خذ قلبي، ولا أستطيع سوى المشاهدة، فكل شيء سببته أنا
take my heart; I can only watch, for I caused it all

     BRUCE WAS, TO PUT IT MILDLY, drowning in a whirlpool of pain and shame. How could he have let this happen? How could he have failed Alfred like this ?

The weight of it crushed his chest with every breath, a deep ache that refused to subside.

When he called Dory, he recognized the tremor in her voice immediately, the way it cracked under the strain of holding back panic. 

He knew. 

Deep down, he knew. 

But denial was easier to cling to.

He refused to accept it until he saw the fire himself, the charred remains, the smoke still curling into the night sky like a specter of his guilt. Only then did the truth settle in, heavy and unforgiving.

Alfred ( his caretaker, his rock, his father in every way that mattered ) was hurt. 

Because of him.

Him.

Him.

Through the glass wall, Bruce stared at Alfred's still form. Bandages covered his arms and chest, his face pale beneath the mask delivering oxygen to his fragile lungs. The rhythmic beeping of machines monitoring his vital signs was the only indication that life still flickered within him. Nurses moved around Alfred's bed, adjusting wires and IV lines. 

One of them caught Bruce's eye.

He recognized her — Maryam's aunt. The resemblance was unmistakable.

Maryam.

Oh, Maryam.

His mind wandered, drawn to thoughts of her. Of the first time their paths crossed all those years ago, of that fateful night with the mayor, of their stolen moments together, specially the last one. He remembered the way he yearned to touch her, to hear her voice, to breathe in her scent.

The way he wanted to kiss her until her lips were tender, to trace the graceful curve of her neck, to memorize every delicate line of her beauty.

Just her.

Her and only her.

She had become his anchor, steadying him even when he felt unworthy of her.

A doctor emerged from a nearby corridor, her steps brisk but her expression somber as she approached Bruce. "We've sedated him," she began, voice calm and measured. "Now, we wait and hope he stabilizes."

Bruce didn't respond, his eyes still fixed on Alfred through the glass.

The doctor hesitated before continuing. "You should go home, Mr. Wayne. Get some rest."

This time, Bruce nodded slightly, but it was as if he wasn't there — like the words were barely registering. 

She paused, watching him carefully, then softened her tone. "Is there... anyone else we should notify? Next of kin?"

Finally, Bruce turned to her, expression distant, words barely above a whisper. "No, it's... just me."

The doctor nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line as she stepped away, leaving him alone and the quiet hum of the machines.

He stayed there, unmoving, gaze locked on Alfred's face. 

This was the man who had raised him, who had cared for him when no one else would, who had become more of a father than his own ever had the chance to be. And now, Alfred was fighting for his life, lying helpless behind that glass barrier.

Bruce's fists clenched at his sides, a futile attempt to quell the storm of guilt inside him. He couldn't afford to break — not here, not now.

Then, he smelled her before he heard her.

Even amidst the sterile scent of alcohol, antiseptics, and the faint metallic tang of blood that lingered in the hospital, her scent stood out : clean, warm, familiar.

It was so distinctly hers.

For a moment, he wanted to turn, to meet her eyes, to find some measure of solace in her presence. 

But he couldn't. 

Not yet. 

His eyes remained on Alfred, his guilt a tether that refused to release him.

The softest shuffle of footsteps reached his ears, almost inaudible, but he knew it was her. Maryam had a way of moving through spaces, silent and fluid, as though she belonged everywhere and nowhere all at once. 

She paused a few feet behind him, close enough that he could feel her presence but far enough to give him space.

Bruce didn't turn around. He couldn't bring himself to face her — not with the weight of his failure pressing down on him. Not with Alfred lying there, broken and fragile. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and strained.

"I let him down."

Maryam didn't respond immediately. 

She waited, letting the silence stretch between them like a bridge he had to cross. 

When she spoke, her voice was so soft, so steady.

"If you think you let him down, it's only because you care so deeply."

He closed his eyes, the words hitting him like a gentle blow. "I should've been there. I should've — " He stopped, his breath catching in his throat. "It's my fault. All of it. I let this happen."

Maryam stepped closer now, her scent more distinct, her presence grounding. "You can't do everything, Bruce," she said gently. "You try. You push yourself to the edge, and sometimes... sometimes it's not enough. But this? This isn't on you."

Finally, he turned to face her, his storm-gray eyes heavy with anguish as they met hers. Maryam stood there, steady and unflinching, her hazel eyes — soft shades of green and gold in the dim hospital light — focused solely on him. She wore her scrubs and a white crisp coat, her hair pulled back, every inch the composed doctor. 

But her expression held a depth that showed she understood.

She always did.

Maryam hesitated for just a moment before reaching out, her hand warm and gentle as she rested it on his arm. "He's alive, Bruce," she said firmly. "He's alive, and he's fighting. And he's doing that because of you. Because he knows you'll be here for him."

Bruce looked down at her hand, its warmth stark against the cold knot of guilt in his chest. He wanted to believe her, to let her words soften the sharp edges of his self-recrimination. But the truth in his head wouldn't let him.

"This was the Riddler," he muttered, almost to himself. His jaw tightened. "He did this."

"I know," Maryam said quietly. Her tone carried no judgment, only understanding.

"I can't let it happen again." His voice was firmer now, a promise to himself more than anyone else.

She didn't respond right away. 

What could she say? 

The Riddler wasn't someone who played by simple rules. Every move was calculated, every victim chosen with a cruel precision. Bruce had been drawn into that web now, just as intended.

But she stayed where she was, her hand steady on his arm.

"Do you have any other —"

"We need to stop." His voice cut through hers, sharp and resolute.

She froze, furrowing her brow in confusion.

"What?"

"This. Us."

The words hung in the air, stark and cruel. Her hand, which had rested lightly on his arm, dropped as if burned. Slowly, like the meaning took its time to settle over her, she stepped back.

"You're hurt," she began, trembling, trying to reason with him. "It's okay to be scared —"

He shook his head, cutting her off again. "No, it's not that."

She hesitated, searching his face for any crack, any sign of hesitation that might let her hold onto hope. But his jaw was tight, his gaze locked somewhere beyond her, far away from the moment they were standing in.

"Don't do this," she whispered, the words a plea, barely audible.

"You don't understand," he said, each word measured, every syllable sounding like it cost him something to say. "I put you at risk."

"Bruce — "

She said his name like an anchor, desperate to tether him to her, to this space, to them. 

But he stayed where he was, fists clenched at his sides as though holding himself together by sheer force of will.

"I can't let happen to you what happened to him." His voice cracked as he gestured toward Alfred, the weight of guilt heavy in his movement. "I won't."

"Nothing will happen to me." Her tone was stronger this time, a touch of defiance lacing her words. She stepped toward him, daring to close the gap between them.

But he moved back, retreating as if her proximity alone might shatter his resolve.

That single step away struck harder than any blow could. Her face fell, her pain written so clearly in her expression that it took everything in him not to reach out, not to fold her into his arms and tell her that this wasn't what he wanted.

"You don't know that," he said, softer now but no less firm.

She stared at him, her heart warring against the growing chasm between them. For a moment, neither spoke, the silence punctuated only by the unspoken words that hung in the air.

He had made his decision. 

She saw it now in the set of his shoulders, in the way he refused to meet her eyes.

And yet, a part of her refused to believe it, refused to accept that fear ( his or hers ) could destroy what they had been building, fragile and uncertain as it was.

But for him, protecting her meant letting her go. And for her, the ache of losing him was already too much to bear.

"Exactly ! You. Don't. Know. That. " she repeats his words slowly.

"I don't?" Bruce's voice rises, raw and exasperated. "The proof is right in front of you, Maryam." His gaze shifted to Alfred's motionless body, as if willing her to see the reasoning behind his choices.

Even the thought of losing her, of her, was just ... unbearable, and yet here he was, standing on the precipice, ready to let it all go.

No more Milou. That name, that comfort, had vanished, as if it had never existed. And the thought of it alone cut deeper than she could admit.

"Just the thought of something happening to you, I — "

She stiffens at his words, her jaw tightening. "It seems like you forget who I am."

"It doesn't change a thing."

"I'm nothing to him, Bruce! Nothing he'd consider important enough to hurt." Her words were sharp, defiant, but beneath it lies a tremor she can't quite suppress.

"But you are to me," he growls, teeth gritted as though the words physically pained him.

Her breath catches. 

She looks at him, her chest tightening as tears threaten to spill. She blinks them back, desperate to maintain her composure. 

The roles had reversed now, she realizes with bitter irony.

She had always been the one to push him away. Every time he had opened up, showing her pieces of himself that no one else had ever seen, she had shut him out.

Her armor of stoicism had always been her defense, and now she saw him wielding it against her. And now? Now he had taken up that mantle, retreating behind a shield of his own making.

And she hated it.

She regretted every moment she had hesitated, every time she had let fear dictate her actions, every chance she had let slip through her fingers. 

Maybe it was her fault they had come to this — this unbearable moment where the air between them felt like a battlefield.

"How?" she demands, her arms moving with her words, as if they could carry her meaning where words failed.

To an outsider, they might look like an old married couple arguing over something trivial, but the burden of their words could crush entire worlds.

"Whoever's behind the mask hates me," he says, the words clipped, almost bitter. "He hates what I stand for, what I represent. And he's ready to do whatever it takes to hurt me. And if he finds out — if he so much as suspects — that you're close to me," he falters for the briefest of moments, his eyes locking onto hers, those eyes he dreams of more than he should, "important to me..."

Her lips part, a response poised on the edge of them, but he barrels on, his voice cracking slightly under the weight of his conviction.

"Then he'll hurt you, Maryam. And I can't let that happen. I won't. I refuse."

His words hit like a tempest, stripping her bare and leaving her defenseless. 

The ache in her chest swells, sharp and unyielding, each syllable carving its way straight into her heart. He's hurting her in this moment, yet his eyes betray him — they're filled with pain, with longing that he's trying so desperately to bury.

"So that changes everything," she says finally, steady despite the storm raging inside her.

Bruce meets her gaze, and for a moment, his resolve wavers. 

He could take it back — everything he's said. He could reach for her, pull her close, and let the world be damned. 

But instead, he lies to himself, to her, and spits the poison he knows will break her.

"Yes."

She shakes her head, still in denial of what, exactly? She doesn't know yet, but she can't let him go like this. Not when everything in her screams to hold on.

"I'm still me," she says, her voice steady despite the storm inside her. She takes a deep breath, reaching for his arm and stepping closer, and he lets her — because he craves it, even if he knows he shouldn't.

"And you... you're still you," she continues. "So tell me — what's changed?"

Her words slice through his defenses like a blade, sharp and unforgiving. What had changed?

Everything. 

Nothing. 

He doesn't know how to answer, how to express the tornado of emotions whirling inside him.

The way he sees her now, the way everything has shifted — he wants to hold her, to take away her fears, to kiss her and tell her that it's all going to be okay, that nothing could ever tear them apart.

But he can't. 

And she can't. 

Not now.

He looks away, his gaze falling to the glass where Alfred is sleeping, peaceful and unaware of the storm raging around them. "It's not that simple," he murmurs, his words barely audible over the howling wind.

She watches him, heart aching at the distance between them. But then, he turns back to her, his hand reaching for hers. He squeezes it tightly, bringing it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. 

His eyes lock with hers, filled with quiet desperation.

"I need you to be alright," he says softly, almost broken. "And for that... I need to let you go. It's better this way."

A single tear slips down her cheek, and it's as though the world stops for a heartbeat. He reaches out instinctively, brushing it away with his thumb, hating the sight of her tears — especially when they're caused by him.

But before he can hold her, comfort her, she pulls away.

Her hand slips from his, the warmth of her touch vanishing, leaving him hollow. She steps back, turning her back to him, as if she's trying to escape the words, the feelings, the hurt between them.

Silence falls between them, heavy and suffocating. But he watches her still, as always, as if he could never tear his gaze away.

"How can you say to stop something, to let go of something that never even began?" Her voice is raw, the words torn from her throat, a plea, a challenge, all at once.

And he's at a loss for words, just as he always is when it comes to her.

What could he say? How could he explain the tumult in his chest, the battle between his heart and his mind? The truth is, he can't. He doesn't even know who he is anymore when she's around, when her presence fills him with both comfort and pain.

His jaw clenches. His fists ball at his sides, the muscles in his arms taut with the effort of holding back. He wants to shout, to reach out, to beg her to understand. But the words die in his throat, and all that remains is the crushing weight of the choice he's made.

In that moment, he feels as if he's suffocating — trapped between the need to protect her and the overwhelming desire to keep her close. But he can't do both. 

And that thought is unbearable.

She moves to leave, her steps heavy with finality, but just before reaching the door, she halts. She doesn't turn to face him.

"You know why he's targeting you?" Her voice carries an edge now, brittle and sharp, as if each word costs her. She hesitates, weighing what she's about to say, knowing she might regret it—but the weight of the moment pushes her forward. She's too overwhelmed, too angry to stop.

"Maybe it's because you've been locked up in that tower," she continues, her tone colder than he's ever heard. "Not aiding this city the way you should. Instead, you've been wallowing with your demons."

He doesn't respond, his jaw tightening.

"Going out at night, beating up petty criminals. For what? Vengeance?" She scoffs bitterly, the sound hollow. "For who? Your parents?"

"Maryam — " he warns, his voice low and dangerous, but it's not enough to deter her.

"What ?" she snaps, turning the full weight of her anger on him. "It needs to be said, Bruce. Once and for all. Would they have wanted this? To go down that twisted path? I didn't know them—but you did. So, you tell me."

He still doesn't respond, his silence deafening.

Her voice trembles slightly as she presses on, but it doesn't falter. "Does this city — the one I know you love — deserve this?" She pauses, searching for the words. "Revenge? Vengeance?"

She shakes her head slowly, the motion as much for herself as for him. "You think vengeance comes with a sense of duty, of justice, maybe even divine will, but it doesn't. It doesn't change the past. Yours, or anyone else's. It only makes things worse. It consumes you. It consumes everyone around you."

Still, he doesn't respond.

Her breath catches, and when she speaks again, her voice is barely above a whisper. "And eventually..." She hesitates, her hands balling into fists at her sides. "It will kill you. Truly."

The words hit him harder than any blow he's ever taken, but he doesn't move. He wants to take her in his arms, to silence the ache in her voice, but his feet remain rooted.

"You would leave an impact, yes," she presses on, her voice trembling under the strain of her emotions. "But not the one you intend. The Riddler is proof of that."

Her shoulders slump, as though the weight of her own truth threatens to crush her. She pauses, drawing a shaky breath before continuing, her words carrying the quiet ache of someone desperately trying to reach him.

"'Rahmati sabaqat ghadabi' my father used to say," the doctor whispers in Arabic, voice so tender yet so tragic, it seems to fade into the very air between them, as though the words themselves were too fragile to exist in the world.

She pauses, the silence stretching, before she speaks again, the translation falling from her lips like a quiet lament. "My mercy prevails over my wrath."

She lets the stillness linger, her gaze distant, lost in the weight of the memory. "Hadith Qudsi," she adds softly, voice barely audible, "He taught me this prayer."

The silence that follows is thick and stifling, like a chasm filled with everything unsaid, threatening to swallow them both.

Bruce takes in the words. 

My mercy prevails over my wrath. 

So powerful, yet so haunting.

There's a deep ache in her voice, a sadness that clings to the space between them, wrapping around his chest like a vice. He wants to reach out, to take it all away, to sweep it from the air, but he knows he can't. He made the mess himself, and now he's left to face the ruin he's created.

It's too late to fix it, too late to erase the scars.

"People need hope," Maryam says finally, voice steady once more. "Something to cling to. Not fear. Not anger. This city is both, Bruce—angry and afraid. Just like you." She swallows hard. "But what it needs most is someone to fight for it. To endure. To prove everyone wrong. To prove that hope still exists."

Her hand reaches for the door, and she grips the handle tightly. But before she steps out, she pauses one last time.

"When you finally understand that you can do as much good outside of that suit as you do in it," she says softly, "that's when you might begin to heal — not just yourself, but this city too."

And with that, she's gone.

The door closes softly, the click reverberating through the quiet like the final note of a requiem.

He stands motionless, her absence pressing against him, heavier than he expected. The air she left behind feels hollow, stripped of its warmth, as if she carried it all with her.

His heart is no longer his; she took it the moment her hand rested in his and he kissed it, stealing something he could never reclaim.

Now, it beats somewhere else — far from him, where he can only wonder if she feels its ache.

A/N : surprise another chapter !

It's not the happiest one, but I did warn y'all lol... That's why I wanted to give them their little moment first :)))) I can't help but torture my readers a bit.

Anyway, as always, feel free to leave comments! xx