I sit on the floor by the window, knees pulled up to my chest. It smells like waxed floors and old books in here, the kind of smell that never goes away, no matter how many times Alfred cleans. It’s too quiet. Always is. The kind of quiet that gets in your head, makes you feel like you’re supposed to whisper even when no one’s around to tell you to.

The rain taps on the glass. I like the sound—it’s better than the tick-tick of the grandfather clock or the weird hum of the heater that always runs too hot. The rain makes the place feel less empty, like it’s reminding me that there’s a whole world out there.

They’ve got everything in this place: marble staircases, a million rooms, paintings of old dead people who never smile. There’s even a room with a grand piano no one plays. But all that? None of it makes the place feel lived in. Feels more like a museum where I don’t belong.

I glance over at the bookshelf across the room. There are so many books, way more than I’ve ever seen in one place. I pulled a couple down last week, just to see what the big deal was. “Classic literature,” Alfred called it. Boring, if you ask me. No explosions, no car chases—just a lot of people talking about feelings and stuff.

A chill creeps through the windowpane, and I tug my hoodie tighter. It’s not the new one Bruce gave me—nah, that one’s still sitting at the bottom of the closet. Too shiny, too new, too… I dunno, his.

This one’s mine, the same one I had back in Crime Alley. The sleeves are frayed, and it’s got a tear near the pocket, but it’s warm.

I hate how the place makes me feel like I gotta be someone else all the time. Like if I’m not polite enough or clean enough, they’ll send me back.

They say this is my home now, but it doesn’t feel like home. Home is messy. Home smells like street food and burnt rubber. Home is loud—sirens, arguments, music blasting out of car windows.