⎯⎯⎯ IN THE QUIET ⎯⎯⎯

CHAPTER TWO
'Mysterious Gift & Bloodied Gloves'

GOTHAM — TWO YEARS AGO

MAHEEN HAD BEEN PACING THE LENGTH OF HER ROOM, her steps falling into a jagged, restless rhythm, as if grief itself had rewired her movements. Jason's absence clung to her like a storm cloud that refused to break, its weight pressing relentlessly against her chest. She had promised herself—and Bruce—that she would hold it together while staying at Wayne Manor. But the crushing silence, the unspoken sorrow that seeped into the very walls, felt like a vice tightening around her heart. Every creak of the old house, every fleeting shadow seemed poised to crush her under the sheer enormity of her loss.

The doorbell rang. Sharp. Sudden. The sound shattered the oppressive quiet like a glass splintering against stone. Maheen froze mid-step, her breath catching painfully in her throat. For a brief moment, the urge to ignore it gripped her. The world beyond her door felt like a distant echo, far removed from the raw agony that consumed her. But curiosity—or maybe just a need to move—pushed her forward. Her limbs felt heavy, as though grief had shackled her ankles, each step a battle against invisible chains.

When she opened the door, the porch stared back at her, empty and unremarkable. Confusion flickered in her chest, chasing away the numbness. No one stood waiting. Only a small, plain brown box sat silently on the welcome mat, with her name written on it. Innocuous. Harmless. Yet dread twisted its way up her spine, cold and immediate.

Her heart clenched painfully, a sudden rush of unease flooding her senses. Who would send her anything? Her mind recoiled from the question even as the answer formed, unwelcome and dark, whispering from the shadows of her thoughts.

She didn't need to guess. She already knew.

It wasn't from anyone she trusted.

The box felt wrong the moment Maheen touched it—too cold, too still, as if it had been waiting for her. A prickling unease spread along her skin, a shiver that had nothing to do with the draft curling through the hallway. She should have left it outside. She knew she should have. Shut the door. Turn the lock. Pretend it had never been there. But something darker than curiosity compelled her to lift it. Her hands shook as she carried it inside, its presence heavy, almost alive, pressing down on her with invisible weight.

She set it on the edge of the living room table, her breath hitching, heart racing with a sick anticipation. The air around her felt thick, her room suddenly smaller, suffocating. Her fingers fumbled with the tape, each pull deliberate and slow, the act of opening it dragging out like the final steps before a fall. A knot twisted tighter and tighter in her stomach, her body screaming in silent warning.

Then the tape came loose.

The first thing to fall free was a photo.

Her heart stopped.

Jason.

She didn't need to look. She didn't need to see. The second her eyes registered it, nausea surged in her throat, clawing its way up with merciless force. Her breath shuddered as the image burned itself into her mind: Jason's face, frozen in a snapshot of brutal agony. His wide, pain-filled eyes stared back at her, as if he had been trapped within that frame, forced to relive his suffering over and over. Blood marred his skin, dark stains seeping through the frayed edges of memory.

Her mind screamed, No.

The photograph was old, worn with creases like it had passed through too many hands, carried by the weight of too many sins. It wasn't a memento. It wasn't a keepsake. It was a weapon. The Joker's twisted masterpiece, a cruel reminder of what he had done. A reminder of what she had lost.

The life they were supposed to have. The moments that had been stolen. Jason, reduced to something unrecognizable by madness and violence.

Her chest clenched so tightly she thought it might collapse. Breath came in shallow, desperate gasps, the air itself turning poisonous, burning her lungs. Her heart hammered, each beat slamming against her ribs like a frantic knock she couldn't answer. The room—the familiar, safe room—warped and twisted around her, the walls closing in as her grief, her rage, her despair surged like a flood, dragging her down into its icy depths.

The photo slipped from her fingers. It drifted to the floor with a soft, cruel flutter.

Maheen stood frozen, unable to move, her eyes locked on the paper as though it were alive. She couldn't pick it up. She couldn't look at it again.

But she could feel it.

The weight of Jason's death pressed against her chest like a stone, cold and unyielding, crushing the breath from her lungs.

The silence shattered with a metallic clink—a piece of cold, unidentifiable metal tumbled from the box, skidding across the floor. The sound rang sharp in the suffocating stillness, dragging Maheen's frayed nerves tighter. Her breath caught as her tear-blurred vision locked onto it, dread unfurling like icy fingers around her throat. She crouched, trembling, and reached out as if the very act of touching it might burn her.

The metal object glinted ominously in the dim light. A small, unassuming MP4 player.

As soon as it hit the ground, it came to life.

Static crackled from its speakers. Then a voice—Jason's voice. A strangled, desperate cry filled the room, the sound raw with agony.

Maheen's heart stopped.

The scream tore through her like a blade, each syllable digging deep, ripping her open. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Her mind reeled as the recording continued, capturing every moment of Jason's torment, each brutal blow, each gasp of pain.

Her hands flew to her ears. She pressed hard, too hard, as if she could block out the sound, as if she could unhear the truth that had already carved itself into her soul. But it was too late.

The Joker's voice followed, a slow, deliberate drawl filled with venomous glee.

"Oh, don't cry now, little bird. I'm just getting started."

Jason's choked gasp was met with the sickening crack of bone. Maheen flinched, her whole body convulsing as if she felt the blow herself. Tears streamed down her face, hot and endless, blurring the edges of the room.

And then, at the end—just before the audio died out—came the laugh.

That awful, maniacal laugh.

It echoed inside her skull, reverberating with a cruel, bone-deep resonance. It was laughter that didn't just mock—it devoured. It fed on her grief, her terror, her helplessness.

The recording cut to silence.

But the sound of that laugh lingered.

Maheen's legs gave out. She collapsed onto the floor, her breath hitching in short, shallow bursts as the weight of it all crushed her. Her chest heaved, each inhale burning, each exhale filled with a sob she couldn't contain.

This was it.

This was what Jason had endured.

This was what had been done to him.

Her stomach lurched violently, nausea surging as the truth twisted inside her like a knife. Every second of his suffering had been preserved, replayed, sent to her like a gift. She clenched her fists until her nails bit into her palms, but the pain wasn't enough. Nothing would ever be enough to tear her away from the horror that had taken root inside her.

She backed away from the player, her limbs shaking so violently she could barely crawl. She didn't feel the floor beneath her or the tears dripping onto her hands. Her entire body had gone numb except for the suffocating, inescapable ache crushing her chest.

This was the Joker's game. This was how he worked—how he broke people.

The photo. The recording. The sound of Jason's pain burned into her memory.

It was all calculated.

And now, Maheen finally understood—

It was her turn.

BRUCE WAS IN THE STUDY, his eyes scanning a report he had read three times without processing a word. The weight of Jason's loss pressed on his mind like an unshakable shadow. Then he heard it.

A dull thud, sharp enough to jolt his instincts, followed by a sound that made his blood turn cold—a muffled, gasping sob.

He was on his feet before the thought had even formed.

The hallway stretched longer than it should have as he moved swiftly, every step faster than the last. When he reached the living room, he stopped just short of the entry, breath hitching at the sight before him.

Maheen was crumpled on the floor, her back against the sofa, trembling. Her hands clutched something in a death grip—a photograph. Jason's photograph. Her chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, her breaths ragged and uneven, as though the air itself had turned against her.

The MP4 player lay on the floor nearby, its screen flickering. The recording played on a loop.

Static. A scream. Jason's scream.

Bruce's stomach twisted violently.

The sound repeated, relentless, a haunting symphony of agony punctuated by the Joker's laughter.

"Oh, don't cry, little bird... I'm just getting started..."

The laugh echoed again.

And again.

And again.

Bruce's jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ached. He dropped to his knees beside her, his heart pounding harder with every second.

"Maheen," he said softly, his voice low, steady. He reached out, but she flinched, curling in tighter, her fingers white-knuckled around the photo as though letting go would shatter what little remained of her.

"Maheen," he tried again, firmer this time.

Her wide eyes flickered, but they didn't truly see. Her pupils were dilated, lost in a memory that was devouring her alive.

The audio looped again. Jason's broken gasps. The crack of bone.

The laugh.

Bruce's hand hovered over hers. He wanted to pull her from it—out of this nightmare—but she wasn't ready. He knew that hollow, drowning place too well. He swallowed the ache rising in his throat and stayed beside her, anchoring himself to the moment.

"May, I'm here," he whispered. "You're safe."

But the lie burned in his mouth.

Alfred appeared quietly behind him, his usual composure fractured by worry. His eyes swept over the scene, the photograph, the MP4 player still replaying the horror. The unmistakable stain of the Joker's cruelty.

"Master Bruce," Alfred said, his voice low but urgent. "She's slipping into shock. We need to calm her, or she'll—"

"I know," Bruce snapped, harsher than he meant to. He exhaled slowly, forcing his own storm of emotion back down. His hand finally closed over hers, a steady, grounding warmth against her cold, trembling fingers.

"May," he said again, softer now. He cupped her face with his free hand, gently guiding her gaze to his. "Look at me. Stay with me."

Her breath hitched, a flicker of recognition breaking through the haze. Her eyes found his, and something fragile, raw, began to surface.

"It's okay," he whispered, his voice breaking with the weight of it all. "You're not alone."

The laughter played on behind them. Bruce's grip tightened as fury coiled, molten and deadly, in his chest. He didn't need to hear it again to know what it meant.

This was war.

The Joker had gone too far before. But now—

Now, he'd made it personal.

"Alfred," Bruce said without looking up, his voice like steel. "Stop the recording."

"Of course, sir."

As Alfred silenced the MP4 player, the room fell into a heavy, breathless quiet. Bruce remained where he was, holding Maheen as if his very presence could keep the darkness at bay.

"We'll stop him," Bruce promised again, though his voice barely rose above a whisper. The weight of his own words sat heavily on his chest, each syllable a vow carved from stone.

He felt the fire within him—a deep, searing rage that burned hotter with every heartbeat. He wanted to let it consume him, to let it drive him into the darkness where the Joker awaited, laughing with the blood of those he had destroyed. But not now. Not yet. He forced it back, burying the inferno beneath layers of resolve.

Maheen needed him. Now.

He looked down at her. The sharpness of her features, usually filled with fierce determination, was now fragile and worn. Tear tracks shimmered down her cheeks, and her lashes clung to each other like wet feathers. She had been fighting so long, carrying more than any child ever should. His heart broke all over again, a fresh crack in the same familiar place.

She was his goddaughter. He had failed to keep Jason safe. He wouldn't let history repeat itself.

I'll make him pay for this, Bruce vowed silently, his hand never leaving hers. And I'll protect her, no matter what it costs me.

Time stretched, becoming a blur of moments lost between breaths. Bruce held her through the storm of panic that wracked her body. He counted her gasps, the shallow, painful stutters of air that clawed at her chest. Every spasm, every tremor, cut into him like glass.

Then, finally, her breathing steadied.

The sharp edge of panic dulled, replaced by exhaustion so heavy it seemed to crush her into his arms. The violent tremors slowed. Her body gave in, succumbing to a weariness too vast to resist.

He felt it as her sobs faded—felt the moment when her mind, still too chaotic and loud, retreated into numbness. It was not peace, but it was silence. The heavy silence of a mind too shattered to keep breaking.

Maheen's breathing became soft, even, each inhale no longer a battle. Her body grew still against him, except for the faint tremble that refused to fully leave.

Bruce didn't move. His hand stayed firm against her back, the other resting protectively over her clasped fingers.

Her grip on the photograph had loosened. He could take it from her now, pull it free before she woke. But he didn't. Instead, he watched her fingers, gentle now where they had been desperate before. The image of Jason—young, broken, gone—was still too close. Too fresh.

He clenched his jaw until it ached.

His voice, low and steady, was the last sound Maheen heard before she slipped completely into restless sleep.

"I'm here," he murmured, the words as much a prayer as a promise. "I won't let him hurt you."

ALFRED SAT ACROSS FROM BRUCE IN THE DIMLY LIT BATCAVE, a cup of tea cooling between them. Neither man touched it. The weight of the silence pressed down, heavy and suffocating, as though the entire manor held its breath.

"I never thought I'd see her like that," Bruce murmured, his voice rough and barely audible. His eyes were fixed on the dark corner of the room, unable to meet Alfred's steady gaze. The guilt in his chest burned, a relentless ache that wouldn't subside. "I couldn't protect her. I couldn't save her from what he did to Jason."

Alfred's brows drew together, the lines of his face etched with compassion and understanding. "Master Bruce, you have done all any man could. You've shielded her from the worst of Gotham for as long as humanly possible. But we both know... even your greatest efforts can't erase scars inflicted by the Joker's brand of madness."

Bruce clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms as anger surged through him. The image of Maheen—her trembling form, the sheer terror in her eyes—was seared into his mind. The Joker's cruelty had reached its apex, bringing his sadistic games to her doorstep.

"I should have stopped him," Bruce hissed, his voice low and dangerous. "I should have ended it—ended him—a long time ago."

Alfred's voice, calm yet resolute, cut through the storm of rage threatening to overtake him. "No, sir. That is a line you cannot cross. Your anger may be justified, but vengeance will not bring peace. We both know it would devour you. And it would destroy her, too."

Bruce's head snapped toward Alfred, the fire in his eyes smoldering. "She wouldn't blame me for stopping him."

Alfred held his gaze, unflinching. "Perhaps not. But she would lose the man she looks up to—the one who taught her that justice, no matter how imperfect, must always stand above revenge. Do not make her bear that loss on top of what's already been stolen."

For a moment, the words hung between them, cutting through the suffocating anger. But as Bruce's jaw tightened, the resolve within him grew darker. He had failed Jason. He would not fail Maheen, no matter the cost.

Without another word, he stood and moved to the computer at the far end of the room, the glow of the Batcomputer casting cold light against his clenched features. His fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up every lead, every whisper of the Joker's movements since his last escape from Arkham. Each thread was a step closer to ending the madness.

Alfred rose slowly, watching his charge with a mixture of sorrow and resignation. "Master Bruce, I implore you—remember who you are. Don't let him make you forget."

Bruce didn't respond. His mind had already fallen into the hunt—an all-consuming haze of vengeance driving him forward, each breath tightening into a knot of purpose. Every image of Maheen's tear-streaked face, of Jason's brutalized body, churned like gasoline igniting the firestorm within him. There would be no rest until he found the Joker. No reprieve until he silenced that twisted, grating laugh.

And when he did find him, there was no hesitation.

He crashed through the dilapidated door of the abandoned amusement warehouse, a predator in the dark. The Joker turned, his grin already wide, but Bruce didn't wait for words or monologues. His fist connected with bone, a sickening crack resounding as Joker's head snapped back.

The first punch was fury. The second was grief. The rest blurred together, a symphony of rage as Bruce's fists pounded into Joker's face with brutal, unrelenting force. Months of guilt, of failure, of pain coursed through every blow. The laughter—the maddening, relentless laughter—grew sharp and erratic with each strike.

"You think this is funny?" Bruce snarled, his voice a growl of unrestrained anger. His knuckles, slick with blood, drove into Joker's jaw again and again. "You think what you did to her, what you did to Jason, was a joke?"

Joker coughed, blood spraying from his lips as he grinned, wild-eyed and fearless. "Oh, come on, Batsy..." His voice wavered, but he still found a way to twist the knife. "You're upset? Adorable." He chuckled through the blood. "I knew you'd snap. Just took the right push." His eyes glinted with manic glee. "She's a broken little bird now. Just like him. Just like you."

Bruce's fist crashed down again. Harder. Faster. His mind screamed to end it. The sound of bone cracking, of flesh giving way, filled the empty warehouse like thunder. Joker's body slumped further under the unrelenting onslaught, his maniacal laughter warping into gasping coughs.

And yet Bruce's fists didn't stop.

For one burning, blinding moment, he was lost. Consumed. His fury swallowed everything—justice, restraint, morality—all drowned beneath the inferno of his need for retribution.

But then... a flicker.

Maheen's tearful face flashed in his mind. Her trembling hands clutching a photograph of Jason, her sobs shaking her entire frame. The devastation, the vulnerability, the trust.

The rage fractured.

Bruce gasped for air, his chest heaving as his fists stilled. His fingers ached, blood smeared across his gloves. He stared down at Joker—bruised, broken, bloodied. His grin had faded. Surprise, even confusion, now marred his grotesque features.

He couldn't.

He wouldn't let Joker twist him into this. Not for Jason. Not for Maheen. Not for anyone.

Bruce pulled back, trembling with the effort of restraint. He stood over Joker, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles ached. The Joker groaned, barely conscious, a pitiful, broken heap on the ground.

"Get up," Bruce snarled, his voice ragged.

Joker chuckled weakly, his breath wheezing. "You're not done?" His eyes flicked upward, madness still dancing in them. "Oh, Bats... this is fun..."

But Bruce was done. He straightened, his chest still heaving, his pulse a drumbeat in his ears. His gaze burned with fury, but his mind was sharp, clearer now.

      "I'm not you," Bruce muttered, the words a blade slicing through the tension. His voice was cold, sharp as tempered steel, but beneath it lay something raw. "I'll let you live. But don't ever think you've won."

The Joker's broken grin stretched wide again, even as he lay crumpled on the floor. "Oh, Bats..." His voice rasped with glee. "You haven't won. She's already lost. You'll see..."

Bruce didn't flinch. He didn't look back. His boots echoed across the concrete as he walked away, leaving the Joker in the darkness.

The laughter followed him, that horrible, mocking sound reverberating in his mind like a ghost that would never leave.

But his resolve didn't falter.

The weight of his choice settled heavy in his heart—grief intertwined with restraint. The fire still burned inside him, but it would not consume him. Not tonight. He would carry it. For Maheen. For Jason.

For who he had to be.

BRUCE SAT BEHIND HIS DESK, a half-empty glass of whiskey dangling loosely from his fingers. The flickering shadows from the fire stretched like dark fingers across the walls, the dim light doing little to chase away the suffocating weight of the night. The air hung heavy, thick with the memory of his confrontation with the Joker—of the violence that had unleashed a side of him he had spent a lifetime restraining.

His knuckles throbbed, the dull ache a reminder of how far he had fallen. Blood marred his gloves, still carelessly discarded on the desk as if they were nothing more than another tool to be set aside. But they weren't. The sight of them, stained and torn, was a bitter testament to how close he had come to losing himself. His ideals—the vow he had sworn to never kill—had slipped like sand through his grasp.

Bruce tilted the glass, watching the amber liquid swirl. He had hoped the alcohol would drown the voices in his head, blunt the razor-sharp edges of guilt slicing into him. But it wasn't working. The images replayed endlessly: his fists slamming into the Joker's face, the deranged cackle bubbling up through bloodied lips, and the venomous words that cut deeper than any wound.

He exhaled shakily and closed his eyes, only to hear it again—the Joker's mocking laughter, the taunt that had nearly undone him: "She's a broken little thing now. Just like you."

He didn't notice the footsteps at first.

The soft shuffle of footsteps barely registered over the crackling fire until the door creaked open. Bruce stiffened, his head snapping up instinctively.

There she was—Maheen.

She stood in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the soft light spilling from the hall. Their eyes met almost immediately, and for a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath. Time itself seemed to slow, stretching the silence between them. Then, her gaze fell downward, settling on the gloves.

Bruce's chest tightened. Panic clawed at him, a sharp twist that made his heart stutter. His eyes darted to the bloodied leather resting on the desk, glaring like a damning confession. His body tensed, ready to shift or hide them, but it was already too late. Maheen's expression remained unreadable, calm, but her eyes were sharp, calculating, always searching.

The weight of the room felt heavier now, as if the shadows had deepened, pressing in around them. And for the first time in a long time, Bruce felt something akin to fear. Fear of what she might say. Fear of what she might think.

She had noticed them, of course. How could she not? Her perceptiveness was one of the things that always amazed him. She had seen enough in her life, been through enough, to recognize the significance of those gloves. But what unsettled him the most was the way she didn't react.

No shock. No confusion. No questions about what those gloves might signify. It was as though she understood without needing any explanation.

Her eyes lingered on them for a few long, quiet moments. And then, without so much as a word, she stepped forward, her expression softening just slightly as she entered the room. Bruce watched her with a growing sense of unease, his pulse picking up speed.

She didn't retreat. She didn't step back in disgust. She didn't even ask.

Instead, Maheen's gaze flicked up to meet his, just for a moment, before she sat beside him. The space between them didn't feel as distant as it should have. There was no confrontation, no accusation. Only her presence, steady and grounded, filling the room in ways words never could.

Without asking for permission, she reached for his injured hand, fingers gently brushing his. Bruce's breath caught, his chest tightening. He didn't pull away, even though every instinct told him to stop her. But Maheen had always been like this—silent, intuitive, a calming presence even when everything inside him was a storm.

For a long time, she didn't speak. She didn't ask him if he was okay, didn't press for details. She simply picked up the antiseptic from the drawer and began cleaning the blood from his knuckles with the same care she had always shown him. It was almost as if nothing had changed.

He watched her, perplexed. His mind was still racing. She had to know. How could she not? She had to know what he was, what he did, the life he led that kept him up at night. He didn't hide it well. The gloves, the bruises, the blood—they were all evidence, proof of who he was. But Maheen didn't ask. She didn't accuse. She didn't react the way he thought she would.

The weight of Maheen's silence pressed down on Bruce like a crushing force, harder than any punch he had thrown earlier, harder than the guilt he carried with him every day. She hadn't flinched. She hadn't questioned him. She had simply tended to him with an ease that betrayed a deep, unspoken understanding. It was as though she had seen him like this before—seen the rage, the blood, the violence—and accepted it without a second thought.

The thought slammed into him with a painful force. Had she known all along? Had Maheen, the little girl he had watched grow up, seen through the mask he so carefully constructed? Had she known that this—this darkness—was part of who he was? That every bruise, every scar, every bruise on his soul had been earned, and yet here she was, still here, still offering her help?

Her quiet acceptance unsettled him in ways nothing else could. It wasn't the strength she showed; Bruce had always known she was strong, even when she was younger. It wasn't even the calm with which she had worked, as though tending to his wounds was nothing extraordinary. It was the fact that she had seen him at his worst, had seen him as the man he truly was—and hadn't recoiled.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the words evaporated before they could form. What could he say? What could he possibly ask? His mind was in chaos, his emotions too tangled to make sense of anything. He simply watched her as she finished bandaging his hand, her touch gentle and practiced—surely something her father taught her.

When she was done, Maheen stood, her movements fluid and composed. She didn't look at him, not a glance, not a word. She simply turned and began to leave the room. Bruce didn't move. Didn't call out to her. He couldn't. Part of him was still stunned by her calm, by the fact that she hadn't asked him any questions, hadn't demanded an explanation. She had simply... been there.

As she walked away, Bruce's eyes fell to the gloves on the desk—the blood still fresh, still stark against the dark leather. He could almost hear the Joker's taunts echoing in his mind, the violence of his actions still swirling in the air. His knuckles were sore, a bruise blossoming there, a sign of everything he had tried to suppress and failed at that night.

She hadn't backed away. Not even when she must have known. And that knowledge twisted something deep inside him. He didn't know if it comforted him or made him feel more lost than ever.

Maheen had seen something in him—something broken, something dark—and she hadn't turned away. And that, more than anything, scared him.

"She's a broken little thing now. Just like you."

THE NEXT MORNING, Bruce found himself once again in the same room, but the silence felt different this time. It was heavier, thick with the weight of unspoken words, the lingering presence of everything that had unfolded the night before. His mind was still tangled in the remnants of that brutal confrontation with the Joker, still raw from the violence, still questioning every choice he had made. But today, his thoughts had shifted. Today, his focus was on Maheen.

She moved quietly through the manor, a shadow of the vibrant kid she had been. He kept his distance, but his eyes followed her every step. She was quieter today, more withdrawn than usual, and there was something about her presence that unsettled him in a way he couldn't put into words. Maheen had always been intuitive, seeing beneath the surface, understanding things that most people missed. And last night—last night, she had done something Bruce never thought she would. She had quietly tended to his wounds, offering no questions, no judgments. Just an acknowledgment of his pain, and then she had left as if nothing had happened, as if everything were still normal.

And that was what bothered him most.

Maheen hadn't said a word. She hadn't approached him to ask what had happened or why his hands were stained with blood. She hadn't looked at him with concern or suspicion. No, she had looked at him with a quiet understanding—a look that told him she already knew. She had pieced it together without needing him to say a thing, and yet, she had chosen to remain silent.

Bruce watched her now, her movements slow and deliberate, as if the weight of the world was pressing down on her. The spark that had always been there, the lightness that had once filled the room when she entered, seemed dimmed today. She passed by the kitchen, where Alfred was preparing breakfast, and glanced at him—just a fleeting look—before turning away without the usual greeting or small talk. She simply walked past, headed for the stairs, her silence hanging in the air like a fog.

His gaze sharpened as he studied her. Not once had she given any indication that she knew the truth. There was no confrontation, no angry outbursts, no quiet accusations. She hadn't pulled him aside to demand answers. There was only silence. And that silence unsettled him more than any verbal confrontation could have.

Was this how she was coping? Was she so consumed by her own grief that she couldn't bring herself to address the truth? Or worse—was she pretending? Pretending she didn't know? Pretending everything was fine?

Bruce shook his head, the confusion gnawing at him. He was used to reading people—he could understand their fears, their desires, their motivations. But Maheen... she was complicated. She wasn't reacting like anyone else would, and that left him with more questions than answers. She wasn't demanding anything from him, wasn't accusing him of anything.

Her silence... it was louder than anything she could have said.

She had been distant since Jason's death, but this felt different. Her grief wasn't loud, it wasn't outwardly visible. She wasn't crying or yelling or seeking comfort. She wasn't trying to force a conversation. She wasn't asking for reassurance. She was simply existing in her own pain, quietly bearing it.

It was as if she was protecting him, or maybe, protecting herself. Bruce couldn't tell which it was, but he could see the toll Jason's death had taken on her. Her sadness was palpable, woven into every movement, every glance. She didn't carry the same lightness she once had. Every step seemed heavier, as if she were walking through each moment instead of living in it.

Maheen was strong. But this? This was breaking her. Bruce could see it, but he had no idea how to help her. He wasn't sure if she even wanted his help. All he could do was watch, helpless.

Bruce watched her retreat up the stairs, the weight of her unspoken thoughts pressing down on him. Why wasn't she asking him? Why wasn't she confronting him about the blood on his hands, the violence that had defined him for so long?

Her absence of questions left him in a strange limbo. It was almost as if she were waiting for him to figure out how to face it. But the thing that gnawed at him most was how familiar this behavior felt. The way she had tended to his wounds the night before, the way she had known without saying a word—it felt like something that had happened before. Had she seen the darkness in him so many times that she no longer needed to question it? Or was this her way of coping with her own pain, by giving him space to hide behind the walls he had spent so long building?

Unable to sit still any longer, Bruce stood up, his mind racing. He needed to find her, to check on her, to see if she was truly okay. But a part of him was afraid—afraid of what he might find, or worse, what she might reveal if he confronted her too soon.

He started toward the staircase, but just as he reached the bottom, he saw her. Maheen stood at the top, framed by the hallway, her eyes meeting his with that unreadable, quiet gaze.

She didn't say a word. She didn't ask anything. She just stood there, watching him, as if she had been waiting for him to make the first move.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Then, without a word, she turned and walked away, disappearing into her room. The door clicked softly shut behind her.

Bruce stood there, rooted to the spot, unsure of what had just transpired.

And the silence? It was deafening.

IZIA'S NOTES

she cried, we all crode. new chapter!! not the happiest we got some bruce/maheen, aren't they the cutest godfather/goddaughter duo? 🥰

hope you enjoyed this chapter and don't forget to vote, comment and share! ❤️

© ADONYSIAC ― IZIA™