الماضي كظل طويل، لا يتركنا حتى وإن مشينا بعيدًا
the past is like a long shadow; it doesn't leave us even when we walk far away

TICKING ECHOED through the morgue, a relentless countdown as the clock on the wall inched toward 10 PM, its rhythm cutting through the stagnant stillness.

With each tick, a life slipped further away.

The numbers pulsed in the quiet : 108 lost every minute, 6480 in an hour. It was like a ceaseless march toward eternity, counted in heartbeats that would never echo again.

The morgue, sterile and cold, was a place where life had been reduced to charts, instruments, and clinical detachment. Yet tonight, even its unfeeling walls seemed weighed down by the enormity of it all. The air felt heavier, laced with a quiet reverence for the stories now stilled, for the breaths that would never again disturb the silence.

Inside this stark sanctum, time felt as though it had slowed to a crawl, suspended in the heavy stillness, burdened by the quiet presence of the dead.

And it was here, in this realm of silence and finality, that Dr. Maryam Ben Halimi sat ; a solitary figure amid the shadows, like an angel tasked with bearing witness to the lives now gone.

More like an ethereal presence among the cold gleam of stainless steel and unforgiving white walls, the woman hovered over a lifeless body, movements quiet and reverent, like a priestess tending to sacred rites. Hands, steady as the Fates themselves, guided the delicate threads of mortality to their inevitable end.

Light brown hair, meticulously swept into a French twist beneath a whimsical unicorn scrub cap, glowed with a caramel sheen, catching the light in such a way that it seemed kissed by the sun, even in the shadow of death. The warmth of her tanned, almost bronze skin carried the whisper of far-off lands, of deserts and ancient places where myths were born and legends thrived.

Under the harsh, artificial light, almond-shaped hazel eyes flickered with a brilliance that seemed otherworldly, shifting from deep forest green to molten gold, like the eyes of a goddess who peers beyond the veil of the living.

They were windows to a soul that had seen much, that understood both the sanctity of life and the inevitability of its end.

A straight nose, with its barely perceptible bump, added a quiet dignity to her face, like the subtle scars on a warrior's shield.

Sculpted high cheekbones framed features that balanced delicacy with strength. Beauty marks, scattered like faint stars in a night sky, adorned her skin — small celestial maps beneath her eyes, along her lips, and down the curve of her neck. They were not marks of vanity but symbols of a life well lived, silent testaments to a beauty that was both raw and real, as mortal as it was divine.

Dark, elegant brows arched above her expressive eyes, adding subtle definition to her gaze, while long lashes curled naturally, casting soft shadows over her cheeks like the wings of ravens in graceful flight.

Her lips, full and inviting, wore a deep crimson, the shade of a blood moon, of prophecies whispered in the dark. When she smiled, rare and fleeting, like the smile of a Sphinx ; it hinted at mysteries long kept, a quiet gesture that left its mark without need for words.

The beauty of Dr. Ben Halimi was not a secret, but it wasn't the kind that faded with time or was spoken of lightly. It was a beauty drawn from legend, shaped by the hands of destiny, touched by both light and shadow. Like a mortal vessel carrying the burden of a thousand untold stories, she held power that captivated without ever needing to command.

She possessed an allure that seemed effortless, captivating with just a single glance. And the longer you looked, the more striking her beauty became, as though it revealed itself in layers; quiet elegance intertwined with a natural grace.

It was the kind of presence that lingered in your mind, leaving behind a lasting impression, not for its boldness, but for the way it gently captivated.

The doctor had just finished examining the latest tragic case: Fiona Harrinson.

A pale young girl of only nineteen, with fiery red hair and blue eyes that had turned a disquieting red — a common occurrence in deaths involving certain substances. A life that had barely begun, now extinguished by the scourge of Drops, a drug as ubiquitous in Gotham as the rain.

Fiona, like so many others, had sought solace in the chemical embrace of drugs, a brief escape from the harsh realities of living on the streets without support.

With a heavy sigh, Maryam gently covered the girl's lifeless face, it was a ritual she never grew accustomed to, no matter how many times she performed it.

Each time, it felt like closing a chapter on a life story that ended too soon, and the sadness never fully dissipated. Fiona had no family to notify, no one to mourn her passing: just another casualty of Gotham's underworld, another soul lost in the shadows.

As Maryam turned to her desk, ready to tackle the inevitable paperwork, the door creaked open.

Tamara Nguyen, known affectionately as Tammy, breezed in with her usual air of lateness and cheer, two steaming cups of coffee in hand.

She was petite, with a delicate frame that belied her boundless energy. Glossy black hair, cut into a sleek bob, framed a face that was all wide, warm brown eyes and a ready smile... And a habit of wearing bright, colorful scrubs that matched her lively personality, reminding Maryam of her younger sister Rania.

Tam's presence was like a burst of sunshine in the often somber atmosphere of the morgue, and despite her frequent tardiness, she had a way of making everything feel just a little bit lighter.

"Hey, sorry I'm late, as always," Tammy said with a sheepish grin. "But I did brought coffee!"

Maryam didn't look up immediately, her pen still dancing across the forms. "It's okay, Tammy," she replied, her voice tinged with a teasing warmth. Finally, she glanced up, a playful smile curving her lips. "I'm used to it by now."

She accepted the coffee, savoring the warmth as it flowed down her throat, offering a brief moment of comfort. Tammy leaned against the desk, peering curiously at the covered body on the examination table.

"So, what do we have?" Tammy asked, her eyes flicking between Maryam and the still form under the sheet.

Maryam sighed, setting her coffee down next to the papers, wincing as a few drops stained the corner of the form. She rubbed her temples, eyes closed briefly in weariness. "Another Drop case, as usual," she said, frustration evident in her voice.

Her hands dropped to her lap, her hazel eyes now open and glinting with a mix of concern and anger. "It's getting out of hand. Too many bodies, too many kids, dead because of those fucking drugs! If it's not Drops, it's some other damn substance. And nobody's listening! I tried talking to Commissioner Savage and the cops—"

Tammy interrupted, tone voice soft but resigned. "As if the cops would listen. They're all bought up by you-know-who," she muttered, her breath fogging up her coffee cup.

Maryam leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms, rolling her eyes. "Yes, I know, Tam," she said, exasperation seeping into her tone. "But I thought they'd at least try to do something. For God's sake, it's mostly kids dying from this stuff!" She threw her hands up in frustration, her voice rising slightly at the end.

A tense silence fell over the room, the only sound the quiet hum of the air conditioning. The weight of the city's problems felt like an invisible fog, hanging thickly between them.

Tammy, trying to lighten the mood, ventured with a teasing smile, "Maybe you should ask Gotham's vigilante. He might help you."

Maryam snorted, the tension breaking as she threw a pen at Tammy, who dodged it with a laugh. "Ha ha, very funny," Maryam said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'll just pop over to his cave and have a nice little chat. Maybe he'll even offer me some bat-themed snacks."

Tammy chuckled, shaking her head. "You never know. He might surprise you."

Maryam stretched her legs and neck, sighing tiredly for what felt like the tenth time that day. She picked up her pen, refocusing on the paperwork in front of her.

"Can you please put her in the fridge?" she asked then, voice softening. "I'm going to finish her paperwork. She has no family, no one to cover funeral expenses or claim the body, so I'll have to turn it over to a funeral home."

Tammy nodded, taking a final sip of her coffee before setting the empty cup on the desk. She moved to the body, her demeanor professional as she prepared to transfer Fiona to the cold storage. "Where did they find her?" she asked, her voice gentle.

"Under the Gotham Gate Bridge," Maryam replied, quickly adding, "Some kid going trick-or-treating found her and reported it to the police."

Tammy's mouth formed a small "oh," her expression twisting into a grimace. "Poor kid," she muttered, shaking her head while nudging the rolling table aside.

The television in the corner of the room played the nightly news on GC-1. The anchor's voice was a constant, soothing drone, providing background noise to their grim work. "It is Halloween night in Gotham," the anchor announced cheerfully. "Tourists are flocking to the city from all over the world to experience our unique festivities. But tonight also marks the anniversary of a tragic event in Gotham's history..."

The mention of the Waynes caught Maryam's attention. She glanced at the TV and turned up the volume, her eyes narrowing as images of Thomas and Martha Wayne appeared on the screen. The anchor's voice carried a somber tone, narrating the unfolding story.

"This week, we remember the tragic deaths of Thomas and Martha Wayne, beloved billionaires and philanthropists, who were brutally murdered in front of their young son, Bruce Wayne. The Waynes were Gotham's first family, revered pillars of our community known for their immense generosity and tireless philanthropy.

Their loss left a profound impact on the city, and their memory still resonates deeply with many. Their son, Bruce, now a reclusive billionaire, rarely leaves the confines of his family estate.

The Waynes' legacy remains a significant chapter in Gotham's history--"

The camera lingered on old photos of the Wayne's: Thomas, with his charismatic smile; Martha, radiant and elegant; and a young Bruce, holding his mother's hand.

Maryam watched, transfixed, the light from the TV reflecting in her hazel eyes. Their family had always seemed like royalty to the people of Gotham — untouchable, revered. Their legacy was intertwined with the city's very foundation, their wealth and influence reaching every corner of Gotham.

And despite her disdain for the wealthy ( or any billionaire, for that matter ) Maryam Ben Halimi simply couldn't forget Bruce Wayne.

Twenty years ago, her Thursdays followed a familiar rhythm. She'd step onto the subway, her arms weighed down with empty shopping bags and her mind already calculating how far she could stretch her family's meager budget. Those rides were unremarkable, a blur of tired faces and station announcements, until she began noticing them—a mother and her little boy.

Mrs. Wayne was simply impossible to overlook, her presence was both understated and undeniably commanding. Her triking blue eyes, the same shade as her son's, would scan the pages of a book she always carried, a posture effortlessly elegant even in the worn subway seats. One gloved hand turned the pages while the other rested protectively over her son's small fingers.

The boy, Bruce, couldn't have been much older than Maryam. His legs dangled above the floor, too short to reach it. He sat close to his mother, always clutching a tiny knight figurine as if it were the most precious thing he owned. His face, framed by dark, straight, and perfectly groomed hair, carried a shy, almost hesitant smile—a smile that felt surprisingly unguarded for someone from a family as wealthy as the Waynes.

Or perhaps it was simply the smile of a contented, privileged child, one who had everything handed to him on a silver platter.

But there was something achingly sweet and shy about him — a little boy in his neatly pressed clothes, already showing hints of the man he would become.

A security officer stood vigil a few meters away, his watchful gaze always scanning the crowd with an intensity that always made Maryam feel uneasy.

The young girl, thin as a whisper, wore torn tights that clung to her slender legs and a light brown jacket that offered little defense against Gotham's biting cold. She'd sit quietly in the corner, her gaze locked on the family. Maybe she would've been seen as a creep, but she couldn't help it—they were so... strikingly different in every possible way.

Every so often, Bruce would glance her way, offering a small, shy smile—or sometimes, a tentative little wave.

And in those brief moments, Maryam's heart would skip, and she'd quickly look away, embarrassed by her uninvited curiosity.

This quiet routine played out every Thursday, until that fateful week.

On that day, Bruce accidentally left behind his knight figurine. Maryam noticed the small, abandoned toy resting on the seat, its craftsmanship evident—expensive and clearly cherished. She couldn't leave it there. She picked it up, her fingers brushing the smooth surface, and made a silent promise to return it to him the following week, gathering the courage to finally speak to him.

But that meeting obviously never came.

The very next day, the Waynes were tragically and brutally murdered.

Maryam could still recall that night in vivid detail.

She had been curled up on the worn couch in her Aunt Meysa's cramped living room, watching her favorite cartoon, Tom and Jerry, on the small, flickering TV. The theme song was playing, and she rested her chin on her knees, Bruce's knight figurine glistening softly on the coffee table beside her. The light from the screen danced across its surface, casting a faint glow in the dim room.

She had just settled deeper into the comfort of the moment when the broadcast was interrupted by the news. Her brow furrowed in frustration, and she huffed, annoyed at the disruption.

"We interrupt your program to bring you breaking news: at 10:47 PM, Thomas and Martha Wayne were shot and killed. They were leaving the Monarch Theater when they were attacked. Thomas and Martha died at the scene. Their son, Bruce Wayne, witnessed the tragedy. The GCPD has yet to apprehend the alleged killer."

The words from the TV blurred together as Maryam sat frozen, trying to make sense of what she had just heard. It didn't feel real.

Aunt Meysa appeared beside her, her dark hair pulled back into its usual sleek bun, her olive skin glowing faintly in the dim room. The concerned frown on her face deepened as she tried to follow the news.

"What did he say?" Meysa asked in arabic, voice soft and filled with confusion.

Maryam hesitated for a moment, then translated in a low voice. "They died. They were killed." She made a small gesture with her hand, mimicking the shape of a gun, and whispered, "Pooh, pooh."

Meysa's face shifted from confusion to dismay. "Astaghfirullah, Maryam! Don't do that!" she scolded, gently slapping her hand away.

Maryam's frown remained, gaze fixed back on the screen and mind struggling to process the tragedy that had just been announced.

"The kid, what's his name, I forgot—" Aunt Meysa began, her voice trailing off in confusion.

"Bruce," Maryam provided softly.

"Ah, yes, yes, Bryce—" Meysa continued, mispronouncing the name.

"It's Bruce, not Bryce," Maryam corrected, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at her lips, despite the heaviness of the moment.

"Right, Bruce. Is he dead too?" Meysa asked, her brows furrowing, concern knitting her features.

"No. They say he's the only survivor. He watched them being killed," Maryam explained, her tiny fingers nervously twisting the knight figurine she'd kept beside her, the only connection she still had to that moment.

"Lotf, lotf!" Aunt Meysa cried out, her hands clutching her apron tightly as she brought it to her mouth, trying to shield herself from the horror of the news.

Silence hung in the air as they watched the rest of the news.

The camera panned over the crime scene, but the view was obscured by the crowd of officers, flashing lights from their cars, and the yellow crime scene tape. Only the vague shape of two bodies, draped in white cloth, could be seen beneath the bright lights.

They lay so close to one another, as if they were two halves of a whole, destined to be together even in death, their final positions almost tender in their proximity, like a pair of stars whose light had faded but whose orbits had always been intertwined.

After a long while, Maryam spoke softly. "I feel bad for him," she murmured, her fingers gently curling around the knight figurine. She gazed down at it, her mind swirling with thoughts of the boy she had never truly known.

"Don't," Meysa said after a pause, tone soft but resolute. "It is God's will. Everything is written, habibti." She began gathering her things, preparing to leave for work. The TV flickered in the background, the silence between them heavy. "Besides, he still has his money, his houses. He's not homeless. And he'll have food on his table tonight."

Just then, Maryam's stomach grumbled loudly, its cruel timing cutting through the stillness. Meysa raised an eyebrow and gave her a knowing look. "Unlike us," she added gently but firmly.

The little girl scoffed, the weight of their reality settling on her chest like a heavy stone. She glanced away from her aunt, the sound from the TV almost fading into the background as the room seemed to close in on her.

"Don't scoff at me, Mimi," Meysa said, accent thick as she shifted her weight. "Make sure your sisters still sleeping. And you, don't stay up too late, yes? I go to work now."

She didn't respond, her little fingers tightening around Bruce's figurine as she turned her attention back to the TV, the somber report flickering on the screen. The soft click of the door closing behind her aunt echoed in the quiet, and the silence that followed felt heavier, pressing down on the living room.

Maryam shook her head, trying to dispel the flood of memories that threatened to overwhelm her.

She refocused on her stack of papers, but before she could even continue, her phone buzzed, Gordon's name flashing on the screen. With a sigh and a quick tap on the green button, she answered and switched it to speaker.

"Hey, Jamie. What's up?" she asked tiredly, trying to sound casual.

"Hey, Mar." Gordon's voice was clipped, urgent. "We need you at the Mayor's house right now. Something's happened. Police are on their way." Then reluctantly adding, lowering his tone "The Mayor's wife called. Her husband was murdered."

Maryam's breath caught in her throat for a split second, but she quickly steadied herself. "Okay, I'm on my way." she said, not needing any more details.

"Thanks, Mar. I'll see you soon." Gordon hung up, his thanks echoed in her ear.

Maryam glanced at her phone, her mind racing with worry, primarily about George, the mayor's son. Was he safe? Had he been hurt — or worse, killed?

Shaking her head to dispel the gnawing anxiety, she abruptly stood up, her chair rolling backward with a loud squeak. Gathering the stacks of papers with determined urgency, she made her way to the room where the bodies were kept. As she entered, she found Tammy scrubbing the tools used for the autopsy, her movements methodical and focused.

"Tam, Gordon needs me," Maryam announced. "I've done most of the paperwork. Can you finish up? It's an emergency."

Tammy looked up, eyes widening "No problem! Have fun!"

Maryam snorted, rolling her eyes playfully. "Yeah, I'll be sure to send you a postcard from the crime scene."

With that, she headed to the locker room, peeling off her hospital scrubs and the cap decorated with tiny unicorns. In a few swift movements, she changed into her civilian clothes. Standing in front of a small mirror, she adjusted a few stray strands of hair, but despite the rush, her French twist updo remained perfectly in place.

She stumbled through the empty hospital corridors in her black high-heeled boots, the click-clack of her heels echoing through the space as she balanced her medical kit and car keys.

The cold Gotham air enveloped her as she made her way to the parking lot. But just as she was about to reach her car, someone grabbed her arm, abruptly stopping her.

Instinctively, her eyebrows furrowed in annoyance, her expression already hardening into a glare. "What—"

"Where are you off to like that, Miriam?" The voice was smooth—too smooth. And it belonged to none other than Dr. Thomas Elliot, the hospital's head of neurosurgery, known as much for his surgical prowess as for his striking looks.

His blonde hair was meticulously combed back, and his dark eyes, almost black, gleamed with something unsettling as he gave her a slow once-over, a smirk tugged at the corners of his lips.

Maryam huffed, yanking her arm back and adjusting her bag on her shoulder. "To a crime scene, Dr. Elliot." Her tone was cold, her eyes narrowing. "And it's Maryam, not Miriam."

His smirk only grew, undeterred by her frosty demeanor.

"Come on, I was just teasing, you know that," he said, tone light and playful. Then, with a quick glance, he added, "And I've told you a hundred times—call me Tommy."

Maryam resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

She didn't just dislike him ( she couldn't stand him ) despite his charms that seemed to win over everyone else at the hospital. Sure, he was a gifted surgeon, undeniably handsome, and to top it off, came from a wealthy family with the charm to match.

To many, he was the perfect man. But to Maryam, there was something deeply unsettling about him, something that triggered alarm bells in her subconscious.

He was too perfect, too polished — his charm felt like a thin veneer concealing something far more sinister. Her instincts always flared up when he was near, as if he were hiding something dark behind that charming facade.

At first, she had thought she was just being overly cautious. Dr. Elliot had seemed too nice, the perfect doctor who always listened to his patients. But there was a strange sense of superiority in him, a subtle way he diminished others just because he could.

He used his charm and wit to manipulate people, often for personal gain—most often, it seemed, for sex.

Maryam had seen the way he looked at people, as if they were puzzles to be solved or pieces on a chessboard to be maneuvered.

But what disturbed Maryam the most was his behavior when he had to deliver bad news to a patient's family.

He would play the role of the empathetic surgeon flawlessly, but as soon as he turned his back to the grieving family, a sardonic smile would spread across his face. And it wasn't a one-time thing; no — it happened too many times for her to ignore. Each time she witnessed it, it chilled her to the bone.

Dr. Elliot seemed friendly and outgoing, but to Maryam, it all felt like a carefully constructed ruse.

Maybe she was too observant, too wary, or even too avoidant of people. Dr. Elliot's influence at the hospital was undeniable, and she knew that voicing her concerns could lead to serious repercussions.

So, she tried to be civil, keeping her distance as much as possible.

But Dr. Elliot was relentless, always flirting, always trying to get under her skin, as if he enjoyed watching her squirm under his attention.

"You look stressed, Maryam. Are you sure you're up for this?" he asked, stepping closer, voice oozing with false concern.

Maryam instinctively took a step back, determined to maintain her distance. "I'm fine, thank you. I deal with stress by actually doing my job."

Dr. Elliot chuckled, clearly amused by her sarcasm. "You're a tough one, aren't you? I like that."

Maryam forced a tight-lipped smile, her patience slipping away. "I'm glad you're entertained, Dr. Elliot," she said, tone flat. Glancing at the watch on her wrist, she added, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

"Tommy," he corrected again, moving into her space again, his smirk never fading. "Like I said, you don't have to be so formal. We're colleagues, after all."

Maryam sidestepped him, her eyes flashing with irritation. "And as colleagues, I'm sure you understand the importance of professionalism. Look, I really have to go."

He was a man who thrived on control, on bending others to his will, and his interest in her felt like a noose slowly tightening around her neck.

Unfortunately for him, Maryam was not one to be easily swayed or intimidated. She had survived far worse than the likes of Thomas Elliot, and she had no intention of becoming another one of his conquests.

As she turned on her heel and made a beeline for her car, she could feel his gaze lingering on her, a heavy weight that made her skin crawl.

Sliding into the driver's seat and tossing her tool bag onto the passenger side, Maryam took a deep breath, pushing away the lingering unease.

She twisted the key in the ignition, glancing at the rearview mirror to see the man still watching her. She muttered under her breath, forcing the key to turn again, "Come on, you rusty old piece of junk, don't fail me now."

The engine sputtered to life with a reluctant growl. The doctor exhaled deeply, her grip on the steering wheel tightening as she prepared to face the long road ahead.

The night was only beginning, a long road ahead and the crime scene awaited, and she couldn't afford to let anyone ( or anything ) distract her from her duty.

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When she found herself stuck behind a slow-moving car, frustration bubbled up inside her.

The driver behind her began shouting, their impatience palpable. Maryam rolled down her window, the cigarette hanging precariously from her lips, and shouted back, "What do you want me to do, run over his car, you imbecile?" Her hands flailed dramatically, and she rolled her eyes with an exasperated sigh.

Mixing Arabic curses, she added, "Yallah, move it, you moron! What's wrong with you, huh?"

The traffic finally cleared and Maryam sped off, her car swerving slightly as she hastily took another drag from her cigarette.

She arrived at the mayor's residence twenty-five minutes later, her patience frayed. Skidding to a halt outside the mayor's grandiose home, she yanked open her car door and grabbed her ID card from the glove compartment. The harsh light from Gotham's streetlamps stretched long, distorted shadows across the steps.

As she approached, a police officer moved to direct her away, but Maryam swiftly flashed her credentials and snapped, "I'm the Medical Examiner, not some nosy neighbor. Let me in."

The officer huffed in exasperation but, recognizing her credentials, waved her through. The medical examiner slammed the car door behind her, crushing the cigarette under her heel and shouldering her kit with a determined stride.

Briefly looking up to the dark sky, she could see the Bat-Signal cutting through the Gotham night sky.

Maryam glanced briefly at the dark sky, her eyes catching the sharp, familiar glow of the Bat-Signal cutting through the Gotham night. Whether it was a curse or a beacon, she couldn't decide.

The signal cast an eerie, almost malevolent light across the city, a jagged shape etched into the heavens. Its cold, angular silhouette sliced through the thick fog and mist that blanketed Gotham, a harsh, unforgiving beacon against the overwhelming darkness.

For the criminals of Gotham, it was no symbol of hope, but a dreaded harbinger of reckoning. To them, the Bat-Signal was a reminder that they were never truly alone, that their every move was watched, their every crime noted. It wasn't a call for aid—it was a relentless warning, a promise of retribution, swift and unyielding.

Maryam had never personally encountered the vigilante, as the news and social media liked to call him. It had been two years since the shadow first appeared on the streets, and while she'd heard plenty about him, she had yet to cross paths with Gotham's most notorious figure.

His presence was felt in every darkened alley, every whispered conversation — but so far, he had remained just a distant, ever-present force.

Inside, the cacophony of the crime scene unfolded like a dissonant symphony: the hum of forensic equipment, the subdued murmur of conversation, and the occasional clatter of equipment.

Officer Martinez, ever the beacon of positivity amid the chaos ( a trait that reminded Maryam of her cheerful assistant, Tammy ) spotted her and made his way over, his face etched with concern. "Hey, Mar... Thanks for coming so quickly. It's a mess in there" he looked around, eyebrows furrowed,"and I think we're all in for a long night." He added with a sight.

Maryam, cheeks flushed with the urgency of the situation, gave him a terse nod. "No problem, Lucas. I'll handle it from here." A small pause, "What's the rundown?"

Martinez scratched his head, his usual cheerfulness dimmed by the gravity of the scene. "So, the mayor's dead. Murdered. Found by his wife and kid. You'll see the worst of it in the study. Bullock's up there, but you know how he is — probably got a cigar stuck in his mouth and a scowl on his face."

Maryam managed a wry smile. "Of course he does. Thanks for the heads-up."

As the officer led her through the throngs of officers and past the forensic team in their immaculate white suits, Maryam felt a knot of unease tighten in her chest. The crime scene was a carefully orchestrated mess : a tangle of evidence, forensic cameras flashing intermittently, and the low murmur of detectives piecing together the nightmare.

Bullock was leaning against the wall outside the study, puffing away on a cigar that left a trail of acrid smoke swirling in the air. His eyes were tired but sharp as they tracked Maryam's approach.

"Dr. Ben Halimi," Bullock greeted gruffly, his voice a gravelly rumble. "Glad you're here. We could use a fresh set of eyes on this fucking mess."

Maryam flashed him a sardonic grin as she stepped past him. "Just what I needed after a long day—a front-row seat to Gotham's newest tragedy. You know me, always up for a good dose of horror."

Bullock smirked, shaking his head. "Always with the sass and jokes. You'd think by now you'd be used to it."

Maryam shrugged, her gaze drifting towards the study's entrance. "If you're not laughing, you're crying, right?"

She secured a mask over her mouth, looping it around her ears, and pulled a hair net over her head.

As she stepped into the study, the scene that greeted her was both grotesque and meticulously staged : Mayor Don Mitchell Jr. lay sprawled across a chair in his study, his body arranged in a macabre tableau.

His head, mummified in duct tape, was covered in blood, and a chilling message in red read:

"NO MORE LIES."

His thumb was severed, blood pooling around him, making the scene all the more haunting.

Maryam's eyes swept over the room, taking in every detail—the way the blood spattered across the luxurious carpet, the silent witnesses of scattered papers, and the grim determination of the forensic team working to document every inch.

She took a deep breath, pushing past her own discomfort to focus on the task at hand.

The doctor pproached the body with her medical kit, carefully extracting her tools: a pair of gloves, a small light, and a digital camera. The forensic team was busy capturing every angle, but Maryam's job was to verify and document the specifics of the body's condition.

And so, she began by photographing the scene.

The camera's flash briefly illuminated the macabre scene: the mayor's head encased in duct tape, with the stark message scrawled across his mouth in red.

The severed thumb was captured from multiple angles.

Each image was carefully framed to preserve every detail, ensuring that nothing was lost in the documentation process.

"The thumb hasn't been found?" she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

A detective nearby, busy jotting down notes, glanced up briefly. "Nope, not yet," he replied, his badge catching the light as he worked in another corner of the room.

Moving on, Maryam retrieved a ruler from her kit.

She measured the depth and extent of the wounds with deliberate accuracy, noting the size of the blood pool around the mayor's mouth, partly hidden by the duct tape. Her observations were meticulously recorded, providing a detailed account of the injuries that would be crucial for understanding the nature of the attack and the victim's final moments.

Carefully, Maryam began collecting evidence. She bagged a bit of the strips of duct tape used to mummify the mayor's head, handling them with gloved hands to avoid contamination.

Fragments of the mayor's clothing, stained with blood, were also placed into evidence bags. Each item was labeled and sealed, ensuring that potential evidence was preserved for further forensic analysis.

She then took a moment to examine the scene itself.

Making mental notes of the body's positioning, the state of the room, and any items that might offer additional context.

Her keen hazel eyes swept over the room, noting the arrangement of furniture and any disturbances. This meticulous observation was crucial for piecing together the circumstances surrounding the crime.

Finally, Maryam used a flashlight to explore less obvious areas of the room. She searched under furniture and in corners, her light revealing potential clues that might have been overlooked.

Every corner was inspected with care, her flashlight beam dancing over surfaces as she sought out any detail that could shed more light on the murder.

Maryam's concentration remained intense, her movements precise and deliberate.

But just as she finished documenting the initial findings, she heard Gordon's authoritative voice cutting through the room. She paused, her heart quickening as she prepared to brief him on what she had uncovered.

This was indeed going to be a very long night.

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It was almost unbreathable.

Maryam had seen her fair share of crime scenes, but this one, this one was different. There was something deeply wrong here, something that clung to the walls and settled into the bones of the townhouse like a ghost refusing to be exorcized.

The heat of too many bodies, the murmurs of grim speculation, the scent of stale cologne and death. It made the walls feel like they were closing in.

And then, it got worse.

He arrived.

Vengeance.

The Bat.

A shadow among men, stepping into the crime scene like he belonged there more than anyone else. And maybe he did. He had only existed in Gotham for a handful of years, and yet, the city had already carved out a place for him. Or perhaps, more chillingly, he had carved himself into it, branding himself into its flesh like a wound that refused to heal.

Gotham, ever greedy, had welcomed him with open arms, embracing his sins, feeding his rage, making him something more than a man. Something worse.

Maryam was skeptical.

Not that skepticism was a rare feeling for her, on the contrary actually, it was almost second nature. But him ? She had never given him much thought, never cared to, never had the time to. Yet she had heard the stories. Everyone had.

Her aunt called him Al Ghul or al-Shayṭān : the demon, the devil himself. Her family's opinions on him were split down the middle. Some dismissed him as nothing more than an urban legend, a figment of Gotham's collective paranoia. Others, however, were certain he was real, pointing to the grainy footage and fleeting glimpses captured in the depths of the city, circulating online like ghost stories made tangible.

He had been at his most visible a year ago, during the highly publicized arrest of the Joker. But beyond that, he was a phantom. A shadow that slithered through Gotham's underbelly, unseen, unknown and that was precisely how he wanted it.

One thing, however, was undeniable :

He was brutal.

And dangerously so.

He entered with Commissioner Gordon at his side.

The officers posted at the entrance hesitated, their faces flickering between confusion and unease. It wasn't every day that a man clad in a bat-themed suit walked into a crime scene like he belonged there. And yet, despite their wary stares, not one of them dared to question him.

Bruce Wayne ( though no one in the room would call him that ) ignored them all. His focus was singular, locked onto the path ahead as he followed Gordon deeper into the townhouse. The sound of his boots against the polished wooden floors sent dull, heavy echoes through the lavish halls, each step thick with an unspoken menace.

A crime scene always had its own rhythm, like a macabre sort of dance between evidence and theory, between the living and the dead.

Maryam was deep in it, her mind filtering through the grim details as she meticulously examined the body. Her light brown hair was secured in her signature French updo, not a strand out of place despite the long night. Sharp hazel eyes skimmed over every detail, methodical, unwaveringly so.

Then came the shift, the ripple of movement, the slight hitch in breath from those around her.

She looked up just as Lieutenant Gordon entered.

And behind him, towering and haunting, was him.

That damned Bat.

Or Vengeance, as Gotham had come to call him.

As they stepped into the room, the young officer, Martinez, stationed at the door stiffened. His hand twitched, moving instinctively to block their path.

"Whoa — whoa, whoa. Police action," he stammered, shifting awkwardly as his gaze traveled up the vigilante's imposing frame.

From the other side of the room, Bullock scoffed, pushing himself off the wall with an exaggerated grunt. His irritation was palpable, clinging to him like the smell of cheap cigars. He crossed his arms, planting himself firmly between the Bat and the crime scene.

"He's right," Bullock grumbled, his thin lip curling with disdain. "What the hell is he doin' here, Jim?"

The room, already painted with the heaviness of death, grew even tenser. Conversations faded. Every movement seemed hesitant, uncertain, like no one wanted to be the first to acknowledge the presence of Gotham's most infamous vigilante.

But the Bat didn't speak.

Didn't flinch.

No, his gaze ( cold, unblinking ) dropped to the officer's outstretched hand against his suited torso, like a silent warning in the sharp stillness between them. Martinez swallowed hard, fingers twitching before he let his hand fall away.

Gordon, ever the mediator, stepped in before the tension could snap. "He's with me."

It wasn't a request. It wasn't a debate.

It was a fact.

Officer Martinez hesitated for a beat too long before finally stepping aside, shoulders stiff with reluctance. As Batman passed, the young officer muttered under his breath, barely audible over the hum of voices in the room.

"...Goddamn freak..."

If Batman heard it, he gave no indication.

Bullock let out a long, beleaguered sigh, the kind that spoke of too many late nights, too many cases that never wrapped up neatly. He shook his head, exasperation rolling off him in waves, like this was just another burden added to the ever-growing pile of bullshit he had to deal with.

His hands settled on his hips, thick fingers pressing into the fabric of his wrinkled coat. The cigar, which had long since burned past the point of good sense, dangled precariously from the corner of his mouth, the ember dim but still stubbornly smoldering.

Maryam caught sight of it and, as always, scowled. "How many times," she had warned him before, "do I have to tell you not to smoke near a crime scene?" But Bullock never listened. He was a creature of habit, and bad ones, at that.

The room quieted as heads turned toward the newest arrivals. Maryam, momentarily distracted, spun on her heel to greet Gordon, only to stop short.

Her breath caught.

She had nearly collided with him.

The Bat.

His presence was suffocating in a way she hadn't anticipated. Him, his presence, his silence settled over the room like a storm cloud, shifting the tension itself. He was tall, taller than she expected, and built like something carved from stone. The dim lighting made the contours of his suit look even more unnatural, shadows clinging to him like an extension of his own darkness.

And then, in that split second, their eyes met.

Hazel locked onto deep, unreadable blue.

Her breath hitched, just barely. Her eyes widened in something between surprise and instinctual unease, while his remained inscrutable, expression hidden behind the sharp, angular cowl. He was watching her, studying her, but she couldn't tell what he was thinking.

A movement : his hand, swift and sure, reaching out.

Before she could react, she felt the firm grip of his gloved fingers on her forearms, steadying her with effortless control. It wasn't rough, nor was it hesitant just ... certain. A quiet show of restraint in a man who, from everything she had heard, knew very little of it.

Maryam's spine went rigid, her fingers twitching slightly before brushing against her throat, a nervous tick she had never quite rid herself of. Quickly, she took a step back, reclaiming her space, regaining her composure.

She cleared her throat, straightened her shoulders, and forced herself to breathe. The moment passed, dissolving as quickly as it had formed.

And that ( unexpected, unplanned ) was how she first crossed paths with Gotham's infamous, much-discussed Bat.

A man whispered about in precincts, argued over in newspaper columns, feared in back alleys. A man who, until this moment, had been nothing more than myth wrapped in shadow.

He was real. And impossibly human.

Gordon, sensing the tension thickening between them, broke the silence with his usual no-nonsense tone.

"What do we know?"

The lead detective ( Steve, still looking like he'd rather be anywhere else ) cleared his throat. His gaze flickered to Maryam, a silent cue for her to step in.

She did.

"The mayor suffered blunt-force trauma to the skull," she reported, professional and composed, as if her pulse hadn't just skipped a beat moments earlier. "Multiple lacerations to the head. The fatal blow came from something heavy. Most of the blood is from a deep wound in the hand."

Gordon's brow furrowed. "All this blood's from his hand?"

Maryam nodded. "Yes. The thumb was severed postmortem. Likely taken as a trophy."

Silence.

Then — finally — the Bat spoke. "He was alive when it was cut off."

His voice was low, rough like gravel under tires. The kind of voice that didn't just speak, it settled in the air, heavy and whispery.

He moved, barely a shift, yet it was enough to draw every eye in the room. Leaning in, he studied the wound with unsettling precision, the dim lighting casting sharp angles across his cowl.

"Ecchymosis around the wound," he murmured. "Bruising suggests circulation. He was still alive when they did it."

A cold shiver ran down Maryam's spine, though she masked it well. The room, once buzzing with conversation, fell into an eerie hush. Even the most seasoned detectives hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances. Bullock, who had been chewing on his cigar like it owed him money, paused mid-motion.

Because he had seen something they hadn't.

Because he always did.

The room fell into an oppressive silence, each person digesting the grim weight of the revelation. It was as if time had briefly stopped, leaving behind nothing but their collective disbelief.

Maryam's gaze lingered on the vigilante. Her perfectly sculpted brows furrowed in quiet irritation. How had she fucking missed that ? There was no denying the tension that hung between them, thick enough to be felt in the pit of her stomach. She could almost taste it.

For a few taut seconds, their eyes locked : hers, sharp and calculating, his, cold and distant. The stillness between them felt heavy, overwhelming. 

Then, with a slow exhale, the female doctor sighed, the breath escaping her like a quiet surrender. Her eyes flickered away, finally landing on Gordon, who had been watching them with a raised brow, clearly amused by the interaction.

"I suppose he's right," she muttered, conceding, the irritation still simmering under her words but tempered with a hint of reluctant acceptance. There was little point in arguing with a force like that. Not when the room was likely hanging on every word they spoke, while the rest of the team continued working, pretending not to listen.

Gordon hummed in acknowledgment, his eyes narrowing as he turned to the lead detective for more details. 

"Security detail downstairs says the family was out trick-or-treating. The mayor was up here alone. Killer came through the skylight," the detective explained, gesturing towards the ceiling with a grim expression.

Batman's gaze, however, was drawn to something else, small but telling. 

A fresh gash marred the polished wooden floor. 

It was an easy detail to miss, but not for him. He knelt down, his movements deliberate, almost reverent, as he inspected the scratch with careful attention. The room seemed to hold its breath, the only sound the faint click of a camera as a photographer, who had clearly missed it earlier, hurriedly took a shot.

"There was a card," Steve said as he reached into his coat pocket.

Gordon, watching Batman with a practiced eye, shifted his attention to the next piece of the puzzle. 

The detective handed over a small, crisp envelope, which Gordon opened with methodical precision. 

Inside was a Halloween-themed card : a creepy skeleton hunched over, its bones barely visible beneath a wide-eyed owl. It seemed almost playful, if not for the dark twist of the message inside.

Gordon pulled the card free, opened it, and read the words aloud, his voice dipping into a heavier tone as he did: "What does a liar do when he's dead?"

Strange symbols were scrawled across the card; a chaotic blend of lines and shapes that seemed to defy any logic. Gordon unfolded another sheet from the envelope, revealing a cipher — its cryptic nature immediately evident. He held it up, examining the strange markings. "There's a cipher too ... Any of this ... mean anything to you ... ?" he asked as he turned to Batman, who remained as unreadable as ever.

But before Batman could respond, the door swung open with force, and Commissioner Pete Savage stormed in. His fat face was a mask of disbelief and frustration, the tension in the room thickening even more with his arrival.

"I asked him to come, Pete," Gordon said quickly, attempting to smooth things over before the situation escalated.

Savage wasn't having it. 

"This is a crime scene — it's Mitchell, for Chrissakes — I got press downstairs— !" His voice was rising, words laced with barely contained anger. "You know I cut you a lotta' slack, Jim, 'cuz we got history, but this is way over the line...!"

Gordon, unfazed, handed Savage the card, knowing full well what was coming. Savage read it with growing horror, his eyes scanning the symbols and the unsettling message, before they landed on the envelope addressed to 'The Batman.'

His expression darkened instantly, suspicion clouding his face.

"Wait, he's involved in this ?!" Savage demanded.

Gordon shook his head, his calm demeanor unwavering despite the mounting pressure. "No, no, he's not involved — "

Savage's frustration exploded. "How do you know? He's a goddamn vigilante — he could be a suspect! What are you doing to me, you used to be my partner!" 

As the argument escalated, Maryam, sensing the tension, decided it was time to leave.

Her gloved hands trembled slightly as she pulled them off, tossing them into a nearby bin with a soft rustle. Without looking back, she moved toward the door, her steps quickening as she hurried to escape the charged atmosphere.

In the hallway, Maryam paused, gathering herself before heading toward a nearby room where she knew Elliott, the mayor's young son, was being questioned.

The memories of seeing the little boy during her visits to her aunt's house surfaced, Aunt Meysa had often babysat George, and Mar had developed a fondness for the quiet, sweet child.

As she approached the room, the door was slightly ajar, revealing George sitting on the bed, a detective was kneeling in front of him, trying, and failing, to ask the usual questions — nothing was getting through to the grieving child.

With a hesitant step, Maryam entered the room, her eyes softening at the sight of the boy sitting on the bed. George's tear-streaked face, red and swollen from crying, caught her off guard. His eyes, though clouded with grief, flickered with recognition when they landed on her. Then, without warning, he shot up from the bed and ran straight into her, wrapping his small arms tightly around her legs.

Maryam froze. 

It wasn't that she wasn't good with kids — she had grown up surrounded by them. But she hadn't expected this outpouring of raw emotion. She hadn't expected to be the one on the receiving end of such desperate comfort.

Her heart softened, and instinctively, she knelt down, arms wrapping around him in a protective embrace. His tiny body trembled against hers, and she held him close, her hand gently stroking his back, trying to soothe him in the stillness of the room.

"Hey, it's okay. I'm here," she whispered, voice a soothing balm. "You're safe now."

George buried his face into her neck, his little body wracked with muffled sobs. "Maryam," he choked out, his voice thick with the weight of the nightmare he had witnessed, "I'm so scared. I... I saw him..."

Her heart squeezed in her chest.

But she only held him tighter, rocking him gently. "I know, sweetheart. I know. It's all so scary right now, but you're safe now, okay? You're so brave. Everything's going to be alright."

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at her through tear-filled eyes, his small hands gripping the fabric of her coat as though he were afraid she might disappear. "Why did this happen?" he asked, small and fragile, innocence too pure to understand the darkness that had crept into his life. "Why did they hurt him?"

Maryam's breath hitched, and she pressed her lips together to steady herself. 

What could she possibly say to ease the confusion, the hurt, the terror of a child who had witnessed something no one should ever have to see? She swallowed, searching for the right words, but in that moment, she realized that maybe there weren't any words that could truly make sense of it.

Instead, she cupped his face gently in her hands, wiping away his tears with her thumbs, offering him a small, comforting smile. "I don't know, George," she whispered softly. "But I promise you, we'll figure this out. We'll make sure no one else gets hurt."

She didn't know if she believed the words herself, but as George's sobs gradually slowed and his breathing evened out, she realized that for the moment, that was enough. It seemed to calm him, even if only a little, and that was what mattered. She was doing what she could, offering what comfort she could give. It wasn't much, but it was something.

She continued to hold him, her fingers gently brushing through his hair as she whispered soothing words, hoping they would help him make sense of the chaos in his young mind.

As she spoke, the faint sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway. 

As she spoke, the Bat and Gordon made their way down the dimly lit hallway leading to the boy's room. Their faces were shrouded in shadow, the limited light casting long, ominous silhouettes on the walls.

Batman's eyes lingered on the quiet scene before him, his usually hard gaze momentarily softening as he observed Maryam, now sitting at the edge of the bed, the traumatized boy curled into her, her arms wrapped tightly around him, offering what little comfort she could to the trembling child.

There was a flicker of something, too fast to name, too fleeting to grasp. Empathy? Sorrow? A memory, perhaps, of a night long past, when the world had been torn apart in the blink of an eye.

The images crashed into his mind like a wave : gunfire, the staccato rhythm of bullets tearing through the air, the sound of pearls scattering on cold stone, the frantic screams that echoed in his ears, and the crimson stain of blood that never seemed to wash away.

A slow blink, and it was gone, but the heaviness of it lingered.

Gordon, noticing Batman's reaction, spoke quietly. "We really need to go man," a subtle nudge back to the task at hand.

Turning to leave, the Bat couldn't shake the image of the boy's tear-streaked face, clinging desperately to Maryam. The way she whispered reassurances, as if her very presence could shield him from the horrors that Gotham had already stolen from him.

It was a brief scene ( one that Vengeance had witnessed in various forms countless times ) but it struck deeper than he cared to acknowledge.

The boy's trembling form, the mix of fear and trust in his wide, haunted eyes, reminded him too painfully of the toll Gotham exacted on its children. The city he swore to protect was a machine that ground innocence into dust, teaching its youngest citizens too early that the world wasn't kind, and monsters were real. 

Gotham didn't just steal lives; it stole the ability to dream, the hope that there was safety to be found. And that was something Bruce could never seem to stop.

And yet, in that brief, fragile moment, as the boy buried his face against Maryam's shoulder, there was a flicker of something pure, something almost miraculous. A sliver of hope clung to him, however faint, a belief that someone, anyone, could still hold the darkness at bay.

It was a fleeting, fragile thing, this hope, like the weak flicker of a church candle, struggling against the wind, its flame trembling, moments from being extinguished. It spoke of redemption, salvation, the divine — things Bruce had long since abandoned. He wasn't a believer. Gotham had taken that from him, along with his faith in anything other than the grim reality of what the world truly was. 

Hope was a luxury for the naïve. It was an illusion, a threadbare cloak draped over the bones of the damned.

Gotham, with all its cruelty, reveled in breaking people. It tore down its citizens, stripping them of their faith, their hope. 

He was the living proof of it.

Bruce Wayne was no fool. He knew better.

He wasn't some martyr, nor was he a man of miracles. He was a realist. 

And in a city like Gotham, there were no saviors, only those who fought the darkness, even knowing they would never see the light at the end of the tunnel. Bruce had been fighting it for years, and the more he did, the more he saw the truth : the city wouldn't change. People wouldn't change. Not unless they were shown, the hard way, what the consequences of their choices were.

But watching that woman, with her quiet strength and pure gentleness, something inside him ached. Maybe that's what Gotham had taken from him, too — the ability to offer comfort in the way she could. He had become the embodiment of fear to keep others safe, but gentleness?

That was something he had long since buried.

But not her.

Not the medical examiner.

Not Maryam.

Even with the ghosts that seemed to haunt her, she had found a way to reach out, to give warmth in a world so cold.

And that, perhaps, was what the boy needed most.

Tu'burni (تقبرني) : Literally meaning, "bury me". it means you hope that they put you in the ground before them because you couldn't bear living without them.

habibi : darling

— AN : first chapterrrrrr