خوف أم حب؟ لا تقل الإجابة
Fear or love, baby? Don't say the answer

MARYAM ARRIVED BEFORE the looming, unfinished tower : a skeletal skyscraper etched against Gotham's restless night sky.

She tilted her head back, her gaze climbing the steel ribs that reached high above the city.

The faint hum of life persisted even at this hour; Gotham never truly slept. She caught sight of the signal, its familiar beam slicing through the dark clouds.

The Bat's light.

That meant Gordon was here.

She steered her car into a spot among the scattered debris, the engine's growl echoing in the hollow expanse. Once parked, she stepped out, the soles of her heels crunching against cracked concrete.

The entrance to the tower gaped like a wound—old and battered, the smell of oil and rust clinging to the air.

Strange, but she liked it. There was something comforting about its raw, unvarnished state.

Inside, Maryam paused. 

The flickering overhead light did little to illuminate the shadowy space, but it was enough to reveal the figure standing by the ancient, wheezing elevator. Bruce. Or rather, the Bat.

Clad in his armored suit, he loomed there, statuesque and foreboding, the very embodiment of Gotham's fear and salvation.

The faint click of her heels broke the silence. 

He turned toward her, the movement deliberate, almost predatory. And for a second, Maryam thought she saw something in his eyes — surprise, maybe. But it vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by that impenetrable mask of stoicism.

She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. Her fingers tightened around the documents she carried, her free hand adjusting the strap of her bag.

His unyielding gaze bore into her, dissecting and assessing in that unnervingly familiar way.

She quickly looked down, avoiding his stare. Why? She wasn't entirely sure. 

Maybe it was because she knew now. She knew who he was behind the cowl. 

Or maybe it was because she thought she understood why he did what he did — why he had to.

That knowledge felt too intimate, like she was prying into something she had no right to see.

"Hi," she managed to say, her voice soft, the word echoing awkwardly in the cavernous space.

He didn't respond. He didn't even blink. He just stood there, silent, the leather of his gloves creaking as his fingers flexed.

She stood beside him, waiting for the elevator. The moments stretched thin, and though the wait was silent, she couldn't ignore the weight of his gaze lingering on the side of her face, as if searching for something just out of reach.

Maryam cleared her throat, the sound far too loud in the stillness. "Um — I'll just take the stairs," she said, motioning vaguely in their direction. 

She didn't wait for a response ( didn't want one ) and turned to go.

But she didn't make it far.

A hand clamped firmly around her arm, pulling her to a sudden stop. She stumbled, her balance faltering, but the grip held steady, keeping her upright.

Turning sharply, her heart lodged itself somewhere in her throat as she found herself face-to-face with him again. His eyes — dark and unrelenting beneath the shadow of his cowl — fixed on her, unwavering.

There was a tension in his expression, a determination that left her breathless.

"We need to talk," he said, his voice low and gravelly, the words vibrating through the air like a warning.

Oh, god.

Maryam froze, her breath catching as the weight of his words settled on her. Her pulse quickened, an uneven rhythm drumming in her chest. She met his gaze, those coal-black eyes staring at her like they could strip her bare, see every secret she'd tried to keep buried.

"Talk?" she echoed faintly, the word a brittle whisper as if uttering it might shatter the fragile space between them.

The Bat didn't answer immediately. His hand lingered on her arm, firm yet unthreatening, and then, as if realizing he was still holding her, he let go.

She felt the absence of his touch more keenly than she should have, the warmth of his grip replaced by a cold draft that swept through the hollow tower.

"Yes. Talk," he said at last, his voice sharp and unyielding, as precise as the lines of his suit.

The elevator doors finally slid open, breaking the taut silence that stretched between them.

Maryam stepped inside, her earlier resolve to take the stairs abandoned. The Bat followed close behind, his presence suffocating in the cramped space.

She jabbed the button for the upper floor, and the elevator began its slow ascent. The flickering orange light overhead bathed them in a dim, shifting glow, like a flame on the verge of extinguishing.

"I'm sorry, but I can't," she said finally, the folder in her arm shifting as she adjusted her stance. "We can't, actually," she corrected, catching herself. The edge in her voice was deliberate, a subtle attempt to deflect him. "Gordon's waiting, remember?" She arched her brows at him in mock emphasis, a thin layer of defiance masking her discomfort.

She knew she was making excuses, and he knew it too.

"He can wait," came his curt reply.

With that, he reached out and pressed the stop button. 

The elevator jerked to an abrupt halt, sending a faint shudder through the confined space.

Her jaw tightened. "No, he can't, Zorro." The nickname slipped out, part irritation, part defiance, as she moved to restart the elevator herself. But before she could press the button, his hand caught hers; firm but not forceful, stopping her mid-motion.

"Don't," he said.

She jerked her hand back, her glare sharp enough to pierce the dim light. "Do not touch me."

Unfazed, he continued, his voice low and insistent. "We need to talk about your nighttime activities."

That made her pause. Her movements stilled completely as his words sank in.

Slowly, almost as if in disbelief, she turned to him. 

The surprise was so stark on her face, it was almost laughable — her brows furrowed, lips slightly parted, as if she couldn't decide whether to laugh or snap. "Excuse me?" she said, the words biting, incredulous. "What the hell are you even talking about?"

"You heard me, Maryam," he said, and then, almost too quietly but with a razor-sharp edge, "Or should I say... The Wraith."

Her hand shot to the metal railing at her side, gripping it so hard her knuckles turned white. For a moment, all she could do was stare, the shock flashing through her like a lightning strike.

Then came the anger, sharp and immediate, her finger rising in his direction, a gesture he was beginning to recognize as a warning. She fought to keep her composure, but the flickering light illuminated every crack in her armor.

"Listen, dude," Maryam spat, her voice dripping with venom. "I don't know what the fuck you're trying to imply, but you'd better watch yourself. There are limits, and frankly, I don't even know you —"

"I'm implying," he interrupted, stepping closer, "that you have connections to the mob. To Falcone."

His words landed heavily in the confined space, and though he spoke them as fact, there was a flicker of doubt in his eyes. "That you're working for them. A puppet. Their eyes and ears inside the department. Spying for them. For him."

She froze, the words slicing through her composure. 

Her gaze hardened, but the flicker of hurt that passed through her eyes didn't escape him. Her grip on the railing tightened as his accusation hung in the air, suffocating in its weight.

He didn't know if he believed the accusations himself.

But he needed to say them. To provoke her. To unravel the mystery of who she was — not for the sake of Gotham, not for the mission, but for himself.

For the small, selfish hope that the woman who had somehow slipped past his defenses wasn't just a shadow or an illusion.

"And what makes you so sure of that?" she said finally, low and even, turning her attention back to the elevator doors.

He didn't flinch, his lips barely moving as he replied, "Admit it, Doctor."

She flinched at the way he said it — Doctor.

It stung in a way. 

The formality, the distance, stung in a way she didn't expect. 

Still, she didn't let it show. Not yet.

"Admit what?" she snapped, turning fully toward him now, her posture rigid. "Fine. You want to play games? Let's play. You want to talk about nighttime activities, then let's talk about you, Mr. Wayne."

The words hit him like a freight train, like a punch he didn't see coming.

She knew. Of course she knew.

She had known for a while, probably longer than he wanted to admit.

Maryam might have been reckless at times, impulsive even, but she wasn't stupid. Far from it.

For a long, suffocating moment, they just stared at each other. The small elevator felt even smaller, the air crackling with unspoken truths and unanswered questions.

Bruce's mind raced, though his face betrayed nothing. How much did she know? How long had she known? And why the hell was she only throwing it in his face now?

"You don't know what you're talking about," he said finally, with a warning so intense it made her want to shrink back to herself. But she didn't.

Her lips twitched into a humorless smile. "Don't I?" she shot back, folding her arms.

His breath hitched, the barest hesitation cracking through his usual composure. That small flicker of vulnerability was all she needed.

"That's right," she said, dripping with sardonic satisfaction, every word calculated to cut through the silence between them.

"You really think you're the only one in this city who knows how to dig? How to piece things together?" She crossed her arms slowly, the subtle shift in her posture enough to signal that the balance of power had just tipped; entirely in her favor.

"How to connect the dots?" she continued, her words sharp yet maddeningly casual. "The bruises you don't even bother to hide, barely concealed under all that expensive tailoring. Your total lack of social interaction — odd, don't you think, for a billionaire with a name like Wayne? People should be fighting to be around you, but instead, you lurk in the shadows. Always lurking..." Her lips curved into a faint, knowing smirk as her eyes flicked over him.

"And then there's the way you move, skulking around like Gotham's your personal chessboard, like the rest of us are just pieces in a game only you understand. That sharp jawline. Those eyes." Her tone dipped, mocking yet precise, her gaze narrowing as if she were peeling back layers he didn't realize he wore. "Add in the tragic backstory — parents murdered, orphaned in the most violent way possible — and suddenly, it all makes sense. Every. single. piece. falls. into. place."

Her words struck like a whip, and though every instinct screamed at him to flinch, he held his ground, refusing to let her see the cracks beneath his facade.

She gestured vaguely toward his masked face, her fingers fluttering like she couldn't be bothered to point directly. "Do I really need to spell it out for you?"

She stepped closer, her movements deliberate and slow, the space between them shrinking as her voice dropped into something almost intimate, yet still dripping with derision. "What's the word I'm looking for? Oh, right. Projection."

She delivered the final word with a satisfied lilt, her head tilting ever so slightly as if daring him to refute her.

But she wasn't just calling him out — she was dismantling him piece by piece, peeling back the layers he'd so carefully built around himself. And for a split second, she thought she saw something crack in those cold, unrelenting eyes of his.

Something raw.

Something human.

Bruce's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. The silence stretched between them, taut and electric, as if both were daring the other to make the next move.

The Bat stood firm, his posture as unyielding as ever, but a fleeting flicker in his eyes gave him away.

She wasn't bluffing, and he knew it.

"Careful," he warned, tone dropping an octave. "You don't want to say something you'll regret."

"Regret?" She laughed, the sound sharp and bitter. "What I regret is getting into this damn elevator with you." Her words cut like knives, but it wasn't enough to make him falter. 

She took another step closer, her chin tilting upward to meet his gaze.

"You're not as subtle as you think," she continued. "And frankly, you should be thankful I don't feel like spilling your little secret all over Gotham. But maybe I should, since you seem so intent on dragging mine out of me."

Her words hung in the air, heavy with implication. For the first time, Bruce didn't respond right away. 

He didn't trust himself to.

Maryam tilted her head, studying him. "You came in here thinking you'd corner me. What was the plan, hmm ? Accuse me of working for Falcone until I broke down sobbing and confessed everything?" She raised an eyebrow, words mockingly inquisitive. "What a fantastic strategy, Detective. Real airtight."

"I wasn't trying to — "

"Oh, save it," she cut him off, voice rising just slightly. "You don't even know why you're doing this, do you? You're just grasping at straws, trying to figure out if you can trust me. And instead of, I don't know, talking to me like a normal person, you pull this macho, intimidation bullshit and think it'll work?"

His silence was damning.

Then he took a step closer, and for the first time, there was no more space between them. 

The tension was palpable, a storm threatening to break. His sharp jaw tightened, and his voice was low and deliberate when he finally spoke.

"And you think you've got me figured out?" he asked, his words measured, each one delivered with precision. "You don't know a damn thing about me."

"Maybe not," she said, her voice a whisper now, gaze steady. "But I know enough. Enough to see the cracks you're trying so hard to hide."

And just like that, the balance completely shifted. 

For all his control, all his calculated moves, he realized she wasn't cracking under pressure. If anything, she was doubling down. Her defiance wasn't just a shield; it was a weapon.

Maryam shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping her. "Unbelievable. And here I was, thinking you might actually be different."

"Different? " His voice was low, controlled, but there was an edge to it now, like a spark of defensiveness he couldn't quite suppress. "How exactly am I supposed to be 'different,' Maryam? Tell me. Because from where I'm standing, trusting anyone in this city is a mistake I can't afford to make."

"Oh, I don't know," she shot back, "maybe start by not throwing around accusations about people working for the mob without, I don't know, actual evidence? Just a thought." Her eyes narrowed, daring him to push further.

"You've been to the Iceberg Lounge. Twice," he countered, his voice low and unyielding. "Once as Maryam, once as the Wraith. And you spoke to him — Falcone — at the mayor's funeral."

The words hung in the air, each one weighted with suspicion, but then he stopped abruptly. His lips pressed into a tight, reluctant line, as if holding back more than just words. For a moment, the dim, flickering orange light caught in his eyes, revealing something buried beneath the surface. Frustration. Guilt.

A conflict he hadn't quite resolved, perhaps one he wasn't ready to face.

And yet, it was there. Lingering between them, unspoken but undeniable.

Maryam sighed, running a hand through her hair as the tension in her shoulders eased slightly.

She leaned back against the elevator wall, finally putting some distance between them, the steel railing cold against her spine.

"Look," she said, softer now, though no less firm. "I don't know what you think you know about me, but you're wrong. I'm not working for Falcone, or anyone else for that matter. The only person I answer to is me. Got it?"

"And what about the Wraith?" he asked, tone measured, carefully probing.

Her eyes snapped to his, the sharpness returning in an instant. "What?"

Vengeance stepped closer once again, his broad frame cutting through the dim light like a shadow come to life. "You think you can keep living two lives and no one will notice? That no one will connect the dots?"

"Funny," she said dryly, lifting her chin in defiance. "I could say the same thing about you."

The remark hit harder than she'd anticipated. 

His eyes narrowed, dark and assessing, and for a brief, tense moment, she wondered if she'd crossed a line she couldn't step back from. But then, to her surprise, he did something unexpected — he stepped back.

The silence that followed was thick, not with anger, but with the weight of something unspoken. He didn't fire back, didn't attempt to reclaim the upper hand. He couldn't.

Because the truth was, she had done what no one else ever had. She had disarmed him—not with brute strength or fear, but with something far more dangerous: the unflinching clarity of her understanding.

She saw right through him, and he knew it. He knew it, but he couldn't bring himself to stop her, couldn't even try to, because he was utterly captivated by the woman standing before him.

She was like a drug coursing through his veins, and he was hopelessly, irrevocably addicted.

After what felt like an eternity, he spoke, though the tension lingered. "Fair enough," he murmured, almost as if conceding defeat.

The two of them stood there, the elevator still and silent.

Maryam studied him, searching for something ( anything ) that would give her a clearer picture of the man behind the mask. But all she saw was the same enigma she'd been trying to crack for months.

And maybe that was the point. 

Maybe neither of them was ready to let their guard down just yet.

"Let's make a deal," she said, her voice carrying an almost playful lilt, though there was an undeniable firmness beneath it.

She tilted her head slightly, studying him with a mixture of curiosity and caution. "How about this? We talk about... us." Her voice faltered for a second as she searched for the right word, her eyes flickering to the side before meeting his again. "Our... personas. But not here, not in a cramped elevator with flickering lights and bad air." She gestured vaguely around them, trying to ease the tension with a small smile. "In a proper setting. A civil meeting. You pick the time, the place. Send me a message, and I'll come. Then, we can ask each other anything, anything we've been dying to know."

She hesitated, just briefly, the confidence in her voice dipping into something softer, something rawer. "So that maybe, just maybe, we can..." She trailed off, her gaze lowering for a moment before she forced herself to meet his eyes again. "Trust each other. I mean." Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, her nerves betraying her despite her best efforts to seem composed. "You know... as colleagues. Of course."

Her cheeks flushed faintly, and she looked away, almost annoyed at herself for letting those words slip. 

But she didn't retract them. 

She couldn't.

She'd made the proposition for both their sakes. She knew he wanted answers, craved them, probably as much as she did. The questions in his eyes were always there, burning just beneath the surface.

The way he stared at her, silent and unmoving, as if her words had frozen him in place. His face was unreadable, but his silence was heavy, almost reverent.

But it wasn't just curiosity on her part — it was the person beneath the mask that fascinated her. She wanted to know him; not just the man in the shadows, not just the vigilante in the mask.

She wanted to know the person underneath it all.

The man who carried the weight of the city on his shoulders.

The man who moved like a shadow, who looked at her as if she were the most puzzling thing he'd ever encountered. 

But most of all, she wanted to understand him. And maybe, deep down, she wanted him to understand her too.

For a long moment, he said nothing. The silence stretched, heavy. His face was unreadable, as always, but his eyes... His eyes were another story entirely. They flickered with something she couldn't quite place, something caught between suspicion and intrigue.

Each time they met, she had a way of blindsiding him, of doing or saying the one thing he couldn't anticipate. And now, here she was again, throwing him off balance with her unpredictable blend of earnestness and stubbornness.

She was so... unpredictable, so impossibly bold.

"Well?" she prompted, tilting her head slightly, her lips curving into a small, nervous smile. "Deal?" The doctor extended her hand toward him, thin fingers trembling just enough to betray the courage it took to make the gesture.

He glanced at her outstretched hand, his gloved fingers twitching at his sides.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached out, his larger, black-clad hand clasping hers.

The contrast was stark : her bare skin against his cold, leather glove. 

Her fingers were slender and warm, curling lightly around his. His grip tightened slightly, firm but careful, as if he was afraid of holding on too tightly and shattering whatever fragile thread connected them.

For a moment, they didn't let go. 

The elevator seemed to fade away, its hum a distant murmur in the charged silence between them.

Their hands remained joined, as if they were tethered by something unseen, something neither of them was quite ready to acknowledge.

Her hand was soft, human, alive, and his gloved one was a barrier — yet the connection felt startlingly real, like a bridge between their separate worlds.

The warmth of her touch seeped through the cold leather, and for a small moment, he wondered what it would feel like without the gloves.

His grip tightened, just enough to be firm but not overwhelming. "Fine," he said at last, almost a whisper, as his head dipped in a subtle nod.

Her lips parted, as if she wanted to say something, but no words came. Instead, she just stared at him, her expression unreadable, yet achingly familiar — vulnerability wrapped in defiance, strength tempered with tenderness.

She let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding and smiled softly.

But neither of them pulled their hand away. It was as if time itself had paused, locking them in this strange, fragile moment : two shadows clinging to each other in the flickering orange light. Their hands, joined like a promise, felt less like a handshake and more like a lifeline.

They finally released, her fingers brushing his glove as they pulled apart, lingering for just a second longer than necessary. As the connection broke, she turned back to the elevator doors, her expression carefully neutral ... almost.

A faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corners of her lips, betraying her efforts to conceal it. She bit her lip, trying to stifle the curve, but the warmth of the moment clung to her, impossible to ignore.

And him ? Well, he couldn't stop watching her, even as she looked away. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Bruce Wayne — the Batman — felt something he couldn't quite name, something that shook him more than he cared to admit.

"Are we done here?" she asked at last, soft but steady, the weariness threading through her tone betraying the effort it took to hold herself together. She cleared her throat, a small gesture that seemed to reset her resolve.

Bruce didn't answer right away.

Then, with a measured slowness, he reached out. His gloved hand hovered briefly over the panel before pressing the button to restart the elevator.

The machinery groaned to life, the sudden jolt shattering the stillness like a stone dropped into calm water. The elevator resumed its ascent, each shift of motion marking the agreement between them.

Neither spoke again, but the silence wasn't easy this time.

Maryam could feel his presence beside her like a force, his gaze piercing into her from the corner of her eye, relentless and searching, as if he were trying to peel away the layers she'd so carefully built around herself.

She kept her gaze fixed ahead, but a knot tightened in her stomach.

Maybe she wasn't as unshakable as she'd convinced herself she was.

Maybe she wasn't as put together as she'd led him, and even herself, to believe.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing an empty, unfinished floor bathed in the cold, open air of Gotham. The city stretched out before them, a sprawling, chaotic masterpiece of flickering lights and distant sirens.

Gordon stood leaning against a concrete pillar, his stern expression easing slightly as his eyes fell on them.

The chill swept over them instantly, sharp and biting, but Maryam barely noticed. Her breath hitched as her gaze settled on the view.

She had forgotten how Gotham could be so beautiful. The city seemed almost serene, its chaos muted by the distance.

The doctor inhaled deeply, steadying herself as if grounding her thoughts. Then, with a quiet resolve, she stepped out of the elevator first, the soft click of her heels echoing against the bare, unfinished floor.

Bruce followed closely behind, but his mind was elsewhere, racing through a storm of fragmented thoughts. The tension between them still hung thick in the air, too dense to ignore.

She knew. The thought gnawed at him again.

She had always known. 

Somehow, she'd seen through the armor he wore, through the carefully constructed persona. She knew what he was, what he'd done. 

But... she hadn't exposed him.

Not yet, anyway.

The realization gnawed at him, like a subtle poison, both unsettling and unnervingly powerful. It wasn't just the fact that she knew — it was the way she'd handled it. The quiet understanding in her eyes, the way she'd forced him to confront something he'd worked so hard to keep buried.

She hadn't crumbled under the pressure.

She hadn't faltered.

Instead, she'd held her ground, letting him squirm, forcing him to reckon with his own darkness. And that was what unsettled him the most.

For the first time in years, Bruce found himself unsure, adrift in a sea of uncertainty. What did she want from him? Why hadn't she exposed him to Gotham? What was her endgame?

But above all, he found himself wondering if the darkness he had guarded so fiercely might not be his to carry alone.

A/N : short chapter cause why not. Don't know what to think of it tho (as always)

Not edited !!!

Leave a comment or two, I love reading them — it keeps me motivated ;)