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a legacy of lies, a fragile tower, fated to fall

BRUCE WAYNE WAS A FOOL.

An idiot.

A man too clever for his own good, yet too blind to see what mattered most until it slipped through his fingers.

He knew he'd sabotaged it. Of course, he had. The one time he let himself care for someone like that—not in the dutiful way he cared for Alfred, or the fond, quiet gratitude he felt toward Dory.

No, this was something entirely different.

It was raw.

It was maddening.

It was desire.

Need.

Lust.

All of it, wrapped up in one person.

Maryam.

Her name was a whisper in his mind, a prayer he didn't deserve to utter. Just thinking of her made him close his eyes, as if the memory of her was enough to burn him alive.

She was soothing when he needed peace.

She was his warmth when the cold threatened to consume him.

She was fire—challenging, sharp-tongued, and impossibly stubborn.

She drove him to the edge of madness, yet he couldn't pull himself away.

He needed her like air, like his next breath.

No, it was more than need—he craved her.

No, it was deeper still. He was parched for her, as though she were the only thing that could quench the aching, consuming thirst that hollowed him out.

She consumed his thoughts, every glance from her igniting something feral inside him. It wasn't just attraction; it was desperation, raw and aching. She was the oasis in his barren desert, a glimpse of water that made the thirst unbearable.

Her presence filled the empty places within him, yet it made him crave more—always more.

Was it love?

He didn't know.

All he knew was that he was falling.

Not gracefully, but recklessly, headlong into her orbit, with no care for what awaited him at the bottom.

She was his. His woman. His girl.

Until she wasn't.

And he had no one to blame but himself.

He'd ensured it in that sterile, unfeeling hospital room. He'd driven her away, cutting himself off from the only solace he'd ever known. The only light that had ever dared to linger in the shadowed corners of his life.

It wasn't her fault. How could it be?

No, the weight of that choice rested squarely on him. On his bruised heart, on his fractured mind, on his relentless fear of letting someone in—letting her in. And now, the void she'd left was an abyss, swallowing him whole, dragging him deeper into the darkness he'd fought so hard to control.

But this? Losing her? It was beyond control. It was chaos.

And it was his own damn fault.

Her hair. God, her hair.

That cascade of brown caramel, never down, always caught in that intricate fence twist of hers. It framed her neck, leaving it bare—an expanse of soft skin dotted with beauty marks, each one a quiet invitation.

He'd wanted to trace them with his lips, his tongue, to press his mouth there and just breathe her in. That scent of hers, that unforgettable blend of jasmine and oud, lingered long after she'd left, haunting him like a memory that refused to fade.

But when her hair was down—so rare, so special—it was like the world itself had shifted. He loved it, loved how soft it felt between his fingers. He could still remember the way it slipped through his hands at the bay, during their rendezvous by the water.

That day had been perfect, more peaceful than he'd been in years.

He wished he could go back, just once, to that moment.

To her.

And her face—God, her face.

She was breathtaking, easily the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Her eyes were the first thing that captured you. Those sharp, hazel irises could cut through steel at first glance, but once she softened, they held a tenderness that unraveled him completely. A single beauty mark rested just below her right eye, on her high cheekbone, as if the universe itself had painted her.

She didn't just look like a goddess; she moved like one, with a quiet confidence that made her feel untouchable yet irresistibly real.

And that stare of hers. Distinctive. Piercing. He couldn't look away, even if he wanted to.

Then there were her lips too, always painted in that signature shade of red, so inviting they were practically sinful. He dreamed of them constantly, imagined the softness, the taste, the way they'd curve into that sly, knowing smile she always gave him when she had the upper hand.

She was a distraction, yes.

An all-consuming, maddening distraction.

But she was also the most exquisite, intoxicating one he'd ever known.

She was an addiction.

He knew it, and he knew he was teetering on the edge, barely able to stand another moment without hearing her voice, seeing her face, or just... existing in her orbit.

But it was the right choice, he told himself. Over and over again, like a mantra he didn't quite believe.

She cannot be in danger because of me.
I won't allow it.

He clung to that thought like a lifeline, tried to drown out the regret already clawing at him. But it was there, insidious and unrelenting. Even as he reassured himself, he could feel the anger bubbling beneath the surface. Anger at himself. At his choices. At the void she left behind.

He missed her. God, did he missed her.

So, he did what he always did—he worked. The job needed to be done, after all. Progress had to be made. Especially now, with Alfred injured. It was a convenient distraction, a way to keep his mind from spiraling. He threw himself into it, pushing harder than ever, desperate to outrun the ache in his chest.

Still, he couldn't outrun her.

In a rare moment of self-awareness, he sent Dory home. She needed the days off, he'd insisted, brushing aside her protests. He told her he'd be fine, even though the words felt hollow on his tongue. He didn't believe them, not really. But he needed the silence, the solitude.

He needed time.

To think.

Think, Bruce, he thought to himself, pacing the empty manor like a caged animal. Think.

But thinking didn't help.

Thinking only brought her back—her voice, her laugh, the way she looked at him like she saw straight through the armor he wore.

He clenched his fists, his jaw tightening. It was maddening. She was maddening. And yet, even now, he couldn't shake the pull she had on him, the way she consumed him whole.

The emptiness in the house mirrored the emptiness inside him.

Bruce sat at the study desk, entombed by a fortress of files. The towering stacks loomed over him, suffocating, oppressive. His fingers moved with mechanical precision, flipping through one file, then another, searching desperately for something—anything—that could drown out the chaos in his mind.

But then it happened.

A precarious stack teetered, leaning too far. Bruce lunged, trying to catch it, but his movement only worsened the collapse. Papers cascaded to the floor like a blizzard of failures, scattering across the polished hardwood in mocking silence.

He froze, his breath caught in his throat, watching the chaos unfold.

The weight of it all—the files, the room, Riddler, his parents, Alfred, Maryam and his own damn choices—crashed down on him in that moment.

Something broke inside.

With a guttural roar, Bruce hurled another stack across the room. The papers exploded into the air, fluttering like dying birds.

And it wasn't enough.

He upended the desk, its contents spilling to the ground with a deafening crash. He moved through the room like a hurricane, his fury tearing apart everything in its path. A chair splintered under his grip. A piece of art—Alfred's favorite—shattered against the wall.

His rage was unrelenting, feral.

But even rage has its limits.

As his strength waned, Bruce stumbled, gasping, his chest heaving with exhaustion. The room was unrecognizable, a battlefield of his own making. He turned, searching for something—anything—to destroy.

And then he saw it.

Amid the wreckage, a small gleam of silver. Alfred's monogrammed W cufflinks, lying beside the figurine knight Maryam had given him back not so long ago.

Bruce froze.

If he ever allowed himself to cry, it would be now.

His stone-cold mask faltered, the walls cracking just enough for his eyes to well. But no tears fell.

He stared at the cufflink, at the figurine, and for the first time, his anger gave way to something worse.

Grief.

Unyielding, inescapable grief.

Grief for what could have been. Whether it was his parents, Alfred, his legacy, or Maryam—he couldn't say for sure. All he knew was that it hurt so deeply it felt unbearable.

He continues to stare, stone-faced, his eyes just beginning to well.

────୨ৎ────

When he met Selina, it wasn't supposed to mean anything. It was curiosity—practical, detached.

Or maybe—just maybe—this meeting would stop him from thinking about a certain woman who had been haunting his every waking thought.

He wasn't sure what he'd expected from the meeting, but what he did learn was more than he'd bargained for. Carmine Falcone wasn't just another name in Selina's long list of enemies—he was her father. She told him so herself, with bitterness lacing her words. She revealed everything: how Carmine owed her, not just money, but years of absent fatherhood; how he had destroyed her life by murdering her mother; and how all of it had culminated in her thirst for revenge—not just for her mother, but for Annika, too.

He felt sorry for her.

But then Selina mentioned him. She spoke about Thomas Wayne, his father, without realizing the man behind the Bat was Bruce Wayne. Her words carried the weight of a certain video the Riddler had made, and his blood turned to ice.

And just as his thoughts threatened to spiral, she did something entirely unexpected. Selina kissed him.

For a split second, her lips pressed against his, and his mind went utterly blank. Then came the screaming.

Not outwardly, but inside—an echoing, relentless name that drowned out everything else: Maryam.

Selina's kiss wasn't what he imagined Maryam's would be like. The funny thing was, he'd never kissed Maryam anyway. He'd only dreamed of it, endlessly, obsessively, in moments when he let himself hope for something impossible.

But he didn't need the reality to know.

He could feel it, deep in his bones—this was wrong.

It was forceful, charged with something he couldn't quite define—anger, maybe, or grief. Her lips weren't soft like he had imagined with Maryam, nor did they hold the warmth he so desperately craved. There was no spark, no connection, only the crushing weight of her pain pushing against him. It struck him then: this wasn't about him at all.

She was playing with him, testing him, perhaps even trying to manipulate him. She wanted to provoke a reaction, and she got exactly what she wanted when he shoved her away, forceful and unrestrained, as if repelled. His disgust was clear, but she only smirked in response, the glint in her eyes telling him she had gotten her answer.

The kiss had been nothing more than a hollow gesture—empty, meaningless, and entirely hers to control.

It wasn't what he imagined with Maryam.

In his mind, her kiss would be tentative at first, gentle, like the soft caress of sunlight breaking through after a relentless storm. He would cup her cheek with the tender care of someone holding something impossibly fragile, as if she were made of the finest glass, as if she were the most precious thing in the world. Then, his lips would find hers, hesitant, testing, before giving way to a desperate hunger, a craving that had been building for far too long. It wouldn't just be a kiss; it would carry the weight of all the words he couldn't bring himself to say, of truths too delicate to voice.

Or maybe it wouldn't be gentle at all.

Maybe it would be a collision of need and longing. Sometimes, when he imagined their first kiss, he pictured himself giving in to raw desperation. He would kiss her suddenly, unable to wait a second longer, pulling her close, their breaths mingling in feverish gasps. He'd kiss her as if she were the air he needed to survive, and when that wasn't enough, he'd trail his lips down her neck, grazing her skin with soft nips, inhaling her scent as though he could etch her essence into his memory.

Either way, he knew it would mean everything.

It wouldn't just be a kiss. It would be the culmination of all the unspoken moments between them, the quiet glances, the fleeting touches, the restrained yearning. It would be a promise, a confession, and a surrender—all in one.

But then, reality hit him like a cold slap.

He would never have it—not with her, not the way he dreamed. Here he was, lost in fantasies of things that would never come to be, too much of a coward to act. Instead of claiming her, fully and completely, he was paralyzed by fear—fear of hurting her, of exposing her to the danger that lurked in the shadows of his world.

The thought of anyone even touching her, let alone causing her harm, ignited a fury inside him so primal, so violent, he could almost taste it. He wanted to tear apart anyone who dared lay a finger on her.

And so, he retreated.

Back to his tower, his cave of solitude, where he could wallow in the darkness. There, he watched the video—the one that revealed the ugly truth about his parents, his family, the very people he had sacrificed everything for. The weight of it all crushed him as the images flickered on the screen.

Bruce was utterly shaken, his world falling apart with each new revelation flashing in front of his eyes.

He didn't know what to believe anymore. The evidence the Riddler had laid before him was undeniable, but it was too monstrous to accept as truth. And yet, there it was, staring him in the face.

That his mother, the woman he had always seen as the epitome of grace, had been in and out of Arkham Asylum.

That his maternal grandmother, whom he had never met but had always heard whispered about in the shadows of his family's history, had brutally murdered his grandfather. He couldn't fathom the reasons behind it, but the thought gnawed at him.

That his grandmother, driven by guilt or insanity, had taken her own life—shooting herself after leaving his mother orphaned, just as he had been. The symmetry of it, the tragedy that tied their fates together, left him feeling as if the ground had shifted beneath his feet.

That all of this, the madness and violence that seemed to plague his family, had been hidden. Covered up. The Waynes, who had always been held up as symbols of purity and respectability, had dark secrets buried deep within their past.

That a reporter, someone brave enough to uncover the truth, had tried to expose it all during his father's campaign for mayor. But it hadn't been convenient. It wasn't the right time. It was too dangerous for the family's reputation. And so, they'd silenced him—just like that.

That his father, the man Bruce had admired most in his life, had gone to Falcone—the same man Bruce was fighting against now—and demanded that the reporter be silenced permanently. The truth was too dangerous for their carefully crafted image. His father, the philanthropist, the doctor, had been willing to kill to protect it.

And then, that the reporter had been murdered for it. All of it, covered up, erased as if it had never happened. The Wayne name had been stained with blood, but it had been kept hidden beneath the polished surface of wealth and influence.

The Wayne legacy, the ideal Bruce had clung to for so long, was nothing more than a house of cards, built on lies, deceit, and betrayal. The man he had always believed in, the father he had looked up to with unwavering admiration, was nothing like he had imagined.

How could Thomas Wayne, a man of supposed integrity, a symbol of Gotham's elite, have done something like that? How could he have ordered the death of a man—just to protect his own reputation? Just to preserve the image of a respectable doctor, a caring philanthropist? Was that all his father had cared about? His image?

And what about his mother? The woman he had never really understood, but whom he had always viewed as kind, soft, loving.

What had she done to deserve such pain? To be haunted by the specter of Arkham, to live a life shadowed by insanity and tragedy? How much of this was her fault, and how much was just the weight of a broken, toxic legacy?

He remembered how, as a child, he had always believed his parents' love was perfect. He had seen it in the way they looked at each other, the way they supported each other through everything. He had thought their love was unshakeable, the kind of love he dreamed of finding for himself one day. He'd even imagined it would be like that when he met Maryam, when they were both just children in the park, their lives still so innocent and full of promise.

But now? Now, everything he had believed felt like a lie. He didn't know if he could trust his own memories, if he could still hold on to that image of his parents.

What had they really been? What had they really done?

He felt adrift.

Confused.

The foundations of everything he had once known had crumbled, leaving him in the rubble of his own shattered expectations.

He had always known that his family wasn't perfect—he had seen the flaws, the cracks, the darkness that sometimes lurked beneath the surface. But he had always believed in his father. He had believed that, deep down, his father was a man of honor.

Now, he wasn't so sure.

And that hurt more than anything else. The betrayal of the man he had idolized, the father he had placed on a pedestal, was a wound deeper than any physical injury. It left him questioning everything. Who was he, if everything he had been raised to believe was false? What did it mean for his future, for his fight against the darkness in Gotham?

All he knew was that it hurt—deeply—and there was no way to fix it.

────୨ৎ────

He needed answers—something—to finally put the chaos in his head to rest.

His father, his mother, his family... everything he thought he knew had been shattered. He was lost in a sea of questions, and the only person who might hold some of the pieces was Carmine Falcone.

So, he set aside his hatred, all the venom he'd built up for the man who had been the source of so much corruption in Gotham, and decided to confront him.
Not as Batman, not in the suit, but as Bruce Wayne—the orphaned, reclusive billionaire.

He couldn't afford to be the dark shadow anymore.

He needed answers, and he needed them from the source.

So here he was, stood in the pouring rain, drenched to the bone, as he approached the door of the club.

The bouncer, who had seen him before in his black suit and mask, now eyed him with an expression of disbelief, still nursing the bruises from their last altercation when Bruce had been in his suit.

"Do you know who I am?" Bruce's voice was low, emotions pressing on each word.

The bouncer stared back, stunned. "...You're Bruce Wayne."

Bruce's jaw tightened. "I wanna see Carmine Falcone."

The bouncer hesitated, then, after a long pause, shut the door in his face with a thud.

A beat.

The door opened again, but this time, it wasn't just the bouncer standing there. Both twins flanked the doorway, staring at Bruce in disbelief.

Then, something shifted.

See? I told you!" One twin beamed with excitement, grinning as if he'd just met a celebrity—which, in a way, he had.

"...C'mon in."

The private elevator opened with a soft ding and Bruce stepped into the lavish interior. He walked down a hallway lined with opulent decor, the muffled sounds of music and laughter spilling from a drawing room ahead.

Inside, women in flashy attire and men in expensive suits crowded around a pool table, the atmosphere thick with cigarette smoke and whispered deals.

At the table, Carmine Falcone presided like a king, his entourage orbiting him in hushed deference. The clatter of cards and low laughter filled the room, mingling with the acrid haze of cigar smoke.

Bodyguards stood like sentinels, their sharp eyes scanning every corner, while the associates leaned in close, hanging on every word Falcone spoke.

Power hummed in the air, heavy and suffocating.

By the windows, Vito Falcone sat apart, like a shadow against the glittering city lights. His whiskey glass rested loosely in one hand, he nursed a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light as he swirled it absently, the other pressed to his forehead as if the weight of his thoughts was physically bearing down on him.

The rings on his fingers caught the faint light and a toothpick jutted from the corner of his mouth, a restless habit betraying the stillness of his body.

Unlike the others, there were no women draped on his arm, no feigned laughter or meaningless chatter surrounding him. His solitude was deliberate, and it felt like a statement. The table in front of him was cluttered with papers and guns, their cold, polished steel glinting dully in the room's amber glow. Yet he didn't touch them.

His gaze wasn't on the weapons or the room. It was distant, fixed somewhere beyond the glass, beyond the city.

He looked bored, but it was a lie.

The tension in his posture, the faint furrow in his brow, spoke of something deeper—something eating away at him. It wasn't just fatigue; it was the kind of weariness that came from carrying too many secrets, making too many compromises. He shifted in his seat, the leather creaking softly, his jaw tightening as the toothpick snapped between his teeth.

Whatever was on Vito's mind, it wasn't just bothering him—it was pulling him under, and he seemed powerless to stop it.  For all his outward nonchalance, there was an edge to him, a silent storm brewing behind his tired eyes.

But when Carmine saw Bruce approach, his smile faltered slightly, replaced with a calculating, almost predatory look. He motioned to the crowd, who quickly shuffled out, leaving the room eerily quiet.

Vito lingered behind, movements slow and deliberate, the faint clink of his glass on the table breaking the charged silence like a shard of ice. He rolled the toothpick between his fingers before slipping it out of his mouth, his dark eyes scanning Bruce with a mix of curiosity and restrained malice.

His hands, strong but weathered, bore the marks of a life lived on the edge—inked stories that mapped his skin like a personal history book. There was something in the way his fingers flexed, like they were used to holding onto things he wasn't ready to let go of.

His sleeves were haphazardly shoved up to his mid-arm, the fabric wrinkled and bunched, mirroring the unpolished weight of the man himself.

But it was his forearm that truly caught the eye.

A bold tattoo stretched across veined skin—a small cross etched with the name Isabella, its lines sharp yet intimate. Beneath it, two initials, S and A, were inked with a simplicity that spoke volumes. Just above his hand, where the fabric should have rested, a stark black hand tattoo claimed its place, commanding and raw.

These weren't mere designs; they were stories etched in skin, worn as openly as scars.

And or all his hardened demeanor, there was a flicker of something else in his expression—something almost vulnerable, like he was caught between sizing Bruce up as a threat and remembering the man his family had wronged.

"Have a seat," Falcone said, voice smooth as velvet.

Bruce remained standing, his fists clenched at his sides. His eyes locked onto Falcone's, a silent battle of wills.

Falcone leaned casually against the pool table, cue stick in hand, remaining unfazed. "Thought I might hear from you. This Riddler guy's really stirring things up, huh?"

Bruce's voice was barely a whisper, thick with rage. "Is it true?"

Falcone raised an eyebrow. "What? The reporter business?" He let the silence hang, studying Bruce with an amused glint in his eyes.

After a beat, Bruce's voice cracked through the tension. "What do you know about it?"

Falcone leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he studied Bruce with a touch of pity. "What do you wanna know, kid? What are you really lookin' for?"

Bruce swallowed, struggling to hold it together. The anger, the confusion, the grief—it all boiled inside him, mixing with something darker.

"Yeah, I know. Your father, your family—they didn't want anything to do with me." Falcone's tone was taunting, almost cruel. "But I don't think that's what you're really here for, is it?"

"Nah," Vito's voice cut through the tension, smooth and unhurried, like syrup dripping from a spoon. Bruce had almost forgotten he was there, lurking silently until now.

With a slow, deliberate movement, Vito leaned forward, his jet-black hair slicked back and gleaming under the dim light. His dark eyes locked onto Bruce with a piercing glare, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he let out a soft, mocking tut.

"He's not here to argue," Vito drawled, black eyes fixed darkly on him. "He's here to hear the truth."

A beat of silence passed. Then, Falcone's words cut through the air.

"Your father... was in trouble. That reporter had dirt on your mother—stuff about her family, stuff that nobody wanted getting out. Hell, everybody's got their dirty laundry, right? But your father didn't want that coming out. Not with the election so close. He tried to pay the guy off, but the reporter wasn't havin' it. So, he came to me."

Falcone's eyes glinted with an eerie mix of admiration and something darker. "I never seen him like that. He said, 'I want you to put the fear of God in this guy.'"

Bruce's pulse raced, his fists clenched tighter, nails digging into his palms.

"And when fear wasn't enough?" Falcone continued, a smirk curling on his lips. "You take it to the next level. Your father wanted me to handle it. So I did."

Bruce could barely process the words. His father—a man he had idolized—had ordered a murder to protect his image. To protect his legacy. The truth was too ugly to bear.

He felt unmoored, lost.

"I know, kid," Carmine said, his voice almost fatherly. "You thought your old man was a boy scout. But you'd be surprised what even the 'good' ones are capable of. In the right situation."

Bruce's voice was barely audible. "Don't tell me this."

"What," his son continued, tone dripping with mockery as he sauntered closer. "You thought your billionaire folks made their money out of what? Hard work? Honesty? Charity?" He laughed, low and sharp, shaking his head. "C'mon, man. Wake up. Nobody builds an empire that big without getting their hands dirty. Especially in this city."

Bruce looked down.

Vittorio paced slowly, hands buried in the deep pockets of his expensive slacks, the click of his polished shoes against the floor echoing in the heavy silence. "Every empire's built on dirt. Blood. Lies. And your family, your father, wasn't no different."

The billionaire kept his eyes fixed on the floor, unable to meet Falcone's piercing gaze. His jaw was hurting by how much he was clenching it.

Carmine shrugged. "Do me a favor, kid—don't lose any sleep over it. That reporter was a lowlife. He was on Maroni's payroll. He got what was comin' to him."

The words hit the orphan like a punch to the gut.

"Maroni?" Bruce asked, the name tasting sour on his tongue.

Falcone's expression hardened, voice turning cold,. "Oh yeah. Maroni hated your father. And after what happened with that reporter, he was worried your old man would be in my pocket forever. He would've done anything to keep your father from becoming mayor."

A beat passed, and then Falcone added, his words sharp with a knowing edge, "Ya understand?"

Bruce shook his head, trying to make sense of it all, but nothing felt real anymore.

"And what... what are you saying? That Maroni had my father killed?" His voice trembled with disbelief.

Falcone didn't flinch. "Do I know it for a fact?" He let the question linger in the air, heavy with implication. "I'm just sayin', it sure looked that way."

Bruce's world collapsed in on itself, the pieces of his life scattered at his feet. He couldn't respond. Couldn't speak.

Falcone studied him, as if savoring the moment. "You wanted answers, kid. You got 'em."

There was no satisfaction in Bruce's expression.

Only a cold emptiness.

"And now?" Vito mused, leaned to him, voice smooth as ever. "What's next? What are you gonna do with all this huh?"

Bruce didn't answer. He couldn't.

So he turned and left.

────୨ৎ────

Bruce reached the top of the stairs and stopped of his home, breath hitching as he faced the chained and padlocked doors. The sight was a punch to the gut, a reminder of a past he'd tried to bury.

It loomed before him, heavy with all the moments he could never get back.

The lock gleamed faintly in the dim light, the chains cold and unfeeling. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the door, but he didn't touch it. Instead, he stared at it, his chest tightening.

Finally entering inside, the air was heavy, the kind that clung to you and pressed against your skin.

Bruce stepped into the untouched room, the eerie stillness swallowing him whole. It felt like a snapshot from another life, suspended in time.

Dust coated everything, muting the colors, the textures, the vibrancy of what once was.

His footsteps were hesitant, almost reverent, as if the floor itself might betray him for daring to disturb the silence. He scanned the room, and the small, intimate details struck him like blows.

A man's suit jacket hung limply over the back of a chair, as if waiting for an owner who'd never return. The fabric looked so ordinary, but to Bruce, it carried the weight of his father's presence. Nearby, a pair of glasses sat atop a faded newspaper, its words now ghosts of their former clarity.

He turned, his eyes landing on the dressing table. A teacup rested there, slightly askew in its saucer, the stain of its last contents long dried. Behind it, the mirror bore yellowed crayon drawings, stuck there with tape so old it had nearly disintegrated.

One drawing caught his attention: a stick-figure family. A smiling mother. A father. A child. Him.

Bruce stared at it, his throat tightening as the memories surged forward. He could almost hear their laughter, feel their hands holding his, their voices calling his name. For a fleeting moment, he was a boy again, looking up to them with wide-eyed wonder. And then the ache settled in, deep and relentless—a void that no amount of time or effort had managed to fill.

He thought of Maryam. Of what she might say if she stood beside him in this room.

Would she understand?

Would she tell him something that might make it easier to carry this weight?

The need to see her gripped him suddenly, fiercely. He turned and left the room, his movements sharp and purposeful, as if moving too slowly would let the memories catch up to him.

Back in his room, Bruce grabbed the small monitor he used to connect with Maryam.

His fingers hesitated, hovering over the keys.

The screen sat before him, cold and blank—no messages, no trace of her.

A deep ache twisted in his chest as he stared at the emptiness, a quiet, insidious voice whispering that maybe she didn't care anymore.

Maybe she was done with him.

But then, it rang—sharp, frantic, like a lifeline thrown his way.

One message blinked through:

COME ASAP.

His heart skipped a beat.

Maryam was in trouble.

Panic surged through him in a hot, sickening wave. What if something happened to her? What if she was hurt and I wasn't there? The thought hit him like a punch to the gut.

He was failing her.

The guilt clawed at him, bitter and relentless, but he shoved it aside, forcing his fingers to move. His mind raced, adrenaline flooding his veins.

WHERE ARE YOU???

nothing.

ARE YOU OK??

nothing.

RESPOND TO ME.

nothing.

TYPE SMTH.

He sat down hard on the edge of the bed, eyes glued to the screen, willing it to light up. His pulse was a thunderous drumbeat in his ears, every second stretching endlessly.

He stood, pacing again, running a hand through his wet hair, already trying to form a plan. He had to find her.

He needed to check on her—make sure she was okay. How had he been so stupid, missing her message when she needed him most? The thought of something happening to her—no, he couldn't bear it. If anything happened to her, he'd never forgive himself, he'd never live with himself.

The worst part was that he'd pushed her away.

Told her to stop whatever was happening between them, because he had convinced himself it was dangerous for her, and now... now the consequences were all on him.

Then, just as he was about to bolt out the door, the phone beeped—sharp and sudden.

He froze. The beep of her message cut through the silence like a blade:

WHY?

His jaw clenched, confusion and frustration boiling over. Why? Why was she asking that now? His fingers trembled slightly as he typed back, the words coming faster than he could think:

I WANT TO SEE YOU.

He hit send, then quickly added:

I NEED TO SEE YOU RN.

Her response didn't come right away.

He could feel her hesitation, the silence stretching as if she were weighing something heavy on the other side of the screen. It was unbearable. He typed again, the words tumbling out without any more thought:

PLEASE.

For a long moment, there was nothing. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. But then, finally, her reply appeared:

MEET ME AT THE BAY.
SAME PLACE AS THE OTHER TIME.

It was all he needed.

More than enough.

Relief surged through him, mingling with a newfound urgency. Bruce jumped to his feet, grabbing his coat. He didn't waste a second—there was no time to.

I'M COMING.

He needed to see her. To see if his girl was safe and fine.

And this time, he wouldn't let anything stop him.

A/N : and there goes Bruce's POV. Listen y'all, I don't blame him honestly, the man had a lot on his plate :/

ALSO, you guys this is who I see as Vittorio Falcone :

...

He's such an intriguing character who, as I mentioned in earlier chapters, was the love interest of Maryam's youngest sister, Alma. If anyone remembers, he was the one Maryam interrogated as The Wraith—I think it was during the Sharp Objects chapter.

Originally, I had planned to write a fic centered around him and Alma, exploring their dynamic and story. The idea was to create a Penguin-centric fic, but honestly, I'm not sure if anyone would find it compelling or worth diving into.

What really fascinates me about him is his depth and potential as a character. He's inspired by a mix of Tommy Shelby and Michael Corleone, which I think gives him an edge and a lot of room for complexity. So yeah, I'd love to hear your opinions and thoughts—do you think this is something worth pursuing?