الأرواح الضائعة ترقص في عبير هلاكها
Lost souls dance in the scent of their undoing

          TWO NAKED BODIES tossed carelessly into the heart of Gotham's Robinson Park wasn't just a call to action—it was an omen. And this wasn't exactly how Dr. Ben Halimi wanted to start her day, but Gotham rarely asked permission to unleash its horrors.

After the chaos at the GCPD, Maryam returned to her apartment. You might assume she slept, exhausted from the night's events—but you'd be wrong. Sleep was never her refuge—or maybe that was a lie. Truthfully, she loved sleep, craved it even. But when something gnawed at her mind, pulling her into restless spirals, she couldn't find peace until she dug into the answers.

And so, as always, she spent the night cloaked in the dim light of her room, shifting between her laptop and phone, diving deeper into the enigma that was Bruce Thomas Wayne

Wayne.

A name that resonated through Gotham like the toll of a cathedral bell.

The heir of Doctor Thomas Wayne, a man remembered as a surgeon who chose the operating table over the corporate desk, even while being CEO of one of the world's most powerful companies.

A socialist at heart, Thomas Wayne had been admired for his tireless dedication to saving lives at Gotham General and his brief, charismatic foray into politics as a mayoral candidate.

He was everything a billionaire wasn't supposed to be: progressive, empathetic, and tirelessly private.

The city loved him—or so the articles said.

Martha Wayne, on the other hand, was a more elusive figure.

To the public, she was a vision of grace—a devoted wife, a loving mother, and a pillar of Gotham's elite.

Always impeccably dressed, always adorned with that signature pearl necklace that Maryam had envied as a child. Yet to Maryam, something about Martha didn't fit. There were missing pieces in the picture-perfect image.

Her past was a haze—blank years following her elite education, likely spent traveling the world like so many of the wealthy, but nothing was ever explicitly documented. Martha's warm, reserved smile haunted Maryam, the same soft expression Bruce would sometimes wore—a flicker of humanity beneath the steel exterior.

Sometimes, if he wasn't busy saving lives or navigating Gotham's tangled politics, Thomas Wayne would join them on their Thursday subway rides.

Maryam could still picture it clearly—his protective arm wrapped around Martha, a quiet gesture of devotion, while young Bruce nestled close to his mother's side.

They were the embodiment of an unattainable dream: Gotham's royal family, untouchable and untarnished. And then, the dream shattered.

Now, that shy, bright-eyed boy was gone.

Bruce Wayne had become a man defined by shadows, vengeance personified. The Bat. Zorro.

His mystique fascinated the city—and Maryam. Despite his status as CEO of Wayne Enterprises, he shunned the public eye. No interviews, no socials, no speeches. Even the Gotham Renewal Fund, his father's vision for a better city, had been left to rot under the control of the mob.

Did he know? Did he care? Or was he too consumed by his crusade to notice?

Maryam didn't have the answers. What she did know was that Bruce Wayne was a puzzle with more layers than she could count.

A man born into unimaginable privilege who had chosen pain and rage over luxury.

A man who broke criminals in the street with his bare hands, fueled by the same grief that had made him.

And the worst part of it all was that she understood Bruce—perhaps too well. Yet, at the same time, she didn't. It was strange, really. She could see the fury carved into his soul, the jagged edges of his grief that had shaped him into something both terrifying and irresistible.

He was a labyrinth of contradictions, a puzzle she couldn't solve. It was maddening, really—how someone could feel so familiar and yet remain a complete mystery?

At first, she'd resented him.

Here was a man who had everything—wealth, power, the kind of privilege most could only dream of—and yet he chose to throw himself into the chaos of Gotham's streets, breaking bones and battling those ensnared in the mob's vicious cycle. People who were just trying to survive, to feed their families, to endure.

Why?

And then the answer had come to her slowly, unsettling and sharp.

Bruce Wayne was still teetering on the edge of his own rage and pain, a man consumed by the very thing that broke him. He wasn't a hero—not yet. No, his fight wasn't for justice; it was for something deeply personal, raw, and unforgiving.

Everything about him—his mask, his methods, his violence—reeked of unresolved grief.

It was brutal.

It was ugly.

And it was devoid of hope.

That was where they diverged. For all her struggles, for all the darkness she'd walked through, Maryam had never lost hope. It was the one thing she clung to, no matter how cruel the world became. But Bruce? His hope had died the same day his parents did, their blood pooling at his feet.

Her fingers hovered over the photo of him as a child, dressed in black at their funeral. His wide, innocent eyes had been replaced by a cold, unflinching stare—the look of a boy who'd learned too early that the world could take everything from you in an instant.

Once, Maryam had envied him. She'd hated him for his name, his money, his place above it all while she fought to claw her way through the depths of Gotham. But now? Now, all she felt was something far more complicated.

Empathy, laced with the bitter edge of resentment. A recognition of the pain that drove him—and a quiet fury at how he let it define him.

Bruce Wayne was a contradiction—a man of immense power who wielded it not in boardrooms but in darkened alleyways.

And yet, for all his mystery, Maryam couldn't look away.

She wanted to unravel him, piece by piece, to understand the pain and purpose that drove him.

He was fascinating. Dangerous. And she couldn't stop herself from wanting more.

That was how she spent the night—lost in the endless labyrinth of his history, scrolling through decades of Wayne legacy and tragedy. Piece by piece, she tried to assemble the enigma of him. His world was untouchable, vast and glittering, yet burdened with ghosts that refused to stay silent.

Now, in the brittle light of morning, the world outside felt just as unforgiving. The sharp chill of the air bit through her coat, slicing through layers as if they weren't there at all. It clung to her skin like a second, colder layer, wrapping icy fingers around her as she moved through Robinson Park. Her breath hung in the steel-gray sky, a faint and fleeting ghost.

The call had come an hour earlier from Harvey Bullock—gruff and impatient as always, his voice thick with an edge that even his years of cynicism couldn't dull.

"Two female bodies. Robinson Park. You'd better see this yourself."

That was all he'd said. That was all she needed.

Gotham had a way of pulling her into its shadows before the sun even had a chance to rise.

The doctor arrived to find the scene buzzing with muted chaos.

Crime scene technicians in white Tyvek suits moved like ghosts across the damp grass, their cameras flashing in eerie rhythm. Police tape flapped in the wind, a bright yellow wound cutting through the park's earthy greens and browns.

Officers held back a crowd of onlookers—early joggers, dog walkers, and curious passersby—whose whispers hung in the air like the park's morning mist. Maryam pushed through the throng, heart steeled but her mind racing.

The bodies lay near the grand lake, their placement deliberate, like a grotesque tableau meant for an audience. The women— no teenagers, were sprawled on their backs, arms outstretched as if in surrender. Their hair fanned out around their heads like dark halos—one golden, the other deep brown, stark against the frost-kissed grass.

But it was the skin and the shape of the bodies, that stole Maryam's breath—a pale, minty blue, like porcelain abandoned in winter's grip. They were so unnervingly devoid of fat. The skin clung tightly to their muscles, their bones, as if the fat had been taken from them, deliberately stripped away. It wasn't the deathly pallor she was accustomed to; it was too distinct, too intentional.

And she recognized it immediately.

Fiona Harrison—discovered just five days ago beneath Gotham Bridge—had been the same color, body marked by the same chilling, eerie artistry.

Maryam straightened, pulling her coat tighter against the morning air that gnawed at her bones.

"Do we know their names?" she asked one of the crime scene technicians, her voice low but firm, cutting through the murmurs of the team.

"Not yet," the tech replied, shaking his head. "We haven't found any personal belongings. No IDs, nothing to tell us who they are."

Maryam nodded, her mind already cataloging the details she could glean from their physical state. The scene offered no answers, only silence and questions she was determined to chase down.

She knelt beside the bodies, the cold grass seeping through her slacks, anchoring her to the moment. Pulling on a pair of gloves, the snap of latex echoed like a surgeon preparing for a grim operation. Her hands moved with practiced precision, parting hair, checking for bruises, eyes scanning every inch of the women's exposed flesh.

She began her examination methodically, letting the clinical part of her mind shield her from the horror of the scene.

To untrained eyes, the women appeared serene, almost ethereal—untouched by the violence that had claimed them.

Their porcelain skin was untouched by blood, unmarred by jagged wounds. The pale, chilling minty blue of their flesh, and the absence of fat beneath the skin, made them appear more like skeletons than living beings. It was that eerie hue, more than anything, that hinted at the unnaturalness of their deaths.

But to Maryam's practiced gaze, it was too perfect. And in perfection, she knew, lay the greatest deception. Her eyes, honed by years of parsing the fine details of death, began to unearth the truth beneath the facade.

The women had been positioned symmetrically, as though arranged by an artist. Their hair, blonde and brunette, fanned out like delicate halos against the frost-covered grass. Their eyes, wide open, stared blankly into the sky, as if bearing witness to the world's indifference.

The blonde, mid-twenties, bore faint ligature marks around her wrists and ankles. The skin had broken in places where the bonds had bitten too deeply.

Her forearms were pristine except for the cuts—tiny, deliberate five-pointed stars carved just above each wrist. They were shallow but exact, as if traced with a blade by someone with a surgeon's steadiness. There was no sign of blood, no jagged edges, just clean incisions meant to leave an unspoiled design.

The brunette was younger, barely more than a teenager.

She lay in the same eerie symmetry as her counterpart, her dark hair spread like ink on the pale grass. The same ligature marks marred her wrists and ankles, and the same stars adorned her skin. But there was more—faint bruising circled her slender neck, a ghostly reminder of strangulation.

Maryam frowned. This wasn't the chaotic violence of rage or desperation. It was methodical. Precise. A story written in flesh, yet one that refused to offer its meaning so easily.

Her hands hovered over the stars, studying them closely. The edges were unnaturally smooth, almost waxy and again, the faint scent of perfume—a cloying blend of lavender and some darker floral note—lingered near the cuts.

"Perfume," she muttered to herself, her voice low but steady. It wasn't just a symbol; it was a calling card. The designs were identical between both victims, their placement intentional.

And then there was the skin. That impossible, minty hue. It wasn't just cold or lifeless—it was deliberate, as if death alone hadn't been enough for the killer. Maryam noted its consistency, how it extended uniformly across their bodies. It struck her like an unfinished question.

Everything was too perfect, too smooth, save for the calculated marks at their wrists and the unnatural tint of their flesh. Even death itself had been made to appear as art.

Her mind worked like clockwork, cataloging details, piecing together the clues that felt less like evidence and more like whispers from the dead. These bodies weren't just victims. They were statements. Messages left in a language Maryam was only beginning to decipher.

Behind her, Harvey Bullock's heavy footsteps crunched against the frost-hardened grass, each step weighted with the unspoken dread that lingered in the park. "So? What are we dealing with, Doc?" he asked, his voice rough, a rasp carved from years of cheap whiskey and cigars. True to form, a half-smoked cigar hung loosely from the corner of his mouth, its ember glowing faintly in the icy air. "The Riddler again?"

Maryam straightened, her eyes still fixed on the unnerving tableau before her. "No," she said quietly, her voice steady. "I don't think so." Brushing a strand of dark hair away from her face, she added with a faint edge of dry humor, "There's no riddle card lying around, for one."

Turning slightly, she cast Bullock a measured look. "Do they seem familiar to you?" she asked, her gloved hands now examining the victims' nails, searching for traces of a struggle or any lingering debris that might tell a story.

"Nah," Bullock replied, shifting uncomfortably.

"Then they're not anyone known in Gotham's usual circles," she concluded, her gaze returning to the bodies. "The Riddler's victims are typically people of importance. Corrupt officials, influential figures—people who fit into his twisted moral framework." Her brow furrowed, and the cold air kissed her high cheekbones, adding a faint flush to her skin. "Unless these two are mobsters' daughters or mistresses, I doubt it's him. And even then, this doesn't match his style."

Bullock grunted, lighting his cigar with a flick of his lighter. "I don't know if that's supposed to be comforting," he muttered, watching as the forensic team draped the bodies with white sheets, shielding them from the curious stares of onlookers.

Maryam crossed her arms, the latex gloves squeaking faintly. "The only thing I know for certain is that this isn't random. Four days ago, Fiona Harrison turned up under Gotham Bridge with the same discoloration. No stars on her body, but the skin? The same exact hue."

She held up her gloved hand, faintly gleaming with residue from the bodies. "It's deliberate, Harvey. This isn't just about killing. This is about crafting something."

Bullock's brow furrowed, his jaw tightening. "Crafting what?"

She turned to face him fully, her hazel eyes sharp, glinting like shards of glass in the morning's dim light. "That's the question, isn't it? But this isn't simple murder. This is ritual." Her voice dropped a fraction, heavier now with meaning. "And they're not done yet."

Pulling off her gloves with a precise snap, she tucked them into her pocket. "I need to get them to the lab. There's only so much I can see out here."

"Any drops?" Bullock asks, exhaling a puff of smoke into the biting air.

"Definitely," Maryam replied, her tone clipped. "But not your standard cocktail. This feels different. New, maybe. Whatever it is, it's part of the killer's plan."

The park seemed to shrink around her words, the towering trees swaying in the icy breeze as if recoiling from the weight of her discovery. Maryam looked back at the shrouded bodies, and a familiar heaviness settled over her chest.

It wasn't fear—fear was something she'd learned to master long ago. It was something deeper, quieter. A relentless urgency, a vow whispered to herself on long, sleepless nights.

She stayed in Gotham for this exact reason: to read the stories the dead couldn't tell, to give them a voice when all that remained was silence.

With every detail meticulously cataloged in her mind, she knew one thing for certain. This killer wasn't just leaving a trail. They were writing a narrative.

And the final chapter had yet to unfold.

────୨ৎ────

Alfred found Bruce in the bathroom of his suite, steam still curling around the marble tiles, the faint scent of soap clinging to the air.

The billionaire stood shirtless, his chest a patchwork of bruises—blues and purples blooming like watercolor on his skin, cuts crisscrossing like crude constellations. His hair was damp, rivulets of water tracing the sharp planes of his face. He moved with practiced indifference, pulling open a drawer to fish out a faded band T-shirt, the fabric soft from countless washes.

"Found anything?" Bruce asked, his voice low, as though the weight of Gotham itself pressed on his vocal cords.

Alfred, ever the picture of composure, flicked through the papers with his usual precision. "Yes, sir, though I daresay it's nothing you haven't already deduced yourself." His voice, calm and measured, carried the faintest edge of paternal exasperation. "Detective Kenzie, narcotics division. Born and raised in Gotham, attended state school, and joined the GCPD straight out of uni. No wife, no children—though he's had his fair share of flings, by all accounts. The truly telling detail, as one might expect, is his bank account. Transactions far too generous for a man whose income comes from a GCPD paycheck."

Bruce didn't reply, only grunted in acknowledgment, pulling the shirt over his battered torso. The hem settled against his frame as he moved to his desk.

The room around him told its own story. A simple double bed, its dark sheets unkempt and untouched, spoke of sleepless nights. Beside it, two framed photographs stood sentinel: one of his parents, forever frozen in their warmth, and another of him as a boy, tucked between them with an innocence long since shattered.

It was organized chaos incarnate—a desk buried beneath scattered papers, photos, screenshots of surveillance footage, notes scribbled in his jagged scrawl, and rough sketches of Gotham's streets and buildings. Every corner of the surface seemed to carry a piece of his nocturnal crusade.

An electric guitar leaned against the desk, strings slightly slack from neglect, the only evidence of a life Bruce had once dreamt of outside the cowl. The massive windows overlooked Gotham's skyline, the city sprawled beneath him like a wounded animal, its lights blinking weakly against the dark.

And near the corner, a dormant fireplace sat cold and empty—a luxury he never indulged in, as though warmth itself was something he had forgotten how to accept.

Bruce's room was stark, a shadow of the grand elegance that once defined Wayne Manor. Unlike his parents' room—untouched, sealed behind chained doors like a mausoleum for his shattered childhood—his space was utilitarian to say the least. It bore no trace of indulgence, no sign of comfort beyond necessity.

Alfred had offered countless times to move him into the master suite, to reclaim a piece of his past, but Bruce refused. He could not bring himself to sleep in that room, where memories clung like ghosts, the air forever heavy with what had been lost.

Seated at the edge of his cluttered desk, Bruce turned a photo over in his hands. It was grainy, captured through the lenses of his cowl at the Iceberg Lounge. Detective Mackenzie stared back at him, his expression a mask of nervous tension, looking at him with narrowed eyes.

"He's working for Falcone. I'm sure of it," Bruce said, his voice a low growl as he tossed the picture onto the desk.

Alfred joined him, leaning slightly to peer at the image. His sharp eyes flicked over the unkempt chaos of the desk before settling on the photograph. "A highly probable conclusion, sir," he agreed, his tone measured.

His gaze shifted to another photo buried beneath the disarray. Alfred's brow arched when he lifted it—this one wasn't of Mackenzie but of a brunette woman. Doctor Ben Halimi, unmistakably so.

The shot was taken at the funeral of the mayor, her posture regal and poised, as though she had stepped out of a portrait rather than reality. Even in mourning attire, she exuded a quiet defiance, her chin held high as she exchanged hushed words with Carmine Falcone himself.

"And her?" Alfred asked, holding the picture aloft as though it were evidence in one of Bruce's endless cases. "Have you finally decided?"

Bruce's fingers brushed across the surface of his desk, pulling out a pink dossier marked with the name Maryam in bold, neat lettering.

He flipped it open without a word, his fingers gliding over the contents with an almost obsessive precision. A few photographs slipped out, landing with a soft thud. Bruce slid them into view, pointing to each one as he spoke, his eyes cold and focused.

"Maryam Ben Halimi," he began, his voice low and deliberate as he flicked through the pages. "Born May 1st, 1990. Daughter of Idris Ben Halimi and Lejla Petrovich. Both were killed when she was young during the Bosnian genocide." He paused briefly, then continued. "North African and Middle Eastern from her father's side, Bosnian from her mother's. Although..." Bruce's eyes lingered on a photo of Maryam's mother, a stunning woman in a black-and-white snapshot. His finger traced the edge of the picture, as if searching for something. "...I have my suspicions."

He glanced up at Alfred, his expression unreadable, before lowering his gaze back to the file in front of him. "She grew up in Gotham with her four sisters," he began, his tone steady but focused. His finger traced the edge of a photograph before tapping on the face of a young dark brunette girl. "Warda Ben Halimi, the second eldest. She's an engineer at Wayne Enterprises, married to Ryan Khalid, a dentist." He reached across the desk, picking up a framed photo from the neatly arranged spread. Turning it toward Alfred, he tapped it lightly. "This one."

Without missing a beat, he moved on, rifling through a stack of newspapers until he pulled out an issue of the Daily Planet. He placed it on the table, tapping an article with Sherine's byline highlighted. "Sherine Ben Halimi, the third, journalist and archaeologist. Works in Metropolis. She's at the Daily Planet."

Sliding the paper aside, he tapped a dossier marked with campaign logos. "Rania Ben Halimi, the fourth, Bella Réal's PR strategist. Handles all her messaging for the campaign."

He paused to grab a sticky note pinned to a nearby folder. "And Alma, the youngest—currently preparing for her bar exams. Ambitious, but grounded."

His hand moved to another pile, where a business card rested atop a photo of a boxing ring. He held it up briefly. "Their cousin, Moncef—runs a boxing ring in the Narrows. Former fighter himself

Finally, he gestured toward a small stack of personal letters, carefully labeled. "Their aunts, Meysa, a babysitter with a knack for organizing her neighborhood, and Jamila, a nurse at Gotham Hospital. Their uncle, Fawzi, is a fisherman—spends every Friday at the bay and runs a modest shop on Fleet Street with his wife."

He straightened, his eyes sharp and focused as he surveyed the collection of information he'd just laid out. "They raised them after their parents passed."

Bruce paused, his gaze lingering on the photo of Maryam at the mayor funeral. Her face was regal, bearing an uncanny resemblance to her mother, though her father's sharp eyes and bronze skin marked her distinctively. She appeared distant, caught in a rare moment of conversation with Carmine Falcone.

The orphan clicked his tongue softly before speaking again. "She went to Gotham State School, graduated with honors, and went straight to medical school."

He reached for another photo, this one of Maryam at eleven years old. Her hazel eyes stared straight at the camera, two neat braids framing her face, but already, there were dark circles under her eyes. She seems exhausted. Bruce's finger traced the edge of the yellowing photograph. "She came to the U.S. when she was ten, with her surviving family."

Alfred raised an eyebrow, looking at the man with an expression of mild surprise. "That's the most I've heard you speak in years."

Bruce didn't respond, merely scoffing softly under his breath. He stared at another screenshot of her, the night of the Mayor death. The first time he met her. His jaw tightens.

Alfred raised his hands slightly, almost as though in surrender. "What do you suspect of her, Master Wayne? She seems like a fine woman. I daresay, you two—"

Bruce cut him off before he could say anything else. "I think she's the Wraith, and I suspect her mother's lineage isn't as clean as the documents suggest."

Alfred blinked in confusion, raising his brows. "The Wraith?" he asked, clearly unfamiliar with the name.

Bruce's eyes didn't leave the photo of Maryam, his finger tracing the edge of the paper absentmindedly. "The Wraith is a name that's been whispered around Gotham for years. A ghost for some and a myth for others. She operates in the shadows, targeting those who deserve punishment without ever being seen. No one knows her real identity, but she's been connected to a string of high-profile takedowns, people tied to the criminal underworld—mobsters, corrupt officials, anyone with blood on their hands. But most importantly, Fish Mooney."

Alfred folded his arms, his brow furrowing. "And you think she's behind it?"

Bruce nodded slowly, his expression grim. "The Wraith's methods don't fit anyone else. She's surgical, too precise, and leaves no trace. She doesn't kill unless she has to, and she doesn't do it for money or fame. It's personal... and I think Maryam is tangled in it somehow."

Alfred regarded him quietly for a moment, clearly piecing things together. "You think her past has something to do with this... with what she's become?"

Bruce's voice dropped lower, filled with suspicion. "Her mother's side, yes. There's something in her bloodline I can't fully trace. The more I look into her family's history, the less I trust the story she's been fed."

Alfred raised an eyebrow, skepticism lingering in his tone. "So that's the only reason you think she's The Wraith?"

Bruce shook his head slightly, leaning forward. "No. At the funeral, she wore a brooch," he said, pulling a red pen from his drawer and circling the piece of jewelry in a photo. "It's... distinctive. Fancy, almost regal. Too ornate for someone of her background. Looks like something passed down through generations. A family heirloom."

Alfred squinted at the image, leaning closer as he examined the brooch. "Hmm, it appears to be of--"

"Russian heritage," Bruce finished for him, his voice clipped with certainty. He pulled out another picture, an old black-and-white photograph, and laid it beside the one of Maryam. The image depicted Alexandra Feodorovna, wife of Tsar Nicholas II, wearing an identical brooch with the exact same emblem—an intricate design of a double-headed eagle. "This brooch isn't just ornamental. It's unique—historically significant."

Alfred's brow furrowed, his curiosity now fully piqued.

Bruce continued, tone steady and charged with implication. "The first time I encountered The Wraith, I overheard her speaking Arabic—but there was Russian too. Fluent, not just borrowed phrases. And her mother's last name... it leans more Russian than Bosnian. Though, admittedly, a Russian connection in Bosnia isn't unheard of."

He grabbed another photo, a screenshot taken during one of his nightly pursuits, showing The Wraith mid-motion. Bruce circled a small detail near her eye with his marker. "See this? Same beauty mark beside her right eye," he said, then compared it to the funeral photo of Maryam.

The similarity was undeniable.

Bruce flipped to yet another image, this one captured on the night he'd been chasing The Wraith. The photo showed her profile in sharp detail, her hood momentarily blown back, exposing a bleeding scratch on her temple. He pointed at it with his marker, his tone measured but intense. "Here. An injury from our encounter," he said, circling the wound for emphasis. Then, with deliberate precision, he flipped back to the earlier photo—this one from Maryam's appearance at the funeral. He gestured to the faint scar on her temple, the lines of his face tightening as he spoke.

"The exact same wound," he muttered, "nearly healed."

He set the marker down on the table, the sound of it rolling across the surface oddly loud in the heavy silence of the room. It came to a stop against a photograph near the edge of the desk—a much older one.

It was of Maryam as a child, no more than five years old, standing stiffly in front of a plain kindergarten backdrop. Her hazel eyes were wide and glassy, the red veins prominent as though she'd been crying just moments before the shutter clicked. In the harsh light of the photo, her irises looked more green-yellow than brown, a haunting effect that made her appear both familiar and alien. Bruce stared at it, his jaw tightening.

He rubbed his eyes with a sharp motion, as though trying to shake the image from his mind. "The nickname," he mumbled under his breath.

"Pardon me, sir?" Alfred prompted, leaning closer.

Bruce hesitated, then spoke again, his voice quieter now, as though the words themselves were something intimate. "She calls me Zorro. Maryam. The Wraith. Both of them. If they weren't the same person, why would they use the same name for me?" His expression darkened. "It's too coincidental."

Alfred's eyes shifted to the photos and notes scattered across the desk. The evidence Bruce had painstakingly collected felt both damning and surreal. "If what you're suggesting is true, sir..." Alfred began slowly, as though still grappling with the enormity of it, "then she's either remarkably careless, or she wants to be found."

Bruce leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath him. His fingers drummed on the edge of the desk, a restless rhythm that betrayed the storm of thoughts racing through his mind.

"I know what you're thinking, Alfred," he said, breaking the silence. His voice carried a weight that made the older man pause. "But this isn't coincidence. It's deliberate. Every piece of this fits together too perfectly to ignore. She's hiding something—something tied to her past in ways she's never revealed."

Alfred adjusted his glasses and scrutinized the evidence once more. His skepticism hadn't wavered, but there was a note of concern in his voice now. "It's a bold claim, Master Wayne. But let's not forget the improbability of it all. The Romanov lineage was all but extinguished, and the surviving artifacts, including the jewelry, were secured in the British royal vaults after their execution. Even their most distant relatives—those who escaped—never had access to such treasures. To think she might possess a piece of it..."

Bruce's jaw tightened. "It doesn't add up, does it?" he said, almost daring Alfred to refute him. His fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up an old file on his computer. A string of articles and documents flashed across the screen, the bold headlines practically screaming their intrigue:

'The Romanov Mystery: Did Anastasia Survive?'
'Lost Heir to the Throne? The Last Hope of the Romanovs.'
'The Woman Who Claimed to Be Anastasia.'

"Whispers, Alfred. There've been whispers for decades," Bruce said, leaning closer to the screen. His voice was low, steady, but alive with conviction. "Rumors of a daughter who survived. Anastasia."

Alfred's expression remained stoic, though his hands clasped tighter behind his back. The images and text on the screen seemed to linger in the air, heavy with implication.

Finally, he spoke, his tone quieter but deliberate. "And what do you intend to do with this, Master Wayne? If Maryam is The Wraith—and her past is as shadowy as you suspect—what then? What does it mean for her? For you?"

Bruce's gaze shifted from the photographs to Alfred's, his jaw tightening as shadows played across his face. His eyes burned with unrelenting determination. "It means I need to find her before she finds me," he said, his voice low but resolute. "And if she's as dangerous as I think, I need to know where her loyalties truly lie."

Alfred regarded him with a measured calm, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. "And you suspect her loyalty may not be to Gotham," he said carefully, "but to something—or someone—else entirely."

Bruce didn't respond immediately, but his silence was answer enough. His hand closed into a fist at his side, the tension in his frame coiled and palpable.

"You and she," Alfred continued, "are alike in more ways than you'd care to admit. Two sides of the same coin, as it were."

"I know, Alfred." The words were almost a growl, spoken through gritted teeth. "That's why I need to find her first. And when I do, I—" He stopped, his gaze dropping to a photograph lying askew on the desk. His favorite.

It was Maryam at her medical graduation ceremony, dark caramel curls swept back behind her shoulders, red lips curved into an unguarded smile, and those eyes—always green and yellow, like sunlight filtering through a canopy of autumn leaves—radiating a rare warmth. And for once, there was no mask, no veil of secrets—just her, caught in a fleeting moment of joy.

She looked different in that photo, almost like a stranger. There was none of the guarded intensity he'd come to associate with her, none of the weight that shadowed her every move. It was a version of Maryam he hadn't seen before, free of the burdens she carried now—a glimpse of the person she might have been, if her life had taken a different path. A reminder that behind the shadowy figure of The Wraith was a woman who had lived, struggled, and perhaps even found happiness once.

Bruce's gaze lingered on the image, drawn to its honesty, its simplicity.

The photo felt out of place amidst the others—like it didn't belong in the intricate web of clues and shadows spread across his desk. Yet it was the one he couldn't look away from, as if it held an answer he couldn't yet decipher.

"I'll make sure she doesn't slip away," he finished softly, the weight of his words hanging in the air.

Alfred watched him carefully, his brow furrowing. "And what if she's already found you, Master Wayne?"

The question was a quiet bombshell, laden with implications that Bruce wasn't yet ready to address.

Alfred broke the silence with a quiet sigh, his voice laced with resignation. "Very well. But do remember, some things are better left buried."

Bruce turned back to the photographs, the evidence, the web of connections he'd painstakingly pieced together. The brooch with its Romanov insignia, the languages she spoke with effortless precision, the funny nickname, her family's meticulously concealed history, the scar—it all pointed to something far more complex than he'd anticipated.

It felt like a weight pressing on his chest, the realization that his path wasn't just tangled; it was about to grow darker, and far more treacherous.

His gaze lingered on the graduation photo one last time, the image of Maryam burning itself into his mind. She was an enigma—a puzzle he couldn't yet solve.

That alone made her dangerous. But it wasn't just her danger that drew him—it was her defiance, her resilience, her ability to slip through the cracks of his world without leaving a trace.

It wasn't just that he wanted to solve her; he needed to.

She wasn't merely dangerous. She was captivating. And that, he realized, could be his undoing.

He couldn't afford even a single misstep. Not this time.

────୨ৎ────

Jennifer O'Malley and Fatima Saffour. Those were their names.

Young women—barely out of their twenties—now frozen in time, their lives extinguished with chilling finality. Their bodies lay side by side on the cold steel tables, a juxtaposition of innocence and brutality. Beneath the sterile glare of the morgue's unforgiving fluorescent lights, their faces bore a semblance of peace that felt more like mockery than grace.

Death had wiped away their humanity, leaving behind only hollow echoes of who they once were.

Tammy lingered at the edge of the room, her usual chatter and energy replaced by a silence that hung heavy in the air, thicker than the antiseptic smell clinging to her gloves. Her hand fluttered near the clipboard she held, her fingers worrying the edges as if trying to smooth her own nerves.

She couldn't shake the unease tightening in her chest—a primal instinct warning her that whatever lay ahead was worse than what had come before.

Across from her, Doctor Ben Halimi prepared with her characteristic precision, a figure of composed detachment. The snap of her gloves echoed through the room, sharp and unforgiving, like the crack of a judge's gavel.

Adjusting her scrub cap, she cast a quick, assessing glance at Tammi. Her expression betrayed nothing, but there was a faint shadow beneath her eyes—a residue of sleepless nights and too many encounters with Gotham's darkest secrets.

"Alright," Maryam said, her voice steady but weighted with exhaustion. "You know the drill—external examination first. I'll call out the findings; you take notes and assist as needed."

Tammy nodded, her grip tightening on the clipboard. She swallowed hard, her eyes momentarily fixed on the blank sheet of paper in front of her. The emptiness of the page seemed to mock her, daring her to fill it with horrors she'd rather not face. Finally, she stepped closer, the sound of her shoes against the tiled floor muffled by the oppressive stillness.

Maryam leaned over Fatima Saffour's body, her motions precise and clinical. Dark hair spilled over the steel table like ink pooling on silver. With careful hands, Maryam parted the strands, running gloved fingers along the young woman's scalp.

"Scalp intact," she began, her tone almost mechanical, a shield against the grim reality before her. "No abrasions, lacerations, or contusions. Hair is clean, no debris present."

The pen in Tammi's hand scratched across the paper, each stroke a stark counterpoint to the eerie quiet. Maryam shifted her attention to the jawline, tilting Fatima's head to catch the light. Her eyes, sharp and unyielding, swept over the contours of the neck.

"No ligature marks," Maryam murmured, her fingers ghosting over the smooth skin. "No petechiae, no signs of strangulation. The neck appears normal."

She paused, her brow furrowing as something faint caught her attention. She leaned in closer, her voice quieter now, but with an edge of certainty. "Wait. Faint impressions along the brachial arteries and shoulders." She gestured for Tammi to take note, the slightest frown pulling at her lips.

Tammi peered over, tilting her head to see what Maryam was pointing out. "Could those be restraint marks?" she asked, her voice tentative, as if she feared saying the words would make them more real.

Maryam considered the possibility, her fingers hovering just above the skin. "Maybe," she said at last, her tone clinical but thoughtful. "But they're too precise, too uniform. There's no bruising, no indication of a struggle. These impressions... they look like they were made by a device. Something designed to hold the body in place—efficiently, methodically."

The thought hung in the air, unspoken but palpable: This was not the work of an amateur.

As Maryam moved on to examine the chest, her hands stilled over the unnaturally smooth surface of the skin stretched tight over Fatima's ribs. Her eyes narrowed. "Subcutaneous fat is absent here as well," she said, almost to herself. Her gloved fingers pressed lightly against the area, her expression darkening. "The skin has an altered texture—stretched, manipulated to fit what's beneath."

Tammi hesitated before asking, "Do you think heat was used to remove it?"

"Possibly," Maryam replied, her voice sharp but not unkind. She straightened, her gaze unwavering as she continued the meticulous inspection. "We'll move to the face next. Make sure you note the symmetry and any anomalies."

Tammi nodded, already scribbling the details onto her clipboard, her pen's movement brisk but trembling slightly. Maryam turned her focus to Fatima's face, her gloved hands tilting the chin, angling the head as she studied each feature with an unnerving intensity.

"Facial symmetry is intact," Maryam noted. "No bruising or abrasions around the eyes, nose, or mouth." She gently parted the lips, her movements slow, deliberate. "No cyanosis. Teeth are clean, no fractures or wear patterns."

Tammi leaned in closer, her voice a whisper. "Anything in the mouth?"

Maryam retrieved a tongue depressor and carefully opened the mouth further. She frowned, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Nothing. No residue, no foreign objects. No signs of asphyxiation. Everything looks... untouched." She glanced at Tammi, her expression unreadable. "Which is unusual."

The examination continued, a grim procession of observations and notes. When Maryam reached the wrists, she froze. Her head tilted slightly as she sniffed the air. "Do you smell that?" she asked, her voice breaking the silence.

Tammi leaned in, her nose crinkling. "Perfume?" she guessed, though her tone carried uncertainty. "Lavender and rose. But... it's so strong. How can it still linger?"

Maryam nodded slowly, her brow furrowing in thought. "It's deliberate," she said. "Postmortem. Fragrance doesn't cling to dead skin like this. Whoever did this applied it—carefully, intentionally."

Tammi swallowed hard, her clipboard trembling in her grip. She looked at Maryam, her mentor's calm demeanor both reassuring and unnerving. Maryam jotted the detail in her notes, her pen scratching across the page: Unnatural scent preservation. Perfume—lavender and rose. Applied postmortem. Purpose unclear.

The process moved forward, every step peeling back another layer of horror. Burns appeared beneath the fingers, precise and clinical, as if designed for a purpose too grotesque to imagine. Impressions on the arms and shoulders told a silent story of restraint and control. The killer had taken everything human from these women—their autonomy, their identity, their very essence—and left behind only shells, stripped of life and dignity.

Tammi's voice broke the quiet, tentative and shaky. "What kind of person does this?"

Maryam removed her gloves with deliberate care, her gaze lingering on Fatima's lifeless form. "Someone who doesn't see them as people," she said softly, her tone colder than the morgue itself. "To them, these women were resources—nothing more."

As Maryam reached for a fresh pair of gloves, her pen moved across the page once more: Victims stripped of humanity. Systematic. Surgical. Intent unknown. Investigation ongoing.

The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above, casting stark shadows on the room's walls. It felt as though the morgue itself held its breath, waiting for the next grim discovery.

Maryam steeled herself for what lay ahead.

The truth was out there, somewhere, buried beneath the horror—and she would unearth it, piece by chilling piece.

────୨ৎ────

The doctor meticulously packed up the evidence, slipping each document into its designated folder and ensuring every piece of the case was accounted for. Her laptop followed, the lid snapping shut with a quiet finality.

Her desk was pristine, every item in its place before she left for the day—an unspoken rule she never broke. Disorder, even in something as small as her workspace, was unbearable.

Tammy had already clocked out, and the bodies were sealed back into the sterile cold of the morgue's fridges, their stories told and cataloged.

She glanced at the clock, then at the documents she needed for her meeting with Gordon. The precinct's makeshift operations hub, what some had taken to calling "the Tower," was where she'd be heading next.

Sliding her coat on, Maryam paused to catch her reflection in the small, cracked mirror near her desk. Her fingers instinctively brushed against the faint wound at her temple, a leftover reminder of the funeral chaos. It was tender to the touch but no longer bleeding, though it throbbed faintly as if it refused to let her forget. She sighed, pulling her hand away.

With a sharp click, she snapped her leather compartment case shut, hoisted her bag onto one shoulder, and tucked the documents securely under her arm. Keys in hand, she turned toward the light switch, ready to plunge the room into darkness, when a knock echoed through the stillness.

Her head turned slowly toward the door, her stomach tightening with annoyance.

Of course.

Dr. Elliott.

He lounged against the doorway with an easy confidence, arms crossed over his chest, his dark scrubs emphasizing the lean frame beneath. His disheveled blonde hair caught the overhead light, giving him an almost boyish charm that only made his smugness more infuriating.

That smirk—smug, maddening, and entirely too self-assured—remained fixed on his face as his eyes roamed over her, lingering just a beat too long, like he was trying to unravel her with his gaze alone.

"Yes?" she asked, raising a perfectly arched brow, tone clipped.

"Nothing," he drawled, his voice slithering out with a serpentine smoothness that matched the smirk curling at his lips. "Just checking."

His gaze was anything but innocent, making no effort to disguise its path as it slid from her face, down her shoulders, and lingered briefly on the line of her coat before dropping to her high-heeled boots. When his eyes finally snapped back to meet hers, they carried a shameless glint, as if daring her to call him out.

Her jaw tightened. "Checking for what, exactly?"

"For a change of heart," he said, his voice dripping with that infuriating mix of arrogance and amusement.

Maryam rolled her eyes, exhaling sharply. "No, Dr. Elliott," she replied, voice sharper now, cutting through his arrogance demeanor. "I haven't had a change of heart, unfortunately—for you."

Her words were crisp, controlled—a tone she reserved for him and those she didn't like, never for the other members of the hospital. And he knew it, too. His smirk never wavered. Instead, he chuckled softly, as if her rejection only added fuel to whatever game he thought they were playing.

She reached for the light switch and finally flicked it off, the room dimming instantly. The shadows made his presence feel more intrusive, and yet she refused to let him unsettle her.

Maryam's lips pressed into a tight line as she locked the door to her office, keys jingling faintly in her hand. But Dr. Elliott's smirk only widened, a glint of amusement in his sharp blue eyes that made her skin crawl.

"You know," he drawled, his voice low and deliberately teasing, "it wouldn't kill you to say yes, just once. Maybe have a drink with me? You could even bring your notes—I promise I'm a good listener."

She exhaled sharply through her nose, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder. "For the hundredth time, I'm not interested. Not in drinks, not in your offers, and certainly not in your advice on how to unwind."

Elliott chuckled, pushing off the doorframe and taking a small step closer, his arms still crossed. "You say that now, but I've seen how hard you work. Always here late, always cleaning up after everyone else's messes. A woman like you deserves a break."

Maryam turned to face him fully, hazel eyes narrowing as she tilted her head ever so slightly. "A woman like me?"

The question was sharp, a verbal snare Elliott hadn't anticipated.

He faltered, momentarily fumbling for a response before slipping on his trademark grin. "You know what I mean. Smart. Dedicated. Gorgeous."

The final word hung in the air, weighted with implication, his tone daring her to respond.

Before she could even fire back, he pivoted. "Heard about the murders. Anything new?"

Maryam didn't miss a beat, her retort as cold and precise as a scalpel. "Yeah, and it's none of your business."

Her straight hair caught the light as she flicked it over her shoulder, the movement deliberate, a dismissal as sharp as her words. She drew herself up, her posture radiating a composed authority that left no room for rebuttal.

"Have a good night, Dr. Elliott," she said, the clipped edge in her tone signaling the end of the conversation. Without so much as a glance back, she strode past him, her steps measured, purposeful.

Elliott's voice chased her into the hallway, smooth and infuriatingly smug. "Always a pleasure, Doctor."

She didn't dignify him with a response, letting the sharp click of her heels on the polished floor say everything she wouldn't. It wasn't the first time he'd tried to get under her skin, and it wouldn't be the last, but Maryam had long mastered the art of indifference.

Let him smirk, let him play his little games. She wasn't about to hand him the satisfaction of a reaction—not tonight, not ever.

A/N : hey babes...

Haven't posted in a week or two but I had exams soooo..... Anyways this chapter is all over the place I might edit it but I wanted to post something so enjoy I guess xx

... and don't hesitate leaving a comment or two ;)