#pm examination procedure

[yannawayne]

iv. what's up danger?

SYNOPSIS: "Alright, let's do this one last time. My name is Y/N Kyle. I was bitten by a radioactive spider, And I've been the one and only Spidey in Gotham. I’m pretty sure you know the rest." PAIRING: Older! Damian Wayne/Fem! Reader TAGS: Established Relationship, Wounds, Violence, Surgical procedures, Panic Attacks, Arguments AO3: yenwayne SERIES LINK: gotham's only spidey

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The room falls into a stunned silence, every gaze drawn to your disheveled, bloodied appearance.

You attempt a casual wave, but it comes off as weak and awkward. Blood drips from your bruised knuckles, each drop splattering with a muted plop onto the polished floor. “Hey, everyone. Sorry, I’m late.”

Jason’s eyes flare with a dangerous glint of green as he barks, “What the fuck happened, kid?”

A typical dinner at the Waynes.

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Wednesday, 6:54 PM - Catwoman’s Apartment, Gotham City. 

Three Days Later

THE ROOM IS QUIET except for the occasional rustle of clothing as you pack your things. You carefully fold your favorite hoodie, tucking it neatly into the suitcase. Next, you grab a few pairs of jeans, some t-shirts, and your worn-out sneakers. 

You pause, your fingers lingering on a framed photo resting on the edge of the dresser. It's a snapshot of you and Damian at a carnival, his arm slung over your shoulder, his lips gently pressed against your head. 

It’s been three days of radio silence between you and Damian. Three days of not speaking, which is practically a record for your relationship. And just when you were starting to get used to the peace and quiet, Bruce had to go and invite you and Selina to a celebratory dinner tonight. A gourmet guilt trip.

With a sigh, you place the photo gently on top of your clothes. Then you move to your desk, gathering a stack of notebooks crammed with sketches and half-finished plans scribbled on napkins and crumpled scraps of paper. You tuck them into the side pocket of your bag, carefully arranging the chaotic collection so that it all fits.

The door creaks open, and Selina steps into the room, her arms crossed with a proud smile playing on her lips.

“Packing up for your big adventure?” she asks.

You look up from your suitcase, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah. It’s only for a month, but it feels like I’m leaving for a year.”

“A month isn’t so long.” Selina walks over, her feet thudding softly on the floor. She picks up a small figurine from your desk, examining it with a thoughtful expression. “Think of it as a chance to stretch your wings and maybe learn a thing or two.”

“Thanks.” You smile and turn back to your packing, reaching for your suit. The sleek, black material glistens under the soft light filtering through the window. You run your fingers over the spider emblem stitched into the back, feeling the familiar texture beneath your fingertips.

“You’re not seriously thinking of bringing the suit, are you?” she asks.

You hesitate, feeling the weight of the suit in your hands. “I thought I might need it. Just in case.”

“Well, you’re not planning on fighting crime in Stark Tower, are you?” she snarks, hands finding her hips as she gives you a look that clearly says she’s not buying your excuse. “This internship is a chance for you to have a life outside the vigilante shtick. It’s good for your future. A chance to live a normal life.”

“Normal? Mom, I stopped being normal the day I got these powers. There's no going back to that.”

“Maybe not,” Selina concedes, running gentle fingers through your hair. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t have something close to it. You deserve to have options, to see what else is out there for you.”

You meet her gaze, your resolve unwavering. “I hear you. But I think I need to bring it. Just in case something goes wrong.”

Selina sighs, her shoulders slumping slightly. “God. You are just as stubborn as me,” she says, rising to her feet with a resigned smile. “Just promise me you’ll keep an open mind about this internship. Give it a real shot, okay?”

“Promise,” you hum, feeling a small sense of relief. As you reach for the suit to tuck it into your bag, your phone buzzes insistently.

Quickly, you glance at the screen.

Morgana:

Busy tonight? There’s a shipment near the docks. Tech equipment from what I see.

You could infiltrate. They have valuable info.

It's… Black Mask.

For a while, you stare at the phone, your thumb hovering over the screen, itching to swipe through the new messages. But Selina is still standing nearby. With a soft cough and a resigned exhale, you place the phone face down on the floor, deliberately ignoring the message for now.

You turn your attention back to your suitcase, refocusing on the task at hand. Selina watches you with a knowing look but doesn’t press further. The silence in the room is filled with the subtle rustle of fabric and the soft clink of zippers as you continue packing.

“Ready for tonight?” Selina asks.

You nod, though a knot tightens in your stomach. Bruce’s congratulatory dinner feels less like a celebration and more like an impending test, especially with the unresolved tension between you and Damian hanging heavy.

“Ready as I'll ever be,” you reply, attempting to sound confident.

You zip up the suitcase, taking a moment to glance around the room. Everything seems to be in place, but you double-check, making sure you haven’t forgotten anything essential. 

Selina nods approvingly, then steps closer, bending to pull you into a hug. “I’ll go get dressed. You do too, alright?”

Selina leaves the room, her footsteps fading into the distance. Turning back to your suitcase, you rummage through the clothes, pulling out a pair of well-worn jeans and a red jacket. After slipping on some socks and sneakers, you reach for a black shirt. But as your hand hovers over the fabric, your gaze is drawn to your suit laid out on the bed.

The spider logo on its back glares at you, its eight-legged emblem almost seeming to reach out with an imperceptible pull, as if urging you to embrace your other self.

After a moment of inner conflict, you give in. You carefully pull on the suit beneath your clothes, the snug material wrapping around you like a second skin. With the suit in place, you slip on your black shirt, followed by the jacket and jeans. You tuck your mask into the pocket of your jacket.

Wearing a superhero suit under your clothes for a fancy dinner—definitely not a sign of insanity. Totally normal behavior. Call it creative paranoia.

With everything packed and ready, you head downstairs. Selina is still in her room, and you catch sight of her as she steps into view, looking a touch more formal than you in a sleek, off-shoulder black dress that hugs her curves. It’s short, tight, and elegant.

“Done already?” she hums, moving to her vanity and starting on her hair and makeup.

You nod, leaning against the doorframe and giving your hair a casual tousle. “Yeah, figured I’d keep it simple. Not sure I’m in the mood for fancy.”

Selina glances at you through the mirror, a small, reassuring smile curling her lips. “You look great. And don’t worry too much about tonight. It’ll be fine.”

“I hope so,” you murmur, more to yourself than to her.

The clock on the wall reads 7:00. You have three hours before the dinner, and Selina, always the early planner, will be occupied with her preparations for a while.

Pulling out your phone, you check Morgan’s message again. If you played your cards right, you could handle the shipment bust quickly and still make it to the dinner on time.

Clearing your throat, you push yourself off the doorframe and tug your hood back on. You head downstairs, making sure to keep your movements casual and unhurried, as if nothing out of the ordinary is about to happen.

“I’ll be heading out for a bit. I want to get some flowers for Alfred,” you call out, your voice carrying through the house.

Selina glances up from her vanity, an eyebrow arching in curiosity. “Alright, but don’t be too long. We need to leave once the driver arrives.”

“Got it,” you reply with a quick nod, turning and heading out of the room. You make your way downstairs, slipping out the front door and into the crisp evening air.

Once you’re in the privacy of a nearby alleyway, you waste no time. Tugging off your shirt, you shove it into the pocket of your jacket, feeling a rush of adrenaline. You slip on your mask, adjusting it carefully until it fits snugly, the familiar material settling comfortably against your skin. Your jeans, jacket, and sneakers stay on for practicality, and you plan to put the black shirt back on later.

With everything in place, you secure your earpiece and gadgets, pressing the earpiece into position and activating it. The familiar hum of your tech springs to life, and you’re ready to move. 

The city’s sounds fade as you slip into the shadows.

“Morgz? You there?” you call out, already scaling up the side of a building.

A crackle of static precedes Morgan’s voice. “Yeah, I’m here. You on your way?”

“Just about to leave,” you reply, grabbing onto a ledge and pulling yourself up. “Any updates on the shipment?”

“It’s scheduled to arrive in about 30 minutes. The tech equipment is being unloaded from a truck into a warehouse. Security’s decent, but nothing you can’t handle. You’re only 15 minutes away from your spot right now.”

“Got it,” you confirm, reaching the rooftop and taking a moment to scan the area below. “I’ll keep you posted. Thanks for the heads-up.”

You launch into action, web-slinging towards the docks with a focus on speed. Normally, you’d be showboating and performing flips, but tonight, every second counts. The journey takes a bit longer than expected—20 minutes instead of 15.

As you approach the docks, you spot a boat pulling up to the edge, its silhouette cutting through the darkness.

“Surprised you even took this up,” Morgan’s voice murmurs through your earpiece. “Thought you weren't allowed to patrol on school nights.”

“Technically… I’m not,” you reply, weaving between buildings and adjusting your trajectory for a swift descent.

“Yeesh. Going rebellious already?”

“Teenage angst, remember?” you quip, a grin forming beneath your mask as you prepare to intercept the shipment

Landing on a rooftop adjacent to the warehouse, you take a moment to plan your entry. The warehouse is a large, industrial building with a few tall windows and a side door that looks like it’s used for deliveries.

Security cameras are mounted on the corners of the building, rotating every now and then. You quickly survey the area, noting the guards' position.

There are a couple of guards patrolling the perimeter, walking in predictable patterns. One guard is stationed near the side door, checking his watch occasionally. The other two are more mobile, taking turns walking around the exterior and scanning the area.

Beyond the security, you see five workers moving boxes from the boat to the warehouse. The open doors at the far end reveal crates of tech equipment being unloaded.

You activate your earpiece. "Update. Three guards outside. Five active workers. They've got cameras. Can you get those down for me?"

Morgan's voice crackles through your earpiece. "On it. Give me a sec."

You watch the cameras, waiting for them to go offline. The guard near the side door looks at his watch again, oblivious to what's about to happen. 

After a tense moment, Morgan's voice comes back. "Cameras are down. You've got about an hour before the system kicks in again. Oh. That and there are about 5 more guards inside."

"Perfect," you hum.

You time your movements with the guards' patrols, slipping through the shadows. You approach the side door, keeping low and quiet.

Inside, the warehouse is dimly lit, with stacks of crates creating narrow pathways. The workers are busy unloading the truck, their focus on the task at hand. You crawl up the walls swiftly and silently.

You spot a terminal near the back of the warehouse, its blinking lights indicating it’s connected to the inventory system.

Time to get to work.

“I'm at the terminal. What’s next?” you whisper into the earpiece.

Morgan’s voice comes through with a steady tone. “Plug in the flash drive to copy the inventory data. While that’s running, find the main control panel for the security system and plant the tracker. This will help us monitor future shipments.”

You nod, even though she can't see you. "Got it. Flash drive first, then tracker."

You slip to the terminal and plug in the flash drive, which hums softly as it starts copying data. Glancing around to make sure no one is watching, you head to the security control panel hidden behind some crates and quickly plant the tracker.

"The tracker is set," you inform Morgan.

"Great job. The data copy should be done soon. Once it’s finished, you can pull the flash drive and get out of there."

You head back to the terminal, keeping an eye on the workers and guards. The flash drive's light blinks, signaling it's almost finished. After a few tense moments, the light turns solid.

"Data copied," Morgan confirms. "You’re clear to go."

You pull out the flash drive, tuck it into your pocket, and start heading toward the exit, blending into the shadows. Just as you reach the door, you hear voices nearby.

“Hey, did you hear something?”

Your heart stops as the guard’s flashlight beam sweeps dangerously close to your hiding spot. You freeze, pressing yourself against the cold metal wall, barely breathing.

“Probably just a rat. Let's check it out just in case.”

You curse silently under your breath, watching as the guards start moving in your direction.

The first guard steps closer, his flashlight scanning the area. You silently crawl up the wall, positioning yourself above him. With a swift flick of your wrist, you shoot a web at the flashlight, yanking it out of his hand and into the darkness.

“What the—” the guard starts, but you quickly web his mouth shut and pull him up towards the ceiling, wrapping him tightly in webbing and securing him to the roof. You knock his head against the metal, and he passes out.

The second guard, alarmed by the sudden commotion, turns his back to you as he draws his weapon. The rifle fires, but your spider sense helps you dodge the shots. 

Cursing, you shoot a web at his feet, yanking his legs out from under him and sending him crashing to the ground. Before he can react, you web his hands to the floor and sling his weapon away.

Dropping from the ceiling, you slow your landing with a web and slam your foot down onto his head, knocking him out.

Despite the quiet disposal of the two guards, the earlier rifle shot already alerted the other workers and guards in the warehouse. You hear shouts and hurried footsteps approaching.

“Someone’s here! Find them!”

Guards scramble, their flashlights slicing through the darkness, casting erratic beams that dance across the warehouse walls. You sprint away, weaving between crates and machinery, but a new threat emerges from the shadows—a massive, burly man, easily twice your size. He’s built like a brick wall, his muscles straining against his uniform, and his face looks like it’s been chiseled out of stone, etched with a permanent scowl.

“Who’s messing around in 'ere?” the giant roars, his voice reverberating through the cavernous space. He brandishes a rifle, and from the looks of it, he seems to be their leader.

You glance at your watch—damn, it’s been two hours already. 

Only an hour left.

Still… you could probably get one fight in before leaving.

…

Swinging out of the shadows, you land in front of the giant, hands on your hips.

“Hi, Mr. Villain!” you call out, catching a punch he throws and giving his hand a playful shake. “I’m Spidey, your friendly neighborhood nuisance. Always nice to meet someone with such a ‘heavy’ presence. Looks like you’ve got a bit of a security problem here—totally my bad.”

The giant snarls at you. He fires his rifle, but you deftly dodge the bullets. With a swift move, you fire a web at his feet and arms, pinning him momentarily to the ground. The rifle is knocked from his hands, clattering out of reach.

The guards scramble to regroup, and you spring into action. Flipping back into the air, you disarm the remaining guards—quick web blasts here, a roundhouse kick there, an uppercut thrown. Each guard crumples under the assault, slamming against the walls one by one, webbed together in a tangled heap.

There’s a snap as the leader breaks free, roaring in fury and charging at you. You duck under his swinging arm and fire a web at a stack of crates. The crates topple and crash into his path, heavy wood and metal smashing together. He stumbles, cursing and flailing wildly.

“Careful there! You might just crush your own merchandise,” you taunt, sidestepping his erratic swings.

In that moment of distraction, you snatch his gun away with a quick webshot. But as you turn to face him again, a jolt of pure adrenaline slams through your veins, sharp and unrelenting, like an electric shock.

The world sharpens into hyperfocus. 

DANGER!

Your instincts scream at you to move. You leap to the side, but it’s already too late. A shadowy figure springs from the darkness, their knife catching a deadly glint in the harsh warehouse lights.

The blade slices through your suit, leaving a searing, agonizing wound. You stagger, clutching your side as blood seeps through the torn fabric and pools on the cold concrete. With a pained grimace, you muster the strength to shoot a web at the attacker, slamming them against the wall with a forceful swing.

“Spidey?! Come in. Shit. What happened to staying stealthy?” Morgan's voice crackles through the earpiece. “PEPPER, run back their vitals on me.”

A mechanical voice responds through your earpiece. “Vitals are stable. The wound is a deep six-inch laceration on the left side, with moderate blood loss, but the suit's padding has helped. The injury missed major organs and arteries. Immediate first aid and stitches are recommended.”

“Looks like I’ve got a new scar to show for tonight,” you heave, trying to ignore the throbbing pain as the giant stalks toward you. “But I’m not done yet.”

The man's roar shakes the warehouse.

“You think you can take me, you puny spider?!”

You lift your chin, tilting your head with a smirk. “Puny? That’s funny. I’ve taken down bigger.”

The giant lunges, brandishing a scrap of metal like a battering ram. You barely dodge, feeling the whoosh of air as it swings past. You retaliate with a web shot to his face, but he roars and swats it away, his massive arms tearing through your webbing.

“Careful there, big guy,” you quip, “I’m not into heavy metal, but thanks for the offer!”

His hand clamps onto your chest, lifting you off your feet with an alarming strength. He hurls you against a stack of crates, the impact slamming you into the wall. You slide down to the floor, dazed and with blood trickling from a split lip.

While you're down, the giant strides toward you, his heavy footsteps shaking the ground like a mini earthquake. You struggle to rise, just as he launches a flying knee. Your senses scream, a blaring alarm urging you to move.

!!!

With a yelp, you roll to the side, narrowly avoiding the crushing blow that hits where you had been seconds before.

“Hey, watch it! I’ve got places to be after this!” you yell.

Before you can react, a powerful punch slams into your face, sending you spiraling backward.

“Owie. That one’s definitely gonna leave a mark,” you groan, pain radiating through your skull. Desperately, you shoot a web at his legs, hoping to slow him down. The webbing holds for a moment before he rips through it with sheer brute force.

Groaning, you shake off the dizziness, rolling your shoulders to loosen them before pushing yourself back to your feet.

“Alright,” you mutter, taking a deep breath. “Clearly, the webs aren’t working. Guess we’re sticking to fists. Put ’em up, big guy.”

Laughing with a guttural, mocking tone, the giant charges at you. As he lunges, you brace yourself and bring your fist up to guard your face. With a burst of power, you jab forward. Your knuckles connect with his face with a sickening crunch, the sound of bone shattering and flesh splitting echoing through the warehouse like a thunderclap.

JAB!

The man staggers back, his head snapping violently to the side, blood spraying from his jaw. Before he can recover, you launch into a spinning kick. Your leg connects with explosive force, slamming him into the wall with a resounding thud.

You follow up with a powerful jump, driving a kick into his ribs. The impact echoes with a sickening crack. He roars in pain and collapses, slumped against the wall.

With quick reflexes, you shoot a web at a high pipe, coiling it tightly. You yank the pipe down with all your strength. It crashes onto the giant with a resounding clang, the impact knocking him out cold.

You take a couple of deep breaths, blood and sweat mingling on your clothes and face as you survey the wreckage. The giant groans weakly—alive, but definitely out of commission for the moment.

“Looks like the big guy’s all out of steam,” you murmur, wiping the blood from your brow with a grim smile. “Now, time to find that exit before my own steam runs out.”

With a final glance at the chaos you've left behind, you swing toward the exit. The cut on your side throbs with each movement—though it's slowly healing, the pain and blood are still very much present.

"Spidey? You alright? What the fuck, you just beat that guy within an inch of his life."

“He’ll live,” you huff as you swing through the streets. After fumbling around for a while, you pull your phone from your jacket and curse at the time. 

Only ten minutes before the car arrives. 

“Uh, Morgz, do me a favor. Where’s the nearest flower shop?”

"Christ. You just busted down an illegal tech deal and now you're out for flowers?" Morgan’s response comes through the earpiece before you hear some typing. “There’s a florist two blocks from your current location. I’m sending you the address. But—You really need to take care of that wound.”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” you reply. There's a ping as the location pops up on your phone. “Just need to pick up some flowers. Trust me, it’s important.”

You adjust your swing to head toward the florist, landing quietly in the alley outside. With quick movements, you slip off your mask and start changing. You discard your jacket, revealing the bloodied suit underneath. The suit’s dark color masks most of the stains, but it's still a grim sight.

Pulling on your shirt over the suit, you try to conceal the worst of the mess. The sticky, wet feeling of blood against your skin is unpleasant, and you grimace as you adjust the shirt. Finally, you slip the jacket back on, hoping it will help you blend in and give you a semblance of normalcy.

Taking a deep breath, you straighten up and glance at your reflection in the nearby puddle. The image staring back at you is a disheveled mess: hair tousled, face bruised and bloodied, jeans stained with grime and blood, and a jacket barely concealing it all.

“Not my best look,” you bite your lip. “But it’ll have to do.”

With a sigh, you step into the flower shop. The bell above the door jingles softly, and the warm, floral scent is a welcome relief from the warehouse’s stench.

The florist looks up from behind the counter with a curious glance. His eyes narrow slightly as he takes in your disheveled appearance but he doesn’t seem particularly fazed.

In Gotham, a bloodied teenager is probably just another Wednesday.

“Evening,” the florist says, his voice carrying the neutrality of someone accustomed to the oddities of city life. “What can I do for you?”

You give a quick nod, trying to keep your tone casual despite the blood still seeping through your shirt. “Need something nice. Simple. No need for anything flashy.”

The florist nods and starts arranging a bouquet of flowers. You drift over to a corner and find yourself looking at some daisies, their bright, cheerful colors a stark contrast to your current state.

“Spidey? How’s it going?” 

“Alright,” you shrug, though she can’t see it. “Can I get a rundown on my vitals again?”

Morgan’s voice hums and there’s the sound of clicking keys. “Vitals are stable. The cut is slowly healing, but you’ll need to properly bandage and get some of that stitched later Happy to say you're not going to die bleeding out.” 

She pauses, and then adds, “You’ve got a couple of broken ribs though.”

You blink in surprise and pat at your sides, feeling nothing. “Really? Guess that’s my pain tolerance working overtime. Didn’t even notice.”

“Please tell me you’re getting that treated first,” Morgan says, a hint of concern in her voice.

“Nope,” you reply, moving to pay for the flowers. “Already running late. Mom will kill me if she finds out.”

Morgan’s voice is laced with skepticism. “She’s going to find out anyway.”

You sigh, trying to ignore the twinge in your side. “I’ll just say it was a mugging.”

“Do you really think she’ll believe that?” Morgan asks, her tone dry.

You let out a small, pained chuckle. “In Gotham, maybe. But realistically…no. I’m just hoping to buy myself a little time before it all catches up to me.”

With the bouquet in hand, you head back out into the night. You tuck the flowers into your free pocket and swing off into the darkness. As you soar through the city, you reach for your earpiece and say a quick, “Goodnight, Morgz,” before shoving it into the pocket of your jeans.

Just as you near the bridge, your phone rings. You glance at the screen and curse under your breath—Selina’s calling, and from the look of it, she’s been trying to reach you multiple times over the past hour.

Yeah, you’re fucked.

You answer the call, forcing a casual tone. “Hey, Mom. What’s up?”

Selina’s voice comes through, clearly agitated. You can hear her huffing as she closes the apartment door, the background noise of a car engine rumbling outside. “Where the hell are you? I’ve been waiting forever. We’re all set to head out.”

You quickly scan the streets below as you swing past, trying to gauge your location. “Uh, I’m on 2nd Broadway… actually, make that 3rd Broadway. And… 4th of Broadway! I’ll be there in… twenty minutes tops. Almost there, Mom!”

There’s a pause.

“... Are you swinging?”

“Nope,” you lie smoothly, narrowly dodging a pigeon that flaps angrily past your face. “Just a bit of a detour. You know how it is.”

“Honey. I can hear the wind. Are you really swinging around? It’s a school night. You know the rules—”

You wince, knowing you’ve been caught. “Just… had a few things to take care of. I’m on my way. Promise. Actually, why don’t I meet you at Wayne Manor instead? I’m near the bridge. Ya know, the one by the docks.”

There’s another pause on her end. 

“Why are you near the docks?!”

You avoid the question, trying to keep the conversation moving. “Long story. Look, I’m running late. Can we just meet at Wayne Manor? I’ll explain everything after dinner.”

Selina’s frustration doesn’t ease, but she sighs. “Fine. Wayne Manor it is. But don’t think for a second you’re off the hook, young lady.”

You nod, even though she can’t see it. “Understood. See you soon. Love you, Mom!”

༻⊰───⋅

BEEP.

Selina scowls as she ends the call and heads down to meet Alfred. The gritty streets of Gotham greet her, the cacophony of sirens and street chatter providing a harsh backdrop to her mood.

Alfred, noticing her irritated state, opens the door for her with a raised eyebrow. "Good to see you Miss Kyle. May I ask where the young miss is?"

Selina forces a smile, trying to mask her frustration. “She’s… handling something that came up last minute. She’ll meet us at the manor.”

"Very well. I trust she’ll be punctual." Alfred says, a hint of concern in his eyes, but he says nothing more. He closes the door behind her as she slips into the car, adjusting her coat and glancing at her reflection in the rearview mirror.

The engine starts, the low hum blending with the city’s background noise. As the vehicle pulls away, Selina leans back against the cool leather seat, her fingers drumming lightly on the armrest, her mind already racing through the conversation she knows is coming.

You were dead meat.

༻⊰───⋅

After nearly an hour of high-speed swings through Gotham, you finally touch down in a secluded area near Wayne Manor. You're breathless and disheveled, your earlier efforts to look presentable having fallen short. You quickly scan the area, making sure the security cameras don’t catch your arrival.

Taking a moment to compose yourself, you adjust your clothes and press the doorbell. The chime rings through the grand entrance. You glance at your phone and wince—you're an hour and thirty minutes late.

The swinging took longer than expected, and to make matters worse, you had to intervene when this ginger reporter was being robbed. You couldn’t just stand by and do nothing.

Now, as you wait by the gate, you hear footsteps approaching from inside. The door swings open to reveal Alfred, who freezes for a moment, his eyes widening at the sight of you—bruised, bloodied, and clearly worse for wear. You lean against the gate, your fingers curling around the metal.

“H—Hey, Al.”

“Goodness me!” Alfred exclaims, hurrying over to the gate and pulling it open wide.  He rushes over, opening the gate wider and pulling you inside with a practiced ease. His gaze sweeps over your injuries, concern etched deeply into his features. “Miss Kyle, you’re in quite a state!”

You manage a tired smile, carefully pulling the bouquet from your jacket. It’s in rough shape—torn petals, crushed blooms, and snapped stems. It looks like it’s on the verge of dying.

“Sorry I’m late,” you say, wincing as you hold up the sad arrangement. “These… are for you. I, uh, ran all the way here. I hope I’m not too late for dinner.”

Alfred takes the flowers with a gentle smile, his concern momentarily overshadowed by a touch of warmth. “Thank you, Miss Kyle. However, I assure you it’s fine. The others have already started eating. They won’t mind if you—”

“It’s fine! This is just…,” you pause, pursing your lips as you scramble for a plausible excuse. You force a smile, shaking your head and pulling your jacket hood further over your face to hide the swelling bruise around one of your eyes. “Hah, you know how Gotham can be.”

Alfred gives you a sympathetic glance but says nothing more. “Very well. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to the dining room.”

He guides you through the grand hallways, your footsteps echoing in the vast space and mingling with the soft murmur of conversation. As you reach the dining room, the door swings open, revealing a table set with care and already abuzz with activity. Selina, Bruce, and the others are seated, their animated conversations abruptly halting as they turn to look at you.

The room falls into a stunned silence, every gaze drawn to your disheveled, bloodied appearance.

Selina’s eyes narrow into slits, her irritation barely concealed behind a strained, tight-lipped smile. Bruce’s complexion drains to an ashen hue, his eyes are wide as saucers, looking like he’s about to pass out from shock. He casts Selina a panicked glance, which she meets with a weary sigh, her hands momentarily covering her face as if trying to shield herself from the mess. She looks utterly drained.

You attempt a casual wave, but it comes off as weak and awkward. Blood drips from your bruised knuckles, each drop splattering with a muted plop onto the polished floor. “Hey, everyone. Sorry, I’m late.”

Jason’s eyes flare with a dangerous glint of green as he barks, “What the fuck happened, kid?”

Next to him, Cassandra’s face is blank. Her fingers fidget with her utensils as she shifts her gaze rapidly between you and Selina, trying to piece together the fractured narrative from your battered appearance and Selina’s body language.

Bruce, who had been quietly observing, stands up and approaches you with slow, measured steps.

“You’re hurt,” he says, his voice a deep, resonant murmur. His hands, surprisingly gentle for their strength, settle on your shoulders. His eyes, usually as inscrutable as the dark depths of a stormy sea, now soften with the tenderness of a lighthouse guiding you through a night. “What happened, kiddo?”

There’s a strange, twisting sensation in your gut, flaring just beneath your ribs. A lump rises in your throat, and despite your best efforts to stay composed, your eyes begin to well up.

“I—” you begin, but the words falter. Your gaze drifts across the room and locks onto Damian’s eyes. They’re like emeralds, gleaming with a ferocity that seems to pierce through the walls you’ve built. Though he remains silent, his piercing look conveys a thousand unspoken thoughts and emotions.

A wave of shame is crashing into you, pushing your words back down. “Just… a rough night. Got into a fight.” 

Bruce’s eyes narrow, and a wave of seething anger ripples through him. You try to ignore it. 

“And who was this?” he demands, his voice a controlled, simmering growl.

“It’s okay. It ended up alright,” you try to shrug it off, forcing a casual tone. “Really, it’s not as bad as it looks. Just a run-in with some rando on the street.”

Everyone’s reactions vary, but it’s the look in Selina’s eyes that strikes you the hardest. Selina’s weary gaze peeks out from behind her hands, and the sight makes your face crumple.

“Pull off your hood,” Selina commands, icy and devoid of warmth. As she straightens in her chair, her blood-red nails dig into the mahogany table, turning her knuckles as pale as frost.

You keep your gaze fixed on the polished marble floor, scuffing the dried mud across its pristine surface. The silence in the room grows heavier with each passing second.

“Take off the damn hood and show me your face!”

Scowling and clenching your jaw, you yank the hood off. As it falls away, the full extent of your injuries is laid bare. Selina’s eyes widen as they take in the black eye, the bruises, and the cuts that mar your face. Her shock quickly morphs into a deepening scowl, her lips trembling as she fights to control her rising anger.

Everyone waiting for the outburst that is sure to follow.

Instead, Selina’s hands fly to cover her face, and she looks as though she might fall apart at any moment.

Bruce stares at you with something akin to horror.

Before anyone can react further, Damian abruptly stands, his chair scraping against the floor. Without a word, he strides over to you, wrapping an arm around your waist and guiding you out of the room. 

His muttered words are barely audible, “I’ll take care of their injuries.”

Bruce moves back to Selina’s side, gently wrapping an arm around her shoulder as he tries to offer comfort. 

You can hear his soft, reassuring whisper as you walk away, “You can stay for the night. It’s too late to head out now. Give her some time.”

Selina, her face still pale and troubled, nods gratefully, her gaze tracking Damian as he helps you toward the manor’s second floor.

Damian ushers you into his room, the door closing behind you with a decisive click. He motions to the bed, and you sink onto it with a heavy sigh, the weight of the day dragging at your limbs.

You watch Damian retreat to the bathroom, your gaze lingering on the raw, bloodied skin of your knuckles, tinged with a gnawing sense of guilt.

Moments later, he returns with a first aid kit in hand. He kneels before you, reaching out to tug off your jacket, but you quickly shake your head, not wanting him to discover the suit beneath.

“I’m going to change in the bathroom,” you rasp. Damian silently nods, moving to his closet and pulling out one of his cotton shirts and boxers. He hands them to you with a resigned sigh and leans against the wall beside the bathroom door, giving you the privacy you need.

You take the clothes from Damian and head to the bathroom. As you push open the door, the dim light casts long shadows across the tiled floor. You deliberately avoid meeting your reflection in the mirror, not wanting to confront the full extent of the mess you’re in.

Once inside, you drop Damian’s shirt and boxers onto the floor, followed by your jacket, shirt, and pants. The fabric makes a soft rustling sound as it lands. With a deep, steadying breath, you begin peeling off your suit, slow and painstaking.

As the suit peels away from your skin, the blood and sweat that have soaked into it reveal the severity of your injuries. You wince as the cut on your side comes fully into view, a raw, angry red line that stretches from just below your rib cage to the middle of your side. It looks even worse up close—jagged and still oozing a bit despite the healing process.

You quickly change into Damian’s boxers, opting to keep the shirt off for now. You carefully bundle your suit and hide it under your jacket and pants, folding it as neatly as you can manage. With a deep breath, you step back into the room.

Damian’s eyes narrow as he assesses the cut on your side, now reduced to a four-inch scar due to your enhanced healing abilities. His gaze is hard, and you can almost see the weight of the lecture that would have come if he’d seen the injury in its original, more severe state. 

“Sit down,” Damian finally speaks, his voice firm. He begins to open the first aid kit, movements slow. You drop your ruined clothes in a far corner and plop back down on his bed, rubbing your hands together nervously.

A beat passes as Damian finishes cleaning the wound and reaches for the anesthesia, preparing to start stitching you up. You shake your head and push his hand away. “I can take it.”

“No,” Damian scowls and continues his work. He applies the anesthesia despite your protests, injecting it around the wound to numb the area. The needle pierces your skin with a sharp sting, followed by a dull, throbbing sensation as the anesthetic begins to take effect.

He sets the syringe aside and picks up a pair of sterilized tweezers and needle and thread. You watch as he carefully makes the first stitch, his hands steady and precise. The thread pulls tight, closing the wound with a series of tight, even stitches.

His long lashes flutter over his hooded eyes with each focused blink, his emerald gaze intense and filled with concern. The warm ambient light of the room casts a gentle glow on his deep tan skin, accentuating the chiseled contours of his face in a soft, almost ethereal light.

The beam of light highlights the light almost invisible scar that stretches from his cheekbone to his crooked nose, tracing the elegant curve of his cheekbone and the strong, defined line of his jaw. Your gaze drifts to his full lips, noting the perfect cupid’s bow of his upper lip.

His hair is meticulously styled, with longer strands on top falling in inky, sleek waves across his forehead, remnants of gel catching the light. Damian’s thick, well-kept hair frames his face like brush strokes, adding to his strikingly handsome appearance.

Unable to hold yourself back, you raise a hand to cup his cheek. Damian hums, a low, soothing sound that rumbles in his chest. He keeps his eyes focused on your wound but tilts his head slightly to press a soft, tender kiss to your wrist.

With the stitches complete, Damian shifts his attention to bandaging the wound. He secures the bandage, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary as he smooths out the edges. Finally, he raises his head and meets your gaze, eyes conveying everything he can’t say aloud.

Exhausted and overwhelmed, you slump into Damian’s embrace, dropping your hands onto his shoulders. He responds instinctively, taking your hands in his. Large, calloused fingers gently lift yours, pressing a tender kiss to each of them before moving to softly kiss your bruised knuckles.

With a whisper of your name, Damian draws your hands over his shoulders. You smile, sinking deeper into his embrace, arms draped over his strong back. Damian holds you close, lifting you off the bed as he pulls you into a hug. His arms wound up around your waist, pulling you tighter against him.

“You know, trying to keep secrets from me is pointless,” Damian murmurs, a thinly veiled threat in his words peppering kisses up the side of your neck. “I am the son of the greatest detective in the world. I will find out what happened.”

You chuckle softly, feeling the tension ease a bit. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Just let me hold you, you insufferable know-it-all.”

Damian’s grip tightens slightly. His forehead rests against yours, hearts swimming in his emerald eyes. “You’re lucky I tolerate your nonsense. But seriously, you need to start talking.”

“Maybe later,” you reply, smiling against his shoulder. “Right now, I just need you.”

༻⊰───⋅

An hour later, it’s already 1 AM, but you and Damian are still awake, watching a show on his television. You’re curled up together on his bed, the flickering light from the screen painting the room in shifting hues of blue and gray, casting gentle shadows that dance across the walls.

You rest your head against Damian’s chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek. His arm is wrapped around your shoulders, holding you close. Despite the late hour, the warmth and comfort of his embrace keep you from drifting off.

“This show is surprisingly bearable,” Damian murmurs.

You smile, nuzzling closer. “Told you it was worth a watch. Thanks for staying up with me.”

Damian’s fingers gently stroke your hair, each touch a soothing rhythm against your scalp. “Of course I’d do it, even if it means enduring your rather questionable taste in television.”

You scoff, pretending to be wounded. “Questionable taste? This show is a gem. You just don’t want to admit I’ve expanded your horizons.”

Damian raises an eyebrow, a teasing glint in his eyes as he gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Expanded my horizons? More like subjected me to a marathon of pedestrian entertainment.”

You roll your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips despite his words. The episode continues, the soft hum of the TV blending with the comforting rhythm of Damian’s breathing. The earlier tension and worry seem to dissolve into the background, replaced by a quiet intimacy.

Damian’s hand moves slowly, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. His thumb begins to trace gentle, deliberate patterns on your back. You shiver slightly at the unexpected sensation, a delicate ripple of warmth spreading through you. His touch is soft yet firm, spelling out something with careful precision.

Though you don’t fully grasp the intent behind his touch, Damian’s fingers trace a delicate script across your skin, inscribing the words of Talia’s favorite Arabic love poem onto your back.

“My life shall be sacrificed for her beauty,” his thumb whispers across your skin, “my blood shall be spilled freely for her, and though I burn for her painfully, like a candle, none of my days shall ever be free of this pain. Let me love, oh my God, love for love’s sake, and make my love a hundred times as great as it was and is.”

The gentle pressure of his touch, the rhythmic way his thumb moves, slowly eases you into sleep. As each verse of the poem is imprinted on your skin, you find yourself drifting off, nestled against his chest. Damian tenderly presses his lips to your temple, wishing you sweet dreams.

༻⊰───⋅

Thursday, 3:02 AM - Damian's Room, Wayne Manor.

Dick moves stealthily down the moonlit hallway, his footsteps muffled against the plush carpet. He reaches Damian’s door and pushes it open with a gentle nudge. Despite his careful approach, the old hinges protest with a loud, protesting creak, shattering the quiet of the night and immediately stirring Damian from his sleep.

The sudden noise jolts Damian awake, his reflexes kicking in. His eyes snap open, and in a heartbeat, his muscles tense as he instinctively tightens his protective embrace around you. The world outside fades as his focus zeroes in on the intruder.

Damian’s gaze narrows into a steely glare as he locks onto Dick. In a seamless, fluid motion, he throws aside the blankets and reaches beneath the bed, his hand closing around the hilt of a gleaming katana.

Without hesitation, he draws the blade with a swift, practiced flick, sending the katana arcing through the air toward Dick. 

SHINK!

Dick stumbles back, raising his hands in a defensive gesture. The katana thuds harmlessly into the wall beside him, its sharp edge embedded in the wood just inches from his head. 

"Such a dramatic wake-up call… Good morning to you too," Dick grins, clearly used to this routine. “Alright. I know it’s late, but Selina is still up. I think she wants to talk to Y/N.”

Damian’s snarl is a low, dangerous rumble. “If you wake her, I will cut your hands off.”

Dick raises an eyebrow, clearly unfazed by the threat. “Come on, baby bird. It’s not that big of a deal. Just let her know she’s needed.”

Damian’s eyes remain locked on Dick, a burning intensity that could have melted steel. Yet, after a long, tense moment, he grudgingly nods, the anger in his posture easing ever so slightly. With careful precision, he unwinds himself from the cocoon of blankets that envelops you, making sure not to jostle you awake.

!!!

But as Damian shifts, your senses stir, your eyes fluttering open to the dim light of the room. Your hand moves instinctively, reaching out to grasp Damian’s wrist, your fingers curling around him with a surprising strength. The sudden contact startles Damian, and he pauses, his gaze softening as he looks down at you.

Confusion and concern flash across your face as you murmur, “Dames?”

He pauses, his gaze softening as he looks down at you, his eyes reflecting a tender regret. “It’s okay. I apologize for waking you, but Miss Kyle is calling for you.”

You tense immediately, and Damian feels a pang of guilt unfurl in his gut for disrupting your rest.

You sigh softly and rise slowly, wincing slightly as though the wound still bothers you. Although your injury has healed, you  keep up the act, unwilling to make it too obvious that you’re fine. You know you’re on thin ice, and the last thing you want is to make things more suspicious.

Damian instinctively moves to support you, his hand steadying your back with a reassuring touch as you rise. Dick, lingering at the doorway, casts an apologetic glance your way.

Damian helps you to your feet, his touch steady and reassuring. He retrieves his soccer jacket from a nearby chair and drapes it around your shoulders with a gentle, almost reverent touch. The jacket, well-worn and carrying the faint scent of his cologne, envelops you in its soft, reassuring warmth. 

As you and Damian approach the door to his room, you hesitate and turn to him.

“I think I need to handle this alone,” you say quietly. “Can you wait here?”

Damian's eyes narrow slightly, and he hesitates, his protective instincts flaring.

“Are you sure?” he asks, running a hand up your back.

You give him a reassuring smile. “Yes, it’s better this way. I’ll be fine.”

Damian’s expression softens reluctantly. “Alright. I will be right here if you need me, beloved.”

You watch as Damian retreats to his room, his hand sliding around the katana lodged in the doorframe. With a smooth, deliberate motion, he withdraws the blade, the metal glinting momentarily before the door closes softly behind him. Dick, meanwhile, falls into step beside you and guides you down the corridor. His presence is steady and reassuring, a calming force in the tense atmosphere.

As you walk, Dick leans in slightly, his voice a low murmur. “Your mom’s been on edge all night. I’m… not sure what’s going on, but she made it clear she wanted to talk to you immediately.”

You nod, feeling a knot of anxiety tighten in your stomach. “I figured as much,” you reply, trying to keep your tone steady.

Dick’s expression turns serious, but a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You really gave us a scare,” he says, his tone softening. “Just remember, as a future Mrs. Wayne, we’ve got your back, no matter what.”

You chuckle softly, the warmth of his words offering a small measure of comfort. Taking a deep breath, you steel yourself for the conversation ahead as you reach the door to Selina’s room.

You turn the knob and push the door open.

Tall windows, framed by heavy drapes, stand slightly ajar, allowing the Gotham breeze to drift through the room. The curtains flutter rhythmically, whispering softly against the glass panes. Selina stands by the window, her silhouette etched sharply against the city’s glittering skyline. Her back is to you, tense and rod-straight.

The door clicks shut behind you, and she turns her head slightly, her gaze meeting yours with a cool, unreadable intensity.

"Are you going to start talking, or am I going to have to drag it out of you?”

“I was just—” you stammer, struggling to find the right words. “I passed by, okay? I saw the situation and I had to intervene—”

Selina cuts you off with a sharp twist of her head. “I have eyes. I know what happened. I was informed about a tech shipment—an underground tech shipment by the docks. It was infiltrated. They found all the men webbed. Webbed. To the walls and floors. Don’t lie to me, honey.”

You sigh, the weight of the truth settling heavily on your shoulders. “Yeah. Okay,” you admit, your voice trembling despite your efforts to stay composed. “It… was planned.”

Selina’s eyes narrow dangerously as she strides towards you, heels clicking sharply against the floors. Her silhouette, framed by the soft, muted glow of the city lights filtering through the window, looms larger than life.

“Did you have a single clue as to whose men those were?” she demands, her voice slicing through the silence like a whip crack.

“I knew,” you say quietly, “I knew they were connected to Black Mask. It was a tip-off, and I thought if I could just—”

“You thought? You thought what? That you could handle it alone?” Selina’s eyes flash. “This isn’t some playground for you to experiment with your powers. You’re dealing with dangerous people—people who won’t hesitate to kill. And if you get yourself hurt—or worse—what good are you to anyone?”

You lower your eyes, feeling the sting of her words as if each one were a reprimand meant to cut deeper. “I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”

“Sorry isn’t going to undo this mess!” she snaps, her hands gripping the edge of a table.

A hand tangles itself into her hair, strands of hair failing over her gaze. “Do you have any idea what you’ve put us through? What you’ve risked by acting recklessly? I’m not just scolding you because I’m angry. I’m scared. You’re my responsibility”

Your anger surges, and you shout, “I know, Mom! I know!” The words escape before you can stop them.

Selina’s expression shifts from anger to hurt, her eyes momentarily softening before hardening again. “Don’t take that tone with me."

“Excuse me?” you snap, stepping closer. “You think you’re the only one who’s ever lost something? Every time I bring up my mother, you just give me the bare minimum! I was going to start digging eventually.”

Selina’s eyes widen, a mix of hurt and frustration flashing across her face. “You think I’m holding back information from you? I’m trying to protect you! When your mother died, I promised myself I wouldn’t let anyone else I cared about get hurt."

“We’re so past that! I’m already knee-deep in this world,” you say desperately, your voice rising. “Mom, look at me! Just look! I have Spider DNA in my veins. My boyfriend is a vigilante. I’ve faced kidnappings and attempts on my life ever since I was born! You can’t keep treating me like a child who needs to be sheltered from reality.”

“I raised you! ” Selina screams, raw and primal, the words tearing from her throat with a force that leaves you momentarily stunned. “I gave up everything to keep you safe, to try and shield you from the worst parts of this life because I couldn’t bear to lose you too!” 

Her voice shatters mid-sentence, the tears slipping from her eyes despite her best efforts to hold them back. But she doesn’t stop, pushing through, her words tumbling out in a frantic, desperate rush. “Every time you put yourself at risk, it’s like ripping open a wound that never heals! Don’t you get that? I can’t—I won’t—lose you, too!”

The raw emotion in her voice shatters your anger, melting it away like ice under a warm sun. You step forward, your movements gentle as you grab onto her shoulders, guiding her down into a chair. 

“I know, Ma,” you murmur, your voice softening as you try to soothe her. “I know it’s okay. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. I’m sorry.”

Selina breathes heavily, her anger still simmering just beneath the surface. “I know. I know you’ve been through so much. It’s just—I don’t want you to be a target for Black Mask. He’s a fucking monster, and I didn’t want you to be in his crosshairs.”

“I’m already in his crosshairs,” you whisper, bending down and reaching into your sock, where you’ve hidden the flash drive containing the information you retrieved from the warehouse. You had tucked it in earlier while changing in the bathroom.

“This,” you continue, holding up the small device, “is information on all his future activities. This was the mission I had earlier.”

Selina’s eyes widen in alarm, her fear quickly reigniting into fury. “Have you put no thought into the rules I set? Putting yourself in that kind of danger—” 

“Danger I’m already in,” you cut her off. “Danger I’m about to face.”

"Y/N," Selina hisses out in warning, her eyes flashing dangerously, fangs glinting in the moonlight like a cornered cat.

“What? You think you can stop me?” you scowl as she stands. “I’m done playing by your rules. And if you get in my way, I won’t hesitate to take you down.”

Selina’s eyes narrow, and a scornful smile twists on her lips.

"Prove it."

“What?” you manage to choke out.

Without a word, she launches herself toward you. Her foot whips out in a sharp, hard kick, sending you reeling backward. You hit the small balcony with a heavy thud, the harsh chill of the metal biting into your skin.

A pained grunt escapes you as you scramble to regain your footing, the cold air wrapping around you like a bitter embrace. 

"Prove it, honey," Selina taunts, her voice dripping with contempt as she saunters toward you. She draws her claws with a slow, deliberate motion, the metal gleaming ominously in the dim light. “Show me you’ve got some fight.”

Before you can fully recover, Selina is on you again. You barely evade her claws, landing heavily on the cold metal railings. The chill bites into your feet, but you push off the railing with a powerful leap, ready to re-engage.

Selina's leg sweeps toward you with brutal intent, aiming to knock you off balance. Reacting quickly, you shoot a web to the railing, swinging yourself back into position and avoiding her strike.

You retaliate with a hard kick to her chest. The impact sends Selina sprawling, her body slamming into the ground. She rolls to absorb the blow, springing back up.

Her eyes flash with anger as she leaps from the balcony’s ledge, executing a high-spinning kick. You twist in mid-air, grabbing the edge of the balcony to dodge her attack and pulling yourself back onto solid ground.

“If you try to stop me, if you try to control me, you’ll only push me further away,” you shout, breath coming in sharp bursts. “And I promise, I’ll fight back with everything I’ve got.”

"Then fight!" 

As she swings at you again, you snatch her wrist, twisting it with a sharp, decisive motion. With a sudden push, you force her own claws against her, the cold metal slicing into her shoulder.

Selina hisses in pain, her body recoiling as she shoves you away. The razor edges of her claws carve a deep, angry line across her shoulder, a vivid stripe of crimson blooming against her skin and staining her outfit.

The sight of it catches you off guard, a sharp pang of guilt gripping you as her pain registers. You stand frozen, eyes locked on the streaks of red that disrupt the perfection of her skin. 

“Mom—” your throat tightens. “I’m so—”

Selina starts to smile, a small, almost reluctant grin that slowly grows wider. The sight is so unexpected that it momentarily takes you aback. Then, much to your surprise, she begins to laugh—a rich, genuine sound filled with a mix of relief, amusement, and something deeper you can’t quite place.

“You think this is funny?!” you exclaim, bewildered and on the verge of anger.

Selina looks at you with a bitter smile, her laughter fading. She clutches her bleeding shoulder, her expression softening as she lets out a long sigh.

“You really are my daughter,” she murmurs.

You slowly ease from your defensive stance, confusion furrowing your brows.

“Alright, fine. Point proven,” she continues, voice gentler now. “Trying to cage you would only make you fight harder to claw your way out. Literally. I should know better than anyone how that feels.”

“O… kay?” you mutter, still grappling with the sudden shift in her demeanor. “So, I guess we’ve proven my point. What now?”

“Now,” she says slowly, “we talk. Like sane adults. No more clawing each other’s faces off.”

༻⊰───⋅

An hour later, both of you sit on the edge of the bed, cradling cups of warm jasmine tea from the tea set provided in your room—because, of course, each guest room in the Wayne Manor has one.

The steam rises gently from the cups, warming your fingers and offering a soothing contrast to the cool air. Selina sits across from you, her shoulder wrapped in bandages.

As you sit on the edge of the bed, you fill Selina in on everything that’s happened: the mugging with Morgan, the shooting when you saved her, and the whole "guy in the chair" thing. You’re honest about all the other stuff and the support you’ve received, but you leave out the fact that Tony Stark knows your secret identity, keeping that bit to yourself for now.

Selina stares at her cup of tea, her eyes wide with disbelief. The steady ticking of a clock fills the room, punctuating the silence as she processes what you've just shared.

“So, you’ve been pulling all the strings?” she asks. "Orchestrating all of this?"

You lick your lips, choosing your words carefully. Orchestrating is a strong word. More like everything is falling into place. But that does sound better.

“Something like that,” you say, nodding.

Selina blinks, taking a slow, contemplative sip of her tea. “Trying to rein you in would be a lost cause at this point,” she says, setting her cup down. “So, what exactly is the plan from here?”

You place your cup back onto its saucer with a soft clink, the porcelain’s gentle chime briefly breaking the quiet. “I need to dig deeper into Black Mask’s operations. With Morgan’s help, I’ve got the tech and the intel, but there’s still a lot we don’t know.”

Selina nods, tracing a finger along the rim of her cup, her gaze distant. “Batman will notice. The moment you step out into the city proper, you’re going to be a target. And once you’re on his radar, a contingency plan will be set.”

You stay silent, fiddling with your fingers.

Selina’s gaze hardens. “And that’s what worries me. Bruce is just a man—no powers, no special DNA. But if he sets his mind to something, he can take anyone down. I don’t want you caught in that crossfire.”

You open your mouth, but Selina cuts you off.

“That’s why I’ve had my own contingency plan in case Gotham ever fell apart.”

You glance at her, a thread of dread weaving itself into your thoughts. “Contingency plan?”

Selina nods, her tone heavy. “When I first took you in, my plan was to leave Gotham as soon as possible. But then the Catwoman thing happened, and I got… sentimental. I couldn’t bring myself to leave. Still, I made sure we had a backup.”

“Backup? What do you mean?”

Selina’s expression softens slightly. “I bought an apartment in Metropolis. It was supposed to be a safehouse—somewhere to go if things got too dangerous here. I even set up fake identities for us, just in case we needed to disappear fast.”

“Metropolis?” you ask, your disbelief coming through with a half-smile. “Seriously?”

Selina winces, her expression sours. “Yes, it was meant to be a last resort. If things ever got too out of control, or if our secrets got out, it was our escape plan. I didn’t want us to be hunted down. I wanted us to have a safe place to go.” 

She cracks her knuckles, releasing some of the tension in her hands.

“It’s still an option if things get too messy. But for now, I’ll help you as much as I can here."

༻⊰───⋅

Damian walks up the stairs, his steps muted against the polished wood. In his hand, he clutches a thick blanket he’s taken from the storeroom. The absence of your presence has made his room feel uncomfortably cold, and he refuses to go back to sleep without you there.

As he nears the guest room where you and Selina are deep in conversation, he slows his pace, the soft hum of your voices drifting through the slightly ajar door. 

He knows he should respect your privacy—a lesson he’s learned the hard way after being caught tailing you during patrols more than once. But his curiosity tugs at him. 

He lingers outside the room, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, straining to catch snippets of the conversation drifting through the slightly ajar door.

“That’s why I’ve had my own contingency plan in case Gotham ever fell apart.”

The voices are muffled, but Damian can detect the guilt in Selina’s tone.

“Contingency plan?”

There was a pause.

“When I first took you in, my plan was to leave Gotham as soon as possible. But then the Catwoman thing happened, and I got… sentimental. I couldn’t bring myself to leave. Still, I made sure we had a backup.”

“Backup? What do you mean?”

“I bought an apartment in Metropolis. It was supposed to be a safehouse—somewhere to go if things got too dangerous here. I even set up fake identities for us, just in case we needed to disappear fast.”

Damian freezes.

"Metropolis? Really?"

Selina’s voice carries a note of sorrow. “Yes, it was meant to be a last resort. If things ever got too out of control, or if our secrets got out, it was our escape plan. I didn’t want us to be hunted down. I wanted us to have a safe place to go.” 

Damian remains frozen in place.

Hunt? Who was hunting you down that made Selina think it was necessary to move rather than seek help from his father? Did she not trust Batman's abilities? Did she not trust his?

His grip on the blanket tightens until his knuckles turn white, the rough fabric digging into his palms like a searing brand. A bitter, acrid taste rises in his throat, mingling with the bile of frustration and helplessness.

Had he not proven his devotion enough? Each time he threw himself into the fray, each time he fought with everything he had, did she still doubt his ability to protect you? His every act of defiance, every sacrifice, should have been proof—shouldn’t it? 

Did she think that running away was the answer? Did she believe that abandoning Gotham and leaving him and Bruce out of the fight was a better choice? Her secretive plans, her carefully crafted illusions of safety, were they really a solution?

Panic starts to claw at him, twisting his insides into a tight knot. Or maybe it was because of him? 

Gods, he knew you were too good for him, but was he so inadequate that she thought hiding you away was the only option? The thoughts gnaw at him like ravenous insects, feasting on his insecurities. He can almost feel the raw, hot sting of failure as it eats away at him from within. 

He remembers the first day he was left with Bruce, the way his own father looked at him, the way his brothers looked at him—like something about him was inherently wrong. 

He was the outsider, the boy who had to claw and tear and rip his way into their world, proving his worth to a family he barely understood, a family that barely understood him.

Every mistake he made, every bout of uncontrollable rage, felt like blood on his hands—dark, sticky, and impossible to wash away. Another mark on his name. 

And now, Selina’s confession feels like another blow to his fragile sense of self-worth. If even she doesn’t trust him, if even she thinks he’s not enough to protect you, what does that say about him?

His legs grow numb, his head spins with disorientation. The edges of his vision blur, and each breath comes in shallow, frantic bursts. He stumbles forward, driven by an overwhelming need to escape. His body moves on its own, carrying him towards his room.

Was he what Selina was protecting you from?

The thought strikes him like a physical blow, leaving him reeling. The blood, the violence, the cold efficiency with which he was taught to kill—it all comes rushing back. Damian was trained to be an assassin, raised by the League of Shadows to be a weapon, a tool of destruction.

He feels numb as he stumbles into his room, the familiar surroundings doing little to comfort him. He collapses onto the floor, his legs giving way as he sinks to his knees. Clutching the blanket to his chest, he tries to draw some warmth from its fabric, but it feels like an inadequate shield against the cold, hollow emptiness that gnaws at him from within.

The voices of doubt and self-loathing grow louder, echoing in his mind. Damian doesn't know how long he's been sitting on the floor, trying to control his breathing. Time seems to blur, each second stretching into an eternity. His thoughts spiral, a maelstrom of fear and insecurity, until he hears the soft creak of the door opening.

You stumble in, and he freezes.

Your eyes widen as you take in his disheveled state, the blanket clutched tightly in his hands, his face pale and eyes wide with panic. You rush to his side, dropping to your knees beside him.

"Dames," you whisper. "What happened? Are you okay?"

He tries to speak, but the words catch in his throat. Instead, he shakes his head, unable to meet your gaze. He doesn't deserve to.

You hush gently, raising your hands to his face. "Can I touch you? You’re having a panic attack, baby."

He nods, his breath still coming in shallow gasps. Your hands are warm and steady as you cup his face, your thumbs brushing lightly against his cheeks.

"Look at me," you murmur softly. "Focus on me. Breathe with me."

He struggles to follow your instructions, his eyes locking onto yours. You take a deep breath in, exaggerating the motion, and slowly exhale. He tries to mimic you, his breaths hitching but gradually evening out.

"That's it," you encourage. "In and out, nice and slow. You're doing great."

Damian's grip on the blanket loosens slightly as he continues to focus on your breathing, finding a semblance of calm in the steady rhythm. Your presence anchors him, drawing him away from the chaotic storm in his mind.

"You’re safe," you whisper. "I’m here with you. Just keep breathing."

Gradually, the tension in his body begins to ease. He leans into your touch, his forehead resting against yours. The panic that had gripped him so fiercely started to ebb away, replaced by a fragile sense of security.

He sits there, the silence heavy around him, before his voice breaks through it, rough and raw. "Are you scared of me?" he asks.

The question hangs in the air. He doesn’t mention what he overheard, but the question reveals the depth of his doubt.

You gently brush a strand of hair from his face, your eyes soft with understanding. "Scared of you? Damian, I’m not scared of you."

He clenches his fists, the blanket still wrapped around his hands. "I… I can’t seem to do anything right. It’s like I’m always falling short."

"You’re not falling short," you reassure him softly. "You’re human, and you’re trying your best."

You lean in, your lips pressing against his in a tender, reassuring kiss. As you pull back, your eyes are filled with a deep sorrow.

"Can I ask what brought this on?" you whisper.

Damian takes a deep breath, his gaze shifting to the floor as he gathers his thoughts.

“I overheard part of a conversation between you and Selina,” Damian begins, his voice sharp and dripping with bitter resentment. “She spoke of a contingency plan involving an apartment in Metropolis and expressed concerns about someone hunting you down. If… If she felt the need to protect you from something by leaving, does that mean that I’m not enough? That I’m not capable of keeping you safe?”

His words come out with an edge. He meets your gaze with eyes darkened by hurt and anger. “I wanted to be someone you could rely on, someone who could safeguard you, not merely another liability. But now it seems I’m just… inadequate. As if my dedication and efforts amount to nothing.”

You start to speak, but Damian interrupts. “Who’s hunting you down? What’s going on? Beloved, I’ve let you into my life—please, let me into yours.”

“I know, baby,” you say softly, running a hand through your tousled hair as you try to gather your thoughts. “Alright, okay, I need to tell you about something important. It’s about the spider vigilante, alright? There’s something you need to understand.”

“Again with this?” Damian scoffs, his hurt evident as he starts to rise from the floor. The movement makes you panic, and you grab his arm, pulling him back down.

“Nonono, wait,” you say urgently, trying to steady your voice. “Forget that for now. There’s something else I need to talk about—something personal. It’s about me, and I need you to listen.”

You take a deep breath, trying to keep your voice steady. “Okay. There’s a lot more going on than you realize. I’m investigating Black Mask. He’s got some operation threatening Gotham, and it’s connected to everything that’s been happening lately. I’m trying to figure out what he’s up to, and…”

You pause, struggling to find the right words. “And I might have something to do with that vigilante spider you’ve seen around.”

Damian’s eyes widen in surprise, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. He stands there, his mind racing as he pieces together the implications of your confession.

The increased absences, the unexplained injuries—suddenly, everything starts to make sense. He can’t believe he didn’t see it sooner. How did he not connect the dots? The vigilance, the secrecy—it all makes sense now.

You’re the one being hunted.

Brows threaded together, Damian steps closer, taking your hands in his. His fingers brush over your skin, gently massaging small circles.

“I understand,” he says with a grave tone. “I suspected as much. You don’t need to explain yourself, beloved.”

You smile in relief, misinterpreting his seriousness for support of your dual life as Spidey.

“I was going to tell you,” you say, your tone warm and reassuring. “Just… couldn’t find the right moment.”

Damian’s eyes soften, but a steely resolve glimmers within them as he presses a kiss to your knuckles, his lips lingering.

If the spider is the threat, then it’s the spider he’ll take down.

༻⊰───⋅

Thursday, 7:53 AM - Stark Industries, Gotham City.

Hours later, Damian pulls up to the sleek, glass-fronted Stark Industries building. The structure towers above, its façade a mesmerizing expanse of reflective glass panels that catch and scatter the sunlight, creating a dazzling play of colors. A polished steel entrance welcomes visitors, a bustling crowd already walking in and out.

As the car comes to a smooth stop, he turns to you with a soft, reassuring smile. You reach over, pressing an affectionate kiss to his lips.

His fingers gently brush your cheek as he murmurs against your lips, “Be careful.”

“I will,” you beam, pulling back to meet his eyes. “Promise.”

With one last lingering look, Damian reaches over to unlock the car door. You open it and step out onto the curb, unloading your bags. Damian gives you a final wave as he shifts the car into gear, gliding smoothly down the street and disappearing into the city’s bustling flow.

You clutch your bags tightly in your hands. Exhaustion pulls at your every muscle—patrol, the fight, and the travel have left you feeling like you're on the edge of collapse. After everything that went down last night, you can’t help but feel a bit relieved about the month off from school, courtesy of your internship.

Bags under your eyes betray the sleepless night, while the oversized shirt and sweatpants you’ve borrowed from Damian make you look more like you’ve just rolled out of bed than a professional intern.

Technically, you did roll out of bed, having snagged only about three hours of sleep.

How the hell did Batman and the Robins manage to juggle this kind of life week in and week out? Right now, you feel like death is just a breath away, waiting to claim you.

“Hey, kiddo!” Tony Stark’s voice calls out from a distance, cutting through your fog of exhaustion. “You planning to stand there and stare at the building all day?”

He steps out of his sleek convertible, tossing his keys to the valet with a flick of his wrist that’s more showmanship than necessity. As he strides towards you, his eyes do a quick sweep over your state.

“I offer you the top spot in my program, and this is how you show up?” Tony says, giving you a light shove on the shoulder.

You give a weary sigh and shuffle alongside him into the building. “Good to see you too, Mr. Stark.”

Tony continues with a smirk, “Don’t worry, you’re not the first intern to look like they’ve been dragged through a war zone.”

He leads you into the sleek, glass-walled elevator, pressing the button for the upper floors. The elevator hums softly as it ascends.

You turn to him, trying to muster the energy to keep up with his banter. “So, where’s Morgan?”

“Working on your new tech stuff,” Tony replies. “She’s buried under a mountain of circuits and cables. If you’re lucky, you might get to see her emerge from her tech fortress.”

The elevator doors slide open, revealing the upper floors of Stark Tower. Tony leads you down a pristine, modern hallway where glossy surfaces catch the ambient light, enhancing the tower’s futuristic vibe. He stops in front of a door adorned with a sleek plaque bearing your name.

You gawk at it, your sleep-deprived brain barely processing the sight. “Damn.”

Tony pushes open the door, revealing a spacious, elegantly furnished room. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking view of the cityscape, and the room is equipped with a large, comfortable bed, a sleek desk, and a cozy seating area.

“Welcome to your new digs,” Tony says, gesturing grandly. “I’d say it’s a bit of a step up from your old place. Given your current state, though, I’d suggest you take it easy for now. Rest up, and maybe try to look less like you’ve just walked off a horror set, okay?”

Despite your exhaustion, a small but genuine smile tugs at your lips as you take in the surroundings. “Thanks, Mr. Stark. It’s really… nice.”

With a casual salute, Tony heads towards the door. “Anytime. Now, go on and get some rest. I’ll let Morgan know you’re here. If she manages to claw her way out from under her tech mountain, she might swing by to say hi.”

༻⊰───⋅

A few hours later, you’re well-rested and dressed in a much more presentable outfit: a crisp white button-up shirt with the first few buttons undone, tucked neatly into flared slacks, and paired with white sneakers.

After one last check in the mirror, you give your appearance a satisfied nod, then rub the last remnants of sleep from your eyes. You head out of your room and make your way toward the elevator.

Pressing the button, the elevator doors slide open with a smooth, hydraulic hiss. You step inside and swipe your ID card against the scanner. The elevator's high-tech screen lights up, displaying a seemingly endless list of floor options. You whistle as you scan the array, finally selecting the tech room.

Just as the elevator begins its ascent, a voice suddenly speaks up, making you jump with a startled yelp.

“Good morning!” the voice says cheerfully. “Welcome to Stark Tower. How can I assist you today?”

You quickly recognize the voice as FRIDAY, the building’s AI system. You’ve read about it in papers and seen it on TV before. The holographic interface on the screen activates, displaying a friendly, animated avatar of FRIDAY. The AI greets you with a warm, digital smile and a cheerful tone.

“Oh. Hi!” you respond, a bit thrown off. “I’m, uh, just heading to the tech room.”

“Understood,” FRIDAY replies smoothly. “I’ve already noted your arrival. The tech room is on your left once you exit the elevator. Please let me know if there’s anything else I can help with, sexiest vigilante.”

You blink at the nickname.

“That’s definitely Morgan’s touch,” you mutter.

The elevator doors slide open, revealing a workshop that looks like it’s been hit by a tornado of technology. Equipment is strewn everywhere, and tangled wires snake across the floor. In the center of the chaos, a few remains of a fire extinguisher lie scattered. Morgan is crouched in the middle of the mess, her hair a wild tangle and her face streaked with grease and soot. She’s working intently, completely absorbed in her task despite the disorder around her.

You clear your throat, and Morgan looks up, freezing mid-action. Part of her shirt is charred, and a small flame flickers from one of the devices she’s holding.

“Let’s be honest,” she says, waving a wrench at you, “you’ve seen me in worse shape.”

Shaking your head, you step into the room.

“Looks like you’ve been busy,” you remark, your eyes scanning the cluttered area.

Morgan quickly puts out the fire and brushes a few stray wires out of her path before standing up and stretching with a groan. “You wouldn’t believe the morning I’ve had. Between the latest tech malfunction and the mini-explosion, it’s been one chaotic circus.”

“Should I even ask what set off the explosion?”

Morgan chuckles dryly, wiping her hands on a grease-stained rag. “Oh, just a little experiment gone wrong. Nothing major. Just some excitement to kick off the day.” She steps over to you, grabs a case from a nearby workbench, and hands it to you with a grin.

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued, as you take the case from her. With a click, you open it to reveal a pair of sleek, high-tech glasses.

Morgan plucks them from the case and holds them up with a grin. “For you. They’re packed with all sorts of features—real-time data, targeting assistance, and even advanced communication options. Basically, they’re your new best friend in the field.”

You slip the glasses on, adjusting them to fit comfortably. The world immediately sharpens, and a translucent display overlays your vision, showing various readouts and notifications. You gasp in awe, your amazement reflected in Morgan’s fond smile as she watches your reaction.

She then moves to grab another device—a metal-looking belt that covers your entire stomach. At its center is a spider emblem. She clasps the belt around your waist and gives it a reassuring pat.

“Tell it to go on,” Morgan instructs.

Confused, you turn to her. “Huh?”

“Just think of a suit wrapping around you and command it to do so.”

You give her a skeptical look but decide to give it a try. Closing your eyes for a moment, you focus on the idea of your suit materializing.

“Activate?”

Immediately, you feel a tingling sensation as nanoparticles begin to stream from the belt, enveloping your body. The sensation is oddly comforting, like being wrapped in a warm, secure embrace. The suit materializes in shimmering panels, stretching and shaping itself around your form. The glasses transform into a sleek helmet, molding to fit your head with a satisfying click.

The entire process takes mere seconds, and when you open your eyes, you’re fully suited up. 

The suit fits perfectly. The color is a deep, vibrant red that covers the majority of the suit. Black accents trace intricate web patterns that start from the center of your chest and radiate outwards.

The chest emblem is a bold, black spider, its legs extending across your torso and seamlessly merging with the web patterns. The helmet, now a sleek, black mask with a smooth, glossy finish, features white eye lenses that glow faintly. The same high-tech display you saw in your glasses is now visible in the helmet.

Morgan grins, clearly pleased with the result. “Not too shabby, right?"

"What. The. Fuck."

 ༻⊰───⋅

[batmanlovesnirvana]

Chapter one | echoes of the past.

masterlist

universe : reeves, the batman 2022.

pairing : battinson!bruce wayne x fem!oc.

words : +6k.

synopsis : “In the dark heart of Gotham City, Dr. Maryam Halimi, a medical examiner of now 2 years, navigates a life steeped in tragedy and secrets. Her routine of grim autopsies is disrupted when a notorious serial killer strikes, plunging the city into chaos. As bodies mount, Maryam’s world intersects with the enigmatic Batman, whose presence both unsettles and fascinates her. Struggling with her growing feelings for the vigilante and the mounting dangers of her work, Maryam must unravel a web of deceit and face her deepest fears. In a city where trust is a rare commodity, survival hinges on deciphering the truth behind the murders and the shadowy figure who haunts her nights.”

author’s note : I’ve had this story in my drafts for three years. It’s also my first time posting a fic, so please keep in mind that English isn’t my first language. I’ve had this idea for longer than I can remember, but I’m really excited to finally share it. Please don’t hesitate to leave comments or anonymous asks—I love reading them!

dedications : maryam is dedicated to my fellow avoidant attachment girlies 🫡 Seriously though, this chapter is dedicated to a few incredible authors who inspired and encouraged me to share this fic. Their work is truly amazing, and I highly recommend checking out their fics. Your support and creativity have been a driving force for me—thank you! @punchdrunkdoc @devilfic @hollandorks @zipperzoo @ellesthots @gilverrwrites @mostly-imagines and anyone I might have forgotten <3

cw : bruce is emotionally constipated, 18+, thriller, medical procedures, angst, mental health issues, noire, canon-typical violence, POV alternating, gritty, horror, illness, slow burn, action, fluff, mutual pining, forced proximity, crime families, comedy, crime, fighting ect… read at your own risk !

          THE CLOCK on the wall ticked steadily toward 10 PM, its sound a quiet metronome in the stillness of the hospital morgue. 

The sterile, cold room, where life was reduced to clinical examination, felt even more somber tonight. 

Inside, Dr. Maryam Halimi sat at her desk, surrounded by the stark white walls and stainless steel instruments, her head bent over a pale dead body. 

Her light brown hair, pulled into a French twist beneath a whimsical unicorn scrub cap, had a soft caramel sheen that complemented her naturally tanned skin—almost bronze. Beneath the harsh fluorescent lights of the morgue, her almond-shaped hazel eyes shifted from a greenish tint to a gentle golden, giving a sharp contrast to her sun-kissed complexion. Her nose, straight with a slight, almost invisible bump, added a touch of character to her otherwise sharp, sculpted features.

Her high cheekbones framed a face that was both delicate and strong, her skin dotted with beauty marks like tiny constellations—under her eyes, just above her full lips, and trailing softly along her neck. Each mark was a reminder that her beauty was real, lived-in, and perfectly imperfect. She favored a classic red lipstick that added a pop of color to her naturally plump lips, making her shy smile all the more captivating.

Her eyebrows were gracefully arched, framing her eyes with a subtlety that highlighted their expressiveness. Long, dark lashes curled naturally, casting soft shadows over her cheeks.

Dr. Halimi was a stunning woman, someone possessing an undeniable and timeless beauty that could turn heads with a single glance. Yet, hers was also the kind of beauty that grew more striking the longer you looked, drawing you in with its quiet elegance and understated grace. It was the type of allure that left a lasting impression, a beauty that was both captivating and comforting in its subtlety.

She had just finished examining the latest tragic case: Fiona Harrinson.

A pale young girl of only nineteen, with fiery red hair and blue eyes that had turned a disquieting red—a common occurrence in deaths involving certain substances. A life that had barely begun, now extinguished by the scourge of "Drops," a drug as ubiquitous in Gotham as the rain. Fiona, like so many others, had sought solace in the chemical embrace of drugs, a brief escape from the harsh realities of living on the streets without support. 

With a heavy sigh, Maryam gently covered the girl's lifeless face, a ritual she never grew accustomed to, no matter how many times she performed it.

Each time, it felt like closing a chapter on a life story that ended too soon, and the sadness never fully dissipated. Fiona had no family to notify, no one to mourn her passing—just another casualty of Gotham's underworld, another soul lost in the shadows.

As Maryam turned to her desk, ready to tackle the inevitable paperwork, the door creaked open. Tamara Nguyen, known affectionately as Tammy, breezed in with her usual air of lateness and cheer, two steaming cups of coffee in hand.

Tammy was petite, with a delicate frame that belied her boundless energy. Her glossy black hair, cut into a sleek bob, framed a face that was all wide, warm brown eyes and a ready smile. She had a habit of wearing bright, colorful scrubs that matched her lively personality, reminding Maryam of her sister Rania.

Tam’s presence was like a burst of sunshine in the often somber atmosphere of the morgue, and despite her frequent tardiness, she had a way of making everything feel just a little bit lighter.

"Heeyyy, sorry I'm late, as always," Tammy said with a sheepish grin. "But I brought coffee!"

Maryam didn't look up immediately, her pen still dancing across the forms. "It's okay, Tammy," she replied, her voice tinged with a teasing warmth. Finally, she glanced up, a playful smile curving her lips. "I'm used to it."

She accepted the coffee, savoring the warmth as it flowed down her throat, offering a brief moment of comfort. Tammy leaned against the desk, peering curiously at the covered body on the examination table.

"So, what do we have?" Tammy asked, her eyes flicking between Maryam and the still form under the sheet.

Maryam sighed, setting her coffee down next to the papers, wincing as a few drops stained the corner of the form. She rubbed her temples, eyes closed briefly in weariness. "Another Drop case, as usual," she said, her voice tinged with frustration. Her hands dropped to her lap, her hazel eyes now open and glinting with a mix of concern and anger. "It's getting out of hand. Too many bodies, too many kids, dead because of those fucking drugs! If it's not Drops, it's some other damn substance. And nobody's listening! I tried talking to Commissioner Savage and the cops—"

Tammy interrupted, her voice soft but resigned. "As if the cops would listen. They're all bought up by you-know-who," she muttered, her breath fogging up her coffee cup.

Maryam leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms, rolling her eyes. "Yes, I know, Tam," she said, exasperation seeping into her tone. "But I thought they'd at least try to do something. For God's sake, it's mostly kids dying from this stuff!" She threw her hands up in frustration, her voice rising slightly at the end.

A tense silence fell over the room, the only sound the quiet hum of the air conditioning. The weight of the city's problems felt like an invisible fog, hanging thickly between them. 

Tammy, trying to lighten the mood, ventured with a teasing smile, "Maybe you should ask Gotham's vigilante. He might help you."

Maryam snorted, the tension breaking as she threw a pen at Tammy, who dodged it with a laugh. "Ha ha, very funny," Maryam said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'll just pop over to his cave and have a nice little chat. Maybe he'll even offer me some bat-themed snacks."

Tammy chuckled, shaking her head. "You never know. He might surprise you."

Maryam stretched her legs and neck, sighing tiredly for what felt like the tenth time that day. She picked up her pen, refocusing on the paperwork in front of her. "Can you please put her in the fridge?" she asked, her voice softening. "I'm going to finish her paperwork. She has no family, no one to cover funeral expenses or claim the body, so I'll have to turn it over to a funeral home."

Tammy nodded, taking a final sip of her coffee before setting the empty cup on the desk. She moved to the body, her demeanor professional as she prepared to transfer Fiona to the cold storage. "Where did they find her?" she asked, her voice gentle.

"Under the Gotham Gate Bridge," Maryam replied, quickly adding, "Some kid going trick-or-treating found her and reported it to the police."

Tammy made an "oh" with her mouth, her face a picture of quiet sympathy. "Poor kid," she murmured, shaking her head as she pushed the rolling table away.

The television in the corner of the room played the nightly news on GC-1. The anchor's voice was a constant, soothing drone, providing background noise to their grim work. "It is Halloween night in Gotham," the anchor announced cheerfully. "Tourists are flocking to the city from all over the world to experience our unique festivities. But tonight also marks the anniversary of a tragic event in Gotham's history..."

The mention of the Waynes caught Maryam's attention. She glanced at the TV and turned up the volume, her eyes narrowing as images of Thomas and Martha Wayne appeared on the screen. The anchor's voice carried a somber tone, narrating the unfolding story.

"This week, we remember the tragic deaths of Thomas and Martha Wayne, beloved billionaires and philanthropists, who were brutally murdered in front of their young son, Bruce Wayne. The Waynes were Gotham's first family, revered pillars of our community known for their immense generosity and tireless philanthropy. Their loss left a profound impact on the city, and their memory still resonates deeply with many. Their son, Bruce, now a reclusive billionaire, rarely leaves the confines of his family estate. The Waynes' legacy remains a significant chapter in Gotham's history..."

The camera lingered on old photos of the Wayne’s: Thomas, with his charismatic smile; Martha, radiant and elegant; and a young Bruce, holding his mother's hand. Maryam watched, transfixed, the light from the TV reflecting in her hazel eyes. Their family had always seemed like royalty to the people of Gotham—untouchable, revered. Their legacy was intertwined with the city's very foundation, their wealth and influence reaching every corner of Gotham.

Despite her disdain for the wealthy—or any billionaire, for that matter—Maryam couldn't forget Bruce Wayne.

Twenty years ago, every Thursday afternoon, she would take the subway to fetch food for her family. It was during these trips that she would catch glimpses of Bruce Wayne and his mother. Mrs. Wayne, with her striking blue eyes that mirrored her son's, would sit with a book in one hand, her other gently holding her son’s. Bruce, just a small boy back then, would clutch a tiny knight figurine, his face often illuminated by a shy, endearing smile. 

A security officer stood vigil a few meters away, his watchful gaze scanning the crowd with an intensity that always made Maryam feel uneasy.

Maryam, in her torn tights that clung to her slender legs and a light brown jacket that offered little solace against Gotham’s relentless chill, would sit nervously in the corner, her eyes fixed on the Wayne family.

Sometimes, Bruce would catch her gaze and offer a small, shy smile, maybe even a brave little wave. 

In those fleeting moments, Maryam's heart would race, and she would quickly look away, embarrassed by her uninvited curiosity.

This silent routine unfolded every Thursday until that fateful week. 

On that day, Bruce accidentally left his knight figurine behind. Maryam, noticing the abandoned toy on the seat, picked it up. It was clearly a cherished possession, expensive and well-loved. She resolved to return it to him the next week, gathering her courage to finally speak to him. 

But that meeting never came.

Indeed, the next day, the Waynes were tragically and brutally murdered.

Maryam remembered that night vividly. She was watching her favorite cartoon on the small TV in her aunt Meysa's cramped living room. Bruce’s figurine sat beside her, gleaming under the TV’s flickering light. Her head in her hands, she straightened up when the news interrupted her show.

“We regret to inform you that at 10:47 PM, Thomas and Martha Wayne were shot and killed. They were leaving the Monarch Theater when they were attacked. Thomas and Martha died at the scene. Their son, Bruce Wayne, witnessed the tragedy. The GCPD has yet to apprehend the alleged killer.”

Maryam’s aunt, Meysa, with her short bob of curly jet-black hair always tied in a slick bun, olive skin, and beauty marks, was also transfixed, frowning and barely understanding.

"What did he say?" she asked in Arabic.

"They died. They were killed," Maryam translated, mimicking a gun with her hand, whispering, "Pooh, pooh."

"Astaghfirullah, Maryam! Don’t do that!" Meysa exclaimed, gently slapping her hand away. Maryam frowned, her eyes returning to the TV.

"The kid, what is his name, I forgot—" Meysa started.

"Bruce," Maryam corrected.

"Yes, yes, Bryce—" Meysa continued, mispronouncing the name.

"It’s Bruce, not Bryce," Maryam corrected again, a slight smile tugging at her lips despite the gravity of the situation.

"Yes, is he dead too?" Meysa asked, her brows furrowing with concern.

"No. They say he's the only survivor. He watched them being killed," Maryam explained, her little fingers nervously fidgeting with the knight figurine.

"Lotf, lotf!" Aunt Meysa exclaimed, her hands flying to her mouth, covering it with her apron in horror.

"I feel bad for him," Maryam murmured, the figurine still a comforting presence in her hands.

"Don’t be. It is God's will. Everything is written, habibti," Meysa said after a moment of silence, the TV casting a flickering glow over them. She began gathering her things, preparing to leave for work. "Besides, he is still blessed with all his money and houses. He is not homeless and will have food on his table tonight."

At this, Maryam’s stomach grumbled loudly. Meysa raised an eyebrow, adding gently but firmly, "Unlike us." Maryam scoffed, feeling the weight of their reality pressing down on her.

"Don’t scoff at me, Mimi. Make sure your sisters are still asleep. I'm going to work," Meysa instructed.

She didn’t respond, clutching Bruce's figurine tightly as she listened to the door click shut behind her aunt, her gaze fixed on the TV as it continued its somber report.

Maryam shook her head, trying to dispel the flood of memories that threatened to overwhelm her. 

She refocused on her stack of papers, but before she could even continue, her phone buzzed, Gordon’s name flashing on the screen. With a sigh and a quick tap on the green button,  she answered and switched it to speaker.

“Hey, Jamie. What’s up?” she asked tiredly, trying to sound casual.

“Hey, Mar.” Gordon’s voice was clipped, urgent. “We need you at the Mayor’s house right now. Something’s happened. Police are on their way.” Then reluctantly adding, voice lowering “The Mayor’s wife called. Her husband was murdered.”

Maryam's breath caught in her throat for a split second, but she quickly steadied herself. “Okay, I’m on my way.” she said, not needing any more details.

“Thanks, Mar. I’ll see you soon.” Gordon hung up, his thanks echoed in her ear.

Maryam glanced at her phone, her mind racing with worry, primarily about George, the mayor’s son. Was he safe? Had he been hurt—or worse, killed? Shaking her head to dispel the gnawing anxiety, she abruptly stood up, her chair rolling backward with a loud squeak. Gathering the stacks of papers with determined urgency, she made her way to the room where the bodies were kept. As she entered, she found Tammy scrubbing the tools used for the autopsy, her movements methodical and focused. 

“Gordon needs me,” Maryam announced, her voice clipped with urgency. “I’ve done most of the paperwork. Can you finish up? It’s an emergency.”

Tammy looked up, eyes widening “No problem! Have fun!”

Despite the severity of the situation, Maryam snorted, “Yeah, I’ll be sure to send you a postcard from the crime scene.”

As Maryam stripped off her black scrubs and the scrub cap adorned with tiny unicorns, she quickly dressed in her civilian clothes. Despite the rush, her French twist updo remained perfectly styled. She stumbled through the empty hospital corridors in her black high-heeled boots, the click-clack of her heels echoing through the space as she balanced her medical kit and car keys.

The cold Gotham air enveloped her as she made her way to the parking lot. Just as she was about to reach her car, someone grabbed her arm, abruptly stopping her. Instinctively, her eyebrows furrowed in annoyance, her expression already hardening into a glare. "What—"

“Where are you going like that, Miriam?” The voice was smooth, too smooth, belonging to none other than Dr. Thomas Elliot, the hospital’s head of neurology renowned for his surgical skills and handsome features, stood before her, his blonde hair meticulously combed back. His eyes, brown almost black eyes twinkled as he gave her a once-over gleamed with something unsettling, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

Maryam huffed, yanking her arm back and adjusting her bag on her shoulder. “To a crime scene, Dr. Elliot.” Her tone was cold, her eyes narrowing. “And it’s Maryam, not Miriam.”

Dr. Elliot’s smirk widened, undeterred by her frosty demeanor. “Come on, I was just teasing, you know that,” he said smoothly. “And I’ve told you many times, call me Tommy.”

Maryam resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She didn’t particularly like him, despite his charms that seemed to win over everyone else at the hospital. He was a gifted surgeon, undeniably handsome, and came from a wealthy family with the charm to match. 

To many, he was the perfect man. But to Maryam, there was something deeply unsettling about him. Her sixth sense always cast an alarm whenever he was near, as if he was hiding something dark behind that charming facade.

At first, she had thought she was just being overly cautious. Dr. Elliot had seemed too nice, the perfect doctor who always listened to his patients. But there was a strange sense of superiority in him, a subtle way he diminished others just because he could. He used his charm and wit to manipulate people, often for personal gain—most often, it seemed, for sex. 

Maryam had seen the way he looked at people, as if they were puzzles to be solved or pieces on a chessboard to be maneuvered.

But what disturbed Maryam the most was his behavior when he had to deliver bad news to a patient’s family. He would play the role of the empathetic surgeon flawlessly, but as soon as he turned his back to the grieving family, a sardonic smile would spread across his face. It wasn’t a one-time thing; it happened too many times for her to ignore. Each time she witnessed it, it chilled her to the bone.

To the rest of the world, Dr. Elliot was friendly and outgoing, but to Maryam, it all felt like a carefully constructed ruse. 

Maybe she was too observant, too wary, or even too avoidant of people. Dr. Elliot’s influence at the hospital was undeniable, and she knew that voicing her concerns could lead to serious repercussions. So, she tried to be civil, keeping her distance as much as possible. But Dr. Elliot was relentless, always flirting, always trying to get under her skin, as if he enjoyed watching her squirm under his attention. 

“You look stressed, Maryam. Are you sure you’re up for this?” he asked, stepping closer, his voice oozing with false concern.

Maryam instinctively took a step back, determined to maintain her distance. “I’m fine, thank you. I deal with stress by actually doing my job.”

Dr. Elliot chuckled, clearly amused by her sarcasm. “You’re a tough one, aren’t you? I like that.”

Maryam gave him a tight-lipped smile, her patience wearing thin. “I’m glad you’re entertained, Dr. Elliot. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

“Tommy,” he corrected again, moving into her space again, his smirk never fading. “Like I said, you don’t have to be so formal. We’re colleagues, after all.”

Maryam sidestepped him, her eyes flashing with irritation. “And as colleagues, I’m sure you understand the importance of professionalism. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really have to go.”

As she turned on her heel and made a beeline for her car, she could feel his gaze lingering on her, a heavy weight that made her skin crawl. There was something unsettling about Dr. Elliot, something that set off alarm bells deep in her subconscious. He was too perfect, too polished, his charm a thin veneer over something far more sinister. 

He was a man who thrived on control, on bending others to his will, and his interest in her felt like a noose slowly tightening around her neck. But Maryam was not one to be easily swayed or intimidated. She had survived far worse than the likes of Thomas Elliot, and she had no intention of becoming another one of his conquests.

Sliding into the driver’s seat and tossing her tool bag onto the passenger side, Maryam took a deep breath, pushing away the lingering unease. As she turned the key in the ignition, she muttered, "Come on, you rusty old piece of junk, don’t fail me now." The engine sputtered to life with a reluctant growl. She exhaled deeply, her grip on the steering wheel tightening as she prepared to face the long road ahead.

The night was only beginning, a long road ahead and the crime scene awaited, and she couldn’t afford to let anyone—or anything—distract her from her duty.

────୨ৎ────

          Speeding through the streets, a cigarette dangling from her perfectly red-coated lips, Maryam navigated Gotham's chaos with a focused intensity. The radio blared in the background, blending with the city's constant hum as she wove through the traffic.

When she found herself stuck behind a slow-moving car, frustration bubbled up inside her. The driver behind her began shouting, their impatience palpable. Maryam rolled down her window, the cigarette hanging precariously from her lips, and shouted back, “What do you want me to do, run over his car, you imbecile?” Her hands flailed dramatically, and she rolled her eyes with an exasperated sigh.

Mixing Arabic curses, she added, “Yallah, move it, you moron! What’s wrong with you, huh?”

As the traffic finally cleared, Maryam sped off, her car swerving slightly as she took another drag from her cigarette. 

Maryam arrived at the mayor's residence twenty-five minutes later, her patience frayed. Skidding to a halt outside the mayor’s grandiose home, she yanked open her car door and grabbed her ID card from the glove compartment. The harsh light from Gotham’s streetlamps stretched long, distorted shadows across the steps.

As she approached, a police officer moved to direct her away, but Maryam swiftly flashed her credentials and snapped, “I’m the Medical Examiner, not some nosy neighbor. Let me in.”

The officer huffed in exasperation but, recognizing her credentials, waved her through. Maryam slammed the car door behind her, crushing the cigarette under her heel and shouldering her kit with a determined stride.  As she looked up, she saw the Bat-Signal cutting through the Gotham night sky.

It casted a sinister glow across the city, like a dark omen etched into the heavens. Its stark, angular shape pierced through the fog and mist, its light a harsh beacon against the oppressive darkness. To the city's criminals, it was less a symbol of hope and more a harbinger of dread—a relentless reminder that their actions had consequences. It wasn’t just a call for help; it was an unyielding warning, a fearsome promise that retribution was on its way. 

Inside, the cacophony of the crime scene unfolded like a dissonant symphony: the hum of forensic equipment, the subdued murmur of conversation, and the occasional clatter of equipment.

Officer Martinez, ever the beacon of positivity amid the chaos—a trait that reminded Maryam of her cheerful assistant, Tammy—spotted her and made his way over, his face etched with concern. "Hey, Mar... Thanks for coming so quickly. It's a mess in there” he looked around, eyebrows furrowed, and I think we're all in for a long night." He added with a sight.

Maryam, her cheeks flushed with the urgency of the situation, gave him a terse nod. "No problem, Lucas. I’ll handle it from here.” A small pause, “What’s the rundown?"

Martinez scratched his head, his usual cheerfulness dimmed by the gravity of the scene. "So, the mayor's dead. Murdered. Found by his wife and kid. You’ll see the worst of it in the study. Bullock’s up there, but you know how he is—probably got a cigar stuck in his mouth and a scowl on his face."

Maryam managed a wry smile. "Of course he does. Thanks for the heads-up."

As Martinez led her through the throngs of officers and past the forensic team in their immaculate white suits, Maryam felt a knot of unease tighten in her chest. The crime scene was a carefully orchestrated mess: a tangle of evidence, forensic cameras flashing intermittently, and the low murmur of detectives piecing together the nightmare.

Bullock was leaning against the wall outside the study, puffing away on a cigar that left a trail of acrid smoke swirling in the air. His eyes were tired but sharp as they tracked Maryam’s approach.

"Dr. Halimi," Bullock greeted gruffly, his voice a gravelly rumble. "Glad you’re here. We could use a fresh set of eyes on this mess."

Maryam flashed him a sardonic grin as she stepped past him. "Just what I needed after a long day—a front-row seat to Gotham’s newest tragedy. You know me, always up for a good dose of horror."

Bullock smirked, shaking his head. "Always with the sass and jokes. You’d think by now you’d be used to it."

Maryam shrugged, her gaze drifting towards the study’s entrance. "If you’re not laughing, you’re crying, right?"

As she stepped into the study, the scene that greeted her was both grotesque and meticulously staged : Mayor Don Mitchell Jr. lay sprawled across a chair in his study, his body arranged in a macabre tableau. His head, mummified in duct tape, was covered in blood, and a chilling message in red read: “NO MORE LIES.” His thumb was severed, blood pooling around him, making the scene all the more haunting.

Maryam’s eyes swept over the room, taking in every detail—the way the blood spattered across the luxurious carpet, the silent witnesses of scattered papers, and the grim determination of the forensic team working to document every inch. 

She took a deep breath, pushing past her own discomfort to focus on the task at hand.

She approached the body with her medical kit, carefully extracting her tools: a pair of gloves, a scalpel, and a digital camera. The forensic team was busy capturing every angle, but Maryam’s job was to verify and document the specifics of the body’s condition.

She began by photographing the scene. The camera’s flash briefly illuminated the macabre scene: the mayor’s head was encased in duct tape, with the stark message "NO MORE LIES" scrawled across his mouth in red. The severed thumb, a grotesque testament to the brutality of the crime, was captured from multiple angles. Each image was carefully framed to preserve every detail, ensuring that nothing was lost in the documentation process.

Moving on, Maryam retrieved a ruler from her kit. She measured the depth and extent of the wounds with deliberate accuracy, noting the size of the blood pool around the mayor’s mouth, partly hidden by the duct tape. Her observations were meticulously recorded, providing a detailed account of the injuries that would be crucial for understanding the nature of the attack and the victim’s final moments.

Carefully, Maryam began collecting evidence. She bagged a bit of the strips of duct tape used to mummify the mayor’s head, handling them with gloved hands to avoid contamination. Fragments of the mayor’s clothing, stained with blood, were also placed into evidence bags. Each item was labeled and sealed, ensuring that potential evidence was preserved for further forensic analysis.

She then took a moment to examine the scene itself.

Making mental notes of the body’s positioning, the state of the room, and any items that might offer additional context. Her keen hazel eyes swept over the room, noting the arrangement of furniture and any disturbances. This meticulous observation was crucial for piecing together the circumstances surrounding the crime.

Finally, Maryam used a flashlight to explore less obvious areas of the room. She searched under furniture and in corners, her light revealing potential clues that might have been overlooked. Every corner was inspected with care, her flashlight beam dancing over surfaces as she sought out any detail that could shed more light on the murder.

Maryam’s concentration remained intense, her movements precise and deliberate. 

Just as she finished documenting the initial findings, she heard Gordon’s authoritative voice cutting through the room. She paused, her heart quickening as she prepared to brief him on what she had uncovered.

This was indeed going to be a very long night.

────୨ৎ────

      The oppressive atmosphere inside the mayor’s townhouse contrasted sharply with the vibrant city outside. 

This stifling tension only deepened with the arrival of the Bat—accompanied by Commissioner Gordon. The cops stationed at the entrance stared at him with a mix of confusion and disbelief, clearly unsettled by the sight of a man dressed in a bat-themed costume at a crime scene.

But Bruce Wayne paid them no mind, his focus solely on following Gordon through the house. The heavy thud of his boots on the polished wooden floors echoed through the lavishly decorated rooms, each step resonating with a sense of foreboding that seemed to deepen the already heavy air.

The room buzzed with murmured conversations, a chaotic blend of investigators piecing together the grim puzzle

Maryam, her light brown hair neatly secured in her signature French updo, and her hazel eyes sharp and focused, was still meticulously examining the body when Lieutenant James Gordon entered, followed closely by the imposing figure of Gotham's vigilante.

As they stepped into the room, the young officer guarding the door hesitated, his hand instinctively moving to block their path.

“Whoa-whoa-whoa—police action,” he stammered, his voice wavering with tension as he looked up at the vigilante imposing figure.

“He’s right, What the heck is he doing here, Jim?” Bullock grumbled, his irritation evident as he pushed himself off the wall. He shifted to a defensive stance, eyeing the Bat with barely concealed hostility. The sight of the vigilante only served to heighten the tension in the already fraught room.

Batman’s gaze fell upon the officer’s hand with a cold, silent warning. Gordon quickly intervened, his voice steady and authoritative.

“He’s with me, Officers,” Gordon said firmly.

Officer Martinez, visibly dismayed, reluctantly stepped aside, muttering under his breath, “...goddamn freak…”

Bullock shook his head in dismay, hands on his hips, the cigar still dangling from his mouth.

Inside, the room was permeated with the acrid scent of blood and the remnants of a Halloween celebration gone tragically awry. 

As investigators turned to look, Maryam, briefly distracted, spun around to greet Gordon. She nearly bumped into the imposing figure of the vigilante, whose presence felt both overwhelming and intense. In that split second, their eyes locked—her hazel meeting his dark, unreadable blue. Her eyes widened in surprise, while his remained inscrutable. Instinctively, Batman reached out, steadying her with a firm grip on her forearms. 

Maryam quickly stepped back, her fingers brushing against her throat as she composed herself. She cleared her throat and resumed her professional demeanor, though the encounter had left her slightly flustered.

Gordon, noticing the tension, broke the silence. “What do we know?” he asked, addressing the lead detective.

The lead detective, still rattled, glanced at Maryam for her initial findings. She nodded, stepping forward with her report. “The mayor suffered blunt-force trauma with multiple lacerations to the head,” Maryam began, her voice steady. “The fatal blow seems to have been from a heavy object. Most of the blood is from a deep wound in the hand.”

Gordon frowned, processing the information. “All this blood’s from his hand?”

Maryam nodded. “Yes. The thumb was severed postmortem, possibly as a trophy,” she explained, her tone clinical.

Batman, who had been silent, interjected. “He was alive when it was cut off,” he said, his voice low and gravely. He leaned closer to the body, his eyes narrowing as he pointed out a detail. “Ecchymosis around the wound... the bruising indicates he was still alive.”

The room fell silent as everyone processed the grim revelation. Maryam’s gaze met Batman’s again, a shared understanding passing between them. There was something about his presence—dark, intense, yet oddly reassuring—that intrigued her.

Gordon turned to the lead detective, seeking more information. “Security detail downstairs says the family was out trick-or-treating. The mayor was up here alone. Killer came through the skylight,” the detective explained, pointing upwards.

Batman’s attention was drawn to a small, fresh gash in the wooden floor—a detail overlooked by others. He knelt to examine it closely, his movements deliberate and precise. As he did, a photographer noticed and hurriedly snapped a shot, having missed the detail himself.

Gordon, observing the interaction, shifted gears. “There was a card,” he prompted, holding out an envelope.

The detective handed it over, and Gordon pulled out a Halloween-themed card. It featured a creepy skeleton behind a wide-eyed owl, tapping its shoulder. Gordon opened the card and read aloud the unsettling message: “What does a liar do when he’s dead?”

Inside, strange symbols were scrawled. Gordon unfolded another sheet from the envelope, revealing a cipher. “There’s a cipher too... Any of this... mean anything to you...?” he asked, turning to Batman, whose expression remained inscrutable.

Before Batman could respond, the door swung open again, and Commissioner Pete Savage stormed in. His face was a mixture of disbelief and frustration.

“I asked him to come, Pete,” Gordon said, attempting to defuse the situation.

“This is a crime scene—it’s Mitchell, for Chrissakes—I got press downstairs—!” Savage’s voice rose, barely containing his anger. “You know I cut you a lotta slack, Jim, ‘cuz we got history, but this is way over the line...!”

Gordon handed Savage the card, who read it with growing horror. When Savage saw the envelope addressed to “The Batman,” his expression darkened with suspicion.

“Wait—he’s involved in this—?” Savage demanded, his voice edged with accusation.

Gordon shook his head, maintaining a calm facade. “No, no—he’s not involved—”

Savage’s frustration was palpable. “How do you know? He’s a goddamn vigilante—he could be a suspect! What are you doing to me—he used to be my partner!”

As the argument escalated, Maryam, sensing the tension, decided it was time to leave. 

She pulled off her gloves, tossing them into a nearby bin. Her fingers trembled slightly as she made her way out of the room, her steps quickening as she sought to escape the stifling atmosphere.

In the hallway, Maryam paused, gathering herself before heading toward a nearby room where she knew Elliott, the mayor’s young son, was being questioned. The memories of seeing the little boy during her visits to her aunt’s house surfaced—Meysa had often babysat George, and Mar had developed a fondness for the quiet, sweet child.

As she approached the room, the door was slightly ajar, revealing George sitting on the bed, a detective trying to ask the usual questions to no avail. His small frame trembling with silent sobs.

Without hesitation, Maryam entered, and the boy’s eyes, red and swollen from crying, lit up with recognition. He bolted from the bed, running into her open arms. The doctor knelt, enveloping him in a protective embrace, her hand soothingly stroking his back.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m here,” she whispered, her voice a soothing balm. “You’re safe now.”

George buried his face in her neck, his small body shaking with suppressed sobs. “Maryam,” he choked out, “I’m so scared. I saw… I saw him…”

Maryam’s heart tightened, and she held him closer, her voice soft and comforting. “I know, sweetheart. I know. It’s all so scary right now, but you’re safe now, okay? You’re a brave boy, and everything’s going to be okay.”

He pulled back slightly, looking up at her with tear-filled eyes. “Why did this happen? Why did they hurt him?” he asked, his voice quivering.

Maryam gently wiped the tears from his cheeks, her expression pained but resolute. “I don’t know,” she said softly, her voice tinged with sadness. “But just know that you’re not alone, okay ? There are people who care about you and will protect you. I promise.”

As she spoke, Batman and Gordon made their way down the dimly lit hallway leading to the boy's room. Their faces were shrouded in shadow, the limited light casting long, ominous silhouettes on the walls.

Batman’s gaze fell upon the tender scene before him, and for a moment, his usually stern expression softened. A flicker of something—perhaps empathy, perhaps sorrow—crossed his face as he observed the small, traumatized boy clinging to Maryam.

The sight stirred something deep within him, evoking a haunting reminder of a night 20 years ago.

Gordon, noticing Batman’s reaction, spoke quietly. “We really need to go man,” he murmured, a subtle nudge back to the task at hand.

Turning to leave, Batman couldn’t shake the image of the boy’s tear-streaked face and Maryam’s comforting embrace… A poignant reminder of the innocence lost in the shadows of Gotham’s darkness.

Tu’burni (تقبرني) : Literally meaning, “bury me”. it means you hope that they put you in the ground before them because you couldn’t bear living without them.

[arkanis-englishupdates]

DOCUMENT TRANSLATION

Hello everybody, Admin 🦇 here!

In this post we will translate all the documents we have so far. When more documents are discovered, we will bring the part 2 of this post.

DOCUMENT 1 — [?????] Message.

"Blessed time when the factory arrived in Valigma, they told me. I hate this affirmation, I hate everything, I hate. Bastard, someone save me for the love of all that is most sacred! Help me!!!"

[ "Blessed time" can also be translated to "Worst time" because "Bendita hora" is a phrase with a negative tone, not positive.]

["Someone save me for the love of all that is most sacred!" can also be translated as "Someone save me for the God's sake!". Both have practically the same meaning.]

DOCUMENT 2 — Establishment License Permit.

VALIGMA

ESTABLISHMENT LICENSE PERMIT

EXERCISE NUMBER

2 11

GRANTED TO

NAME: Nascimento Bira.

ADDRESS: Bar de Seu Bira.

Registered in the CMC. Under No. 21C

WITH THE FOLLOWING MAIN ACTIVITY

Bar.

SECUNDARY ACTIVITY

Grocery Store.

WHILE SATISFYING THE REQUIREMENTS OF

CURRENT LEGISLATION.

FOR OPERATION AT THE

FOLLOWING HOURS:

8:00 AM until 3:00 PM

EMISSION DATE EXPIRATION DATE

08/31/1982 03/08/2025

VALIGMA July 7 OF 1985

[Signature] [Signature]

CITY HALL MERCHANT

WARNING

The following permit will be posted

in a visible location.

[In the signatures, it is possible to see the full name of the owner of the establishment and the name of the official responsible for the permit. Unfortunately, as I don't have the text font used, I can't accurately distinguish.]

DOCUMENT 3 — Police Report.

Public Security Secretary

VALIGMA CITY

POLICE REPORT

RESPONSIBLE POLICE OFFICER

Jorge

BOOK

TYPIFICATION 24-12a

Exile

REPORT OF EVENTS IN SEQUENCE

The citizen Bia Raux was exiled from the community after repeated transgressions of the city's regiment and current government laws. Her conduct was meticulously investigated by the competent authorities, revealing practices and behaviors that put public order and citizens safety at risk. Bia Raux's actions were considered incompatible with established standards of coexistence, justifying the application of the exile measure as a way of preserving collective well-being.

The exile procedure was carried out in strict accordance with legal protocols, ensuring that the defendant's rights were fully respected during the judicial process. Witnesses were called and testimony taken, evidences was presented and examined thoroughly, culminating in a verdict that determined the imperative need for exile. The court decision, although severe, was based on the need to maintain order and peace in the community, being widely supported by citizens who desire a safe and harmonious environment.

After Bia Raux's exile, additional measures were implemented to prevent similar infractions from occurring in the future. Authorities reinforced enforcement of laws and promoted educational campaigns to make citizens aware of their obligations and responsibilities. At the present time, Bia Raux is outside the city's territorial limits, subject to strict conditions for any possibility of reinstatement, conditioned to substantial changes in her behavior and demonstration of compliance with established legal and substantial norms.

PAGE 1 OF 2

[Signature]

OFFICIAL SHERIFF

For now, these are all the documents translated so far, stay tuned for more posts!

[ancuninfiles]

Lithium Pt. 3

Screenshot by @lavendarr00

8.6k words - F/M - Astarion x F! Durge - 18+

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Summary: Ronnie meets Astarion at the tavern to "make some money"; however, things don't go exactly as planned, and Ronnie ends up sharing a private room with Astarion.

꒦꒷♡꒷꒦

Tags: sexual tension, self-harm (unintentional), medical procedures, gambling, I don't want to spoil it for you in the tags :')

MASTERLIST (Other works)

Read on AO3 for full tag list and proper formatting (recommended)

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫

꧁꧂

I am terrified by this dark thing   

That sleeps in me;

All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.

Clouds pass and disperse.

Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables?   

Is it for such I agitate my heart?

I am incapable of more knowledge.   

What is this, this face

So murderous in its strangle of branches?——

Sylvia Plath

꧁꧂

Autumn fruit, severed from its umbilical restraint, falls to live anew. Though vivid in hue, its bones are crushed beneath the weight of knowing commuters. Thus, it is left to ferment on frigid cement.

It rots within a chemical maze of silicon and limestone, as men on thrones watch from their windows in the clouds.

Smiling as their towers grow taller, while the pungent miasma creeps from the Samhain yield, assaulting the senses of its bane. 

Surely, the commuter is its bane, for they are the ones who walk.

꧁꧂

The scent of blood was known to increase one's alertness and visual perceptiveness—perhaps that’s why Ronnie only woke from her violent trance when the ichor had begun to clot and harden, becoming sticky on every surface it contaminated.

With a crimson-stained mirror shard in hand, Ronnie peered at her tarnished reflection, causing her stomach to lurch. She sighed, her eyes shutting as she settled in her realisation. Crawling off her dark blue bed sheets—sticky with her coagulating lifeblood—she discarded the shard in a rubbish bin at her bedside.

Gazing into her shattered full-length mirror, she examined her form, finding the damage running from the left side of her sternum, just above and between her breasts, to the right side of her navel in an inconsistent and jagged line—the longest cut yet.

The blood sluiced from its apex in a silent brook, tracing the curves of previous lacerations on her skin towards her vulva and down her beleaguered inner thigh. Finally reaching the floor, it pooled slowly under the arch of her foot.

Taking a deep breath, she picked up her phone from her bedside table, and it read “8:40 pm”: forty minutes until Ronnie had to catch the tube to meet Astarion at the Tavern on time.

Exhausted, she watched the floor as she slinked to her shower. The warm water ran down her chest, painfully cleansing the fresh wound before she fastened the faucet and stepped out onto her jet bath mat. She towelled herself down with a clean towel, dabbing gently at the wound to avoid further irritation.

She retrieved a large white plastic case with a green cross on its top from below her bathroom sink. Upon opening it, she took her largest roll of gauze and began wrapping it around her torso as she watched the woman in her obscured reflection through the dappled condensation.

Ronnie cut a strip of medical tape and fixed the gauze around her breasts, wearing it like a tube top. However, the protrusion of her bosom didn’t allow the gauze to contact her lesion directly.

—Fuck it.

She resolved to prepare for her “meeting” with Astarion—if that’s what it is—as time was short. She huffed before returning to her bedroom, taking her puffy navy blue blanket and using it to wipe her blood-speckled floor blithely. She tossed her bedding into the wash and set it to run.

Next, she hastily sprayed her faux-hardwood floor with peroxide and wiped it with a paper towel, tossing it in the bin. The faint streaking of the blood was still visible, but she knew she could mop it another time.

—When I’m not rushing to leave.

She meandered towards her couch, where she’d left the shipment he’d sent her—the clothes she was to wear for tonight's events, whatever they might be.

The box contained a black turtleneck blouse with ruffles at the top of the neckline and adorning the chest in a V-shape that ran from the shoulders to below the décolleté. On the décolleté area itself, an intentional gap in the fabric had been created as a small window to display the centre of her clavicle and a conservative amount of her upper sternum. The window was fastened with a button that lay on her trachea, holding the turtleneck together.

The fabric felt soft and of high quality as she slipped it over her head and slid her hands through the sleeves, buttoning the neckline when she’d finished.

She stepped into her cotton underwear, pulling them up and then holding the skirt in front of her, examining its components. It was a graphite, pleated skirt that fell to just above her ankles, and she was grateful that she wouldn’t have to wear nylon tights to conceal her scars tonight. The skirt had a small zipper at its side that accentuated her figure, as it sat at the narrowest section of her waist.

The shoes came in a separate box that at first glance seemed like a regular box; however, the branding on it read “Christian Louboutin” in white letters on its top. Impressed, she quirked an eyebrow along with the corner of her lip.

—The man has good taste.

Within the box was, first and foremost, red gift paper, and it seemed to be lined with an equally red velvet-like material.

Ronnie peeled the layers of gift paper off to reveal two simple black leather boots. Typically, she would exclusively wear secondhand leather or pleather, but she was simply grateful for the generous gift he’d bestowed her with.

The shoe toes were square, and the heel was thick with a cerise accent on its inside. The material of the boot sat loosely above her ankle.

Her overall outfit was sophisticated—fairly “put together,” and she revelled in the feeling of her deceitful disguise as she peered at herself through her shattered mirror.

Exhaling a sigh, she patted down the non-existent wrinkles in her skirt.

 Her phone read “9:08 pm.”

—Shit. I only have ten minutes.

She rushed to the bathroom to do her makeup. She applied concealer, cream blush, and then set her base with translucent powder. Using a small brush, she contoured her nose and cheekbones with bronzer. Her look was almost complete—she added neutral highlighter, mascara, and finally, chapstick, wiping her lips with a tissue and reapplying to ensure no residue remained.

She wanted to look nice—because she was going out.

—Not because I’m seeing him.

By the time she was wiping the specks of mascara from her eyelids, it was already nine twenty-five, and she clenched her white-knuckled fists as they dug into her bathroom counter.

Ronnie resented the exorbitant prices of cabs in London, and upon checking, she found that the cost of a lift to her destination was thirty quid—over two hour's worth of pay.

Capitulating, she groaned and ordered her taxi, being sure to take her meds on the way out.

—The meds that aren't working.

꧁꧂

While in the hackney, Ronnie began reading an e-book: Frankenstein by Mary Shelley. The book began with what was essentially a prologue to the story—talking about Victor’s parents, and their wholesome “benevolence” whilst raising him. The first chapter ended with Victor’s mother exclaiming that she’d be bringing him a gift and then consequently bringing him a sister or a cousin, Elizabeth, the following day.

The passage ended with Victor exclaiming that thereafter, he viewed Elizabeth as his own possession. “All praises bestowed on her I received as made to a possession of my own,” he thought, “mine to protect, love, and cherish.”

Ronnie wondered if this was what having a sister would be like, or if she had any siblings at all. She knew she must have had a mother and father—as everyone did—but she didn’t know where they were. Having woken up in hospital, perhaps abandoned, or it could’ve been that her family had passed. Either way, upon exiting the facility, she was left bandaged and houseless—set to live on the south London streets like a rat with nought but an ID, the clothes on her back, and a formal diagnosis of Retrograde Amnesia.

Ronnie’s grief had squeezed out of her like toothpaste for long after the incident, but she felt like the tube never truly emptied as the minty concoction within hardened at its edges over time. The tube would only be free of its remnants when dissected and cleansed from the inside out, but what use is a ripped tube with no toothpaste?

The taxi pulled up to the tavern, which resided northwest of Notting Hill in London. Ronnie stepped out to see Astarion leaning coolly—as he always did—near the warmly lit entrance. He wore a desaturated rainy blue dress shirt and dark umber trousers with matching boots.

He pocketed his phone when Ronnie stepped out of her ride and watched her as she approached. “How are you?” he asked as if it were his first time uttering the phrase in his life.

Ronnie clutched the strap of her bag as they stood stiffly across from one another. Suddenly, it felt more like a date than a business exchange; perhaps that was what it was. However, she resolved to relinquish the idea, as she thought nothing good would come from it in the end.

“I’m good.” She gulped, straightened her posture, and nodded curtly. “You?”

His eyes narrowed, and his expression quickly warped into one of mischief, with a roguish grin. “Better, now that you’re here.”

Ronnie clutched her bag strap with clammy hands and white knuckles as she clenched her jaw, sharing his gaze. “Hm—right.”

He offered his arm. “Er—shall we go?” he asked, seemingly attempting to maintain coolness.

Ronnie blinked at his offered arm rapidly before taking it as he led them into the establishment. It was a rustic place with mismatched wooden chairs and tables of assorted heights. It had a bar with lots to choose from on tap. Joy Division could be heard over the speakers as people dressed equally as nicely as her and the lad around her arm sat amongst the designated areas.

In the days approaching their meeting, she’d wondered what type of money could be made at a tavern, other than by working there. Though sceptical as she was, she wanted to see Astarion again. It was anomalous that he’d seen her in such a wretched state during their first encounter and then showed up, insisting on their further assembly.

Jen had always encouraged her to make more friends, but Ronnie resisted. She’d tried having shallow relationships, but they would always dissipate once they got close enough. Astarion, however, had witnessed her at her worst on day one, and he maintained an interest in her—wanted her assistance somehow, in relation to her morbid disorder.

She wasn’t sure if she’d be of any use to him, though—she resented her ability to maim and her tendency for destruction. But, she was driven by a selfish desire for connection—she resolved to keep him at arm's length; metaphorically, of course.

However, the herbaceous scent emanating from him, his own desire for physical closeness, and his flirtatious persona were all weakeners of the will.

“Perfect,” he said.

Ronnie looked at him and then followed his gaze to a man—an ogre-like man sitting at a table with miffed departers as he hugged a pile of cash into his arms.

“Play along,” Astarion instructed.

With parted lips, wide eyes, and softly knitted brows, Ronnie gazed at Astarion, confused. “O—Okay.”

He led her to a large, stocky, red-skinned man who was surely gout-ridden and sat them both across from him at the table, now vacant of his previous victims.

The ogre-like man wore a thin layer of dampness, accompanied by a simple button-up dress shirt and trousers, as most of the men did in this establishment. His hair, the little amount he had, stuck upwards as if he had drunkenly adjusted it, signifying his apathy on the matter.

When they sat, the ogre's eyes burned holes in Ronnie, resulting in her vehement discomfort. Astarion flicked a side-eye at her, briefly squeezing her lower thigh in tandem as if to say: “Endure, love.”

“Deal me in for the next round?” Astarion asked.

“Sure,” the ogre grunted.

“What’s the buy-in?” Astarion inquired.

“Seven hundred, big blind is forty and small blind is twenty,” the ogre replied in a thick Scottish accent.

Just then, a waitress approached the table, asking if they’d like anything.

Astarion nudged Ronnie, looking down at her at his side. “Would you like anything?” he asked.

“Just a pint of ale, please.” She smiled, wondering if Astarion was going to cover the bill or not.

The ogre ordered a pint as well, and the waitress left before Astarion pulled his money from his back pocket and placed it in front of him in a stack. The ogre replicated this, then shuffled the cards and placed them on the table.

“Ye wanna cut them?” the ogre asked, gesturing to the cards.

Astarion remained silent and expressionless as he reached for the stacked cards, removing the top half before switching it with the bottom half.

The first cards were dealt, with Astarion receiving the king of hearts and the ten of spades. He knocked on the table, and the ogre put a hundred quid in the centre of the table.

“Call,” Astarion said.

The ogre took the top card of the deck and put it face down on the table, and then he placed three cards face up: a ♢ ten, a ♡ jack, and a ♢ five.

The waitress returned with their pints, and Ronnie drank as she tried her best to focus on the men’s game.

Astarion knocked on the table, then the ogre counted his twenties before placing some in the centre of the table.

“Call,” Astarion said again.

The ogre discarded a card from the top of the deck, placing it face down before adding another face-up card beside the three that were already on the table—the three of clubs.

They both knocked on the table, one after the other.

“Maybe ye should be sittin’ with me, love. Yer man's a bawbag, if ye ask me, and ye’ll have a warm spot right here on me lap.” The ogre man patted his thigh, causing Ronnie to cringe internally as she avoided his horrid gaze.

The ogre discarded another card from the top of the deck, and then set a fifth card next to the other four face-up cards, and it was a ♧ five.

Astarion, stone-faced, knocked on the table, and then the ogre placed another sum of pounds between them.

“Call,” Astarion said again.

The ogre revealed his hand: a jack and a three. He then took all the money from the centre of the table with an arrogant expression, his eyes unrelenting on Ronnie as she polished off her bubbly ale and wiped her lips with the back of her wrist.

For the next hand, Astarion dealt the cards, making small bets until that fifth face-up card was revealed, and then betting the rest of his money.

Ronnie retrieved another pint and enjoyed her drink as she worked up a proper buzz.

The ogre called him, and Astarion won, which doubled Astarion up, bringing him to six hundred quid.

In the following hand, Astarion won again, putting him in the lead.

At this point, Ronnie had nearly finished her second pint, and she popped to the loo momentarily before returning to the duelling men.

The men exchanged knocks, calls, and unspoken communications in the same sort of circuit back and forth for a short while. As the money stacked higher on Astarion’s side, the ogre became redder and more swollen in his scowling mug, so much so that Ronnie felt he might begin to whistle like a kettle. Ronnie thought the tomato-faced man was quite hilarious in her inebriated state—it seemed the more he pouted, the harder it was for Ronnie to hold back her laughter.

At last, Astarion possessed all of the cash, signalling the game’s end. He stacked the notes and folded them before surreptitiously tucking them in Ronnie’s bag with a wolfish grin.

However, the ogre shot up from his seat, rattling the contents of the table and causing Ronnie to flinch while she sipped on the remnants of her pint.

“Yer a swicker!” the ogre yelled as his palms dug into the table. He was huffing and puffing with his eyes fixed on Astarion.

The ogre walked around to where Astarion began to stand, and to Ronnie’s surprise, Astarion started to walk away, still wearing his poker face. Ronnie’s brows knitted in confusion as she whipped her body around to watch his back as he strode to the exit. 

Panic lanced through her as the ogre's malodour reached her nostrils while he smiled, towering over her.

She was in disbelief—frozen in place at the sudden realisation that Astarion had yet again lured her to another brute. She wanted to cry, and her heart began to beat rapidly, her throat tightening as she grasped at the table and chair.

*Smash!*

The ogre fell back as broken glass—wet with ale—ricocheted off the brute's skull.

It was Astarion. He’d smashed a pint glass into the ogre’s face. Not only that, but he was wearing a shit-eating grin as the ogre’s body knocked another man’s chair over in his wake.

The ogre's face was bloodied and broken as he slowly rose from the wreckage, grunting. The man who’d been knocked over by his descending stocky body eyed him with disgust as he stood.

Before the ogre was able to regain his footing, the man who’d fallen victim to his weight threw a jab at his face, causing the ogre to stumble into another unsuspecting patron. Soon, he too joined the brawl; all the while, Astarion held a battle stance with a mischievous toothy grin and bent knees.

He looked frenzied, ready to pounce like a cat with a bird as the scrap initiated in a domino-like fashion. It wasn’t long until the entire tavern was flooded with unfettered chaos, with chairs growing wings and a mixture of ale and blood puddling on the hardwood floor.

Astarion wasn't timid either, as he threw his fair share of punches, yet remained entirely unscathed, dodging and weaving with a crazed expression. His euphoria was contagious—Ronnie could feel a stirring behind her ribs as she watched his curls whip around while he swung and evaded.

—He meant for this to happen.

Astarion threw his elbow at the mouth of a man near Ronnie's table, causing a gnarly, bloody tooth to land in front of her.

Upon examining the tooth, she felt a rising sensation of excitement in her diaphragm. It was an odd, shameful reaction—to see gore and respond this way, as it was the opposite of what she was trying to feel.

As she pondered the incisor, she began to feel queasy and lightheaded. Perhaps she remained sane, after all. In fact, the whole ordeal was becoming daunting as her hands tingled, her fingers went numb, and she had difficulty remaining upright.

Astarion's nostrils flared before his manic expression quickly shifted into one of wide-eyed, parted-lips concern. Ronnie wondered what he’d seen to change his mood so suddenly. He cocked his head, now splattered with the blood of his “enemies,” in Ronnie's direction as she leaned uncomfortably on the table. She shot him a sheepish smile as her head tilted sideways, towards the shoulder of the arm that rested on the table.

Amidst the fray, he made a beeline towards her, holding the same concerned expression. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“Uh—I dunno.” Ronnie watched the diluted red liquid swirl on the ground as the men in the background continued to brawl ceaselessly.

Astarion grabbed Ronnie, propping her arm over his shoulder and helping her stand. She swayed as he led her through the sea of brawlers, avoiding their aimless tumbles and hits.

With Ronnie’s arm wrapped around him, he squatted behind a wooden desk beside a doorway that led up to a staircase. The fumbling worsened Ronnie’s nausea as her knees grazed the cold hardwood.

He hurriedly opened and checked a couple of drawers, closing them after not finding what he was searching for until the last drawer, where he nicked a key with a numbered tag attached to it.

Ronnie wondered what was happening and why he was bringing her to a room instead of the lavatory downstairs. Surely, she’d just drunk too quickly.

Her mind began to whirl with trepidation as he walked her up the stairs. “Why are you bringing me to a room, Astarion?” she interrogated.

“To assess the situation.”

“I’m just drunk, mate. Just let me be sick in the loo,” she insisted.

He hurriedly unlocked the door and pushed it closed with his foot behind them as they approached the inn bed.

The room smelt woodsy, like an old book. The bed had stained-wood end tables on either side, with matching vintage lamps on them. The dusty-rose lampshades were pleated, and the bedsheets were a beautiful floral—something a grandmum would love. The bed frame itself was quite low to the ground, probably just as high as three stacked mattresses.

“What’re you gonna do to me?” Ronnie asked, her voice trembling.

Astarion sighed as he lifted her bridal style and lowered her to the bed. “I’m trying to help you,” he said before unzipping the side of her skirt and attempting to tug at her shirt.

“No! Please, not like this,” she protested, her stomach twisting.

Astarion halted his actions, putting his fists on his lap as he sat on his heels. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply as his lips formed a thin line. “You’re bleeding—under your blouse. I need to remove your shirt to see how bad it is,” he said, his patience seemingly wearing thin.

Ronnie’s breaths were rapid but shallow as she lay weak on the inn bed, anxious and confused. She remembered bandaging her wound earlier—applying an entire roll of her largest gauze around her torso—but surely the bleeding had stopped long before she’d even arrived at the pub. However, her curiosity began to ease to the forefront of her mind.

—How does he know?

Her face contorted as she too grew concerned. “Yeah,” she said, nodding at Astarion.

He nodded back, and Ronnie watched as he lifted her shirt above her bandage, exposing it completely.

To her shock, blood had saturated nearly the entire front side of her gauze—from above her breasts to below her navel. The crimson had bloomed in an ovular shape, surrounding her gash.

She grinned facetiously at her realisation. “Oh—haha,” she laughed, her smile quickly warping to a frown as her lips stayed apart.

Astarion grimaced, his eyes wide as he examined her gore-ridden bind. “You have quite the bouquet, here,” he said. “Don’t move,” he said, standing up and taking long strides out of the room.

The boyish skirmish could be heard briefly before the door slammed behind Astarion, leaving Ronnie alone—sick, drunk, and bleeding on the bed.

—As if I’m in any state to leave this place on my own.

The room felt like a fishbowl, as if there wasn't enough oxygen to satiate her. There was a dull but incessant pain in her chest, and her wound throbbed.

Ronnie wished that Astarion would've explained himself before leaving, as she was still uncertain of his motivations. Hells, she was still unsure about the purpose of the card game, and what she was meant to learn from it. All she'd learned was that—whatever the game was—Astarion excelled at it, and that he had a propensity for inciting chaos—perhaps a passion for it, even, as she’d never seen him so afroth. His smile lit up the room—he was like a child playing with their new toys on Christmas day. Although, he was a man—a handsome one at that; the kind you’d want to wrap yourself around, climb like a tree and never let go.

—Lecherous, Ronnie scolded herself.

Amidst the bedlam, Ronnie forgot that she needed to be restrained in secluded situations with others, as those were the only times her paroxysms would erupt uncontrollably. When alone, she could manage the eruptions without fear of harming anyone else; but she couldn’t trust herself—specifically after the incident with Alfira and especially since the one with Astarion’s crazy boss man. After that, she resolved to never allow herself unrestrained intimacy again—literally and figuratively.

She felt herself a parasite—as if something soiled within her shaped her existence.

—Better off dead.

—Better just leave me here to die.

—Just leave me. . .

—To die. . .

Dying is peaceful, but there’s still so much toothpaste to be squeezed from this tube—too many questions that have yet to find their answer; like lovers who haven’t met.

Is it truly selfish to choose life if this is how it must be? And this life she’s choosing, is it acceptable to desire love? To want to be held against the chest of a mother, or to hold the hand of a father?

Ronnie closed her eyes in her musings, as the vermillion oval grew on her chest.

The boyish kerfuffle momentarily loudened, causing Ronnie to crane her head up, opening her eyes only slightly.

Astarion shut the door behind him and then strode to Ronnie’s bedside, carrying a large black backpack. He situated himself on the hardwood floor beside her, unzipping the backpack in haste and pulling items from it to place on the floor. Ronnie watched as he applied hand sanitiser, tore the plastic off a small metal tray, and then lined up several tools in a row—a sight she hadn’t seen since before her last arduous trip to the miserable psych ward. She was flooded with relief as clarity returned to her: she was going to be stitched up.

—But, my restraints, she reminded herself, as that was her main priority.

“Oi—you haven’t got any handcuffs in that bag, have you?” she asked.

Astarion continued fussing with the tools, focusing on his task. “Really, darling? Flirting at a time like this?” He smiled, rolling up his sleeves and exposing his toned forearms.

“Sod off,” she scolded. “You need to restrain me in case I go mad again, like I did with your boss.”

“What?” His eyes shot to Ronnie’s, his cool composure momentarily abandoning him as he froze. “I mean. . . you’re joking, right?” He painted on a fake smile, but Ronnie could sense his unease.

“I’m serious. If we’re going to be alone like this together, you have to make sure I’m properly locked up,” Ronnie insisted. “Jen has to handcuff me to a pole every time she comes to my flat.”

He chuckled wryly. “Charming—and duly noted,” he said, disregarding his task only to climb over Ronnie's legs, fold back a portion of the quilt, and then tear the bedsheet by holding it with two strong fists, holding it close to his chest, and ripping it into one long, thin strip. 

He crawled back to Ronnie's bedside and stood, crouching as he took one of her wrists in his hand, his thumb pressing into her palm to reposition it for easier wrapping of his makeshift restraint. Leaning over her, Ronnie caught the scent of his cologne—it was unfamiliar but undeniably expensive. His touch sent a shiver down her spine, and she bit her lip to suppress the reaction—not that he would notice, as he was intently focused on his knotting.

He looped the binding around her wrist in a precise and practised manner before fastening her arm to the bedframe. She tested it, but could only manage a weak tug. Even so, she could tell that her palm couldn't easily slide free.

“Satisfied?” Astarion asked.

Ronnie thought that during an outburst, she might resort to dislocating her wrists if she were honest with herself. Even in that case, she hoped that an injured flacid-wristed Ronnie would be easier to manage.

“Yeah. . . Thanks,” Ronnie replied. “You know what you’re doing, right?”

Astarion reapplied hand sanitiser and pulled on a pair of blue disposable medical gloves and a mask. “Yes, dear. Although, it seems we don’t have any anaesthesia. But we can’t have you wasting any more blood,” he said, holding a pair of steel scissors and bringing them to the bottom centre of her bloodied bandage.

“Um—what?” Her brows furrowed as she watched him cut her bandage in half, opening it up like the doors at the front of the tavern.

Her wound was swollen and leaking, and the cold air both soothed and irritated it, causing her to hiss. Astarion urgently irrigated the wound with a bottle that Ronnie knew to be saline, and he wiped the sticky red mess from around her slash. After, he applied an amber liquid to the area—iodine—all while maintaining peerless focus.

It had been a while since Ronnie had been sewn up, and while watching Astarion, she began to feel like it might be a good idea to learn how to do it herself.

“How’d you learn how to do this?” she asked.

“Well, I’m skilled with a needle and thread. Other than that, Dal taught me. She was a doctor before she was—er. . . recruited by Mr. Szarr,” he said while readying his tools above his tray.

“Your boss?”

“Yes. Now, I trust that you will stay very still—this is going to hurt.” He hovered over her with forceps and a needle with thread.

Ronnie nodded, biting her lip and clenching her fists—bracing for the impending pain as she peered down to watch him work.

He inserted the needle, beginning in the middle of her laceration. Her eyes immediately began to water from the pain, and she couldn’t help but tense her abdominal muscles, surely making it difficult for him to work.

“Sorry,” Ronnie apologized.

“You’re okay. This is the worst area for muscle spasms—or so I’ve been told.” The needle popped through the other side of her wound, and he tied a knot, just as the doctors had before. “One down. . . many more to go, I’m afraid.”

“Why would you say it like that?” Ronnie smiled facetiously, her lips forming a thin line as she panted.

“Just shut up and stay still.”

Ronnie laid her head back in defeat, gritting her teeth and groaning as he worked. She grinned, recognising his tactless comment as the sort of thing she might have blurted out—the kind of off-putting remark that made others uncomfortable, its impact unnoticed until it had already left her lips.

Astarion worked on his stitching while Ronnie moaned and groaned, her bound arm resting beside her head. Each puncture was more painful than the last, sending signals to her brain to escape—to get out of this situation. But she knew she had to stay put—stay put and let the attractive bloke sew her up.

Thinking about it, the situation felt rather intimate. Once again, he’d seen her scars—seen her fresh laceration—and the way he responded to it was almost reverent. . . almost.

—More like avidity.

 And so, with each stitch, she could feel herself coiling around the seamster; her trust building as he showed care in a similar, albeit more gruesome way than Jen in the early stages of their friendship.

—Oh—and there was the fourteen hundred pounds he stuffed into my bag.

—What a freak.

—A freak. . . like me.

—What have I gotten myself into?

She smiled.

She felt like a cherished doublet, or a precious Dal with a little rip, or a missing button. She wondered if that was how Astarion felt, too.

—Probably not.

—Probably more like a broken car he needs for work.

But still, the tenderness in his needle and thread could be felt. Whether it was because of a juvenile delusion of Ronnie's, or if he meant it to be that way, she didn't know, but did it really matter in this little life of hers?

Despite the pain of each poke, and the trepidation she felt after each snip of the thread, she found herself revelling in his reverence—not wanting it to end.

—A shame to hide such a handsome face behind a mask.

—And such lithe hands—under gloves.

—Lecherous, she scolded herself, again.

After he finished sewing, he taped on several squares of folded gauze in a row down her seam.

“There we are—all fixed up, good as new. . . except for one thing,” Astarion said, lifting her torso slightly to pull her old gauze from under her and place it in a zip-up plastic bag, where he disposed of all the non-sharp biohazardous waste. After, he pulled her blouse back down and then tucked the plastic bag in the backpack, along with the sharps in a mini sharps container, identical to the one in Jen's awful communal loo.

Ronnie watched his procedure raptly, really just for something to do, and because he was there, and he was very pretty—the way he tucked everything away so neatly with his nailless fingertips.

—Nailless from protecting me. Oh, how chivalrous.

“You need a blood transfusion,” Astarion said.

“What?”

“Do you want to be bedridden for over a month?”

—A month?

“No—no.”

“I thought not,” Astarion said.

Ronnie paused to contemplate the absurdity of the situation. “Here?”

“Yes—if I can get Dal to agree to come, that is,” Astarion replied, his phone screen lighting up his face.

“Where would you even get the blood from?” Ronnie interrogated.

Astarion lifted his phone to his ear. “The hospital. Trust me,” he said, beginning to pace as he waited for Dal to answer the phone.

Ronnie threw her head back in defeat for the second time this night, grimacing at the idea of someone else's blood being fed into her. On top of that, she had continuously been putting her life in Astarion's hands throughout the night, and it made her feel like a total dumbass; although nothing negative had come of it thus far. She could only hope it would stay that way.

—Too much toothpaste to squeeze from this tube, still.

“Why hello, Dal. How are you on this lovely night?” Astarion asked, smiling and fairly obviously trying to get on Dal's good side from the get-go.

“What do I want? Gods—you really think the worst of me, don't you?”

Ronnie grinned.

—Nice save, bozo.

“I need a favour,” he finally admitted, and Ronnie found the way he communicated with his colleague very entertaining.

“Yes, Dal—and I appreciate all that you do, but this is an emergency.”

—Or I could just be bedridden for ‘over a month’. Though; Vic would probably fire me.

“Our—er—special friend may or may not need a blood transfusion.”

—Special friend? So his colleagues know about me?

“I didn't do anything, she showed up this way. I stitched her up, good as new, but—she's almost as pale as you now,” Astarion teased, barely suppressing a giggle.

Ronnie looked at her unbound hand—indeed, it was paler than a nun's arse. She could only imagine how fair-skinned Dal must be.

“I love you too,” he said, clearly sarcastic, “now, are you coming?”

He halted his pacing, facing Ronnie’s direction. “Perfect, see you then.” He sighed, hanging up the phone and tucking it in his back pocket. “Now—was this your doing?” he asked, gesturing to her wound, now covered with dressings and her blouse.

“Oh! Uh—I guess I never explained. Yes, it’s my doing. . . sort of,” she said.

“Sort of?”

“Well—yes, I did it.”

“Well,” he clicked his tongue, “It creates a rather. . . ominous visage if that’s what you’re going for,” he teased, “and as much as I enjoy basking in gore, I rather like you alive,” he laughed facetiously.

—Freak.

His jesting took Ronnie aback—at face value, it was quite rude, but it wasn’t easy to understand her condition—she knew that. It wasn’t like anyone else in the world suffered from it. Plus, it was clear that Astarion had a few screws loose himself—with his proclamation of enjoying “basking in gore.”

—Freakfreakfreak.

She wondered what Jen would think—if she would think him a bad influence or a match made in heaven? Jen herself was arguably a bad influence, but for other reasons. . . and she didn't want to fuck Jen. . .

. . . And she shouldn’t want to fuck Astarion because sex meant intimacy, and intimacy meant outbursts. Outbursts meant pain—pain she couldn't inflict on others—no—not again.

Even if she were restrained—she could picture it: her convulsing like some sort of undead or as if she were possessed by a demon—like in the movies that Jen plays on movie nights.

—That would not be hot.

And then what? He would probably just pull out and leave.

And then Jen would find her and get booked for murdering him.

—Seems like a wonderful idea.

Cue the proverbial eye roll.

Ronnie gritted her teeth. “I’m not ‘going for’ anything, you bozo.” She paused to take a shallow breath. “It just happens. It's like a disorder—I black out, wake up, and suddenly there's a new injury and the weapon in my hand. . . I've only ever been at home or at Jen's place when it's happened. . . except for—”

Flashes of alabaster and crimson flicked into Ronnie's mind's eye. The greasy black hair, the dark chasms, the sanguine soup pooling at her knees.

“Except for with Mr. Szarr,” Astarion finished her sentence, pausing for a moment. “Have you ever considered trying to control these. . . ‘outbursts’?”

Ronnie thought just then that Astarion sounded much like the doctors she'd spoken to who've offered no real solutions.

She sighed, “Yes, Astarion, I've been trying to manage them. . . nothing seems to work.” She looked away. “I've been taking medication but it's not really doing anything except making me thirsty all the time.”

“How long has this been happening?” He rested a knuckle on his chin.

“Gods, you sound like a doctor.” She rolled her eyes. “Five years. I have retrograde amnesia—can't remember anything before that.”

“Hm.” He paused. “That does sound terrible.”

—No shit.

Ronnie closed her eyes and rested her head back on the pillow. “I just want to be normal.”

A loud but needed pause coated the room.

“You know—I have spent a long time feeling the same way,” Astarion confessed.

Ronnie turned her heavy head to look at him. He had an arm bent, lying across his abdomen. His elbow rested on that wrist, and he was softly pinching his chin in thought as he stared off, eyebrows scrunched together and forming adorable little lines.

“We can only really play with the hand we're dealt, can't we?” He chuckled, wryly. “But, if you have the right skill set and know-how, you surely can cheat your way through.”

Ronnie smiled. “So you did cheat!”

“Oh, please—that oaf made it too easy. Maybe if he hadn't been so focused on making my date crawl out of her skin, he would've stood a chance. . . Although I highly doubt it.” He removed his hand from his chin to gesticulate.

—”My date”?

“Is that what this was? A date?” Ronnie blurted the words out without thinking.

“Well—er—in a manner of speaking.” his brows canted up as he smiled awkwardly. “Why? Would you like it to be?”

Ronnie's weak heart began to beat fAstarion, if it was even possible, as she turned her head away.

“Why are you asking me that?” she spat.

—Of course, I would like it to be, but I'm a broken toy with leaky batteries.

He clicked his tongue. “Aw—you’re so cute when you're flustered. Really—I should do this more often.” He sat on the bed beside Ronnie’s legs.

“Pft—whatever.”

“That's what you want, isn't it? To be my little sleepy gift, wrapped up with a bow?” he purred, placing a hand on her shin above her skirt.

Ronnie closed her eyes and bit her lip. She was sure that her face would've been beet red, if not for the blood loss. She didn't even know what to say to him, because he was right—she did want to be his date. She wanted to feel his lips brush hers again and his fingers run down her form; but she couldn't.

So, all she could manage was: “Sod off.”

Astarion raised his arms, standing in defeat. “Fine—fine. Whatever you wish. Just know the offer is always on the table.”

—So cruel, this man.

Ronnie could feel tears prickling behind her eyelids at the loss of contact, and a sickness grew in her stomach.

She would never be normal.

Sighing, she sought to move past her sorrow. “So can you tell me more about your situation? Please?” she asked.

“Hm. . . I suppose you have shared a lot with me, so it would only be fair.” He resumed his “thinking stance”. “I work for a man named ‘Mr. Szarr’,” he spat his name with no small amount of vitriol. “I was in a—er. . . rough patch when he found me. He. . . ‘recruited’ me to do his dirty work, which was to lure targets back to his mansion—targets who lacked social ties and people who care about them.”

—Sounds familiar.

“I don't make money, I’m only given an allowance which is supposed to go towards retrieving his victims, but he doesn't know I've been flipping it. He's gotten sloppy, as of late. Perhaps he's getting bored—tired of living the way he has for so long.”

“So he has a fetish for murder? Is he a necrophiliac?”

“One could say that, yes.”

“I can sense that you're not telling me everything.”

“Er.” He looked like he was about to sneeze. “Apologies. I'll tell you all in due time, once we get closer, so to speak. We've only just met, and I need to know I can trust you—can I? You won't go around telling everyone about this, right? Top secret.” He stared at Ronnie with round eyes, like the first night they'd met. His voice was laced with desperation, contrasting with his typical cool demeanour.

—Who would I even tell?

“I promise, I won't tell anyone.” She sighed.

A fear prickled in her mind. She felt like she was getting closer to Astarion and that they might end up spending more time together. Like with Jen, she had to know what he’d do if she ever had a paroxysm while chained up around him. Would he leave? Take pictures? The anxiety made her sick to her stomach, but she knew this would come with the territory of making close friends—she knew she just had to learn to cope with it.

“Astarion?”

“Yes?”

She huffed an exhale. “If I were to go bonkers while I'm locked up like this when we're together, what would you do?”

“Why—I would put you out of your misery, of course.” He wore a shit-eating grin.

“Not funny.”

He exhaled a throaty sigh. “Ugh—you're no fun. Obviously, I'd just sit and wait for it to end, stupid. Maybe give you a dog toy to chew on, if you'd like.” He laughed mirthfully, holding his stomach.

Ronnie couldn't help but chuckle. “Haha—you're an arse.”

He was just like Jen, in the way that he joked about her disorder. It was odd—how they peeled away so many layers of shame effortlessly.

“No dog toys, please, I'm begging you,” she said, tearing up from laughter.

This was strange. Here she was, stitched and tied up, bloodless on a dusty inn bed—yet she was smiling and laughing more than she had in months.

Astarion was laughing so hard that he held his belly with two hands, leaning over and unable to breathe as he stumbled around that side of the room, eventually leaning on the wall for support. Ronnie's state wasn't too different from his; though, she was bound and horizontal.

*Knock-knock-knock*

They froze.

“Astarion? It’s Dal.”

Astarion stood up and cleared his throat. “Come in.”

The doorknob wiggled a little, but to no avail. “It’s locked.”

“I’m aware. Try a little harder, will you?” Astarion said.

Dal's sigh of annoyance could be heard from the other side of the door, and Astarion pulled out his phone as the doorknob rattled with metallic sounds, as if a key were being used in it. Astarion flashed Ronnie his phone—he’d set a stopwatch and wore a devilish grin.

Ronnie's brows knit in confusion while she tensed her lips, staring at Astarion.

—Ah, so he’s an instigator—a little shit.

She puffed a couple of suppressed giggles; though, she felt sorry for poor Dal.

Astarion glanced at his phone. “Fifteen seconds. Really, Dal? I thought you could do better than this.”

“The damn thing is old and rickety—it’s probably rusty inside,” Dal muttered.

“Excuses, excuses—besides, wouldn’t it have to encounter moisture to become rusted?” Astarion chided.

The door clicked and opened at last. In the doorway stood the aforementioned “Dal,” who was indeed a very pale woman. She had the lightest bleach blonde hair—almost white—pulled into an updo, with her long fringe framing her modelesque face. She wore a high-end bag with a long strap that reached from her shoulder to her hip.

Her cheekbones were high, much like Astarion’s, and her frame was on the thinner side, though she seemed to have curves. Her cleavage was on clear display in the top of her short body-con dress in a window—not unlike Ronnie’s blouse; however, Dal’s was much larger and lower. Her makeup looked professionally done, with clearly fake but beautiful eyelashes and lip gloss, enhancing her already perfect lips. She looked like she was coming from a date or, more likely, a club.

She couldn’t have looked further from what Ronnie had imagined her doctor would look like as she took long strides into the room wearing heels that matched her dress, carrying a black duffel bag and a cooler.

Astarion closed the door behind her. “Twenty-one seconds, Dal.” He clicked his tongue. “Not your best.”

“Shut up. I just need more practice on shabbier locks, is all.” Dal’s accent was just as posh as Astarion’s.

She dropped the bag and cooler on the ground beside Ronnie and began digging items out. “You must be Ronnie. I’ve heard lots of good things from my brother, here.” She thrust what looked like a large collapsible metal rod, unfolding it.

Ronnie would’ve blushed if it wasn’t for the lack of blood in her cardiovascular system. “Really?” she said, eyes beaming. “Like what?”

“That you almost killed Mr Szarr.”

Ronnie’s breath caught in her throat. “Oh—yeah, haha.” She had the sudden feeling that she’d better keep her mouth zipped, lest she share something she wasn’t supposed to.

“And that you’re pretty, open-minded—I mean, really, the list goes on—”

“It’s time for you to shut up, I think,” Astarion scolded.

—Haha—nope—that didn’t just happen.

Ronnie cleared her throat. “You’re really pretty!” she said.

“It’s a blessing and a curse, I’m afraid,” Dal replied, clicking together the compartments of what Ronnie realised was an I.V. stand.

She propped it up next to Ronnie, and then grabbed a clear bag out of one of the duffle pockets, hooking it to the stand before fishing the red one—the blood one—out of the cooler and repeating the same process. Ronnie could already tell that she knew what she was doing.

As Dal connected wires to the machine, she looked at Ronnie, smiling, but she took a double-take, frowning on the second. “Astarion, I thought you better than to tie up a woman. Has your ‘charm’ failed you, at last?” she asked.

Ronnie's head spun with implications.

“—I told him to.” Ronnie’s smile pulled into a tight line. She figured she’d butt in before the situation worsened.

Dal smiled awkwardly at Ronnie, but Astarion looked pleased with himself with his arms crossed, glaring at Dal through the back of her head.

“Oh—my apologies,” Dal retracted.

Dal unbuttoned Ronnie’s sleeve and folded it up above her elbow.

Dal did as Astarion had earlier and sanitised her hands before slipping on gloves and a mask. She removed plastic packaging and film from a litany of items and tied Ronnie’s arm with an elastic band with her poor knees on the cold hardwood.

“Thanks for doing this, by the way,” Ronnie said.

Dal paused for a moment as she was devoted to Ronnie’s veins. “I shall do what must be done,” was all she said before pricking Ronnie’s hand with her needle and taping it down; a pain that was very much easy to bear, compared to what she’d just gone through.

She fastened the beeping mechanism to Ronnie through a clear plastic tube that ultimately trailed to both the clear and the red bag. Pressing a few buttons, the machine began to run.

Dal was focused on the finishing touches of her process, which she seemed very skilled at. “I just need to watch over you for fifteen minutes and then I’ll have to leave you two. Astarion—you can finish up when she’s done, right? Pack the bags and—”

“Yesyes I know what to do, thank you,” Astarion replied.

“Just making sure. Is there anything you need?” Dal asked, looking at Ronnie with sincerity. 

—Something normal to happen.

“Nope, I’m good, thanks,” Ronnie said, contented to close her eyes. “What time is it, even?”

Astarion checked his phone. “Twelve twenty. Time sure does fly when you’re having fun.” He smirked roguishly.

—You little psycho.

—Instigator.

—Little shit.

—Bozo

—Freak.

—Freak like me.

—Handsome freak.

—Freak who wants me.

—Freak I want, too.

—In the worst ways.

—Freak I can’t have.

—Because I’m a Freak. . .

“I’m tired.” Ronnie capitulated.

“Get some rest, we’ll take care of you,” Dal said, kneeling by the bedside.

—They’ll take care of me.

—They’ll take care of me?

—They’ll take care of me?

“Right—thanks—goodnight, for now.”

Before she closed her eyes, she saw Astarion move, and then she heard the lamp switch off.

Tears prickled her eyes as she drifted off with a full face of makeup, and again, no need to count sheep.

꧁꧂

While she slept, she dreamt of a house in the country during spring. The air was fresh and blew through tall blades of beige grass. A faint clucking could be heard from chickens nearby as the sun set, and she watched as a small black cat climbed atop a rickety fence with ease. 

It looked at her. It was her cat. 

To the left was a house—a small house with a stone chimney. . . Her house. . .

She could feel someone lace their fingers with hers.

“Mummy! Mummy!” a child called for their mother. . . They were hers.

Ronnie squeezed the hand as tightly as she could. “Don’t let me go,” she whispered, “Please—never let me go. . .”

Please.

꧁꧂

Ronnie awoke at the inn, as the early morning sunlight beamed into the room through white linen curtains. She sat up and looked to her left, then her right before wiping her sore eyes—smudging her mascara. Nobody was there—Astarion was gone, as well as Dal, leaving Ronnie alone. Her binding was in the rubbish bin beside the bed, and she had a faint bruise on the back of her hand from the I.V.

She almost wished she’d been dressed in her jim-jams and washed up like the first time Astarion put her to sleep. Well—to be fair, she did wish that’d been the case; but she knew that was wrong, and that she should only want a lover or a best friend to do that. . . Certainly not bozo.

She wasn’t hung over—at all; but she did need to piss. . . terribly. . . and wash her wretched face. . . and change. . . and—Gods.

꧁꧂

Despite the fourteen-hundred pounds in her purse, she still bussed home because: What the fuck am I supposed to do with fourteen-hundred pounds?

When she got home, her leak bucket seemed to have overflowed.

She, too, felt like an overflowing bucket.

꧁꧂

Read Chapter 4>>

[kaeyx]

I want mori to give me fertility checkup just as excuse so he can fuck me

You're absolutely correct omg. Whenever you become affiliated with the mafia (more like with Mori himself) he insists you can't go to a normal doctor anymore. He has a whole network of professionals, or nearly professionals, who take care of his people when they're injured, you don't have to go anywhere else. Of course, who better to treat you than Mori himself? He has a lot of experience and you already trust him, so it's only natural he'd be in charge of your checkups.

Ugjfkgfk imagine you have to get your iud swapped out and Mori immediately agrees as soon as you mention it, getting you a room in one of the many underground clinics the PM runs, all for you two. He settles you in the gynecology chair, your legs lifted up and your lower half covered only in a thin cloth, and lays out all the instruments. You've already had one before so you know what to expect but it's different with Mori, he explains what each instrument does before using it on you.

He does a manual examination first, slowly and methodically tracing over your pussy, examining your folds and brushing your clit with his thumb, pressing on your lower stomach, being a lot more deliberate than necessary. Nothing is wrong with you of course, he already knows that, he's seen you naked plenty of times, but he wants an excuse to touch you while you're so exposed and vulnerable. Next comes the speculum, spreading your inner walls and letting him get a good look at your insides, your pretty cunt clenching down on the unforgiving metal, your cervix sitting deep inside you. Mori pets your stomach and tells you to relax, probing your cunt with two gloved fingers before grabbing a hold of the iud string. Just before he pulls the thing out he leans down, wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking it gently to distract you, making you yelp with a mixture of pain and pleasure. He tosses the old one out and shows you the new one, already prepped for insertion, his fingers still swirling lazily around your clit and keeping your mind off the pain in your cervix. Mori reassures you it'll all be over soon, picking up a scary looking pair of foreceps. He shushes you, telling you you know they're necessary.

It hurts when he clamps them onto your cervix to keep it in place, but you can hardly shove him off from this position and his mouth is once again on your cunt to keep you distracted, soothing your clit with gentle licks. He's quick, putting the new iud in and withdrawing all the tools, instead fingering you with one hand while the other keeps your thighs spread. He makes you cum like this, spread open and still aching from the procedure, your hands fisted in his hair while you whine his name. And of course he takes the rest of the day off to keep an eye on you, he knows cramps and pain are usual side effects and he's all too happy to eat you out until you forget all about the pain.

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Leor Sapir

Published: Feb 27, 2024

The U.S. Endocrine Society (ES) is updating its clinical practice guidelines on “gender-affirming care.” ES, however, appears to be putting its thumb on the scale in favor of medical interventions by appointing experts with serious conflicts of interest to its guideline-development group, ignoring its own standards for how to write trustworthy medical recommendations, and trying to keep the process hidden from the public.

On January 4, Yahoo! Finance reported that ES had decided to appoint John Pang, a surgeon from Align Surgical Associates, Inc., a California-based clinic that specializes in “gender-affirming” surgeries, to its Guideline Development Panel tasked with updating its existing gender medicine guidelines. Because the article concerned Pang and a colleague at Align who was appointed contributing editor at the prestigious journal Plastic and Reconstructive Surgery, and not the ES guideline group, it flew under the radar of those of us following the U.S. gender medicine debate.

Two weeks ago, a colleague alerted me to the Yahoo article, and I decided to write about what was going on at ES. On Wednesday, February 21, I sent the ES media-relations team a notice of my intent to write about the new guideline group and included a list of questions about their process, why they hadn’t made it public, and what they were doing to manage conflicts of interest. I pointed out a 2022 article in which ES explained its commitment to increase transparency and adopt a more rigorous method of guideline development, and asked whether they were planning to adhere to the standards announced in that article. I asked them to respond by Monday, February 26, at 5:00 p.m. EST—a request from which they could reasonably infer that my article would run in the following day or two.

I received no response, but on Monday, at 5:48 pm EST—less than an hour after that deadline passed—CNN published an article by Jen Christensen, a reporter and vice president of NLGJA: The Association of LGBTQ+ Journalists, titled “First on CNN: Major Medical Society Re-Examines Clinical Guidelines for Gender-Affirming Care.” The article is yet another puff piece for the controversial medical treatments and celebrates ES’s role in promoting them. In fact, it’s a particularly lazy puff piece. Christensen makes the usual unsubstantiated claims about “medical necessity” and “evidence-based individualized care,” not mentioning why European countries have taken a more cautious approach. The short piece reads like it was put together hastily—almost in a state of panic. Christensen quotes Joshua Safer, a WPATH endocrinologist chairing the guideline-development group, who assures her that “we’ve been following our usual guideline process that we apply to anything that we do, whether it’s diabetes or thyroid etc., to transgender medical care.”

Did ES panic about being exposed for something that it was apparently trying to keep quiet—and get in touch with an allied journalist at a major news outlet, one whom it knew would toe the activist line and vouch for its process? Obviously, I can’t prove that such a thing happened, but the timing of the CNN piece certainly seems suspicious—as does Safer’s unprompted assurance that ES is following its own guideline-development procedures. What exactly is ES up to?

While gender clinicians frequently tout the consensus among almost two dozen American medical associations in favor of pediatric sex-trait modification, ES is one of only three groups (the others being the American Academy of Pediatrics and the World Professional Association for Transgender Health) to have issued treatment recommendations based on cited research. ES’s current guidelines, published in 2017, recommend pubertal suppression and hormonal treatments for adolescents, despite recognizing the “low” or “very low” quality of evidence supporting these recommendations.

Experts have questioned the soundness of ES’s guidelines. Last year, Gordon Guyatt, a world-renowned expert in evidence-based medicine at McMaster University in Canada, told the British Medical Journal that ES’s 2017 guidelines have “serious problems.” Similarly, of a panel of six evidence-evaluation and guideline-development experts convened in 2021, only one concluded that ES’s guidelines were trustworthy in their current form.

For reasons not entirely clear, ES’s 2017 clinical practice guidelines made recommendations on behalf of surgery, not just hormonal interventions, and the appointment of a plastic surgeon to its guidelines panel suggests that it might do so again.

The appointment of Align Surgical’s John Pang undoubtedly constitutes a major conflict of interest. The most obvious type of conflict of interest is financial. Pang’s practice, and by extension Pang himself, stand to benefit directly from a recommendation to provide gender-affirming surgeries. (The practice specializes in unusual genital surgeries such as “nullification,” “penis-preserving vaginoplasty,” and “vagina-preserving phalloplasty.”) Moreover, hormonal treatments are often a steppingstone to surgery. A 2018 study led by Johanna Olson-Kennedy, a prominent “gender-affirming” clinician, found that girls’ discomfort with their breasts (“chest dysphoria”) increased with every month they were on testosterone. The researchers noted “a common clinical phenomenon” in which “a honeymoon period after testosterone initiation . . . quickly becomes eclipsed by the greater disparity between a more masculine presentation and a female chest contour.” Thus, even recommendations on behalf of hormones would likely benefit Pang and his employer. Conversely, if the data indicate that, for example, mastectomies for minors are not a beneficial intervention, or that surgeries should be provided only after extensive evaluations, Pang’s practice stands to lose business.

Align Surgical promises clients that it is “quite adept at working with most insurance plans.” Public and private insurance programs usually cover procedures (and under Section 1557 of the Affordable Care Act may be compelled to do so) when these are considered “medically necessary.” A strong recommendation from ES on behalf of hormones and surgeries would help ensure that clients can access the expensive and experimental procedures that Align Surgical performs. Insurance companies can then spread risk and recover costs by raising premiums for everyone else.

Evidence-based medicine also recognizes nonfinancial conflicts of interest. A leading textbook on evidence-based medicine notes, for example, that such nonfinancial conflicts “may have even greater effect than financial conflicts,” and “include intellectual conflicts (e.g., previous publication of studies relevant to a recommendation or strongly held views) and professional conflicts (e.g., radiologists making recommendations about breast cancer screening or urologists recommending prostate cancer screening).” Pang, a member of the hormone- and surgery-promoting World Professional Association for Transgender Health (WPATH), has both financial and intellectual conflicts. He has published research supportive of medical interventions. One of his studies, for example, which examines whether estrogen use in trans-identified males increases risk for perioperative complications, concluded that “estrogen [hormone therapy] suspension is not necessary for the transfeminine patient undergoing gender-affirming surgery.”

Ideally, a guideline-development committee would be free of conflicts. The panel would include experts in research methods and evidence evaluation as well as subject-area experts. In practice, however, including subject-area experts on such committees almost always introduces intellectual conflicts of interest, requiring committees to balance competing perspectives. This doesn’t always happen, of course; recently, we learned that the World Health Organization convened a guideline-development group on “gender-affirming” hormones and gender self-identification that was made up almost entirely of advocates for hormones and gender self-identification. Of the 21 empaneled experts, 17 had significant conflicts of interest.

A 2022 article, “Enhancing the Trustworthiness of the Endocrine Society’s Clinical Practice Guidelines,” published in ES’s Journal of Clinical Endocrinology & Metabolism, laid out ES’s intended steps to ensure that its guideline-development process was more transparent and methodologically rigorous. Explicitly noting the trade-off between subject-area expertise and minimizing actual or perceived bias, ES adopted the National Academy of Medicine’s recommended standards, which prefer a more aggressive conflict-of-interest management strategy, even if this means loss of subject-area expertise. ES’s clinical guidelines committee, which oversaw the policy change, “trust[ed] that its guidelines [would] achieve full credibility via methodological rigor and transparency.” Assuming ES’s current panel is made up of experts who share Pang’s opinions and have similar conflicts, it is almost certain to make recommendations that contradict the direction or strength of the evidence.

In evidence-based medicine, “discordant recommendations” are recommendations in favor of an intervention where evidence for that intervention’s safety and efficacy is weak. Such recommendations are generally discouraged, but a number of scenarios exist where they are acceptable.

An example of such a scenario is when non-treatment with a proposed intervention is likely to lead to death. Despite repeated claims about “trans youth” being at high risk of suicide if not given access to hormones and surgeries, evidence suggests that the elevated rates of suicide and suicidality (the two are distinct) in this population are very likely due to coexisting mental health problems, which are extremely common among the trans-identified, and not because of gender dysphoria or transgender “minority stress.” A recently published Finnish study, arguably the most important so far on the question of gender medicine in relation to suicide, shows that suicide is, thankfully, a very rare event and is better explained by the comorbid conditions. Last year, ES’s president drew criticism from 21 international experts when he used the “suicide prevention” narrative to defend his organization’s approach. As noted by Guyatt, a major flaw of ES’s 2017 guideline is that it did not invoke any of the exceptions that would justify the “discordant recommendations,” making its guideline non-transparent and untrustworthy.

In evidence-based medicine, recommendations for or against treatment are never based on studies alone; patients’ “values and preferences” are also relevant. Values and preferences are especially important where the quality of evidence is poor. Ideally, the ES guideline panel’s members would rely on high-quality research on the values and preferences of those who experience or are candidates for a medical intervention. In gender medicine, however, patients’ values and preferences have not been systematically researched. Instead, those preferences are conveyed to survey proctors by clinicians who are themselves “gender-affirming” and who believe strongly in the value of hormonal and surgical interventions. This introduces a serious risk of bias in the characterization of values and preferences.

ES’s 2017 guidelines for adolescents prioritized “avoiding an unsatisfactory physical outcome” over “avoiding potential harm from early pubertal suppression”—likely an assumption about how the most determined and satisfied trans-identified adult patients would rank these two outcomes. A more rigorous guideline-development process would systematically collect evidence of values and preferences from all individuals who go through transition procedures as minors and from parents who are involved in these decisions, not just from patients who happened to come out satisfied.

Such a process would track outcomes into adulthood to see whether or how these values and preferences change. For example, the values and preferences of a 20-year-old woman who had a double mastectomy at age 16 may change a decade later, when the meaning of her inability to breastfeed begins to dawn on her. The same goes for teenagers who give up their future fertility, believing “I can always adopt.” In a recently presented Dutch research study, 20 percent to 30 percent of the respondents in the carefully chosen cohort indicated that they regret having lost their fertility. A significant number are single and in their thirties.

Assembling a guideline-development panel of experts with different viewpoints is therefore necessary not only for a more objective assessment of the quality of evidence but also for a more rigorous examination of values and preferences. For example, a 2022 study published in the ES’s Journal of Clinical Endocrinology & Metabolism found a hormone discontinuation rate of up to 30 percent—some of it possibly due to harms experienced from hormones. A panel that includes detransitioners and the clinicians who treat them will likely reach different conclusions than a panel in which only “affirming” clinicians and trans-identified patients are represented.

It’s noteworthy that most of the authors of ES’s 2017 clinical practice guidelines were also big names at WPATH. Two—Peggy Cohen-Kettenis and Louis Gooren—were Dutch pioneers of pediatric gender medicine. Despite the perception that ES and WPATH are separate entities, and that recommendations on behalf of “gender-affirming care” are not just made by trans advocacy groups but also by run-of-the-mill U.S. medical groups, the truth is that WPATH members used ES as a guise for embedding hormonal interventions as an accepted standard of care in the United States.

ES’s actions—which include repeated evasion of transparency and accountability, willingness to speak only with ideologically aligned journalists, and appointment of a president who is himself a gender clinician and whose views are out of step with those of his international colleagues—do not inspire confidence that its new guidelines will be ethical, trustworthy, and in accordance with well-established principles of evidence-based medicine.

[msclaritea]

On Thursday, August 8, 2013, just after 5 pm, two Los Angeles Police Department (LAPD) detectives traveled down California Highway 210 toward a coffee shop. They were headed to rendezvous with a woman whose friend, a famous actress, had reported her missing after not hearing from her for over seven years. The woman also hadn't been seen or heard from by people she had known for decades.

The meeting was arranged by an attorney for the missing woman. It was scheduled after a short period of rapid negotiation about where the woman would agree to meet the detectives and what she would agree to do when she met them.

As they pulled up to the coffee shop, the detectives faced a woman who said she was Shelly Miscavige, the wife of Scientology's leader David Miscavige. Jeffrey Riffer, a longtime attorney for Scientology, accompanied the woman.

The detectives checked her ID, took her fingerprints, and returned to LAPD headquarters.

The LAPD fingerprint sheet detectives used to collect two thumbprints from the woman who identified herself as Shelly Miscavige. Experts I consulted informed me that the quality of the fingerprints suggests either the detectives lacked proper training in capturing thumbprints, or the individual providing the print had been trained in how not to leave a thumbprint that could be matched. (NOTE: The thumbprints do not appear in this image exactly as they do in the printed image I obtained.)

The next day, two LAPD lab technicians determined that the fingerprints taken at the coffee shop could not definitively be matched to the fingerprints the California DMV had on record for Shelly.

Two internal LAPD reports from the Shelly Miscavige Missing Persons Investigation: 1. The LAPD lab report states that a match with the thumbprint on file at the DMV was inconclusive. 2. The LAPD lab report indicates that technicians deemed the prints unsuitable for a match.

Instead of contacting Shelly's attorney to arrange for another set of prints to be taken, the LAPD removed her from the missing person's database, closed the investigation, and issued a press statement saying that the missing person's report had been "unfounded."

1. A printout of the missing person's alert on Shelly Miscavige was sent out to the NECS, an internal law enforcement communications system. This alert was issued on August 6, 2013, a day after Leah Remini filed her report with the LAPD. 2. A printout of the alert dated August 9, 2013, was also sent to the NECS, stating that the LAPD had determined Shelly Miscavige was not a missing person. The alert further indicated that the LAPD removed her from the Missing Person's system and informed the National Crime Information Center that she was not missing. This alert was disseminated the same morning the LAPD found the fingerprints unsuitable for matching or inconclusive and didn't seek to get a second set of prints.

Fingerprint experts who examined the prints told me that the technicians shouldn't have even attempted to match the fingerprints; the prints taken by LAPD detectives weren't of a high enough quality to conduct a match. Without prior knowledge about the subject of my story or her association with Scientology, one of the experts I interviewed asked if the person who provided their fingerprint had been trained to intentionally leave a fingerprint that wouldn't be suitable for a match.

This alarming lapse, which has never been reported before, is just one piece of a larger story that reveals that the LAPD has repeatedly disregarded standard law enforcement procedures to protect Scientology.

But not getting a second set of prints from the woman claiming to be Shelly was just one of the things the LAPD didn't do in this case that, at best, would involve incompetence and negligence, and worst, that certain LAPD employees were engaged in a conspiracy to protect Scientology from law enforcement action.

Days later, for unknown reasons and even though the missing person's investigation into Shelly had been closed out, the detectives contacted the coffee shop to obtain security camera footage from the meeting.

When the coffee shop sent the footage over a week later, the videos for all the cameras were inexplicably scrambled.

As part of reporting this story, I reviewed the footage and confirmed that it was unusable for any investigative purpose.

A screenshot taken from the video footage that the LAPD obtained from the coffee shop where Shelly Miscavige and a Scientology attorney briefly met with LAPD detectives. It took the coffee shop a week to send the footage after it was requested. The footage, covering multiple camera angles, was inexplicably pixelated and scrambled.

The meeting at the coffee shop was ignited by a missing person's report filed by one of the most well-known Scientologists at the time, actress Leah Remini, who was best known at that point for co-starring in the CBS sitcom "King of Queens." In the summer of 2013, after years of tortuous abuse at the hands of Scientology and its top officials, Remini and her family left Scientology.

One of the first things Remini did after leaving Scientology, which she was a member of for 35 years (since she was eight years old), was to file a missing person's report on Shelly Miscavige, which she did on August 5, 2013.

For Remini, involving a non-Scientology law enforcement agency in what Scientologists would consider an internal matter, marked an earth-shattering departure. After 35 years of being brainwashed and drilled into the belief that it was a high crime to involve non-Scientology authorities in matters that only involved Scientologists, her public action was a major rebuke to Scientology.

This story is based on reporting gathered over the last six years. I had conversations with 11 sources, including former Scientologists, elected officials, law enforcement contacts, and sources in the entertainment industry. These sources spoke to me only on the condition of anonymity. Their reasons for this condition varied: some were not allowed to talk to the press without prior authorization, others had signed restrictive non-disclosure agreements, or they did not want to become a target of Scientologists in the entertainment business.

However, all of my sources shared something in common; they required anonymity because they were terrified of backlash from Scientology and its proxies, including the private investigation firms it retains globally to track, intimidate, and gather intelligence on those it labels as enemies.

As part of reporting this story, I obtained internal Scientology documents, text messages, emails, and privileged and confidential legal documents.

I obtained copies of Shelly's fingerprints, her DMV photo, and other related documents from sources in the legal and law enforcement world.

The records I obtained gave me a glimpse into Shelly’s life since she vanished. For example, in 2010, she got her driver's license renewed at a West Covina, California, DMV field office.

Shelly Miscavige’s California DMV photo was taken in 2010, three years after she vanished. This is the first photograph of Shelly the public has seen since 2004.

By the time she took the sullen photo -- the first glimpse the public is getting of Shelly since a photograph taken in 2004 -- she had not been seen in public for three years since she attended her father's funeral in 2007 with a Scientology handler watching her every move.

Scientology will deny nearly everything in this report. I have a longstanding policy of not quoting Scientology spokespersons, as they almost always fill their statements with lies. They must lie per Scientology policy; telling the truth, which could harm Scientology, would be considered a high crime.

An email detailing this story's allegations had yet to receive a response from LAPD's public information office when this story was published. Two attempts to connect with Jeffrey Riffer, the attorney for Scientology and the Miscaviges, failed to produce a response.

As a reporter, covering Scientology is a dangerous and expensive process. I cannot conduct this type of reporting without your support. Please help sustain this work by becoming a paid subscriber.

After my story was published, Remini sent me this statement via text-message which she also posted on her various social media accounts, “For ten years, the LAPD and Scientology have tried to paint me as a paranoid conspiracy theorist with a vendetta. This news is a relief, but it also angers me. I am furious with the coverup. I'm angry that Scientology has gotten away with this. This information only makes me want to fight for my friend even more.”

Stunning Abandonment of Standard Law Enforcement Procedures

In the missing person's report that Remini filed, she had told detectives that she, along with many other friends and colleagues of Shelly's, were concerned about her safety. She gave detectives the names and contact information of other former Scientologists who could corroborate her concerns.

Part of the report read, "The PR [person reporting] believes, as do other ex-members of the Church, that the MP [missing person] is being secreted against her will and not allowed to communicate with anyone on orders by her husband. Given the PR's intimate knowledge of the Church and their harsh response to any criticism, the PR fears for the MP's safety."

The report also said on two occasions that, Remini observed Shelly get nervous and anxious when her husband was around.

Knowing that information and learning the next day that the print came back inconclusive/unsuitable for a match, it's shocking that the LAPD moved on from the investigation.

The third page of the missing person’s report Leah Remini filed with the LAPD on Shelly Miscavige. Remini told detectives that she and other friends of Shelly’s feared that she was being held against her own will. The report also reveals that Remini told detectives that Shelly appeared to be frightened by her husband.

But it gets worse.

My sources, along with a review of documents, told me that Shelly was not informed that she was the subject of a missing person's report by the LAPD detectives and that Remini was the one who filed it. There is also no indication that they ascertained why she was missing or what led her to withdraw so severely from life and her friends.

Not presenting Shelly with this critical information goes against every standard practice of law enforcement when a missing adult is found, even if they claim they are voluntarily missing. And not attempting to learn why someone whose friends expressed concern that she was being held against her own will and the subject of abuse also goes against standard law enforcement practices for investigations involving missing and kidnapped persons and possible victims of domestic violence.

The location of Shelly’s meeting with the LAPD detectives was also unusual.

The LAPD detectives met with the woman claiming to be Shelly and her attorney Jeffrey Riffer in Covina, an incorporated city with its police department in Los Angeles County. Law enforcement experts who spoke to me, including LAPD sources, said the detectives should have arranged to meet with the woman and her attorney at the Covina Police Department. As a courtesy, Covina PD would have given the LAPD detectives a private room, and cameras would provide security footage if needed. If Shelly was accompanied by Scientology security agents (which would have further intimidated her into silence if she was being held against her own will), the detectives could have required them to wait outside as they met with her and her attorney.

Shelly Miscavige in the early 2000s. This photo has never been seen by the public until now. (courtesy of Claire Headley, a former top Scientology executive)

The LAPD, which does not train its officers and detectives on Scientology policies and how to deal with cult-like organizations, treats Scientology as if it operates like any other organized religion.

And based on my reporting, the LAPD takes its treatment of Scientology a step further.

What LAPD did in this instance, or instead what they didn't do, and what they have done in other cases involving Scientology is give Scientology the equivalent of law enforcement courtesy and reciprocity. For example, if the San Francisco Police Department were to send a message to the LAPD about a case, the LAPD's position would be to trust the accuracy of what SFPD communicated unless something disproves what they said. In the case of Scientology, the LAPD has consistently taken Scientology's word for it.

Scientology’s use of prominent attorneys allows them to avoid law enforcement accountability, particularly when it involves missing persons investigations and welfare checks.

Usually, it wouldn't be out of the ordinary for a law enforcement agency to assume that a prominent attorney at a major Los Angeles firm would represent their client's best interests and tell the truth.

But attorneys for Scientology operate differently. L. Ron Hubbard wrote policy letters making it clear that instead of seeing attorneys as well-educated, experienced counsel who could guide Scientology, they were tools for Scientology to do its business and that attorneys hired by Scientology should bend to Scientology's objectives.

It's an exchange Scientology attorneys make for incredibly consistent business.

I reviewed one Scientology internal document from the early 2000s that revealed that two longtime Scientology attorneys had billings of over $250k each in 11 months just for one department and organization in Scientology. That doesn't include their work for other Scientology organizations and projects. Scientology has dozens of attorneys on retainer at any given time.

And even though Scientology is no longer litigious in that it initiates litigation, it still needs a lot of legal defense.

I have no evidence that Jeffrey Riffer, the Scientology attorney who negotiated with detectives and then accompanied Shelly to the coffee shop, knowingly lied to the LAPD about Shelly's state of mind and communication with her, and I am not suggesting it. I am suggesting that he was likely lied to by Scientology officials about her desires and that he telegraphed those lies to the LAPD.

Decades of investigations that fell apart due to Scientology’s intervention show that the LAPD is not set up to deal with how Scientology operates, impacting how Scientology-related crime is reported and investigated.

Four Days In August

After Remini filed her missing person's report on August 5, 2013, she sat waiting.

The records I reviewed reveal that the case was transferred to the missing persons unit, and detectives set out to contact Shelly via her attorney. But there are a lot of gaps, and we still don’t know who else Scientology and its attorneys were in touch within the LAPD. It’s also unclear what conditions detectives agreed to before meeting Shelly at the coffee shop.

After the LAPD closed the missing person's case prematurely, they abandoned standard law enforcement procedures again. LAPD detectives did not inform Remini that they believed they had found Shelly. Remini found out through the media when the news first leaked, and then the LAPD released a statement saying: "The investigation has been closed, and we consider the report to be unfounded."

Another statement they released a few days later said, "Our missing person's detectives have met with the alleged missing person within the past two days. We consider this case closed."

News organizations worldwide reported on the LAPD's announcement that Remini's report was "unfounded" and included Scientology's statement uncritically.

"This ill-advised, ludicrous self-promotion and the media inquiries it generated caused an inexcusable distraction for the LAPD. The entire episode was nothing more than a publicity stunt for Ms. Remini.”

The coverage focused on the LAPD's statement and Scientology's attack on Remini instead of asking why a woman who was so powerful and surrounded by so many influential people and then suddenly disappeared.

The mixed messages and stonewalling only emboldened Remini to push on the Shelly issue further. She filed a series of public records requests (spending tens of thousands of dollars in attorneys fees) to learn more about Shelly's case but to no avail.

Not satisfied that Shelly was well or even alive, Remini kept pushing.

She repeatedly brought up Shelly in her A&E docuseries and dedicated an entire episode to Shelly's disappearance. She has regularly posted about Shelly's disappearance on social media, pushing the hashtag #whereisshelly.

While there were articles about Shelly's disappearance before Remini left Scientology and filed the missing person's report, she has taken the case to another level. If you look at the replies and comments of Scientology social media posts, you will often see people posting, "Where Is Shelly?"

I have focused on Scientology and its abuses for two decades and have been reporting on it since 2016. It is the most complicated organization I've ever studied, with thousands of policies and directives, its own language (called Scientologese for lack of a better choice), and significant use of acronyms. Scientology and its policies, teachings, practices, and procedures are so nuanced and multi-layered that it frequently fools even the most cynical people.

But the "Where Is Shelly" message has stuck because, unlike Scientology, it's straightforward: a woman who used to be ubiquitous hasn't been seen in public in 17 years, and every time the organization she was the second most powerful official in is asked about her, they go on an aggressive attack.

People understandably wonder why Scientology can't just release a new photo or video of Shelly or have her sit in the front row at one of Scientology's big events to stop speculation about her whereabouts and welfare.

But David Miscavige will never do that, at least not with the current level of pressure on him. According to Mike Rinder, a former top Scientology executive who escaped Scientology in 2007 and has known Shelly since she was 12 when they both worked directly for Hubbard, it would be tantamount to admitting that the evil people (the media and Shelly's friends) were right.

(Over the years, as I have reported on Scientology, I have become good friends with many former Scientologists, including Remini and Rinder)

Putting Shelly on video would also be acknowledging her existence and humanity. To Miscavige, that's untenable as she is a non-person. Shelly, who he is still married to, is someone he doesn't want to think about or know exists, so when he is reminded of her, usually by Remini, he lashes out via his staff and proxies.

The public position of the LAPD, then and now, was that Remini filed a report that Shelly was missing, and after meeting with Shelly they determined that she was not missing. But if a fingerprint was used to confirm her identity, and that result was inconclusive, how could they say she was no longer considered missing?

There is no scenario too improbable when it comes to Scientology. For over 70 years, Scientology has been operating in the most brazen manner and has undertaken thousands of complex intelligence operations to protect itself and its leadership, specifically founder L. Ron Hubbard and the current leader, David Miscavige.

Scientology is responsible for the most extensive infiltration into the US government in history. Its two intelligence agencies, first with the Guardian's office and now with the Office of Special Affairs, have infiltrated dozens of other governments worldwide, law enforcement agencies, including Interpol, and local and state governments. They have broken up marriages, separated families, destroyed careers and businesses, and disappeared people deemed enemies or threats.

There is nothing Scientology and Scientologists won’t do to protect Scientology.

Nothing.

Understanding Scientology = Understanding Shelly

So why would Shelly put up with this treatment and why would so many Scientologists be willing to risk arrest to take an active part in repressing her?

The answer to both of these questions lies in understanding what Scientology truly is, and unfortunately, a vast majority of people, including law enforcement, don’t understand Scientology in a way that reveals how incredibly evil it is. Even those who have watched documentaries like HBO’s “Going Clear,” or the A&E docuseries “Leah Remini: Scientology and the Aftermath” co-hosted by Leah Remini and Mike Rinder don’t fully understand what Scientology is like and how Scientologists live day-to-day.

It takes years of studying and learning every part of Scientology and how it operates to grasp its true nature.

Scientology is often called a cult, and while it has some cultish aspects, a more accurate way to describe Scientology is that it is a borderless totalitarian state and a cult of personality. For Scientologists, Scientology is like North Korea without state-sanctioned executions. From brainwashing, indoctrination, prison camps, multi-generational punishment, holding people against their will, chasing those who try to escape, and transnational repression of dissenters, it all exists in Scientology.

Like North Korea, Scientology even has what is known as face crimes. David Miscavige has been known to beat Scientology executives whose facial expressions at any given moment displease him. Former Scientologists I have spoken to over the years have told me stories of being scolded and interrogated (at their own expense) when they didn't appear to be sufficiently enthusiastic at Scientology events.

For Scientologists, Scientology is like a separate state with its own laws and justice system.

What people have a hard time understanding is how obsessively dedicated Scientologists are. No one, outside of a jihadist terrorist, is more committed to a cause than a Scientologist is committed to Scientology. Scientologists will give up everything for Scientology, including their kids. They will commit crimes for Scientology; they will abuse people for Scientology.

And the reason is simple: Scientologists, who believe we live innumerable lives, think they are on a mission to save humanity.

As part of becoming a Sea Org member (Scientology’s paramilitary workforce), Scientologists sign a 1-billion-year contract. These contracts are often made fun of. It's ridiculous; I get it. But in reality, it's a terrifying indicator of commitment. What would you do for a cause that meant so much to you that you were willing to give it total control over not just this lifetime but many lifetimes over one billion years?

Scientology and Scientologists are governed by thousands of policies and directives written by founder L. Ron Hubbard. Because Scientologists believe that Hubbard is the sole source for Scientology technology and policies which, when applied perfectly, will solve every problem, these policies can never be altered and must be interpreted literally. For Scientologists, Hubbard's policies are law. Scientologists consider Scientology law to be entirely above what they call “WOG law.” The term WOG is a slur that Scientologists use to refer to non-Scientologists.

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The Thread

On November 10, 2022, Remini tweeted a long thread on Twitter about Shelly Miscavige and the former Captain of the LAPD Hollywood Station, Cory Palka. 

The first tweet of a long Twitter thread that Leah Remini tweeted in November 2022. This thread lead to an unusually public response from the LAPD.

That thread would lead to an unusual statement from the LAPD and an internal affairs investigation being opened into the Shelly Miscavige missing person's case. 

What led Remini to tweet the thread was the news that Palka was under investigation for leaking confidential law enforcement data to former CBS CEO Les Moonves. (In 2018, after allegations of sexual assault and harassment were leveled against Moonves by over a dozen women, Moonves, who denied that he had behaved improperly or broken the law, resigned.)

Remini had an encounter with Palka that left a bad taste in her mouth and made her concerned about the integrity of the missing person's investigation into Shelly and Scientology's influence over the LAPD.

Palka already had a reputation for cozying up to power; an LA Times report revealed that when Palka took over as Captain of the Hollywood Station, he quickly worked to ingratiate himself with Scientology.

After Remini's thread about Palka and Shelly went viral, the LAPD took the unusual step of issuing an on-record statement directly addressing Remini. 

"The Los Angeles Police Department is aware of public assertions recently made by Leah Remini regarding a missing person investigation involving Shelly Miscavige. In 2014, Los Angeles Police Department detectives assigned to the Missing Persons Unit (MPU) went to Shelly Miscavige's location and personally made contact with her and her attorney. Detectives found her to be alive and safe, and subsequently closed the missing persons investigation. The Missing Persons Unit handles adult missing cases throughout the City of Los Angeles and work out of LAPD's Detective Bureau. This case was not investigated by Hollywood Division personnel and had no involvement by retired LAPD Commander Corey Palka."

But detectives did not meet Shelly in 2014; they met with her in 2013. And calling a coffee shop her "location," while technically accurate, is a bit of a stretch. 

And Remini never said that Palka was directly involved in the investigation, merely that she was concerned that he was using his influence and access to confidential info to aid Scientology. 

The Wedding That Changed Everything

By 2006, after 28 years of dedication to Scientology, Remini found herself in the upper part of the most elite Scientologists. She had risen to this spot not just because of her celebrity and the fact that she was starring in a successful network sitcom but also because she had donated millions of dollars to Scientology.

This elite status comes with all sorts of perks and honors for any Scientologist who attains it.

In 2006, Remini achieved what any Scientologist would feel was an extraordinary honor: she and her husband, Angelo Pagan, were invited to attend the wedding of Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes in Italy.

Remini was already in his inner circle when she was invited to Cruise’s wedding. In Scientology, if you want to be in a Scientology celebrity’s inner circle, the President’s office of the Celebrity Centre has to approve it.

And if you want to be in Tom Cruise’s inner circle? David Miscavige has to approve it personally. Tom Cruise holds a unique position in Scientology for someone who is a civilian Scientologist. Scientologists are not allowed to be critical of him; those who criticize him in any way face harsh interrogations (at their own expense).

Leah Remini and Tom Cruise at two separate premieres of Cruise's films. By the time these photos were taken, Remini had become a part of Cruise's inner circle. David Miscavige, the leader of Scientology, would have had to approve Remini's inclusion in this select group personally.

To illustrate what a big deal it was for Remini and Pagan to be invited to the Cruise/Holmes wedding, even longtime Scientology celebrities like John Travolta and Kirstie Alley hadn't been invited. On the first night of the wedding weekend, Remini's elite position within Scientology came crashing down when she asked an innocuous question: "Where is Shelly?"

The Cruise/Holmes wedding was billed within Scientology as the wedding of the century; it was unfathomable that one of the most powerful people in Scientology, who was married to the leader, wouldn't be there.

Remini asked the question about Shelly earnestly; she was wondering where her friend was; she hadn't seen her in a while but not long enough yet that she was alarmed.

Tommy Davis, Cruise's Scientology handler and a Sea Org member, snapped at Remini and said, "You don't have the fucking rank to ask where Shelly is."

While such a statement may sound harsh and ridiculous to anyone else, Davis was right; Remini didn't have the rank to ask where Miscavige was. Shelly was a Sea Org member and a high-ranking executive in the Religious Technology Center. In Scientology, with the exception of Tom Cruise, civilian Scientologists are outranked by Sea Org members. Sea Org members not only control Scientology as an organization, but they also control the lives of civilian Scientologists.

But Remini, a fiercely dedicated, model Scientologist, had managed to retain a sliver of independence and was incredulous and shocked that she couldn't simply ask about where her friend was.

Remini also witnessed several things at the Cruise/Holmes wedding that shocked her. For example, she saw Miscavige's longtime communicator (an assistant who always accompanied him, previously she and Shelly were the two women constantly with him), Laurisse "Lou" Henley-Smith tap Miscavige's butt, which, since Miscavige was still married to Shelly, would have been something that would have gotten most any other Scientologist written up.

Remini managed to have a duality many Scientologists have; she was generally tough and cynical with a take-no-prisoners attitude, but she also maintained a hopeful naivety about Scientology.

That hopeful naivety led her to take a step that would soon lead her down a path to the worst nightmare of her life.

Like all totalitarian and authoritarian states, Scientology has a mandatory snitch culture. Scientologists spend a great deal of time filing reports about one another, which are routed up to Scientology's ethics department.

One of these reports is called a "knowledge report" or a "KR."

Remini called her assistant from Rome and dictated several knowledge reports on everyone from Tom Cruise to David Miscavige.

Remini earnestly believed she was helping the organization she saw as her religion, which she truly felt was saving humanity. By filing the reports, Remini was following L. Ron Hubbard's policies as they were written, which is the way every Scientologist is required to follow them.

Every Scientologist except for David Miscavige and Tom Cruise.

Remini's naivety and earnestness turned out to be a critical error that would end up causing her significant psychological and financial devastation.

After the wedding, Remini was ordered by her Scientology handler Shane Woodruff to go to Clearwater, Florida, the spiritual headquarters of Scientology known as "FLAG."

There, Remini was subjected to months of Scientology interrogations called sec-checks or security checks. She was repeatedly asked if she had evil intentions towards Tom Cruise and David Miscavige while holding the cans of the e-meter, a Scientology lie detector.

Remini was also put through a Scientology process called "The Truth Rundown." Usually only reserved for Sea Org members, the process is meant to rewrite a person's memories.

There is no equivalent in any other organization that calls itself a religion of The Truth Rundown. The only thing it can be compared to is the tactics used by North Korea and China to re-educate disaffected citizens.

After weeks of 12-hour days where she was being interrogated, Remini started to disassociate to a frightening degree. She felt she was on the verge of having a psychotic break. She finally gave in and withdrew her knowledge reports to save herself.

The Truth Rundown worked.

Remini then started to make amends; she apologized for things she never did and bought expensive gifts for everyone from Cruise and Holmes to others she was told were upset by what they claimed was her disruptive behavior at the wedding.

Scientology billed Remini hundreds of thousands of dollars for months of interrogations and psychological torture.

But Remini remained stubborn about trying to find out what happened to Shelly. From 2006-2013, she repeatedly found ways to ask about her whereabouts.

She kept sending notes to Shelly even though she never heard back. She asked David Miscavige in private meetings about Shelly. He said he had to keep her away to protect her from suppressive persons (a Scientology term for people who are enemies) trying to take Scientology down. She would bring up her disappearance with fellow civilian Scientologists (they would write knowledge reports on her for doing this) and ask Scientology officials about Shelly.

An excerpt from a note Leah Remini sent to her Scientology handler Shane Woodruff in 2012. Remini refers to Dave Petit a number of times in the note, Petit is the Commanding Officer of Scientology’s Celebrity Centre.

Remini's questions about Shelly, and the lack of response and defensiveness from her fellow Scientologists, also led her to dig into other allegations against Scientology. Why was she hearing stories about Scientologists going bankrupt because Scientology pressured them to fork over every cent they had? Why was she hearing about Miscavige beating top Scientology executives? Why were so many of the top Scientology executives who spoke at major events she attended for decades declared suppressive persons or vanished just as Shelly had?

Scientologists are ordered never to read negative information about Scientology, and they aren't allowed to speak to former Scientologists who have been declared Suppressive persons (they must disconnect from them, or they will be declared suppressive as well).

But Remini did all that anyway; she started googling about Scientology and talking to former Scientology executives like Mike Rinder, who had escaped Scientology in 2007.

Everything started coming to a head in 2012 and 2013 as Scientology officials began to see Remini as a significant problem. They started to isolate her friends from her and tried to do the same thing with her family.

On July 5, 2013, journalist Tony Ortega reported that sources had told him Remini had left Scientology. Exactly one month later, she filed her missing persons report on Shelly.

The Responsibility of Leaders

Michele "Shelly" Diane Miscavige (née Barnett) was born in January 1961.

She became a Scientologist at age four when her parents joined. When she was 12, her parents signed over parental rights to L. Ron Hubbard, and Shelly joined the Commodore's Messenger Organization (CMO).

Shelly, a 12-year-old girl, joined a group of other kids, most of whom were minors, in serving L. Ron Hubbard on the Scientology ship "The Apollo," which was sailing all over the world so that Hubbard could avoid government authorities and process servers by remaining in international waters as much as possible.

L. Ron Hubbard was Shelly's father, and his wife Mary Sue was now their mother.

In that age of Scientology, messengers had enormous power and influence even though they were all so young because they had direct access to Hubbard, who was already seen as an infallible god-like figure by Scientologists even though the organization was still in its infancy.

Shelly's closeness to Hubbard was an asset of Shelly's for most of her life, but later it would prove to be her undoing.

In 1982, Shelly married David Miscavige, who was incredibly ambitious and had already made a name for himself by age 22. In 1986, after Hubbard died as a recluse, Miscavige, just 26, began a two-year process that led to his ruthless and violent takeover of Scientology. On at least one occasion, Miscavige was aided by off-duty LAPD officers in his hostile takeover.

Miscavige named himself "Chairman of the Board of the Religious Technology Center." The Religious Technology Center is the organization that controls Scientology and all of Scientology's various organizations and front groups.

Scientologists refer to Miscavige as COB, and he named Shelly COB Assistant (in this context, think of her as chief of staff).

For nearly 20 years, Shelly served her husband and Scientology dutifully. But everything began to unravel in the early 2000s.

After Miscavige survived a series of significant events, investigations, and controversies that could have taken him down, he shifted from someone who would regularly display flashes of anger to someone who lived in a constant state of volcanic fury which was mixed with the use of physical violence against Scientology's top executives.

In the early 2000s, Shelly quietly began questioning her husband's sanity in conversations with Scientology executives on the base where she lived and worked with Miscavige.

In 2006, after she made the fatal error of reorganizing an organizational board of key staff without permission while Miscavige was out of town, Shelly knew her time had come: she was persona non grata.

Scientologists are ruthless in how they go about their everyday lives; they're taught emotions like empathy and sympathy is bad. By all accounts, Shelly was incredibly tough and could be harsh, extremely demanding, and had a temper of her own. But she was also noted for her touches of genuine generosity and her attempts to calm her husband's worst instincts.

But after she fell out of favor, Shelly began to face sec-checks (interrogations) and became a shell of her former self. Gone was the hard-charging boss; she was now living in constant fear. At one point, Shelly meekly asked Mike Rinder if he noticed if her husband was wearing his wedding band. That display of vulnerability would have been unthinkable before.

Shelly Miscavige on her wedding day in December 1982. Twenty-four years later, she would transition from being the second most powerful official in Scientology to meekly asking a Scientology executive if he saw her husband wearing his wedding ring.

Then, she vanished. Shelly was seen being escorted into a car in tears in 2006. From then on, except for an appearance at her father's funeral in August 2007, she has never been seen again.

Over a dozen former Scientology officials have said that they believe Shelly is living, and possibly working, at The Church of Spiritual Technology (CST) base, located in Twin Peaks, California, in San Bernardino County, California.

The CST is the Scientology organization charged with preserving Hubbard's writings.

In 2021, I noticed via a records search that Shelly received mail at a PO Box in Blue Jay, California, just two miles from the Twin Peaks compound. Other Scientologists who worked for the CST were also receiving mail there.

Gary "Jackson" Morehead, the former security chief of the secretive Scientology base in Riverside County, California, known as "Gold," said that he believes Shelly is likely being handled in a way that doesn't make her feel too restricted but also doesn't give her any real freedom.

Morehead told Claire Headley, a former top Scientology official who reported directly to Shelly Miscavige and David Miscavige for years, on her podcast series, that his assessment of how Shelly was being treated was based on how other women with highly sensitive information that could damage Scientology (like Hubbard's wife Mary Sue) were treated when it was decided that they would be disappeared.

Shelly may not feel totally restricted on the CST base, but by no stretch of the imagination does she have any true freedom of movement, association, or expression.

A team of Scientology security agents surrounds Shelly 24/7, and her life is managed and controlled by three Sea Org members who all report directly to Miscavige and send written reports to him regularly about Shelly's mood, activities, and what she says to them.

Over the years, I have heard horrifying stories about these three women from sources; the incidents range from cruel to criminal.

Once, a senior Scientology CS (case supervisor who oversees auditing) in Los Angeles had mislabeled someone's auditing session records.

As a punishment, Joasem forced the elderly woman outside and hosed her down with cold water in front of other Sea Org members. The woman, who had MS, was frightened and humiliated.

A former senior Scientology auditor told me that Benhraiem threatened to kill a 15-year-old victim of statutory rape if she reported the rape to the LAPD. The 15-year-old believed, as did others, that Benhraiem was serious about her threat, and as a result, she was too terrified to file a report with the LAPD.

Tisi once kept Jenna Miscavige Hill, the niece of David Miscavige, who would later write the bombshell memoir about her life in Scientology, locked in a room for hours, against her will, to Sec Check her.

Claire Headley told me that after she had been forced to have one abortion by Scientology officials (Sea Org members are no longer allowed to have children), Tisi Sec Checked her when she got pregnant for the second time and that Tisi, along with another Scientology official, pressured her into having a second abortion.

Over the years, people have wondered how Shelly would respond if the FBI showed up at the CST base and told Shelly that she was free to leave and that they would protect her as she exited. Most people assume that she would jump at the chance and leave under the protection of the FBI.

But based on conversations I've had with former top Scientology executives who knew Shelly well, she likely wouldn't leave that easily. She might insist that she was perfectly happy at the CST base.

Why? The answer, as always, lies in Scientology policy.

First, Scientologists are brainwashed into believing that law enforcement is one of their greatest enemies. Scientologists, especially Sea Org members, are drilled repeatedly on how to lie to law enforcement to protect Scientology.

Shelly probably wouldn't feel safe with law enforcement. But the reality is, as Mike Rinder has explained before, Shelly likely believes that she has done horrible things and deserves to be where she's at. She also likely believes that she must stay at CST to protect L. Ron Hubbard's writings and that she is waiting for Hubbard to return and take over Scientology from her husband, David.

“She Could Take The Whole Thing Down”

No one disappears someone in the way Miscavige has disappeared Shelly unless they pose a clear threat to their position.

Shelly poses a fatal threat not only to Miscavige as Scientology's leader but to Miscavige personally and to Scientology as an organization.

Shelly is a threat for two reasons.

First, from 1986 to 2005, Shelly witnessed everything David Miscavige did.

It was so jarring for Scientologists like Remini not to see Shelly standing alongside Miscavige because she was always by his side. For twenty years, Shelly and Miscavige's communicator Laurisse "Lou" Henley Smith, would shadow Miscavige in every interaction and meeting, and both were always next to him in his office.

Both Shelly and Henley Smith would have tape recorders turned on at all times to record every word Miscavige said. Those tapes were then transcribed by a team of typists and turned into orders that Miscavige's compliance chief would then disseminate to Scientology officials.

Shelly witnessed everything from Miscavige overseeing complex operations to intimidate whistleblowers and witnesses. She facilitated Miscavige's access to the confessions of crime by Scientologists during their auditing sessions. Shelly was copied on every single internal report that went to Miscavige, many of which were filled with details of criminal and unethical activity.

She also witnessed Miscavige physically assaulting Scientology executives regularly. Shelly was privy to his involvement in various matters ranging from the lengths he went to obtain tax exemption for Scientology from the IRS to the circumstances surrounding the death of Lisa McPherson, a Scientologist who passed away while under the care of Scientology in Clearwater, Florida. The McPherson case almost led to criminal charges against Miscavige.

These examples are merely the tip of the iceberg regarding what Shelly witnessed during her time at her husband's side.

The second reason Shelly is a threat to Miscavige is her relationship with L. Ron Hubbard. Because she worked directly for Hubbard as a messenger, Shelly has a lot of moral authority with Scientologists who are in awe of anyone that was that close to the man who guides every single part of their life. Mike Rinder and Tom DeVocht (a former top Scientology executive who worked closely with the Miscaviges) said that if anyone could incite a mutiny against Miscavige, it would be Shelly.

Seventeen years after she was disappeared by her husband, Shelly still holds the unique power that only Tom Cruise has.

If she were willing to share what she knows, she could end Scientology as we know it. And that's precisely why she's been stripped of all her freedoms.

A Missed Opportunity

Janis Gillham Grady, one of the original Hubbard Commodore Messengers on the Apollo ship, has known Shelly since she was 12.

Grady draws a parallel between peeling layers from an onion and the little moments that lead Scientologists, who eventually leave, to recognize Scientology as a fraud.

What if the LAPD detectives had followed standard law enforcement procedures and informed Shelly that a missing persons report had been filed on her? What if after they informed Shelly that her old friend Leah Remini was the one who filed the report? What if they had pushed her to learn why she didn't appear in public anymore? What if they asked her why she had cut off every friend she had known for decades?

The so-called onion peeling could have begun when she returned home after meeting with the detectives. Knowing that someone like Leah cared about her and was trying to fight for her could have sparked a realization that could have made her wonder if everything she had been told was a lie. Perhaps her handlers told her that people like Leah were disgusted with her and didn't want to know her. At that point, and still today, there's a strong possibility that Shelly had no idea that Leah had left Scientology, who the president was, and that millions of people were tweeting and posting about her plight.

The LAPD's refusal to follow standard law enforcement procedures may have robbed Shelly of ten years of freedom.

"You probably won't have another chance to get out."

Ten years after Remini filed the missing person's report, the memory of Shelly Miscavige is growing distant, the friends she grew up with in Scientology are in their late 60s, 70s, and 80s, and some have died since she disappeared.

And the idea that Shelly could be free to live as she pleases seems ever more improbable.

It's a reality that Remini was well aware of when she wrote that letter to Shelly just weeks after Remini herself officially left Scientology. The same note she had hoped would be given to Shelly by the LAPD detectives.

Remini ended the letter with a warning, "If you don't do it now, you probably won't have another chance to get out."

Remini was focused on Scientology as the obstacle to Shelly's freedom; at the time, she was idealizing the LAPD as the organization that could rescue her friend.

She had no idea that the law enforcement agency she had hoped would liberate Shelly was helping to achieve David Miscavige's goal of turning Shelly into a non-person.

The LAPD didn't even think Shelly was worth an extra set of fingerprints."

[manasastuff-blog]

UPSC National Defence Academy NDA and Naval Academy NA Examination 2024 Apply Online for 400 Post

 Union Public Service Commission UPSC has released the National Defence Academy NDA (Male / Female), Naval Academy NA Only for Male, NDA & NA First Examination 2024. Those Candidate Are Interested to UPSC NDA & NA 2024 Exam Can Apply Online from 20/12/2023 to 09/01/2024. Read the notification for recruitment eligibility, post information, selection procedure, age limit, pay scale and all other information.

Union Public Service Commission (UPSC)

UPSC National Defence Academy NDA & NA First Examination 2024

UPSC NDA Exam Notice No. 03/2022-NDA-I :  Short Details of Notification

WWW.SARKARIRESULT.COM

Important Dates

Application Begin : 20/12/2023

Last Date for Apply Online : 09/01/2024 Upto 06:00 PM Only

Pay Exam Fee Last Date : 09/01/2024

Modify / Edit Form : 10-16 January 2024

NDA I Exam Date : 21/04/2024

Admit Card Released : Before Exam

Application Fee

General / OBC : 100/-

SC / ST : 0/- (Nil)

All Category Female : 0/-

Pay the Examination Fee Through Net Banking, Debit Card, Credit Card or Pay the Exam Fee Through Cash E Challan Fee Mode Submit the Exam Fee at State Bank of India SBI Any Branches in India.

UPSC NDA I Notification 2024: Age Limit as on Details

Age Between: 02/07/2005 to 01/07/2008

Age Relaxation Extra as per NDA I Exam 2024 Rules.

UPSC NDA & NDA I Recruitment 2024 : Vacancy Details Total : 400 Post

Post Name

Wing Name

Total Post

UPSC NDA & NDA Eligibility 2024

National Defence Academy NDA (Male / Female)

Army

208

10+2 Intermediate Exam in Any Recognized Board

Navy

42

10+2 Intermediate Class 12 Exam Passed / Appearing in Any Recognized Board with Physics & Mathematics as a Subject.

Airforce

120

Naval Academy NA Only for Male

10+2 Cadet Entry

30

How to Fill UPSC NDA I Exam 2024 Online Form

UPSC has made One Time Registration OTR mandatory for all its recruitments, thus OTR is necessary in this recruitment National Defense Academy 2024 also, those who have not done OTR yet should do their OTR, without it the application will not be accepted.

Union Public Service Commission UPSC Are Released the Notification for NDA I Exam 2024 for the 400+ Approx Vacancies in Army, Navy, Airforce Recruitment 2024 Candidate Can Apply Between 20/12/2023 to 09/01/2024

Candidate Read the Notification Before Apply the Recruitment Application Form in UPSC NDA Online Form 2024.

Kindly Check and Collect the All Document - Eligibility, ID Proof, Address Details, Basic Details.

Kindly Ready Scan Document Related to Recruitment Form - Photo, Sign, ID Proof, Etc.

Before Submit the Application Form Must Check the Preview and All Column Carefully.

If Candidate Required to Paying the Application Fee Must Submit. If You have Not the Required Application Fees Your Form is Not Completed.

Take A Print Out of Final Submitted Form.

NDA CRASH COURSE ( 6 MONTHS ) NDA ADVANCE COURSE (1 YEAR)

At Manasa Defence Academy, we take pride in providing the best training in India for those who are interested in pursuing a career in defense. Whether you aspire to join the prestigious National Defense Academy (NDA) or wish to advance your skills through our NDA Crash Course or NDA Advance Course, we have got you covered. In this article, we will delve into the details of these courses, highlighting their duration, curriculum, and the invaluable training you can expect to receive.

NDA Crash Course (6 months)

 Academy is designed to prepare candidates for the rigorous selection process of the National Defense Academy within a span of six months. During this short but intensive period, we ensure that you receive comprehensive training to enhance your chances of clearing the NDA entrance examination.

Duration and Curriculum

The NDA Crash Course is carefully crafted to cover all the important subjects and topics required for the NDA entrance examination. Over the course of six months, you will undergo an extensive curriculum that includes:

Mathematics: We provide in-depth coaching in mathematics, covering topics such as algebra, geometry, trigonometry, calculus, and statistics. Our experienced faculty will guide you through complex problem-solving techniques and ensure you have a strong foundation in this subject.

General Ability: This section tests your English language proficiency, general knowledge, and logical reasoning. We offer comprehensive study materials and conduct regular mock tests to help you improve your command over vocabulary, comprehension, and critical thinking.

Physical Training: Physical fitness is a crucial aspect of defense training. Our NDA Crash Course includes regular physical training sessions to improve your stamina, strength, and overall fitness levels. You will partake in activities such as running, obstacle courses, and team sports to develop the necessary physical endurance required for a career in the defense forces.

Intensive Coaching and Guidance

At Manasa Defence Academy, we believe in offering personalized attention to each candidate. Our experienced faculty members are dedicated and passionate about helping you achieve your goals. Through small batch sizes, we ensure that every student receives individualized coaching, allowing for better interaction and focused learning.

Our faculty members have prior experience in defense services and possess comprehensive knowledge of the NDA examination pattern. They provide valuable insights, tips, and tricks to tackle the examination effectively. Additionally, weekly doubt-clearing sessions and regular progress evaluations are conducted to track your performance and address any areas that require improvement.

NDA Advance Course (1 year)

For those seeking a more thorough and comprehensive preparation for the NDA entrance examination, Manasa Defence Academy offers the NDA Advance Course spanning one year. This course provides an in-depth understanding of the subjects and ample time for practice to ensure a higher success rate.

Duration and Curriculum

The NDA Advance Course is designed to cover the entire NDA syllabus in great detail. The duration of one year allows for an extensive focus on each subject, ensuring a comprehensive understanding. The curriculum includes:

Mathematics: Similar to the NDA Crash Course, mathematics is a vital component of the NDA Advance Course. Our expert faculty members provide extensive coaching in mathematics, enabling you to solve complex problems with ease and accuracy.

General Ability: The general ability section in the NDA entrance examination requires a broad understanding of English, general knowledge, and logical reasoning. Our Advance Course offers an intensive study of these subjects, along with regular practice sessions and mock tests to enhance your performance.

SSB Interview Preparation: Clearing the Services Selection Board (SSB) interview is an essential step towards joining the defense forces. Our NDA Advance Course includes personalized guidance and intensive training to help you excel in the SSB interview. Mock interviews, group discussions, and personality development sessions are conducted to enhance your overall performance and confidence.

Exclusive Study Material and Resources

As part of the NDA Advance Course, you will receive exclusive study materials, including comprehensive notes, practice papers, and reference books. These resources are carefully curated to cover the entire NDA syllabus and are regularly updated to align with the latest examination pattern and trends.

Our library facilities also provide access to a wide range of books, magazines, and journals related to defense studies. This allows you to broaden your knowledge base and stay updated with current affairs, military history, and global security issues.

Conclusion

If you have a burning desire to serve your country and embark on a fulfilling career in defense, the NDA Crash Course (6 months) and NDA Advance Course (1 year) at Manasa Defence Academy are perfect choices for you. With our dedicated faculty, comprehensive curriculum, and personalized attention, we strive to equip you with the necessary knowledge and skills to succeed in the NDA entrance examination. Don’t miss the chance to turn your aspirations into reality – join Manasa Defence Academy and kickstart your journey towards a rewarding career in defense.

[agentcable]

Chicago Justice Season 1 Ep. 2 "Uncertainty Principle"

Dawson faces an uncomfortable situation when the State's Attorney's office accuses Officer Kevin Atwater of using excessive force to apprehend a man accused of drug dealing, who later died in custody. As a result, Stone is compelled to charge Atwater with murder.

If you want to watch the series for yourself, stop reading! This post contains spoilers to the storyline.

ASA Anna Valdez arrives at Chicago PD and asks Sergeant Trudy Platt to see Adrian Carrera, who is in the drunk tank with his lawyer, Arnold Rifking. Carrera is offered a plea of 20 years, for today only, by Peter Stone. Rifking rejects the plea on assault charges. Anna informs him that the victim died at Chicago Med and they are filing murder charges.

As she leaves, the lawyer tells her that he is also representing the man in the drunk tank beside Carrera, Justin Wilkes. She says that if she doesn't hear from him by 2 pm, she will put the case before the grand jury. Carrera told them to shove their offer, and Stone tells her that she will be first chair on a murder case. As she experiences a moment of excitement, Rifking calls her to inform that the client next to Carrera has passed away. He is currently at the hospital with the client's mother, Mrs. Wilkes.

At the hospital, she learns from Rev. Fitch that he is ensuring their office investigates Justin's death thoroughly. Justin did not die of natural causes; he passed away from fatal injuries while in police custody. She watches as the mother says goodbye to her deceased son.

Stone and Anna meet with Mark Jefferies and share all the information they have about Wilke's case. He instructs them to act quickly, beginning at the hospital and working backwards. With Rev. Fitch on the case, Rifking's tenure as Wilkes' lawyer will be short-lived.

Stone discovers from the ME that, regardless of his level of intoxication, the moment the sternum broke, the victim was doomed. It is evident that the injury was cause by a blow to the chest, which is typical of car accidents. She informs him that she is designating the cause of death as homicide.

Antonio Dawson and Laura Nagel discover that it took the ED over five hours to reach Justin. Laura questions how they knew he was drunk if no one examined him. The nurse states that some of their regular patients are drunks but is uncooperative in providing further information. She only reveals that he died from exsanguination. Laura and Antonio were startled when EMS informed them that Justin smelled of alcohol and had vomited all over them during a call to rescue an 8-year-old who had been pulled from the lake with no pulse. As they walked away, Laura reminded Antonio not to get sick, and he replied with a sarcastic comment about not being a black male. One of the paramedics shouted to them that the child from the lake had survived.

Antonio and Laura then went to the Chicago PD to speak with the Detective. Officer Kevin Atwater arrested Justin, whom he knew from their childhood. Atwater explains the events leading up to the arrest and subsequent death of Justin. When asked if he followed proper restraint procedures, Atwater explains that Justin was resisting arrest and he used reasonable physical force to subdue him. He then slams his locker and brushes past Antonio.

Antonio defends Kevin. Rifking brings in his client Carrera, who claims to have information from the night Wilkes died. Carrera says Wilkes might have told him a cop hit him. Rifking offers a deal, but Stone turns it down. Meanwhile, Antonio requests video coverage before throwing Kevin Atwater to the wolves to keep the peace. He promises to have it in a couple of hours.

Jefferies meets with Mrs. Wilkes and Rev. Fitch. Fitch produces cellphones for people who are afraid to go to the police. He offers them to Jefferies, claiming that Justin was definitely murdered. Antonio and Laura watch the videos of Kevin Atwater's arrest. Antonio supports Atwater, but Laura reminds him that they are partners now. Atwater tells Antonio that he should have just been allowed to sell his drugs because it will always be someone's child. The group gathers to review what they know about the case so far.

Antonio tells Anna that she knows Atwater. Stone also mentions that he knows Sergeant Hank Voight's unit and wouldn't describe them as shrinking violets. He takes no pleasure in going after a cop, especially someone like Kevin Atwater. Antonio advises him to drop it, but Stone reminds him that their obligation is to the victim and his family. Antonio grabs his coat and says he doesn't have to be a part of it.

Antonio updates Voight on his efforts and expresses concern about the possibility of Kevin being the killer. Voight responds that if Kevin did kill the victim, then the victim deserved it. Stone decides to pursue legal action against the police officer who arrested Wilkes, the EMTs who delayed his transport to the hospital, and the doctors who failed to treat him in a timely manner. He was made a ward of the state upon his arrest. The EMTs and doctors treated him poorly, as if he was not worth saving. In the end, he became a victim of murder.

At a bar, Stone explains that he is not suggesting a conspiracy, but rather it was the collective actions or lack of actions that led to the victim's death. She reminds him that this concept does not exist in the criminal code. Paul Robinette, who served with Stone's father in NYC, arrives and defends police officers. After Voight called him, he came to help Atwater. Robinette has a motion to preclude grand jury action, but Stone informs him that this does not exist in Chicago. Robinette suggests letting the presiding judge make the call.

During the court proceedings, the judge requested an hour to review Robinette's request for all subpoenas from the ASA office. The lawyers argued about the preclusion. Stone did not pay attention to Kevin Atwater's characteristics until after the trial. Robinette mentioned that Stone reminded him of his father, but Stone quickly dismissed the comment, stating that his father has nothing to do with the way he practices law. Peter is advised to call his father and apologize. Stone denies any knowledge of the situation, but Robinette believes otherwise.

In court, the judge denies his motion. Anna returns to Jefferies' office and reports that the grand jury has indicted Kevin Atwater for first-degree murder. Stone bows his head as Jefferies orders them to obtain an arrest warrant within the hour and execute it immediately. Stones says Atwater would turn himself in, but Jefferies orders him to work on all the reasonable doubt they handed Robinette.

Antonio brings Atwater in as Jefferies gives a press conference. Antonio defends Chicago PD and confronts Stone for accusing Atwater of causing the victim's death.

The medical examiner confirms that the victim suffered blunt force trauma to his rib cage, which caused it to splinter. Stone presents videos of the arrest, and the medical examiner admits that the arrest could have caused the injuries. The victim died at 4:06 pm, and Atwater arrested him at 7:10 am. Robinette brings up that Stone attempted to indict the EMTs and doctors for not knowing the true cause of Justin's death. Witnesses from the neighbourhood knew Justin Wilkes as a drug dealer.

Antonio tells Kevin that he did what he could, but Atwater is upset that it obviously wasn't long enough. They used to ride together, but everything has changed now that Antonio has moved to a bigger house. The defendant is upset that a black woman testified today, implying that he is betraying his community by being a police officer. Due to death threats, his younger siblings are currently staying in a hotel. Antonio has offered to take them in until Kevin is cleared. Atwater suggests that it may be too late and that he may have killed the victim or used excessive force. Antonio reminds him that they act for the right reasons.

Stone is experiencing a crisis of conscience after Robinette's assertion that several people were responsible for Justin's death. Jefferies inquires about Carrera, the jailhouse snitch, and whether he knows for a fact that he is lying. Carrera claims that Justin told him that the arresting officer had beaten him severely. The court adjourns until the following day.

Stone and Robinette discuss how a criminal's testimony carries more weight than that of a police officer. Robinette requested that the charges be reduced to aggravated assault with a six-month probationary period, but Stone declined and proposed a one-year sentence. During the court proceedings, Kevin Atwater provided a testimony of the events, while Antonio exited the courtroom.

Laura wants to talk about something, but Antonio doesn't. She shares a childhood story with him, telling him that she has learned to pick a side and stick with it. She tells him that she is happy he is her partner. Antonio reviews the case and discovers that there was no blood tox report and no vomit on him.

Anna and Stone arrive at the prison and inform Carrera that his deal is off the table. Stone tells Carrera that he has only two choices: concurrent or consecutive sentences. He is now being charged with Justin's murder on top of the man he killed in the bar. Carrera admits that he killed him for a cigarette.

Back in court, Stone vacates kevin Atwater's sentence and charge. He admits to Atwater that sometimes they get it wrong and apologizes to him. Antonio and Atwater nod to each other. Robinette shakes hands with Stone and tells him that his father would be proud of both of them. Antonio visits Stone's office and apologizes, telling him not to worry. Stone picks up his baseball and calls his father.

[drmamtamehta1]

Finding the Right Gynecologist in Vaishali Nagar: A Comprehensive Guide

When it comes to your health and well-being, finding a skilled and compassionate gynecologist is crucial. For residents of Vaishali Nagar, a bustling and well-connected locality, accessing top-notch gynecological care can make a significant difference in managing reproductive health, addressing concerns, and ensuring overall wellness. Whether you’re seeking routine check-ups, prenatal care, or specialized treatment, knowing how to find the right gynecologist in Vaishali Nagar can help you make informed decisions about your health.

Why a Good Gynecologist Matters

Gynecologists specialize in women’s reproductive health, addressing a wide range of issues from menstrual irregularities and hormonal imbalances to pregnancy care and menopause management. A good gynecologist not only provides expert medical advice but also creates a comfortable environment where patients feel supported and understood. In Vaishali Nagar, having access to skilled gynecologists can help you address your health concerns effectively and with confidence.

What to Look for in a Gynecologist

Qualifications and Experience: When choosing a gynecologist in Vaishali Nagar, consider their medical qualifications, training, and years of experience. Look for specialists with a solid background in gynecology and relevant certifications. Experienced practitioners often have a track record of successful outcomes and can offer a higher level of care.

2 Reputation and Reviews: Patient reviews and word-of-mouth recommendations can provide valuable insights into a gynecologist’s practice. Research online reviews, ask for recommendations from friends or family, and consider checking ratings on health care platforms. A well-regarded gynecologist with positive feedback is likely to offer excellent care.

3 Specializations: Depending on your specific needs, you may want to find a gynecologist who specializes in areas such as prenatal care, infertility treatment, or gynecological surgery. Some gynecologists in Vaishali Nagar have subspecialties that cater to more complex issues, so it’s worth checking their areas of expertise.

4 Comfort and Communication: Establishing a good rapport with your gynecologist is essential. Choose a practitioner who listens to your concerns, explains procedures and options clearly, and makes you feel comfortable. Effective communication is key to a successful patient-doctor relationship.

5 Location and Accessibility: The convenience of location can play a significant role in your choice of gynecologist. Vaishali Nagar offers various medical facilities and clinics, so finding a gynecologist nearby can save time and reduce travel-related stress.

Top Services Offered by Gynecologists in Vaishali Nagar

Routine Examinations and Screenings: Regular gynecological check-ups, including Pap smears and breast exams, are vital for maintaining reproductive health and early detection of potential issues.

2 Pregnancy and Prenatal Care: Skilled gynecologists provide comprehensive care throughout pregnancy, including prenatal check-ups, ultrasounds, and guidance on a healthy pregnancy.

3 Menstrual and Hormonal Management: For issues such as irregular periods, PMS, or menopause symptoms, a gynecologist can offer treatment options and management strategies to improve your quality of life.

4 Infertility Evaluation and Treatment: If you’re facing challenges with conception, gynecologists can perform evaluations and recommend treatments or referrals to fertility specialists.

Gynecological Surgery: For conditions requiring surgical intervention, such as fibroids or endometriosis, experienced gynecologists can perform minimally invasive procedures and provide expert care.

Conclusion

Finding the right gynecologist in Vaishali Nagar involves careful consideration of qualifications, experience, and patient comfort. By focusing on these factors, you can ensure that you receive high-quality care tailored to your needs. Whether you need routine care, specialized treatment, or support through significant health changes, Vaishali Nagar’s experienced gynecologists are well-equipped to help you achieve and maintain optimal reproductive health. Take the time to research and choose a gynecologist who aligns with your health goals and provides the compassionate care you deserve.

[davidpollard12]

The Best GPs in Algester for Regular Health Checkups

General practitioners are physicians who provide primary care by utilizing their specialization in comprehensive healthcare. They address a wide range of medical conditions in individuals of all ages. These are the responsible shoulders that people rely upon to provide preventive care, diagnosis, and treatment after consultation.

Pulse Medical Algester

At the very place is Pulse Medical Algester. It is an official rental and practice facility for highly qualified general practitioners (GPs). To name a few, it has Dr. Ajay Koshti (MBBS, FRACGP, MRCGP, UK), Dr. Erin Batman (MBBS, FRACGP), Dr. Amol Deore (MBBS, FRACGP), Dr. Vishal Mehta (FRACGP, MRCGP, UK), and Dr. Widanagamage Epa (MBBS, FRACGP). Besides, there are certified and registered nurses, allied health experts, and an administration team to make patients feel comfortable and cared for.

These independent practitioners, however, run their own separate businesses parallel to utilizing pulse medical facilities to treat patients. This team has a vision, which is to create a safe, friendly, and welcoming environment for tenant general practitioners. Together, they have served over 7500 patients in Algester, Calamvale, Parkinson, Sunnybank Hills, Pallara, and surrounding areas. The idea of providing core values through safety, care, and excellence is reflected in their commitment. They are all highly qualified, caring, and patient-focused doctors, but they uphold traditional General Practice values of empathy, continuity of care, respect, and clinical excellence.

Parkinson Plaza Medical Center

Parkinson Plaza Medical Center is known for its wide range of healthcare services. These are basically related to family medicine, iron infusions, women's, men's, & children’s health and vaccinations, preventative health checks, chronic disease management, employment medicals, mental health management, etc.

The team of general practitioners has Dr. John Prior (MBBS B.A.Med), Dr. Adelle Addison (MBBS, FRACGP), Dr. Ahmed Hussein (LRCP&S, MRCP), Dr. Susan Aclan (BSc Public Health, MBBS FRACGP), Dr. Gunther Pleml (MBBS FRACGP), Dr. Althea Navarro (MBBS FRACGP), Dr. Sam Loannidis (MBBS), Dr. Faisal Syed (MBBS FRACGP), and Dr. Duy Nguyen (MBCHB FRACGP).

This medical centre is also famous for providing advanced skin treatments such as Botox, wound care, skin cancer, mole screening, skin cancer checks, & minor procedures. Likewise, it provides travel medical facilities, such as vaccinations (including yellow fever), related advice, and pre-travel health examinations. For allied health, it has doctors who are diabetes educators, a podiatrist, a psychologist, an audiologist, and a physiotherapist.

Gowan Plaza Family Practice & Skin Surgery

Set up in December 2016, Gowan Plaza Family Practice and Skin Surgery is a medical practice that is highly respected for providing high-quality general healthcare, urgent primary care, and skin cancer treatment and care for all beings living in Queensland. Since the last six years, it has been known for its standard general practice services. Moreover, its continuity with high-quality care, encompassing skin cancer checks and excisions for the local community, is appreciated.

A peek into its all-general practices reveals that its practices span general medicine, emergency medicine, general paediatrics, vaccinations, women's and men’s health, antenatal care, geriatrics, mental health, etc. Dr. Michel Chen, Dr. Zoe Ho, Dr. Jenny Tian, Dr. Ben Fang, and Dr. Steve Song—these are all the chief practitioners there, available for 5.5 days a week. Saturdays are reserved for emergency cases to be examined between 12:00 PM and 5:30 PM.

Sunnybank Hills Medical Centre

This medical centre has been fully accredited in general practice since 1977, or approximately 40 years, and has become a family doctor for hundreds of patients in QLD. The GPs here also support allied health through physiotherapy, podiatry, and dietician plans. The list of associated doctors is long, which starts with Dr. Tim O’Brien, Dr. Chris o’ Brien, Dr. Anne Hill, Dr. Karen Slee, Dr. Hamid Tabrizi, Dr. Anne Hii, Dr. Katrina Roberson, Dr. Cole Weatherall, Dr. Vajira Nanayakkara, Dr. Margret Emmett, and Dr. Geogina Paw. These are all MBBS MBBS, FRACGP.

Beenleigh Road Medical Center

Beenleigh Road Medical Center is actually in the Sunnybank Hill area, which is fully AGPL accredited. The general practitioners here prioritize health, well-being, and disease prevention for all patients. Being in the most humble profession, its doctors always ensure that the dignity of this medicine and healthcare domain remains intact. They ensure it by delivering the highest standard of care, encouraging inclusivity, and attending to each patient with respect.

Here, patients can address issues related to occupational health and workplace injury, general health care, skin cancer checks, women's health, men's health, travel medicine, and psychology. Many certified medical practitioners, like Dr.  Takako Kobayashi, Dr. Suong Hoang, Dr. Shantha Kanagarajah, Dr. Lisa Sun, Dr. Katie Lomidze, Dr. David Yang, dietician Jessica Rayner, and psychologist Dian Wirawan, are there to help patients recover from their health concerns.

Conclusion

These are the GPs in Algester who are dedicated to helping people achieve well-being.

[sudheervanguri]

HLL Lifecare Limited Pharmacists Recruitment HLL Lifecare Limited (HLL), a Schedule B, Mini Ratna Central Public Sector Enterprise under the Ministry of Health & Family Welfare, is one of India’s leading manufacturers and marketers of contraceptives, healthcare, and pharma products & services. The Retail Business Division of HLL has set up HLL Pharmacy & Surgicals at Govt MCH Kalamassery – Ernakulam and Govt MCH Thrissur. The company is looking for dynamic and performance-driven professionals with the right attitude for the following positions on a fixed-term contract basis. Walk-In Selection Details Date: 29th June 2024 Venue: HLL Lifecare Limited, Plot No 16 A/1, Cochin Special Economic Zone, Kakkanad, Cochin, Kerala – 682037 Reporting Time: 10 AM to 1 PM Available Positions Pharmacist Qualification: DPharm / BPharm Experience: Minimum 2 years of post-qualification experience in retail pharmacy Assistant Pharmacist Qualification: DPharm / BPharm Selection Procedure The selection process for the positions of Pharmacist and Assistant Pharmacist comprises a written test and an interview. Written Test: The test will consist of multiple-choice questions to be answered in 30 minutes. The maximum mark for the written examination is 50, with no negative marking for wrong answers. [caption id="attachment_84872" align="aligncenter" width="1200"] HLL Lifecare Limited Walk-In Selection for Pharmacists and Assistant Pharmacists[/caption] General Conditions Age Limit: Maximum 37 years as of 01.06.2024. Upper age relaxation will be given to candidates belonging to SC/ST/OBC/PwD, as per Government of India rules. Required Documents: Candidates are requested to bring all their certificates in original along with attested copies to prove age, qualification, mark sheets, experience certificates, latest salary certificate with break-up, Aadhar, PAN, latest passport size photograph, etc., for verification. SC/ST/OBC (non-creamy layer) candidates should produce their community certificate in original from the concerned revenue authorities. Contract Basis: The appointment will be on a fixed tenure contract basis. Place of Posting: The proposed place of posting may vary as per the business requirement. The management keeps the right to finalize the place of posting as deemed fit. Qualification and Experience: Only candidates with relevant qualifications and experience will be permitted to attend the written test. Pharmacy Council Registration: Candidates applying for the Pharmacist/Assistant Pharmacist positions shall submit the State Pharmacy Council registration to obtain a license for the pharmacy outlet. No Canvassing: Canvassing in any form will be a disqualification. Contact Information For further clarification, contact: +91-9188401559 or email: rbdhr@lifecarehll.com

[forblogmostly]

Sigachi Industries Limited Announces Key Outcomes from Board Meeting

Sigachi Industries Limited conducted a crucial board meeting via video conference. The session, which commenced at Noon and concluded at 2:10 PM, saw the approval of several significant business items. Here's a detailed summary of the key decisions taken during the meeting:

Approval of Audited Financial Results: The Board approved the audited financial results for both standalone and consolidated accounts for the quarter and financial year ending March 31, 2024. The detailed results are enclosed as an annexure.

Audit Report:

The Audit Report for the standalone and consolidated financials for the quarter and year ending March 31, 2024, was also approved and is included as an annexure.

Dividend Recommendation:

A dividend of Re. 0.10 per share has been recommended, subject to the approval of members at the forthcoming Annual General Meeting.

Appointment of Cost Auditors:

M/s. MPR & Associates, Cost Accountants, have been appointed as the Cost Auditors for the financial year 2024-25.

Appointment of Internal Auditors:

M/s. PSRV & Co. LLP, Chartered Accountants, have been appointed as the Internal Auditors for the financial year 2024-25.

Appointment of Secretarial Auditor:

Ms. Aakanksha, a Practicing Company Secretary, has been appointed as the Secretarial Auditor for the financial year 2024-25.

Appointment of Company Secretary & Compliance Officer:

Mr. Vivek Kumar has been appointed as the company secretary and compliance officer.

These appointments and approvals aim to strengthen the company’s governance and operational frameworks as it continues to pursue its business objectives. 4V Chartered Accountants recently audited the consolidated financial results for Sigachi Industries Limited. The audit covered the financial statements for the quarter ending March 31, 2024, and the entire fiscal year from April 1, 2023, to March 31, 2024. This comprehensive report is crucial for understanding the financial health and performance of Sigachi Industries and its subsidiaries.

Scope of the Audit - The audit was performed following the Standards on Auditing (SAs) specified under section 143(10) of the Companies Act, 2013. The audit encompassed the consolidated financial results of Sigachi Industries Limited, including its subsidiaries—Sigachi US, INC, Sigachi MENA FZCO, and Trimax Bio Sciences Pvt Ltd.

Opinion on the Financial Results - The auditors concluded that the financial results presented by Sigachi Industries Limited were accurate and reliable. The consolidated annual financial results for the group were prepared in compliance with Indian Accounting Standards and SEBI regulations. The audit provided a clear and fair view of the net profit, loss, and other comprehensive income of the group.

Management’s Responsibilities - Sigachi Industries Limited's management is responsible for preparing and presenting these consolidated financial results. Their duties include maintaining accurate accounting records, safeguarding the group’s assets, preventing fraud, and ensuring the application of appropriate accounting policies. The Board of Directors must also assess the group’s ability to continue as a going concern and disclose any relevant uncertainties.

Auditor’s Responsibilities - The auditors sought reasonable assurance that the consolidated financial results were free from material misstatement. Their responsibilities included identifying and assessing risks, evaluating internal controls, and verifying the appropriateness of accounting policies and estimates used by the management. The auditors also examined the overall presentation and disclosure of the financial results to ensure they represented the underlying transactions fairly.

Key Audit Procedures

Risk Assessment: The auditors identified and assessed risks of material misstatement in the financial results due to fraud or error.

Internal Control Evaluation: They evaluated the internal control systems relevant to the financial reporting process.

Policy and Estimate Evaluation: The auditors assessed the appropriateness of accounting policies and the reasonableness of estimates made by the management.

Going Concern Evaluation: They concluded on the appropriateness of the management's use of the going concern basis of accounting.

Overall Presentation: The auditors evaluated the financial results' overall presentation, structure, and content.

Other Matters - The audit included the financial statements of one subsidiary, whose results were audited by their auditors. These results included significant financial metrics such as total assets, revenues, net profit, comprehensive income, and cash equivalents. The auditors relied on these audited statements provided by the management.

The auditors also reviewed the unaudited financial results of other subsidiaries, which were included in the consolidated financial results. These results, certified by the management, were incorporated into the overall audit conclusions.

Conclusion - The audit of Sigachi Industries Limited’s consolidated financial results for the fiscal year ending March 31, 2024, and the quarter ending the same date, was thorough and meticulous. The auditors confirmed the accuracy and reliability of the financial statements, providing stakeholders with a clear view of the company’s financial health. This comprehensive audit reinforces the trust in Sigachi Industries Limited’s financial reporting and management practices.

[drumedcosmetics]

Understanding Skin Cancer: Causes, Prevention, and Treatment

Skin cancer is one of the most common types of cancer worldwide. It's essential to understand its causes, preventive measures, and treatment options to protect yourself and your loved ones. This blog post will delve into the details of skin cancer, aiming to provide a comprehensive overview to help you stay informed and proactive about your skin health.

Types of Skin Cancer

Skin cancer occurs when skin cells grow uncontrollably. There are three main types of skin cancer:

Basal Cell Carcinoma (BCC): The most common and least dangerous type, usually appearing as a small, shiny bump or nodule on the skin.

Squamous Cell Carcinoma (SCC): Less common but more likely to spread than BCC, often appearing as a red, scaly, or crusty patch.

Melanoma: The most dangerous form of skin cancer, known for its ability to spread rapidly to other organs. Melanomas often resemble moles and can be various colors.

Causes of Skin Cancer

The primary cause of skin cancer is exposure to ultraviolet (UV) radiation from the sun or tanning beds. However, other factors can contribute to the development of skin cancer:

Genetics: A family history of skin cancer can increase your risk.

Skin Type: Individuals with fair skin, light hair, and light eyes are more susceptible to skin cancer.

Age: The risk of skin cancer increases with age.

Immune System: A weakened immune system, due to conditions or medications, can make skin cancer more likely.

Understanding these risk factors can help in taking proactive measures to protect your skin.

Prevention Tips

Preventing skin cancer involves minimizing UV exposure and taking protective measures to safeguard your skin. Here are some effective strategies:

Use Sunscreen: Apply a broad-spectrum sunscreen with an SPF of 30 or higher every day, even on cloudy days. Reapply every two hours and after swimming or sweating.

Wear Protective Clothing: Use wide-brimmed hats, UV-blocking sunglasses, and clothing that covers your arms and legs when outdoors.

Seek Shade: Especially between 10 AM and 4 PM, when the sun’s rays are strongest.

Avoid Tanning Beds: Tanning beds are a significant source of UV radiation and should be avoided.

Regular Skin Checks: Perform monthly self-exams to look for new or changing moles and spots. See a dermatologist annually for a professional skin check, particularly if you are at higher risk.

Treatment Options

If skin cancer is detected, several treatment options are available depending on the type, size, and location of the cancer:

Surgical Procedures:

Excision: Cutting out the cancerous tissue along with a margin of healthy skin.

Mohs Surgery: Removing and examining layers of cancerous tissue until only cancer-free tissue remains, often used for BCC and SCC.

Radiation Therapy: Targeted radiation is used to destroy cancer cells, particularly in areas where surgery might be difficult.

Chemotherapy: Can be topical (for localized cancer) or systemic (for cancers that have spread).

Immunotherapy: Drugs that help the immune system recognize and attack cancer cells, especially useful for advanced melanomas.

Targeted Therapy: Medications that target specific genetic mutations within cancer cells, used primarily for advanced melanomas.

Importance of Early Detection

Early detection is crucial in successfully treating skin cancer. Regular skin checks and awareness of any changes in your skin can lead to early diagnosis and treatment. If you notice any suspicious changes in your skin, such as new growths, changes in existing moles, or sores that do not heal, seek professional medical advice promptly. Dermatologists can provide thorough skin exams and biopsies if necessary to diagnose any potential skin cancers early.

Conclusion

Skin cancer is a serious but often preventable disease. By understanding the types, causes, preventive measures, and treatment options, you can significantly reduce your risk and catch any potential issues early. Make skin health a priority, protect yourself from harmful UV radiation, and stay vigilant with regular skin checks to ensure early detection and effective treatment. For those in the area, visiting a Skin Cancer Clinic Ipswich can provide specialized care and resources to help maintain your skin health.

[mesacountyrepublicanwomen]

Why Should Taxpayers Attend MVEA (teacher’s union) Negotiations? - Sara Fletcher

Why should taxpayers attend MVEA (teacher’s union) negotiations Friday May 17, 4:30pm @ Harry Butler Board Room?

To answer this question, I must first explain a brief history of the dynamics that have brought D51’s Board of Education (BOE) to current procedures. Last year the BOE departed from being physically present during MVEA negotiations. This allows the negotiations team to communicate directly with the MVEA president. It also allows for all five board members to be updated and contribute input to the negotiating team.

Current MVEA negotiations began May 2nd, 2024, for the upcoming school year. It should be noted that the BOE has been examining all aspects of financial commitments due to declining enrollment and the end of ESSER grant funds. It should also be noted that District 51 is paying approximately $70,000(including benefits) of the MVEA Union Presidents salary. That is 50% of her $140,000 estimated annual salary. The MVEA declined any discussion regarding the Union president’s salary back in February. Now negotiations are under way between the MVEA and the D51 negotiation team including their legal counsel. Thus far after two weekends of negotiations the MVEA would rather see a lesser raise for all teachers and staff, than to pay the remaining 50% of the MVEA president’s salary. The Mesa County Liberty Report recently discovered that the annual income of the MVEA is over $600,000 and of that over $541,180.00 of their income goes to outside affiliates and extreme liberal political candidates. Additionally, the MVEA has been funding local liberal BOE candidates’ elections for years. This has become a problematic situation if you understand that these elected officials have been involved in negotiations with the organization, (MVEA), that funds their campaigns, as well as the Union president is directly negotiating with D51, who funds 50% of her salary. As the light shines brightly on the multiple conflicts of interests. It has become apparent that the need for a negotiation team is imperative. Political agendas do not belong in our schools and should not supersede the needs of teachers, staff, or students. This is why taxpayers’ participation is necessary! We MUST be present at these negotiations to prevent this political nepotism, and our voices MUST be heard at BOE meetings during public comment!

I plead with your hearts to become activated in our community and stand up for our future generations! We must protect the gifts we have been given to our children and our current BOE that holds the line between parental rights and the state’s radical policies. Lastly, I leave you all with a profound quote from our great president. Ronald Regan. “Freedom is never more than one generation away from extinction. We didn’t pass it on to our children in the bloodstream. It must be fought for, protected, and handed on for them to do the same, or one day we will spend our sunset years telling our children and our children’s children what it was once like in the United States where men were free.”

MVEA Negotiations will resume this Friday May 17th 4:30 – 8:00pm and tentatively Saturday May 18th, 2:30 PM depending on the outcome of Friday’s negotiations. The upcoming BOE meeting is May 21st at 5PM. All meetings are be held at the R5 building in the Harry Butler Board room.

[priyasingh123]

Arthroscopy Surgery in Lucknow – Dr. Divyanshu Dutt

Arthroscopy Surgery in Lucknow, led by Dr. Divyanshu Dutt, offers advanced minimally invasive procedures to diagnose and treat joint-related issues. This innovative technique enables doctors to examine and repair damaged joints, tendons, ligaments, and cartilage with precision and efficiency. Dr. Dutt's expertise in arthroscopy ensures patients in Lucknow receive top-quality care and optimal recovery outcomes. Trust Arthroscopy Surgery in Lucknow for your joint health needs.

Address: B8, Chandan Hospital, Faizabad Road, Near Chinhat Flyover, Vijayant Khand, Gomti Nagar, Lucknow, Uttar Pradesh-226010

Phone:+91 98993 89359

Direction: Visit

Opening Hours: (Monday to Saturday)-9 am - 5 pm