الأشباح ليست دائماً ميتة؛ أحياناً تكون أفكاراً وقناعات تعيق هويتنا الحقيقية
Ghosts are not always dead; sometimes they are thoughts and beliefs that hinder our true identity

          THE DINING ROOM was bathed in the soft glow of late morning light filtering through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the polished mahogany table.

Two young executives sat at one end, their suits and neat ties an almost jarring contrast to the timeless elegance of the room. They leaned forward, their expressions taut with a mix of impatience and unease, eyes locked onto Bruce Wayne, who sat at the head of the table, a pair of dark sunglasses shielding his eyes.

His posture was as impenetrable as his expression, a stone-faced calm that hinted at anything but interest.

One of the executives, his voice tight with the gravity of their situation, began to speak, "I'm afraid we're at a critical juncture..." His words hung in the air, but they seemed to drift past Bruce, who had barely acknowledged their presence since the meeting began. Instead, Bruce's gaze slid distractedly to the newspaper folded neatly beside him, an artifact of another world amidst the spreadsheets and balance sheets dominating the conversation.

The other executive, sensing the lack of attention from their host, leaned in, desperation edging into his voice. "At the very least, we'll need your signature to cover these losses..." His words trailed off as Bruce, with deliberate slowness, reached for the newspaper. The quiet rustle of the pages seemed louder than it should, filling the room with a subtle tension.

The executives exchanged a glance, their confidence faltering in the face of Bruce's indifference.

Alfred, standing by the side with a composed demeanor, offered them a polite, almost apologetic smile, as if to say, this is just how it is. The room felt heavier with every passing second, the silence more telling than words.

Bruce opened the newspaper, his gaze scanning the sea of letters before him. To the young executives, it must have seemed as if the words on the page held the key to something far beyond their understanding, something that captured Bruce's attention more completely than their urgent pleas ever could.

The wheels in his mind turned, not on the financial crisis they presented, but on something deeper, more distant.

"Mr. Wayne...?" One of the executives ventured, his voice a thin thread of hope in the tension-filled room.

Alfred's calm voice broke through the silence, an understated prompt, "...what?"

Bruce glanced up, his expression momentarily blank, as if pulled from some far-off place. He blinked, his mind refocusing on the present, on the weight of the situation that sat before him in the form of two nervous executives.

"I... I need your signature, sir..." The executive's voice wavered slightly, the formality strained against the raw need for Bruce's attention.

Without a word, Bruce took the pen offered to him, his hand moving with the same detached efficiency with which he had flipped through the newspaper. As he signed the papers, the young executives watched, a mix of relief and wariness settling over them.

_________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐

The hum of the Batcave's high-tech machinery filled the space, a constant reminder of the endless work that took place within its shadowed depths. The dim light cast a cold glow on Bruce's face as he stared intently at the computer screen before him, his mind racing with possibilities.

Bruce's voice, calm yet edged with intensity, broke the silence. "What if it isn't a partial key...?"

Alfred, standing beside him, frowned slightly, his eyes narrowing in thought. "What do you mean?"

Bruce's fingers flew across the keyboard as he brought up the cipher on the screen, the intricate web of symbols and letters taunting them with its complexity. "What if it's the whole key? Ignore the symbols we don't have letters for, use only the letters from 'he lies still,' and leave the rest—"

Alfred's eyes widened in sudden understanding as he followed Bruce's line of thinking. "—blank, yes—I understand," he murmured, his hands moving to delete the unnecessary letters from the cipher. "But that will leave most of the cipher unsolved... I don't see how that —oh..."

His voice trailed off, his expression shifting from confusion to realization as the pattern began to emerge on the screen. The seemingly random jumble of letters and symbols was now stripped down, revealing something far more deliberate beneath the surface.

"Well." Alfred's tone was a mixture of surprise and admiration as he stared at the screen, impressed by Bruce's insight.

They both gazed at the laptop, where most of the cipher was now blank. But the remaining letters, scattered across the page, began to align themselves, forming a clear, undeniable message.

It was like a game of connect-the-dots, the letters slowly coming together to spell out a single, massive word across the screen:

"DRIVE."

The word hung there, stark and unmissable, its significance yet another piece of the puzzle that they were slowly, methodically, beginning to solve.

_________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐

                After meeting with Gordon at the diner, Maryam returned to her apartment, feeling like she was about to just wither away.

It was her only day off that week, and although she usually cherished it, her mind was too cluttered to truly enjoy it. She tried to sleep but kept tossing and turning. Frustrated, she picked up her phone and scrolled aimlessly through social media. With no notifications to distract her, she eventually threw the phone onto her bed with an exasperated huff.

Rising from her bed, her silk robe trailing behind her, she wandered into the small kitchen that overlooked her living room. She opened the fridge, only to find it almost empty. Muttering a little curse under her breath, she grabbed a lone carrot, rinsed it, cut off the ends, and took a bite.

Pulling her phone out from inside her bra, she unlocked it and called the Japanese takeout down the road.

"Hey, Li, it's Maryam. Can I order the usual, please?" she asked, chewing on the carrot.

"On it. It'll be delivered in 15 minutes," Li replied.

"Thanks, see you soon," she said before hanging up. She then headed to the couch, flopping onto it. Grabbing the remote, she flipped through the channels — news, more news, reality TV, even more news, cartoons...

She finally settled on an episode of Sex and the City.

As she waited for her food and half-watched her show, her phone buzzed.

It was a notification from her sister Sherine, linking to an article titled, "Falcone Heir Spotted on Secret Date Night — Gotham's Underworld Buzzing!"

Maryam's eyes widened as she read the headline.

Vittorio Falcone, known to his close circle as Vito, was the eldest son of Carmine Falcone, the notorious mafia kingpin. 

He was strikingly handsome, with an air of mystery that made him a magnet for women. 

Although Vito was deeply involved in the family business, he was regarded as one of Gotham's most eligible bachelors — second only to the enigmatic Bruce Wayne, who, despite his rare public appearances, continued to dominate the city's bachelor rankings. Vito's charm and loyalty to his family were undeniable, and while he had ambitions to make the Falcone empire legitimate, his ties to the criminal underworld were far from severed.

"Oh my God, are you kidding me?" Maryam muttered.

She couldn't resist opening the article to see for herself. As she scrolled through the piece, her suspicions were confirmed : it was indeed about Vittorio and Alma's date. The article didn't seem to identify Alma, but Maryam recognized her sister instantly.

 That auburn hair and the red coat she'd gifted her years ago were unmistakable.

The article dripped with juicy gossip :

"One of Gotham's infamous bachelor, Vittorio Falcone, was spotted dining with a mysterious woman at an upscale restaurant last night. While her face was hidden, her auburn hair and chic red coat caught the attention of onlookers. Sources say the two seemed quite cozy, fueling rumors of a budding romance.

Could the notorious Falcone heir be off the market?

And who is the lucky lady that's captured his attention?

Gotham's underworld is buzzing with speculation, and many are eager to see how this potential match could impact the Falcone empire."

Maryam rubbed her eyes in frustration. 

She was about to call Alma when the doorbell rang. Grabbing some cash, she opened the door, took her order, and handed over the money.

Sitting on her kitchen counter, Maryam took her sushi out of the bag, the smell of fresh seafood mingling with the soft hum of the refrigerator, setting each piece neatly in front of her like little treasures. She tried calling Alma — no answer.

Her eyes darted to the clock—4:34 PM. The room felt too quiet, too still. 

"Probably working," she muttered under her breath, the sound of her own voice a comfort against the silence.

Without much thought, she dialed Sherine, who picked up after just two rings.

"Have you seen it?" Sherine's voice burst through the line, skipping any pleasantries, her eagerness sharp as a blade.

"Yep," Maryam replied, popping a piece of sushi into her mouth with her chopsticks. The wasabi heat lingered, but her tone remained cool. "Not shocked."

"What?!" Sherine exclaimed, her disbelief palpable even through the phone.

"Okay, maybe I'm a little surprised it made the tabloids, but I'm not shocked he asked her out. I had my suspicions ever since I saw him at the restaurant where she works, looking at her like she was the last light in a dark room."

"I can't believe she actually accepted," Sherine said, clearly in disbelief. "And that wretched article—ugh, I swear I'll always hate Vicki Vale!"

"She told me he kept pestering her," Maryam said, voice trailing off as she chewed her sushi, the thought lingering like the taste of ginger on her tongue. 

She shrugged, trying to brush off the unease creeping into her chest.

"Maryam, aren't you worried? How — " Sherine's voice rose, a tremor of fear threading through her words.

Maryam set her chopsticks down with a sigh, her calm facade barely masking the frustration bubbling underneath. 

"Of course, I'm worried Sher. I've warned her over and over, but she's as stubborn as a mule—just like the rest of us. I can't control her anymore," she sighed again, the weight of responsibility clearly heavy on her shoulders. "She's 25 now Sher, finishing her studies, and working like anyone else. She's an adult, for better or worse."

Sherine's voice softened, but the concern remained. "So, we're just going to let this happen?"

Maryam sighed once more as she opened her curry rice container.

The steam rose like a beckoning hand, enveloping the kitchen in the warm, rich aroma of spices. "She says they're just friends. That he's not as bad as we think."

Sherine snorted on the other end, the sound of traffic buzzing in the background. "He's in the mafia, Maryam. And not just any mafia."

Maryam rolled her eyes, stabbing at her rice with her chopsticks. "That's exactly what I told her. But try telling Alma she's making a mistake. She'll just brush it off and say I'm overreacting —again."

"Well, you are kind of a brat," Sherine teased, the smirk in her voice unmistakable.

"Only because you make it so easy," Maryam shot back, a brief smirk flickering across her lips before fading, the frown returning to her sharp features. "Better a brat than blind," she muttered under her breath.

Sherine hummed in acknowledgment. "Touché," she conceded.

Maryam shook her head, the humor fading as quickly as it came. "I don't get why he's interested in her when she's not even Italian or from a crime organized family."

"Yeah, I was thinking the same thing!" Sherine said, her voice rising over the distant honking of cars. "Like aren't they supposed to marry Italians? You know, to keep the tradition, the bloodline, or whatever."

"That's exactly why I'm worried she's just another fling to him. She doesn't deserve that," Maryam said, crossing her legs under the table. "Plus, he's not just some regular guy—he's not just another stupid boyfriend she can break up with when things go south. This is literally a mafia boss. He has enemies, and God knows what could happen to her if someone tried to get to him through her."

"Ugh, don't even mention it. It's terrifying. And his family! His father's reclusive, but everyone knows he practically runs Gotham with all his illegal dealings. His mother died a long time ago, his sister's in Arkham, and God knows where his brother is!"

Sherine paused, her tone shifting. "Not gonna lie, I kind of feel bad for him."

"Yeah, me too," Maryam admitted softly, scratching her nose as her mind wandered back to old memories. "She told me he wants to make his business legitimate. When I used to work for Fish, he wanted nothing to do with the empire. But when his mother died, everything changed. He got more involved. He's always been the most down-to-earth in that family, but still... I'm worried. I talked to Alma, but now... I'll try to talk to him."

"What?! No, Maryam—"

"Yes, Sherine. I'm going to talk to him, persuade him to leave her alone."

"And if he refuses?" she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper, as if afraid to hear the answer.

"If he truly cares about her, he won't refuse," Maryam said, more to herself than to Nora.

"What... what if he actually likes her? Maybe even loves her?"

Maryam paused, the question hanging in the air like a heavy cloud. "Then I won't have a say in it. It's between Vito and her if their relationship gets serious. For now, according to Alma, they're just friends. So, I'll try to persuade him to back off."

Sherine hummed in thought. "So, you're going to..." she trailed off, uncertainty lacing her words.

"I'm not sure — " Maryam began, her voice wavering as she stared at the remnants of her meal. "Honestly, I just don't know," she confessed, feeling the weight of the situation settling over her like a thick fog.

"Be careful, please," Sherine's voice softened, worry evident in every syllable.

"Haven't I always been?" Maryam tried to lighten the mood, though her heart wasn't in it.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. I thought you left that life behind years ago, but somehow, it always comes back to haunt you," Sher said, frustration creeping back into her tone.

"It's not like I have a choice. I'm doing this for Alma. I've always done it for all of us," Maryam said sternly, voice firm, but a trace of sadness lingered. "Desperate times — "

"Desperate measures, I know, I know," Sherine cut in. "It just bothers me that you always have to be the one to deal with it."

Maryam stared at her phone, the screen reflecting her own troubled expression. "Older sister duty, I guess," she said quietly, the words heavy with resignation. "Look, I've got to prepare. I'll talk to you later."

"Yeah, okay. Bye." The call ended with a click, leaving Maryam alone in her kitchen, the silence pressing in like a heavy weight. 

She stared at her phone for a long moment, the conversation replaying in her mind, the sushi long forgotten.

After staring into the void for who knows how long, she finally decided that some stalking was in order.

With a determined sigh, Maryam picked up her phone and typed "Vittorio Falcone" into Google. The search results flooded in instantly, painting a vivid picture of Gotham's notorious mafia heir.

The first few links were standard — news articles from various tabloids, all speculating about his latest escapades.  

One headline screamed, "Gotham's Most Eligible Bachelor? Inside the Life of Vittorio Falcone." 

She clicked on it out of curiosity.

The article was a deep dive into his life, filled with photos of Vittorio at high-end galas, charity events, and exclusive restaurants. 

In each picture, he looked every bit the part of a modern-day prince of the underworld: impeccably dressed in tailored suits, with sharp, chiseled features and piercing green eyes that seemed to look right through the camera. 

He was often surrounded by beautiful women, none of whom seemed to stick around for long, fueling the rumors that he was commitment-averse.

Further down the page, the article detailed his upbringing as the eldest son of Carmine Falcone, Gotham's most powerful and feared crime lord. 

There were mentions of his education at elite private schools, his brief stint at a prestigious university in Europe, and how he returned to Gotham after his mother's death. 

The article touched on the tragedy that changed everything — how Vittorio, once seen as the more distant and detached son, took up the mantle in the family business after his mother's passing, much to the surprise of Gotham's elite.

Maryam scrolled past the glitzy photos and superficial gossip to the more serious content. There were links to investigative pieces about the Falcone family's alleged criminal activities. These articles painted a darker picture — of a man who, despite his outward charm and good looks, was deeply entrenched in the world of organized crime.

There were accusations of money laundering, racketeering, and even more sinister dealings, though none had ever been proven in court.

Vittorio was always just out of reach of the law, his lawyers too skilled and his connections too powerful.

Another article caught her eye : "The Enigma of Vittorio Falcone: Gotham's Underworld Prince with a Conscience?"

This one speculated on his intentions to legitimize the family business, citing anonymous sources who claimed Vittorio was seeking to clean up his father's empire.

Yet, the piece also noted the challenges he faced, not just from the outside world but from within his own family, where tradition and loyalty to the criminal code ran deep.

Maryam found herself staring at a photo of Vittorio from a charity event. 

He looked every bit the polished gentleman, a slight smile on his lips as he shook hands with Gotham's mayor. But the eyes — those intense green eyes — held something deeper, something she couldn't quite place.

Was it guilt? Determination? Or just the heavy burden of a man trying to walk two paths at once?

The more she read, the more conflicted she felt. 

On one hand, he seemed like a man trapped by circumstances, trying to do right by his family while also seeking a way out of the darkness. 

On the other, he was undeniably dangerous, a key player in a world that had no room for weakness or sentimentality.

And then there were the comments — hundreds of them — debating whether Vittorio was a misunderstood anti-hero or just another ruthless criminal in an expensive suit. 

Some praised him for his charity work and the rumors of his attempts to go legitimate, while others condemned him for his involvement in the mafia, no matter how tangential he tried to make it seem.

Lighting a cigarette, Maryam let the smoke curl around her as she exhaled slowly. With the cigarette perched on her plump lips, she decided to dig deeper into Vittorio's family. 

Her fingers danced across the keyboard as she first searched for his father, Carmine Falcone.

The results were exactly what she expected : a mix of old newspaper clippings and online articles chronicling Carmine's rise to power, his iron grip on Gotham's underworld, and the whispers of his influence over city officials.  

Included were several grainy images of Carmine, only embodying the essence of a powerful patriarch, alongside snapshots of his younger self with his parents, revealing a glimpse of his past.

Next, she moved on to Vittorio's mother, Isabella Falcone. 

Unlike her husband, there was little information about Maria, save for a few mentions of her being a devoted wife and mother. Most sources spoke of her tragic death, which seemed to be the catalyst for Vittorio's deeper involvement in the family business. 

There were no photos of her in the public domain, adding to the mystique surrounding her.

Maryam then turned her attention to Vittorio's little sister, Sofia Falcone. 

As she typed her name into the search bar, her fingers trembled slightly, an instinctive reaction to the heavy air that seemed to surround the very mention of Sofia. The results that flooded the screen were deeply unsettling.

Sofia, infamously known as the Hangman, was a rehabilitated serial killer currently housed in Arkham Asylum — a chilling title that sent a shiver down Maryam's spine.

She had heard whispers of Sofia's story before, but now, as she read the articles, the horrifying details began to unravel.

The screen illuminated her face, casting a pale glow as her expression shifted from curiosity to disbelief. She leaned closer, biting her lip, her brow furrowing with each gruesome revelation. The articles painted a portrait of a woman who had taken her family's legacy to a terrifying extreme, a twisted sense of justice fueling a brutal killing spree.

Maryam's heart raced as she scrolled down, her hand instinctively reaching up to rub the back of her neck. 

The doctor shook her head in disbelief, as if attempting to erase the haunting words she had just read with sheer determination. 

She struggled to comprehend how someone could rationalize such brutality. She had seen her fair share of darkness, but this was something entirely different.

Finally, she moved on to search for Alberto Falcone, Vittorio's little brother. 

This profile, while less notorious, still carried its own shadowy weight. As Maryam read through the sparse information available, she could feel the tension in her shoulders begin to ease slightly, but her mind remained restless.

Alberto or Al for the intimate, was known as the black sheep of the family, often overlooked and underestimated, a quiet figure lingering in the shadow of his more infamous relatives. Yet the whispers surrounding him hinted at darker inclinations, rumors of his involvement in the notorious Holiday killings that had haunted Gotham years ago.

A frown creased her forehead as she thought of the fractured family dynamic, the burdens each member must carry. With a sigh, Maryam leaned back, taking a moment to process everything she had just read.

The Falcone family was a labyrinth of intrigue and peril, and she couldn't shake the feeling that unraveling their secrets was crucial to protecting Alma.

She found herself grappling with a deep sense of hypocrisy. Who was she to pass judgment? Of all people, she was far from innocent herself.

Satisfied with what she had uncovered, Maryam turned her attention to tracking Vittorio's movements for the night.

She started by stalking the social media accounts of his known associates and relatives. To her frustration, Vittorio himself didn't seem to have any social media presence — no Instagram, no Twitter, just nothing. 

The most she could find were accounts belonging to some of his younger relatives, mostly teenagers posting selfies and mundane updates.

But then, one profile caught her eye : a cousin of Vittorio's, a certain Francesco Vittorio, who went by the Instagram handle "frankiefalconethegreat." 

The name made her roll her eyes, but as she scrolled through his recent posts, she stumbled upon a video in his story that piqued her interest. The clip was taken at the Iceberg Lounge, Gotham's most notorious nightclub, known for its shady dealings and criminal clientele.

In the video, Frankie was doing something stupid — likely showing off or trying to be funny — but it wasn't him that interested Maryam. 

Behind him, in the dim lighting of the club, she caught sight of someone familiar.

She quickly screenshotted the video and then zoomed in on the background. The lighting was poor, so she increased the brightness on her phone, enhancing the image.

And there he was — Vittorio Falcone. 

He stood partially obscured, talking in hushed tones with a man she didn't recognize. A cigarette was dangling from his fingers, and his white shirt was open at the collar, the top two buttons undone, giving him a relaxed but undeniably commanding presence.

"Bingo," Maryam whispered to herself, her heart racing slightly as she stared at the image. She had found him.

Taking the last sip of her Sprite, the fizz tickling her throat before she tossed the empty can into the bin. The clink echoed in the quiet apartment as she made her way to her room with a determined stride, the air thick with purpose, she prepared herself mentally for what lay ahead.

The decision was made. Her sister was right — she was going to gear up.

Tonight was no ordinary night; it was one that demanded more than just her usual resolve.

And it had been a while since she — transformed herself, hadn't it? "A while" might be stretching it; it had been exactly two years since she last donned the costume.

But oh well, here she was again, slipping back into that familiar darkness, like an old lover who never truly left, always lingering in the shadows, waiting for her return.

As the silk nightgown slid off her shoulders, leaving her in just her undergarments, the cool air brushed against her skin, raising goosebumps — a fleeting moment of vulnerability before she transformed into something else entirely.

She first reached for a fitted, long-sleeved black shirt. The fabric was soft but durable, clinging to her form like a second skin, offering both comfort and the freedom to move. It absorbed the light, rendering her nearly invisible in the shadows.

Next, she pulled on a pair of tailored black pants, reinforced in all the right places for both flexibility and protection. They hugged her hips and legs, allowing silent, fluid movements and tucked neatly into knee-high boots; sturdy, well-worn, and perfect for silent, agile movement.—essential for the night ahead.

With her base layer in place, she began to gear up.

First, the black scarf, soft yet deadly, was wrapped around the lower half of her face, transforming her into a phantom. 

The material clung to her skin, muffling her breath, but she was used to it — the silence, the secrecy. Then the cloak, black as the void itself, draping over her shoulders and sliding down her arms with the weight of a familiar embrace. It flowed around her like liquid shadow, designed to hide her every movement, to make her one with the night.

Her hazel eyes, naturally vibrant like the light filtering through a forest canopy and always seeming to hold a kaleidoscope of emotions, were the final detail to mask. 

She reached for the black contact lenses, slipping them in with care. They turned her gaze into a pair of dark, unreadable pools — voids that reflected nothing back, hiding her true self even further.

With her transformation almost complete, she knelt down and pulled a box from beneath her bed. 

The lid creaked as it opened, revealing a carefully arranged collection of tools. Her fingers brushed over the small, gleaming knives, their blades catching the dim light, each one honed to perfection. 

There were also vials filled with venomous liquids, each labeled with delicate precision. They shimmered ominously, deadly in their silence. Small, unassuming pills nestled beside them, tiny capsules that could bring about a world of pain or relief, depending on the dosage.

She began to arm herself, slipping two of the knives into the straps on her thighs, another pair into the hidden pockets of her boots. Six more found their place at her waist, resting just behind her back, ready to be drawn in an instant. The thinnest one, almost like a needle, was delicately tucked into her updo, a silent promise of lethal grace.

The pills were carefully placed in her pockets, their weight barely noticeable but their significance undeniable.

Each one was a solution, a safeguard, a final measure if all else failed. It was deliberate, like a distant ritual.

She glanced back at the mirror, where her reflection stared back with an almost haunting intensity.

It was as if the mirror had captured a shadowy echo of her true self, someone who was both there and not there, like a wraith emerging from a fog.

Heart racing, she darted through the kitchen, barely noticing the empty mugs and crumbs scattered on the counter. Her footsteps were quick and light, barely a whisper on the stairs as she ascended with a mix of urgency.

Her destination? 

The Iceberg Lounge, where her favorite penguin awaited.

A/N : Yep, here we are at chapter three!!!
By the way, I wrote about Vito long before the show aired, so I'll need to tweak him to fit into the Penguin TV plot and all that. But I'm really excited for what I've got planned for him and Alma ;)