.
Matt blinked in surprise, then turned to his brother.
"Thanks," he said, with that kind of tender relief that only comes when someone truly understands what you were trying to do.
Terry didn't answer. He just nodded slowly.
Snuffing out the cigarette early and tossing it into a half-empty ramen cup, he ruffled Matt's hair and said, "C'mon. Let's hit the hay. We got school in a few hours."
"Yeah..." Matt yawned, already picturing himself in bed as he headed off to his room.
-
Just two weeks later… just as he had warned.
Serving trays glided softly along magnetic rails between the tables. A pale white steam rose from the freshly printed meals, filling the air with the scent of synthetic spices and lab-grown protein.
Holographic screens hovered in front of columns and walls, projecting the news from Neo-Gotham—completely ignored beneath the noise: laughter, overlapping conversations, and the steady clatter of utensils on plates of artificial meat.
The headlines scrolled by, same as always: traffic accidents, murders, gang wars, global warming updates, corporate mergers, stock crashes, and the latest GravBall and PulseShot results. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Matt made his way through the Hamilton Hill High School cafeteria with his tray in hand, eyes scanning for an empty table, his friends trailing behind, doing the same.
He wore loose, street-kid-style clothes, with visible stitching and patches he'd sewn himself. Most of what he wore had once belonged to Terry—faded jackets, fraying hoodies, torn jeans...
And though everything about him screamed "hand-me-down," there was—something—that made it work. As if, without trying, he'd inherited a bit of his brother's style… or maybe his aura.
As he passed the far end of the hall, Matt's steps began to slow.
At a long table near the windows, a burst of familiar voices and laughter made him stop.
There they were—The seniors.
One of them, wearing a worn-out leather jacket covered in scratches, smirked with half a mouth. He seemed to be listening, but said little. His posture was relaxed… and yet tense, like he was always halfway between staying and walking away.
Next to him, the girl with dark eyes, lips and hair black as ink, held onto his arm—like she was anchoring him to the table, and to the group.
"That's… your brother, right?" asked one of Matt's friends, though he already knew the answer.
Matt didn't reply. Terry's reputation spoke for itself in the halls of Hill High.
The incident with the Streamers still floated around like urban legend, and the video of it on CyberTube kept being passed down like a torch between generations of incoming students.
Besides, Terry showed up each week with new injuries, and since he never explained any of them, the rumors did the rest.
Some blamed his alcoholic father, imagining beatings behind closed doors. Others… came a little closer to the truth—even if they were still only rumors.
When their eyes met, Matt raised his hand—hesitating for a second, as if unsure whether he was interrupting.
Terry replied with a faint smile and a visible nod. His friends hesitated… then gave a wave as well, a little nervous, a little starstruck.
Matt was just about to keep walking when Maya, who hadn't missed the exchange, called out with a grin: "Hey, Matt! Come over here!"
As he approached the table, Matt immediately recognized Maya, seated next to her best friend: Chelsea — a blonde with short hair and eyes as blue as they were sharp.
Beside them, wearing the captain's Grav-Ball jacket, was Nelson Nash — tall, broad-shouldered, with a chiseled jaw and that perfectly sculpted haircut only the popular —or the painfully vain— could pull off.
On the other side of the table, Terry sat quietly, and next to him, Milo was locked in combat with what remained of his lunch.
"Okay, okay…" he muttered to himself, speaking to the contents of his tray with disbelief. "You're tofu. The softest substance mankind has ever invented. This should be easy. Basic. Cooking level: minus one."
Milo gave it another go. The plastic knife pressed down, the tofu compressed under the dull, serrated edge—then bounced right back into shape like it was made of rubber.
"You're seeing this, right? Am I crazy or is this shit indestructible?"
Terry let out a small laugh, eyes still on his tray."It's not you," he said. "Must've been a bad print."
Milo, clearly entertaining a different theory, held the knife up and inspected it for a moment. Then, pointing it vaguely in Nash's direction, he mused aloud:
"Do they really have to treat us like Arkham inmates? Like giving us real cutlery would instantly lead to slit throats?"
The knife wobbled in his hand, completely harmless… and yet, something about the casual way he swung it around—pointing, however vaguely, at his former bully across the table—cast a momentary chill over the group.
Like, just for a second… maybe he was imagining it.
Nash scowled and gave him that sour, disgusted look before muttering:
"You're a fucking freak."
Milo stopped. Slowly set the knife down, as if waking from a dream, and placed it on his tray with deliberate calm.
"And you're a walking steroid commercial," he said, glancing down at his plate with theatrical finality, "yet here we are... sharing tofu."
Chelsea let out a snort of laughter, and Maya brought a hand to her forehead—amused, but resigned. Terry just smiled, like someone who already knew these exchanges never led anywhere… but at least gave his days a touch of normalcy.
Nash, however, tensed like he was about to lunge—and for a second, it looked like he just might.
That was enough for Terry to lift his eyes and fix them on him… waiting to see what he'd do next.
He didn't say a word.
Just looked at him—with tired, steady eyes.
Nash froze. He didn't back down, but he didn't move forward either. His hands gripped the edge of the table. The smirk vanished from Milo's face. Maya glanced sideways at him.And Chelsea, without raising her voice, spoke with a sigh:
"Nelson. Relax. This isn't the field."
Nash exhaled sharply through his nose, like a bull reined in just before the charge, and dropped back into his seat—though he never quite took his eyes off Terry.
That was when Matt and his friends, now only a few steps away, realized they'd walked in at the wrong moment.
One of them even stopped mid-step, like he was about to turn back.
Maya, once again, was the one to ease the tension as she turned toward the newcomers with a warm smile.
"How's it going, guys? Classes treating you okay?" Chelsea picked up the thread: "Did you survive Closed Field Dynamics?"
Nash brought both hands to his head, like the war flashbacks were kicking in.
Matt shook his head with a resigned smile."Not yet… but they already dropped the Feynman test on us."
At the mention of Feynman, everyone at the table visibly flinched.
"Ugh. Good luck, mini-McGinnis," said Milo, lifting his chin in solidarity before going back to poking at his rubbery tofu.
Nash… surprisingly—and the reason Terry tolerated the former bully—was…
"Hey, you," he said suddenly, turning to Matt with a tone that bordered on hostile, and yet didn't make Terry react. "Don't forget tactical review before Friday."
Nice. Though he spoke with an almost military edge, showing off his background, speaking like it was something important—to him, at least.
Then he added, "We've got a game against Westbridge on Saturday, and as captain, I don't want the junior team embarrassing the whole school. Got it, mini-McGinnis?"
Matt, struggling to balance his tray in one hand, straightened up instantly, almost standing at attention.
"Yes, sir!"
"That's what I like to hear."
Nash turned back to the others, his smirk returning—cocky as ever, but this time laced with camaraderie—as he threw an arm around Chelsea's shoulder.
"And you lot… if any of you want in on the team, there's always space. For anyone with some balls…"
"Yes!" Matt's two friends replied in unison, like they'd just been drafted by some charismatic general. "Thanks, captain!"
Nash nodded, clearly amused, and went back to his food like nothing had happened.As the younger boys walked off to find an empty table—still riding the high of the captain's approval—Milo didn't take long to break the short silence that followed.
"Hey, Nash, can I ask you something?" he said, leaning over the table with mock seriousness."Why are you so nice to them? I mean… I've basically got the same body as a twelve-year-old, and you used to shove my head into the damn urinal."
His tone was light, even playful—but the crooked grin said it all: the jab behind the joke wasn't entirely a joke.
"Because you're seventeen, no matter how you look," Nash replied, not even glancing at him."And besides, first day of school, you cried when that training drone hit you. Remember that?"
"It lost control and clipped me in the ear! I had to wear protection on my left side for months, asshole!"
"Hahahaha… stop, seriously. Just thinking about those ridiculous ear guards brings back the good old days."
"Asshole!!"
"Midget!"
Terry stood up, picking up his tray. "I'm gonna take a piss. Try not to get all sentimental in front of the girls."
"What the hell are you talking about?""What the fuck, McGinnis?"They both shot back at once, clearly offended.
Terry raised his eyebrows, half-smirking. "Hey, you know what they say... there's a fine line between love and hate. And in your case? A gay one."
The two of them froze, staring at each other, as McGinnis had just Incepted them—planted a thought in their heads without permission.
Like when someone says: "Don't think about a pink elephant." ...or "Don't inherit your dad's energy monopoly."
In the middle of that awkwardly pink silence shared by Milo and Nash, Maya spit out her soda with a snort, and Chelsea covered her mouth to keep from choking on laughter.
"You asshole, McGinnis!" Nash muttered, shaking off the mental image like cold water.
Milo, quicker on his feet, clutched his chest with a hurt expression and shouted, looking at Nash with exaggerated drama:
"What we have is platonic, asshole!"
-
Terry stepped into the bathroom and shut the door behind him.
He leaned over the sink, and once he made sure he was alone, he took off the mask.
The reflection staring back at him was nothing but a pair of hollow eyes, framed by exhaustion…But there was something else.
Anxiety.Fear.
Feelings that had been clinging to him ever since his last visit to Arkham.
And today… they felt heavier than ever.
So heavy that, for a moment, he could hear that laugh.
'That damned metallic laugh.'
Grating. Mocking. Like all of this—the tension in his neck, that gnawing dread—was exactly what he wanted him to feel.
Terry closed his eyes and let the cold water slap him in the face.
He took a deep breath and, instead of lashing out and smashing the mirrors like some angry teen, he forced himself to focus on the sound of the running water… drowning out the laughter echoing from somewhere deep inside.
When the silence finally came, he opened his eyes and repeated the mantra he'd told himself a hundred times:
"He won't come out. It was just one of his countless provocations. Nothing more."
He put the mask back on and walked out of the bathroom.
-
As soon as he set foot outside... he felt it.
The cafeteria hallway—once a hive of laughter, arguments, and overlapping chatter—was now... silent.
Only the distant murmur of the news could be heard at last, no longer drowned out by the constant noise of the students.
Terry walked forward, frowning, confused.
The trays sat untouched on the tables. The students stood frozen, as if time had stopped in the middle of lunch.
All of them... staring at the nearest screen.
Terry's heart began to race—especially when, sensing his presence, the gazes slowly shifted toward him. Like one of those nightmares he'd heard anxious people describe: every eye on him, with no idea why.
And then he saw it.
Matt. His tray dropped at his feet. His body frozen in place before a screen, as if something had surged through him.
Beside him, Maya was holding him close. Her eyes were red, barely holding back tears. Chelsea stood a few steps behind, a hand over her mouth, and Milo was brushing food off his clothes.
Even Nash, without a word, had placed a hand on his shoulder.
Terry pushed his way through the students.
He didn't care about the stares, or the heavy silence. He just needed to reach him.
"Matt!" He dropped to his knees, speaking in a tone more shaken than anyone had ever heard from him. "What happened? Are you okay?"
But the boy didn't answer. He just trembled faintly, as if the shock had suspended him between two different timelines.
"McGinnis…" Nash murmured softly, without a hint of arrogance.
Maya tried to speak, but her voice was barely a whisper."Terry... I'm so sorry."
That's when Matt lifted a finger. Slowly. Shakily. And pointed to the nearest screen.
Terry followed his gaze—and finally saw it.
The headline read: [Breaking News – Over 40 Dead. Massacre in Night City.]
The footage showed the parking lot of a bar, filled with smoke, sirens blaring, charred bodies being covered with thermal blankets—the same kind they used to cover his mother's body.
The news anchor's voice continued:
["The suspect, identified as Lucien Hex, a.k.a. Viper, had previously been institutionalized at Arkham following a nearly identical incident ten years ago. Despite his record, he was deemed fit for an experimental reintegration program and was released..."] Even the anchor struggled to finish: ["...a week ago."]
Terry didn't blink. In disbelief.
No one else in the cafeteria moved either. No one spoke.
He was really telling the truth… he kept repeating, unable to believe it.
On the screens, the images changed.
Showing footage from that night.
The bodies. The smoke...
The intersection...
And at the end—The viral image. The one that had immortalized the worst moment of his life.
On hundreds of screens throughout the entire school—at the exact same time.
A child on his knees, in shock, clutching his mother's hand still beneath the thermal sheet.
Like a single organism, the entire cafeteria turned to face him.
Watching that image... reliving it together; the victim turned into spectacle—again.
The memories came crashing down like a tsunami, dragging Terry back to that child in the rain, clutching the burned arm of his dead mother.
Then came the final blow. The cherry on top. The commentator's voice, relentless, sealed it:
["The NCPD has opened a dedicated tip line for any information that could lead to the whereabouts of the primary suspect, currently wanted and at large. Given his record in our city, authorities have also requested the cooperation of Neo-Gotham citizens."]
As his clenched hands bled and trembled from the pressure, a sarcastically cruel phrase slipped into his mind—in that metallic voice he hated most:
'Hope you don't lose it again when you see me out here free.'
It shattered what was already broken.
As if a dam had burst, every laugh at his expense—and at his dead mother's—every taunt from two years of voluntary psychological torture, came roaring back inside his skull.
Until they merged into a high-pitched, watery ringing that drowned out everything else... and unleashed something dark—something buried deep in his chest.
Then, without warning—
"Grab your things. We're leaving." His voice… sounded broken, yet steady—so calm it unsettled Matt, who couldn't tell whether to be scared or simply obey.
His friends —Maya, Nash, Milo, Chelsea— took a step back without even realizing it.
It wasn't his posture, or the silence surrounding him…
It was his eyes.
If they were truly the windows to the soul,
then in Terry's blue ones…
There was no light.
No reflection.
They were coldly pale, almost translucent.
And behind them… Something hollow.
Something that made them want to look away.
Matt blinked. Once. Twice.
He was barely processing. His brain was too slow to catch up.
Terry didn't wait. He turned on his heel and walked out of the cafeteria. Eyes locked ahead. Jaw clenched.
Matt finally followed him.
Maya stepped forward to stop him.
"Terry, wait!"
He froze… But when he turned and she saw his face—She felt fear. Worse than when they were fourteen.
Terry noticed.
And still… he kept walking.
-
A few minutes later...
An old motorcycle, patched up and plastered with stickers, came to a stop in front of the run-down apartment block. The hum of the engine still echoed when Matt clumsily climbed off, as if his legs weren't fully responding.
Terry didn't kill the engine. Didn't even get off the seat.
He just said, "Go inside. Get food and water. Lock your bedroom door from the inside. Don't open it for anyone." He paused, then added with sharp clarity:
"For no one, Matt. Especially Jack. Got it?"
The boy swallowed hard, still curled in on himself from everything they'd just seen. He climbed the first two steps of the building with shaky legs—then stopped.
He turned around. And though fear clung to every inch of him, he managed to ask:
"T-Terry… where are you going?"
The visor of the helmet was still up. And though Terry's eyes remained just as hollow as in the cafeteria, his lips tried—barely—to lift into the shape of a smile.A small, forced gesture. Almost a parody of reassurance.
"I just need some air…" His voice was gentle. Almost normal. "I'll be back in a few hours. Don't worry."
Matt looked at him. He knew it was a lie.But he also knew it was the kind of lie Terry needed to tell—for his own sake.So he forced a half-smile in return, as if both of them were pretending for each other.
Terry looked down for a second before speaking again:
"Remember what I said. Take what you need. And don't let anyone into your room. Got it?"
Matt nodded one last time. No words. Just a silent gesture.And the boy crossed the threshold of the building alone—without looking back.
Terry watched until the door closed behind him.
Only then did he lower the visor.
And without another word...
He revved the engine.
-
The highway stretched out before Terry—a river of lights and asphalt under the light drizzle.He rode recklessly, weaving between vehicles with a mix of fury and barely contained desperation.
Suddenly, a digital traffic screen suspended over the road lit up, displaying a message in white letters on a black background:
Where are you going?
Terry hesitated, his fist tightening around the handlebar.He couldn't tell if the message was really there or just something his mind had conjured.Even so, he answered quietly inside the helmet:
"I have to do something."
The screen flickered, as if it understood.
What do you plan to do?
Terry kept his eyes on the road, but his voice grew firmer.
"Find my mother's killer. He has friends in the city. They'll know where he's hiding."
A heavy silence. The road continued—endless. And so did the screens above it.
And if you find him...?
Terry gripped the handlebar even tighter, his knuckles pale from the strain—and answered with a single word that transcended time and era.
"Vengeance."
Then the screen displayed one final line.
It's time we meet face to face.
At that exact moment, a notification blinked into existence on his IDn interface—a message from an encrypted signal.
He copied the coordinates into his HUD's GPS.
An augmented reality route lit up in red, pulsing softly...
Catching him off guard when it guided him toward...
Wayne Manor.