البداية همسة، والنهاية صرخة
The beginning is a whisper, the end a scream

MARYAM WAS STILL DAZED, the world around her a cacophony of panic and motion that she could barely process.

The freezing air of the parking lot behind City Hall bit into her skin, sharp and unforgiving, as if trying to snap her back to reality. Grey, clunky cars lined up like faceless sentinels, their dull metallic sheen muted further by the overcast sky.

People flooded out of the building in a chaotic tide, their hurried footsteps echoing off the asphalt. Some were running, others briskly walking, heads down, jackets pulled tight against the cold, all desperate to escape.

Her family surrounded her, their voices a frenzied blur.

"Mar, are you okay?!"
"Have you lost your mind?!"
"What happened in there?"
"Was that Bruce Wayne?!"
"That white boy is crazy!"
"Maryam, answer me! Are you even listening?!"

The questions came like an onslaught, each one louder than the last, but Maryam couldn't register a single word.

She stood there, mute, her mind a foggy labyrinth of recent events, her body swaying slightly as if the world beneath her feet had shifted off its axis.

Warda, her sister, gnawed at her nails, her other hand protectively cradling her swollen belly. Alma gripped Maryam's arm so tightly it began to hurt, her phone pressed to her ear as she barked orders or pleaded with someone Maryam couldn't identify. Sherine's questions poured out relentlessly, her freckled face a storm of worry and frustration. Rania, pacing in small, frantic circles, muttered to herself, shaking her head as if to dispel her own disbelief.

Aunt Jamila, always the caretaker, tilted Maryam's head this way and that, examining her face with clinical precision. Her hands were warm but firm, her scolding muttered in Arabic, sharp and cutting: "Stupid girl. Careless like always. What were you thinking?"

"Ya Allah, what is happening?" Aunt Meysa's voice rose in the background, her phone glued to her ear. She was practically shouting into it, probably to Uncle Fawzi, rattling off a mix of Arabic and English in a flurry of panic.

The chaos was suffocating, but it was Ryan who finally broke through. His voice, usually calm and soothing, now carried an edge of command that silenced the crowd.

"Guys, we need to get out of here—now," he said, his arms wrapped protectively around his pregnant wife, dark eyes scanning the parking lot with the sharpness of a man used to anticipating danger.

Maryam blinked, her senses snapping back into focus like a camera lens sharpening its view. She took a deep breath, steadying herself. "No," she said, her voice hoarse but determined. "I'm not going anywhere. I need—"

"Maryam!" Ryan interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Now is not the time for this. There's a bomb in there. Do you hear me? A bomb! We need to leave—all of us."

His words hit her like a bucket of ice water, clarity piercing through the haze of her shock.

The DA was inside, a bomb strapped around his neck. A psychopath was loose in Gotham, playing games with riddles and lives. She wasn't the only one in danger. Her family—her family—was here, vulnerable. That realization settled into her chest like a weight, heavy and cold.

She nodded, swallowing hard. "You're right. Let's go. We'll head to Aunt Meysa's. If that bomb goes off, it could take out the whole block."

Warda protested immediately, her voice trembling. "No, you need to go to the hospital! Look at yourself!" Her hand gestured wildly at the gash on Maryam's forehead, where blood trickled down the side of her face in crimson streaks, stark against her pale skin.

"I'm fine," Maryam insisted, though the dizziness creeping into her vision said otherwise. She barely flinched when Aunt Meysa whacked her arm with a closed umbrella.

"Leh! You are not fine!" Meysa snapped, her accent thick and sharp, slicing through the cold air like a blade. Her voice trembled, caught between anger and worry. "Look at you! You're about to faint, bleeding out like this!"

"Khalas, Amti," Maryam said softly, forcing a tired smile. "I said I'm fine. It's just a cut. I'll clean it up and put some ice on it. Nothing to worry-"

"Don't you dare finish that sentence!" Meysa interrupted, her eyes blazing with worry. "You think you're invincible? Wallahi, Maryam, I've had it with you acting like you don't need help!" She grabbed Maryam's chin, tilting her face toward the light. "You need stitches, not ice! Jamila tell her"

Aunt Jamila only shakes her head, a hand a gains her own cheek, too tired to even speak.

"Khalas, Amti," Maryam murmured, her voice soft but insistent. She gently pried her aunt's hands away and motioned toward the car. "We don't have time for this. Just get in. We need to leave before anything else happens."

"Before you collapse, you mean," Warda muttered, her hand resting protectively on her belly. "You're not convincing anyone, Maryam."

Maryam opened her mouth to argue, but Ryan stepped in, his voice low and commanding. "Everybody needs to calm down. We're wasting time. Meysa, she's stubborn—you won't win this one." He ushered Warda toward their car, his hand never leaving her back.

"I don't care about winning," Meysa huffed, still glaring at Maryam. "But mark my words—if she keels over, I won't be the one to pick her up. Let her explain herself to God!"

Maryam rolled her eyes, more out of habit than defiance, and turned to Sherine just as she grabbed her arm. "Listen," Sherine began, her voice calm but her eyes filled with concern, "Perry needs me. The team's waiting at the front of City Hall, and I've got to cover this. Don't worry—I'll be fine."

"Me too," Rania chimed in, barely pausing as she typed furiously on her phone. "Bella's expecting me, and it's important. I'll update you, okay?"

Maryam gave them both a weary nod, her chest tight with unease. "Just... be careful."

"Always am," Sherine said, blowing her a kiss before calling over her shoulder, "And I'll try not to get blown up!"

"La hawla wa la quwwata illa billah!" Aunt Meysa hissed, glaring at Sherine. "Don't joke about that!"

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry!" Sherine called back, her voice fading as she disappeared into the crowd.

Maryam climbed into the driver's seat, ignoring the relentless throbbing in her head and the sticky warmth of blood trickling down her temple. Her hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, knuckles white against the worn leather, as she stole a glance at her family in the rearview mirror.

Meysa sat rigid, her lips moving in whispered prayers, beads of worry etched deep into her brow. Beside her, Jamila leaned against the window, her face pale and drawn, tears threatening to spill over. Alma clutched her phone like a lifeline, her fingers trembling as she scrolled through what Maryam could only assume were frantic messages or news updates.

The doctor shifted her gaze to the empty parking spot outside her window, her chest tightening at the absence of Warda and Ryan's car. At least they were gone, safely on their way—she hoped. The hollow space where their car had been felt heavier than it should, a stark reminder of the chaos they were leaving behind.

"Everyone buckle up," Maryam said quietly, her voice cutting through the tense silence, steady despite the searing pain that made her vision swim. "We're getting out of here."

For a moment, no one moved, the weight of unspoken fears hanging thick in the air. Then, with a rustle of fabric and the soft click of seatbelts, her family obeyed.

Maryam exhaled slowly, her breath fogging up the windshield for a fleeting second. She turned the key in the ignition, the engine sputtering to life with a low growl. This wasn't over. Whatever horror was brewing back at City Hall would follow them in one way or another—she could feel it.

But for now, she had one job: get her family to safety.

For now, nothing else mattered but the people in her car and the faint hope that they'd be out of harm's way before the next storm hit.

────୨ৎ────

They all arrived safely to the apartment.

Maryam perched on the armrest of the couch, her arms tightly crossed over her chest, hazel eyes fixed intently on the screen. She didn't blink, barely breathed, her focus riveted to the unfolding nightmare.

Aunt Jamila shuffled in quietly, a tray of hot tea in hand, the soothing aroma of mint curling into the warmth of the living room. She set the tray on the coffee table with care, though no one reached for a cup.

Without a word, she handed Maryam a cold pack wrapped in a towel.

"Here," she said softly.

Maryam murmured her thanks, pressing the ice to her cut. A sharp sting made her wince, but the pain was easy to ignore compared to the tension tightening in her chest.

Aunt Meysa sat nearby, fingers working over her prayer beads in a constant rhythm. Click. Click. Her lips moved soundlessly, prayers spilling forth like a lifeline. Across the room, Uncle Fawzi was hunched forward in an armchair, his leg bouncing with restless energy as he muttered under his breath, glancing repeatedly between Maryam and the TV.

On the couch, Alma gnawed at her bottom lip, her phone clutched in one hand like it might deliver answers. Beside her, Warda sat with Ryan, her hand protectively resting on her growing belly. Their attention, like everyone else's, was glued to the TV.

Sherine's face filled the screen, her windblown red hair flicking against her cheeks as she held the mic with a steady hand. The scene behind her was chaos—cops, military personnel, and reporters swarmed the City Hall steps, their movement a stark contrast to her composed demeanor.

Uncle Fawzi leaned forward, waving a hand at Alma. "Put the volume up, binti! We can't hear a thing."

Alma complied without a word, turning the volume dial until Sherine's steady voice filled the room, cutting through the heavy silence.

Ryan shifted uneasily, his arm a fortress around Warda's shoulders. Her fingers curled instinctively over her growing belly, as if shielding the life within from the horrors unfolding on the screen. Aunt Meysa's whispered prayers grew faster, the rhythm of her beads clicking frantically in her hands.

Maryam barely noticed the ice pack slipping in her grasp, the cold water trailing down her arm like phantom fingers. Her hazel eyes stayed glued to the screen, unblinking, as though the pixels might rearrange into answers she couldn't find herself.

"Yes, Olivia," Sherine said, her voice cutting through the crackle of the wind. It was calm, measured, but underpinned by urgency that sent a chill through the room. She pressed her finger against the earpiece, steadying herself against the chaos around her. "I can confirm that a bomb collar is involved, though the extent of its power is still unknown. Negotiations are ongoing, but so far, Gotham PD has not issued an official statement. There is—"

Sherine broke off, her gaze shifting off-camera, lips pressing into a thin line as she listened to something in her ear.

Maryam's grip on the melting ice pack tightened, the sting of cold and the ache in her temple a distant afterthought. Half an hour ago, she and her family had been there, caught in the thick of the storm. It felt surreal, like time had folded in on itself. They had escaped—but only just. And the threat hadn't gone anywhere.

No one moved toward the tea. The cups sat forgotten on the table, their heat spiraling into the air in thin, ghostly wisps. Comfort was there, within arm's reach, but the room was too tense, too brittle for anyone to take it.

"Allah yustur," Aunt Jamila murmured, breaking the stillness, her hands clasped tightly together.

Sherine's voice came back into focus, the microphone trembling slightly in the relentless wind. "As we speak, the situation remains volatile. Crowds have been evacuated to a safe perimeter, but tension is high, and..."

She hesitated, glancing behind her at the swarming police vehicles and barricades. Her composure faltered for a brief second, and in that fleeting moment, Maryam's chest tightened.

The room was silent, save for the low hum of the television and the faint clink of Meysa's beads. It felt as though the walls themselves were holding their breath, waiting for what would come next.

Maryam didn't speak. She couldn't. Her gaze stayed locked on the screen, unblinking, as if the sheer force of her focus could pull Sherine away from the chaos. The knot of dread in her stomach tightened, coiling into something almost unbearable.

The TV feed flickered, cutting from Sherine's wind-swept figure to shaky footage from a SWAT camera. The dark, unmistakable silhouette of Vengeance moved through the room, his cape rippling like a shadow given life. No, not Vengeance. Bruce.

"He actually came," Warda murmured, her voice low but sharp, the disbelief clear as she leaned forward. Her husband, Ryan, tightened his grip around her shoulders, his jaw set like he was bracing for something inevitable.

The entire room seemed to tilt forward as if gravity had shifted. Aunt Meysa shook her head slowly, her fingers flying over her prayer beads with rhythmic precision. "Ya Rabb," she whispered, "keep us safe from this madness, and guide us from what we don't understand..." Her voice cracked slightly, but she didn't stop.

Maryam's eyes never wavered. Her jaw tightened as the camera focused on Bruce—on the deliberate way he peeled the tape from Gil Colson's mouth. The prosecutor's face was a mask of terror, his every breath shallow and labored. The screen flickered again, splitting into two: Bruce on one side, and Colson on the other, with the distorted voice of the Riddler filling the room like a sinister melody.

"...You give me the answers, and I'll give you the code for the lock..." The Riddler's words were taunting, sing-song, and dripping with sadistic delight. It was a voice that seemed to revel in the chaos it caused, every syllable a dagger meant to twist.

Alma gasped, her face illuminated by the glow of her phone. "He's live—on Instagram!" she exclaimed, shoving the screen toward Maryam, as if she could do something about it. "Look at this!"

The chat scrolled in a blur, a storm of reactions:

@cclods : OMG, he's insane!!!
@jakepplew : This guy's got no chill, fr.
@dytmq : HE'S A LEGEND.
@liabvjj : he's crazyyyyy
@gfdyy : somebody stop him helloooo ??? why isn't anyone stepping in?
@vcxz : He's literally speaking the truth; y'all can't handle it
@heljooop : best live of the decade !!!

The stream had millions of viewers, every one of them watching the madness unfold like it was some sick, dystopian reality show.

Maryam blinked, her lips pressing into a thin line as the Riddler's livestream filled her vision. Her stomach churned at the thought of how many people were not just witnessing this but engaging with it, feeding the fire.

She finally exhaled sharply, the sound cutting through the tense silence. Standing, she moved with purpose toward the kitchen, the weight of everyone's eyes trailing her.

She grabbed a glass and filled it with water, the soft trickle of the faucet almost drowning in the thrum of her own pulse. Her hand tightened around the glass, but she didn't bring it to her lips. She just stood there, staring into the water, her reflection distorted by the ripples.

Her mind raced. She could still feel the familiar sting of cold nights, the adrenaline, the darkness of Gotham's streets. As The Wraith, she had always been in the thick of it—observing, planning, acting. But here she was, removed, confined to the safety of her family's warm apartment.

It was maddening. She felt disconnected, like a thread pulled too taut, on the verge of snapping. Watching Bruce—Vengeance—on that screen, risking everything, stirred something deep inside her. A part of her itched to act, to be out there again. Another part of her hated herself for even thinking it.

In the living room, the voices of her family rose and fell, mixing with the tension of the broadcast.

Meysa prayed louder now, her voice cracking as she begged for divine intervention. Alma's eyes darted between her phone and the TV, her fingers shaking slightly. Her thumb hovered over the screen, like she was about to type something, but the words never came. She just stared at the broadcast, as if it might hold the answers.

Warda was pressed against Ryan, her fingers digging into his arm as if she could anchor herself in his calm, but there was nothing calm about the way her eyes darted from the screen to the other family members. Her face was pale, her lips drawn tight, as if she were holding her breath in a room where the air was getting thinner by the second.

Aunt Jamila, ever the commentator, bit her nails down to the quick, her eyes glued to the screen as she muttered under her breath. She occasionally shot a glance at the others, shaking her head with disbelief at the riddles, the twisted game that Riddler was playing with them all.

Uncle Fawzi, ever the grumpy presence in their family, was now unmistakably restless. He waved his hand dismissively at the screen, the gesture slow and deliberate, but it spoke volumes. The man who usually sat back, unimpressed by anything, was now on edge, his patience fraying. He was no longer the man with the answers, the one who held everything together—he was just as uncertain as the rest of them.

But Maryam just stood there, gripping the glass tightly enough that her knuckles turned white. She couldn't shake the feeling that, despite the chaos they had fled, she hadn't truly escaped. She wasn't just watching this unfold. She was still in it, whether she liked it or not.

Aunt Meysa's voice rose again, trembling with disbelief as she stared at the countdown on the screen. "What kind of sick man enjoys this? Making puzzles out of people's lives?! Ya Allah, how have we come to this?" Her beads, clutched tightly in her hands, her knuckles white, as though holding onto them might ward off the ugliness of what they were witnessing.

Maryam's phone buzzed against the counter, jolting her attention. She glanced down, the glow of the screen revealing a message from Sherine:

Riddler's insane, but he's not wrong about the corruption.... Are you seeing this???

Maryam clenched her jaw, swiping the message away without replying. Her focus snapped back to the screen just as the bomb detonated. The room went silent as the screen flashed white, followed by static crackling in an eerie aftermath.

"Astaghfirullah," Uncle Fawzi muttered, shaking his head, his hand hovering over his heart as if steadying himself. "When people lose their faith in justice, they start looking for it in the wrong places." His voice, usually a source of calm, carried an edge of unease that mirrored the expressions on the faces of everyone around her.

Riddler wasn't just playing games; he was dismantling lives.

But not just any lives—lives of power, privilege, and corruption. A small voice deep inside her stirred, a younger, angrier version of herself. That voice whispered congratulations, a twisted kind of gratitude for the reckoning he was forcing on people who had long escaped consequence. These were the same people who had thrived while others like her family had suffered, watching their hopes erode under the weight of the system's sins.

But now? Now, she wasn't so sure.

Maryam shifted uncomfortably, the conflicting emotions pressing against her chest. She wanted to feel satisfied, even justified. But the reality unfolding in front of her wasn't clean. It wasn't justice—it was chaos, and it left her feeling more hollow than vindicated.

She couldn't help but wonder—what if the Riddler was exposing a truth no one wanted to face? What if this was what justice looked like now, messy and terrifying?

Then she thought of the bomb. The flash. The deafening silence that followed.

It hit her like a wave she'd been bracing for but could never quite withstand. But most of all, It felt disgustingly familiar—like the echoes of wars she had tried so hard to bury. Wars that still crept into her dreams, twisting them into nightmares. The sound of crumbling buildings, the smell of ash, the sight of faces frozen in shock and fear—it all came rushing back, raw and relentless.

Her chest tightened, the weight of it almost unbearable. She clenched her fists at her sides, grounding herself against the rising tide of memories.

This wasn't justice. It was vengeance wearing a mask of righteousness, and it reeked of the same devastation she had spent her life trying to escape.

Aunt Meysa's prayer beads fell silent in her hands, their rhythmic clicking ceasing as if her whispered invocations had been tied to the bomb's ticking. Her lips moved soundlessly, her hands gripping the beads tightly.

The medical examiner didn't flinch, her hazel eyes glued to the television as the live feed resumed. The footage shifted to the chaos outside the city hall—SWAT officers rushing in, the scene a whirlwind of lights and movement.

Sherine's face appeared on the screen again, her voice steady despite the chaos. "We are live just outside the city hall. The bomb has just exploded—I repeat, the bomb has exploded. Authorities have cut all live feeds from inside. The Riddler's livestream has been taken down, along with all other feeds."

Maryam didn't hear the rest.

Her sister's voice faded into background noise as she absentmindedly touched the delicate pendant around her neck, her fingers tracing its outline. Her mind was elsewhere, consumed by a singular thought that made no sense, yet refused to leave her alone:

Bruce.

Was he okay? Was he hurt? ...Was he alive?

A shiver ran down her spine, a chill that no amount of logic could dispel. The man she barely understood, who had dragged her into his world of shadows, now consumed her thoughts. And for what reason? She didn't know.

Just as Maryam reached for her phone, intending to contact Gordon for any information, her screen lit up with a notification from him: MEET ME AT THE GCPD ASAP. URGENT.

Maryam's fingers moved quickly, typing a simple reply: Coming.

Without hesitation, she grabbed her long black coat draped over the back of a chair and slipped into her heels. She didn't have time to change out of her funeral clothes—her tailored, somber attire felt like a second skin now.

Aunt Meysa's voice broke the tense silence in the room, soft yet pleading. "Maryam... where are you going?"

Maryam froze momentarily at the door, her hand resting on the handle. She didn't turn around, her back to them, her shoulders stiff with the weight of the moment.

"Out," she replied, her tone firm but distant. Grabbing her bag, she added curtly, "Gordon needs me."

She didn't wait for a response. The door clicked shut behind her, cutting off their worried murmurs and the muffled sound of the TV still narrating Gotham's descent into chaos.

Outside, the cold night air hit her like a wave, sharp and unyielding.

Maryam descended the stairs quickly, her heels clicking against the pavement as she disappeared into the shadows, mind racing.

The city was unraveling, and she had no choice but to be in the thick of it.

────୨ৎ────

Chaos pulsed like a living, breathing thing, and tonight it seemed to have found its epicenter inside the GCPD station.

Maryam felt it in her bones as she entered the station, her heels clicking sharply against the linoleum floor. The air carried the sharp scent of tension, stale coffee, and a faint undercurrent of sweat.

Officer Martinez stood near the doors, his familiar mustache twitching slightly as he adjusted his belt. His stance was stiff, his usual lazy air replaced by a readiness that made Maryam's stomach tighten.

"Hey," she said, adjusting her bag on her shoulder.

"Hey," Martinez replied faintly, giving her a once-over with raised eyebrows. "You were at the funeral?"

"Yep," she said, popping the p with forced nonchalance. "So, what's so urgent?"

"The freak's down here," he muttered, gesturing for her to follow.

Maryam froze mid-step, narrowing her eyes. "What do you mean, 'the freak'?" Her tone was sharp, though she already suspected the answer.

"You'll see for yourself." Martinez didn't elaborate, leading her down a flight of stairs into the precinct's basement. The air grew colder with each step, the sterile, fluorescent lighting casting long shadows against the walls.

As they approached the interrogation room, a low hum of voices filtered through the heavy steel door.  Martinez opened it without a word, and the scene inside hit her like a brick.

A cluster of officers surrounded a long table, their postures varying between hostility and wariness. At the center of it all was the unmistakable figure of Vengeance.

He lay motionless, his armored frame still intimidating even under the harsh light. The bat ears of his cowl caught the glow of the overhead bulbs, but the mask was still intact, shrouding his identity.

The air in the room buzzed with tension, officers exchanging wary glances and hushed whispers that darted like shadows. A charged, uneasy energy filled the space, as if the very walls were holding their breath.

Maryam weaved through the sea of blue uniforms, her heels clicking against the linoleum as she approached Gordon, her pulse quickening with every step. Grabbing his arm, she hissed, "Gordon, what the hell is this?" Her voice was low, sharp, though her wide, searching eyes betrayed her unease.

Gordon turned to her, his expression grim, his eyes flicking toward the table where the Bat lay still, his imposing figure reduced to vulnerability. "Ah, good. You're finally here," he said, voice tinged with relief. "I need you to check on him."

Her gaze snapped to the unmoving form, then back to Gordon. "So... he's alive?" she asked, her voice a notch softer, almost tentative. Her fingers fidgeted with the strap of her bag, the chill from outside still clinging to her skin.

"I hope so," Gordon muttered, running a hand over his face. "That's why you're here, kid."

She hesitated, her throat tightening. "I'm not the right doctor for this."

"Maybe not," he admitted, leaning in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "But you're the only one I trust right now."

Behind them, the cluster of officers grew louder, their agitation bubbling into sharp-edged murmurs. Gordon's jaw tightened. "Come on," he said, gripping her arm as they pushed through the throng.

When they reached the table, Maryam stopped short, staring down at him—Bruce, she reminded herself, though his armor, his mask, everything about him screamed Vengeance. The blood smearing his cape, the shallow rise and fall of his chest, made the sight all the more jarring.

She glanced at Gordon, her hesitation dissolving under his steady gaze. There was no need for words. She nodded once, her determination settling like a weight in her chest.

From her bag, she pulled out a small bottle of rubbing alcohol and doused her hands, the smell sharp and sterile. She wasn't dressed for this, wasn't prepared for this, and yet here she was. For him. For Bruce.

"Give her space!" Gordon barked, his voice slicing through the tension in the room like a knife. The officers reluctantly stepped back, their muttering fading to a low hum.

Maryam took a breath, the cool air of the basement chilling her lungs. Her hands hovered over him for a moment before she pressed her fingers to his clothed neck, searching for a pulse. As she worked, the room seemed to blur around her.

All that mattered now was this man.

Her brain worked in overdrive.

Hours ago, she'd learned the truth behind the mask. Now, she was the one keeping him tethered to life.

The tension in the room was suffocating as Maryam slung her bag over her shoulder, her sharp eyes taking in the scene. His suit was scuffed and torn, battle-worn, but it wasn't the visible injuries that worried her—it was the ones she couldn't see, hidden beneath the armor and the stoic stillness of his body.

The officers circled like restless wolves, their collective hostility thick in the air. One of them, a burly man with a permanent scowl etched into his face, folded his arms and muttered, "Why're we letting her handle this? We should just take off the damn mask and be done with it."

Maryam didn't flinch, didn't even look up. She stepped closer to Bruce's still form, her movements deliberate. With a click, the flashlight on her phone flared to life, casting a cold, white glow over his battered face. She leaned in, checking his pupils, her hand steady despite the crackling tension around her.

The officers craned their necks, peering over her shoulder. "Who do you think is under there?" one of them asked, his curiosity thinly veiled under a layer of skepticism.

Maryam kept her focus razor-sharp, her voice cool and detached as she said, "Take it easy." Beside her, Gordon cut in with a firmer, "Back off, all of you."

"I wanna see," the burly officer scoffed, his impatience flaring. He stepped forward, reaching for the mask, but Gordon intercepted him with a sharp shove. "Don't even think about it," the lieutenant warned, his tone like steel.

Maryam sighed, her breath misting in the cold basement air. "He's breathing steadily. No signs of a concussion so far," she murmured, her words measured but firm. "But I need more time to—"

"Time?" The burly officer's voice cut through hers like a blade. "This is a waste of it. He's just some vigilante. Not a hero. Take off the mask—what's he gonna do, stop us?"

That was it.

Maryam snapped.

Without looking up from her task, she spat, her tone ice-cold, "Touch him, and I'll break your filthy fingers."

The room froze. The burly officer's face flushed with anger, his mouth opening for a retort, but another voice cut in before he could speak. "What's he got on his eyes?" someone asked, his curiosity tinged with suspicion.

"Who cares?" another younger officer hissed. "I wanna see his face."

Maryam ignored the growing noise, her world narrowing to the flashlight beam and the faint movement of Bruce's chest. His pupils responded sluggishly to the light, their gray-blue depths striking even in their dulled state. She frowned, her mind calculating the possibilities—shock, exhaustion, blood loss—but her face remained impassive.

She could feel the hostility swirling around her, but she didn't let it touch her. She worked with the precision of someone used to chaos, her hands steady as the storm of egos and suspicions raged behind her.

This wasn't about them. It wasn't even about her. It was about him.

In this moment, the man under the mask was hers to protect, and she'd be damned if she let anyone compromise that.

The room was a powder keg, and the burly officer struck the match.

"What are we even doing here?" the officer grumbled, his impatience evident as he leaned over the unconscious Batman. "Let's just take it off."

Before anyone could stop him, his hand reached for the edge of the mask, fingers brushing the cowl.

Maryam stiffened, her hand halting mid-motion. Gordon's voice cut through the air like a crack of thunder. "Don't—"

But it was already too late.

In a heartbeat, the Bat came alive, shooting up from the table like a coiled spring. His eyes snapped open—sharp, wild, electric with fury. The room erupted into chaos.

With an almost inhuman fluidity, he was off the table and on his feet, dropping instinctively into a fighting stance.

Maryam's heart jolted as her phone slipped from her hand in the commotion, the sharp crack of its screen shattering against the linoleum floor barely registering over the chaos around her.

"HEY—RELAX, GODDAMMIT!" Gordon bellowed, rushing to position himself between the towering vigilante and the startled officers. The burly man stumbled back, his bravado giving way to wide-eyed panic.

"You're protecting this guy, Jim?" Chief Mackenzie spat, his tone laced with disdain. "This freak interfered in a hostage situation. Colson's blood is on his hands."

Maryam rose from her crouched position, retrieving her fractured phone, her unease growing as the verbal sparring escalated.

"Maybe it's on yours," the Bat growled, his voice low and lethal, a rasp that cut through the air like the scrape of a blade.

"What'd you say?" the chief snapped, stepping forward, his voice dripping with challenge.

The Bat didn't even blink, his steely gaze drilling into the cop. "He'd rather die than talk," Batman said, his voice cold and steady, every word dripping with accusation. "What was he so afraid of? You?"

The tension was electric, unspoken threats coiling in the silence. Chief Mackenzie stepped forward until their faces were inches apart, his voice low and venomous. "You son of a bitch. Do you know the kind of trouble you're in? You could be an accessory to murder."

Before the charge could detonate further, the same burly officer made another attempt at the mask, lunging from behind. Batman moved like a shadow given form, twisting effortlessly and shoving the officer back with a force that sent him crashing into the wall with a heavy thud.

Another officer surged forward, but Batman sidestepped him with a precision born of instinct, flipping him onto the table with a resounding crash. Papers and coffee cups scattered, the room descending into bedlam once more. Maryam was jostled in the melee, but she planted her feet, refusing to be pushed aside.

"BACK OFF! BACK OFF!" Gordon shouted, his voice commanding but desperate as he wrestled two officers away from the towering vigilante.

Mackenzie glared at Batman, his anger boiling over. "Right now, I've got you on assaulting an officer."

Batman's voice dropped into a growl, the barest hint of a smirk in his tone. "You've got me on assaulting three." He took a deliberate step forward, his presence oppressive, as if the room itself was bending to accommodate him.

But Gordon had had enough. He surged forward, slamming Batman back against the wall with a force that echoed through the room.

"HEY!" Gordon's finger jabbed toward the Bat's chest, his voice sharp and biting. "What's the matter with you huh?! This isn't the way to do this!"

The two men stared each other down, the chaos around them momentarily stilled. Maryam, clutching her broken phone, watched with bated breath, her pulse pounding in her ears. The night was unraveling faster than anyone could catch it.

The Bat's piercing gaze locked onto Gordon, cold and detached. His voice came low and measured, a blade wrapped in shadow. "You too now?"

Gordon didn't flinch, his finger still poised, the weight of his frustration clear in his stance. He kept his eyes trained on Batman, his tone clipped but resolute. "Let me handle this, Chief."

Chief Mackenzie crossed his arms, his sneer practically audible. "You're seriously gonna put yourself on the line for this scumbag, Jim?"

"I'll get him to cooperate," Gordon replied, unyielding. "Just give me a minute."

The room fell into a tense silence, every officer waiting for the Chief's call.

Finally, with a begrudging grunt, Mackenzie relented. "Ok. One minute. Clear the room."

A wave of discontent rippled through the officers as they exchanged glances and grumbled their protests, but none dared challenge the order.

Slowly, the room began to empty.

Gordon eased his elbow off the Bat's chest, stepping back. His voice dropped, steady but firm, as he spoke over his shoulder. "Doc, you stay. Keep checking him for injuries."

Maryam, who had instinctively moved toward the door with the others, paused mid-step. She turned, nodding silently, her lips pressed into a thin line. She clutched her bag tightly as she moved back toward the table, nerves coiled tight.

The last officer shut the door with a heavy click, leaving just the three of them in the room. Through the glass, every officer who had been forced to leave now stood watching, their eyes glued to the scene like vultures circling prey.

Maryam stole a quick glance at the throng beyond the glass, their scrutiny suffocating, then turned her focus back to the towering figure of the Bat.

His broad frame loomed like a statue carved from fury, yet his breathing was shallow, controlled. He hadn't moved a muscle, his presence filling the room as if he were still the only one in it.

Inside, the room felt oppressively still, the hum of the fluorescent lights amplifying the tension.

The medical examiner set her bag on the table, the crack on her phone screen glinting under the harsh glare. Gordon adjusted his coat with a sigh, the sound heavy with frustration and resolve.

"Alright," he said, his tone measured but commanding. "We need to talk. Maryam, keep going." He gestured toward Batman.

The Bat stirred slightly. "I don't need—"

"Shut up and let me work," Maryam interjected, her voice sharp as a scalpel. She placed her phone carefully on the table beside them and pulled on a pair of gloves.

The silent onlookers behind the glass loomed like an audience in a theater. Gordon, sensing the need for a show, suddenly slammed his hand on the table. The sound cracked through the air, startling even Maryam.

"Now you listen to me!" Gordon snapped, stepping closer to Batman with a pointed finger. But his voice dipped lower as he leaned in. "We need to get you out of here."

Maryam huffed, her breath fogging slightly in the cold air. She grasped Batman's gloved hand, turning it over with clinical precision. "If you don't stay still, this'll take longer," she muttered, her fingers brushing over the armor.

The suit made it almost impossible to see any real damage, but she kept her hands busy for the sake of appearances.

Batman's voice was quiet, yet it carried a weight that filled the room. "They'll put a lot of heat on you."

"Punch me," Gordon whispered, shaking his head slightly. "Make it look real."

Batman tilted his head, a flicker of dry amusement breaking through his stoicism. "Huh."

Maryam snorted softly, pressing her fingers near his ribs as if she could feel for injuries through the thick armor. "You two are ridiculous."

Gordon discreetly pressed a small key into Batman's hand, leaning close enough that it seemed like a continuation of his supposed reprimand. "Take this. Go through that door, head for the stairs to the roof."

Batman's gaze shifted subtly to the door, narrowing when he spotted a familiar figure in the crowd of officers behind the glass. "Who's the mustache?" he murmured, barely moving his lips.

Gordon followed his line of sight. "Kenzie, narcotics."

"He's one of the guys I got into it with at the Iceberg Lounge," Batman said evenly.

Gordon frowned. "What are you saying? Kenzie moonlights for Penguin?"

"Wouldn't be surprising," Maryam added, crossing her arms as she stepped back.

"Or," Batman said with a sharp edge to his voice, "he moonlights as a cop."

Kenzie's face shifted when he noticed Batman staring, his discomfort visible even through the glass. Maryam tensed as she saw the realization click in Batman's eyes.

Without warning, Batman turned, his fist connecting with Gordon's jaw. The lieutenant went down hard, groaning in exaggerated pain.

"Oh my—" Maryam yelped, stumbling back as chaos erupted around her.

Batman bolted for the stairwell, his cape swirling behind him like a shadow swallowing the light.

"Stop him!" one of the officers shouted, and the hallway filled with the sound of pounding boots as the cops surged after him.

Maryam crouched to help Gordon up, her hand on his shoulder. "You okay?"

Gordon winced but gave a faint smirk. "He didn't pull that punch, did he?"

She shook her head, raising an arched brow. "You said to make it look real."

────୨ৎ────

       Night had fallen by the time Maryam returned home after bidding Gordon goodbye.

Vengeance—or rather, Bruce—had vanished, according to Martinez. Apparently, he had leapt off the roof with his wings.

The doctor didn't press for more details; she was too drained to even try to make sense of it. Her feet throbbed from the unforgiving high heels she'd been trapped in since the early hours of the morning.

Every step sent a fresh wave of discomfort shooting up her legs, but she forced herself to keep moving. Tomorrow would bring another relentless day of work, another endless stretch of tasks to bury herself in.

She needed sleep. Or at least she needed to try.

But the weight of the day, of everything still pressing on her mind, made even the thought of rest seem out of reach.

All she knew right now was that Gotham was a crucible of madness, where reason bent and fractured under its weight. She didn't want to waste energy unraveling the absurdity.

Her thoughts were a tangle of fog, heavy with the strain of Gotham's relentless turmoil. It was as if her mind was drowning in the city's madness, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't rise above it.

But then, as she stepped through the door of her apartment building, the familiar scent of sandalwood and aged wood greeted her. It was a sharp contrast to the chaos outside, cutting through the haze that had clouded her mind. For a fleeting moment, Maryam allowed herself to breathe, to exist outside the suffocating grip of the madness that had defined her day.

She barely had to glance around before spotting a familiar figure—one that was anything but unwelcome. No, this presence was a balm for her frayed nerves, a quiet anchor in the storm. A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips, one that had already begun to form without her even realizing.

Ahmed's presence was like the steady hum of a lullaby, a soothing melody that softened the sharp edges of the world. His skin, kissed by the sun of Senegal, had deepened over the years, carrying the warmth of distant shores. His once-full Afro had long since faded to a gentle silver, now framed by the quiet wisdom of age. His face, etched with time, spoke of stories he'd lived and places he'd seen, yet his eyes—soft and kind—held an unspoken peace, a warmth that wrapped itself around her, like a familiar embrace.

Dressed in a flowing khamis, the fabric rippling as he moved, he was the kind of man who felt like home, like an old song sung in a language only the heart understands. A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he caught sight of her, and in that moment, she was transported back to the days when life felt simpler, when the world outside her doorstep wasn't quite as heavy.

He was a familiar sight, reminding her of Uncle Fawzi on his way to the mosque, of family, of home, of the kind of love that is rooted in tradition and unconditional care.

Being near him was like stepping back into the warmth of her childhood, a warmth that, no matter how far she traveled, would always call her home.

He stood by the mailbox, moving through his mail with the deliberate calm of someone who understood that the weight of life wasn't always found in its grand moments, but in the quiet ones that slipped by unnoticed. The soft scent of sandalwood clung to him, blending with the musty, weathered air of the old building—a strange pairing, yet one that somehow fit perfectly.

Ahmed lived just a few floors above, and his family had always been a part of her life in ways that felt like second nature. His daughters, Khair and Fatima, were like cousins growing up, always running around her aunt's house, causing their own kind of chaos. His wife's bakery—those warm, golden loaves of bread—had been a quiet staple in the neighborhood, the scent of it drifting down the street on crisp mornings. People would line up at the door, drawn in by the comfort of something simple and real.

He looked up from his mail as she approached, his face softening into a smile that always seemed to make the day feel a little lighter. "Salaam," she said softly, the tension in her shoulders loosening just a little.

"Wa alaikum as-salam, my dear." He answered with that same steady warmth. His voice was full, rich—like someone who truly cared about how you were doing. "How's life treating you today?" he asked, pausing as if whatever was in that letter didn't matter much at all in comparison.

"I'm managing," she admitted, her heart tugged by his gentle concern. "Just a bit tired." She offered a small smile, letting herself rest in the comfort of his presence. "Are you off to the mosque?"

He nodded, a thoughtful light in his eyes. "Yes, it's time for prayer. There's peace there, you know," he said, tucking his mail away, leaving his hands open, unburdened.

She sighed, juggling her grocery bag as she sifted through the contents of her own mailbox, her fingers brushing against a pile of bills and junk. "I could definitely use some of that peace," she murmured, more to herself than him.

He rested a hand on her shoulder, his touch warm and steady. "You don't come around much anymore," he said softly, his voice carrying no judgment—just a quiet, familiar observation. "I remember when you were just a little one, barely speaking English. You were always there, every day. Running around the mosque with your siblings and cousins. You were so proud of having memorized the whole Quran." He smiled at the memory, the corners of his eyes crinkling with affection.

A half-hearted smile tugged at her lips. "I know... I just can't seem to find the time these days."

The excuse sounded hollow, even to her.

Back in her hardest days—when she was juggling school and work under Fish's shadow—she'd still made time. Now, though, it felt like that part of her life had slipped away, leaving only an ache she didn't know how to fill.

Faith had always held a place in her heart, as natural as breathing.

It had woven through her childhood like a cherished thread, linking her to her roots, her family, and her people. She remembered her father's quiet prayers, his rhythmic voice soothing her even as a child, her own giggles mixing with her siblings' as they climbed over him while he prayed, the Quran playing in the background, filling their home with a warmth as familiar as the worn rugs beneath her feet.

She missed hearing the call to prayer echo through the streets, that gentle reminder floating through the neighborhood and settling into the spaces of their lives, drawing everyone close in spirit.

Those echoes were now only memories, softened and blurred, reminders of a time when faith had been woven through her life so seamlessly, so effortlessly.

But as she grew, the gentle simplicity of those days unraveled. Life had a way of twisting memories into something both treasured and lost. Tragedy followed her like a shadow, stealing the laughter and replacing it with silence, the kind that seeped into her heart and stayed.

The world outside chipped away at her faith, each hardship a blow to the comfort that had once been unshakeable. Her people's suffering, the losses she witnessed, carved themselves into her very soul.

The songs of hope she'd once heard as a child had been drowned by cries of despair, leaving only an echo of something she once knew.

It wasn't the faith that had changed. It was her.

Her belief still stirred quietly within her, a flickering light. She hadn't let go completely; she still found herself murmuring familiar prayers, reading verses from the Quran. But it was different now, tinged with doubt and a longing she couldn't fully explain. She missed the purity of her younger days, the untested faith that hadn't yet known hardship.

Ahmed's hand stayed on her shoulder, grounding her, as if sensing the depths she'd fallen into. "Maryam," he said, pulling her back, his eyes soft with understanding. "Faith isn't about never doubting. It's about turning back, even when it's hard. Even when we feel lost."

His words reached into her, breaking through the walls she'd built. "Sometimes... it feels like I can't go back. Like I've drifted too far."

Ahmed nodded, his face softening. "It isn't a straight line. There's no shame in feeling lost. Even when you feel far away, you're closer than you think."

Something in his voice eased the ache in her chest, as if granting her permission to take her time, to not have all the answers. To accept that finding her way back didn't have to be perfect; it just had to be hers.

"You're always welcome," he said, his voice as warm as the hand on her shoulder. "The mosque doors are always open. And remember, no matter how far you feel, Allah is closer than you know."

A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it.

It had been so long since she'd let herself feel this vulnerable, and something in Ahmed's kindness broke through her defenses.

"Thank you," she whispered, her hand briefly brushing his, grounding her for just a moment.

He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze, his smile steady and comforting. "Sometimes, we all need a reminder. The path back is always open. Fi amanillah," he added softly, leaving her with a blessing that felt like a gentle shield.

She watched him walk away, his words hanging in the air, like a soft light cutting through the shadows. She stood there for a moment, letting the weight of them settle.

Then, taking a deep breath, she locked her mailbox and climbed the stairs, each step feeling a little lighter.

That night, as she stepped into her apartment, she went straight to the corner beneath her bed where a pink velvet box lay hidden—her secret treasure chest of memories. Inside were the fragile remnants of her past: photographs that carried echoes of generations long gone, some from her mother's side, dating back centuries, and others from her father's, still fresh yet too precious to be displayed in the open air of her small living room. These were the pieces of her family she wanted to keep shielded from the harshness of the world, tucked away from the prying eyes of reality.

She carefully laid her family's brooch back into its place in one of the smaller boxes. Her delicate fingers lingered, tracing the edges of the old trinkets. Then, as if led by some quiet instinct, she sifted through the memories, her heart quickening until she found it—the knight figurine that Bruce had left behind two decades ago. It was small, worn by time but still familiar, a relic of a past neither of them could escape.

She held it in her hands, watching the dim light cast soft shadows across its intricate details. For a moment, the world outside seemed to vanish as she gazed at it, lost in a memory she wasn't quite ready to let go of.

She took a deep breath, closed the box, and slid it back into its hiding place beneath the bed. After a quick shower and slipping into her pajamas, she crawled into bed, the cool sheets wrapping around her. She placed the knight figurine on the small table beside her, where it stood quietly in the dim light, watching over her.

Its presence was both a comfort and a silent reminder of the past—everything she couldn't seem to forget, no matter how hard she tried.

And Bruce, with all his shadows and unspoken words, was the constant echo of it all. The memories tied to him lingered, never fading, always just out of reach but never truly gone.

A/N : new chapter !!!! currently writing the next. Sorry for the delay :)

[ TRANSLATIONS ]
• "Leh" : no

• "Wallahi" : I swear to God [It is an Arabic expression often used to emphasize the truthfulness of a statement, convey sincerity, or make a solemn promise. it can range from serious to casual, even playful, in daily conversations.]

• "La hawla wa la quwwata illa billah!" : There is no power and no strength except through Allah [ Meysa is using it as a mix of exasperation and resignation ]

• "Fi amanillah" : In the protection of Allah [ heartfelt phrase often used as a way to bid someone farewell, wishing them safety and divine care. It carries a sense of trust and reliance on God to watch over the person as they depart.]

• "Astaghfirullah" : I seek forgiveness from Allah. [ someone wants to repent for something wrong they did, or even when they hear or see something upsetting, inappropriate, or shocking. Casually, it can also be an automatic reaction, like saying, "Oh no!" or "I can't believe that happened!"]