حتى لو قتلني، أنت الوحيد الذي أريده
even if it kills me, you're the one that I want

"SORRY WE'RE LATE," Maryam said, her voice cutting through the hollow stillness of the rooftop. Rain pelted the city below, the murmur of distant sirens rising and falling like the tide.

Gordon glanced at her, then at the looming figure behind her—the Bat, as much shadow as man. "Yeah," he muttered, rubbing his jaw. The motion revealed a livid bruise blooming along his cheekbone, tinged blue and purple under the dim light. "I can see that."

Maryam's eyes narrowed, her gaze flicking to Gordon's injury. "What happened to your face?" She didn't wait for him to answer. "Don't tell me it's from him," she added, jerking a thumb toward the vigilante now stepping silently beside her.

Gordon winced as if the memory stung more than the bruise. "Well..." he trailed off, throwing the Bat an exasperated look. "You could've pulled your punch, man..."

"I did." He met Gordon's gaze unflinchingly, his tone carrying no trace of apology.

Maryam rolled her eyes and shook the rain from her coat. "Anyway," she said briskly, producing the slim file from beneath her arm. "Here's the case I mentioned."

Gordon took the folder with a sharp exhale, flipping it open. His face twisted as his eyes landed on the first photo. "Jesus..." he muttered, shaking his head, the color draining from his face.

The Bat stepped closer, a silent shadow, peering over Gordon's shoulder at the crime scene photographs. If the gruesome images affected him, he didn't show it. His presence was palpable, oppressive even, yet Maryam noticed how still he was—as though he were carved from the rain-soaked stone around them.

"Three victims so far," the medical examiner began, pacing to the edge of the rooftop. "First, Fiona Harrison, five days ago. Found under the Gotham Bridge. Then this morning—Jennifer O'Malley and Fatima Saffour, discovered in Robinson Park."

Gordon nodded grimly. "It hit the news earlier. People are already panicking."

"They should be." Maryam crossed her arms, her pacing deliberate. "The autopsies all showed the same signs. Blue-hued skin, complete fat atrophy—it's like something drained them. " She paused, letting the rain fill the silence before continuing."It was so severe, they looked...inhuman."

Gordon flipped to another page, grimacing. "God." His voice cracked. "How does someone even—" He cut himself off and looked up, his expression weary. "What the hell's wrong with this person?"

Maryam unfolded her arms, her face set in grim determination. "He doesn't see them as people. To him, they're just...resources."

Gordon's frown deepened, flipping through the photos with a grimace. "Any chance this is Riddler's work?"

"No," Maryam said firmly. "This isn't his style. The victims aren't prominent enough to matter to him. These were ordinary women—unconnected, uncorrupted. Just..." She faltered. "Just living their lives."

The Bat's gloved hands slipped the folder from Gordon's grasp. He studied the photos in silence, the rain streaking down his cowl.

"They all had the same carved tattoo on their wrists," Maryam added, her voice softening as she glanced at the city lights below. "And there's a strange scent on them—lavender, maybe. No death odor, though. That's unusual. He used something new. Not the usual drops."

"Like a narcotic?" Gordon asked.

Maryam nodded. "Possibly." And they're all virgins. No signs of struggle, either. The cause of death is still uncertain, but whoever's doing this...they're meticulous. Precise. This isn't random."

Gordon snapped the file shut and exhaled slowly. "It's like something out of a horror movie. That's goddamn horrifying."

"It's methodical," Maryam said, tucking her hands into her coat pockets to fend off the cold. "This person has training—medical, maybe. Could be a surgeon. Or a tailor. Even a cop."

"Great," Gordon muttered. "Another psycho on our hands."

Batman's gloved fingers traced the edges of the weathered pages, each movement deliberate, as though he could absorb the details through touch alone. The faint rustle of paper seemed louder in the silence, filling the space between them. Finally, his gravelly voice broke the tension.

"Can I keep these?" he asked, his tone low, almost intimate in its quiet intensity. "For research."

Maryam nodded, a barely perceptible movement, but her gaze lingered on him. "Of course."

Their eyes met. For a moment, it was just the two of them, shadows and silence pooling around their feet like ink.

Gordon's eyes flicked between them, sharp and knowing. He squinted, scratching at his mustache with a faint snort of disbelief, and cleared his throat loudly enough to break the spell. "Right," he said, gruff, his voice carrying a faint edge that reminded her of Bullock's barbed sarcasm. "I've gotta head out. The office is waiting."

He turned to Maryam, clapping her lightly on the shoulder, his grip warm but fleeting. "Keep me posted about those bodies. Something about those scenes doesn't sit right with me. You know where to find me."

His words hung in the air as he stepped toward the elevator, the hum of its mechanics swallowing him as the doors slid shut.

The silence came rushing back, thicker now. It was just the two of them.

Maryam didn't look at him.

She exhaled a curl of smoke, her cigarette glowing faintly in the shadows. Leaning against one of the concrete pillars, she focused instead on the city sprawled before her. Gotham's buildings rose like jagged teeth against the night sky, their windows lit like fireflies, pulsing with life even in the dead of night. The orange haze of distant fires painted the horizon, flickering warmth in the humid, heavy air.

"You shouldn't smoke," he said finally, his voice low but cutting through the stillness.

She gave a faint, humorless chuckle, the sound soft as the ash falling from her cigarette. "You shouldn't brood on rooftops. But here we are."

His silhouette shifted slightly, the weight of his presence impossible to ignore. "It's a dangerous habit."

"So is yours," she countered, finally turning her head toward him. Her hazel eyes, touched with fatigue but sharp as broken glass, met his gaze. "What's your plan, then? Break all my bad habits?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he stepped closer, the edges of his cape brushing against the floor. His movements were deliberate, measured, as though he carried the weight of the entire city on his shoulders.

Maryam turned back to the skyline, as if avoiding his presence entirely, the city sprawling beneath her in a haze of smog and neon, its restless heartbeat thrumming in the distance.

She lifted the cigarette to her lips, the ember glowing briefly in the dark as she took a slow, deliberate drag. She didn't dare meet his gaze—it was too much, too sharp, cutting through her defenses like a blade. She hated how it unraveled her, how it left her exposed.

The smoke curled from her lips in a thin ribbon, carried away by the heavy Gotham air. Her voice, when it came, was soft but carried the weight of something unspoken, something raw.

"I hope you do," she said, her words hanging in the space between them, fragile yet firm. "For all our sakes."

She didn't look at him, couldn't. Instead, she kept her eyes on the skyline, the city that always seemed on the brink of falling apart, just like her.

When she finally turned to face him, he was already watching her. Like always.

The mask cloaked most of his expression, but his eyes—shadowed by black greasepaint—betrayed him. They weren't just stern like the rest of him. They held something else entirely. Tenderness? No... more like hesitation. Or was it curiosity?

Maryam couldn't decide, and it unsettled her. His gaze was unlike anything she was used to—intense and unrelenting, yet unreadable. It made her feel vulnerable, exposed in a way she wasn't prepared for.

Before she could say anything, before she could tell him to stop looking at her like that because it made her feel... things, he spoke. His whispery yet gravelly voice sliced through the tension like a blade.

"Meet me in thirty minutes. Gotham Square. In front of the churro stand."

"What?" she blurted, caught off guard.

But he was already turning, his cape sweeping behind him like a shadow come alive.

"You said you wanted to talk," he added, tone clipped. "So let's talk."

And with that, he pushed through the stairwell door and vanished into the dark.

Maryam stood frozen for a moment, staring at the door swinging shut behind him.

Her cigarette dangled, forgotten between her fingers. The ember flickered weakly before going out, like her thoughts—disjointed, scattered. She'd thought she had him figured out, had convinced herself she could predict his moves, his moods.

But moments like these always threw her off balance, left her grasping for understanding.

Her mouth hung open, words caught somewhere between surprise and frustration.

She was so preoccupied that she didn't notice the strand of hair whipping across her face until it tickled her nose. She brushed it back absently, tucking the caramel strand behind her ear as if to ground herself, to remind herself she was still here.

Her heart had other ideas, though. It was racing now, pounding against her ribs like it already knew where this was heading. Her mind scrambled to keep up, firing off questions she couldn't answer.

Why there? Why now? And why the hell in front of a churro stand?

With a frustrated sigh, Maryam flicked the cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath the heel of her boot.

Her eyes lingered on the worn concrete floor, speckled with faded white paint, as if searching for clarity among its imperfections. Closing her eyes briefly, she tried to steady her thoughts.

She glanced at her watch: 7 PM.

Alright.

Straightening her coat, she headed for the elevator, her footsteps echoing against the floor in rhythm with her restless mind.

When the elevator doors slid shut, she caught her reflection in the faded, tarnished steel. Her face appeared calm, composed even—but her eyes betrayed her. Wide, questioning, and heavy with words she couldn't bring herself to speak.

As the elevator doors closed around her, she glanced at her reflection in the brown faded steel. Her face stared back, composed on the surface, but her eyes betrayed her—wide and full of questions she couldn't bring herself to say out loud.

This was Gotham.

Nothing was ever simple.

Especially not when it came to him.

────୨ৎ────

Here she was, thirty minutes later, standing in front of the damn churro stand.

The golden coils of fried dough gleamed under the warm lights, sugar dusting the air like the promise of comfort. She could practically taste the cinnamon melting on her tongue, the memory of it almost enough to undo her resolve. But she didn't indulge.

Not tonight.

It wasn't professional—or so she told herself.

Who was she kidding? Professional went out the window the moment she agreed to meet him.      

Bruce Wayne, Gotham's enigma.

Or as she secretly called him, Zorro—a nickname that had slipped out once, unbidden, and stuck like a stubborn tune.

She liked it better than the brooding gravitas of The Batman.

It fit him in a way, with his theatrical dramatics and penchant for appearing out of nowhere, wrapped in shadows and judgment.

A man in a bat suit, prowling Gotham's rooftops, beating criminals senseless by night, and passing as a billionaire recluse by day. It would've been absurd if it weren't so painfully real.

She'd often wondered if his crusade was justice or penance, but either way, it wasn't her place to say.

Her fingers tightened around the small knight figurine tucked away in her coat pocket, its cool, metallic edges pressing against her palm. She'd swung by her apartment before coming here, just long enough to change and clear her head. But as she was leaving, something compelled her to grab it.

The little knight was a relic of another time, another life—something she should've let go of long ago. And yet, here it was. Or rather, here she was, clutching it like it held some kind of answer. Maybe tonight was the night to finally return it. Maybe it was time to hand it back to its rightful owner and see if it still meant anything.

The autumn chill bit through the layers of her coat, but she didn't shiver. Her breath misted in front of her as she scanned the shadows for any sign of him.

Typical of him—he could never just show up. Always a dramatic entrance, always from the dark.

Another sigh slipped from her lips, her breath visible in the biting air.

She pulled her coat tighter around herself, shrinking as if she could somehow escape the cold seeping into her bones. The city moved around her, oblivious.

Tourists snapped photos, children darted between adults, and teenagers laughed over their phones. Voices mingled in a chaotic symphony, underscored by the steady hum of buses and cars rolling past.

Her gaze swept over Gotham Square, the faint sound of street performers in the distance mixing with the low hum of the city at night.

You'd think a serial killer stalking the streets would be enough to send people running for cover, locking their doors, maybe even praying for safety.

But not in Gotham. Here, it was just another day.

Another freak? Sure. Add them to the roster.

The city didn't flinch; it barely blinked. This was Gotham—chaos wasn't the exception, it was the norm.

Cars and buses rumbled past, their headlights casting fleeting beams across the damp pavement. The glow of orange Halloween lights lingered from a celebration now past, their warm hues a strange contrast to the crispness of the night. The scent of freshly brewed coffee wafted from a nearby café, mingling with the faint tang of rain on asphalt.

Neon signs buzzed faintly, their colors splashed across puddles and slick streets, reflections shimmering like fractured dreams. The rain had ceased just as she stepped out of that unfinished building, where she'd met with Gordon and him.

The stillness after it felt unnervingly deliberate, as if Gotham had conspired to hold its breath, the city's usual cacophony muted in anticipation of something inevitable breaking the quiet. The slick pavement shimmered under the dim streetlights, the faint sound of water dripping from rooftops the only sign of life.

Where was he?

Maryam glanced around, her unease growing with every passing second. Did he forget? No, that wasn't like him. But then again... was this a joke? Had she misunderstood? Maybe she'd gotten the wrong place, the wrong time, and now she was just standing here like an idiot, waiting for someone who wouldn't show.

Her fingers curled tightly around the small figurine tucked in her pocket, its edges pressing into her palm like a lifeline. She cast a glance over her shoulder at the churro stand behind her. The awning sagged under the weight of pooled rainwater, droplets slipping over the edges and splattering onto the pavement.

What if he wasn't coming? The thought gnawed at her, hollowing out her resolve. What if he'd never intended to come at all?

The figurine warmed in her grip, as if trying to tether her to the moment, but doubt crept in anyway, whispering its cruel what-ifs into the corners of her mind.

On the other side of the street, Bruce blended into the chaos of Gotham like a shadow. Dressed in his drifter disguise—a bulky jacket, oversized pants, a cap, hoodie, and scarf that hid most of his features—he slipped seamlessly through the crowd, a ghost among pedestrians. His backpack hung loosely over his shoulders, a subtle addition to his otherwise nondescript look.

But it wasn't the city he was looking for. It was her.

He'd been searching for his woman through the restless streets, the pulse of the city humming around him.

And then, there she was.

Standing just where he'd told her to, by the churro stand. She was exactly how he imagined—hands tucked into the pockets of her black coat, black high boots planted firmly on the concrete. Her caramel hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders, the strands catching the flickering city lights, like liquid gold.

It was rare to see her hair down, usually tucked neatly into some controlled style, but this... this was different. She looked more than beautiful under the warm glow of the streetlights.

Ethereal, even.

Her lips, red, soft and full, were caught between a bite, her brow furrowed in concentration as she glanced from her phone to her watch. Her every movement was deliberate, but there was a trace of impatience in the way she looked around, waiting, as if wondering where he was.

He couldn't help but stare, his feet moving on their own as though she were the pull, the gravity keeping him locked in place.

His hands found their way into his pockets, his steps steady and unhurried, though the world around him spun in chaos.

Cars rushed by, their horns blaring, their drivers cursing him for walking in their way. But he didn't flinch, didn't even glance to the side.

His eyes were fixed on her, and nothing else mattered.

A car came barreling toward him, too fast, too reckless, and for a heartbeat, he thought it might hit him. But the world slowed, just for a moment. He stepped back, the vehicle passing inches from him, the tires screeching as they disappeared into the night. His gaze never left her.

His focus sharpening, closing the distance between them, stepping up onto the sidewalk where she waited.

When he finally stood before her, the noise of the city seemed to fade away, leaving only the soft rhythm of his breathing and the steady beat of his heart.

He was here. She was waiting.

And that was all that counted.

He approached her quietly, so subtly that she didn't notice at first. It wasn't until she sensed a shift in the air, a presence too familiar to ignore, that she stopped her searching and turned.

Here he was.

She recognized him instantly, the way you recognize the pulse of something you've known far too long, the rhythm you can't forget. His drifter's costume wasn't new to her; she'd seen it before. But tonight, it was different—there was no bandana covering the lower half of his face. His features were exposed, raw, and for a moment, it felt almost intimate. Not that anyone around them would have noticed. They were too busy rushing by, oblivious.

He couldn't come as himself, of course. Not in a place like this, where every face might be a threat. And he couldn't come as Batman either—it would draw too much attention, too much noise. So here he was, this version of him. And she didn't mind.

As long as it was him.

From where he stood, Bruce couldn't help but notice the way the cold had kissed her skin, the tip of her nose flushed pink from the chill, her high cheekbones sharp against the soft glow of the streetlights. Her beauty marks. She wasn't blushing, not truly, but there was something about her that felt... warmer than the night air. The way her skin seemed to catch the light, the way she stood there, still as if the world around her had paused.

He walked closer, until they were just a breath apart. He could smell her then—a scent that wrapped around him like an old memory, familiar and intoxicating. Oud and jasmine, a mix of earth and elegance, and something deeper, something only she could carry.

It was her scent, and it was enough to make him feel like he was in the presence of something rare.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The noise of Gotham faded to the background, leaving a heavy silence between them.

Then she broke it. Of course, she did.

"Hey." The words were quiet, almost tentative, but her lips curled into that small, effortless smile that always seemed to pull him in.

"Hey." He whispered back, his voice barely audible. Then, as if suddenly shy under her gaze, he looked down at the ground, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his coat. "I'm sorry... for the spontaneous request. At this hour. It was... kind of..."

His voice faltered, the words slipping away as a familiar, unspoken vulnerability settled over him—a sensation Bruce could never quite shake when she was near. He always found himself imagining what to say to her, crafting conversations in his head, but the moment they shared the same space, every carefully planned thought seemed to vanish like smoke.

He never did this.

Never felt this way with anyone. He never asked anyone to meet him, not like that.

It was... unusual for him, almost foreign. He had crushes, sure—like that one on Dex all those years ago, back when he was still running the streets. But that had been nothing more than a fleeting infatuation, the kind every teenager goes through, fueled by hormones and youthful curiosity.

Back then, he was just a kid, chasing thrills in the shadows of Gotham, testing the first prototype of what would one day become the Batmobile. He'd race strangers for the rush of it, daring the night to swallow him whole, knowing full well the cops were waiting just around the corner.

They always were, lurking in side streets or alleyways, hoping to catch the reckless teenagers who thought they could outrun the law.

But no matter how fast he drove, or how far into the night they went, it was never the same kind of chase.

Not the one that mattered.

It was the kind of life he had known—a rush of adrenaline and youthful defiance—but it never quite taught him how to understand the women who seemed to drift in and out of it.

And then there were the relationships that came and went during his school and university years—nothing lasting, nothing that ever held his attention for long.

He had never met anyone who could hold his attention, not for more than a passing moment. And the thought of letting someone in, of sharing himself—well, that felt impossible.

He couldn't bring himself to do it, no matter how many times he told himself Gotham needed him, more than anyone else could.

And women—he simply never quite understood them.

They were drawn to him, and he to them, but he never stayed in one place long enough to let anything truly take root. He wasn't sure he even wanted to.

They were a mystery.

Not like the night, with its unspoken promises, or the rumble of the engine beneath him, steady and familiar.

Not like the rush of wind against his skin, offering him a kind of freedom he couldn't find anywhere else.

Women were different—slippery, elusive. A puzzle that taunted him at every turn, one he couldn't quite piece together, no matter how hard he tried.

Maybe that was the first real lesson he'd learned about them—that he could chase the thrill they offered, but he'd never catch it. No matter how fast he pushed, no matter how far he went, it always stayed just beyond his reach, dancing on the edge of his grasp.

That's why he kept himself at a distance.

Yes, he could sleep with someone, lose himself in the physical, let the physical release take the edge off the darkness gnawing at him, if only for a moment—to numb the weight of everything that weighed on him.

But that was it.

Nothing more.

No connections, no lasting bonds, nothing that could distract him for too long from his mission, his anger, his thirst for vengeance.

Nothing could divert his focus from the mission. From Gotham. From the vow he had made over the lifeless bodies of his parents—to avenge them

In Bruce's mind, Gotham—and, above all, his parents—were the axis upon which his world spun.

They were an unrelenting obsession, a singular force that eclipsed all else. The city, with its decay and unending shadow, clung to him like a second skin, suffocating and inescapable. Gotham wasn't just a place; it was a part of him, its pulse driving every decision, every calculated move.

Yet beneath that, at the core of his relentless crusade, it was always about them—his parents. Every blow he dealt, every step into the darkness, was for them.

To avenge their stolen lives.

To strike back at the same breed of criminals who had torn them from him.

The mask he wore, the war he waged—it was all born of that need. That desperate, aching drive to fight for the memory of what he'd lost and to protect what little remained.

Until her.

He should be in the cave.

He should be hunched over the computer, chasing down leads on the Riddler, trying to figure out who was feeding information to Falcone, who the rat was in the shadows.

But instead, here he was.

Staring at her.

The woman who had become his paradox, his distraction. The one who made everything else fade into the background.

She had all his attention now—every question, every answer. It both terrified and fascinated him.

There was a force about her, an energy that clung to the air whenever she was near. It was as if she held some unspoken power over him, one that he couldn't quite grasp or understand. It rattled him, shook him at his very core. Her presence sent his mind into chaos, his thoughts spiraling in directions he couldn't follow.

She defied every strategy he had ever used to maintain control.

And that, he realized, was the problem. This woman—she—was the one thing he couldn't tame, couldn't decipher. And for the first time in his life, he found himself utterly powerless.

Her voice snapped him out of his thoughts, pulling him back into the present moment.

"Oh, it's—no, I mean, I don't mind at all, I'm..." She stumbled over her words, her usual composure slipping. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and before she could stop herself, she smiled—genuinely, like a fool.

"I'm spontaneous. It's alright. Don't worry," she managed to get out at last, voice light but with that unmistakable undercurrent of vulnerability.

For a brief moment, he just watched her—this strange woman who made everything seem so... unpredictable. Captivated by her beauty, her essence.

It wasn't just the way she looked; it was something deeper, something that pulled at him in a way he couldn't explain. His mind seemed to freeze, to etch this moment into his memory, as if photographing it to keep for later, to recall when the world felt too dark or too heavy.

A reminder of something pure, something real, to hold onto when everything else slipped away.

He wanted to remember this, her, in its entirety—her smile, her presence, the way she made him feel. Never to forget.

Bruce's lips twitched into a small, knowing smirk, eyes flickering with the slightest hint of amusement as he watched her fumble, her nervous energy palpable. But he said nothing, letting the silence hang between them.

"I figured it was the right time," he finally spoke, voice steady, almost soft. "To understand each other, and to..." He hesitated for a moment, his gaze meeting hers, as if weighing his words. "...Try and learn to trust each other."

She nodded, though there was a hint of a smile tugging at her lips, despite her nerves. "Well, I mean, we just spilled our secrets and made the deal an hour ago, but yeah."

"Better sooner than later," he replied, his tone light but serious.

Without another word, he extended his arm, offering her his elbow. She paused, her gaze lingering on it for just a moment, before she took it, her fingers brushing against his in a way that sent an unexpected jolt through her.

They began walking side by side, a quiet tension settling in the space between them. Neither of them spoke at first, simply moving through the streets together, absorbing each other's presence.

It felt foreign, almost unnatural—this close, this... intimate—and yet neither of them seemed willing to break the fragile silence.

They marched through the bustling streets, past stands and storefronts, gardens twinkling with lights that seemed to dance in the cool evening air. The city felt alive, vibrant, almost magical in the way the streetlights illuminated the shadows.

It was a beautiful night, if you chose not to think about the dark forces lurching behind it all. But beneath the glow of the lights and the laughter that echoed from nearby cafés, there was an undercurrent of something heavier.

For a moment thought, they just were, two people walking in the night, the world around them both distant and near.

"So," Maryam began, her voice steady despite the sudden weight of the conversation, her gaze drifting toward the elderly couple in front of them. They walked side by side, moving in sync, much like they were. A soft, fleeting smile tugged at her lips as she observed them. "What do you want to know first?"

"Everything," Bruce replied without hesitation, his voice unwavering. Then, as if realizing the breadth of his request, he added, "Start with how you became... it." His words hung in the air, but the way he said it—with that sense of quiet urgency—made it clear he wasn't just asking about her alter ego. He wanted to understand her, to understand everything.

Maryam exhaled sharply, her chest tightening as the words hovered on the edge of her mind. She tightened her grip on his arm, almost subconsciously, as if to ground herself. She felt something—perhaps a reassurance, or maybe something deeper—but whatever it was, it steadied her. He was there.

"I started young," she began, her voice low, almost reflective. "Around ten, I think." She paused, lost in the memory for a moment. The streets of Gotham faded for a beat, replaced by the raw, haunting images of her past.

"I just came back from a war I nearly died in," Maryam's voice was a whisper, but her words carried the weight of a thousand unspoken truths. She didn't stop, didn't wait for his reaction like he might have expected.

Her pace remained steady, her grip on his arm unyielding. "My parents were killed in it."

The words fell like stones, but they didn't slow her. She kept walking, as if moving through the past as easily as the present.

"We couldn't go anywhere else," she continued, her tone even, though there was a quiet ache beneath it. "North Africa? Too unstable, with the black decade and coups. The Middle East was worse. It was either Europe or America." She paused for just a beat, her eyes drifting over the faces of the people around them. The distant laughter, the hum of conversations, the quiet murmur of the city alive at night.

"Before dying, I remember my father had plans for the US. His sisters lived there. We couldn't stay in Europe—not after what it did to us during the war." She let the memory linger, her breath catching ever so slightly. "I guess he had the American dream in mind."

She turned to look at him then, her eyes meeting his, even in the darkness. Even in the shadows, she could always see him.

Always.

"They died before we went there," she added quietly, her gaze steady, almost distant.

Bruce opened his mouth to speak, but the words were caught in his throat.

He wanted to say something—anything to soothe her, to make the unbearable pain feel just a little lighter—but he knew that silence was all he could offer. He knew the feeling too well, the one that gnawed at you when the world took everything you had, and he knew that the weight of those words could never be fixed by empty promises.

Sometimes, all you could do was listen.

"I'm sorry," he said finally, soft voice thick with understanding, but not pity. He didn't offer any more. Some wounds were too deep for words.

She nodded once, as if accepting his silence, her expression unreadable. "My father was executed, and my mother hanged. Serbs," she said flatly. The words hung in the air between them, but there was no emotion in her voice, just an emptiness that seemed to stretch endlessly. She didn't elaborate, didn't need to. Her eyes remained fixed ahead, her gaze unwavering, unwilling to meet his.

He felt it—the pull of her pain—but he respected it. She didn't want his empathy, not now. She wasn't asking for sympathy. She just needed him to walk beside her in silence.

And he would.

"I mourned them more than I knew them," Maryam's voice broke through the night air, soft but heavy. She glanced briefly at Bruce, as if searching for something in his eyes—a flicker of understanding, perhaps. Of course, he gave it to her.

He understood. God, did he understand.

"I was left with my little sisters. Alone. All my remaining family... exterminated." Her words hung in the air, thick with grief. "I don't know how it happened, but somehow, I got a proposition to go to the US. And I was struggling, Bruce. I was just a child—forced to carry the weight of my family's survival, of feeding the last remnants of them. I thought maybe... maybe it was a chance to escape. To go to the land of the free, and join my uncle and aunts there."

She paused, her voice wavering for just a moment. Her fingers tightened on his arm, almost as if to steady herself. "So, I accepted it."

The words came out jagged, each one laced with something raw and dangerous. Bruce could see it—the way her body stiffened, the tension coiling in her muscles as she spoke. "Long story short, it came with a price," she continued, her voice tight, her jaw clenched as though she were holding back a storm. "When I got there, they told me... if I wanted citizenship, money, if I wanted to feed my family, I had to work for them. They said they'd expose us to the authorities, that they'd sell us to... people much worse than them. Or worse still, they'd do it themselves."

She paused again, her breath hitching in the cold night air, the weight of her story pressing against the silence between them.

"And I paid the price," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper, trembling like a thread on the verge of breaking.

"Fifteen years. That was the deal. I had to serve Fish Mooney—be her eyes, her ears. Her little spy. Her slave. I wasn't proud of it. It wasn't a choice. It was more like a dirty duty, something I had to do, not a purpose I'd ever choose." She let out a hollow laugh, one that held no trace of humor, her gaze growing distant, lost in the past. "My aunts... they couldn't do anything. What could immigrants do against someone like her? They just watched. And prayed. Talking about it—it was too taboo. And I get it."

Her tone shifted, a sharp edge cutting through the quiet as bitterness seeped into her words.

"She didn't just use me; she made her people mold me. Every two summers, she'd send me away, to what she called 'rehabilitation.'" The word hung in the air, bitter and sour. "Russia. That's where the training was." She paused, her jaw tightening, the memories sharp enough to slice. "Brutal doesn't even begin to cover it. Inhumane, unbearable... but I didn't have a choice. I endured it because the alternative wasn't an option. If I failed, they wouldn't just kill me—they'd kill my family too."

Her voice faltered for a moment, her shoulders stiffening as though she could shield herself from the weight of her own story. "So I survived. For fifteen years, I carried it all. And when I finally graduated med school... that was my freedom. I was done. She vanished soon after—I never saw her again. And the suit?" She let out a faint, dry chuckle, shaking her head. "I barely wear it now. Only when there's no other choice."

She paused, her expression caught somewhere between reflection and exhaustion, her words softening as if to lighten the moment. "But yeah... that's how I became this so-called 'myth' around here. The Wraith." A faint, almost self-deprecating smile flickered across her lips. "Kinda dramatic, don't you think?"

She was trying to cut through the tension, but Bruce could hear the cracks beneath it. He could see how deeply it all hurt her, how the years of fear and pain still haunted her.

"You know, we never found their bodies. My parents," she said, her voice still as she swallowed hard. "Most of the time, they were buried in mass graves. Like in Iraq, with my uncle's family and some of my father's relatives. But they never found their bodies. It was like they just disappeared, you know? I can barely remember their voices. All I have left are photos. Everything else... was destroyed."

His heart ached for her. She had been through a hell no one should endure. She deserved so much more—so much better than what life had given her.

Maryam wanted to continue, to speak the words that lingered in her mind, but she didn't. There was no need to say everything, not now. She had already said enough—things that no one else had ever heard. It wasn't the right time.

There was a truth she kept buried, even from him—one that weighed heavily on her. If she had ever dared to say no to Fish, if she had refused to play the role forced upon her, they would have exposed her on top of killing the rest of her surviving family. Exposed the secret of her maternal family, the one she never spoke of.

And that secret was something far darker, that was a price she wasn't willing to pay.

He didn't press her for more, didn't ask for the details she wasn't ready to give. But Bruce could feel the weight of everything she was carrying, the ghosts of her past that still clung to her. And in that moment, he realized just how much she had given up—how much she had sacrificed to survive.

How much she was still willing to sacrifice, just to keep her family safe.

"That's... that's a hell of a lot to carry," he said, his voice low, almost a whisper. He didn't need to say more. He didn't need to fix it. Sometimes, just acknowledging the weight of someone's pain was enough.

She nodded once, her eyes focused on the path ahead of them, her expression unreadable. But Bruce saw the slightest tremor in her hand, the faintest flicker of vulnerability behind the mask she had built for herself.

It wasn't much. But it was enough for him to know that the myth of the Wraith wasn't just some clever disguise.

It was a survival instinct.

A way of keeping the world at bay, keeping the demons at arm's length. And somewhere deep inside, he realized that maybe, just maybe, she'd stopped believing in the myth herself.

But there was something she hadn't said—something she kept buried even from him. If she had dared to refuse, if she had chosen to defy the role she was forced into, they would have exposed her. Her family's darkest secret. The one she never spoke of. Her maternal family, a past so perilous, so filled with danger, that it made everything else she had endured pale in comparison. And that... that was a cost she couldn't afford to pay.

Bruce didn't press her further. He didn't need the details she wasn't ready to share. He could feel the weight of everything she was carrying—the ghosts of her past, lingering like shadows, threatening to swallow her whole. He understood the depth of what she had sacrificed. How much she had given up, just to survive.

How much she was still willing to risk, to protect those she loved.

But more than that, Bruce understood something deeper. In this fractured world, where trust was rare and safety was always slipping through their fingers, there had to be someone to stand between her and the shadows.

Someone who would shield her from the darkness, even if she never asked for it.

And so, a truth settled, unwavering and clear—he would be that someone. He would be her protector, her guardian, no matter the cost.

Bruce absorbed her words, each one sinking in deeper than he expected, as if they were pieces of a puzzle he desperately needed to understand. He didn't even wait for the next question to come—he couldn't. "Did you ever—"

"Op, op, op, Zorro." Her voice, light and teasing, cut through the moment.

She stepped away from him, pulling the warmth of her presence with her, leaving an empty space behind. He already missed it. He didn't realize how much he'd been drawn into her orbit until she moved away.

They were now by the bay, the Gotham Bridge looming like a silent guardian above them, its lights casting ripples of gold, blue and red across the dark water. She leaned against the metal railing, the night sky framing her like a quiet painting, her smirk sharp and playful, eyes glinting with mischief. "One question at a time. It's my turn now."

Bruce allowed himself a brief smile, a flicker of amusement before his attention drifted back to the water, the weight of her presence still lingering in the air between them. "Go on, then," he said softly, his voice quiet, almost intrigued.

She tilted her head, her teasing smile never faltering. "What's your favorite color?"

The question was simple, almost absurdly so.

"What?" Bruce blinked, his brow furrowing slightly, unsure if he'd heard her right.

She grinned, leaning in just a little closer, challenging him in the way only she could. "Don't tell me it's black," she said, her voice playful, teasing him with the lightest of touches.

A soft chuckle escaped him, a warm, deep sound. She really was something else, he thought, the amusement flickering in his chest like a spark.

For a moment, he just watched her, the city lights painting her face in fragments of gold, eyes gleaming with that same wild spark.

He didn't think twice before answering. "Orange and green," he said, the words slipping out without hesitation, like a confession he hadn't planned on making. "Like the sunrise and the forest."

There was a moment of stillness between them. Bruce wondered, briefly, if he had said too much—if she could hear the unspoken meaning behind those words. Like your eyes, he almost whispered.

But he held it back, knowing it was a thought better left unsaid.

She raised an eyebrow, her smile widening, a glimmer of something more dangerous in her eyes. "That's two," she said softly.

Bruce shrugged, expression softening as he looked down at the dark water, the distant hum of the city filling the space between them. "Can't decide," he replied simply, voice carrying a quiet finality.

Her laughter was a soft, melodic thing, a sound that seemed to hang in the air, and for a brief, moment, the world felt smaller—lighter, even.

The city, the darkness, the weight of everything that had brought them here, all of it seemed to melt away, leaving just the two of them, standing together, suspended in a moment that felt both timeless and fragile.

Bruce realized how much he wanted to stay there, in this moment, with her, just a little longer. The weight of the world felt distant, as if the night itself had wrapped them in some fragile bubble of quiet.

"What was your question?" Her voice broke the stillness, soft, playful, but carrying something deeper beneath the surface.

He leaned against the cold metal railing, his arm resting on it, and turned his face toward her, eyes hidden beneath the mask, but his gaze fixed on her, absorbing every detail. "Did you ever kill?"

She didn't hesitate, didn't flinch. Instead, she moved closer, her shoulder brushing his, her warmth returning, steady and undeniable.

They leaned together against the railing, side by side, both staring at the water below, its black surface reflecting nothing but their own quiet thoughts.

The city's lights glittered in the distance, but it was just them here, in the dark, in the quiet.

"No. Not that I knew of," she said, her voice a low murmur, like she was speaking a truth only she had carried. "But that was one of the only rules Mooney ever accepted from me. One of the first ones. I would never kill. I told her that the moment I started. And I suppose it was my... faith that made it impossible. It was the only thing that stopped me from crossing that line."

Her words hit him with a weight that almost felt like a punch, raw and unflinching.

She turned her head just slightly, enough for their eyes to meet, but only for a heartbeat before she looked away, her gaze soft and unreadable. "That witch... she was many things. But one thing she was good at—was keeping her promises. Keeping her deals."

The sound of a boat echoed down the bay before she continued.

"I think I forgave her," she said quietly, the weight of her words hanging in the air. "Even with everything she did to me. I think I understood that, while I was horribly mistreated, those who mistreated me—like Mooney and her people—had their own burdens too."

"That's no excuse, Maryam," Bruce replied, his voice tight with emotion. "She didn't have the right to do what she did. If I—"

"Bruce, please," she interrupted, voice now softer, but still carrying a quiet strength, like someone trying to hold themselves together after everything had already been shattered.

Hearing her say his name, the way it slipped from her lips so gently, tender and raw, felt like a small, unexpected relief.

It was almost like hearing the truth whispered in a way that only made sense now, when everything else felt so tangled.

"I know," she continued, her gaze momentarily drifting as if she were speaking to herself as much as to him. "But there's this... sense of making peace with your past. With the people you left behind. Even if it still haunts me. Even if it never really goes away." She looked at him, her eyes heavy with something deeper than sadness. "It's like I can't let go when something's broken. I try, but I can't. It's all I know, and it's all I want now."

It felt as though the words were meant for him too—more than just a reflection of her own struggle.

Bruce didn't speak for a long time, letting the silence grow between them, thick and heavy, like a thread pulled taut, vibrating with the unspoken.

He didn't rush to fill it. Her words hung in the air, raw and unpolished, heavy with meaning. He let them settle, let them take root in the quiet, his heart absorbing every syllable.

In that stillness, he felt her—not just her presence, but the depth of her, the truth of her, in a way that pierced deeper than he had ever known.

"Who else knows about... you?" she asked after a moment, voice always as soft, eyes searching his.

They were so close now, her breath mingling with the cool night air.

"Just you," he whispered, his voice barely audible. It was the truth, in its own way. Outside of Alfred, no one else knew, no one else understood this part of him. And Alfred didn't really count—not in the way she did. Alfred was a given, a constant.

But she—she was different.

Her eyes widened slightly, curiosity flickering there. "Really?" she whispered, her voice like a secret shared only with him. She turned fully toward him, her silhouette illuminated faintly by the glow of distant lights. Her hands rose to her mouth, trembling slightly in the cold, as if trying to will warmth back into her fingers.

Before she could, Bruce reached out, his larger hands closed over hers, halting her movements. His touch was steady, sure, as he pulled his gloves from his coat and began slipping them over her chilled hands.

He took a moment, his expression unreadable, before pulling his gloves from his pocket. Gently, deliberately, he slipped one onto her hand, his fingers brushing against her chilled skin.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice laced with amusement, though her eyes softened.

He glanced up at her from beneath his lashes, his mouth twitching into the barest hint of a smirk. "Keeping you warm."

A smile spread across her face, unguarded and genuine. She didn't try to hold it back, didn't even want to. It felt right to smile like this—with him. "Well, thank you, Mr. Wayne," she teased, her tone light but sincere.

"You're welcome, Milou."

Her smile faltered for a moment, replaced by a puzzled expression. "Milou?" she asked, tilting her head.

"Yes," he said, the faintest trace of humor creeping into his voice. "That's your nickname now. You have Zorro. I have Milou." He finished pulling the second glove snugly over her fingers, his hands lingering for just a beat longer than necessary.

She chuckled, stepping back slowly, her eyes still on him, sparkling with delight. "Oh, really? Fine," she said, her voice lilting with playful defiance as she began walking backward, watching him carefully.

He shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he followed.

Of course, he followed. He realized then, with startling clarity, that he always would. No matter where she went, no matter what path she took—he would always follow her.

"What's your favorite meal?" he asked, his tone softer now, lighter. He had decided they'd had enough tragedy for one night. She deserved something different—something better.

Her eyes lit up, and she clasped her hands together with an excitement that caught him off guard. He wasn't used to seeing her like this—unguarded, a little playful. She was always so composed, so self-assured, carrying herself with quiet confidence. But this? This was something new, and he'd give anything to keep it going if it meant she was happy.

"Oooh, I have so many!" she exclaimed, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm. He couldn't help but smile nervously, watching her. "Okay, let's see... Mloukhia, Shakshukah, Couscous, sushi—but only the spicy kinds. I love spicy food. Indian, Arab, Korean—anything with heat, I'm in."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "I've only ever had sushi out of all those."

Her steps faltered as she turned to him, mockingly narrowing her eyes, her gloved finger pointing at him like an accusation. "What? That has to change. I'll make you some. You have to try them."

Before he could reply, she marched ahead, still listing off her favorites as if she'd just unlocked a hidden treasure trove of memories.

"There's also Pavlova!" she added, her voice filled with an almost childlike glee. "It's one of my favorite desserts, along with tiramisu and crème brûlée, of course."

He smiled, trailing behind her, completely enthralled. "What about you?" she asked, glancing back at him. "What's your favorite?"

"Mulligatawny soup."

She frowned slightly, her curiosity piqued. "Never heard of it."

"It's Indian," he explained. "I think you'd like it—spicy, rich. Unfortunately, I've never had a better bowl than the one I tried in India."

Her brows lifted. "You've been to India?"

He nodded as they reached a bench. She sat down, and he settled beside her, close enough that their arms nearly touched.

"Yeah," he said.

"And where else?"

"Most of Asia. Africa too. Europe, of course. Latin America."

Her lips curved into a soft smile. "So, everywhere?"

"Possibly," he teased, his tone light, and she rolled her eyes, the faintest laugh escaping her lips.

"When I was younger," she began, her voice softening, "I used to dream of escaping to a tropical island—somewhere with white sand and crystal-clear waters. Maybe Bora Bora, or somewhere in French Polynesia. I don't know, really. But I wasn't allowed, though. Mooney had so many rules. Not even allowed to go back to my home countries."

She drifted off for a moment, lost in thought, then smiled again. "I also wanted to climb Mount Everest. I know, it sounds silly, but I've had a little picture of it in my office for years now. It's been there forever."

"It's not silly," he said, his voice steady, the sincerity in his tone making her pause. "I'll take you there."

Maryam turned to him, her expression softening before she shook her head, giving him a playful shove. "Stop."

"I'm serious, Milou," he insisted, using her nickname in a way that made her chest ache just a little.

"You don't have to," she said, her voice quieter now.

"But I want to."

She hesitated, her gaze falling away from his, her guard creeping back up. "Why bother?" she asked, almost like a whisper.

"Does there have to be a reason?" he countered, his voice low but resolute.

"There's always a reason."

He didn't respond, at least not with words. He just looked at her, like he always did, with that intensity that made her feel seen in a way she wasn't sure she could handle. They were close now, just inches apart. The air between them seemed to hum with something unsaid, something almost tangible.

She was beautiful. Too beautiful. And for a moment, all he wanted—all he could think about—was leaning in, closing that unbearable space between them. To finally taste her. But he held back, terrified of what it might mean if she didn't want it too.

It was a quiet battle, a torturous one. And yet, he couldn't help but think that she might just be worth it.

Every risk.

Every hesitation.

Every moment.

Then, as if shaken from a dream, Maryam pulled back, the warmth of her presence retreating like a receding tide. Bruce felt the loss instantly, an ache he couldn't quite name settling in the hollow of his chest.

He wanted to groan, to close the space between them again, to reach for her—gently, always gently. He wanted to thread his fingers through her hair, feel its softness against his skin, and press his lips to hers as if the ache in him could be soothed by the touch of her.

He wanted more than that, too.

To trace every delicate beauty mark that dotted her neck, to linger over the tender curve of her collarbone, to let his lips rest against that impossibly sensitive skin he'd spent too many sleepless nights imagining.

But Maryam, it seemed, had other ideas.

Her gaze was distant now, her posture braced as if a barrier had risen between them, her expression unreadable. And so he stayed where he was, silent, the tension thick between them, the air alive with all the things he couldn't bring himself to say.

Taking a deep breath, she avoided his gaze, her fingers fiddling with her hair as she cleared her throat to dissipate the tension. She slipped his gloves off her hands and placed them carefully between them, a deliberate barrier.

Then, reaching into her pocket, she retrieved a small object and set it beside the gloves, movements quiet but purposeful.

Curious, Bruce picked it up, turning the object over in his hands.

The knight figurine gleamed faintly in the dim light of the nearby streetlamp, the only thing illuminating them. His fingers paused as recognition struck. Her voice broke through the moment.

"You left it... in the subway," she said softly, her eyes flickering to his for the briefest moment before darting away again.

Bruce furrowed his brows, his mouth parting in confusion—then it dawned on him. The realization hit like cold water.

He turned the figurine upside down and found what he was looking for: the tiny etched initials. B. T. W.

His chest tightened, memories surfacing like ghosts.

It had been a gift from his mother, bought in a small shop on an ordinary day that now felt like another life.

"I don't know if you remember—" she began, hesitant.

"I do," he interrupted, his voice softer than she'd ever heard it. "Twenty years ago. You're the girl I used to see every Thursday when my mother and I went to the park."

He smiled then—a small, unguarded smile that she'd never seen before. It caught her off guard, a rare glimpse behind the wall of his usual restraint.

Her breath hitched. He remembered? He actually remembered. For years, even she had questioned her memories, wondered if those fleeting moments were just a trick of her imagination.

But the figurine had been real, and so was this.

She looked down, her voice barely above a whisper. "So you do remember."

"Of course I do. How could I forget you?"

Her hazel eyes snapped back to his at those words, wide and searching. But he didn't stop.

"I left it behind on purpose."

"What?" she asked, her voice thick with disbelief.

"I wanted you to take it," he admitted, the faintest flush rising under his cowl. "And then give it back the next week. It was an excuse. An excuse to talk to you."

She blinked at him, utterly stunned. "You're kidding."

"I'm not."

Her lips quirked into a disbelieving smile. "How would you even know I'd give it back? What if I sold it? "

"But you didn't," he said simply, his tone resolute. "You kept it."

She couldn't argue with that. Her fingers brushed over the gloves on the railing, as if grounding herself. "I did."

Bruce's gaze softened, and his next words escaped like a confession. "I thought you were the prettiest girl I'd ever seen."

Her laugh came unexpectedly, soft and self-deprecating. "Really? I probably looked homeless back then. You must've seen prettier girls at your private school."

He smirked, unshaken. "And yet I thought you were the most beautiful of them all."

Her laughter faltered, his sincerity sinking in.

"I used to talk about you all the time to my parents," he continued, his voice tinged with wistfulness. "They encouraged me to talk to you, but... I never had the courage. I guess I was just a coward." He adjusted the brim of his cap lower, his expression briefly shadowed. "But you're wrong about something. That wasn't the first time I saw you."

Her brows furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean?"

Bruce's lips curved slightly, a faint flicker of nostalgia lighting his face. "The first time was at a park. A year before the subway meetings. You were playing in the sand. I sat beside you and asked for your name."

She tilted her head, trying to recall, but he continued.

"You didn't respond. Not at first. So... I pulled one of the ribbons from your hair." He let out a low chuckle, the memory vivid now. "Your response was to throw sand at me. Then you ran off. I didn't see you again for a year."

Maryam stared at him, her mouth agape. Her hand flew to her face, covering her mouth as a burst of laughter escaped. "Oh my God—no way!"

"I swear," he said, smiling as her laughter filled the air. "You blinded me."

Her laughter deepened, the absurdity of the story unraveling the tension between them. For a moment, they were two people in a simpler time, untouched by the darkness that would later consume them both.

What he didn't tell her, what he held close to his heart, was that on that day, after wiping the sand from his eyes, he'd run back to his mother and declared he was in love. He had promised her that he'd marry the girl with the ribbons someday.

Bruce's voice grew quieter, tinged with a sadness that broke through the moment. "The day I left the knight... it was all a ruse. I just wanted to talk to you. I wanted you to meet my mother." He paused, the weight of the memory dragging his voice lower. "But it never happened."

Maryam's laughter faded, her smile slipping as the unspoken truth settled between them. His parents were gone, stolen from him, and in the hollow space they left behind, so much had changed.

The air between them grew heavier, charged with the weight of what could have been—and what never would be.

What he didn't tell her, what he kept locked deep inside, was that after wiping the sand from his eyes that day, he had run straight back to his mother, breathless with excitement.

He had told her, with the certainty only a child could have, that he thought he was in love. The girl with the big hazel eyes had stolen his heart.

He had promised his mother that one day, he would marry the girl with the ribbons.

That she would meet her.

But it never happened.

The words hung in the air, heavy with unsaid truths, and they both knew why.

His parents were taken from him, slaughtered in the dead of night, their lives extinguished in a brutal, senseless act.

It happened too quickly, like a nightmare that swallowed him whole.

The deafening crack of gunfire, the chaos, the desperate screams. A man—cold and ruthless—demanding his mother's pearls.

His father fought, desperate to shield her, but there was no saving them. Two shots, and his father crumpled first, his eyes frozen in disbelief, staring but seeing nothing.

Then his mother, three shots, and the pearls—once a symbol of their lives—scattered like fragile shards on the floor. Her breath was ripped away, leaving only a void where her warmth once was.

He waited.

Cried.

Screamed.

For hours.

Alone in the blood-stained silence, hoping, praying someone would come to help.

He remembered frantically reaching for the pearls scattered across the ground, his hands trembling as he tried to gather them. For a brief, disorienting moment, he thought they were teeth—his mother's teeth, torn from her mouth by the force of the screams and the gunfire.

The vision of her face contorted in agony, the blood staining her lips, was burned into his mind.

He could still feel the cold, sticky texture of the blood as it soaked into his skin, a strange mixture of liquid and something thicker, more suffocating. The metallic smell of it filled his nostrils, sharp and overwhelming, mingling with the smoke of the gunshots and the faint scent of decay.

It was a memory that would never leave him, seared into his senses.

He called out to them too, his voice trembling as he screamed, Mummy, Papa, pleading for them to wake up, to say something, anything. But they didn't answer.

They couldn't.

There was only silence.

The house felt hollow, their absence pressing down on him like a weight he couldn't escape. The man who had ripped their lives apart was gone, leaving no trace behind, just the haunting image of their lifeless bodies, frozen in time.

And with them, a love that had been cruelly snuffed out, a promise of warmth and safety shattered far too soon.

The tower was a tomb, its walls echoing with the ghosts of what had been. Nothing could fill the void they left behind.

No amount of time would heal the wound.

The brutal, senseless cruelty of it all haunted him, like a heavy weight on his chest.

And no matter how much he tried to forget, it was always there—lingering in the quiet, unbearable stillness of his heart.

Now, here he stood, carrying nothing but the shattered remnants of a past he could never reclaim.

No more visits to the park on warm afternoons, no more nights at the cinema where time seemed to stretch out and the world felt soft.

No more whispered dreams shared beneath the gentle glow of streetlights.

Just silence.

Just the hollow, aching absence of them.

The space they left behind was so vast, so unbearable, it felt as if it could swallow him whole. A void that could never be filled, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many miles he ran or how many battles he fought.

It would always be there.

"That's why you do what you do, right?" Maryam's voice broke through the quiet, sharp and steady, like a thread of clarity in the fog.

He didn't answer immediately, his gaze fixed on her, drinking in the way her words hung in the air, as if they might hold the answers he had been searching for his entire life. His throat tightened, the weight of her question settling deep within him. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he turned toward her, his voice a hoarse rasp. "What do you think of it?"

"I think you're angry," she said, her voice soft but firm, carrying a truth he could not deny. "Angry at the world, at this city. Angry for taking the two people you loved the most, the ones you looked up to. And you're angry at them for dying. You're resentful. And that resentment... that vengeance inside you... it's eating you alive. Slowly. Killing you from the inside."

A heavy silence hung between them, thick and suffocating. Bruce didn't flinch at her words. He didn't need to. The pain she described was something he knew all too well.

"I'm already dead," he said, the words spilling from him like a confession he had been carrying for years, the weight of them so immense it was as if they had crushed the life from his chest long ago. "I died the night they did."

She didn't say anything at first. Instead, she looked at him—really looked at him—as though she could see past the mask he wore, past the walls he had built. Then, in a voice laced with a quiet defiance, she spoke.

"I don't believe that. Not for a single second."

Her words were like a hand reaching out to him from a place of warmth and light, and he wasn't sure if he was ready to grasp it, or if he even deserved to. But he found himself wanting to. Wanting to believe.

Maryam took a deep breath, steadying herself, her eyes flicking away for a moment before she continued. "I used to resent you, you know," she confessed, her voice raw with a truth she had kept buried for so long.

"For a while, I did. I couldn't understand why you'd waste your life away like this—why you'd shut yourself in that tower while the rest of us, the ones struggling, were left to scrape by, invisible in this city. You were no different from the others. I hated all the rich people, all the ones who didn't know what it meant to fight for their survival. To fight for something real." Her words came faster now, as if the pressure of holding them in for so long had finally cracked the dam. "I resented you. I hated everything you stood for, everything you had and I didn't."

Bruce felt the sting of her words, but they weren't meant to hurt. They weren't meant to wound him. They were her truth, as much as his own was his. The anger, the bitterness, the helplessness—it was something they both shared, even if they had walked different paths to get here.

"But then," she continued, her voice softer now, almost hesitant, "I started to see it... piece by piece. I started to understand why you do it, why you fight, why you refuse to let go." She met his gaze again, and there was something in her eyes that made his heart ache. "I don't think you're dead, like you say. You proved that just a minute ago when you smiled. You still have something inside you, Bruce. You're still here."

Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, he didn't know how to respond. The truth of them hit him harder than anything he had ever faced. Could it be possible? Could she really see through the darkness he had surrounded himself with?

She reached out then, her fingers brushing against his clenched hand. The simple contact, the warmth of her touch, sent a shock through him. His breath hitched, and he closed his eyes, as if to hold onto that fleeting moment.

She was here.

She was real.

And somehow, against all odds, she believed in him.

"You're still here," she whispered again, her voice a quiet affirmation. "I'm sure of it."

Her hand tightened around his, and he let her hold him there, not knowing if he could even hold himself anymore. But somehow, in that moment, he felt something stirring in him. A spark, a flicker of hope, something he had long buried.

"You just have to fight for it," she said, her voice gentle but strong. "Fight for the city. Fight for yourself. Not with anger or vengeance, but with hope. With justice."

Her words were the kind of truth he had never wanted to hear. The kind of truth that cut straight to the bone. He had spent so many years pushing it all down, burying it beneath anger and rage, because that was easier than facing the truth: that he was still alive, still here, still capable of choosing something else.

But it wasn't too late.

He looked at her, the woman who had seen through him, who had reached into the depths of his pain and pulled him back from the edge.

Maybe—just maybe—he could still fight for something.

Maybe he could still fight for her, for this city, for the people who had been lost along the way.

She looked away, as she always did when overwhelmed. It was her way of avoiding the weight of the moment. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with a flick. She took a slow drag, letting the smoke fill her lungs before releasing it into the night air.

"I told you to stop looking at me like that," she said, referring to the day outside the GCPD. "It's making me nervous."

"So, I'm making you nervous?" he teased.

"What? No—wait, stop. You're just... annoying," she stammered, her face flushing. Despite her words, he smiled, amused by her reaction.

He reached out and took the cigarette from her hand, the red lipstick leaving a faint mark on its filter. His lips brushed against the imprint of hers as he brought it to his mouth.

Without a second thought, he inhaled slowly, the smoke filling his lungs, before passing it back to her.

They sat in silence, the quiet stretching between them, but it was far more comforting than awkward, as if the stillness spoke more than words ever could.

Neither of them felt the need to fill the space with words.

Just being there, together, was enough.

But eventually, everything must end. And the signal in the sky—clear and undeniable—was their cue. They both stood, but before he could speak, she beat him to it.

"Go," she said softly.

He nodded, but his feet remained planted, his gaze locked on her. A battle waged within him, the conflict palpable in the tense air between them.

"Be careful," she murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper, the smoke from her cigarette swirling around her like a challenge. It hung between them, thickening the silence, but he didn't flinch. His eyes never left hers, unwavering, as if bracing himself for whatever she might say or do next.

It wasn't resistance, though. No, it was something deeper—something that held him there, rooted in the moment, absorbing it all just to stay near her.

If her words were laced with venom, he'd drink them in.

If they were filled with tenderness, he'd drown in them.

Anything to see her face again, anything to hear her voice.

He'd endure whatever she threw his way, eyes wide open, as if just looking at her was worth any cost.

Her fingers itched with the desire to reach out, to take his now gloved hands in hers. Her left hand twitched by her side, restless with the impulse, while her right held the cigarette, the tip glowing faintly in the dim light. She was just a breath away from taking another drag.

A flicker of a smile tugged at his lips, so faint it might've been an illusion. "Always," he whispered, the words soft, intimate, just for her. A vow only she would understand, heavy with meaning.

He'd never cared about much before. Pain had been a constant companion—he wore it like a second skin, the bruises and scars a testament to a life lived with defiance, or maybe resignation. He had taken every blow, every wound, as though he deserved it, as though the world owed him nothing but suffering.

Fear had been a stranger to him.

Even death, that inevitable visitor, held no terror. He used to think that if it came knocking, he'd greet it with open arms, indifferent, like an old acquaintance.

But now... now, things were shifting. Maybe it was her. Maybe he was starting to see things in a way he never had before. Or maybe he was just lying to himself, telling himself what he needed to hear to avoid causing her any more pain.

Because that was the one thing he couldn't bear—the thought of hurting her.

And if it meant making promises he'd never spoken to anyone else, so be it.

If lying meant protecting her, he'd become a master of deception.

What mattered was that she believed it. For her, he'd weave the most delicate of lies—carefully crafted, like gossamer threads spun into something beautiful. He'd do it not to deceive, but to shield her from the darkness that still clung to him, a shadow that never quite faded.

She wasn't blind, though. She could see through him, cut through his defenses with that sharp, knowing gaze of hers. She probably knew when he was lying before the words even left his lips. But even if she saw through every falsehood, every carefully constructed mask, at least he'd tried.

At the very least, he could say that he cared. Perhaps it was even more than that.

But there was one truth, one he'd guard with everything he had, one he'd never twist or bury beneath the weight of the world: he would always protect her.

It wasn't just a promise. It was a vow, forged in the deepest part of his soul, unbreakable and unwavering. No matter the cost, no matter how far the shadows reached, he would ensure she was kept safe. He would give every ounce of his strength, every breath in his body, to protect her.

This was the one thing he could offer that no lie, no illusion, could ever erase. And in that certainty, in the purity of that protection, was the one thing that was always real.

He took a small, deliberate step closer, his presence steady and unwavering. Slowly, he leaned in, his movements careful, as if testing the fragile air between them. His hand cradled the curve of her neck, his touch firm yet impossibly gentle, and he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her cheek.

Maryam froze, her breath catching and holding in her chest like a secret. The world around them seemed to still, narrowed down to the heat of his breath against her skin, the way he exhaled softly near the hollow of her neck.

She felt him inhale, as if committing the scent of her perfume to memory, his lashes briefly brushing his cheek as he closed his eyes.

Without thinking, her hand reached for his arm, fingers curling around the sleeve of his suit. She squeezed lightly—not to push him away but to anchor herself, as if the gesture could convey the storm of emotions she couldn't quite name.

Maybe it was a thank you. Maybe it was reassurance.

She didn't know.

All she knew was that she liked it—liked the feel of his hand on her neck, the warmth of his breath, the quiet intimacy of it all. It was grounding and electric all at once, a moment that left her heart beating just a little too fast.

Then, without another word, he turned and walked away.

Maryam stood there by the railing, her hand pressed to her cheek, her eyes locked on the horizon. The cold wind tugged at her hair, pulling it across her face, but she didn't move to push it away. Her gaze swept over the city, a sprawling labyrinth of steel and stone.

Gotham was alive—imperfect, fractured, yet undeniably alive.

It didn't care about her, or anyone else. It simply existed, as indifferent as the stars above, cold and distant.

And still, here she stood, watching it all unfold.

A/N : +12k words, oof. This chapter was supposed to go up yesterday, but disaster struck—it deleted itself, and I had to piece it back together from the scraps I had saved. :/ It was a bit of a nightmare, and honestly, I haven't had the energy to edit or polish anything, so if you come across weird phrasing, typos, or a word that doesn't make sense, I'm really sorry in advance. I'll fix it later, I promise !! ;)

Now, about this chapter—

I couldn't stop kicking my feet while writing it 🫠

BUT I HOPE BRUCE WASN'T TOO OOC. I tried my best to stay true to his character, but I also wrote this straight from how my brain interpreted the moment. Hopefully, I didn't push him too far out of character because I really wanted this scene to happen. It felt important for his and Maryam's development, and I needed to give them something before the action kicked in.

Originally, this chapter was just Maryam and Gordon leading into the Penguin car chase from the movie, but as I was writing, I realized something was missing. I felt like we needed a quieter, more personal moment between Bruce and Maryam first. So, I scrapped the initial version and rewrote it. I just hope it works, and that you guys enjoy it.

I find Bruce to be such a challenging character to write, especially in the 2022 Batman universe. We still don't know him fully, but I really wanted to dive into his character, offering a kind of analysis and depth. When I write him, especially in the scenes with Maryam and their relationship, I truly hope it feels like something that could be seen in the movie. I want the way I've written them to seamlessly fit with the film and the moments that unfold.

By the way, I hope the slow burn is really coming through because, honestly, the amount of restraint it took for me to not make them kiss right then and there—ugh.

I also hope that the dialogue between them wasn't too much or too long and felt natural enough.

As for Maryam, I really hope she came across well here. Writing her has been such a fun (but daunting!) challenge because I want her to feel grounded and relatable while standing out as her own person. Let me know what you think of her in this chapter !!!

While writing this chapter, I was listening to Rushes by Frank Ocean, which perfectly matched the mood. Of course, Neon Lights by Pim Stones was in the mix too—it's practically one of Maryam and Bruce's anthems, with lyrics that resonate so deeply with their dynamic. Other tracks that set the tone include I, Carrion, Every breath you take by The Police, (another theme for them—there are so manyyy).

There's also Sun Bleached Flies by Ethel Cain was more when focusing on Maryam, and Crush by Ethel Cain for the two of them together. For Bruce, I had Beanie by Chezlie and Cry by CAS playing—it really captured his essence in those moments.

Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who reads, comments, and supports this story. It genuinely means the world to me. I read every comment, and it always makes my day to see your thoughts and feedback.

If all goes well, the next chapter should be up tomorrow—or maybe even tonight if motivation strikes! We'll see 😏

P.S. For those who don't know, Dex is from the prequel book to the movie. Some consider it canon, others don't, but I think it aligns pretty well with the film, so why not?

xx