تتسلل بهدوء، كأنها لا تنتمي لهذا العالم، لكنها في كل مكان
she slips by quietly, as if it doesn't belong to this world, yet she's everywhere

                         LIKE A SPECTER SUMMONED FROM THE DEPTHS, the Wraith moved as if she had slipped between worlds — too ethereal to belong to this one, too haunting for the next. 

Her footsteps, quiet as whispered breath, brushed across the ground as though she drifted from some forgotten realm, and no one had the wisdom to send her back.

Two years.

Two long years since she'd walked in this skin.

Two years since her debt to Mooney was paid in full.

Two years free of Madam Mooney.

She had convinced herself she would never long for it — never mourn its absence. After all, it had been a burden, a relentless weight pressing down on her soul, leaving scars she had hoped time would erase. And yet, absence has a way of reshaping memory, softening the edges of pain until only the echo of purpose remains. Old habits, after all, are stubborn things; they refuse to wither, clinging to the bones like shadows of another life. 

So when a goal ignited within her once more, it didn't matter how many years had passed or how heavy the past still sat upon her shoulders; nothing would keep her from chasing it.

She was relentless.

It was a familiar kind of hunger : sharp, unforgiving, like a blade in the dark. She had learned long ago that once she set her sights on something, the world could burn for all she cared because no matter what, she'd still find her way through the ashes.

Two years away from the Wraith's skin hadn't dulled her instincts, nor had they quieted the ghost that lived inside her.

It lingered, always just beneath the surface, waiting for a reason to crawl back out. Perhaps that was why she walked this path tonight.

The Iceberg Lounge looming before her like a challenge. A whisper from the past, calling her back into the shadows she had tried to leave behind.

She told herself she didn't miss it, that the life she led now, in the daylight, was enough. But here she was, standing at the edge of the old life, ready to slip back into it like a second skin.

The night wrapped around her like an old lover, cold and familiar. Her breath barely fogged the air as she moved, her figure swallowed by the shadows.

There were rules to this game, and she knew them better than most.

Silence.

Stealth.

Precision.

As she crept along the rooftop, the city stretched beneath her, unaware, unbothered. She envied that detachment, but it was never meant for her.

The Wraith had always been Gotham's secret, a ghost story whispered between criminals. Something that walked between worlds, unseen yet feared.

And tonight, she was that ghost once again.

Through the night, she weaved her way, a phantom slipping through cracks in the city. Couples, drunks, the homeless ( all caught in their own worlds ) she passed them all. A whisper of wind they could feel but never see.

The Lounge loomed ahead, its neon sign casting an eerie glow over the streets.

Adjusting the bag on her back, she made her way up the rusted fire escape beside the lounge, metal groaning softly beneath her weight. At the top, she paused for a breath, the familiar routine tugging at her — how many times had she prepared this way? Dressed in club clothes, tools at the ready, slipping through the throngs of party-goers to blend in. A girl out for a night of fun, hiding in plain sight.

She rummaged in her bag, pulling out her ropes and goggles. Scanning the building, she studied her options. Most of the windows were now barred, Falcone and Oz had upped their defenses.

She smirked.

As if that would stop her.

The route she'd need to take was her least favorite — the top floor, where clients and their hired companions conducted their business. Seedy and exposed, but it would have to do. Her usual entry point near Oz's office was swarming with guards, playing cards and laughing like they had no care in the world. She had no intention of drawing attention. This was meant to be a surprise visit, after all.

She sighed.

She slid the goggles back into her bag and stashed it in a hidden, secure spot.

With precise, deliberate movements, she tightened the scarves around her head, fingers deftly adjusting the pins to keep them in place. A stray strand of caramel hair slipped free, and she tucked it back with the ease of muscle memory, as natural as breathing. Then she carefully adjusted the scarf covering the lower half of her face. The fabric draped smoothly, leaving only her onyx eyes visible — framed by dark kohl, they were like shadows within shadows.

Gone was Dr. Maryam Halimi.

The Wraith had returned.

And may her enemies be wise enough to fear her, or foolish enough to meet her.

She took a deep breath through the black fabric as she tied the ropes around her right hip. Flexing her fingers, the sound of cracking bones echoed softly in the still air.

With a single, practiced motion, she launched herself from the rooftop, leaping across the gap between the buildings, landing on the Iceberg Lounge's rooftop like a whisper—a shadow without sound.

Maryam followed her routine, lifting a small window and slipping through it with the ease of smoke curling through a crack. She closed it behind her, sealing herself in.

Inside was a small room where strippers entertained their clients, the decor unchanged from her many visits: the walls were painted a garish pink, draped with sheer curtains that fluttered like anxious butterflies.

The air was heavy with the scent of cheap perfume mixed with the lingering aroma of smoke and something sweet, like a sickly, intoxicating blend that clung to everything.

The muffled bass of club music thumped through the walls, a rhythmic thump that resonated in her chest, but she had no time to lose.

With careful movements, she opened the door just enough to peek out.

From the hallway, she caught snippets of a tired, grumbling argument between a man and his wife, the voice unmistakably belonging to Tony, the guard on this floor.

"Tony, I told you not to work these late shifts," his wife's voice crackled through the speaker of his phone. "You're barely home, and when you are, you're too exhausted to even talk."

"I know, I know," Tony replied, sounding worn out. "But we need the extra money. The boss is pushing us hard these days. Just give me a break, alright?"

The conversation trailed off as Tony's frustration gave way to resigned silence.

Maryam took her chance.

The hallway stretched out before her, long and dimly lit, turning left toward the stairs she needed to reach. She had to be quick.

Slipping into the hallway, she moved silently past the many doors that led to rooms just like the one she had left behind.

Her heart raced, the thrill of the chase fueling her movements.

She couldn't linger; she needed to find the stairs leading down, to where the true business of the Iceberg Lounge thrived.

Her light feet carried her through the hallway, the muffled conversation growing louder, when suddenly a loud crash echoed from one of the rooms, followed by a throaty moan.

Her neck snapped toward the sound, eyes narrowing, heart quickening as more banging reverberated against the wall, punctuated by gasps and praises that were far too enthusiastic for her taste.

She rolled her eyes, annoyance bubbling beneath her calm exterior. The chair where Tony sat at the end of the hallway screeched as he shifted, clearly hearing the commotion too.

Thinking quickly, she scanned the area for a shadowed spot and slipped into it, her body melding with the darkness.

"For fuck's sake," Tony muttered, his phone clutched tightly in his hand as he turned down the hallway.

Seizing the opportunity, Maryam slipped behind him, inching backward toward the exit of the corridor.

"Any damage should be paid extra !" He said, knocking on the wall to emphasize his point. His complaint was met only with a high, desperate moan.

Arriving at the stairs, she descended quickly, confident that blending in wouldn't be a problem. Reaching the stairs, Maryam quickly descended, her presence lost in the dimness. The space was illuminated only by sporadic bursts of colored lights that flickered and danced.

No one paid her any mind; she was just another shadow in a sea of bodies, slipping between them like a whisper in the night.

She climbed a few stairs leading to the makeup rooms, the air thick with the scent of hairspray and cheap perfume. She knew the Penguin would be nearby, and her resolve steeled.

Silently, Maryam opened the glass door, slipping into the room where Penguin was engrossed in a phone call.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he muttered, distracted, his fingers playing with a stack of papers. The purple hue of his outfit was illuminated by the sporadic lights from the club below, casting an eerie glow around him.

Maryam took up a position in the dark corner, waiting patiently for him to finish his call. But as the seconds ticked by, her patience wore thin. Stepping forward, she emerged from the shadows.

"Holy fucking shit — " Penguin yelped, instinctively reaching for his revolver and firing a shot toward the unexpected intruder. Maryam dodged with practiced ease, her movement fluid and precise.

"One day, you're gonna give me a heart attack, woman," Penguin grumbled, his irritation clear as he caught his breath. His large stomach heaved with each breath, the buttons of his purple suit straining against the tension.

Maryam remained silent, as she always did during these encounters. 

Words were unnecessary. She had long learned that silence was her best ally in these moments. She never spoke unless absolutely necessary, and even then, her words were either written or whispered — always cautious to avoid revealing her identity, even if her presence wasn't widely known in Gotham.

She simply fixed her gaze on him, standing still and composed, a shadow in the dimly lit room. Her eyes were unblinking, focused on Penguin as he fidgeted with the papers, clearly unnerved but too accustomed to her presence to let it show.

Oz looked her over, his eyes narrowing as he muttered a quiet, "What the fuck."

He took a slow sip of his whiskey, his eyes never leaving her. "You never change, do you? Always sneaking up on people."

Maryam remained mute, her silence a familiar companion. He studied her, still clad in her black outfit, the scarf wrapped around her head, her onyx eyes like deep voids, devoid of emotion. She looked like a ghost, a wraith haunting the edges of his consciousness.

"Jesus, it's been a while, huh?" he continued, chuckling as his demeanor shifted, emotions flickering like the hands of a clock. "What do I owe the pleasure of my favorite girl?" His smile revealed yellowed teeth as he stood up, wobbling toward her.

Still, she offered no answer.

Oz was accustomed to her silence, but that didn't stop him from prodding. His scarred, pockmarked face inched closer, curiosity glimmering in his eyes. Unfazed, she kept her hands behind her back, as if challenging him to draw nearer.

Suddenly, the office door burst open, and a young man rushed in. "Oz, you alright?" he panted, short of breath. Maryam noted the gun in his hand and another holstered beneath his leather jacket. "I heard the shot, and the girls — "

He halted mid-sentence, eyes widening as he took in Maryam's petite frame, dressed in black, hands behind her like a soldier at attention.

"Who the fuck is this, Oz—" he demanded, pointing his gun at her.

Before he could finish, Maryam flicked her wrist, sending a small knife spiraling through the air. It found its mark in his hand, causing the gun to clatter to the ground as he clutched his injury, pain etched on his face. "Shit!" he gasped, stumbling back.

Maryam didn't spare him a glance as she walked past him, retrieving her knife from the wall where it had embedded itself.

She inspected it under the blue and red lights, a meticulous examination as if the blade were more valuable than the man writhing on the floor, which, if she were being honest, it very much was.

Vincent shot up, grasping his other gun with a shaky hand. "Fucking bitch!" he spat, but Maryam only regarded him from her shadowed corner, the pink and purple lights playing across her frame. She raised an eyebrow, her expression unfazed as she calmly wiped his blood from her knife onto her black pants.

Before Vincent could close the distance, Oz seized him by his thin arm, yanking him back with surprising force. The Penguin leaned in, his scarred face inches from Vincent's. "Are you fucking mad?"

Vincent furrowed his brows, confusion clouding his expression. "Mad about what?"

Oz laughed, pushing him away. His gold teeth glinted under the harsh lights. "Ah, come on now! Don't tell me you've never heard of the Wraith, Vince?"

Vincent narrowed his eyes, his face paling as the realization set in. "W-What? I thought it was a myth. You don't mean—"

"She's as real as the last time you forgot to floss," Oz quipped, chuckling at his own joke.

"What the fuck?" Vincent could only manage a stunned whisper, his grip on the gun loosening.

Oz tutted impatiently, his patience wearing thin. "Yeah, yeah, get the fuck out. I need to take care of our lovely guest, will ya?"

The young man hesitated, still gnawing on the gravity of the situation. "Out now, boy! You're putting blood everywhere on my fucking floor!" Oz roared, his mood swinging like a pendulum.

Vincent nodded, his eyebrows knitted together in worry. He watched Maryam as if she were some kind of specter, his left hand gripping his right in an instinctive gesture of self-preservation. With slow, deliberate steps, he backed away, locking the door behind him as if fearful she might strike at any moment.

Oz sighed, a small, self-satisfied smile stretching across his lips, which only accentuated his scars and double chin. He raised his hands, adorned with an array of golden rings, and gestured grandly, as if he owned the room. "Those newbies, you know them," he said, strolling back to his sofa and spreading his arms wide, claiming dominion over the space.

"So," he clicked his tongue, "how did you get past my guards?"

Only then did she allow her voice to emerge, smooth yet laced with a deadly edge. "You call those guards?" she whispered, words as sharp as the knives and poisons hidden beneath her long black vest.

Oz raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Yah killed them?"

"Didn't bother." She shrugged, tone casual as she turned her gaze to the dance floor visible through the high office windows, feigning disinterest. Maryam never killed. "There was only one man, anyway."

"We barred all the windows — " Oz began, but the Wraith simply looked back at him with a mocking expression, as if to say, Really?

"Right," he groaned, pushing himself up from the sofa and grabbing the bottle of alcohol from the table, pouring it down his throat. He grimaced at the taste but welcomed the burn. "Forgot you were the Wraith for a sec," he admitted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "It's not bars that are gonna stop you."

He leaned back, regarding her through the rim of his crystal glass, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "So, what brings you here tonight? A little stroll down memory lane, or is there something else you need from me?"

She remained silent, her eyes narrowed beneath the layers of fabric that concealed her face, the silence stretching between them like a taut wire.

"Come on doll, don't be coy with me," he prodded, smirking. "You didn't just sneak in here to reminisce about the good ol' days."

Finally, she shifted, her voice a whisper that seemed to slice through the air. "I need to go to the 44 Below."

"What's got you wanting to visit the 44 Below after all this time?" Oz asked, skepticism coloring his tone.

"Is that really a concern for you, Oz?" she replied, her tone cool and dismissive. "I have my reasons."

His eyes flickered with suspicion. "Two years. It's been two years since I last saw you and since then, a bat has started flapping around, I can't say I'm eager to let you waltz into my territory again."

"It's none of your business," she shot back, her voice a sharp whisper, steel beneath the silk. "Just give me what I want, and I'll be on my way. After everything I've done for you, you owe me this."

Oz paused, weighing her words. "You think I'd just hand you a pass to the 44 Below? Not a fucking chance without knowing your intentions."

Her eyes flashed with impatience, the dark kohl accentuating their intensity. "You think I'm going there to start a war? I have no interest in your petty games. Just let me through, and I'll owe you nothing more."

He chuckled, the sound low and grating like gravel. "You know I can't just do that. It's a dangerous game out there, and you might just find yourself caught in it again. You know how the tides shift in Gotham."

"Then consider this a favor for old times," she pressed, her voice steady. "I'm asking you nicely, Oz. You know I don't ask for much."

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he mulled it over, a reluctant concession creeping into his expression. "Fine, I'll give you one for the week only," he conceded reluctantly. "But I'll warn you — "

"Just a week?" she asked, feigning innocence, though she knew it was a gift coming from him.

"That's all you're getting, and I'm not going to give you the usual backdoor route," he warned, leaning forward with a glint of seriousness in his eyes. "And if you think you can waltz in there without trouble, you're mistaken."

Before she could respond, a cacophony erupted from the streets below, the unmistakable sounds of chaos—shouts, gunfire, and the sharp crack of fists meeting flesh.

"What the hell is that?" Oz exclaimed, rising from his seat to peer out the window.

Vincent burst into the office, breathless and wide-eyed, his hand wrapped in gauze, blood seeping through. "Oz! There's a fight breaking out down there!"

Oz turned, his mood shifting rapidly. "Well who the fuck is it?"

"Vengeance." Vincent replied, glancing nervously toward the door.

"Jesus," Oz grumbled. "Of course he is," still watching the melee unfold. "I'm coming." He glanced back at Vincent, who hesitated, his fear still palpable but masked by embarrassment from their earlier encounter.

"What do we do with that one?" Vincent asked, nodding toward the Wraith.

"Let her be." He turned to Vincent, his tone shifting to authority. "Go help the others down there. I'll deal with this mess."

Vincent nodded and rushed out, but as Oz turned back to give a last instruction to the Wraith, he found the space empty.

A frown creased his brow. "Didn't fucking change at all, did she?" he muttered, adjusting his vest with a resigned sigh before heading out to confront the chaos unfolding below.

────୨ৎ────

Once inside the lift, she slid the card given to her and descended into the depths of the 44 Below.

The moment the doors slid open, she was hit by the oppressive atmosphere—a different kind of darkness. The scent of expensive perfume mingled with the acrid tang of drugs, far stronger here than in the lounge above. The people who frequented this level were of a different breed: DAs, senators, police chiefs, CEOs — people who ran Gotham, or at least thought they did.

If anyone still denied the city's deep-rooted corruption, they were either naive or willfully blind. Here, power was brokered in whispers, and deals were sealed with blood and blackmail.

She melted into the shadows, her presence invisible, her steps soundless, as she scoured the club for her target: Vittorio Falcone.

Here he sat in the VIP section, flanked by friends, his posture one of effortless control, like a king surveying his court.

The dim, hazy light of the club brushed against his features, casting shadows that only enhanced the sharpness of his jawline, the sculpted edge of his cheekbones.

The eldest Falcone child carried an air of quiet arrogance, as though the world existed merely to entertain him.

He looked haughty — no, more than that — untouchable, as though nothing in the room could touch him, no matter how close the chaos came.

His attention was half-hearted, eyes lazily fixed on his phone as he typed a message, one hand draped over the back of the sofa. He didn't bother acknowledging the people around him, not even the girls clinging to his side like decorative ornaments.

They tried, though — leaning in, offering coy smiles and whispered words, seeking his attention as if his gaze would bless them. 

But Vitto barely glanced their way. 

It was as if their presence didn't even register, their efforts met with nothing more than a vague flicker of disinterest.

He was handsome, painfully so — his features the kind that would make Alma lose her sense of reality the second she laid eyes on him. Maryam could already picture it.

Vittorio's shirt was unbuttoned just enough to reveal a sliver of his tanned, muscular chest beneath, his black hair tousled with calculated perfection. His dark, brooding eyes ( so black they almost blended into the shadows ) remained fixed on his screen, detached, as if he held the world in the palm of his hand and it bored him.

Her younger sister would've melted at the sight, no question.

But Maryam? She saw right through it. Vittorio's charm was as practiced as it was dangerous.

Vittorio wasn't just another spoiled Falcone heir; he was dangerous — a man who wrapped his power in charisma and good looks, the kind of man who knew exactly what his charm was worth. But beneath that smooth exterior lurked something darker.

He could talk all he wanted about going legitimate, but Maryam knew better. There was no such thing as a clean exit from that life.

The truth was simple — once you were tangled in the underworld's web, it clung to you like a spider's silk.

No matter how hard you tried to break free, it held you fast, pulling tighter with every step you took. And if you were born into it? You weren't just ensnared, you were the spider, part of the web itself, bound to the darkness in ways you couldn't unravel.

Finally, Vittorio stood, his movements unhurried, as if time bent to his will.

He straightened his jacket, smoothing out invisible wrinkles with the grace of someone accustomed to control.

Without a word, he tossed a wad of cash on the table, as if the bill were an afterthought, downed the last of his scotch in one gulp, and gave a casual nod to his friends. They barely noticed, too engrossed in the haze of alcohol and the company of women to care.

Vitto, though, had a different agenda. His movements were fluid, calculated, as he navigated the crowd, his focus distant, already elsewhere. He headed for the lift, slipping through the throng like a shadow, unseen but always present.

Mar watched him, her pulse steady but her mind racing. 

She needed proof — something solid, something that would shatter the illusion Alma had wrapped around this man. Vittorio Falcone was a dangerous game, and Alma was too blind to see it. Just being in the 44 Below was damning enough, but he could easily spin that to his advantage, charm his way out of it with some half-truth or excuse that Alma would eagerly swallow. 

No, it wasn't enough.

And the truth gnawed at her.

He wasn't fawning over other women or indulging in the usual vices like his friends. No, Vittorio looked almost... detached. As though he didn't want to be there, like something or someone had forced him into this.

That unease made her hesitate.

For a second, she wondered if Alma had seen something in him that no one else had. But hesitation was a luxury she couldn't afford.

Plan B it was: direct confrontation.

It wasn't her usual style — Maryam preferred her threats whispered in shadows, subtle and laced with dread, the kind that clung to your mind long after you realized the danger. 

She liked to move silently, let her reputation speak for her. But for Alma? For her little sister, for her family, she'd abandon her carefully crafted distance and take this head-on.

Vittorio Falcone would understand one thing by the end of tonight: Alma Ben Halimi was off-limits.

She followed at a distance, never once breaking from the shadows, a ghost in the crowded underbelly of Gotham.

Maryam's eyes tracked the two men flanking Vittorio: Matteo Sudossi and Raffael Giulia. Each a mountain of muscle, hardened by years of loyalty to the Falcone family.

Matteo, with his missing eye, bore the scars of a life spent in violence, while Raffael's neck was a roadmap of burns, a permanent reminder of some past battle.

Both armed, their jackets concealing guns, though Maryam's practiced eye caught the glint of a blade tucked in Raffael's boot.

These weren't just hired thugs; they were trusted, handpicked by Carmine Falcone himself, brought over from Sicily when Vittorio was still a boy. They had been at his side ever since.

The sea of people parted for Vittorio as he marched forward, as if sensing his power without needing to look. He moved like a shark gliding through dark waters, and Maryam was the shadow trailing silently in his wake — an unseen predator stalking her prey.

His long, heavy grey coat swung behind him, the fabric billowing like a cape. He placed his signature flat cap atop his head, the brim casting his already dark eyes into deeper shadow.

Then, with deliberate slowness, he brought a cigar to his lips, his teeth sinking into the nicotine like a predator tasting blood, before lighting it with the flick of a silver lighter.

As he pulled on a pair of black leather gloves, the creak of the material as he clenched his fists was the only sound amid the music and chatting of the club.

Vittorio moved through the 44 Below like a king among pawns.

People greeted him with nods, half-hearted words of respect, but he only acknowledged them with slight tilts of his head, his focus elsewhere.

He carried himself with the weight of someone used to commanding attention without asking for it — without needing to.

As he approached the lift, he muttered something in Italian, directing his words toward Raffael, his trusted bodyguard. His voice, thick and broken as if worn down by years of smoke, had a strange sweetness to it, like honey laced with poison.

Maryam caught one word: Alberto.

His younger brother. Middle child.

The family's resident drunk, notorious for disappearing into bottles and women, much like any other spoiled Gotham heir. It was the sort of debauchery that came with wealth, with old money, but Vittorio, ever the dutiful older brother, always seemed to keep an eye on his wayward siblings, even in the midst of all their inherited sins.

It was perhaps the only thing they had in common—and the one thing she could respect about him.

Maryam's instincts sharpened—Vittorio must have sent Raffael to fetch the younger Falcone from wherever he'd passed out. She watched as Raffael nodded and peeled away, leaving Vittorio with only one bodyguard.

Vittorio pulled out his phone, pressing it tightly to his ear to muffle the pounding noise of the club. He was distracted.

Perfect.

Maryam's gaze shifted to the hallway beside the elevator—dark, nearly forgotten, with dim lights casting deep, stretching shadows. It was an ideal spot for her. The air hung thick with tension, every muscle in her body coiled, ready to strike.

He was so close. So unaware.

Vittorio, for all his power and poise, had no idea that the Wraith stalked him from the edges of the room, silent, calculating.

The crowd was oblivious, too. Everyone around them lost in their own worlds—dancing, drinking, laughing. They were too entranced by the haze of the club, too blinded by the lights to notice that something far deadlier was lurking just beyond the edges of their peripheral vision.

Maryam seized her chance with the precision of a shadow slipping through moonlight. The crowd around her pulsed with life, but she was an unmoving force, a whisper of death in the cacophony.

With a swift, practiced motion, she drew a small vial of poison from her suit—a single pill that held the power to incapacitate.

Matteo Sudossi, Vittorio's remaining bodyguard, was her target. The brute's size and strength were irrelevant against her skill.

She approached him from behind, as silent as the night air.

Her gloved hand pressed firmly over his mouth, a sudden and forceful motion that stifled any cry of surprise.

At the same time, her other hand slipped under his chin, fingers pressing against his carotid artery with expert pressure, cutting off the flow of blood with ruthless efficiency.

Matteo's struggle was brief and futile, his body going limp under her grip. The pill dissolved quickly, ensuring his unconsciousness was assured.

The commotion around Vittorio masked the faint sounds of Matteo's collapse. The noise of the club, the chatter, the clinking of glasses—all combined into a roaring tide that covered her actions.

The heir remained absorbed in his phone call, oblivious to the danger encroaching upon him.

It was only when he heard the thud of Matteo hitting the ground that he turned. His eyes widened in shock, meeting the spectral figure of the Wraith.

In that moment, Maryam was no longer just a woman—she was an apparition, a ghost emerging from the shadows.

Before Vittorio could react, Maryam was upon him. Her elbow struck with the force of a falling star, connecting sharply with his side. He staggered, momentarily stunned. Her other hand grabbed his arm, pulling him forcefully toward the small chamber she had noticed earlier.

The surprise in Vittorio's eyes quickly hardened into anger and disbelief. But Maryam was relentless, her movements swift and decisive.

She dragged him into a room, leaving Matteo's unconscious form slumped against the wall, an unspoken warning of the danger that had just passed.

He didn't resist her at all; one hand pressed against his bloody nose, he allowed her to lead him wherever she pleased.

Once inside the room, she kicked the door shut behind them, her boot slamming it with a resounding thud.

She turned to face him, her gaze steely, and quickly drew one of her sharpest knives from its sheath.

The room was cloaked in darkness, devoid of windows, with only the flickering light casting eerie shadows across the walls.

He leaned casually against the desk, as if he hadn't just been taken hostage by a mad ghost, but she noticed the tense flex of his sharp jaw. With a steady hand, he pulled a handkerchief from inside his coat and pressed it to his bleeding nose, his dark eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his flat cap.

He didn't waste a moment. "Did you kill him?" His voice was smooth, almost honeyed.

"I don't kill," she replied quietly, stepping closer to him. "Turn." He complied, allowing the bloodied handkerchief to drop to the floor.

She pressed her blade against the junctures of his shoulders, the cold steel biting into his skin, and another knife hovered near his ribs.

"Who sent you?" he rumbled, his tone calm, as if he were accustomed to being confronted by spies. He was probing for information.

"I'm the one asking questions," the Wraith shot back, her posture guarded and unyielding.

"You're lucky I don't hit women," he replied, the hint of a smirk dancing on his lips despite the precarious situation.

Maryam leaned in, her eyes narrowing. "Lucky? Is that supposed to make me feel better? You think chivalry will save you now?"

He raised an eyebrow, the smirk still lingering. "Chivalry? No, that's not it. It's just common decency miss, something that seems to be lost on people like you."

"People like me?" She pressed the blade a little harder, just enough for him to feel the threat. "What do you know about people like me, Vittorio? You're just another spoiled heir playing with fire, surrounded by sycophants and deception."

He chuckled softly, the sound rich and disarming. "And yet here you are, risking it all. You must be desperate."

"Desperate enough to expose you," she shot back, her voice cold. "Alma Halimi is not a pawn in your little game. You'll leave her alone."

His expression shifted, the playful demeanor fading into something darker. "You have no right to tell me what to do with my life or the people in it."

Maryam stepped closer, her voice low and steady. "Is that right? Then let's talk about your life, Vittorio. You think you can drag her into your world, use her like the others? She deserves better than to be just another trophy for you to flaunt."

His eyes flashed with anger, a storm brewing behind them. "How do you know her name?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

"That's not important," she replied, holding her ground. "What matters is that you stop whatever it is you're doing with her. You might think you're untouchable, but remember, everything comes with a price."

"Spare me your moral high ground," he said, his calm facade cracking just slightly. "Alma came to me. She made her choice. You don't know what we have."

"Exactly," she countered. "I don't know what you have because you keep her in the dark, wrapped up in your lies. If you truly care for her, you wouldn't lead her down this path."

With a quick motion, she withdrew the small gun he had tucked in his trousers, slipping the knife into her pocket. She stepped back, allowing him to turn around, only for him to find himself staring down the barrel of his own weapon. He was still bleeding from his nose, slightly crooked from her punch.

Leaning back on the table, his hands ( heavy with rings ) grasped tightly as if seeking stability.

"I'll repeat myself Wraith," he said, his voice low and dangerous. He paused, his black eyes locking onto hers, his jaw tightening. "Who sent you?"

She wasn't shocked by his tone.

Gone was the smirk, replaced by a chilling intensity. Glancing at her watch, she replied coolly, "Only one minute and thirty-six seconds until your little bodyguard wakes up." She heard Raffael's distant voice calling for Matteo. "Or less."

Vittorio's gaze darkened further, frustration mingling with uncertainty. "What do you want?" he growled, the edge of his bravado wavering.

"I want the truth," she said, her voice unwavering. "I want you to understand what you're doing to Alma. You might think you're invincible, but you're just a man hiding behind a facade. You can't keep dragging her into your world of shadows and lies."

His expression faltered, the intensity in his eyes shifting. "You think I'm some monster?" he asked, his voice suddenly softer, almost vulnerable.

"No," she replied, her tone cold and deliberate. "I think you're tangled in a web of your own making, Vittorio. But you still have a chance to untangle yourself. Let her. go."

Vittorio's face hardened as he crossed his arms, his heavy coat stretching over broad shoulders. "Let me tell you something, Wraith," he said, his voice clipped. "You think I'm afraid of you, of your little games, or of your so-called reputation?" He tutted dismissively.

"You're just another player meddling with things you don't understand, just like the latest vigilante mucking up my plans. You're encroaching on my territory." He straightened up from his previous leaning position. "But since you've been in this game longer than the latest freak show, I figured you might have some wisdom. Rule number one? Don't interfere with the Falcones."

Maryam smirked under scarves, her eyes glinting. "Oh, I know all about playing with fire. It's just a shame you're too busy keeping your head in the sand to notice how close the flames are getting."

His face remained impassive, unyielding. "Whatever happens between Alma and me is our business. You better pass along this message to whoever sent you: if they send anyone after me or her again, or even dare to utter her name," he slammed his fist against the table, the sound echoing in the room. "I won't show any mercy. I'll hunt you down and I will find out who sent you and make sure you wish you were dead."

The room fell into a heavy silence, his words hanging in the air.

Raffael's voice grew louder, a reminder of the impending danger. But Maryam stood her ground, her resolve unwavering.

"Every choice comes with a consequence," she whispered, her voice cutting through the tension. "You think you can play with lives and not face the fallout? Alma deserves more than being just another pawn. She's not a trophy for you to claim. You know that. And deep down, you know this isn't just another game."

Vittorio's eyes flickered, something resembling doubt crossing his face. "What if she doesn't want to be saved?" he asked, a defensive edge creeping into his voice.

"Then you give her the freedom to choose," she shot back. "But right now, you're controlling her, suffocating her under the weight of your world. Is that what you really want?"

His jaw clenched, the storm inside him brewing. "And if I refuse?"

"Then you'll have to face the consequences of your choices, not just for yourself, but for Alma," she said, holding her ground. "You're not as untouchable as you think, Vittorio. And I'm not the only one looking out for her."

The room fell silent again, tension thick enough to cut.

Vittorio's gaze locked onto hers, a battle of wills unfolding as he weighed his options.

He removed his flat cap and ran his fingers through his hair, the golden rings glinting in the dim light of the room, frustration evident in the intensity of his movements. "I'm not using her, I—" But before he could finish, the sound of Raffael's footsteps intensified, halting just outside the door. A loud bang followed as he demanded entry.

In a split second, Maryam had her gun trained on Vittorio's head, her finger poised on the trigger. The door swung open, and Raffael appeared, flanked by a couple of goons. "Drop your gun!" he ordered.

Maryam unlocked the safety, her eyes never leaving Vittorio. "Move an inch and I'll paint the walls with his brains," she warned.

"I thought you didn't kill—"

"Shut the fuck up," she shot back, a sharp smirk curling her covered lips. "I'm not a killer, but I'm not above making exceptions."

With that, she advanced, dragging Vittorio with her past the guards, who were still fumbling to draw their weapons. In one swift motion, she shoved him toward them, using his body as a shield before sprinting toward the elevator.

Bullets whizzed past her as she darted through the chaos, adrenaline pumping through her veins.

She reached the lift just as Matteo began to stir from his slumber. Without a second thought, she leaped on top of him, calling the elevator while glancing back to see the guards closing in, their shouts echoing in her ears.

As Maryam stepped into the elevator, a sigh of relief escaped her lips, but it was fleeting. Just as the doors were about to close, Matteo burst in, a whirlwind of fury and muscle.

Without hesitation, he launched a fist toward her, catching her off guard and sending her crashing against the wall.

The blow struck the side of her face, near her left eye, and blood began to trickle down her skin and scarf.

For a moment, the world spun around her, but she quickly regained her footing.

She was smaller, but she was trained — years of honing her skills in the shadows gave her an edge. With a fierce determination, she bounced back, dodging his next swing and leveraging her agility to slip behind him.

In a blur, she delivered a sharp elbow to his ribs, followed by a swift kick to his knee.

He stumbled, but not for long. He turned, eyes blazing with fury, swinging wildly again.

Maryam ducked under his punch, using his momentum against him to grab his arm and twist, forcing him into a hold.

She wasn't just fighting; she was dancing, fluid and precise, each movement calculated.

He snarled and pushed back with all his might, but she was ready. With a quick twist of her body, she transitioned into a grapple, locking his arm behind him before delivering a sharp knee to his gut.

The impact echoed through the small space, and Matteo grunted, the wind knocked from him.

"You're strong, but you're not smarter," she taunted, using her smaller stature to her advantage.

She spun around him, and as he turned to grab her, she slipped under his arm and kicked off the wall, using her momentum to launch herself at him.

In one fluid motion, she tackled him, forcing him down onto the elevator floor. With a well-placed knee on his chest, she secured his arm behind him, pinning him with her weight. Matteo struggled, but she had him locked tight. "You're outmatched, musclehead," she hissed, breathing heavily.

Finally, with one last thrust, she knocked him unconscious, leaving him crumpled on the floor of the elevator as the doors dinged open.

She adjusted her scarves and cloak, looking down at him as she whispered, "идиот," the russian word lingering in the air with a soft hiss.

Maryam stepped out of the lift, into the chaos of the club, where the pulsing beat of Into the Night by The Weeknd filled the air.

Bodies swayed and twirled around her, blissfully unaware of the fight she had just left behind. She maneuvered through the crowd, blending in with the dancing masses, her heart racing with adrenaline.

The weight of victory hung on her shoulders, and she knew she hadn't crossed the line — Matteo was alive, but the message had been sent.

But the moment she emerged, her presence did not go unnoticed.

No rest for the wicked, she thought.

A couple of guards, alerted by the commotion, spotted her immediately. Their hands went to their weapons, and they began pushing their way through the crowd, their urgency clear as they shouted commands.

The chaos around them only amplified as the guards started firing into the ceiling, bullets ricocheting and causing a shower of sparks. The crowd screamed and scattered, but Maryam was already in motion.

Her sharp eyes scanned the room, calculating her next move.

She darted into the sea of dancing bodies, weaving through the throng with agility and speed. Each step was precise, every movement fluid as she ducked and dodged between the frantic dancers. She could hear the guards getting closer, their footsteps pounding in rhythm with the beat, their shouts piercing through the music.

Spotting a nearby staircase, she bolted toward it, her heart pounding in her chest. As she neared the stairs, she leaped onto a nearby chair, using it as a launchpad to vault over the edge of a platform.

She landed gracefully on a lower level, barely missing a beat. Without hesitation, she sprinted toward a large window set into the wall.

With a deft move, she grabbed onto the window frame and swung herself up, pushing the window open. The noise from the club was deafening, but outside, the air was cool and quiet.

She glanced back just in time to see the guards pushing through the last of the crowd, their frustration evident as they searched for her.

Maryam took a deep breath, then leaped out of the window and dropped down to a lower ledge. She barely felt the impact, rolling with the fall and immediately scrambling to her feet.

Without a second glance, she sprinted away from the building, the chaos of 44 Below fading behind her as she melted into the shadows of the night.

She'd escaped the immediate threat, but the night was far from over.

────୨ৎ────

Upstairs, in the dim, cluttered office above the thumping chaos of the club, Oswald Cobblepot, lounged back with a smarmy grin on his face.

Vengeance stood before him, as still and menacing as a gargoyle, his attention fixed on the photograph of the young woman with the mayor, her smile haunting in the dim light.

"Who is she?" Batman's voice was a cold growl, slicing through the smoky air.

The Penguin chuckled, his laugh a mixture of amusement and cunning, as he waved a dismissive hand. "Honestly? I really don't know, chief. I might've been coming out at the same time, but I wasn't exactly rollin' with them." He leaned back, casual, yet there was a glimmer of something else in his eyes—a flicker of knowledge he wasn't willing to share. Not yet.

The silence stretched, tense and heavy, before the Penguin leaned forward, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. "But I'll tell you this—she ain't the only one stirring the pot around here. You heard of the Wraith, right?"

Batman's gaze narrowed, his curiosity piqued. "Wraith?"

A slow, mischievous smile spread across the Penguin's face, amusement dancing in his sharp eyes. "Ah, the Wraith. Kind of a myth to some, but I'll let you in on a little secret — she's as real as you and me. Haunting these streets long before you put on that cape, my friend. A real ghost. Slippery, stealthy — a nightmare for anyone unlucky enough to cross her."

"What does she want?" Batman asked, his voice filled with quiet intensity.

"That's the big mystery, isn't it?" Penguin leaned in, his voice dripping with amusement, eyes gleaming with a hint of mischief. "She used to be Mooney's little shadow — her eyes and ears all over Gotham. Some folks say she's a myth, a ghost. Others think she's got a score to settle with Falcone and the rest of us. And then there are those who believe she's just carving out her own little empire. But whatever her deal is, one thing's for sure — she's sharp, always two steps ahead. Stays hidden in the dark... kinda like you."

Before Batman could press further, footsteps echoed through the room. 

A figure appeared between the racks of showgirl costumes : a woman in a high-slit evening gown, streetwise and edgy. She hesitated when she saw Batman, her eyes flickering with caution.

Penguin smirked, motioning her over. "No, no — it's okay, baby. Mr. Vengeance here don't bite," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

The woman approached warily, placing a tray of drinks on the table. But Batman didn't miss the way her eyes flicked to the photograph of the mayor. 

There was recognition there, something... unsaid. 

As she turned to leave, her unease lingered, but Batman's focus snapped back to the image in his hand, his expression darkening.

"I want to know who she is, and what she has to do with this murder," he demanded, the tension in his voice rising.

Penguin leaned in closer, a sly grin spreading across his face. "Whose murder? Is that the Mayor? Oh, shit, it is! Look at that!" he feigned surprise, laughing under his breath.

Without warning, Batman's gloved hand shot out, yanking the Penguin from his seat and slamming him against the glass of the window, cracking under the impact.

The Penguin groaned under the sudden pressure, splintering slightly as Batman growled, "Don't make me hurt you."

Anger flared briefly in the Penguin's eyes, but he forced a smile, swallowing down the sudden fear that tightened his throat. "Easy, easy, alright! I'm just a businessman!" he gasped. Then, with a smug grin, he continued, "Yeah, I know her. Do you?"

Batman glared at him but said nothing. The Penguin twisted his lips into a sneer. "I'll tell you one thing," he handed the photograph back to Batman with a flourish. "Whoever she is, she's one hot piece of work. Why don't you ask Mitchell's wife? Maybe she's got the answers you're looking for." He smirked cruelly. "What? Too soon?"

Before Batman could react, the sound of gunfire erupted from outside, muffled but unmistakable.

He turned, his attention drawn to the window. Through the cracks in the glass, he saw a figure moving swiftly through the sea of bodies below.

The chaos was immediate—patrons scattered as guards shoved their way through the crowd, their guns raised, searching for their target. But the figure, cloaked in shadows, moved with a grace that defied the panic around her.

"That, right there," Penguin's voice broke the silence, his tone dripping with satisfaction, "that's my little Wraith I was talkin' about." He watched with fascination as the woman darted between the terrified dancers, her movements fluid, almost inhuman. "Looks like she's gotten herself into a bit of trouble, huh?"

Batman remained silent, his gaze locked on the scene below.

The Wraith was fast — too fast for his liking, or maybe just annoyingly so.

She was climbing a set of stairs, her figure briefly illuminated by the strobing lights of the club, before she leapt through a nearby window, vanishing into the night.

"She hasn't been in the streets for two years," the Penguin mused, tone growing more serious. "Who knows? Maybe she got scared when you showed up."

He glanced back at the Dark Knight, his smirk returning. "Looks like the party's starting without us. You better keep your eyes open, Vengeance. The Wraith doesn't play by your rules."

When Penguin turned back to continue his taunt, he found the room empty, Batman already gone, leaving only a lingering sense of foreboding behind.

"Yep," Penguin muttered to himself, grinning. "Just like her."

────୨ৎ────

The Wraith escaped the immediate threat, but the night was far from over.

Her body was drenched in fatigue, each muscle aching from the exertion.

It was her first night back in years, and she could feel her stamina waning, her reflexes rusty.

Her breath came in ragged gasps, but before she could recover, she felt it — a gun barrel pressing against her spine.

"Hands up, Wraith," a voice growled behind her. She could hear the subtle clicks of safeties being disengaged. Five guns, by her estimate, all aimed at her.

Her chest rose and fell heavily, her heart pounding from the chase and the fight, but she raised her hands slowly behind her head, her face still hidden.

"That's right," sneered another voice, its owner stepping forward with a smug grin. "Our boss wants you alive, so he can decide how to kill you."

Her lips curled into a mocking smile beneath her mask. "No one gets to do that," she said in a low, dangerous tone. "The only question is whether I'll be wasting my prayers tonight after gutting the lot of you."

The goon with the gun barked out a harsh laugh. "Tough talk for someone surrounded. Maybe you should start prayin' now —"

Before he could finish, a low voice rumbled from the shadows, cutting through the tension like a blade. "I'd be more worried about yourself."

The goons tensed, eyes darting around the dimly lit alley.

In the space of a breath, one of them was gone — dragged into the darkness with a muffled grunt.

Panic rippled through the group, their weapons jerking toward every sound, every flicker of movement.

"Where is he?" one of them hissed, his voice laced with fear.

The Wraith, still poised with her hands raised, felt a shift in the air. 

She didn't have to look to know who was hunting them. 

Maryam slipped a hand to her waist, fingers curling around the hilt of her knives, ready to strike if anyone dared get close. 

Her eyes scanned the scene, calculating.

Then she saw him.

He emerged from the shadows like a wraith himself — an imposing figure, cloaked in darkness, his cape billowing like the night itself. His movements were fluid, almost inhuman, as if the shadows bent to his will.

A silent storm, dismantling the thugs one by one with brutal efficiency. Every punch landed with the force of a thunderclap, every strike deliberate and precise. He moved as if the world around him slowed down, while his enemies flailed helplessly in his wake.

The Wraith was transfixed, her breath catching in her throat. But she had no time to dwell on it.

"Don't let her get away!" one of the remaining goons shouted, rushing toward her with a knife drawn. His steps were clumsy, desperate, and she was ready.

In a blur of motion, she spun toward him, her smaller frame a deceptive advantage. She deflected his blade with the edge of her own, her wrist twisting expertly to disarm him.

The goon stumbled, caught off guard, and in the next heartbeat, she drove her knee into his abdomen, sending him doubling over with a gasp. Without hesitation, she brought her knife to his throat, stopping just short of cutting deep.

He wheezed, clutching his stomach and moaning in pain, but she was already gone—sidestepping his collapse with swift, precise movements, her eyes snapping toward the Dark Knight.

The Bat finished the last of the attackers with brutal efficiency, his cape swirling as the final thug fell unconscious at his feet.

For a moment, their eyes locked.

He could feel the tension radiating from her, and in the brief silence, it was as though the world around them had fallen away, leaving only the two of them standing amidst the wreckage of the fight.

But before he could react, she moved—sprinting toward the nearest wall, where an old iron ladder reached up into the night.

Vengeance's eyes narrowed.

He was quick, but she was faster.

With fluid grace, she scaled the ladder, her form disappearing toward the rooftops. Yet he was right behind her, a shadow of justice, relentless in his pursuit.

Just as she reached the top, his gloved hand closed around her arm, but the Wraith didn't hesitate.

She swung a fist at him, aiming for his face. He caught her wrist mid-air, his reflexes as sharp as ever, but she wasn't done. With a sudden, vicious move, she drove her knee where the sun didn't shine.

Batman grunted in pain, his grip loosening involuntarily as his body recoiled.

The Wraith used that moment to slip free, bolting across the rooftops like a spirit, her form darting from shadow to shadow.

Behind her, the Bat pursued, relentless, his cape sweeping through the air like dark wings unfurling.

It was a chase worthy of legend : a bat hunting a wraith, two creatures of the night locked in a relentless dance across the skyline of Gotham.

She was swift, her movements fluid and ghostly, as though the air itself parted for her.

But he was the storm, powerful and unyielding, closing the distance with each leap, each stride.

They moved like figures out of myth — Hades hunting Persephone, the hunter and the hunted locked in a dance that had no end.

Just as she thought she'd shaken him, his hand seized her again, pulling her down hard onto the rooftop. 

She gasped as she hit the ground, and before she could react, he was over her, pinning her arms above her head. His weight pressed down on her, heavy and unyielding, the dark cowl inches from her face.

"Who are you?" Batman's voice was a low growl, barely more than a whisper. His breath came in shallow bursts, his eyes burning with intensity beneath the mask. "Why are you back?"

She glared up at him, her chest rising and falling with each labored breath. "And why do you care, Vengeance?" she spat, her voice dripping with disdain. Her body tensed beneath him, every muscle coiled to strike.

"I don't care about your vendetta," he said, tightening his grip on her wrists. "But you've been off the streets for years. You don't just come back without a reason."

The Wraith let out a humorless laugh, her eyes flashing beneath her hood. "You think I owe you an explanation?" she hissed. "You're no different than the scum I fight. You think you're saving Gotham, but all you do is create more chaos."

He didn't flinch, though her words cut deeper than any blade.

Before he could muster a reply, she struck with brutal precision — a sharp, sudden headbutt that caught him completely off guard. 

The impact was swift and vicious, but she wasn't done. As he recoiled, her fist followed through with a fierce punch to his jaw, the crack of knuckles against bone echoing in the still night.

Blood spattered from his mouth, painting the rooftop.

The blow sent a shockwave of pain through his skull, and for a split second, his vision blurred. His grip slackened, just enough for her to wrench her arms free. In a flash, she flipped them, her body moving with the grace of a dancer, and now she was on top of him, pinning him to the cold stone of the rooftop.

Breathless, Maryam glared down at him, mere inches apart, her hood casting deep shadows that accentuated her fierce gaze.

"Stay out of my way, Zorro," she whispered, her tone dark and menacing as she pressed the blade against the unguarded part of his jaw—the sharpest line she had ever seen. Her voice, a chilling promise, danced like a threat carried on the wind. "Or you'll regret it."

They were both frozen for a moment, two predators sizing each other up in the moonlit expanse of Gotham's rooftops.

Neither willing to give ground.

Neither willing to let go of the chase.

The Bat stared up at her, his eyes unreadable behind the mask, though his chest rose and fell heavily beneath her weight. The Wraith's breath was labored, her body tense, but she held him in place, her grip iron-clad.

For a fleeting second, the city seemed to fall into silence around them, as if Gotham itself held its breath in anticipation. 

The wind whipped through the night, carrying the faint sounds of distant sirens, but here, in this moment, it was only them — two forces of nature locked in a battle neither fully understood.

"You're not going to win," Batman growled from beneath her, his voice rough and commanding. "Whatever you're after, it ends here."

Her lips curled into a half-smirk, eyes glinting with dark amusement as she leaned closer, pressing the blade deeper until a trickle of blood began to seep out. "You think you can stop me?" she whispered, her voice laced with sarcasm. "I don't need to win, ya omri," she added, the Arabic endearment dripping with mockery. "I just do what I want."

She was about to make her move, shifting her weight to prepare for another strike, but Batman was quicker.

In an instant, his arm shot out, grabbing her by the waist, and with a powerful twist of his body, he flipped them again.

She let out a sharp breath as she hit the rooftop, the force of his movement pinning her once more beneath him.

This time, there was no escape.

"You've made a mistake coming back," Batman said, his voice low and edged with warning. "Fish Mooney isn't the only one watching you."

The Wraith glared up at him, her chest heaving with exertion, the weight of his words pressing as heavily on her as his body. "I don't answer to Mooney anymore," she spat, voice defiant. "I answer to no one."

"You think Gotham's forgotten you?" Batman pressed, his grip on her wrists tightening again. "They remember. The city never forgets. And neither do I."

The tension between them was thick, almost suffocating so. 

For a brief moment, Batman wondered if she could see through him, see the man beneath the mask, as her eyes searched his in the dim light.

There was something about her, something familiar yet foreign, like a ghost from a past he couldn't place.

She could feel the weight of his gaze, and it unsettled her. "What do you know about me?" she asked, voice softer, though still laced with bitterness. "You don't know anything, Zorro."

Batman's jaw clenched beneath his cowl. "I know enough," he replied, his voice a whisper against the night. "You don't belong in the shadows anymore."

Suddenly, she lashed out with her leg, catching him off balance, and in that brief moment of surprise, she slipped free once more. 

Scrambling to her feet, her body moving with practiced agility, putting distance between them.

"You should stick to punching out poor criminals just trying to make ends meet and feed their families," she said, voice dripping with disdain as she assessed him with a cold gaze.

"You clearly have money," she continued, her onyx eyes sweeping over him with a scornful edge, "You don't know the hard life, and most importantly, you don't know me..." Her tone was icy as she stepped toward the edge of the rooftop, her eyes narrowing with finality. "And you never will."

Before he could react, she turned and sprinted toward the edge, leaping across the gap between buildings with a grace that defied the laws of physics.

Batman was on his feet in an instant, but she was already disappearing into the night, a fleeting shadow against the backdrop of Gotham's towering skyline.

He stood at the edge of the roof, watching her vanish into the darkness, the city stretching out below them like a living, breathing entity.

His eyes followed her until she was gone, swallowed by the shadows that seemed to cling to her like a second skin.

A wraith indeed.

For a moment, he stood frozen, the frigid night air seeping through his armor. Her words had clearly struck a nerve, leaving an imprint that lingered in the shadows of his mind.

With one last glance at the rooftop she had vanished across, he turned and melted into the night, knowing the chase was far from over.

• ya omri : Arabic term of endearment that translates to "my life" in English. It's often used to express deep affection, similar to saying "my love," "my dear," or "my sweetheart."

• идиот : Russian word that translates directly to "idiot" in English. It's used to describe someone as foolish, silly, or lacking intelligence.

✎ AN : first time we see The Wraith :) Maryam is a mysterious and complex character, but she becomes more well-known with each passing chapter. Anyway, for those who haven't connected the dots, her name is inspired by Inej Ghafa, also known as The Wraith in the Grishaverse. Don't hesitate to leave a comment !! <3