المدينة تهمس بأسرارها، لكن القلوب القوية فقط هي من تستطيع سماعها
the city whispers its secrets, but only strong hearts can hear them

               AFTER LEAVING the mayor's house, Maryam reluctantly approached her car.

Sliding into the driver's seat, she finally allowed herself a moment to breathe. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the steering wheel, shutting out the chaotic world outside. The muffled sounds of journalists shouting questions and the wail of police sirens barely registered as she tried to process the night's events.

Her mind replayed the grim scenes in a loop — the mayor's lifeless body, the blood, the devastation in young George's eyes. 

It was a deliberate murder, no doubt about it and something deep inside told her this wouldn't be the last. A shiver ran down her spine as she pondered the motives behind the killing.

But why target the mayor?

She didn't know him personally and, to be honest, barely cared about the man. His face was familiar, but only in the way that all politicians' faces are — seen, not truly known. And despite keeping up with politics, she could hardly recall anything of substance that he'd done for Gotham.

Sure, he'd put Salvatore Maroni behind bars, but Maryam suspected he was just another cog in the Falcone family's machine. 

Who in Gotham wasn't at this point? The city was still in shambles, with criminals running rampant, homelessness skyrocketing, and the gap between the rich and poor only growing wider. 

Every promise the mayor made during his campaign had turned out to be empty words, nothing but lies wrapped in false hope.

Ugh, Everything was a fucking mess.

Yet, despite her cynicism, she found herself more worried about George than the murdered politician. The boy was innocent, a child who had nothing to do with the murky underworld of Gotham.

Her aunt had been babysitting him for three years now, and Maryam had often found herself at her aunt's house, playing with the boy, listening to his innocent laughter. She couldn't help but feel a pang of protectiveness for him.

But what really freaked her out was the vigilante. She had quite literally stumbled upon him, and the memory sent a shiver down her spine.

He was taller than she imagined, his form imposing in a way that felt almost otherworldly. But it was his eyes that haunted her the most — those piercing blue eyes, the bluest she had ever seen. They weren't just blue ; they were the kind of blue that poets of the Renaissance would have wept over, likening them to the tragic skies painted by God himself, sorrowful and burdened with the weight of the world.

His eyes were like a sea under a storm, blue but ringed with red, the color of exhaustion, the remnants of battles fought and the silent scream of hopelessness written in every shadow. They were the kind of eyes that held the world's tragedies within them, where hope was a distant, dying light, struggling against the overwhelming tide of despair.

And the way he gripped her ( firmly but not forcibly ) sent a jolt through her, like a live wire connecting them. It was as if he was afraid of breaking her, as if she were a delicate flower and he was the brutal wind, dangerous and unpredictable, but somehow hesitant to cause harm. It was electrifying. 

No, it was more than that. 

It was mortifying. 

Yes, that was definitely the right word.

The sensation of being held so carefully by something so dangerous — it actually terrified her.

Another sigh escaped her lips. 

She had to stop daydreaming, a habit that both gnawed at her and offered comfort in equal measure. But no matter how hard she tried, those blue eyes, full of a sadness she couldn't comprehend, kept pulling her back into the memory.

Raising her head, Maryam stretched her neck and glanced at the clock in her car. The night had dragged on longer than she realized. She fished her phone from her back pocket, the screen lighting up to reveal a picture of her younger self with her parents and siblings, a bittersweet memory frozen in time. She quickly typed in her password, intending to call her aunt Meysa, but the screen flooded with notifications — several missed calls from her aunt and her siblings. 

By now, the news must have spread, and they would be worried.

She pressed the call button for her aunt and placed the phone on the dashboard, putting it on speaker. 

The ringing echoed through the car, the foggy windows a testament to the cold outside. She undid her updo, letting her hair fall and massaged her scalp as she waited for her aunt to pick up. 

Finally, the call connected.

"Allo? Maryam, I have been calling you for two hours! You don't respond to me or your sisters!" Meysa's voice was thick with worry, not giving Maryam a chance to speak.

"No, I'm fine, Aunt Meysa. I was working — " Maryam started to explain but was cut off again.

"Like always," Meysa said in Arabic, a tone of gentle reprimand in her voice.

Maryam sighed. "Look, I wanted to call you to ask if you've seen the news?"

"Not to ask how your old aunt has been doing?" Meysa teased.

"I literally saw you this morning!" Maryam replied in Arabic, exasperated.

"I know, I know... But yes, I've seen the news, although I received it before."

Maryam furrowed her brows at this. "What do you mean?"

"Rebecca, the Mayor's wife, called me in tears! I was getting ready for bed when my phone rang," Meysa explained, then quickly added with a tsk, "She told me her husband was dead! Killed! Can you believe that, yah Maryam?"

Maryam listened, nibbling on her nails and massaging her scalp with her other hand. "Not really, it's Gotham, have you forgotten?"

"I can't believe they did that. Killing the Mayor. I never liked him anyway, but the boy? Miskeen, Wallah. I told her to bring him to me so I could take care of him, but she refused. She's right; it's better he stays with his mother and family. He must be traumatized." Meysa continued, brushing off Maryam's comment.

"I saw him and talked to him—" Maryam began, only to be interrupted again.

"You were there?" Meysa asked, surprised.

"Yep," Maryam confirmed. "It was a horrible sight. And like I was saying, the boy was really traumatized. I tried to comfort him, but..." She grimaced, shaking her head. "Seeing that kind of thing really messes with your head."

A heavy silence hung between them.

"You're right," Meysa agreed quietly. "I'll talk to his mother when I can. I don't want to bother her— God knows how things must be for her right now."

Maryam only hummed in response, her gaze drifting to the chaos of journalists outside her car.

"What else did you see there?" Meysa asked, hopeful for more information.

"You know I can't tell you, amti. It's confidential," Maryam replied, taking her phone in her hand.

Meysa huffed. "Fine, fine. I suppose I'll see it in the papers tomorrow." Then, as if remembering something, she added, "By the way, I made dinner — couscous."

"Noted. I'm coming to sleep at your apartment then. I'm not working tomorrow morning anyway. I'll see you later."

"Okay. Salaam, and be careful — or you might run into that satanic demon." Meysa warned, tone half-joking.

Maryam laughed, her thoughts flickering briefly to the vigilante. Oh, if only you knew. 

"Yeah, 'kay. Bye."

She ended the call and started the car engine, the rumble breaking the quiet of the early morning. 

Without another thought, she sped through the empty streets, heading towards her aunt's apartment.

────୨ৎ────

        Bruce removed his helmet with a quiet exhale, the motion slow and deliberate.

The cool air of the cave whispered over his sweat-dampened skin, a sharp relief from the stifling heat trapped within the black armor.

As he pulled the helmet free, the shadows lifted from his face, revealing a man who carried the weight of a city's sins in his eyes. His blackened gaze swept the cavernous space around him, the dim light catching the maining streaks of dark camo that clung to the edges of his eyelids.

He reached up, his fingers deftly removing the contact lenses, the tiny sensor bands embedded within reflecting the harsh glow of the monitors around him. 

The lenses were more than just a tool — they were like a gateway to his world, a lens through which he witnessed the darkness that engulfed Gotham. 

He placed them on the workbench, their curved surfaces still warm from his eyes, before shifting his attention to the grainy video footage playing on the screen.

Nirvana playing on the background; the scene replayed in stark black and white, the distorted image of a gang member convulsing as he was tased in the neck. Bruce's eyes lingered on the man's face, reading the fear etched in every twitch of his muscles. 

He knew that fear too well; it was the same fear that had once gripped him as a child, staring into the eyes of the man who had taken everything from him.

The billionaire stood, eyes scanning the vast space of the cave, the eerie silence of early morning settling around him. The remnants of a bygone era surrounded him — an unfinished black muscle car sat hulking in one corner. Monitors lined the walls, their screens flickering with the latest news. 

The headline that caught his eye made his stomach tighten :

"MAYOR MITCHELL MURDERED."

The newscaster's voice droned on, filling the cave with words that felt like distant echoes:

"...this certainly isn't the first time Gotham has been rocked by the murder of a political figure. In fact, in an eerie coincidence, it was twenty years ago this month that celebrated billionaire philanthropist, Dr. Thomas Wayne, and his wife Martha were slain during Wayne's own mayoral campaign in a shocking crime that remains unsolved to this day..."

Bruce's gaze hardened, his jaw tightening as the familiar pang of loss surged through him. The past had a cruel way of resurfacing, no matter how deep he buried it.

He sat back, his eyes scanning the footage on the monitor. He paused as the camera caught a glimpse of her —Dr. Maryam Ben Halimi.

Even in the grainy, night-vision footage, she stood out, her presence both captivating and unsettling. Her expressive hazel eyes had been wide with shock when she stumbled upon him, her hair meticulously styled in an updo. There was something about the way she held herself, a blend of poise and vulnerability, that gnawed at him.

Her presence was an unexpected calm amidst the storm of violence and despair.

Bruce leaned in, his gaze sharpening as he studied her features. 

She had looked at him with those eyes — greenish-yellow, filled with tragedy, hauntingly beautiful, and framed by the weariness of someone who had witnessed far too much yet clung to a fragile hope. 

A sudden comparison flashed through his mind, almost disorienting : her eyes were like the sky at dusk, desperately holding on to the last traces of daylight before succumbing to the darkness.

They were eyes that bore the weight of the world.

He shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought, but it clung to him stubbornly. For a brief moment, he had seen his own torment reflected in her gaze. The deep blue of his eyes, like a painting etched in sorrow, had found a mirror in hers. It was a gaze that spoke of shared suffering, even if she was unaware of it.

Bruce replayed the scene in his mind, his pulse quickening as he recalled the moment she had stumbled upon him. He hadn't anticipated her presence, and the way she had frozen, her eyes wide with shock, was seared into his memory. They had never met face-to-face, only crossing paths in fleeting mentions; Gordon had spoken her name once or twice during his two years as the Batman.

He captured her image on one of his computer screens, letting it linger there before switching to another monitor to continue reviewing the footage.

A metallic clank echoed through the cave, pulling Bruce's attention away from the screen. He looked up to see Alfred stepping out of the freight elevator, his figure cast in the half-light. The older man's face, etched with years of wear and scars of a different kind, was a picture of quiet concern.

Bruce turned back to his work, avoiding Alfred's gaze, but the tension between them lingered in the air like a ghost.

"I assume you heard about this...?" Alfred's voice was low, tinged with the weary resignation of a man who had seen too much.

"Yeah," Bruce replied, his tone clipped, eyes fixed on the footage he was fast-forwarding through— frame by frame, dissecting every moment of the crime scene.

Alfred moved closer, his steps echoing softly on the stone floor. He glanced at the screen, his eyes widening at the sight of Mayor Mitchell's body. "Oh. I see..." His voice faltered as he took in the gruesome scene. "...dear God..."

As the image of the cipher filled the screen, Bruce froze the frame, his hand reaching to print the image. The lines of the eerie symbols etched into the Halloween card were now stark on the paper. Alfred's breath hitched as he took in the sight, the chill of the moment settling deep into his bones.

"The killer left this for Batman?" Alfred's voice trembled slightly, betraying the fear he kept carefully masked.

"Apparently." Bruce's reply was curt, as if discussing a minor inconvenience rather than a message from a murderer.

Alfred's eyes narrowed with concern. "You're becoming quite a celebrity... why is he writing to you?"

"I don't know yet." Bruce's voice was flat, betraying nothing of the storm brewing inside him.

"And her?" Alfred gestured toward the computer screen where Maryam's face was paused, captured in the moment their eyes had locked. Bruce hesitated, his gaze briefly shifting to the screen as Alfred studied the image.

"Does she have any link to what happened — "

"No," Bruce cut him off sharply, his tone leaving no room for further questioning.

"She's pretty," Alfred murmured, his voice softening as a small smile tugged at his lips. "Quite a striking woman, if I may add. Or was it the way you scared her?"

Bruce's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing. "She seemed familiar."

Alfred glanced at him, curiosity piqued. "Do you know her?"

Bruce shook his head, his voice distant, as though reaching back into a memory just out of grasp. "Gordon talked about her once or twice. He said she's a pathologist. Medical examiner. Her name is Dr. Maryam Ben Halimi." His gaze lingered on her face for a moment before he returned to the other screen, burying himself in the work that never seemed to end.

A heavy silence settled between them, the only sound the hum of machinery in the background. Alfred sighed, running a hand through his hair, trying to weigh the gravity of the situation against Bruce's relentless pursuit of justice.

"Have a shower," Alfred finally said, his voice carrying a hint of weariness. "The accounting boys from Wayne Enterprises are coming for breakfast."

"Here — why? " Bruce asked, irritation flickering in his eyes, a reminder of the ever-present tension between his two worlds.

"Because I couldn't get you to go there!" Alfred retorted, frustration seeping into his voice as he met Bruce's gaze, the unspoken concern between them thickening the air.

"I don't have time for this," Bruce muttered, his own patience wearing thin.

Alfred's voice softened, a plea underlying his words. "It's getting serious, Bruce. If this continues, it won't be long before you've nothing left — "

"I don't care about that. Any of that." Bruce's words were sharp, final, cutting through the space between them like a knife.

Alfred's eyes flickered with a pain that he quickly masked. "You don't care about your family's legacy?"

"What I'm doing is my family's legacy," Bruce countered, his voice low, edged with a conviction that left no room for doubt. "And if I can't change things here, if I can't have an effect, then I don't care what happens to me."

Alfred swallowed hard, his throat tight with unshed emotions. "That's what I'm afraid of."

Bruce's eyes darkened, his voice dropping to a warning. "Alfred, stop." The words hung in the air, sharp and final. Then, without missing a beat, he added, "You're not my father."

The statement was cold, a barrier thrown up between them, meant to shut down the conversation. The silence that followed was heavy, charged with the weight of everything unsaid. Alfred's expression faltered, the faintest trace of hurt flashing across his face before he masked it with a resigned nod.

But the words lingered, echoing in the cavernous space of the Batcave, a reminder of the chasm that sometimes seemed too wide to bridge between them.

A thin, pained smile touched Alfred's lips, barely masking the hurt behind his eyes. "I'm... well aware," he replied quietly, his voice tinged with a sadness that Bruce chose to ignore.

Alfred's eyes lingered on Bruce for a moment longer, searching for something — some sign of acknowledgment, a crack in the armor. But Bruce remained impassive, his gaze already drifting back to the screens, to the work that consumed him.

Bruce rose from his seat, the movement deliberate and final, signaling the end of the conversation. Alfred watched him go, a deep pain etched in his expression, the kind that comes from years of unspoken worries and unresolved conflicts.

The distance between them felt wider than ever, a gulf that no words could bridge.

As Bruce disappeared into the elevator, Alfred turned back to the computer, his gaze lingering on the screens Bruce had been working on. His eyes scanned the thumbnails from the lens footage, pausing on one that showed the boy in the ninja costume with Maryam crouched in front of him, trying to comfort the little boy. His heart clenched at the sight; the tenderness in her gesture stood out sharply against the brutality surrounding them, a small but significant act of humanity in a city drowning in darkness.

His gaze then drifted to the printed cipher lying on the desk, the eerie symbols from the Halloween card glaring up at him. Above them, in Bruce's sharp handwriting, were the words :

"HE LIES STILL."

Alfred frowned, the weight of those words pressing down on him like a heavy shroud. He knew the dangers Bruce was courting, the dark path he was walking. 

But seeing those words, seeing the connection between the message and Bruce's relentless pursuit of justice, filled him with a deep sense of dread.

It was as if the very essence of Bruce's mission was encapsulated in that ominous phrase — a mission that seemed to be consuming him more each day.

The guardian let out a weary sigh and closed his eyes, the heaviness of the situation settling over him. The fear of what it might do to Bruce weighed heavily on his heart.

────୨ৎ────

      Maryam stirred awake, the faint sound of voices and the clattering of dishes drawing her from sleep.

The room she found herself in was familiar, though now it bore the quiet solitude of the morning. This was the place she once shared with her younger sisters Warda and Sherine during their teenage years — a space that had seen countless late-night conversations, whispered secrets and shared dreams. It wasn't vast, just big enough to comfortably house three people.

The furniture was modest, with a couple of beds positioned against the walls, each adorned with mismatched bedsheets that reflected the distinct personalities of the two sisters.

A shared wooden dresser stood between them, and a small desk, once a place for late-night study sessions or scribbled notes passed between them, sat against the wall, bearing the marks of years gone by.

The room had a comforting, lived-in feel, with soft, warm colors that reflected the coziness of their aunt's home. The sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting gentle rays that danced on the patterned rug. A few framed pictures adorned the walls — memories of family gatherings and happier times.

Maryam rubbed her eyes, still groggy, and reached for her phone on the nightstand. The screen flashed to life, showing the time: 10:36 a.m.

She sighed, stretching her arms above her head, and then rolled out of bed. Her face was slightly puffy from sleep, and her hair, which had been washed the night before, had settled into bouncy curls that framed her bare face.

Yawning, she reached for her red robe, slipping it on and tying it snugly at the waist. The soft fabric provided a small comfort against the coolness of the morning. Shielding her eyes from the sunlight that streamed through the window, she made her way to the door.

As she entered the hallway, the sounds of life became more pronounced, familiar voices mingled with the clinking of dishes, the occasional clatter of cutlery, and the unmistakable melody of Um Kulthum filling the apartment.

The closer she got to the kitchen, the stronger the scent of coffee became, warm and inviting. It was a smell that always made her feel at home, no matter what else was happening in the world outside.

In the kitchen, Aunt Meysa was on the phone, a foulard wrapped like a turban on her head and her usual apron draped over her jelaba. She was speaking loudly, gesturing with such vigor that it was as if the person on the other end could actually see her. The mix of broken English and Arabic in her voice was unmistakable.

"La, la, we take no more kids tonight! Already full!" She rolled her eyes with dramatic flair, as if the person she was speaking to was as thick-headed as the fog that sometimes rolled in from Gotham Bay.

At the small table, Aunt Jamila sat, the picture of calm amidst the morning chaos swirling around her. A cigarette rested between her fingers, and a steaming cup of coffee sat in front of her. Her black hair was pulled back, and her sharp yet warm brown eyes were focused on the newspaper spread open before her.

Maryam paused, blinking in surprise.

Aunt Mila never read the paper.

The last time she'd seen her aunt with a newspaper, it had been crumpled up to light the fireplace.

Strange, she thought.

"Well, well, look who finally decided to grace us with her presence," teased Moncef, her cousin, a few years younger and always up to something.

Maryam, unfazed by his usual teasing, just rolled her eyes and ignored him.

He was Aunt Meysa and Uncle Fawzi's only son, a boxer who ran his own gym in Gotham, splitting his time between training others and fighting in the ring himself. To the Halimi sisters, Moncef was more of an annoying younger brother than a cousin, even though he liked to act as if he were the oldest. He carried himself with the swagger of someone who had seen plenty of fights ( both inside and outside the ring )and wasn't shy about flaunting his "tough guy" persona.

Despite his bravado, Moncef had a heart of gold. He loved his family deeply, though he showed it through relentless teasing and acting like the self-appointed protector of the girls. His usual antics, like flexing his muscles and reminding everyone he was a boxer "just in case they forgot," were both endearing and infuriating. He had a way of inserting himself into conversations with a puffed-up chest, trying to play the role of protector, even though the truth was that the sisters had been looking out for him just as much throughout their lives.

Still, despite all the playful pestering and unnecessary macho behavior, the girls couldn't help but love him for it. Moncef might act tough, but underneath it all, he was just family, always ready to be there when they needed him, even if it meant annoying them along the way.

Rania, or Ranoosh as the family affectionately called her ( she hated it ), sat hunched over her laptop at the table, fully immersed in her work. Her dark blonde curls were pulled into a messy bun, held together haphazardly by a pencil, and an earpiece was tucked into one ear. She was typing furiously, her fingers moving with the kind of focus that left no room for distractions. Her eyes, sharp and intent, darted across the screen as she worked on Bella Reál's mayoral campaign, every keystroke a small battle in her war for progress.

It wasn't hard for anyone to guess that the same fire burned in both women, a relentless determination to succeed no matter the odds. It was the ambition that comes with being the daughters of immigrants — the deep-rooted desire to thrive, to carve out a place in a world that hadn't exactly been welcoming. There was an unspoken understanding between the sisters, an unyielding drive to prove themselves, not just to their family but to the society that often looked at them as outsiders.

It wasn't just Maryam and Rania either; this hunger for success ran through all the Halimi sisters, each of them battling their own way forward, pushing back against the quiet but ever-present expectations that they wouldn't make it as far as they had. They had heard it all before, the whispers of doubt, the stereotypes of immigrant daughters—too many kids, not enough money, different customs — and yet here they were, thriving in their own lanes, defying every narrow-minded expectation.

Rania's ambition, like her sisters', wasn't just about personal achievement. It was about proving something larger. Every late night spent working, every campaign strategy she crafted, every phone call she made; it was all part of a bigger mission to prove to herself and others that her family's sacrifices hadn't been in vain. The drive to succeed, to be more than just a number or a statistic, ran through their veins. They weren't just daughters of immigrants; they were daughters of resilience, determination, and ambition, shaped by the quiet but powerful legacy of their family struggles.

Maryam, excelling in medicine, and Rania, making waves in politics, reflected that shared ambition — each in her own way, but always with that same spark.

They had been raised with the same mindset: never stop, never settle, and always push for more.

And it showed.

At the far end of the table sat Warda, the second-born daughter, calm and collected as always. An engineer at Wayne Enterprises, currently on maternity leave, she had one hand resting gently on her rounded belly, as if the simple act of touch brought her reassurance.

Warda was the only married sister out of the five, wed to Ryan, a soft-spoken dentist whose warmth matched her own. She had a quiet strength about her, never one to raise her voice or demand attention, but her presence always had a grounding effect on the family. Even in the chaos of their lively household, Warda exuded a serene, unflappable energy. Her kindness was subtle but ever-present, showing itself in the way she listened without judgment or offered thoughtful advice only when asked.

Her dark, straightened hair framed her face neatly, brushing her shoulders as she leaned forward to spread marmalade on her toast, her movements measured and deliberate. Despite the exhaustion that often came with pregnancy, there was a glow to her that was hard to miss — a combination of maternal warmth and her natural elegance. Her skin, slightly tanned, had the soft flush of someone well cared for, and though her eyes were a little tired, they still held that gentle spark of humor, as if she could laugh at the world's absurdities with a knowing smile.

Warda wasn't one to complain, even when the pregnancy took its toll. She moved with the same grace she always had, adjusting to her changing body with quiet acceptance. "I'm fine," she'd often say, brushing off concerns with a patient smile. Though physically she looked as radiant as ever, there was an underlying tiredness that only those closest to her might notice—the slight sag in her shoulders after a long day, or the way her hands would absentmindedly rub her back when she thought no one was watching.

Yet, there was a joy in her that couldn't be masked by fatigue — a contentment in the life she was building, with Ryan by her side and a new chapter of motherhood unfolding before her. And even though she sat quietly, listening more than she spoke, you could always count on Warda to offer the kind of insights that made everyone stop and think.

When Moncef made his remark, she glanced up, a warm smile spreading across her lips. "Sbah al khir, sbah al noor ya Milou," she greeted, using one of Maryam's many nicknames.

Maryam, stretching again to shake off the morning sluggishness, walked over and planted a small kiss on Warda's head. Warda returned the affection with a tender smile before taking a bite of her tartine. Maryam moved to the counter, tugging her robe tighter around her waist as she poured herself a cup of coffee—milk and three sugars, her usual.

Meanwhile, Moncef, ever the annoying joker, threw a few playful jabs in her direction as she poured the coffee. Maryam, long accustomed to his antics, didn't even flinch.

Noticing the empty chair at the table, Maryam smirked to herself. The youngest sister, Alma — affectionately known as Lulu — was still in bed.

Typical, she thought. Lulu, the baby of the family, was probably the only one who could sleep through the chaos.

Maryam turned her attention to Aunt Mila, who hadn't lifted her eyes from the newspaper. "Since when do you read the news, hmm?" she asked, raising one of her perfectly sculpted eyebrows as she sipped from her mug.

Amina took a slow drag from her cigarette, her gaze still fixed on the paper. "Why wouldn't I? The mayor's dead. That's big news."

Maryam chuckled, turning back to the counter. She put her mug down and opened a drawer, rummaging through it for her favorite biscuits. "I've never seen you read the paper," she said, her tone light.

Finally finding the biscuits, she tore the pack open with her teeth and turned back towards the table. "Actually, I've only ever seen you light fires with it." She shot a sideways glance at Rania, who grinned without looking up from her laptop.

Amina sighed, finally folding the newspaper and meeting Maryam's gaze. "Well, times change, and so do people, ya benti," she said, the hint of a smirk tugging at her lips. "Even I, need to keep up with what's happening in this madhouse of a city."

Warda, still chewing her tartine, chimed in with a soft, teasing voice. "Oh, Maryam knows. She was at the crime scene last night."

Moncef's eyes widened in exaggerated shock as he quickly snatched the newspaper from Amina's hands, dodging her lazy attempt to pinch him back. "You were?" he exclaimed, flipping through the pages with unnecessary flair, searching for any hint of the night's events.

Maryam rolled her eyes playfully, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed. "Thanks for the reminder, Warda. Like I needed it," she quipped, tossing her sister an exaggerated glare.

Moncef, still clutching the newspaper, leaned forward with curiosity written all over his face. "So, what did you see? Come on, give me the juicy details," he pressed, his Eastern Gotham accent growing thicker in his excitement.

Maryam shot him a warning look, her patience already wearing thin. "Moncef, how many times do I have to say it? I can't tell you. Hippocratic oath? Confidentiality? Does that not ring any bells in your little brain?" She widened her eyes for emphasis, leaning slightly closer. "And besides, Sherine already blew up my phone this morning, demanding details for her article, and I still said la."

Undeterred, Moncef crumpled the newspaper and playfully tossed it at her. But Maryam, quick as always, dodged the throw effortlessly. "Nice try," she said, smirking at him before turning away, shaking her head as if managing Moncef's antics was a full-time job in itself. In response, he shot her the finger, annoyance flickering across his face as he snatched a piece of bread and took a large bite, pretending to sulk while still keeping an eye on her.

Meysa, still on the phone, caught the exchange and snapped at her son, "Moncef, stop bothering your cousin! Go find something else to do."

Moncef raised his hands in mock surrender, backing away with a smirk. "Fine, fine. Just trying to get some interesting gossip from the doctor," he teased, his grin widening as he gave Maryam a playful glance.

Maryam rolled her eyes, sticking her tongue out at him in mock defiance. But before she could say anything, Moncef reached over and gently tugged on one of her curls. "Ow, Moncef!" she snapped, glaring at him. Her hand shot out, and she punched him hard in the shoulder. He winced, rubbing the spot where her fist landed. "Alright, alright! Geez."

"You guys are so annoying, I swear," Rania said from across the room, her voice laced with exasperation. She didn't even look up from her laptop, fingers flying across the keys, typing as if her life depended on it ( which, in a way ), it did, considering her workload for Bella Reál's campaign. The quick click-clack of her typing was the only sound breaking the tension between the siblings.

"So, what does everyone want for dinner?" Meysa asked, finally hanging up the phone. "I'm thinking Mloukhiah."

Moncef chimed in, "I don't know, Baba's off to work at the bay until tonight, even though I told him not to go. The weather's fucking awful."

Meysa scoffed. "Your father is as stubborn as a mule. Out there, getting drenched while Gotham spirals into chaos. What's next? A gang of criminals taking over Wayne Enterprises?"

Maryam chuckled, her mind still partially occupied with the crime scene. "It's Gotham, Meysa. Anything's possible."

Rania finally looked up from her laptop, a serious expression etched on her face. "The conspiracy theories are spiraling out of control. This is going to be a nightmare for Bella's campaign. Every scandal just adds more fuel to the fire."

Maryam leaned back against the counter, a smirk spreading across her face. "Welcome to my world, Rania. Looks like you're becoming Maryam 2.0."

Rania narrowed her eyes at her sister, but a smile tugged at her lips. "Oh, please. I'm still young. Don't age me prematurely."

"Too late," Maryam shot back, laughing. "You're already showing signs of stress. Look at those bags under your eyes." She gestured dramatically to Rania's face, pretending to be a concerned sister.

Rania leaned in closer, her smirk growing. "You're one to talk. Your workaholic tendencies could turn anyone into an early retiree."

"Maybe," Maryam conceded with a playful grin, "but at least I'm not glued to a laptop 24/7."

"Not glued, just constantly engaged," Rania retorted with a cheeky smile, typing furiously as if her life depended on it.

Just then, Moncef interjected with a raised eyebrow, "Engaged? More like stuck in a never-ending episode of 'Rania vs. Reality.'"

"Better than 'Moncef's Misguided Attempts at Being Useful,'" she shot back, rolling her eyes.

Warda, ever the peacemaker, chimed in with a gentle smile. "Let's not turn this into a competition over who's the bigger workaholic. We all have our issues." She glanced down at her round belly and stroked it lovingly. "Some of us just have different priorities."

Meysa, always the doting aunt, leaned over with a concerned look. "Eat, Warda. You're not eating enough for a pregnant woman. I don't want my grandchild to be hungry."

Warda rolled her eyes playfully, quipping back, "I'm fine, Aunt Meysa. Don't worry, my husband is feeding me enough. I've got it covered." She patted her belly, a teasing smile on her lips.

Just then, Alma, the youngest Halimi sister—affectionately nicknamed Lulu—stumbled into the kitchen, her auburn, almost red hair a wild mess of curls, and her eyes half-closed, as if she'd just been dragged from a deep sleep. "What's going on? Why's everyone so loud?" she mumbled, rubbing her eyes as if trying to wake up.

Warda greeted Lulu with a warm smile, her face brightening. "Welcome to the land of the living, Lulu," she said, her voice dripping with affection.

Lulu took the coffee cup gratefully and sat down at the table. "I'm still half-asleep. What's everyone talking about?"

"The mayor's dead," Jamila said numbly and matter-of-factly, lighting another cigarette with a steady hand, the flicker of the flame reflecting in her sharp brown eyes.

Lulu's eyes widened in shock, nearly spilling her coffee. "Wait, what? When did that happen?"

"Last night," Maryam replied, watching her sister's reaction with a concerned look. "It's all over the news."

Rania snorted and returned to her laptop. "Trust me, you're not missing much. Just more chaos."

Aunt Jamila exhaled a stream of smoke, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Chaos or not, this city's going to hell. We've got to be careful. All of us."

Warda nodded, her hand resting on her belly as she considered Amina's words. "Yeah, we do. But we've survived worse, right?"

The room fell into a contemplative silence.

They had indeed survived worse.

Breaking the silence, Maryam asked Lulu, trying to change the subject. "Where were you, anyway?"

Lulu groaned, leaning back in her chair. "Revising my bar exam." She avoided eye contact with Maryam, her unease palpable.

"Really?" Maryam asked suspiciously, crossing her arms and frowning.

"Yep." At this point, everyone stopped what they were doing and focused on Lulu, sensing the tension in the air.

With all eyes on her, Lulu finally exploded. "Okay, fine! I did go to revise, but then I went on a date with a guy!"

Jamila, crushing her cigarette in the ashtray, said, "See? Wasn't that hard."

"What guy?" Moncef asked, his tone protective.

"Yeah, well, I'm not going to tell you his name. I'm not even sure if it's serious," Lulu said, trying to deflect.

"Well, is he hot at least?" Rania asked with a mischievous grin.

"What do you mean 'hot'?" asked Aunt Meysa, looking puzzled. "Is he sick or something?"

"No, Meysa," Aunt Jamila clarified, "she's asking if the boy is handsome."

Maryam said nothing, but her gaze fixed on her sister, already forming suspicions about who the new guy might be. She hoped to god it wasn't who she had in mind.

"Yaani, oh my god, it's my life. I'm 26! Leave me alone!" Alma snapped suddenly, throwing her spoon onto the table and storming off to the bathroom.

Ali raised his arms in mock surrender. "I have to go open the ring anyway. Salaam!" He left the kitchen, grabbing his energy drink on the way.

Seizing the opportunity to escape, Rania pushed back her chair, shutting her laptop with a decisive click. "Yeah, me too. I'm heading to the office. The team needs me." She grabbed her bag and called after Moncef, "Can you please drive me?!"

"Be careful," Warda called out, but the only response was the door slamming shut.

Maryam emptied her coffee into the sink, quickly washed her cup, and left the kitchen.

Aunt Jamila called after her, "Don't make her even more mad!"

"Yeah, yeah," Maryam responded with a wave, already heading out the door.

────୨ৎ────

       Maryam leaned against the bathroom doorframe, crossing her arms and giving her sister a stern look as Lulu brushed her teeth. "Please tell me it's not who I think it is."

Lulu leaned over to spit out the toothpaste, avoiding Maryam's gaze. "Ya Allah, it is," Maryam muttered, beginning to pace anxiously. Her fingers pressed against her temples. "Vittorio Falcone. Of all people—"

Alma quickly placed her hand over Maryam's mouth, her eyes wide with alarm. "Keep your fucking voice down!"

Maryam lowered her hands, her frustration palpable. "Can you blame me, Alma?" she said, using her full name to emphasize her annoyance. "You promised me you wouldn't talk to him—"

"He kept insisting, Maryam!" Lulu cut in, placing her hands on the counter. "Sending me flowers, gifts, waiting outside uni and work—"

"And I warned you!" Maryam's voice rose. "I said you'd be tempted by him and his charms! Ever since that night at the restaurant, and the way he looked at you while you worked! He knows what he's doing; he's playing you—"

"Maryam, he's not that bad when you get to know him—"

"He's part of the fucking mafia, be for real right now!" Maryam exclaimed, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "And not just any member—he's the oldest son of Carmine Falcone!" She lowered her voice further. "The literal heir to the Roman throne."

Alma shook her head, dismissing Maryam's concerns. "You're being dramatic."

"Lulu," Maryam said, taking her sister's shoulders, "please don't be fooled by them. I know them, I've worked near them. They're dangerous."

"I talked with him," Alma said, though Maryam continued to shake her head. "We're just friends. He says he's going to make everything legitimate when he takes the reins, which he already has and has started doing some changes!" she explained, her tone pleading.

"Doesn't matter," Maryam said firmly. "He's still dangerous. And you're not even Italian. Why would he want to go out with you? It's just so strange."

"I'm not an idiot," Alma said suddenly, her tone serious. "I know who he is, but all I ask is for you to trust me on this." She absentmindedly played with a strand of her red hair. "We're not together; if anything, I just went on that date with him so he'd stop pestering me. It's nothing serious, really."

"Look, I know he's handsome and charming or whatever, but it's not like in the movies. Please—" Maryam started, but Alma cut her off.

"I know what I'm doing, Mar. I'm not a baby anymore, and you know that." Alma began to gently push Maryam out of the bathroom. "Don't worry about me. Really." With that, she pushed the door shut and locked it, leaving Maryam outside, bewildered and even more worried.

She leaned against the wall, her shoulders slumped as she tried to steady her breathing.

Maryam felt a pang of helplessness—she had always been the protector, the one who stepped in when things went wrong. But here, with Alma's stubborn defiance, she was powerless.

The thought of Vittorio Falcone, the heir to one of Gotham's most feared crime families, being involved with her sister was unsettling.

Her pulse quickened as she imagined the worst-case scenarios: Alma being used, manipulated, or worse. The danger was all too real, and Maryam's protective instincts flared up with a fierce intensity. She remembered her own experiences with the criminal underworld, the threats and violence she had witnessed, that she had endured.

It was a world that left scars—both physical and emotional—and she couldn't bear the thought of her sister being dragged into it.

Maryam's fingers gripped the edge of the door poignet, her knuckles white with tension. She fought to push down the rising wave of anger and fear that threatened to overwhelm her. She understood Alma's need for independence and the desire to make her own choices, but the stakes were too high.

Maryam had always been the voice of caution, and she couldn't shake the feeling that this time, she had failed.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Alma's footsteps retreating on the other side of the door. Maryam took a deep breath, trying to compose herself. The cacophony of the house—the clinking of dishes, the distant chatter—seemed to amplify her sense of isolation. Her family was moving on with their day, while she remained stuck in this moment of worry and frustration.

Maryam's heart ached with the weight of her responsibility. She knew she had to find a way to protect Alma without pushing her further away. But for now, she felt powerless, her attempts to safeguard her sister thwarted by the very person she was trying to protect.

With a sigh, Maryam pushed away from the wall and decided to leave the bathroom door.

She needed to refocus, to address the rest of her day, and maybe — just maybe — find another way to keep her sister safe without losing her.

Maryam trudged back into the kitchen, her mood heavy with the weight of the earlier confrontation.

Warda was slowly rising from her chair, preparing to leave. "I have to go back to the house. I promised Ryan we'd go shopping for the baby. He took the day off just for me," she said, leaning in to kiss her aunts goodbye.

She then turned to Maryam with a knowing look. "Don't be too hard on her," she advised softly before grabbing her coat and leaving, her floral perfume lingering in the air.

Aunt Jamila, still sifting through the pile of envelopes, glanced up. "Looks like the Mayor's wife invited us to the funeral," she said, holding up a sleek black envelope.

"Oh yes!" Meysa exclaimed, recalling the phone call. "She phoned me this morning and said she wanted us to come."

Maryam nodded, tying her hair up with a practiced motion, her mind still churning from the argument with Alma. "I'll be here," she said, her tone clipped. "But I've got work. I'm heading back to my apartment, and then I'm off to meet Gordon for lunch."

Aunt Mila gave her a once-over, her keen eyes noticing the tension in Maryam's posture. "Don't work yourself up too much," she advised, her voice carrying a mix of concern and firmness.

"Don't worry," Maryam replied, trying to sound reassuring.

But her mind was elsewhere, already dwelling on the tasks ahead.

With that, she turned and made her way to the room where she had slept, intending to change into something more suitable for the day's events.

────୨ৎ────

After arriving at her apartment just outside the Narrows, Maryam quickly changed out of the clothes she had worn the previous day, opting for something more suitable. She selected a sharp outfit, something that matched her professional demeanor and the gravity of her work.

Heading to the bathroom, she swiftly straightened her hair with an iron, though she didn't leave it down. Instead, she went for her usual French chignon updo, securing it neatly at the nape of her neck. With practiced ease, she reached for her makeup bag and began her routine: a touch of concealer to brighten her eyes, bronzer to accentuate her tan skin, a quick brush over her eyebrows, a flick of mascara on her lashes, a hint of blush, and finally, her signature red lipstick, which added a bold pop of color to her plump lips.

A spritz of her usual oud perfume added the final touch as she glanced at the time on her phone. Satisfied with her appearance, she slipped on her black high-heeled boots, her long black coat that she secured with the ceinture around her waist, grabbed the dossier she had prepared—complete with the photos and notes from the crime scene—along with her black bag. After ensuring her keys, phone, and wallet were inside, she opened the door of her apartment and stepped out of her apartment.

As Maryam stepped out into the hallway, the familiar sounds of her building greeted her. The muffled cry of a baby echoed from one of the nearby apartments, and somewhere down the corridor, a couple's argument punctuated the otherwise quiet morning.

She sighed, tightening her grip on her bag. This was Gotham —a city where peace was always fleeting.

With a quick glance back to ensure her door was securely locked, he began her walk towards the stairwell. The weight of the dossier in her hand was a reminder of the seriousness of her work, pulling her thoughts back to the task at hand.

The voices behind her faded as she descended the stairs, the familiar creaks and groans of the old building, along with the click of her high heels, accompanied her steps.

Despite the less-than-ideal living conditions and the constant noise, this place had become a part of her, just like Gotham itself. She thought about her aunts' constant urging to leave the city, to find a better life somewhere like Metropolis or Central City.

They couldn't understand why she chose to stay, why she remained in a city that seemed to chew people up and spit them out.

But Maryam knew.

Gotham was in her blood. It was a city that had shaped her, toughened her, and no matter how dark it got, she couldn't bring herself to leave. She often joked that if she worked anywhere else, she'd probably die of boredom.

Here, every day was a new challenge, a new puzzle to solve, and as much as the chaos drained her, it also fueled her.

Her salary might not reflect the work she put in—the long hours, the emotional toll—but money wasn't what drove her. It was the people, the ones who needed her, and the small victories that kept her going.

Each time she uncovered the truth behind a death or brought a criminal one step closer to justice, she felt a sense of purpose that was worth more than any paycheck.

As she reached the ground floor and pushed open the heavy door leading outside, the cold air hit her face, sharp and bracing. She squared her shoulders, letting the door swing shut behind her as she made her way to the subway.

────୨ৎ────

     The diner was a relic from a bygone era, its faded charm unmistakable despite the wear and tear.

The once-vibrant red booths had lost their luster, now marred by cracks and scuffs. The linoleum floor, a worn pattern of black and white squares, squeaked with every step. Old-fashioned pendant lights cast a soft, yellowish glow over the space, creating an ambiance that was both cozy and antiquated.

The walls were adorned with vintage photographs and a few outdated advertisements, giving the place an air of nostalgia. A jukebox in the corner remained dormant, its music silenced by the passing years.

Inside, a handful of patrons sat scattered across the booths and tables, some reading newspapers, others engaged in quiet conversations. The air was filled with the aroma of coffee and the faint scent of cleaning products, a mix that added to the diner's homey but slightly worn-out atmosphere.

Maryam spotted Gordon seated in a booth near the window, absently stirring a coffee. He looked up as she approached, a warm smile spreading across his face.

"Maryam, right on time," he greeted, standing up to kiss her cheek. "I've already ordered your usual — Diabolo mint."

Maryam returned his smile and slid into the booth across from him, her black high-heeled boots clicking on the floor as she settled in.

"Thanks, Jim. My aunt sent over some cakes for Barbara," she said, handing him a small box. "She thought Barbara might enjoy them."

Gordon's smile widened as he accepted the box. "I'm sure she will. She's always been a fan of your aunt's baking."

Maryam nodded, pulling out the dossier from her bag and placing it on the table, her expression serious.

"I've compiled everything from the crime scene—photos, notes, and the autopsy details," she said. "There's a lot to go through, but I've highlighted the key points."

She leaned in slightly, her voice steady. "The pattern suggests a personal motive. I'm leaning towards someone with a clear objective, possibly targeting specific individuals."

Gordon listened intently, his brow furrowed in thought. "And you think this might be just the beginning?"

Maryam's gaze was unwavering. "Yes, I'm afraid so. The killer seems to have a goal in mind, and if my analysis is correct, this could be part of a larger plan."

Gordon nodded thoughtfully. "Now that you're suggesting it, I've been hearing some unsettling whispers about potential future targets."

He took a sip of his coffee, the weight of the situation evident in his tone. "Anything else?"

Maryam sighed, leaning back in her seat. "Yes, my aunts and I were invited to the mayor's funeral. I think it's important to be there, considering everything."

As she spoke, the TV mounted on the diner's wall flashed news coverage of the murder, catching both their attention for a brief moment.

Gordon glanced at the screen, then back at Maryam. "It seems the night of the murder is still making headlines."

Maryam huffed, a hint of frustration in her voice. "Well, the Mayor's dead—it's kind of a big thing." She took a sip of her Diabolo mint before adding, "It's all over social media. My sister Rania, you know her—dark blonde hair," she gestured to her own hair, "she works comms and public affairs for Bella Real's campaign."

Gordon hummed in acknowledgment. "Yeah, I remember."

"Well, it's been hell since yesterday night," Maryam said, her tone weary.

Gordon nodded, taking another sip of his coffee. "Man, tell me about it. The whole city's on edge."

They shared a moment of silence, the gravity of the situation settling in. The TV continued its coverage, but their focus remained on the task ahead.

"Anyways, anything new from the Bat about the case?" Maryam asked, a note of hope in her voice as she tried to pry any information from Gordon.

Gordon chuckled softly, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Well, you certainly made quite an impression on him, that's for sure—"

Maryam cut him off, blushing slightly. "Don't be ridiculous."

Gordon shrugged, a teasing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he adjusted his glasses. "But seriously, no, I haven't heard anything from him since last night."

Maryam mumbled under her breath, "Probably rotting in his cave."

Before Gordon could respond, his phone rang, the screen displaying an unknown number. He answered it with a hint of skepticism, holding the phone to his ear as he listened intently.

Maryam took a sip of her Diabolo mint, waiting patiently for the call to end.

After a few minutes, Gordon hung up and looked at Maryam, a hint of intrigue in his expression. "That was him."

Maryam's eyes widened slightly in surprise. "Oh, really?"

Gordon nodded. "Yeah. I've gotta go, but I'll make sure to keep you informed."

"Of course, don't hesitate to call," Maryam replied, watching as he stood up and placed some money on the table.

Gordon offered her a nod. "Take care, Maryam. I'll see you around."

She watched him leave the diner, heading toward his car, the weight of the situation lingering in the air as she finished her drink.

The Halimi Family
Parents :
• Idris Halimi (the father, deceased)
• Lejla Petrovich (the mother, deceased)

The sisters :
• Maryam Halimi (the oldest) — 30, doctor, medical examiner.
• Warda Halimi (second born) — 29, Engineer at Wayne Enterprises.
• Sherine Halimi (third born) — 28, Journalist
• Rania Halimi (fourth) — 27,  Comms and public affairs for Bella Real Campaign.
• Alma Halimi (youngest) — 26, Law student

Paternal aunts :
• Meysa (Halimi) Saeed
• Jamila Halimi, nurse

Paternal Uncle : 
• Fawzi Saeed (husband of Meysa), fisherman

Paternal Cousins :
• Moncef Saeed (son of Amir and Meysa), owner of a Boxing Ring in Gotham.