CHAPTER FOUR: STREET SMARTS

The Narrows had a way of pressing down on a person, a crushing weight that seemed to settle into your bones. Like most of Gotham’s rundown neighborhoods, the buildings here loomed too close, their jagged shadows stretching longer, their facades worn and battered from years of neglect. The air was thick with the mingling odours of uncollected garbage and stale smoke. The distant noise of shouting, shattering glass, and the ever-present wail of police sirens blended into a low, unending hum.

If Gotham was a predator, then the Narrows was its stomach—a place where the city’s weakest and most desperate were ground down and forgotten.

Taylor kept her head down as she walked cautiously through the cracked streets, the few unbroken streetlights casting intermittent pools of flickering, pale yellow light below. Every instinct told her to be careful and keep moving. She could feel eyes on her—watchful, wary, and unfriendly—from darkened windows and half-open doors.

She hadn’t ventured into the Narrows by choice. Necessity had driven her here. The anonymity offered by these streets was as much a curse as it was a shield. No one cared enough to ask questions about a pale, gaunt girl in oversized, dirty clothes. People here moved with a purpose born of fear, their heads low, their steps hurried. Lingering too long in one place invited trouble.

Her stomach growled, the sharp ache of hunger a reminder that her last meal—a stolen sandwich hastily eaten on the move—was hours behind her.

She grimaced. Food and shelter were still her priorities, though her failed attempt to stay at the church the previous night had forced her back into the cold—chased off by the squatters who had already claimed it.

Yet the longer she wandered the Narrows, the harder it was to ignore the demands of the neighborhood itself. The tension here was palpable, reflected in the hunched shoulders and hollow eyes of everyone she passed. It reminded her too much of Brockton Bay’s neighborhoods trapped between the ABB and the Empire, and that was definitely not a fun comparison to be making.

Taylor paused at the corner of a narrow street, catching the faint sound of voices raised in anger. She hesitated, weighing the risk of investigating against her own exhaustion. As expected, sleep had been hard to come by—her body ached from nights spent huddled in alleyways or on benches, her nerves frayed by the constant threat of discovery.

But then a young and fearful cry rang out, and her body moved before her mind could catch up.

She slipped into the alley where the sound had come from, keeping low as her eyes scanned the scene ahead. Three men, older teens maybe, stood in a loose circle around a boy no older than twelve. His clothes were too big for him, hanging off his thin frame, and his face was pale and dirty. Behind him, two younger children huddled against a wall—a boy and a girl—clutching each other tightly, their faces pinched with fear.

“Hand it over,” one of the teens demanded, stepping closer to the boy. He held a knife, its blade glinting faintly in the dim light. “We know you’ve got it.”

“I don’t have anything,” the boy stammered, his voice shaking but his body planted firmly between the older kids and his siblings. “Just leave us alone!”

Taylor felt something twist inside her. The scene was painfully familiar—someone trying to stand their ground against violent teenage bullies, caught in the crosshairs of someone stronger. She didn’t have her swarm or any real combat skills to rely on, but she couldn’t just walk away.

Her eyes darted around the alley, falling on a broken bottle lying near a dumpster. She picked it up, testing the sharp, jagged edge. It wasn’t much, but it gave her some small sense of security.

“Hey!” she called, stepping into the alley, her voice steady despite the tremor in her chest.

The teens turned to her, their expressions shifting from surprise to annoyance. “Another one?” the one with the knife—probably the leader of the rag-tag group—muttered. “You’re asking for trouble, girl. Mind your fucking business.”

Taylor didn’t flinch. She took a step forward, tightening her grip on the makeshift weapon and raising it slightly. “Two of you, one of me,” she said, her voice cold. “But I wonder if it’s worth the risk of getting cut up and infected for whatever’s in that bag.”

The tension in the alley ratcheted up as the teens sized her up. She could see the doubt flicker in their eyes, the way they quickly calculated their odds. She didn’t look threatening—just a skinny girl with a broken bottle. But something in her tone must have given them pause, because after a moment, the shortest teen hesitated, glancing at his friends.

“Not worth it, man.”

“Yeah,” Taylor said, taking another step forward. “So maybe you should leave before things get messy.”

The leader scowled, clearly weighing his options. For a moment, it looked like he might push back, but the hesitation in his friends’ expressions and words were as clear to him as day. She looked crazy enough to actually stab him, damn the consequences.

He spat on the ground. “This ain’t over, kid,” he growled before turning and motioning for the others to follow. They left the alley, though not before throwing Taylor one last glare, their angry mutters trailing them out the alley.

She waited until their footsteps faded entirely before exhaling slowly, lowering the bottle and turning to the boy.

“You okay?” she asked.

He hesitated, his body still tense as he shielded his siblings. He didn’t answer right away, his eyes darting between her and the alley’s exit, as if expecting the teens to return.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” Taylor said, softer. “I just… I couldn’t stand by and do nothing.”

The boy’s shoulder relaxed slightly, though his eyes remained wary. “Thanks,” he said finally, glancing back at his siblings. “They’re always trying to take what little we have.”

Taylor frowned. “Where are your parents?”

The boy looked away, his jaw tightening. “Gone.”

Taylor nodded, not pressing further. She understood loss too well to pry. “Where are you staying?”

“Down the block,” he said cautiously, almost hesitantly. “With some others. They watch out for us.”

“Mind if I walk you back?” she asked. “Just to make sure no one else bothers you.”

The boy studied her for a long moment before nodding. “Okay.”

The boy led her to a cluster of decrepit apartment buildings, their windows either boarded up or covered with mismatched curtains. Inside, the building was just as rundown—peeling wallpaper, warped floorboards, and a faint smell of mildew. But it was warm, and the quiet hum of conversation from the rooms above gave it a surprising sense of life.

An older woman, her face lined with years of hardship, met them at the door. Her guarded eyes narrowed when she saw Taylor, though she was quick to pull the three children into a protective hug. “Who’s this?”

“She helped us,” the boy murmured into her sides. “When those guys from the east side tried to take our food.”

The woman’s expression softened, though her suspicion didn’t fade entirely. “Thank you,” she said gruffly. “But we don’t need strangers bringing trouble here.”

“I’m not here to cause trouble,” Taylor said, meeting her gaze evenly. “I just wanted to make sure they got back safely.”

The woman studied her for another moment before she sighed, then stepped aside, gesturing for her to come in. “In that case, you look like you could use a warm meal.”

The apartment was small, cluttered but clean. The scent of stew simmering on the stove filled the air, and the children quickly settled at a rickety table, chattering quietly among themselves. Taylor sat near the window, her eyes drifting over the faded walls and mismatched furniture.

“This neighborhood’s rough,” the woman said as she ladled stew into bowls. “Penguin’s men and Black Mask’s thugs keep fighting over territory, and we’re caught in the middle. Most of us just want to survive, but they don’t care.”

Taylor nodded, her mind racing. The situation was worse than she had realized. The Narrows wasn’t just poor—it was a war zone, with ordinary people trapped between rival gangs. It reminded her too much of Brockton Bay, of the civilians she had fought to protect after the battle of Leviathan.

“Why doesn’t anyone stop them?” she asked quietly.

The woman laughed bitterly. “The police? Half of them are on the gangs’ payroll. The other half are too scared to come here. And the Bat…” She shook her head. “He has bigger things to deal with than us.”

Taylor frowned. This was a city where people lived in constant fear, abandoned by those who should have protected them. It struck a nerve, fueling a familiar sense of purpose.

“Thank you for the food,” Taylor said as she finished her bowl. “If you ever need help… let me know.”

The woman gave her a skeptical look. “Help? You don’t look like much, and I rather not watch more wannabe heroes die.”

Taylor didn’t argue. She wasn’t a hero—she didn’t even know what she was anymore. But she knew she couldn’t just walk away from these people.