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 shitty 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 words.

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 ... horrible." She sigh. "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 beat.

"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, khalti. 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, half-joking.

Maryam chuckled, 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 burden 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?" The butler'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 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 released a long, weary breath and let his eyes drift shut, the full gravity of the moment closing in around him like an approaching storm. The dread of how this might break Bruce gnawed at the edges of 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 lightweight scarf 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, French 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.

Aunt Jamila sat at the small table, calm as ever while the morning chaos buzzed around her. A cigarette dangled between her fingers, and a steaming cup of coffee sat nearby. Her black hair, already threaded with some grey, was pulled back, and her sharp, warm brown eyes were focused on the open newspaper in front of 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.

But 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.

Anyone could tell that Rania and Maryam shared the same fire. Both women had 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 this kind of 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 that 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. And 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 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 Mimi," 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. Her sister returned the affection with a tender smile before taking a bite from her piece of bread.

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 ( always the annoying joker ) threw a few playful jabs her way, making exaggerated punching sounds with his mouth as she poured her coffee. The doctor, used to his antics by now, didn't even blink.

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.

Alma, 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.

Mila 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."

The medical examiner chuckled, turning back to the counter. She put her mug down and opened a drawer, rummaging through it for her favorite biscuits.

"It's just that... I've never really seen you read the paper," she said, 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.

Aunt Jamila 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 jam-slathered bread, chimed in with a soft, teasing tone. "Oh, Maryam knows. She was at the crime scene last night."

Moncef's eyes went wide in over-the-top shock as he snatched the newspaper from Amina's hands, easily dodging her half-hearted attempt to pinch him.

"You were?" he said, tone full of fake drama, flipping through the pages with way too much flair, hunting for any mention 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 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 family.

"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 fucking nightmare for Bella's campaign. Every scandal just adds more fuel to the fire. I'm going insane."

The doctor 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 Alma, 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, tone protective.

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

"Well, is he at least hot?" 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 just hoped to god it wasn't who she had in mind.

"Yaani, oh my god, it's my life. I'm 25! Leave me alone!" Alma snapped suddenly, throwing her spoon onto the table and storming off to the bathroom.

Moncef raised his arms in mock surrender.

"I've got to open the ring anyway. Salaam! " Moncef called, grabbing his energy drink as he headed out.

Rania didn't waste a second either. She shut her laptop with a crisp click and pushed back her chair.

"Same. I'm off to the office — they're probably already lost without me." She grabbed her bag and called after Moncef, "Can you give me a ride?"

"Be careful!" Warda called, but the only answer was the front door slamming behind them.

Maryam poured the rest of her coffee into the sink, rinsed her cup quickly, and turned to leave.

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

Maryam waved a hand without looking back. "Yeah, yeah," she muttered, already gone.

────୨ৎ────

The medical examiner leaned against the bathroom doorframe, arms crossed, watching her sister brush her teeth with a pointed look.

"Please tell me it's not who I think it is."

Alma spit into the sink, avoiding eye contact.

Maryam's eyes narrowed. "Ya Allah... it is."

She began pacing, pressing her fingers to her temples. "Vittorio Falcone. Seriously? Of all people — "

Alma slapped a hand over her sister's mouth, eyes wide. "Keep your fucking voice down!"

Maryam stepped back, arms tense at her sides.

"Can you blame me?" she snapped, "you promised me you'd cut him off."

"He wouldn't back off!" Alma hissed. "He kept sending flowers, showing up at school, at work —"

"And I warned you!" Maryam's voice rose again, pointing a finger at her, barely restrained. "I told you not to fall for that act. Ever since that dinner at the restaurant — he was watching you the whole night. He knows exactly what he's doing."

"He's not that bad once you actually talk to him — "

"Alma, he's mafia." Maryam's tone dropped to a harsh whisper. "Not just some low-level guy. He's Carmine Falcone's eldest son. The literal heir to the Roman throne. That's not a fucking joke."

Lulu rolled her eyes. "You're overreacting."

"No, I'm not," Maryam said, stepping forward. "Alma, I've seen what they do, okay? I've worked near them. These people don't live in the same world we do. They don't play by rules. You have no idea what you're getting into."

"We're just friends," Alma said, more defensively now. "He said he's trying to make things legit. That he's cleaning things up — he's already started."

Maryam stared at her. "That doesn't make him safe. And let's be real — why you? You're not Italian, you don't come from his world. What's his angle?"

Alma's expression turned cold. "I'm not an idiot," she said quietly. "I know who he is. But you don't get to decide what's real for me."

She looked down, playing with a strand of her auburn hair. "It's not even serious. I went on one date just to shut him up."

Maryam softened slightly. "I get it. He's charming. He's got that whole 'dark and dangerous' thing going. But this isn't some romantic thriller, Lulu. It never ends well."

"I know what I'm doing, Mar." Alma's tone was steady now. "I'm not a kid anymore."

She nudged her sister out of the doorway gently. "Don't worry about me."

Then she closed the bathroom door and locked it.

Maryam stood still, staring at the wood of the bathroom door as though she could see through it.

Her shoulders slumped.

Her hands, once clenched, now dangled at her sides, useless.

She leaned her back against the hallway wall and closed her eyes for a moment, letting her head fall gently against the plaster. A quiet dread settled into her bones — tight, hot, and breathless.

She had always been the protector. It had never been up for debate. Maryam was the eldest, the one who cleaned up messes, who answered calls at midnight, who put herself between danger and her sisters before they even knew what was coming.

But this? This silence behind the door? This stubbornness ?

She was powerless here.

And he — Vittorio Falcone — was the kind of man you didn't just talk your way out of. Not when you were innocent. Not when you had a soft heart and a romantic soul like Alma.

The heir to the Falcone empire. Gotham's crown prince of crime. He wasn't some charming foreign exchange student or a brooding philosophy major. He was raised in blood and politics.

Her pulse began to climb again as her mind played out the possibilities. Alma, being manipulated. Alma, used as leverage. Alma, left bleeding in an alley just because she became inconvenient.

Maryam could still remember the burden of her knives in her hand, the recoil against her palm, the smell of metal and blood. The underworld didn't let go of people, no, it consumed them.

And Alma, for all her cleverness, still believed in people far too easily.

Maryam's fingers curled tightly around the bathroom doorknob, white-knuckled. Her breath came faster now, but she forced herself to let go. To not knock. To not scream.

Because the truth was — Alma wouldn't listen. Not right now. Not when her heart had already decided to make room for danger.

Behind the door, she could hear the faint sound of water running. Maryam leaned back again and stared at the ceiling, trying to stop the heat behind her eyes from turning into tears. But it wasn't sadness that overwhelmed her, it was fear. The kind that started in the stomach and curled inward, hollowing you out.

She pushed herself off the wall and exhaled sharply, shoulders heavy. This wasn't over. She knew it. She just didn't know how to fix it withoutdriving Alma straight into Vito's arms.

Back in the kitchen, the hum of domestic life continued without her.

Warda was brushing crumbs off her skirt, one hand on her belly as she adjusted her coat. "I've got to head back," she said casually. "Ryan took the day off so we could go shopping for the baby. He's too excited — it's ridiculous."

She leaned in to kiss Aunt Jamila on the cheek, then paused near Maryam.

She didn't ask what had happened, Warda didn't need to. She simply murmured, "Don't be too hard on her, okay?" A soft, knowing glance. "You're not her jailor."

Maryam didn't answer. Not because she disagreed, but because she couldn't disagree.

Warda left with a breezy "Bye, habibti!" and the scent of her floral perfume hanging in her wake.

At the table, Aunt Jamila was flipping through a neat pile of envelopes in her lap. "Look at this," she said, holding up a black envelope with delicate gold trimming. "The mayor's wife invited us to the funeral."

"Oh!" Meysa piped up from the kitchen sink. "She called me this morning, said she insisted we be there. Very sweet."

Maryam only nodded, going through the motions. She reached up and tied her hair back with a practiced flick of the wrist, her gestures precise, automatic.

"I'll be there," she said. "But I've got to head home first. Shower, change. Lunch with Gordon after."

Aunt Jamila studied her for a moment, her eyes sharp under her thick glasses. "You're wound up too tight," she said. "You're going to snap if you keep pushing like this."

"I'm fine," Maryam replied quickly, her voice clipped but polite.

She turned away before her aunt could press further. Her mind was already elsewhere, tugged in too many directions. She couldn't afford to break—not today.

She made her way toward the guest room, her movements purposeful now. She had to get out of the house. She had to move.

Because the worst part wasn't that Alma was defying her.

It was that Maryam had seen this story before.

And the ending was never happy.

────୨ৎ────

After arriving at her apartment just outside the Narrows, Maryam didn't waste time. She peeled off yesterday's clothes and tossed them into the laundry bin, her movements brisk and efficient.

The air in the small space still held the remnants of her oud perfume from the night before, mingling with the distant hum of city life beyond her windows.

She stepped into her bedroom and selected an outfit with the same care a soldier might choose armor; sharp, precise, commanding. Dark trousers, a tailored blouse, and her long black coat with the belted waist. Timeless and Elegant.

In the bathroom, she plugged in her straightening iron and set to work on her thick, dark hair. The smell of hot ceramic filled the room as she worked quickly, fingers deft. She didn't leave it loose — never did. Instead, she gathered it into a sleek French chignon at the nape of her neck, every strand pinned perfectly in place.

Her makeup routine was second nature: a touch of concealer under her eyes, bronzer to warm her olive skin, a quick brush through her brows, a precise flick of mascara. Blush on her cheekbones, then the final touch : her signature red lipstick.

Bold. Unapologetic. A warning, as much as a flourish.

She dabbed a few drops of her Jasmin oud perfume at her pulse points, the scent clunging to her skin like memory.

A glance at her phone. Time was ticking. She slipped into her high-heeled boots, shrugged on her coat, and grabbed the file she'd spent the night organizing. Inside: crime scene photos, field notes, autopsy observations, everything Gordon would need.

She checked her bag. Wallet. Keys. Phone. Backup drive. All in place.

With a final look at her apartment ( modest, worn but hers ) she opened the door and stepped into the dim hallway.

The familiar sounds of her building greeted her like old neighbors. A baby's wail echoed faintly from a few doors down. A muffled argument flared and then faded between an unseen couple. Somewhere above, a dog barked once. The walls held it all.

Maryam sighed and adjusted the strap of her bag over her shoulder.

Gotham.

This city never changed. Peace came in flickers... always fragile, always temporary.

She locked her door and checked it twice before heading for the stairwell. The corridor smelled faintly of detergent and rust, the walls yellowed with time. Her boots clicked with each step, the dossier tucked beneath her arm like a weapon. The building groaned with her descent, old wood creaking underfoot, metal railings chilled from the draft that lived in the stairwell year-round.

Despite it all—the peeling paint, the noise, the ever-present sense of instability — this place was home.

Her aunts never stopped pushing her to leave.

"Go to Metropolis," they'd said. "Start fresh."

But they didn't understand.

Gotham was her. Its darkness didn't scare her; it mirrored her. It reminded her of what she'd survived. What she still fought.

She often joked that if she worked anywhere else, she'd die of boredom. But deep down, she meant it. Every day here was a battle. A new crime, a new injustice. Gotham kept her sharp. Kept her alive.

No, the job didn't pay what it should. And yes, the city ground people down. But her reward wasn't money. It was purpose.

Each truth she uncovered, each name she cleared or convicted, was a small defiance against the rot of the city. A small light in the fog.

She reached the ground floor and shoved the door open. The cold hit her at once — wet and raw, slicing through her coat and biting her cheeks. She squared her shoulders and stepped out into it.

The subway station was a block away, just past the crumbling bodega and the alley that always smelled like burnt oil.

Maryam pulled her coat tighter and started walking.

There was work to do.

────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 dulled with time, their vinyl cushions now etched with scuffs and hairline cracks. The linoleum floor, patterned in black and white squares, squeaked with every footstep, worn smooth by decades of late-night patrons and overworked waitresses. Old-fashioned pendant lights hung low from the ceiling, their amber glow casting soft shadows that made the space feel more intimate than cramped, like time itself had slowed down inside.

The walls were dressed in vintage black-and-white photographs: Gotham's skyline before the high-rises, smiling waitresses in paper hats, dusty ads for ten-cent sodas. A jukebox stood neglected in the corner, its chrome dulled and silent, a relic of a more hopeful past.

A handful of regulars were scattered across the booths and bar stools — an old man reading the paper, a mother wiping her toddler's sticky hands, two sanitation workers chatting in murmurs over steaming mugs. The smell of coffee hung in the air, mingled with faint traces of bleach and fried eggs.

Maryam stepped inside, her coat still dusted with cold air, eyes scanning the room until they found Gordon seated by the window. He was stirring his coffee with slow, thoughtful motions, gaze distant until he looked up and saw her.

"Maryam, right on time," he greeted warmly, rising to kiss her cheek in that fatherly way of his. "Already ordered your usual — Diabolo mint."

She gave him a small smile as she slid into the booth across from him. Her black high-heeled boots clicked lightly on the tile before she settled in, posture composed despite the tension humming beneath her skin.

"Thanks, Jim. My aunt sent over some pastries for Barbara," she said, passing him a small box wrapped in twine. "She thought they might lift her spirits."

Gordon's face softened as he accepted it. "They will. Babs still remembers the fig ones from last winter — asks about them more than she asks about me."

Maryam chuckled faintly, then reached into her bag and drew out the dossier. The playful warmth between them faded quickly as she placed it on the table, her expression tightening.

"I've compiled everything from the scene. Photos. Autopsy notes. My own analysis. It's not pretty." She paused, tone lowering. "But it's deliberate. The cuts were too clean. The staging? Intentional."

Gordon leaned in, eyes narrowing as he flipped open the first page.

"You think the killer's sending a message?"

Maryam nodded, fingers threading together tightly on the table. "Not just a message. A campaign. There's escalation in the timeline. Whoever did this has a purpose—and I think they've only just begun."

Gordon frowned. "There are whispers. Not solid intel yet, but I've been hearing names—possible future targets."

Maryam's jaw clenched slightly. "Then we need to move fast."

The clatter of a dropped fork nearby drew their attention briefly. Maryam glanced at the muted TV hanging above the counter just in time to catch a breaking-news chyron flash across the screen:

MAYOR STILL DEAD — POLICE REMAIN TIGHT-LIPPED.

A grainy security image showed the mayor's final public appearance, grainy and half-obscured by flashbulbs.

"Still making headlines," Gordon muttered.

Maryam exhaled slowly. "Well, he was the Mayor. My sister Rania's been swamped. She's doing PR for Bella Real's campaign — you remember her? Blonde, talks fast, always fixing things that can't be fixed."

"I remember. Good head on her shoulders."

"She's had three press calls and two media firestorms since sunrise. It's a mess."

Gordon grunted sympathetically and took another sip of his coffee. "The city's on edge. You can feel it — everyone waiting for the next explosion."

For a few moments, they sat in silence, the heaviness of it all hovering between them like a third presence.

Maryam tilted her head slightly. "Any updates from the Bat?"

A flicker of amusement passed across Gordon's face.

She rolled her eyes. "What?"

He smirked. "Let's just say you left an impression."

She gave him a warning look. "Jim..."

"Fine, fine," he said, lifting his hands in surrender. "But no, I haven't heard anything since last night. He's doing his brooding-in-the-shadows thing."

Maryam took a long sip of her Diabolo mint and muttered, "Probably rotting in his cave."

Before Gordon could answer, his phone rang. The screen lit up with an unknown number. He hesitated, then answered with a wary, "Gordon."

Maryam sat back quietly, watching him as he listened. His face shifted subtly — brows raised, eyes sharp with attention. He didn't speak much, just nodded, his expression turning grim by the second.

Finally, he ended the call and slid the phone back into his coat pocket.

"That was him," he said simply.

Maryam blinked. "Seriously?"

He nodded, standing and placing some cash on the table. "He wants to meet. Something's come up."

Her eyes followed him as he reached for his coat. "You'll keep me in the loop?"

"You're already in the loop," he said, tapping the dossier. "And this — this'll help more than you know."

She watched him go, the door swinging shut behind him with a quiet chime. The winter air rushed in briefly, then vanished as the latch clicked back into place.

Left alone in the booth, Maryam finished the last of her drink, eyes lingering on the TV screen as muted images of chaos replayed in a loop. Outside, Gotham churned forward; bleeding, bristling, waiting.

There was no rest here.

But Maryam wasn't looking for rest.

She was looking for answers.

The Halimi Family
Parents :
• Idris Ben 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 and archaeologist. 
• Rania Halimi (fourth) — 27, Comms and public affairs for Bella Real Campaign.
• Alma Halimi (youngest) — 25, Law student.

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

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

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