تقلقني وتؤرقني، لكنك دائماً في بال
you trouble my mind and weigh on my heart, yet you're the thought I never part

SHE SAT, TRANSFIXED, her gaze locked on the screen as if her very soul was tethered to it.

The race between the Penguin and the Bat was no mere spectacle—it was a tempest incarnate, a clash of feral wills and roaring engines that could either ignite the night or swallow it whole. The highway stretched like a taut wire ready to snap, each turn sharper than the last, every move a gamble with fate.

Maryam's legs jittered with a rhythm she couldn't stop, her fingers fluttering from her throat to her lips, nails digging into the flesh. She chewed anxiously, a small punishment for her helplessness.

Her pulse drummed so loudly in her ears that the frantic voices of the commentators became nothing more than static. She barely heard them over the roar of tires and the occasional gasp of the crowd as the cars grazed the edge of disaster.

The Bat's sleek, shadowy car moved like a predator unleashed, its purpose honed and ruthless. The Penguin's car was no less menacing—a hulking brute of steel and chrome, unapologetic in its dominance. Together, they tore through the crowded streets, a violent dance of precision and chaos. She held her breath every time they skirted too close to the spectators lining the curbs, silent prayers tumbling through her mind.

Please, don't let anyone die.

Please God.

Not him.

Then, without warning, a blast. A plume of fire erupted from the Bat's car. It vanished, swallowed whole by an inferno that licked at the night sky like the tongues of a vengeful god.

For one harrowing moment, Maryam forgot how to breathe. The world tilted on its axis, her chest hollowing as the gravity of the moment hit her. The Bat was gone. She muttered prayers aloud now, incoherent and desperate, words tripping over one another in her haste to beg for a miracle.

And then it happened.

Through the veil of flames, he emerged—untouched, unbroken.

The Bat's car roared back to life, a phoenix carved of shadows and steel, defying everything mortal. Her gasp was a sharp, ragged sound, a crack in the silence of her apartment. It felt like witnessing the impossible, a fleeting glimpse of something divine cloaked in mortal defiance.

The Penguin wasn't so lucky.

His car faltered, skidded, and flipped. The grotesque beast of metal surrendered in a cascade of sparks and a cacophony of screeching steel. It landed with a finality that echoed even through the screen. The camera panned to the Bat, stepping out of his car with deliberate, unyielding grace. His silhouette cut through the chaos like a blade. This was no mere victory.

This was conquest.

A battle waged not with armies but with speed and fire, dominance etched into the asphalt and crowned in chaos. Yet her thoughts lingered elsewhere, softer, quieter—fragile moments that now felt like distant dreams.

Just to think... that same man, who had commanded the night like a god of vengeance, was sitting with her by the bay not so long ago.

They had been side by side, shoulders brushing, smiles shy and hesitant as if they were treading uncharted waters. The conversation had flowed like a river, natural and unhurried, as though they'd known each other forever.

Friends, lovers—she couldn't define it.

She didn't need to.

But now she missed it.

She missed the warmth in his voice, the subtle way his gaze would flicker to hers and linger just long enough to make her pulse quicken. And how foolish she'd felt, asking him trivial questions in that moment. What's your favorite color? Your favorite meal?

Stupid, silly questions—but she was glad for them. They had carved out a fleeting sanctuary, a pause in the storm. A moment of normalcy, of tranquility, like sunlight breaking through dark clouds.

Maryam exhaled shakily, the tension in her body unraveling even as her phone buzzed on the table. The sound dragged her back to reality like a tether snapping taut.

She blinked, her fingers fumbling for the device.

Nicole: Can you replace me tonight? My son had an accident. He's in the ER.

Her thumbs flew across the screen. Of course! I hope he's okay!

The reply came almost instantly.

Nicole: He's fine :) Just some stitches. Thank you!

Maryam sent a quick thumbs-up emoji and set the phone down.

She rose from the couch, the residual adrenaline from the race still simmering in her veins. The air felt heavier, charged, as if some of the chaos she'd just witnessed had seeped into her living room.

Crossing into the kitchen, her eyes caught a streak of red peeking from beneath a stack of mail on the counter. She paused, her gaze sharpening.

Uncle Andrei's invitation.

It sat there, a quiet reproach.

Guilt twisted in her chest, a knot of responsibilities ignored, promises forgotten.

Not now, she told herself, her hand retreating from the envelope. She would deal with it when the chaos settled, when the storm that was her life finally eased.

But the storm, it seemed, had no intention of passing. Not yet.

────୨ৎ────

    The glass door swung open, the soft jingle of the bell announcing a visitor to the deli. The small neon sign that read "OPEN" flickered faintly as it swayed with the movement of the door.

Maryam had a steadfast ritual: before any shift, whether at dawn or in the dead of night, she made a point to stop by her uncle's small grocery store for coffee.

It was, without question, the best in Gotham, and she wouldn't dare get her caffeine fix anywhere else—certainly not from Starbucks.

She'd tried it once, years ago, with her uncle and aunts. They'd all grimaced and sworn off anything that came in a venti cup. "This is what Americans call coffee?" her uncle had scoffed, spitting it out. "It tastes like dirty water."

It wasn't just bad; it was an insult to the beverage itself.

Uncle Fawzi's coffee, on the other hand, was legendary. The man had a way with beans and spices that drew people from all over Gotham. His Turkish and Arabic pastries were equally famous, their golden, flaky layers glistening in the display case.

During the day, a line often snaked outside his tiny shop, people chatting in a mix of languages as they waited for their turn. But tonight, the streets were quiet, and Maryam had the place to herself.

The warm, woody scent of oud from an incense burner enveloped her as she stepped inside, a comforting embrace that reminded her of childhood.

From a corner of the store, a small radio played Quranic verses—a stark contrast to the Umm Kulthum or Fairouz melodies that would drift through the air in the mornings. Her Aunt Meysa had always insisted on such customs, claiming it was bad luck to play music at night.

Behind the counter, Uncle Fawzi was busy counting money, glasses perched precariously at the tip of his nose. His weathered brown skin and thinning gray hair caught the fluorescent light, making him appear even older than he was.

Maryam suppressed the urge to fix his glasses for him.

He looked up briefly, his face a blend of sternness and calm—a quintessential immigrant uncle, with strong opinions, a penchant for loud phone videos, and a heart that was as generous as it was stubborn.

The counter beside him was cluttered with memories: photos of Maryam, her sisters and cousin Moncef at Gotham Bay when they were younger, a Muslim calendar, and a corkboard covered with colorful notes and drawings from neighborhood kids.

Near the back, her cousin stood on a ladder, fiddling with a small television mounted to the wall. His sports clothes, still damp with sweat, hinted at a recent boxing session. He was the first to notice her.

"Look who the cat dragged in," he teased, a crooked grin on his face.

Maryam rolled her eyes as her uncle chimed in without even looking up. "Maryam, habibti, come count for me. These eyes aren't what they used to be."

She set her bag on the counter and started organizing the cash. "Can you make me the usual? Don't forget three sugars," she requested.

"You're working tonight?" her uncle asked in Arabic as he began preparing her coffee.

"Yeah. Covering for a colleague," Maryam replied, her fingers moving quickly as she sorted through the bills, each note slipping into place with practiced ease.

"Have you seen the race? It was fucking biblical." Moncef's voice broke through the quiet, his head still focused on the TV as he fiddled with the set. "Man, this city keeps getting crazier by the second."

Maryam hummed in response, not bothering to look up from what she was doing. "Yeah, it was crazy," she said casually, like she hadn't been freaking out in her living room just a few minutes ago.

The familiar jingle of the doorbell rang through the shop, drawing Maryam's attention. She glanced up, her eyes landing on the woman who had entered, struggling to calm a crying child. The moment her gaze met the woman's face, recognition flashed in Maryam's mind.

"Katie!" Maryam greeted warmly, her voice bright as she made her way toward the door.

Catherine, doing her best to calm the crying toddler in her arms, looked up and smiled, her face lighting up. "Maryam! It's been ages!"

"It has! Motherhood really suits you," Maryam said with a chuckle, stepping around the counter to gently pinch the toddler's cheek.

She laughed softly, tired eyes twinkling. "And you look as stunning as always."

"Thanks," Maryam replied, her grin widening. "So, who's this little one?" She looked down at the toddler, who had stopped crying and was now gazing up at her with wide, curious eyes.

"This is Jason," Catherine said with a sigh, a note of exhaustion in her voice.

Maryam gently ruffled the boy's hair, offering him a warm smile. "Nice to meet you, Jason." The boy, however, just pouted, his tiny lips pressed into a firm line, clearly uninterested in the greeting.

The mother and her son headed for the aisles, and Maryam returned to the counter, nearly finished with her task when the door jingled again.

A man in a dark vest and glasses stepped inside, his hat pulled low over his face. She didn't pay him much attention at first, focusing instead on the numbers in front of her.

Moncef greeted the man without turning away from the television. The man mumbled a barely audible response.

"Two hundred dollars," Maryam said to her uncle in arabic, handing him the stack of bills.

"Shukran. Your coffee's almost ready," he replied.

Maryam made her way to the refrigerated drinks section, footsteps soft against the worn linoleum floor.

She reached for a Red Bull, her fingers brushing the cold metal of the can. The familiar hiss of the fridge door closing behind her was drowned out by the gentle hum of the store's overhead lights. As she turned to make her way back to the counter, she noticed that the man who had entered earlier was now standing in the same aisle, near the snack shelves.

Her eyes flicked to him, but it wasn't his presence that made her pause—it was the way he moved. His motions were quick, almost jittery, as if he was nervous or trying to stay unnoticed. Something about his erratic fidgeting didn't sit right with her.

That's when she saw it: the subtle bulge at the side of his jacket. The outline of a gun pressed against the fabric of his pocket, half-hidden but unmistakable.

A cold wave of unease washed over her, and her breath hitched in her chest. For a moment, her mind raced with scenarios, each one worse than the last. Guns weren't rare in Gotham, but seeing one tucked away in a place like this, a small family-run grocery store, made it feel all the more wrong.

Her pulse quickened, but she steadied herself, forcing her body to relax.

She couldn't afford to show any fear.

So Maryam kept her movements casual, grabbing the Red Bull from the shelf with a practiced ease. Her hand felt colder than usual as she closed the door behind her and walked back toward the counter. Her eyes flicked to the man once more, but he was still lost in his fidgeting, unaware of her steady approach.

She passed by him without a word, trying to seem as inconspicuous as possible, and made her way back to the counter, heart still pounding, hoping the tension in the air wasn't as noticeable to anyone else.

Catherine stood at the counter, shaking her head as she insisted she couldn't accept the groceries for free, but Uncle Fawzi was having none of it.

His tone was firm, resolute. "It's on the house," he said, slipping a small candy into Jason's eager hands.

"Fawzi, you spoil us," Catherine said with an exasperated smile, though her eyes softened with gratitude.

"I insist," Uncle Fawzi replied simply, his voice unwavering.

"You should accept, he's stubborn as a mule," Moncef added from his perch on the ladder, not even looking up from his task.

The tired mother rolled her eyes but couldn't hide her smile. "Fine, thank you again," she said, collecting her bags and giving a warm smile to the family. "Take care, all of you."

Maryam watched Catherine leave, a small, fond smile playing on her lips. She gave a little wave, leaning slightly to catch the toddler's attention. "Bye, Jason," she said softly, her tone warm and affectionate. The baby continued to stare at her, wide-eyed and curious, as if trying to memorize her face.

She set her drink on the counter, just as the man from earlier approached. Her coffee wasn't quite ready yet, so she stepped aside, giving him the space to go ahead.

"Apple juice," Uncle Fawzi muttered, his hand slow and deliberate as he scanned the item. "One dollar."

The man reached into his pocket, and Maryam felt her muscles tense involuntarily. She couldn't help but watch as his fingers fumbled for change. She glanced at his hand, almost expecting him to pull the gun, the tension in the air thickening. Instead, he placed fifty cents on the counter.

Before her uncle could even open his mouth, Maryam slid a dollar bill forward, her voice soft but firm. "It's fine," she said, meeting the man's eyes with a calm, reassuring look.

The man glanced up at her, and for a moment, she thought he might say something, but he simply murmured a quiet, "Thank you," before adjusting his glasses and turning toward the door. He walked out without another word, leaving only the faint scent of his presence behind.

Uncle Fawzi gave Maryam a knowing glance, then set her coffee down on the counter. "Here you go," he said gruffly, his voice warm despite the terse exterior.

She picked up her coffee, along with her Red Bull, giving her uncle a quick kiss on the cheek. "Thanks. I'll see you two later," she said, heading for the door with the weight of the night's shift on her shoulders.

"Be careful, there's a murderer on the loose," Uncle Fawzi warned, lifting a folded newspaper from the counter, his brow furrowed in concern.

Maryam glanced back with a wry smirk. "Aren't there always?" she quipped, already pushing the door open. "Bye!" she added over her shoulder, the jingle of the bell accompanying her exit.

The door jingled softly behind her, and the crisp evening breeze greeted her like an old friend.

────୨ৎ────

Stepping into the main hall of Gotham General felt like slipping into a well-worn rhythm—a fleeting sanctuary amidst the chaos, where adrenaline and routine blurred into one.

The scent of antiseptic hung heavy in the air, sharp and sterile, mingling with the faint bitterness of overbrewed coffee. The hospital thrummed like a living organism, its pulse steady despite the tumult within.

Maryam cradled a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, the heat seeping through the cardboard sleeve, thawing her chilled fingers. Her scrubs, a crisp navy blue, stood in sharp contrast to the pristine white of her lab coat. As always, her caramel hair was swept into a flawless French twist, every strand perfectly in place.

Every detail was deliberate, like an armor she donned to face the night's unpredictable battles.

The emergency station was a tempest—an orchestra of disarray conducted by crisis. Phones chimed incessantly, their sharp tones slicing through the low murmur of voices and the intermittent blare of distant alarms. The waiting area overflowed with humanity in its rawest forms.

Parents clutched crying children; a man cradled his arm, face twisted in pain; a woman sat hunched over, her lips moving in silent prayer. The fluorescent lights above cast an unforgiving glow, accentuating every line of worry, every shadow of fatigue.

The staff moved with purpose, their expressions a blend of focus and quiet resignation. Doctors dashed between rooms, their stethoscopes swinging like pendulums with each hurried step. Nurses pushed through the chaos with trays of vials and bandages, weaving expertly through clusters of anxious families.

Words ricocheted off the walls—commands, reassurances, desperate questions:

"Prep bay three!"
"Where's the crash cart?"
"His pulse is stabilizing, but I need that blood work now!"

Maryam absorbed it all, her presence quiet yet steady, like a rock amidst a torrent. The cacophony didn't overwhelm her; it grounded her. This was Gotham, after all.

The city that never truly rested, where every night seemed to balance on the edge of calamity.

She took a sip of her coffee, the liquid scalding but welcome, a temporary anchor in the storm. The bitterness jolted her awake, sharpened her senses.

It was a packed night, the kind that frayed nerves and tested patience, but Maryam welcomed it. The chaos wasn't daunting; it was familiar.

A strange kind of solace, where every second mattered, every action had weight.

Just Gotham. Just the job. Just another night.

She liked hospitals, and that might seem strange to most.

After all, who would find solace in a place where life and death waged war every single day?

But Maryam felt the opposite. Hospitals were her sanctuary, a shield against the chaos of the world outside.

Here, within these sterile walls, there was structure, purpose, and—ironically—a kind of peace. Maybe it was her upbringing, surrounded by survival, or perhaps it was the predictable rhythm of this place, but she felt... protected here.

The scent of soap and sterile alcohol was oddly comforting, a clean slate for all the messiness of human fragility. Her colleagues were, for the most part, kind.

They worked tirelessly, driven by a shared mission to heal—or at least to try. Of course, there were exceptions, like Doctor Elliot, whose lingering gaze and inappropriate comments made her skin crawl. But even he couldn't taint the sanctuary she found here.

Her patients, however, were a world apart.

They were not people anymore, not in the way the hospital's other wards brimmed with the living. Her patients were the dead—silent, still, and uncomplaining.

And yet, Maryam saw her work as more than just a job. To her, it was a gift, a profound responsibility.

The morgue was where the overlooked stories of the hospital came to rest, and Maryam was one of their last audience.

For her, the morgue was more than just a resting place for the hospital's overlooked stories—it was her stage, and she was the last audience for lives that had ended in silence. But what truly captivated her was the puzzle each body presented.

Forensic analysis was an art as much as it was a science, and Maryam was its devoted practitioner.

To determine the cause and manner of death was to unravel a story—a story etched into muscle and bone, whispered through bruises and scars, hidden in the faintest trace of chemical residue or the curve of a broken rib.

Each body was a riddle, a life's ending waiting to be understood.

And for Maryam, it was like being a detective, but her mysteries lay within the human body.

She would run her fingers gently along their skin, reading the markings of their final moments as if they were ancient runes. A jagged laceration hinted at violence; the absence of defensive wounds told her of surprise—or surrender. She could trace the chemical stains beneath fingernails, a clue to a poisoning, or read the subtle pattern of petechiae in the eyes, a silent testament to asphyxiation.

To her, these weren't just grim details—they were pieces of a greater truth. And finding that truth wasn't just a duty; it was an act of justice.

Each autopsy room was a laboratory of answers waiting to be uncovered. She worked meticulously, her tools an extension of her will.

A scalpel in her hand wasn't just a blade; it was a key, unlocking secrets hidden beneath layers of flesh and sinew. As she made her first incision, she felt an almost sacred focus, as if the body itself were guiding her toward what it wanted to reveal.

The thrill of discovery lay not in the macabre, but in the pursuit of clarity.

A contusion here, a shattered bone there—it was a timeline, a sequence of events leading to an inevitable end. Maryam documented it all with precision, her notes detailed, her photographs exact. Each stitch she made, each fragment of evidence she cataloged, was another step toward telling their story, no matter how fragmented or forgotten.

And the stories were always different.

A man found in the river, his lungs heavy with water and his wrists bruised—a probable drowning, but was it accidental?

A young woman whose blood carried traces of an unfamiliar toxin—a deliberate act, or a tragic mistake?

The body was a witness, and Maryam its interpreter.

Her work wasn't only about closure for the families, though that was part of it. It was about accountability. Her findings could give grieving loved ones the answers they desperately sought.

They could bring criminals to justice or exonerate the innocent.

In her quiet way, Maryam felt she was a guardian of the truth, ensuring that even in death, people were seen, heard, and valued.

Every autopsy felt like a conversation—a final opportunity for the body to speak and for her to listen.

She often thought about how fragile, how fleeting it all was. But in her hands, the fragility was made meaningful, the fleeting moments preserved, the chaos brought to order.

And in a way, she found herself in those quiet hours with the dead.

In the stillness of the morgue, there was no need to pretend, no need to wear the mask she so often donned outside these walls. Here, she was just Maryam—someone who understood the fragility of life, the weight of loss, and the importance of making sure even the forgotten were treated with care.

For her, this wasn't morbid or strange.

It was meaningful.

It was necessary.

And it was hers.

Maryam made her way to the front desk, the steady rhythm of her shoes echoing in the bustling hallway. Patricia, the night shift nurse, was typing with a focused intensity, her fingers moving so fast it was as if she could will the night's chaos to slow down.

She barely looked up when Maryam approached, her eyes tired but sharp.

"Patty," Maryam said, her voice low but carrying an edge of urgency, "I need the name and details for one of the bodies downstairs. Fridge sixteen."

Patricia hesitated only for a moment before she gave a small, weary nod. "Give me a second, Mar. It's been nonstop tonight."

As Patricia flipped through her files, Maryam's gaze drifted, her senses still tingling with the pulse of the hospital. And then she saw her. A flash of movement. A familiar silhouette that sent a flicker of warmth through her chest. Aunt Jamila.

Of course.

She stood a few feet away, clipboard in hand, shifting from foot to foot as if the weight of the world was threatening to pull her down. Her dark ponytail swung slightly with each movement, the only sign of a woman who held it all together even when everything else was crumbling.

A slow smile curled on Maryam's lips as she approached, a lightness in her step. She leaned in just enough to catch her attention, her voice barely above a whisper. "Salaam."

Jamila jumped, her body stiffening as she spun around, eyes wide with surprise. For a moment, the cool, collected woman Maryam knew seemed to vanish, replaced by someone almost fragile. But the moment passed quickly, her eyes softening with recognition.

"Ya binti!" Jamila breathed out, a mix of surprise and relief. "You scared me!"

Maryam bit her lip, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Sorry," she said, the playful apology slipping easily from her lips. "Didn't think you'd be here tonight."

Her aunt arched an eyebrow, giving her a once-over. "And you? Shouldn't you be off tonight?"

Maryam shrugged, sipping her coffee with a casualness that didn't match the tightness in her chest. "Taking a shift for a colleague," she replied, her tone light but edged with the familiar tension of a long night ahead.

Jamila made a soft, almost amused hum in the back of her throat, her attention already slipping back to the stack of papers on her desk. "Always working," she muttered, the affection in her voice undeniable even as her eyes flicked over the documents with practiced precision.

It wasn't unusual for their paths to cross here—though it always caught Maryam off guard, especially on nights like this, when everything seemed on the edge of unraveling.

Their schedules rarely aligned, but when they did, they'd carve out moments for each other in the chaos. A stolen coffee, a rushed lunch in the cafeteria—simple things that were hard to come by in the whirlwind of the hospital.

But tonight? Tonight, the moment felt heavier, like the calm before a storm. The hospital was alive with urgency, and this brief exchange with her aunt, standing in the middle of it all, was a fleeting connection that grounded her—if only for a moment.

Maryam turned back to Patricia, who was now calling her name, a small stack of paperwork in her hands. "Here you go, sweetie," she said, passing it over with a soft smile.

She was about to thank her, to utter the polite words that often slipped easily from her lips, but something caught her—a flash of movement, something urgent pulling her gaze toward the television mounted above the desk. Her breath caught as smoke billowed from the screen, thick and choking, backlit by the harsh orange flames that licked hungrily at the night sky.

Wayne Tower.

Fire was raging on the uppermost floors.

Maryam's pulse quickened, every muscle in her body locking into a state of tense anticipation. "Turn it up!" she barked, her voice sharp and demanding, louder this time—louder than she intended, but she couldn't stop herself. Something was wrong. She could feel it.

Patricia, startled but quick to react, grabbed the remote and cranked up the volume.

"...a bomb has detonated in the penthouse suite of Wayne Tower. Firefighters are on the scene, battling the blaze. Details remain scarce, but authorities urge the public to stay clear of the area for their safety..."

The words fell away from her mind as sirens screamed outside, their wail piercing the quiet night. The glass doors of the hospital slid open with a hiss, and paramedics burst in, urgently pushing a gurney.

A body, still and lifeless beneath the oxygen mask, lay on the stretcher.

Blood stained the crisp white sheets.

Her heart froze.

Her aunt, ever the professional, snapped into action with practiced efficiency. She barked orders to the medics, her voice steady and firm despite the chaos. "Make sure the IV's secure. Get him to trauma two, now."

"...body extract from Wayne Tower—"

The words melted into the background, but Maryam heard them, felt them reverberate in her chest like a drumbeat of doom. Her legs felt like lead, heavy and unyielding, rooted to the ground. Her mind went numb, a terrible thought blooming, filling every corner of her consciousness.

Bruce.

Please, no. Please, God, no.

The words were a mantra, whispered frantically inside her head as her heart thundered in her chest.

She couldn't breathe.

She couldn't think.

She could only move, instinct pushing her forward even as her body screamed in protest. She stumbled through the chaos, weaving past doctors and nurses, her hands gripping the documents she had forgotten all about, clutching them desperately as if they might anchor her in this storm of fear.

The hallway seemed endless, a blur of white coats and frantic energy, but all she could see, all she could feel, was the gurney. The body on the stretcher. Her heart pounded louder with each step, a thundering cacophony that drowned out all else.

Please, let it not be him.

She pushed past another nurse, desperate to catch a glimpse of the face beneath the oxygen mask, to know—to know it wasn't him—but the movement was too quick, too precise. They were already pulling the gurney toward the trauma room, the white sheets hiding the man's identity.

Please God.

Every step she took toward it felt like a mile, every breath she managed to take, a fragile victory. She clung to the flimsy hope that maybe, just maybe, it wasn't him. But deep inside, a gnawing, insistent dread clawed at her. And all the while, the words echoed relentlessly in her mind:

Please. Please. Please.

They reached the trauma bay, the doors swinging shut with a sharp hiss, sealing off the frantic energy inside from the world outside. Maryam stopped just outside, her breath shallow as she gripped the cold frame of the door.

She pressed her forehead briefly against the glass window, her eyes scanning the flurry of motion within, a blur of doctors and nurses working with urgent precision. Every second felt like an eternity, each passing moment steeped in a growing sense of dread.

Then, finally, the man's face came into view.

A middle-aged man. His hair streaked with gray, his features lined with age. Not Bruce.

The relief hit her in a wave, so strong it almost knocked her off her feet. She staggered backward, bracing herself against the wall as the tension in her chest melted away. Her lungs gasped for air, her heartbeat hammering in her ears. He's not here. It's not him.

But then came the weight of a new, bitter question.

If it wasn't Bruce, then who was this man? Someone from the tower? Someone close to him? The medic had said it was a body from Wayne Tower, but who? The realization gnawed at her, its sharp teeth scraping at the edges of her thoughts.

Was it someone Bruce cared about?

Someone important?

Inside, the team worked with rapid intensity, their movements swift and practiced as they stabilized the man. His injuries were severe—bruises, burns, and the telltale signs of trauma that only a bomb could inflict—but the doctors were determined, their expressions set in grim focus. The chances of survival were slim, but Maryam knew they would give him every chance they could.

She watched for a moment longer, her chest tightening again, but this time it wasn't fear for Bruce—it was for a stranger, a man whose life was now in the hands of the people around him. She felt something stir inside her, a strange tug at the edges of her empathy.

This man was someone's someone. Someone who would be missed. Her pulse still raced, but for a different reason now.

Her mind began to race with possibilities.

Should she call Bruce? Ask if he was okay? Her fingers twitched with the urge to reach for her phone, but she stopped herself. No. Why would I? They weren't close—not in any way that made sense. Calling him would be strange, out of place. It would unleash a torrent of questions, and besides, she didn't even have his number—just that little mobile phone he'd given her for emergencies. Exactly. Emergencies only. He was fine. It wasn't him.

Just breathe, Maryam. She exhaled slowly, her breath steadying.

Turning her back to the trauma bay, she pushed the thought aside, letting it dissipate like smoke. She needed to focus. Just another night—chaotic, untamed, and relentless.

She walked back down the hallway, the coffee she had brought with her now forgotten, the file from Patricia a mere whisper in the back of her mind.

As she passed her aunt, Jamila looked up briefly from the papers she was working on, her eyes sharp with practiced focus. Maryam paused, suddenly unsure of the question she wanted to ask.

"If you hear anything about him—the man they just brought in—let me know?"

Jamila's gaze softened, and she gave a brief nod. "Of course."

Maryam nodded back, the weight of her unspoken worries lingering between them, before she turned away and moved toward the main hall. Her footsteps echoed in the corridor, but the sound didn't bring comfort.

Somewhere in the distance, the television still droned on, the fire at Wayne Tower still raging. Its orange glow flickered faintly in the polished floors, an eerie reflection of the chaos unfolding.  The flames licked at the sky, unstoppable, like a force of nature and a reminder that Gotham was always on the brink of something. Always on the edge.

Maryam clenched her jaw, her hands trembling slightly as she pocketed the slip of paper Patricia had handed her earlier.

The night was far from over, just another page in the long, unyielding story of Gotham.

And somewhere—out there in the smoke and chaos—Bruce Wayne's name lingered, unanswered, like an open wound.

A/N : shit is about more angsty than before 😬😬 My girl Maryam was stressing here, but when is she not ?

Little cameo there... hope y'all enjoyed the surprise! 😏

Also, not me channeling my personal feelings into Starbucks coffee here.

Fun fact: my parents were traumatized the first time they tried it in America. We have Starbucks where I'm from too, but honestly, no one really goes there unless they're feeling fancy or something. We've got plenty of great coffee shops, so why bother? Now, me? I don't hate Starbucks, but let's be real—there's better coffee out there. Just saying.