CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: THE PRICE OF GOING SOLO

Taylor had expected resistance from the gangs ever since she became a known variable.

She hadn't expected this.

The ambush came without warning.

The alley was a kill box—a narrow corridor of broken concrete and graffiti-tagged brick walls, slick with rain and offering no real cover. She'd taken down three of them already—silent, efficient, before the rest even realized she was there.

But Black Mask's men were learning.

Adapting.

And now she was trapped.

A shout. A flash of movement. Taylor twisted, barely dodging the electric baton that crackled past her head. She countered, striking fast—elbow to the ribs, knee to the stomach, a downward slam to the back of the skull. The man crumpled, but another was already stepping in to replace him.

They were cutting off her escape routes.

Her breath came sharp, controlled. Her body ached, but she wasn't done yet.

The next attacker lunged with a laser-edged knife. She caught his wrist mid-swing and wrenched it sideways—stronger than necessary. Snap. The man screamed, but before she could finish him off, a concussive round struck her from behind.

Then an energy blast slammed into her ribs.

Pain flared white-hot. For the first time in the fight, Taylor staggered.

Her enhanced strength and reflexes had given her an edge before, but numbers and advanced weaponry were stacking the odds against her.

She gritted her teeth and spun to meet the next attack, but it was too late. A stab of pain tore through her side, followed by a brutal kick that drove her to the pavement. Another hit followed, then another. She twisted, shielding her head as best she could.

Damn it.

She forced herself up, moving on autopilot. A thug grabbed her arm—she drove her elbow into his throat and broke free, but there were too many.

This wasn't a street fight anymore.

This was an execution.

One of the enforcers leveled a gauntlet at her, arcs of electricity crackling along its surface. He fired. Taylor twisted just in time—the blast struck the wall beside her, showering her in sparks.

The force still threw her off balance. She stumbled. Another round grazed her ribs, sending a fresh bloom of pain through her torso. Blood dripped from a cut above her eye, trailing down to mix with the other injuries she sustained.

The thugs circled, grinning, weapons raised.

She needed to move.

The pavement was slick beneath her boots as she feinted left, drawing their fire before vaulting over a pile of debris. Energy blasts scorched the air where she'd just stood, leaving blackened marks on the wall.

Ignoring the pain screaming through her ribs, she hit the ground running. Her boots splashed through puddles as she sprinted through the narrow gap and into another alley.

"Cut her off!"

They were relentless. Their shouts echoed behind her.

Her vision blurred, exhaustion clawing at her limbs, but she forced herself to keep moving—turning sharp corners and not stopping until she was far from them. Every instinct screamed at her to fight back, but she knew this was a losing battle.

Each breath came ragged, every step heavier than the last.

She needed a place to hide.

Somewhere safe.

She needed help.

. . . . .

Someone must have recognized her.

She didn't realize it at first, but as she staggered into a quieter street, a hunched figure stepped out from the shadows.

"Hey," the man said, voice rough with age.

"You're that girl, right? The one that’s been helping us, right?"

Though Taylor tensed, she didn't respond, too focused on staying upright.

The man was old-mid-sixties, maybe, wrapped in layers of mismatched clothing. Homeless, judging by his weathered face, the worn state of his boots, and the way he carried himself.

She should have kept moving. But something in his expression made her hesitate.

"You’re hurt bad," he said, stepping closer. "Come on—you need a doctor."

"I'm fine," she forced out.

"Bull," he shot back. "I’ve seen people 'round here get messed up worse than you. Ain't none of 'em lasted long without help."

Taylor grit her teeth. She couldn't just trust a stranger, no matter how well-intentioned.

As if the man could read her thoughts, he sighed. "Look, you don't gotta trust me, but I know someone who can help. Someone who don't ask questions."

That caught her attention.

"Leslie Thompkins," he said. "She's got a clinic not far from here. Helps people who got nowhere else to go."

Leslie Thompkins.

The name rang a bell—something she had picked up while patrolling the Narrows, whispered in conversations between people just trying to survive Gotham's worst. A free clinic, no ID required, no police involvement.

A place for the desperate.

A place for people like her.

Taylor exhaled sharply. She was running out of options, and she knew it.

“...Fine."

The old man nodded, stepping up to support her weight. "Come on, kid."

Taylor barely had the energy to protest as he led her down a twisting path of alleys and side streets.

By the time they reached the clinic—tucked between an old laundromat and a liquor store; a nondescript building that blended into its surroundings—Taylor’s vision was swimming. The faint glow of a nearby streetlight illuminated the painted words above the entrance: Thomas Wayne Memorial Clinic.

The man pushed the door open, guiding her inside. The air smelled of antiseptic, and despite the dim lighting, the furnishings were nicer than she expected—well-maintained, a quiet defiance against the neglect Gotham was known for.

A woman in her sixties approached, her white coat crisp and spotless. Lines of experience marked her face, and sharp yet compassionate eyes studied Taylor from behind wire-framed glasses.

“What happened?” she asked, already assessing Taylor’s injuries. Her voice was calm—almost too calm for someone standing in front of a masked, bloodied vigilante.

It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t even wariness. Just the steady, measured tone of someone who had seen worse and lived through it.

Through the haze of pain, Taylor found herself respecting that.

“She’s been helping folks in the Narrows,” the man explained. “Guess she ran into some serious trouble tonight.”

Leslie Thompkins nodded, her expression unreadable. “Bring her back here.”

Taylor barely made it through the adjoining door before her legs gave out.

. . . . .

When she woke, she was on an exam table, the harsh glow of fluorescent lights overhead. Her back ached, her head throbbed, and her ribs were tightly bandaged.

Leslie stood nearby, arms crossed.

Taylor didn’t get a word out before the doctor spoke.

“You’re lucky,” she said. “A few cracked ribs, a concussion, stab wounds, and enough bruises to make walking miserable for the next few days. It could’ve been worse—the attack could’ve hit something vital.”

Taylor pushed herself up, wincing. “I’m fine.”

Leslie gave her a look that could have rivaled her father’s best.

“You’re not.” She leaned against the counter. “I’ve seen people like you before. Young. Angry. Convinced they can handle Gotham on their own.”

Taylor didn’t respond. The words hit closer to home than she wanted to admit.

Leslie sighed. “You think you’re different. Smarter, stronger, better. That you can go it alone.” She shook her head. “I’m not telling you to give up. But you won’t last long if you do.”

Taylor clenched her jaw. “I can take care of myself.”

“Clearly.” Leslie gestured toward the bandages.

Silence stretched between them. Taylor hated it—hated how her mind kept circling back to the fight. She had been winning. Right up until she wasn’t.

She had miscalculated.

And in Gotham, that kind of mistake got people killed.

Leslie’s expression softened, just slightly. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

Taylor looked away. She couldn’t afford to trust anyone. Not yet.

"..Thank you," she said finally.

Leslie sighed. “Stubborn. Just like all the others.” But she didn't push.

“You’ll need to rest for a few days. No more fighting—not until you’ve healed.” She handed Taylor a bottle of painkillers. “My clinic’s always open, but I hope I don’t see you back here too soon.”

That night, Taylor didn’t sleep.

Leslie was right—going solo in Gotham was a death sentence.

But Taylor wasn’t ready to accept that truth just yet.

I’ll find a way, she told herself. I always do.

Still, the doubt lingered.