CHAPTER FOUR - THE DOUBLE LIFE

Taylor adjusted the strap of her messenger bag as she pushed open the door to the small print shop on Gotham’s east side. The bell above the door jingled, announcing her arrival to an otherwise empty space. Inside, the smell of ink and paper lingered heavily, familiar and strangely comforting.

The shop wasn’t much—a cramped, unassuming place nestled between a pawn shop and a boarded-up laundromat—but it was functional. Its main draw was that it paid in cash and didn’t ask too many questions, qualities Taylor had learned to appreciate since arriving in Gotham.

“Morning, Taylor.”

Evan, her boss, leaned against the counter with a cup of coffee in hand. He was a wiry man in his early forties, with ink-stained fingers and a perpetual five o’clock shadow. He nodded toward the back of the shop, where the hum of a printer broke the quiet.

“Morning,” Taylor replied, dropping her bag behind the counter and tying her hair back into a loose ponytail. She pulled on the dark green apron hanging from a hook, already accustomed to the routine.

“You’re late,” Evan said, though there was no malice in his tone.

Taylor glanced at the clock. “By three minutes.”

“Three minutes is three minutes,” he replied, smirking. “Don’t let it become a habit, kid.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t bother arguing, instead loading a fresh stack of paper into one of the machines. Evan was harmless, and his half-hearted lectures were as much a part of the routine as the printers themselves.

The work wasn’t glamorous—mostly running copies, assembling orders, and occasionally handling the counter—but it was steady, and it kept her under the radar. Most of the customers were small business owners or students, people who needed flyers, posters, or reports printed on the cheap. 

“Taylor!” Evan’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts. He was holding up a stapler, gesturing toward a stack of flyers on the counter.

“These need to be finished before lunch,” he said. “You good with that?”

“Yeah, I’ve got it,” she said, moving over to the counter and grabbing the stack.

As she worked, she let her thoughts settle into the background, focusing on the repetitive motion of stapling and sorting. There was something oddly meditative about the task, a rare moment of quiet in an otherwise chaotic life.

The door jingled again, and Taylor glanced up to see a middle-aged woman walk in, clutching a thick envelope. She hesitated for a moment before approaching the counter.

“Hi,” the woman said, her voice soft. “I need some copies made. Is that something you can help with?”

“Of course,” Taylor said, slipping into her customer service voice. “What do you need?”

As the woman explained her order, Taylor couldn’t help but notice the faint tremor in her hands, the way her eyes darted toward the door every few seconds. Gotham had that effect on people.

By the time the woman left, her envelope tucked under her arm, Taylor found herself wondering about her story. Why she seemed so nervous. Whether Gotham had already gotten its claws into her, or if she was still holding onto some scrap of hope.

“You good?” Evan asked from the back, noticing her pause.

Taylor nodded. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

“Well, don’t think too hard. It’s bad for business,” he said, chuckling to himself as he disappeared into the storage room.

Taylor shook her head and returned to her work, her thoughts lingering on the woman’s nervous expression. For all the city’s darkness, it was the little moments of humanity like that—fragile, fleeting—that reminded her why she kept going.

By the time her shift ended, the rain had started up again, a steady drizzle that soaked into her hood as she stepped outside. She tucked her hands into her jacket pockets and started walking, her messenger bag slung over one shoulder.

The streets were quieter now, the sound of car tires on wet asphalt blending with the distant murmur of voices. Taylor kept her head down, blending into the flow of people as she made her way home. The day had been uneventful—a small blessing in a city like Gotham.

Then, without warning, the world shifted.

A thunderous roar ripped through the air, followed by a shockwave that hit like a physical blow. Taylor stumbled, instinctively bracing herself against a light pole as glass and debris rained down from above. Her heart hammered in her chest, her mind struggling to catch up with what had just happened.

The building across the street—an old brick structure with boarded-up windows—was now a jagged ruin. Flames licked at the edges of shattered walls, black smoke curling into the rain-soaked sky. People screamed, scattering like startled birds as pandemonium erupted.

Taylor cursed under her breath and started moving.

. . . . .

The scene was a mess. Fire crackled, consuming what was left of the structure, while chunks of concrete and steel littered the street. People were already pulling out their phones, recording instead of helping.

Taylor stepped into the chaos, scanning for anyone in immediate danger. She spotted a man pinned beneath a section of wall, his legs trapped. Without thinking, she rushed over, crouching beside him.

“Hey!” she called, her voice sharp to cut through his panicked breathing. “I’m going to get you out of here. Just hold on.”

The man nodded, his face pale and slick with rain. Taylor assessed the situation quickly—the section of wall wasn’t too heavy, but it would take leverage. She glanced around and spotted a length of steel pipe among the debris.

Grabbing it, she jammed it under the edge of the rubble and leaned her weight onto it. The concrete shifted slightly, enough for the man to pull his legs free with a groan of pain.

“Can you walk?” she asked, helping him sit up.

“I—yeah, I think so,” he said, though he winced as he put weight on his feet.

“Good. Get as far from here as you can.”

As he limped away, Taylor turned her attention back to the wreckage. The fire was spreading, eating through what little structure remained. Sirens wailed in the distance, the sound growing louder, but she knew it would still take time for emergency responders to reach the scene.

Another sound caught her attention—a faint, desperate cry. She followed it, picking her way through the debris, until she found a young girl huddled beneath a collapsed doorway. Her face was streaked with soot, her eyes wide with terror.

“It’s okay,” Taylor said, crouching down. “I’m going to get you out of here.”

The girl didn’t move, her small frame trembling. Taylor extended a hand, keeping her voice calm.

“Come on,” she urged. “We need to go.”

The girl hesitated, then reached out and grabbed Taylor’s hand.

A low rumble made Taylor’s heart drop. She glanced up to see the remnants of the building shudder, a section of wall teetering dangerously above them.

“Move!” she shouted, scooping the girl up in her arms and sprinting toward safety.

They barely made it clear before the wall came crashing down, sending up a cloud of dust and ash. Taylor stumbled, coughing, but kept moving until she was sure they were out of danger.

She set the girl down, her knees shaky. “Are you hurt?”

The girl shook her head, tears streaming down her face. Before Taylor could say anything else, a woman—likely the girl’s mother—rushed over, wrapping the child in a tight embrace.

“Thank you,” the woman said, her voice thick with emotion.

Taylor nodded, stepping back as the sirens grew deafening. Red and blue lights flashed, reflecting off the rain-slick street. Firefighters and paramedics flooded the scene, taking over where she had left off.

Blending into the crowd once again, Taylor pulled her hood tighter and slipped away. She didn’t wait for gratitude or questions. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a deep, familiar exhaustion. For now, though, she needed to disappear. Back to the anonymity of her small, cold apartment—the heat was still out—back to the life she was trying to piece together.