Chapter Text
Morgana is many things.
A cat. A phantom thief. A friend. An attendant created from the dregs of human hope.
Akira would like to humbly add ‘geographically challenged’ to that list.
Because when his parents suggested he spend his final year abroad because of the whispers that continued to follow him around his hometown despite his now clean record, Morgana somehow managed to get him a spot in an academy located in one of the most dangerous cities in the world.
A city that somehow faced villainy every other week and still survives. A city that somehow still has citizens willingly living there despite gas masks apparently being as commonplace as a pack of cigarettes. A city that has animal-based heroes and nobody blinks an eye.
He had banged his head against his desk when Morgana bashfully admitted his mistake of getting Akira admitted into none other than Gotham Academy.
“I meant to help out with your applications with those Metropolis schools,” Morgana tried to explain. “But think of it this way, Joker. That city will no doubt be a hub of crime, which you can no doubt help. We could bring the Phantom Thieves global!”
Akira had only sighed then.
But now, in the small apartment his parents helped him find, all he could do was sigh again.
The rain outside was relentless.
Akira watched it streak down the narrow windows, the neon of Gotham’s nightlife bleeding into the glass like bruises. Sirens wailed somewhere in the distance—too close to be comforting, too constant to be alarming. He had been in the city for not even six hours, and already he understood why people spoke about Gotham the way they did.
Morgana perched on the arm of a beat-up sofa with one too many springs popping out. His tail flicked.
“You know,” he said, far too cheerfully. “This place has great potential.”
“No metaverse anymore, remember,” Akira replied flatly.
He hadn’t even unpacked yet. His suitcases sat abandoned near the bed, a school year’s worth of his life packed neatly inside, just waiting to be opened. Akira knew that when he opened it, one of the first things he’d see is the Phantom Thieves poster Yusuke made him. His eyes wandered to his phone on the stained coffee table. He could already see the messages from everyone popping up at rapid speed. Probably curious to know if he landed safely or what his new home looks like.
“I know, but just imagine our group name on at least one of those neon billboards in English!” Morgana continued to daydream, hopping down and padding over. “Who knows, maybe the nav app will open back up? A boy’s gotta dream.”
Akira managed a soft chuckle, reaching for his phone to let everyone know he got to his apartment safe and sound. “Looking for fame already? We just landed.”
“Why else would I listen in on your English lessons with Queen?” Morgana grinned.
Akira shook his head fondly, his fingers quickly typing out messages to his friends and family while he kept up with Morgana’s conversation.
“We should keep a low profile while we settle into the city. Let's just get through one year,” Akira sighed. “And besides, no metaverse and no Nav makes it harder to push a change in hearts. We don’t do that anymore, remember? Let’s just enjoy our retirement.”
“Hey, don’t look so grim,” Morgana teased as he jumped onto Akira’s shoulders, looking over at his phone. “You’ve dealt with worse than this. Corrupt adults, distorted desires, a god. What’s one more crime-ridden city?”
Akira softly chuckled before glancing towards the window again. Just as a shadow passed across a nearby rooftop. His eyes narrowed at the sight because it was definitely too large to be a bird and too deliberate to be nothing.
“Because it’s just you and me here. The rest of the phantom thieves are back home,” Akira pointed out. “And this city punches back. Hard, I’ve heard.”
Morgana paused in his tail waving.
Then he grinned, sharp and confident. “Good. Makes things interesting.”
Now Akira has seen palaces before. He’s infiltrated and robbed every one he saw. But Gotham Academy could be one of the first real palaces he’s seen in the real waking world.
It’s extravagant and ancient all at once. Every step worn smooth by decades of privilege, iron gates polished so well they gleam despite the soot-stained skyline. Gothic arches stretch towards the sky like grasping fingers, and windows cleaned so meticulously they practically reflect their own rainbows. Wealth suffocated this place, thick and unmistakable. Akira could practically smell it, and his brow pinched at the offensive scent.
This place screams exclusive.
And yet, somehow and almost suspiciously, it had opened its doors to him. A transfer student from overseas with an academic record that only got really good in the past year, funds in his bank account that probably couldn’t afford one of the school’s shrubs, and a past everyone swore they’d stopped whispering about.
“It's…Gothic,” Morgana whistled, peeking out from the Shujin duffel bag they both have grown fond of.
“Lives up to the city.” Akira agreed.
Students mill about in the courtyard in clusters, laughter echoing through the air, conversations overlapping and perhaps a tad too overstimulating given the fact Akira’s brain was trying to translate everything he heard at once.
“He's taking forever.” A girl with a blonde pigtail groaned. She and another boy around her age with dark skin hovered near the school's main doors. “Tell him to hurry up. I want to pretend to sleep before patrol.”
“He's on his way,” her friend sighed. “Probably.”
Akira readjusted the strap of his bag before slipping past them and into the building.
Morgana readjusted himself within the bag, muttering under his breath. “Yep. Palace vibes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say we should be looking for a treasure.”
“Please don’t,” Akira murmured. “I’m trying to stay under the radar.”
Morgana snorted. “In Gotham?”
“Can’t be that hard.”
Akira toyed with his glasses as he took everything in. The banners bearing the academy’s crest, the faint hum of security systems hidden in the walls, the way students subconsciously tracked him before somehow deeming he wasn’t worth their attention. Old habits die hard. His eyes catalogue escape routes without his permission.
The administration room wasn’t hard to find. Its doors were tall and heavy, carved with symbols of legacy and prestige.
“Good morning,” Akira quietly greeted the lady at the front desk. “I am supposed to pick up my uniform.”
The lady at the front desk, an older woman with rounded glasses and grey-streaked blonde hair pulled back in a bun, offered him a small smile before turning back to her computer.
“What’s your name, sweetie?” She asked, her voice welcoming but also obvious this was routine to her.
“Akira Kurusu.”
The woman’s fingers paused over the keyboard for half a second—barely noticeable, but Akira noticed anyway.
“Akira Kurusu,” she repeated, eyes scanning her screen. Then she hummed, the sound thoughtful but not unkind. “Ah, yes. Our transfer student.”
She clicked a few times, the printer behind her whirring to life. “You’re a bit early, but that’s not a problem. Orientation packets are still being finalised, but we can absolutely get you your uniform today.”
“Thank you,” Akira thanked the woman, bowing his head slightly out of habit.
The woman smiled at that. “You’ll want to head down the hall to the right—second door past the trophy case. Clothing Services will have everything prepared for you.”
She slid a temporary ID card across the desk. His name was already printed on it, neat and impersonal.
Akira took it. “I appreciate it.”
As he turned to leave, Morgana shifted inside the bag.
“This school might be better than Shujin. She didn’t even blink,” he muttered, clearly pleased with the brief interaction. “Either your name didn’t ring any delinquent student bells, or Gotham’s admin staff have seen way worse.”
“Maybe,” Akira hummed.
The hallway beyond the front office felt even more oppressive than the courtyard. Display cases lined the walls—championship trophies, academic awards, photographs of past and present students shaking hands with politicians and CEOs. Generations of wealth and perceived success stared back at him through pristine glass.
Akira couldn’t stop the slight grimace at the prideful arrogance in each photo.
He slowed near one case, eyes flickering over names engraved in gold. Old money. Old legacies. The kind of people whose shadows shaped cities without ever stepping into the light.
“If we could go into the metaverse,” Morgana murmured. “I’d bet this place would definitely have a ruler or two.”
Before Akira could respond, a voice interrupted.
“I said I’m on my way! Stop calling me.”
Rushed footsteps hurried in his direction. Akira instinctively stepped aside, but the hallway narrowed near the trophy case, and the timing was just off—
He collided shoulder-first with someone rounding the corner.
“Oh—!”
“Hey!”
“Sorry!”
Akira reacted on reflex, shifting his weight and steadying the other person before either of them could stumble into the glass case. He wasn’t even aware his hand had landed to support the other student’s waist until the stranger straightened up and Akira’s hand dropped back to his side.
“No worries,” the boy said quickly, already smiling like it was no big deal. He took half a step back, straightened out his uniform, and adjusted the backpack strap on his shoulder.
His blue eyes flickered from Akira’s temporary ID to his duffel bag, then finally to his face. “You must be new.”
Akira instinctively touched his glasses and nodded. “Yeah. New transfer student.”
“I—um—I’m Tim Drake,” he introduced himself, hesitating a moment before offering his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Akira,” Akira replied politely, shaking Tim’s hand. “Kurusu.”
Something unreadable passed through Tim’s eyes, gone almost as soon as it appeared.
“Well,” Tim continued, “welcome to Gotham Academy.”
“Thanks,” Akira replied, shifting his bag. “I was just picking up my uniform.”
“Ahh. Sounds like fun.”
“Does it? You and I have very different definitions of fun, I guess.”
Akira stared, a little bewildered if he were being honest, as Tim laughed like Akira had just told the funniest joke on the planet. The student threw his head back and laughed so hard Tim’s face turned pink.
“Joker, I think we should fall back on a tactical retreat,” Morgana mumbled quietly.
The awkward and forced laugh that escaped Akira’s lips made even himself cringe. But it was enough for Tim’s laughter to die out and regain control over his senses.
“Sorry,” Time cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck, embarrassment colouring his cheeks. “Yeah, there’s much better things to do than picking up uniform. If you’d come yesterday, we’d probably have met in the changing rooms.”
“Hm?”
“I—what I mean is I was picking up more blazers and dress pants yesterday. My, uh, brother wrecked my last couple. So we could’ve met there…”
There’s a brief pause as Tim dragged his words out, smiling sheepishly. Tim shifted his weight, clearly debating something, then glanced down the hallway toward the administration office like he was checking the time without a watch.
“Sooo,” he finally continued casually, “what year are you going into?”
“Final year,” Akira answered calmly.
He’d been around for every one of Futaba’s awkward exchanges with members of society when she first decided to leave her room, so being patient with the socially awkward was nothing new.
“That’s great!” Tim exclaimed. “We’ll probably share a couple classes then.”
Akira nodded. “What a coincidence. You’ll have to show me around on my first day then.”
Tim blinked.
“Oh—yeah. Yeah, I can do that.” He nodded a little too quickly, then caught himself and smiled, softer this time. “I mean—I sure. Gotham Academy’s kind of a maze anyway. Might as well have a guide.”
Akira tilted his head slightly, amused. “I’d appreciate it.”
Tim coughed into his fist.
“Clothing Services is just down that way,” he continued, gesturing past the trophy case. “Second door on the right. You can’t miss it. There’s a sign and everything.”
“Thanks.” Akira smiled softly.
He was about to turn and walk away but stopped when Tim quickly spoke up.
“You, uh,” he began, then stopped. Restarted. “If you ever need help with… getting around or… I heard a cat just now. If you see it, let me know. Usually animals aren’t allowed on campus.”
Akira laughed. Soft but no less sincere.
“I’ll let you know.”
Tim seemed to pause in place before a smile broke out on his face.
“Right,” Tim said, clearing his throat again. “I should—go. I’m supposed to meet with some people. Hopefully I’m not already late.”
“Good luck,” Akira offered.
Tim laughed quietly. “Thanks. I’ll see you around.”
They parted ways. Akira moved first.
From inside the duffel bag, Morgana peeked out just enough to watch Tim retreat down the hall.
“…That one’s staring,” he whispered.
Akira resisted the urge to sigh. “He’s just being friendly.”
“Uh-huh.” Morgana’s tail flicked. “I don’t trust him, Joker.”
“Uh-huh.”
He shook his head playfully, letting the corners of his mouth twitch as he pushed open the door to Clothing Services.
Inside, the room was quiet, orderly, and far less suffocating than the halls outside. A staff member greeted him and took his measurements with professional efficiency. The uniform fit suffocatingly perfectly—sharp lines, heavy fabric, the kind of thing that demanded you belong.
When Akira left the room a short while later, uniform folded neatly under his arm, the academy felt different.
Not just because there were now more students filling the halls as they wandered to and from class. And not because everything started feeling welcoming just because he now has a uniform.
It just felt… strange.
Like someone was watching him.
He half expected to turn the corner and be greeted with the soft blue light of a door only he could see. But all he saw as he passed the trophy case again was the sight of Tim through the glass reflection—standing at the far end of the hall, talking animatedly to someone else now, hands moving as he explained something with precision and focus.
For just a moment, Tim’s gaze flicked up.
Their eyes met in the reflection.
Tim froze.
Akira offered a small nod before continuing on his way.
Morgana’s soft snores were sort of a lullaby against the constant police sirens outside. His soft purrs vibrated faintly through the mattress, warm and familiar. The same steady sound Akira had fallen asleep to more nights than he could count. It reminded him of home—of LeBlanc’s cramped attic and his own room at his parents’ house.
The sirens did a good job of reminding him where he actually was.
They rose and fell without rhythm, blue and red lights bleeding through the blinds in fleeting bursts. He isn’t a stranger to police or their flashy lights. But in Gotham, it’s almost like they never truly settled.
His phone buzzed.
‘So is it evrything u dreamed of and more?’
Akira rolled his eye, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth as he unlocked the screen. Futaba’s icon and their chat lit up the darkness, familiar and strangely grounding in a way he hadn’t realised he needed.
“It’s ok. Liveable and bearable.”
He stared at the message a moment longer than necessary before sending it, as if weighing whether he should add more. He didn’t.
The reply came quickly.
‘Have u seen any bad guys yet? Or any of the heroes? Not dead yet right?’
He hummed softly, careful not to jostle the cat against his side.
“Surprisingly ok so far. Everything ok there?”
The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Akira waited.
The room felt larger in the silence. Too wide. Too empty. The unfamiliar creak of pipes, the distant rumble of traffic below, the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchenette all filled the space where voices should have been.
Then his phone vibrated again.
Instead of a text, it was a photo.
A messy selfie of Futaba, grinning wide and mischievously, with the plant in LeBlanc’s attic proudly held up beside her like a large trophy. The familiar shelf of all his gifts and souvenirs was visible behind her.
‘Everyone’s still alive, leader!’
A quiet laugh slipped out before he could stop it. He pressed his knuckles briefly against his mouth, the sound catching in his chest. It ached before it dissipated.
He didn’t let himself linger on the image for too long.
Thinking about home was dangerous. Thinking about how easy things had been—how known everything felt—was worse. There, his days had structure without effort. He built a life for himself in LeBlanc from the ground up. Here, he had to do it all again in a language that wasn’t his first. He could feel the weight of tomorrow already pressing down on him.
Find a part-time job or at least a gym.
Review vocabulary.
Practice his accent.
Check his class schedule.
Memorise the campus layout.
Blend in.
Akira typed back before he could overthink it.
“Glad to hear. Take care of the plant and the others for me.”
A reply came almost instantly.
‘U got it pretty boy! Don’t miss me too much.’
He smiled despite himself, the expression small and fleeting.
“Too late, miss you too.”
He locked the phone and placed it screen down on the nightstand, as if that alone might keep the ache from settling in. Morgana shifted in his sleep, tail flickering once before curling tighter against Akira’s side.
He rested a hand against the cat’s back, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing.
Outside, another siren screamed past. Blue lights flashed. Then red. Then darkness again.
Akira closed his eyes, letting his thoughts drift into lists and plans. Tomorrow, he’d wake up early. He’d eat something light. He’d figure out the subway route to the academy. He’d—
His phone vibrated sharply.
The sound was too loud in the quiet room.
Akira opened his eyes.
For a split second, he assumed it was Futaba again. Another meme. Another joke. Something to bridge the distance.
He reached for the phone and unlocked it.
The icon on the screen made his blood run cold.
His breath caught.
That account hadn’t been active in over a year.
Because he was dead.
The message sat there, stark against the glow of the screen, impossible and unmistakable.
“What are you doing in Gotham?”
Tim Drake did not miss details.
It is one of his best qualities, a talent he felt immeasurable pride in. A quality of his being that usually operates without him needing to consciously think about it. It was also one of the first things people learned about him—usually right before they realised he already knew whatever they were trying to hide from the world.
So when Akira Kurusu walked away from him in the hallway, Tim noted everything there was of the new student.
The way he moved—careful, but not hesitant. The way his grey eyes sparkled under fluorescent school lights. The way his slightly slouched posture seemed almost deceptive.
Tim had watched his reflection disappear past the trophy case and felt something shift in his chest.
Not alarm. Or suspicion.
Interest.
Which was… interesting.
“Dude,” Duke sighed, bumping Tim lightly with his shoulder. “You okay? You just zoned out.”
Tim blinked. “Just thinking.”
Steph twisted in the passenger seat to face them. “Thinking about what?”
“Not much.”
She squinted at him. Stared at him so hard she didn’t hear Alfred’s gentle reprimand about staying in one’s car seat.
And that squint turned into a glare, followed by the twisted grin that usually preceded headache-inducing words.
“Who’s the girl?”
Tim ignored her. But Steph is nothing if not persistent.
“Who’s the guy?”
When he made the mistake of glaring back at her for a second before turning his attention back out the window, he knew he had messed up already. Her shrill laughter filled the car as she threw her head back and waved her arms frantically in excitement. Duke laughed too. Though, quieter and less annoying. And Damian simply rolled his eyes and went back to his phone.
“What’s his name? What’s his name? What’s his name? What’s his name? What’s his name?” Steph repeated over and over again, grinning back at him like a mad woman.
Tim groaned. “Can we not?”
“Nope!”
“I’m obviously not going to be saying anything else.” He crossed his arms across his chest and frowned.
Steph raised both brows. The gleam in her eyes quickly shifted from excitement to unbridled mischief and challenge. Tim knew then and there that she would find out whether or not he liked it.
“When I find out who this lucky boy is,” she spoke lowly and threateningly, like he was a criminal who knew very important bank details. “I’m going to invite him to the Manor on a random day without you knowing, and I’m just going to watch as you open the door to him in your ugly pyjamas and horrible bed hair.”
“You wouldn’t.” He glared back at her.
“And you’re going to be so delirious after thinking you could beat sleep with your mountains of caffeine that you’re going to think he’s a figment of your sleep-deprived mind. And I’ll be on the stairs videotaping it all to show you when you’re fully awake, because I care about you and wouldn’t want you to think you made it all up.”
The car quieted very quickly while Steph kept her deceptively playful smile on her face.
“That’s evil,” Duke whistled, finally breaking the quiet.
Steph’s smile grew as she tilted her head mockingly. “Is it?”
“You wouldn’t,” Tim repeated. Less sure of himself this time, but Steph didn’t have to know that part.
She simply shrugged before turning back in her seat and engaging in conversation with Alfred about what’s for dinner. Duke offered him a simple pat on the shoulder. Tim closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, frowning faintly as he turned back to the window.
As the buildings and people quickly passed by, Tim found himself replaying the very brief moment in the hallway again and again.
The collision.
The quick save.
The awful way Tim embarrassed himself with a laugh that was both too loud and too…much.
And the stuttering. Oh, god the stuttering.
“…Jeez,” he murmured to himself.
He didn’t know what it meant.
But he had the distinct feeling that this year had just gotten a lot more complicated.
And, weirdly enough—
He didn’t mind.