وفي عذابه، اختنق العمل بأنفاسه
and in its torment, the work choked on its breath

RIDDLER WAS FINALLY ARRESTED.

The team had arrived at his apartment first, tracing the bullet's trajectory to its source — where it had come from, where it had been fired.

The connection to Falcone's death was clear.

They stormed the place, officers filling the cramped apartment with the weight of their presence.

But the apartment was empty.

The space was a mess — papers strewn about, pictures pinned to the walls, and a sense of chaos that mirrored the man they were hunting.

He was gone.

The Bat moved quickly through the disarray, stepping past cages of screeching rats, eyes scanning every inch of the space. He could feel the weight of the photos on the walls, a story being told in every image.

Savage and the dealer.

Mitchell and Annika struck.

He stopped in front of the window. The view was unsettling.

It wasn't just the mess in the apartment — it was the realization that the photos had been taken from this exact spot. He wasn't just watching his victims. He was always watching from the same place, always lurking, always seeing.

Gordon approached from behind, his gaze heavy as he took in the sight.

But before he could say anything, the static crackled through the radio, breaking the tense silence.

"LIEUTENANT!" Martinez's voice barked through the speaker.

"We got a witness here. Says she saw someone come down the fire escape right after the shots were fired. She said he went into the corner diner. The guy's sitting by himself at the counter right now!"

Without wasting a moment, they were out the door, heading to the diner.

It was everything Gotham was : grimy, worn down, with the heaviness of too many stories buried in its walls.

The diner looked like something out of an Edward Hopper painting — a lonely, quiet space that seemed suspended in time. The soft hum of a flickering neon sign barely cut through the cold night air.

They slipped inside, their eyes immediately landing on the man at the counter.

He was average-sized, nothing that screamed "dangerous," just another face in the crowd. But there was something about him. The way he sat, detached, sipping his latte like the world around him didn't exist.

His back was to the large window, just like the killer in the apartment. Another coincidence?

The counterman set the latte in front of him without a word and disappeared into the kitchen. The only sound was the faint buzz of the TV above.

But Bruce's eyes never left the man at the counter.

There he was, sitting as if nothing had happened, as if he wasn't the person behind it all.

It was truly surreal.

The man they'd been chasing, the man responsible for so much chaos in the city, was just sitting there like any other Gothamite, enjoying his coffee.

No signs of panic, no hesitation — just calm. Too calm.

The peace in the diner was shattered by the frantic bark of a cop's command, slicing through the air like a knife. "POLICE!!! HANDS UP!!!"

But the man at the counter didn't react.

He didn't flinch, didn't even look up.

His movements were unnervingly calm as he continued to stir his latte, the sound of the stirrer scraping the porcelain cup louder than any other noise in the room. He seemed to be in no rush, as if the world around him had slowed, allowing him to savor the moment.

The cop's patience snapped.

His voice rose, desperate and frantic. "I SAID PUT YOUR GODDAMN HANDS UP, YOU SONUVABITCH!!!"

Still, the man didn't react, continuing to swirl the stirrer in slow circles, each motion deliberate, almost mocking.

Finally, he lowered the stirrer and, with exaggerated slowness, raised his hand.

The gesture wasn't rushed, wasn't forced — it was measured, almost too casual. His fingers still held onto the stirrer, pinching it between his thumb and index finger as if it were the most important thing in the world.

As he began to turn his body, the tension in the room mounted.

But before they could see his face, the full scope of the situation hit them, police officers and Gotham's finest surrounded him from every angle. It wasn't just one or two officers. It was a sea of blue uniforms, armed SWAT members, and plainclothes detectives, all converging on this one unremarkable man.

They stood like sentinels, blocking all exits, closing in like a trap.

The room felt suffocating.

There was nowhere for him to run, nowhere for him to hide.

And yet, the man didn't seem to care.

There was no panic in his eyes, no fear, just the same unsettling calm.

And then, they finally saw him.

His face was pale, gaunt, almost sickly in the harsh diner lights. His features were unremarkable, barely distinguishable from any other Gotham citizen.

He was... a nobody, a man who looked like he could blend into any crowd.

But in that moment, he was anything but ordinary.

His eerie calmness, the twisted half-smile curling at the edges of his lips — it made him stand out in a way that was impossible to ignore.

The smile wasn't one of joy or relief, but of something darker, something almost predatory.

It was as if he'd been waiting for this moment, preparing for it, and now that it had arrived, he was playing his part perfectly.

He glanced around the room at the cops, his eyes flicking from one to another before he lazily gestured toward the kitchen with the stirrer in his hand. "I just ordered a slice of the pumpkin pie..." His voice was casual, almost indifferent, as if he were commenting on the weather rather than being surrounded by Gotham's finest law enforcement.

The grin on his face widened slightly, as if the absurdity of the situation amused him.

The officers, clearly losing patience, couldn't hold it in anymore.

Without another word, they surged forward, slamming the man onto the counter. The force was enough to make the man's cheek press into the smooth, cold surface of the counter. His latte spilled over the edge, the coffee seeping out in slow rivulets, mixing with the wreckage of shattered glasses that lay scattered across the counter.

The man's smile didn't waver.

If anything, it grew a little more pronounced, as if he were enjoying the chaos. His cheek pressed against the counter, and his glasses were knocked askew, but the twisted grin remained, untouched by the violence of the moment.

There was a moment of stillness, a brief pause, and then the man's eyes shifted, looking past the officers to the window.

Vengeance.

Batman.

The Riddler's gaze locked onto the figure outside, his smile stretching even wider, as if this was the culmination of a plan he had long been working toward.

He wasn't scared. No, He wasn't even concerned.

There was no fear in his eyes, only an almost gleeful recognition.

Martinez, standing behind him, seemed to notice the shift in the Riddler's attention. With a growl, he shoved his hand into the man's pocket and pulled out a wallet.

He ripped it open, and after a brief search, he pulled out two driver's licenses — "Edward Nashton" and "Patrick Parker."

Martinez's patience was gone.

He glared down at the man, demanding an answer. "Which one is you?!"

The Riddler's smile didn't fade.

Instead, it widened, a quiet chuckle escaping his lips.

His voice, low and almost teasing, drifted out. "...You tell me."

Martinez's anger flared and he growled. "Awright—let's go, pencil-neck!"

They dragged him away, leaving his coffee behind, the once still surface now disturbed. The foam swirled and mingled with the spilled liquid, forming a pattern that seemed deliberate, as if painted with purpose.

A white question mark emerged in the chaos, a symbol as familiar as a signature, etched into the coffee like a riddle waiting to be solved — its meaning as elusive and unsettling as the man now in custody.

────୨ৎ────

They returned to his apartment, now teeming with detectives, the air thick with the clicking of cameras and the hum of urgent conversations.

Every corner of the room was swarming with officers, their eyes darting between objects as they snapped photos, pieces of a puzzle they still couldn't see clearly. The walls, the floors, the dark corners... it all held a sense of impending dread.

There was no peace here, only the silence of a place long consumed by madness.

The Bat and Gordon moved through the chaos, their presence barely a ripple in the sea of activity. They stepped carefully, both of them on edge, their minds sharp despite the overwhelming weight of the scene.

The detectives were hunched over a mountain of notebooks, ledgers, and papers, their eyes glued to the words that seemed to whisper more than they said.

Pages turned with a rustle that sounded almost... too deliberate. As they sifted through the mess, they didn't notice the two figures looming in the shadows, as silent as ghosts.

The Bat's gaze was fixed on the scribbled titles on the ledgers.

His gloved fingers hovered over the edge of a tattered page as he tilted his head, reading one word in particular.

Renewal.

The ink was smeared, as though someone had written it in a hurry, too frantic to care about perfection. His heart skipped a beat. The word felt... wrong. Out of place in this madness. He couldn't shake the feeling that it meant more than it appeared.

Meanwhile, Gordon stood at the far side of the room, his eyes narrowing as he leaned in close to a forensic cop who was hunched over a pile of old, yellowing notebooks.

The cop's gloves scratched at the fragile pages, handling them with a kind of reverence. There was something sickeningly intimate in the way they worked through the records, as if each one of those yellowed pages held secrets that begged to be uncovered.

And then, it hit them.

Amidst the chaotic clutter, a set of photographs on of his mural had caught their attention. Some were... strange. Disturbing. Pictures of every victim, meticulously collected — frozen moments of their lives before they were taken.

But the most unsettling part was buried deep in the center of the chaos, like a shard of broken glass among the wreckage.

It was a photograph of his parents, taken during a mayoral campaign event two decades ago; a moment that should have been preserved as a symbol of family, unity, hope. A fleeting snapshot of a time when they had appeared invincible, untouched by the darkness that would later consume Gotham. But someone had savagely defaced it.

His mother's eyes, his father's, his own... all violently scratched out, the marks jagged, raw, like the work of someone who harbored an uncontrollable rage. A hatred that ran deep.

And then, amidst the destruction of that once-perfect moment, there he was — a young Edward Nashton, barely a silhouette in the background. Just a shadow, lurking in the edges of the frame. A presence so faint, so inconspicuous, that it might have been missed if not for the fact that Bruce knew the face that wasn't really there.

The man they were hunting had once been part of this very scene, hidden in plain sight, his identity swallowed by the obscurity of the background.

The connection, the realization, hit Bruce like a punch to the gut. The Riddler had always been there — watching, waiting, hiding in the dark corners of the city's past.

The connection... it was too much.  Too surreal.

And the fact that it was all so carefully cataloged made the blood run cold.

But one thing was certain: they weren't just looking at a crime scene.

They were staring into the abyss.

Gordon's gaze flicked over the chaotic scene in the apartment, his brow furrowing as he took in the madness. "What are all these... diaries?" he asked, words thick with suspicion.

The cop beside him barely glanced up. "Ledgers. He's got thousands of 'em, all scribbled over with ramblings, ciphers, codes..." His voice trailed off.

Before Gordon could respond, a detective on the phone suddenly shouted, voice cracking with excitement. "Got something back on one of the I.D.s! Edward Nashton! Works at KTMJ! He's a forensic accountant!"

"Accountant?" Gordon repeated, confused. It didn't fit. Numbers? Calculations? It felt wrong in the context of the chaos they were wading through.

From behind, a surly cop snapped, "Hey, Lieutenant. . . You sure you're okay with this?" His eyes flicked toward the figure standing in the corner, the one who hadn't flinched through all the madness a.k.a the Bat.

The same cop gestured toward Batman, who was now engrossed in a ledger titled Renewal. "What about chain of evidence huh?" the surly cop pressed, a sharp edge to his voice.

But Batman didn't flinch.

He didn't acknowledge the question.

Instead, he looked up at Gordon, the cold intensity in his eyes like a force field.

It made Gordon hesitate, chest tightening.

The Lieutenant approached, and Batman silently handed him the ledger.

Then Gordon gave the surly cop a small shrug. "He's wearing gloves..." he muttered, clearly unbothered.

He looked down at the top sheet of the ledger, his eyes narrowing. It was a mess of scrawled writing, the columns of numbers defaced by frenzied ink — angry, jagged strokes that twisted the words into something barely recognizable.

Gordon began reading aloud, tone clearly betraying the unease creeping up his spine.

"Friday, July 16th. My life has been a cruel riddle I could not solve, suffocating my mind, no escape. But then today, I saw it... A SINGLE WORD on this ledger, sitting on the desk beside me! RENEWAL! The empty promise they sold to me as a child in that orphanage. One look inside, and finally I UNDERSTOOD! My whole life has been PREPARING me for this... The moment when I would learn the TRUTH... when I could finally strike back and expose their lies"

As Gordon's voice echoed through the room, the Bat moved silently through the cluttered space, his eyes absorbing every detail, every piece of the puzzle. He passed cages of agitated rats, their frantic movements a silent scream of madness.

A screech tore through the air, sharp and unrelenting.

He didn't flinch, focus always unwavering.

Gordon flipped another page, his eyes scanning the scrawled madness.

The words became increasingly unreadable, slipping into an incoherent mess of angry ink — like the ravings of a mind completely unhinged. The scrawl seemed to bleed into itself, each line a mark of something slipping farther and farther from sanity.

The screeching grew louder, more frantic.

Gordon's hands tightened around the ledger, but the noise was overwhelming.

It gnawed at his nerves. He glanced up, his eyes drawn to Batman as he stood near the cages, presence looming like a shadow.

Gordon's voice was quiet, almost hesitant. "Jesus, I don't think that rat likes you, man."

"This one's not a rat..." The Bat's voice rasped, low and chilling.

Gordon and the surly cop leaned in, eyes widening as they saw what Batman was looking at. Inside the cage, there wasn't just a rat. It was a rabid bat, its eyes wild with fury, its wings slashing the air in frantic beats.

It snarled, bearing its teeth like a cornered animal. But the sight was secondary to what lay beneath it — an envelope, a bloody metal tool pinned underneath the creature's thrashing.

To the Batman, the envelope read, the letters stark and deliberate against the pale paper.

Gordon's gaze shifted to the object beneath the bat. "What is that...?"

Batman stepped forward, his gloved fingers brushing the cage.

But before he reached for the envelope, he paused, casting a sardonic look at the surly cop, as if daring him to stop him.

The cop smirked, shrugging. "Knock yourself out..."

A photographer flashed the scene, the bright light causing the bat to hiss angrily, its wings flaring out.

Batman remained calm, his movements precise as he carefully extended his hand past the bat, snatching the envelope and the tool with practiced grace.

The forensic detective's voice came from behind him, matter-of-fact. "Some kind of pry tool."

"Is it a chisel?" the surly cop added, his tone laced with curiosity.

The vigilante studied the tool,  jaw tightening. "It's a murder weapon. He killed Mitchell with it." The words were cold, final. He didn't need to explain further. "The edge'll match the floorboard impression in the mayor's study."

The room fell silent as Batman turned his attention to the envelope. He ripped it open with a swift motion, pulling out a greeting card that had been folded inside.

The words "JUST FOR YOU" were scrawled across the front in jagged handwriting.

Inside, the card read only one line: "MY CONFESSION..."

Gordon furrowed his brows, adjusting his glasses as he processed the words. "'My confession'? What's he confessing to? He already told us he killed Mitchell..."

Batman didn't answer.

He stared at the card, his eyes narrowing, the dread in his chest growing like a weight he couldn't shake. "This isn't over..."

Before he could respond, an alarmed voice echoed from behind them, cutting through the tension like a knife. "Oh man — he's been posting all kinds of shit online! He's got, like, five hundred followers — real fringe types..."

Meanwhile, The Bat moved closer to one of the Riddler's walls, his eyes scanning the unsettling collage of images pinned across it. The faces of city officials, police officers, and Riddler's victims filled the space, all under the chilling title "The Truth About Gotham."

But it was the photograph of a young Bruce Wayne, standing beside his father at the Orphanage ceremony, that froze him in place. The image, once a symbol of hope, was now defaced.

Instead, their eyes were scratched out, furious marks that burned with nothing but rage.

Beside them, in the boy's choir, a question mark encircled the head of a sad, scrappy boy wearing aviator glasses.

He stared at the Waynes with a mix of awe and longing, the words next to him cutting deep : "If only I knew then... what I KNOW now..."

Batman's gaze shifted, catching sight of a cluster of tabloid headlines featuring the Batman, each one more grotesque than the last.

One headline, "GOTHAM TERRORIZED — WHO IS THE BATMAN?" was accompanied by a crude police sketch. And beneath it, scrawled by Riddler, was a chilling message: "I KNOW... I know the REAL you..."

Batman's stomach twisted into knots.

What made his breath catch, what sent a wave of unease washing over him, was what lay spread across the table; a photograph. Two, actually.

One showed Maryam and Falcone outside city hall, deep in conversation. The other depicted her and Bruce — him — inside the same building.

Maryam's back was turned in both images, her face hidden from view. But it didn't matter. Bruce could recognize her anywhere. The curve of her shoulders, the color of her hair, the curves of her body, the way she carried herself — it was just unmistakable.

What sent a chill down his spine, though, were the jagged, crimson question marks scrawled across each photo, circling her frame like a target.

His mind raced when a voice shattered the silence, cutting through his spiraling thoughts.

"His final post was last night — a video. Got a lot of views, but it's password protected." The digital forensics cop said, tone tense.

Batman's attention snapped to the laptop screen.

The title of the post read "The Truth UNMASKED."

A cold wave of dread flooded his chest as Gordon moved closer, his expression anxious.

"Can you get in?" Gordon asked, the urgency clear in his voice.

The digital cop typed furiously. "Copying his drive now... it'll take some time, but we'll get in."

Batman stood, rooted to the spot, the world around him narrowing as he felt the walls close in. His pulse quickened.

Then, quietly, he spoke, voice carrying an ominous weight.

"I think I'm his last target."

The lieutenant froze, eyes widening.

"What?"  he asked, disbelief creeping into his voice.

Batman's tone dropped even lower, colder. "Maybe this is all coming to an end."

Gordon's brow furrowed. "What is?"

"The Batman," his partner replied simply.

Gordon blinked, confusion flickering across his face before it settled into a tired frown. He sighed, running a hand over his temples, the weight of the day pressing down on him.

"Look," he began, his voice weary but firm. "You need some rest. We all do. Go clear your head. Tomorrow, we close the book on this lunatic and start dealing with the one still out there." He didn't need to elaborate — the Lady Killer  had been the shadow looming over every case lately.

Bruce stood there, still as a statue, his face a mask of stoic calm, betraying nothing.

For a moment, Gordon thought he might leave without a word. But then, Bruce turned to him, his voice quieter than usual, a rare gentleness threading through his words.

"You're a good cop." And with that, he walked away, disappearing into the shadows.

The officers moved around him, swarming the scene like ants, each one a piece in a puzzle they were still struggling to solve.

Evidence piled up, fragments of the Riddler's twisted game spread across the room.

But Gordon couldn't shake the feeling that the conversation, brief as it was, had unlocked something deeper within him.

It was like the contrast between two acolytes, both tethered to a singular purpose—one, the seeker of truth, the other, perhaps vengeance, or justice... or hope? Regardless of the name they gave their cause, both were masked, their true selves buried beneath the roles they performed in Gotham's grand, unending opera.

The city, an ancient stage, served as both their prison and their battleground, a place where shadows and light blurred into a single, unyielding truth.

Gordon, the cop, a man who sought justice with steady hands, and Batman, the vigilante, a man who fought with the fury of an unquenchable thirst for retribution.

And he supposed that was enough.

────୨ৎ────

Bruce should have felt relief — the kind that came with knowing the madness, the chase, was nearing its end.

But he didn't.

Instead, a deep, gnawing emptiness clawed at his chest, an instinctive certainty that this was far from over.

He could feel it in his bones.

The fight at the Iceberg Lounge replayed in his mind like a broken reel, every moment etched into his memory.

It had been brutal, even by Gotham's standards.

His suit, as always, had been his shield, stopping most of the bullets that sought to tear through him. But not all of them. One, with cruel precision, had found its mark, slipping through the gap in his armor and embedding itself deep in his shoulder.

The sharp, burning pain radiated through him, making his vision blur for a second.

He gritted his teeth, trying to push through it.

But it was bad.

Really bad.

Blood seeped through his suit, staining it dark, and he knew he was losing too much.

He glanced down at his phone, mind buzzing with exhaustion, his finger pausing over the screen as he read her message.

M : Going back to my apartment !!! I just saw the news about the Riddler :)

A familiar rush of concern surged through him, but the instinct to warn her, to tell her it wasn't safe, quickly collided with the far more urgent reality of his situation.

He was bleeding out, the warmth of his own blood soaking through the fabric of his suit, making every breath a little harder to take.

Alfred was still in the hospital, recovering from his own injuries, and the apartment... it was a wreck, a mess of chaos he couldn't even think about cleaning up.

He needed help.

Fast.

There was no time to waste, no time to carefully figure out the best plan.

He couldn't pull the bullet out himself; he knew that much.

But Maryam... she was the one he trusted.

A doctor, yes, but it was more than that.

Because in a world where trust was a currency he couldn't afford to spend, she had become the rare exception. Yes, she was the anchor in his storm, the one he believed could pull him back from the edge when everything else was crumbling.

In this moment of desperation, when every breath felt like a battle, it was her hands and her hands alone he trusted to save him.

And so, without a second thought, he set off toward her apartment, pain and urgency pushing him forward.

A/N : Not edited, so apologies in advance for any mistakes !!

Our favorite little incel is finally behind bars.

We're nearing the end of the movie, so I had to shift the pace a bit. Originally, the Riddler was supposed to blow up Gotham that night, but I decided to scrap that idea.... for pretty obvious writer reasons lol ;)