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batmanlovesnirvana · 2 days

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Chapter five | The American dream.

masterlist

universe : Reeves, the batman 2022

pairing : battinson!bruce wayne x fem!OC

words : +9k

author's note : Hello to my loyal readers !! If you’re new here, welcome !!! This chapter is packed with angst—seriously, a lot of it… So brace yourselves. We’ll delve into Maryam’s struggles, and I’d love to hear your thoughts. English isn’t my first language, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes… As always, don’t hesitate to comment; I genuinely enjoy reading your feedback, and it motivates me to keep writing :) Also, this chapter is dedicated to @gaypoetsblog bc your reblog meant so much to me and helped me finish the chapter 🫶🏽

I’m thinking of starting a taglist, so if anyone’s interested, please let me know in the comments :)

cw : Maryam going through an existential crisis, 18+, thriller, medical procedures, angst, mental health issues, depression, ptsd, noire, canon-typical violence, POV alternating, gritty, horror, illness, slow burn, action, fluff, mutual pining, forced proximity, crime families, crime, fighting ect… read at your own risk !

THE NIGHT AIR slipped through the cracked window like a whispered secret, cool and heavy with the weight of unshed tears, brushing against Maryam's skin as if it knew the burden she carried.

She pushed open the glass of her kitchen window to enter her apartment, the familiar creak of the hinges barely registering in her tired mind.

Finally, she was alone.

As soon as she crossed the threshold, her hands went to the scarves draped around her neck and head, tugging them free. The fabric fell to the floor in soft waves, revealing sweat-slicked skin and disheveled hair.

She didn’t bother turning on the lights; she knew the space by heart.

The shadows were her refuge, offering quiet sanctuary after the whirlwind of the night. She moved through the room like a ghost, her bare feet making no sound against the cold tile.

In the silence, her thoughts caught up with her—the weight of everything she had pushed down, shoved aside, now rushing back.

Her body felt heavier with each step toward the bathroom, the scent of Gotham's streets clinging to her suit like a second skin. She trailed her fingers along the edge of the countertop as she made her way in. Inside, the soft click of the door closing felt like a final seal against the outside world.

She flicked on the light. Its harsh glare bounced off the mirror, exposing a truth she could no longer avoid.

The violet bruise on her brow stared back at her, dried blood in a thin line across the cut, a crusted reminder of the night’s violence. She muttered a curse under her breath—it's going to be hard to hide that. Her skin was still smudged with dirt from the alley.

Bracing her hands against the sink, she leaned in to inspect the damage, touching the wound gingerly, wincing at the sting. It wasn’t deep, but still noticeable.

Sighing, she straightened and began peeling away the rest of her clothing. First, her cloak, then her suit—her fingers moving methodically, though her muscles ached with stubborn fatigue.

The Wraith was shedding her armor, piece by piece. With each discarded layer, she felt a small part of herself return.

Next came the contact lenses.

Carefully, she removed them, blinking as her natural hazel eyes, tinged with a yellow-green sheen under the light, came into focus.

But it wasn’t her eyes that held her attention.

Dressed only in her bra and panties, her eyes fixated on the constellation of bruises that marked her body—a silent testament to the fight, to the brutality of her return to the streets. Dark violet shadows bloomed along her ribs, and bruises traced her tibia. She lifted her leg onto the counter, examining them more closely under the yellow light. At least there were no cuts, save for the one on her brow.

For a moment, she simply stared at herself. The woman in the mirror looked like a stranger—scarred, beaten, but still standing.

But beneath the bruises, the cuts, the exhaustion—anger simmered.

And she knew tonight had only been the beginning.

Then, without warning, tears pooled in her eyes.

She hadn’t expected them, hadn’t realized how close they were to the surface until her chest tightened, and the raw ache began to spread through her throat. She placed a trembling hand over her mouth, trying to stifle the sob that was clawing its way out, but it was too late.

Her red-rimmed eyes betrayed her, and the sob broke free, echoing through the cold, sterile bathroom.

It wasn’t just the physical pain or the exhaustion. It was everything. The years on the streets, the things she had seen, the violence that had become a constant in her world—it all came crashing down at once. It was too much.

She hated this life.

Hated every inch of the skin she had just shed—the suit, the cloak, the Wraith. It was a mask she’d worn since she was barely ten years old. It wasn’t some romantic notion of justice or a heroic vigilante life.

No.

It was a prison.

From the moment she was taken in, she had been molded into this.

She thought she'd escaped it two years ago, but somehow, she always found her way back—like an addict drawn to a drug.

Her training was not empowering; it was soul-crushing torture, a brutal crucible that shattered her spirit and forged her into a weapon for the greedy hands that sought to control her. Each blow felt like a countdown, a clock ticking down to the moment she would either break or become something darker.

Beaten and broken, she transformed into a tool, a phantom of vengeance, for those who saw her not as a person but as a means to an end. In the shadows, she learned to embrace the pain, channeling it into a deadly precision that left no room for doubt. Each lesson carved away at her innocence, leaving only a relentless hunger for survival and a chilling resolve to escape the chains that bound her.

Fish Mooney, the merciless gangster who had held the reins of her life from the very beginning, had stripped her of her innocence, her will, and her freedom. In the beginning, she wore the name Madam like a shroud, even as she felt the chill of its implications. Mooney's sweet words, laced with sickening honey, wrapped around her like a noose, promising a kind of safety that was always a mirage.

She was the definition of a witch, weaving a web of knowledge and manipulation, knowing the darkest secrets of everyone, especially Maryam's. This power was her weapon, used to threaten and terrify, ensuring Maryam’s compliance with every command.

To Mooney, she was a prized possession—a little spy, a puppet sculpted to perfection, a wraith in service of her sinister ambitions.

When Maryam first set foot on American soil with her family, she unknowingly crossed into a world where debts were owed and innocence was a luxury long expired. As the eldest, the burden fell on her—she was chosen to pay the price for dreams wrapped in deception.

Her family could do nothing but watch, their voices stifled by fear as threats loomed like shadows over their fragile existence. They warned her of the dangers, but what could they say to the merciless people who held their lives in the balance?

Nothing.

Nada.

So they stood by, hearts heavy, as she was engulfed by the seductive lies of the American dream, ensnared in the web of blackmail and veiled threats that hung like a storm cloud over their family.

They watched, helpless, as their little girl transformed into a hollow shell, caught in the very corruption that had promised freedom yet shackled her to a life of fear and deceit.

With each passing day, as she morphed into a mere instrument for the greedy, the weight of her family's helplessness settled over her like a leaden shroud. Yet, within this suffocating nightmare, a flicker of defiance began to blaze—an ember ignited by heartbreak and desperation, a fierce will to reclaim her stolen innocence and escape the clutches of a world intent on devouring her whole.

But amidst all this turmoil, becoming the Wraith was never a choice.

No— it was a matter of survival, stripped bare of all illusions and pretense, leaving only the raw, unyielding instinct to endure.

She had seen things no child should ever see. Blood, cruelty, the endless cycle of violence.

Gotham devoured its own, and she had been thrown into the thick of it before she even understood what it meant to live.

The things she had done—things she had been forced to do—were never for any noble cause. It wasn’t about protecting the innocent or stopping crime.

It was about serving those who had power over her, doing their bidding, becoming their weapon.

The memories flooded back, each one more painful than the last. The nights spent alone on rooftops, watching the city eats itself of corruption. The cold steel of a knife in her hand, the way it felt when she was ordered to hurt someone. The screams, the fear in their eyes—those were the things that haunted her. Not the criminals, but the fact that she had become just as ruthless.

She hated herself for it.

Hated the Wraith, hated the mask, hated the world that had forced her into this life. Vigilantism wasn’t heroism—it was a cage.

A brutal reality where she had no choice but to become what others wanted her to be. And the worst part? She had never known another way.

Maryam Ben Halimi was the embodiment of the immigrant struggle, a quiet girl sitting in the back of the classroom with wide, restless eyes.

She poured herself into her studies, each late night and early morning spent hunched over textbooks a defiant act against a world determined to render her invisible.

Yes, she made it to medical school, driven by the crushing weight of her family's dreams pressing heavily on her narrow shoulders.

Yet, the emptiness remained, a chasm within her that no amount of achievement could fill.

Often, she found herself questioning how she managed to survive medical school while Fish Mooney lurked in the shadows, her suffocating demands as oppressive as Gotham's thick summer humidity. Mooney had her hands deep in Maryam’s life, ever ready to drag her back into darkness if she dared to stray too far.

But somehow, against all odds, Maryam triumphed, donning the title of Doctor like a hard-earned badge of honor— a promise she had made to her parents before their lives were cruelly extinguished.

The day she received her diploma was supposed to be a celebration, a moment of triumph.

Yet it felt more like a double-edged sword.

That piece of paper not only represented her hard work; it signified the end of her obligation to Mooney.

That day, she was free of the Madam.

And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, she drew in a breath untainted by fear, the shackles of her past finally falling away. It was a bittersweet victory, her heart swelling with pride even as the ghosts of her past hovered at the edges of her consciousness.

But beneath that fragile surface, weariness coursed through her veins.

She was tired—tired of battling invisible demons that raged within her, tired of pretending she could shoulder the weight of her life alone, tired of wearing the mask that had been pressed upon her for so long.

Though she no longer worked for Mooney or her clients, the memories lingered like an unwanted specter, always lurking just out of sight.

The nightmares, too, were relentless reminders of the wars that had marred her childhood, the chaos and destruction that had driven her from her homeland.

Each night, she carried those haunting images and sounds into her dreams, a heavy burden coloring her waking hours. She woke up screaming, grasping at shadows, and even the therapists she consulted couldn’t unlock the depth of her torment.

There were some truths too dark to share, especially with her remaining family, who could never truly understand. For them, the subject of Mooney was taboo, a whisper that could shatter the silence they clung to, while the past loomed as a silent monster, lurking in the shadows of their lives.

In her family, like many immigrant families, when something was wrong, silence reigned supreme.

They had mastered the art of avoidance, burying their grief beneath layers of unspoken words, pretending nothing had ever happened.

But Maryam could not shake the feeling that something was profoundly amiss, that her life was a web of contradictions—of duty, survival, and the relentless pursuit of an identity she could never quite grasp.

As she navigated the churning waters of her existence, the Wraith lingered in the background, a haunting reminder of the girl she had been and the woman she had been forced to become.

And so, for once, she allowed herself to cry.

Cry for the life she could never have.

Cry for the bruises on her body that told the story of a woman who had never been free.

She wept for the dreams that lay shattered at her feet, buried under the weight of expectations and the relentless demands of survival.

It was like a release, a desperate attempt to reclaim pieces of herself that had long been buried beneath the façade of the Wraith.

Her chest tightened, and her breathing became shallow.

Instinctively, she reached up to rub her neck, her fingers pressing into the tense muscles, trying to force herself to calm down. But it wasn’t working. The memories clawed at her, tearing through the thin layer of control she’d tried to hold onto.

Her hand slipped from her mouth, fingers trembling as she pressed them against her eyes, rubbing as if she could erase the blurry vision. But the world kept spinning, becoming more surreal with every passing second.

And then she heard it.

The screams—hollow, haunting, echoing in the silence.

Her heart lurched, and her breath caught as the sound of her mother’s voice echoed in her mind—a desperate scream that cut through her like a knife.

She could almost feel herself being pulled back into that moment—when everything changed.

Gunshots.

They rang out like explosions in her mind, and she gasped for air, her pulse racing wildly.

Serbian voices barked harsh commands—words she couldn’t understand, but their cruelty was unmistakable. They had been everywhere that night, flooding her home like locusts, devouring everything in their path. Her father’s face flashed in her mind, twisted with fear as he tried to protect them.

But the gunshots—the terrible, piercing gunshots—had silenced him.

Her vision swam. The bathroom lights were too bright, her breathing too loud. She could still hear the screams, the gunfire, the chaos of that night. She wasn’t here anymore, but trapped in that nightmare.

Her fingers dug into the sink, gripping it as if it were the only thing anchoring her to reality.

But it wasn’t enough.

The Serbs’ voices, their boots pounding on the floor, her mother’s terrified cries—they overwhelmed her.

Her heart raced, breaths coming in short gasps. She wasn’t the Wraith now.

She wasn’t Maryam.

She was just a little girl again, watching as her world was ripped apart.

Her hands shook violently, her knuckles white as she gripped the sink harder.

“Breathe,” she told herself, but it didn’t help. The walls were closing in, memories consuming her. She saw her father fall, heard her mother scream—it all played out like a nightmare she couldn’t wake from.

Desperate, she opened the medicine cabinet and fumbled for her pills, her fingers trembling as she grabbed two bottles— Sertraline for PTSD, Prazosin for nightmares, and Lexapro for depression.

She swallowed them quickly, chasing them down with an ibuprofen for good measure, ignoring the bitter taste that lingered in her mouth.

It wasn’t much, but it would have to be enough.

Next, she opened the glass door of the shower.

Stripping off the rest of her clothes, she stepped in, wincing as the warm water hit her sore muscles and cuts. It soothed her aching body, but she didn't linger. She was too tired. She just wanted to sleep.

Before that, though, she had to take her diabetes meds—something she hadn't done in two days. With everything that had been going on, she'd forgotten to take care of herself, and the familiar wave of guilt rose in her chest. She quickly washed her hair and body, feeling the exhaustion seep into her bones.

When she finished, she stepped out of the shower and slipped into a bathrobe, pulling the soft sleeves over her arms and tying it snugly around her waist. The mirror was fogged up from the steam, so she wiped a hand across it.

Her reflection stared back at her, and her stomach plummeted. The jagged cut beside her right eyebrow stood out sharply against her once sun-kissed skin, now a sickly shade of pale, swollen and inflamed.

She grabbed the first aid kit, her movements mechanical as she cleaned and dressed the wound, pressing gauze against the cut to stem any remaining blood. Her hands moved with a tired efficiency, applying a sterile bandage over the area.

When she was done, she slipped into her pyjamas, the soft fabric a small comfort against the cold air.

Then came the part she dreaded.

She sat down on the edge of the bed and opened the case for her blood glucose meter. Pricking her finger, she watched the small droplet of blood form before pressing it to the test strip. The familiar beep from the meter told her what she already knew—her blood sugar was too high.

Sighing, she reached for her insulin pen. After attaching a fresh needle, she dialed the correct dose, pinching the skin on her stomach before inserting the needle and pressing the plunger.

The medication stung as it went in, but she was used to it.

When she was done, she placed the pen back in its case, rubbing her eyes as the fatigue finally hit her full force.

She snuggled under the covers, pulling them close as the warmth enveloped her aching body. Reaching for her phone, she quickly scrolled through the missed messages from the night.

As expected, the family group chat was filled with the usual chatter. Aunt Meysa had sent more links to prayers, while Uncle Fawzi shared pictures from the local market—cucumbers were apparently at a low price.

She rolled her eyes, a small smile tugging at her lips despite her exhaustion.

And, of course, there were Aunt Jamila's long-winded voice messages, probably about something trivial.

Warda had shared pictures of little shoes she'd bought for her unborn child, prompting everyone in the group to coo in excitement.

Baya, Aunt Jamila's daughter, sent a few shots of Big Ben from her time in London—just the usual family stuff.

After a quick glance at those, she moved on to other messages. There were over a hundred from Sherine, and she sent a quick reply, telling her she was fine. Well, a lie, but Sherine didn't need to know the truth right now.

Tammi had sent an article about the drops, she skimmed through it. Nothing she didn't already know.

Setting her phone to charge on the nightstand, she turned her gaze toward the balcony. Outside, Gotham was its usual icy, chaotic self—couples arguing, police sirens wailing, people swearing at each other.

Just another night in dear old Gotham.

Her apartment didn't offer a spectacular view of the city, but from her bed, she could still make out a few stars flickering in the night sky. Her eyelids grew heavier by the second.

Exhausted to her core, she let sleep pull her under.

The dim light from the kitchen barely illuminated the cramped apartment, cluttered with unpaid bills scattered across the counter.

Batman's eyes lingered on one of the envelopes, its name reading Selina Kyle, before the TV caught his attention. The broadcast blared a grim headline :

‘Serial Killer Claims Credit for Second Victim in Two Days — GCPD Commissioner Murdered.’

His jaw tightened beneath the cowl.

Selina came in, visibly rattled, guilt shadowing her sharp features. "Jesus, what are they going to do to her? She's just a kid," she muttered, her voice wavering with worry. "And now they know who I am too. They took my phone, everything—"

She caught sight of Batman staring at the TV, which displayed a disturbing video.

The Riddler's eerie, altered voice filled the room as a newscaster warned viewers of the graphic content.

The screen showed the killer, his face obscured by a green hood and a question mark scrawled over his chest, taunting Gotham with another murder.

The camera panned to Commissioner Savage, bound and trapped with rats circling him, his muffled screams cut short as the video ended abruptly. A photo of the Commissioner, smiling in happier times, replaced the grim scene.

"Holy shit," Selina whispered, her eyes narrowing. "I've seen that guy too. At the club."

Batman tilted his head slightly. "The Iceberg Lounge?"

Selina shook her head, her voice low. "The 44 Below. It's the club within the club—where the real stuff happens. It's a mob hangout."

He stayed silent for a moment, then asked, "That's where you work?"

She shot him a glance, caught off guard. "I work at the bar upstairs, but yeah, I see them."

"Who?" he pressed, his tone unyielding.

"People who shouldn't be there. The ones who act all respectable in public... but they're not fooling anyone. I'm not stupid. I know what's going on."

Their eyes locked, his unrelenting gaze not letting her off the hook. "You're going to help me. For your friend."

She stiffened, then took a slow breath.

"Do you know the Wraith?" he asked, almost like it was an afterthought.

Selina blinked, clearly thrown by the question. "The Wraith?" She turned toward the fridge, grabbing a carton of milk. "Yeah, I've heard of her." She took a sip, the cold liquid contrasting the tension in the room. "Kind of a myth, though, right? Some people don't even believe she's real."

Batman's only response was a grunt, deep and unreadable.

Selina let out a faint smirk, shaking her head as she set the milk down on the counter. "It's funny, really. The rich, the mob—they call her 'The Wraith,' like she's some shadow they can't pin down. But the people on the streets? They call her 'Lady Justice.'" She crossed her arms, the leather of her suit creaking, her brow furrowing as she thought back. "I saw her a few times in the Narrows, years ago. Then she just... vanished. No one's seen her since."

"Why?"

"I don't know," Selina admitted, her voice softening. "But I used to look up to her. She didn't seem real, like something out of a legend."

Batman didn't respond, slipping back into the shadows as the faint sound of police sirens echoed through the streets outside. His cape whispered against the floor. "You're not safe here," he muttered before disappearing.

"I can take care of myself," Selina shot back abruptly, her voice sharp.

But he was already gone.

She turned her attention to the TV, the grim news continuing its endless cycle.

The newscaster's voice echoed through the apartment. "...with two public figures dead in just the last two nights, and only days before the election, police and city officials are left scrambling for answers, hoping to catch the killer before he strikes again."

Maryam had barely gotten three hours of sleep when the shrill sound of her phone jolted her awake.

Groaning, she blinked her heavy eyelids open, her muscles screaming in protest as she blindly reached for the phone on her bedside table. Her hand flopped around, knocking over her lamp, her alarm clock, and a book before finally landing on the ringing device.

She squinted at the screen.

Jamie G.

Great.

She glanced at the time: 5:20 a.m.

What the hell do they want now?

With a sigh, she swiped to answer. Before she could speak, Gordon's voice came through, rushed and stressed.

"Mar, I need you to come right now. I'm in front of your building—"

"What?" Her voice, hoarse from sleep, cracked as she sat up, still rubbing her face. Her caramel curls fell messily over her eyes, adding to her confusion.

"Listen, just hurry. The killer struck again."

"You've got to be kidding me," she muttered, irritation creeping into her voice.

"Wish I was, kid. I need you for the autopsy. It's urgent."

She ran a hand through her wild curls, pushing them out of her face, annoyance clear in her tone. "Who the hell dies at this hour, making me leave my warm, comfy bed?"

Gordon's voice was grim. "It's Commissioner Savage."

The doctor froze, her eyes wide. "What the fuck."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Now get your ass down here. We don't have all day."

With another exasperated sigh, she muttered, "Give me 15 minutes. I'm coming," before hanging up and tossing her phone aside.

Maryam sat on the edge of her bed, still processing what Gordon had just said.

Commissioner Savage.

Murdered.

"What the hell is going on in this city..." she muttered to herself, rubbing her temples as the weight of the news sank in.

She dragged herself out of bed, her limbs heavy with exhaustion from te night before.

In the faint light of her apartment, Maryam shuffled to her closet, grabbing the first clean scrubs she could find—black ones.

She threw on a gray undershirt since her scrubs had no sleeves and pulled on her trench coat. She quickly slipped into a pair of sneakers before heading to the bathroom.

The harsh bathroom lights stung her eyes, making her squint until her vision adjusted. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror—dark circles under her eyes made her look just as lifeless as the people she examined. Her hazel eyes reflected green under the yellow light, and the bruise near her brow still hadn't faded. Great, she thought, another thing to explain to Gordon.

Fixing her face seemed pointless. She wasn't about to impress anyone while cutting open a dead commissioner.

Her hair, a wild mess of curls, was exactly how she'd left it. I should've listened to myself and straightened it, she thought, regretting not doing it earlier—more like three hours ago—but exhaustion had won that battle. Instead, she threw it into a quick French twist, ignoring the stubborn curls that escaped the updo.

After splashing cold water on her face and brushing her teeth, she grabbed her bag, keys, and phone, and rushed out the door.

The early morning chill hit her as soon as she stepped outside.

Gotham's streets were eerily still, save for the distant hum of police sirens—a constant reminder of the city's chaos.

As Maryam approached the curb, Gordon stood leaning against his car, the streetlight casting harsh shadows over his exhausted face. He straightened when he saw her coming.

"Fifteen minutes? More like twenty-five," he said, tapping his watch, his voice laced with weary sarcasm.

Maryam shot him a sharp look, pulling the belt of her trench coat tighter around her waist. "You woke me up at 5 a.m. You're lucky I'm even vertical."

Gordon sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, I know. Sorry, Mar. This one's bad. Real bad."

She could see it in his face—the strain, the weight of whatever mess was waiting for them. If the commissioner was dead, Gotham was about to spiral into chaos.

Without another word, she slid into the passenger seat, the cold leather biting through her scrubs. Gordon got behind the wheel as she buckled her seatbelt. "Worse than the mayor?" she asked, disbelief creeping into her voice.

He didn't answer right away, just shifted the car into gear and pulled onto the dark, empty streets of Gotham. "You'll see."

Gordon glanced sideways at her, eyes lined with fatigue. "You good?"

She sighed, pushing a stray curl from her face. "I'm here, aren't I?" She bit her thumb lightly, her gaze fixed ahead on the road. "But yeah, everything's just peachy." She turned to him with a raised perfect structured brow. "You?"

Gordon gave a hollow laugh, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. "How do you think?" He didn't look at her, just focused on the road, eyes narrowed against the dim streetlights and the occasional flash of a police cruiser speeding by.

"Yeah, thought so." Maryam leaned back into the seat, letting her head rest against the cold window.

The rhythmic hum of the car as it cut through Gotham's early morning streets was almost soothing, but her mind raced, unable to shake the weight of what Gordon had said. Worse than the mayor? That didn't leave much room for optimism.

They drove in silence for a while longer, the city slipping past in shadows and flickering lights. The distant sirens and low rumble of Gotham waking up to another day of chaos filled the quiet, and Maryam closed her eyes, trying to gather herself. But no matter how much she loved her job, sometimes it was all too much. The pit in her stomach deepened.

Gordon finally broke the silence, his voice rough and low. "This isn't just about the commissioner. It's the way it was done." His jaw clenched as he shook his head. "It's like this city's being torn apart piece by piece. I don't know how much more we can take before it completely falls apart."

Maryam didn't respond, but a cold chill crept up her spine. Gordon wasn't exaggerating. She'd seen enough of Gotham's darkness to know that when someone like the commissioner was taken out, it was never just a simple murder.

There was always something more beneath the surface, something twisted.

"Did you see the livestream?" Gordon asked, adjusting his glasses with one hand as they waited at a red light.

"Livestream?" she echoed, frowning. "What do you mean?"

"That freak recorded it live. Streamed the whole thing on social media." His voice was tight with disgust as he shook his head.

"Are you serious?" Maryam pulled out her phone, opened Twitter, and immediately saw the trending post.

Her heart sank.

Commissioner Savage, bound and trapped in a small iron cage with rats circling his head, gnawing at his flesh. His muffled screams filled the car through her phone's speakers. It already had millions of views. She scrolled through the comments—some people panicking, others making dark jokes. 'Only in Gotham,' one read.

She locked her phone, shaking her head. "What the actual fuck is wrong with this guy?"

"I don't know," Gordon muttered, "but he needs to be stopped."

As they turned the corner toward GCPD headquarters, Maryam noticed fewer police cars than she had expected. Gordon pulled up to the curb and parked, then turned to face her. His face was pale in the streetlights, worry etched deep in his features as he rubbed his mustache.

"Just so you know, the Bat's coming," he said quietly.

Maryam groaned, throwing her head back in exasperation. "Oh my god, Jamie, you invited that autistic bat?"

Gordon shot her a look as he got out of the car. "Behave, Mar," he said, slamming the door shut behind him.

With a dramatic sigh, Maryam followed suit, shivering as Gotham's morning chill wrapped around her.

She shrugged her bag over her shoulder, muttering under her breath, "I'm always behaved..." Then, jogging to catch up with his hurried steps, she called after him, "You could've warned me at least!"

They didn't enter through the front, but slipped around to the back of the station. That's when Maryam saw him—standing in the shadows by his car.

Vengeance.

Even from the distance, their eyes snapped to each other instantly. Just hours ago, they'd been chasing and fighting one another, and now here they were again, face to face. Her, in civilian clothes; him, still in his suit.

Her fingers instinctively brushed the bruise behind her brow. Anxiety twisted in her gut.

What if he recognizes me? she thought, panic creeping in.

But she quickly shook it off. Don't be ridiculous. It was night, you were both fighting.

He. didn't. see. anything.

As they approached, Gordon led the way, walking straight toward the Bat, while Maryam held back, keeping her distance—just in case.

She stayed quiet, head down, but could still feel the weight of his gaze lingering on her.

Gordon nodded at the towering figure. "Right, let's get this over with. I don't want them to see you," he said before heading inside the station.

Maryam kept her head low as they moved past, still staying behind. But she could feel Vengeance's eyes on her, even though she avoided looking directly at him.

Inside, they were greeted by Officer Martinez, who shot a dirty look at the Bat before turning to Maryam. His expression softened as he leaned in, kissing her on the cheek and handing her a small cup of coffee. "For my favorite colleague," he grinned, his mustache lifting with the smile.

She returned the gesture, a soft smile tugging at her lips. "Thank you, Lucas. You're a lifesaver."

Gordon interrupted the brief moment. "Hey, Martinez, keep an eye out while we go check the body, will you?"

Martinez looked between the trio, eyebrows raised, but nodded. "Uh— Yeah, sure thing, Lieutenant. You got it."

Without further exchange, they descended into the cold, sterile halls of the medical examiner's rooms. The familiar smell of disinfectant greeted them.

Maryam squirted some alcohol on her hands and snapped on a pair of gloves. "Which drawer?" she asked Gordon, gesturing to the rows of body fridges.

Gordon pointed to the far end of the room. "Third from the right."

She walked over, her footsteps echoing in the quiet, and tugged open the heavy metal door. The cold air hit her immediately as she pulled out the slab with Commissioner Savage's body lying still and lifeless, the weight of Gotham's madness now reduced to just another corpse.

Maryam took a deep breath, steadying herself as she pulled the drawer fully open. The sight of the commissioner's body sent a shiver down her spine. He lay there, pale and motionless, a stark reminder of the brutality that had engulfed Gotham. She couldn't help but notice the way his hands were positioned—fingers curled as if grasping at something that was no longer there.

The medical examiner grimaced at the sight in front of her, and Gordon muttered a low, "Jesus," looking away and clenching his jaw. The Bat approached from behind, cold and calculating, assessing the body over her shoulder.

"Let's see what we've got here," Maryam said, reaching for the flashlight on the autopsy tray.

She waved it over the commissioner's eyes, checking for any reaction. "No pupil dilation," she noted. "Which means he was likely already unconscious when it happened."

"He waited for him. At the gym. Pete liked to work out late at night," Gordon said, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Not the best choice in a city this volatile," Maryam added, raising her brows to drive home the point, continuing her examination. "This isn't just a simple murder... no, there's definitely a pattern."

"There's a needle mark on his neck," Batman observed, his tone flat.

"Son of a bitch injected him with—" Gordon began, only to be cut off by the vigilante.

"Rat poison."

"That seems to be his theme," Gordon replied, frustration creeping into his voice. He stepped back angrily, running a hand through his hair.

"It wouldn't have taken long," Maryam said calmly, her gloved hands moving over the body. "Depending on the dose, the poison would've shut down his organs in minutes. A cruel way to go."

Batman followed Gordon to the evidence table, while Maryam kept her focus on Savage. As she worked, something caught her eye—the creepy, hinged cage-like head box nearby. She moved closer, peering inside at the intricate network of channels.

"It's a maze," the Bat said, examining it over her shoulder.

"What kind of sicko does this to a person?" Gordon asked, disgust lacing his voice as he looked into the bloody maze.

Batman pulled out a violet light, flashing it over the channels. "More symbols." A crudely painted cipher ended in a question mark within crosshairs. "Another cipher."

"What kind of light is that?" Maryam asked curiously, her brow furrowing as she eyed the tool in his hand.

The Bat turned his gaze to her, his expression unreadable, his eyes locking onto hers. For a moment, neither of them spoke. ***

Her focus shifted back to the maze. She narrowed her eyes, her voice firm. "This isn't just torture. It's a message. A twisted game." She clicked on her own flashlight, carefully illuminating the channels in the gruesome head box. "Each path could represent something—maybe even the victim's fate."

Batman's gaze shifted to the surveillance photos Gordon was sifting through. "He blasted those out after his message went viral. This guy murders you and your reputation."

"That guy's pushing drops," Batman added, spotting a figure next to Savage in the photos, his gloved hand still holding the violet light. "On the East End."

Maryam frowned as she glanced at the photos, her heart sinking. The commissioner was emerging from the Iceberg Lounge, shaking hands with a shady figure. "This doesn't look good," she said softly. "Even in death, he's destroying reputations. This could ruin lives..."

Gordon sighed heavily. "Why would Pete get involved in this?"

"Looks like he got greedy," Batman replied.

Maryam scoffed, shooting Gordon a knowing look. "Come on, Jamie, we all know half the cops in Gotham work for you-know-who. It's not a stretch to think Pete crossed that line."

"Are you kidding me? After everything we did to bust up the Maronis? We shut down their whole operation, and now he's caving to some dealer?" Gordon's voice was incredulous.

"Maybe he wasn't who you thought he was," Batman said coldly.

"You make it sound like he had it coming," Gordon muttered, frustration evident.

"He was a cop. He crossed the line," Batman said flatly.

Maryam nodded. "Zorro's right, Gordon. Even if you arrested Maroni, the drops and drugs are still out there. New ones hit the streets every day. I've lost count of the bodies with this stuff in their systems." She glanced back at the corpse. "The system is failing us. And now, someone's turning it into a game. More lives are being sacrificed."

Gordon exhaled, weighed down by the situation. Batman noticed something taped to the back of the head box—an envelope labeled To the Batman.

He opened it, revealing another greeting card. A cartoon scientist mixing beakers smiled out at them with the words, I'm MAD About You! Want to Know My Name? Just Look Inside and See... Inside, a cartoon explosion with the words, But wait, I cannot tell you—it might spoil the chemistry!

Maryam rolled her eyes. "This is childish. Whoever did this thinks it's a game?" She leaned closer, studying the envelope with a critical eye. "But it's also an invitation. A challenge."

Batman scanned the scribbled message and read aloud, "Follow the maze till you find the rat—bring him into the light, and you'll find where I'm at."

"What the hell does that mean? Bring him into the light? Find the rat?" Gordon asked, unnerved.

Batman's eyes narrowed as he stared at his name on the envelope. "I don't know..."

Maryam crossed her arms, contemplating. "It's a metaphor, right? Exposing someone, forcing them to face the consequences of their actions." She looked at the Bat, her voice firm. "We need to figure out who this rat is before more bodies pile up." A dark look crossed her face as dread gnawed at her. "I've got a bad feeling about this."

Suddenly, Martinez hurried down the stairs, snapping the trio out of their thoughts. "Lieutenant, they're coming back."

"We need to get out of here," Gordon said sharply, turning to his two companions.

The trio made their way out of the police station through the back, where the dim streetlights flickered over the darkened alleyway.

The heavy steel door shut behind them with a metallic clank, leaving them in the cool night air. Batman's shadowed figure was already scanning the surroundings, always alert, while Gordon fumbled with his phone, the screen glowing in his hand.

Just then, Gordon's phone rang urgently, the shrill tone cutting through the quiet. He glanced down, his brow furrowing. "I've gotta take this," he muttered before answering the call. His voice grew tense after a few exchanged words. "Yeah... Yeah, I'll be there. Right away."

He hung up, slipping the phone into his coat pocket, and turned to Maryam. "I need to go. Something's come up."

Maryam gave him a reassuring smile. "It's fine, Jamie. I can walk from here."

Gordon hesitated for a moment, his expression softening as he stepped closer. He pressed a quick, fatherly kiss to her cheek—a simple gesture filled with warmth and concern. "Just be careful, alright?"

"I always am," Maryam replied with a faint smile, the weight of the night still heavy between them.

Gordon gave Batman a nod, a silent acknowledgment between the two men.

Without another word, he strode toward his car, the tension of Gotham's unrelenting chaos pulling him back into the fray.

The moment he slipped inside, he flipped on the sirens. The red and blue lights burst to life, flashing across the walls of the alley, followed by the sharp wail of the siren as the car sped off into the distance.

Maryam watched for a moment, her expression inscrutable as the siren's wail faded into the distance.

She exhaled softly, her breath misting in the cold air, then shifted her gaze to the looming figure of the Bat beside her. As she expected, he was already watching her, his shadowed eyes piercing through the darkness.

Fumbling with the belt of her trench coat, she pulled it tighter around her waist, as if it could shield her from the weight of his presence.

That gaze—it was relentless, cutting through her defenses. She swallowed hard, her heart quickening as she forced herself to look anywhere but at him. "Well... bye, I guess," she muttered abruptly, her voice sounding smaller than she intended. She turned on her heel, ready to disappear into the night.

But before she could take another step, his voice—low, grave, and unyielding—cut through the stillness of the alley. It stopped her cold.

"What happened to your face?"

She sighed, knowing he had seen it.

Gordon knew better than to ask, but him? "What are you talking about?" she replied, trying to feign confusion as she turned to face him, his form now just a few centimeters away.

"This," he said, pointing with a gloved finger at her brow, where a cut was surrounded by a bluish bruise.

"Oh," she attempted a reassuring smile, letting out a small chuckle and raising a hand dismissively. "It's nothing, really. I just banged my head against a table yesterday."

He remained silent for a moment, still looking at her, while she found herself unable to meet his gaze.

Having had enough of the silence, she crossed her arms defensively. "Can you stop looking at me like that?"

"Like what?" he asked, his tone calm yet curious.

"Like you're dissecting me," she shot back, her voice carrying a hint of irritation. "I'm fine. Really."

His eyes narrowed slightly, a mixture of skepticism and concern flickering in the shadows. "You're not fine. You're hurt. And it's not just a cut."

Maryam rolled her eyes, her defensive posture making her shoulders tense. "It's just a bruise, Zorro. I've dealt with worse." She turned her back to him, taking a step toward the alley's exit, but his presence felt like a weight she couldn't shake off.

"Doesn't look like it," he said quietly, closing the distance between them.

Their eyes locked, and she crossed her arms defiantly. "You're doing it again—looking at me like you can see right through me," she shot back, her voice tinged with frustration as she held her ground against his piercing gaze.

Vengeance tilted his head, the shadows accentuating the angles of his mask. "You think you're hiding something from me?" he asked, his tone steady but edged with curiosity.

Maryam took a step back, her heart racing as she fought to regain her composure. "It's just a bruise. It's not a big deal," she insisted, trying to force a casual demeanor despite the tension crackling between them.

He reached out and took her arm, the contact eliciting a short gasp from her lips. Then, he pulled her closer, his breath warming her neck as he examined the cut. "It's too deep to just be from bumping your head on a table."

She clenched her jaw, gripping his muscular arm, feeling the fabric of his suit tighten beneath her fingers. "Stop it," she said, her voice firm, and she pushed him away. But he caught her hand this time, refusing to let go.

"Get on the bike. You're not walking home alone."

"No."

"This isn't up for debate," he said, his voice low and commanding, though there was a hint of concern beneath the surface. "The streets aren't safe, especially not for you right now."

She met his gaze, unyielding. "I appreciate the concern, but I can take care of myself. I'm not some damsel in distress."

He let out a soft sigh, the tension between them thick. "This isn't about being a damsel. It's about the dangers out there—the ones you can't see coming."

Maryam shook her head, frustration bubbling up. "I'm not afraid of whatever's lurking in the shadows. I'm not afraid of you, either."

"Is that what this is about?" he asked, stepping closer, his intensity unwavering. "You think you can handle everything on your own? You've seen what I can do. I'm not just some myth; I'm real, and I'm trying to help."

"I don't need your help," she shot back, her heart pounding from the confrontation. "You don't get to decide what I need. I can protect myself." Her voice was firmer than she felt, muttering under her breath, "I've been doing it for years."

Silence hung heavy between them.

"Just get on the bike," he finally said.

Frustration surged within her. "Oh my god, are you deaf or something?! I can handle myself, thank you very much!" Her hands punctuated her words, a familiar gesture when she felt cornered. "And why do you even care? We barely know each other!"

His gaze narrowed as he absorbed her words. "I won't stand by and watch someone get hurt when I can do something about it."

Maryam clenched her jaw, the defiance in her eyes flickering like a dying flame. "I'm a medical examiner. I've faced danger before. I don’t need someone babysitting me."

He shook his head slowly, frustration seeping through his tight-lipped expression. "This isn't just about you anymore. Gotham's a dangerous place, and you're already in over your head. You need someone watching your back."

"Maybe I don't want anyone watching my back," she retorted, taking a step away. "Maybe I'd rather take my chances on my own than rely on someone who thinks they know better."

He exhaled sharply, the tension between them thickening. "It's not about knowing better. It's about keeping you safe."

"Safe?" Her voice rose, anger sharpening her words. "You don’t even know me. You don’t know what I’ve been through. You think you can just swoop in and—"

"I know enough," he interrupted, his voice low and steady. "I know enough to see that you're hurting. And I’m not going to let you push me away because you’re scared."

Her heart raced, caught between anger and something softer. "You think this is fear? This is me standing my ground."

"Then stand your ground on the bike," he said, his voice calm but laced with concern. "I'm not asking you to give up control. Just let me help."

She paused, torn between her stubborn pride and the truth hanging in his words. "I don't want to be a burden," she muttered, her earlier defiance weakening.

"You're not a burden," he replied, though his words came slower, more deliberate. "You're... an ally."

Maryam bit her lip, weighing her options. After a long pause, she exhaled, her resistance faltering. "Fine. But this doesn't change anything."

He almost smiled—just a flicker of amusement in his usually stoic expression. "I wouldn't dream of it." Then, his expression hardened slightly. "Wait here."

She nodded suspiciously, watching him disappear into the shadows of the alley. Minutes passed, her gaze darting around anxiously. He was gone for at least ten minutes before he reappeared, but this time, the suit was gone.

In its place stood a drifter, or at least, that's what he looked like—his lower face hidden behind a bandana, black sunglasses covering his eyes, and a cap pulled low over his brow. The baggy clothes he wore made him unrecognizable, a stark contrast to the imposing figure from earlier.

She narrowed her eyes, studying him, but she still couldn't piece together who he was. His disguise was too good.

Without a word, he gestured toward the motorcycle parked nearby, a sleek, black machine that fit the man of mystery he was. He handed her a helmet, and she hesitated for only a moment before taking it, slipping it over her head.

Once she was seated behind him, she felt the rumble of the engine beneath them as he settled in front.

Through the hum of the engine, she spoke up, giving her address. "I live on—"

"I know," he interrupted, his voice steady but muffled through the helmet.

She blinked, surprised. "What? How?"

"Just hold on," he replied without explanation, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Maryam frowned but didn't have much of a choice. She reluctantly wrapped her arms around his abdomen, feeling the solidness of his frame beneath the loose clothing.

The motorcycle roared to life, and they sped into the early morning, the city blurring around them as she tightened her grip, wondering just how much he really knew about her.

The wind whipped past them, the early morning chill biting at her skin even through her clothes.

Maryam's heart raced, not just from the speed of the bike, but from the thoughts swirling in her head.

The city lights streaked by in a blur, the darkened streets and shadowy alleys blending together as they tore through Gotham's chaotic maze.

She felt her grip tighten around him instinctively, her cheek nearly pressed to his back, sensing the calm rhythm of his breath against the wild beat of her own heart.

The streets were far from calm, even in the early hours.

She caught glimpses of figures huddled in makeshift shelters, a couple of homeless men crouched by a fire in a barrel, their faces hollowed by hunger and hardship.

Shadows flitted between the crumbling facades of abandoned buildings, home to those whom Gotham's elite had long forgotten. Maryam swallowed hard, her chest tightening with a blend of embarrassment and discomfort.

It wasn't the people that embarrassed her; she had once walked in their shoes. No, it was the man on the motorcycle—a figure that felt foreign, as if he had never known the grit of these streets.

The bike began to slow down as they neared a slightly quieter corner, still rough around the edges but not quite in the heart of the Narrows.

Maryam's heart was still pounding, her fingers curled tightly around his jacket, but she forced herself to loosen her grip as the motorcycle came to a stop.

"You can let go now," his voice broke through the rumble of the engine, a hint of amusement mixed with something more unreadable.

Exhaling shakily, Maryam removed her arms from around him and slid off the bike, her legs unsteady on the gritty concrete.

She stood there for a moment, watching him as he kicked the stand down, turning off the engine. With slightly trembling fingers, she fumbled with the helmet, removing it and shaking her head to loosen her hair.

A few stubborn curls had escaped her carefully pinned-up hair during the ride. She tried to brush them back in place, but they were wild, framing her face in soft, unruly waves.

Her cheeks were flushed from the wind, the faintest sheen of sweat glistening on her skin, but it only made her look more striking.

Despite the smudges of fatigue and tension etched around her eyes, there was a sharp beauty in her features—a hint of vulnerability hidden behind the determination in her gaze.

"How—" she began, her voice still hoarse from the ride. "How do you know where I live?"

He turned to face her, his lower face still hidden behind the bandana, his eyes obscured by those dark sunglasses. "I make it my business to know things," he replied, his tone casual, though there was an underlying weight to his words that set her on edge.

Maryam's frown deepened, her lips pressed into a thin line. "That's not an answer."

"No," he admitted with a slight tilt of his head. "But it's the one you're getting."

Her frustration flickered, and she crossed her arms tightly, struggling to calm her racing heart. "You can't just—"

"You're safe," he cut her off, his voice sharp and final. "That's what matters."

Maryam clenched her jaw, her pride stinging. "I can take care of myself."

He didn't argue, just stood there for a moment, as if sizing her up. Then, without another word, he turned back to the bike, preparing to leave.

"Wait." The word slipped out of her mouth before she could stop herself.

He paused, turning his head just slightly, though he didn't look at her fully. "What?"

She hesitated, feeling the weight of the tension between them. "Why are you doing this?"

There was a long silence before he spoke again. "Because someone has to."

And with that, the engine roared back to life. Before she could react, he sped off into the gloom, vanishing into the shadows as if he'd never been there.

Maryam stood in the dim light of the street, watching the empty space where he had been moments ago.

The cold air stung her face, her mind buzzing with unanswered questions. She shook her head, muttering to herself, "What the hell have I gotten myself into?"

As the engine hummed beneath him, Bruce felt the familiar tension ease slightly from his body.

She reminded him of someone.

Actually, she reminded him of himself.

He could still feel the ghost of her arms around his waist, the way her grip had tightened instinctively when the bike picked up speed.

She hadn't trusted him—he could feel that—but she hadn't had much of a choice, either.

The same way he hadn't had a choice but to intervene.

But why? Why had he stepped in tonight? It wasn't like him to involve himself so deeply, especially not with someone like her. Someone with a past she kept hidden, someone fiercely independent who clearly resented any intrusion.

Bruce's gloved hands tightened on the handlebars as the streets blurred past him.

There was something about Maryam that nagged at him, something he couldn't shake.

She had secrets—just like everyone else in Gotham—but hers felt especially tangled. That bruise on her face? He knew it hadn’t come from a table, no matter how convincingly she tried to spin her story.

And he actually had an idea of how... he just had to watch and analyze the night that he has captured through his contact lents.

He had a sense of how it had happened; all he needed to do was watch and analyze the night captured through his contact lenses.

But it wasn’t just the physical injuries that caught his attention.

He had seen it in her eyes—the quiet pain, the weariness that she tried so hard to mask with that bravado. She was running from something, even if she wouldn't admit it. But what? And why did he care?

Bruce shook his head, focusing on the road ahead. He wasn't supposed to care.

The mission always came first—Gotham came first.

That was the only thing that mattered. Yet, there was something about her—something about Maryam Ben Halimi—that he couldn't quite let go of.

He turned down a narrow street, heading toward the Batcave, the night wrapping around him like an old, familiar cloak.

His thoughts lingered on her words, the fire in her voice when she insisted she didn't need help. He knew that feeling, the instinct to push others away, to rely only on yourself.

He had been doing it for years.

But it was different now. She was different. He wasn't sure why, but he felt drawn to her in a way that made him uneasy. It wasn't just about protecting Gotham this time.

He pulled into the cave, the cool, dark expanse opening up around him. The bike's engine echoed off the stone walls as he came to a stop. He took off his sunglasses and slid the bandana down, revealing the familiar, stoic mask of Bruce Wayne.

But even as he shut down the bike and removed his helmet, he couldn't shake the feeling.

He couldn't shake her.

She had gotten under his skin in ways that made him question his own instincts.

Pacing toward the center of the cave, Bruce's mind kept circling back to her—her sharp words, her defensive stance, and the way her eyes had softened for just a split second when she gave in. Fine. But this doesn't change anything.

Of course, it didn't change anything. It wasn't supposed to. But something had shifted. Maybe not for her, but for him.

He rubbed a hand across his jaw, frustration simmering beneath his calm exterior.

This was why he worked alone.

This was why he kept his distance.

Attachment—any kind—was dangerous.

It clouded judgment, made things messy.

Yet, here he was, thinking about Maryam again, about her bruised face, about the vulnerability she tried to hide beneath her sharp tongue.

Maybe it was because she wasn't afraid of him.

Or maybe it was because, despite everything, she was still standing her ground.

She wasn't running from him.

And she didn't see him as a myth, a legend, or a hero. She seemed to saw him for what he was—a man, flawed and just as tangled in this city's web as everyone else.

Bruce exhaled slowly, his breath heavy in the stillness of the cave. He couldn't afford distractions.

Not now.

Not ever.

But as he stood there, in the familiar shadows, one thought kept gnawing at him:

He wasn't just trying to protect Maryam from Gotham's dangers.

He was trying to protect her from becoming something like him.

Or perhaps it was too late; perhaps, unbeknownst to him, she had already shed the city's sins, leaving her pure and untouchable.

And maybe, just maybe, he was ready to plunge into the depths with her, surrendering to the darkness that beckoned.

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