CHAPTER THREE
'Six Feet Deep'

SAYEED ESTATE, GOTHAM CITY — TWO YEARS AGO

THE SOFT MORNING LIGHT CREPT THROUGH THE CURTAINS, painting the walls of Maheen's room in muted golds and silvers. She lay motionless in bed, her eyes fixed on the ceiling as silence wrapped around her like a heavy blanket. There was a strange familiarity to this stillness—a disorientation she had come to expect, a sense that the world felt too quiet, too weighty on mornings like this.

It had been exactly six months. Half a year.

The thought hit her like ice water, shattering the fragile calm she'd built in the seconds before. Half a year since Jason's death. Half a year since her world had cracked open, spilling grief into every corner of her life. Since then, it felt like she had been moving through a fog, going through the motions but never quite feeling anchored.

In the aftermath, she'd poured herself into her studies with a relentlessness that startled even her. The chaos of her mind found structure in textbooks and deadlines, a lifeline to cling to when everything else was slipping through her fingers.

Early graduation was coming faster than anyone expected, as if she were trying to outrun something she couldn't name. And in some ways, she was. School didn't heal her—it wasn't some magic cure—but it gave her something to do, somewhere to focus the anger, the sadness, the ache that never fully went away.

Her therapist said she should be proud of herself. Her parents echoed the sentiment, their faces a mix of relief and pride every time she came home with another accomplishment. She knew they saw progress. And maybe there was some truth to that. She had become good at appearing fine, at giving people what they needed to see. But on days like this, when the weight of it all pressed down on her chest, pretending felt impossible.

All she wanted was one moment where the grief didn't feel so sharp, where she didn't have to keep up the illusion of strength. But there it was again—Jason's absence, his voice reduced to a memory, his laugh an echo she couldn't quite hold on to.

She blinked up at the ceiling, her jaw tightening against the wave of emotion threatening to spill over. It was half a year ago today, and no amount of work or distractions had changed that.

After a few moments of stillness, Maheen exhaled sharply and pushed herself upright, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. Her eyes fell to the clothes she had carefully laid out the night before—a dark sweater and a pair of jeans. Practical. Neutral. Safe. She dressed quickly, her movements mechanical, guided more by muscle memory than conscious thought.

The rhythm of her routine provided a small measure of comfort, a sense of control in a world that still felt so chaotic. But beneath that thin layer of familiarity, something restless stirred. A weight she couldn't shake, a rawness that time had failed to dull.

Maheen stood by her desk, her fingers tracing the edge of her phone as it rested in her palm. Her desk was cluttered with the remnants of long nights spent working—textbooks, loose papers, an empty coffee mug—but her focus was elsewhere. This had become her quiet ritual, her private way of holding on to a piece of him she couldn't let go.

Every few weeks, she would call his voicemail. She never planned it; the impulse would strike, and she'd find herself dialing the number before she could second-guess it. She didn't know why she did it. Maybe she was afraid that, without this, his voice would fade, slipping further and further out of reach.

She pressed the button, and Jason's voice filled the room, warm and familiar, cutting through the quiet like a lifeline.

      "Hey, May, it's me. Don't forget we're meeting up later, alright? I think I'm close to finding her. Just wait for me, okay? See you soon."

Her breath caught in her throat, the ache swelling in her chest as she closed her eyes. She let the message play again, and then again, each word both a balm and a wound. She clung to every inflection, every subtle pause, as if memorizing the details could somehow fill the void he had left behind.

"Just wait for me, okay?"

The words lingered like a haunting echo. Her thumb hovered over the replay button, trembling slightly. She wanted to hear it again—needed to. But no matter how many times she listened, it wouldn't change anything. The voicemail wasn't him. It was just a ghost of who he'd been, a fragment frozen in time.

With a shaky exhale, she ended the call. The silence that followed felt almost suffocating, pressing down on her chest as she stared blankly at the screen. Her thumb hovered over the redial button, the temptation whispering at the edges of her mind.

But then she shook her head sharply, willing herself to step back. She couldn't let herself spiral—not again.

Her grip on the phone tightened briefly before she placed it back on the desk, the faint glimmer of resolve in her eyes flickering like a fragile ember. She had made a promise to herself—not to get trapped in this loop again. Not today. Not anymore.

By the time she finished her morning routine, Maheen stood by the door, her coat pulled tightly around her, staring down at her phone again. The weight in her chest was still there, heavy and unyielding, but today, something else stirred beneath it—an ache that demanded action. Something important awaited her. Something she hadn't been able to face in months.

She took a slow, deliberate breath, the kind that steadied and fortified, then slipped the phone into her pocket. The act felt final, a small victory over the temptation to fall back into old patterns. Without hesitating further, Maheen opened the door, stepping out into the crisp air.

She had to go. She owed it to herself—and to Jason.

⎯⎯⎯

GOTHAM CEMETERY, GOTHAM CITY

THE AIR BIT SHARPER THAT MORNING, a crisp chill clinging to Maheen's skin as she made her way to the cemetery. It wasn't far from her parents' house—a place she had come to know too well in the months after Jason's death. The stillness here felt different, heavier, as though the air itself was holding its breath. She let it wash over her, forcing herself to take in the silence that had always made this place feel unsettling, like it didn't quite belong to the living.

Her boots crunched against the stone path, the sound sharp in the quiet as she wove through rows of graves. Each marker stood like a reminder of stories that had ended, lives once full but now reduced to names and dates. Maheen's chest tightened at the thought. Death wasn't some abstract concept anymore. It had ripped through her world, tearing apart everything she thought was safe. Now it lingered, a shadow she couldn't escape.

When she finally reached Jason's grave, her breath faltered, catching somewhere between her lungs and her throat.

The headstone stood as it always did—cold, unmoving, and etched with a name she had spent a year whispering in broken prayers. The flowers she had placed during her last visit lay wilted and browned, their petals scattered by the wind. That was expected, but there was something else, something that sent a shiver down her spine.

Her eyes dropped to the earth below.

The soil was fresh.

Her heart stuttered, a slow, disjointed beat that made her feel weightless and heavy all at once. The dirt was darker, softer—recently disturbed. She took a step closer, her gaze tracing the uneven patches of earth.

Maheen's mind raced for an explanation. Maintenance, maybe? Could the cemetery have done some repairs? It was plausible, she supposed, but why hadn't anyone told her? Bruce would've mentioned something—right?

She knelt down, her fingers hovering just above the dirt, close enough to feel its cool dampness. For a long moment, she didn't move, didn't breathe. The ground didn't just look different; it felt different, like a wound that hadn't quite healed.

A sharp breeze swept past her, and she closed her eyes, her stomach twisting in knots. "Jason," she whispered, the name slipping from her lips before she could stop herself.

The weight in her chest grew heavier with every second she spent staring at the grave. Maheen straightened, her hands balling into fists at her sides as unease spread through her like a slow-burning fire. She pulled her phone from her pocket, her trembling fingers scrolling to the number for the cemetery office.

She pressed the call button, listening to the ring echo in her ears. She needed answers, needed someone to tell her this was normal, routine. But deep down, she knew better.

Something wasn't right.

Maheen clutched her phone tightly, her thumb hovering over the redial button before finally pressing it. The dial tone buzzed in her ear, each ring stretching longer than the last, her stomach twisting tighter with every passing second.

Finally, the line clicked.

"Good morning, Gotham Memorial Cemetery," came a smooth, practiced voice. "How can I assist you today?"

Maheen hesitated for a beat, suddenly unsure how to phrase her question. "Hi, uh, this is Maheen Sayeed. I—I was visiting a grave today, and I noticed... well, the soil looks disturbed. Fresh, actually. Can you tell me if there's been any maintenance or changes recently?" Her voice wavered slightly, but she forced herself to keep calm, steady.

There was a pause. Just long enough to make her uneasy.

"Let me check on that for you, Ms. Sayeed," the voice responded, professional but distant, the kind of tone designed to smooth over uncomfortable conversations. "Can you tell me which plot you're referring to?"

Maheen swallowed hard. "Jason Todd. Section 12, row B, plot 19."

Another pause, this one heavier. She could almost hear the faint tapping of a keyboard on the other end.

"Ah, yes," the person said after what felt like an eternity. "We, uh, did perform some routine maintenance in that section earlier this week. It's standard procedure—adjusting soil levels, ensuring the grounds are in good condition for visitors. Nothing out of the ordinary."

Maheen's grip on the phone tightened. Something in their voice didn't sit right, too rehearsed, too quick. Her instincts flared. "You're sure? Because it looks like the soil's been completely dug up and replaced. That doesn't seem... routine."

The person on the line hesitated again, and this time it was painfully obvious. "I understand your concern, Ms. Sayeed. I assure you, it's all standard maintenance. We always strive to keep the grounds respectful and well-maintained for loved ones."

Maheen felt the blood drain from her face. The polite, evasive answers only confirmed what she was dreading. They weren't telling her the whole truth. "Right," she said slowly, her voice hardening. "And you didn't think to notify families before doing something like that? Especially for graves that have been untouched for months?"

The person cleared their throat. "Notifications are not typically necessary for minor maintenance, ma'am. I'm terribly sorry if this has caused you any distress. Is there anything else I can assist you with today?"

Maheen's jaw clenched, her free hand balling into a fist at her side. She forced herself to take a breath, though it didn't ease the tightness in her chest. "No," she replied, her tone clipped. "That'll be all."

"Thank you for calling, Ms. Sayeed. Have a good day." The line went dead before Maheen could respond.

She stared at the phone in her hand, her pulse thundering in her ears, drowning out the quiet around her. The explanation didn't add up. Maintenance, her ass. Something had happened here, and they were covering it up.

Her gaze dropped to the disturbed soil again, unease rippling through her, bubbling into something sharper, more insistent. It was stupid. Ridiculous. She had no reason to believe anything was wrong. Jason was gone. That was the truth. The cold, hard truth she had lived with for half a year.

Maheen drew in a shaky breath and stood up straighter, squaring her shoulders as if bracing herself against an unseen weight. She couldn't let herself spiral again, not like this. Not today. There was too much to do, too much riding on her ability to keep moving forward.

Jason was dead. She had seen it, lived it, grieved it. There was no room for doubt, no room for hope. Hope, she'd learned, could be more dangerous than grief. It kept the wound open, festering.

Her hand tightened around the strap of her bag, her nails digging into the worn leather. "Stop it," she muttered under her breath, her voice harsh and cutting through the silence. She wasn't going to let herself unravel over disturbed dirt and a vague feeling.

It was nothing. Nothing but the maintenance crew doing their job. They probably hadn't bothered to call because it wasn't important. Just routine upkeep, like they said.

With one last glance at the grave—at the fresh, uneven soil—Maheen turned sharply and began walking back toward the cemetery gates. She didn't look back, forcing herself to keep her head high, her stride steady.

But as she reached the exit, the chill in the air seemed to seep deeper into her bones, and that gnawing unease refused to let go.

Something wasn't right.

No matter how much she told herself otherwise, no matter how much she tried to rationalise it, the feeling wouldn't leave her. Something was wrong.

⎯⎯⎯

WAYNE MANOR, GOTHAM CITY

WAYNE MANOR LOOMED AHEAD, its familiar silhouette both imposing and comforting as Maheen approached. Over the past months, despite the dark memories, it had become her sanctuary—a place where the weight of her grief and the chaos of the outside world seemed to lift, if only for a while. Bruce had a way of grounding her, offering normalcy (too much normalcy) even when everything else felt like it was crumbling.

As she stepped inside, Alfred greeted her at the door, his usual warmth evident in the soft smile that tugged at his lips. "Miss Maheen, it's always a pleasure to see you," he said, his voice a steady anchor of calm.

"Thanks, Alfred," she replied with a small smile, though the tension in her shoulders betrayed the heaviness she carried. She didn't linger, heading straight for Bruce's study. It was where she always found him, tucked away in that quiet corner of the mansion, sifting through papers or buried in thought.

The dark-haired man glanced up when she entered, his sharp gaze immediately softening. "Morning, Maheen," he greeted, setting down the document in his hand. "You're up early. Everything okay?"

"Morning," she said, sliding into the chair across from him without hesitation. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just been... keeping busy. Catching up on some advanced coursework—college-level stuff," she added with a shrug, her tone deliberately casual. "Could use a little help, though."

He nodded, leaning forward and folding his hands on the desk. "Of course. What are you working on? I know you're aiming to graduate early, but have you decided what you want to do next?"

Maheen hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of the desk as she mulled over her words. Finally, she looked up, meeting his gaze with quiet determination. "I've been thinking about it a lot, and... I want to be a prosecutor," she said, her voice firm despite the lump that formed in her throat. "I want to make sure people like... like him don't get away with what they do."

Bruce's expression shifted, the slightest flicker of concern crossing his face. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but Maheen caught it. She always did. "It's a noble goal," he said after a pause, his voice measured. "And a difficult one. But you've just turned 14—."

She cut him off before he could finish. "I'm not some naive kid anymore, Bruce." Her voice was steady, but the words hit her chest like a weight. She had heard this argument before. "I think I've been through more than enough to know what I want to do with my life."

Bruce studied her for a moment, his eyes searching, as if weighing something heavy in his mind. His usual calm was there, but there was something else—an undercurrent of worry that he couldn't completely mask. "I know," he said, finally lowering his gaze to the papers before him. "But that doesn't mean you have to shoulder everything right now. You've been through more than most people could bear, May."

Her gaze softened, but the fire inside her didn't waver. "I'm not going to just sit around and let things happen. Not after what happened to Jason... to my family. I can't just forget what I've seen, what I've lost." She exhaled sharply, frustrated with the way her voice trembled at the last words. "I have to do something. I can't keep letting the world break and not fight back."

Bruce remained silent, his gaze shifting toward the window as if contemplating something far beyond their conversation. The quiet stretched between them, heavy with unspoken understanding.

Maheen's hands clenched around the arms of her chair, the anxiety building again. She wasn't sure what she was hoping for from him—reassurance? Permission? She had already made up her mind, but for some reason, she felt like she needed him to say something.

Finally, Bruce spoke, his voice low but firm. "I know you want to fight. I know what that feels like," he said, his tone softening slightly. "But fighting for justice, Maheen—it's not just about putting the bad guys behind bars. It's about knowing when to push and when to pull back. You can't give everything away. There's always a price, and sometimes, that price is more than you're prepared to pay."

"Is that what you have been doing? Because it clearly seems that you actually don't know when to pull back."

The words slipped out before Maheen could stop them. The moment they left her lips, the atmosphere in the room thickened. Bruce's expression froze for a brief second—confusion flickered across his face, but deep inside, a familiar unease began to stir.

"Maheen, what—"

She cut him off, her voice sharp, no longer holding back. "Oh please, don't 'Maheen' me, Bruce. I know."

Her words hung in the air, heavy and sharp. Bruce's heart skipped a beat, the color draining from his face for a split second. He wasn't ready for this—not for her to know, not like this. She knows. He hadn't expected this. He hadn't prepared for it.

"What are you talking about?" Bruce's voice was low now, guarded, but there was a flicker of panic in his eyes. He needed her to be wrong. He needed this to be a mistake, a misunderstanding.

Maheen raised an eyebrow and gave him a look that bordered on amused disbelief. "Batman. Ring a bell? That guy running around Gotham in tights?"

Bruce's eyes widened, and for a long moment, he didn't say anything. It was as if the world had shifted beneath him, the ground suddenly unstable. He couldn't hide his surprise, but he also couldn't admit the truth, not just yet.

"You... you don't know what you're talking about," he said, his voice thick with an almost instinctive denial.

A dry laugh escaped her lips as Maheen's gaze hardened. "How stupid do you think I am? I know exactly what I'm talking about. You're not as subtle as you think you are."

He looked away, the weight of her words pressing down on him. "Maheen, I—" His jaw clenched as he searched for a way out, something to deny what was hanging so heavily between them. He couldn't risk her knowing the full truth. Not yet.

"I'm just concerned, okay?" Bruce's voice dropped, almost pleading. "You don't understand what you're getting into. This—this is dangerous. You're not ready for this kind of life."

But Maheen wasn't having it. Her arms crossed over her chest, her defiance palpable. "I think you're the one who's not ready to face the truth, Bruce. But hey, I kept your secret. It's not like you can't handle yourself. Most of the time."

Bruce swallowed, a cold knot forming in his stomach. This was the last thing he wanted—his secret, his war, exposed.

"Since when?"

The words came out with no hesitation. Maheen met his gaze, her expression as firm as her words. "Since I was five."

Five?

His mind raced, pieces of the puzzle slowly falling into place. She'd always been sharp, perceptive. But five? Bruce froze, the room spinning as his mind raced back to that day. That was when her life had changed forever, when the world she thought she knew had shattered. That was the same year... when Batman and Bruce failed the same day. He stared at her, the haunting realisation slowly dawning on him.

The guilt in his chest tightened, threatening to choke him. How had he thought he could keep this secret from her for so long? The mask, the deception—it had all been for nothing?

"Since Amir died."

It hit him like a punch to the gut. Her brother. Amir. The night he had died. The night he had been too late. The night Batman had been too late. Bruce could feel the weight of the years between them, the years she had spent carrying the burden of knowing the truth. He had tried so hard to keep her safe, to keep her innocent, but she had seen through it all.

⎯⎯⎯

CHINATOWN, GOTHAM CITY, 11:34 PM — EIGHT YEARS AGO

The little girl's small hand was firmly wrapped around her brother's as they walked down the rain-slicked street, the soft sound of their footsteps echoing in the stillness of the empty lane. His hand was a reassuring anchor—strong, warm, unshakeable—and it made her feel safe, as if no shadow could reach her while he was by her side. The air around them was thick with the scent of damp earth and smoke, but with her brother there, nothing seemed to matter. She felt invincible. Together, they were a unit, just the two of them under the vast night sky. And that, in itself, made her feel fearless.

Her older brother had promised her something special tonight—a rare outing, just the two of them, to see the fireworks over Gotham, a fleeting moment under the glow of city lights. It was a privilege she knew her parents had hesitated to grant, but they reluctantly did, and Maheen had been ecstatic. A quiet rebellion, a brief break from the weight of their protective love.

They never should have let them go.

"Do you think we'll see Batman?" she whispered, her voice full of wonder as her eyes searched the dark, shadowed alleyways above.

Her brother's laugh was a soft, comforting sound as he tousled her hair. "I don't think so," he said. "But maybe we'll see something even better. Like the stars."

Before she could respond, the moment shattered. A hand gripped her brother's shoulder. Another yanked her arm, sharp and forceful, pulling her away. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she froze—a tight knot of fear settling deep in her stomach. Rough voices jeered from the shadows. The cold bite of metal pressed against her side.

"Don't run," her brother said urgently, his voice sharp with command. "Stay behind me, Maheen."

She clung to the back of his jacket, fingers trembling, her heart thundering in her chest. The men's laughter was cruel, echoing in the space between them. A gun clicked, ready, and her brother's grip tightened. He wouldn't let go. He wouldn't let her go.

The world seemed to slow. And then, in a blur of motion, everything changed. A dark figure appeared, faster than anything Maheen had ever seen—a shadow swooping in from nowhere. There was a sickening crack, followed by a grunt of pain. The air felt different now—heavier, charged with fear and raw power.

But it was too late.

A gasp tore from her brother's lips, his body crumpling to the ground with a sickening thud that reverberated through her chest.

"Amir!" Her voice broke as she dropped to her knees beside him. Her small hands scrambled to his chest, but they met something slick, something warm and wrong. The blood—too much blood—coated her fingers, and the weight of it crushed her heart.

He wasn't moving. His eyes, wide and unblinking, stared up at nothing.

Tears blurred her vision, thick and hot, but she couldn't breathe, couldn't focus. Her body trembled, her mind refusing to accept what her senses were screaming at her.

A hand—firm, gloved, unyielding—landed on her shoulder, pulling her back from the abyss.

"Maheen." The voice was low, gravelly, the calm in it as unsettling as it was reassuring. "It's over. You're safe."

She lifted her gaze, her tear-streaked face still twisted with disbelief.

Darkness stared back.

The man crouched beside her, his presence overwhelming the night like a shadow made flesh. His mask obscured his face, but she could see the tension in his jaw, the rigid set of his mouth—a familiar sharpness that gnawed at her mind.

And the scent... it clung to him. Leather, smoke, and something woodsy, clean, expensive. It was almost suffocating, too familiar for a moment like this.

Her gaze darted to Robin, who knelt beside her, his green glove enveloping her tiny hand. His touch was warm, strong yet gentle, and for a fleeting moment, it wasn't just the comfort she sought—it was something more. Something long buried, forgotten until now.

"Are you hurt?" Batman's voice broke through the haze, low and steady, as though his question held the weight of a thousand battles.

She opened her mouth, but no words came. Her mind scrambled, trying to piece together the world around her, but everything felt disjointed, too far out of reach. The puzzle pieces danced in her thoughts, never quite clicking into place. She was too small, too lost in the stillness of her brother's body to find clarity.

Her eyes slowly turned toward Amir. His lifeless form was a cruel, undeniable truth, and the world, as it had once been, shattered in that moment.

And that was when the tears came. The dam broke.

⎯⎯⎯

WAYNE MANOR, GOTHAM CITY — TWO DAYS LATER

The halls of Wayne Manor felt colder than usual. Maheen sat in silence by the window, her chin resting on her drawn-up knees. The steady tap of rain against the glass was the only sound that filled the room, matching the dreariness of the world outside. She stared at the endless gray, her eyes distant, lost in thoughts she couldn't express.

Bruce lingered in the doorway, watching her with an ache in his chest. He recognized this—he'd seen it before. The quiet aftermath of trauma in children was always the hardest to bear. It was the silence, the stillness, that gnawed at him more than anything. She wasn't crying now, and that scared him far more than the screams ever could.

"Maheen," he said gently, breaking the quiet.

Her head turned toward him, eyes flicking up to meet his, but never fully locking. They were hazel, tinged with amber, but there was something else in them now. Something darker.

He sat beside her, careful not to crowd her. The armchair swallowed her small frame as she remained still, her attention fixed on the rain.

Minutes passed in silence, and Bruce let her be. He knew better than to push. Sometimes, the quiet was more comforting than words.

Finally, she shifted, the hem of her dress twisting between her tiny fingers. "When you're angry," she whispered, her voice barely above a breath, "your mouth looks like his." She paused, her lips twitching, trying to imitate the subtle curve of a frown.

Bruce froze. "Like whose?"

Her brow furrowed in thought, like she was trying to place the words just right. "Batman."

His heart skipped. He didn't know whether to speak, to deny it, to silence her. Her words were innocent—innocent in their simplicity—but her eyes weren't. They were sharp, watching him the way a detective watches a suspect.

Bruce forced a smile, soft but guarded. "Batman is... different. I'm not him."

She studied him for a long, unnerving moment, her gaze too perceptive for a child of five. "You smell like him too," she said quietly.

His breath caught.

"Like leather," she added, her voice small but precise. "And... and that tree smell."

"Tree smell?"

She wrinkled her nose, clearly disapproving. "Like the cologne you wear."

Bruce's throat tightened. How much had she noticed? How much had she understood in that moment? He had to redirect, change the subject before his own thoughts betrayed him.

"I'm sorry about Amir," he said softly, his voice faltering only slightly. "He loved you very much."

The shift in her expression was subtle but undeniable. Her eyes, heavy with grief, flickered for just a moment. She bit her lip, a faint tremor crossing her small face before she quickly swallowed it. She turned back to the window, the storm outside mirroring the one inside her. And in that silence, Bruce realised that he couldn't shield her from everything—some wounds would take longer to heal than he was ready to admit.

⎯⎯⎯

THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED, Maheen held onto her suspicion like a tight knot in her chest. She didn't voice it—not yet—but she watched him more closely now. She observed the way his eyes lingered on news reports about Gotham's rising crime wave, the subtle tension in his posture when he returned from one of his "business trips." The longer she watched, the more it seemed like the pieces of the puzzle were coming together, though they weren't quite in place.

Bruce noticed her watching. The sharpness in her gaze had always unsettled him, especially now. He could feel her eyes tracking his every movement, her mind working behind those innocent-looking eyes, turning over questions he wasn't ready to answer. Sometimes, she asked too many things, questions that no five-year-old should be able to think of.

"What does Batman do when he's sad?" she asked one night at dinner, her voice breaking through the quiet.

Alfred, in the middle of placing silverware down, froze, the clink of the cutlery hitting the plate louder than usual. Bruce's gaze shifted, his expression unreadable, but his calmness faltered for a fraction of a second.

"He doesn't get sad," he replied, his voice smooth, offering nothing more.

Maheen frowned, her small fork pushing her food around on the plate, eyes thoughtful. "Everyone gets sad."

"Not him," Bruce insisted, voice firm, but his gaze betraying something deeper.

She tilted her head, dark curls falling softly over her face as she processed this. "Then he's not real."

Bruce paused, his own fork hovering midair. For a moment, he considered lying. Telling her what a child should hear—that there was no Batman. That he was some urban legend. That her suspicions were just that, nothing more than a child's fantasy. But the words caught in his throat. The truth felt too close to the surface, too fragile. It was a secret that had lived in the silence between them for far too long.

"He's real enough," Bruce answered quietly, his voice barely a whisper.

Maheen stared at him, her eyes sharp and unwavering. There was something in her gaze now—less innocent, more knowing. It wasn't a victory, but an acknowledgment. The pieces of the puzzle were shifting again. Not quite there, but closer than ever before.

She nodded once, small hands folding neatly in her lap as she turned her attention back to her meal, the weight of their unspoken exchange settling between them like a secret too dangerous to voice aloud.

⎯⎯⎯

MAHEEN SAT AT THE DINNER TABLE, her eyes narrowing in on Dick as he took his first bite.

Out of nowhere, she asked, "Do you think Robin likes macaroni and cheese?"

Dick, mid-chew, froze, his eyes wide as he nearly choked on his food. He glanced at Bruce, who simply raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable as he continued eating.

"Uh... sure?" Dick replied, still recovering.

Maheen, not missing a beat, tapped her fork against her plate thoughtfully. "Do you think Batman makes him eat vegetables?"

Dick smirked, his playful demeanor returning. "Definitely."

"Does he have to go to bed early?"

"Probably."

"But Robin's not a baby," she pressed, her tone almost pressing.

Bruce cleared his throat, his voice deep and steady. "Robin is a very disciplined young man."

Maheen's gaze flicked to Bruce for just a beat, her expression hard to decipher. Then, without missing a step, she turned her attention back to Dick.

"Do you think Robin has a big brother?"

Dick leaned back in his chair, folding his arms, clearly intrigued. "Maybe. Why?"

"Because you take care of me like a big brother. And... Batman takes care of Robin."

The words settled between them, the silence stretching just long enough to make both men uneasy. Bruce met Dick's eyes across the table. Dick gave him a sheepish shrug, the tension in the air thickening.

⎯⎯⎯

MAHEEN'S QUESTIONS NEVER SEEMED TO STOP. They came in bursts, wrapped in innocent curiosity, each one more like an observation than an inquiry. She never pressed too hard, but her sharp eyes saw everything, noticing the smallest details.

At breakfast, as she poked at her syrup-soaked pancakes, she asked, "Do you think Batman likes pancakes?"

Bruce lowered his newspaper, his gaze steady and unreadable. "I don't think he eats much while he's working."

She tilted her head, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow. "But what if he gets hungry?"

"Then he probably eats later," Bruce replied smoothly, keeping his tone neutral.

She squinted at her plate, eyes narrowing with a hint of suspicion. "What do you think he eats?"

"Something quick," he said, offering a simple, noncommittal answer.

The little girl paused, her fork hovering in midair. Then she murmured almost to herself, "Like you... You eat fast when you come back from your meetings."

Bruce's breath caught, just for a fraction of a second. He recovered quickly, his voice calm. "Meetings are tiring," he said, folding the paper and setting it aside. "And Batman's life isn't like mine."

Maheen made a small humming sound in response, but the doubt lingered in her gaze. She didn't quite believe him, but she didn't press further either. It was as though, with each question, she was piecing something together without saying it aloud.

At night, when Alfred tucked her into bed, Maheen pulled the blanket up to her chin, her eyes fixed on the ceiling as though searching for answers in the dark.

"Alfie, do you think Batman has nightmares?" she asked, her voice soft but steady.

Alfred adjusted her pillow gently, his smile a careful, kind thing. "I imagine even heroes have their burdens."

Her small fingers fiddled with the corner of the blanket, her gaze still distant. "If he's sad, does anyone tuck him in?"

"Perhaps," Alfred said, smoothing her curls back from her face with a tenderness that never quite hid his caution. "Even heroes have people who care about them."

She looked at him with wide, searching eyes, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Like Daddy Bruce? Is Daddy Bruce Batman's person?"

For a brief moment, Alfred's hand froze. The silence stretched thin before he resumed his gentle motion, his tone soft but laced with an unspoken weight. "Master Wayne cares for many people, little one."

Maheen didn't ask any more questions that night, but the quiet of the manor felt heavier, as though her words had settled in its halls, waiting.

⎯⎯⎯

BRUCE NOTICED WHEN THE QUESTIONS STOPPED. He had become attuned to their steady cadence, the way her curious mind tirelessly circled the same quiet concern. But one day, they simply vanished.

No more questions about Batman's favorite food or the secret sadness he carried. No sly observations about their similarities, or the way he somehow mirrored the Dark Knight's presence. It was as if she had put a stop to it all, without explanation.

He should have felt relieved. But instead, there was an unsettling emptiness that settled in his chest, a weight that lingered in the silence.

In the study, Bruce watched as Maheen sat at the corner table, quietly coloring. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, her small hand moving carefully over the page.

"May," he called gently, his voice soft but carrying a weight he couldn't hide. "You haven't asked about Batman in a while."

She glanced up at him, her hazel eyes wide and innocent, yet there was something unreadable in their depths. "I got bored," she said casually, shrugging one shoulder as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

Bruce paused, studying her. His detective instincts buzzed, but he couldn't quite place why it felt wrong. She was five. Five-year-olds forget things.

He nodded slowly, a faint sense of unease creeping into his thoughts. "I see."

She turned back to her drawing—a figure dressed in black, a red bird perched beside him. Bruce couldn't help but stare, a chill threading through his spine. The silence that followed felt deeper than before.

⎯⎯⎯

IT HAD BEEN AN ACCIDENT, really. She had been trailing behind Alfred, drawn to the way his voice murmured to himself as he moved about. She followed him into the study, her curiosity piqued. When he disappeared through the clock, she hadn't meant to follow him. But something pulled her forward, and when she squeezed through the gap behind him, she found it.

The cave.

Her heart raced. Her breath hitched. Everything she had quietly suspected, all the pieces she had been fitting together, fell into place in that instant. The truth. Dark, vast, and undeniable.

She didn't tell anyone. Not Alfred, not Dick, not Bruce.

The secret was hers alone, hidden deep where no one could find it. And though her questions had stopped, it wasn't because she had forgotten or lost interest. She no longer needed to ask. She already knew.

⎯⎯⎯

WAYNE MANOR, GOTHAM CITY — TWO YEARS AGO

"DON'T WORRY, I HAVEN'T TOLD ANYONE. Otherwise my parents would have locked me somewhere, never letting me visit again." Maheen said, her voice steady but with a trace of amusement.

Bruce ran a hand over his face, the weight of the moment settling on him. The flood of memories—the relentless questions, the curiosity that never quite stopped. Her innocence mixed with an undeniable sharpness. How had he missed it?

He sighed deeply, looking at her, this girl who had unknowingly become a part of his life in ways he could never explain.

"All those questions," he murmured. "Those innocent questions."

She tilted her head slightly, her eyes gleaming with a quiet, knowing pride. "I guess we both like solving mysteries."

Her godfather chuckled softly, but the weight of it all didn't dissipate. She was smart—too smart for her age. And now that the truth hung between them, there was no turning back.

He didn't know whether to be relieved that she hadn't told anyone or afraid of what this would mean for their relationship going forward. The truth was out now, and it would change everything.

"Why didn't you ever ask directly?" he asked quietly.

Maheen shrugged slightly, a mix of maturity and teenage frustration. "What was there to ask? I already knew the answer."

The silence that followed was thick with understanding—no need for words. Bruce set down the paperwork, his expression growing more serious. "Is there something else you wanted to talk about?"

Maheen hesitated, then nodded. She needed to tell him what she had seen. Maybe he could explain it away; maybe he'd know what was going on.

"I went to Jason's grave this morning. And—" She paused, biting her lip. "The soil... it was fresh. Like someone had been there recently, digging."

Bruce's eyes flickered with a brief, unreadable emotion, but then his expression shifted back to something neutral. He leaned back in his chair, as if contemplating the situation, before giving a casual shrug. "Fresh soil, huh?" His tone was a little too dismissive. "It's probably just part of the cemetery's regular maintenance. They might've done something around the site and missed the mark on when it was last tended to."

Maheen frowned, not convinced. "The cemetery told me the same thing. But... this wasn't normal. They'd call you, wouldn't they? It feels wrong."

Bruce's gaze softened, but only slightly, as he reached for the files on his desk, purposefully deflecting. "You're being cautious, which is good. But it's probably nothing to worry about." He gave her a small, reassuring smile, though the tightness around his eyes didn't quite reach his expression. "It's just your mind picking up on things. Sometimes the way the earth settles can make it look like something's been disturbed."

She didn't look convinced. "Maybe."

Bruce gave a small chuckle, but there was an edge to it. "You're always so observant. That's a good thing, but you're probably reading too much into this. Jason's grave is a safe place. Let's not make it something it's not, alright?"

Maheen didn't push it further, but she didn't let go of the nagging feeling that lingered in her chest. The way Bruce downplayed it felt like he was trying to keep her from seeing something, or maybe something he wasn't willing to face himself.

"Alright," she said quietly, nodding, but her gaze lingered on him a moment longer.

Bruce offered her a reassuring smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

It was nothing. Or at least, that's what he needed to believe.

IZIA'S NOTES

may used to call him 'daddy bruce' 🥺 (everyone would laugh at it while bruce would be like 'welp take your kid 🧍🏻‍♂️' ) and she'd always trap him into hugs, not letting go until he'd give one back. she has been stressing him since day one, non-stop.

little may wished to see batman that night, and she did. believe in your dreams princess 🥰

little maheen every single time bruce/alfred/dick would be like "bruce isn't batman"

like bfr please 😒

rare sighting of bruce stressing out because his goddaughter keeps on clocking him every single time despite the ongoing gaslighting

and here's dick... trying to eat his meal peacefully while maheen starts asking him if robin likes macaroni and cheese (he does & batman definitely forces him to eat vegetables)

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

© ADONYSIAC  ― IZIA™