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these choices lead us further from the light

FIRST INSTINCT : Arms stretching behind her, fingers searching blindly, brushing over the sheets where warmth should have been.

Cold. Empty.

As expected.

She already knew. Even before she reached for him, before her hands traced the space he should have occupied, she knew she wouldn't find him there.

Bruce was nothing if not stubborn.

And Gotham — Gotham was worse. A jealous, insatiable mistress with a hunger that could never be satisfied. She didn't take kindly to sharing, especially not with someone like her. Because Gotham was greedy. Greedy for the man who gave her everything : his time, his body, his mind, his soul. Greedy enough to demand it all until there was nothing left of him but a shadow.

Because that was who he was.

A man who would always put Gotham above all else. Above himself. Because if he didn't, who would ? If he faltered for even a second, the city would eat itself alive.

After all, that hellhole had made him, hadn't it ?

Just like it had made the Wraith.

Yes — Gotham had birthed her ghost first, let her drift through its streets unseen, unheard, a whisper in the dark. Then it had forged him, her dark knight, a blade sharpened against the city's filth and tragedy.

Two halves of the same story.

Like Adam and Eve, cast from the same broken paradise, bound not by divine wrath, but by the hands of a city that had never known mercy.

Their Eden was paved in cracked concrete and neon-lit promises, a place that swallowed the pure and spat out the damned. Their city had never been a garden; it had always been a graveyard, birthing ghosts, knights and kings in the same breath.

She was its wraith, moving through Gotham like a breath of smoke, slipping between the cracks of its ruin — unseen, untouchable, drifting through a city that had never held anything gently.

He was its knight, shaped by its tragedies, bound to its endless war. A shadow carved from duty, carrying the weight of its sins, bleeding for a city that would never love him back, never save him ; only demand more.

Indeed, Gotham had taken their innocence first. Then, their peace.

It had stripped them bare, carving away the softness, leaving only the parts that could survive its cruelty.

And in return, it had shaped them into something else.

They were Gotham's children, after all.

Not by choice, but by consequence.

And Gotham never let go.

So, really, it wasn't a surprise when she didn't feel him beside her.

Because Gotham never let go. And neither did he.

The first sign was the absence.

No arm wrapped tightly around her waist, squeezing it throughout the night to make sure she was still there and safe; no steady weight pressed against her back. The arm that usually found its way beneath her pillow during the night — gone.

The quiet rhythm of his breathing, the rise and fall of his chest against hers — gone.

The faint brush of his lips against the nape of her neck, the rough scrape of his jaw, the warmth of his breath — also gone.

But most of all, his warmth. That, more than anything, was missing.

She opened her eyes slowly, turning toward the empty space beside her.

Was she surprised? No.

Was she disappointed? Yes.

But she knew better.

A man like Bruce Wayne did not come without his ghosts, without his burdens, without the weight of a city that demanded him more than she ever could. Gotham had him on a leash, and she had always known that when the night called, he would answer.

So she only sighed, bringing a hand to rub the sleep from her eyes before facing the morning alone.

She didn't even feel him when he left. A woman who prided herself on being a light sleeper, and yet, not a stir, not a whisper of his departure had woken her.

She just hoped he had slept well.

Reaching for her phone on the nightstand, the soft glow of the screen made her wince, the darkness of the room almost oppressive. She blinked at the time : 2 PM.

Damn.

Had she really slept that long?

She shrugged it off. At least she didn't have a shift at the hospital today.

Running a hand through her hair, she pushed herself up from the bed, tugging the straps of her nightie back into place as the fabric slipped off her shoulders. She then slipped into the soft warmth of her fluffy robe. With a yawn, she padded across the room and opened the windows, letting in the cool air as the sounds of the city crept in from the streets below.

She headed to the bathroom, going through her usual routine without thinking much about it —brushing her teeth, washing her face, the quiet rhythm of the morning. When she was done, she made her way straight to the kitchen, still half-dazed from sleep.

As she passed through the living room, she noticed everything was just as it had been the night before. The couch cushions were neatly arranged, the lamp still dimly glowing, and her phone was already in her hand. She started scrolling through her feed, quickly responding to a few texts and emails, just the usual.

But when she walked into the kitchen, her eyes landed on the sink, and her heart gave a little jolt. The plates had been washed.

He must've done it before he left.

She tried not to think too much about it, but then her gaze shifted to the kitchen table, where a crumpled piece of paper caught her attention.

Thank you, Milou.

The words were simple, but she couldn't help the smile that spread across her face. It was silly, really — just three words — but she felt like an idiot, standing there grinning for no reason.

A fool she was, that woman.

She was sipping on orange juice when her phone rang. Without looking at the screen, she hit the speaker button.

"Hello?"

"Yeah, get your ass over here right now, doc," came the gruff, impatient voice.

"Bullock?" she asked, already knowing.

"Now, it's fucking urgent." And just like that, he hung up.

"Good morning to you too," she muttered, mimicking his tone as the phone beeped off.

She passed a hand through her wild curls, the ones she hadn't bothered to blow out or straighten yesterday — for specific reasons. With a sigh, she headed back to her room, untying the pink fluffy robe at the waist and reaching for something to wear.

Just as she was pulling on her high-heeled black leather boots, her phone rang again.

"I'm —"

"Maryam, you need to get there fast."

"Calm down," she said, grabbing her bag, stuffing it with essentials for the crime scene, and slipping her keys into the long black jacket she had cinched tight around her waist. "I'm on the subway," she lied.

The line went dead with a click.

She sighed, slipping the phone into her pocket and closing the door behind her.

Adjusting her bag on her shoulder, she descended the wooden stairs, quickly securing her hair into a French twist with a clip as her heels clacked rhythmically on the floor.

The cold air hit her as soon as she stepped outside, the city's usual hum surrounding her. She heard people arguing, old folks chatting across balconies, and the rumble of motorcycles in the distance. The familiar smell of rain-soaked pavement, exhaust fumes, and petrol mixed in the air.

Just another day in Gotham.

She didn't waste time, sprinting to the nearest subway while quickly scanning through the details Bullock had sent her.

17th Diamond Street.

Expensive neighborhood. Who could it be?

The Riddler was out of the equation now, wasn't he? Behind bars, at least. Sure, his followers still posted online ( she had seen it this morning while scrolling through her feed ) but that didn't mean he was free. It was all anyone had talked about today; some people celebrated, others were furious.

Maryam felt... conflicted.

All those murders, all that chaos — what for? To prove a point, sure, but it always felt like there was more to it. Like he wanted to do something bigger. To cleanse the city of its sins, as he had said time and time again.

And yet, the city still reeked of them.

So, that left only one other suspect: Lady Killer. That's what they were calling him at the precinct, anyway. She thought it was a bit cringy.

Too dramatic.

But then again, this was Gotham, where drama and danger went hand in hand.

She sighed, hands slipping into the pockets of her jacket, bracing herself for what was to come.

────୨ৎ────

Worse. It was worse than she imagined.

The moment Bullock spotted her, he grabbed her arm, his grip tight as she struggled to get her plastic gloves on, fumbling in the rush.

The tower they had arrived at was in the middle of Finance Street — impossible to miss, looming over everything around it. The place felt like a different world. People in tuxedos walked by with their phones glued to their ears, their designer wallets clutched like trophies.

This was a street for the elite, not the everyday Gotham citizen.

Wayne Tower was just a few miles away, but this place was a whole other breed.

Phoenix Building.

The name made sense; the building was literally shaped like a phoenix rising from the ashes. Gold and shiny, it almost hurt your eyes to look at it, standing tall and cold. Impressive, yes, but it had an arrogance about it. And it wasn't just the building — Phoenix Bank was one of the biggest financial institutions in the city, full of people who could buy their way out of anything.

It was one of those banks that mainly catered to millionaires and billionaires.

The press was already there, just as she'd expected. She glanced around, half hoping to spot her sister, Sherine, in the crowd.

But there was nothing.

She was probably in Metropolis.

Rania had mentioned in the group chat that morning that she'd be at Gotham Stadium, overseeing the final preparations for Reál's victory speech. Yes, apparently, Bella Reál had officially won — and her sister couldn't be more thrilled. It was the second most trending topic on social media that morning, flooding every feed and news outlet.

The speech was meant to be the night's biggest event, the grand celebration of Gotham's new mayor. But judging by the frantic journalists outside, it was clear their attention had shifted elsewhere.

Instead, they were all over this.

It was like watching vultures circle, waiting for the slightest hint of a story to swoop in on.

There were enough reporters here to make the whole situation feel even more chaotic than it already was.

It felt like the mayor's night all over again.

People from the streets had gathered outside, spilling into the busy sidewalk, all trying to catch a glimpse through the entrance of the building. Despite the police orders to back off, everyone pressed forward, and even employees were being turned away, unable to enter.

But as soon as they saw Harvey, the officers stepped aside, lifting the tape to let her through. They walked past the imposing, gold-drenched entrance, past the extravagant flower arrangements that once gave the place a sense of luxury.

Now, it was all just a backdrop to the sea of cops, their walkie-talkies crackling as they moved through the space, taking over the building's once-stately atmosphere.

They made their way through the building, navigating cluttered hallways and narrow stairs, passing employees who were either being questioned by cops or whispering in hushed tones across their gray cubicles. Nervous glances were exchanged, fingers subtly pointing as quiet whispers filled the air.

It was a mix of confusion and anxiety, the growing chaos making the whole place feel suffocating, endless

As if they were mice trapped in a box, waiting to be outsmarted.

When they reached the top floor, everything changed.

The space felt different, more luxurious than the lower levels. The windows were floor-to-ceiling glass, offering a sweeping view of the city, though the early November rain made everything look hazy, the sky a dull grey.

In front of the double doors, intricately engraved wood, a tearful secretary sat in the waiting room. She clutched tissues in her trembling hands, wiping at her nose as she tried to speak with the cops questioning her. Her voice cracked between her words, each one seemingly harder to get out than the last.

But it was when she finally crossed the threshold into the crime scene that things took a strange turn. The first thing she heard wasn't the usual silence or tension of a scene like this : it was music.

Opera.

The unmistakable voice of Maria Callas filled the air, floating out from a vinyl player somewhere in the room.

It was so out of place, so jarring against the scene of blood and tragedy. And yet, it felt intentional. As if someone had wanted to create this atmosphere, to make it something more than just a crime scene.

Amid the crackling of the vinyl, the office TV murmured in the background, the news anchor's voice crisp and steady.

"Yes, Melinda, people are already queuing to enter the stadium. Bella Reál has officially won the election, marking a new chapter for Gotham. Excitement is palpable in the crowd, with supporters cheering and waving banners as they await her victory speech. Security remains tight, with officials ensuring everything goes smoothly on this monumental night..."

Then, the heavy scent of narcissus filled the air, overwhelming and out of place. It was unusual for a crime scene. It usually smelled of blood, sometimes decay, never... flowers.

She stepped forward, the sharp click of her leather-heeled boots slicing through the silence of the cold marble floor. But as she moved further into the room, she stopped — her eyes drawn immediately to the sight before her.

G R E E D.

The word was scrawled in blood, stark and unsettling against the beige carpet, as though the room itself had been branded. Just that word. No more, no less. But it was enough to send a chill down her spine.

Greed.

The office was spotless, everything in its place — except for that dried bloody word. The small sitting area was tidy, with black leather couches, a red, expensive coat casually draped over one, and a Birkin bag resting beside it. But then...

She lifted her gaze.

And what she saw made her stomach turn.

This was Gotham, after all, and murders here weren't just crimes. They were spectacles. Grim shows put on for those twisted enough to watch.

At the center of the room, sitting perfectly in a chair, arms resting casually on the armrests, was a woman.

Or what was left of a woman.

It was a grotesque sight, to say the least.

Eldritch, even.

Like something out of a nightmare, twisted and unnatural.

Her eyes had been ripped from their sockets, leaving behind empty, hollow cavities. In place of her eyes were golden coins, their shine catching the dim light of the room, glimmering like grotesque trophies.

But what made the scene even more unsettling wasn't just the woman's mutilation — it was the artwork that hovered above her, hanging just out of reach.

The surrounding space was like a shrine to wealth.

Books stacked in neat towers, expensive statues gleaming under the faint light, all signifying status and power. But the artwork itself was where the horror truly lay.

It was an engraving from the Northern Renaissance, one that seemed eerily fitting for this scene. In the center of the piece was a woman seated at a table, surrounded by piles of coins and material wealth — every inch of her consumed by greed.

The rest of the composition was chaos.

People hunched over, fighting, hoarding, lost in their selfish pursuits. The buildings in the background were dark and ominous, smoke billowing from their windows like the city itself was decaying under the weight of its own desires.

The woman's body was seated so perfectly still in the chair, so unnervingly composed that it felt inhuman.

She almost seemed as if she belonged to the art itself, a lifeless statue, untouched by time or reality.

The room hummed with the quiet activity of the scientific team, their voices barely audible as they moved around the body. The sharp clicks of cameras echoed through the air, each photograph capturing another grotesque angle of the scene.

And there, at the center of it all, was the woman — utterly still.

Her hands were gone, severed at the wrists, the stumps still fresh, blood and bones oozing out in small, irregular drops, staining the floor beneath her. It wasn't a clean cut; the blood suggested the incision had been made roughly, hastily, as if the killer had been in a rush.

Her hands were nowhere to be found. They had been taken.

But what really disturbed Mariam was the way her limbs had been reattached.

The limbs weren't just placed back in any random manner : they were stitched, painstakingly sewn back together with golden thread. The stitches ran along her neck, her arms, down her torso, crisscrossing like some twisted work of art.

The woman had been dismembered, and then put back together like a broken doll, a horrifying reconstruction.

There was a cruel precision to it, as if the killer had treated her like an object to be fixed, something to be played with.

The wounds on her arms were deep, jagged slashes. Money had been shoved into the gashes, paper bills jammed into the open wounds, as though the killer was trying to force greed into her flesh. The money ( dirty, crumpled bills ) seemed to taunt her, as if the very essence of avarice had been thrust into her body, marking her as the embodiment of the sin itself.

And yet, despite the savagery of it all, there was something oddly pristine about her appearance.

Her golden hair was untouched, styled perfectly, as though she'd been groomed for a photo shoot. It was in stark contrast to the mutilation of her body, and the killer's trademark was unmistakable : the fat had been removed. Again. But what for ? She didn't know.

Her body, stripped of all softness, looked skeletal, almost embalmed, as if she had been preserved just for this sickening display.

Who in the hell comes up with something like this ?

Mariam's eyes wandered to the mahogany table next to the woman's body.

There were photographs scattered across it — pictures of the woman, taken in her prime. In the images, she looked poised, regal, draped in pearls, with an air of serious luxury about her.

Maryam sniffed, her eyes narrowing as she studied the scene.

And then it hit her.

She turned back to the woman, her gaze tracing over the lifeless body, and something felt off. There was no jewelry, nothing left to signify the wealth and status she must've once flaunted.

She was bare.

Stripped of her riches.

Stripped of her identity.

Reduced to nothing but a cold, lifeless corpse.

Greed. The word echoed in her mind, almost like a chant.

"Karol Mulligan, 41," a voice mumbled behind her, the man's hands resting on his waist. "CEO of Phoenix Bank."

Maryam hummed, her eyes flicking down to her small light scanner, flicking it on as she examined the stitches — golden thread gleaming faintly in the dim light.

Real gold.

Why? Greed. Greed.

She moved her light down, following the path of the cuts on her arms ( scratches, deep and jagged ) and the paper money shoved into those gaping wounds. The blood, now nearly dry, had pooled around the edges of the wounds, as if draining away any life left in her.

"Found this morning by her secretary," the man continued, his voice distant as he gave the brief.

Her light moved to the severed stumps where her hands should have been. Instead of hands, there were exposed bones, jagged and raw, clearly severed.

The cuts were rough, uneven, nothing like the clean precision of the rest of the work.

It was unlike the killer to make such a crude mistake.

She crouched closer, studying the raw flesh.

The cuts didn't just look rough — they looked like they had been made while the woman was alive. The blood was still fresh, seeping from the wounds, which meant the woman had suffered through the pain, possibly for a while.

"He cut her hands while she was alive," Maryam muttered, not looking up from the body. "I suppose her hands symbolized grasping wealth, so he took them. As trophies."

It reminded her of the Riddler's work with the mayor : another case of symbolic mutilation, another perverse desire to leave a twisted message.

Bullock clicked his tongue behind her, his boots shifting on the floor as he changed his stance. He didn't speak, but the shift in his posture said it all.

He didn't like it.

Neither did she.

"Her body fat's been removed too, just like the other victims." Slowly, Maryam shifted her light to the woman's face, her breath catching as she saw the golden coins gleaming where her eyes should have been. The eerie reflection of her own face stared back at her from the coins, a disturbing mirror to the horror before her.

It looked as though her eyeballs had been taken roughly, veins protruding from the sockets and her cheeks, as if she had been crying tears of blood.

Her hazel eyes scanned the table — cluttered with papers, unfinished documents, pens — and then she froze. Bingo. An unfinished cup of coffee, two eyeballs floating inside, beside the porcelain mug, a bloodied spoon. "He took her eyeballs out with this," she said, pointing. A forensic officer snapped a photo of it, pausing for a second.  Another officer stepped forward, carefully placing the evidence into a plastic bag, sealing it with precision.

"And her eyeballs are floating in the coffee," she continued.

"What kind of sick man does this?" a nearby officer murmured, his voice low, shaken.

"At this point, I'm not even surprised, man," Bullock muttered, adjusting his hat, the cynicism dripping from his words.

Maryam didn't respond. She couldn't. Instead, she continued her meticulous examination, like a scientist with a new puzzle to solve. Each detail, each clue, went straight into her notebook.

"Jesus Christ, what is this?"

Gordon.

"No, that's my case ! Move away, Jim!" Bullock snapped, his voice sharp as he threw his hand out toward the lieutenant.

But Gordon didn't flinch.

He didn't even look at Bullock. Instead, his gaze dropped to the bloody letters on the carpet, his eyes scanning the words slowly as if trying to make sense of them.

Maryam didn't pay it any mind — too engrossed in her work.

The scientific team buzzed around her, processing evidence, and the cops stood by, some murmuring quietly, others pacing. It was routine, but not routine. She glanced over her shoulder, half-expecting to see Bruce or, more accurately, the Bat. But he wasn't here.

Weird.

"How many times do I have to tell you, Harvey? It's not a competition," Gordon said, his voice strained but trying to remain professional.

Bullock only scoffed in response, clearly annoyed, muttering under his breath that he needed a cigarette.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly done with the day's chaos. But Gordon, undeterred, turned his attention to Maryam, crouched low in front of the victim.

"What kind of lunatic do we have to add to our list now?" he asked, his voice heavy with the weight of the case.

"I don't know yet," Maryam replied quietly, her voice distant as she took a breath, her mind already working through the details.

She needed to check the wrists.

She had a bad feeling about what she might find there, but she had to know.

"Gordon, come here."

He approached, his eyes flicking to her as he crouched beside her. "Is that coins in her eyes?"

"Yeah, he plucked her eyeballs out with her coffee spoon," Maryam replied with a faint nod, her eyes still fixed on the body. "Look, I need you to put on some plastic gloves and make sure her arms don't fall off."

Gordon hesitated for a moment, raising an eyebrow, but did as he was told, pulling on the gloves with a grim expression.

Bullock shot him a quick look but didn't comment, already distracted by his own thoughts.

Maryam continued her examination, her hands steady as she reached for the woman's wrist, dreading the moment she'd have to lift the arm to inspect further. The body was fragile, and she feared the limb might just fall apart in her hands.

The doctor gently turned the woman's right wrist with no hand. Her breath caught as the scent of narcissus grew stronger.

And there it was.

The seven-pointed star, carved meticulously into the woman's skin, glowing faintly under the harsh light.

"Fucking hell, it's him," Maryam muttered, the words slipping out almost automatically. The realization hit her like a punch to the gut.

"Who do you think it was?" Gordon's voice was low, almost dismissive, as he glanced from the woman's stitched-up shoulder to Maryam. "We put the other one in the cells last night. It's obviously the new one."

Maryam rolled her eyes, her gaze hardening as she turned to him. "Don't act like this couldn't be another freak. Gotham's full of them, Jim. We can't just assume it's the same guy every time."

Gordon didn't respond right away, just pursed his lips in reluctant agreement. He wasn't one to argue with her, not when she was like this. He shifted his weight, then turned to speak with one of the nearby officers, voice lowering as he passed on orders.

Maryam's attention drifted, her focus pulling away from the conversation and back to the details of the room.

Her eyes caught the turntable spinning endlessly in the corner of the room. The vinyl record whirred softly as it spun, the eerie repetition of the music filling the silence. She walked over, her gaze flicking to the cover.

The title stood out, stark against the plain design : Adieu notre petite table.

It was strange.

Foreign. She understood and speak French. But there was something about it that gnawed at her, something about the way the words felt almost like an omen.

She couldn't explain why, but it didn't sit right with her.

Maryam turned away, shaking the unsettling thought from her mind. Her eyes flicked back to the blood-soaked carpet beneath the victim. The word Greed had been scrawled across it in thick, dark red. The blood was dry as it stained the beige fibers.

Her gaze narrowed.

It was clear that it had come from the woman herself, that this blood was the last thing she would ever leave behind. The thought made Maryam's stomach churn, but she pushed the feeling down.

This was her job.

She couldn't afford to let the horror of it all get to her.

Carefully, she stepped closer and bent down to get a better look. The blood had splattered out in uneven streaks, almost deliberate in its placement, like the killer had used it as a signature.

It was an act of control, a twisted display.

Maryam didn't want to look back at the woman. Her body was like something out of a nightmare, mummified and disturbingly still. The sight of her sent a chill through Maryam's bones, but she forced her gaze back down to the carpet, at the word etched in blood.

Greed.

Greed.

The word echoed in her mind, gnawing at her thoughts. Why that word? Why now?

A scientist in a white lab coat moved beside her, his face hidden behind plastic glasses. He picked up a photograph of the woman, the artwork hanging above her in the frame. The flash of the camera cut through the air, but Maryam didn't flinch. Her attention was entirely consumed by the bloodstained word on the floor.

The man glanced at her, his voice low. "Whoever's behind this sure likes throwing around funny words, huh?"

She gave him a sharp look, irritation rising.

"The word carved into the tree at the park? The small vial marked with Sloth near the bridge?" the man asked, blinking through his pale glasses as he adjusted the collar around his neck.

Maryam's brow furrowed, her confusion evident. "What? Nobody told me about — "

The man shrugged, almost indifferent. "We always find them later, after we finish. The vial was by that homeless girl under the grass, and the tree with Gluttony carved into it was near those two bodies in the park. The leaves were covering it." He scratched the back of his head, glancing around the room. "It's not really that important for you, though, right?"

Maryam's fists tightened, frustration bubbling up inside her, but she forced a smile, masking her irritation.

With a sharp, angry snap, she pulled off her plastic gloves. "Every detail matters at a crime scene. Every single one. But thanks for the info."

The man held up his hands in defense, quickly stepping back. "Hey, I'm just passing along the details!" he muttered, before turning to snap more photos, trying to avoid any further confrontation.

The doctor sighed, the tension still in her shoulders. She looked back at the blood, her mind racing. She stood still, the pieces falling into place.

Sloth. Gluttony.

And now Greed.

Her breath hitched, her mind working quickly, clicking into place. Her fingers snapped, the sound sharp in the busy room.

"Seven deadly sins," she murmured, the realization dawning on her like a punch to the gut.

It made perfect sense now : the seven-pointed star, the carefully calculated murders.

Each sin represented, each one a mark on the killer's twisted journey.

And the killer wasn't done yet.

Maryam's pulse quickened as the realization sank in.

Seven deadly sins.

She had seen it now : the pattern, the methodical way the killer was choosing his victims, carving out a dark story with each murder.

She stepped back, taking in the scene around her.

The body.

The bloody word.

The symbolism.

It was all connected, like pieces of a twisted puzzle. And that puzzle was taking shape in her mind — each murder, each word, leading to the next sin in the sequence.

Bullock was still muttering to Gordon, voice low and irritated.

Maryam barely heard him.

The words, Sloth, Gluttony, Greed  kept turning in her head, like they were lodged in her brain.

A dark thought crossed her mind. What if this wasn't just a serial killer ? What if it was something more, like a twisted message, a game the killer was playing with Gotham ?

She turned back to Gordon, who was still huddled with Bullock, looking over evidence. Her stomach churned with urgency.

"Gordon," she said, voice cutting through the conversation.

Both men turned to her.

"What is it, Maryam?" Gordon asked, his brow furrowing.

Her eyes flicked between the two of them. "We've been looking at this all wrong. The murders... they're connected to the seven deadly sins. Each victim represents one of them. Greed is just the latest."

Bullock's face shifted, disbelief flashing briefly in his eyes. "Seven deadly sins ? Seriously ? We're going with that angle?"

"I'm not just throwing out wild theories, Harvey," Maryam said, her tone edged with certainty. "The carved stars. The words. It's all deliberate. Each victim is chosen for a reason — it's systematic. Methodical. And if I'm right, he's only just getting started."

The men around her exchanged glances, skepticism lingering in the air. She pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling sharply.

Men.

"Think," she pressed a finger to her temple for emphasis. "The first victim — a homeless woman, frail, drug-ravaged, left naked in the cold. She represents Sloth. Not just in the laziness sense, but in neglect, in wastefulness. The killer may have viewed her as someone who 'squandered' her life, someone who succumbed to addiction, to helplessness. Maybe they see Gotham's decay in her, a city rotting from within, and think they're 'cleansing' it — getting rid of the ones they consider lost causes."

She gestured now, arms moving with the weight of her words. "And then the two women found in the park — Gluttony. But in a cruel, twisted inversion of the sin. Not excess, but deprivation. Instead of bodies bloated with indulgence, they were skeletal, stripped of fat. It's like the killer was punishing them for a hunger they never satisfied. The precision, the artistry in their display— it's more than just murder. It's like a ritual. No, a statement."

She was breathless now, pacing in front of the bloodstained word on the carpet, her mind piecing everything together.

Then, she stopped, crossing her arms, exhaling through her nose.

"And now, Greed," she said, her voice calmer but no less sharp. "A woman who was probably a corrupt executive — someone who built her life on hoarding wealth, no matter the cost."

Silence stretched between them.

The officers exchanged uneasy glances, a few shifting where they stood.

One of them, lingering by the door, finally spoke. "Is she a doctor or a detective?"

"Both," Maryam answered without missing a beat, as if the distinction hardly mattered. Her eyes remained locked on the two cops in front of her, unreadable but firm.

Because wasn't she right ? A medical examiner was both a doctor and a detective. That's exactly why she had chosen this path. It wasn't just about the science of medicine; it was the thrill of uncovering the truth hidden in the bodies of the dead.

It brought together her fascination with medicine and her passion for criminology — two fields that, in her mind, were intertwined perfectly.

The idea of solving a puzzle, uncovering a story through the physical evidence of a body, was what had drawn her in all along.

Around them, the crime scene buzzed with quiet activity, detectives murmuring among themselves, forensic techs carefully collecting evidence. The world moved on, but Gordon was listening.

His expression softened, thoughtful, as if turning her words over in his mind. Considering, calculating.  He weighed her suggestion, considering the possibility of her lead.

"So," he said finally, voice grim. "You're telling me we've got 4 more bodies to go?"

Maryam's stomach tightened at the thought. "Yep."

Bullock looked between them, clearly unconvinced, but he didn't argue.

The evidence was there, even if he hated the idea of chasing down a killer with some twisted moral code.

The medical examiner eyes flickered to the woman's mummified body one last time. The golden stitches. The missing hands. The coins in her eyes. Greed.

It was too perfect.

Too planned.

"We need to keep an eye on the patterns," Maryam said, voice low. "This isn't just a murder spree. It's a message."

Bullock scoffed, hand resting on the grip of his gun as he eyed the mutilated woman. "Maybe it's some Riddler copycat," he muttered.

Maryam turned to face him, exhaling sharply through her nose. "Not likely." She took a step closer, lowering her voice. "The Riddler thrived on spectacle — riddles, puzzles, making people work to uncover the truth. He wanted attention, wanted to play games with the city. This? This is different. This is ... ritualistic. Thought-out. The murders themselves are the message."

She cast one last glance at the body before stepping back. "Look, I'm not even on shift today. I won't be the one opening her up. But I'll review the report and pass the findings along to you guys."

Gordon nodded, then scoffed when someone leaned in to whisper something in his ear. "Great. I gotta go deal with the journalists downstairs." He adjusted the rim of his glasses before glancing at her. "Is your sister among them?"

"Sherine?" Maryam asked. He nodded. She shook her head. "Nah, I don't think so. Busy in Metropolis. You know her."

Gordon gave her a brief pat on the shoulder before stepping away, his phone already vibrating in his hand. But before he could pull away, Maryam grabbed his arm.

"Where is he?"

They both knew exactly who the 'he' was.

With his phone to his ear, Gordon whispered, "Arkham," as he started walking off, heading toward whatever new headache awaited him.

Bullock, however, lingered.

He watched her with an amused look, his already wrinkled face creasing even more.

"Who knows," he mused, smirking. "Maybe it's you."

Maryam blinked. "What?" She let out a short, forced chuckle, not liking where this was going.

Bullock shrugged, still grinning. "The killer. I mean, you'd make a damn good one, wouldn't you?" He laughed, like it was some kind of joke.

A cold wave of dread settled in her stomach.

Her ? A killer ?

Slaughtering people — mangling them like this?

The very thought made bile rise in her throat.

She forced it down, along with the sharp retort sitting on the tip of her tongue, and settled for a tight-lipped smile instead. Then she muttered, "Yeah, sure," her voice flat with forced indifference.

As she glanced at him again, her eyes caught on a smear of ketchup clinging stubbornly to the corner of his mouth. She grimaced. Bullock was a lot of things — gruff, painfully blunt ( like her in a way ), occasionally endearing in that frustrating, rough-around-the-edges kind of manner —but his jokes ?

Yeah, they were terrible.

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "You got ketchup on your face, by the way," she muttered.

Bullock wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, missing the spot entirely.

"Other side," she said, sighing.

He tried again. Still wrong.

She rolled her eyes and stepped forward, jabbing a finger toward the corner of his mouth. "There," she muttered. Bullock finally swiped his thumb across the spot, smearing the stain away with a grunt of acknowledgment.

Without another word, she moved beside him, her fingers twitching as she pulled a cigarette from her pocket. She tapped it against her palm, a slow, methodical motion, before slipping it between her lips — but she didn't light it.

The silence between them wasn't easy. It was thick, oppressive, wrapping around her ribs like a vice. The only sounds were the faint murmur of voices in the background, the shuffle of boots against the floor, and Bullock's steady breathing beside her. The room was emptying now, bit by bit, the forensic team moving with practiced efficiency as they prepared to take the body away.

And yet, the scene remained. The artwork — the grotesque display left behind by the killer — loomed over them, untouched, unmoving. A twisted centerpiece to an audience that no longer cared.

Maybe that was why she said it.

"Do you believe in God?"

The question slipped past her lips before she could stop it.

Bullock glanced at her, eyes flickering with mild curiosity before he shrugged, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets. "No, not particularly," he admitted, tone as casual as if they were discussing the weather. "You?"

"Yes." The answer came without hesitation. "I'm a firm believer—just... more secular at times."

Bullock snorted, tilting his head. "Well, more reasons for you to be the killer then."

He chuckled. A stupid, thoughtless joke.

But that word.

Killer.

It hit her like a shock of ice to the spine, like nails dragging down her skin. Something deep inside her clenched, like a lock clicking into place, like a wound tearing open all over again.

Her fingers twitched, but her expression remained smooth, unreadable.

She forced a smile —polite, empty — and turned away, heading for the exit.

"I'll keep you updated," she said over her shoulder, her heels clicking against the floor.

She didn't wait for a response.

Fuck him.

A/N : Maryam every 2 days :

be ready for the long ass author notes ( I know u guys don't like it but I need to talk 😜 )

The way I was listening to the "Succession" theme ( Andante in C major ) while writing this lollll Next chapter is already done btw — I just need to edit it. Who knows, y'all might even get a double update :))

Also, did anyone catch what inspired that scene? SE7EN !!! That movie was also one of Matt Reeves' inspirations for The Batman, and I rewatched it recently... the vibes are sooooo similar.

ANYWAYS, what do we think of the chapter? Was the killing good, terrifying, disgusting? Any theories on who the killer might be ???

As always, I'm unsure and I just hope it was at least enjoyable and not boring. I tend to overthink when people read my chapters, thinking, Ugh, there's no Bruce and Maryam in this one, but then I remind myself : they need their own development and backstory too....

More than anything, I just hope it fits the movie's tone.

If you're wondering where our Bat is in all this, well... he's busy interrogating the Riddler and the Joker. Oop.

FUN FACT : Maryam was originally going to be named Lejla (which means "night"), but then I thought : nah, that name would be perfect if Bruce and Maryam ever had a daughter, especially in alternate universes where I plan to explore different versions of their story. So instead, I named her mother Lejla, making it something her future daughter could inherit as a tribute (Yes I was already thinking ahead bitches )