الغضب هو نار تحرق الروح
wrath is fire that burns the soul

      MY MERCY PREVAILS OVER MY WRATH.

My mercy prevails over my wrath.
My mercy prevails over my wrath.

Like a gentle river flowing over jagged stones, softening the edges of anger with its quiet touch, Maryam's mercy mirrors the myth of Persephone's return from the underworld—a bittersweet act that tamed Hades' darkness and brought renewal to a barren earth. It is the calm before the storm, a silent strength rising from deep within, soothing the fury that seeks to consume, much like how Psyche's love melted Eros' hidden sorrow. In its embrace, Maryam finds not weakness, but the power to choose forgiveness over vengeance, understanding over judgment, as Prometheus chose the fire of hope over the vengeance of the gods.

It is, after all, the whisper of compassion that drowns out the roar of resentment, a light that flickers brightly, even in the darkest of storms.

And in that light, Maryam is reminded that mercy, like love, holds the strength to heal what wrath can only break—an enduring myth of its own.

And so the words echo softly in her mind, rising like an incantation against the darkness. The same words her father once whispered to her in hushed tones, so long ago that she can barely recall the timbre of his voice, though the warmth of those moments lingers still.

My mercy prevails over my wrath.

The mantra repeats.

My mercy prevails over my wrath.

A sacred Hadith, her father had called it—a divine reminder that compassion, forgiveness, and hope are not signs of weakness, but profound sources of strength.

The words echoed through Maryam's mind, a steady rhythm that refused to fade. Had she been too blunt? Too harsh? Too unpredictable with Bruce?

She replayed their conversation in her thoughts, dissecting every word, every glance, every pause. Doubt began to creep in, coiling around her resolve. Mercy. Wrath. Wraith. Where did she stand? What did he see in her ?

Her guilt gnawed at her. Bruce had a way of looking at her—calm, unyielding, as though he could see the fractures she tried so hard to hide. She hated that look. It was too understanding, too patient, as if he saw past her barbs and coldness, straight to the girl she used to be before Gotham had hardened her edges.

But tonight, she had gone too far—or perhaps just far enough to undo everything. The flicker of hurt in his eyes haunted her, like a candle flame struggling against the wind, snuffed out too quickly by the familiar mask of stoic indifference he wore so well.

Especially when she mentioned his parents.

"Going out at night, beating up petty criminals. For what? Vengeance? For who? Your parents?"

"Would they have wanted this? To go down that twisted path? I didn't know them—but you did. So, you tell me."

The words tasted bitter as she recalled them, sharp and cruel in hindsight. It wasn't her place to say this. She knew it, and he knew it too. The way he had said her name after she blurted it out—"Maryam"—was all the proof she needed.

Not the usual soft Maryam, not even Milou. It was clipped, cold, severing. A verbal knife that cut through the space between them.

Gone were those names, those anchors to their fragile intimacy. She had struck a nerve—deeply, unflinchingly—and Bruce, for all his walls and armor, could not hide it.

Not for the first time, no. She had tested his patience before, pried open wounds he had thought long buried. But this time felt different. Final. As if the thread tethering them together had frayed beyond repair, leaving only the jagged ends to mock what once was.

Her hand brushed absentmindedly over the spot where his lips had grazed her skin—an afterthought of a kiss, empty and mechanical. The gesture lingered like a phantom touch, mocking her as she climbed the creaking stairwell to her apartment. Each step echoed her regret, a hollow rhythm she couldn't escape.

He had said it himself, his voice as cold and unyielding as the Gotham rain that had drenched them both that night:

"I need you to be alright," he had murmured, the words breaking like fragile glass between them. His tone, low and almost broken, was a voice he reserved only for her—soft, careful, intimate. But this time, it felt different. Worn. Fractured. "And for that... I need to let you go. It's better this way."

It's better this way.
It's better this way.
It's better this way.

The phrase looped through her mind, relentless as a ticking clock, each repetition driving deeper into her chest. Was it better, though?

Her heart screamed the question, but no answer came, only the echo of his words blending with the sound of her boots against the damp stairwell steps. She wouldn't cry. She couldn't. Crying would mean admitting he had broken something in her, something she wasn't sure could be fixed.

Don't, her thoughts snapped, commanding her like a voice separate from her own. He doesn't deserve your tears.

But then came the traitorous whisper, soft as a dying ember: Does he?

Because hadn't he always been the one to hold her steady when the ground beneath her crumbled? The one to catch her when she stumbled, even when she never asked him to?

Hadn't he done everything right? He had been patient where others had fled, steady where she had wavered. He'd saved her—more than once—and stayed when there was no obligation, no reason beyond his own impossible sense of duty. He had insisted on protecting her, even as she threw up walls, spitting venom to keep him at bay.

And yet, he had walked away tonight. For her. For her.

The thought stung, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. He had given her what she never asked for but secretly craved—a chance at something deeper, something real—and now he was tearing it away. All because he thought it would save her.

She didn't know what hurt more: the ache of losing him, or the realization that he believed she couldn't be saved with him by her side.

And now, as she stood at the edge of her own undoing, she could see it so clearly—her mistakes, her cruelty, the ways she had twisted her fear into weapons to push him further away. Bruce had already been a fortress of stoicism, and yet she had built more walls between them, brick by brick.

Maryam was never liked that but only with the people she despite, yes, she was usually kind and understanding, but with him, she was stressed out at how he was acting with her, like no one ever had before, that she decided to be that bratty and mean person to ho.

And now, as she stood at the edge of her own undoing, everything came into sharp focus—the mistakes she could no longer take back, the sharp edges of her words, the armor of cruelty she had worn to keep him at bay. She had used her fear like a weapon, twisting it into barbs and walls that pushed him further away. Bruce, who was already a fortress of stoicism, had faced her endless defenses with quiet patience, never flinching. Yet she had added to the distance, brick by brick, until there was nothing left between them but shadows.

Maryam wasn't like that. Not with most people. She prided herself on being kind, on understanding others, on offering the compassion she rarely received. But with him, she had been different. Stressed by how he treated her—with care, with persistence, with a gentleness no one else dared to show—she had lashed out. As if trying to prove she didn't need it, didn't need him. She had chosen to become someone bratty, mean, and unyielding, simply because he saw her in ways no one else did.

And now, she regretted it all. Every sharp remark, every cold silence, every moment she had stolen from herself by refusing to let him in. She had spent so long keeping her gates locked that when she finally opened them, it was too late. Bruce had already turned away, retreating into his own shadows, leaving her to stand in the ruins of what could have been.

And she missed him. God, she already missed him.

Her vision blurred, tears threatening to spill as they welled up in her eyes. Red and raw, they clung to the edges of her resolve, daring her to give in. But she wouldn't cry. Not here. Not yet.

Her trembling fingers fumbled with the keys, the cold metal biting into her skin as the hallway's oppressive silence wrapped around her like a second skin. Each breath felt too loud, her pulse thudding in her ears. Just as she thought she might drown in the quiet—

"Hey!"

The soft voice startled her. She turned to see Vera standing at the edge of her slightly ajar door, her pajamas rumpled, dark curls loose around her face. It was as if she had been waiting for this moment, listening for Maryam's footsteps on the stairs. Vera—her neighbor, the woman who had dragged her to the Iceberg Lounge not long ago, begging for company on a whim that Maryam reluctantly indulged. That night had been a calculated move for her—a chance to dig up dirt on Vittorio Falcone, but it had yielded nothing. Nothing but the taste of failure and the growing chaos that followed.

The city had only gotten worse since then: the Riddler's cryptic terror, a serial killer preying on women, shadows that felt heavier than usual. She hadn't even spoken to Alma since the mayor's funeral, too caught up in everything that followed.

Maryam forced a shallow breath, steeling herself to look presentable. She could only hope her eyes weren't betraying her. If they did, she would lie.

"Hi, Vera." She forced a smile, her voice raspier than intended. Clearing her throat, she tried again, adding a faint laugh. "How are you? Haven't seen you since that... night."

Vera studied her carefully, eyes scanning her up and down, the concern evident in her knitted brow. "Are you okay?"

Maryam's breath caught, her hands instinctively tightening on her keys. "What?" she asked, too quickly.

Vera gestured vaguely, her gaze lingering on her face. "Your eyes. They're red."

"Oh—yeah. Don't worry!" Maryam let out a forced chuckle, waving her hand dismissively. "It's just the cold. You know how it gets."

For a moment, Vera hesitated, but then she smiled, her expression softening in understanding. "Tell me about it. It's freezing out there lately."

"Yeah," Maryam murmured, hoping the conversation would wrap up quickly.

But Vera lingered, shifting awkwardly in the doorway. "I, uh... I wanted to apologize. For the other night. I shouldn't have let you go back alone. I just... got caught up in the moment." Her voice trailed off, her cheeks flushing faintly.

Maryam immediately caught the discomfort and, hating to see others embarrassed, rushed to reassure her. "It's fine, really. If anything, I should apologize for leaving so early."

Vera shook her head, her smile a little shy but sincere. "You had your reasons, I'm sure. And I told you—it was okay if you wanted to leave."

Maryam nodded, offering a small, grateful smile. She turned the key in the lock, the door creaking open behind her. "Well... thanks."

"Of course." Vera's smile widened.

The doctor offered Vera a faint, reassuring smile before turning to enter her apartment, the weight of the evening pressing on her shoulders. But just as she was about to close the door, Vera called out to her, her voice cutting through the quiet.

"Have you seen the new video about Bruce Wayne, by the way?"

"Who?" Maryam asked, her mind struggling to process the words. Surely, her ears were deceiving her.

"Bruce Wayne. It's been all over the internet! Over 13 million views right now. The Riddler just uploaded it an hour ago."

Bruce Wayne? The Riddler? What the actual hell was going on? It felt like the world was spinning in circles, and Maryam couldn't seem to catch a break.

"No, I haven't seen it," she said, a frown creasing her brow. "Oh my god, is it bad?"

"I don't know if 'bad' is the right word." Vera crossed her arms, a chuckle escaping her lips. "But it's definitely... something."

"Thank you for telling me. See you soon!" Maryam didn't wait for Vera to respond. She quickly clicked the door shut, the soft click of the lock sounding like a release of tension. She leaned against the door for a moment, letting out a shaky breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Her eyes fluttered shut, the stillness of her apartment engulfing her as the silence felt like a balm to her troubled mind.

But then the news Vera had just delivered hit her. Without warning, she straightened up, her heart hammering in her chest. She tossed her bag onto the kitchen countertop and hurried over to the TV. The news was on, but they were only talking about the video—there were no visuals, just an anchor's voice repeating, "A new explosive video from the Riddler has just been published and already has millions of views..."

Maryam's stomach churned. This was bigger than she realized.

Her sisters had been texting her, and she'd left her phone silenced during her shift, missing every notification. And as the silence in the apartment deepened, she ignored the messages that flashed across her phone screen and instead opened her laptop.

Immediately, the headlines screamed at her: "New explosive video by the Riddler just published. Already over 13 million views..."

She didn't waste another second.

With a click of the mouse, the laptop screen flickered to life, and she navigated straight to that video, her stomach was twisting with a mix of dread and curiosity when she found it.

She had to see it.

So, she clicked the link.

The video was there, in front of her—almost too easy to access. And as the screen loaded, she could already feel the tension creeping up her spine.

This wasn't something small. This was something monumental.

The play button lingered on the screen, mocking her with its quiet presence. She hesitated, her teeth biting into her bottom lip, another finger poised above it, trembling slightly. The room closed in around her, the air heavy and suffocating. With one last breath, she pushed it.

The voice of Thomas Wayne echoed in her apartment, a ghostly whisper from a past that no longer felt so distant. "I'm Thomas Wayne, and I approve this message." The image of him flashed on the screen—his mayoral campaign from twenty years ago, the words "Thomas Wayne for Mayor" splashed beneath his confident smile.

The video shifted to an old clip of him with Martha and a young Bruce at the orphanage, all smiling. Thomas spoke warmly, his voice full of hope and pride: "From a very young age, my family, Martha's family, the Arkhams—instilled in both of us that giving back is not just an obligation... it's a passion. That is our family's legacy."

But then the image froze—stopping mid-sentence—and the cheerful music twisted, turning into something darker, unsettling. The tone shifted, sharp and threatening, as if the entire ad had been hijacked by something sinister. Vintage black and white photos of the Waynes and the Arkhams bled into view, their smiles warped and chilling as they slowly turned a sickening red.

The voice of the Riddler slithered into the room, twisted and altered by the voice changer, making every word feel like a shadow creeping over her skin. "The Waynes and the Arkhams—Gotham's founding families... but what is their real legacy?"

The photos deepened in color, until they seemed to pulse with a malevolent energy. A newspaper headline suddenly flashed up: Reporter Uncovers Dark Secrets of Gotham's Elite.

"Twenty years ago, one reporter set out to uncover the truth..." The Riddler's voice slithered into the words. "...He found shocking family secrets."

Flashes of police and autopsy photos assaulted the screen. Each image colder, more grotesque than the last—sickening in its truth.

The Riddler's voice darkened. "How when Martha was just a child, her mother brutally murdered her father, then committed suicide... and how the Arkhams used their power to bury it all. What did they not want you to know?"

A death certificate appeared, its words Cause of Death: ACCIDENTAL standing stark against the screen. The words didn't sit right in her stomach.

The Riddler's voice turned ice-cold, a predator's whisper. "How Martha herself was in and out of institutions for years... and they made sure no one knew."

The camera shifted to a darkened institution, Arkham Asylum, the image grainy and distorted, its darkness almost suffocating. Through a rusted chain-link fence, a young woman struggled violently against nurses who tried to subdue her. Her face was obscured, but Maryam's pulse quickened, a sickening knot forming in her stomach. Was that her—Martha? Mrs. Wayne? The same woman she'd seen every Thursday on the subway, holding her son's hand, a book in the other, laughing softly as they joked together? The same elegant, poised woman, whose smile had always seemed so warm, so kind? The same woman who'd radiated charity and grace?

It couldn't be. But the image haunted her all the same.

The Riddler's voice continued to creep through her mind. "Thomas Wayne tried to force this crusading reporter into silence with hush money..."

The scene shifted to Thomas Wayne shaking hands on the campaign trail, a legal document spinning into view. The word HUSH! stamped across it in thick, red letters that seemed to bleed into the screen.

"But when the reporter refused..." The voice turned into a sneer. "...Wayne turned to his secret associate, Carmine Falcone—and had him murdered."

The screen exploded with the sharp, echoing sound of a gunshot, followed by footage of the reporter's lifeless body. The headline flashed across the screen: GANG-LAND STYLE EXECUTION. A photo lingered, a haunting image of Thomas Wayne and Carmine Falcone, standing together in a conspiratorial whisper.

She shook her head, her breath hitching as her cold hand instinctively crept to her throat, her skin prickling with unease. Anxiety gripped her, suffocating her. The world around her seemed to tilt, the weight of the question pressing down like a vice. God, was Bruce okay?

The thought gnawed at her insides, relentless and sharp. What kind of truth had she just uncovered? Was the man she come to know still the same, or had the darkness of his family's legacy already consumed him?

"The Waynes and the Arkhams..." The Riddler's voice was full of mockery now. "Gotham's legacy of lies... and murder..."

The screen cut to a campaign poster.

The word MAYOR was slashed out with a heavy red mark. Instead, it read THOMAS WAYNE FOR MURDERER.

"God..." The word escaped her lips in a whisper, her fingers tightening around the edges of the laptop like it could somehow anchor her in this sea of chaos. She clung to it, hoping the simple utterance would offer some shred of solace, but the weight of the moment only pressed harder against her chest. This was a catastrophe, a truth unraveling so violently, she could barely breathe. The world felt like it was splintering, and every piece of it pointed back to him.

Then, with a final, taunting laugh, the Riddler's face appeared, his eyes gleaming with malice. "One by one, Gotham's pillars fall... on Judgment Day, the wreckage will consume us all... GOOD byyyyyyyye..."

The video cut to black, the silence ringing in her ears.

The apartment was suffocating, the air thick with what she had just seen. Maryam sat motionless, her hand clamped over her mouth as if she could keep the horror from escaping. The only sound now was the soft hum of the TV, its pale light flickering against her wide, staring eyes. The room felt colder, the darkness pressing in tighter, like the walls themselves were closing around her.

She hadn't even realized she was holding her breath until it caught in her chest, sharp and ragged. She couldn't move—couldn't look away. The video, the dark secrets it had uncovered, gnawed at her insides, leaving a cold, hollow pit in her stomach.

Gotham's past was no longer a mere collection of whispered rumors. It had clawed its way back into the light, bursting through every shadow that had once hidden its secrets.

All the research she had painstakingly gathered about Bruce and his family—the fragments, the missing pieces—were here, laid bare before her. But she wasn't surprised. Not really. 

Who would be?

He was a billionaire, after all. The Waynes didn't build an empire on charity and goodwill alone. No, their wealth was forged in darker places—through the sweat and blood of others.

There was no way a family as rich as theirs had gained their fortune through clean hands.

But what the Riddler had revealed about Thomas Wayne—it was... unsettling. So out of place. Thomas Wayne, the same man she'd seen in the subway, so loving toward his wife and son, so devoted to them. She had envied that love, the way Martha smiled at him, the way Bruce looked up at his father with the kind of reverence only a child could have for the person who shaped their world.

It was the kind of love Maryam had longed for, the kind of love she had hoped she'd one day receive. The same love Bruce had given her, just hours ago. Soft words, a gentle kiss on the hand, whispered promises in the dark.

Maybe it was all a lie.

A carefully constructed facade. But something still didn't sit right. She couldn't shake the feeling that there were pieces missing. And she knew better than to take anything at face value—not when the Riddler was involved, not when so many questions remained unanswered.

She needed to talk to Bruce. Desperately. The knot in her stomach twisted tighter at the thought of him watching that video, seeing the past unfold in such a brutal, public way.

What would he do with that kind of truth? Would he break? Would he spiral?

She just needed to hear his voice. She had to know he was okay.

Maryam couldn't even bring herself to judge him. Why would she? To do so would be hypocritical. Her own maternal family wasn't exactly a shining example of perfection. Far from it, actually. She had seen enough dysfunction in her own bloodline to understand that everyone had their skeletons in the closet, their own secrets. What her family did didn't define her. She had learned long ago that she was her own person.

And she was ready to tell Bruce the same.

If it had been anyone else, maybe she would have hated them, maybe she would have believed the Riddler's accusations without question. But this was Bruce. Her Bruce. The man who, despite the weight of his family's darkness, had shown her kindness, compassion, and a sense of duty she couldn't ignore. He wasn't responsible for his parents' mistakes—no, those were theirs alone.

And yes, he was an idiot sometimes, and she told him that, just hours ago. His efforts to save Gotham weren't just about the suit; they were about Bruce Wayne, the billionaire heir, and the choices he made beyond the mask.

She needed to talk to him. Right now. She needed to hear his voice, to make sure he was okay. To make sure he wasn't going to spiral after watching that video.

Maryam rose from the couch, her resolve firm, but before she could take a step, a low, sinister voice slithered through the air, followed by the sharp click of a safety being disengaged, the sound echoing ominously off the walls.

It was cold, dripping with menace, like a predator toying with its prey.

"Did you like my video?"

The words hung in the air, as if they were being inhaled by the walls themselves. Her body went rigid, the blood in her veins freezing for a moment. Her hand instinctively shot to her throat, as if to protect herself from some invisible pressure closing in on her.

She stood perfectly still, every muscle in her body locked in place. The voice...so familiar yet it wasn't just a voice. It was like something dark and terrible had seeped into the very atmosphere around her. It crawled up her spine, sending chills through her limbs, but she couldn't bring herself to look behind her.

She didn't want to. She didn't dare.

The silence in her apartment had thickened, almost suffocating. The only sounds were the soft hum of her laptop and TV and the erratic rhythm of her own breathing. Her mind raced, every instinct screaming at her to move, to escape, but she couldn't.

"Great editing. What app did you use?" she said, her voice taut but unwavering, a strained attempt at sarcasm.

It was her reflex—sarcasm or anger, sometimes both—whenever danger loomed too close. Her eyes locked onto the figure standing just beyond the glow of the TV.

Him.

The dim, stuttering light played cruel tricks, casting him as something more monstrous than human. The khaki mask clung to his face, faceless and suffocating, with only the glint of thick-framed glasses cutting through the obscurity.

There was something about those glasses—something that nagged at her, unsettling in its familiarity, as though she had seen them before in another, safer context.

The mask distorted his breathing, a soft, labored sound that crawled across the room to her ears. His posture was relaxed with his gun, almost casual, as if he had been waiting for her, relishing the tension he'd so effortlessly woven into the air.

Her own sarcastic quip hung there, suspended like a broken thread in the thick, oppressive atmosphere.

Stupid.

So stupid.

The words hadn't bought her anything—not safety, not time, not even the illusion of control. He wasn't laughing or sneering or reacting at all.

Her heart slammed against her ribs, the erratic rhythm making her feel dizzy.

She could feel her pulse pounding in her temples, her palms slick with sweat. Her nerves screamed at her to move, to do something, but her body was locked in place, paralyzed by the sheer absurdity of it all.

Because why the fuck was the Riddler standing in her apartment?

A/N : We finally meet the Riddler! But don't worry, we'll be seeing more of him in the next chapter !!! 😏

Also, for those of you who didn't notice, I've updated the quote in the previous chapter to "My mercy prevails over my wrath." Some of you might recognize this quote from The Walking Dead, but it actually comes from a Hadith in Islam, more specifically Hadith Qudsi.

A Hadith is a collection of sayings, actions, and approvals of the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH). They form a key part of Islamic teachings and are considered second only to the Quran in guiding the faith. Hadith Qudsi refers to those sayings that are attributed directly to God but spoken through the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH).

I wanted to change the quote because it felt incredibly meaningful, and it aligns perfectly with the themes in Batman and Bruce Wayne's character, as well as Maryam's. I felt like It embodied the internal struggle between mercy and wrath, something that I think resonates deeply with Bruce's moral code, especially considering his commitment to not killing and upholding justice despite his anger. And it also ties into Maryam's own internal conflict, like balancing her past and the choices she makes moving forward.

I felt like this quote really strengthens the narrative and connects with both characters on a deeper level... Idk but I'd love to know what you all think of the change !!!!!