الحسرة هي الحب الذي لم يكتمل
heartbreak is love left unfinished

THERE HE WAS. THE RIDDLER.

That little freak.

His gaze never wavered, those dark glasses gleaming like glassy, emotionless eyes in the half-light of her apartment. He tilted his head slightly, studying her with a twisted sort of amusement, like a predator observing prey that didn't yet realize it was cornered.

"Oh, Maryam..." His voice was soft, almost affectionate in its cruelty, as if he were letting her in on some private joke she wasn't allowed to understand. "You think that's what I'm doing here? Playing? No, no, no..." He clicked his tongue, the sound unnervingly soft and deliberate. "You're smart. I know that. But I don't think you're that smart. You're not asking the right question. You're not looking at the real problem, are you?"

The room felt smaller now, the walls closing in as the Riddler tilted his head, studying her with a silent intensity that was far worse than anything he could have said. His glasses caught the faint glow of the TV, reflecting the light back at her like hollow, unblinking eyes.

Maryam's breath hitched. The air in her apartment was too still, too heavy, like the calm before a tornado. 

Her mind raced, cataloging every exit, every potential weapon within reach. 

The coffee table was too far; the lamp would take too long to unscrew from its base. Her phone lay discarded on the counter, its screen dark and useless.

He took a slow step forward, and she instinctively took a step back, as if his presence were something tangible, expanding and pressing in on her. The dim light flickered off the edges of his khaki mask, a crude, makeshift thing that did nothing to hide the dangerous intent lurking behind it.

The glasses—those absurd, thick-rimmed, round spectacles — caught the light in a way that almost mocked her. Ridiculous, yes. But somehow, they made him even more terrifying, as if he were wearing them just to make her feel small.

To make everyone feel small.

"What the fuck do you want?" she asked, her voice steely, but the tremor of fear she couldn't suppress twisted her gut. She tightened her fists, ready for whatever came next.

"What do I want?" His chuckle was low, slow, and disturbingly amused. It made her spine shiver. "No, Maryam, the real question is, what do you want?"

"I don't have time for your stupid little games, you freak," she snapped, voice venomous. "So you either tell me what the hell you're doing in my living room, or I'll break one of your fucking bones."

"Already with the threats, I see," he hummed, his voice smooth and sharp, amusement curling around each syllable like a blade poised to strike. It wasn't just what he said—it was how he said it. Calm, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to watch her squirm.

She clenched her fists at her sides, resisting the urge to lash out. She couldn't fight him—not here, not now.

It was too risky.

If he knew she was the Wraith, everything would fall apart. If he didn't, any move she made to defend herself could give it away. Either way, the best option was to play the role she'd perfected: Maryam Halimi, medical examiner. Nothing more. Nothing less.

"I don't want any trouble — " she started, voice steady but soft, the words an olive branch she didn't want to extend.

But he interrupted her with a slow, deliberate tut-tut-tut, the sound slicing through the air like the tick of a clock, relentless and suffocating. It sent a chill crawling up her spine, an almost primal reaction to the sheer wrongness of it.

"Trouble?" he echoed, tilting his head slightly, as though the concept was foreign to him.

God, he was terrifying.

Not because of what he wore—just a khaki military vest and that grotesque mask with its absurd glasses—but because of how ordinary it all seemed. That was what made him so disturbing: the banality of his appearance clashing with the malevolence radiating off him.

She tried not to show the fear creeping up her throat, but it was there, thick and suffocating. She couldn't stop her mind from racing. Why me? Why now? What did I do to deserve this?

"You weren't supposed to be on my list," he said, his voice deliberate, each word dripping with calculated malice. He moved slowly to the lone armchair in the room, lowering himself into it with an unsettling sense of ownership. His arms rested on the chair's sides, his posture too composed, too deliberate—every movement a performance designed to unsettle her.

"But you came to my attention," he continued, his tone tightening like a noose. "Especially during the mayoral funeral."

Maryam stood frozen, her body rigid, her gaze fixed on him. She didn't dare breathe too loudly. The way he sat, the way he spoke—it was all wrong, every detail amplified her unease. If I want to get out of this alive, she thought, I have to play along.

"Really?" she asked, her voice deliberately neutral, masking the storm of thoughts roaring in her head.

He tilted his head slightly, like a predator studying its prey. "You seem close with Carmine Falcone," he spat, the name leaving his mouth like venom. Then his tone dropped further, dripping with derision. "And more particularly with Bruce Wayne." He dragged out the name, syllable by syllable, twisting it into something vile, something filthy.

"They're strangers to me," she said, voice measured. She needed to control this—control him.

"Are they?" His skepticism cut through the air like a blade.

"Yes," she replied firmly.

"Then why were you talking to them?" he asked, leaning forward slightly, the room feeling even smaller as his presence seemed to grow.

"Personal business," she said, retreating a step as she noticed him slowly rising from his seat. He moved with an unhurried menace, every step deliberate as he began to march in her direction.

She instinctively took another step back, her heartbeat hammering in her chest. The distance between them shrank with every measured step he took, and she knew she was running out of room—physically and figuratively.

"See, that's what I was trying to say, Mrs. Ben Halimi," he began again, his voice low and menacing, dripping with mockery. "I did my research on you, and yet I couldn't find anything remotely interesting. No skeletons in the closet. A respectable citizen, from a poor immigrant family. A picture-perfect narrative, isn't it? Yet..." He leaned forward slightly, the khaki mask catching the dim light, "...I know something isn't right."

His voice shifted, laced now with something darker, his words unraveling like thread. "No, no. You see, you're like a ghost, Maryam. So quiet. So...mysterious." He tilted his head sharply, the effect unnerving. "And that bothers me. You're a disruption in my plan, an anomaly I can't account for."

Her breath hitched as his tone suddenly rose. "You work with those criminals! Those who steal from us, who corrupt this city, like Carmine Falcone!" The last name was a roar, venomous and furious, echoing through the confined space of her kitchen.

By now, they had shifted positions.

The narrow kitchen counter was the only barrier between them, a fragile semblance of safety. Maryam's eyes flickered to her phone lying just out of reach. She didn't want it, not really. The real lifeline was the small emergency monitor Bruce had given her, tucked away in a drawer nearby. If she could get to it, maybe—just maybe—he would come. After all, that monitor was her only direct link to him.

And she knew calling the police would be futile. The Riddler wasn't playing for time. Whatever game this was, it was his stage, and she was the unwilling participant.

Any hesitation could end disastrously.

"I assure you," she said, her voice steady despite the tension coiling in her stomach, "I am no menace."

His response was immediate and cutting. "I don't believe you."

The silence that followed was suffocating. They stood locked in a dangerous standoff, her heart hammering as he studied her like an animal stuck in a cage.

Maryam exhaled slowly, her eyes sharp as they bore into him, unyielding. She spoke, her voice low and steady, but laced with intensity.

"I actually admired you in the beginning," she started, her words cutting through the thick tension. "Hunting all those corrupt officials, exposing the rot that infects this city. The ones who twisted the Renewal Project into a mockery, lining their own pockets instead of helping the people—the ones like us."

His head tilted slightly, the glint of interest in his round glasses shifting into something darker. "You know the hardship then," he hissed, his voice rising, each word trembling with raw emotion. "The forgotten. The discarded. Those with no choices, no places. Those who had to survive with nothing!"

With a sudden, violent motion, he slammed his hand on the counter, the sound reverberating through the small kitchen. "Instead of helping us," he snarled, his voice venomous, "they decided to feel bad for Mr. Wayne. 'That poor boy,' they said!" He sneered, mimicking the sentiment with cruel exaggeration. "But what about us? While we were rotting down here, he sat in his warm tower, untouched by the decay!"

Maryam's jaw tightened, her hands clenching as memories clawed their way to the surface.

She met his fury head-on. "I used to be like you," she admitted, her voice trembling slightly but holding firm. "I hated his guts, hated the very mention of his name. While I was scraping for food to feed a family of ten, surviving cold nights under broken roofs, begging in the streets for scraps—wondering why we had to suffer while others lived in comfort. I blamed him for it all."

Her teeth gritted as she spoke, the words thick with pain and frustration. "But at what end? He doesn't deserve that."

The Riddler's head shook violently, his body trembling with suppressed rage as he muttered, "No, no, no," under his breath, like a mantra to block her words. But Maryam pressed on, her voice rising above his murmurs.

"His parents' mistakes don't define him! They're not his to bear. He didn't choose to be born into that family, to inherit their sins. Their actions are not his responsibility."

"NO!" he roared suddenly, his voice slicing through her argument like a blade. "NO, NO, NO!" He stepped forward, his movements frantic, the distortion in his tone turning almost animalistic. "You don't understand, Maryam!"

His fists clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowing dangerously behind the mask. His voice was a spit of venom now, each word punctuated with pure fury. "The tools of the rich... are the tools of the criminal. They're protected by the system, shielded by the laws they manipulate. Bruce Wayne—" he seethed, his voice cracking as he practically spat the name, "—is part of it. He is the center of it all!"

Maryam's voice rose with intensity as she leaned into her argument, her arms moving with passion before she forced herself to steady. Taking a deep breath, she leveled her tone, but her words cut deeper.

"You are wrong!" Maryam's voice rose with intensity as she leaned into her argument, her arms moving with passion before she forced herself to steady. Taking a deep breath, she leveled her tone, but her words cut deeper.

She gestured toward him, arms sweeping in frustration, before gripping the counter again, her knuckles whitening with the force. "It's no surprise that someone like you would resonate with the downtrodden—becoming a symbol of rebellion against the corrupt elite. Of course, you'd attract followers. This is Gotham, after all—a city drowning in poverty, where people despise the rich. And I am one of them. I'm one of the rotten fruit this city spat out, one of the people who had everything taken from them."

Her voice dropped, quieter but no less biting, as she leaned over the counter that separated them. "But let's be real, shall we? Your motivations were never about helping the poor or the miserable. No, it's always been about your pure, unfiltered hatred for one specific family: the Waynes."

The Riddler's gaze locked onto hers, his eyes behind the glasses unreadable, yet somehow filled with fury. It was an emptiness that burned, a contradiction she couldn't shake.

Maryam didn't waver. Instead, she pressed forward. "You cleverly capitalized on the anger and frustration of the masses to position yourself as a champion of the oppressed, didn't you?" she said, a mocking chuckle escaping her lips. His gloved fists tightened at his sides, the leather creaking audibly in the silence.

"But while you've painted yourself as some revolutionary hero, your true agenda was personal all along. Taking down Gotham's elite, exposing their dirty secrets—sure. But to what end?" Her voice dropped lower, more cutting. "What's in it for us, the forgotten?" She let the question hang in the air before adding, "Your rebellion isn't about uplifting the downtrodden. It's about settling scores."

The Riddler's breathing grew heavier, his shoulders rising and falling. Maryam didn't stop.

"I could've believed in you," she continued, shaking her head slowly, tone tinged with bitter disappointment. "I could've supported your cause, because in some ways, it aligns with mine—and with the struggles of every person in Gotham who isn't part of the elite. But you proved yourself, with that video about the Waynes, to be nothing more than selfish. Your cause isn't for us; it's for you. It's egotistical. Your hatred for Bruce Wayne and his family will be your downfall."

The room hung in tense silence. He said nothing, but his body radiated fury, his fists shaking slightly as she continued.

"Your followers might have believed they were part of a movement for change, but they were just pawns in your game," she accused, her voice sharp, each word a blade. "And you—" she raised a finger, pointing directly at him, her voice a crescendo of accusation, "—you revel in the chaos you created."

Maryam began to inch her hand toward her phone, hidden just behind the counter. The slight movement was enough to draw his attention.

In an instant, he snapped. 

His hand shot out like a viper, grabbing her wrist with a bruising force that made her wince. The sudden motion sent her phone crashing to the floor, the screen cracking in a jagged spiderweb.

With a sharp yank, he pulled her closer across the counter, closing the space between them.

She didn't hesitate. Instinct took over. Her free hand swung upward, striking his face hard. The slap echoed in the confined space, and his absurd round glasses flew off, clattering to the floor.

For a moment, the room froze, the tension thick and electric. Both stood locked in place, breathing heavily, their eyes locked in a silent battle of wills.

But Maryam didn't waste another second. She lunged toward the nearby drawer, her fingers reaching for the small monitor Bruce had given her. Before she could grab it, the Riddler was on her again. His arm snaked around her neck from behind, yanking her back as he began to choke her.

Maryam reacted with raw fury.

Her head snapped backward, smashing into his masked face. He groaned in pain, staggering, but she wasn't done. The Wraith inside her surged to the surface, eclipsing the careful doctor she usually was.

Turning on him, she seized his head with both hands and drove it down hard into the corner of the counter. The impact sent him sprawling to the floor, groaning and writhing in pain.

Seizing the opportunity, Maryam darted to the drawer. Her fingers shook as she yanked it open, pulling out the compact monitor. She couldn't risk calling Bruce directly; the Riddler was still conscious, and if he heard, he'd piece everything together.

Quickly, she typed a message: "COME ASAP." She hit send, her eyes flickering back to the man on the floor as he struggled to move.

She began typing another: "RIDDLER HERE—" But before she could hit send, something cold and unforgiving pressed against her back. Her breath hitched. The unmistakable weight of a gun.

Her wound from earlier throbbed under the pressure.

"Turn around. Slowly," he commanded, his words deliberate and drawn out, like a predator savoring the moment.

Maryam obeyed, hands raised slightly in surrender, the monitor still clutched in her fingers.

"Put the phone on the counter," he ordered.

Maryam hesitated. Her defiance earned her a sharp blow across the face with the gun, sending the monitor tumbling to the ground. Blood instantly filled her mouth as her lips split open from the impact, the metallic taste coating her tongue but she kept her footing, glaring at him with defiance.

Despite the blood streaking her chin and pooling on her tongue, she didn't lose her composure. "So that's it? You're going to kill me? And then what?" She spat blood to the side. "What's the point? I'm nothing to this city. Nothing to Carmine. Nothing to your mission. Killing me would be a waste. I'm not important—why bother?"

The Riddler's head tilted slightly, his eyes glinting behind his mask. "But you are... to Bruce Wayne. And that matters the most."

Her stomach twisted at his words, but she didn't let it show. Instead, she scoffed, wiping the blood from her mouth with the back of her hand. "He doesn't care about me," she bit out.

"That's what you think," he replied, tone chilling. "But I have eyes and ears everywhere, Mrs. Halimi."

Blood trickled down her chin, staining her blue scrubs, but she held his gaze, unflinching. "What riddle would you carve into my body, hmm?" she asked, her voice laced with venom. "What spectacle would you make of me, you psycho?"

Her words hung in the air, daring him to respond, even as the tension between them teetered on the edge of violence.

The Riddler's smirk deepened as he tilted his head, eyeing Maryam with a twisted curiosity, clearly savoring the moment.

He took a slow step back, his voice lowering to a chilling whisper, as if speaking directly to the shadowy figure before him.

"Ah, but you, Mrs. Halimi, are no ordinary target." He let the words linger in the air. "Invisible, elusive, slipping through the cracks when everyone's watching, vanishing when they least expect it. A perfect mystery. So I shall leave you with this, a riddle that speaks of your kind."

He straightened, the mask adding an air of menace to his already unsettling presence.

"I linger in the dark, unseen by the light,
A shadow that moves, yet is never in sight.
I leave no trace, no echo, no sound,
Yet my presence is felt, when danger is around.
I have no face, yet show expression,
I have no voice, yet speak a lesson.
I am the one that you fear in the night,
The one you cannot touch, nor can you fight.
What am IIII?"

Maryam's brow furrowed, blood dripping down her chin as she tried to focus through the haze of pain. She knew his riddles always had meaning, always reflected his warped sense of justice.

The answer wasn't just an answer—it was his twisted commentary on her, a mirror he held up to her life.

Her mind worked furiously, every second dragging under the weight of his weapon pressed to her. She finally spoke, her voice cutting through the silence.

"A wraith."

The word slid from his lips like a blade, sharp and deliberate.

This was it. The moment she had dreaded, the one she had rehearsed a thousand times in the sanctuary of her mind but could never truly prepare for.

Her breath hitched, her ribs constricting like a vice. Did he know? Did he see through the years of careful concealment, the lies wrapped in silk and shadow? Did he know about the part of her that even she barely dared to acknowledge—the truth only one other soul carried with them to the grave? Or worse, had he unearthed the secret bound to her blood, the stain of her maternal family's legacy?

She didn't move.

Couldn't move.

Her body locked in place, every muscle coiled, waiting for him to strike. Her breaths slowed, shallow and soundless, while her eyes tracked his every move, but her mind continued to scream. What gave me away? A glance too long? A twitch? The tiniest crack in the mask?

The man's smirk was maddeningly calm, a predator toying with its prey. His eyes pinned her, dissecting her soul inch by inch, dragging her into a darkness she had spent years running from.

"Exactly..." His voice was low and slow, yet laced with malice, like he was savoring the moment. "The Wraith."

The words fell like the toll of a funeral bell.

Her stomach tightened as he raised the gun—deliberate, slow, savoring her reaction. The cold metal of the barrel pressed against her abdomen, like a deadly promise.

Heart  thundering in her chest, deafening, a desperate drumbeat of survival that she swore he could hear. Her lungs burned, the air around her growing thinner, colder. She swallowed against the lump in her throat. Stay calm. Stay calm.

"The Wraith," he murmured again, almost reverently.

Her pulse thundered in her ears, louder than his voice, louder than her thoughts. It was a scream inside her head. Did he know? Did he know?

He leaned closer, the faint scent of gunpowder and sweat clinging to him, his breath ghosting over her ear

"A myth, unfortunately," he continued, the words slicing through the silence like a dagger. His voice was laced with disdain, yet there was something almost wistful beneath it.

The blow of his words struck like ice water down her spine. For a single, fleeting second, the crushing weight of relief washed over her, threatening to buckle her knees. He didn't know.

Thank God.

The man who prided himself on his intellect, his ability to unravel truths and shatter masks, had missed the most vital piece. He didn't see her for what she truly was. The Wraith. The myth.

Relief was dangerous. He was still too close, the gun still pressed against her skin, the threat still very real. Her relief couldn't save her now—only her instincts could.

"But you're a thorn in my side," the Riddler sneered, stepping closer, his breath rank and sour behind his mask. His voice was a low, mocking drawl, laced with disdain. "You see... I can't tell which side you're on."

The dim light glinted off his glasses as he leaned in, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. "You wear your scrubs and your secrets like armor, Doctor. But underneath? You're just another pawn in Gotham's dirty, rigged game."

Maryam's jaw clenched so tightly that the pain in her split lip faded into the background. The metallic tang of blood coated her tongue, but she forced herself to meet his gaze with cold defiance. No cracks. No fear.

"You're wrong," she said, her voice low and sharp, slicing through the tension in the room.

The Riddler tilted his head, his grin stretching wider, a grotesque caricature of amusement. He soaked in her defiance, feeding off her resistance like a vulture circling a wounded animal. "Am I?" he asked, drawing out the words like he was savoring the taste.

Maryam's lips twisted into a bloody, mocking smile, her hazel eyes locking onto his with unflinching resolve. "Oh, yes, you are..." she shot back, her voice as sharp and deadly as broken glass.

Before he could react, she struck. Her hand shot out, shoving his arm hard.

The gun fired.

The deafening blast shattered the stillness, the bullet embedding itself into the ceiling. Dust rained down, and the acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air.

The sharp noise triggered a rapid, frantic knocking on the door.

"Maryam? Are you okay?" Vera's muffled voice came through, high-pitched and urgent.

Maryam and the Riddler froze. For a heartbeat, neither moved. The knocks grew louder, more insistent, each one a hammer driving the tension higher.

The Riddler's eyes narrowed, his grin disappearing as he turned toward the door. Then, with terrifying speed, he swung his gun back to Maryam, the cold barrel pressing against her forehead.

"It was nice meeting you, Doctor," he said, his voice soft but dripping with venom, each word a promise of malice. His finger tightened on the trigger.

Maryam's breath hitched, her chest rising and falling in shallow, panicked gasps. She refused to look away, even as her heartbeat roared in her ears.

The knocking continued, relentless.

The Riddler chuckled darkly, his head tilting toward the door. "You're lucky I have bigger plans tonight." He pulled back, his voice turning condescending. "A waste of time... but don't worry. You'll figure it out soon enough."

With that, he turned, a fleeting shadow of menace. He moved to the kitchen window, his coat catching the faint breeze as he slipped out onto the fire escape.

"Fucking incel," she muttered, her voice rough as she wiped the blood from her lips, feeling the sting of it against her skin.

But she didn't move. She was frozen in place, her body trembling uncontrollably, the adrenaline still surging through her veins like a river too powerful to stop. The knocks on the door continued, but they felt distant, almost unreal, as if they belonged to someone else's world. She couldn't focus on them. Not now.

Then, she staggered toward the window, her legs unsteady. The night air was frigid, a sharp contrast to the heat of the encounter. She stared into the darkness where the Riddler had disappeared, her chest heaving.

The sound cut through the haze that had enveloped her, pulling her back to reality, though it felt like she was wading through a fog thick enough to drown her. She wiped her mouth again, but the blood remained, staining her fingers in a way that made her feel hollow. Each movement was sluggish, heavy—like the weight of the world was pressing down on her shoulders.

Her hands trembled uncontrollably as she bent down, collecting the shattered remnants of her phone, her bag, and the monitor from the floor. Each piece felt like a shard of her fractured world, broken beyond repair. She couldn't focus on any one thing for too long, her mind darting from thought to thought, but nothing seemed to make sense. The pieces didn't fit together.

She wanted to respond, to say something to Vera, but the words felt locked inside her, suffocating.

Finally, she moved to the door, her motions deliberate, her resolve hardening with every step.

She swung it open to reveal Vera, whose face was a mask of panic.

"Oh my god, Maryam—what happened? I heard a gunshot!" Vera's eyes darted to the blood on Maryam's lips. "You're hurt!"

Maryam raised a hand, palm out, to stop her from coming any closer. Her fingers were still slick with blood, but she didn't let it show. Her voice was calm, steady, like she was trying to convince herself as much as Vera. "It was nothing. A fight outside my window," she explained, her tone cool, almost distant. "I fell and cut my lip on the counter. I'm fine. I'll go to the clinic and get it stitched up."

The words left her lips, but they didn't feel like the truth. They felt like a barrier she was putting up, a wall between her and everything that was wrong in that moment. And for a fleeting second, she wondered if Vera saw through it.

Her neighbor opened her mouth to protest, but Maryam didn't wait. She brushed past her, the door clicking shut behind her as she descended the stairs with quiet determination.

Her mind was already miles ahead.

The tower.

He always did, didn't he? No matter how many walls she built, no matter how many times she told herself it was over, he always seemed to find his way back to her. She had to believe that, had to hold on to that fragile thread of hope.

Because if she didn't, then what was left? Just the crushing silence, the emptiness where his presence had once been.

She needed him. Just for a moment. Just to remind her that even in the darkest moments, she wasn't alone.

────୨ৎ────

Selma climbed the winding staircase of the tower, still in her scrubs, the metallic tang of dried blood faint on her lips. She must have looked a sight—hair unbound from its usual sleek French twist, swinging in unruly strands with each step.

A mess.

That's what she was.

That's what she felt like.

But something stopped her—a sound, faint at first, like voices caught in the tower's echo. She stilled, her hand tightening around the railing, breath caught in her throat.

Two people, arguing.

Her first thought was Gordon and Bruce. It wouldn't have been the first time their strong wills clashed. But as she climbed cautiously higher, the second voice grew clearer, its cadence unmistakably feminine.

A woman?

The question lodged itself in her chest, sharp and unwelcome. She frowned, her heart beginning to pick up an uneasy rhythm. Was there someone else in their circle she didn't know about?

She moved closer, careful to keep her steps silent, until she reached the landing. The door was slightly ajar, and through the sliver of space, she could see them.

Bruce stood tall, his figure framed by the molten orange glow of the sky, the first light of dawn spilling through the room. His suit caught the light, polished and imposing, but it was his expression—intense, unreadable—that held her attention.

He wasn't alone.

Opposite him stood a petite woman, stance unyielding, presence commanding despite her size. There was something about the way they stood, locked in conversation, that made the air in the room feel charged.

She felt it too—a tightness in her chest, something raw and unfamiliar coiling in her gut. Jealousy? Unease? It was impossible to name, but it was there, heavy and inescapable.

Her sculpted brows drew together, shadowing her eyes. She didn't like this. No, she hated it.

Whatever this was, she loathed it.

But instead of stepping inside and making her presence known, she stayed rooted where she was, her fingers brushing the edge of the doorframe. She watched in silence, breath shallow, heart pounding in her ears.

She should have confronted them. She should have demanded answers. But she didn't.

Later, she would regret it—regret the spying, the hesitation, the nagging feeling she couldn't shake. But in that moment, all she could do was watch, the unfamiliar ache in her chest blooming into something she didn't yet understand.

She caught snippets of their conversation, her curiosity pricking uncomfortably at her chest.

"Listen to me... If we don't stand up for Anni, no one will. All anyone cares about in this place are these... white... privileged assholes—the mayor, the commissioner, the D.A.—and now Thomas and Bruce Wayne," the woman was saying, her voice sharp, bitter. "Far as I'm concerned, that psycho's right to go after these creeps—I'd think you'd be on his side!"

Maryam blinked. The woman had a point, or at least it sounded like one. But who was Anni?

"--Wait, what do you—what do you mean, Thomas and Bruce Wayne?" Bruce's voice cut in, a mix of confusion and alarm.

Maryam's heart sank.

He sounded... lost. Like he didn't know. And that's when it hit her—he probably didn't. He hadn't seen the video, didn't know what was unraveling.

"What, do you live in a cave?" the woman shot back, oblivious to the weight her words carried. "The Riddler's latest—it's all about the Waynes."

Bruce didn't respond right away, and Maryam saw it: the way he froze, the faint tightening of his jaw, the flicker of something raw in his eyes. He was silently struck, but the woman didn't notice. She was too caught up in her own urgency.

Maryam wanted to tell her to slow down, to tread carefully.

"Listen—if I can find that dickbag Kenzie, will you help me?" The woman's tone softened, her eyes pleading now.

Bruce looked at her, still reeling, visibly trying to piece together his own fractured thoughts. The weight of the name "Wayne" hung heavily between them.

"Please," the woman murmured, quieter this time. "Come on, Vengeance..."

Maryam flinched. Vengeance. The way the word left her lips, intimate, like a secret she shouldn't be hearing. It made something inside her churn violently.

Bruce nodded at last, his voice steady but tinged with warning. "But don't make any moves without me. Understand? This is all more dangerous than you know—"

But before Bruce could finish his words, the woman moved swiftly, her steps deliberate, and closed the distance between them. In one fluid motion, her lips met his—bold, unyielding, and far too familiar for Maryam's liking.

For a moment, time itself seemed to fracture. The sight struck Maryam like lightning, searing through her chest and splitting her heart clean in two.

It wasn't just heartbreak—it was something darker, deeper, an agony that clawed its way through her. It twisted inside her like a serpent, coiling tighter with each passing second.

It was poison, bitter and corrosive, coursing through her veins.

It was salt, raw and cruel, ground mercilessly into an open wound that refused to heal.

It was like swallowing shards of glass, each jagged edge cutting, tearing, shredding her from the inside out. Every breath felt sharp, every beat of her heart unbearable.

And then, as abruptly as it began, Bruce acted.

His hands moved swiftly, gripping the woman's shoulders with a force that brooked no argument. He pushed her away, decisively, a controlled burst of motion that spoke volumes. His jaw clenched, his gaze darkened, and his anger was palpable, coiling just beneath the surface.

"Don't ever do that again," he said, voice low, sharp, like the edge of a blade.

But the damage had already been done.

The woman only smiled, undeterred, a teasing glint in her eyes. "Why? Got someone out there?"

"None of your business," the bat murmured, gaze hard and unyielding.

"Duly noted," she said with a casual shrug, stepping back toward the elevator. "But I told you, baby, I can take care of myself."

And with that, she was gone.

Bruce didn't follow her. He didn't even glance in her direction. Instead, he turned away, his broad shoulders tense, his focus drawn to the horizon where the first faint streaks of dawn bled into Gotham's jagged skyline. His jaw was taut, his profile carved in sharp relief by the morning light as if the very act of looking forward steadied him.

But Maryam stayed where she was, cloaked in darkness, her heart pounding so loudly it seemed to drown out the rest of the world.

Inside her, a storm churned—violent, unrelenting.

Her nails bit into her palms with such force that she felt the skin break. The sharp sting was almost a relief, a tether to reality amidst the chaos of her emotions. Warm blood welled in crescent-shaped marks, tiny half-moons carved into her flesh.

She glanced down at her hand, her chest rising and falling as the sight of the red smears blurred before her tear-rimmed eyes. Without thinking, she wiped it across her blouse, her fingers trembling as the fresh streak of crimson joined the already dried stains marring the fabric.

And still, the storm within her raged on, unstoppable and consuming.

Tears streamed freely down her face, hot and unrelenting. She wanted to scream—to sob—to demand answers from Bruce, from the universe, from God.

Why?

Why?

Why?

Why?

Did he not care for her the way she did for him? Had she misread every stolen glance, every lingering touch? Just hours ago, he had kissed her hand in the hospital, murmuring words she thought had weight. She had let herself believe, foolishly, that there was something real between them.

But apparently not.

She felt stupid. Hollow. An imbecile for thinking they were anything more than colleagues, allies at best.

She was nothing. And Bruce Wayne? He had made that abundantly clear.

She turned silently, as she always did when the weight of her emotions became too much to bear. Her plans—those small, fragile hopes she had clung to—vanished in an instant. She had wanted to check on him, to tell him what had happened in her apartment, to explain why she hadn't been able to reach him. She wanted to tell him how scared she was, how unsettled everything had become, but most of all, she needed to ask if he was okay. If the videos had affected him as much as they had her, or if he already knew.

She couldn't blame him, not really. No, she could never do that.

But instead, she got... that.

The image of it, the way he pushed the woman away so quickly, yet still the kiss lingered, haunted her. The sting was so sharp that she couldn't contain it. Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling the sob that rose within her. It felt like her chest was being crushed, her soul unraveling.

She didn't even understand why she was so upset.

She barely knew the man.

They weren't even friends, not truly—just fleeting shadows in each other's lives, colleagues in a world too dark and tangled for her to ever fully grasp. Allies, perhaps, though even that felt distant, like two ships passing in the night, briefly aligned in purpose but never truly close.

And yet, it felt like the deepest betrayal, one that cut through her like a blade she hadn't seen coming. He was the only one who had ever been allowed near her soul, the only one to hear her whispered confessions, to see her in all her brokenness. She had opened herself to him, like a sinner kneeling before a priest, hoping for redemption in the face of her own darkness. But the truth was, they were both sinners, each wearing their own scars, both haunted by choices they couldn't undo. And in that, it didn't matter.

She had been willing, no—eager—to take him as he was, flaws and all, the jagged edges of his soul that mirrored her own. She had wanted to love him, to accept him without question, without reservation. To walk beside him, broken, and somehow make it whole together. But now... now the pieces of that fragile hope scattered like dust in the wind.

With her heart breaking under the weight of it all, she marched out of the tower, not caring where her feet took her. She didn't know where she was going—she didn't care. Her tears fell freely, streaking her face, making her skin burn as she wiped them away, her hands reddened from the constant motion. Her hair, once tightly pulled back, now cascaded over her shoulders, strands of honeyed gold catching the sun's first rays, the early light casting a soft glow on her. Her eyes, red-rimmed with yellow, were wild under the orange sunrise.

Her apartment wasn't safe anymore.

She didn't want to face her aunts either, knowing they'd ask questions she didn't have answers to, questions she wasn't ready to confront.

She wanted nothing more than to be alone.

So, she walked.

Her feet moved in no particular direction, carried by a force she couldn't name. Her mind was a storm, thoughts tumbling over one another, fragmented, lost. Her heart felt like it had been shattered into a thousand pieces—pieces she couldn't gather, couldn't make whole again.

The tears came, unbidden, flowing freely, as if they were the only thing left she could control. Relentless, unstoppable, they traced paths down her cheeks, and she didn't care.

She couldn't care. What did it matter anymore?

Her world had been ripped apart, and she was left to drift, trying to outrun the pain that followed her every step.

A/N : so, yeah.

I hope I did the Riddler justice! I really tried to base him on what we see in the movie and the comics tied to it. Hopefully, he wasn't too cringy, but yeah, I gave it my best shot.

Also, I'm sorry for breaking your hearts with that ending — it had to happen !!! 😭 There was just no way around that scene...