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divaofmads · 6 days ago

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|| Are You Still Mine? ||

Pairing: Reggie Kray x Female Reader

Summary: His love is a thorn, her every desire a flower; when they touch, both bleed, yet neither can live apart.

🔞Warnings: +18, Smut, MDNI, Angst & Dark Themes, Big Age Gap, Profanity Use, Jealousy, Dark Psychology, Psychological Abuse / Emotional Manipulation, Manipulation and Gaslighting, Toxic / Unhealthy Relationship Dynamics, Morally Grey Characters, Controlling Behavior, Dubious Consent / Non-Consensual Undertones, Manipulative Love, Toxic Masculinity, Power Imbalance, Rough Sex / Pain-Inflicted Intimacy, Themes to Avoid: Romanticizing Abuse: The relationship is not depicted as a healthy or ideal romance. This is a story about control, manipulation, and the toxic behaviors that arise within it. It does not glorify Reggie’s actions but rather highlights the consequences of an abusive relationship. English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional.

Word Count: +10k

Dividers by @cafekitsune @strangergraphics Photos by Pinterest and @s-heon

A/N: I'm writing something about Tom Hardy for the first time, and I'm really curious to see how it will be received. I hope you like it. Looking forward to your support!

The living room was engulfed in a deep silence; the mist covering London’s night had cloaked the windows like an opaque film, and even the street lamp was only casting a trembling yellow silhouette of shadows. On the table, a cup of coffee – long cold, with a lipstick mark on its rim – was wedged between lecture notes. The Criminal Law book lying open in front of her had its edges marked with fluorescent yellow lines; Y/N was working on the distinction between “Actus Reus” and “Mens Rea” for the second semester, and had just reached the chapter on “constructive manslaughter,” which dealt with actions that result in death without intent. As she skimmed through the paragraphs, she underlined some terms and scribbled notes in her notebook.

Although her eyes seemed to follow the lines, her mind kept drifting to the golden-framed clock on end table behind the dining table, a gift from Reggie. It was 03:04… He still hadn’t come home. Again, the silence. Again, no phone, no news. The familiar yet unsettling emptiness inside her kept growing.

Just then, the house phone rang. A sharp, clear sound; a call at this hour always made one’s heart race unnecessarily. She put down her pen and stood up. Took a deep breath. Inside, she hoped it was Reggie... calling to let her know he was on his way home.

“Hello?” she answered, her voice both tired and expectant.

The voice from the other end was not what she had expected.

“Hey babe, all alone again?” came the cheerful voice of Gilda. That familiar hippie vibe, with words lightly laced with mockery yet warmth.

“Gilda… are you aware of the time?”

“Of course. It would be rude to call a married woman at this hour, but I figured your husband’s not around again. Bingo, right?” she said, sprinkling a little laughter between her words.

Y/N clenched her lips. Even though Gilda’s guess was right, her reflex to protect Reggie was still automatic.

“He… he has work. A meeting, you know…” she shrugged slightly, though Gilda couldn’t see, making a defensive gesture as if to shield him.

“A meeting, huh…” Gilda drew out the word, as if savoring a wine. “You know, all this effort you’re putting in is wasted, right? Once you graduate, I’ll be your divorce lawyer. Should I start preparing the contract now?”

Y/N furrowed her brows, forcing a tense smile.

“These jokes of yours are getting stale, Gilda. Really.”

“Okay, okay… sorry, darling,” Gilda said, though the trace of her arrogance still lingered. “You know I’m not afraid to speak the truth. Your little love story feels like the dark version of a Grimm Brothers tale to me.”

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

After a brief silence, Gilda abruptly changed the topic, but it suited her style: natural and sudden.

“Anyway… are you coming to the art event tomorrow? The one Silas is organizing, the film viewing and discussion thing. Though if you don’t come, the male part will feel very incomplete.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow.

“You mean Silas?”

“Yeah, that’s him. You know, the kid’s an idealist, a bit too serious... but he picks great films. This time, he’s doing film series from Stanley Kubrick. Then we’ll critique them. I’ll tear them apart from a feminist perspective, of course. You should come, we’ll lynch them together.”

Y/N smiled involuntarily.

“I don’t know… Maybe if I can convince Reggie, I’ll come.”

“Ah, now there’s the real issue,” Gilda said, her voice half-comic, half-needle-sharp. “Let’s see if you can drag the gentleman here, or if he’s going to lock you up in four walls again?”

“Gilda!” Y/N said, her tone filled with reproach.

“Alright, alright, I’ll shut up… But come, won’t you? It’ll do you good.”

Y/N nodded slightly, smiling, and without meaning to, felt a bit more relaxed.

“Alright,” Y/N said with a faint smile. “Then we’ll definitely come tomorrow. Reggie and I... Just like we used to... You know, after school, when we’d sit for hours in cafes. Maybe Reggie will like it too, who knows…”

“Reggie? An exhibition? Art?” Gilda burst into laughter from the other end, but it wasn’t mocking, rather fed by a friendly disbelief. “Darling, do you really still believe this man has the potential to join you in cultural activities? How many years apart are you, twenty? I mean, at your age, he was probably already bribing tax officers.”

Despite her pointed tone, Y/N softened her voice. “I don’t know… Maybe, maybe he’ll like it. I want to give him a chance, Gilda.”

“Do whatever you want, but remember, the day you graduate, I’ll do your divorce lawyer work for free. This offer still stands.”

“Oh, here we go again with this talk…”

“Yes, again. Because I love being right. And think about it, I’ll be the one to free a beautiful and intelligent woman like you from that man’s shadow. I’ll go down in history.”

Y/N couldn’t help but smile. “Goodnight, Gilda.”

“Goodnight, Mrs. Kray. Stay with art.”

As she felt Gilda’s smile on the other end of the phone, she slowly placed the receiver back down.

Once the phone went silent, the silence in the living room became suddenly heavier. In that moment, she realized how stark Reggie’s absence had become. It was his voice she missed the most in this silence — that deep, confident, and slightly dangerous tone. But as the hours passed, love had turned into curiosity, curiosity into worry, and worry into a cold acceptance. She had become a woman waiting in her husband's shadow during her most passionate years. And this waiting, though it appeared to be romantic patience, was in fact a slowly gnawing emptiness.

Sometimes, Reggie’s indifference felt like proof of her own worthlessness; as if, in his eyes, she had become ordinary, the magic of the early days had faded. But she was still the same woman; like the scattered books on the table, the pages of her life were still full, still had unread lines. But Reggie had stopped reading them.

She took a deep breath and gathered her lecture notes, heading to the kitchen. When she turned on the kitchen light, the food that had been waiting for her all night on the marble countertop stood silently as witnesses. Roast beef with Yorkshire pudding, boiled potatoes, and peas. Alongside, Reggie’s favorite trifle; jelly and cream. The smell of the food still lingered in the air, but its warmth had long faded.

She stood in front of the counter for a while, looking at the dishes… It was almost a small comfort to imagine Reggie seeing the food, sitting across from her to eat. But the reality was far from this fantasy.

Slowly, she wrapped the roast beef in foil, placed the Yorkshire puddings in a glass dish, and covered the trifle with a lid. As she carefully placed everything in the fridge, her movements were slow and meticulous; as if this order could compensate for the disorder that his absence had caused.

As she was clearing the table, an unconscious melody escaped her lips. “Oh, my love, my darling… I’ve hungered for your touch…” Unchained Melody. It was their song. Whenever it played on the radio, Reggie would pull her into a dance, put his cigarette aside, and place his hands on her waist. Now, that song was only an echo in the emptiness of the kitchen.

And as Y/N hummed the lyrics, the clearest feeling that crossed her mind was that her love and her loneliness had merged in the same person.

It was still hours before London’s foggy morning, but the front of the nightclub looked like the slow-motion closing scene of a film. From the door of Esmeralda's Barn, men in sharp tuxedos and women draped in furs walked by, each giving Reggie Kray a brief glance and respectfully greeting him with “Good evening, Mr. Kray.”

Reggie adjusted the jacket of his grey three-piece suit and took out his gold lighter from his pocket. As he opened the cigarette pack, he slightly lifted his head; in his demeanor, there was both a cold politeness and a relaxed “man-who-answers-to-no-one” attitude. When he took his first drag, the smoke rose slowly in the pale light of the streetlamp.

Just then, a woman came out of the club by herself and caught his attention. She was tall, with an elegant bone structure, wearing a dark silk evening gown. A mink stole fluttered over her shoulders, and the sound of her heels striking the pavement left a faint echo in the air. Her hair was styled in a voluminous updo, and she carried a slim cigarette case in her hand. On her face was that subtle, half-smile that made even strangers think, “I feel like I know you.” It was then he realized he had exchanged a few glances with her inside.

The woman approached.

“Good evening, Mr. Kray,” she said, her voice smooth yet slightly mocking.

Reggie exhaled the smoke to the side and raised an eyebrow slightly. “Good evening,” he said, but paused for a moment, as if searching for something familiar in her gaze. “You seem to know me.”

The woman glanced over her shoulder at the club, then turned back to Reggie. “I suppose we haven’t officially met, but we… share a connection.”

Reggie’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Is that so? And what might this connection be, madam?”

The woman widened the smile at the corner of her lips. “I’m one of Y/N’s classmates. Deborah.”

A brief, strange expression flickered on Reggie’s face. “Is that so? Interesting... Y/N never mentioned a friend named Deborah before.”

Deborah shrugged, a hint of condescension hidden in the movement. “Oh, Y/N has many things she hasn’t mentioned. Especially how she spends her time at school.” The sentence was dropped like a stone.

Reggie narrowed his eyes, studying her. “What do you mean by that?”

Deborah adjusted her stole on her shoulder with her slender fingers, glanced briefly at the pavement, then turned her gaze back to Reggie.

“Oh, nothing... just a little women’s gossip. You know, some people don’t share every detail of their lives. Especially with their husbands…” she said, then quickly softened her tone. “Actually, I helped Y/N with many assignments. I supported her where she struggled. Of course, it’s hard with such heavy coursework... Law isn’t an easy subject.”

Reggie’s face remained expressionless, and he simply took another drag from his cigarette. “I see.”

Deborah, with her heels tapping lightly, continued with a slight wave in her voice:

“Of course… You probably didn’t notice, but I’ve seen you a few times in front of the school. When you got out of the car, how everyone turned to look at you... I mean, you have quite an impressive entrance. There aren’t many men like you in this city.”

A brief twitch appeared on Reggie’s lips, maybe in response to the compliment, or perhaps simply acknowledging the woman's tone.

“So, you’ve noticed.”

“Absolutely,” Deborah said. “Y/N is very lucky… to have a husband like you… strong, experienced, and in control of everything. Some women… can’t handle men like that, but…”

She didn’t finish the sentence, but the meaningful gleam in her eyes clearly completed the rest of the words.

Reggie smiled, but the smile never reached his eyes. “Maybe,” he said simply, the word hanging slowly in the air. Then he turned his head and watched as the headlights of the approaching car cut through the fog. Its shiny black paint glistened in the night light as the driver got out to open the door. Deborah’s gaze still lingered on Reggie, her eyes carrying an almost imperceptible invitation, and her lips bore a measured impatience.

“Where’s your car?” Reggie asked, his voice not overly curious, but with clear interest.

Deborah shrugged slightly, adjusting the edge of her stole. “No, I don’t have my car tonight. I was going to take a taxi… but finding one at this hour can be difficult.” Her voice appeared innocent, but there was a clear expectation in her gaze; it was a woman’s polite way of saying, “Take me with you.”

A faint line formed at the corner of Reggie’s lips as he smiled just enough to acknowledge her. “You’re Y/N’s friend… I’m not letting you take a taxi alone at this hour. I’ll drive you home.”

Deborah laughed softly, tilting her head to the side. “Oh, no, please… Don’t trouble yourself,” she said. But within this “refusal,” there was an invitation waiting to be accepted.

Reggie tilted his head slightly, his gaze locking directly with hers. “I insist, Deborah. You wouldn’t want to wait for a taxi at this hour.”

After a brief pause, Deborah lowered her head and smiled with a polite surrender. “Okay... if you insist.”

They both settled into the back seat. The driver closed the door, then quietly took the wheel and began driving. The inside of the car filled with the subtle scent of tobacco mixed with the faint fragrance of perfume. The city had entered its quietest hour; the shop windows were already dark, and only a few weak lights filtered through the windows.

A silence lingered for a while. Deborah crossed her legs, her knees subtly turned toward Reggie beneath her fur, before she finally turned her head and spoke in a tone of innocence mixed with curiosity: “I hope your coming home this late… isn’t an issue for Y/N.”

Reggie’s eyes were fixed on the dark London streets outside the window. Before responding, he pulled the cigarette from his lips and pressed it into the ashtray. With a thoughtful tone, he said, “No… Y/N doesn’t mind these kinds of things.”

As he said this, there was both confidence in his words and an assurance about his wife, but Deborah’s suggestive question remained like a shadow in his mind.

Deborah, with a barely perceptible smile at the corner of her lips, replied, “Really? I mean… if it were someone else, if their husband came home this late from work, they’d probably be worried.”

Reggie turned his head slightly to look at her, his gaze neither angry nor openly smiling, but maintaining a measured distance. “She’s not someone else,” he said in a firm voice.

Deborah tilted her head, as if trying to turn his answer to her advantage, and deepened her smile.

“You know, you’re right,” she said, as if just realizing it. “Y/N is really such a good and accommodating person, it’s no wonder she approaches you with such understanding… she’s incredibly popular at school. Especially in our friend group.” Her voice took on a tone of sweet admiration, but she skillfully sprinkled in subtle barbs between the words. “You know, when you see someone like that, you can’t help but think, ‘How lucky, so many people around her.’ That’s how she is. Silas, for example...” She paused briefly, her eyes quickly scanning Reggie’s reaction. “Silas is one of her closest friends. Though we’re all close, Silas... is different. When they work together, you’d think they’ve known each other for years. Assignments, projects... they spend hours alone together. They have such a strange harmony.”

Reggie, sitting upright in his seat, kept his gaze outside the window as he said, “Y/N is a good student.” His voice carried certainty. “And... a good wife. She’s understanding.” He especially emphasized the last word, as if wanting to draw a line against Deborah’s insinuations.

Deborah nodded with a soft smile at the corner of her lips. “I can tell… It’s obvious. It’s nice that she’s like that. But sometimes...” She sighed softly, her voice almost turning to a whisper. “Sometimes, she gets so busy that she doesn’t realize the other people around her need her too. Anyway... maybe I’m just being too sensitive.” She tilted her head with an expanded smile, as if all these words were nothing but an innocent observation.

Reggie said nothing. His face was expressionless, his eyes still lingering on the rain-glossed London streets outside. But inside, his thoughts were different. As Deborah’s voice faded, a heavy silence settled in the car. In that silence, Deborah’s words echoed in Reggie’s mind, silently opening small, subtle cracks. Silas... hours alone... a strange harmony. His thoughts, slow at first, then clearer, began to take root involuntarily.

When the driver turned a corner, the warm air inside the car suddenly felt stifling to Reggie. He moved his hand to the collar of his coat, gently pulling it, still looking outside, but his mind was now elsewhere. Deborah, her hands calmly folded on her lap, stared out the window with that faint, delicate smile still on her lips.

The car slowly moved through one of London’s quiet, upscale streets and came to a stop in front of a grand, Victorian-style stone building at the corner. The rain had started to drizzle, and the droplets shimmered like golden dust in the light of the streetlamps. The driver got out of the front seat and opened the door for Deborah, while Reggie didn’t move from his seat; he took out a cigarette pack and idly turned it in his hand, but didn’t light it.

Deborah stood in the doorway, pausing for a moment before getting out, as if she didn’t want to leave. “Thank you for dropping me off, Mr. Kray,” she said, her voice formal and polite, but her eyes... her eyes were different. “I truly appreciate your kindness. I’ve come to realize once again how lucky Y/N is to have a husband like you.”

Reggie responded with a short, dry smile. “Yes. That’s how it is.” His tone carried a message more definite than his words.

Deborah tilted her head slightly, her gaze briefly wandering across his face. “I hope... you feel the same way.” The words seemed like an innocent wish on the surface, but the underlying meaning quietly took root, like a newly planted seed.

Reggie merely gave a slight nod, as if to acknowledge her. The smile on his lips had already faded, leaving only a deep, measured silence. When the driver closed the door and returned to the wheel, the car silently pulled away from the street. Deborah’s silhouette slowly diminished in the rear window, blurred by the raindrops.

As the streetlights passed one by one, Reggie’s mind continued to echo with Deborah’s voice. His face, still expressionless and stone-like from the outside, was silent, but inside, the stillness deepened and an almost imperceptible unease spread like water seeping from a deep well.

The door creaked slightly on its heavy hinges when Reggie entered the house, and the soft light from inside gently filled the hallway. The sharp sound of his shoes echoed on the wooden floor as a familiar, almost painfully nostalgic melody hit his ears: Unchained Melody. The needle of the record player finished the last line of the song, and after a crackling silence, the same melody started again. This loop made it feel like time had gotten stuck inside the house.

At the end of the hallway, a thin beam of light shone from beneath the door to the living room; the dim, yellowish glow of a night lamp. Though Reggie was filled with anger and jealousy – Deborah’s words still echoing in his mind – he slowed his steps. That light, that melody, touched something else inside him; something old, something he thought he had forgotten.

When he entered the living room, he saw her. Y/N was curled up on the large velvet couch, her head resting to the side, asleep. Her hair spread over her shoulder. On the coffee table, there were wedding photos in a silver frame; smiling faces, a moment frozen in time by the light of that day. Beside them, a crystal glass with red wine, half-drunk… and the same song they had shared years ago when they were lovers, still playing on the record player.

Reggie paused for a moment in place. The wave of jealousy rising inside him slowed a little amidst the scene, the melancholy sound of the song. Still, he quietly cursed to himself, the words of jealousy born not only from the sting of his emotions but from realizing how long their marriage had been dragged along in this silence.

He slowly approached her. He knelt down, gently brushing her hair back with his fingertips. The softness of her hair under his fingers reminded him of how open he once was. He tilted his head slightly, pressing his lips to hers. The kiss was filled with desire, hurt, and possession; it was something he hadn’t felt in a long time, but something he had never forgotten.

Y/N stirred lightly. Her eyelids fluttered open, her gaze still clouded by sleep. “If… you’re hungry,” she said in a soft voice, “there’s food in the cupboard…” Her tone held the pure familiarity, perhaps a tired tenderness that came from years of knowing each other.

Reggie answered in a low voice without tearing his eyes from hers. “I’m not hungry.” Then, in one smooth motion, he lifted her in his arms, pressing her against his chest as he walked toward the bedroom, his steps firm and silent.

As they walked down the hallway, the song continued to play in the background, each note hanging in the air like a reminder of their past. Reggie’s face was hard in the shadows, but the burden in his arms was still the most precious thing in the world to him. When he kicked open the bedroom door, the dim light inside swallowed them whole; the only thing left was the melody drifting from the record player.

When Reggie carried Y/N into the dim light of the bedroom, it seemed as if the room had, for a brief moment, detached from all the noise of London, becoming a world that belonged only to the two of them. The curtains were half-open; outside, a misty night with distant, faint sounds of car engines. The white linen sheets on the bed began to mix with the scent of Reggie’s tobacco and cologne. He placed her gently on the bed, almost as if tucking in a child, with a tenderness he reserved only for her. His hands slid down from her shoulders to pull the blanket up to her chest, tucking her in. At that moment, his expression shifted; the mask of the ruthless man everyone feared fell, replaced by something else – silent, protective, yet still holding a storm within.

Reggie slowly removed his coat, the expensive fabric sliding to the floor with a soft rustling, the only sound in the room. He loosened his tie, unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt; the muscles in his neck relaxed slightly. He quietly took off his shoes and sat at the edge of the bed. Y/N, half asleep and half awake, rested her head against the pillow and looked at him; her eyelids heavy, her voice soft with a faint smile.

“When you… treat me like this…” she said, her words fading in the haze of sleep, “… we become like we used to be. You and me. Just like we were…” There was a tiny smile on her lips, but beneath that smile, there was longing and fragility. “This… feels nice,” she whispered, closing her eyes again.

Reggie didn’t leave her words unanswered; he moved closer to her, lying next to her on the bed. He wrapped his arm around her waist, his other arm slipping beneath her head, burying his face in her hair. He pulled her body closer to his chest, as if he were the only wall protecting her from the dangers of the world. His warmth matched the rhythm of her sleepy breaths.

He moved his lips close to her ear; his breath made her fine hair flutter lightly. “You… are the most beautiful thing to me,” he whispered, his voice filled with both love and a dangerous weight. “When I touch you… I still think I’m the same man. But I’m not.” His hands slowly moved up from her abdomen to her chest; his touch was both possessive and loving, as if with every contact, he was sealing her more into his world.

“No one can take you from me, Y/N,” he whispered, the hardness in his words almost carving into her skin. “Not even you can.”

Y/N shifted slightly, her voice half awake and fighting against sleep, she mumbled in a tone barely audible, “When you speak like this… it scares me. But… I like it,” her voice now almost a whisper.

Reggie’s fingers found hers, clasping them tightly. He leaned over, pressing a brief but intense kiss just below her neck. His lips remained there as he whispered, “Fear… it only ties you to me more.”

In the room, there was only their breathing and the distant, muffled sounds of London outside. Reggie pulled her closer, trapping her against his chest. Y/N’s eyes closed again, but in Reggie’s mind, Deborah’s words still lingered like a shadow. Still, he didn’t let this moment break – not yet.

The morning light slipped through the small kitchen window, filtering through the thin curtains and falling across the white tiles. The smell of coffee and freshly baked bread hung in the air. Y/N had already brought the kitchen to life: golden slices of toast from the toaster, small pats of butter cut neatly, fresh fruit arranged on a porcelain plate. It was the kind of breakfast you’d expect in a wealthy English household: crisp bacon, sausages, freshly brewed tea, and warm croissants still glistening with butter. Not yesterday’s bread, but loaves delivered at dawn by the baker himself.

The girl moved about the kitchen with playful urgency, her silk apron tied neatly around her waist, carrying both the fatigue of morning and the restless brightness of youth. Buttering a slice of bread, she glanced over at Reggie seated at the head of the table.

“Let’s go to the art event, please…” she said with a light laugh, almost pleading. “All the professors will be there, there’ll be an exhibition, film screenings, discussions. It’s supposed to be really special. I want my husband by my side, Reggie.”

Reggie sat with his broad shoulders stretching against a shirt that barely contained them, even this early looking as imposing as ever. A cigarette hung between his fingers; he dragged on it slow and deep, exhaling a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. Shadows of last night’s anger still lingered across his face. The name of that little prick Silas ran laps in his mind, though outwardly, nothing showed. Inside, though, the questions burned: What the fuck has her so excited about this? Just for the art shit? That kid? Or is she really that innocent?”

He squinted through the smoke, watching her little displays of excitement. Something in him softened, but his mouth stayed hard, the ashtray catching the remains of his smile.

As she slid the bacon onto a plate, she spoke again.

“Don’t leave me alone tonight, alright? When you’re with me, people look at me differently. I feel safe with you.”

She lifted the plate to set it on the table, but before she could move another step, Reggie caught her by the delicate wrist. Still holding his cigarette in the other hand, he yanked her sharply toward him. The breath caught in Y/N’s throat, the dishes clattered, forks scattering across the floor.

“Reggie! What are you–?!” she gasped.

But before she could gather herself, she was pulled against the hard wall of his chest, trapped in his arms. His eyes gleamed with anger, desire, and mockery.

“You drive me fucking insane, you know that?” he growled, a twisted grin tugging at his lips. “Messin’ about with your little hands, fussin’ with the bacon. You’re my wife, my bloody queen. And still you’re begging me like some silly girl – for that fuckin’ event.”

Her brows knitted slightly, her lips parting. She wasn’t used to hearing such coarse words; she had grown up in a polished world where men didn’t curse at the breakfast table. His roughness jarred her, but it also sent a quick shiver through her chest, tightening her breath with a heat she couldn’t deny.

Before she opened her mouth to protest, Reggie crushed his mouth against hers. It was no gentle kiss... it was hard, urgent, claiming. He stole her breath with it, leaving no room for protest. When he pulled back, his eyes were still lit with that dangerous fire.

“Art, my arse – we’re going. Together.” he said flatly, still gripping her waist firmly. “Didn’t need all that beggin’. I’ve decided already. I don’t take my eyes off you. Not for a second. No fucker’s gonna get a chance.”

As he spoke, his palm landed sharp against her hip. The smack echoed through the kitchen. Y/N gasped, her eyes wide in shock, pain flashing across her face, but underneath it, the dizzying pulse of something darker thrilled through her. Fear and desire tangled in her veins.

“Reggie…” she whispered, timid yet bright-eyed, her voice quivering with excitement. “Are you serious? You’ll really come with me?”

He let out a short, dark laugh.

“Course I will, my little princess. But don’t get it twisted, it’s not about your films or paintings or whatever-the-fuck. I’ll be there to stand next to you. To make sure every bastard in that room sees who you belong to. Anyone who thinks they can take you from me, I’ll tear them apart.”

Her face lit up despite the roughness in his tone. She threw her arms around his neck, smiling with the innocent delight of a girl much younger than her husband. To her, it was a gift – going to the event together after so long. She nuzzled her head against his shoulder like a child.

Reggie slipped another cigarette from his pocket, lit it with a strike of a match, and drew it deep. Then he plucked it from his lips and, without a word, held it out in front of hers.

“Go on. Take a drag.” His voice carried no suggestion, only command.

She hesitated, but obeyed, inhaling straight from his hand. She coughed, eyes watering, while he chuckled darkly.

“That’s the thing… my world’s too heavy for you. But you’re in it now. No way out.”

His mouth trailed down her throat, kissing hard along the delicate skin, his hand gripping her hip again with bruising insistence, marking her as his.

Y/N’s young body shivered under the mixture of fear and heat, the thrill of being both trapped and desired. And in Reggie’s mind, the thought was clear as steel: That little bastard Silas can circle all he likes. This lamb’s mine. Mine to hold, mine to claim, mine to brand with my name. No one touches her but me.

...

The late afternoon sun filtered through the velvet curtains, casting a golden shadow across the room. Y/N stood before the heavy mirror, already dressed, her hair styled — half pinned back, the rest cascading in soft waves over her shoulders, the curls glistening like something out of a film star’s poster. Her eyes shimmered with sky-blue eyeshadow, her lips gleamed in a coral shade. The black dress she wore carried gold embellishments trailing down its deep V-neckline, and the crisp white cuffs and collar lent an aristocratic touch. She had made all this effort for one reason only: that night’s art event. And deep inside, she knew she wouldn’t go without her husband by her side.

But he was nowhere to be found.

In the silence of the room, the only sound was the faint rustle of her dress fabric as she shifted. She lifted a hand to smooth a stray curl, gazing at her reflection; her heart beat with impatient thuds. Wondering where on earth he was, she stepped out of the bedroom and into the living room. On the wide carpet, she began pacing, her eyes repeatedly darting to the clock on the wall. With every sweep of the minute hand, her anger mounted. She bit her lip and muttered inwardly: “As always… always the same game. Always stubbornness, always control. He does it just to rile me, just to remind me he has the upper hand.”

Her patience was unraveling. The sound of her heels echoed against the high ceilings as her anger grew heavier with each step. She knew this was nothing new—Reggie, with the confidence of being twice her age, had already discovered the simplest way to tame her: sheer obstinacy. And though Y/N was perfectly aware of his game, she could never stop the gnawing unease it planted inside her.

Just then, when she looked out the window, she saw the familiar black car. The chauffeur was pulling in slowly to park. Y/N’s eyes flared with fury, her pulse quickening as if ready to burst. Without another thought, she marched to the door, flung it open, and stepped outside. The evening air brushed cold against her skin. There he was —Reggie— just crushing his cigarette under his shoe after flicking it lazily to the ground.

Y/N didn’t bother to hide her anger. She quickened her steps toward him. “You have no right to keep me waiting here for minutes on such an important night!” she snapped, her voice sharp and trembling, unable to conceal her frustration. “Who do you think you are, Reggie? Does everything have to bend to your will? A man ought to show some respect to his wife, especially on a night like this!”

Through the smoke, Reggie’s face emerged, harsh, mocking. He stepped toward her, closing the gap between them. A grim smile played at his lips, his eyes dark with something dangerous. “You still don’t get it, do you, little princess?” His voice was low, threatening, but laced with something intoxicating. “My respect isn’t measured by the words that come out of your pretty mouth. You’re my woman. And no matter how much you yell or curse at me, I come when I damn well please.”

Y/N’s fists clenched tight, her eyes burned with anger. “These games of yours… always the same! Always belittling me, always ignoring me! I’m sick of it, Reggie. Sick of it!”

He stepped closer still, as though her fury only fed him. The tension in her lips, the fire in her words, they seemed to stir something primal in him. Y/N’s breath came fast and shallow as Reggie suddenly slid a hand into his pocket and drew out a small, velvet-covered box. Without a word, he moved behind her.

Y/N blinked in confusion, beginning to turn her head, but Reggie’s fingers gripped her chin roughly, forcing her to face forward. He opened the box with one hand and lifted out a gleaming necklace, its cold metal brushing against her bare skin as he clasped it around her neck.

When the clasp clicked shut, his voice rumbled against the shell of her ear, low and possessive: “A beautiful woman deserves nothing less than a beautiful necklace. And you’re my beautiful wife. Don’t forget that.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. Words failed her. Part of her still burned with anger, with all the retorts that had been simmering on her lips, yet another part of her was silenced struck by the weight of the gift, the brilliance of the necklace, and the magnetic danger of the man standing so close behind her. Her breath quickened, her hands trembled faintly.

Reggie’s mouth pressed hard against the nape of her neck, leaving a possessive kiss as he secured the necklace. Y/N flinched, but she did not pull away. He straightened and smirked, his eyes fixed on the storm flickering in hers.

“Now you’re going to step quietly into the car, princess,” he said, his hand landing firmly against her back, steering her toward the waiting vehicle. “And you’re going to sit there with that pout of yours. Because tonight, everyone’s going to see exactly who you belong to.”

Still caught between fury and the undeniable pull of him, Y/N lowered her head without a word. Her steps were heavy as she opened the car door and slid inside. The golden embroidery of her dress shimmered under the dim light, matching the glint of the necklace at her throat. In the rearview mirror, she looked like a star on display.

The damp streets of London swallowed the sleek black car into the shadows, while Reggie’s hands tightened rigidly on the steering wheel. The sharp scent of tobacco lingered between his fingers, and the faint trace of smoke still clung to the corner of his lips. You sat beside him, silent, trying to control your breathing.

Without taking his eyes off the road, Reggie spoke in that deep, unquestionable tone of his:

“Listen to me carefully. Tonight you’re not doing anything. Not a single word, understand? You’re only going to stand by my side. If anyone approaches you, if anyone talks to you, you will not get too friendly.”

His hand landed abruptly on her thigh. The heat of his palm pressed firmly into her skin, and her heart raced. His gaze was still locked on the road, but his voice dropped lower, laced with a dangerous edge:

“You’ll look at me. You will not smile at anyone. If you make even the smallest mistake…” his fingers slid upward from her thigh, and when she tried to stop him with her hand, he seized her wrist and pulled it toward him, “…you’ll pay for it in the bedroom. And trust me, that price won’t be easy to pay.”

For a moment, silence filled the car. Only the hum of the engine and the glow of streetlights filtering through the windows accompanied you. But silence for Reggie only thickened the tension. At the red light, he finally turned his head toward you, steel-like eyes piercing into your face. A shadowed smile curved his lips.

“You will not embarrass me. Because you are my wife.”

He leaned in, pressing his lips to the side of her neck, his teeth sinking briefly into her skin, a touch that was both possessive and punishing.

Her seatbelt was fastened, but it did nothing to shield her from the dangerous energy radiating off him in the passenger seat. Even the veins along the back of his hands strained as he gripped the wheel; the car glided through the empty night streets while she struggled to steady her breath. The radio was silent, leaving only the low growl of the engine, and the weight of his gaze burning into the back of her neck.

Suddenly his hand left the wheel and landed harshly on her thigh. “You’ve memorized my rules, haven’t you?” he asked, voice icy with control. She didn’t dare turn her head toward him. From her lips escaped a whisper:

“Yes…”

His hand slid up her thigh, stopping at the hem of your dress. “You answer me in a single word. No objections. While we’re at the event and my eyes are on you… you won’t look at anyone else. You won’t smile at anyone. Understood?”

Swallowing, she forced the word out, breathless: “Yes, Reggie…”

The car stopped at another red light. The crimson glow of the brake lights painted her face as if with blood, when suddenly he leaned toward her. His fingers gripped her chin, forcing her eyes into his. “The only thing you’ll be thinking about is me. No one can own you like I do. No one can feel you the way I do.”

His grip was hard, but the shadowed smile at his lips sparked fire deep inside her. When he pressed the accelerator again, the car surged forward; she sank back into the seat, part of you trembling with fear, another part of her surrendering with a hidden hunger to his dominance.

His hand returned to her thigh, this time sliding under the hem of her dress. “You won’t forget who you belong to, not for a second,” he whispered. “And when we arrive… everyone will see.”

The car turned onto the dimly lit street of the modern art gallery, her heartbeat pounding violently in her ears. Reggie killed the engine, then turned fully toward her, his face close enough that she felt the heat of his breath against her lips.

“Be ready,” he murmured darkly. “Because tonight, not a single rule will be loosened.”

When the heavy black car stopped in front of the door, the misty London night and the hazy glow of the streetlights made the cobblestones leading to the gallery glisten. Reggie opened the door and got out, then turned to his wife and extended his hand. The veins on his hand were prominent, his fingers carrying a faint whiskey note mixed with the scent of cigarettes.

But Y/N pushed his hand away.

“I can’t do this, Reggie,” she said in a low but sharp voice. “For you to treat me so cruelly, and then try to show people as if we had a happy marriage… it’s nothing but a betrayal of myself.”

Reggie’s eyes narrowed for a moment. The muscle in his jaw tightened. Under the streetlamp, his face looked even sharper with the shadow of his stern features. Instead of pulling back at her defiance, he suddenly closed the distance and wrapped his arm tightly around Y/N’s waist.

Her body pressed instantly against his chest. His hand gripping her slender waist applied a firm, possessive pressure. His breath, laced with whiskey and mint, hovered close enough to brush the corner of her lips.

“Look at me,” Reggie said, his voice hard but carrying a trembling note, as if teetering on the edge of a confession. “I’m still in love with you. Just like the first day. Nothing in this world keeps me here but being married to you. Do you understand?”

Y/N’s eyes searched his for that old spark. The one buried under years of fights but still there, alive and burning. Her lips trembled.

“To have things the way they used to be… I’d give everything,” she whispered. The shimmer of tears in her eyes softened Reggie’s harsh gaze even more.

Reggie didn’t answer with words. He suddenly leaned down and pressed his lips against hers. His kiss was not just a husband’s kiss, it was a man reclaiming his wife, a kiss of pride laced with desire, a merciless act of possession. His lips were firm, dominant, yet burned with passion.

At first, Y/N caught her breath in hesitation; but then her hands reached for the collar of Reggie’s shirt. Her fingertip hooked his cold silk tie, pulling him closer, and she kissed him back. The desire trembling at the corner of her lips deepened Reggie’s breath.

A few people passing by looked at them, but Reggie didn’t care. In that moment, there was only his wife. When their lips parted, he pressed his forehead against hers.

“You’re my only reality, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice low but clear. “No fight, no blood, no business�� nothing can replace you.”

A shaky breath escaped Y/N’s lips. Her eyes were still locked on his. At the corner of her mouth, a faint smile threatened to appear.

“Then… come, let this night be ours,” she said.

Reggie’s eyes shone like a dark yet glimmering lake. With his arm still firmly around her waist, they began walking toward the gallery together. She no longer pulled away from his hand; instead, their bodies leaned into each other, declaring a new unity that defied the battles of years past.

When the door opened, the sound of jazz, the clinking of champagne glasses, and the dazzling lights of the 1960s art scene greeted them. But for them, the true exhibition of the night had already begun.

Huge protest posters hung on the walls of the hall, with blood-red letters spelling out “NO WAR” and “MAKE LOVE, NOT WAR.” Black-and-white photographs showed young faces resisting in front of batons, filled with the raw anger of the ’60s. In the high-ceilinged space, guitar notes echoing somewhere between jazz and folk reverberated; a group of university students were playing Bob Dylan’s anti–Vietnam War songs in a minimalist interpretation. At that moment, the atmosphere inside carried both the solemnity of a ritual and the rebellious joy of youth.

Y/N’s eyes were glowing. She turned eagerly to her husband. Her gaze seemed to embrace every corner of the gallery. She touched Reggie’s arm lightly, her voice filled with childlike excitement:

“Look, Reggie… look at that painting. One of the strongest examples of geometric abstraction. The colors are like a silent scream against war… Don’t you feel it too?”

Reggie slowly turned his head toward the painting. His eyes narrowed, and that familiar mocking smile curled at the corner of his lips. In truth, the only thing on his mind was whether Silas was somewhere in the crowd, and if so, whether his eyes were fixed on his wife. But faced with Y/N’s insistent gaze, after a brief silence he nodded.

“Yes… well… very powerful work. Truly impressive.”

Y/N’s face lit up. Like a little girl, she immediately tugged her husband to the other side.

“Come, look at this one! Abstract expressionism, do you notice? The way the paint spills over, it makes you feel the anger, the struggle. The artist’s brother went to Vietnam… and never returned. That’s why the brushstrokes are so furious.”

As Reggie listened to her enthusiastic explanation, he kept glancing around the crowd from the corner of his eye. Y/N noticed the distance in his gaze, and her heart sank. Her breath trembled slightly as she broke the silence:

“Are you really listening to me, Reggie? Or are you just pretending to look?”

Reggie paused when he saw the disappointment in her eyes. The lines between his brows deepened. He remembered he didn’t want to upset his wife. Lifting his chin, he turned back to the painting and spoke in a more serious tone this time:

“I’m listening, Y/N. Truly. Seeing it through your eyes… gives me something else entirely.”

The sadness on Y/N’s face shifted into a brief smile. She wanted to believe she could share something with him. But just then, a familiar laugh rose from the crowd.

“Ah, there you are!”

When Y/N turned, she saw her closest friend Gilda. Gilda, with her colorful gypsy skirt, headband, and striking chunky bracelets, looked like a true hippie figure. Beside her stood a thin, younger girl from the third-year classes. Both were sipping champagne, their eyes scanning the room.

When Gilda noticed Reggie, a wide, mocking smile spread across her face. She was fully aware of the hard air Reggie directed at her. In the unpretentious, subtle curve of her lips lay a protective instinct for her friend. That kind of pure and naïve love of one woman shielding another filled Y/N with both comfort and heavy shame, because while Reggie’s firm hand still commanded her waist, her friend’s eyes saw only worry for her, and that made Y/N feel even guiltier.

Gilda turned to Reggie, narrowing her eyes with playful sarcasm, her voice as light as a feather yet laced with biting humor:

“If even Reggie Kray comes to art galleries, then the world really must be changing. Y/N, I still can’t believe you managed to drag your husband here.”

Y/N’s face flushed. Gilda’s teasing tone poked at Reggie’s dominant personality.

Reggie narrowed his eyes, tilting his jaw slightly to the side. For a moment he considered just how deliberate Gilda’s words were. But then a small smile crept onto his lips, a hard, warning smile.

“Yes, madam, the only person who could get me here is standing right beside me. You would never have managed it.”

Gilda shrugged and turned back to Y/N.

“Y/N, you’re truly a saint. One day they should pin a medal on you. Dealing with… mature gentlemen isn’t exactly easy.”

Her words weren’t aimed directly at Reggie, but they carried a sharp implication. Y/N’s cheeks burned, and she immediately wanted to step in. But Reggie fixed his eyes on Gilda, his smile widening. Yet this smile, while polite to onlookers, was icy underneath; Gilda could see the tension in his jaw. It was the masked form of a silent threat.

“Go on then, why don’t you make that a little clearer?”

Gilda’s smile faltered. The tension in the air seemed to mingle with the rhythm of the jazz guitar, hanging thickly around them. Y/N felt trapped between two fires, so she leaned quickly toward Gilda and lowered her voice:

“Gilda, um… I think Silas was calling you. Over there, down the corridor. He looked like he was waiting. Maybe he wants to talk.”

For a moment, Gilda looked at Y/N in surprise. She immediately understood Y/N’s discomfort and her attempt to put a barrier between herself and Reggie. She felt embarrassed, averted her eyes, and softened her tone.

“I suppose you’re right. Probably something wrong with the film again.”

Then, trying to smooth over her exit, she turned back to Reggie.

“In that case, I’ll leave you two alone. But in about fifteen minutes there will be a screening in the meeting room. Silas set up a little cinema; they’ll be showing Kubrick’s new film Dr. Strangelove. You must come, Mr. Kray… I’d love to hear your thoughts. I’m sure you’ll have a unique take.”

Her words carried a thin layer of irony but also seemed to reach for peace with him. She gave a slight bow of her head, smiled, and slipped away into the crowd.

Once Gilda disappeared, Y/N drew in a deep breath. Reggie, however, turned to the woman beside him with a playful smile tugging at his lips.

“You really do have interesting friends, darling. It feels almost like watching a play on stage. Very… peculiar sense of humor.”

Y/N frowned at him, her voice sharp:

“She’s my friend, Reggie. And she cares about me. That’s why she talks to you like that.”

Reggie laughed, downed the rest of his wine in a single gulp, and set the glass down.

“Does she care for you, or is she just trying to protect you from me? Which one is funnier, I wonder?”

Just then, Reggie’s eyes caught on something beyond the crowd. They narrowed, and the corner of his mouth curved slightly. From a distance, he locked eyes with Deborah. The woman stood in the dim light, cigarette in hand; she tilted her head slightly, then moved her lips in a secretive greeting. Reggie dipped his head subtly in return, a faint smile playing across his lips.

Y/N had caught her husband’s momentary lapse in attention, but Reggie, as if nothing had happened, slid his hand comfortably onto her waist. As Bob Dylan’s guitar chords rose in the hall, the tension in the air settled heavily over Y/N’s heart like a shadow.

The conference hall had been arranged on the upper floor of the gallery building. Normally plain, that evening it had been redesigned for a special film screening. The tables were removed, replaced with closely set dark-colored chairs, white screens were draped along the walls, and projectors hung from the ceiling. The atmosphere was dim. Students, dressed in their suits and dresses, whispered to each other with excitement. Women wandered through the room in elegant skirts, the clicks of their short heels echoing, and whispers rippled through the air.

Y/N had her arm linked with Reggie’s. As they entered the hall, she tilted her head slightly, turning to her husband with excitement and whispered:

“Stanley Kubrick… he’s truly an incredible director, Reggie. Watching his films, you always feel unsettled, as if he’s pushing at those invisible boundaries inside you. In a way, it’s dangerous, but mesmerizing. I think you’d feel the same.”

Reggie leaned his head closer to her, a gentle smile playing on his lips, while his fingers pressed firmly into Y/N’s waist.

“Of course, darling. Interesting… Dangerous, you say… doesn’t sound bad at all. Maybe it suits me more than you think.”

His words were soft, his tone velvety; but his eyes roamed the room constantly, searching the dim hall for a familiar face. From the murmur of voices around them, the name “Silas” caught his ear more than once. Each time it reached him, something inside clenched, his breath hardened. He began to scan restlessly; where was he, who was he speaking to, who was he watching…

Just then, a distinguished man in a gray coat, refined in manner with a trace of gray in his hair, approached them. Professor Harold Whitmore, Y/N’s professor and the head of her department. Only slightly older than Reggie.

Adjusting his thick-framed glasses, he smiled at Y/N first.

“Ah, here you are, Y/N! I’m so glad to see you. Tonight’s event is of great importance for bright students like you. You can’t end the evening without joining the discussion on Kubrick.”

Y/N’s face lit up with joy, and she bowed her head slightly.

“Thank you, sir. I’m very excited as well. It’s such an honor to speak about Kubrick.”

The professor’s eyes shifted to Reggie, standing tall at her side. He extended his hand.

“And this must be… your husband. I’ve heard quite a lot about you. What a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Kray.”

Reggie shook the professor’s hand, a cool, charismatic smile curving his lips.

“Pleased to meet you, Professor. Y/N speaks of you often. So you are the true source of all those praises.”

The professor laughed heartily, then turned back to Y/N.

“This young lady is truly an extraordinary student. With her sharp mind and tireless discipline, she’s the shining star of our class. Mr. Kray, you must be proud. To have such a woman is a rare blessing.”

Reggie bowed his head slightly, took Y/N’s hand, and fixed his gaze firmly into the professor’s eyes as he spoke.

“You’re right. I am proud. She is the most precious thing in my life.”

What he said was true; there was pride, yes, but buried beneath it was something else, the heavy shadow of possessiveness and the fear of losing her.

The professor went on.

“And what about the other students? Silas, for instance—he worked with great dedication to prepare this event. He put in much effort. Gilda helped too, didn’t she? Have you seen them?”

When the name Silas was spoken again, Reggie’s fingers tightened around Y/N’s hand. Y/N turned her head, scanning the room, and pointed toward a corner where a few students stood with notebooks in hand.

“Yes, there they are. Silas is with them.”

Reggie’s eyes followed the direction. Silas was talking and laughing with a group of students. A sharp sting flared inside Reggie.

The professor clapped his hands together.

“Splendid, splendid. Then we can prepare for the photograph. The university paper wants to document this evening. Y/N, would you come with me? We can’t have the star of the class missing.”

Turning politely to Reggie, he added:

“If I may borrow your wife for a few minutes, Mr. Kray?”

Y/N looked at Reggie, her eyes carrying a timid trace of worry. She knew well he had warned her before: don’t leave my side. But now, in front of everyone, refusing the professor’s request would feel strange.

Reggie, masking his tension, nodded and curved his lips in a small smile.

“Of course, Professor. She’s your student. In moments like this, she belongs with her class.”

His words were smooth, spoken with the perfect understanding of a supportive husband. The professor, satisfied, smiled and guided Y/N away into the crowd.

But Reggie’s eyes followed them with every step. In his mind, the scene looked very different. Y/N was being taken away from him. He had warned her not to leave his side; and now the professor’s hand, lightly resting on her back, was leading her elsewhere. Her smile was turned toward others. And in the corner, Silas was watching.

Reggie sank into a chair, but there was no rest in his body. His jaw tightened, his eyes narrowed into slits. Even without a glass in his hand, his fingers curled so tightly they whitened at the joints. Inside, that familiar, slow-burning mix of jealousy and paranoia was echoing in his mind.

Y/N, in the center of the room, beneath the dim lights, her delicate wrists moving gracefully as she spoke with Silas, the professor, and two other students. Just moments earlier, their conversation might have seemed purely friendly, but in Reggie’s mind it had begun to take on a darker hue. Because Silas’s eyes—behind that mask of camaraderie, concealed a baser, more primal hunger. It was a look only another man could detect: the naked crackle of desire, the urge to possess. The way Silas leaned ever so slightly forward, the needless softness in his voice, the too-eager warmth in his smile… all of it set alarm bells ringing in Reggie’s mind.

At one point, Y/N’s gaze found his. In her eyes there was only love, loyalty, and a deep romantic devotion; from afar, she looked at her husband with a warmth she thought no one else would notice. But the look Reggie returned was cold as ice, sharpened with jealousy, shadowed by hostile suspicion. Y/N felt the weight of it land upon her; her shoulders stiffened, her throat went dry, and instinctively she turned her eyes away, forcing herself to keep talking. That single look had cut into her like a blade.

And then, through the hum of the crowd, Deborah’s voice slipped into Reggie’s ears. Thin, clinging, with that familiar gleam in her eyes that always screamed “I’m here, notice me.” She slid in close beside him. Deborah dragged her chair far too near, tilted her head, and with a falsely sweet smile began to whisper:

“Reggie… how wonderful to see you here. Are you enjoying yourself?”

Without taking his eyes off Y/N, without the slightest movement in his facial muscles, Reggie answered shortly.

“It’s tolerable.”

Deborah wasn’t discouraged by his curt, sharp manner. Instead, she leaned even closer, letting a cloud of perfume linger around her. She tilted her head, a sly smile curling her lips.

“Well… and Y/N? Where is she? I don’t see her.”

This time Reggie’s voice was harder, though his eyes still clung to his wife across the room.

“With her friends. In the middle of the crowd.”

Feigning surprise, Deborah raised her brows, then let her lips twist into a mocking smile. Lowering her voice as though sharing a secret, she went on:

“With her friends, is she…? Oh, don’t worry about her, Silas is with her. Perhaps…” she left the sentence hanging, and with a sideways glance at Reggie’s face, she slyly continued, “I don’t know of course, but sometimes, when you’re with someone you truly enjoy… you forget everything else.”

Her words struck through Reggie’s mind like fuel thrown on a fire already set to ignite. Deborah’s whispers slithered in like venom, corroding the trust he held in his wife, feeding his jealousy with poisonous suggestions. Finally, Reggie tore his gaze from Y/N and turned to Deborah; his pupils narrowed, the muscles in his jaw taut. The paranoia inside him began to seize on every word she had spoken as if it were undeniable truth.

When Y/N noticed their conversation, she excused herself and stepped away. The unease rising in her chest felt like it was pressing against her ribs. Her footsteps, quiet yet deliberate, carried her across the dimly lit hall until she reached them with a grace sharpened by unease. She greeted Deborah first—a polite acknowledgment, her tone soft but laced with a chill that couldn’t be hidden. Then, turning her eyes on Reggie, she addressed her question to Deborah.

“I didn’t know you and Reggie were acquainted. And… what could possibly have been so engaging as to draw you into such a deep conversation?” Her voice carried courtesy, but the courtesy was false, brittle—like the strained smile that tightened across her cheekbones.

Deborah tilted her lips in a delicate curve, as though privy to some secret. But before she could respond, Reggie’s self-control snapped. His gaze blazed as he raked her up and down.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice slicing through the air like a blade. “What makes you think you can interrogate me? By what right?”

The cutting severity of his tone thrilled Deborah. Her lips curved into a victorious smile—she had succeeded in stirring the fire. “Well then, enjoy the rest of your evening,” she said lightly, slinging her bag over her shoulder before disappearing into the shadows of the hall.

Y/N’s eyes remained fixed on Reggie, her face tight with fury. “As if speaking to Deborah wasn’t enough, you chose to humiliate me in front of her as well.” Her voice trembled, not with anger but with jealousy, with the sting of betrayal.

Reggie leaned back, his eyes never leaving hers. “The way you make a scene over Deborah… almost makes me wonder. Are you hiding something? Or perhaps…” his tone shifted, laced with mocking insinuation, “are you jealous of her because of Silas?”

The sound of Silas’s name on his lips froze her in place. Her eyes widened, the shock striking her cold. “What are you implying, Reggie? What does Silas have to do with any of this?” she demanded, her voice breaking between outrage and desperate searching. She moved closer, sitting beside him as if proximity could anchor her.

Reggie shifted, just enough to invade her space, his movement quiet but predatory. His eyes gleamed with a bottomless darkness. Leaning closer, his scent —tobacco and sharp cologne— filled her lungs. His lips bent into a smile that was more threat than comfort, and he whispered:

“You know very well what he has to do with this. I told you in the car, didn’t I? You will not leave my side. You will not force me to see another man’s eyes lingering on you.”

She recoiled instinctively, but his hand shot out, gripping her arm with iron force. His fingers dug in, bruising, painful. For a moment, she was breathless, cornered in body and in soul. His other hand braced against the back of the seat, trapping her completely.

“Don’t play games with me. Silas is watching you. And you… you’re answering his gaze. Do you think I don’t see it, Y/N? If you make a fool of me, you’ll pay the price.”

Her heart pounded violently. She tried to look away, but his burning stare pressed on her like the edge of a knife. Words escaped her lips, ragged, torn from her throat by fear and despair.

“You’re suffocating me, Reggie… let go of me… you’re hurting me!”

But he only tightened his grip, his whisper sharp and venomous.

“I told you in the car. There are rules. And I told you what would happen if you broke them.”

The silence that followed was heavier than the flickering shadows from the moving images across the room. Finally, Y/N’s fury boiled over. She ripped her arm from his grasp, stumbling to her feet in a burst of desperate strength. Tears burned down her cheeks as she pushed past the narrow row of seats, rising abruptly. With a broken cry, she fled the hall, vanishing toward the doors.

Reggie’s face twisted with rage, poisoned by jealousy. He rose instantly, striding after her with long, furious steps. He cut through the corridor, descending the stairs until he burst into the night.

He caught her outside, his hand clamping viciously around her wrist, yanking her back to face him.

“Is this about him? Are you running to him? Tell me, do you like it when he looks at you? Tell me, Y/N—does it excite you to be desired by another man?”

His voice was a hiss of poison, his eyes burning with rage, jealousy, and a dark, consuming hunger. She struggled to free herself, his grip nearly breaking her bones.

“Stop! People will see, Reggie, don’t...please!”

He leaned close, his lips grazing her ear.

“Is it being exposed you fear? Or being caught in the truth? Tell me, deep down, you like it, don’t you? Silas looking at you, knowing you’re mine…”

Just then, a sharp voice cut through the night.

“Enough, Reggie! Let her go!”

Y/N startled, her head snapping toward the sound. Just beyond the door, Gilda stood, her face lit with fury and resolve. At her side, Silas. His eyes locked on Reggie with the bold defiance of youth, unafraid, unyielding.

Y/N’s face drained pale. Her lips trembled as she spoke, her voice broken, pleading.

“Nothing happened… please… there’s nothing. Reggie just… just—”

The gallery exterior was cloaked in a midnight stillness, cold light from the streetlamps casting sharp reflections off polished cars. The tension was visible, cutting through the air like a knife. Y/N only wanted this moment to end, but for Reggie, it was already too late. His demons were loose.

He released her so violently she nearly collapsed on the pavement. Even in letting go, there was contempt, a declaration of dominance.

Gilda rushed to Y/N’s side, steadying her. Y/N whispered, her voice frail: “Keep them apart. Whatever happens, don’t let them near each other.”

But Reggie was already moving, his focus fixed on Silas like a predator scenting prey. His footsteps struck the pavement in heavy, deliberate beats, promising violence. His lips twisted into a cruel smile. His voice came out low, dripping with venom.

“Listen, you little bastard. If you think you can circle around my wife, you’re dead wrong. Step back now, or I’ll tear you apart right here. They won’t even find your jacket.”

But Silas didn’t yield. His eyes glittered with defiance, his shoulders squaring. He could have stayed silent, ended it there. Instead, he chose to feed the fire. His voice came quiet but sharp, cutting through the night like a blade.

“She doesn’t deserve a husband like you. Better she burn in my shadow than rot in yours.”

That broke what little restraint Reggie had left. Silence cracked, and then the storm exploded. Reggie’s fist crashed against Silas’s jaw like a hammer. Silas stumbled but didn’t retreat, instead, he struck back with fury. Their fists flew like lightning, their bodies crashing onto the pavement. They clawed at each other’s jackets, curses ripping through ragged breaths.

Y/N tried desperately to force her way between them, her voice breaking into sobs.

“Stop! Reggie, stop! Silas, step back!”

But neither man heard her. To them, she was no longer a woman, they were fighting over her shadow, their pride, their hunger.

Gilda screamed for the guards, waving frantically. Guests from inside spilled out, some rushing to intervene. Several men grabbed at Reggie, but he fought like a beast, throwing them aside. Silas’s mouth was bloodied, his forehead split, yet his eyes still burned with stubborn triumph.

At last, sheer numbers pried them apart. Reggie strained against four men holding him back, still lunging forward with bared teeth. And in the chaos, Y/N stood in the middle, breath ragged, her throat knotted with unshed screams, knowing nothing would ever be the same. This wasn’t just a quarrel. This was war.

Reggie’s car waited in the night like a predator lying in ambush. Y/N stood on the cobblestones, the tremor of her thin heels echoing faintly as her eyes darted about in panic, only to return again and again to the same point. The muscles along the man’s jaw twitched—he wasn’t hiding his anger. On the contrary, he wielded it like a weapon against his wife.

When the young woman tugged at his sleeve with trembling hands, the fabric beneath her fingers felt as though it had turned to ice. A pleading whisper slipped from her lips.

“Reggie… let’s get in the car. Please.”

In that moment, it was as though the murmur of the crowd dissolved into silence. He turned toward her slowly, heavily, his eyes locking onto hers. His pupils were deep, bottomless pits—within them lay both threat and a dark, seductive promise. His lips did not part, no words came. But his gaze was sharper than any blade. Beneath it, Y/N’s knees quivered and her breath grew unsteady. She knew all too well: when Reggie Kray fell silent, that silence weighed more than words. That look tore the possibility of saying “no” out by the roots.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Gilda. Her lips pressed into a line of anger as she leaned forward, her voice quivering, echoing into the night.

“You don’t have to go with him, Y/N! Do you hear me?”

Y/N swallowed hard. Her breath caught in her throat like a knot. Reggie’s stare still pinned her in place. The longer he said nothing, the louder his silence became, it was commanding her, “come,” “obey,” “if you run, I will catch you.” And she knew he would. His darkness did not just shroud the street, it enshrouded her soul.

Clutching her bag to her chest with trembling hands, she lowered her head. Her steps dragged her toward a path from which there was no return. When Reggie opened the door, the sharp metallic sound split the night air. Without pulling back her arm, Y/N slipped into the car, swallowed by the bitter-sweet venom of fear.

The night had settled over the city; the weary yellow of the streetlamps smeared like stains across the car windows, spreading a wave of heavy unease over everything. Reggie sat behind the wheel, his expression cold and carved in stone, a cigarette smoldering at the corner of his lips. As smoke filled the dim interior, it coiled around her throat like phantom hands tightening. His grip on the steering wheel did not loosen, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the road ahead. Y/N sat small beside him, struggling to steady her breath. However quiet she tried to be, her body betrayed her: her hands trembled, her knees shook, her heart hammered so violently she thought it might break free from her chest.

“Reggie…” Her voice came out low, strangled by fear. Her lips were dry, and when she forced the rest out, her breath trembled. “There was nothing between Silas and me… there couldn’t be. I—I love you. Only you. The man you were before we married… the old you. I want him back.” The words spilled from her lips, but her body betrayed her again—her knees quivered, her throat ached with dryness, her fingers clutched at the seat edge. Her voice carried both pleading and the raw fragility of fear.

But he gave no reply. He drew deeply from his cigarette, exhaled through the open window, and drove on without a glance at her.

“Say something!” she cried, her voice breaking with desperation, sharpened by anger. “Don’t keep ignoring me like this! What are you thinking, what do you feel? You’re scaring me, Reggie! Talk to me!” Her voice reverberated inside the car, bouncing against the fogged glass, but still he gave nothing. Behind the wheel, he was a statue, his eyes fixed, his cigarette burning down.

Then, when the light turned red and the car stopped, he suddenly turned to her. The young woman’s heart seemed torn straight from her chest. His gaze pierced through her; in his eyes there was no anger, no tenderness, nothing. Empty. Hollow. Bottomless darkness. He wasn’t looking into her—he was looking past her, as if she were an object, something forgotten on the seat.

His hand rose, fingers threading through her hair. At first, it was like a caress, but there was something strange in it, something suffocating, possessive. His palm slid slowly to her cheek, then down to her neck. At his touch, her skin shivered, goosebumps racing across her arms. And then his lips seized hers.

The kiss was not sudden, but it was devastating. His mouth pressed against hers with a hard, claiming force, then deepened with slow, burning intensity. The bitter taste of smoke lingered on his lips, his breath invaded hers; it felt as if he were pulling the air straight from her lungs. The more he moved against her, the harder her heart pounded, the more her breath faltered, the more she felt chained. There was no tenderness, no rage—only scorching possession. He did not pull away; he consumed her breath with his own, trapping her inside it.

And in the midst of that long, consuming kiss, with his lips still against hers, his voice slipped out—a quiet, calm threat.

“I told you… if you break the rules, you pay the price.”

Her breath, caught between their mouths, shattered inside her chest. Her eyes welled with tears, though they could not fall.

When the light turned green and the car lurched forward again, all her strength had broken. Her voice came out small, trembling, almost childlike.

“Please… let’s forget all this. Please calm down, Reggie. Please… let everything be as it once was.”

But he did not turn his head. His hands were stone on the wheel, his eyes locked on the black road ahead. He drove on, untouched, as if her words had never existed.

And Y/N, trapped in that car, tried to steady her breath, only to find it crashing again and again against the cold wall of his silence.

When the dim parking lot lights fell across her body stepping out of the car, her heart pounded as if it might tear through her ribcage. Her lipstick had smeared along the corner of her lips as she ran, heels clattering a sharp rhythm against the cold ground. The strap of her bag slipped from her shoulder, but she didn’t care. Her only thought was to reach the door.

What made her tremble most was what she saw when she looked back: Reggie’s steps. Unhurried, but quick. He wasn’t running, he wasn’t panicking. He was simply moving forward with that sharp, merciless determination. The hem of his jacket flared with each step, and the heavy echo of his shoes rolled against the walls of the parking lot. The faster she tried to run, the more she felt his breath growing at the back of her neck.

“You thought you could get away, huh?” His voice cut through the air, mockery sharper than her fear.

At last, Y/N reached the door, her hands shaking as she fumbled with the key. She struggled to find the keyhole; her trembling made her fingers clumsy, frozen by the pounding in her chest. The moment the lock turned and the door gave way, she threw herself inside, pulling the door to shut it, fumbling to twist the lock when suddenly, there was weight against it.

Reggie’s hand pressed it open, pinning her to the doorframe. “Don’t rush, sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice laced with a cold, mirthless laugh. “I’m not inside yet.”

She flailed, palms pushing hard against his chest. “Enough, Reggie! Stop this, this isn’t right!” Her voice shook with both rage and fear, her throat thick with the knot of panic. But he leaned in close, his face near hers. “Stop? You try to slam the door in my face, and then you ask me to calm down? Are you out of your mind, Y/N?”

His hand clamped down, dragging her arms away from the door. With one shove, he pushed her inside with him. Her scream ricocheted off the walls. “Goddamn it, let me go! Don’t touch me, Reggie!”

She fought to break free, her elbows striking his chest, fists pounding his shoulder. Her heels beat against the wooden floor in a frantic, hopeless rhythm. “Get the hell off me! Do you hear me, let me go!”

But Reggie’s fury was matched by his strength. He caught her thrashing arms, smothered her scream with a hand over her mouth, and drove her back against the wall, pinning her there. Her eyes widened in horror as his hot breath brushed against the corner of her lips.

She kicked, one last desperate attempt to get free. His patience snapped. His hands locked tight around her waist and in one motion, he hauled her over his shoulder. Her screams and fists rained down against his back, but he didn’t waver. His stride was heavy, relentless, carrying her toward the bedroom.

The door slammed open with a vicious kick. He threw her down on the bed, her body bouncing against the sheets. Her heart hammered violently, ragged breaths spilling from her lips.

He stood above her, gaze raking her from head to toe. He shrugged off his jacket, loosened his tie, rolled up his sleeves, his mouth curved into a dangerous smile. “I like your fear… because even afraid, you know you’re mine.”

Through her tears, Y/N stared up at him, lips trembling as she whispered, “Why are you doing this to me? Why do you act like this? I love you, but this… this isn’t right, Reggie…”

He climbed onto the bed, hands braced to either side of her body, face hovering just above hers. “Do you know what��s not right?” His words spat like venom, his eyes glinting with a dark fury. “You think I didn’t see the way Silas looked at you? Don’t you dare tell me you didn’t notice his eyes on you.”

Her breath quickened, the words caught in her throat. She wanted to protest, to say “you’re wrong,” but the knot lodged in her chest stole her voice. All that came out was a faint, desperate whisper: “Reggie, please…”

But Reggie didn’t want to hear her pleas, or rather, he twisted the tremor in her voice into something else entirely. He seized her jaw, forcing her head back against the bed. His lips crashed down on hers, the kiss fueled by anger, jealousy, possession. His teeth bruised her lips, his breath devoured hers, leaving no room for escape. She tried to push him away, palms flat against his chest, but his weight was immovable. Until at last, that resistance faltered, and her trembling hands clutched at his shirt, betraying her with the hidden spark of sensation burning through his violent kiss.

“See? Your mouth lies, but your body stays loyal. You’re my breath, Y/N. I’ll never let anyone else have you.” His hand tore at the collar of her dress, fabric caught between his fingers as he yanked it loose. The rough motion stung, making her wince. He stripped her down with impatient, commanding movements, her weak protests meaningless against his force.

When she was left in nothing but her white lingerie, she lashed out, swinging at him. But Reggie was faster. His hands caught her wrists, shaking her into submission.

One hand locked her wrists in place, the other seized her chin, his fingers biting hard enough to hurt.

The bedroom’s heavy air was suffused with his shadow. The moment he pinned her to the bed, it felt like falling into an iron cage. His presence, his weight, his breath, each one a chain. He wedged his knees between hers, restricting every escape. Each frantic attempt only tightened his hold. His lips curled into a half-smile—half patient, like a father indulging a child, half cruel, like an executioner savoring the end.

“The more you struggle, the more I like it.” His voice was soft, almost caressing, but the command beneath it was steel. He spat deliberately at the corner of her mouth, then forced her to taste it with a crushing kiss, his tongue invading her with merciless urgency. “Maybe that’s why I bother with you.”

She tried to turn her head, but his grip clamped her jaw in place. He didn’t release her mouth, his tongue forcing its way deeper until the kiss became both torture and a grotesque parody of tenderness. When at last he pulled back, his eyes locked onto hers.

His fingers traced slowly along the edge of her lips, thumb pressing between them to pry them open. “Now… bite. Hard. I want to feel your teeth.” His tone was an order, but his expression was that of a father testing obedience. When she hesitated, his mouth pressed to her throat, voice sharp against her skin. “If you don’t, I’ll make you. It’s for your own good.”

When her teeth sank into his finger, Reggie let out a low, guttural laugh. Even through the sting, there was a flash of savage pleasure in his eyes. “That’s it. Remind me you’re mine.”

He pressed harder between her thighs with his groin, forcing them wider, caging her body completely. Sliding his weight forward, his breath scalded her neck as his lips grazed and bit her skin. Each movement chipped away at her defiance. “You’re still trying to run, aren’t you? But your body’s betraying you. I can feel the heat.”

Tears streamed down Y/N’s face, her teeth clenched as she spat out her words, raw and broken: “I don’t want you! Not this Reggie! I hate you, do you hear me? I want the man you used to be!”

The heavy air of the bedroom thickened as Reggie’s hands gripped the woman’s waist with merciless strength, forcing her to lie face down on the bed. Y/N tried to lift herself, but Reggie had already settled on her hips, pulling her arms backward with his iron grip. He loosened the tie around his neck completely, wrapping the thin, cold fabric tightly around her wrists in an unyielding knot. The pressure of the cloth cut into her skin, stripping her of movement, leaving her entirely at his mercy. With her wrists pinned against the small of her back, Reggie bent closer, his breath brushing against her nape, radiating dominance that seeped from the corner of his clenched jaw. As her arms remained bound in the tie’s unrelenting hold, a storm of fear and forbidden desire surged within her, her body trembling despite her desperate attempt to resist, submitting unwillingly to the sheer authority pressing down on her.

His hands slid lower, to her hips and outer thighs, pinning her harder each time she struggled. With a single motion, he dragged her toward the edge of the bed; the sheets scratched beneath her, and the sharp scrape echoed in her ears like a high-pitched cry. Her body was pulled all the way to the mattress’s edge, her legs dangling into the void, leaving her even more vulnerable. Reggie forced her thighs apart with his knees, widening her helplessness, denying her any chance of escape. In this confined position, she was trapped, entirely dependent on his will; every frantic squirm only collided against his hardened control.

As his hands trailed up the curves of her inner thighs, his fingers brushed against the warmth seeping from her cunt. A cunning smile tugged at his lips; every trace of wetness was proof of his possession.

“Do you even realize how wet you are? I haven’t even touched you properly yet, and your body’s already begging for me. This body wants to belong to me.”

That wetness betraying her body was the proof of hidden surrender, the scream of fear laced with desire. Reggie dipped his fingertips into her warmth, drawing them out slowly, teasingly, only to smear the slickness across her lips. His tone sharpened, dripping with mockery and command, as he leaned in close to her ear:

“Taste yourself from my fingers.”

Her trembling lips met the salty, slippery press of his touch, and when she hesitated, he pressed harder, demanding the scrape of her teeth. At the same time, his mouth crashed against her neck, biting deep enough to leave bruises, branding her skin with merciless possession. His breath brushed over the shell of her ear as his voice dropped to a dark whisper:

“See these marks? You’ll remember when you look in the mirror. No matter where you go, you’ll know I claimed you.”

When she gave no response, Reggie punished her with a harsh slap to her ass, the sharp crack echoing through the room. The sting bloomed across her skin, yet the wetness between her thighs only deepened, betraying her further. Each strike only cemented his control, pulling her tighter into his grip. His hand tangled in her hair, yanking her head back until their eyes met. He let saliva pool in his mouth before spitting deliberately onto her lips, pressing down until she was forced to taste it in a bruising kiss.

Every movement, every cruel touch turned her body into his playing board, her wrists bound by the knot of the tie, her legs locked open by his knees, her scalp burning from his grip, her throat marked by his teeth, her skin stinging from his palm. It all whispered one truth into the air between them: there was no escape.

In the dark shadows, as Reggie’s gaze fell on her, Y/N’s thin black stockings tensed between his fingers like objects of pleasure, then, impatiently, they were ripped off. In that moment, it was as if even the fibers of the stockings were an obstacle to his pleasure; the sharp sound of the threads scraping against skin was a dramatic signal of being stripped naked. Reggie’s movements were urgent, yet possessive; he declared with authority that no obstacle should remain on the young body. Even the thin layer of underwear, where his gaze shifted after ripping off the stocking, was too much for him; his hands, relentless in their pursuit of Y/N’s fragile texture, he tore the lacy fabric apart without a moment’s hesitation. The sound of the fabric ripping echoed through the room, creating an even more tense space between them; a spark appeared in Reggie’s eyes as Y/N’s breathing quickened, as if he were tearing away all of her resistance, condemning her to his own regime.

“I didn’t let you, get off me!” she said, but her voice wasn’t angry or desperate, but almost a groan of pleasure.

“You don’t want me to stop, Y/N,” he said as he unbuckled Reggie’s belt. The sound of leather hung in the air like a warning, the heavy tone of those metal buckles blending into the night. “Your eyes are begging me to do this.”

The shiver and desire in Y/N’s eyes merged with a sly smile that spread across Reggie’s lips. As the belt dropped to the ground, Reggie’s presence became even more dominant; his heavy frame slumped over her, his voice lowering to her ear. “This is the weight of my love, do you understand, little girl? That’s why I’m so cruel,” he whispered, his voice a mixture of praise and contempt. Y/N’s labored breaths were a victory for him. He gripped her hips with his hands, stretching the cheeks as he pushed his hardness into her; The deep sound of their skin colliding echoed in the air like a seal of submission. He watched Y/N's twitching with almost pleasure as he held her waist tightly, then began to guide her body to his own rhythm.

Reggie's breaths deepened as the penetration began, his firm but controlled thrusts asserting his dominance over the young body's confined space. For him, this wasn't just sex; it was a ritual of possession, where the age difference played its full weight. With each thrust, he leaned into her ear and poured out his dirty words: "I give you pleasure like no one else can, because I'm the only man for you, do you understand? My little girl… my good girl…" while simultaneously insulting her with phrases like, "But you're not innocent enough to deserve this pleasure. You're just my toy. I corrupted you." This mixture of praise and humiliation clouded Y/N's mind, leaving her both completely surrendering to his touch and trembling with shame.

The wetness rising from Y/N with each thrust was a pleasurable confirmation that Reggie detected with his fingertips. Grabbing her hair and pulling her head back, he pressed his lips to her neck, leaving bite after bite; these marks would haunt her body even the next day. “You’re so ready for me, you see… so you admit how much you enjoy it, don’t you?” he growled, a fiery flush spreading across Y/N’s cheeks. As she neared orgasm, Reggie treated the trembling breaths and the uncontrolled twitching of her hips as his own triumph. With his final thrusts, he pressed her tighter against the bed, gripping her neck and increasing her breathing.

In that moment, Y/N’s entire body was captivated by Reggie’s actions, surrendering completely to his weight, his words, his rhythm. Her youthful resistance had crumbled, and she felt the wild satisfaction of existing solely in his shadow.

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divaofmads · 1 month ago

Text

Once Upon Us | Headcanon

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Female Reader

Synopsis: She was a girl who didn’t know how to love. She grew up behind cold walls, under indifferent gazes... But in Bruce Wayne’s silence, she heard herself for the first time. They were opposites. And maybe that’s why their hearts began to beat from the same place. Their childhoods broke together... and they learned love together.

Warnings: Childhood/Adolescence Themes, Love Story, Jealousy, Slow Burn, Fluff, No Smut, Coming-of-Age, Emotional Intensity, Friendship to Romance, Family Influence, Possible Angst, English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional.

Word Count: +10k (i guess :P)

Dividers by Me and @saradika-graphics Photos by Pinterest

A/N: This story tells the tale of innocence and true love. I know that smut stories are usually expected here, but this time I want something a bit more pure. The feelings formed during childhood and adolescence, I believe, last a lifetime. This story celebrates the power of those innocent and pure emotions.

Age Range: 6-10

Childhood Sweethearts

----

• You and Bruce had spend time together because of your families' close friendship

Miniature Ballet Performance:

You’re wearing a tulle ballet costume. With pink slippers on your feet, you’ve turned the carpet in the living room into a stage. The gramophone is playing Dance of the Sugar Fairy from the Nutcracker. You’ve lined up the maids and made them into an “audience,” but your real target is clear: Bruce.

Bruce is on the couch, looking away. Hands buried in his pockets.

You: “If you don’t watch, I’ll bite your foot!”

Bruce: “I don’t like dancing.”

You: “I don’t like you either but we’re here because of our families!”

You spin to the center of the room. You pout and pretend to fall.

Bruce finally lifts his head.

You: “Look, I fell. Because of you.”

Bruce (turning his head): “I didn’t do anything.”

You: “Exactly. You never do anything.”

Chess

You place the pieces one by one, carefully.

Bruce sits quietly, as if he already knows how the game will end.

You: “You play too calculated. Did you learn that from Alfred?”

Bruce: “No. From my father.”

You: “My dad and I never do anything together.”

Two pieces later, you’re close to checkmate.

Your eyes fill with tears, but you don’t show it.

Five moves later, you lose your queen.

You stand up angrily: “YOU CHEATED!”

Bruce calmly: “You made the rules, Y/N.”

You grab as many pieces as you can and throw them at him: “I lose focus when I look at you!”

Bruce dodges to the side.

Alfred watches from afar: “Miss, queens are usually sacrificed—but not like this.”

You pout and sink into the chair.

Bruce: “Why do you always do this?”

You: “I won’t answer that.”

Funeral Ceremony in the Garden

You’ve dug a hole. You place a cloth doll inside.

Only Bruce is with you. Silent again.

You kneel down and bow your head.

You: “Princess Isabella is gone. You ran her over with a toy car.”

Bruce: “It was an accident.”

You: “But you didn’t even feel sorry.”

You cover the hole with your hands. Eyes fixed on Bruce.

You: “Don’t you have anything that hurts inside?”

Bruce (quietly): “I do.”

You: “Sometimes I want to be quiet like you, but I explode instead.”

Then you get up and run away without holding his hand. Bruce doesn’t understand what you meant.

Lost Princess and the Dark Knight

You’ve put on the blue princess costume left from the play. You’ve got a crown, too. You imagine the wooden playhouse in the garden as a castle and pretend to be chained up inside.

Bruce is watching from afar, frowning again.

You: “Rescue me, Dark Knight, or I won’t be your princess!”

Bruce: “I’m not a Dark Knight. I’m... the devil.”

You: “Well, I love the devil anyway.”

Bruce slowly approaches. He tries to free you.

You: “I’m a wicked princess. If I stay with you, everyone will be scared.”

Bruce: “Everyone’s already scared of me.”

You: “I’m not. But I’ll slap you from time to time. Is that okay?”

• Events You Attended Together

Winter Ball at Wayne Manor

You walk into the ballroom wearing a pink crinoline dress.

Bruce is standing among the adults. You’re not allowed to sit beside him.

You pout. You stand there as if there’s nowhere else to sit.

You: “If you let me sit next to you, I’d give you chocolate.”

Bruce: “I don’t like chocolate.”

You: “You don’t like anything. You don’t like me either. And nobody likes you anyway!”

You cry, but secretly, hiding in the crook of your arm.

Y/S/N Family’s Rose Garden Party

Everyone is eating strawberry tarts in the garden. You’re all dressed up. Bruce steps on the grass and his foot sinks into the mud.

You: “Hahaha! Muddy-footed knight!”

Bruce (quietly): “People make mistakes.”

You: “I don’t. Because I... I...”

You don’t finish the sentence.

Later, you secretly take a little piece of the mud he stepped in and wrap it in your handkerchief.

On the handkerchief you write:

“Evidence. Proof of the cursed spell.”

You don’t tell anyone, but that day, you smell like he did.

Art Exhibition Visit

While everyone is walking from painting to painting, Bruce stops in front of one: a dark grove.

You roll your eyes.

You: “Again? There’s nothing in this painting.”

Bruce: “Something happens when you look.”

You: “What happens? Eye damage?”

You walk away, but a week later, you have that painting hung in your room.

While it’s on your wall, you say:

“So dumb. But beautiful.”

• Childhood Conflicts and Bullying Dynamics

You pick up Bruce’s favorite toy: a little wooden airplane.

You wrinkle your nose and drop it to the ground.

You: “This? So plain. Like a poor kid’s toy.”

Bruce: “It was... a gift from my dad.”

You: “My dad gives better gifts. Like... like...” (you think) “A real plane!”

Then you turn your back. But that night, you draw the plane in your notebook.

Underneath, you write:

“I said it was bad but it’s actually nice.”

Calling Him a “Coward”

Two kids are throwing mud at each other in the yard. Bruce is far away. You step in and shout:

You: “Bruce, come on! Say something to them!”

Bruce: “No need. They’re just playing.”

You: “You’re a coward. You’re always quiet because you’re scared!”

Bruce quietly walks away.

You take off your shoe and throw it into the mud.

Then you cry, but don’t retrieve the shoe.

“I’ll fight for you too, idiot.”

Pouting When He Talks to Another Kid

Bruce is talking to another girl (Rachel!).

You walk by and tilt his chin up:

You: “What are you talking about? She moves her lips too much.”

Bruce: “I just asked a question.”

You: “Why don’t you ask me instead?”

Then you start crying, but turn and walk away so he won’t see.

Bruce: “Are you crying?”

You: “No. My nose is cold.”

Pushing Harder When He Wants to Be Alone:

Bruce goes to the corner of the garden. Sits alone.

You pick flowers and suddenly appear beside him.

You: “These flowers aren’t for you. They’re for the soil.”

Bruce: “I want to be alone.”

You: “Me too! But it’s better to be alone together.”

You sit together. No one says a word. But one of the flowers ends up tucked into Bruce’s pocket.

You stay silent.

Age Range: 14-17 (Teenage)

High School Sweethearts

----

• Activites

School Dance

There are three weeks left until the school dance. Decorations on bulletin boards, gossip in the hallways, pairing games on class lists...

As you walk toward Bruce, everyone is watching you, but he doesn’t notice. Silent as always. Reading a book, but not turning the pages.

“Do you have a dance partner?” you ask.

He shrugs. “I don’t like dancing.”

You smile. You’ve memorized that answer. “Because when you dance, someone touches you, right?”

This time, his eyes don’t avoid yours. Not a word, but you can feel the heartbeat. He doesn’t respond.

“I don’t like you either,” you say. “So if someone touches you, it won’t be me.”

The next day, you find the key to the empty music hall. Sunlight filters in through arched windows. The parquet floor is silent. When Bruce walks in, an old jazz song plays from the cassette.

Slow, simple.

You hold out your hand.

He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t take it either.

“Don’t worry, I’m not trying to figure you out. We’re just counting steps.”

Your fingers brush his. Then your palms meet.

His heart beats in rhythm with yours. He tries to pull back, but your hand keeps him there.

“Not everyone who touches you hurts you, Bruce.”

He doesn’t say anything.

But the next week, your name is written beside his on the dance list.

Laughing is progress:

That day, you don’t go to the coffee line alone.

You don’t tell anyone what’s stirring inside you. But as you drop a little spoonful of shiny strawberry jam into Bruce’s bitter coffee, your thought is this:

“If I add something to the bitterness, I can make it a little like me.”

Bruce is sitting by the same window again. Like a shadow. Silent as always.

“I changed things up today. Guess what I put in the coffee.”

He takes a sip. His face... winces. His brows knit, then, for the first time, truly... he laughs.

It’s not the first time he’s smiled, it’s the first time you see him allow it.

You murmur without looking away:

“I expected you to cry, so laughing is progress.”

That day, you write a single sentence in your notebook:

“I don’t want to break him, just shake him.”

Being Alone Together:

You’re on that forbidden rooftop again. Lunch break. Everyone’s off doing their own thing.

You have two cones in your hand. Vanilla.

“Today we’re smoking,” you say.

Bruce presses his lips together. “This isn’t a cigarette.”

“Yes,” you say. “But from the outside, it might look like one.”

You sit at the edge of the rooftop. Your legs dangle in the air. Your fingers are frozen.

You hold the cone like a cigarette, exhaling breath instead of smoke.

“This isn’t pretending,” you say. “It’s like... stealing reality.”

Bruce listens to you for the first time. “Why do you keep pushing me?”

“Because otherwise you stay quiet,” you say. “I want to hear you, Bruce. I even want you to scream.”

You both stare out at the city. Neither of you says anything. Just enjoying the moment.

Bruce places his fingers next to yours. No contact. But no distance, either.

The Tension Between You Two:

Late afternoon. The sky is gray.

The fountain in the garden no longer works, but it’s still muddy.

Every step you take stirs up the smell of damp earth. In your hand, a lighter. In your pocket, a crumpled piece of paper. You stole it from Bruce’s pocket.

It’s an invitation, gold lettering, for a secret party hosted by the most popular, rich teenagers at school.

His name is there too: Bruce Thomas Wayne.

You find him in the garden. Leaning against the wall again.

He looks calm, but the more still he is, the more you know how crowded he is inside. Every silence of his is hiding a fire.

He hears your footsteps but doesn’t turn his head. Still, he’s waiting for you.

As always.

You:

“There was something in your pocket. You had your name printed in gold. Wow. The Wayne fame never goes out of style, huh?”

Your voice is tense. A bit mocking. But deep down… The thought of seeing him there holding someone else’s hand drives you insane.

Bruce:

“I didn’t ask for it. They just sent it.”

You:

“And you decided to go. What was it again? You didn’t like crowds? Or do you want to be seen, just like everyone else?”

Bruce frowns but still doesn’t speak. He doesn’t want to explain, because every time he opens up, he’s afraid of losing something.

You pull the invitation out of your pocket. You look at the paper between your fingers for a moment.

Then you flick the lighter. The flame ignites.

Bruce:

“What are you doing?”

You (firmly):

“I don’t want to share you with everyone, Bruce.”

You hold the invitation over the flame. The edge curls, the fire hisses as it spreads. But in that moment, Bruce reaches out.

And… He holds the burning invitation with you. The flame touches his fingertips. He doesn’t pull away.

Your eyes meet his. He doesn’t say anything, but his face says everything: “I didn’t want to go either. I just wanted you to think someone invited me. Because, after my family died, the only person who kept me alives is you, and i want to get your attention.”

When the flame dies, all that’s left in your hands is black ash. It scatters with the wind.

Bruce wipes your hand with his own. Slowly takes your fingers in his. Then swallows hard.

Bruce (softly):

“Being invisible was easier. But with you... even getting lost feels good.”

You stay silent in that moment. Because everything you needed to say, like the heat between your palms, has already turned to ash.

• Bullying in Highschool

“Why Are Orphans Still in This School?”:

Month: November.

Cold. The hallways of the school are quiet, but there’s a hum underneath it all.

Bruce isn’t talking that day. Because today was the anniversary of his parents' death. He thinks if he stays silent, no one will notice his grief. But a note pinned behind the glass of the school bulletin board turns him into a ghost again.

Written in black ink, by an anonymous hand:

“Why are orphans still being admitted to this school? Charity case or guilt trophy?”

When you see that note, it feels like a punch to your stomach.

At first, you think he hasn’t seen it. But then your mind screams: “Bruce read this.”

Without a second of hesitation, you slam your hand against the glass.

Not at the glass, at your anger.

Your fingers get cut. The glass cracks. You throw yourself at the board, tearing down every paper. You rip the A4s apart. Student lists, announcements, concert posters… all shredded.

A crowd gathers behind you, but you only care about one thing.

“IF YOU’RE GOING TO WRITE IT, PUT YOUR NAME ON IT!” you yell. “IF YOU HIDE, IT MEANS YOU’RE AFRAID. AND BE AFRAID — BECAUSE I’M STANDING WITH HIM.”

A teacher grabs your arm. But it’s already too late. Bruce has heard your voice. And that night, for the first time, you find a small note in your bag, from him:

“Someone fighting for me… strange, but beautiful.”

• Bruce Gets Jealous of You and Starts Showing His Favour

Memory 1:

There’s a small arthouse cinema in Gotham. Inside, it smells like it’s from the 1930s, velvet curtains, cigarette smoke, old chairs.

You’ve gone there with someone else. “The intellectual flirt of the Y/S/N girl.”

The boy beside you likes using big, intellectual words. But your eyes keep drifting to the exit.

Bruce didn’t go that night. But you don’t know he followed you. He came, watched you, then left.

Back at school, he locked himself in the library. Analyzed the film from start to finish. The actors, cinematography, plot gaps...

The next morning, you find a note tucked between your books.

The paper is plain. The writing looks typewritten.

No signature.

But you know it’s him. That boy who hides everything.

“The film was good. But the acting was mediocre.

The only real thing was the disappointment in the audience.”

That last sentence hits a nerve. Because that’s his way. Screaming without saying a word.

Memory 2:

Winter begins.

The stone corridors of the boarding school grow even colder.

As you walk down one of them, a gray coat is draped over your shoulders. Not your own coat.

A boy, well-dressed, from one of the powerful families, wants to talk to you. He places his coat on your shoulders. You smile. But you don’t know Bruce is watching.

At that moment, Bruce’s eyes darken. But nothing changes on his face. Still quiet. Still distant.

The next morning, that coat is found in the back garden. Torn. But not just torn... The cufflinks are ripped off, the fabric is covered in mud, and inside the pocket, a symbol drawn in blood: Bat.

You understand everything. No one saw it. No one got caught. But you know he did it. Because no one else can scream that loudly by staying silent.

Memory 3:

You love the second movement of Frédéric Chopin – Nocturnes Op. 9 No. 2. Because it doesn’t start harshly. Because it’s sad. Because... it speaks for you.

You’ve never told anyone. But once, he saw you listening to it on your Walkman. Right as you left the classroom, he’d played back what you were listening to. He said nothing. But he never forgot.

One evening after school, piano music drifts from the music hall.

No one’s around. The hallways are dark.

You reach the door of the room. Bruce is inside. Alone.

His fingers on the keys, his gaze... far away.

What he’s playing... is your piece. But he’s not playing to you. He’s playing for you.

You don’t enter the room. You stand at the doorway. You listen. You simply rest your hand on the doorframe and close your eyes.

He doesn’t notice you. Or maybe he does, and keeps playing.

The next day, inside your piano notebook, a small piece of paper appears:

“Your choice of that piece unsettled me.

But now, with every note, I unravel a little more.

I didn’t play it for you.

I just tried to understand someone like you.”

• First Kiss (Age 17)

One of Gotham’s oldest and most prestigious schools… Between its stone walls, century-old silences echo, and the shadows of aristocratic surnames fall across the rows of desks.

And you — Y/N Y/S/N.

Heir to the Y/S/N rose gardens, an arts scholarship student, once the pride of the school. But now, you are not defined by your surname, but by the quiet defiance in your eyes.

The new literature teacher noticed you far too early. Because you didn’t look at him. You didn’t smile at his voice, his tie, or his poetic manner of reading, unlike the other girls. You chose to stay inside a notebook. And he couldn’t take his eyes off you.

At first, the compliments were innocent:

“Very few people your age can write the way you do.”

“I read your compositions with admiration. I wish everyone could be as deep as you.”

Then, he started asking questions:

“Which museums do you visit?”

“Would you like to write together?”

At first, you were cold. Then, you clearly rejected him. And he did something an adult should never do: he threw his pride on top of you.

A week later, a quiet scandal erupted in class. During the literature exam, it was claimed that your paper contained sentences from another book.

The same sentences appeared in the teacher’s own notes. And that day, everyone heard the following words in the classroom: “No matter how talented a student is, there is no place here for those who choose dishonest paths.”

He didn’t even look at you. But you saw the arrogant justice on his face. He was punishing you for rejecting him. And the system was on his side. Because he was an adult. And you, just a lonely girl. Forgotten by your father after your mother died…

The case was brought to the school administration. Your name began to be tainted. And the one person everyone had forgotten… hadn’t forgotten you.

Bruce Wayne.

In a city where no one respected the Wayne name anymore, he still maintained his silence. That boy who always watched you from a distance. Never looked into your eyes. But waited for you every morning.

That night, Bruce picked up a pen. For the first time, he wrote something to truly protect someone. And he left the letter in that man’s drawer. No name. But deliberate.

There was only one threat on that page: “If you stain her name again…”

No signature. No date. But the handwriting… familiar. Bruce’s handwriting.

The school went into chaos. A disciplinary committee was formed. Bruce was summoned, but he said nothing. Silent. Back straight. But his eyes… were searching for you.

When you entered, the room fell silent. Only your footsteps echoed. The letter lay open on the table. One administrator leaned toward you and asked:

“Did Bruce Wayne write this letter?”

A moment’s pause. Everyone turned to look at Bruce. He didn’t lift his head to meet your gaze. There was a warning in his eyes. “Don’t,” his look said. “This burden is mine, not yours.”

But you…

You’d burn everything for him. Because you grew up in darkness too. Because protecting him was worth more than staining yourself.

“No, sir. I wrote the letter.”

The class held its breath. Bruce’s hands clenched beneath the table. As if, with that sentence, you had taken his darkness onto your own shoulders.

The disciplinary committee took notes. A special file was opened for you.

But no one knew: That day, you hadn’t only defended your future, you had grasped the chains around Bruce’s inner darkness too.

The disciplinary room. As big as a classroom, but with narrow, high windows.

Outside is gray. Inside is gray. Only a desk, two chairs, two pens, and a sentence you’re both required to write 500 times: “Actions that harm the school, harm the sense of belonging.”

Your hand is on the paper, but your pen’s tip is broken. Bruce sits in the opposite corner. His head in his hands.

You can’t see his face, but you know what he’s doing: blaming himself.,Angry. Not at you. Not at the teacher. At himself. Because he tried to protect you, and you were still punished. And you, in that moment, don’t want to suppress everything inside you anymore.

You stand up. Your chair creaks. You place your pen on the desk and turn to him. Your shoulders are straight. Your voice firm. But inside… something is aching: hurt.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? A threat letter to a teacher? Really, Bruce? Why?”

Bruce doesn’t lift his head. But when you fall silent, he removes his hands from his face.

His eyes are glassy. His eyelids are tired. And then, for the first time, he says it out loud:

“I knew he was bothering you.”

Your throat tightens. The words are there, but they don’t reach your tongue.

Bruce stands. So slowly, like he’s lifting a weight.

He takes one step toward you. His eyes are in yours, but his body holds a tension, like an unexploded bomb.

“I wanted to destroy him. If he disciplines me, so be it. But he couldn’t stain your name. I couldn’t bear him saying another word about you.”

His voice falters. Because he sees something in your eyes. Not forgiveness. Not approval. A familiar kind of breaking. A familiar... loneliness. And in that moment, he slowly step toward you. His voice no longer trembles.

“I knew it was wrong. But… I still had to protect you. Because you…”

You stop. A breath. In that breath... years.

Then you continue: “You’d already saved me, Bruce.”

That sentence echoes through the room. Heavier than any teacher, any punishment, any condemning word.

Bruce steps closer. You feel his breath on your skin. But he doesn’t touch you. He never would. Touching means ruining, for him. But in that moment, your eyes meet his.

And then…

A kiss.

So slow. So simple. So short.

A kiss like a thank you. A kiss like “I’m sorry you know me.”

But most of all: “You’re not alone anymore.”

Bruce pulls back.

He looks away. His hands go to his pockets, but he doesn’t know what to do with them.

He takes a step back. But his body can’t move far. As if there’s still a string tying him to you.

“This… this is going to ruin everything,” he whispers. “We were already complicated. Now… this… this makes it worse.”

You smile. And in that moment, you carry a kind of courage even he doesn’t see.

You lift your head. You speak from the same height, the same fracture.

“No, Bruce. This starts everything. We’re not hiding anymore. I’m not hiding you anymore.”

• Romantic and Intimate Moments

Activity 1:

Wayne Manor’s kitchen…

Outside, Gotham’s gray mist clings to the windows. Inside, a rare moment of “relaxation” has been earned, thanks to Alfred’s one-hour leave.

You’ve already taken your shoes off by the time you step into the kitchen. Bruce is still neatly hanging up his jacket.

Of course he is.

"A psychologist won’t blame me one day for trying to bake a cake with you, right?" you say, holding a sack of flour in your arms.

Bruce walks over to the measuring cups and answers only by raising an eyebrow.

As if this task were as crucial as leaving no evidence at a crime scene.

He weighs the flour by grams. Counts the milk by drops. Levels the sugar at eye level.

"We’re baking a cake, not building a nuclear bomb," you say. "Giving you the whisking job would’ve been a disaster."

But you are the complete opposite.

You keep dipping your finger into the mixing bowl for a taste.

Every time you bring that finger to your lips, Bruce glances from the corner of his eye, then quickly looks away when you catch him.

He still avoids eye contact. But that doesn’t mean he’s not looking.

"I cracked the egg," you say. "But a little shell might’ve fallen in… Bruce, if it ends up in your mouth, just chew it and move on, okay?"

Bruce narrows his eyes.

"Your arrival in the kitchen is no different than criminals entering Gotham. Chaos. Use the spoon, Y/N. Please."

"But if I use my tongue instead of a spoon, it’d be way more fair," you say, licking the sugary spatula between your teeth.

You catch Bruce’s shoulder twitch.

The oven is heating up. You grab the whisk, turn around, and swipe a bit of flour onto Bruce’s collar. "Is this justice? Anyone without flour on them doesn’t count as working in here."

And in that moment, Bruce, heavy, serious, introverted Bruce, tries to move away from you, but his hand brushes against your wrist.

The touch is brief but intense. Your skin is warm, his is cold. But his pulse is racing.

He lets go immediately, as if he’s done something wrong. "What’s sticking to you isn’t flour, it’s attention," he says. "I’m watching you."

But you smile. Because now, he’s part of your game too.

The result?

The oven overheats. The cake rises but spills over one side. Flour coats the walls, eggshells cover the floor.

Alfred walks in. He lowers his glasses. A few seconds of silence.

"Master Wayne… Exploding an oven is just as serious as fighting crime. And Miss Y/S/N, this cake you’ve made... is only useful for covering up evidence."

Activity 2:

A Gotham evening… The streetlights are dim, sidewalks wet. And you’re walking a few steps behind Bruce. But then you match his pace.

You’re both walking in silence. Your hands are side by side, but not locked together. Just... the tips of your fingers brushing now and then.

Like a spark, searching for sound.

Bruce isn’t speaking. But his eyes aren’t on the path ahead either. It’s like he’s walking somewhere far away, lost in memory.

You ask:

"Still chasing their trail?"

He turns his head. For a moment, pain flashes in his eyes. But determination too.

"I might know something. A file my father’s name was linked to... it’s been reopened. Maybe... maybe someone who was there that night finally spoke up."

You stop. Because you no longer want to keep walking. Because walking is taking him deeper into the dark. And if you go with him, you know you’ll both be lost. But you can’t let him go alone either.

"Burning yourself won’t bring anything back," you say. "Justice shouldn’t come with pain, Bruce. It shouldn’t have to."

Bruce turns to you. His face is calm, but inside, he’s screaming.

"This isn’t justice, Y/N. This... is everything I do just to hear his voice again. For his eyes. To remember my mother’s smile."

And in that moment, your hand touches his. You reach out. Not to hold on. Just... to let him feel you’re there.

"Then," you say, "I’ll keep walking with you. And if you fall, I’ll fall too. I won’t leave you in the dark."

Bruce’s eyes lock on yours. For the first time, he looks at you this long. And without saying a word, he simply bows his head.

You don’t bow. You rise. Without lifting your hands, you lean toward his cheek. And this time, he doesn’t pull away. For the first time... he doesn’t pull away. And you kiss him. Because if you want to walk with him, you have to burn with him too.

Activity 3:

When the heavy metal door of Wayne Manor’s basement creaked open, the only sound inside was the steady thud of Bruce’s fists.

The punching bag surrendered to his rhythm, swaying farther back with each strike, but never quite falling.

When you stepped in, the scent of metal, sweat, and aging leather greeted your nose. And Bruce’s back was turned. But you noticed the slight tension in his shoulders.

“The fact that you let me sneak in is kind of terrifying,” you said with a sly grin. “Is Bruce Wayne no longer alert enough to notice me?”

Bruce turned, wiped the sweat from his forehead with his forearm, and replied:

“I heard you long before you entered. But your silence... is sometimes the more interesting performance.”

That’s when Alfred stepped in. “If you ask me, this silence is calling for a little action today. We could move on to partner balance drills.” And he held out the gloves to you both.

You smiled as you took them.

Bruce, still serious, put his on.

“Don’t go hard on me,” you warned. “I’m fragile. And not just physically.”

Bruce didn’t respond. He just gave the slightest nod. And the duel began.

You made the first move. Spreading your feet slightly, you pivoted to the left, raising your chin to distract him.

“Here? Or here?” you teased, making two quick feints before lunging forward with your shoulder.

Bruce staggered, taking a single step back.

Your eyes sparkled.

“I made you move,” you said, breathless. “You should be proud.”

But Bruce said nothing. He simply didn’t look away. Then he stepped toward you again. Slowly.

You rushed to plan your next move. Shifting your foot to the right, you aimed for his center of balance, but Bruce reacted so quickly that your body almost lifted off the ground. His hand didn’t grab you, only guided you. And your body, thrown off balance, spun slightly before nearly hitting the floor.

You recovered just before your knees touched, but you had already lost.

“You thought I was the one losing,” Bruce said. “But I had my plan from your second step.”

You stood with a frustrated look, muttering between gritted teeth:

“That wasn’t fair.”

“I… had you.”

Bruce took one more step toward you. And looking into your eyes, he whispered:

“Catching me wasn’t enough. You had to hold on.”

Now only inches separated you. Your skin burned.

Bruce’s breath was rough, but measured. And your hands, trembling slightly, hovered in the air, afraid to touch his chest.

“I didn’t lose,” you insisted. “I just... got distracted.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow.

“By what?”

It was a trap. Answering would mean defeat. But you replied anyway, turning what you barely admitted to yourself into another layer of the game.

“By the way your hair falls on your forehead,” you said with a smirk. “And your ego, mixed with sweat.”

Bruce smiled slightly.

Alfred cleared his throat, bringing you both back to yourselves. But Bruce still didn’t look away. As he turned his shoulder, he said:

“One who wants to win shouldn’t let themselves be distracted, Miss Y/S/N. But your thirst for victory... is sweeter than the game itself.”

In that moment, you realized something far greater than winning: the fact that he played with you at all was already a victory. But you’d never tell him that.

Activity 4:

Wayne Manor was strangely quiet that day.

Alfred had retreated to the kitchen to prepare dinner, the lights were dim, and Bruce had spent the entire day in the dark archive room, flipping through his father’s old documents without speaking, without resting, only scanning with his eyes, as if carrying the weight of the past on his shoulders.

But you had just come from ballet rehearsal, your light powdery scent still clinging to the sweat on your skin, hair tightly tied in a bun, a small speaker in your hand.

You hadn’t told him you were coming. Because you hadn’t planned to. You just wanted to see him.

When you stepped quietly into the Manor’s grand room, Bruce had his back turned, still hunched over the library desk, studying papers.

You placed the speaker in the center of the room, and he looked up at you.

“You... came to the ballroom?” he asked. His voice was heavy, still burdened by the day.

You smiled.

“I want to show you something. Don’t move.”

Then you slipped on your pointes and began to dance. As the familiar solo of the Sugar Plum Fairy began to play, Bruce narrowed his eyes at first. The only thing he remembered about that melody was how bored he used to get watching you perform it as a child. Back then, even though your feet moved so fast, time stood still.

But now, now watching you was a painful kind of desire. He didn’t look at you like a teenage boy anymore, he watched you like a young man, because in that moment, he wasn’t just seeing you. He was longing for you, in every form you were meant to be. With the sadness in your eyes, the grace in your body, the bead of sweat by your nose... Your dance melted into his private hell like warm wax.

By the end of the dance, your shoulders were raised, your back gently falling, still holding position, but your breath was uneven.

He stepped toward you. And stopped. His eyes scanned your whole body.

He whispered softly:

“This is the piece you'll perform at the auditions, right? Watching you was... breathtaking.”

When you looked at Bruce, his pupils were dilated. But he still kept a distance between you.

“I always wanted you to touch me,” you said. “But you’ve only ever watched.”

He took one more step. Lifted his hand, a gesture almost touching your shoulder but stopping just before.

He looked at you like you were made of glass, like a memory he couldn’t afford to damage. But then he pulled back.

“Because if I touch you,” he said, “Then I’d have to hold you. And you know... holding means not letting go.”

That day, he didn’t kiss you. But in the minute he watched you, you were just as bare in his eyes as you would’ve been with a kiss.

• Tension, Love and Distance Dynamics in Their Relationships

Dangerous Mission:

The shadows beneath Bruce’s eyes had grown darker in recent days, and his voice had become more muted.

The more you tried to talk to him, the more he avoided your gaze.

He spent lunches in silence, his hand reaching not for his homework, but for yellowed newspaper clippings. And every day, the metallic silence he left behind as he entered the school’s private archive felt heavier.

There wasn’t a trace of you on his face anymore. Yet you were the one who knew him best.

One day, during a moment he wasn’t in class... Your fingers brushed against something unusual in his bag.

It wasn’t Bruce’s notebook, the cover felt cold, as if it belonged to someone else, the corners worn. But as you turned the pages, you saw only one thing.

A line written in charcoal-black pen: "St. Vitrus Tunnel. 2:15 AM. Wednesday."

---

The darkness that night was heavier than usual.

When you slipped out of the Y/S/N Villa, even the moonlight seemed to want to hide you.

Your bag was light, but what it carried didn’t suit your hands: A flashlight, pepper spray, a small knife.

Old Gotham streets, rusty subway gates, damp stone steps... With every second you learned to silence your steps, you grew closer to Bruce. When you finally saw him, he was kneeling under the dim circle of a flashlight, running his fingers over the stone markings of an old door.

His back was turned, but you recognized him immediately.

You watched him at first. But then, someone emerged from the shadows. A crack. A whisper. And before Bruce had time to turn, someone shoved him to the ground.

You didn’t think. You didn’t even run, you launched yourself.

Your feet slipped, breath caught in your throat, but you raised the pepper spray just in time and hit the attacker.

A second figure turned toward you, but you dropped low and pulled Bruce’s arm.

The self-defense tricks Alfred had taught you worked. And your distraction gave Bruce the opening he needed.

The attackers shoved and fled. You both stumbled back. And you... you landed on top of him.

Blood trickled from the corner of Bruce’s mouth.

There was a messy gash bleeding from his palm. But what scared you the most was the silence on his face. For the first time, he looked truly lifeless.

Your hands shook as you held his. You pulled a tissue from your pocket and began to bandage it. And as you did, your anger burst.

“You can’t bring them back by killing yourself!”

Your voice echoed, crashing off the tunnel’s stone walls. You had no tears, but your eyes were burning.

He still didn’t speak. And as you cleaned the blood from his hands, he slowly raised his head to you.

In that moment, when your eyes met... The tunnel was no longer empty.

“Why did you follow me?” he whispered. “This isn’t your world.”

You paused. Your hands still held his. You lowered your head and whispered softly:

“Because if I let you disappear... I’ll disappear too.” And then without thinking, without weighing it, without planning it... You leaned into his lips.

The kiss wasn’t sudden, but it was heavy. Long. Like mourning. Like gratitude. Like an answer.

And you knew... if that kiss ended, Gotham would come between you again.

When He Gets Closer to the Killer:

Amid the dust-scented, iron-railed archive drawers, Bruce’s eyes lock onto a file without a single tremble.

With Jim Gordon’s special permission, he’s finally accessed a sealed document, an addendum to the Thomas and Martha Wayne murder case. As his hands settle on the file’s edges, you notice something: his fingers don’t shake.

You’re watching him from the doorway .To you, he’s still that boy. The boy who used to sit on the windowsill at night and tell you about the stars. And now that boy is about to learn a killer’s name.

Bruce closes the file. When he turns, he sees you.

You speak first.

"What happens if you find him? Will you kill him?"

There’s no rage in his eyes. Only emptiness.

"I don’t want you to become a killer, Bruce. Don’t do this to me.”

You take a step forward, but he pulls back, his gaze never leaving yours as he whispers:

"Then… you have to stay away from me.”

And that sentence falls between you like a wall, a kind of seal, trapping your light inside his darkness.

Bruce’s Transformation:

Location: Wayne Manor training grounds

Time: 3 a.m.

The ground is ice cold.

Bruce tries to balance himself barefoot on the stone floor.

Fresh bruises mark his shoulders, scratches line his back.

Alfred is kneeling nearby, checking Bruce’s pulse, but even then, Bruce’s expression doesn’t change.

"Master Wayne... enduring pain doesn’t make you strong. It makes you alone.”

“What happened with Y/N... don’t let it be you that pushed her away from this house.”

Bruce doesn’t respond. He simply sinks into another ice bath. Even as his body numbs, he doesn’t let his jaw tremble. Because pain… is the most honest way to remember. And he wants to remember.

Y/N Watches Bruce Change & Her Response:

You’ve started watching Bruce’s night runs without pulling back the curtains. At first jokingly, then more seriously. One day, you finally gather the courage to go down to the training grounds, he only looks at you.

No “hello,” no “leave.”

But that look… it’s not what it used to be.

You step in, pick up a rope, and try to copy his movements. But you fall, and even as you fall, you look at him.

"I’ll follow you into the dark... but don’t leave me there."

Bruce says nothing. He just turns his back. And the rope slips from your hand, hitting the ground with a dull thud.

Eye Contact:

In the narrow corridors of the school, Bruce walked with a silhouette much different than before. The silence, coldness, and introversion he had nurtured within himself for years now seemed to be embedded in every inch of his being. Dark circles surrounded his eyes, his shoulders were slightly hunched, and his face was expressionless and frozen. He no longer wanted to make eye contact with anyone, even with you. It was as if an invisible but thick curtain stood between you.

That day, in the schoolyard, a group of young people decided to push Bruce. Mocking laughs, condescending looks, sneaky whispers. But this time, Bruce was different. The dark power, anger, and determination he had hidden for so long erupted all at once.

Suddenly, a fist was in the air, followed by a few fast, sharp moves… Silence fell. Everyone froze. Bruce had dealt with that group of kids so thoroughly that no one dared to challenge him anymore. Everyone was watching Bruce at that moment.

And you, in the crowd, watched him with your heart squeezing in your chest.

Your eyes met at that moment.

It only lasted a few seconds, but in those eyes, there was both fear and a deep, burning pain.

Fear, because no matter how much you wanted to help Bruce, you knew you couldn’t be there for him in that darkness.

And that pain… Because you thought Bruce had left you alone there, in that darkness.

Your heart ached, your breath caught in your throat.

If things weren’t this cold and frozen, you would’ve reached out and embraced him. But you couldn’t.

Because Bruce had gone to a place so far away, you could no longer reach him. And the invisible curtain between you, one that perhaps had existed for years, had now turned into a vast chasm.

Your eyes met once again, and in that silence, thousands of words were lost.

Then, each one of you scattered in a different direction.

• Separation

The depth of the night made Gotham’s cold air even sharper. You stood alone in front of Wayne Manor, trembling in the dark. Your hair was disheveled, your face pale, wet with dirty sweat. You clenched the metal box tightly in your hands, but your chest ached. The exhaustion was not just physical, but an emotional depletion. Yet at that moment, everything before and after seemed to disappear. There was only one thing: reaching Bruce. Bruce Wayne.

Inside, there was Alfred’s silence. Bruce had instructed that, no matter what, if Y/N comes, he should tell her that Bruce wasn’t home. But you, with relentless determination and fear, managed to open the doors of the manor and enter. With every step, your body grew heavier, the uncertainty deepening with each passing second. It had been months since you last saw Bruce. But tonight, it would be the night when everything would come to an end. You called out, trying to make your voice heard. Your voice echoed, but it was swallowed up by the cold walls of Wayne Manor. With a loud, sharp, and hurtful cry, you called, "Bruce!"

After a brief silence, his silhouette appeared at the top of the stairs. Bruce froze for a moment upon seeing you. He saw that familiar look in your eyes. But this look, once the strongest bond between you, now carried the weight of a void that had turned into a catastrophe.

Bruce, with his usual stern attitude, took a step back and said, "Go, Y/N. Nothing will come from you staying here."

You walked toward Bruce, each step firm, one that would never turn back, never turn back this way again. "Don’t worry, Bruce, if it weren’t important, I wouldn’t have come," you said. "I couldn’t leave Gotham without saying goodbye to my childhood friend. Because this... would be a betrayal to myself and to those two beautiful children."

Bruce was momentarily shocked, his body stiffened. His face froze for a second, his eyes began to relive those old memories, the ones he believed had vanished. "Why did you say that?" he asked, forcing the tremor in his voice to be suppressed.

You tightened your grip on the box again and took a deep breath. As you tried to make your voice heard, the words slipped from your lips. "I learned something about my family, Bruce. My father’s business partner... that person was actually a front for the Falcone family. They’re going to change our last name. They’re going to erase us from Gotham. My father told me something, Bruce: ‘Sometimes you have to leave your honor behind to live, my girl.’"

Bruce’s body trembled, as if it couldn’t bear the weight. For a moment, everything collapsed. After the loss of his family and all the pains in Gotham, he witnessed the destruction of something once again in his life. What you said was actually a blow to all the darkness he carried about his family and his past. Losing you would mean giving up on a life, a world, he once dreamed of.

Bruce’s eyes were lost in the darkness, as deep as the river's edge. This was a part of him he couldn’t accept; while he always tried to stay strong, he suddenly began to fall. Your situation was erasing the last part of him as well. The dark expression on his face showed that things were not as they appeared. This feeling, a deep emptiness, conveyed his fear, his loss, and his deep loneliness. He felt vulnerable, but the worst part was that he wasn’t ready to accept the pain of losing you. "You can’t go," he said, his voice trembling, but the darkness inside him forced him to say it as he avoided your gaze.

"Don’t leave," he said, but how truthful he was, no one knew. Not even himself...

Bruce felt the deepening of another crack within himself after your words. He lowered his gaze, avoiding looking into your eyes. He only said, "You're leaving me," his voice seeming to disappear into a deep, gray void.

You understood this fragile side of Bruce, his unspoken fear. Once, you had hopes that things could be different, but now those hopes were shattered. "I could never belong to you," you said, your voice low and perhaps at its deepest, most painful tone. "Your heart is a cemetery, Bruce. No matter what I did, I was never going to pull you out of there."

Your words struck Bruce’s heart like a heavy blow.

You noticed Alfred was watching, but in that moment, the world seemed to stop entirely.

You took a step back, but never broke eye contact with Bruce. "Loving you felt like a crime," you said. "But I would’ve wanted to be an accomplice every second of it," you added, lowering your gaze just a little more.

Bruce’s eyes couldn’t respond to your words. Slowly, painfully, he looked away, and when he lifted his eyes to meet yours again, he realized how hard it was to suppress his emotions. He knew things could never be the same between you two again.

To change the subject, you extended the metal box toward Bruce. Without understanding what it was, Bruce took the box. But at that moment, what did it matter what was in it? After all, the darkness inside had taken over everything else. He held the box as if it were just an empty thing.

"I loved you, Y/N," Bruce said slowly and tiredly. "But I could never understand you." The fragility in his voice reflected the lostness inside him.

Smiling faintly, you said, "You never wanted to understand me, Bruce." Your smile was bittersweet, but it was also an expression of acceptance. "And maybe you never will."

You realized that the time to say goodbye had come. As you turned towards Alfred, Bruce suddenly grabbed your arm and pulled you toward him.

"You don’t have to go," he said, his voice trembling. His face, once full of strength, now seemed like that of a broken man. "I’ll protect you, Y/N. You can stay here. And if you want, in a few months, when you turn 18, we can get married."

But those words, with every passing second, left a deep void in your soul. Because no matter how strong they were, Bruce’s offers no longer carried any meaning to you.

You smiled bitterly. "Staying here would hurt me more, Bruce," you said, your voice filled with inner pain. "You have to stay and fight. I can’t weaken you."

These words deepened the darkness inside Bruce even further. To him, you had once been the only hope he could reach, but now you had become a distance. Everything was over now.

Bruce wanted to say something to you, but the words didn’t come out of his mouth. He didn’t want you to leave, but he couldn’t stop you. Slowly, he opened his mouth to say, "Y/N, please..." but you didn’t hesitate to cut him off. You spoke sharply, decisively, and confidently. The words that were about to fall from Bruce’s lips disappeared one by one. He just watched you with his eyes. Slowly, you focused on the box in Bruce’s hand and for a moment, you embarked on a journey back in time.

As you remembered an old, beautiful memory, a faint smile appeared on your face. This smile was both sorrowful and sweet because it reminded you of the pure, innocent feelings you once shared with each other. Your eyes suddenly filled with tears, and you slowly tried to wipe away the tears falling from your eyes with a deep breath. "Do you remember how I used to treat you badly when we were kids?" you said, your voice quiet and slightly trembling. "I used to enjoy bullying you."

Bruce’s eyes seemed to come back to life with those words.

Taking a deep breath and wiping away the tears from your eyes, you gathered yourself and continued speaking. "I loved you, Bruce. Even when we were little. But I wasn’t the kind of girl who knew what it was like to be loved. After my mother died, my father completely ignored me. But you taught me how to love. Because your family taught you that." Slowly, taking a deep breath, you touched the box. "And while I was learning to love, I collected every little moment of you in this box," you said, your voice trembling again. "You never knew, but every day I treated you badly, I also gathered every moment I learned to love in this box. You don’t have to open it. But one day, when you think you’ve forgotten, it will remind you of what’s inside."

Your words were like a vow. Each sentence blew through Bruce’s lost memories like a wind. Then, looking at Alfred, you said, "Goodbye." Your eyes met for just a moment, and then you quickly turned and walked out of Wayne Manor’s door.

Bruce stood frozen in place. His eyes watched you, but inside him was not peace, but destruction. No words, no sentences could explain this situation to him. You were gone, and Bruce once again felt alone. Everything he once had with you seemed to have disappeared. He was reliving what he had gone through when he lost his family.

When you stepped outside, the driver’s car was waiting for you. You walked quickly toward the car and then quickly drove away from the manor. Everything had passed. You had left Bruce and Wayne Manor behind. But somehow, with every step, you heard the voice of the past. And that voice, one day, would somehow intersect with Bruce again.

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divaofmads · 1 month ago

Text

ME and the DEVIL

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Female Reader x Dr. Crane

Chapter III: How Dare You Love Him

🔞 Warnings: +18, MDNI, Slow-burning Love, Angst, Dark Romance, Dark Psychology, Manipulation & Control, Obsessive Behavior, Age Gap, Taboo Love (step-dad Bruce), Mind Control Dynamics, Obsessive Love, Non-consensual Elements, Sub/dom Dynamics, Hypnosis, Complex Relationship Dynamics, English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional.

Word Count: +5k Banner by Me and Divider by @strangergraphics-archive l @cafekitsune — GIF BY @ladyalatariel

Summary: In the shadows of Arkham Asylum, Y/N seeks freedom from her nightmares through Dr. Jonathan Crane's twisted methods. But the line between salvation and obsession blurs as his control over her deepens. Will she surrender to him, or will she break free before it's too late?

The heavy iron door of the abandoned Wayne Industries building creaked with a muffled groan as Bruce pushed it open with his strong hands. As the sun slowly set, pale beams of light filtered through the broken windows, illuminating the greasy rust stains on the floor and the cracked concrete surfaces. The air inside was stale, but not suffocating; there was a familiar, industrial scent of aged steel, burnt rubber, and motor oil.

As you stepped inside, the massive ceiling cranes immediately caught your eye, now nothing more than rusted, lifeless skeletons.

You scanned the surroundings, not with unease, but curiosity. This place was… wilder than Bruce's quiet, orderly training area in the unused library. It had a primal, dangerous edge to it.

“I didn’t expect this,” you said softly, but your voice echoed. “After the silent, Victorian-style hall in the manor, this… it feels like a fight club.” There was a slight smile in your voice, but your eyes remained serious. “Interesting choice. Isn’t it a bit too dark to continue the training here?”

Without answering, Bruce set down his bag. He unzipped the thick straps of the black sports bag and opened it. Inside, neatly arranged were bandages, black training gloves, and elbow pads. Every movement was sharp, precise, and habitual... it was a ritual. Before laying out the gear, he checked the floor, pressing his foot down to ensure he was on solid ground. Then, he grabbed the wraps and handed them to you.

“This place is unsafe,” he said with a quick glance. “That’s exactly why it’s right. It teaches you balance, threats, awareness of space. If everything goes wrong one day—and it will—no matter where you are, you’ll need to stand your ground.”

You reached out and took the wraps. The white bandages had turned grey over time but were still sturdy. As you began to measure where to wrap, Bruce looked at you from the corner of his eye. Your movements were slow, still trying to figure things out.

“Okay,” you said with a faint smile. “I’m really going to ask. Why are you so insistent?” You wrapped your thumb, then moved to your wrist. “After all, I’m going to be a psychiatrist. Not someone who runs around at night wearing a mask and cape.” You raised your eyebrows slightly and looked at Bruce, your eyes sparking. “Well, if it involves kissing Batman in the end… then maybe the pain is worth it.”

Bruce didn’t furrow his brows, but his usual impassive expression settled on his face. He gave no smile, no reaction. But he studied you for a long time... without judgment, but as though weighing something. He set the gloves aside and knelt down, rummaging through his bag again.

“Arnold Wesker’s puppet nearly drove you to the edge, Y/N,” he said slowly. “Pushing your body… quiets your mind. Forcing your body to its limits… silences the noise in your soul.” He looked up, his eyes glinting in the dark. “And right now, there’s too much noise in your head, Y/N. Someone needs to shut up.”

You tightened the last end of the bandage. Your fingers were no longer trembling, but your hands were still cold.

“Then I guess I’ll have to bring up the idea of a fight training program for the Arkham inmates to Dr. Crane,” you said lightly. This time, Bruce’s eyes narrowed slightly. He tilted his head just a fraction that was his version of “I accept it.”

He then stood up and stepped into the ring. He paused, marking a scratch on the floor. His long shadow stretched across the dark room. Then, he motioned with his head, calling you to take your place.

You held your breath. Slowly, you stepped into position. With each step, your bones remembered. But your muscles… were hesitant.

You assumed the stance, turning your foot at a 45-degree angle, hands close to your chin but your wrists a little low. Your left knee was a bit too far back. Your shoulders were open in defense.

“We haven’t trained in almost a year, but it feels like ages,” you whispered. “I’ve probably forgotten everything.”

Bruce didn’t move. He only watched. “No,” he said, his voice low but certain. “Your body may try to forget. But your mind always remembers.”

Then he moved, closing the distance between you by half. He raised his hand, not to touch you, but to merely point at the air with his fingers.

“Close your left shoulder. Raise your right hand by an inch. Balance your knees. And most importantly… don’t hold your breath.”

When your gaze met his eyes, you felt a different warmth. These weren’t just the eyes of a trainer. There was suppressed, yet undeniable tension. At that moment, he neither raised his hand to touch you, nor changed his words. But his eyes said it all: He was watching you. Thinking of you. And battling with the chains inside him to say more.

“Now,” he said, his voice bouncing off the ceiling, “don’t think. Feel. Don’t stop when you breathe in, attack when you breathe out. Stop thinking with your body. Use your instincts.”

You nodded slightly, lowering your chin and getting into position. Your whole body was slightly leaning forward... your left foot slightly ahead, your right foot behind. But Bruce noticed.

“Don’t bend your knee too much. That’ll slow you down. Keep your balance centered.”

Then, suddenly, he moved. He closed in from the left, throwing a feint, an evasive punch. You ducked reflexively, but since your defense was open, his left elbow grazed your chest. The blow wasn’t strong, but it was humiliating because of how easily you felt it. And then, in a flash, he kicked out his leg and knocked you off balance, sending you crashing to the ground.

As you hit the floor, a soft “ah” escaped your lips.

Above you, Bruce’s shadow leaned over. He looked at you before offering his hand.

“What did I say?” he asked, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Don’t think. Feel.”

As you lay on the ground, you tried to steady your breathing. Your chest was rising and falling, sweat dripping down your forehead.

“I can’t do it,” you said, struggling to catch your breath. “I’m not cut out for this. I’m fragile. Weak. This type of fight isn’t for me.”

He stared into your eyes. For a moment, he didn’t speak. The silence was reassuring, but also dangerous.

Then, he reached out and grabbed your hand.

“No,” he said. “You’re not weak, Y/N. You’re just scared. But that fear will sharpen you. It will make you strong. Just… don’t choose to give up.”

He lifted you off the ground with a single move. His palm still held yours, but as his fingers slowly slipped away, each place where his skin touched yours seemed to warm just a little more.

When you regained your stance, there was defiance in your eyes. Your lips were pressed tight, your jaw set. You no longer hesitated.

Bruce moved again... this time faster. He came from the right, but before he tripped you, he tested your defense. He forced your elbow up, challenging your guard. But, instinctively, you deflected with your right elbow. You took a few steps back, then jabbed forward.

Your punch didn’t land, but the air between you shifted.

“Now that’s more like it,” Bruce said. “That’s what I’ve been waiting for, to see you move like this.”

His voice was soft, but there was an underlying note of admiration.

For a moment, you both circled each other, taking measured steps. He would feint a move, and you watched, waiting. Then, with a swift movement, he advanced. This time, it was a serious attack. He raised his knee, centered his body, and attempted a Muay Thai clinch. But you stepped back, pressing your palm against his elbow to push him off.

“Ooh,” he said with a mocking tone. “Someone’s learned some technique.”

You shrugged, your expression confident.

“What did you think? I’m not just a pretty face.”

Bruce didn’t laugh, but his eyes gleamed with amusement.

"If I ever make you fight someone, I'll remember this sentence. And I hope that person doesn't find you too attractive."

“Or will it distract them?” you asked, tilting your head slightly and giving him a challenging look. “Like your tactic, then.”

His smile widened, but only for a moment. Then, he moved again. His attack was more cunning this time. He made a slight turn and suddenly, with a reverse kick aimed at your waist, he tried to throw you off guard. You instinctively blocked it with your arm, but his swift pivot left you vulnerable, and he spun your body around, throwing you back to the ground.

When you met the floor a second time, you turned your head and looked up at him.

“So, is this what happens when you get too confident?”

Bruce bent down beside you. He kneeled, placing a hand on your shoulder to check your position.

“Confidence is good,” he said. “But arrogance blinds you. You don’t see the danger. And your enemies? They love arrogant people.”

“So, the Arkham inmates will love me,” you said with a dry smile. But then your eyes sparkled.

Before Bruce could understand what was happening, you made a move from below, unbalancing him. While he was still on the ground, you wrapped your left leg around his, and with all your strength, you tried to twist him and pull him on top of you.

In an instant, you felt Bruce lose his balance, his body falling on top of you. It was heavy, but controlled, as he gently landed on the ground. His breath hit your chest. And you... weren’t slipping away from under him anymore.

You pressed him down with your hands at shoulder level, climbed up, and sat on his pelvis, your knee pressing against his hip. Bruce's eyes were shining in yours.

“I guess this technically counts as a victory,” you said with a mocking smile.

“Not just technically,” Bruce said, his voice low but warm. “That was very clever. And dangerous.”

But now, there was no longer just sweat in the ring.

When your skin touched his, the boundaries between you, those invisible, sharp walls that had existed for so long, started to slowly melt. As your chest pressed against his, your breaths mixed; his rhythm matched yours, and with every inhale and exhale, your bodies moved together. There was barely a breath's distance between you now; that one breath's gap was a luxury that shouldn’t have existed. When your eyes met, you felt like you were falling into the pupils of Bruce, there was something complex there, a sharp clash between suppressed desire and the stubborn denial that had been maintained.

Your fingers were pressing against his shoulder, but not like a fighter... more like a lover. Your movements had transcended the learned techniques. This was no longer a fight...it was surrender. It was one of those vital, cursed moments where your soul called for him, but your words still stayed silent.

Bruce’s face was so close that you could clearly see the sunset-colored shadows on his chin, the vein pulsing just below his neck, and the drop of sweat on his forehead. The breath between his lips brushed against yours, pulling you into a dark whirlpool. He didn’t lift his hands. He didn’t push you away. But his stillness was a warning heavier than words.

Slowly, as though he had been thinking about it for eternity, he spoke:

“Y/N… This… this isn’t right.”

His voice was almost a whisper, but it carried a trembling reproach... a reproach toward himself, to you, to this city, even to life itself.

“You… I… Some boundaries, once crossed, can never be returned from.” He kept the words at the edge of his lips. “I swore to be your… protector. To keep you away from the dark…”

But his voice cracked, as though that darkness was no longer just outside but growing inside him too.

When you looked at him, there were no more filters in you. The defense mechanisms you knew so well, mockery, denial, attempts to stay distant, had all shattered.

You were tired.

You were tired of suppressing your feelings, of turning away with every glance, of waiting for him to treat you like “his daughter,” of seeing love never given a name, of keeping your heart silent.

“I’m tired now,” you said, your voice soft, but resonating with the weight inside you. “While you’re trying to protect me, you’re ignoring me. I was just a child… but I’m not anymore. I wasn’t the first to feel these emotions, Bruce. But you weren’t the first to deny them either.”

He looked at you. And in that moment, all the armor cracked.

With just a few words, a few touches, you had come to a point where everything could change. And Bruce was closer to making that move than ever before.

He tilted his head for a moment. His eyes dropped to your lips.

His fingers slid to the center of your back, feeling the tremble under the thin layer of your skin.

If his lips had touched yours, if he had waited one more moment... perhaps everything suppressed for years would have shattered.

The years of denial could burn away with one kiss.

And then...

The phone rang.

That high-pitched, metallic sound echoed beneath the ceiling, cutting through the air like a sacred chant being interrupted between you two.

Neither of you moved. But Bruce’s jaw tightened. He averted his gaze from yours.

His hand slowly withdrew from your back.

Only by a breath’s difference... it hadn’t happened. But in that moment -that forbidden, silenced, apocalyptic moment -it had happened once.

A sharp, sneaky, and harsh ringing. Like a knife, it slipped between your skin and Bruce’s.

At first, you didn’t move. But the shadow in Bruce’s eyes… that indecision… pushed you back into the “real world.”

The complex emotions inside you -anger, shame, longing, and defiance- gathered together, and a sharp mask of pride appeared on your face. As though nothing had happened, but everything had. You quickly pushed yourself off Bruce’s chest and stood up. With a cold smile, you reached for the phone that had fallen on the ground. The screen was still flickering.

“Dr. Jonathan Crane is calling.”

A strange shiver ran through you. Your fingers hovered over the screen for a moment. Your peripheral vision was still on Bruce—he was watching you too. But that dark gaze… it was different from the burning desire earlier. Now, it was pulling back, suppressing something. That irritated you.

As you answered the phone, there was a noticeable sarcasm at the corner of your lips.

“Dr. Crane?”

The voice on the other end, as usual, was slow, shrill, and oozed a venom that seeped under the skin.

“Y/N…” he said.

“Hearing your voice… strange. A bit too strange.”

His tone was measured with politeness, but underneath, there was something else: uncontrolled jealousy.

“After the Arnold Wesker incident, we hadn’t heard from you. We should’ve been keeping you under surveillance, but… you vanished. I was wondering. Are you alright?”

You swallowed.

Your gaze shifted back to Bruce. He was still on the ground but slowly rising. The shadows still hung over his face like a veil.

“I’m fine,” you said, in a short and cold tone.

“I’ll be back tomorrow. I didn’t want to keep you waiting any longer.”

The silence from the other end stretched. Crane’s tone changed. It seemed like he had furrowed his brow, his teeth clenched, and a tense energy laced his words.

“May I ask where you are? It’s quite late…”

He paused.

“Are you alone? I’m still concerned you might be going through one of those crises again.” This was a huge lie.

When he asked you that, the temperature in the room seemed to shift. The possessiveness under his voice both disgusted and excited you at the same time.

You smiled. This time, sharper, more theatrical, almost like a knife.

“I’m not alone,” you said, locking eyes with Bruce.

“I’m with Bruce.”

The silence on the phone this time… felt like a hum. And then Crane’s voice… was lower. More guttural.

“Bruce Wayne…” he said slowly.

“The place you thought you should be.” Then, in almost an inaudible whisper, he muttered: “Of course, he thinks you belong to him.”

“What did you say?”

You didn’t try to hide the anger in your voice. But he only smiled, you could feel it.

“Nothing,” he said. “I was just wondering about you.

I hope… you have a peaceful sleep tonight.”

But his last sentence ended like a threat.

“In your dreams, you can’t choose whose shadow will be there.”

Then, before the phone hung up, it cut off. There was a hum left behind. And a chill on your skin, as if a pair of eyes were still watching you from behind.

Bruce had gotten up. Even though you tried to distance yourself with your gaze, your eyes were still locked with his. But Bruce didn’t say anything. Maybe he had heard the change in tone. Maybe he had just sensed it. But in that moment, you both understood something:

Crane not only wanted to possess your mind, but he also wanted to possess you. And Bruce wouldn’t accept that.

Now, there were two things he needed to protect you from: A man’s obsession… and another man’s repressed love.

As the cold, gray light of the morning seeped through the iron-barred windows of Arkham, the dampness clinging to the old stone walls made the place feel like a living grave. This was the other side of Gotham, a building that couldn’t warm even when the sun rose. It was as though the very front yard of hell was here.

As you approached the entrance door with heavy steps, unease gnawed at you. After what happened with Bruce last night, you hadn’t been able to sleep, and your mind wouldn’t quiet down. There was an indefinable weight on your chest, stretching all the way down to the tips of your fingers. Your fingers were cold. The wind, as it passed through your hair, seemed to whisper in your ear: “This place will change you.”

The moment you stepped through the outer gate of Arkham… the sound came. At first, it seemed like an echo, but no, it wasn’t an echo. It was real.

“GOD IS MINE!”

“I AM GOD! I AM THE BURNING LIGHT! AND HUGO STRANGE, HE IS MY PROPHET!”

The shout was so intense that it felt like the walls would crack. Staff members immediately began rushing about. A woman’s shrill voice echoed over the radio:

“All units: Security breach! Immediate redirection to the attic! Unit 3! Code Red!”

And you... just froze, only meters from the main entrance. Instinctively, you lifted your head, and at the top of the building, someone appeared at the railing. His feet were bare, and his body was covered with something written in blood. The words scratched into his skin didn’t seem to have been done with a pen, but with nails: “Savior,” “God,” “Enlightenment.”

A cross was carved into his face with cuts. His lips were torn. His eyes, those eyes were staring directly into yours. But he wasn’t seeing you. They were somewhere else.

He walked to the edge of the roof. Unsteady. But certain.

All the staff were gathered below now. Even Harleen Quinzel was there, watching in terror from a corner, yet doing nothing.

A nurse whispered as if praying, “Please… don’t jump.”

But the person, as if speaking not to you but to his created follower, shouted:

“DON’T CLOSE YOUR EYES!”

You instinctively took a step back. Your knees were shaking.

“DON’T CLOSE THEM! YOU NEED TO SEE THIS! THERE’S A LIE IN YOUR EYES!”

And in that moment... He jumped.

You couldn’t close your eyes. Because truly… not being able to see was worse than imagining.

The sound of the fall... first cut through the wind. Then came the sound of a body crashing to the ground, with a weight so heavy that the bones couldn’t bear it.

Thud.

Then immediately after, that sharp sound...

Crack.

It was like the sound of a spine not being able to put itself back together.

Then, a higher-pitched, more gut-wrenching sound:

“CRACK.”

You immediately realized that was the sound of the skull hitting the ground. Because even though your mind didn’t want to accept it, your body knew.

A warm, metallic scent of blood filled your nostrils. Your stomach tingled. It felt empty.

The world seemed to fall out from under your legs. And then... you began to tremble.

Your hands shook, but you couldn’t stop it. Your teeth were chattering. This wasn’t from the cold.

It was the first time... you had heard someone die.

Seeing it with your eyes was different. But the sound... that sound shattered not just your eardrums, but your very soul.

There you were, in the stomach of Arkham, unable to do anything but stand still.

Only trembling.

Something was caught in your throat. Your eyes were full, but you couldn’t even cry.

Because crying wasn’t weakness right now.

Crying was proof that you were still human.

A staff member was trying to cover the body on the ground. Hugo Strange silently watched everything unfold, his glasses hiding any trace of emotion. But the man who had screamed his name “prophet” was him.

This opened another crack in your mind. And you... were still standing in the same place.

On your feet, but broken. With a single sentence echoing in your mind: “What if one day, I’m the one on that rooftop?”

And then, in that moment, a sudden touch... a hand. Cold but sharp. It grabbed your arm. And pulled you through the crowd, through a door filled with echoes.

When the door closed, the light didn’t go out, but the world stayed outside.

You were still trembling. Not just with your body... but with your mind.

But when you turned your eyes, you saw that look:

Jonathan Crane.

There was no panic in his eyes. No sorrow either. And for the first time, there was warmth in his coldness. The master of fear, in that moment, was just a man.

Looking at you. Seeing you.

“Y/N...” There was a strange softness in his voice. “The question of whether you’re okay would be silly. But... can you breathe?”

The words caught in your throat. But you nodded slightly. He accepted it as an answer.

He didn’t approach you right away.

He sat on a chair a few steps away. His coat was still on, but his tie was loosened. The bones of his wrist were visible under the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt; he noticed that you noticed them.

“What you just witnessed...” he said slowly, his voice blending with the dust particles in the room. “The primal form of trauma. A fragmentation. The moment when reality walks over your mind. And you... you’re familiar with this, aren’t you?”

You shivered. Just from that word: “Familiar.”

It was as if he had stripped you bare. It was as if he knew what was inside you. You swallowed.

“I… I’ve… I’ve been through it before…”

Your voice cracked.

The words didn’t want to leave your breath, like a guilty fugitive. But Jonathan Crane gently tilted his head. Not like a therapist. Like someone who hides a secret. And he whispered: “You don’t have to tell me. But if you give me the pieces... I can put them together.”

He reached out to you. His fingers lightly touched your wrist. Neither too strong nor too weak... A perfect movement of control. Not to touch. But to feel.

“This didn’t shake you for the first time, did it?” he said.

You tilted your head slightly. Your back was against the wall. You couldn’t keep your body upright anymore. And only your lips moved:

“My father…” And then you stopped. But he didn’t interrupt like a therapist. He waited. When your voice trembled, he simply listened. “My father... used to torture me with puppets. Before he took his life. He made them speak as if they were alive. If I didn’t do what they said, they’d hit me. If I didn’t respond... they’d speak. They... they always looked at me. I mean, before he committed suicide. But I'd never seen anyone commit suicide before."

Your voice cracked. Your eyes filled with tears. But this time, the tears didn’t fall. Because crying would require feeling safe.

And strangely... you felt safe while being beside Crane in that moment. Because he was the one who pulled you into his arms when you were triggered by Arnold Wesker's puppet. The one who pulled you away when you saw a man’s suicide.

Finally, when your body gave way and slumped, he didn’t get up and immediately come closer. You had fixed your eyes on a single point.

“Then Bruce took me in. And the puppets stopped speaking.”

And in that moment... there was almost an imperceptible pause in Jonathan Crane's breathing. But you felt it.

He acted as if he hadn’t. But you noticed his jaw tightening as you felt the tension in his shoulder.

You continued to speak, innocently:

“He gave me a real room. He let me choose my own bookshelf. For the first time... I could hear my own voice. Bruce never... yelled at me. Once, when I screamed in fear, he just held me. Without saying anything... he just held me. And in that moment... I realized for the first time, I wasn’t anyone’s puppet.”

Jonathan Crane’s jaw moved just a millimeter. But his expression was still calm. Cold-blooded. Only... his pupils had darkened slightly.

“Bruce Wayne... found you when you were broken, didn’t he? What a great favor. What a noble man. How... compassionate. How... unreachable.”

He smiled at you. But beneath that smile, there was something else. A kind of resentment. "Bruce loves you." Then, he looked directly into your eyes. This time, it was very close. And he asked that question:

“But did Bruce really save you from these nightmares, Y/N? Or do the puppets still watch you at night?”

The slowness in his voice was like hypnosis. He wasn’t selling you anything. He was offering you a truth, or making it seem like he was.

But his voice drew nearer:

“Y/N... your mind is still a battlefield. And the ammunition in that battle is sounds. Smells. Reflections. But that battle... it can end.”

You slowly tilted your head. Your fingers still trembled on your wrist. And then, at that moment, the moment you lost control, you wanted to hug him to take refuge.

For the first time, an embrace felt like it was there to heal you, not break you. When you let yourself fall into his chest, he didn’t immediately hold you. But within a few seconds... his hands met at your back. And there, listening to the beat of his heart, a whisper came to your ear. Almost like a spell:

“Do you want all of this to pass, Y/N? Do you want the puppets you see when you close your eyes at night... to stay silent forever?”

You held your breath. Because that question wasn’t aimed at you, but at the child inside you. But what really scared you... wasn’t the answer being yes.

It was the fact that the answer was yes, and that he already knew it. But then Jonathan tilted his head.

Your cheeks were so close. And almost like giving away a secret, he whispered near your ear:

“Then... I’ll make you an offer. But this... will be a secret just between us. Only between you and me. If you accept... from now on... every night... you’ll see me instead of them.”

Under the dark and grey Gotham sky, Wayne Manor stood tall as always.

When you got out of the taxi, your hands were still trembling. The moment you stepped onto the stone steps, you didn't seek warmth but only the silence of this place.

Without needing to ring the bell, the door opened. And that familiar voice added a touch of warmth to the cold evening air:

“Welcome, Miss Y/N. I was worried you were late.” Alfred. There was a deeper attention in his eyes tonight.

Your face... unusually pale. Your eyes still lingered on the figure on the edge of the roof. The echo of cracking bones was still in your ears, and the scream was stuck in your throat.

You clenched your jaw. And then, without thinking, you stepped forward. You rested your head on Alfred’s chest and hugged him.

"Someone... jumped in front of my eyes today." Your voice was nearly choked. “He really died. The sound of his bones... God, Alfred. I’ve never... seen anything like that.”

Alfred paused for a moment. Then, one hand on your shoulder, the other gently pressing on the back of your hair, he held you.

“I saw bodies in the midst of war in my youth. But you don’t get used to corpses, Miss Y/N. What you get used to... is how to carry the silence after them.”

You closed your eyes. At that moment... you just wanted to stay in the embrace. Pretend nothing had happened. And just then... a voice came from inside.

A woman’s voice. Mixed with the sound of high heels hitting the stone floor. And that voice... was familiar. “Bruce, I think I left that file in the car. If it’s still there, could you get it?”

Charlotte Rivers.

It felt like an needle piercing your chest. Suddenly, your face tensed. Slowly, you pulled away from Alfred’s chest. You lifted your chin slightly. But you weren’t thinking about the man who jumped anymore. “Is she here?” Your voice was cold. “Bruce. Charlotte Rivers. In the same house. In the same... atmosphere. Again?”

Alfred lowered his head. He made way for you to enter. “While waiting for your return, I suppose... he chose to keep himself busy.” Alfred’s voice was controlled, but his eyes didn’t leave you.

You stepped inside. Just behind the stone wall at the corner, a shadow moved. Charlotte’s silhouette briefly appeared. You turned to Alfred. Your inner voice was full of anger, but your lips curled into a sarcastic smile. “You know, Alfred... in such a big house... not needing to strain your ears to hear the ‘other woman’... really messes with your psychology.”

Alfred simply watched you. And then, he quietly closed the door. “If the other woman’s identity is unclear, Miss Wayne... then the problem is not with Master Bruce.”

You paused. You glanced at his face lightly. And then, despite yourself, you smiled. Like a child, you scrunched your face and sighed with fake joy.

“Sure, Alfred. Great advice. I’m definitely not jealous.” Then, you added sarcastically, pursing your lips: “Besides, Bruce is definitely not obsessed with Charlotte’s legs. Hah.”

You turned your head and began walking toward the stairs, your unease creaking like an old door on the left side of your chest.

The sound of silver forks clinking on the plate echoed through the vaulted ceiling of the stone hall. Wayne Manor’s dining room was just as it should be, grand, noble, but cold enough for only strangers to sit in. When you entered... the sound of your heels echoed like a ripple through the room.

All heads turned toward you. But only one pair of eyes... blinked in sync with yours: Bruce Wayne.

In those eyes, there was a fatherly concern, a teacher-like focus, but most of all, there was an uncontainable confession: “You’re here... I can breathe again.”

Under the weight of a father’s pride for his child, and a man’s dangerous desire for a woman, he was suffocating.

As he looked at you, a softening appeared at the corner of his lips. But it wasn’t a smile. It was a resignation, on the edge of the anger he held inside.

“Y/N,” he said, standing up. “You’re late. I was worried.”

In that moment, you stood still.

Bruce’s eyes enveloped you from head to toe. But this wasn’t desire, or at least, he was lying to himself. This was a secret he had nurtured...

You tilted your head slightly.

“A patient declared himself a god. Then... jumped from the roof. When he hit the ground... everything went silent. So did I. I just wanted to walk a bit after work and clear my head.”

Charlotte Rivers gracefully brought her wine glass to her lips. She was smiling. But the curve of her lips was tight, like that of a predator.

“God, you must have had such a terrible day! But look, you’re here. Safe. Now, you should pull yourself together with this lovely meal, right Bruce?”

Charlotte’s voice was too loud, too concerned. Her eyes were fake. As if she truly cared about you. But in her gaze, you saw only one thing: A woman watching you too closely in a world that wasn’t yours. You smiled coldly.

The dishes were unveiled.

Before you, in silver servers, there was lamb shank served on a bed of polenta, with blood-red wine on the side. You sat down at the table.

Bruce’s eyes never left you. For a moment, he thought: If you got up from this table and walked over to him, placed your hand under the table on his knee... he wouldn’t be able to stop you.

“Y/N...” His voice was heavy, calm. “I don’t want to see you like this again. Understand? This city... it eats some souls. You won’t be among them.”

You slightly turned your head. And just then, Charlotte placed her silver knife back on the table. “Bruce, don’t be so emotional. You are her... bodyguard, aren't you already?” The tone of that sentence didn’t only hurt you.

As you reached for your fork, you whispered softly, “I’m not under his protection. I’m here... not because of his decisions, but because of my own choices.”

Charlotte took another sip of wine. She furrowed her brows while watching you. And she slightly tilted her head.

“I like your courage. I hope... it doesn’t cost you too much.”

It wasn’t a threat. But a reminder. And you simply smiled. And now, as Charlotte took a sip from her wine, Bruce was only watching you.

“You know, Charlotte,” you said, slowly placing your knife next to the plate, “women like you… while trying to teach others manners, the only thing they actually do is serve their own insecurities on a silver platter.”

The threatening glint in Charlotte’s eyes didn’t fade for a moment, but it definitely became fixed. As she stared into your eyes, the fingers swirling the wine in her glass moved just a little faster.

But you continued. With a calm tone, almost as if you were enjoying it:

“If this... if my courage is going to cost me something, let’s first see who’s footing the bill. Everyone at this table stands to lose a lot. But some of us... never had anything to win.”

Bruce’s eyes were on you. The lines at the corners of his eyes were tense. Was it pride? Desire? Or that familiar, cursed feeling created by never having seen you like this before?

As for Charlotte... she smiled.

But this smile was in a different tone this time.

Cold.

Icy.

Poisonous.

“Were you like this when you were little, Y/N? Were you always so toxic at every dinner table?”

You leaned back in your chair, casually shrugging your shoulder as you turned your gaze toward Bruce.

Your eyes seemed to say, “Did I say something?” But your heart... Your heart was about to burst.

While the food on your plate was still steaming, you folded your cloth napkin and placed it silently at the edge of the table. The sharp squeak of your chair moving back sliced through the air, splitting the atmosphere of the room like a knife. Without saying anything, you stood up. You didn’t look at Charlotte. Not at Bruce either.

You simply walked away. From the dining room, to the dark hallways. From the hallways, to the back room where the cool stone walls echoed. And from there, out through the French double doors, into the drizzling night garden.

The moonlight was like a wound trembling in the sky. And you… were now alone with the most broken part of yourself. But that loneliness didn’t last long.

The sound of footsteps behind you, heavy, steady, rhythmic… was Bruce’s footsteps.

As soon as you heard them, you wrapped your arms around yourself. Not from the cold, but as if protecting yourself from yourself.

“Y/N...” His voice was deep, slow, and cautious. “The way you’re acting… is not appropriate.”

You just tilted your head slightly and said, “After what she said to me, Bruce, this was the only thing I could do.”

At that moment, he grabbed your arm. Slowly but firmly. Like a father… yes, that’s how it looked to outsiders. But when you felt his hands on your wrist, your skin trembled.

Bruce turned you around. And for the first time, the tone in his voice sharpened. “These childish behaviors… don’t suit you. Even if Charlotte tried to provoke you, I know there’s more to you than this. Walking away… isn’t a solution.”

And then, that moment. The moment your knees trembled from the inside. Your eyes slowly turned to Bruce’s eyes. And your lips, for the first time, spoke without holding back.

“What about you? Why are you still sitting at the same table with her, Bruce? When she comes home, I tell myself to prepare before facing her. At night, when I go up to my room, I sing to myself to drown out the sound of her footsteps. Just so I don’t hear it. Just so… I don’t think you still love her.”

Your breath was now uneven. It was like the quiet struggle before a child starts crying. “But it doesn’t work, Bruce. No matter what you do, no matter how much you stay away… I fall more in love with you every day, and it hurts. I beg you, stop living your love for her in front of my eyes.”

“I’ve memorized the sound of this house. The muffled sound of your fingers tapping on the tea cup at night… the morning scent left by the shaving cologne in the bathroom…”

And finally, you took a step. Slowly, but fearlessly. You leaned against his chest. Wrapped your arms around his waist, as if for the first time, like a child embracing.

“This love… is like a curse. But I... I’ve committed the greatest betrayal, Bruce. Because you took me in to protect me, like a child... But while you were trying to heal me, I... desired you. And now... I feel tainted by this love. I feel like I’ve stained you by loving you.”

He simply stayed silent. Bruce Wayne’s iron-willed silence was like a psychiatric wall, suppressing the decaying words inside. But in his mind, the words were screaming.

When he first saw you, he didn’t give you a home… he gave you himself. But back then, he didn’t understand. He only thought he wanted to protect you. He saw the emptiness inside you… and thought he could fill it. But that emptiness slowly took his place. And now… there’s something of yours in his eyes.

A secret. A sin. A longing.

Bruce Wayne’s inner voice: “Saying ‘I love you’ to you… will destroy me. But not saying it… is destroying you. Which sin should I choose, Y/N? Should I steal your youth, or should I steal you from me?”

Bruce didn’t let you go. But he didn’t embrace you either. He just waited. For the entire house... Gotham... the heart of it all... to change with a single sentence. But the storm inside you... still hadn’t calmed down.

Location: Arkham Asylum – Dr. Jonathan Crane’s Private Laboratory

Time: One day after the suicide incident, evening

The laboratory... was more like the temple of a disturbance than a clinic.

Located at the lowest level of Arkham, it could be reached after climbing those rusty spiral stairs that no one wanted to descend. This space, once used as a morgue, had been reborn in Crane's hands. But there was no life here, only the home of Crane's obsessive fixations.

The plaster on the walls had peeled, and the beams were exposed. The lights weren’t sterile fluorescents; they flickered in an ancient yellow. Paintings hung on the walls, but none were pictures; they were nightmare-like notes pinned to white cardboard, images of imagination... And in the center, instead of a bed, there was a metal "rest unit" that resembled an old dental chair. Surrounding it were soundproof speakers, a diffuser system, projectors with three different fields of effect, and subliminal alignment panels... Everything needed to destabilize a mind’s structure.

You, wearing the newly provided sterile white clothes, hesitated as you sat at the edge of this unit. You didn’t look stylish, but you were forcing yourself to come here not as someone undergoing an experiment, but as someone seeking healing. That rooftop incident earlier that morning had shown you the limit you could no longer endure.

The nightmares had shapeshifted. And if Crane’s "method" worked, yes, you wanted this.

Your feet touched the ground, but your head was still in the air. And just then, the door opened.

You recognized the footsteps.

Jonathan Crane.

---

Crane’s Mind (internal monologue):

His voice is still echoing in your mind, isn’t it, Y/N? The scream of that man at the edge of the rooftop. I chose him. To declare his divinity. A drugged, guided, triggered mind. And as you lived this... your body is still trembling.

This is a perfect ground. A void. Now I can replace the voice inside you... with my own. A few trigger words. Some frequencies. Breaking the enemy image. Decaying the hero image. And then... when night comes, I will find you. I will awaken inside you.

---

Crane came to the side of the chair. His tie was a little loose, and the collar of his shirt was folded. It seemed as though he had hurriedly prepared, but this was a calculated mess.

He looked into your eyes. This time, the lenses of his glasses didn’t reflect. There was only the darkness itself.

He smiled with professional warmth. “You look better,” he said. “There’s still fear in your eyes, but... that’s a good thing. It means your mind is still resisting.”

As he approached you, he knelt down and adjusted the metal ankle cuffs. He didn’t touch your skin with his hands, but he was so close that you could feel the heat of his fingers on your skin. And at that moment, his voice whispered in your ear like a shadow:

“I won’t hurt you, Y/N. I promise. I just want to pull you out of here, out of this puppet theater.”

You pulled back slightly. Your body language was showing that you didn’t fully like him.

At that moment... his eyes hardened for a brief second. But immediately, he put on a scientific smile.

“Or is there something else you are afraid of, other than the puppet?"

There was nothing in his voice. But everything was there.

You didn’t answer him. But your body’s tiny reactions were more than enough for him.

With something slyly stirring inside him, he stood up and moved closer.

“You trust me, don’t you?” he asked, like a hypnosis.

And you paused for a moment.

“I have no other option,” you said quietly. “The nightmares... they’re getting worse.”

He nodded. There seemed to be a gleam of victory in his eyes.

“That’s exactly why I can help you, Y/N. But first... you must let your mind talk to me. Not your eyes. Not your hands. The quietest place inside you... must open to me.”

Finally, you laid down. Dr. Crane bound your wrists and ankles with cuffs. Then, he touched the back of your neck. Cold, but careful.

He combed your hair back; the electrode headband was placed on either side of your head.

He purposely touched your neck, your shoulders. But his interest wasn’t just medical; it was possessive, because he was curious about your reactions.

You slightly tilted your head, showing your discomfort. And he noticed. But his smile didn’t waver by a millimeter. He... was expecting this. Because he knew the full interest hadn’t yet begun.

When he put the Diffuser mask on your mouth, a gas started to be released. Your knees were slightly bent, your head falling to the side. Your pale face was on the brink of a nightmare yet to fall.

Your mind may have been awake, but you were already starting to drift from consciousness, the neuro-muscular blocking drug kicking in. At that moment, with your head tilted back, you whispered softly:

“Bruce...”

Very quietly.

This word traveled as a burning jealousy through Crane’s veins. But he didn’t show it. He smiled. Slowly, he moved closer to you. And with his fingertips, he touched your cheek.

“Bruce...” he repeated. His voice was like ice. “When I’m done with you, you’ll never speak that name again, my little anomaly.”

---

He dimmed the room slightly. The diffuser started releasing gas from the mask at a nearly undetectable level. This new formula didn’t induce fear, but instead, it thinned the veil between consciousness and the subconscious. It contained substances that would gently stimulate dopamine receptors: Salsolinol, phenethylamine, and microdoses of hallucinogenic particles.

When he activated the headband, the lights in the lab dimmed to a faint glow. Extra soundproofing was activated.

Slowly, some frequencies were fed into your headphones. The subconscious gate... was opening.

“We’re not at the breaking point anymore,” he murmured to himself. “Now is the reshaping moment.”

Meanwhile, on his monitor, your heart rate, pupil dilation, and micro-muscular group activations were being recorded.

And Dr. Crane... watched you.

He watched the inside of your mind. Then, he whispered the first word.

“Touch.”

The tone of the waves changed.

“Shadow.”

Another vibration came.

“Trust.”

Immediately after.

“Crane.”

All these words were being placed to form connections that you might randomly encounter during the day, but would only associate with Crane.

He added a second serum to your intravenous line, a formula of his own creation. It didn’t have a name, at least not officially.

The drug acted directly on the hippocampus and amygdala areas of your brain. Not thoughts, but shaping emotional memory. Because falling in love with someone isn’t a matter of reason, but emotional imprinting.

Then he left the words behind. At that moment... he leaned in. He held your hair between his fingers and combed it back.

He softly repeated: “You’re not alone. The puppets that once watched you are gone. When you close your eyes, there’s a voice in the dark... And that voice... is Jonathan Crane. The only place you’re safe. Jonathan Crane. The only voice that won’t harm you. Jonathan Crane.”

He noticed your cheeks twitching.

A muscle twitched between your brows. Your lips barely moved. "... I don’t want this." Your reactions were millimetric. But he saw it, he understood you.

He couldn’t have applied the drug improperly. But at that moment, he realized: It wasn’t your body resisting, but your soul.

“You want it... but you’re still resisting. This... is so human,” he said, with a satisfied smile. Like victory. Then, he leaned in. He pressed his nose gently against your forehead. And whispered: “Day by day, you’ll want to embrace me. Because I... am the only one who will stitch the mouths of those puppets shut.”

But at that moment... he had entered your mind for the first time. Because for a moment, you thought that every time you heard his voice, you would feel safer.

---

When your mind first began to seep through the mist, you couldn't quite understand where you were. You realized you were being dragged along the thin line between dream and reality. The world you awoke to was wrapped in a silence that had fallen into darkness — the ceiling light had not been turned on; only the flickering blue glow from the machines in the corner vaguely revealed the room’s contours.

Your eyes were heavy, your head numb. Your mind was still chasing a dream, but your body had already begun to wake.

And then... you felt that hand.

It wasn’t warm. But it wasn’t exactly cold either. Strangely measured, unhesitant, confident. The fingertips moved along the edge of your cheek, just beneath your jaw. The touch was light, yet pressing. As if it wanted to reach not only beneath your skin, but deeper, much deeper.

Before your eyes could fully open, you heard a deep breath drawn very close to your ear.

You weren’t afraid. Not yet.

When your eyelids lifted, a blurry silhouette entered your field of vision. A raised collar. A dark-colored lab coat. And then, those familiar eyes. Dr. Jonathan Crane.

He was at your bedside. Very close. He watched you not like a patient, but like a secret. A hypothesis. A dream. A sin.

“You're awake,” he said in a low voice. As if he feared speaking louder would break some kind of spell. “Your pupils are responsive now. Pulse is stable. Breathing is normal.” He was speaking in statistics, but… that finger was still moving along your jaw. He didn’t need any medical instruments, he was measuring you himself.

When your eyes met his, you felt a flicker inside. For a moment… it felt warm. But before you could place what kind of warmth it was, an instinctive shiver ran down your spine. And in that moment, you became aware of the fingers touching your skin.

The hand that had slid down from your jaw was now at your neck. His thumb was making slow, circular motions just above your carotid artery. As if he wasn’t measuring your pulse — but your desire. As if… he wanted to claim you.

“The first session,” he murmured, “went better than I expected, Y/N.” He was like a god admiring you from within the universe of his own mind. You had already fallen into his world.

You turned your head slightly, trying to gather yourself. You averted your gaze. But that hand didn’t let go. It only changed position.

“Y/N…” he said again, slower this time, softer. “Tell me how you felt. Inside… what did you see?”

“I…” you began, your voice still echoing in your throat like a broken record. It hadn’t fully settled yet. “I don’t remember anything.”

You could now feel the places his body touched yours like a map etched into your skin.

You raised your hand and gently moved Crane’s hand away from your neck. Not forcefully, but with clear intent. Then you turned your head to the side, making a move to get up.

“Thank you,” you said, forcing the words from your lips. “For your… help.”

Your tone was controlled. But inside you, screams echoed. You were just beginning to fully return to yourself, but one thing was clear: His interest in you… was not the kind you were used to.

It wasn’t professional.

It wasn’t even human.

When you stood up, your head spun for a moment. But you recovered. You wanted to walk away without even glancing back at the bed.

Crane remained behind, but his eyes didn’t leave you.

The sentence that echoed silently inside him followed you:

“At night, you'll return to me in your dreams. You'll wake up with trembling, sweaty hands. And in the real world, no one will ever know you that well.”

And he was still smiling. But now, only to himself. Because watching you like a possession wasn’t enough anymore. He had started to live inside you.

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divaofmads · 2 months ago

Text

Velvet Touch | Part II

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Female Reader (OC) | Part I

Summary: When love silences a woman... the words destroy a man. And somewhere between the lines, something shifted forever.

Warnings: +18 only, MDNI, Angst, Slow-burn, Dark Romance Themes, Adult Content, Smut, Oral Sex ( male, female), Vaginal Sex, Language, Bondage, Femdom, Power imbalance, Yandere Behavior, Emotional Burnout, Jealousy and Possessiveness, Alcohol & Smoking, Identity Crisis / Gender Role Conflict, Ambiguous Ending, Intense Sexual Situation, English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional.

Word Count: +10k

Dividers by @cafekitsune @strangergraphics Gif by @christophernolan

A/N: While writing this story, I had to dig up places where I had truly buried parts of my emotions.

The first light of the morning gently slipped through the curtains, casting a delicate beam of light across the kitchen, softly touching the corners of the room. In the early hours of the morning, there were no sounds outside; no car noise, no chatter of people. It felt as though only time itself existed in that moment. And you, in your kitchen, were preparing breakfast.

While preparing breakfast, your eyes briefly drifted to the box on the edge of the table, the one with the dress inside. The dress inside the box seemed to glow under the morning light, its elegance and grace standing in stark contrast to everything else. Seeing the dress again pulled you back into the same emotional whirlpool, the presence of Venus within you. And as you looked at the dress, a battle raged deep inside you.

For all the years, the men in your life had turned you into a "strong" and "masculine" woman in the eyes of the world. You put up barriers against your emotions, your body, everything. "Femininity" was always shown to you as a weakness, both physically and emotionally. But the dress felt like a kind of betrayal; there was so much fear and uncertainty within you as you looked at it.

Venus was the old identity, the one who broke you, hurt you, the feminine essence that introduced you to everything you had. Yet, the call of Venus was so strong. Even if you tried to suppress it, it grew stronger with each passing day.

Venus was trying to resurrect within you at every moment. She was the one who knew you, the one who had known you from somewhere, the woman who had disappeared and been abandoned long ago.

"No, I can't let this happen," you said to yourself, as you had so many times before. As you moved toward the dress, your hands began to sweat. The voice of Venus, questioning you, slowly rose within, screaming in silence. Wearing this dress didn’t just mean making peace with your past; it also meant weakening yourself. Being a woman meant being weak. "I don't deserve this," you said, wanting to rebuild the strong walls you had built around yourself. Despite Venus pulling you in, something deep within your heart troubled you.

Slowly, you wanted to close yourself off, wrapping your arms around yourself. "I should be a woman… or not. I don’t deserve this," you said, but those words too troubled you. Venus was trying to recreate you, and you, on the other hand, were trying to force yourself to make peace with your past. But there was one perspective: the way to true strength lay in accepting the feminine part of yourself. But you were afraid.

As the day turned into afternoon, you added sugar to your coffee. The familiar silence, which couldn’t quiet the chaos inside, once again drew your gaze to the box sitting on the table. It had been there since yesterday.

You first looked away. You drank your coffee. But the old voice inside, Venus, didn’t stop whispering. “Touch me,” it said. “Remember me.”

You stood up. Took a few steps, then stopped. When your fingers brushed the edge of the box, your body trembled slightly. "I’ll just try it on," you said. "Then I’ll put it back in the box. It will be like it never happened." But both you and Venus knew how much you both hated lies, how open you were to the truth.

You slowly lifted the lid. The fabric, like a line between night and day, touched your skin. For the first time in years, something stirred in your heart. Perhaps shame, perhaps rebellion... but most of all, longing.

When you put on the dress, your body didn’t change. When you looked in the mirror, you didn’t just see your face, you saw the woman you had refused to look at for years. The fabric falling on your shoulders didn’t scare you; instead, it enveloped you as though it had embraced you. And you fought with yourself, refusing to accept how good it felt.

You turned to your makeup table. When you opened the cap of your lipstick, your hands weren’t hesitant. The red you applied to your lips was as sharp as the courage in your writing, as precise as a bullet. You gave depth to your eyes. You pushed your hair back from your face. With each step, you buried a memory, with each stroke of the brush, you buried a past. And when you looked into the mirror again... you gasped. Because there you were. The real you. The one who didn’t see sexuality as a trap, the one who wasn’t crushed under gazes, the one who wore femininity like a crown she had carved for herself, not a fate imposed upon her.

And the door ring bell.

Your insides froze in an instant. Your heart, once warmed by the dress, was now thrown outside. That fleeting thought, Thomas Shelby, froze your blood and ignited a fire in your chest. You didn’t want him to see you like this… or maybe you wanted him to, too much.

Your steps were silent. When you stopped at the door, you waited for a few seconds. Then, your voice was heard.

"Who’s there?"

The answer from behind the door surprised you.

“I brought a letter,” the voice said. It sounded like the voice of the person who delivered Thomas Shelby’s first letter to you. It was familiar. Definitely familiar.

Between surprise and relief, you slid the door open slightly without unlocking the chain. You saw an envelope extending from the narrow gap. It was made of thick, heavy, high-quality paper. The seal on it carried more meaning than an ordinary post could ever hold. As your fingers reached for the envelope, it felt like a part of you was pulled along with it. You closed the door, but your heart remained with that envelope.

As you carefully opened the corners of the envelope, your fingers trembled, trying to chase the emotions flowing through the river of your heart. Thomas Shelby’s name wasn’t on it, but everything you felt was undoubtedly his. The bright seal carried a weighty meaning, one that seemed to hold much more than words could convey.

For a brief moment, you forgot to breathe. This dress… this letter… your feelings for Thomas Shelby. You couldn’t stop yourself from reading it. You had to read it. And you read the words, the words that caught you in an impossible way.

“I’m glad you wore the dress. I knew you were a strong woman. You didn’t disappoint me.”

As the words danced before your eyes, a few seconds of silence seemed to surround the entire world. A broken breath lingered between your lips. Among the fragmented thoughts, you couldn’t immediately grasp what lay behind the writing. Which emotion should you follow? Anger? Surprise? Or the realization of something?

And worse yet… that last sentence.

“When you’re ready, I’ll be waiting downstairs.”

Your eyes blurred. The shock, the anger, the rapid heartbeat filling the cold void within you, were slowly overwhelming you. What did Thomas Shelby mean by that?

Each step echoing beneath your feet was slowly pushing you toward the window. As you quickly approached, the beat of your heart seemed to dig deeper than the emotions fluttering in your mind.

When you parted the curtain… you saw him.

Thomas Shelby. In his car, right below, outside. Quietly, like a gentleman, he was waiting for you. His elegance, his patience, the clothes he wore… like a dream, but more real than ever. His eyes shone like a star in the darkness, looking up at you. You quickly turned your eyes away. For a moment, you thought you might feel him so close in your heart. But you wanted to run from him. In that moment, as if you were finding his name and reality when you said "Thomas Shelby." Waiting for you in the corner, but drawing all your attention, he was there. He had left himself patient, respectful, but also willing and clear.

Slowly, you closed the curtain. Your whole body responded with helplessness, and you couldn’t decide what you should do. You stepped toward the chair, but you knew everything was more complicated than it seemed. The trembling of your hands, the anger and desire in your eyes, the conflict in your mind, everything was pushing you to either go down or do nothing at all. But Venus inside you was so strong that she was determined not to leave you alone. She kept holding on tightly.

Unable to bear it anymore, you sat in the chair, your knees tense as if they might break at any moment. Your mind was torn in two. On one hand, the desire to go to Thomas Shelby; on the other, the fears in front of you. Immediately after the turmoil in your mind, the doorbell rang once more. The loud, confident, familiar tone you had grown used to. Slow, but certain. This sound only added to the tension inside you.

At first, your feet didn't move. Your inner voice screamed: "Don't open it. Don't let him see you like this. This isn’t you." But then another voice whispered. Softer. More fragile. "What if this is me? What if you want him to see you like this for the first time?"

As you took your steps, the wooden floorboards creaked. You gripped the hem of your skirt with your fingers. You stopped in front of the door. Took a deep breath. And you opened the door.

Thomas Shelby’s eyes first caught yours. It was as though he had known you for years, yet at the same time, it felt as if he were seeing you for the first time. There was a flicker in his gaze, small, but powerful like a storm.

His eyes slowly drifted downwards. There was no change in his face, but something burned in his eyes. It wasn’t admiration. It certainly wasn’t passion. It was respect. And a love blended with admiration.

It was as if he had seen the woman within you long before you noticed her, and now, he was allowing you to see her too.

"Hello," he said. His voice was calm, as always, but there was a tremor of warmth hidden within it. You couldn’t respond. Your throat was tight with a knot.

Thomas Shelby took a step. Not toward the house, but toward you. Without looking anywhere else, only at you.

“You’re beautiful,” he said in a low voice. And in that moment, Venus inside you slowly rose. She got up from the dust. Straightened your shoulders.

As a writer, you had created thousands of characters. But maybe, for the first time, you stepped into your own story as the main character.

Thomas Shelby stood silently in the doorway for a few seconds. He looked at you. There was darkness from years past in his eyes, but it seemed like a veil had been lifted from it. He wasn’t trying to figure you out, he already had. But now, he was waiting patiently to see what you had been hiding. This moment wasn’t about him; it was about you. No struggle, no force, just as it was.

"The dress... it suits you," he said, his voice deep and resonant, like the darkness that follows cigarette smoke.

“But that’s not the point. The point is... when you look like this, you’re stronger. There’s another battle beneath that grace you show. And you look beautiful, not because you’ve won that battle, but because you’re still fighting it.”

For a moment, you turned your head. You were trying to understand the intention behind his words. As always, doubt was at the forefront of your mind.

"You think I dressed up for you, don't you?" you said, your voice cold and cautious.

"I didn’t want this. You did. You brought the dress. You made me feel like I had to wear it. So this image... maybe it's the Y/N you’ve been trying to shape.”

There was a bitter twist at the corner of his lips. You weren’t defending yourself. Not like you usually did. Because whenever you softened, someone had hurt you.

Thomas’s gaze didn’t change. Your words didn’t pierce him, because he saw the crack behind the words.

He took a step forward. Calm. Heavy. He extinguished his cigarette at the doorway and then stepped inside. The sound of his shoes echoed on the wooden floor. The narrowness of the room seemed to amplify his presence.

“I didn’t impose this on you, Y/N,” he said, his voice lower this time, almost a whisper, but with an unbreakable certainty.

“No one can break your will... unless you allow it. And that’s what makes you special. The woman standing in this room, wearing that dress, chose to wear it with her own will. That dress doesn’t steal from you... it gives you back to yourself.”

A silence followed. Something inside you trembled.

There was no forced opening in his words.

But for the first time, you understood who would enter your door without knocking.

Maybe that’s why... it didn’t hurt.

You parted your lips, but no words came out. The distance between your eyes and his had narrowed so much that your breath mingled with his.

"You..." you said, but your voice got lost within itself. You couldn’t speak again. Because in that moment, Thomas Shelby took another step forward.

His fingers brushed your arm. It was light, not forceful. But it lingered on your skin. Without asking anything, he gently held you. And slowly turned you towards the mirror. Before you could fully understand what was happening, you found yourself in front of the mirror.

He was behind you now. His body’s warmth was close to your back, but he didn’t touch you.

His hands still held your arm. In the reflection, for the first time, you weren’t alone.

And this time… you looked at the woman you saw in the mirror, not judging her, not afraid of her, almost admiring her.

The silence in the room was interrupted by Thomas Shelby's movements. You noticed him reach into the inner pocket of his jacket just behind your shoulder. His fingers, as usual, were steady and controlled.

What he pulled out from inside the jacket was a deep, velvety black. A long, thin box. Your eyes were drawn to the velvet fabric, but when you saw what was inside, time seemed to stop for a moment.

When he opened the box, you looked into it along with your reflection. The brightness was dazzling, even in the dim light of the room. It was an elegant yet extravagant necklace, adorned with diamond touches. While echoes of the past like stitching marks were on your back, a shimmer was about to close around your neck with Thomas Shelby’s hands…

Without saying anything, he gently pushed your hair aside. When his fingertips touched the back of your neck, your skin involuntarily shivered.

Your lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

His fingertips, with the patience of a man finding his way in the dark, gathered your hair to one side of your shoulder.

“Tilt your head a little,” he said in a low, rich voice.

Instinctively, you slightly lowered your head. And when the coolness of the necklace touched your skin… the warmth passing through you was the complete opposite.

When you heard the clasp close, you had become another version of yourself. In the mirror’s reflection, there was someone slowly rising from the ashes of the past.

Thomas Shelby was still behind you. But now, he was not only close physically but mentally as well. He didn’t take his eyes off the mirror. He looked into your eyes, not directly, but through the reflection. It was much more than a mere glance. This was the moment when surrender began.

And then… he leaned down. He came even closer. You felt his warmth throughout your body. His cheek was mere millimeters away from yours without touching it. And from just behind your ear, he spoke with that voice that pierced through you:

"When I first saw you… I noticed your stance. You were in your office, alone, but you filled the room. Your eyes… as if you knew all the pain in the world, yet you were still undefeated. I… haven’t encountered someone like you in a long time."

His words were more like an oath on a battlefield than a love poem. There was more respect than passion, more surrender than admiration.

He continued:

"To me, beauty isn’t just a matter of a face. Beauty... is a stance. And in you, there’s something that makes you who you are, something that makes you dangerous, something that makes you... irreplaceable. I admired your strength, Y/N. The loneliness behind that strength. Even in that loneliness, you never lost your voice..."

You had your eyes locked on your own reflection in the mirror, but now, Thomas Shelby’s voice echoed inside your head.

These words spoke not of a man’s love, but of a man who had shaken hands with his own darkness, who truly understood another wounded soul. And you… for the first time, despite feeling completely exposed, felt protected.

A moment later, his fingers touched your waist. That delicate first touch... was both strong and careful. It was as if he wanted to transform you without breaking you, without figuring you out first.

He slowly turned you toward him. The connection with the mirror broke. Now, you were face to face.

This time, it wasn’t a reflection. It was real.

When his eyes locked onto yours, everything that was fluttering inside you fell silent. And in that moment... Thomas Shelby’s face was fixed in you. It was as though he had something more to say. But the words never came. Only his breath, slow, warm, and ready to pull you in.

He asked you something. Not with his voice. Not with his fingers. Only with his eyes.

"Do you allow it?"

You gave your answer without parting your lips, without raising an eyebrow, without speaking a word. With your eyes.

Just by looking. Not approaching him, but not running away either. Without taking a step, you tore down all your walls.

At that moment... He raised his hand. Like a child touching a butterfly for the first time.

He focused all his attention, all his weight on that moment.

His fingertips first brushed your chin. Then, gently, he traced the curve of your cheek with his thumb.

It was like he was touching you for the first time to truly know you.

As if he was measuring the boundaries of a dream he'd drawn, written, and thought about for years with his fingertips.

And then... He leaned his face toward yours. Slowly. Patiently. As if this moment needed not haste, but holiness.

When his lips came close to yours, the only distance between you... was a breath. And finally, he kissed you.

When his lips touched yours, all the noise inside you fell silent. You sensed the kiss not with your skin, not with words, but only with your heart. It felt like a prayer, like purification.

When his lips gently pressed against yours, a silence was born first. Then, in that silence, the contact deepened slightly. You closed your eyes. And in his kiss, you found something that for the first time felt like home.

Two souls. Two warriors. Two lonlinesses. And a kiss... A silent promise of healing.

And then...

He gently pulled his lips away from you. But not his eyes. Because some touches begin with the skin, but continue with the heart.

You had forgotten how to breathe. Your chest wasn’t rising or falling. It was as if you were afraid to ruin the moment, to break the sacred connection by saying something that would shatter the spell.

But Thomas didn’t stay silent like you. Without pulling his hand away from your cheek, he brought his forehead closer to yours. He stayed like that for a while almost as if he was memorizing you. And then, with a voice that was deep, pure, and would penetrate you, he whispered:

"What makes me strong... People think it's money, victory, fear... But when I saw you, I realized. True strength is being able to keep your light inside you without getting lost in someone's darkness. You... are that light."

You could feel that he was looking at you in the most vulnerable way a man could, while explaining his feelings.

You didn’t lower your gaze.

You didn’t hide. Because after that kiss, there was no place left to hide. Your fears were still with you, but for the first time, someone wasn’t afraid to carry them.

With its high ceilings and domed structure, the Royal Art Hall, one of Birmingham’s most prestigious venues, was hosting a charity gala this evening where not only art, but also the city’s political and economic veins converged. Every detail inside spoke the silent and unwavering language of exclusivity. Velvet-upholstered chairs, crystal chandeliers glowing with yellow light, and the towering shadows of massive bronze sculptures amidst the sounds of live string instruments... The music was slow, velvety; people moved with slow steps, inward-facing, with arrogant smiles. Waiters, with white-gloved hands, carried crystal glasses; champagne-filled trays silently moved across the polished marble floors.

And you stood beside a round cocktail table in front of a large window facing west, the city lights filtering through the glass, your eyes scanning the crowd inside. Your fingers lightly trembled as they grasped the neck of the delicate glass in your hand. The champagne you brought to your lips passed down your throat without resolving anything, giving neither the taste of pleasure nor relaxation.

Beside you, Thomas Shelby, gently turning his whiskey glass in his hand, ignored the gazes of those watching from afar and turned to you. Despite the fatigue lines at the corners of his eyes, his gaze carried a sarcastic warmth.

“Writer Y/N. The one with a column in the newspapers, the woman who stands alone in a world dominated by men. The one who fearlessly stands firm in the midst of political discourse… But now, what is it that’s making your hand tremble in a ballroom, huh?”

His words touched you, not belittling you, but like a reflection from someone who truly knew you.

“It’s not the outfit that’s bothering you,” he said softly. “You’re wearing your past here. Not the things taken from you, but the rooms you’ve locked away. But right now... here, they don’t know your story. But I do.”

He came closer, his voice nearly brushing against your skin.

“Here, you’re more real than the men hiding behind fake smiles. They’ll make a donation and forget. You write and remind.”

At that moment, when you looked into his eyes, you felt the respect Thomas Shelby had for you—not only for being a woman but for your thoughts, your struggles, for everything you stood for. Yet, still, standing in the middle of the ballroom, being under scrutiny, even the fabric of the dress that clung to your waist, made breathing consciously a struggle, and it unsettled you.

Just then, a few people began approaching Thomas Shelby from the other end of the room. The first was a Lord, a prominent figure in the city council, someone who invested in industrial reforms. Then, the chairman of the Birmingham Chamber of Commerce, approaching Shelby with a refined smile that carried subtle calculations.

“Thomas. It’s great to finally see you,” said the Lord, extending his hand to shake. “Men like you attending events like these sends a good message to the city.”

Thomas glanced at you from the corner of his eye. He didn’t move. He didn’t extend his hand. He merely acknowledged them with a nod. They continued to wait a few steps away while Shelby remained focused on you. Should this have made you feel good? Maybe. But the sense of responsibility and the political games you knew nudged you toward an uncomfortable reality: Being among those men was strategic for Thomas.

You gently touched Thomas’s arm. Your words were slow but clear:

“They’re the ones who’ll make sense of your presence here. You should go and talk to them. I’ll be fine... Really.”

There was something in his eyes. A confirmation... perhaps a surrender, or maybe a small sign of a growth within you that you had succeeded in achieving on your own. Thomas seemed to hesitate for a moment but then stopped. He came a little closer, whispering in a voice that only you could hear: “I’ll always have my eye on you. If anyone... bothers you, all you have to do is turn your head.”

And with that familiar look, he turned, slipped his hand into his jacket pocket, lit a cigarette, and walked with heavy steps toward the powerful figures. People immediately surrounded him. Handshakes, clinking glasses, light laughter… Politics, money, and power. He was now in his arena.

You, on the other hand, were left alone for the first time. And for you, loneliness was never just fear, it was a test. The old “Y/N” inside you was there... the aristocratic woman from the Paris salons... but now, the anxiety that pricked at you like thorns was preparing to break through the shell of this new identity.

And then you saw her. A woman.

Her icy platinum blonde hair gathered at the nape of her neck, her long white dress clinging to her body. She stood next to Thomas Shelby, tilting her head with that familiar smile. She wasn’t speaking, but her gaze was dangerously close to the silence of speech. When the woman’s fingers brushed against the collar of Thomas’s jacket, something lodged in your throat. A shard. Small but sharp. You watched that touch, and saw Thomas smile and murmur something—perhaps a diplomatic response, perhaps a detached joke... But there wasn’t a single shadow of recognition for you on his face.

Loneliness found you right then. It fell on your shoulders like a cold stone. Thomas Shelby no longer saw you. Not only did he not see you... it was clear he had forgotten you.

And you, the woman who was used to the old aristocratic salons, who wrote while studying in France, who challenged men... Now, you were forgotten, holding a glass of champagne in your hand.

You turned your head. Your throat ached as you swallowed. Your breath felt like it was stuck somewhere inside you.

And then... Something happened.

When your eyes landed on the other side of the crowd, your mind was suddenly pulled into another time.

He was there. Anthony Brousseau.

One of France's most renowned columnists. The name you once memorized in your classes, whose articles you secretly jotted down in the margins, whom you admired. And now, years later... he was before you. His serious demeanor, the handkerchief dangling from his ironed jacket pocket, just as you'd imagined.

For you, he was merely a pioneering figure. The man you once wanted to be. And now, you were just a few steps away from him.

And Thomas Shelby... was now the man who didn’t reject another woman’s attention with a wave of his hand.

You turned your eyes back to Thomas one last time. He didn’t search for you with his gaze, nor did any unease appear on his face. He didn’t care. At that moment, he truly didn’t care.

You took a sip from your glass. You stood there motionless for a few seconds. Then you slowly walked away, pushing yourself away from the crowd.

And as you walked...

It wasn’t your body beneath the dress that walked, it was the years inside you. With every step, it was the steps of every feeling you had suppressed. And those steps took you to him:

Anthony Brousseau.

Thomas Shelby held the champagne glass in his hand, but he wasn’t drinking anymore. His fingers were frozen around the rim of the glass. The voices around him, the men wanting to shake his hand, the whispered sentences of tactical alliances, the heavy names from Birmingham’s industrial lobbies... They were all just background noise now.

At first, he didn’t notice. He didn’t notice that you weren’t by the table. The silence had drawn you in.

When he turned to the table where he had left his glass, suddenly looking around, there was no trace of you left.

The line between his brows deepened. He tilted his head slightly, pulled out his gold pocket watch from his left pocket, checked the time as if he cared, but the time didn’t matter to him. His eyes scanned the room. Every corner. Every reflection. Every smile. Every woman. But you... you were nowhere. Until...

Until he saw that smile.

On the eastern side of the room, where the sound of the violin had diminished, and conversations had begun to take shape, he saw you.

Anthony Brousseau'nun yanında.

A man who spoke in grand terms but whose every sentence in his column was written with remarkable effectiveness.

And you...

You were leaning towards him, your shoulders slightly raised, speaking with that vitality he no longer saw when you were by his side. Your eyes were shining. It was as if a shell had been shed from the woman who had once walked away. It was as if you were breathing for the first time after taking off your mask. Your laughter was soft, your head tilted casually, and... it was dangerous.

Something stirred inside him. A very old feeling. His blood seemed to stop flowing in his veins and then suddenly flare up in flames.

He set his glass down on the table. Not harshly. But with determination.

A man standing next to Thomas asked a question. Probably about the harbor properties or the investment profits of Garrison Bar. But the only thing Thomas Shelby heard was your laugh.

Your laugh, which seemed to belong to someone else. Because he thought that laugh was something you had kept for yourself the last time.

Being wrong drove him mad.

“Mr. Shelby?”

The man called out again. But Thomas's eyes were still fixed on the scene.

“I think we should talk some other time,” Thomas said.

His voice was husky, measured, but carrying something on the verge of breaking.

His eyes turned back to you. You were no longer alone. But he had never felt this alone.

He lit his cigarette lighter. Without taking his eyes off you, he slowly took a step forward. Passing through the crowd, he began walking toward the center of an unseen battle. Not just to take you back... But to never let anyone else have you again.

Just then, Anthony cracked a joke. He was talking about a woman sitting at Les Deux Magots in Paris, waiting for her lover—half fiction, half flirtatious narrative. And you unleashed that old inky tone in your voice, that elegant accent that used to appear only in private.

"Vous êtes toujours aussi théâtral, monsieur Brousseau." ("You are always so theatrical, Mr. Brousseau.")

The feeling rising inside you... You belonged to this world. Not to poverty, dirty-walled, single-room apartments, cracked mirror glass, but to a world where three languages were spoken, where art history was discussed, where cognacs were drunk under the shadows of Van Gogh paintings, where even the voices of people were used like velvet.

But... as you walked toward your past, Thomas Shelby was watching you like a shadow. He was distant. On the edge of the crowd. But he was close enough to hear you breathe.

He was just watching. His eyes... his eyes never left yours for a second.

When Anthony leaned in, he said something over your shoulder. You turned your head slightly and smiled at him. That old French smile.

Thomas gritted his teeth.

And at that moment…

Polly Gray emerged from the dim back part of the room and stood beside him.

The black lace of her dress seemed to have swallowed all the light in the room. As she elegantly flicked her cigarette with a finger, her eyes met Thomas’s.

“Don’t explode now, Tommy,” she said, her voice calm but with a dark river flowing beneath it, “That woman’s past… is a place different from your hell. Don’t forget, you’re her escape. Not her captivity.”

Thomas didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Because he couldn’t find his voice. Because the anger inside him was starting to become an uncontrollable emotion.

The moment he saw you, shining so brightly, so at ease, so belonging in another man’s world, it echoed in Thomas Shelby’s mind as a threat, a loss, a defeat.

He slowly turned his head and looked at Polly. His voice didn’t come, but his eyes said:

“You know me, Pol. This... won’t pass.”

Polly, deep down, feared for him. Because that look had been directed at only one person before. Once, it had been aimed at the enemies who had stabbed him in the back.

But now… In that look, there was you. Not to protect you… but for that primal, dark urge to claim you.

Thomas turned his eyes back to you. And gently took a step forward. Slowly, but purposefully. Like the first step of a man entering war.

Because you... You had crossed his boundaries. And Thomas Shelby didn’t just fight one person when his boundaries were crossed.

He burned a world.

The interior of the salon was now beating with the pulse of the music. The stringed instruments had given way to the slow rhythm of a waltz, and as the women’s silk dresses brushed against the floor’s gleaming reflections, they began to undulate like ghosts under the soft glow of the candlelight. Everyone had slowed down. Conversations had faded, and laughter had been swallowed by the rhythm of the music. Dance... had become the language of the night. And you, for a moment, had remembered that language again.

Anthony Brousseau turned to you after placing his crystal glass on the table. His eyes held the polite seriousness, his lips the gentle challenge he so often offered the intellectual women of the world.

“Puis-je vous inviter à danser, mademoiselle?” (May I ask you to dance, miss?)

You paused for a moment. Your eyes drifted to the couples twirling on the dance floor. The light played with the shadows reflected on the ground, everyone moving like figures in a dream.

Thomas Shelby, however, stood there like a shadow, waiting.

But then your lips moved.

“Just one dance…”

You said it as if trying to convince your own heart… but your voice was soft. It was accepting. And you placed your hand in his.

When your fingertips met, you felt the woman you once were, the one who had known the French salons, the one who stood tall and proud, who had learned grace from her mother—take a step forward and be reborn.

As you stepped onto the floor, Brousseau carefully placed his arm around your waist. His hand on your shoulder was heavy, but meticulous. As your shoes silently slid against the floor, the hand near your chest curled into his palm, dancing in rhythm with the music. Step by step, you were pulled deeper into the melody.

You were a woman again. But this time, not in Thomas's eyes, but in someone else's.

In that moment, as you leaned closer to Brousseau’s chest, he brought his lips near your ear. When his breath brushed against your skin, your shoulder trembled slightly.

And he whispered:

“You… should have been in Paris. A woman like you… doesn’t belong here. A man like Shelby… what could he understand of your soul?”

His words were like a splinter lodged in your soul. It wasn’t just a compliment.

It was a judgment. And in that moment, you said nothing. You didn't lean in to answer. But your gaze... your gaze met Thomas Shelby's. He stood across the room, hunched in his jacket, statue-like, but his eyes were fixed on you. He was watching you, following you, as if trying to consume every fiber of your being.

In those eyes… there was no anger. There was something beyond anger.

A crack appeared on the glass in Thomas's right hand. His fingers pressed so hard against the rim that it nearly shattered before he released it just in time.

His eyes scanned Brousseau from top to bottom.

The dress you wore… he had chosen it. The necklace around your neck… he had placed it there. Your arrival here… had been his plan.

He swallowed. But what passed through his throat was not breath. It was something like rusted metal. He wasn’t angry at himself. Nor at you. But he was angry at the world... for being so shameless as to take what belonged to him... that was what infuriated him.

Thomas Shelby’s inner voice grew louder:

“She’s my woman. She’s mine. I made her bloom in my hands. She learned to smile with my eyes. And now…” For a moment, his eyes narrowed. “… now, she smiles in someone else’s hands.”

That feeling of loss... only made Thomas hold on to you tighter. Because a man who feels he is about to lose something doesn’t just love it; he becomes obsessed with it.

For just a moment, your gaze...

Even as you danced with that man,

When you slowly turned and looked at him… just for a moment. But for Thomas, that moment was enough to last a lifetime. "You turned to me," he thought.

"You still turned to me."

But now, that gaze was no longer a gift. It was a summons. Thomas Shelby had decided in that instant.

Brousseau noticed him as he approached you.

Their eyes locked. Thomas tilted his head slightly and smiled. But that smile… it was the kind of smile that should be feared.

As Thomas stood right before you, for a moment, you locked eyes with him. He said nothing. But in his gaze… there was so much pressure, so much claim, so much shadow, that it felt like he could empty the entire salon with a single sentence.

“Monsieur,” he said slowly, with the sharpness of his British accent, “...I’m glad to have heard your name. I occasionally read your writings. Although I think you use words to adorn men, I do wonder how a man like you ended up in Birmingham.”

Brousseau’s hand loosened from your waist. But Thomas didn’t even look at you. Not at you. But through you.

Brousseau smiled, bowing his head with that familiar French politeness.

“Thank you for your kindness, Monsieur Shelby. I was invited to Birmingham through the literature council, after my contacts in London. I was asked to stay here for a few nights. What makes this night unforgettable, however, is... my meeting this elegant lady,” he said, gently squeezing your hand to finish his sentence. Then he turned to Thomas, “For a man like you to appreciate her… that’s truly impressive.”

Thomas’s jaw clenched slightly. His eyes never left you. But when he spoke, his words carried a threat that penetrated beyond the surface.

“It’s not enough to appreciate her,” he said slowly, “To understand what she is, a man must have gone through hell first. Some women carry not just poetry, but war upon them. You may hide behind words, but I’ve seen the fire burning in every layer of her.”

Brousseau’s face tensed, but he tried to remain composed.

“You described war beautifully,” he said in a calm tone, “But some women have no battlefield of their own; they simply get lost within that war. Perhaps… you’re trying to make her like you.”

That sentence, for Thomas, was like a spark that pierced his gaze. A darkness flickered in his eyes, one that not even a smile could shake. He shoved his hands into his pockets, but this wasn’t for comfort, it was a resistance to the urge to use his hands.

“Men like you usually love from afar. Like literature, without touching, without taking risks, without getting dirty. But I’m in the dirt. I saw her there. And I was the one who pulled her out. You praise her intellectual side, I even sanctify the nightmare inside her. Because I know her. What you admire, I’ve lived it.”

Brousseau wanted to say something, but he fell silent. Because Thomas Shelby’s voice…

Was too dangerous to silence.

You felt caught in the middle of their verbal exchange. But this war wasn't about you anymore; it had become an assertion of dominance over you. The measured anger in Thomas's voice wasn't directed at you; it was aimed at destroying the man. And you no longer felt safe under that gaze. You felt marked.

“Enough,” you said suddenly, your voice soft but shaky. You reached out and gently touched Thomas’s arm.

“We… need some air, Thomas. Please.”

And without asking for anyone’s permission, without any explanation, you took his arm and led him away from the dance floor. Thomas showed no resistance. But his steps were firm. His jaw still tense. His eyes, once again, turned back to the man he had left behind, just like a soldier in the battlefield who turns away from his enemy, but will soon return to kill.

As you walked beside him, thinking you were no one’s possession, Thomas… had already declared you as his.

By the time you reached the corridor, the air was cooler, the candlelight dimmer, and the walls quieter. But his gaze… still a storm.

As you leaned against the wall at the side of the hallway, you felt the need to speak. The pain and anger inside you hadn't replaced the love, but had accumulated on top of it. When your eyes met Thomas's, you asked in a quiet, yet determined tone:

“Why did you act like that back there, Thomas? Why were you so hostile to Brousseau? He was important to me. Professionally... maybe it was a connection I had dreamed about for years. How could you throw it away so easily?”

Your voice didn’t tremble. Neither anger nor a weak plea for an apology could be heard in it.

Thomas stared at you for a moment. His pupils seemed to be hiding a storm, growing slowly. Then he spoke.

“Because the way he looked at you, Y/N, I saw he wasn’t interested in your words, but in your skin. Because he didn’t see you as a fan, but as a victory. And because... because when you danced with him, he thought you’d forgotten what Thomas Shelby had.”

The anger that seeped between the words wasn’t suppressed; it was the kind of anger trying to be suppressed.

As he stepped closer to you, his shadow grew on the wall.

“I gave you a necklace, Y/N. I gave you an invitation. That dress, you wearing that dress was armor. And I chose that armor because your beauty, your grace, had to be pulled out from where it had been buried for years. And now... now that I saw you twirl with that grace in someone else’s hands... nothing inside me stayed silent.”

You took a step back. But not to escape. To defend yourself.

Your eyes stared at him, defiant.

“Not because of you, Thomas. I wore it for myself. I don’t want to remember my beauty with your approval. And this possessiveness... this look... I ran away from men like that years ago. Do you remember? The reason I dressed like a man, spoke like a man, lived like a man? It was so that no man would see me as an object belonging to him.”

Thomas sighed. But it was a sigh so deep, it seemed to change the air in the corridor. He turned to you.

Slowly, he took his hands out of his pockets. He stepped closer. He looked into your eyes.

“I don’t see you as an object. But I saw how you shined, Y/N. And I can’t bear to see others watch you in that light. Because that light, I carved it out of you. I brought it to life. When you hid behind your masculinity, only one man understood you. And that man was me. And now... when you turn your back on me, and smile at another man’s words... I felt like I was losing my mind. I want you, yes. But not just your body. Your soul too. Everything under that mask. Every shadow. Every storm. I know who you are. And I can’t share you with anyone.”

“You,” you said, taking a step closer, “...weren’t thinking about any of this when you were flirting with another woman in the ballroom. You laughed at him in front of me. You let him touch you. You listened to him, didn’t even look at me. And now...you can’t blame me, Thomas Shelby. What exactly do you want from me? You can’t have me when I don’t belong to you.”

Your words burned through the corridor. But he only remained silent. His eyes were fixed on you. He took a deep breath. An expression appeared on his face. Something dangerous. His pupils dilated. But his voice lowered.

“That woman… she was just business. A political connection, an investment, a face to show. Did you even look at me, Y/N? Did you really look? Did you see me push her away when I realized your intentions? Or were you busy dancing with someone else in the hall?”

He took a step toward you. Slow, careful. Like a man about to step on a mine. His eyes were on you. His voice was now quieter.

“I didn’t look at another woman tonight. My eyes... were only on you. The entire night. From the moment you walked into the salon. From the first moment you walked in that dress. Not on anyone else… not even on anything else. And this, it wasn’t within my control. Because as you walked, everything I had tried to suppress inside me... stood up.”

There was silence for a moment, your heart racing. But he didn't touch you. Not yet. He just watched you. As if he were seeing the real you for the first time. And this time, Thomas Shelby didn't need to be strong.

Thomas Shelby was looking at you as if his eyes were tracing a map of his heart. And his hands... he hadn't touched you yet, but his fingertips were twitching. It was as if the memory of your skin was etched into his fingers, as if, for a moment, his hands would move on their own.

But he still remained silent. Because no matter what he did, the things passing through him could not be put into words. And then, he got so close to you that his breath brushed against your skin.

Your throat, beneath your chin, the side of your cheek.

Without touching you, he enveloped you.

It was as if he were holding you with his presence rather than his hands.

And something like a whisper lingered at the corner of his lips:

“The reason I want to touch you isn’t desire. I want to... feel you. To know that you’re here, that you still belong to me.”

One of his hands slowly rose.

And finally, it gently but decisively settled beneath your chin.

His thumb lightly touched the edge of your cheek. It didn’t burn your skin. But there was a shiver. Like the first drop of a storm that had been building.

“I’m not yours, Thomas,” you said, breathless, yet still strong in your voice.

“I belong to no one. Only to myself.”

Thomas paused for a moment. His eyes met yours. Then he slowly lowered his head. His forehead touched yours. It wasn't a kiss. But it was more than that. The line where two storms collided.

“Then,” he whispered, “I will fight for you to be yourself. But even while you belong to yourself... I know you’ve made a place for me in the corner of your heart. Because I’m there, Y/N. Whether you accept it or not.”

His hands slowly slid down to your shoulders.

His thumbs rested where the seam of your dress met your skin, where his touch was closest to yours.

He was on the edge.

“Let me,” he said, eyes still locked with yours, “Let me just watch you. I don’t need to hold your hand. Just let me know that you’re here, that you haven’t gone.”

And then…

He kissed your cheek, not just a kiss, but a confession. His lips against your skin were more touching than an "I love you" because there was apology, adoration, obsession, and surrender in that kiss.

The silence in the corridor was now like armor. The outside world—the words, the music, the laughter fragments—none of it could seep into this void. Because this space now belonged to you. To you and Thomas Shelby.

You had locked eyes, but this time, not to speak.

To look.

To feel.

And his gaze… wasn’t just watching you anymore, it was memorizing you.

“If you had given me a chance to forget you,” Thomas whispered, his voice like a spell belonging to the night, “do you think I could have?”

The back of his hand touched your cheek. And his thumb, close to the corner of your lips, didn’t touch, it waited. Not to cross the line, but to live on the line.

He slid his hand from your cheek to your hair.

His fingers tangled in the back of your neck as he slowly turned your face toward him.

And your eyes locked with his.

This wasn’t a man looking at a woman. It was a man watching a goddess in his own hell. Too sacred to approach, but too damned to live without.

“If wanting to touch your skin is a crime... I’ve already committed that crime within me. I carry you in my mind every night, I carry you in me every morning when I wake. But touching you... burning you is not what I want, knowing you is.”

In his touch, you felt not pressure but confession. And that didn’t scare you. Because those touches carried acceptance, not fear.

“I don’t want to possess you,” he said suddenly, his voice rough, “but when I see you with someone else... nothing inside me obeys me. I could go to war with anyone who even looks at you, not even with everything, just with a single moment of eye contact. This... this isn’t healthy, I know. But you didn’t take my mind, Y/N, you tore me out from within me. And now I... I’m no longer something that can resist your absence.”

He pulled you closer for a moment. His arms wrapped around your waist, but they weren't tight..

Just there, around you.

If you left, he’d fall. But if you stayed… You would be face to face with Thomas Shelby in his most vulnerable state.

You gently placed your hands on the front of his shirt, not to push him away, just to guide him. Your fingers traced the roughness of the buttons, but you had no intention of undoing them; it was a touch that reminded him that you still held the power. Your eyes were locked on his. Without speaking, without parting your lips, simply staring, you said, "I'm tired of fighting too." Then you took his arm and started walking toward a side door that opened into the silence of the back hall.

Thomas didn’t ask anything. He didn’t protest.

The echoes of your steps against the stone floor were like the seal of your decision.

For the first time, he gave control to you.

You entered a vacant, dark room.

With its wooden parquet floor, high ceiling, and forgotten heavy curtains in the corner, it was a noble but abandoned place.

When he closed the door behind you, the air inside grew even denser.

And right at that moment...

You turned.

Without speaking, you took a step toward him.

And Thomas Shelby, who had never given anything to any woman for years, gave you something: Patience.

He waited for your decision.

He waited to feel your desire.

And at that moment, you became a figure who had reclaimed her own feminine power, surpassing his masculine strength.

You weren’t masculine, nor were you naively feminine.

You… were yourself.

Your hands slowly reached for his face.

You held his chin. Despite its strong, rugged lines, it softened in that moment. Then, you tilted his head slightly and directed your lips toward his. But it wasn’t a kiss; not one rushed or born of passion.

It was like an admission, deep, accumulated, suppressed to a point, but now unstoppable.

When your lips touched his, Thomas Shelby’s entire body trembled. His hands suddenly wrapped around your waist, but he still didn’t press.

He felt you. Not just your lips, your breath, the curve of your neck, the warmth of your skin... And as you deepened the kiss, you brought to the surface every emotion you had suppressed in the past.

For a moment, Thomas pulled his head back. But only to take a breath. His eyes met yours, his forehead rested against yours.

And then, he kissed you again. This time, more forcefully, more deeply. His hands wrapped around your back, then into your hair. It was as if he was holding on as if the earth would take him back if he let go of you.

And you…

Despite all your dominant qualities, you found a sense of security in his arms. But it wasn't a weakness. It was... your choice. It wasn't his choice, it was being with him.

Your kiss was no longer carried by words, but by the rhythm of your bodies.

And you kissed him back, not fearing the darkness that burned him, but touching that darkness.

When Thomas Shelby’s hands pressed against your back, your body leaned into his. But this wasn’t surrender, it was a collision.

It was the silent explosion when two lonely souls met in familiar bodies.

And you didn’t want to put out the fire you had started, with your own initiative.

Your hands found his shirt. The muscles felt under the fabric were like a map of a man carrying the weight of years on his shoulders.

As your fingers moved, Thomas’ breath caught. With a hum rising from his chest, he whispered:

“My God, your touch… it’s a blessing cursed by hell.”

You went silent. Because words were no longer necessary.

You had started hearing him with your hands, reading him with your skin.

As you unbuttoned his shirt, Thomas remained still.

That strong, feared man… was trembling under your touch. And for the first time, you saw a man not afraid of you, but bowing down to you with respect.

This… drew you in even more.

When you left your dress in his hands, Thomas first just looked. He hesitated to bring his hands to your skin. But his eyes… his eyes oscillated between madness and yearning.

It was as if he didn’t want to touch your body, but your memories. And then, as if he were going to hurt you, he slowly touched you.

His fingertips slowly began to unzip, flowing from your spine to the line of your back. When he released the straps from your shoulders, the fabric met the floor.

“I,” he whispered, his lips brushing the back of your neck, “didn’t know I’d become this… addicted when I first saw you. But now… not even the name of another woman passes my lips. Because you… are the name of every desire in me.”

You said, gazing patiently into his eyes and in a low voice. “You’re sure you’re addicted, aren’t you? Well, then this is just the beginning of everything with you.” But as your words left your lips, your hands were busy sliding the fabric of his jacket off his shoulders.

As you watched his jacket fall to the floor, without a moment’s hesitation, you pressed your lips against his once more. This time, much harder, more dominant. Your tongue pushed through his lips, your teeth giving him no rest to his tounge. And your hands… Your fingers met his chest where the shirt was open. His body was burning. Perhaps it was jealousy, perhaps it was alcohol, perhaps it was lust. You didn’t care. You placed your hand on his chest, pressing it firmly, forcing him to head towards office desk. The reasonableness you’d cultivated for years had now awakened once more, eager to possess Thomas Shelby.

And this attitude excited Thomas Shelby. Although he didn't show this excitement, the permission he gave you was clear. Your dominance heightened his sexual appeal. The idea of being in the hands of a powerful woman, in particular, intensified his attraction to you. A masculine demeanor was part of your allure for him.

Your hands on his shoulders guided him as you continued kissing him. As you rounded the massive oak table and reached the chair, the back of Thomas's knee hit the edge of the chair. His body lost its balance and he fell into the chair. This was the moment he realized you were completely in control. It was a display of leadership, both physical and psychological.

When he sat down, you stood close to him, placing your hands lightly on both his shoulders to exert pressure.

You called out to him in a commanding tone. "Sit in the chair, don't move. Now, everything will be outside of you. All you have to do is wait and watch what I do to you."

Thomas thought how brave it was to even try. And he began to watch you, your every move... He accepted your game. He was giving you a chance to control him. He was letting you... He wanted to see what you would do.

Although he smiled slightly, it was so meaningful, it carried a coolness and pressure. His eyebrows were slightly furrowed, indicating that you wouldn't be completely in control.

You knelt silently on the cold stone floor. Your eyes were fixed on Thomas Shelby's, every movement a product of strict discipline.

Your shoulders were back, your head held high, but your gaze remained fixed on his. Everything else faded into the background, only your presence in this position, firm and controlled, fully prepared for the next step.

You moved your hands to the fabric of his pants, first feeling his manhood from above. Thomas shifted in his chair at that moment. A slightly mocking smile and surprise graced his face. He knew every moment you had assumed the role of a man, but he had no idea which men you had touched before taking on this role, and how.

You began to undo the zipper, slowly... as if you controlled even time itself. And when the zipper was completely undone and your underwear was visible through the fabric, there was only one door left for what was to come. This time, you grabbed both fabrics and began to pull them down. Thomas, meanwhile, was helping you strip down to both his pants and underwear.

His erect penis was now right in front of you. You didn't start right away. You wanted to arouse him even more. You started kissing him everywhere except his penis: first his thighs, then his groin. You knew how exciting it was for a man to come to his groin. Then, without letting up, you reached the base. You kissed every inch of it, lustfully and hungrily. But what affected Thomas the most were his testicles. The ragged breath coming from his lips was a sign of increased anticipation, heightened by the sensitivity he felt there.

That breath was practically your starting point. You parted your lips and took his shaft between your lips. You began pumping it between your lips with your tongue. Your tongue continued to stimulate the tip of his penis with circular motions, then licked his shaft up and down like a lollipop. After repeating this with pleasure several times, you moved to the tip of his penis and gently flicked his frenulum. As your saliva spread over his veined, hardened cock, a sloppy sound escaped your mouth, making Thomas moan with fervor. You sucked the tip of his cock as if trying to release the drink inside him. It would give him an intense sensation, but it would never bring him to orgasm. It lasted a minute. And then, suddenly, you pushed his penis as far down your throat as it would go. This caused Thomas a strange sense of surprise. He closed his eyes, threw his head back, leaned his elbows on the arm of the chair, and remained motionless. A nasty "Ah" squeaked from his throat, echoing through his moans. "Did you learn that during your years in Paris?" he asked through his teeth. Instead of answering with words, you pushed his cock deeper into your throat. At the same time, one hand was playing with his balls.

Now, as you sucked, you simultaneously stimulated the areas you could reach with your tongue. You felt warmth on the roof of your mouth. Pre-cum was spreading into his mouth in colorless, slippery drops. The liquid, escaping from the corners of your lips, made a trembling sound as you pulled it towards his lips. Hearing it turned Thomas's moans into a din. He didn't care about the noises outside the door, or anyone who might hear them and enter the room. At that moment, it was just the two of you and your passion.

"Oh, that's it, Y/N. Tell me, is it better than those guys in Paris?"

You were in a trance as you sucked Thomas's cock. The taste, the warmth, the texture, the hardness were intoxicating. Annoyed by your lack of response, and frustrated by the lack of response, Thomas grabbed your hair and pulled his cock from your mouth. "Say it! Say it!"

A mixture of saliva and pre-cum dripped from the corners of your lips as you stared into Thomas's eyes like a mischievous demon. And no... This game was played by your rules. He replied breathlessly. “No, Tommy. Not yet,” you said, and stood up. As Thomas Shelby watched you curiously, you reached for your dress and unbuttoned the sash around your waist. And when you returned, Thomas Shelby knew you were going to take this power play to the next level.

The fabric was soft, but it held a claim. You walked in front of him, leaning forward. Not a word was spoken between you as your hands reached for his wrists. You linked Thomas's hands on the back of the chair. He looked into your eyes, a smile half mocking, half angry.

You carefully but resolutely wrapped the satin around his wrists. The air between you thickened with each moment the satin met his skin. His fingers trembled slightly when you knotted the sash, but it wasn't a tremor born of fear, but of impatient desire.

Then you straightened up again, and this time it was your underwear's turn. Your curvaceous figure had already excited him. Now you removed your bra. Your breasts weren't large, but they were full. Your areolas were defined. Thomas's breath quickened as you removed the fabric completely and set it aside; it was the first night he'd seen you naked, and it was an expression not only of desire but also of power. While the goddess Venus was strengthened within you, the Mars within him seemed to rise.

When you parted your legs and sat on his groin, taking Thomas's penis completely inside you hurt at first. You lifted your body a little more and began inserting the tip halfway in and out. Your moans mingled with each other. You gripped Thomas's shoulders for leverage, your breasts swaying as he continued his thrusts. His breathing muffled his own. "Go all the way in, Y/N," he said, "come on, you can take more." The heat rising beneath you was like the tension in a racehorse's muscles. His body was hard, determined, and ready to be controlled. As you felt Thomas move beneath you, he pressed against your womanhood; you tasted the curves of his cock, from your clit to the entrance of your vagina. This hardness was what caused your eyes to close in pleasure and the ragged breaths that escaped between your parted lips.

A shameless will, a writhing of suppressed desire, a rebirth of Mars and Venus.

His kisses trailed down your chest as he bent his bare breasts toward him. He expertly caressed and sucked your areola with his tongue. His touches seemed to merge with your lustful intent; as your fingers roamed Thomas's groin, each contact ignited a deep desire within him.

Thomas clenched his teeth. His eyebrows furrowed, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening. "Fuck, Y/N," he hissed in a low growl. "You tied me up like this, but I guess you forgot... a hunter who lets his prey in is the most dangerous."

As you adjusted to his thickness, you took more of his cock inside you, and Thomas moaned more deeply. Through your teeth, with or without your lips pressed together.

Losing yourself in the abyss of pleasure, you began to move your waist more circularly. This way, Thomas's iron-hard cock would press against your vagina, stimulating your G-spot.

Your breath, your skin, and your sweat mingled. The room became an arena where not only bodies but also forces clashed.

As you moved inside him, the walls of Art Hall's office filled with your passionate moans. The warm breeze from the window caressed your burning skin, the rhythm of your body synchronized with Thomas's breathing. "You're not going to dare make me beg for me to come, are you, Y/N?" Thomas asked breathlessly, his voice filled with both surrender and arrogance.

Your movements became erratic. You were on the verge of climaxing with pleasure, and he didn't seem to care what he said. Your body felt like it was about to give way. You moaned, almost shouting, "Oh, yes... Thomas. I want you to bathe me in your cum." Your nails, resting on his shoulder, dug into his flesh, burning hot.

Your vagina completely enclosed Thomas's thick cock. The gnarled surface of your walls seemed to caress his shaft with each thrust. The sloppy sound Thomas made each time you thrust his cock into you was proof of how wet and aroused you were. Your ears buzzed, your temples throbbing as your G-spot was stimulated.

Finally, as you reached your climax, all the emotions inside you exploded. Feeling Thomas's body tremble with yours was both pleasurable and satisfying. As you continued to kiss him, you took him inside you one last time.

"Y/N," Thomas moaned, breathless. His voice held both pleasure and a growl. "Look into my eyes and I want you to cum, please!"

Please... It was the right word. He had set you off. Your legs suddenly shook. You tensed your hips. The moment he pulled Thomas's cock out of you, you came together. Your spurt washed over his shaft. Then you collapsed on top of him, now much softer, much more passionate. Your muscles relaxed. Your ears buzzed, your vision blurred. Your pelvic muscles were relaxed, your uterus relaxed.

Location: Y/N’s office

Time: 6 months later

The gray light falling through the office window looked like a wilted rose at the edge of your desk; papers were scattered, ink stains no longer neat but left a helpless impression, and the typewriter keys no longer hit with the same furious tempo, they were tired, hesitant, like notes pressed without knowing what to write.

The ticking of the clock echoed through the room, every second cutting through the silence like a kind of judgment.

When you used to start writing, the world around you would fall silent; now, when you fall silent, the world speaks. And you heard the steps of that speaking world.

The door opened.

A familiar click: the sound of a cane.

A step hitting the floor confidently but sending a tremor through your heart: Mr. Wilford.

When he entered, you didn’t lift your eyes. Because you could roughly predict the expression you would see on his face: disappointment mixed with patience, a cry suppressed inside, anger hanging on the edge of his mouth, ready to fall.

And he came. He stopped in front of the desk. He tilted his head slightly, studying you. And he remained silent. Just silent. That silence told you more than any of your old writings.

Then he spoke. His voice first deep, then cold.

It felt like you were testifying at a trial: "How many hours have you been working on that article, Y/N?" His voice was dry, blunt, and direct. "Three? Five?"

When you looked up, there was a confrontation in his eyes.

Not just with words, with your past. When your eyes met, you fell silent. Because you saw that the emptiness inside you had already been noticed by him.

"The writing’s not coming out." Your words were weak. You hadn’t even convinced yourself.

He took a few steps around the room. Slowly, tapping his cane on the ground. His gaze shifted to the notes on the desk. Then, he turned back to you.

"No," he said. "The writing’s not coming out because you’re not writing. You don’t want to write anymore. Or maybe you have nothing left to write."

He paused for a moment. Then he tilted his head. He added: "Y/N. The only thing that’s forcing me to sit here with you is the glory of your past. But that glory... is nothing more than a shadow of a statue now."

At that moment, you wanted to say something. But in the first sentence, a lump caught in your throat.

Your fingers unknowingly scribbled over your notes. Trying to give meaning to an unfinished sentence...

"I read the workers' strike analysis you wrote last week," he said. "If I hadn’t read your previous articles, I wouldn’t believe that you wrote that. Soften sentences, censored headlines, paragraphs that don’t go anywhere like a knife... And worst of all, the lack of anger at the end of the sentence. The sharpest part of your writing was always the last line. Now, in that line, there’s only a period. No quotation marks, no emphasis, no scream."

You took a deep breath, "I’m not censoring. I’m just approaching issues from a different perspective," you said. But even your own voice couldn’t convince you.

Wilford tilted his head mockingly. His eyes had a subtle anger, but more than that, there was grief.

"That’s the problem," he said. "A different perspective... Where is that place? The seat next to Thomas Shelby? Did you learn to be silent with him in his corner while he smoked his cigarette? Now, you have no rebellion, no ideals. Your writings no longer have blood; they only have lipstick marks. You’re no longer a voice. You... became an echo."

This time your voice rose. But it trembled.

"I didn’t change for Thomas. This was my choice. I don’t just live by fighting anymore. I can write about love. I can write about feelings. Not every piece has to be about anger."

But Wilford didn’t back off. He took another step closer. "I know. That’s the real issue. What you used to write was like a front. People would carry your words like a shield. Now, that shield is hiding in the shadow of a man. Love... it’s a beautiful thing. But for someone like you, Y/N, it’s dangerous. You don’t grow love — love diminishes you. And that diminishing isn’t called romance. It... is denial."

Your heart turned to ice. Because suddenly, the echo of your past hit you: turning into a male identity to take shelter, using words as weapons while running from the world, owning your loneliness like an idea. And now\...

All of those things were shattering inside that office.

Wilford slammed his hand on the desk. He pulled your notes. He picked up a few drafts of your papers and just looked at them. Then he whispered:" This isn’t you. These writings aren’t yours. This... is the writing of his woman. Not Y/N’s."

Silence followed. You didn’t say anything. Because for the first time, you couldn’t find a word to defend yourself. It was as if the words had abandoned you. And you, were made of nothing but words.

In the bedroom, time felt heavy, almost like gravity.

Outside, the wind gently hit the window sill, while the air inside was filled with the body warmth that had seeped into the pale sheets; neither hot nor cold, only... neutral, only intense.

The white sheets, feeling the warmth of your skin with every breath, wrapped your body like a Venus statue, bringing a divine grace to the earth. Your body was like a sculpture where desire and innocence were delicately blended; despite your nakedness, your body was hidden by the sheets, but even in this mysterious cover, a trace of beauty remained. Like a piece fallen from Thomas's chest.

His arm was now on your shoulder — not a weight like muscle, firm and possessive, but extending toward you with the calm of a quiet possession.

Your back was turned to him, but your skin was still pressed against his.

He was holding a cigarette in his left hand.

The smoke twisted toward the dim yellow lamp beside the bed, scattering, creating a space where even time seemed to retreat.

And you...

You were holding a whiskey glass in your right hand, but you weren’t sipping it, you were pretending to drink.

In fact, there was another poison inside: your own lines.

The note papers at the edge of the bed were folded, crumpled, some crossed out, others with torn edges.

You were scanning the lines as if reading the words of a woman you had written but didn’t recognize.

Because now, the tone of those sentences didn’t feel like yours.

Your sentences used to be filled with gunpowder, but now there was only silence...

And it wasn’t just you who noticed this change; others had started noticing it too.

The words you heard in Wilford’s room two days ago still echoed in your ears:

"These writings aren’t yours. This... is his woman’s writing."

Thomas brought the cigarette to his lips and took a quick drag, then leaned his head slightly toward you. He rested his chin against your hairline, and his fingers slid down your body to your waist.

There was patience, a surrender in that touch. But the waves in your mind weren’t allowing that peace.

"Did you try to write today?" His voice was deep, but soft. Interestingly, even in that depth, there was a hint of concern.

You swallowed his words in one gulp. Then, you looked toward the window. Your eyes caught your silhouette reflected in the glass. Did you recognize yourself? Naked between the sheets, in the arms of a man, a woman carrying a woman's face.

And the anger in your writings... it was no longer directed at you.

"I wrote," you said. Your voice flowed heavy, like liquor. "I wrote something. But I stopped at the third paragraph. Because I lied."

For a moment, Thomas's fingers stopped moving on your waist.

Then, slowly, he continued; but in the small movement of pressing the cigarette into the ashtray, something cracked within him.

"Lie?" he repeated.

His voice was like a low hum.

He was trying not to react, but there was a tremor in that hum.

"Before, when I wrote about something, something burned inside me," you said.

You turned your head slightly toward the pillow, but you didn’t look at him, you spoke while still staring at the opposite wall.

"Because women were dying, because workers were being oppressed, because aristocrats were treating the people like fools... Someone inside me would shout. Now... now I just take notes. Not ideas. Not feelings. Notes."

Thomas raised his head. He slowly propped himself up, pulling the sheets up to his waist.

He was sitting now. He looked at you. But not with his eyes, like a warrior looking at a face, not judging but not giving up either.

"Wilford went too far," he said. His voice was like a dark reassurance. "He hurt you."

"No," you said. You turned sharply toward him this time. Your eyes were fixed and direct for the first time.

"He didn’t hurt me. Because he was right. I’ve changed. I don’t even know whose side I’m on anymore when I do this work. I’m only... on your side now. And that... that’s a dangerous thing."

Thomas paused for a moment. He only watched you. He extended his arm, slipping under it to pull you closer.

When he pressed you against his chest, your skin wasn’t on his chest, it was like a bird fluttering in his heart.

"I don’t love you to silence you, Y/N," he said. "I fell in love with your voice. Not you, but your sentences that pierced through the world. And I thought the more I loved you, the louder that voice would get. But now you... you’re silencing yourself. Not me."

His words were heavy but soft. Not an attempt to convince, but a plea.

Like a man who was afraid of losing a woman for the first time.

"I’m not silencing myself, Thomas," you said. "I... I’m afraid of love changing me.

Because in this world, a woman’s change always happens because of men. And I swore I would never do that."

Thomas remained silent for a while.

He only held you. Just like that, tightly enough not to let you go, but gently enough not to force you...

Then he closed his eyes.

"If I changed you... it wasn’t love that did it, it was fear," he said. "Fear... of losing you, of leaving you alone in this damn life."

You blinked. Your eyes became misty, but you didn’t cry. Because you were still strong. But at the same time, still wounded. And maybe for the first time... the two could exist together.

The sheets on the bed were now crumpled like a peace flag between their two bodies; as their warmth mingled, words gave way to gazes, and gazes gave way to a kind of fluttering in stillness.

As the weight of Thomas's hand fell on your waist, you felt his breath no longer on your neck, but inside your thoughts, so close, so deep, that you no longer heard your own heart, but the touch of his heart against yours.

And that contact... it echoed louder than the words left unwritten, the words left unspoken.

That voice was the echo of a woman still searching for who she was within herself, yet a man could say, "I'm here, but I loved you just the way you are."

Thomas slowly turned your body; his hands were gentle as he turned you toward him, but his thrust was firm, for it wasn't a possession, but a call "I'm here. Don't run," as if to say, "Don't think anymore."

He looked into your eyes; Behind those gray-blue irises, there was still a fragility, but also a challenge. Because you were both hurt and strong, and he craved that contradiction more than ever.

He didn't verbalize it as he touched you. But the way his hand slowly slid from your cheek, reaching under your jaw and down to the line of your shoulder, was like a wish, the silent wish of a man touching a woman so she could pass through him and reach him. And you approached him as if you had finally decided to give him an answer you'd been holding for a long time.

Not with hesitation; still hurt, still doubtful, but this time… knowing.

Because every touch wasn't a surrender anymore, but a choice.

When you leaned your face against his neck, you felt the salty warmth of his skin against your lips, and that taste was too real to be written down.

Held by his hands, Thomas pulled away from you and moved downward. From his stomach to his groin, to his womanhood. His breath fanned against your outer lips.

And then, in that bed where you'd shaken to an orgasm half an hour ago, he was now going to give you a second taste of pleasure… But this time, his aim was to completely relax you. He wanted only your pleasure.

Thomas's lips slowly reached your outer lips; the velvety warmth of its texture welcomed him. He dipped his thumb and index finger into your slit, stretching it tightly at the edges so he could easily insert his tongue, and he saw your clitoris waiting, ready, against your inner lips. The capillaries within were dilated, its color a richer, more inviting pink than its outer surface. It was pulsating, moist… And this moisture was the very essence of that sweet essence hidden within.

He parted his lips slightly and closed them over you, letting his tongue brush over them. This wasn't a hungry kiss. It was one of those slow, scorching encounters where time freezes, where a thousand words fit into a night.

You gasped at the first contact. The muscles in your hips contracted. With the first lick, his tongue gently touched the slick inner lips of your womanhood, then slowly slid upward. When he stopped at your clit, he began licking, tracing the letter "O." He first licked as if drawing a pattern, then, sensing you were accustomed to the motion, he moved his tongue up and down, like licking ice cream. The bitter cinnamon aroma of your vagina met your wetness and spread like a thin wave of warmth across his palate. It wasn't too sweet, nor too spicy; just right, just right. He closed his eyes for a moment. In that moment, everything went silent: even time.

At the second contact, the sheets shifted. Unexpectedly, he increased his pace, his tongue thrusting more forcefully now.

One hand reached for the headboard and gripped the black iron tightly. The pleasure you were experiencing sent arousal throughout your entire body, and you drew strength from the headboard to keep from passing out. Because when he slid his tongue into your vagina, without removing it from your vulva, a shockwave swept through your entire body. Pre-ejaculate began to flow in clear drops from the corners of your inner lips.

The third time... the newspaper nonsense that had been etched in your mind was completely erased, leaving only the tremors of pleasure in your body. Now, as his tongue moved between your clitoris and the entrance to your urethra, he intertwined his index and middle fingers and pushed them inside your vagina. He gently curled them, feeling your inner walls first, and your eyes moved upwards. Now the whites of your eyes were more visible. Then he found your "G" spot. A loud, uncontrollable moan escaped your lips. You were on the verge. When Thomas realized this, he increased his pace. You gripped the headboard tighter. Your knuckles turned white. Your thighs shook, your breath coming in short gasps.

Finally, you couldn't hold on any longer. This time, your orgasm was more intense than the last. You shook so hard, your legs shaking so much that the bed shook in sync with you. You squirted against Thomas Shelby's lips. You bathed his face in your pleasure. When he stopped, you too were exhausted. You stared blankly at the ceiling. Your ears were buzzing once more. Your breathing had gradually steadied.

The moment you came to, you realized, perhaps no piece of writing, no idea, no word could ever resonate as powerfully as the echo it felt when it touched someone's skin. But at the same time, if you let that echo become a silencer... your own voice would disappear.

Thomas lifted his head. He lifted himself slightly, drawing strength from his arms, and looked into your eyes. He murmured, so soft only you could hear, from the corners of his lips: “After tonight, the words you lost... you will find them again. I promise, Y/N, I will help you find yourself again. But now, relax a little.”

You closed your eyes. You didn’t cry. But you felt the quietest victory of that battle within you. Being with someone... wasn’t about stopping writing. Being with someone... was just about your voice echoing. And then, Thomas crawled over to you and sat next to you again. He kissed you on the lips, your juices still on his lips.

Then you leaned back against his chest. The sheets covered you again. Time stood still. The words rested. But the woman inside you prepared to write again.

Days had begun to blur into one another; mornings spent staring out the office window at Birmingham’s grey sky, afternoons trying not to let your coffee grow cold, and evenings seated at your typewriter, writing a single sentence over and over again, only to erase it, rewrite it, and erase it once more...

Time was no longer measured in hours for you, it was measured in words. How many sentences could you form? How many of them felt truly yours?mHow many brought you back to yourself, and how many only reminded you of Thomas? And the strangest part was this: when Thomas Shelby wasn’t around, your pen felt sharper.

Your fingers struck the keys with more certainty. The loneliness that bloomed in the absence of his presence was sharpening you again.

You wrote a piece "The Women Beneath the Ground" about the deaths of female miners; and the day it was published, Wilford didn’t call you into his office. He didn’t have to anymore. You had come back. But that’s exactly when things started to unravel. Because when Thomas Shelby wasn’t there, you were strong—but you were also alone.

When Thomas Shelby was there, you were whole, but you were quiet. And that contradiction struck you like a harsh truth one morning, when you turned over in bed and saw only an empty pillow beside you:

Maybe it wasn’t possible to be both who you loved, and who you were. Thomas had become buried in work. The Peaky Blinders world was boiling over, and while he wasn’t avoiding you, he also couldn’t find the time to return.

One evening, you met for a brief three-minute exchange at The Garrison; he lit a cigarette, kissed your forehead and said, “I’m back in the morning.” But that same night, you wrote a scathing piece on how post-war society was slowly forcing women back into silence.

Your eyes watered, but your fingers didn’t tremble. And in that moment, you realized: Your inspiration came from his absence.

That darkness… it slipped into your bones from the void Thomas left behind. But that void was also the only place your words seemed to echo. And when morning came, you laid his shirt on one side of the bed, and your latest column on the other. You stared at both. One reminded you of him. The other… of yourself. Slowly, you stood up. You picked up the page that had slipped from the sheet and read a line aloud:

“A woman either belongs or she becomes a rebellion no one can own.”

You closed your eyes. Brought his smoke-scented shirt close to your face. It still smelled like him. And that scent reminded you of the peace he gave you in bed, and the silence he created in you at your desk.

For the first time, that morning, you truly understood. This wasn’t a choice between love and writing. It was a crossroad between losing yourself inside someone, or finding yourself again.

And you...

You could either be a man’s woman. Or the voice of a people.

Which was more sacred, which was more real... you didn’t know. But one thing was certain: Neither life could fully carry you. And if you didn’t let go of one…

You were going to lose both.

Thomas Shelby didn’t say a word for the rest of the day. And truthfully, he didn’t need to, he was always better understood in silence.mBut this time, the silence wasn’t his usual Shelby quiet. It was something else. Something more dangerous, deeper, something impossible to swallow. Because you had been gone for three days.

No phone calls were answered. No messages returned. And Thomas Shelby feared when a woman chose to go silent. Because that silence was the echo that followed a decision. And while Thomas liked making decisions, he could never stand being subjected to someone else’s.

At first, he told himself you were just “busy.” Then he tried to convince himself with a few small excuses, believing you had simply gotten caught up with things. But even in the crowded hum of The Garrison’s bar, he began to hear the absence of you. And that absence was no longer a whisper in his mind, it had grown into a near scream.

The first time he thought you might be leaving, he lit his cigarette the wrong way round. The second time, he yelled at John for no reason at all. And the third time, when he met Polly’s gaze, he knew she already knew something. Polly didn’t say a word. But her eyes did: “Sometimes, leaving is a woman’s greatest triumph.”

That sentence was what finally snapped the thread. That night, he left his whiskey unfinished at The Garrison. It was the dead of night. His hands were in his coat pockets as he walked, but everything running through him was too much to be held in two fists.

Your shabby little house… small, suffocating, single-roomed, poor. But Thomas Shelby had never felt as much at home anywhere else. So what led him there wasn’t pride. It was longing. Fear. And this time, the real possibility of having already lost you.

When he reached the corner of your street, the first thing he noticed was the light wasn’t on. He lit a cigarette. Stood at the door for a few seconds. Maybe it was just a few seconds, but to Thomas Shelby… that pause lasted a lifetime. For the first time, he believed a man could feelbwhether he was still loved or not, just by standing behind a door. Then he reached for the doorknob. He had no key.nBut he had his hands. And those hands had broken many doors before, had flung wide open many dark nights.

He didn’t force it, didn’t push hard… He just pressed the door with the tip of his fingers. It opened. And in that moment, he knew.

You were gone.

There were no shoes. No open books. And everything that once made that house livable… was gone. Even the air seemed to have been emptied of you. And this had never happened to Thomas Shelby before: A woman had left.

And he hadn’t known. He stepped inside with slow steps. His footsteps echoed off the naked walls.

Slowly, he turned toward the bed. That bed… The one where your bare body would lie beneath a thin sheet, where you wrapped yourselves in each other with love.

There, in the middle of that empty bed lay his shirt.

Folded.

Clean.

With a white envelope tucked beneath it.

He didn’t touch the shirt.

Nor the letter.

At first, he just stood there.

Looking was enough.

Because he already sensed what he was about to face. A man knows he’s been left not from what he sees, but from what he dares not touch. And that night, for the first time, Thomas Shelby trembled because of a piece of paper he couldn’t bring himself to reach for.

Then…

Without trying to stop his trembling hands, he moved the shirt aside. Picked up the envelope. There was no name. But he had no doubt about who had written it.

Thomas Shelby didn’t admit that his hands were trembling as he opened the envelope. If anyone had asked, he’d have said, “It’s the cold.” But no window was open, and the air in the room was far from chilly.

In truth, the whole house had turned to ice that night. Because the person who carried warmth within them, was gone. And Thomas knew, even before touching the first letter, that the words inside this letter would strike him right in the chest. But knowing something doesn’t mean you’re prepared.nAnd Thomas Shelby... for the first time, was like a soldier caught off guard, unarmed, in the middle of a battlefield.

He pulled out the paper. Two pages, thick and soft. The corners bent, clearly folded and unfolded more than once. Your hands had touched them, this alone was sharp enough. But the real blow came... with the first line.

-----

“I’ve always tried to be honest with you, Thomas. But this letter... might be the first time I’m truly honest.”

Thomas didn’t squint. His eyes burned on their own at that moment. The collapse began with the very first sentence. He lifted his head slightly, as if you were there in the room, watching him. He exhaled heavily through his nose. Because he knew, these words were meant to be read while looking straight into his eyes. But you weren’t there. And that, even in the first line, left him utterly alone.

-----

“When I’m with you, I become another kind of woman. Softer, more open, more fragile... And that feeling is both enchanting and terrifying. Because I’ve spent years abandoning my emotions to stay strong. Being with you felt like replacing that strength with a different kind of weakness. Trusting. Leaning. Relying.”

At that line, Thomas clenched his jaw. Because those words of yours... weren’t in his hand. They were nailed to his chest. And for the first time, Thomas Shelby wasn’t proud of the version of himself he was beside a woman. Because that version had slowly pulled you away from yourself. And now you were writing to say you were drowning in it.

-----

“I can’t write anymore, Thomas. My words crash against you now. I can’t be critical. I can’t be sharp. In every sentence, I find traces of you. And this isn’t writing. This is writhing inside a dream. I know you didn’t silence me, Thomas. But loving you... made me quiet against myself.”

Thomas lowered his head. The paper in his hand trembled slightly. But he said nothing. A man used to speaking in front of crowds now stood in the quietest corridor of solitude. And this solitude... smelled not of gunpowder or whiskey... This solitude carried only your voice.

-----

“When I loved you, I loved like a woman. But the self beside that woman... the part that held the pen... that part convinced me to leave. Because the moment I felt love was muting me, staying began to feel like betrayal. To myself.”

At that line, Thomas’s lips parted, but no words came. Just a breath. Maybe a silent exhale. Maybe a whisper only for himself, “why didn’t you save me?” Because he didn’t fight you. He tried to understand you. But now he understood, some women don’t want to be understood. Some women can only speak through silence.

-----

“I loved you, Thomas. And maybe that was my greatest weakness. But to stay strong, I have to go. And I know, when you read this letter, you’ll get angry, you’ll bury everything inside. But someday, maybe just one day,I’ll wish I had never loved you. Because this love made me lose myself.”

That was the last sentence. But Thomas stared at the pages a while longer. As if he could see you between the letters. As if one word tucked between the lines might convince you to stay. But it wasn’t there.

You were gone.

And all he had left was a letter. For the first time, it wasn’t an enemy, but a woman, who brought him to his knees without a weapon. And this... was the quietest defeat of Thomas Shelby’s life.

Thomas Shelby didn’t crumple the paper. He didn’t throw it at the wall, didn’t curse, didn’t flinch. He did nothing. And that “nothing” was so heavy, it drowned out every sound in the room.

He just sat. His eyes were still fixed on the words, but he wasn’t reading them anymore. Because the words were gone. Your voice lingered on the paper, but you were no longer there. And for the first time, Thomas Shelby looked into emptiness and had never felt so full.

He hadn’t taken off his coat, hadn’t loosened his tie, hadn’t removed the gun from his waist. Because he had only stopped by. Maybe, just maybe, you were still inside, making coffee. Maybe you’d just finished your latest piece. Maybe… you had stayed. But that hope was pierced by the final full stop of the letter like a bullet. The man who entered through that door was no longer standing there, only a ghost left behind.

He lit a cigarette. The smoke rose slowly in the room, and your belongings arranged themselves before his eyes.

The typewriter… the notebook on your nightstand… the sleeve of your pale blue robe hanging over the chair. Each whispered your name. But your voice was gone. And Thomas Shelby, for the first time, had lost without a fight.

He folded the letter slowly. As if something unbroken still remained inside. As if a woman, with her final sentences, hadn’t pierced his heart but touched the silence around it. And Thomas knew it. This letter wasn’t a goodbye. It was a sentence. You hadn’t just left. You had vanished.

He placed the letter in his pocket. Stood up. Took one last look around the room. He looked for you, one last time. On the walls. On the chair. In the empty cup. But you… were further away than ever before. And then… he walked out that door.

He didn’t look back. Because this wasn’t abandonment. This was the moment when two people no longer had anything left to say. And from that moment on…

Thomas Shelby never opened another letter again.

39 notes · View notes

divaofmads · 2 months ago

Text

BROKEN SYMMETRY

This story was written in response to a request from @stygianoir . Thank you for the inspiration, and I hope this story captures the tone and emotion you were hoping for.

Pairing: Two-Face x Female Reader

Summary: In the dark corners of Gotham, Y/N discovers the lost human within the deformed Two-Face, as their attraction blends with the dark side of love.

🔞Warnings: +18, Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, Oral Sex (for Female), Vaginal Sex, Graphic Sexual Content, Physical Injury / Body Horror, Scarring / Burn Injuries, Obsession / Possessiveness, Language!, Moral Conflict, Domination/Submissive Dynamics, English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional.

Word Count: 15k

Dividers by @cheezitofthevalley @cafekitsune

PROLOGUE

Time: 2 years ago

Place: Gotham Courthouse – District Attorney Harvey Dent’s Office

When you knocked on the door, there was no response for several seconds. Only the sound of papers being turned, a pen scratching against paper, and that unsettling silence unique to Gotham’s courthouse could be heard. It was as if the echoes of old verdicts roamed every wall, every corner like a city reckoning with itself… slow, yet inevitable. Your hand clutched the expert report in your bag tightly. The coolness of archaeology you were so used to had been replaced by a warmth, waiting to be touched by someone else. You swallowed lightly. Then, the door opened.

Harvey Dent stood right in front of you. The gray-navy suit he wore looked too sharp, too pristine under Gotham’s gloomy midday light. His collar was slightly loosened, as if he had just loosened his tie and forgotten you were coming. Or perhaps he remembered… but didn’t care much. His eyes looked tired, as if he hadn’t slept in days, buried behind documents, but when they met yours, a spark seemed to gather him. Maybe he had prepared to see you. Maybe he hadn’t, but you wanted to believe so.

“Mr. Dent,” you said politely, but the intelligence and caution beneath your voice were unmistakable. Like someone who had witnessed trials, expert testimonies, and inscriptions written in languages men couldn’t understand.

“Please,” he said, his voice tired but heavy with a certain pull. “Everyone calls me Harvey here. Especially in this room.” He smiled, but the look at the corner of his mouth was evaluating you. You couldn’t tell what exactly “especially” meant in that room. Or maybe you didn’t want to.

As you stepped inside, the scent of old leather-bound books, coffee, and a fragrance you couldn’t quite name but felt strangely like it belonged to you hit your nose. It was as if you’d never smelled it before but recognized it the moment it touched you.

Piles of files were stacked on the long, dark wooden desk in the corner. Documents on Gotham’s smuggled antiquities, evidence reports, and your expert analysis, printed in a refined yet clear font bearing your full name. You had numbered them yourself, detailed every carbon test and origin chart by hand. And now, all that objective precision was in this man’s hands.

He extended his hand. A simple, formal gesture for a handshake. It was such an ordinary movement that you were surprised at how tense it made you feel. His fingertips were firm, but neither of you pulled back for a moment. You held each other lightly. It didn’t last long, but within that brief contact was something: something that made you hold his gaze, something that made you realize you were seeing yourself in his eyes. You didn’t feel his warmth, you felt his thoughts. And perhaps the same was true for him, because when he let go, he avoided your eyes. They shifted, wandered to another corner of the room. And you did the same, trying to hide the red trace of your lips.

“You’ve prepared an impressively detailed report,” he said. His words were technical, but his tone wasn’t. As if he wasn’t admiring you, but the thing written in your voice. “This level of evidence presentation is, frankly, a luxury for prosecutors. Especially in a city like Gotham, where the sacred isn’t archaeological, but criminal.”

You smiled softly, lowering your head. “Sometimes justice is built upon something much deeper than history. And fragments of history still linger to redefine justice.”

He paused. A subtle expression formed on his face: part smile, part admiration, and a hint of attention. “You may need to repeat that line in court,” he said. “It would impress the jury.”

You tilted your head slightly and met his gaze. “Weren’t you impressed?”

Your question was both bold and sincere. But it had come from such a graceful layer that it was too clever for him to dismiss.

Harvey paused before biting his lower lip. He didn’t smile, but one of his eyebrows arched. “My being impressed isn’t admissible,” he said. “But yes… both your words, and the way you shaped them, are compelling.”

He turned to the desk, pretending to look at your report. But the silence that filled the room revealed that this was no longer just about technicalities. The tension in the air slipped between the lines now. Your fingers touched your bag, anchoring you, just as his voice returned:

“Will you be staying in Gotham after this case?”

To an outsider, it might’ve sounded like a casual question, maybe a polite formality. But you heard the crack in his voice, the faint hesitation at the corner of his mouth. A man, no matter how powerful, always shows a certain stillness when he doesn’t really want to hear the answer, and he stood just like that.

A moment of silence. What had filled the room now? The scent of files, the dusty air of old decisions, or his gaze gently brushing your shoulder? You couldn’t tell which was heavier. But you knew you had to answer. You turned to your bag, just to buy a few more seconds… because no matter what you said, it would fall short.

“To be honest… it’s not that I don’t want to,” you said, feigning preoccupation with your bag. “But I have nothing tying me here. No one. And Gotham… is as cold, gray, and unnecessarily loud as ever.”

Your sentence was plain, yet constructed with such care that the hidden flare within it was impossible to miss. “Nothing tying me here.” Only he might have noticed the emptiness in that phrase. Because you weren’t searching for a reason to stay in the city, only a reason to stay in this room. And Harvey Dent was smart enough to sense that… but was he brave enough to be that reason?

He was now standing at the head of the desk, a bit closer to you. As if the distance between the room’s edges was closing, the air thickening. His hands were in his pockets. He tilted his head slightly, studying you. His gaze didn’t land fully on you, as if he knew looking might expose something.

He drew in a short breath, then spoke, his words carefully measured:

“Staying in Gotham is hard. Wanting to stay… is even harder.”

He paused. There was no follow-up, but it was all in his eyes. Then, as if he meant to add something, he said without quite looking at you, “But… sometimes this city needs the right people.”

His voice was soft, slightly evasive. Perhaps unknowingly carrying a fragility.

But the sentence wasn’t finished. He was always like that: leaving things hanging. To stay safe.

He always pulled back, like an echo hitting a wall. Because he was committed to everything, to everyone, but never to you.

Maybe he didn’t want you… or maybe the truth was, he didn’t believe he had the right to.

You turned to him. This time, your eyes met his directly. In a city where everything rotted, the only honesty people could hold onto was the kind that screamed silently through a stare.

You stepped toward him. Your voice was soft, but it didn’t hide the weariness, the hope, or the fear inside: “Sometimes, it’s not a city… just one sentence is enough to make you stay.”

When you finished speaking and looked into his eyes, you found his gaze fixed on you. Maybe time had paused for a few seconds. Maybe it only paused to keep another possibility alive. But Harvey Dent that prosecutor carved into the heart of Gotham like a bullet of justice, that man of logic, that man of endless calculations, parted his lips but said nothing. For a moment, his gaze softened, then he pulled himself together. As if he were about to say it. Maybe he was going to say “stay.” But instead, he only said:

“You take your coffee black, don’t you?”

And in that moment… something inside you dimmed. You just nodded. You even smiled, not fake, but incomplete. It was a brief thing; maybe too early to call “love,” but too intense not to call a “connection.” And Harvey Dent’s attempt to keep you here had taken refuge… in a coffee preference. Because the man had built too many walls to say “stay.” And you… weren’t brave enough to say “want me.” Not yet.

As you left the room, he reached out again.

You shook hands once more. This time it lasted a few seconds longer. But again, nothing was said.

As you closed the door behind you, you knew you had left a man, a possibility, and an unspoken sentence in that room. And Gotham was still gray.

But you had left a color within that gray.

He didn’t look back. Neither did you.

Because everything was hidden in not looking back.

Time: Now

Place: Gotham Docks, Warehouse 14-B

Condition: After working hours

It was as if Gotham Docks had swallowed the night whole.

The shadows of rusted cranes looked like massive creatures under the moonlight; the damp wind rising from the sea carried the scent of metal and salt together. Nothing in this city was ever truly silent, but tonight… even the silence felt cautious.

The heels of your shoes struck the concrete floor in slow, measured steps. Beneath each stride lay layers of old oil, dust, and the crumbling residue of time itself.

Walking beside you was Mr. Gibson, the meticulous and constantly adjusting-glasses kind of archivist.

Behind you trailed two more museum technicians; one carrying a thermal scanner to measure the internal temperature once the container was opened, the other rechecking documents and clearance papers. Security guards moved slightly ahead of your group, their holstered guns within easy reach… because this wasn’t an ordinary transport night.

And you, walking at the center of it all, never quite felt like part of the crowd.

You were the coordinator of the scene, the one who carried and shaped knowledge.

It was you who had first identified the smuggled Uruk statue as authentic two years ago.

And now… one of Babylon’s seals had summoned you back to Gotham. But this wasn’t just any seal. This was the Seal of Truth.

When you reached Warehouse 14-B, a night-shift dockworker turned the lock on the steel door.

As the door opened, the groan of rusted hinges pierced the silence like a blade.

It was as if something behind the door had awakened at the sound.

“Gibson,” you said, turning your head slightly without taking your eyes off the door,

“Have the team stay out. We need to measure the atmosphere first. This seal might react aggressively to temperature changes.”

Gibson nodded immediately, signaling to those behind you.

You, meanwhile, pulled a small flashlight from your pocket. The beam left a faint but clear mark on the concrete wall, like the path of your own footsteps.

As you stepped into the warehouse, it felt like you were walking into the belly of shadows.

The high ceiling was supported by a steel framework; cobwebs hung in corners, and everything looked as though it had stood untouched until this very night.

On top of the container was a black steel seal chain.

Label: Artifact Code 417-B / Origin: Mesopotamia / Babylon / Year: Approx. 1800 BCE

You drew a deep breath.

“This seal symbolized not just a king’s authority but the absolute justice of Marduk on earth,” you said. No one had asked, but such knowledge needed to be spoken aloud. Because seals wanted to be remembered.

“The double-headed serpent form on the seal… represents the duality of judgment. Truth and manipulation. If reversed...” You paused. “...it may trigger a chemical reaction.

Two years ago, a similar artifact in the Sulaymaniyah Museum released an ancient resin when opened under low pressure, rendering three people unconscious.”

Gibson swallowed.

“But… isn’t this just symbolic?”

You shook your head slowly.

“This seal was used during the final ritual of divine judgment in Babylon. Its base contains an organic compound activated at high temperatures.

What was seen as sacred punishment in its time might still have dangerous effects today. And someone may want it… for exactly that reason.”

As your sentence ended, your eyes began scanning the surroundings.

You turned to the security guards, lifting two fingers slightly to give a command, “Keep the door open. Stay outside. If anyone enters, notify only me. Do not draw your weapons.”

Both their faces showed suspicion, but your tone was unmistakably authoritative.

They obeyed.

As you bent down to unlock the container, your flashlight’s beam danced slowly across the metal surface. It was as if the seal had been waiting for your touch.

And you, you were here for precisely that. But something was there… A faint crackling sound from inside. Metal? Or the groan of wood expanding with the heat?

You paused. Motionless. Holding your breath.

Gotham had started to stir in the heart of the night. And you felt, this wasn’t just a seal.

Tonight, someone wanted to unveil a truth.

As you slowly opened the steel lid of the container, a muffled, compressed metallic hiss emerged from the darkness within. The chest containing the seal was specially enclosed — surrounded by double-layered insulation and placed in a protective case that maintained consistent temperature and humidity levels. It had been prepared under a six-tier security protocol: its outer wall coated in a thermoplastic alloy, the inner surface lined with insulating foam. Because this seal wasn’t just ancient; it was active , meaning it had the potential to react to environmental conditions.

You knelt down. Gibson handed you the special screwdriver with gloved hands. Your fingers, out of habit, began to turn the rotary heads. With each screw removed, the seal came closer to daylight, or rather, Gotham’s pale moonlight. And with every turn, that familiar feeling inside you grew stronger: the sharp instinct that danger buried in knowledge was drawing near. The whisper of intuition that came before any scientific explanation.

“Temperature is 21.7 degrees Celsius. Humidity at 42 percent,” the technician said, checking the sensor on his wrist.

“Internal environment is stable.”

You nodded, but kept your eyes on the seal.

As the last screw came loose, you slowly lifted the lid. And in that moment, the divine judgment of the past emerged once again, in the dark harbor of the present.

The Seal of Truth stood before you.

Roughly fifty centimeters in diameter, conical at the base with a slightly domed top, carved from black basalt stone. But it wasn’t just any stone. Analysis reports had indicated rare earth elements in its composition. Moreover, the seal was not only dual-layered in form but also in function: its surface was inscribed with a ritual text written in the Mesopotamian script, partially deciphered, yet still incomplete.

“Gibson…” you said, with that soft but commanding tone that overpowered the silence.

“There’s a crack on the surface. Not made by a laser, it looks like it was cut with a blade or… a rasp. That could allow chemical interaction with the internal layer.”

Gibson’s face fell immediately.

“So the seal’s been compromised?”

You didn’t shake your head. “No. But we’re no longer in control.”

Something shifted in the air at that moment. In the silence of the warehouse, it passed like a breeze too subtle to feel. A frequency. An intent.

Just then, one of the security guards standing by the outer door leaned into his radio.

The voice over the radio wasn’t clear, it sounded like a split breath. Then, a few seconds of silence.

Followed by a second voice. Much clearer:

“Don’t move. Wha...”

There was no explosion. No shot fired.

Only a strange laugh, first muffled, then high-pitched, rising like shattering glass.

“Hahaha-hAHA-hah...aaaahhh!”

It was like the shriek of a child popping a balloon, joyful, but off-key like a melody played wrong.

The laughter echoed within the warehouse walls.

Was it coming from the rafters? From the outer door? Or had it already slipped inside?

You couldn’t tell. Because that laugh didn’t come from a physical place, it had emerged from shadow.

Gibson froze in place.

One of the technicians immediately tried to close the container lid, but you stopped him with your hand.

“No,” you said. “If we seal it, the internal reaction will accelerate. This seal… responds not to darkness, but to light.”

But there was no light.

Your flashlight began to flicker.

The overhead lights started to shut down one by one, first in the far corner, then slowly, step by step, drawing closer. And there you were, crouched before that stone seal, when you felt it.

This was not an archaeological threat. Tonight was the night Gotham’s history would be rewritten. And the truth… would be revealed in blood.

The lights flickered back on. As the ceiling lamps lit up one by one, the air inside felt like it was trapped inside a metal can, slowly being vacuumed out. There was no noise.

No alarms blared. No doors slammed. No one screamed.

Things simply… began to disappear.

It didn’t last even a second. But in that single moment, the two security guards posted outside had already dropped to the ground.

They hadn't even had time to reach for their weapons.

Precise, systematic, and utterly silent.

The first person to enter was an unidentified man, known as one of Joker’s lieutenants.

He wore a chalk-white mask, covered in Joker’s scribbles, resembling something drawn by a child during sleepless nights.

He held a silenced pistol in his hands, but the real threat came from the two who followed.

One wore a red coat up to his neck, his face painted like a carnival clown, grinning madly, he entered while tapping his fingers together in a rhythm.

The other walked with a chainsaw dangling from his belt, though it wasn’t running. Not yet.

Before your team, the two technicians and Gibson, could fully process what was happening, their hands were already in the air.

The guns pointed at their heads made no sound, but their intent was clear.

The scene was set without a single shout.

It was as if Joker’s men had launched a mental invasion even before stepping inside, the fear leaking through the walls had taken physical form.

Gibson’s eyes turned to you. Not in panic. Not in hope.

Just… helpless. A trembling look that said: if you have a plan, any plan, use it now. But your hands were still on the seal’s case.

Your fingers were tracing the edge of the stone, moving between the carved figures.

And your face… was now darker than the dark around you.

One of the armed men shoved Gibson down by the back, forcing him to his knees.

The other technician crouched to the ground while mumbling a few defensive sentences, but the words shattered in the air, unfinished, unheard.

Then something happened.

This time, darkness truly fell. All the lights in the warehouse went out. Flashlight batteries died simultaneously. Radios fizzled into silence. And from within the gloom came the sound of footsteps. Two steps. A pause. Then two more steps. This wasn’t a man’s walk. This was something announcing its presence on stage. And then came the sound…

A laugh, like metal scraping against glass, that made your skin crawl.

“Aaaah-haha-haaa… Now before we begin, everyone take their places, will you?”

It was as if the entire warehouse trembled within that voice. And that voice now loomed over all of you.

When the Joker entered, he wasn’t seen in the light, but in the shadow.

But his voice -that tone- engraved itself into even the memory of the dark.

He walked in slowly.

Wearing his signature purple coat, though its buttons were missing.

The makeup on his face looked as if it had been done days ago and left to dry; cracked at the edges of his chin, with dark red streaks running from the corners of his mouth, not fresh, but like reopened wounds.

And his eyes… There was nothing of this world in those eyes.

When his men made a move toward Gibson, the Joker tilted his head.

Like he was watching something amusing.

Then his voice came again, softer now, as if only you were meant to hear it:

“No, no, no… leave him. Take… her.”

His finger pointed at you. But when his men hesitated, Joker’s voice sharpened suddenly, rising like an enraged circus master’s command:

“I saaaid… leave… him!”

The men began to approach you. As they neared, one pulled out a zip tie from his belt, the other raised his weapon. But then they stopped.

Joker snapped his fingers, the gesture slicing across the moment like a blade.

“No, no… we’ll need her a bit later. For now… don’t touch.”

And in that instant… everything stopped.

Joker’s footsteps echoed in an uneven rhythm — sometimes dancing, sometimes dragging — as he circled the crate containing the seal.

His men didn’t breathe. Their eyes were locked onto your every move.

The technicians knelt on the ground. Gibson had been handcuffed. But none of them dared look directly at Joker.

Only you had the courage to stare into his madness. And when he met your gaze, he tilted his head. As if studying a painting that had you in it.

In his eyes, something flickered, like a laugh that God had forgotten in the void. Then he smiled.

“I should thank you, shouldn’t I?”

His voice started like warm tea, but sharpened as it poured into a cracked cup.

“This seal… this perfect, charming, wicked, cursed… oh, beautiful thing… if it hadn’t reached me, I’d have been so very sad to lose you.”

He took a few steps toward you. Only a breath of distance separated you now.

He didn’t turn his face to you, he looked at the seal.

“And you… you found it, wrapped it, delicately catalogued it, brought it all the way to Gotham…”

He tilted his head gently, words slipping from his lips in a near whisper. “…like you gave birth to it. Just for me.”

Something cold slid through your veins, but you didn’t step back.

You stared at him without blinking. Your gaze held no fear, only analysis, a mind not trying to understand his madness, but to dismantle it. And that only thrilled Joker more.

“You know…” he said, spreading his arms as he continued to pace, “The seal isn’t just a rock. It’s a gate. It’s a… summons. The only thing the old gods ever asked of us: CHAOS.”

His voice rose on the final word, and he slammed his palm onto the crate’s metal edge, letting the metallic thud echo through the room.

“And I need someone like you. Smart, tidy, an educated little scientist. Because when this stone kisses that beautiful brain of yours…”

His eyes widened, and he made a bizarre kissing gesture with his hands.

“…THE WORLD. WILL. BURN.”

He fell silent. Looked at your face. His voice suddenly softened, like that of a fake therapist.

“But if you don’t cooperate… I’ll be so upset. My heart would break. My soul… shattered. And then I’d… hmm… do very bad things.”

With those words, he suddenly leaned toward you.

He reached for your cheek, but it wasn’t affection. It was a test of limits. A deranged man’s probe to see how much you’d tolerate. But you pulled your head back, resisting him. Silently, but firmly.

“I’m not part of your deranged fantasy.” Your voice was cold. Precise. “And the seal, that’s my work. Not this city’s. And definitely not yours.”

In that moment, Joker’s face froze.

His eyelids shut for just a heartbeat, so brief most wouldn’t have noticed. But you did.

“Well, well.”

He opened his eyes and smiled. But this time, there was no amusement in that smile, only death.

“Wrong answer.”

Suddenly, he swung his hand — still cuffed — and shoved you toward the floor.

At the same time, he drew a small blade from inside his coat, not ceremonial, not clean.

It was an old, rusted, blood-stained razor.

He attacked, not to kill, but to break. Because Joker never killed right away. He broke his toys first.

But as soon as you saw his arm move, you lifted your knee, pressing into his elbow.

His wrist twisted, and the blade dropped.

In the same motion, you shoved him back with your body, stepping between him and the seal’s crate.

You grabbed the flashlight’s metal body and struck the direction you guessed he was in, throwing him off balance.

His men moved to intervene, but Joker shrieked

“DON’T TOUCH HER! IF YOU TOUCH HER, THE GAME ENDS!”

And you… You found a gap in the dark. Maybe behind a shelf. Maybe a narrow space between crates. But for a few seconds, you escaped. Just long enough to breathe.

The darkness swallowed you. But Joker’s laughter followed. It echoed.

“Ohh, now that! THAT was a beautiful move! Tonight… we’re going to have so much fun!”

Wedged between the narrow space of the shelves, your back pressed against the corner of a dust-covered old crate, your breath felt like it was being dragged from your throat rather than drawn from your lungs. Your heartbeat pulsed not just in your chest, but in your ears, under your eyelids.

Joker’s scream-laced laughter bounced forward and backward, echoing as if it lived within the warehouse walls, distorting your sense of direction.

Gibson and the other technicians were still hostages, but you didn’t know their fate.

One thing was clear: there was no way out. As you crawled through the dusty shelves, just barely setting your feet on the ground, the darkness suddenly shattered.

All the shadows in the depot turned, like spotlight beams, toward you.

And Joker appeared from within that light like a magician. But this wasn’t a stage. This was an execution ground turned into a stage.

“That’s why I love you!”

He spoke in that unnerving tone, not from his chest, but slipping through his clenched teeth.

“Your brilliance, your pride, those dazzling eyes of yours… ahh… but every beautiful thing comes with a cost, doesn’t it? Truth… always demands a face.”

He took a step closer. He reached for the lapel of his purple coat and pressed his fingers against a small, colorful toy flower.

That familiar thing, clowns smiled at it, but were never truly happy.

“Are you ready?” he tilted his head, as if responding to some voice inside.

“I wouldn’t want to ruin your beauty… but your face… needs a little truth.”

And then, before he was close enough to lift you from the floor, he pressed the flower lightly. A click. A mechanism. A hiss that tore through the air!

The liquid sprayed from the flower in a burst, too fast to see, aimed directly at your face.

It wasn’t just liquid. It was pain in chemical form.

The smell hit you instantly, sulfur, chlorine, metallic sharpness… it didn’t just reach your nose; it struck your memories.

Not even Gotham’s sewers reeked of death like this. But at the last second, you threw yourself to the ground.

The acid whizzed over your head and splattered against a metal surface behind you.

Ssssss!

It began to eat through it, releasing a rising plume of smoke, yellowish and suffocating.

Joker stepped back a few paces, stomping his feet and cackling.

Manic, high-pitched, laced with coughs.

“Ahahah! NOW THAT WAS GOOD! THAT WAS… art!”

But then, a single metallic clang rang from one of the warehouse walls. Not an explosion, but the sound of something splintering. Then, another voice. Much clearer. Much more lethal.

A man’s voice. “Don’t touch her face, Joker.”

And from within the shadows, another shadow emerged. But this one didn’t dance like Joker. This one walked. A man with half a face, holding a silver gun, his eyes reflecting a life already burned.

Two-Face.

And behind him came his men, night vision goggles, heavy weaponry, far more trained than Joker’s.

They didn’t slither in like snakes.

They struck like bullets, direct, precise, vengeful. Then, the chaos erupted. Gunfire echoed in the room. Glass shattered. Flashlight shards hit the floor. Shelves toppled. Human screams tangled with gunshots.

Joker’s men attacked like dancers, but this time, they weren’t met with an audience. They were met with judgment. Two-Face’s men didn’t look like part of a play, they looked like a courtroom. And tonight, truth demanded a sentence.

Joker was forced to retreat before he could reach you again. But even as he fled, he left his laughter behind.

“This is just the beginning, pretty face! This is just the INTERMISSION!”

Two-Face’s men were fast, coordinated—too disciplined, too lethal compared to Joker’s stage kids. Within seconds, the warehouse had turned into hell, but even devils obeyed one rule inside: it was Joker who would decide who lived.

And Joker had chosen to play the role of the "loser."

He gave a subtle nod to two of his men while the others began to pull back.

One of them dropped to the floor with a scream, adding drama to the scene, he hadn’t been hit, but screamed like he was dying.

Joker, backing away with both hands raised, wore a sour expression of regret.

“Alright, alright, we’re leaving, okay?! Curtain’s dropping if no one else wants to fall!”

His laughter this time was weaker, sneakier.

He turned, or seemed to, vanishing into the shadows with two of his men.

But you...

You were just now catching your breath. Your head had turned. The direction of the fight had shifted.

And maybe, just maybe, you were starting to feel like you’d made it out.

And that was the moment, the moment shadows turn their backs. That was the moment Joker shows his real intent.

When silence returned to the warehouse, when only a few gunshots remained, the mist curtain near the back entrance began to ripple again.

And Joker’s men, this time, attacked from the center.

The five who had seemed to retreat came back with explosives and rifles.

With a crash like thunder, one of the large shelves collapsed.

As people scattered in panic, you threw yourself into the nearest safe spot.

And Joker, he wasn’t hiding anymore.

His arms wide open, he walked like he’d been waiting just for you.

“Ah! Now we’re on the right stage!”

He shouted.

“You’re my little doll! You and that seal belong to me, you’re... a goddess’s scream, HAHAHA!”

His men charged, not at you, but to seize you.

But at that moment, a shadow burst through them, like it had crawled straight out of hell.

Two-Face.

His left side looked like a nightmare scorched into flesh. But on the right... there was still a man.

There was still Harvey.

He stepped between the men, and a gunshot rang out. Then another.

One of them struck directly, beneath the ribs, into his chest.

“AHH...!” The cry was painfully human.

Two-Face, or rather Harvey, lost his balance and dropped to his knees.

His gun slipped from his hand, fingers still tense on the trigger, but he no longer had the strength to lift it.

Joker bent down as if savoring the best part of the play.

“Oh, Harvey. Even with two faces, you still couldn’t find one true love…”

Your eyes dropped to the man lying on the floor. Broken, but familiar. Deformed, but still tied to your past.

What you felt wasn’t sound, it was emotion. And that emotion reached your tongue, first as a whisper… then a cry.

“Harvey!”

Your throat was dry. But his name escaped you like something long buried finally finding air.

You leapt to your feet, pushing through gunfire and collapsing crates to throw your body forward.

You dropped beside him, knees slamming into the floor. Half his face was still Harvey. And you weren’t afraid to touch that half.

Joker was saying something behind you. Maybe mocking. Maybe silent. But you couldn’t hear it. Because in front of you, beneath your hands… was your past.

Joker was having two of his men carry the seal chest, while looking at you with one hand in the air, his head tilted to the side; that familiar, stomach-turning admiration was in his eyes again… but this time, there was something more. Panic. Urgency. As if this performance was ending sooner than he had planned. The security lights spinning around the chest flashed crimson against the rafters, and Joker’s shadow crawled across the ceiling like a spider. And he, smiling with those decayed teeth, stepped closer to you once again, locking eyes.

“We were meant to be together, darling... Me, you, the seal... and madness. Love, in the end, is just a form of insanity etched into history, isn’t it?”

He reached out to you, graceful in appearance, but behind the elegance was a violence that hummed through the air like a current. At that very moment, the darkness fell a second time. But this time, it didn’t come from Joker.

It came from something deeper.

A chunk of ceiling beam crashed to the ground, dust exploding into the air. Then came that voice… one that belonged to Gotham’s nights, but not just its nights, its punishments, its darkness, its unshakable will.

“That’s enough, Joker.”

At first, it wasn’t clear where the voice came from. But with it, one of Joker’s men suddenly flew into the air, his body crashing into crates before slumping unconscious. Another dropped with the crack of bone snapping at his neck. Panic overtook Joker’s crew before fear even reached his own face. And the shadow, the silhouette shaping itself within that darkness, finally emerged, revealing the figure of Gotham’s grim conscience: Batman.

His long cape trailed behind him like a storm, his eyes slicing through the chaos beneath the mask like lasers. Once whispered about in rumor, now descending into the fire of hell to lay down judgment, his footsteps carried the weight of a solemn vow.

Joker went quiet for a moment. His eyes widened, then his lips curved slightly.

“Ohh... he’s here,” he said, almost cheerfully.

“The big dog of the night has arrived... Marvelous! Now the final act is ready!”

Batman swiftly incapacitated two more men—one disarmed with a batarang, the other blinded with a smoke pellet. The warehouse descended into chaos once again, but this time not the theatrical chaos Joker adored.

This time it was Batman’s chaos, clean, controlled, military precision.

Just then, one of Two-Face’s most trusted men, gray-haired, his face marked by old war scars, approached you.

“Take Harvey. Our transport’s at the south dock,” he said, his voice cracked but firm. “Batman’s buying you time.”

You turned to glance at Batman, his eyes were locked on you. Between each strike, each takedown, his voice reached you through the haze and noise, carrying with it not command, but responsibility:

“Get both of you out. Now.”

When he spoke those words, it wasn’t an order. It was a promise. A promise that he would not let you stay behind, even if it meant chasing hell itself.

Harvey was still on the ground, half his face slick with blood and sweat. His eyes barely opened, and the word that slipped from his lips barely escaped:

“Y/N, you have to go…”

But you lowered your head, gripped his hand tightly, fingers locking around his like an anchor.

“No. I’m keeping you alive.”

The man took Harvey’s arm over his shoulder, and you wrapped yourself under his other side. The man with half a burnt face, who once belonged to your past, who still tied you to your most powerful memories, his survival now meant more than any artifact ever could.

The seal chest was still in Joker’s hands. They were almost out. But Batman appeared directly in their path. His cape whipped like a hurricane, his strikes exact like a final verdict.

Joker, retreating and still grinning, tossed a handful of explosive capsules behind him, choking the air in fire and smoke.

You and Harvey had made it to the back exit of the warehouse.

The sky was steel gray, the harbor cloaked in mist. The getaway vehicle waited with the engine running.

Harvey was slipping into unconsciousness. His eyelids half-closed, he whispered something that hit you like a pulse straight to the chest:

“Your face… still reminds me what beauty feels like.” And as you opened the door and laid him gently into the back seat, your eyes turned one last time toward the warehouse.

Through the flames and falling debris, you saw the silhouette moving, Batman, heading deeper into the smoke, chasing the Joker.

That night, the seal had been stolen. But Gotham’s greatest secret was still unopened. And truth… had yet to show its face.

---

The inside of the car was dark, but the shadow of death had drawn itself across Harvey’s body like a scar, starting from his left shoulder and reaching his chest. That cursed bullet tightening around his ribcage hadn’t pierced just flesh, it seemed to have shattered his conscience, too; because his face was contorted not with pain, but with the collapse of something within. Blood was slowly seeping from beneath his jacket, dripping down beside the seat in a rhythm almost like a heartbeat.

You were kneeling on the edge of the back seat, trying to open the small medical kit with trembling hands to give him first aid before you arrived. Everything was shaking: your hands, your eyes, your voice. But your mind... no, your mind was still alert. Because this man, this shattered man, was once someone who reminded you of “everything that was beautiful.”

“I need to touch you...” you said, your voice barely a whisper. “But this is going to hurt.”

The intact side of Harvey’s face curled faintly. His eyes were half-shut, but when he heard your voice, that familiar expression flickered on his cracked lips like a shadow.

“Your touch… it’s the most beautiful pain.”

His breath was ragged, the words spilling out without echoing in his chest anymore.

As you carefully tore the blood-soaked part of his jacket, the heat bursting from beneath the skin almost burned your fingertips. You pulled out a small antiseptic pad, and while pressing it against the wound, you exhaled slowly. It was perhaps the smallest of things that could be done, but in that moment, it was everything.

“I never thought the next time I’d see you would be like this.”

Your voice felt like a memory emerging from the night.

Harvey had slightly turned his body toward the window. His left hand was still pressed against his bleeding abdomen. The pain in his back was visible in his eyes, but the expression on his face was bleeding from somewhere deeper: from within.

“Coming back to you… has never felt this heavy.”

The breath he took to speak burned him with the bullet lodged in his chest. He forced the words from his throat.

“You shouldn’t come with me, Y/N. We should drop you somewhere safe. I’m not the man you used to know.”

You flinched when you heard his voice.

For a moment, his words hit you like a bullet to the gut. Something knotted in your throat, and you turned your eyes to him, but he still hadn’t faced you. He was speaking to the darkness of the window, as if he didn’t want you to see him.

You pressed your hands against your knees, then suddenly leaned forward.

“No!” Your voice cracked but was full of resolve.

“I don’t want that. I want to be with you, Harvey. If I leave you like this... I’ll never forgive myself. Do you hear me? I’m coming with you. No matter what.”

Harvey was leaning back in his seat, but he wasn’t resting. A dirty cloth had been pressed against his chest to stop the bleeding. With every breath, a faint groan escaped his lips. He clenched his teeth, swallowing the pain. But in that moment, he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket. His fingers trembled as they searched for something… and finally, they found it.

The silver coin, its edges worn and its surface defiant against time, dropped into his hand.

Harvey clenched the coin in his fist. His eyes gleamed with anger. He didn’t turn his head toward you, but his voice was directed at you now.

A drop of blood trailed from the corner of his lips, but he didn’t even notice. “I have to make a decision, Y/N.” His breath was unsteady .“But I… I can’t do it myself. This cursed body no longer obeys me.”

He lifted the coin. You could see his hands trembling. The veins around his eyes were tight. His teeth clenched. His left hand, which still pressed the wound, was now soaked in blood seeping through his fingers.

“You’ve seen my face. You’ve seen everything. And still…” He swallowed. “Still, you want to stay. I can’t make this choice. This…”

At that moment, he extended the coin to you. The metal in his palm was wet and warm.

“You’ll flip it.” His eyes were fixed on you now. “Heads, you stay. Tails, you leave. Stay with Two-Face… or leave Harvey behind. We’ll leave it to chance.”

His voice was cracked. The voice of a man on the verge of breaking.

You slowly reached out and took the coin. The weight of the metal sat in your palm like a verdict. Your heart was pounding as if it would burst from your chest, but Harvey’s gaze had already withdrawn from you.

You lowered your head in silence. Took a deep breath. And you flipped the coin.

It turned once in the air. Then twice. Then, on the third turn, you caught it in your hand. You paused for a moment before revealing the result.

And when you opened it… it was heads. You would stay with Two-Face.

“Goddamn it!” he shouted. “This city… this night… and you… all of you set me up! Heads?! HEADS?!”

It felt like he was blaming you, but no, his true fury was inward. His inner war was more brutal than anything his body had endured. Now, he was on trial with his own face.

At that moment, the driver, one of Harvey’s loyal men sitting in the front seat, glanced at the rearview mirror.

“Mr. Dent!” he snapped. “Enough. You’re losing blood. If you keep yelling, you won’t have any side left.”

His voice was cold, sharp. The voice of a man accustomed to command.

Harvey fell silent for a moment. He ground his teeth together. He turned his eyes back to the window.

His breath quickened. His hands still trembled. But this time… something else had settled into his face.

A broken surrender. Perhaps… the weary acceptance of a man trying to grasp a life he had already lost, now etched into a new face drawn by fate.

And you… You only watched him. Because inside this man, Harvey still existed. And your heart belonged not to the face, but to the part of that burned heart that still beat.

The underground clinic was like a refuge breathing alongside the damp scent beneath Gotham’s decaying layers of concrete. From the outside, it resembled the basement of an ordinary building, but inside, it had transformed into something close to an operating theater. Yellow lights embedded in the walls were far from sterile but sat squarely at the heart of functionality. Everything was designed for urgency and secrecy: rusted surgical tables, a doctor whose license had been revoked years ago yet whose scalpel still moved with masterful precision, and an air thick with inevitable illegality lingering in every corner.

Two-Face -Harvey Dent- lay semi-conscious on the stretcher, his breathing uneven, his chest wrapped in bandages. The surgeon had once been one of Gotham General Hospital’s most celebrated neurosurgeons, until his license was revoked for organ trafficking and unethical practices. But his hands, still godlike in their precision, did not tremble. That night, he wasn’t trying to save a hero or a monster; he was trying to keep a man in pain alive.

And you…

You were being held in a quiet guest room on the upper floor, its stone walls enclosing a heavy stillness. No harm had come to you. In fact, the meal brought to you on a tray evoked a certain lonely aristocracy from your past, an eerie kind of hospitality. But not a single bite passed your lips. Your hands rested on your knees, shoulders slumped forward, under the single light of a windowless room, you were there for one reason alone.

Harvey.

When you first met him, his eyes had held both hope and fire. He was a man who believed in Gotham, who was in love with justice. But now… that fire had partially cracked under the scars left by acid, and what remained seemed to flicker out with the bullet lodged in his chest.

Yet within your heart, nothing had faded. On the contrary, your very presence there was suffocating with passion, heavy with devotion, you wanted to give yourself to him entirely.

They had brought Harvey to his room. It was a more private part of the clinic, a narrow room with almost no furniture, lit dimly. Thick curtains were drawn. The only music in the room was the sound of his breathing. The painkillers administered after the surgery were still coursing through his body, but his mind—that sharp, conflicted mind—was awake.

Slowly, he opened his eyes. The ceiling was dark. For a moment, he couldn’t remember where he was. But then, the one truth still beating in his chest whispered to him:

You’re still alive, Harvey.

There was no knock on the door. You came in. The slightly ajar door opened silently, and your footsteps were cautious but resolute as you entered the room.

“Harvey?” Your voice was a whisper, but it held a thousand screams.

He turned his head immediately, but only to hide the disfigured side of his face.

The bandages were still loose in some places. Half of his face looked like the map of a ruined land.

“Leave.” His voice was hoarse. His breathing ragged, anger barely restrained. “You shouldn’t be here.”

You didn’t hear him, or maybe you did but didn’t care.

You walked closer. Only close enough to face the intact side of his face.

“I want to be with you, Harvey.” Your eyes were filled with tears. “Not to hurt you... but because I refuse to leave you.”

At that moment, Harvey closed his eyes. He clenched his jaw. His breath faltered. He started to turn toward you for a moment, but stopped.

“I’m not that man anymore, Y/N.” His voice was faint, tired. “That man who tried to protect Gotham... he’s dead now. What’s left is just…” He turned his head to the side, as if to show the ruined part of his face, yet it was clear he was ashamed.

“This scar. This rotten flesh. This face isn’t a man’s… it’s a monster’s.”

You stayed silent. But your eyes spoke. And then, you took one step closer.

Your hand gently touched the unharmed side of his face.

“I never really left you, Harvey. Even after I left Gotham that night, I was still with you. Every time you burned, I burned. I wish I hadn’t been afraid to say what I felt back then.”

For a moment, the only sound in the room was his breathing. Then Harvey opened his eyes. Slowly, hesitantly, he turned his head to face you. For the first time... he showed you both sides of his face.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t tremble. You didn’t pull away.

“See me,” you said. “Stop running. Just see me.”

Harvey’s eyes filled with tears. His lips quivered. But he didn’t push you away.

He only whispered:

“I don’t deserve you…”

But you leaned closer. And you said only one thing:

“But I love you. I have… since the moment I first saw you.”

At that moment, something cracked open within Harvey’s heart.

The one thing that could pierce the darkness inside a man: Love.

In the room, time seemed to have stopped. The only sound coming from outside was the steady hum of a generator burning somewhere in the distance.

Harvey Dent, now whispered about in the city as Two-Face, was half-sitting up in bed. The surgical bandages around him had loosened. His pale skin had turned even more ashen from the effects of the bullet recently removed from his chest. His eyes glowed like sparks in the dark, but his gaze avoided yours.

You had been sitting quietly by his side for a while. His breathing echoed in the room; the occasional rasp revealing not just physical pain, but a wound deeper, something bleeding from his soul.

Then, unexpectedly, that sentence fell from his lips. Slow, fractured, but certain:

“You shouldn’t be with me, Y/N.”

There was a contradiction in his voice that echoed from the past; it wasn’t fully Harvey speaking, nor was it entirely Two-Face. “Whatever we didn’t say to each other two years ago… let’s do the same now. Let’s stay silent. Let’s keep our distance.”

He narrowed his eyes at you. In the healthy one, there was still a trace of blue left, but the other...

The other was something else entirely.

“My face…” he continued, “…my life... it's too filthy for someone like you.”

Something inside you shattered. You stood up. Your steps were slow but resolute. Your voice was hoarse but filled with resolve.

“I don’t care, Harvey. About anything. Not this city, not the people, not your wounds, not the past… I don’t care.”

But still, he refused to fully turn his face toward you.

He angled his head even more, and in the dim light, the burned side of his face began to emerge from the shadows. And in that moment… you saw the true horror.

That face no longer belonged to a man. A deep burn ran along his cheekbone, the skin puffed and warped like melted plastic.

One side of his lips had receded entirely; his teeth were exposed, the jawbone bare like a secret laid open.

The eye socket had sunken, the eyelid melted away; a red, glassy and moist eye stared with an asymmetric tremble.

There was something in that face now that was no longer human.

Not just ugliness, pain and vengeance intertwined.

His face had become a courtroom wall. Every line a trial, every burn a loss.

Then Harvey turned his head toward you with a guttural anger.

The fragility in his voice sharpened as it fused with his rage:

“Look at me, Y/N. Look. You want to stay with this? This... disgusting, split, burned... thing?”

His shoulders trembled. But this time, not from pain. From anger. At himself. “You’re still searching for the old Harvey. But that man, that blue-suited, well-spoken, idealistic D.A.… he’s dead. Buried. He died with that burn. That wound took him from me. What’s left here, this, isn’t me.”

He went quiet. He wanted to silence you too. But you… refused to be silenced.

You sat down next to him, on the edge of the bed. You didn’t flinch. You looked at him. At his most wounded side.

Your eyes filled with tears, but your gaze was steady.

“No, Harvey. I’m not searching for you. I’ve found you. And if this face... if this scar is what stands between your past and me… then I’ll learn to live with it.”

At that moment, Harvey furrowed his brows. As if he wanted to say something, but the words lodged in his throat. His hands trembled. He gripped the edge of the bed with his left hand.

You leaned in. Slowly. Quietly. He was perhaps expecting you to push him away from yourself.

But instead… you leaned in toward the scarred side of his face. Without hesitation.

And you placed a kiss on it. Slow. Gentle. But with your whole heart.

The wet, acrid-smelling, wounded cheek beneath your lips… it wasn’t just skin—it was a burden of an entire life. And still, you didn’t pull away.

Harvey froze. His breath caught. His pupils widened. He swallowed. The words stuck in his throat.

“You… you weren’t disgusted?”

His voice was as fragile as a child’s. His face was still in pain. But in his eyes... a single tear glimmered.

You simply nodded. “No. Because this face… it’s proof of everything you’ve survived. And I love you, with all of it.”

And Harvey Dent, perhaps for the first time in years… took a breath laced with peace.

But that breath still carried darkness, it would never fully disappear.

Because now, he lived as two men. But that night… at least one of them was loved again.

Days had passed.

Gotham was dark again. But this time, the darkness wasn't seeping into you, it was spreading around you. The hideout you now called home, a secret underground apartment built years ago by Harvey and a few trusted men had become both a hospital for the wounded and a prison cell for you. It was as if you'd fallen out of time. Morning and night no longer meant anything; you no longer lived by the world’s clocks, but by the rhythm of Harvey's breath.

Every morning, you cleaned the wound left by the bullet that had torn through his chest. The injury was deep, but the real danger wasn’t infection, it was Harvey himself. His mind was a battlefield. Sometimes he recognized you. Sometimes he didn’t want to. And sometimes... he couldn’t, as he wrestled with the monster inside him.

You dressed his wound in utter silence, with painstaking care. You wiped the stitch marks gently, moistened a cloth with sterile water, and pressed it down with delicate precision. Some mornings, the blood still came. But the real thing bleeding wasn’t his body. It was the shattered justice inside him, the demolished beliefs.

He didn’t eat at first. Didn’t speak.

Just stared at the wall.

But you still set the table. You picked up the spoon, offered it to his hand, sometimes sat across from him and quietly ate your own food, just so he wouldn’t feel alone.

And then, one night... he took that first bite. Without flinching.

Without looking away. In silence.

That moment was a victory for you. Like an acquittal in Gotham’s highest court.

You had just adjusted the blanket down to his feet when you straightened a little. Your back bent slightly, your eyes not meeting his but lingering on the unscarred side of his face. But then you couldn’t resist anymore, you whispered the question.

“How did you know Joker would be there? More importantly... how did you know I would be?”

For a moment, silence returned between you.

Harvey lowered his head slightly. His eyes vanished into the shadowed half of his face; but when his lips moved, his voice was not as firm as usual, it was fragile, like on those nights you didn’t want to remember.

“Because if Joker was after that seal, he wouldn’t stop until he found out who cataloged it. And if he knew it was you… well, everything Joker sets his eyes on still concerns me.”

Then he slowly turned his face toward you. This time, even the disfigured side was revealed in the light. But you didn’t look away.

“I knew you were there... because ever since the night you left Gotham, I’ve been watching you. From afar, but with precision. Even when I became Two-Face, I was still with you. And... if anything were to happen to you... I wanted to be the one to get you out.”

That trembling pride in his voice, maybe that was what still made him Harvey. Even as half his face remained burned, cracked, nerves exposed beneath torn flesh when he spoke those words, you could still see the man he once was, the white knight of Gotham.

“This isn’t something new, Y/N. From the moment you stepped into my office... I wanted you. I desired you. I loved you.”

When Harvey had nightmares at night, you were there beside him. When sweat clung to his brow, when guttural whispers fell from his lips...

“Batman... Batman... no, no I can’t stop him…”

You knelt beside his bed and held his hands.

You ran your fingers through his hair.

You whispered soothing words into his ear. “It’s over... you’re here... you’re safe…”

And in those moments, you didn’t care whether he was Harvey or Two-Face. Because you loved him with all his broken parts. Because no one could love a half-man like you did.

Sometimes, he’d stir in his sleep. His back would tremble.

And you, so he wouldn’t wake, would curl up beside him, holding your breath. Eyes open, watching him. At three in the morning. At dawn.

Forgetting yourself.

One morning, you’d left a small note on the edge of his pillow. It had just three words.

“I’m still here.”

Your love didn’t shout. It waited. It stayed. It endured.

And Harvey…

Every morning, when he saw you, he was still surprised. Because no one had stayed beside him this long.

Your name... was now the only pure thing left inside him.

And you… you didn’t want to change that.

You only wanted to keep being by his side.

No matter what.

The only sound echoing in the silence of the hideout was the soft transition where your steps moved from stone floor to rug. Outside, the coolness of autumn lingered, but the damp, stony chill of the underground walls was sharper, something that seeped deep into your bones. The place may have been decorated with luxury, dark walnut bookshelves, gold-lined panels, heavy velvet curtains hiding an entire world—but the cold... the cold was in everything.

You knelt in front of the fireplace. You pulled the silver lever first to open the gas valve. Then you turned the small panel on the left to activate the electronic spark. From inside came a quiet hiss, like something awakening, followed by a faint pop, then a louder one. Flames rose, slipping between the stones like a bright tongue of light. It wasn’t as if the fireplace was swallowing the fire, it was spitting it out for you. As the orange and golden flickers danced across the dim walls, the light struck your forehead; with the curve of the flame, the lines of your face looked as though they’d been reshaped by the touch of a sculptor.

You sank into the cushion, sitting in front of the fire with your knees pulled to your chest. Your skin was still cold, but the presence of the flames seemed to wrestle with the emptiness inside you. You trembled slightly, whether from the chill or from the spiral of thoughts pulling you inward, you couldn’t tell.

You didn’t notice you were being watched.

The door was slightly ajar, nearly silent. From the shadows, a pair of eyes watched you. Harvey Dent—or what was left of him—stood there. One shoulder leaned against the doorframe, the other hand still clutching the edge of the bandage on his chest, his gaze locked on you. Between the cracked, pale lips, a breath caught. On the intact side of his face was a deep, shaken desire; on the other, the torn, melted, grotesque half where skin and muscle formed a twisted map, that desire had turned into something almost sinful.

And as Harvey watched you, every movement etched slowly into his mind.

The curve of your figure by the fire, the way your neck moved between shadow and bone, the delicate hollow forming as your hair fell behind your ear. The way your hips rested on the cushion, the firelight outlining your spine... all of it translated Harvey's feelings into something more physical. Maybe it was love. But it was also raw need. Watching you felt like committing a sin. Watching you... became a kind of worship.

Because you were the last light of his former life. The only thing that had touched his moral, just, orderly world, and then vanished. And now... you had returned from the shadows. And you hadn’t asked for anything. You hadn’t flinched when you saw his face. You hadn’t recoiled from his wounds, you had cleaned them with your own hands, fed him, wiped his forehead when he sweated, whispered his name in his nightmares. And now... there you were. In front of the fire. While the whole city was silent, you were in the heart of his cursed shadows.

Harvey clenched his teeth. His body was still weak, but a storm inside him was awakening. His left hand moved from the bandage to the pocket of his pants. The coin... that cursed, decision-making coin he always carried. The cold metal began to spin between his fingers. But this time he didn’t flip it. Because he was choosing knowingly.

He couldn’t take his eyes off you. And he admitted it to himself, no, this wasn’t obsession. This was something beyond desire. Possession. And for the first time, the part of him still Harvey accepted it. Half his face was still human. But even for that half, you were too beautiful.

And Harvey understood at that moment: he didn’t just love you anymore. He wanted you. With all his scars, to hold you in his hands... to kiss you as you knelt by the fire... to live you like a ritual outside of everything else.

But he was still watching. Still waiting. Because tonight... he would stand for the first time. And he would do it beside you.

You wore a thick cardigan, but your knees were bare. Sitting turned toward the fire, what you sought wasn’t just warmth, it was a kind of peace. Maybe from exhaustion, maybe from Harvey’s nightly murmured nightmares, maybe from something you couldn’t admit even to yourself. But at that moment... you thought you were alone.

Until...

That strange residue of burnt medicine, metal, blood, and old skin... a trace of Harvey’s presence. His scent was like the memory of a crumpled night. You didn’t turn. Not yet.

Then his voice came. A soft tone. Slightly rough.

“You sitting there like that would make the devil himself pray in hell.”

You didn’t turn. Your heart was pounding, but you didn’t move your head. Because you knew: that voice didn’t belong to Harvey alone, it also came from the darker presence merged within him.

Then you saw him. He had stepped out of the shadows. Standing. The bandage was loose, the deformed half of his face still visible, but his stance… for the first time, was like Harvey Dent.

The corner of your lips trembled. “You didn’t tell me you could walk,” you whispered.

Harvey smirked with one brow. A thin line curled on the intact side of his face. The other... burned, sunken, half skin, half flesh. His cheekbone was exposed; part of his eyelid gone, the white of his eye always visible, carrying a constant fury.

“I didn’t know what I should say,” he replied. “I’m trying to heal. But… your presence…” his voice caught in his throat, as if what he was about to say was waging war with something roaring inside him, “…it’s either healing me faster or pulling me under. I haven’t decided yet.”

He slowly walked toward you. His shadow stretched in front of the fire. As his steps echoed on the stone, you felt your muscles tense. But it wasn’t fear. It was something instinctual. A call your skin remembered.

He stopped beside you. Just inches away, his breath touched your nose.

“You know,” he said. “With one half of my eyes, I drown you in desire. With the other, I wait for you to be disgusted.”

You looked at him. There was no fear in your eyes, no hesitation. Only a love ready to break. A warm, slow breath slipped between your lips.

“They’re both you,” you said.

Harvey paused. Let his hands fall to his sides. Took one more step, close enough now to hold you upright.

“Can you… put your hand on my face?” he asked. His eyes trembled. “On the left side. The one everyone runs from. Without flinching.”

You said nothing. You rose to your feet and gently lifted your hand. You placed your palm on the burned, acid-melted cheek where nerve endings still flared like fire. The skin wasn’t whole. It wasn’t soft. But your touch... cut straight through Harvey’s chest like a blade.

A breath escaped him like a sob.

He bent forward.

His lips touched your forehead first. Faint. Half-burnt lips. Not a kiss, but an oath. Then to the side of your nose, then the edge of your mouth.

But when he reached the center of your lips, the one kissing you was no longer just Harvey Dent. The one kissing you now was a man half-cursed. And when his lips touched yours, time stopped.

The kiss was hesitant at first. Then, as his hands moved to your chin, it deepened. He kissed you as if he wanted to erase you, breathe you in, consume you whole. When his tongue met yours, the heat was like fire itself. Your hand moved to his chest. As it passed over his wounded side, Harvey shuddered. But he pulled you closer.

Your back hadn’t touched the floor. Not yet. But as you felt the weight of his body, the night’s darkness had wrapped around you both. And the fire… it was no longer only in the hearth.

The flames continued to flicker in the fireplace, and Harvey’s lips remained like a darkness echoing against yours. The passion, pain, and desire in the kiss were so intense that it felt like the entire underground bunker was contracting and expanding at the contact. As his body moved closer to yours, he wrapped one arm around your waist and the other hand tangled in your hair; when he grasped the back of your neck with his fingers, there was no need to put into words what was going on inside you.

Your breaths were now too mixed to be distinguished.

He slowly pulled your body back onto the thick cushion in front of the fireplace. His movements were not sudden, almost sacredly careful. He carried you in his hands, carrying with him every wound, every silence from your past. When you landed on the cushion together, your knees were on either side of his legs; your hands rested lightly on his chest. He was still hurt, but when you touched him, that pain… turned into something else. The anger directed at his being was replaced by faith in his touch.

Harvey pressed his chest against yours. You were bound to lose your balance. But he was holding you, you were safe. As his fingers ran along your back, you sank deeper into the darkness. And when your back met the carpet, your waist was flat on the cushion. Your thighs were much more visible and easily accessible.

And then he was between your legs. His groin was pressing against your vulva, one hand now caressing your outer thighs.

You looked up at Harvey as he pulled his lips away from yours and licked you from above. Especially that raw piece of flesh that moved under his scabbed, burn-scarred skin, that eye with the pubic deformity around his eye… he was watching you not with anger, but with a passion he couldn’t deny.

“Having you this close… it’s too much for me to be real,” he said in a husky voice.

Harvey’s muscles relaxed as your hands touched both sides of his face equally. It was as if your touch alone could restore balance to his broken body. For a few seconds he just looked into your eyes, like a man half dead, half alive.

But at that moment…

He closed on her lips again. This time, even deeper. As if he were trying to grasp not only your skin but your soul. His kiss was like a longing from a past life — a shout echoing through broken choices, unfinished sentences.

As he began to unbutton your cardigan, the curves of your body began to emerge. The fireplace light falling on your chest, neck and cheeks seemed to carry a touch of the night, lustful yet calm, burning yet solemn. The irregular heartbeat that beat just below your chest did not compete with yours, but accompanied yours.

Then he leaned slightly to the side; he buried his face in your hair and, as his fingertips brushed lightly as feathers from your neck to between your breasts, he whispered in a low tone:

“The fact that you can still love me… makes you either very strong or… very crazy.”

You smiled. It was a warm, passionate smile.

“Maybe both,” you answered. “But even in this state, I never thought of leaving you.”

The pressure applied to your vulva increased as the swelling in his pants became more pronounced. His tongue was in your mouth, tasting each other, and he wrapped one hand around your neck. It was a way of feeling you, of showing you who you belonged to. He supported you with his other hand on the ground, but it made you feel like you were trapped in his dark world.

Your breaths were now too mixed to distinguish.

He slowly moved the hand around your neck, not taking it off your skin, from your breasts to your stomach, and then to your waist. His movements weren’t sudden, almost sacredly careful. He pressed you closer to his groin. You could feel his hardness through the fabric now. He was pressing against your vaginal opening. You moaned in pleasure as your clit was stimulated, and you pressed your hands against Harvey’s chest. The wound was still fresh. But when you touched him, that pain… turned into something else.

Harvey buried his head in your neck for a moment. His breath wasn’t hot, it was burning. He didn’t whisper anything. But as he pulled your cardigan off your back, it was the silent plea of a man being pulled from the darkness.

And then he looked at you. He stared at your naked body with admiration, with hunger. He was looking passionately into your eyes, rubbing his cock against your inner lips with oscillating movements under the fabric.

You had one hand on his left cheek. While you were caressing his wounds, Harvey was satisfying you. Every movement, every touch was like a confession; a combination of pain, power, and love.

You felt the pain coming from Harvey’s wounds, but that pain was turning you on even more. As you ran your hands over Harvey’s deformed face, the only thing that wet you was not his hardness, but the terrible flaw in his face.

Harvey asked through his teeth, out of breath, as he continued to press his cock into you at a certain pace, “Do you like my flawed self, Y/N? Really?”

You bit your lower lip in pleasure and groaned in response. “If you weren’t flawed, you wouldn’t have such sweet poison.”

Harvey suddenly wrapped his fingers around your wrists and held them tightly, pinning your arms above your head. “Don’t look at me like that, Y/N, or I’ll lose control.” And that’s exactly why you were watching him like that.

One hand was still holding your wrists steady, while the other had already moved to your white lace panties. He angrily thrust his fingers between your skin and the fabric, ripping them off quickly. He crumpled them in his palm and brought them to his nose, inhaling the scent. The scent of your arousal was the scent of desire mixed with skin, a faint yet burning, sweet and salty scent that would grip anyone who came close. It was like the honest voice of womanhood.

“Every time I remember you, this smell will come to my nose. This smell is now my curse.”

Harvey’s eyes were filled with both admiration and unbridled appetite as he tossed your panties aside.

He paused for a moment. He reached into his inner pocket. He began to twirl the heavy coin he had picked up between his fingers. Without taking his eyes off yours, he said, "You don't even ask me what I'm going to do. Because you want it too." His tone darkened. "But I'm a fair man, aren't I? Still... enough to give you a choice."

He straightened up completely and sat on his knees. It was as if a judge was giving his verdict. "Do I lick that wet womanhood of yours and lower you to your knees...

Or do I stick my cock inside you and wait for morning? Fate will decide."

He tossed the coin into the air. The sound of metal spinning in the air with his fingers pierced the room. While you held your breath, he looked at the fate that had fallen into his palm. His lips moved. He didn't smile. Half of his face was in shadow. His voice was harsher, more primal. "Heads. So... I'll taste it first."

He turned the coin with his fingers as if he were caressing it. Desire and torture were mixed in his voice. "I must be patient. And you must endure. That's the rule."

His hands were on your inner thighs, and he roughly spread your legs apart. He put the Coin back in his pocket and said in a more husky tone, "Fate told you. Even when you cry, your inner voice will say 'more'."

He started to slowly move his tongue on your inner thighs and along your groin line. He was licking your left thigh first. As the cold shiver left by his tongue on your body roamed like a soft breeze, an irresistible desire rose inside you, and when he reached your groin line, he was pushing the limits of making you lose yourself wherever his tongue touched. Because every time he came to your groin line, the dream of finally taking care of your clitoris excited you, but in the end, your expectations were not met. You were shaking. Every time he kissed from your inner thighs to your knees and then reached the tip of his tongue near your vulva, you were shaking under him.

As if he was saying, “Everything beautiful takes time,”… He was building patience with his tongue.

You ran your hands through his hair and squeezed your fingers. With a slightly challenging, confident, mischievous tone in your voice, you said, “Lick me until you drive me crazy, please!”

“Be patient,” he said, especially calmly and threateningly. "I'm going to take that tongue to a place where you'll lose your mind."

When Harvey suddenly buried his head in your inner lips, you also encountered the rough texture of that burning, wounded side of his face. Since you had never expected this, a breath suddenly escaped from your chest. You tightened your hip muscles. You winced. That deformation added extra sharpness and weight to his touches.

He was warming you up slowly with his tongue at first. As he slowly swirled his tongue around your clitoris, it was inevitable that your capillaries would expand and your sensitivity would increase. Your womanhood would get hotter with every circle he drew, and when he started to change speed, its sensitivity would become unbearable.

In between, he would apply light pressure with the wide surface of his tongue. And when he did, he would take your lump between his teeth, making you experience pleasure and pain at the same time. Your lump, which he had clamped between his teeth, was now causing small tremors in you as the blood was trapped there, turning the pain of the bite into a pleasure toy.

Your heart was beating rapidly now. You grabbed his hair that belonged to Harvey's side roughly and pulled it in a way that showed your vicious spirit. While your moans were coming out of your chest and echoing throughout the room, you directed his movements with your body.

When Harvey suddenly pulled your head away without loosening his teeth too much, with that sharp pressure still echoing in your clitoris, you couldn't resist anymore and a curse escaped your lips. Your legs involuntarily squeezed Harvey's head. But Harvey spread your legs again with Two-Face's side, hard and angry. This time your legs tensed up much more. You felt a slight burning sensation in your crotch line. "You will move the way I want you to, you have no other choice."

When he leaned down again and used his tongue at the entrance of your vagina, it made you feel completely different. He was quickly sliding the tip of his tongue inside you. He was rooting it as deep as he could, as if he wanted to fuck you with his tongue. But when he took his tongue out of your vagina, he was quickly licking your entire vulva. First your hole, then your clitoris. Then your hole again, and your vagina.

Every pressure he applied to your vaginal entrance with that deformed area gave you a much deeper and more intense feeling than classic touches. The scar tissue was shaking you so much at every moment of oral sex that you were mesmerized by the unique mixture of pleasure and pain. The small bumps and pits of the deformed surface were creating such a vibration in your clitoris that your body was reacting on its own.

He pulled his face away from you. But only deeper, like the calm before a storm. He placed his arms on either side of your body and lay on top of you again. Now he was looking down at you from above. He was thinking about how he was driving you crazy. But that wasn't the only thing on his mind. It took courage to love your wounded side, and as you showed it, he was both growing stronger and falling deeper in love.

When your eyes locked onto the most distorted part of his face, he saw passion, not pity. He realized then: You needed my darkness.

He began in a low, deep, hushed voice. “You’re so wet, your body is calling me in instead of resisting.” When he looked at you with a steady, frightening calmness, you looked away, but for a moment, he didn’t look away from you. “You’re at the point where you can’t escape anymore. When I’m inside you, you’ll memorize every second.”

He felt how your insides trembled when his hands gripped the hem of his pants. He never took his eyes off you as he slowly peeled back the fabric beneath.

You gasped when his penis was exposed. His veins stretched out along its length, visible under the thin skin. His glans was red against his fair skin, and the precum leaking from its tip made that blush inviting.

His harsh, sharp, deep tone echoed in your ears. “I’ll remind you that you belong to me now.”

When you heard those words, you knew you were with Two-Face. Harvey wasn’t behind those commanding eyes. His eyes, his lids melted, now felt like a threat to you. It was both frightening and exciting as a sense of possession rose in your heart.

He moved quickly and mercilessly. It wasn’t your first sexual experience, but his penis was thick enough for your vagina. The slippery fluid had soaked the entrance to your vagina so much that you expanded as Two-Face entered you. Your vaginal walls were so sensitive during penetration that the pleasure intensified, causing you to take a sudden, deep breath. The knotted surface of your walls completely enveloped his veined body. Harvey was now stimulating every cell of your body. And as you grew more aroused, you felt a buzzing in your ears and a pulse in your temple bone. The sensations were overwhelming.

Harvey was no different than you at this point. As his cock entered your vagina, your tight walls began to rub against its outer surface. The friction stimulated his glans, turning his ragged breathing into raspy gasps.

Your hands gripped his arm tightly, your nails digging into his flesh. Each point of pain helped him feel you deeper. The pain was intertwined with the pleasure, every nail mark, every pressure, an indication of how much more he was going to lose you. You were so close to losing control, and right then, right there, losing you was giving him infinite pleasure. As he felt the lust of that pain, he held you tighter, grinding himself into you. His balls slapped against your ass, making a “snap” sound. Your breasts were bouncing up and down, your breathing coming in short gasps. It was all part of a passion that was pushing the boundaries, and each moment was deepening, like a final breath.

You were soggy. Your vaginal mucus was seeping from your outer lips, the slurry sound of Harvey continuing to pump into you filled the room.

Harvey leaned over you more. He put all his weight on your body. He had trapped your body in the pit of pleasure. His tone was low, slow and raspy, “I will defile your beauty with this wound… and you will want it.” he said.

Every moment his thick cock pressed against your G-spot, your body could not take it anymore and you closed your eyes. You gasped. Your chin lifted a little higher. You were cold a moment ago, but now your sweat was running down your throat. “You are the only man who will tear me apart… and I want to break apart,” you said, your words mixed with your moans. You wrapped your arms around his body. Your nails were scratching his back. Long lines starting from his spine… You almost didn’t stay.

Your body movements were in sync with Harvey's pace. He spoke without taking his lips off yours. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. Oh, Y/N, you're perfect."

Harvey was pounding faster and faster as he thrust into you. "Oh, my beautiful lover." He said as he kissed your lips. He got faster and faster. You and Harvey were so close to orgasm.

You clenched your teeth and dug your nails into Harvey's muscular arms. You pulled your lips away from him and moved towards Harvey's deformed face. Your lips were on the wounds. You licked first. You licked his ugly face as lustfully as he licked your womanhood a moment ago. "Oh, Harvey, I want you to cum inside me. I beg you!"

Harvey finally squirted the sperm from his balls into you as you wanted. "Fuck, Y/N!" Damn it, I love you." He said it over and over again. He clenched his hip muscles so tightly in pleasure that it was obvious to the outside. You came at that moment. His head lifted slightly from the carpet, your juices mixing with Harvey's white cum and flowing around the edges of his large cock and onto the cushion.

You were both out of breath as Harvey collapsed on top of you. Your bodies were as hot as two hot coals. You stood there, out of breath, your skin sticking together with sweat.

Harvey’s hands roamed over your body, as if he were trying to control himself, but there was a gentle possessiveness in each movement. You were silent for a moment, just coming together, staying close to the rhythm of your joined bodies.

And then, Harvey’s voice came again, low and raspy, curling in his throat. “This… being with you…” The words had a hard time explaining exactly what he wanted to say, but you both felt it. It was the feeling of being together, not just physically, but spiritually. “This is what I want…” he said, but it wasn’t just a confession. It was an obsession with being with you, slowly seeping into you. It had gone so deep that there was a kind of madness as the words left his heart. “You’ll be with me forever…” he whispered, softly and forcefully. As he looked into your eyes, Harvey could feel your feelings deepening in the same way. In that moment, everything came together. “You’ll always want me,” he said, but there was a softness in his voice.

There was a darkness inside him, mixed with the old Harvey's idealism, but for now, that darkness was what he wanted. "You will not lose me..." he murmured. It was a warning of some kind. Not just a possession, he had taken her completely, in every sense.

#harvey dent #two face #two face x reader #two face x you #batman smut #dc batman #batman x reader #batman x you #bruce wayne smut #bruce wayne x reader #joker x reader #joker x you #nolanverse #batman the dark knight #harvey dent x reader #smut #fluff #dc two face #dc joker

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divaofmads · 2 months ago

Text

Venus in Exile | Part I

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Female Reader (OC)

Part II

Summary: You tried to avoid writing him, but Thomas Shelby is determined to pull you into his own story. With every sentence, you unravel a little more. This love isn’t a narrative, it’s a revolution.

!!Warnings!!: Angst, Non-canon, Fluff, +18, Slow-burning, Intense psychological themes, Gender identity conflict, Soft!Thomas, Trauma & healing themes, Melancholy & existential reflection, Dominant energy in subtle intimacy, Protective but controlling tendencies, English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional.

Word Count: 15k

Dividers by @cafekitsune @saradika-graphics

A/N: This story is not just fiction, it's the echo of my inner conflict. A battle between forgotten femininity and a voice longing to be remembered.

That day, the Shelby family had gathered around the table. The air in the room was thick as always; a mix of tobacco smoke, the soot smell from the coal stove, and the distant sound of Polly brewing tea.

Thomas stubbed out his cigarette on the edge of a file. John was impatient, Arthur was twisting his glass of whiskey in his hands. Polly frowned, waiting for a response to Thomas’s long, motionless gaze.

“If we’re going to do this, let’s do it, Thomas. Or I’ll send someone else,” Polly said, her voice sharp and clear.

At that moment, Ada was sitting on the couch. She had a newspaper in her hand, her legs crossed, keeping a silent rhythm. At the peak of the Peaky Blinders’ tense meeting, they all flinched at the sound of her delicate, graceful voice.

Her fingers were smudged with ink. Her eyes were gleaming. “Wait a minute... You need to see this,” she said, cutting Polly off.

John grunted. “Is it another one of those ridiculous writers again?”

“No,” Ada replied, locking eyes with Tommy. “This one’s different.”

She opened the newspaper and pointed to a section with her finger. “Y.S. ...They’ve written again.”

Polly sighed and shook her head. “Ada, you’re not going to get anywhere reading the writings of some pseudonymous philosopher kid.”

Ada didn’t care. The admiration in her voice was unmistakable. “Listen. Just this one sentence...”

“Every man who tips his hat, wears his glasses, and drinks his whiskey straight is a kind of god to you.”

The silence in the room became suffocating. Only the crackle of the stove and the slight tilt of Thomas’s head could be heard.

Arthur raised his moustache and laughed. “Who the hell wrote that? Bloody hell... What kind of talk is that? As if we invented god ourselves…”

“Let her go on,” Tommy said quietly, his eyes still on the paper.

John raised his head. “What’s the matter, Tommy, you like it?”

“It’s rare to find someone so sharp and intelligent. The language is cutting. Whoever wrote this either saw the war... or came very close to dying.”

Polly pursed her lips. “If it’s a woman, it’s just false courage. Doesn’t impress me.”

Ada stood up, walked toward them, and waved the newspaper in the air with a faint smile. “It doesn’t mention a gender anyway. Just the initials: Y.S.”

Thomas took the paper from Ada’s hand. He scanned the piece from beginning to end. His eyes locked on the lines, echoing in his mind:

“Every criminal is the tragic rider of childhood traumas, cast in the leading role of a novel.

The hand that holds the gun gets its story told, but the silence of the one shot is never spoken of.”

He frowned. “I want to meet this person.”

Arthur laughed. “Mate, you’re going to meet a writer who hides their name? Could be an old geezer with a beard.”

Tommy lifted his eyes from the paper and looked at Arthur with a cold expression. “The person who wrote this... uses the pen like a blade. They’ve either seen hell... or grew up in it.”

Thomas folded the newspaper. His fingers ran along the edge. As if his eyes were still scanning the lines. “Someone who writes with such power and precision… if they speak for us, we stand to gain a lot.”

Ada raised her voice in surprise. “You want to work with them? You want them to write for Shelby Company Limited?”

Thomas shrugged lightly. “Media is more dangerous than the streets now. This writer uses words as weapons. But also, as an opportunity.”

Polly raised her eyebrows, looking at Thomas with some suspicion. “So, you’re saying it’s a threat… but you still want to chase it. Is it your heart talking again, or your mind, Thomas?”

Thomas turned his gaze to Polly, paused briefly, then said, “I don’t know yet.”

Arthur grumbled, “Well I know. I won’t sit at the same table with whoever wrote that!”

“Then you won’t sit at the table. But I will meet them.”

In the silence of the room, only the ticking of the clock could be heard.

...

The atmosphere in the office was heavy. The red curtains had suffocated the dim light even more, casting an ashen gray shadow inside. Thomas Shelby sat at his desk; in front of him was an open notebook, beside it a half-finished glass of whiskey. He had just dipped his pen in ink but hadn’t moved for several minutes. His eyes were fixed on a single point, weighing words in his mind. This wasn’t a letter; it was a move. And Thomas Shelby made every move with the last square of the chessboard in mind.

The corner of the newspaper article was still folded. The signature “Y.N. Y.” seemed etched into Thomas’s mind. The language of the piece was harsh, almost combative. But poetic too... As if the words were dancing on a battlefield.

Y.S.,

I’ve read your piece. I could be proud just for being the only man who didn’t slam his fist on the desk after reading it.

Your words are striking. As graceful as they are sharp, and as sharp as they are honest. These aren’t writings to be read from a distance. They are writings that need to be spoken of.

I’m not inviting you for a drink. Not to a bar, not to a table, not to a club.

I’m offering you a table; a place where you can speak your thoughts, and where not only men, but truths will be heard.

If you accept, the date and place of the meeting will be provided.

If you refuse... you’ll probably keep writing anyway.

This is an offer. But you know as well as I do, some offers never remain just offers.

—Thomas Shelby

After signing the letter, Thomas paused for a few seconds. Then he turned his eyes to Ada, who was watching both the newspaper on the wall and her brother’s expression.

Ada crossed her arms. “I doubt it. That writer doesn’t seem like the type who’d accept such an invitation, Tommy. And I don’t think they’d like men like you either.”

Thomas narrowed his eyes and placed the letter into an envelope. “I don’t care what attention-seeking men like, Ada. I care about what they can’t stand.”

Ada raised an eyebrow. “And are you what they can’t stand?”

Thomas didn’t answer. He slowly sealed the envelope. Then he called for Curly and gave a brief order:

“Drop this letter off at the publishing house. Say it’s meant for ‘Y. S.’ It doesn’t matter who you give it to, but after you do, look them in the eye and say... ‘Thomas Shelby is waiting. Patiently.’”

Curly nodded and left. As the door closed, Thomas leaned back in his chair. He picked up the glass of whiskey and brought it to his lips. After taking a sip, his eyes drifted to the window, as if searching the darkness for a face.

When Polly entered, Thomas was still staring at the window.

Polly asked, “What are you doing?”

With a calm but cunning smile, Thomas replied, “Waiting for the first line of tomorrow’s headlines.”

That grey intoxication that seeped in just minutes before settling over Birmingham had begun to slip quietly into the office. The dim light filtering through the wide window painted the whiskey bottle on Polly’s desk in amber hues, turning the stacks of documents on the shelves into golden-gilded memories. Everything was slow, restrained, wrapped in a deep silence. Only the ticking sounds resembling a clock, the soft crackling of ash forming at the tip of Thomas Shelby’s cigarette...

Thomas was seated at his desk. As always. The first three buttons of his shirt undone, his vest resting on his shoulders like a burden. His eyes were not on the newspaper before him — but his fingertips were still occupied, smoothing out a crumpled corner at the edge of the writer’s new article. As if this new piece carried meanings deeper than the last.

Arthur Shelby was pacing back and forth in the room. His anger, his impatience — they were never hidden. His loosely tied tie, the shirt untucked from his belt, the collar of his jacket missing a button, each told of his mood.

Spreading his arms, Arthur said, “How many days has it been? Three? Four? What do you think this silence means, Tommy? That writer might be an intellectual, but if he’s a man at all, shouldn’t he be afraid of us?”

Thomas didn’t respond. And that only made Arthur more irritated.

Arthur continued, his tone laced with sarcasm, “Maybe the writer is just a whore, what do you think? Or a child who’s never seen war. Thinks he’s something because he’s got a pen...”

Polly, sitting in the corner, looked up from her knitting. “If you don’t know, be quiet, Arthur. You’re speaking without thinking.”

“I’m the one speaking without thinking? There’s a writer out there insulting us. Doesn’t even give a name. Tommy writes a letter, knocks on their door, but still not a word back. I should keep quiet but when they do, it’s holy?”

John Shelby wasn’t around, but had he been, he probably would’ve laughed. Ada hadn’t shown up either, choosing to keep some distance from Thomas’s obsessive interest.

Silence settled over the office. Only the smoke from Thomas’s cigarette rose slowly. The stub, nearly burned to the end, was still between his fingers. Even as the smoke reached his eyes, he didn’t move.

Then… there was a knock at the door.

Polly sat up slightly. Thomas’s gaze didn’t shift. When the door opened, Curly walked in. He held a small, pale white envelope.

He seemed almost reluctant to hold it. Entering, he avoided Thomas’s eyes.

With a timid whisper, Curly said, “This… this just came from the paper, Mr. Shelby. They asked it be given directly to you.”

Arthur jumped to his feet. Polly stopped him with a gesture. Curly approached slowly and placed the envelope on Thomas’s desk.

Thomas stared at it for a few seconds. His fingers stubbed out the cigarette, then slowly took the envelope. On it was written:

“To Mr. T. Shelby, to be delivered personally”

Arthur snorted. “See what I said? Writing is easy. Facing someone, that’s hard. Finally worked up the nerve to reply.”

Polly murmured, “Or perhaps they’re starting another game.”

Thomas didn’t blink as he opened the envelope. The paper inside was thick and smooth. Not feminine, but meticulous. Neither expensive nor cheap. It had been chosen with intention.

After reading the letter, Thomas took a sip from his whiskey. He closed his eyes for a brief moment. There was a curl at the corner of his lips, but it wasn’t from pleasure.

Quite the opposite…

It was the unease of something dangerous.

Arthur asked impatiently, “Well? What does it say? Is it a man? Or have we been reading the ramblings of a nun?!”

Thomas placed the letter on the table. Then slowly brought his hand to his chin, touched his lips with his fingers. Took a deep breath. “They said your offer was no different than the promises made under street lamps.”

A pause followed. Arthur blinked. Polly’s lips curled into a faint smile.

Arthur furrowed his brow, confused. “What?!”

Thomas began reading the letter aloud:

“Though your offer was sent in a graceful envelope and on fine paper, to me it seemed no different than promises made beneath street lamps: bright, but insufficient.

My pen does not exist to sit at any table, but to question those who sit at them.

I have sharpened my pen not to flatter, but to cut.

So I must respectfully state that I have no intention of meeting with you.

There are boundaries in this world, Mr. Shelby.

And there are words meant to be read only from a distance.

I am one of them.”

Arthur paused. Slowly turned his head. “So they rejected you. That’s what all those pretty words mean: ‘You’re not worth knowing.’”

Polly narrowed her eyes. Thomas was still staring at the letter. His silence was what Arthur didn’t understand. Because the shadow at the corner of Thomas’s mouth wasn’t one of anger from being rejected…

It was the appetite of someone provoked.

Polly warned gently,

“Don’t fall into their game, Tommy. Behind every pen is a face. And that face might not be as masculine as you think.”

Thomas didn’t respond. He slowly folded the letter and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Then he rose from his desk. Took his cigarette case, put on his coat.

Arthur:

“Where are you going?”

Thomas:

“To search for light in dark places.”

Arthur, mocking: “You’ve become a poet now…”

Thomas turned, looked into his eyes. “No. I’ve become a hunter.”

And he closed the door behind him, silently.

Once Thomas Shelby set his sights on someone, no writing or word — not even nothingness — could save them.

The sky was as clouded as Birmingham’s infamous grey curtains. Footsteps echoed on the sidewalks, someone was selling newspapers, someone else was arguing, but the real noise was yet to rise, from within.

The three-story brick building on Gray Lane looked ordinary from the outside. But inside, it was a sanctuary where words were written in blood. The office of the magazine "The Midland Examiner" resembled a rebellion headquarters more than a place of journalism. Posters pinned to the walls, piles of files, the sound of typewriters... And now the editor-in-chief was drenched in sweat. Because Thomas Shelby had arrived. Not only had he arrived, he had stationed his men at the door. He lit a cigarette, spoke softly, but was heard loud and clear.

“If you don’t arrange a meeting with the writer,” Thomas said in a soft yet threatening tone, “your next article will be an obituary.”

Those in the office looked at each other. Nobody seemed to know the writer. Or at least, they acted that way. Because Y/N was known more for her silence than her pen. No one ever really saw her leave her office.

But she had heard them. The voices. The footsteps. They echoed like a threat in her veins. And so she had prepared.

Amidst all the intellectual chaos, one room in the corner was always quieter than the others. That was the room of Y.S. There was no name on the door, no title, just two letters: Y.S.

Inside, a desk lamp was lit. A figure sat at the typewriter. A grey vest, pressed trousers, a tie, and a 1920s flat cap. Their back was turned to the door. Broad shoulders, accentuated by the jacket's padding. The posture was upright, decisive. No fingers moved across the keys; they were still. Waiting.

And finally, the footsteps reached the room. First, the position of two men behind the door. Then, the sound of Thomas opening it...

As the door opened, he stepped inside. The room smelled of tobacco and ink.

“So you’re the man who sharpens his pen,” Thomas said in a calm, cold tone. “How many tongues did you cut to write those words?”

The figure at the typewriter didn’t move. Fingers slowly pressed against the table. A deep, velvet silence filled the air. Thomas took another step. Slow, confident.

“You like challenging me, huh? The arrogance of poets... Still, I wanted to see you. To find out if your face is as sharp as your words.”

Then... the cap tilted back. The shoulders tensed.

And the figure turned around.

Time stopped.

First, the curve of the neck.

Then, the outline of the eyes.

And finally, all the darkness, all the words, all the fury… echoed in a single pair of eyes.

When Y/N turned, Thomas’s eyes locked onto her face. The cap was still on, but there was no longer any doubt about what she was.

A graceful yet defiant face. A woman’s face. But one with the stare of a warrior.

For the first time, Thomas Shelby couldn’t speak for a few seconds. When he reached for the inside of his coat, Y/N spoke.

“So you’re the famous Thomas Shelby,” she said in a calm, mocking tone. “Took you longer than I expected. I guess you’re not much of a postman.”

That slow, sly half-smile appeared on Thomas’s face. But his eyes… his eyes were still frozen. The bullet-like gaze pierced through her face and into her throat.

“If I had known you were a woman,” he said through narrowed eyes, “I’d have delivered the letter myself.”

You crossed one leg over the other. Not like a woman, but with a relaxed, masculine confidence. You rested your elbow on the back of the chair. You were speaking like a prizefighter in a writer’s office, not like an academic. “That’s why I didn’t sign my name. I knew the meaning would change once you found out I was a woman.”

There was a moment of silence. As if two sharp blades clashed in mid-air.

Thomas took a step forward. “Still, I came.”

“It’s not where you came, it’s how you came. Those who come with threats often act tough not because they’re right, but because they’re desperate.”

Now there were only a few steps between you. Just a corner of the desk remained between you.

He leaned on that corner. Took out a cigarette case. Opened it. But you didn’t offer even a single match.

Staring at you, Thomas said, “I asked you to use your pen for us. I still want that. But the reason has changed now.”

Without standing up, you asked, “What reason?”

“I’m no longer interested in what you write, but how you write it. And someone who does something this well… either stands beside us… or against us.”

You tilted your head. And for the first time, a woman’s smile appeared on your lips.

But it was full, mocking, defiant.

“Are you used to women who stand in front of you, Mr. Shelby? Or only the ones who kneel?”

In that moment, the heat in the room changed. The words were loaded with gunpowder.

Thomas Shelby said nothing. But he took out a match. Lit his cigarette. Took a drag.

And as he left, he said only one thing:

“Wait for tomorrow.”

When he closed the door, the silence left behind was still trembling, just like he left it.

But this was only the beginning.

The Birmingham sun left a pale orange hue in the sky, as if the city had curled up for a long winter sleep. Outside, street kids quietly fled at the sight of men with bullets in their pockets, and the windows of the Garrison Pub were fogged up with tobacco smoke and the haze of whiskey. In the back room of the pub, the one reserved especially for the Shelbys, time was moving slowly.

In the dim light, the dark walnut table in the center of the room looked like a post-war strategy desk, scattered with half-filled glasses and slowly burning cigarettes in an ashtray. John had leaned his head back, escaping the world through the bottom of a glass. Arthur was tapping his fingers on the table, unable to sit still like an impatient soldier.

But Thomas Shelby…

He had adjusted the collar of his coat, his hands clasped as he sat at the corner of the table. Standing a step behind him was Ada Shelby, her eyes carrying an unusual intensity.

Arthur shifted, mockingly, “What’s the matter, Tommy? Still thinking about that writer? Tell me, is it a man or a woman? Still can’t figure it out, can we?”

Thomas lit a cigarette. The weak spark from the lighter briefly lit the room. He drew in the smoke, then exhaled it slowly. His voice, like the smoke, was calm, but a volcano rumbled beneath it.

Thomas, thoughtful, said, “A woman.”

“What?!”

“I said a woman. But a different kind. Not the sort who sells herself with skirts and lipstick.”

A silence followed. John briefly raised his eyes, then returned to his glass. Arthur laughed through pursed lips.

Taking a sip of his drink, he said, “A woman who writes against us, then writes you letters the moment she sees you... How romantic!”

Thomas gave a cold smile. “This isn’t romance. It’s tactics. She hides herself, Arthur. So well, in fact... Her shirt hides a woman, but her shoulders carry a warrior.”

Ada stepped forward, placing the notebook in her hand gently on the table. Her eyes locked with Thomas’s — curious, silently admiring. “This is the first time I’ve seen a woman affect a man like you this much.”

Without looking away, Thomas picked up his whiskey and sipped it slowly. Then he silently took something from his pocket: another article by the author.

“There were people like her during the war too. Those who waited silently in ambush. But give them a rifle, and they’d kill more for you than anyone else... This woman kills with her words. Harsh. Dirty. Sharp. With every sentence she writes, she can tear down a man’s dignity. And we…”

He leaned forward, placed the article on the table. With his fingertips, he traced the lines of the writing.

Thomas, in a clear tone, said, “…for men like us, this pen is either a curse or a blessing.”

Arthur snorted, then grew serious. “Or a bloody problem. A woman, huh... So what now? Peaky Blinders working with lady writers?”

Thomas squinted, a dark grin playing on his lips.

“If we can win over a woman with a pen that powerful, we become the wall the press leans on. And in this city, if you have a voice, you don’t disappear like a shadow.”

Ada sat down slowly, sparks dancing in her eyes.

“If you hadn’t known she was a woman, would you still be this interested, Tommy?”

Thomas turned to look at her. He didn’t answer for a long moment. Then he struck a match and lit a new cigarette.

Quietly, he said, “It’s not her face that got to me, Ada. It’s the voice of her pen. And that voice… even if she dresses like a man, it moans like a woman. But this isn’t love.”

Ada asked, “Then what is it?”

Thomas Shelby stubbed out his cigarette on the table. As the smoke left his nostrils, a steadfast fire lit in his eyes.

“A danger. But maybe one we can use.”

The door creaked open. Polly entered. Thomas fell silent again. His thoughts still lingered in your eyes, your cap, the restrained traces of undeniable femininity beneath your shirt.

You were a woman. But a mind that had abandoned womanhood. And for the first time, Thomas Shelby was struggling to decipher a woman. That’s why, instead of pulling away, he drew closer. Because Tommy always drew closer to the things he couldn’t understand. And this... was a declaration of war.

As the last light of the day slid along the coal-dusted sidewalks of Birmingham, a grey Bentley slowly turned the corner. When the engine stopped, the silence was so complete that even the crunch of the tires on the stones echoed like a threat. The door opened. Footsteps were heard. A cigarette was lit before the coat buttons were fastened. The glowing tip of the cigarette shone like a lone star in the evening sky.

Thomas Shelby was walking.

Short but firm steps. The stones beneath his feet seemed to recognize him—he walked on them with a stride no one else would dare. He stopped in front of the house. His gaze lifted to the narrow window on the third floor.

Your sentence at the typewriter had been left unfinished.

A single key struck but not yet forming a word, hanging in midair.

The light filtering through the streetlamp fell inside the room, giving even the dust on the books a touch of grandeur. Yet within that grandeur, there was a strange unease.

You stubbed out your cigarette. Turned to the window. Took a deep breath, feeling a tightness in your chest.

The typewriter had been silent for a while. Outside, it wasn’t just the sound of footsteps… it was the sound of a presence. Something—or someone.

It wasn’t the usual curses of drunkards hitting the stones, but something clearer, heavier.

So deliberate it didn’t even frighten—it was beyond fear. A threat, once recognized, stops being fear.

Then the door knocked. Twice.

No voice shouting, no introduction. Just a deep knock. If you opened it, Shelby would have arrived. If you didn’t… Shelby would’ve come in anyway.

After a moment’s hesitation, you pushed your chair back with the backs of your knees. The sharp scrape of wood on the floor echoed through the room. Then you walked to the door.

Your steps weren’t hesitant—they were measured.

The door opened slightly. The chain was still in place.

A single sentence hung in the air. “Shelby.”

He recognized your voice. The sentence was short, but heavy. Even the way you said his name sounded like a command.

The chain slid off. The door opened without a creak.

Thomas Shelby, wearing his cap, clad in a sharp black coat that fit like a blade… stepped out of the darkness and into the house. Dim light, cigarette smoke, and the scent of old books greeted him.

His hands were in his pockets, but his eyes had already scanned the room in detail. His face held the usual coldness, but in his gaze there was a different spark: He hadn’t come to see you. He had come to solve you.

“Sorry for showing up at your home,” he said, though his voice carried no apology. “But if you run this much, someone’s bound to follow. Lucky for you, it’s me this time.”

You closed the door. “If a man scared of my pen shows up at my door... I suppose my words found their mark.”

You stood in the middle of the room. A loose, white shirt hung from your frame, its fabric worn thin with time. Below, a pair of tan trousers, held up by a leather suspender strap slung over your shoulder.

Without looking at Thomas, you gestured with your arm. “If you’re going to sit, don’t judge standing up. There’s no defense here.”

Thomas laughed, but silently—it was more of a smirk laced with contempt flickering at the corners of his lips. He lit his cigarette. Inhaled. Didn't respond.

Nor did he sit. “I came to offer you a job,” he said. “No envelope this time, no gold-embossed paper. Now you’re here, in front of me. And yes... I know now. You’re a woman. And not just any woman. The kind that brings men to their knees with her words.”

You locked eyes with him. It wasn’t a confrontation—more like a battle for balance. Who would lose control first? Who would need to think about the next sentence?

“Did your opinion change when you found out I was a woman?” you asked. “Or does this version of me bother you a little, Thomas Shelby?”

When he heard you say his name, something shifted inside him. Maybe, for the first time, a name hadn’t landed on him… it had sunk into him.

“You didn’t bother me,” he said. “But your refusal to write still annoys me.”

You stepped closer.

“I can’t lend my pen to a mafia fairytale. I don’t use my words to interview powerful men… I use them to question why those men are so powerful.”

Thomas stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. Then he leaned in. His face was now level with yours.

“Then write about me,” he said. “But be honest. As honest as the bullets on the table. Write so everyone sees who I am. And remember... if you don’t write, I’ll find another way to show you who I am.”

The words ended.

You didn’t look away. But for just a moment, just one fleeting beat… your heart aligned with the rhythm of Thomas Shelby’s footsteps.

When the door creaked open, you slipped inside like a ghost. Your masculine suit was the deepest, most matte shade of black. As you slightly removed your hat, your eyes scanned the room—glancing at Thomas Shelby as if noting every detail, yet not a flicker stirred in your gaze.

Thomas hadn’t turned around. As always, he was leaning back in the tall leather chair by the window, one hand holding a glass of whiskey, the other resting on the scattered files atop the desk. His eyes weren’t on the horizon, but seemed fixed on a battle that wasn’t there. Smoke drifted lazily into the air, and the faint light sneaking through the thick curtains cast a familiar shadow on his face.

“I don’t think you owe me anything,” Thomas said, without turning his head. “But there are debts that get paid without being acknowledged.”

The corner of your mouth curved slightly. Your steps were steady, but where you stopped was deliberate: neither too close, nor unnecessarily distant. Your eyes lingered on the clock on the desk, the bottle of whiskey, the blue ceramic tiles on the wall—yet it was all habit. Because looking directly at Thomas Shelby meant, inadvertently, placing the rope in his hands.

“A week has passed. That’s enough time.”

Thomas turned slowly. When his eyes met yours for the first time, something cracked in the air. There was no smile, no welcome… only a sharp, timeless, and dangerous recognition.

“I wonder what you wrote about me,” he said.

Each word in his voice was as heavy as cigarette smoke.

But the real threat wasn’t in the sound, it was in the curiosity lodged between the silences.

You didn’t bow your head. You adjusted the buttons on your shirt and slipped your hands into your pockets. Daring enough to catch Thomas Shelby’s attention, but careful not to step on a line.

“You should’ve guessed,” you said, your voice low but steady. “I wrote nothing.”

Thomas leaned back. He twirled the whiskey in his glass for a while, then set it down on the table.

His fingertips tapped the wood. There was no rhythm. He wasn’t impatient, he was measuring.

“Writing nothing about a man like me… can be more dangerous than writing some things.”

You looked at him without blinking. “Because the story of a real gangster can only be written as long as he likes it.”

“Wrong,” said Thomas. “A real gangster lives with his eyes fixed on the ones smart enough to write his story.”

A brief silence.

Thomas rose from his seat. Slowly, carefully, he moved to the edge of the table. Standing, he lit a cigarette.

With the smoke, the air in the room thickened. Nothing was being said, yet so much was.

“When I first read your work, I thought about how sharp your pen was. Like someone who knows how to loosen a man’s tongue before killing him.”

“My pen may be sharp,” you said, “but writing about you would be the same as breaking my own pen.”

Thomas lowered his head. He smiled slightly. But it wasn’t satisfaction, it was the first move of a strategy.

“Maybe you… don’t want to write because you’ve started to understand me.”

You fell silent, with the tiniest flinch. That was being seen. Too bare. Too exposed.

“Maybe,” Thomas went on, “…you’ve become too much of me to write me anymore.”

Everything in the room seemed to shift in density after those words. There were no longer any words, only two souls, each wandering through the thoughts of the other like shadows.

You were silent. Your gaze finally drifted away. But it wasn’t out of fear. It was the middle move of a mental chess game.

Thomas Shelby tilted his head slightly to the side.

“If you won’t write,” he said softly,

“then at least watch.

Maybe then… you’ll see how the story ends.”

The air in the room had grown heavier. Thomas was turning his half-finished cigarette between two fingers at the corner of the desk. His eyes were on you.

You were still standing. Elbows relaxed at your sides, hands in your trouser pockets, as if being in this room wasn’t your choice. But you knew. Anyone who stepped into the darkness of Thomas Shelby could never return. And you were close to that threshold now. You could feel it.

“What is it you want me to watch?” you asked calmly. “The slow disappearance of a man?”

Thomas let out a faint laugh, but there was no mockery in it. That laugh was like a ghost from his past.

“No,” he said, his voice deepening. “I want you to watch how a man governs his own hell.”

He took a step toward you. The distance between you two was now as thin as a lie. But you didn’t retreat, and he didn’t stop approaching.

“My hell is orderly, Miss Y/S/N.”

He didn’t say your name. Because he hadn’t figured out who you were yet. But that complicated mind of yours...

That was the only thing that truly intoxicated him.

“Your hell has glass walls,” you said. “No one gets in. But you watch everyone.”

There was a moment of silence. That moment was the breath right before a war begins. Thomas let his eyes roam over your face. He noticed a loose curl that had fallen from under your hat. It was feminine. But in your expression, in the steel of your gaze, there was nothing soft.

“What is it that keeps you here?” he asked, voice soft, but sly.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t look away, but you said nothing. Because that question was the only one that left you defenseless.

“You write because words are the only thing you trust. Because everyone who ever loved you first tried to shape you, then forgot you. Isn’t that right?”

Your eyes froze. A few seconds of silence hung between you like lead. It was as if cold water had been poured down your spine. But you gathered yourself. Straightened your shoulders. Locked eyes with him once more.

“If you think you can figure me out,” you said, “then you’re not as clever as you think.”

Thomas crushed the cigarette into the ashtray. There was no sound, but something cracked between you.

Your walls trembled under the weight of his pride.

“I don’t want to figure you out,” he said. “I just want to know you.”

It was the most dangerous sentence he could say to you. Because to be known was to be exposed. And being exposed was like bleeding. And you were tired of bleeding long ago.

“I’m not someone to be known, Mr. Shelby. I’m just a story meant to be written and forgotten.”

In that moment, Thomas saw your loneliness more clearly than ever. The darkness behind your eyes was as deep as his own. But that didn’t make him want you less—on the contrary, it made him want to possess you even more.

“In that case,” he said quietly, “let me be the only one who reads you, so no one forgets.”

Once again, the air in the room cracked. This time it wasn’t words, it was the collision of glances.

A match had been struck, but the flame hadn’t yet touched. And even though you knew how much it would burn, you didn’t move.

He looked at you, but it wasn’t the way a man looks at a woman. It was the way a warrior assesses potential, like holding a weapon for the first time and sensing the value hidden inside. He was trying to understand what lived within you, but at the same time, he wanted you to step into that foggy darkness on your own. There was no pressure. But the game? It was always there.

He moved closer to the edge of the desk. Rolled the cigarette pack between his fingers. He spoke without needing fire:

“There’s a night.” His voice fell into the room like raindrops, slow and deep. “Three men will sit at a table. One of the rival gangs. Silver in their mouths, mud in their eyes. They can’t be trusted. They’ll sit with us because they have no other choice. But their true faces will only appear in silence.”

He kept speaking without breaking eye contact. “You’ll be there that night. You won’t speak. You’ll just watch. You’ll see what makes them rise, what makes them bow their heads. And... who they tremble for with a single look.”

He turned the words slowly in his mouth. Because this wasn’t a proposal... this was a calling. You stood at the edge of the path he was offering. And in the wind blowing from the other side, his scent lingered... danger, power, and a kind of poisonous allure.

But what stirred inside you wasn’t just fear. Speaking to Thomas Shelby, standing this close to him, shook something in you that nothing else had in years.

You swallowed. Even that echoed in the silence. “And me?” you asked. “What will I be at that table? A piece of decoration? A distraction?”

He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. It was a smile that burned like coal... slow and scarring.

“No. You’re a writer,” he said. “I won’t put you in that filth. I just... want to see where you look, what you notice.”

He took another step toward you. Now, there was only breath between you. He lowered his voice.

“And I want to force you to know me. Because only then will I truly believe you won’t write about me.”

He leaned in, but didn’t touch. The softness in his voice was like a trap scattered across the night.

“I don’t want to trust you. Trusting you… opens doors to other things. But I want to know you’re there. Watching me. That night, at the table, you’ll see me. The real me. And maybe...”

He was close enough now that his breath touched your skin.

“…you’ll see yourself, too.”

Your eyes narrowed, almost as if trying to shield themselves behind your lids. Because this closeness hit you deeper than any word ever could.

But you didn’t back away. His darkness was familiar to the void inside you.

“I don’t want to be a mirror to your darkness,” you said. “I’m only here to look at myself.”

Thomas tilted his head slightly. Never looking away from you, he whispered,

“Then be ready to look into that mirror. Because I’ll be the one to bring you there.”

The wind howled through the beams of the warehouse with a broken roof. The night had settled like a sooty veil over everything, not cold, but oppressive. It didn’t touch your skin; it seeped into you. Hidden among whiskey barrels, you watched from behind a rusty door. The space was dark and narrow; the smell of iron, rotting wood, and dampness clung to your lungs. But you held your breath, eyes unblinking.

Thomas Shelby was there.

With confident steps, he walked straight to the table. He wore a dark, pinstriped suit, elegant as always, yet carrying a sinister grace. His fingers were bare this time, a visible message about the danger hidden at his wrists. Behind him, Arthur stood, his eyes bloodshot, his jaw tense. Finn waited silently in the corner, young but unflinching.

At the table were three men: Billy Owen, Chris Dawson, and a third unknown figure, a bearded man with a threatening glare. Sitting at the same table as the Peaky Blinders was a sign of desperation, yet their arrogance still clung to them like rising steam.

You saw everything through the crack in the wood. Most of all, you watched Thomas.

He didn’t see you. But he knew you were there. This was one of those invisible games between you.

Thomas moved to the head of the table. He didn’t sit. He lit a cigarette. His first words, rising with the smoke, were cold and sharp:

“We’re not here to talk. We’re here to listen.”

Owen grunted.

“Since when do Shelbys listen?”

Arthur stepped forward, but Thomas raised a hand to stop him. Smoke curled around his face, grey, thick, menacing.

“Since the moment, Billy,” Thomas said, “we started carrying more bullets than words in our pockets.”

Owen’s face tightened. The others exchanged wary glances. You held your breath. But this wasn’t the kind of meeting you were used to covering. Here, words weren’t headlines, they were triggers.

For a while, no one spoke. Only the rain tapping on tin roofs and the sound of Thomas breathing echoed in the warehouse.

Then Thomas spoke again, slower this time, more dangerous.

“I have an offer. Accept it, you live. Refuse, and… well.”

Billy grunted.

“Is that a threat, Thomas?”

Without even looking at Arthur, Thomas said something... softly. But you heard it.

“Arthur.”

Arthur stepped forward, calmly pulled a knife from his pocket, and drove it into the table. The rusty blade split the wood. Chris flinched. The third man instinctively reached for his waistband. Thomas stopped him with just a glance. That’s when you realized, there were no guns on this table. But fear... fear was drawn faster than any weapon.

Your fingers pressed against the cracked wood. Your breath was uneven, but you stayed quiet. Curiosity had brought you here. Staying, though… was becoming something else entirely.

Thomas spoke again. But this time, his words weren’t for the men at the table. They were for you. You knew it, his voice dropped, but his gaze cut through.

“Some people can only be understood in the dark. You can’t show them the light, it blinds them. But if you see those who glow in the night… then you know who they really are.”

He meant it for you. The others didn’t catch it. But you did. This was the moment he tested you. And you were still there.

Billy Owen smiled, more like bared his teeth.

“I’m not the silent type, Thomas. Everyone knows that. I’ve got nothing unsaid.”

He leaned back, arms spread.

“But I’d love to hear what you’re hiding.”

Thomas didn’t even raise an eyebrow. He lit another cigarette. Then he placed an envelope on the table. Inside—you couldn’t see, but you knew—there were documents, names, dates. A few seconds passed in silence. Chris leaned forward slightly.

Chris:

“This... this isn’t our deal, Thomas.”

His lips trembled with fear.

“Did you... find out something we don’t know?”

Arthur's hand hit the table with a creak of wood.

Arthur:

“Thomas doesn’t talk from what he doesn’t know. Haven’t you learned that yet, eh?”

Thomas took a step back. There was no threat in his posture, but every muscle in him pulsed with potential.

Thomas:

“Everything that happens in Birmingham comes to me. Not on the wind, but in blood. And you’ve forgotten the blood.”

In the silence that followed, you watched him. You realized: It wasn’t voice or weapons that commanded respect. It was gaze. And fear... came from footsteps that echoed without sound.

Owen stood up abruptly.

“I don’t fall for Shelby’s bedtime stories. Are you threatening me, huh?!”

Your first thought: Someone’s going to die. But Thomas didn’t even flinch.

“If you’re looking for a threat, watch the one who doesn’t speak. Sit down.

Otherwise, Arthur won’t carry your chair, he’ll start digging your grave.”

Billy’s eyes narrowed for a moment. Then slowly, he sat back down. Rage burned in his eyes, but his instinct to survive was stronger. Cormac moved his hand away from his weapon. Chris cleared his throat.

You... you realized what you were witnessing. No article could describe this moment. This wasn’t charisma, it was the instinctive rule of a system. And that system was called “Thomas Shelby.”

But for you, one thing had finally become clear:

No one could raise their voice against him.

He was the man who changed the air in the room with a glance.

And everyone… feared his silence most of all.

The door slammed shut. The metallic echo shattered the night’s silence. The rival gang members scattered as if they’d left their will in Thomas’s hands. Arthur’s footsteps were heavy and menacing, like the tremor that follows a storm.

And you were still there. As your eyes adjusted from the shadows, you slipped out, a ghost beneath the moonlight. Your breath was unsteady, but slowly regaining rhythm. The cold didn’t sting your skin, it chilled your mind. What echoed in your head wasn’t the click of a gun or Owen’s fear, it was the space where Thomas Shelby had said nothing.

That was when you felt him without needing to turn.

His steps were silent. But close.

And suddenly, the scent of rain-soaked earth, old metal, and dark tobacco pierced right through you.

Thomas:

“Did you see enough?”

His voice came low, nearly hoarse. Not a whisper more like a man speaking to the night.

“Or do you need more… to stop yourself from writing?”

You didn’t turn. You knew, if your eyes met, something would ignite in that collision. Still, you answered, half a smirk playing on your lips.

“If I dared to write this... it wouldn’t be my paper that burns. It’d be me.”

You didn’t laugh. But your voice was lined with tense irony.

“You really are as dangerous as I thought, Thomas Shelby.”

He stepped beside you. When his feet aligned with yours, the steam rising from the rain-soaked ground formed a thin veil between you. Almost invisible.

“You’re trying to understand me. I saw that tonight.”

Without turning to you, he looked up at the sky.

In his eyes: echoes of war, the weight of lost brothers in London, the memory of men who never came back from France.

“Sometimes people become more attached to the things they don’t write. Writing creates distance. But watching… pulls you in.”

As he said it, something cracked in his voice. Something unseen. A hidden fracture… the part left behind after war, but never healed. And you heard it.

“I’m not trying to know you.”

You stepped back, not to flee, but to stand straighter.

You rolled up your sleeves slightly, adjusted your posture. Your voice was firm, but something in you trembled.

“I’m trying to understand. How much you show is up to you.”

That was the moment your eyes met.

In his gaze, for the first time, there was not gunpowder, but ash.

And in yours, not just the look of a woman, but of a solitude masked by masculinity.

But Thomas… he recognized that solitude in you.

“You’re not afraid. But there’s a fear you even hide from yourself. Like a silence that screams… something writhing beneath your shell.”

He turned to you, fully.

“I was the same. For a long time. Until I got used to the dark.”

You paused. Then you said, never breaking eye contact:

“Maybe… I just wanted to describe the night to someone who’s already used to the dark.”

Your breath caught for a moment. But you didn’t stop.

“If you still know how to speak… maybe we talk a bit more tonight?”

It wasn’t just an invitation. It was a hand extended from the shadows.

But even as you offered it, you kept your guard.

You raised the collar of your coat.

Your posture proud, gaze defiant.

“And how about doing it at the Shelby house?

There’s a fan waiting for you at home.”

The pavements of Watery Lane were quieter than usual that night. The moon peered down with a thin, soapy whiteness as you stood at the door of Thomas Shelby’s house. The door was heavy as a log, but when it opened, the warmth spilling inside created such a sharp contrast that you forgot the grey cold of the outside.

As you stepped in, a slight unease from seeing the house for the first time weighed on your shoulders. Polished dark walnut furniture, military medals on the shelves, well-worn leather chairs by the coal fireplace, echoes of lived memory.

In the dim light, golden cigarette ashtrays gleamed atop the suede chairs. A soft scent of whisky, tobacco, and old books filled the air. Thomas had not yet removed his coat. His eyes never left you.

“If you can still speak…” you had said.

He answered with a sip from his glass:

“Someone who comes to the Shelby house to talk is either an enemy… or a friend. We’ll see which you are.”

There was no threat in his voice. But each word drew a boundary, and you were being pulled into its center. Inside the walls, but outside the glass.

As Ada Shelby came down the stairs, her eyes lit up when she saw you.

“You must be Y/N. I know your essays by heart, the one titled Blood and Roses… It was beautiful.”

She smiled, and her warm, gentle tone briefly lightened the seriousness of the room. Thomas lit a cigarette. Turning to you, he raised one eyebrow with a hint of mockery:

“Men try to demolish the walls built by women’s pens with dynamite. Isn't that right?”

You hadn’t answered yet when the parlor door swung open sharply. Arthur Shelby entered with heavy steps, a half-empty whiskey bottle in hand and that familiar, mocking arrogance in his eyes. He sized you up from head to toe. A comment was inevitable.

“So you’re that wise one writing about us… the man himself, huh?” He squinted and laughed. “Well… excuse me. A man… are you still?”

The mood in the room flipped. Arthur’s voice cut through the air like a lamp swinging from the ceiling rafters. But before you could respond, Thomas spoke first.

“Arthur,” Thomas said quietly but sharply. Just his name, yet his icy tone was enough to silence Arthur. Thomas didn’t even turn. His eyes stayed on your face.

“You don’t speak that way to someone I invited here. Especially when she’s my guest.”

Arthur paused, nodded, and forced a smile.

“Alright, Tommy. She’s your guest. Then I’ll take my whiskey and… shut up.”

The whiskey was drunk in short time, a few sentences exchanged. But Thomas Shelby never broke eye contact with you. Then he directed you toward the old Chesterfield armchair opposite the fireplace.

“Come,” he said. “Let’s talk there.”

As the fire crackled and whiskey glasses clinked, the air in the room grew heavier—not with threatening silence, but with an intimacy that hinted at opening old files, at words kneeling before truth. Thomas sipped his whisky slowly, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. It was like an old calculator processing your sentences, the operators his gaze, the result still uncertain.

You had seated yourself in the Chesterfield, but you weren’t lounging—you looked like someone entering the ring. Your masculine clothes, the crisp lines, the high-collared shirt—all gave a sense of a past buried like a button pressed deep. And you never broke your posture. Your legs spread, elbows resting on your knees, your gaze spoke for itself.

Arthur half-sat on the arm of the chair, cigarette dangling from his mouth, grinning at you.

“Alright… so they say you have fans who love your writing. Those ‘living in the shadows of love’ type essays.”

“But why… why do you enjoy taking potshots at guys like us?” —His gaze flicked to Thomas and back to himself— “…you didn’t write about the Peaky Blinders, but if you had, what would you have said? Come on.”

His tone was mocking, but with that typical Arthur warmth woven in, not cruelty, but a love for wordplay. Part of his heart was still the street kid who grew up kicking around the streets of Birmingham.

You wet your lips, about to answer when Ada intervened first. She tapped Arthur on the shoulder.

“Enough now, don’t bother her!” she said. Then she turned to you, leaning in with a soft smile.

“But I am really curious,” she said. “Some of your essays talk about love, passionately, complicatedly. As if you’re not afraid of pain. But looking at how you dress…”—she looked over your masculine attire— “…it’s like your heart is tied with a belt. You live like a man but feel like a woman. Is that a contradiction… or something else?”

Something clicked inside you. Behind that question was compassion, and a woman asking for an honest answer. Then Thomas stepped in. This time his voice was slow, low, but intensely focused. He spoke with the patience of someone flicking the ashes from his cigarette.

“My brother provokes, Ada understands. But I will ask something else. As a woman, you tear into the male world so easily with your writing. So… why did you choose to live like a man? War? Fear? Or protecting someone?”

He was looking right into your eyes. At that moment, Thomas Shelby wasn’t just asking you, he was staring into your history.

You opened your mouth, but before a single word could be spoken, the door inside opened gently. Polly appeared like a ghost, her heels pressing into the rug. She carried a glass of whiskey and walked slowly toward you. Her eyes, different from the others’, saw only you, and one look was enough to hear the silence that came from you. Perhaps in that instant, a woman understood another woman without words.

Polly paused, not sitting. She simply studied you. Then she looked at Arthur, then Thomas, then back at you.

“If you ask me,” she said, voice slightly trembling but sharp, “there’s something in this young woman’s past. Behind those clothes is a wound. And that wound may have masculinized her pen, her voice, her body. But the woman inside… speaks through your eyes.”

Then she moved closer, took your hands in hers.

“Welcome. To our circle.”

Her voice had the warmth of the one you’d forgotten, perhaps for the first time, someone welcomed you not just for being a woman, but for being you.

Polly’s words spread across the room like a velvet cloth dropped into the center.

"She carries a wound behind her clothes. And that wound might have turned her pen, her voice, her body… into something more masculine."

The sentence felt like it cut something out from within you. There was a moment of silence. Everyone forgot their drinks. No sound overtook the crackling fire. In that moment, the footsteps of the past were returning, and unlike always, you didn’t bow your head—you held it high. But your lips trembled. Polly’s eyes were still locked on yours, but now Ada had leaned forward, her voice soft, almost timid.

“Is it true?” she asked. “Is there… a reason for this? The thing that made you so strong… is it also your loneliness?”

There was no pity in her words, only curiosity. And a kind of compassion mixed with a woman’s intuition. But for you, putting it into words meant turning years of silent turmoil into spoken truth. Still, the topic was now too close to avoid.

You cleared your throat. Your eyes turned to the fire. But Thomas Shelby… was watching you. A cigarette rested between his lips, unlit. He simply held it. As if it were a question in his mouth, waiting for your answer to give it meaning.

“I was born in France,” you said at last, your voice soft but fractured. “Near Paris, in a big family with vineyards. The story always starts the same way: an old aristocratic name, heavy meals, empty words, and lives trapped inside them.”

Your eyes stayed on the fire, but the crack in your voice sharpened Thomas’s gaze. The line between his brows deepened. You went on: “They wanted to shape me into a mold. One that was narrow, silent, and always smiling for men. But each day, I tried to break it. Not with my hands… with my words. With my questions. Some tied their love for me to my submission. Every refusal… left me more alone.”

You swallowed. The man watching you now saw another fracture within you. But you were still in control. Or so you thought.

“One day… I took some money from my mother’s jewelry box. Packed only my books and my typewriter. Got on a train. And came here.”

Ada hadn’t taken her eyes off you, but she lowered her head. Arthur had stretched his feet toward the fireplace, saying nothing this time. There was surprise in his eyes, and maybe a bit of respect. Polly tilted her head slightly as she listened, her whiskey forgotten in her hand.

And Thomas… He wasn’t hearing you anymore. He was seeing you.

He imagined a woman walking among crowds leaning on her own shadow, biting her lips at night while writing just to keep from screaming, staring at her reflection in the morning trying to feel nothing. He saw that vision as he watched you.

“And now you’re here,” he said quietly. “In the house of the Shelbys. Someone who escaped with her pen, now sitting in a room with the Peaky Blinders. There are molds everywhere in the world. But you… you look like someone who could burn them.”

What he didn’t say was this: He was curious about your broken pieces. The dark corners of you. And for the first time, Thomas Shelby didn’t want to touch a woman… he wanted to understand her.

There was a pause. Polly’s eyes stayed on you. But her voice was gentle this time. “You’ve walked a hard road. But you’re not alone anymore. I know what it costs to write those words.”

You tried to hide what passed through you. You didn’t answer. Just smiled faintly. But your hands were trembling. And Thomas noticed.

As your gaze dropped to the floor, his lingered on your lips. He wasn’t trying to figure you out anymore. He was engraving you into memory.

You were talking. Telling Ada something. Polly had smiled slightly. Arthur raised his glass. But Thomas was watching you like you belonged to another time.

A woman once broken, once escaped, reshaped, then rebuilt by her own hands. And to him, that set you apart from everyone else. Because you had survived something. And Thomas Shelby loved survivors. Not the weak, but those who had bled and endured. Yet this time, it wasn’t admiration. It wasn’t instinct. It was desire.

And throughout the night, one thought anchored itself in the back of his mind: What was it like… to be with you?

Truly. Not to own. Not to consume. But to share a night with you. How would you surrender to a man, if ever?

As he watched you hold your cigarette, Thomas thought about your hands. How many doors had they closed? How many slaps had they taken? How many touches had they pulled away from, how many gazes had they escaped? And now those hands weren’t even safe holding a glass. Because in his mind, those fingers were already tracing his chest, his throat, his hips. But the fantasy wasn’t dirty. It was hungry. Yes. It was passion. Of course. But above all, it was longing.

He imagined the sweat sliding down your back, the tremble in the corner of your lip, the whispers rising from you when your eyes closed. But what he truly craved wasn’t just skin. It was the storm beneath it.

For Thomas Shelby, to make love to you wouldn’t be just union, it would be redemption. Because he couldn’t make love to his past. But maybe… he could forget it with you. And the last thought that echoed inside him was this: “When I touch that woman, it won’t just be a body… It will be my way out of hell.”

He didn’t take his eyes off you. Arthur was saying something, but he didn’t hear. Ada had asked a question, he nodded without knowing what.

But Thomas Shelby… He spent the entire night thinking only of you.

After you were handed your last drink and farewelled with laughter, the door of the house closed behind you slowly. As your footsteps faded along the cobbled path, the air inside didn't change—it merely became more bare. The presence you left behind seemed etched into the room.

Ada leaned back on the couch, holding her glass between her palms, eyes fixed on the fire in the hearth. There was a half-genuine, half-contemplative smile on her lips.

“That woman… she's different,” she said softly, not as a statement but almost in awe. “I read her writings, yes, her pen is powerful, no doubt. But tonight… it was something else. As if even words fall short compared to what she carries inside.”

Arthur shrugged, taking a sip. “Too posh. Talks too much. But beautiful. No denying that.”

Ada shot him a mocking look but didn’t engage further. Then her gaze shifted to Thomas.

“What about you, Tom? For someone who barely speaks… you were rather talkative with her tonight.”

Thomas didn’t answer. A faint tension flickered at the corner of his lips. He kept puffing his cigarette. His eyes remained on the fire’s glow, but his thoughts were somewhere else. Or maybe… very close.

Just as silence was about to settle, Polly entered the room. Black veils, footsteps soft like velvet. She poured herself a drink, then sat down. Her gaze wasn’t on Ada; it was locked directly on Thomas.

In the quiet pause, Polly parted her lips.

“That girl became a man because in this world, staying a woman is like dying.”

The room contracted with all the unspoken words it held.

The amusement on Arthur’s face vanished.

Ada went silent, as if she’d just heard something from her mother, or a saint.

Thomas… Thomas lifted his eyes to Polly for the first time. He didn’t pretend he hadn’t heard. He had. And it sank deep.

Polly went on, eyes still fixed on him:

“To be a woman, where she came from, meant kneeling. Staying. Enduring. Remaining silent. So she stood up. But as she rose, she left her womanhood behind. Hid it. As if someone might steal it. She dresses like a man because that’s her armor. Her tongue is sharp because she was silenced long ago. And her words, they're her weapons.”

Ada whispered, “How do you know that?”

Polly tilted her head slightly, smiling with pain.

“Because I once lived in armor too. But I kept my womanhood. Hers though, it’s buried.”

She lifted her glass. “And yet she still shines. Despite all her suppression… she’s still a woman. She just doesn’t let anyone see it.”

Thomas turned his eyes back to the fire, as if something deep within him had been touched. Polly’s words had struck like bullets, into his past, and into you.

Because that’s why he wanted you.

You weren’t a woman who lacked femininity. You were a woman who gave it up to survive.

And for the first time, something flickered inside Thomas Shelby:

“I want to give her womanhood back. Not by making her weak. But by letting her be herself, strong, unbroken, vulnerable without fear.”

Polly lowered her head and sipped her drink.

“She’ll fight for you, Thomas,” she said. “Because she’s trying to understand you. But you’ll have to fight for her too. If you can’t figure her out… she’ll figure you out. And then she might leave.”

Arthur stood up, trying to lighten the tense mood, raising his glass.

“Come on, Polly. A girl shows up and suddenly everyone’s all dramatic?”

But no one laughed. Because by the end of that night, everyone knew one thing:

You had met the Shelby house.

But more than anything… you had met the darkness inside Thomas Shelby.

And for the first time, that darkness was afraid of losing something.

Of losing you.

Time moved forward like a wound. It had been two weeks since you last saw each other. No message, no greeting, not even a shadow of Thomas Shelby’s smoky eyes searching for you at a street corner… He was nowhere to be seen. But this absence wasn’t a disappearance. On the contrary, the pull between you had begun to take a visible form. A silence growing larger each day now carried two people who had no courage left for words.

You were busy finishing your columns. You tried returning to your old topics: the cruelty of war, the rights of workers in industrial Birmingham, the invisible face of social inequality… But every sentence felt foreign. Each paragraph was dull and cold without the shadow of Thomas Shelby in it.

You sat at your writing desk. Your hands lay still over the page. The ink of your pen was drying, but your mind was still burning. Every piece you tried to write scattered in a different direction. For the first time, the pen didn’t feel like yours.

None of them made it past a paragraph. Because all your words revolved around one man.

Thomas Shelby.

As you sipped your coffee, his presence—bodiless but tactile, came to mind. When your finger brushed against the paper, you saw him lifting a cigarette to his lips. In your mind, you were already talking to him.

Thomas Michael Shelby. A man. A leader. A shadow. A crime. And maybe… the most honest confession of a woman writer. Read under abandoned streetlamps at night, echoing in a woman’s mind like a manifesto.

And for the first time, your pen moved to write about him.

You were going to write now. About him.

But this wouldn’t be an exposé; it would be a recognition, a cry, a surrender. Because Thomas Shelby hadn’t just made you think, he had left you without yourself.

At the same hour, in another street…

With the collar of his grey coat turned up, Thomas was walking through the foggy streets of Birmingham. Brief conversations, clipped commands… business meetings… cold whiskeys… None of it could fill the emptiness inside him. Without you, no victory meant anything. A man, even if a king, could find a city to be his grave if he was alone.

Thomas Shelby, collar raised, stood in front of a clothing shop window. His steps seemed premeditated, but his gaze was entirely detached from all plans. Behind the glass, a deep midnight-blue fabric flowed like silk… A delicate cut falling from slender shoulders… A sash at the waist… A tasteful slit at the knee… The moment he saw the dress, he thought of you.

You, in that dress… But not just the dress. You, at peace with yourself. Not fighting, not hiding… not needing to prove your womanhood to anyone.

He narrowed his eyes. Dropped his cigarette. Crushed it with the tip of his shoe. And for a moment, he closed his eyes.

He imagined draping that dress over your back. Watched you letting your hair fall over your shoulder. In the darkened frame of a doorway, he saw you walking toward him in that dress. And then, he imagined you undressing. But not hastily. Slowly. Gently. With reverence. Because to desire you didn’t mean to possess you. To see you, to understand you, to unravel with you that was what he wanted.

He wanted to put that dress on you because… he wanted to show you that being a woman wasn’t death, it was survival. And he didn’t want to own you. He wanted to belong to you.

He didn’t want to protect you. He wanted to burn with you. Maybe he would bury all the silence he had carried for years into your skin in a single night. And he wanted to let your darkness meet his darkness, and from that, let something be born.

A scream. A name. A story. A destiny written with you.

You both missed each other.

But Thomas Shelby never spoke of longing. He spoke through the dress you never wore. You shouted through the lines you never wrote about him. You were both silent.

But the city was now too full of this silence to carry you any longer.

And the decision was made.

You started to write.

He bought the dress.

You wiped your tears.

He lit the last cigarette he would smoke before reaching for you.

And one night, one of you would complete the words. The other, touch between the lines.

Paper did not only carry ink. That morning, the newspapers distributed throughout Birmingham carried the contents of a heart. It was the moment when a writer, after struggling to define love, finally poured her tangled words onto the page with courage. And those words, like bullets, had found their target.

A woman waiting at the station read the lines on the fourth page again and again.

A mother who had given birth to a child and then lost her own identity while raising it.

Another woman, lighting her morning cigarette, read the article aloud to her prostitute friends.

One who had never cried over a man fell silent, clutching her throat at a single sentence.

A young tailor’s apprentice abandoned his breakfast and took refuge in the corner of the paper.

Because that piece wasn’t just about love—it spoke of the punishment love could bring, and of a rebellion echoing within silence.

The writer’s name was not listed; not even initials had been printed this time. But everyone knew who had written it.

You.

You were the author of those lines. And now, the streets were speaking your name. Even if it didn’t appear on the page, the article was the voice of your heart. For the first time, your words weren’t about war—but about a man.

…

The city’s hum remained outside. In Thomas Shelby’s office, the air was as heavy as ever with smoke, with thought. On the dark walnut desk, the morning’s newspaper lay open. No one had handed it to him. He had picked it up himself. He had seen the headline with his own eyes: “For Those Who Pass Through Love and End in Silence”

His gaze slowly scanned the lines. Behind the letters, a silhouette began to form. That man… The one who had once drowned in his own darkness and later searched for light in a woman’s eyes that man was Thomas Shelby himself.

“Some men don’t get caught in love. They see it as a trap. But one day, a woman comes along… and turns that trap into gold. Because true love is not a surrender; it is a challenge, a rebirth. That man tore down the walls he had built from thorns inside me. And behind those walls, I found a boy. Silent, wounded, but still worthy of being loved…”

His fingers slowly closed over the paper. He adjusted the collar of his jacket. Leaned back in his chair, but his face was tilted downward. His eyes were fixed on one spot: a gift box in deep burgundy satin sitting at the edge of his desk.

Inside was the dress. The one from that shop he had gone back to after pausing for a moment, thinking of you. At the time, he had never felt you so close.

Now… You had written him. Not by name, but by heart.

For the first time, a piece of writing had disarmed Thomas Shelby—not like an enemy, but like a man. His mind wasn’t filled with war strategies, but with your words. He remembered the way you looked at him. Thought of the times you fell silent. And now, he understood the reason for that silence.

You had loved him. Despite all his darkness, his past, his curses.

At first, Thomas Shelby had wanted to use you for prestige. He wanted you to write about him. But if you had written back then, none of it would have felt this way. None of it would have stung the chest and warmed the heart with such honesty. Now, someone had finally told him: “You are worthy of being loved as you are.”

That’s why he walked toward the gift box. Opened the lid slowly. Touched the dress. As his fingers moved over the fabric, what passed through him was too close to hide any longer:

“I want you to be my woman, Y/N… I want to be with you.”

That day, Thomas Shelby made his decision. Yes, he had built an empire.

But for the first time, he had been defeated by words by a woman.

And for the first time, he had found himself in a writer’s heart.

He would confess his love to you. But he would do it as a man. Not with a weapon, but with his heart. Not inviting you to a bed, but to a life.

The streets of Birmingham always turned the same shade of grey in the evening; if the cobblestones didn’t shine with rain, footsteps would seem to vanish between the cracks. Your steps echoed, but even that echo wasn’t enough to bring you back to yourself.

With a brown coat over your shoulders, you walked against the wind, your boots pressing over the cracked pavement. The corner of the magazine bag in your hand was folded, and between the pages peeked the headline of that much-discussed article: “For Those Who Pass Through Love and End in Silence.” You had left the office late. Congratulations, praise, hands patting your shoulder… all because of that article. You had touched something inside everyone, torn them open, then gently stitched them back together. How strange… Among the hearts you had touched with your writing, yours was not one of them.

Your heart was still a battlefield.

As you turned a corner, you held your breath. You tried to suppress the thing rising inside you. A strange warmth…

No, this feeling, it wasn’t yours.

It belonged to love.

To a woman.

And you… you had long ago torn that piece out of yourself.

“You lost the right to feel like a woman.”

You’d told yourself that years ago.

At the edge of a bed, behind a closed door, maybe suffocating in a smile...

In the eyes of the men who looked at you, there had been no love, only ownership.

And you had pulled yourself away from those stares.

You had changed your skin, your hair, your tone of voice.

You had ripped away everything feminine within you and replaced it with sharp edges.

But now...

That damned feeling was sprouting from within again.

Not in the words Thomas Shelby whispered beneath his breath as he looked at you, It was growing in all the things he never said.

While walking down the street, you noticed your hands were trembling.

Not from the cold. From remembering. From longing.

How long had it been since you forgot what it meant to be a woman?

Your steps quickened. As if trying to outrun a thought…

But where could you go?

The woman inside you had already run far away.

You had let her go.

But now…

That woman was coming back.

And it scared you.

Because that woman wanted love. She craved tenderness. She wanted to be touched, to be heard, to be felt.

And Thomas Shelby -that damned gangster- seemed to offer all of it. Without a single word. Just by looking. Just by being.

You stopped against a wall. Took a deep breath.

When your eyes began to water, you looked straight at the sky.

You wouldn’t cry. No… you’d drown this feeling.

“Women like you can’t carry love. Because love won’t carry you.”

But another voice inside you whispered.

From a different language,

From a different possibility:

“But what if Thomas can carry you?”

As you turned the corner, your steps slowed.

The wind blew your coat.

No, not a coat… for a moment, you imagined it was that favorite dress in your room in France.

You imagined the satin brushing your legs,

Thomas’s gaze kissing your neck...

You parted your lips slightly, held your breath.

You were afraid of yourself.

Not because you wanted Thomas Shelby...

But because you wanted to be yourself with him.

Your steps grew heavier as you reached the corner of your building. Until that moment, you'd been wrestling with your thoughts, fighting yourself, avoiding a confrontation with the woman inside you, but now, now you were getting close to home. Your safe space. The cellar of your pen, your solitude, your cold coffee cups, and the emotions you kept tightly under control. Nothing ever changed there. No one ever came close.

But even from the end of the street, you noticed it.

Something was wrong.

Your gaze instinctively lifted to your apartment window. The light was on.

You stopped walking instantly. Your pulse quickened in your chest. For several seconds, you just stared at the light, not thinking... just feeling. Your mind pushed you toward your most vulnerable place. And your heart, for a fleeting second, chose joy.

“Is it him?”

For a moment -yes, for a moment- Thomas Shelby could’ve been there.

Maybe he was waiting for you.

Maybe he had realized he missed you, just as you missed him.

Just as you’d imagined…

But that feeling only left a warm flicker in your chest before slipping away.

Because you were… smart. And in this city, an apartment with a light on meant only one thing:

Someone had entered. Without your permission.

And for the first time, when you said Thomas Shelby’s name in your mind, it wasn’t with affection...

It was with fury.

“How dare you?”

Your fists clenched.

That woman you’d been running from all day, you tore her out of yourself now.

Everything feminine, everything soft, you cast it to the edge of your heart.

And with the wind whipping your hair, you marched toward the building with sharp, unwavering steps.

When you pushed open the cold iron door and climbed the old stairs, your rage only grew with every step.

That rage kept you upright.

It cleared your head.

It erased your fear, your longing, your weakness.

“If you’re in there… if you’re really in there…”

“…I’ll show you.”

You paused at your door. Your hands were sweaty, but you ignored it. You took out your key. And turned it in the lock. A soft click. A shifting sound. The door opened.

And you, you saw him.

Thomas Shelby.

You stepped inside. Thomas was at the desk near the far wall, the one where you wrote at night, accompanied by the solemn silence of your typewriter.

His legs were crossed, his body leaned back in the chair, his head turned toward you. Like a shadow. Like a ghost. But more real than you.

He was still wearing his dark navy coat. A white shirt underneath, but the collar was loose. No tie this time. Instead of a tie, he wore that inward silence rising to his throat.

His face held nothing, as always.

But his eyes spoke like the night.

“Welcome home,” he said, his voice low but firm. As if this wasn’t your house. As if he had been summoned here by you.

But you stood there, caught in a few seconds of stunned stillness.

Your gaze fell on the large box on the desk. Wrapped in velvety fabric. Tied with a ribbon. The kind of box sent to women. To selected women. To women you never thought you’d be.

But your anger reminded you who you were.

Right before your emotions could surface.

You clenched your jaw, pressed your feet harder into the floor, and your voice came out like a blade, cold and sharp:

“You people make a habit of breaking into places, but not here. Not in my home.”

Thomas didn’t speak for a moment. As if he wasn’t arranging his words, but listening to the crack behind your voice. He looked at you without blinking. This time, with every mask stripped away.

He stood up from behind the typewriter, slowly. As if he’d sat there ready to write, but couldn’t.

He didn’t button his coat. Didn’t shove his hands in his pockets. He simply took a step toward you.

“You didn’t write about me. Not about Peaky Blinders. Not about Thomas Shelby,” he said. “But you wrote about someone I didn’t expect. I read that piece.”

The sentence echoed through the walls. Just like the echo you'd heard inside yourself. Silent but shattering.

You didn’t respond. Because any word you gave would let him in further.

“There’s a woman inside you, Y/N. A quiet, bleeding woman. Hiding. And you… you’re trying to kill her.”

The way he said your name was different. It wasn’t soft. It was firm. Because he was a man who read your wounds, not with pity, but with truth.

He reached slowly toward the box on the desk.

His fingers held the ribbon but didn’t untie it.

Just held it.

“Everyone in this city knows you like this now. Tough. Cold. Masculine. Like a predator who doesn’t show her teeth.

But I... I saw you from the beginning.

Not just the way you talked. The way you walked. The way your breath paused. The way your eyes recoiled at a single look…

You used to belong to yourself. But then someone took you.”

He took another step. Only a few feet stood between you now. But your breaths were on the same rhythm.

Breaking the air in the same pattern.

Your eyes were fixed on him, but he could see right through them.

“I don’t want to put you in a mold. I want to put you in a dress. A dress that belongs to you. And when you look in the mirror wearing it, you’ll see that woman again. The one you’ve been trying to kill, but the one I still hear. I want to bring her back to life.”

Your answer didn’t come quickly. Because any word that left your mouth would be a declaration of war. And you realized, suddenly, you were tired of fighting.

Still, your face showed nothing. But your heart betrayed you. And then Thomas Shelby said his final words, not like a criminal, but like a man. Locking his gaze with yours:

“If you don’t want this... I’ll leave. But if I stay, I won’t leave until I bring that woman back.”

The voice inside you said, “Tell him to leave.” But the shadow falling across your face whispered, “Tell him everything.”

And yet, once again, you betrayed your heart and chose the fight.

Your gaze drifted from Thomas’s hand resting on the box to his eyes once more. You had learned that, to truly understand someone, you had to start with hatred. And the man standing before you was strong enough to be hated… but worse, broken enough to be understood.

Your chin was high, your shoulders tense. And deep in your chest, as always, you carried a curiosity hidden beneath anger.

Your voice hit the walls like cold steel.

“Why? Why do you care? To you, I’m just a writer who won’t bend her pen for the Peaky Blinders. What about me are you so curious about? What connects me to you?”

This was a challenge. But also an invitation. A door opened, demanding the truth. And Thomas Shelby, as always, responded first with silence.

Out of all that noise, he arrived with nothing but his quiet gaze.

He didn’t light a cigarette. Didn’t rush into words. Didn’t use any unnecessary gesture.

He only dipped his head slightly. Then lifted it again.

And then he spoke.

“When I look at you, I see my own exhaustion. I replaced something inside me years ago… something that died. But you… you just buried yours. It’s still alive. Still there. The woman in you.”

He stepped closer. You weren’t supposed to touch him, but in your mind, you were the one closing the distance.

The heat in your veins wasn’t only anger now. It had become something else. And Thomas kept going, never breaking eye contact.

“I’m not trying to save you. I’m not trying to fix you. I’m not God. I’m not a hero. But I want to watch you. I want to see the moment those masks start to fall. I want to be there when you start living in your own skin again. And… I want to be with you when it happens.”

It was the shell of a confession. But to you, the shell was already visible enough.

You said nothing. Because you were afraid your words would betray you.

You didn’t want to surrender to a man’s sentences after all you’d fought.

But your face had changed.

In your eyes, there was a glimmer of the woman Thomas hadn’t yet known. And he saw it.

For a while, silence filled the space. Eye to eye. Breaths unspoken. Time unbroken.

Then Thomas Shelby stepped back. A stillness like polar cold surrounded him. He didn’t turn away, but his gaze had already gone beyond your heart.

He reached into his coat pocket. Pulled out a small white envelope. Placed it gently on the table. As he drew his hand back, he left behind one sentence.

“Tomorrow night. Charity Gala. Seven o’clock. You won’t need an invitation. I’ll bring you.”

When he looked at you again, he wasn’t watching you anymore, he was watching who you could become.

“You can come wearing what you have on. But if you wear what’s in the box… You’ll be walking toward yourself. Not me.”

And then he turned toward the door. It opened. The wind came in.

“You don’t have to come. But if you don’t, I’ll still be someone who wants your words. If you do.... Then I’ll be the one writing you.”

The door creaked open. Silence entered. And Thomas Shelby left without leaving a single footstep behind.

You were alone. But this time, loneliness didn’t feel familiar.

It felt like something inside you was finally… coming back.

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divaofmads · 2 months ago

Text

Thanatos | Dr. Crane

Pairing Jonathan Crane x Female Reader

Gif by @breakfastonuranus

Summary: A psychopath who wants to control fears — and a woman willing to become his plaything. On a journey filled with desire and fear, control and pleasure begin to blur into one.

⚠️ Warnings: +18, MDNI, NSFW, Smut, Fingering, Domination, Vaginal Sex, Rape/non-con/underage content is not present or condoned, The content explores consensual dark erotica and kink with clear agency, Age Gap (F! 20 -M! 30), Heavy sexual tension, Dark themes, Psychological manipulation, Obsession, Gaslighting, Dark!JonathanCrane, Fear Kink, Toxic relationship dynamics, Fear Serum Mentions, Experimental drug use (fictional substance, psychological context), Power imbalance (mentor x intern dynamic), Do not romanticize manipulation in real life, English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional.

Word Count: +10k

Dividers by @arcielee

📌A/N: While writing this story, I drew inspiration from Freud’s concept of the death drive (Thanatos), the life/sexual drive (Eros), and the dark line where these two opposing forces intertwine. What is told here is not just a fantasy; it's also about how people approach their desires with fear, and how they transform fear into desire. My story is both a warning and a surrender. Like a life lived under the shadow of death. Or like the sudden sense of absence that appears at the very depth of pleasure.

You began to tidy up the scattered documents on your desk. Files, pens, your glasses case. You slowly zipped up your bag and stood. Adjusted your shoulders. Noticed the bottom button of your shirt had ridden up and hastily tucked it back in. Your reflection in the mirror showed a tired but content expression, the day was over, or so you thought. Your palms were still clammy, because working in Dr. Crane’s office wasn’t merely an academic duty; it was a kind of survival art. Even his silence was a threat, and you had no choice but to obey it.

The wall clock had just passed six, its ticking sound slicing through the silence like a blade. In your mind still lingered the notes you’d taken throughout the day, the patients you observed, and Dr. Crane’s meticulous gaze. That gaze had followed you like a shadow through Arkham’s dimly lit corridors all day. Even though barely two sentences had escaped his lips, Jonathan Crane seemed to read you with a chilling precision. It was as if he knew what you were thinking, what you were feeling, what you were suppressing, better than you did. And the most terrifying part? He seemed to enjoy it.

Just as you turned toward the door… the handle clicked. And like a cold gust of wind, he entered.

He stepped in holding his notebook, and the air in the room shifted. The temperature seemed to drop by a few degrees. The dirty yellow light highlighted the pale sharpness of his features. His eyes looked at you like a hunter sizing up prey, just before striking.

“I don’t recall granting you permission to leave.”

His tone was low, measured, and deep. But the undertone was ice-cold. It wasn’t merely a sentence, it was a decision, a judgment, a command. Your heart skipped. Your hand remained on your bag strap; you couldn’t move forward or backward.

You opened your mouth, but the words stalled on your tongue. Because you knew there was no point in arguing. Jonathan Crane wasn’t just a strict professor; he was like a surgeon dissecting you. He had placed your soul on the table, opened your veins, and watched you from the inside. Not just as a student, but as a subject.

“It’s past six... I just…” you said softly, like a child retreating to defense. “I was just packing up, doctor.”

His expression didn’t change. His eyes stayed locked on your face. Then, he stepped closer. The door didn’t shut, through the crack, a line of sterile white light cut into the dark office like a blade.

“So you were preparing to escape before I dismissed you?”

His voice didn’t rise, but the subtle sarcasm scraped at your insides. Your gaze dropped to the floor, your head bowed slightly. Your shoulders sagged. You knew everything, this damned internship, hung between his lips. He had told you on the first day: “If you want to stay here, you’ll follow my rules. My rules are... changeable. Like your courage.”

“No... no, I just misunderstood, I think…” you said, but before you could finish, the strap of your bag slipped from your fingers. A small thud. And then silence. And his footsteps, ah, those slow, deliberate steps began echoing across the hard floor, sending a shiver through you.

Jonathan stood in front of you. He didn’t tilt his head or raise your chin when he spoke. The space between you was barely a breath. You smelled him; a metallic medicinal scent, a hint of sweat, and the dusty aroma of old book covers. His face was expressionless, but his eyes… they watched you break.

“This internship… requires diligence. Small details often determine fate. For instance, do you know who decides when you’re allowed to leave this office?”

You slowly shook your head. Your lips parted, but you gave no answer.

“I do,” he said, voice nearly a whisper. “Not you. Not the bell. Don’t think you’re ‘free’ just because the sun has set. I control this institution’s rhythm, Y/N. And your little sense of time can’t disrupt my system.”

He reached out. His fingers moved toward the button on your collar but didn’t unfasten it. He only touched it. With cold and steady pressure. It felt like he was pressing not on the fabric, but on your throat. A tremble rose beneath your heart. A shiver coursed down your spine. You weren’t afraid… at least, not just afraid. There was something in that touch a submissive surrender mingled with fear.

“If you want to leave…” he said, and with his thumb under your button, he lifted your chin, “...you’ll ask for permission. While looking me in the eyes.”

You stood there, head bowed. Your body motionless, but inside, storms were brewing. Jonathan Crane’s eyes were on you. He had your strings in his hand, unraveling you. He didn’t even need to raise a hand. That eye contact was pushing you back, further and further from yourself. You swallowed against the heat swelling in your throat.

“Please… may I leave, Dr. Crane?”

Your voice was soft, barely a whisper. But in the silence, it was a confession, an audible expression of your submission to his authority. You didn’t want to please him as much as you feared angering him. Because his wrath wouldn’t be verbal, it would come through action. And while you didn’t yet know what he was capable of… your imagination was more than active.

His eyes lingered on you for a few seconds. Then, his eyelids drooped slightly, and he tilted his head ever so slightly. He examined you. Smelled your helplessness.

“No,” he said flatly. The word echoed like a bullet hitting the wall. “We’re not finished yet.”

Your heart paused. What could you say? To object… would be suicide. Your shoulders dropped. You dared to meet his eyes.

“But…” you said, swallowing hard, “…it’s past working hours. For today…”

“Be quiet,” he cut you off. His voice didn’t rise. But the tone, was like a slap that shattered any thought of defiance. “If you work with me, time does not belong to you. Understand? Time is mine.”

He took another step. The sound of his shoes still echoed coldly on the floor, but now he was just inches from you. Your eyes drifted to his chest, just below the collar. You couldn’t see his heartbeat, but it was there. Close. Dangerous. Yet… alluring. With the back of his hand, he lifted your chin this time. His palm was warm, but the skin he touched went numb. When your eyes met his… your balance shifted.

“You’ll go down to the archive room,” he said softly. His fingers remained at your chin, pressure slightly increasing. “Retrieve file A-38. The one with the red label. When you bring it back, we’ll… examine it together.”

You hesitated. It wasn’t about going to the archive. You didn’t care about the contents of the file. What mattered, was his tone. His request, so unnecessary and arbitrary… was a test. A rehearsal for control. A reminder of your place, your time of surrender.

“I suggest you move quickly,” he added. He removed his hand from your face but immediately reached again for the button on your collar. “And if you try to leave again without permission… next time, we’ll speak differently.”

He didn’t press the button. He just paused there. But for a moment, you felt your whole body lock beneath the tip of his finger.

He held your gaze for a moment longer. Then turned and walked toward the bookshelf. All that remained was silence, your shallow breath, and the fragile desire trembling in the cold room.

Your fingers trembled. You tried to suppress the storm inside as you took a deep breath. You knew… when you returned with that file, what awaited you wouldn’t be limited to the pages.

And the next time you stepped into that office…

you wouldn’t leave as yourself.

As you stepped into the corridor, even your own footsteps sounded too loud in your ears. It felt as if each step echoed off the walls, amplifying the noise inside your head. Your fingers were still trembling slightly, but you weren’t sure if it was from fear… or the lingering phantom warmth of where he had touched you. Your heart fluttered inside your chest like a restless creature clawing to escape. Your body moved forward, but your mind was still in his office. That tone of voice, the breath that brushed your neck, that single word: “No.”

No.

He had said no. And for the first time in your life, after someone told you “no,” instead of stepping back, you had chosen to move forward.

That was what shamed you the most. That fluid guilt flowing through your veins. Yes, you had to obey his command. This internship was a necessity for you. But deep down, you knew, it was no longer just about obedience. There was a need rising from within, something you couldn’t name. When you looked into his eyes, there was something stirring in you, something that made you feel… tainted. Desire and hatred should never be so tightly woven together. It shouldn’t be like this. Why did the dark feel so… alluring?

Why did his humiliation burn just like his touch?

Your underwear had grown damp. Even that detail embarrassed you. If he had realized what state you were in around him… he’d tear you apart. And even as you imagined that moment of unraveling, you felt shame.

You took a deep breath. Tried to collect yourself. The archive room was at the end of the corridor. “I’m just getting a file,” you told yourself. “A piece of paper. That’s all. Calm down.”

But your steps began to shorten. Because as you neared the door, all you could see was a slit of dim light. Most of the ceiling lamps were broken. The archive room was one of the least used, most forgotten spaces in Arkham. When you pushed the door open, the metal hinges groaned with rust. The creaking sound slithered across your skin like a chill.

Inside… was a dark labyrinth.

Only one fluorescent light flickered weakly on the left. It gave off more of a tremble than brightness. The rest was in total darkness. The shelves, if you could even call them that, were chaotic. Stacks of files, labels scattered across the floor, toppled folders. The place looked like it had been abandoned after a war. Which section was A, which was B? Where were the red-labeled files? Nothing was clear.

There were narrow paths. Just barely enough space between the shelves to squeeze through. Turning, bending, even taking a deep breath felt difficult. You felt like even a moment’s distraction, as small as a loose screw, could bring the whole structure crashing down on you. The air was stale. The familiar scent of dust filled your nose. You tried not to cough. In this silence, even the slightest sound from your throat felt too much.

A-38.

With a red label.

Your mind repeated the instruction over and over. Your feet moved cautiously between the shelves. But with each step, you felt more and more lost. Not physically… mentally. This place felt like Crane’s mind: cluttered, chaotic, narrow, out of control, yet woven with a strange, magnetic logic that kept pulling you in.

You lifted a few folders. A-14, A-22… C-03… B-67… All jumbled. Some labels were torn, others faded. As your hand brushed over the folder covers, the moist, dusty cardboard tickled your skin. Your eyes were adjusting to the dark, but your body remained on high alert. You kept feeling like if you turned around, someone would be standing there. Or… maybe you wanted to feel that.

Because his voice was still in your head. “If you try to leave again without permission…”

It echoed in your mind like an unfinished threat.

And you… you were beginning to hope for more than just threats.

You didn’t know how long you’d been struggling among the files. Time seemed warped in here. Your fingers were dark with dust, your elbows scratched from the sharp cardboard edges. Your back ached from twisting and bending in this oppressive space. But above all, you felt a weight. Something non-physical… an instinctual pressure. Your heart was slowly speeding up. Your ears buzzed. And strangest of all, at the tip of your nose, you smelled him. That same metallic, medicinal tone mixed with a dark cologne… or was it just your imagination?

Just as you were sifting through the lower section of the B shelf, a shadow suddenly passed to your right and struck the floor. You hadn’t heard any footsteps. As someone appeared behind you, your body instinctively tensed, but then you heard his voice. That cold, sleek blade of a voice, full of restrained authority, familiar and terrifying.

“Truly… that a task this simple challenges you so deeply is… disappointing.”

His voice was too close. And as soon as you heard it, your heart clenched and the tension radiated through every inch of your body. Your hand still rested on the files, but your focus shattered. The space behind you… wasn’t empty anymore. Just like the silence in your mind. He was here. Quietly. Watching. Patiently. And now… he had arrived.

You swallowed, feeling your throat muscles scrape against each other. Your eyes scanned the shelf in front of you, but the letters made no sense anymore.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, barely audible. “It’s… quite disorganized. The labels are missing.”

It was an explanation, but also a defense. Because the thought of disappointing him had carved itself deeper into you than fear. It felt cruel, yes, but also… like a fragile form of attachment.

His presence shifted behind you. No sound. But your body could feel every subtle movement he made. The distance between you was shrinking. This shelf row was barely wide enough for two people to stand side by side. And he wasn’t moving past you. He was behind you. Very close.

You couldn’t move. His breath grazed the exposed part of your neck and you instinctively held your breath. Nothing touched your back, but where was he? He was close. You felt it in your bones.

“This file,” he said, his voice landing near your right ear, “is a kind of… case study we’ll be working on. If you want to learn, and you must, for this internship, you must understand what and why you’re looking for. Otherwise, you’ll wander in the dark like a blind subject.”

One more step. This time, you couldn’t suppress your breath. Because something lightly touched your back. Not harsh, not aggressive… but definite. His body, maybe his jacket… or simply his nearness was enough to make you feel it. You realized someone had bent near your waist. Then, something brushed the inside of your arm. A fine fabric. His hand. Moving discreetly at your elbow. Your eyes widened, but you didn’t turn your head. Your face was blank. But inside… chaos exploded.

And he continued speaking as if nothing had happened.

“Perhaps someone like you struggles to find what they’re looking for… because they don’t quite know what it is they’re seeking.”

The end of his sentence was dangerously close to your ear. But the real realization was that your body had forgotten how to move. You stayed as you were, hands resting on the files. Because if you moved, the contact might become more obvious. Or… it might change. It might go further.

And maybe… you wanted it to.

And the most terrifying, most shameful thought was this:

You wanted to stay like this.

As your fingers kept gliding over the folders, Crane’s presence was no longer debatable, it wrapped around you like a second skin. You stood caught between the shelf and his body, positioned so that even the lack of space itself felt intoxicating. The tightness of the archive room pressed him closer, yet he moved as if it were nothing but necessity. But nothing about this was natural. Every move was calculated, every breath rehearsed.

Suddenly, his right arm reached over you to grab one of the folders above. As the inside of his arm passed just behind your shoulder, you felt his hips brush against you, for the first time, there was no ambiguity in the contact. You held your breath, but he kept moving as if nothing had happened. His fingertips hovered over the labels, yet he didn’t move his body an inch away. On the contrary… he leaned in, just slightly.

The side of your neck was bare. Strands of your hair were messily falling. That’s when you heard his voice again. This time, lower. More personal. His vocal cords nearly touched your skin.

"Why are your hands shaking?"

It wasn’t a question. Not even an observation. It was a kind of threat, silent, implied. Not physical. Psychological. His voice seeped under your skin. The heat of his breath vibrated at your neck. Your shoulder now felt like it was pinned to his chest. There was no room to retreat. The shelf in front, his body behind. Your breath shortened. You thought of saying “stop”… but your tongue didn’t move. Because you didn’t want him to. But you couldn’t ask him to start, either. You were circling inside a moral void. And yes, you were scared it might cost you your internship.

He raised his hand again, reaching for another folder. This time, the motion was slower. As his fingers passed just in front of your arm, his palm lightly brushed your wrist. And stayed. He didn’t pull back. Not until he had the folder. The weight of his hand pressed against your skin, unmoving. You closed your eyes, tried to hold your breath—but your chest started rising and falling too fast.

And he noticed. Of course, he did. For Jonathan Crane, your body's responses were data. He didn’t need your words to understand. Your pulse, your breathing, the trembling at your fingertips... they were maps to him. And reading those maps gave him pleasure.

He leaned in a little closer. You felt him move through your hair. His lips were nearly at your exposed neck. It made your skin shiver. Your eyes locked on the labels along the far wall, but none of the letters made sense anymore.

You were scared. Every brush of his skin had carved itself into yours. But what followed shattered you even more. His other hand touched your outer thigh, just above the hem of your skirt. A warm touch. Maybe even a caress. But done in a way that suggested accident, like it was just part of the motion.

You swallowed hard. The knot in your throat wouldn’t loosen. You couldn’t speak. Your back was being pressed further into his torso. You were locked in place. And yet, his hands remained—on the surface—innocent. He was just browsing folders. Just… helping.

But his touch lingered longer each time. Each folder he reached for, he seemed to do so with unnecessary tenderness. Like he wasn’t touching paper, but skin. When he pulled one out, his hand grazed your hip. “Accidentally.” But it was too specific to be dismissed. And when your knees trembled, his breathing deepened. His chest rose beneath his jacket. He was watching you. Drinking in your reactions.

“You’re feeling too much. That pleases me. It means... there’s still something left in you to break.”

That’s when it hit you. This wasn’t just about finding a folder. This was a session. A covert experiment. You were his subject. The narrow archive aisle was the lab, and your helpless responses were the data. Every small shiver echoed inside him.

For a moment, you imagined yourself through his eyes. Someone who couldn’t move, couldn’t flee, and yet… wouldn’t say “no.” Your chest tightened. But within that tightness, something darker bloomed. A pleasure you couldn’t explain pulled you deeper.

And Jonathan Crane… he wasn’t rushing to drag you there. He was guiding you slowly. Without force. Without resistance.

Because you were already breaking.

The folder with the red label trembled between your fingers, shining like salvation. It had been wedged deep behind the shelf, covered in dust, nearly invisible. The rustling sound it made as you pulled it free shattered the icy shell inside you. Your heart began to race, but this time, it felt like breathing again.

“Ah... this is it,” you said, your voice trembling with a fragile kind of joy. “We’re saved.”

That word slipped out before you realized: saved.

Your own tongue had chosen it, as if aware of the weight of the moment. The presence of the man behind you still burned on your skin. But the file… was just an excuse.

You reached back with a gentle but decisive touch, placing your hand against Crane’s chest. It wasn’t gratitude, it was an attempt to escape. And the moment your fingertips met his warmth, it hit you like a blow. But when you pushed, he didn’t resist at all.

It was as if he’d only been there to observe you.

As if he wasn’t trying to trap you, but provoke a response. And he got it.

Once you stepped out of the narrow aisle in the archive room, you inhaled deeply. As the door creaked shut behind you, you realized something inside you hadn’t followed. It lingered on your skin. On your hip, your wrist, your neck... everywhere he had touched, a trace remained. A shadow.

You clutched the folder to your chest and started walking. Your steps became mechanical. Your left arm supported the file tightly, your other hand opened and closed in the empty air. Your eyes looked ahead, but your thoughts clung to words for distraction. You tried to smile. Maybe if you laughed, it would pass. Maybe if you spoke, everything that had just happened would disappear.

“Finally,” you said with a light smile. “Those shelves were like a battlefield. I think A-38 might be this building’s best-kept secret.”

Your voice tried to sound natural, but it felt foreign even to your own ears. Something inside you was still trembling. It hadn’t stayed behind. It was walking with you. His hands, his breath, his voice were now buried in silence, yet you could still feel him.

Dr. Crane was watching you. His eyes were on your face.

Through Arkham’s long corridors, the echoes of your footsteps over cracked ceramic tiles accompanied his silence. He didn’t say a word. Nothing. That made you feel even more on edge. His silence wasn’t a punishment, it was a clue. He knew he had read you. And now, he was enjoying the sight of you trying to wear your armor again.

You felt his gaze. Heavy. Sharp. Like fingers pressing into your back. It wasn’t the kind of desire that chased, it engulfed. A shadow wrapping around you from the inside. Picking through your mind. Memorizing your skin. The desire of a man who devoured you not with his hands, but with his eyes.

And no matter how much you clung to words, that silence… said more than any sentence could.

When you entered his office, the space transformed again into Crane’s domain. Unlike the cramped archive, it was wider, but somehow more intimate. The light was muted. The amber glow of the lamps leaned across the desk, casting soft halos on the papers, forming shadows. But here, shadows weren’t just from objects, they were intentions.

As you opened the folder, he sat down in his chair, one leg crossed over the other. His fingertips touched one another, the familiar position of the observer. His eyes weren’t on your face. They hovered just below your neck, on the fabric of your shirt. But he wasn’t looking. He was scanning.

As you pulled the files from the folder, you noticed he hadn’t moved closer. Not yet. But his breath arrived before any motion did.

On the top right corner of the first page, there was a date: 03.08.22

Below it, a name: Leonid F. Klein.

And beneath that, a note scribbled in handwriting: “The perfect lie. Even to himself.”

“Klein,” Crane said, not taking his eyes off your hands, “a case of obsessive-compulsive behavior coupled with advanced mythomania. Which means he wasn’t just a pathological liar. His sense of reality was fractured. Lying wasn’t a defense, it was structure. Pleasure.”

His voice was low, but every emphasis carefully chosen. Just like the words. You rotated the file slightly toward him so both of you could read at once. That motion brought your shoulder close enough to touch his. Your knees nearly brushed. But neither of you pulled away.

“In cases like this,” he continued, fingers tapping the desk’s edge, “we don’t just look at the lie itself. We look at what need shaped it. Sometimes, the individual... requires a process even to confess the lie they wish were true.”

He placed his hand near the page. Close, but not quite touching yours. Yet you could feel the heat of his skin. The deliberate proximity.

“For instance,” he said, lowering his voice further, “imagine someone’s made to do something they didn’t want. They may say they didn’t want it. But the body... might tell another story.”

“Klein was the same. He always said, ‘I didn’t do it on purpose.’ But his pupils would dilate. His voice would soften. His pulse would spike. The body doesn’t make alliances with lies.”

A pause followed. Not from lack of information, but to listen to your reaction.

Your breathing had changed. He noticed.

Your hand trembled. He saw that too.

His eyes slid from your face to your chest, then to your neck, and finally... to the edge of your lips.

He didn’t say a word. But somehow... he said it all.

“People often want what they claim they don’t. But knowing that, hurts. You have the intellect to understand that.”

These words weren’t direct. But their weight was unmistakable.

You felt exposed. You stared at the table.

He touched your shoulder with the outside of his hand. This time, deliberately. Gauging your response. Then he leaned in. As he turned the next page, he spoke beside your ear.

“Do you know what a liar truly seeks, more than anything?”

“To be believed?”

“No. To be caught.”

You swallowed. Hard. Your eyes drifted toward the corner of the room. But your body, as if trying to escape, shifted slightly away from the desk. Your hip slid to the side, putting space between your leg and his. The distance still looked professionally acceptable. But what you felt… had already passed those boundaries.

He brushed your fingertips with his. Brief. Soft. But calculated.

“One doesn’t only defend themselves from others… but from their own impulses. And impulses... love resistance. Resistant minds are their favorite playground.”

With those words, he finally looked into your eyes. Fully.

And brought you to the edge.

Jonathan Crane’s touch on your hand ended in a thin line. The closeness he had maintained up until that moment had been sharp and patient; but now he pulled back. He leaned back in the chair, closed his eyes for a few seconds. He left between you not a tense silence, but a calculating space. Then, when his eyelids slowly opened, it was as if he had become a completely different man, but he was still the same Crane. Only he had moved into the next phase.

He tapped his fingers on the edge of the table. Rhythmic, thoughtful. Then he tilted his head slightly to the side, his eyes returning to the pages. But there was a sentence on his lips that would pierce your mind:

“Do you remember… that new prototype I mentioned last term? A beta-typogenic class combination… a type of fluid. A formula that facilitates the confessional reflex. It is being developed to overcome behavioral blockages.”

His tone was neutral, as if you were in a classroom. But that was only the first layer. His words were presented to you as a technical reminder; but what was seeping beneath the tone… was something else entirely.

His jawline was harder. The inside of his eyes was measuring.

He was measuring whether he remembered or not, not just on the level of knowledge, but on another level as well.

“It’s a very interesting thing, chemically,” he continued. “There’s a very fine line between the neurological structures needed to tell a lie and the structures needed to repress it. If you can blur that line… everything that’s repressed comes to the fore. It spills out into words. Inevitably.”

You held your breath. Your hand was still on the corner of the file, but you weren’t looking at the pages anymore. As he spoke to you, he stood up abruptly. The slight creak of his chair echoed through the room like a small tremor. He turned his back to you and headed for a closet in the back corner of the office. His movements were not quick; each step was measured and heavy. As he opened the closet door, the fluorescent light reflecting off the metal shelves inside dazzled him.

He reached out and pulled out a small glass tube. Inside was a liquid as dark as night and quivering with a golden hue. The liquid moved slowly inside the glass, rippling as if it were breathing.

Jonathan turned to you, twirling the tube between his thumb and forefinger. His face was still expressionless. But his eyes… bore the impatience of a God about to begin an experiment.

“I’m glad you remembered,” he said. “But the question is… whether you have the confidence to put this theoretical knowledge into practice.”

He moved closer. He stood across the table, holding the tube in his palm. From where you were looking, the liquid was clearer now. The glass had been warmed by his body heat. He didn’t hand it to you. Not yet.

“The effect of the drug is temporary,” he said. “It doesn’t cause unconsciousness. It doesn’t involve external intervention. It just… brings out what’s inside. It doesn’t numb. It cleanses. It erases obstructions.”

Then he stepped forward. He came around the corner of the table and approached you. The tube was still steady in his hand. His stance was under control, but your breath was close enough to brush his chest. He lowered his voice another notch. He whispered, as if only you could hear: “Do you trust me?”

The words were easy. But their content was poisonous. And then came another sentence; that fragile persuasion that trapped you, leaving no way out: “Or… is there something you’re afraid to confess?”

Your whole body tensed. Because at this point, the choice was no longer whether to accept the drug or not.

The choice was whether to accept and accept how much you obeyed him. Whether to learn who you were in his hands or not. And he was offering you this drug as a personal tool, not just an experimental one. Would you choose to deny yourself?

Or, looking into his eyes… surrender?

Jonathan finally placed the tube on the table. He rolled it slowly to a stop. He locked his eyes with yours. There was a threatening expectation in his eyes. A cold, scientific, frightening curiosity-infused expectation. A decision that seems like "it's your decision", but in fact it has already been made for you.

The glass of the tube stopped spinning on the table. The movement had stopped, but the liquid inside seemed to still stir. It vibrated with uncertainty, fear, but also with an uncontrollable curiosity, just like the restlessness inside you.

You smiled. Forced it. Your facial muscles relaxed for a moment, your voice tried to sound natural.

“We can’t do this… I mean, it was an experiment. A prototype. I don’t know if testing it on yourself… is reasonable or ethical. It might even be… illegal.”

The rise in the voice at the end was tried to sound like a joke. But even you didn’t believe it. Your eyes still avoided his. Because there… there was a darkness reading you. A clinical coldness that analyzed not only your behavior but also your desires.

Jonathan Crane was silent for a moment. His head tilted slightly to the side. The line between his eyebrows wasn’t just a superficial sign of thought. He was watching you. He was listening to all the “no’s” you had hidden under that sentence. And then he spoke. Slow, sharp, as if every word had been chosen to tear you apart from the inside.

“I don’t meet students like you every semester. Do you know what’s interesting? They’re all brilliant at first. They’re all praised with grades. But then… they’re not tested. And no success that isn’t tested is real.”

He took a step toward you. His hands were tied behind his back. He was taller than you; his position was that of a judge rather than a teacher. He was cold. But that coldness… seemed like it would be warmed by a punishment.

“You think you’re ‘the best,’ don’t you? The most careful, the most patient, the most meticulous… even the most courageous. But none of these… should apply only to the classroom. There’s no room for these fairy tales in your professional life.”

The words seeped in. To be the best. That was the command you wrote inside yourself. You wanted to be ‘the first’ in his eyes. To be distinguished, to be seen as different. Because this internship… was the most fragile bridge of your career. And Crane had caught you on that bridge.

“Do you remember the students before you?” he asked. “Not one of them has been in this room with me where you are now. None of them have come this close. None of them… had this much potential.”

Your breath caught between your lips. Your chest heaved rapidly, but that breath was not a victory… it was a loss. He had set you apart. He had offered you the title of first place, but that title came with a price.

And Crane, as the one who held the prize, reminded you of that price:

“People like you can’t afford to be weak. They’re not afraid to make a decision. They think you won’t hesitate.”

“But now… you’re running away. You’re afraid. Because this is the first time you’ve been put to the test.”

His eyes locked on yours. Not to convince, but to leave no room for escape. Then he turned his head slowly. He opened the drawer on the desk. He pulled out a sterile syringe with a black frame.

It was the same temperature as the glass tube, but much more menacing. And he began to prepare this threat, as if it were a ceremony, calmly and methodically.

“It doesn’t change you. It just… opens you up to you.”

“Without any external interference, it just lets you face your truth. That’s what all ‘successful’ people avoid. Learning… who you really are.”

A note of tone appeared in his voice as his fingers tested the steel of the needle:

“If this is too much for you… maybe you’re not as brave as I thought.”

There it was. It was chosen to sink in. If you’re afraid, it’s because you’re weak. If you don’t accept, it’s because you’re not ready. And you… had to be ready. Because in his eyes, you were ‘the best.’

And in his eyes, being ‘the best’ was tantamount to obedience.

The hissing sound as the syringe began to draw the liquid echoed through the room. The golden liquid, flowing from the glass into the metal, was now only a few centimeters away from you. And Jonathan Crane watched you with no expression of triumph on his face.

Because he had already won.

The hissing sound as the liquid in the glass syringe vibrated into the metal needle was like a warning bell for you. It didn’t echo throughout the room, but it became an internal whisper that buzzed in your ears. This was no longer part of a laboratory experiment, but a chemical revelation ceremony played with your body. And you… You were standing there, facing Crane. Your wrist was exposed. The sleeve of your shirt was slowly rolled up. Your veins were highlighted by the effect of fear. The blue under your skin was now a direct target.

The hard rubber sound of Crane’s hands as he put on his gloves seemed to polish the seriousness of the moment. And then, the brief but infinite second of injection that would prepare you to see from within, not from the surface, would begin.

“Stay calm,” he said in a low voice. “This will only disable the voice that silences you. Everything else… already exists inside you.”

You felt the moment when the metal of the syringe needle touched your skin before it went deeper. First, the coldness. The sudden tightening of nerve endings that knew something was coming. Then a little pressure.

And then…

Introduction.

The moment the needle punctured your vein, your brain registered the moment. The puncture wasn’t sharp, but the wave that followed was…a fire that burned inside you but couldn’t seep out.

Crane slowly pushed the plunger. The fluid in the glass tube was now moving through your veins.

Your vagus system was activated. Your heartbeat slowed for a moment, then sped up. Your breathing became irregular. The fluid was directly touching the communication between your amygdala and your prefrontal cortex. The frontal lobes of your brain, which “censored reality,” began to fail like a membrane that was slowly evaporating. In its place, a more primitive layer was preparing to speak.

The drug’s intravenous spread reached your brain’s limbic system in about 8.3 seconds. And that’s when you realized that your body was no longer yours.

A vibration rose. First in your neck. Then in your shoulder blades. Finally… in the center of your chest.

The bottom of your chest tightened as if someone was pressing from inside. There was not enough air. You didn’t want to breathe because even the air you took in at that moment seemed to be under Crane’s control.

Your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth. Your sweat glands activated. Your subcutaneous temperature rose rapidly, while your body warmed up by 0.5 degrees.

But the most dramatic change happened inside. Your mind’s voice fell silent.

Instead, whatever was repressed began to climb upwards with the chemical drive of the liquid. Just as nausea comes not from a thought, but from a physiological drive…

For a moment, an image of the past flashed before your eyes. A failure. A race. A class. Eyes looking at you. That minus sign you received after the exam. That moment when you were told “insufficient”. It opened up in your mind like an unhealed wound. And then, the voice inside you asked: “Does Crane look at me like that?”

No thought was safe for you anymore.

It was all getting ready to come out. And he… was watching you.

When Crane withdrew the syringe, a small drop of blood rose to the surface after the metal had been removed from his skin. He pressed it gently with his fingers, but for the first time the contact was truly personal. Because this time, it wasn’t just the medicine that had seeped into his skin… but also his gaze.

“This is… the first stage,” he said. “Now, not your words… but your instincts will speak.”

Your pupils were dilated, your forehead moist. The insides of your knees were tingling, your body was losing control, but you weren’t falling yet.

Because you were still resisting. But the resistance was no longer just suppressing the medicine, it was suppressing yourself.

The silence of the room had changed to something else now. There was a chemical vibrating in the air; an aura that was invisible but coursing through your veins, an effect that took your thoughts from your hands and delivered them to his fingers.

You sat in your chair, your eyes wide, your lips parted. Your breathing wasn’t smooth, but rather undulating like waves crashing against the shore. Your chest, your shoulders… all seemed to carry a weight that was loaded onto your body. Everything you had suppressed inside you wanted to come out in the uncontrolled movements of your body, but you… were still trying to resist. Confessing… meant everything.

Jonathan Crane was still standing. After dropping the syringe into a medical waste container, he slowly guided his steps towards you. His stance was calm, but this calmness was only apparent from the outside; underneath it was strategy, appetite, lustful attention. His eyes lingered on you; he seemed to take note of your every reaction. But he didn’t want to tear you apart… he wanted to have you by making you unravel yourself.

“How are you feeling?” he finally asked, his voice low but direct. “Not much. Just honestly. Are you afraid?”

Even the question was a trap. Because if you said “no,” you would be lying. And you couldn’t lie. If you said “yes,” you would be accepting the fact that he was controlling you. But you… you were torn. After a few seconds of silence, without lifting your eyes from the table, you whispered:

“A little.”

He smiled. But it wasn’t warm. It was patient, mixed with pleasure. He was starting to figure you out. And now, he had decided to dig deeper.

He moved closer to you. He took a step toward the back of the chair. You couldn’t see his face, but you could tell he was getting closer to you from the thickening air between you. There was a deep silence. Then his voice rose again, from somewhere near the back of your neck. You shivered, your muscles tightening. “So what makes it hard for you to be honest with me? Fear? Morality? Or… something else?”

Your body quivered reflexively at that moment. Because the question wasn’t direct, but the implication was very strong. The words caught in your throat. The word “morality” felt like a needle when it came out of his voice. Was it what had happened between you and him that you were questioning… or was it that you wanted those things?

You swallowed.

“It’s just… weird,” you said with difficulty. “This isn’t normal.”

Jonathan tilted his head a little to the side at that answer. Like a doctor watching a subject’s first reaction. Yet he wasn’t impatient. Because he knew that the magic of confession… lay in its delay. Then, without forcing you at all, he began to speak slowly, in a way that would mentally grip you:

“People worship mediocrity to escape normality. They force themselves into ‘reasonable’ patterns. But inside them… there is a darker, more honest self. Those like you know this very well. Because you… don’t just want to be successful. You want to be distinguished. To be noticed. To know that something that is thought to be untouchable… has been opened up specifically for you. That’s why you’re here. That’s why you don’t stay silent.”

His words were filling the voids inside you. You were trying to resist, but your lips were moist, your fingers were tightly gripping the edge of the table. That liquid running through your veins was now loosening not only the urges, but also the shame.

Then he asked the question. Slowly. Almost in a whisper. “Have you ever thought about me?”

The blood rushed to your face. You felt like even hearing that sentence was tearing you apart. Your shoulders started to sag, as if someone had reached out from inside your heart and pulled away all the walls you had stepped on.

For a moment you couldn’t answer. But then… the word came. Like a rotten whisper.

“Yes…”

Jonathan’s eyes lit up. He didn’t smile. Because this moment wasn’t something to laugh at. This was the moment when the armor that made you who you were cracked for the first time.

And then he took another step. This time he was right next to you. He didn’t put his hand on your shoulder, he didn’t touch your hair. But you could feel his presence… under your skin now.

“When?” he asked. “What moment? What thought?”

You closed your eyes. You wanted to run away. But the words… came.

“The first day of the internship… when you didn’t look into my eyes. You weren’t talking to the other students like you did. I thought about it then. But I didn’t want to. But I thought about it anyway.”

Crane lowered his gaze to you. Just like a patient is put under observation at the first moment of crisis… only this time his interest wasn’t just clinical. He wasn’t solving you anymore.

He was solving you in order to take care of you.

Jonathan Crane accepted your confession with silence. He neither mocked nor showed any surprise. He simply remained silent. But this silence was not an ordinary “I heard”. This was the first time a lock was turned. And he… had now stepped into the room behind that lock.

He took another step. His fingers were slightly tense, but he did not touch. He would not touch yet. Because you had to want him to come closer. Your mind was just getting used to this confusion, and he was slowly untangling you with his patience.

He pulled a chair from the table and sat down next to you. There was a short distance between you, but that distance was now lost in his eyes. His pupils were constricted, scanning you. But this scanning was no longer clinical. It was a preparation for possession.

“You said what you thought of me,” he said softly, “but that is only the beginning. Thoughts… can escape intention. But desires are more honest.”

He was silent for a moment. You heard his breathing. The uncomfortable warmth that his arm leaning on the table had awakened in you was seeping up from under your body. Like a fire that could not reach its depth but made you feel it was approaching.

“When I enter the same room with you… what do you feel? Really. When you see me… how does your body react?”

The question was direct and chilling. This was no longer a ‘test’. This was a transition to another layer of confession. And under the effect of the drug, the filters on your honesty were now dissolving. But this honesty was chaining you instead of freeing you. Because everything you said would mean surrendering to him a little more.

You swallowed. Only one word came out of your lips first: “Restlessness… I feel like there is no limit to what you can do.”

But he waited. He looked at you without blinking. That answer was not enough. Because when you pulled away from his gaze, he could see your heart speed up. Your eyes wandered around the room, as the words were preparing to fall from your chest, the urges that you had not even confessed to your own inner voice began to rise.

“But… also… curiosity. I want to see your limitlessness. I want to stay even when I should be leaving. And that endless unknown makes me feel attracted to you. It’s… disturbing but… addiction, Dr. Crane.”

Crane slowly lowered his head. Like a hunter watching you over his shoulder. Not your words, not your fragile tone… nothing was foreign to him. He didn’t respond as if he already knew you. He watched you patiently, as if he were shaping you right now. And then he asked something even more specific. It was proof that he was moving toward becoming not just a counselor but an object of obsession:

“So… what would you like me to know about you? When you think of me… how would you like to be seen, Y/N?”

The question was like a knife. The answer was something you were waiting for, just to see in his eyes. Maybe “to be noticed.” Maybe “to be liked.” But in that moment, a more primal urge emerged:

“I want you to see my weaknesses… especially my fears,” you said. “But without belittling me. The thought of you not pitying me triggers me…The fantasy of controlling me stimulates my groin.”

Your words caught in your throat. Because this wasn’t just a confession; this was a declaration of your voluntary inclusion in the entire system he had created.

Jonathan was silent for a moment. Then, he leaned in. Very lightly, very slowly. You felt his breath near your cheek. But still, he didn’t kiss. Because the biggest touch between them… was still your voice.

“For you, boundaries are just the outer shell,” he whispered. “I’m not helping you break yourself. You’re already broken. I… am just holding up a mirror to you.”

And what you saw in the mirror… wasn’t just you. It was how he saw you now. And it was something you had never seen before.

Crane’s words didn’t hang in the air. They had descended over you like a heavy veil, slowly descending. You were breathing under that veil now, hazy, uncomfortable, but familiar. Because the deep, clinical softness in his voice… wasn’t a cure, it was a promise of resolution.

Your shoulders had slumped, your jaw had trembled slightly. Your body didn’t feel like your own. It was a place where only his words echoed. And Jonathan Crane was the architect of this place.

Nothing was rushed as he approached you. He slowly raised his hand from the edge of the table, and with a slight bend in his thumb, he reached just below your cheek. His touch was so gentle that at first you weren’t sure if he actually made contact. But then the veins beneath your skin began to pulse at the gentle pressure.

“Has anyone ever looked at you this closely?” he said.

“With all your masks off. Without running away. Without judging. Just… watching you.”

Your eyes turned to him, but you couldn’t look. Because this wasn’t just a look, it was the first step of surrender.

He didn’t take his eyes off you. As if he was memorizing all the subconscious folds inside you by watching your every breath.

His fingertips moved from the edge of your chin to your lips. He didn’t turn your face. He just touched your lower lip with his thumb. But this contact wasn’t affection; it was a form of dominance. Not to caress you, but to see where you were trembling. And you shivered.

A muscle twitched involuntarily on the side of your neck.

Because in his palm was not only the pulse of deep desires but also of repressed desires.

Crane moved his head a little closer to you. When his breath touched your skin this time, your body moved with an internal reflex, but you couldn’t move.

This was the disintegration of a body torn between running away and staying. And he saw it.

He could now read you without the need for medication.

“What do you imagine when you think of me?” he asked, his voice low but poisonously calm. “What do you want me to do with my hands? What did you imagine me doing, Y/N?”

It wasn’t a question, it was a confession. But it had to come from you. It had to be your choice to say it. And so your last remaining boundary would collapse with your hand.

Your throat went dry. Your eyes darkened. But the answer came. In a whisper. The words seemed to come from inside you, not from your lips.

“When I think of you, we’re always in the same place: in a dark room, with only your voice. ‘Be patient,’ you say. There are handcuffs on my wrists… But not just physically… You’ve captured me. You bite me because I want to be yours. With every painful touch, I become more dependent.”

Crane’s face didn’t come closer. He just listened to you.

Because that was the moment you opened up to yourself.

And that surrender… was the greatest victory for him.

“Good,” he finally said. “Because you have now surrendered yourself to me. Not your body, but your mind. Your most fragile part.”

He moved closer to you. His hands were now on either side of your neck, but he was not squeezing you. He was just pressing you with his presence. And you… even as you breathed, you were now following his rhythm.

He looked you straight in the eye with those cold eyes. “Get up,” Jonathan said, his voice echoing through the room. His tone was commanding, yet it also carried a dark allure. You did as he said, obediently. Jonathan stood before you, but it was impossible to understand what he was thinking or doing. And that uncertainty aroused you.

His frequent tapping of the glass syringe on the table against the floor gave him away. He was a control freak, and you wanted to be under his control.

Crane’s gaze changed. The dull calm of his eyes gave way to a sharper determination. He was no longer trying to untie you, but to possess you. For once, the contact was unwavering.

His fingers reached under your chin, tilting your head up slightly. You let out an involuntary sigh as you turned to him, an echo struggling with both uneasiness and surrender.

And then… his thumb pressed the edge of your lower lip. This time harder, like a beckoning gesture.

“I’m here,” he said. “And you’re mine now.”

“You want more, don’t you, Y/N,” he said, his voice as soft as ice. “Because you… you’ve already prepared yourself for this moment.”

He increased the pressure on the corner of his mouth a little more.

The thought that your desire wasn’t yours, but his… made you shiver and pull at the same time. You parted your pale lips slightly, the suppressed fear you carried inside you like a mysterious invitation in the curve of his lips. Jonathan, at that moment, mixed with your breath, as if he were looking for a spiritual contact, not just physical. But he didn’t kiss you. No. He had to drive you crazy first. He leaned down to the side of your neck. His lips didn’t touch your skin. But his breath was directed right at that point that coincided with your pulse. Your whole body was stuck for a moment. You didn’t move. You couldn’t. Because movement could be the end of something. But you didn’t want it to end. He first touched your neck with his lips. Where your pulse beat. Your body trembled as if you’d been electrocuted. “Are you scared?” Jonathan asked, his breath touching yours. You nodded slowly. “Yes,” you answered, your voice trembling. Jonathan’s smile widened even more.

He ran his tongue first. It left a chilling dampness on your skin. Then a bite, just like in your dreams. Not enough to hurt you, but arrogant enough to claim it. “Perfect,” he said. “Fear is the strongest emotion. And you will share it with me.” As he felt the speed of your pulse, its irregularity, the pull mixed with fear, he felt like he owned you from the inside. It was as if he had completely taken over your body, like a parasite.

While you continued to feel his tongue, his lips, he moved along your neck. He brushed his lips all the way to your jawbone. From there, he reached your cheeks. But he never fully touched you. He did not let your tongues burn with each other’s wetness. His breath was now touching the spot between your cheek and ear. His fingers started from the tip of your shoulder; He moved down to your breasts, which filled the palm of your hand, over the thin fabric. Then he slowly slid and glided. First, he traced the outline of your waist, the hollow of your spine. Your body was so tense that each touch was not an observation but part of an experiment.

He bent his head ever so slightly. When the tip of his nose touched yours, your body shook. This was not a kiss. This was the first threat of contact. When your lips finally met; this kiss was a trembling and contradictory touch, dancing on the thin line of passion and death. His cold and controlled demeanor frightened you. He had the careful manner of a doctor measuring your body temperature. He measured how your lips were reacting. He pressed lightly, pulled back. He came closer again. This was not pleasure, but the application of the first dose that would create addiction.

His fingers slid to the back of your neck. Your skin shivered. And then the kiss deepened. But you were still not directing him. He lightly ran his tongue between your lips, drawing you in. But the movement of his tongue is deliberate: each curve slowly, almost calculating. Jonathan is not kissing you… he is silencing you. He is stopping all the “Is this true?” echoing in your mind by pressing it against his lip.

His eyes weren’t closed. They were open. He wanted to watch your reactions. There was power and analysis in his eyes, not affection.

When he slid his tongue into your lips, the rough, wet surface of the papillae tickled. The deepening rhythm as your tongues intertwined, as if synchronizing your heartbeats. There was no limit, but the tempo was his.

Even when he pulled away from your lips, the kiss wasn’t over. His gaze flickered to your mouth, then to your eyes. The pressure of his hand on the back of your neck continued.

“Do you realize how easily you give in?” he whispered, his fingers landing on your collarbones. “The serum I made won’t break your resistance. It will only disrupt your lying mechanism, and that comes with fear.”

And before you could respond, he pulled you closer. Slowly, but firmly. Your body touched his chest. His arms didn’t wrap around your back. He just stopped. Crane wasn’t holding you. He was locking you up.

“The void I’ve created inside you,” he said at ear level,

“Only I can fill it. And you belong to me now… in another form.”

Your body took an involuntary breath. As if your tongue had not yet reached the thoughts that were passing through it. But his fingers were now roaming the lower edge of your abdomen, carefully but insistently pushing you toward your limits. As if he were making decisions every millimeter, measuring when the touch would turn into desire, when it would turn into surrender.

One of his hands was now pressing gently on the back of your waist. He had paused there before pulling you closer. You were on the edge. And Crane knew it.

His gaze, as it slid down from top to bottom, showed neither hunger nor complete aloofness. Like a psychological prey, he watched you for when you would give in. His lips moved, but almost whispered:

“I want to see you… not what the world sees when you hide under cotton and fear.” His fingers touched the first button on your shirt. He wanted you to do it. He wanted you to watch him, but he made it clear to you before he did. He unbuttoned the button with a single movement. When he stretched the edges of the fabric to the sides, the curved lines of her breasts were visible.

There was nothing moving in the room at that moment. Only your heart. It was beating so hard that you were sure even Jonathan Crane could hear it. Your eyes were locked on his; but his was fixed, yours was searching. Perhaps you were instinctively looking for an exit. But this was Crane’s mental labyrinth. And now you had reached the last room from which there was no exit.

With trembling hands, you took off your vest and left it on the chair. Jonathan’s gaze roamed over your body, watching your every move. “Now your shirt,” he said, his voice becoming even more authoritative.

You unbuttoned his shirt clumsily. Your fingers were shaking more than usual. You felt the coolness of his skin against your underwear. You caught your breath at first. Then your rhythm quickened. This, the symptoms, occur for two reasons. Either intense desire or… fear.

Jonathan’s eyes rested on your breasts, but his expression remained blank. “Go on,” he said, as if this was just an experiment.

You prayed that your knees wouldn’t betray you as he took off your skirt. That shiver was always running up your spine. But also in your groin.

You were left in nothing but your underwear. The texture of the lace against your skin was almost whisper-light; delicate shades of purple and gray quivered like diamonds against your skin. The bra that hugged your breasts was more than just a piece of fabric, it was an intention. A clever trap between covering and exposing. The lace patterns traced thin paths across your skin, each one as clear as a line your fingers would want to cross, yet still forbidden.

Your panties were seductive with a simplicity that words failed to describe; the almost invisible thin bands dug into the bony line of your hips, the front generous enough to cover only the most intimate secrets. It was like a sensual oath, inviting you to imagine before touching.

Jonathan’s gaze traveled down your body, taking in every detail. “Very beautiful,” he said, but his voice was devoid of praise. “But tonight, your beauty does not concern me. Only your obedience.”

But you could no longer make eye contact with him. Your breathing quickens, but you can’t get enough air into your lungs. There’s a tension in the center of your chest, like your heart is stuck and hasn’t yet convinced itself to beat. Like when you’re scared.

“Look at me,” he says. His voice is controlled and measured. But you can’t look at him. When he does, eye contact is like a slap.

“You’re resisting eye contact… classic displacement behavior under chemically induced anxiety. That means it’s working.”

The serum.

Yes, the fluid Jonathan had injected into your vein for a special “test.” He hadn’t told you about his fear symptoms.

You heard his footsteps. He was approaching. You had pressed yourself against the window sill as if you could run away, but you didn’t realize it. The room wasn’t big. And you had nowhere to run now.

Jonathan stopped right in front of you. You were still looking away.

“Look at me,” he says again. There’s no anger in his voice. But there’s something there that defies argument. Like a scientist trying to keep a subject in line when they’re running away from him. With your eyes still on the floor, he took another step.

“Oh yes, you feel it, don’t you?”

The serum’s effects increased. The hormones of fear—adrenaline, norepinephrine, cortisol—danced through your blood. His hands were shaking, his knees felt weak. But he knew it, he was watching it, and he was aroused by it.

Jonathan held your chin in his fingers as you continued to look away. Not forcibly, but with an obsessive patience. He turned your face toward his.

His lips almost touched yours again. “No. You can’t look away. Not from me.”

“Fascinating,” he said when your eyes finally met his. His thumb slid to the corner of your mouth, barely touching your skin. You wanted to run away, and at the same time, you wanted to sink to your knees.

Jonathan Crane looked at you like someone analyzing you. “You’re shaking… but you’re not trying to.”

“Do you know what that means?”

You couldn’t answer. But what was going through you was neither fear nor desire. You were on a sharp, slippery line drawn between the two.

Your chin was still in his fingers. Even if you turned your head to the side, he wouldn’t let you. The pressure he applied was light but absolute.

When you tried to escape with your eyes, his gaze would bore into yours again. Looking at you was like penetrating you. And it was exactly what he wanted you to not be able to escape.

“That’s it… breathe. Let it take you.”

Let “it” take you. What? The serum? Fear? Or… it?

Crane leaned his head down a little more. His forehead was so close to yours.

"Your pupils dilated... your skin flushed... your hands trembled. Fear reached its peak. Now let's see what happens next."

He moved a little closer to you. His breath was just above your lips. But he didn't kiss you this time.

His hand slowly moved down from your chin to your neck. He stopped there. He felt your pulse with his fingertips. Much more noticeable now.

You were still shivering. But... But that touch wasn't just fear anymore. It was warmth. A desire. A mixed, dirty pulling feeling.

When he kissed your lips again, this time he was harder. He wanted fear to cascade, to merge with lust. When he pulled his lips back and looked into your eyes, he saw your pupils dilate. His cock was getting hard with this sight. And after that kiss came another one. A little more pressing, a little more burning with desire to possess.

His fingers wrapped around your neck a little tighter in the beat.

Then he put his hands on your bare waist. He squeezed you between the wall and his body. As if to remind you that he owned you.

His voice mixed with your breaths. "You can still stop this. But you won't."

Because you couldn't stop. The serum continued to flow through your veins. But now his voice, his touch, his closeness to your skin... More effective than the serum.

The wetness he left on your lips shone in the dim light, like raw meat.

Suddenly, he grabbed your hair from behind. Not hard, but determined. His fingers got into your hair, gripping it near the nape of your neck. Your head fell back suddenly, your neck tensed, your breath hitched. His breath licked your skin as he spoke.

"You're scared like prey... and I've never seen anything so perfect," he said through his teeth.

His fingers pressed against your hair roots, steadying you.

Your skin was burning. Your heart was beating like it had lost control. His other hand found the edge of your panties. And he entered between your skin and the fabric like an invader, finding the outer lips of your vulva.

It was wet... Dr. Crane’s fingers were wet enough to make them soggy. His middle and ring fingers were wet enough to slide easily into her slit.

A slick sound filled your ear as he stroked your inner lips in a circular motion.

He raised his eyebrows and smiled wryly, “Oh, my… you’re soaked,” he said, while continuing to tease your clitoris and vaginal opening. “So tell me, what exactly are you afraid of? Of me, or of the fact that I scare you and you enjoy it?” he whispered. When he reached your clitoris and stopped there, he squeezed the bud with two fingers. Even the slightest pressure inevitably stimulated the dilated capillaries inside. Your sensitivity increased to the point that your temple twitched with each stroke.

As he continued to crush your clitoris between his fingers, you felt the pain. Your chest heaved, you sighed, your mouth slightly parted. This was more than it should have been. Pain triggers your fear, Dr. He made you see Crane as a threat—and you should have. You wanted to run away. But the pleasure in the pain was so sweet, so tempting. Lust and pain balanced each other. Your mind was giving warning signals… your body was writhing in surrender.

“Ah. You weren’t expecting this, were you?” he said, his index and ring fingers stretching your outer lips. “That your fear would make you… suffer for me,” he said, his middle finger brushing along your vulva. It stopped at the entrance to your sensitive vagina, applying pressure.

You were so out of control that your breathing quickened. Your muscles tensed, you held onto the arms of the man you feared, your fingers trembling. The man who was bringing you to orgasm locked eyes with you, both godlike and beastlike. And he stared into your eyes, impassive, emotionless, and grabbed the fabric beneath him, pulling it taut. The sound of the fabric tearing didn’t fill the room, but your ears did. His dominant movements, his dull gaze, his desire to possess reminded you of death. You wanted to escape from him. To escape without looking back and to lock yourself somewhere he couldn't find you.

The wall behind you was no longer just a physical boundary. As alive as your own skin. Cold. Hard.

But he was more honest than you. Because you still thought you could escape. His presence was as close as a sentence. As heavy as a look. And you had already accepted that you couldn't escape, but you wouldn't admit it to yourself.

Jonathan threw the torn fabric in his hand to the ground and stepped back toward his desk, as if he expected you to follow him. Your inner thighs were wet as you took a step. Your arousal was flowing through your legs in a colorless, slippery liquid. It was the arousal of fear, the orgasm of death.

You stood in front of him. “Now,” he said, “you will bend over for me.” He raised one hand and pointed to the table. The files were scattered on top of it.

Your fingertips were trembling slightly. Your breath was now uncontrollably ragged. Your body wanted to get closer to a man you saw as a devil.

The moment you realized this, the inner scream began.

Your mind was screaming, “No.”

But your skin… that fire that stretched from your spine to your womanhood, knew that you were nothing but Crane’s shadow.

You turned back to the desk, your hands fixed on a place where there were no papers, your head bowed. He was right behind you, and that feeling was more dangerous than making eye contact with him. Because he was watching you. And him continuing to watch without doing anything, not taking you even though he had untied you… would leave you even more naked. Because then you would not only carry the desire, but also the shame of rejection.

When Jonathan’s hand touched your hair, your muscles clenched. His fingers tightened around the strands. He leaned your head back against his shoulder, his lips tingling your ears. “You flinch when I touch you… but your body calls me back like a prayer,” he said, his voice threatening. “Isn’t it beautiful? Your terror is what makes you… irresistibly wet.”

Jonathan’s face cracked into a smile, but it was dark. “You don’t belong in the outside world anymore,” he said, unclasping your bra. “You belong here. In this room. "Under my control," he continued. After your bra was removed, you were now as naked as your soul. Your warm body tensed when his cold hands cupped your breasts from behind. Your areolas were hard, your nipples were erect, and you felt the coldness of his fingers very sensitively. But that wasn't all you felt. His cock pressing against your hips was straining the fabric, twitching to fill your tight vagina.

He cupped your left breast and squeezed it hard. He crushed your right nipple between his fingers, just like he had done to your clitoris a moment ago. He leaned down to your ear and rubbed his tongue around it. All the way around, as if he were setting a boundary around your ear.

You, on the other hand, frowned in fear and began to moan with desire. The husky sound coming from your throat was lustful and shy at the same time.

"You're ashamed of how much you want this, aren't you, Y/N?" Jonathan said, sliding his hand from your left breast down to your belly. "But this shame... making you tighter. Wetter. Needier." His fingers were making a figure 8 at his groin now. "Don't hide it. Let it devour you. I want to see everything about you."

All of this, while the serum in your veins was still stimulating your amygdala, was getting darker and scarier. "No." came out of your lips. "No" had many meanings for you. But most of all, it was because you couldn't accept that the doctor you thought was more terrifying than your nightmares wanted to fuck you. Yet, he had been in your dreams ever since you saw him. Ever since you saw him, you wanted him to fill you with his sperm on the gurney in his lab. But the serum made everything complicated.

Jonathan pressed his hand on your back. His fingertips were strong enough to leave white marks on your skin. You bowed in lustful fear. First a little, then a little more... But it wasn't enough for Dr. Crane. He wanted you to press your face against the table.

You turned your head to the right. When your left cheek touched the file, the first thing you noticed was the cold. It was as if all the light in the room had been drained from the walls; only his silhouette remained. Your eyes were on the metal cabinet, but your mind was on him.

Your breaths were short, broken. You wanted to slowly push yourself up, but… When the warmth of his hand pressed against the center of your back, something inside you unraveled.

You were in the exact position he wanted. "I've been dreaming of this exact position since you were leaning over my bookshelf last semester," he said, his hand still on your back, applying pressure. It restricted your movement, shouting that the will was in his hands. "I almost touched you then. But I waited. Because now... now you'll remember this for the rest of your life."

And his free hand went to his tie.

You didn't see him. But you heard his movements. The slight rustle of the fabric of his tie. Time suddenly slowed down. As if every second was diminishing one more defense inside you. And you were no longer sure what was more troubling: his hand holding you or the fact that he hadn't done anything yet.

His removal of the tie was slow and precise. As if he'd done it a hundred times. But this time, not to loosen your shirt, but to steady you. His eyes never left yours as his fingers released the fabric that had come loose from his collar with a single tug. He took his time. Because he knew that fear thrived best in waiting.

And you... were motionless.

Your lungs were rising and falling rapidly in a narrow space.

Your hands were shaking, but your body couldn't move. Your head was crowded: "He chose you long ago. You always knew that."

The tie was now in Jonathan’s hands, and even before it touched your skin, you felt him tie you up. Your body froze, but your thoughts were screaming, “He won’t do it now. He’s just scaring you. It’s just a game…”

“Put your hands behind your back,” he said. His voice was low but unarguable. Just that sentence sent an icy shiver down your spine. You didn’t move. But he didn’t wait. He gently but firmly guided your wrists back. His fingertips were cold; like a doctor’s gloved hands.

He noticed you were trembling. But he didn’t say anything. As the fabric of the tie wrapped around your wrists, your heart began to race like a false alarm. But no one would wake up from that alarm. Because you were the only one in the room. And he was listening to your fear.

When the fabric was knotted, your hands were now tied behind your back. Your shoulders were tense. And he studied you like a painting. His gaze was not cold, but dark. Not satiated, still hungry.

The sound of the belt reached your ears. You knew it was your turn, but your heart was pounding with fear, and the colorless liquid flowing down your legs was thickening.

The hard, heavy click of his metal buckle echoed in the silence of the room, brief but firm. Every moment you didn’t see, your ears grew stronger with your imagination.

Then, that dry scraping sound of skin being pulled across fabric… As the buckle was released, the belt flexed like a spring at the end, then relaxed and dropped.

The sound of the zipper was more delicate. It cut through the air like a thin, continuous scratch.

The weight of his pants yielded on its own as the waistband came undone. The thick fabric made a gentle scrape as it slid down his legs; a brief stiffness at the knees, and then a muffled, rolling sound as his weight dropped to the floor.

He wore only a pair of skinny, smoky-gray boxers underneath. The fabric was neither new nor worn; it was simply “used.” He grabbed the faded seams and pulled them down. His hardened penis arched slightly as it was released from the elastic at the waist.

Jonathan was straining at the entrance to her vagina. He first took hold of his penis with his hand and flicked it toward her clitoris. A warning shot through your spine, clenching your fists. But the fabric around your wrists was straining and hurting. You sighed through your teeth.

Then he stroked your vulva a few times. He reached down from your clitoris to the entrance of your vagina, and pushed a few inches inside, but never in. It was driving you crazy. “Oh, please, Dr. Crane!” you moaned. “Please,” he begged. Like prey begging the hunter.

Jonathan was even more aroused by your words. “Should we put that in your internship report?” he asked, almost rasping. “‘Subject: Dr. Crane applied full pressure; subject responded with incoherent moans and demanded more.’” Dr. Crane could no longer catch his breath. “Let’s call it… behavioral data.”

You were aroused by these words. Both terrified and lustful. Triggered by the corrupt desire he had for you. His pursuit of you, his insatiable obsession with you, was enticing. “You scare me, Doctor…” you moaned. You paused but never stopped. “…but I don’t know why I still desire you so much.” The words came out in gasps, “I want you to fuck me, in all your sick fantasies.”

Jonathan wheezed breathlessly, “Do you really need someone to dominate you, Y/N? And someone to bring you to your knees with nothing but their eyes.”

You groaned breathlessly, “No… not someone.

Just you and your twisted mind.” You looked so eager. So needy.

When Jonathan pushed his cock into your vagina, it enveloped you completely. It wasn’t very long, but it was thick. Too thick for you. Too tight for him. He threw his head back in pleasure as the rough, warm walls of his vagina wrapped around Jonathan’s manhood. “Oh, Y/N, every breath belongs to me. Every tremor you make is my victory.”

His cock was surrounded by the knots of your warm vaginal walls. This rough structure allowed him to feel you deeper. Jonathan was losing himself in the pleasure you were giving him, moaning. Every time he pushed his big cock inside you, his swollen balls slapped your ass, stimulating both your ‘g’ spot and your clitoris, making you almost cry. And you couldn’t react at all. He had you completely trapped in his body.

“You like that, don’t you?” Jonathan asked as he fucked you like an animal. “Tell me you want me, Y/N, tell me you want to be trapped in my darkness.”

You were out of breath. With the intensity of the terrifying pleasure you were experiencing, the whites of your eyes were exposed, and your moans were getting louder and echoing in Jonathan's ears. "Oh, Dr. Crane, this is beyond my dreams."

Your flesh was slapping against each other with each impact as he rooted into your tight hole. And he continued to thrust rhythmically. "It's wonderful to feel you from the inside." he said.

You were both about to reach the peaks of pleasure. Your tight vagina felt Crane's hardness and veined surface down to the smallest cell. His penis was wrapped around your knotted walls, twitching.

You were now at the height of your orgasm. Even though his penis filled your vagina completely, the juices of pleasure continued to leak from the exit of your vagina. You were so wet that a slurry sound echoed with each thrust.

Jonathan leaned over you and put his lips to your ear. Now you could taste his moans, his short breath, the warmth of his breath just behind your ear. He bit your earlobe. It was painful, but the tip of his tongue was taking the pain to a stimulating level. "My poor obsession, just be patient a little longer. It's almost here."

The table was shaking. The creaking echoed off the walls of the room as the table legs rubbed against the floor. The muscles in his hips were now clenched, and he was about to spill his sperm onto your womanhood. But he held himself back to witness the moment his sperm slid across your skin, and he pulled out of you suddenly and came breathlessly onto your hips. As his sperm spread over your warm skin, you came right after. Your juices of pleasure had soaked the office floor, and the rest had seeped down your legs and dripped down to your ankles.

The effects of the serum had completely worn off, and you were left alone with only your interest and desire for Jonathan Crane. Your ears were buzzing, your eyes were blurry with pleasure. You were on cloud nine, realizing you had never had an orgasm before. You had never had real sex. And what you wanted was exactly what Jonathan Crane wanted.

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divaofmads · 2 months ago

Note

Would you ever write for the dark knight versions of Jonathan crane and two face? Also would you ever write for Gotham series penguin , riddler , Jerome or Jeremiah ?

OH you just unlocked something inside me. I've been secretly OBSESSED with Dark Knight's Crane and Two-Face for years. And don’t even get me started on Gotham’s chaos quartet — Penguin, Riddler, Jerome, Jeremiah? Yes, yes, YES. I'm practically vibrating with ideas 😭🖤

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divaofmads · 2 months ago

Text

ME and the DEVIL

Pairing: Jonathan Crane x Female Reader x Bruce Wayne

Chapter II: Bruises and Lullabies

"This isn’t a moral downfall. It’s a weakness. But in this city, weakness brings death. If I love you, I can’t protect you. If I don’t love you, I’ll lose you. Which one should I choose?"

Warnings: Angst, +18, Taboo Love (Step Daddy Bruce Wayne), Age Gap Romance, Yandere Undertones, Dark Jonathan Crane, Gaslighting, Obsessive Behavior, Fear Toxin Effects, Childhood Trauma, Possessive Dynamics, Implied Toxic Relationships, Unreliable Narration (due to drugged/dissociative state)

Word Count: +10k

Dividers by @sisterlucifergraphics @cafekitsune photos by Pinterest

A/N: English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional.

The living room was as silent as the evening itself.

Thick velvet curtains kept out the Gotham night, blocking the gentle melody of the rain tapping against the windows. The only sound in the room was the rustle of papers – like a sentence suppressed, thoughts buried before they could be spoken.

Bruce Wayne had settled into the armchair closest to the window. In his hand was a folded newspaper, the corner bent between his thumb and forefinger, but he didn’t seem to be reading it. He appeared fully focused on the pages. But focus is often an illusion.

You were sitting across from him, your legs tucked under you. You wore a red and white gingham halter top that hugged your figure, and soft pants of the same fabric that ended just below your knees. You had opened the Edward Nygma file you brought from Arkham. You were taking notes in blue ink, sometimes thinking out loud. Bruce was listening. Even when you didn’t know he was.

“Riddler’s connection to riddles isn’t a classic obsession, in my opinion,” you said, not lifting your gaze from the pages. “He’s not lost in the question itself. He wants to dissolve into the answer. It’s a kind of psychological claim. He’s not satisfied by knowing, but by solving.”

Bruce slowly turned a page of the newspaper.

“Interesting,” he said, his voice as soft as velvet, but with a subtle, scrutinizing undertone. “And what about Batman? What do you think of him?”

You raised your head for a moment. Your eyes sparkled with surprise, and a hint of playful mischief.

“Hmm. Personally or professionally?”

Bruce narrowed his eyes, tilting his head slightly with a faint smile. “Do you think you can tell the difference?”

You shrugged, but the little defiant girl inside you stepped forward.

“Batman… is someone who has buried his identity. He probably experienced deep trauma. But instead of suppressing it, he recreates it. Every night. With his own hands. He identifies with criminals. Rather than just fighting them, he recreates their fear. That’s why his mask isn’t any different from the ones criminals wear.”

Bruce locked eyes with you for a moment. The corner of his lips curved upward, but it wasn’t satisfaction. It carried a kind of melancholy.

“Wasn’t that a bit harsh? Maybe Batman is just a man trying to bring justice. Maybe he’s not that dark.”

You tilted your head slightly. Whenever he tested you like that, that slight, smug grin always found its way to your lips.

“If a man puts on a cape every night and breaks criminals’ bones, I don’t care how brightly he walks in daylight. He must be doing it from somewhere deep inside. If that place is dark… then I find it even more compelling.”

For a split second, Bruce’s expression froze. Something deep in his heart cracked with a single hammer blow. But he didn’t let it show on his face.

“Compelling, huh?” he asked. There was a touch of sarcasm laced with hidden fragility in his voice.

“What kind of effect is that, exactly?”

You didn’t answer. You turned back to the file, but the words on the page were now blurry. He was watching you. And you could feel it, even without looking.

“If you ask me...” you said at last, glancing at a corner of the file, “Batman isn’t a savior. He’s more like someone familiar. He knows loss. He knows the void. That’s why he affects me.”

Bruce turned his eyes back to the newspaper to stop watching you. But this time, the warmth in his voice was more distinct.

“Your theories are sometimes... quite embellished with imagination.”

You laughed, short and confidently.

“Well, I am Bruce Wayne’s student, after all. If my imagination wasn’t strong, I wouldn’t be interning at Arkham, would I?”

There was a moment of silence after you said that. Bruce lifted his head again, and his gaze fell back on you. There was a glimmer in his eyes you couldn’t quite name. Admiration? Guilt? Fear of something?

"Knowing some things this well... it’s a bit much for your age."

His voice was low, deep, like he was talking to himself. But he wanted you to hear.

And you did. You understood.

You smiled. Squinting slightly, you turned your head.

"You don’t have to keep reminding me of my age. I’m legally an adult now, you know."

That sentence changed the air in the room. Even the crackling of the fireplace seemed to pause for a moment.

Bruce didn’t react. But his gaze stayed on you. Long. Silent. Then, after a moment, he lowered his head and folded the newspaper.

"If you’re going to keep working with Riddler, be careful. While you’re trying to solve him, he’s analyzing you. It’s a dangerous balance."

You sighed.

"The real danger is Batman. I wish I could meet him. I feel like... he’s someone who’d truly see me."

Bruce stayed silent for a while. Then turned his eyes back to you, but his gaze was somewhere else entirely.

As if your presence was the echo of something he once lost. As if you were both his victim and his savior.

"If you had met him..." he said slowly, "maybe you would’ve changed your mind."

You looked directly into his eyes.

"Or maybe... he would’ve affected me even more."

Bruce stood. Slowly. And looked at you.

"Isn’t it past your bedtime?"

The words came in a fatherly tone, but there was another layer beneath. Like a man trying to hold himself back.

You didn’t move.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Go ahead."

"Have you ever... helped someone without being seen? I mean... someone you protected without wanting them to know it was you?"

For a moment, Bruce’s eyes froze on you. He stayed silent for so long it felt like an answer.

Eventually, he looked away and began to walk.

"Everyone has a shadow, Y/N," he said.

"But some learn to see from inside that shadow."

You didn’t say anything for a while. Just watched him. Long and still. Your eyes were slightly narrowed, but there was something swinging between a child’s gaze and a woman’s instinct.

You knew the weariness on his face by heart. How his lips pulled sideways when he tried not to smile, how his shoulder relaxed when you squeezed it...

And at that moment you realized, you had stored all these details in your memory like a file. Just like Nygma’s notes.

Bruce lowered his head. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

You straightened slightly, rose to your feet. "Because sometimes... I want to look with you from inside the shadow you live in," you said, slowly walking toward him.

You leaned on the armrest of the chair he was sitting in and gently touched his knee with your fingertips.

"And that paper-cut serious expression on your face is a bit much. When you frown, you look more like Alfred."

Bruce glanced sideways at you. His lips twitched upwards unwillingly, but he tried to keep a straight face.

"There’s no room for another personality disorder in Wayne Manor," he said. "Especially if someone’s impersonating Alfred, I’ll throw them out the door."

You burst out laughing. "Ooo! So now you’re threatening me, Mr. Wayne?" You tilted your head playfully and winked. "Or are you saving that Batman rage just for me?"

Bruce shook his head. "One day, your mouth is going to get you into trouble, young lady," he said, his voice a mix of fatherly affection and stony patience.

But you had already jumped from behind the chair as if to sit on his leg. Then you backed off like a child hopping in place. Bruce quickly moved and grabbed you by the waist.

"Gotcha," he said in a low voice, both serious and teasing. His arms wrapped around your slender waist, pulling you close enough that you couldn’t escape.

You laughed heartily, nearly falling into Bruce’s lap.

"That’s not fair! You’re so bi..." you began, but his look stopped your breath before you could finish.

You locked eyes.

The joy on your face gave way to brief confusion, then to your signature slyness.

Your lips parted slightly, your breath close enough to touch Bruce’s face. His fingers were still on your waist. Not tight, just there, holding, not letting go.

There were only a few inches between you.

You squinted and whispered.

"You know... I missed this game. This closeness. These little battles. It feels like I’m living inside a poem. One without a poet, but every line echoes in my heart."

Something flickered in Bruce’s eyes as he prepared to respond. He slowly leaned toward your hair, but didn’t kiss you. He just stayed there, waiting.

You rested your head on his shoulder. And neither of you spoke.

As the darkness of Gotham crept in through the windows of the Manor, time slowed a little more for you both.

And the shadows... deepened.

Bruce leaned back. His left hand touched your shoulder. Gracefully, yet with quiet determination. When his fingertips moved slightly, you took a deep breath. The warmth from where he touched you began to spread inward. Even in the darkness, there was that gray haze in his eyes, always thoughtful, always somewhere else, yet somehow always seeing you. You didn’t know which war he was hiding behind, but sometimes you just wanted to believe he was only here, only now, with you.

And that moment—right then—was exactly that. Real.

“You know,” you said, your voice low, warm with a tinge of sorrow. “I missed this... just being close. Without talking. Just... being.”

Bruce locked eyes with you, then glanced at your face, and finally, your lips. His gaze lingered there for a moment. Perhaps it was the moment when whatever he was trying to suppress nearly broke the surface. But of course, he was Bruce Wayne. Master of everything, even the warden of his own feelings.

“I did too,” he said in a hushed voice. “But sometimes... the more you miss something, the further it feels. Like you’re suddenly more aware of what’s slipping through your fingers.”

“I don’t want it to slip,” you said. “I want us to be like we were. Like that morning... remember? The one when Alfred tried to wake you up with coffee, but I was lying on top of you.” You rested your head gently on his shoulder. “You said, ‘Y/N, this is a form of torture.’”

Bruce dipped his head. A faint smile touched his lips. “Because it really was,” he said. “But the good kind.”

You didn’t laugh. You just closed your eyes. As if trying to drink in the silence, you inhaled his scent, his clothes, his skin, the aftershave... and beneath all of it, that hidden, complex, dark, metallic smell. Maybe it was just your imagination. Maybe it was just... the mystery that seemed to cling to him.

Then a thought crossed your mind. A glowing, mischievous, seductive thought.

You suddenly straightened. Before Bruce could react, you moved onto your knees and slipped gracefully into his lap. Your posture was elegant, yet undeniably bold. Your fingers reached toward the buttons of his shirt, not to undo them, just to touch. Tilting your head slightly, you looked at him, a spark in your eyes, a subtle secret on your lips.

“You know, that swimming race last month... wasn’t fair at all. You always bend the rules in your favor.”

With a playful smile, you continued:

“So maybe now... it’s my turn to set the rules.”

Bruce’s body tensed slightly. He didn’t look away, but his smile had faded. In his eyes, the amusement had given way to something else: a mix of desire and guilt.

He shook his head. Like he was trying to gather his thoughts.

“Y/N... No. This—” he said. He paused. Then, in a slower, wearier voice, repeated:

“This can’t happen.”

For a moment, just a moment, the sting of those words didn’t register. But then they settled in your chest. Not gently. Harshly like a crack.

You looked at him. Your lips still carried that playful smirk, but your eyes had stopped smiling.

“It can’t?” you asked. “Why not?”

Bruce’s hand was still at your waist, but now his fingers had loosened. He didn’t speak. Just lowered his head. As if the weight of the world fit into a single answer he couldn’t say aloud. Because to name it, to say it, would be to give up the secret, and push you away.

And then, the heavy oak door creaked open.

Alfred stepped inside. His gaze passed from him to you, but he said nothing. That expression he always wore, as though he’d seen everything, yet nothing at all.

“Mr. Wayne,” he said. His voice was calm but unhurried. “Charlotte Rivers has arrived. She’s waiting for you at the front.”

Silence… then the shadow on Bruce’s face deepened.

You, still in his lap, turned to Alfred.

And Bruce’s next words sank you into an even deeper silence:

“Thank you, Alfred. Let her in.”

Alfred gave a nod, paused a moment more at the door, then quietly withdrew.

You turned your face to Bruce. There was no play left on your lips. That spark had vanished.

And with only a whisper, you asked:

“Charlotte Rivers?”

That night, the wind outside Wayne Manor howled even harder.

But inside... the real storm had begun.

You were standing on the marble floor that gleamed like golden reflections of the warm yellow light beneath the towering crystal chandelier. On your left was Bruce’s familiar calm, and on your right, the approaching footsteps of a storm. Charlotte Rivers.

The sharp, steel-like sound of her heels echoed through the empty hall, and for a moment, you held your breath. When the silhouette of the woman appeared before the grand door, the infuriating entrance scene you had imagined countless times finally took flesh and bone. Absentmindedly, your hand rested on the sleeve of Bruce’s jacket—unknowingly. As your fingers drew near his skin through the fabric, the woman’s smile kept drawing closer.

“Bruce, darling…”

Charlotte smiled with a polished lie on her lips. Without the slightest hesitation, she stepped up to Bruce and pressed a short yet distinct kiss on his lips. Though the kiss was brief, her fingertips lingered on his chest for about two seconds longer than necessary. And you stood there.

You looked on without narrowing your eyes. The red mark of her lipstick may not have stayed on Bruce’s skin, but the spark in your eyes—the instant flame of jealousy—betrayed you. Still, a faint smile played on your lips, as if you were amused. You weren’t revealing the war inside you. Not yet.

When Charlotte turned her head toward you, she said, “Ah… Y/N, isn’t it? How lovely to see you again. You’re still… living in this house?” Her expression was kind, but her voice was coated with sugary poison. She had left such a deliberate pause between the words that you could almost hear the subtext: “Isn’t it a bit strange that Bruce is still with you?”

“Yes,” you replied. “Sometimes people don’t leave a place. They make it theirs.”

Your response was just like her smile: subtle, but equally sharp. Charlotte slightly raised her brows; her face suspended somewhere between surprise and delight. It showed she accepted the challenge. And you, placing your hands behind your back, took a small step back to watch.

Bruce cleared his throat to break the tension. “Charlotte, come. Let’s move to the sitting room. Alfred will bring the drinks shortly.”

But Charlotte hadn’t moved yet. She gently touched Bruce’s arm. “Honestly… I didn’t think I could’ve missed you this much. But maybe it’s the magic of Wayne Manor. Or… your presence.”

Her voice was so composed, you might have mistaken it for genuine. But you could see the calculations behind her eyes. And Bruce… said nothing. He wore that mask you knew—the mask of blankness—and responded to her words with neither denial nor approval.

But that was the moment that hurt you the most. It wasn’t that Bruce didn’t defend you. It was that he acted as if you weren’t even there. Charlotte leaned in a little more, lightly touching Bruce’s chest, her fingers tracing the seams of his jacket. These small gestures were a deliberate dance performed in your presence. Every gesture was an insult. Every smile, a provocation. And Bruce hadn’t stopped the dance.

You just watched. With your wrists clasped and your nails digging into your palms, you stood upright. You were smiling, but your teeth were clenched with fury. Your heart was tight, yet your face wore a soft expression. And your eyes… when they found Bruce again, the fragments of admiration still lingering there were now shaded with pain.

At that moment, you noticed Charlotte whispering something to Bruce, ignoring you entirely. He slightly nodded, but there was still no trace of that ghostly smile you once knew so well. That face—it no longer belonged to you. For a fleeting second, it felt like you were watching Bruce’s ghost. And that ghost had found life in someone else’s body.

That night, even the stone walls of Wayne Manor seemed to breathe—bound by a kind of ancient, ominous loyalty that refused to let anything inside or allow anything to escape. The darkness of night had devoured the scenery, and the shadows of the trees in the garden reflected on the window like silhouettes gasping for air. In the dim light of the bedroom, shadows and reality blended into one—just like inside your mind.

Your room was actually your favorite corner in Bruce’s house. The dark navy wallpaper Bruce once gifted you was still there. On the bookshelf, carefully arranged volumes of Freud and Jung stood neighborly beside plush teddy bears. The white lace curtain at the window fluttered gently with the breeze, appearing to be the only thing in motion at that moment. The room was elegant, but still youthful. Just like you.

You were pacing back and forth inside, your feet pressing into the soft texture of the dark carpet, while your heart pounded so hard you feared its sound might shatter the silence. You kept replaying in your mind, again and again in countless variations, what Bruce and Charlotte were doing, where they had gone, and how they could so easily leave you behind.

It was 1:30 a.m. now. Two hours. Two hours, and Bruce hadn’t returned. Charlotte hadn’t left. And you… you were decaying in silence, in your own room, digging your nails into your palms.

Then… that laugh came.

High-pitched, careless, far too relaxed. It was Charlotte’s laugh. Even from a distance, you could see her throwing her head back as she laughed, placing her hands on Bruce’s shirt, narrowing her eyes. That sound had made its way to the upper floors of the house, all the way to your room.

Your body reacted instantly. Your feet carried you to the door without your permission. Your palms pressed against the wood of the door; you turned your head slightly, listening. First, footsteps… then a few murmurs… then Charlotte’s voice again.

“…You’re so tense lately, Bruce. Maybe you should learn to unwind a little. That’s what nights are for, aren’t they?”

The touch within her voice poured into your ears like silky venom. The insinuations, the invitations… they made it hard for you to stay upright. Your heart started pounding again—this time, in your throat. A fist seemed lodged there, and swallowing was impossible.

“Do you remember that night? Champagne, me, you, that famous jacuzzi… I tricked you a little, but you liked it. Why are you being so distant now?”

And Bruce’s reply… never came. Or maybe you couldn’t hear it. Maybe he whispered. Or maybe he didn’t answer at all. But the silence didn’t seem to discourage Charlotte.

“Come upstairs with me. Let’s… refresh old memories.”

That was when a sharp pain hit your gut. Your knees buckled, but you didn’t collapse. Your eyes locked on a single point: the door leading to the dark hallway.

Were they going upstairs? To Bruce’s bedroom?

A moment of silence passed, then a faint click… footsteps… heels echoing on the marble stairs. You recognized them instantly. Charlotte’s walk was always a performance. And Bruce was he following her?

You leaned your back against the door, your head tilting upward with the knot in your throat. The chandelier’s crystals fractured the ceiling light, casting soft shadows on the walls. But that beauty could no longer comfort you. In your mind appeared the image of that foreign woman’s lips touching Bruce’s. You recalled that laugh. That invitation. And Bruce’s silence.

You clenched your teeth. You felt something crack inside, thin and long like a fissure. Slowly growing, pulling you into darkness.

It wasn’t just jealousy. No. It was the foreboding sense of loss, the helplessness of being forced to watch everything you love slip quietly through your fingers. It was watching another woman erase you from his memory in every moment you weren’t by his side. Quietly. Calmly. Wanting to scream, but only being able to swallow it down.

You whispered Bruce’s name. It came out like a plea from between your lips… but no one else was in the room. He didn’t hear you. And even if he did, maybe he wouldn’t turn around anymore.

And that night, for the first time, you were truly alone.

The time had long passed midnight, and the silence of the house was no longer a comfort; it settled over you like a suffocating burial shroud. The thick stone walls of Wayne Manor were woven with a cold, resentful stillness, every crevice filled with history, weight, and secrets. In the dim light of the room, even the echo of your footsteps felt like a betrayal, each step pounding like a heart caught in the act.

You couldn’t sleep. You hadn’t even tried. Your feet forced you into pacing, your hands wrapping around your own wrists as you moved back and forth across the room. The sheer curtains twisted in front of the window against the breeze, the moonlight making the delicate fabric sway as if it wanted to wrap itself around your body.

But the wave inside you was much stronger.

Bruce. Charlotte. That laughter.

That look. That touch.

You were burning from within.

In the middle of the night, you moved like a shadow losing control. Even the tiny click as you opened the door on your tiptoes startled you. The chill in the hallway slithered across your skin like a sneaky intention. Every step, every creak made you feel even lonelier, even more alien in this house. You stopped when you reached the start of the staircase leading to the upper floor. There was something inside you now: jealousy, dressed up as courage.

You didn’t know how your heart could beat so wildly as you approached something you thought belonged to you. But when you stepped into the corridor where Bruce’s bedroom was... something else happened. Your feet stopped. Your breath caught. Because you had heard it.

Those sounds.

A breath echoing. A stifled giggle. The rustle of sheets brushing together.

And Charlotte’s voice, faint, but with a seductively sharp sweetness as it rose:

"Hmm... just like that. I feel like I remember you again now. You know, Bruce… when you look at me like that, I still remember that night. My hands were pressed against the wall in the stairwell..."

Her voice sent a chill to the tips of your hair and a heavy punch right to the center of your stomach. There, right in front of the door, you leaned against the wall. Your legs had gone numb. There was no hand on your chest, but it was there. Another muffled moan came from her. Then Bruce’s low, husky voice, unclear, but the vibration of his words seemed to stroke Charlotte’s hair.

You swallowed. But your throat was dry. Your lips parted, but you had not a single word to say. What was inside you… was like the shattered shards of a mirror. Each piece slicing into a different part of your soul.

Hatred.

Desire.

Disappointment.

Betrayal.

And... mistrust.

And yet, how much had you wanted to be the one next to him. Sitting on that couch, just one more touch and you would’ve belonged to him again. And now, behind that door, Bruce Wayne was slowly unraveling in the hands of another woman. Your dreams were being carved into someone else’s skin by his hands.

Charlotte whispered again:

"You make me feel like I belong to you. You really haven’t forgotten me, have you?"

And Bruce’s response came in the form of silence. But that silence hurt you more than any word ever could.

You trembled. Your back pressed harder against the wall. Your fingers went to your chest, your throat. You could feel the rise of the anger you tried to suppress. And it was no longer just jealousy. This was a claim. Your pride had been crushed, your desires trampled.

And worst of all: Bruce had lied to you. He had looked you in the eyes and lied when he left you alone.

The line of light slipping from under the door touched your ankles. It felt like it was cutting you. You wanted to step closer to the door but couldn’t. Because if you took one more step... you would lose another part of yourself. Irretrievably.

That night, in that dark hallway, you felt completely exposed. And perhaps for the first time, you realized you could never trust Bruce the same way again.

There was still night in the hallway. The morning sun, seeping through the gray velvet curtains, seemed too timid to step inside the house. The walls of Wayne Manor were, as always, silent—but it felt as though everything had already been said.

You were dressed for your morning internship, moving in a simple black shirt with fine white stripes and fitted black slacks… your steps were quiet. Too quiet. You were quiet just so you wouldn't hear him. Just because you felt too broken to deserve any sound.

But life always loved testing you where it hurt the most.

As you were leaving, you saw him. Bruce. Wayne.

He was coming down the stairs, his black t-shirt disheveled, his hair messy, and his gaze heavy from lack of sleep as he looked at you. He was alone. But you knew. Upstairs. Inside. Charlotte Rivers was still in bed.

Only two staircases away from your room.

When your eyes met, time seemed to pull back—like a thread being drawn through the skin while stitching a wound; silent, tense, but amplifying the pain. When your gaze locked on him, he noticed. His lips parted, as if to say something, but he couldn’t. Because you spoke first.

You straightened your shoulders. Tilted your neck slightly. Just as he was about to say “good morning,” your voice sliced through the air: “You looked very tired last night. I hope… you were able to rest.”

Your words were like shards of glass stuck in the neck of a wine bottle; elegant on the surface, but already cutting through beneath. Bruce averted his gaze. But you didn’t. You stayed right there. You kept looking. You waited.

There was silence. And then, he did what he always did: tried to control the guilt.

“Y/N… if I need to explain...”

You raised your hand, slicing the air gently. It was a graceful, almost tender gesture. But not on the inside.

“You don’t need to explain. I already heard everything loud and clear.”

There was no shouting in your voice, no reproach. And that deepened the lines on Bruce’s face even more. Because your tone was patient. And patience was something no one your age should ever have.

He saw that spark in your eyes. You weren’t a little girl anymore. No longer that “sweet” presence who used to fall asleep reading books at his side. There was something in your eyes that the night couldn’t retrieve, and the morning couldn’t mend.

“Y/N… Charlotte is someone from my past. Something began with her.”

You cut him off. Didn’t blink. “Yes, Bruce. It began. Just like what you started to show me. While what we had was a bond far deeper than a physical one… your sense of time is truly something. Seems like you’ve lost track of the difference between hurting someone and seducing them.”

You took a step closer. Your footsteps were velvet-soft, but the storm inside you pounded against your ribs with a roar. There were only inches between you now. You looked into his eyes and whispered: “I was your future. But you chose to stay in your past.”

And right then… his throat moved. He swallowed. But he couldn’t speak. Because your eyes weren’t filled with tears. You hadn’t cried. And that was the most terrifying part: the absence of tears. If no tears were shown, there could be no forgiveness.

You turned toward the door. Just as you were about to leave, a hoarse voice rose behind you: “I still care about you.”

You didn’t stop. Just shrugged your shoulders and replied, “Then why did you share a bed with her?”

As one of the house staff opened the door, the morning sun on your face felt like it was smiling at you. But you didn’t look back. With the weight of no longer belonging to the darkness inside Wayne Manor, you walked down the steps. Your feet no longer moved like a child’s, but like a woman’s.

The corridor didn’t feel like its usual morning chill. There was a thick, scentless, but heavy chemical residue lingering in the air—like the ghost of a spill. Your footsteps made almost no sound. In a building this old and decaying, that alone was unsettling. The rubber soles of your black ballet flats made it feel like you were stepping on the soul of a ghost. The notebook in your hand had started to moisten at the fingertips.

When you reached the office door, it was closed—but someone was inside. Two male voices. One was familiar—sharp and measured, slicing each sentence into pieces. Dr. Crane. The other was older, a little more muffled… and dominant: Dr. Hugo Strange.

But the words… the words were blurry. You could only make out certain key terms in between sentences: “dosage,” “voluntary protocol,” “immunity,” “REM cycle”... and the phrase that struck your ear the most: “only at night.”

Instinctively, you took a step back. And just then, from behind you, came a sweet, slightly too loud, and definitely out-of-place voice:

“Hey there, sweetheart!”

When you turned slowly, you saw Dr. Harleen Quinzel standing behind you. She wore her white coat, beneath it a faded pink dress. Her hair was neatly tied, dark circles under her eyes from a sleepless night, but her lips were like springtime.

“When did you sneak in like that?” she asked, raising an eyebrow, her tone curious and warm.

“Uh… just now…” you whispered, though your voice didn’t even sound like your own.

Harleen stepped closer. “Like a class… If you’re standing so quietly outside a door, chances are you heard something, right?” Her voice was chirpy, but there was real mischief in her gaze. She was testing you. Measuring.

You opened your mouth to say something, but before you could, the door suddenly swung open.

Dr. Jonathan Crane’s eyes locked with yours for a brief moment. But it wasn’t the kind of look you were used to. It was cold and measured; revealing no emotion, yet seeming to read every question in your mind. That gaze had sliced through you—it was something between being seen and being exposed. The reflection of all that waiting, the eavesdropping, the fear of being caught—coldly mirrored in his eyes. But he said nothing.

As you stepped inside, Harleen whispered a warm goodbye and walked away. The office door closed slowly behind you, and the air inside thickened even more. The shadows trembling behind the window panes seemed to still hum with Crane’s voice. As he walked to his desk, he had his head down, gathering papers. He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, but avoided direct eye contact. That made you even more uneasy.

You couldn’t help but speak.

“Just now… it was you and Dr. Strange in there, I think?” you said, trying to keep your voice from trembling. “You were talking about a patient? I didn’t see any such case in my files. I was just curious if it’s an experimental—”

He raised his head.

When his gaze hit you, that same chilling silence once again filled the room. Only his eyes spoke; and in them, there was no anger. No rage. But a kind of warning. Slow, patient, slithering like a snake.

“Curiosity,” he said. His tone was sharp, but there was no smile. “In psychiatry, it’s a variable all its own. When not properly guided… it can be harmful.”

You swallowed. Your instincts told you to break eye contact, but something—pride, or maybe the need to explain—kept you rooted there.

“I wasn’t trying to… I didn’t mean to listen. I just happened to be nearby. I overheard because—”

“Because you were standing by the door,” he said, calmly. Almost kindly. “And you overheard. Because you want to show how good of an intern you are… don’t you?”

He used the silence you left as a blade. He took two steps toward you. His footsteps barely made a sound on the carpet, but something inside you coiled. His hands were tucked into his coat pockets. He tilted his head slightly, as if examining you.

“You’re in your sixth week, Miss Wayne. A bit early to be searching for all the answers. Some questions come with a price,” he said slowly. “Some knowledge... shouldn’t be so easy to gain.”

You instinctively took a step back, but he noticed and stepped closer. So close now that you could feel the chill of his breath on your skin. Yet he hadn’t yelled, hadn’t raised a hand. And still, you were already trembling.

“I… I’m sorry,” you said, your voice sounding like it didn’t even belong to you. “That wasn’t my intention. I didn’t mean to overstep.”

There was a curl at the corner of his lips. It wasn’t a smile. It was the reaction of a man who had shaped someone into exactly the mold he wanted. He had pushed you into that pit of guilt. And then left you there.

He returned to his desk, straightened the folders. Then, shattering the silence, he said:

“In your next session with Edward Nygma... continue to use your observational skills. But don’t forget to draw boundaries. The line between observation and obsession... you know, it’s very thin.”

You felt your insides freeze. You knew that was a reference. But to whom, it wasn’t clear. To you? To himself? Or perhaps… to both of you.

Dr. Crane’s gaze had sliced through your soul like the edge of a scalpel. He hadn’t even asked the question. He had asked it with his eyes; accused you with a look, passed judgment in silence. Just looking into his eyes had been enough to put you in your place. The words that came from his mouth weren’t sentences—they were cold, procedural, as if part of a treatment protocol. He hadn’t hurt you. He had ruined you.

You had lowered your head, trying to salvage the moment with a short “I’m sorry,” but the word stuck in your throat the moment it left your lips. Feeling like a child in his presence had become something you were slowly getting used to. But this time… this time something was different. Was he acting like this because you had heard the argument? Or had he always been like this and you were only now beginning to see it?

When you turned to your chair and opened your notebook, your fingers were trembling. Every letter you tried to write clashed with the thoughts echoing in your head. “What was it about? Who was in the room at night? ‘Extrasynaptic neurotransmission’? ‘Chemical orientation curve’? They hadn’t sounded like medical terms, more like the passwords to some secret ritual…” You placed your hands on your knees and took a deep breath. The air you inhaled through your nose didn’t carry the sterile metallic scent of the clinic—it carried the depthless darkness seeping from Crane’s office. That room… often felt less like an office and more like a coffin. Quiet, intimate, and soundproof enough that even if someone screamed, no one outside would hear it.

Just then, the silence was torn apart like a scalpel slicing through skin.

“Y/N?”

Dr. Crane’s voice wasn’t raised, but it carried a sharpness in its depth. He didn’t even glance at you from the corner of his eye. But his voice pierced right through you. When you lifted your head, you saw him standing among the files.

“Do you remember Arnold Wesker?” he asked, his voice like a warning you’d never want to hear in a dream. “The decision has been approved. He’ll be admitted today.”

You swallowed.

Wesker. The Ventriloquist. The Puppeteer.

Your hand instinctively gripped the pen tighter. You bit the inside of your lip, just to avoid reacting to the name. But the familiar hum had already taken hold of you. A fear crawling to the tips of your fingers. Puppets. Those dark figures without hard eyes, but always watching you… He knew. Before he even said it, he knew what your reaction would be. That’s why he had spoken the name out loud. He was watching your response. Perhaps he had already made up his mind.

“I want you to conduct the initial assessment,” he said quietly. The light from the room reflected off his glasses; you couldn’t see his eyes. But you could feel their presence. “It’ll be the first time we make such close contact with his mind. You may want to witness it.”

His tone wasn’t inviting. It wasn’t threatening either. But somewhere beneath, deeper than command, something more subterranean lingered. This wasn’t an offer. This was a test.

A knot twisted in your stomach. But on your face, you wore that professional mask. You nodded slightly.

“Understood,” you said. “I’m ready.”

But you weren’t.

And he had already seen that.

When Dr. Crane's voice fell silent, a brief stillness settled over the office. It stood in sharp contrast to the noise inside your head—your heartbeat pounded against your temples like pressure building behind your eyes. But when you looked at him, it was as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just dropped a name like Arnold Wesker into your lap and walked away. As if he hadn’t noticed how your hands clenched tightly, how your pupils had shrunk the moment you heard it.

But he had noticed.

Still, he didn’t let the slight curve at the corner of his lips falter. He observed you behind the glass of his spectacles—long and measured. Then, his voice suddenly softened. In that dark room, it felt like someone had extinguished a lamp and replaced it with candlelight.

“You don’t have any other tasks at the moment, Y/N,” he said. “If you’d like, take a break. A new coffee machine was installed downstairs—it’s not half bad.”

Was that all? After all that intimidation, was he going to speak this gently? At first, it felt like a trap. But his voice was so calm… so naturally carried by the flow of the moment… that it planted a seed of doubt inside you, while also gently pressing your shoulder toward the door.

You nodded, keeping your gaze steady, your smile cautious but not revealing it.

“Alright… Thank you, Doctor,” you said.

That was what he wanted. Both the words and the submission. He was sending you out through that door—but only physically.

You walked the hallway with brisk steps, as if shaking off the tension clinging to your shoulders. Arkham’s walls were as cold as ever, but for the first time, they felt suffocating. When you reached the lower floor, the corridors were nearly empty. The corner with the coffee machine had become a temporary refuge for a few staff members at the start of the night shift. You got yourself a plain coffee, though your hand was still trembling slightly.

And then, your phone buzzed.

Bruce.

Seeing his name on the screen made something tighten inside you. You slowly reached into your pocket and pulled the phone out. The screen was still lit:

“How are you?”

Then, a few minutes later, another message:

“I’m sorry for what happened this morning. I’ll make it up to you.”

You inhaled and exhaled, but didn’t reply. Your finger hovered over the screen, unmoving. You slid the phone back into your pocket. Saying anything felt like it would require an apology. Or worse: an explanation.

And right now, you didn’t want to explain anything.

And somehow, that silence felt oddly comforting.

When Jonathan Crane quietly closed the door to his office behind him, the only thing that followed the sound of his footsteps echoing through Arkham's corridors was the voice inside his own head. His steps were measured, but his mind worked like a metronome of calculations. With your departure, the warmth left in the office had instantly cooled, replaced by the sterile chill of a laboratory. Exactly the atmosphere he needed.

First, he adjusted his glasses. Then, from the inner pocket of his coat, he retrieved a magnetic key and placed it just below what appeared to be a rusted screw hole on the elevator's call panel—an unremarkable spot to most. A soft “click” sounded. The elevator began descending without delay. This was a floor unknown to regular staff: Sublevel D, one of the clinic’s basement levels long buried in Arkham’s past and missing from any official blueprints.

When the doors opened, they revealed a corridor wrapped in ancient lead pipes, flickering under the broken rhythm of fluorescent lights dangling from the ceiling, the walls rotted with age and damp concrete. But to Crane, this wasn’t ugliness. This was a kind of silent divinity. A place where science was no longer shackled by ethics, where playing god came down to nothing more than technicalities.

As he opened the lab door, the groan of rusty hinges echoed out. Inside, under the pale yellow light, the air was thick with the mixed scent of distilled water, glycerin tubes, nitrous compounds, and potassium cyanate. On the central steel table sat half-filled beakers, ampoules held in dry ice, and gas cartridges preserved under inert atmosphere. Everything was orderly. Everything exactly as it should be.

Jonathan reached for the shelves. It didn’t take long to find the specially labeled serum. A small bottle marked only with “Variant 5B-Y.” It was a new liquid form of his fear toxin—based on the core 5B fear series, but the “Y” made it personalized. The “Y” wasn’t an initial; it was a target: Y/N.

The liquid, unlike the classic aerosol versions, had a finer diffusion profile. Its low evaporation rate at room temperature allowed it to interact only with the sensory threshold of those nearby. It wasn’t an attack, it was a touch. Its chemical makeup: a synthetic alkaloid blend accompanied by delta-phenylethylamine and hydroxytryptamine. He understood fear as not only a biochemical state but also a psychodynamic resonance. The formula was designed to travel through the olfactory bulb and activate symptom clusters previously marked by trauma.

Meaning: when Wesker’s puppet combined with Crane’s gas, your defenses would collapse. And no one would call it an attack, because Crane would have merely “stood beside you.”

He poured the liquid into a thin, matte black glass vial. Not like cologne… like perfume. The exterior was textured to leave no fingerprints. Its dual-valve spray mechanism ensured that upon contact with skin, diffusion wouldn’t start immediately, it would be activated by body heat.

The antidote was stored in a small cryo unit in the corner of the lab. A small, metallic gray tube—usable only with a needle, and providing just a few minutes of reversal window. Crane pocketed the antidote in his coat and, as if nothing had happened, carefully removed his gloves and placed them on the steel table. As he sterilized his hands, a serene smile crossed his face.

This was his sanctuary. The birthplace of every plan.

And you were his most carefully observed hypothesis.

Wesker’s puppet was ready. The psychosis trigger was active. And your mental balance was about to dance on a razor-thin chemical line. Crane adjusted his glasses once more, then turned off the lamp. His eyes had already adjusted to the dark.

Because some learn to see from within the shadows.

Coffee… the only solace of the morning, a bitter, warm, and familiar refuge clinging to the corner of your lips. Your fingers curled around the foam cup, your palms still carrying the tension from Crane’s office, and as you sat at the rusted metal table outside, under the pale sunlight, it didn’t feel like you were waking to a Gotham morning—but to your own darkness. As your fingerprints melted into the heat of the cup, your eyes drifted to your phone—the grayish glow of the screen once again presenting you with Bruce’s name.

Bruce Wayne

“I’m sorry for everything you thought about last night. I want to talk to you. I’m looking forward to you coming home.”

The sentence felt like it didn’t come from his voice, but from someone else’s fingers. Too late… or maybe you were just too tired. You looked at the screen, a little long, a little silent, a little hurt. You didn’t delete the message. But you didn’t reply either. When your fingers pulled away from the screen, your eyes locked onto something far off. You wondered where Bruce’s hands were now, what voices he was smiling at. Maybe he was too blind to really see you. Or maybe he was just human, too human to want to.

And then, the footsteps echoing behind you pulled you out of that thought. Smooth, rhythmic, quiet… but familiar. If anyone could walk this softly on Arkham’s decaying stone corridors, it was Dr. Jonathan Crane.

“I knew I’d find you here.”

His voice settled over you like a morning mist. Then, as you turned slightly to look back, you saw him in his deep navy coat thrown over his white shirt, his gaze hidden behind glasses, lingering on you again, studying you.

“They’ve brought Wesker into the room.”

He announced it, but his eyes said something else. “I think it’s time you met him. Are you ready?”

You nodded slowly as you set your coffee down. Your eyes didn’t meet his completely. It was as if you were still stuck on Bruce’s screen. Still there… and still alone. Crane noticed this. He reached into his pocket, and like drawing out a handkerchief, he pulled something between his fingers and began walking toward you.

“If this encounter is making you uneasy,” he said, his voice softening, “...just remember: this is only the first contact. We’ll observe. We won’t interfere. So… I’ll ask you to act like a shadow.”

You started walking. He adjusted his steps to match yours. The corridor walls were damp, and from somewhere distant came the clanging sound of something striking metal bars. But you were no longer alone. Crane’s presence seemed to mute the rest. As you walked, your hand came dangerously close to his—so close it nearly brushed. You noticed it, but he had already adjusted, his fingers lowering toward the seam of his trousers as he continued beside you, in sync. He said nothing. He simply wanted to feel you nearby. You knew that.

Then he turned slightly. Your shoulder neared his torso. The scent… yes, familiar, but also something new. Not floral, not woody, sharp, a bit damp, but drawing you in. Like warm metal. There was something unknown in that scent. In that moment, your steps slowed. Your heart beat as if two hands were pressing down on your chest.

Crane adjusted his glasses gently. Tilted his head toward you.

“Nervous?”

He asked it like he genuinely wanted to know. But beneath his voice was a faint vibration.

You smiled—or pretended to.

“I think I am.”

“Perfect.”

He said slowly, in that tone you liked, not like a medical professor, but like a confidant, a partner in crime.

As you walked, your hand once again nearly brushed his. But this time, it felt like he let it. It wasn’t a touch. It was permission. You noticed that. He was letting you step into that space.

And you… as you recalled Bruce’s night with Charlotte and searched for something in Crane’s eyes, responded to him without meaning to. With just a few seconds of contact, you accepted the calm he placed over you. It wasn’t trust. It was a silent need.

The corridor ended. You arrived at the steel door that led to the isolation cells where Arnold Wesker was held. Crane stepped ahead. But then he paused. Turned to you.

“If you’re ready, let’s begin,” he said. “But first… take a deep breath.”

You did. But what you inhaled wasn’t just air. It was the scent of a dark intent. You didn’t know it yet. But it had already touched your body.

The door opened.

Jonathan stepped in first. His gaze behind the glasses was echo-less and cool. He extended his hand slightly, as if to guide you in from behind. And again, that scent — like before, but now stronger, sharper. Sweat mixed with cologne, like rusty metal. He pressed you toward his chest. You didn’t pull back. Because there was nowhere left to run.

“Y/N,” he said, in a low tone.

“Start taking your notes when you're ready. This is his first admission. It'll be a good observation for you too.”

There was a tenderness in his voice, but underneath it, a playful note. Who was he trying to fool, right?

Arnold Wesker was in the center of the room. He wasn’t chained — because what could a man talking to himself really do with his hands? The wooden puppet on his lap, however, was much more upright and alert. Scarface… the cracks on his gray wood looked like bloodstains, his tiny eyes fixed on the void from their hollow sockets. You didn’t want to raise your head. But your notebook already read: “Scarface: passive object.” You wrote it down too.

“Mr. Wesker,” Crane said with soft professionalism. “I need to ask you a few questions. Just answer them, alright?”

Arnold lowered his head. His eyelids trembled, his voice came in a thin tone. “Of course, doctor. Scarface will be here too, but... don’t worry.”

Scarface didn’t move. But you could feel the tremor beneath your fingernails.

“Your name?”

“Arnold Wesker.”

“Your age?”

“Sixty-two.”

“When did you first start talking to the puppet?”

“...I don’t remember exactly.”

You were writing. The words were trembling. Your eyes were glued to the notebook, but your nose… your nose was still filled with that indescribable scent Crane wore. Something spinning slowly in your chest, blurring your stomach, yet lifting a veil inside your mind. Like thin splinters starting to circulate in your bloodstream.

Crane glanced at you from the corner of his eye. He noticed the breath between your lips as you wrote. The trembling of your lashes… even if you didn’t, he noticed.

“How would you describe your relationship with Scarface?”

“He’s my… protector. My brain. Sometimes my heart. He speaks for me.”

“Does he threaten in your place?”

“Not a threat…”

At that moment, Arnold’s voice faltered. He looked at the puppet.

“He only... tells the truth.”

Then you heard a sound.

The sound of wood scraping.

Did the puppet move?

No, that wasn’t possible. You were just tense. Maybe afraid. But no… it moved.

Your eyes briefly locked on Scarface’s tiny fingers. His nails… were they always that long?

Crane continued asking:

“Is Scarface here right now?”

Arnold didn’t respond. But Scarface’s head suddenly turned a few degrees to the side.

YOU SAW IT.

Your breath caught in your throat. Your heartbeat started pounding against the walls of your chest. Your fingers dug into the edge of the notebook. Jonathan turned his head for a moment — but by then, Scarface was still.

He had moved only for you.

Crane fixed his eyes on you behind his glasses.

“Y/N?”

His voice was calm. But at the edge of his smile, there was something he knew.

You tried to steady your breath.

“It’s nothing… just... a reflection, I think.”

But even as you lied, your lips trembled. And he noticed.

Crane’s mind:

The antidote had worked.

The dose: small.

Delivery method: diffusion from skin surface to respiratory area.

Y/N did not “resist.” Did not fight.

But she saw.

She reacted.

Initiation complete.

Your breath spilled from your chest and clung to your collar. You could hear your heartbeat; it didn’t even feel like your own anymore. There were still echoes deep within your mind. Was it Scarface’s voice? Your father’s? Or… your own inner voice? You didn’t know. “You should’ve been a puppet, Y/N…” kept circling in the folds of your brain, as if repeated by a nailed, wooden tongue.

But when Crane’s fingers were beneath your chin… you found some calm. He was touching you so slowly, so carefully—you couldn’t tell if it was to avoid frightening you, or to prolong his own pleasure. His thumb tilted your chin upward. Your eyes locked with his. A blue emptiness watching from behind glass. But it wasn’t empty inside.

“Just a little longer, Y/N,” he said in a low voice. Meanwhile, Arnold Wesker had lowered his eyes, looking away with an ashamed expression. Unlike Scarface, he was timid, in a passive role.

Dr. Crane continued his therapy with Wesker. Your eyes had welled up with tears, but you hadn’t cried. Maybe out of fear, maybe to keep control. But more so… because you didn’t want to appear weak in front of him.

“I… I heard him. It was my father’s voice,” you thought. “The puppet was speaking. The eyes—THE EYES were looking at me. Just like his.”

You were supposed to be taking notes on Arnold Wesker’s statements, but you were lost in thought.

“I’m still there. I still hear his voice.”

Reality… was like the jagged edges of a shattered mirror. With every step, you felt like you were stepping on another shard. Your hands were still trembling; you threw the notebook between your fingers onto the metal table. Wesker flinched. He seemed to seek comfort from Scarface, as if hoping for protection.

You stood up, feeling that you had to stop there. Even the creak of the chair was like a whisper: “Run, run, run.”

Dr. Crane grabbed your wrist and called your name. But you didn’t hear him. When you looked at him —and at the puppet— you saw its sinister gaze, and heard your father’s voice.

“You should’ve been a puppet, Y/N.”

“You should’ve obeyed me…”

“Now we’ll hollow you out, turn you into wood…”

That puppet… it was speaking with his voice. Your father’s. And you had seen its mouth move. At least you thought you had.

Just as you stepped forward, the world seemed to turn upside down. But where was the door? It felt like falling into a void. Your foot slipped. A scream rose from your chest and caught in your throat. Marble veins curled in your vision, and above, puppets seemed to hang from the walls, watching you. Puppets… no. Scarface. And his voice…

You tried to find the door, but your feet dragged you. Your knees were shaking. You spun around in panic. Your fingers slid along the walls, then found the cold metal surface of the door. You were out of breath. Your chest heaved, but breathing felt like anything *but* breathing.

At last, when you reached the door and turned the handle, you threw yourself out without knowing what you were doing. You started to run. You had to go upstairs. The stairs would save you. You wanted to get away—but you reached the landing’s railing. You took one last step and lost your balance. Your foot stepped into nothing. You were about to fall. But you didn’t.

Because a pair of arms caught you. Jonathan Crane.

His fingers pulled you to his chest. His arm wrapped around your waist. He anchored you in the curve between your hip and his torso. His chest was warm. But those eyes. That familiar gray, dead calm was still there. But this time… something else too. Maybe a flicker of panic. Maybe attentiveness. Your hands were clenched on his coat, nails digging in so tight they nearly tore the fabric.

“Y/N,” he whispered.

He held you like that. His fingers still at your waist. You felt his breath on the side of your neck. His lips weren’t touching your skin, but your body absorbed his presence. As the hallucinations in your mind slowly receded, something else started to take their place. Something darker. Something more personal.

“Hey… make eye contact with me. Breathe.”

His voice was low. Barely a whisper. When it brushed past your ear, it sank into your mind like a splinter. You didn’t want to pull your nails from the fabric. For a moment, you allowed that false sense of salvation to completely envelop you. As you pressed closer to his chest, you didn’t hear his heartbeat, but the mechanical silence within him. Crane’s heart didn’t speak to the outside world.

“You need to calm down,” he said. Then, a sharp pain echoed in your arm, piercing through the fabric of his white coat. The tip of a needle entered and left just as quickly, stinging as it went. Then you felt his lips just above your ear.

“You’ll be fine soon.”

You tried to regain your breath. Your entire body was beginning to relax. Now your body was slowly surrendering to Dr. Crane’s arms.

“What’s happening to me, doctor?”

Dr. Crane tilted his head slightly to the side. As if observing a lab rat.

“I gave you an injection to calm you,” he said. “You’ll feel better soon.”

He placed one hand on your back, the other beneath your knees. He held you tighter. His fingers seemed to feel your skin. He pressed you against his chest. Your heart was pounding wildly. His was silent, but it was there. Like a metronome, arriving long after yours, measured and steady.

Suddenly the floor slipped from beneath you; you felt a sense of falling. Your eyes blurred. Something cold licked at you.

Dr. Harleen Quinzel was the first to reach you after hearing the noise. The heels of her shoes echoed with a metallic ring. Her brows were furrowed, anxiety all over her face, but when she saw the scene, you in Crane’s arms, something stuck in her throat.

“Jonathan… what happened to her?”

Crane didn’t turn his head, still holding you, as he replied.

His voice was frozen in its usual calm:

“She had a traumatic reaction during the Arnold Wesker session. A deep neurovegetative response… possibly an acute dissociative seizure. She’ll need to be kept under observation.”

Harleen was still inspecting you.

“Just now? What did you say to her?”

Crane turned his eyes to Harleen.

“She trusts me. She left the room in a panic. I was the first to reach her.”

He paused. Then turned his whole body toward Harleen.

“I’ll take her myself.”

There was a flicker of suspicion in Harleen’s eyes. But then she helped with her hands.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” she said briefly.

“No need,” said Crane, a faint smile forming on his lips. “I can take care of her.”

He was carrying you… but this wasn’t just a physical burden. At that moment, he was dissecting you in his mind into a thousand pieces, memorizing every detail, your fluttering eyelids, your racing pulse, the dryness of your lips. As if you were his most special experiment. But he didn’t call it an experiment. To him… it was passion. Desire mixed with science. And more than anything, this was the first step in transforming you.

Dr. Jonathan Crane’s car moved silently through Gotham’s narrow, fog-laced streets. Sitting behind the wheel, Crane gripped it with his usual precision, his attention shifting occasionally to you in the passenger seat. Your eyes were half-lidded, your breaths short and irregular. Your skin, under the pale light of the moon, looked like cold marble. You had leaned your head against the seat, but your body hadn’t relaxed. Fear still echoed in your bones. And that scent — it still clung to you. Sweet, chemical, warm… It was Jonathan’s.

At that very moment, a muffled vibration came from inside the bag. Then a melody echoed—like a warning stubbornly ringing out against time. Crane’s brows furrowed.

“What now?” he muttered to himself, in a low tone that slipped almost through clenched teeth. Without taking his eyes off the road, he reached back — his fingers moved through the contents of the bag with surgical precision, not slowing down for even a second. At last, he found the phone screen. The incoming call was clear and jarring.

Bruce Wayne is calling.

Crane stared at the screen for a few seconds. The muscle in his jaw twitched slightly. Then, with a click, he answered.

“Yes?” he said, his voice distant, but wrapped in carefully composed professionalism.

Bruce’s voice came through immediately. There was a tension in his tone, as if racing against time.

“Crane? Why isn’t Y/N getting back to me? I’ve been calling, she’s not answering. What’s going on?”

Jonathan kept his eyes on the road as he spoke, his voice now a little softer, but filled with a cold, veiled game of hide and seek.

“Mr. Wayne. At the moment… Y/N is in a rather delicate condition. She had a minor episode during Arnold Wesker’s intake. She must’ve been affected, early childhood traumas might have been triggered.”

“What do you mean, an episode?” Bruce’s voice rose an octave. “Where are you right now? How is she?”

“We’re not at Arkham,” Jonathan replied, still as calm as ever. “She’s under my supervision. I’m driving. I’m taking her to my residence.”

“No. No, no. Bring her to my house,” Bruce said, his voice now trembling with barely contained anger. “Wayne Manor. She should stay there. We can provide the best care for her here.”

Crane exhaled quietly behind the wheel. His fingers gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. His eyes flicked briefly to you.

The veins in your neck were visible, your skin seemed cloaked in the very image of fear. And even in your unconscious state… you were his. At least for now.

“Yes… of course,” Jonathan said. “If you think that’s best, I’ll take her to Wayne Manor. She’s stable. But there might be memory fractures… it’s better if she isn’t left alone for a while.”

“Thank you, Crane. Really. I appreciate your help.”

Bruce’s voice had softened slightly, though concern still lingered. The call ended.

Jonathan drove in silence for a few more seconds. He let out a quiet breath through his teeth.

“Of course,” he said to himself. “Of course you’ll take her… Wayne. You always do, don’t you?”

He slowly turned his head and looked at you again. Reaching out, he gently brushed the strands of hair away from your cheek — a delicate but calculated motion.

“You see,” he whispered in a low voice, “Even when you’re under my control, they still can’t stop wanting you.”

As the car rolled toward Wayne Manor, everything inside you swelled quietly.

You murmured something in a low voice. It sounded like it echoed right next to your ear:

“…not a puppet… I… I’m not a puppet…”

Your voice cracked, lips dry. Your mouth seemed to struggle with every word, as if language itself was trying to abandon you.

Jonathan glanced at you from the corner of his eye. Your pupils were dilated, your face pale yet delicate, like porcelain on the verge of shattering.

The liquid form of his Fear Toxin didn’t induce panic directly. It brought you to the brink, then blurred the line between the conscious and the subconscious. Its effects weren’t fleeting. They left marks. Especially on a target caught in an emotional void with enough resistance to struggle...

You were such a target.

“I’m not a puppet…”

You whispered it again, barely audible, but Jonathan heard. He smiled. Still in control of the wheel, but his true focus was now entirely on you.

To himself, barely a whisper:

“I didn’t say that to her. Not yet.”

Good… That meant this fear came from within. That this fracture belonged not just to Arnold Wesker… but to a deeper past.

When he stopped at a red light, he leaned over to adjust your seatbelt. His hand brushed your back, and you shivered slightly, but couldn’t react.

“Don’t be afraid…” he murmured. His voice was calm, like someone who hadn’t slept in years. “You’re not a puppet. Not anymore. No one’s going to pull your strings again.”

The irony in his words belonged only to him. Because he had already taken hold of your strings.

One hand moved to the back of your head. His fingers slid through your hair as he gently tilted it back. You had squinted, but Crane had already brought his nose close to your neck. He was breathing you in, imprinting you into memory. His breath moved along your nape like a wandering perfume. Then he whispered:

“This version of you is so... docile. Do you know how beautiful you become when you stop fighting?”

His words carried a corrupted desire. In his tone was a blend of affection and admiration, dangerous, impure, and unstoppable.

By the time they reached Wayne Manor and parked, you were somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. You thought you heard your father’s voice. But this time… it was the puppet that spoke it.

“You should’ve been a puppet, Y/N… you should’ve obeyed me…”

Your eyes filled with tears. They didn’t fall. They simply stayed there, frozen.

Jonathan saw them. He noticed your tears but said nothing.

He simply unfastened your belt and slipped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. Your head rested against his chest. His fingers roamed your nape, his touch soft like a caress, but beneath it, there was still control.

“I won’t be one of your puppets…” you whispered, your eyelids falling.

Jonathan didn’t reply. But the familiar curl at the corner of his lips was there as he held you in his arms.

Another plan had worked. And you, gently, weren’t falling into his mind... You were falling into the space he had made for you inside it.

The doors closed silently. Even Alfred’s footsteps outside couldn’t reach into this room; this wing of Wayne Manor was a refuge Bruce had hidden even from his own past. The dim, yellow lights turned the paintings on the walls into hazy dreams. The bedside lamp cast its pale glow on your sweaty forehead, highlighting the dull shadow of your face.

Under the blanket, your legs were sprawled to one side. Your arms still bore the marks of tension, your fingertips stiffened, nails dug into your palms. The warm, pale hue of your skin, filtered through fear, burned something deep within Bruce.

He was sitting beside you, at the foot of the bed. He had already taken off his jacket, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. His palms seemed to merge with your hands, as if he could protect you with his touch, as if he could erase the past and rewrite it anew.

His eyes were watching you. Your breathing was steady but deep, each breath a sign your body was still at war. The fine line beside your nose, even in sleep, was proof that fear lingered on your face.

Bruce quietly took a cloth and dabbed your forehead. The movement was gentle, but carried the weight of guilt. He knew you so well... Those puppets left by your father, the lifeless figures with red wigs around your house — you had told him everything, sobbing in his lap at the age of fifteen.

“The puppets are watching me, Bruce,” you had said. That day he had promised:

“None of them will ever watch you again.”

But he hadn’t protected you enough. Now, seeing you like this, that old, guilt-filled silence settled once again in his eyes.

You stirred slowly. Your eyelids trembled. A faint murmur escaped your lips, your breath quickened briefly.

“Y/N?” Bruce whispered, leaning in. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

Your eyes opened slightly. A few seconds of blurriness… then the room began to take shape. Your gaze slowly focused on Bruce’s eyes. There was a moment of hesitation, as if you didn’t recognize him at first, then you leaned toward the edge of the pillow.

Bruce lowered his head, brought his face closer.

“Don’t be afraid. You’re here now. It’s all over.”

You turned your head slightly to the side. Your lips moved. In a voice barely above a whisper:

“…Crane… Dr. Crane…”

Bruce’s face tightened immediately. It wasn’t just jealousy — nor was it pure anger. His face bore the weight of pain. His eyes, for a moment, were not on you, but on a silhouette imagined on the wall. Maybe he was pinning Dr. Crane to it. Or maybe, it was the weight of being unable to stop you from feeling safe with him.

But he recovered quickly. Tried to smile.

“He’s not here. And he doesn’t need to be. You’re under my care now.”

You, a little embarrassed, buried your face into your arm. Yet even in that embarrassment, you clung to the softness in his voice. Just like you did when you were a child.

“I’m sorry,” you said in a hoarse voice. “It’s just… in that moment… he was the only one there.”

Bruce nodded. He reached out, slipping his fingers into your hair, moving them gently to soothe you.

“I know. In fear, the person you reach for isn’t always chosen by reason. But… I won’t let go of you. Not ever.”

You slowly lifted your head. Searched his eyes with your gaze. Eyes that had once adopted you as family, but now, something else shimmered in their depths. Something you couldn’t quite name.

You were drunk on his tenderness. You felt safe. Bruce Wayne loved you. Truly loved you. But there was something inside… something you couldn’t quite define.

Bruce looked closely at your face. With his thumb, he brushed one side gently.

“I wish…” he began, then stopped. Held his breath.

“Wish what?”

He looked away. His jaw tensed slightly.

“I wish none of this had happened… Then some things could’ve been so different.”

A silence fell between you.

He pulled you close, helping you sit up. And within himself, he silenced a thousand words.

You had begun to hear the beating of his heart. Right where your head rested, just below his chest, was that rhythm. Silent, yet strong... perhaps the only safe rhythm in the world. His arm wrapped around you like a blanket, not just enveloping you, but your past as well.

Bruce ran his hands gently through your hair. Each breath he drew seemed to burn inside his lungs, as if seeing you like this scorched him from the inside. But his voice... still steady. Still in control. Only you could sense the break in it, only you.

He placed a hand on your forehead. Wiped the sweat away, then reached for a damp cloth from the tray beside him. As if you were trembling, he pulled the blanket up to your shoulders. Then he noticed something, your lips were silently moving with a fragmented sentence:

“I… I’m not a puppet…”

Bruce's eyes widened at the whisper. He took your hand and pressed his thumb gently to your wrist. Checked your pulse. Then looked at your face.

“Y/N…” he said, his voice softer now. “You own your mind. No one can control you. Not your father… not him…” — he didn’t finish the sentence. He refused to say Dr. Crane’s name. He didn’t want that name to echo through the walls of this room.

But he knew. He knew everything.

Ten years ago. A gray sky, a closed-off Gotham morning. The rain had just stopped. Inside the dark-tinted car, Bruce had seen you for the first time in a case file. The photo was small, but your gaze was immense. You held a wooden puppet in your hand. Through the soaked strands of your hair, something in your eyes looked straight through, and it wasn’t the look of a child. Maybe you were just one of thousands of children who had forgotten how to be young in this city… but there was something in your eyes: “I don’t want to be saved. I just want someone to come.”

That gaze had broken Bruce. He had pulled you out of all that darkness and brought you here. Not to give you shelter, but to give you a new foundation, a home that could protect you.

You were beginning to come to. “Bruce…” you whispered.

Bruce immediately leaned down.

“I’m here. You’re safe now.”

He took your hand. This time, tightly. As if you might slip away between his fingers.

“My father… I saw him… he was going to turn me into wood…”

Bruce’s throat tightened. His eyes welled with tears, but he didn’t cry. A Wayne didn’t cry, but inside, a part of him broke every time he couldn’t protect you.

“No,” he said firmly. “No one can touch you now. I’m here. I’ll stay with you all night if you want. I’ll breathe in time with you. I won’t leave you.”

Then he leaned in slightly, gently pulled you into his arms. You rested your head on his chest again. You, like a child; he, like a father. But underneath it all, something else stirred. Something buried, suppressed, locked in chains.

Love.

But a forbidden love.

While tending to your wounds, he had realized he loved you. While trying to protect you, he wanted to belong to you.

He was angry with himself. Angry for the way he looked at you, not like a girl, but like a woman who made him feel something uncontainable. But he couldn’t let go of you either. He couldn’t allow it. Because if he let go, he’d never get back that girl with the haunted eyes. So he didn’t let go. That’s why, when someone like Crane got close to you, it crushed him.

And you felt it. His heartbeat, close to your skin, had quickened. You noticed. For one moment, your eyes met. Bruce looked away. But he didn’t let go of your hand.

“I’d do anything for you, Y/N. If I have to… I’ll shield you with my own darkness.”

And he was there. Without ever leaving. Sitting beside you through the entire night. He placed two pillows behind your back, tilted your head gently so you could breathe easier. Pulled the thin blanket up to your shoulders, wiped the sweat from your forehead with a soft cloth again and again. Checked your temperature by pressing his fingers to your temple, counted your pulse. Each time he touched you, it was like he was handling delicate glass. One hand on his own knee, the other wrapped around yours. And when your fingers twitched from time to time, like rejecting something, perhaps the dreams, or the bottomless pits of memory, he stayed, always calling you back.

He placed his hand on your forehead again. Your fever had slightly lowered. You took a deep breath. Your lips parted:

“Don’t go…”

That word shattered every wall inside him. Bruce heard that sentence from a different place in his heart. Don’t go… because now you needed him.

And he wouldn’t go.

He lay beside you slowly, but didn’t touch you. Rested his head near your shoulder. From over the blanket, he reached for your hand again. Closed his eyes, but didn’t sleep. He just listened. To your breathing. To the rhythm of your heart. To the occasional murmurs of unrest. And once again, he faced the darkness inside himself.

He held you like a father, but couldn’t let go of you like a man.

By dawn, when the sun began to filter through the gray curtains, Bruce was still there. You squeezed his hand. This time, you were aware. You knew he hadn’t left you. You knew he had stayed through the night.

And in that moment, Bruce said to himself:

“When you wake up, I’ll lie again. I’ll say I only care about you. Not that I love you. Not that I’m terrified of losing you. But still… with just one look, you’ll know everything.”

156 notes · View notes

divaofmads · 3 months ago

Text

Lover Headcanon

Pairing Jonathan Crane x Female Reader x Edward Nygma

Summary: Crane touches your fears, while Nygma locks onto your mind. One tries to solve you, the other memorizes you. Neither can associate losing you with staying sane.

Warnings: +18, Smut, Psychological manipulation, Obsessive behavior, Power imbalance, Dubious consent (emotional and psychological), Dark romantic themes, Possessiveness / control dynamics, Touch aversion and intimacy issues, Discussions of fear and trauma, Fetishization of mental/emotional control, Potential toxic relationship dynamics, English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional.

Word Count: +3k

Dividers by @cafekitsune photos by Pinterest

A/N: First time diving into the headcanon format! Still figuring out where the line between headcanon and imagine is, but I tried to keep it focused and atmospheric. Thank you for reading—I’d love to know what you think.

Dr. Jonathan Crane 💉

• How You Met? First Impressions:

Imagine you're a psychiatrist at Arkham. That day, when Jonathan saw you for the first time — the moment he noticed you — it wasn’t an ordinary introduction. In his world, people generally fall into two categories: the observed and the ignored.

You... you were one of the unignorable.

The first thing that caught his attention was your eyes. They held a glimmer of someone who wants to know, but isn't afraid to question. Most people settle for the permission to observe. But you... you looked like you'd come there to lose yourself.

He was passing through the corridor, files in hand. You lifted your head. Eye contact — just a second — but in Jonathan’s mind, it echoed like a bell that wouldn’t stop ringing.

• Morally Grey Love Interest:

Jonathan elevates you — he praises your intellect, your intuition, your emotional depth. But then, he begins to dismantle you. Subtly. At first, you won’t even notice. He might bring up a fear of yours “coincidentally.” You’ll think you’re in control… until he uses it against you in the middle of an argument.

Why does he do it?

Because for him, love is synonymous with power. He doesn’t necessarily want to dominate the one he loves — but he needs to be superior.

And if your intellect and insight begin to threaten that sense of superiority, something inside him — that old, festering inadequacy — begins to surface… and then he starts to see you as a mental experiment.

Being with him would be intoxicating, consuming, and destructive. He sharpens your mind — but leads you right to the edge of darkness. If you want to survive this relationship, you’ll have to guard your sense of self without getting pulled into his games.

Otherwise, you won’t be Jonathan Crane’s lover — you’ll be something he created.

• Acts of Service:

He’s no romantic. But if he senses a threat, he’ll act — first by analyzing you, then by protecting you. Because your mental integrity is valuable to him. He loves your mind.

He hides sensitive information to protect you. Keeps you away from dangerous patients without ever telling you why.

When he notices your insomnia, he leaves you strong but effective medication — quietly, no explanation — “Make your own decision,” he’ll say.

• Quality Time:

Time with you isn’t about sharing — it’s about observing. But over time, without realizing it, he begins to let you in.

He stays late to analyze case files with you.

When he goes to get coffee, he doesn’t ask if you want any — but always brings one for you.

He works in his office without locking the door — because you’re the only one allowed to enter.

• Receiving Gifts:

One day he gives you a small toy, a scented eraser, or a piece of merch from an old cartoon you loved as a child. You never told him about it. But somehow… he knew.

The note is simple: “This made you who you are. I won’t let you forget.”

He leaves you a journal — a clinical analysis of your fears. Not emotional — scientific:

“January 10th — Avoided eye contact in the afternoon. Topic at the time: spiders. Direction of gaze aversion: lower right. Suggests fear related to memory.”

It’s a psychological file — but written with care. A mirror of sorts.

He gives you an old, worn book. Scattered between the pages are handwritten notes:

“Did you remember me after this page?”

“The shadow inside you... it looks like this paragraph.”

It’s both an intellectual offering and a coded love letter — a way he frames the relationship.

• What He Loves About You:

Your refusal to hide from fear. Your stubbornness. Your resistance. You don’t surrender easily to his manipulation. Sometimes, you defy him with nothing but your eyes. And to him, that’s intoxicating. Your openness to his mind games.

He can talk to you in symbols. Ask you to interpret your dreams.

When you lean in with fascination, you pull him into a place no one else has ever reached.

• Your Sex Life:

It would be BDSM-based — but far deeper, far more psychological.

Thanks to Scarecrow, Jonathan believes fear is an erotic emotion. Fear — or the act of inducing it — is what arouses him the most. So he needs to be sure he’s analyzed you perfectly.

Fear toxin will be part of your fantasies. Low doses — not enough to cause hallucinations — just enough to sharpen the edges of whatever you're afraid of.

He uses sensory deprivation to push you out of your body and into your mind. Blindfolds. Noise-cancelling headphones. Restraints. When your senses are taken away, every touch feels ten times more intense. Fear. Arousal. Curiosity.

It all blends together. If you have a fear of puppets, he’ll tell you you are one. If you fear the dark, he’ll fuck you in pitch black. If it’s spiders… you’ll feel the legs on your skin.

He uses mirrors and masks. In the reflection, you’ll see every reaction your body makes — in horrifying detail. With the mask, he hides himself to strip you open.

Denial is his addiction. He can bring you to the edge, feel your pulse, your trembling, your contractions, then stop. He sits down. And watches you.

He restrains his own touch. Sometimes he prefers to come just from watching you need him. For Jonathan, the ultimate thrill is not telling you what to do — but making you want to do it.

This is where mind control fantasy begins: “If I were in your place… what would I do to me? Come on. Do what you feel. I planted it there.”

He doesn’t punish — he reprograms. If you disobey his rules, you must be reshaped.

He may ask you to have sex with his alter ego. He carries two personas in one body: Jonathan Crane and Scarecrow. He wears the mask. You’re no longer with the man, you’re with the monster.

To be desired by something terrifying and powerful. That’s how he teaches you the meaning of submission.

He’ll whisper: “Jonathan might love you. But Scarecrow… He wants to consume you.”

• Jealousy:

When Jonathan Crane is jealous... It’s never a simple "him or me" situation. He doesn't feel jealousy like others do.

"I'm not jealous. I'm doing what’s right."

He begins passive-aggressively. Uses intellectual superiority. Mocks the other man’s intelligence with surgical sarcasm.

“He told you about Wernicke’s area. How... impressive.”

If he sees him as a real threat, he investigates. Finds weaknesses. Plans how to ruin his status, reputation, even his psyche.

If you’ve been physically close recently, his jealousy manifests as control more intense. More possessive.

He’ll try to overwrite the idea of anyone else. Make you repeat his name until the thought of someone else vanishes.

He’ll say: “Did he touch you? Even if he did, you won’t remember. Because tonight, I’ll rewrite you.”

If you break his control...

If you question him, resist him, disobey him —It won’t just hurt his pride. It will fracture the very foundation of how he sees himself.

“Do you think you’re smarter than me? No. It’s just… a coincidence. I couldn’t solve you because… YOU are not normal.”

He won’t see you as an enemy. He’ll become obsessed.

If you don’t leave — if you stay in the game, even after defying him — that’s the most dangerous point. He won’t stop loving you. But love will no longer mean letting you go. It’ll mean owning you.

And he’ll say: “I love you too much to let you leave. If you try to go… That decision will no longer be yours.”

He wants to both punish you and bind you more tightly.

He builds a mental logic like: "I have to love you in order to understand you."

Sexually, this can turn into a more intense, boundary-pushing passion.

But this passion is not pure desire; it's a need to reclaim your mind and body.

• What He Hates / Can’t Tolerate

- Sudden physical contact (especially in crowds)

- Superficial conversations

- Fear being mocked or made light of

- Excessive optimism / comments like “Everything will be fine”

• His Ideal Dates

- Spending time in a quiet, isolated library

- Studying old psychology files together

- Debating fear-based experiments (Romantic? To him, yes)

- Walking through an abandoned campus on a rainy day

- Nights where he analyzes your dreams

• Pet Names

- "Subject Y/N" (half-joking, but also a little too real)

- "Darling" (started out ironically, but grew into something sincere)

- "My little anomaly"

- Says your real name clearly and deliberately — affects you with his tone

• Welcome to the inside of his mind:

Edward Nygma 🧩

• Fear of Abandonment / Becoming Addicted to You

When Edward begins to love you, it’s not an ordinary affection — it becomes an existential need. In his eyes, you’re not just his partner; you are the only fixed point in his mental chaos. His attachment to you becomes like a person’s need to breathe.

Every minute spent by your side silences the noise in his head. It quiets the Riddler. But he becomes so used to that peace, he gets addicted to it. He starts believing you must be there whenever he needs you — in your absence, he feels emptiness and a loss of control.

If you don’t respond for a few hours, for example:

- He begins calculating all the possibilities. ("Did she lose interest?", "Is she with someone?")

- He starts constructing entire scenes in his mind, convinced that whatever is pulling you away must be fixed.

• Panic Attacks Triggered by the Fear of Losing You

These panic attacks are usually set off by: an argument, you ignoring him for a while, or him thinking he saw you with someone else.

In a panic episode:

He breathes rapidly, crouches down, and clutches his head.

He whispers to himself: “She’s just angry… it’ll pass… she won’t leave me… she wouldn’t DO that…”

The sentence he repeats most often: “Don’t leave me.”

If he doesn’t hear your voice, he might damage his surroundings — not you, but himself, out of rage and despair.

He tries to hide these attacks. But if you’re there during one, he’ll suddenly cling to you, bury his face in your chest, and try to calm down just by listening to your heartbeat.

• Whispering “I Love You” Like a Threat

This phrase takes on a different weight when he’s in Riddler mode.

Normal Edward:

When he says “I love you,” there’s softness in his voice.

But when he shifts into the Riddler — his eyes dimmer, his voice lower and rougher — he says:

“I love you. That’s why I’ll do whatever I have to. Do you understand?”

In his world, love becomes a vow, a threat, even a seal. To him, loving you means possessing you, being responsible for you, and declaring that no one else can ever have you.

In the middle of the night, leaning close to your ear, he might whisper:

“I love you... because I can’t let anyone else love you.”

And then, he may act completely calm — because the threat has been made clear.

• Nightmares and Sleep States

Edward’s mind never truly goes quiet. Not even in sleep. When he's falling asleep, he tries to calm his brain by counting numbers or mumbling mathematical formulas to himself.

Sometimes, as he's curled up beside you with his head under your arm, you whisper, “Edward... just sleep already.”

But he still mutters through his teeth. “5... 3... 7... No, that’s wrong. That’s wrong…”

His nightmares aren't just about things he’s done in the past — they’re about the possibility of losing you in the future.

One night he wakes up in terror, soaked in sweat. He clings to your chest, trembling. His eyes are hazy, his mind still not fully back in reality.

“They can’t take you. No one... no one can take you from me...”

He’s still halfway in the nightmare. Even as you gently stroke his back, he trembles like a frightened child. But after a while, his arms tighten around you. He starts counting your breaths.

Some mornings, it’s not Edward who wakes up — it’s the Riddler. He stares at you with cold eyes.

“Shall we test how much I deserve you this morning?” he says.

Suddenly, a puzzle is left at your feet. Or maybe during breakfast, there’s a small piece of paper in your coffee:

“The secret of breakfast is three letters. If you don’t answer, I won’t speak.”

He feels satisfied when you solve it. But if you don’t, he watches you in silence all day. He smiles, but his eyes do not.

These little tests are the product of his obsession with you, his desire for control, and his need to exalt your intelligence. Even though he places you above all else, he still needs to feel superior.

One day, while using your hairbrush in the bathroom, you find a small box.

Inside are a few strands of your hair and... tiny notes:

“May 11. Today she called me ‘darling’ for the first time.”

“This strand of hair got caught in the shirt she wore that day. I smelled that shirt all day long.”

Sometimes when you speak without realizing, Edward secretly records your voice. Later, while working in his lab or when he’s alone, he listens to those recordings: your laughter, the words you mumble in your sleep, even moments when you're angry…

When he makes a mistake, when a plan fails, or when he despises himself... he breathes and imagines you. He remembers the scent of your skin, the curve of your shoulder, the rhythm of your voice.

To calm down, he repeats one line to himself:

“She loves me. She’s still here. She’s the meaning behind everything.”

• Protection / Possessiveness

In a city like Gotham, Edward’s way of protecting you can be summed up in one word: preemptive aggression.

He keeps a mental list of everyone who could potentially harm you.

If someone follows you from behind, he discreetly makes sure they disappear.

If someone bothers you, he leaves an intelligent yet unsettling threat note. (And you never find out.)

But if he sees you smiling a little too much at someone else?

In that moment, he becomes the Riddler. Silent, calculating, burning with quiet jealousy.

• Riddler's Pet Names for You

- Puzzle Piece: This nickname means a lot to him. You are the one who fills the gaps in his mind. He doesn’t just see you as a lover, but as the missing piece of his puzzle.

- My Constant: Using a scientific term is typical of him. By calling you his “constant,” he likens you to a mathematical fixed value. In the equation of his life, you are the unchanging variable.

- My Equation: Clever, romantic, and disturbingly obsessed. In his eyes, you’re an equation where every path leads back to you.

• Your Sex Life:

For Edward, mental compatibility comes before sexuality. "Preparing" you mentally is, for him, a form of physical interaction in its own right.

He leaves you small boxes: inside them, old notes, scribbled words, a perfume sample, and after a while… maybe fingerprints smudged on your lipstick.

You must solve each one; every solution brings you a step closer to him.

- On your first correct answer, a brief kiss on the corner of your lips.

- On the second answer, a long, lingering kiss—then he suddenly pulls away.

- In the final stage, his tone persuades you to surrender, slowly:

"You already know the answer… So when will you give yourself to me?"

For Riddler, this process is the act of conquering your mind and body together. In his view, true desire isn’t something guessed—it’s something earned.

In the early stages, as introverted Edward, he's shy in his sex life. But as he embraces the Riddler identity, his more dominant and darker sides begin to surface.

Roles: He positions himself as a "god who asks questions."

Your Role: The one who answers, tries to solve, and slowly unravels as she does.

Each correct answer gives him power, each mistake is an excuse to “punish” you — but these punishments usually end up rewarding you. That means:

The apparent purpose of punishment: discipline, control.

The true purpose: erotic tension and mutual pleasure.

Edward never loves “lightly.” Sexuality, for him, is a form of claiming. That’s why after sex, he leaves reminders on your body to show you belong to him. For example, a bruise on your neck. Then he watches you — almost as if he's noting down what you feel when you see those marks.

The simplest of your belongings can be triggers for him, and he wants physical contact with them while being intimate with you. For example, sometimes he holds your pen while kissing you, because you once touched him with it. Maybe he wears the glasses you lent him for a day. He looks in the mirror, trying to see how you see him. Then slowly removes them and places them beside his bed.

"Seeing through your eyes… more arousing than I expected," he says.

Outside the home, his preferred places to have sex with you are abandoned spots around the city or hidden laboratories.

As your relationship with Edward Nygma progresses, he will begin to reveal other sides of himself. During your sexual encounters, he won’t be satisfied with old fantasies—he will develop a deeper interest in sadomasochistic themes. For example, he will prepare riddles for you, and if you fail to solve them, he will punish you. These punishments may become more professionally crafted. The green light that symbolizes him, a metal chair, and custom-designed coded handcuffs become essential elements of his punishments. Moreover, your fear mixed with excitement will only arouse him more.

He might say: His hand lifts your chin as he says, "You know how much I’ll enjoy delivering your punishment, don’t you? Sometimes intelligence hurts." Suddenly, he loses his composure. With veins bulging, he whispers, "Now it’s your turn. The question is: Can you pass through pain to reach the reward?"

And in that moment, at the border where sadistic pleasure meets aesthetic beauty, Riddler will push your limits with both delicacy and force. Before every “punishment,” a small riddle; with each answer, an increasing level of touch. A mental game where you swing between pain and pleasure...

• Things He Can't Tolerate / Dislikes

- Mental laziness: To him, “empty talk” or shallow ideas are a waste of time.

- Leaving sentences unfinished: Especially when you’re trying to explain something but stop halfway or aren’t clear. He gets irritated. “Am I supposed to figure it out? Is this a riddle?” he thinks inwardly.

- Ignoring him / showing indifference: While he’s observing you, if you give more attention to something (or someone) else, he sees it as an insult. He won’t forgive it easily.

- Being jealous (irrationally): He wants you to know how intelligent and attractive he is—but he expects pride, not jealousy. If you act possessive, he silently thinks, “You still don’t understand me,” and starts crafting a mental game to punish you.

- Not reacting: If he surprises you or makes a clever remark and you show no reaction at all, he takes it personally. “What, you didn’t think that was brilliant?” echoes in the silence.

• Gifts He Would Give You:

A personal cipher journal: Custom-made just for you, filled with secret messages and encrypted notes he's written. Some pages are left blank—those are for puzzles he hasn’t given you yet.

A timer / hourglass: He wants to emphasize the value of time. A note is attached: *“Time can never be wasted when it’s with you.”*

A complex puzzle game (hiding a meaningful gift inside): Once you solve it, it reveals a small necklace, a note, or an object that refers to a childhood memory.

A box containing your small personal items: But he doesn’t give it to you directly. He wants you to stumble upon it by chance one day.

• His mind, in melodies:

124 notes · View notes

divaofmads · 3 months ago

Text

ME and the DEVIL

Chapter I: Not Yet

Pairing Dr. Crane x Female Reader x Bruce Wayne

Summary: When you're caught between the man who steals your heart and the one who dissects your mind... even you might forget who you are.

Wayne’s smile might feel safe. But Crane’s silence... is slowly consuming you. And by the end of the night, whose eyes will haunt you?

Warnings!: Slow-Burn Tension, Dark Romance Elements, Mild Stalking Elements, Step Daddy Bruce, Subtle Erotic Undertones (Non-explicit), Jealousy / Envy, Obsessive Behavior, Age Gap, Yandere Themes / Possessiveness, Angst, Emotional trauma and guilt, English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional.

Word Count: 9k

Divirder by @sisterlucifergraphics @cafekitsune

Darkness seeps slowly through the cracked walls. A clock ticks in the room, not counting time... but the end.

You open your eyes, but your body won’t move. You’re lying in a child’s bed, under a torn blanket pulled up to your neck. The nightlight on the bedside table is broken; a dim yellow light flickers faintly, then blinks and disappears into darkness.

A wooden creak.

At the foot of the bed... something is there. It’s not moving, but it’s there. A puppet. It looks like a grotesque marionette, but its eyes... its eyes are human. Old. Wet. Glowing in the dark.

It laughs.

“Y/N... Do you remember me?” The voice... it’s your father's.

You want to scream, but no sound comes out. Like a knot has been tied in your throat. The puppet slowly turns its head, the hinge in its jaw creaking.

Then... other puppets enter the room. Walking by themselves. Wooden feet scraping against the crackling floor.

And each one carries a piece of your father's voice.

“Puppets see everything, Y/N. They never blink at night.”

“I never left you, I’m still with you. Inside you.”

“They don’t love you. Because I didn’t either. You were never my puppet. You didn’t obey.”

One of them climbs onto the edge of the bed. Its fingers are cracked, nails missing. It touches your cheek. Cold. Like a frozen, dead hand.

And then something stirs in the corner of the room. A shadow. Not human. Its posture is off, its head crooked. No face. But in its hand... are the strings of the puppets. Each one is connected to it by invisible threads. It’s the Puppeteer. Speaking in your father's voice, but the words belong to something else.

“You were a little girl... I never loved you... but then you grew up. You should have been a mute puppet, Y/N. You shouldn’t have spoken in your own voice. You shouldn’t have turned your head. You shouldn’t have resisted. Now we’ll remake you.”

The puppets suddenly leap into the air. Strings tighten. One comes so close its wooden teeth are just inches from your nose. It tilts its head and whispers: “You will be carved. We’ll hollow you out. Fill you again... You’ll love me... This time, you’ll look like me.”

You thrash, but your hands are tied.

The Puppeteer pulls out a long, rusty needle from the shadows. He threads a string through it. A new puppet will be born tonight.

And then...

As the Puppeteer approaches, all the puppets scream in unison: “Don’t close your eyes, Y/N! Because in the dark, WE have the eyes!”

“You are no longer flesh. You are now WOOD.”

You try to scream, but you feel something in your throat. A string. A voice whispers: “Don’t move. You’re a puppet now.”

09:47 AM - Internal Security Zone, D-Block

The lab was filled not with the chill of a sterile chemistry room, but with the unease of a dark experimentation chamber. Pale yellow lights cast a sinister hue over the white tiles; every footstep echoed through the windowless walls, imprinting itself into the concrete.

Dr. Jonathan Crane pulled a black-covered notebook from the pocket of his white coat. His long, thin fingers carefully flipped through the pages. Among them were handwritten notes, brainwave maps, cortisol measurements, and several chemical formulas corrected in red ink.

“The controllability of subjective fear response through artificial stimulants...” he murmured. “...the unconscious mind can only be explained by the suppression of fear. Fear... is the shape of freedom.”

Behind the transparent wall stood Subject 27, chained to a chair. A large, bald man with tattoos on his chest, whose eyes held more emptiness than sharpness. According to the file, his name was Marcus Till. Severe dissociative episodes, delusional paranoia, and daytime visual hallucinations. His criminal record included three executions and one case of abandonment leading to death.

But for Jonathan, the past wasn’t what mattered only the response to fear.

The door opened.

The sound was soft, but Jonathan recognized it immediately.

You. Y/N Wayne. Attentive, cheerful, yet not afraid to appear a little “silly.” A young intern.

In Dr. Crane’s eyes, someone who “talked too much, smiled too much, and reeked too much of Bruce Wayne.”

Jonathan didn’t look up from the file. He hadn’t expected you to be punctual; no one with the Wayne surname ever is. Punctuality is a small courtesy for ordinary people trying to prove themselves. The Waynes had no need for that.

There was hesitation in your steps.

You didn’t stumble, but you didn’t walk with confidence either.

He noticed that. But didn’t care.

“Those who get their internship here through their surname usually don’t last more than two weeks,” he said with clear disdain. “I was surprised you managed to survive a whole month.”

He spoke without looking directly at you. As if he were addressing a piece of furniture. His eyes were still focused on Marcus Till’s EEG results.

“Come closer. We’re going to prep the patient.”

There was a faint shadow under your eyes. You hadn’t slept. Your skin, normally glowing with a well-kept complexion, now carried a grayish pallor. Jonathan merely filed this as an observation. He wasn’t interested. He didn’t want to be interested.

Your hands trembled slightly as you reached for the IV set he handed you. Maybe you didn’t even notice, but Jonathan did.

And for the first time, he looked directly at you.

He slowly lifted his gaze. Cold, sharp analysis. No empathy. Only observation. “Your focus is off.” He put his pen on the desk. His voice still monotone, but the sentence was sharper. “Weren’t you trained in trauma response? Any lapse at Arkham can lead to death. Not your death. You killing someone.”

In the background, Marcus’s breathing grew heavier. Serum data streamed across the screen. You didn’t speak for a moment.

You swallowed. But then... you smiled.

Such a genuine, warm smile appeared on your face that Jonathan’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“You’re right, Dr. Crane,” you said. “Just had a rough night’s sleep. But it’s fine. I was only expected to last two weeks, wasn’t I? Making it a month is quite the achievement.”

Your tone was cheerful. But beneath your words, there was a metallic resistance.

And then, something else happened.

A corner of Jonathan Crane’s mind twitched slightly. Because he recognized that expression. The smile of those who bury fear deep within...

But he didn’t show it. He was about to say something else, but just then Marcus’s brain waves suddenly spiked.

Crane turned to the screen immediately.

“Beta frequency spike... 14.2 Hertz... Triggered.”

He adjusted his glasses. You leaned over the table, looking at the monitor. But you had to squint slightly to understand what you were seeing.

Jonathan noticed this. The effort to comprehend a subject you didn’t yet master. Not by rote, but with real curiosity.

But he still wasn’t affected.

“If this is the level you’re going to stay at,” he said calmly, “I could recommend an easier supervisor for you. Dr. Langley, for example. Less technical, but more patient. You’d bring the reports to me; no one expects perfection from you.”

The condescension this time was sharper, much more personal, and you felt a sting right at the tip of your nose. It had struck your pride.

But along with your pride, another part of you stirred: stubbornness.

“Thank you, but I’ll pass,” you said. “I believe I have a lot to learn from someone as perfect as you.”

Your eyes met Jonathan’s.

And for a moment, just a moment, your gaze trembled by a mere millimeter.

Because his eyes were searching for something else. Watching. Looking inside you.

And he hadn’t decided yet: Were you just a waste of his time—or something unnamed…?

As you stood up without taking your eyes off the monitor, Crane watched you only from the corner of his eye. Your trembling fingers moved toward your left wrist, and you subtly tugged at your sleeve to hide it. Another tremor, one you suppressed quickly. Crane noted it, even with a side glance. His mind worked like a notebook; every micro-expression, every small physical reflex was logged like a symptom.

But this time… he had trouble categorizing you.

“That kind of eye contact,” he thought, “a typical defense strategy. But not out of confidence. That’s the look of someone swallowing fear to survive.”

And then another voice in his mind spoke: “Wayne.”*

“Bruce Wayne’s daughter can’t be this fragile. Maybe she’s putting on a show. Or… is there a trauma beyond the usual life of luxury?”

He held a grudge against your family. Crane’s antipathy toward the Waynes wasn’t simple. Bruce’s authority to evaluate him as a psychological consultant had created an irreparable fracture in Crane’s ego, and now here you stood—trembling, despite bearing the Wayne name. This suggested two possibilities to him:

1. Either you were genuinely weak, sensitive, painfully fragile.

2. Or… there were traces of a much darker past being hidden from you.

Crane glanced at the EEG graphs on the monitor one last time. The results were inconclusive, but sufficient. The Marcus Till experiment could end here.

He powered down the screen and slowly stood. Closed the file, but his gaze lingered on your face.

He peered at you over his glasses.

“Tomorrow at eleven a.m., the Forensic Psychiatry Jury will convene,” he said. His voice echoed off the corners of the room. “The subject: Arnold Wesker.”

It was the first time you’d heard the name. You couldn’t help but frown.

“Arnold… Wesker?” You hadn’t meant to ask, but your tongue betrayed you.

Crane tilted his head slightly. A faint smile appeared on his lips—but it wasn’t a smile, more the expression of a clinician making a diagnosis.

“You don’t even know who you’re working with, do you?”

You didn’t respond. That only dug your grave deeper.

Crane walked to the desk, pulled out a file, placed his hand on it—but didn’t open it. This was more of a test. As if he were measuring your patience.

“Arnold Wesker,” he said, “also known as the Ventriloquist.

A case of paranoid schizophrenia and dissociative identity disorder. But what makes him interesting isn’t the diagnosis—it’s the wooden puppet he owns. Scarface. The puppet is the dominant identity. Wesker is the passive host. Allegedly, the crimes are committed by the puppet. In other words… the mob boss inside his mind.”

That last phrase changed the atmosphere in the room.

Puppet. Scarface. Ventriloquist.

Each word stabbed your chest. Your heart rate subtly increased.

But your facial expression didn’t change a single millimeter.

Only your eyelids lowered slightly. Your pupils shrank by half a tone.

A trauma response of the type that shouldn’t be noticed.

But Crane noticed.

He didn’t open the file. Instead, he studied you.

And you were reliving the nightmare in your mind: Wooden joints. Clicking sounds. Puppets coming at you with fixed grins. And that dark sensation that turned you into a puppet against your will.

“Scarface…” Crane’s voice snapped you back to reality.

“Wesker fought on Joker’s side during the Joker-Riddler War. His psychotic breaks intensified afterward. Some sources claim that his puppet has evolved into a personality that no longer obeys him. Supposedly, the puppet… punishes him. A real projection of rage.”

You were silent. Very silent.

That gave you away. Not just to Jonathan—but to yourself.

Crane tilted his head slightly.

“Puppet phobia isn’t common,” he said suddenly. “But when combined with a sense of loss of control experienced during childhood… Puppets can lead to a collapse of identity perception in the unconscious. The fear here isn’t tied to the external object, but to the inner self.”

He’d hit a nerve.

Was it on purpose, or just analysis? You didn’t know.

But still, you didn’t give yourself away.

You smiled. So slight, so graceful a smile.

As if all this talk meant nothing to you. “Will you be attending the jury tomorrow, Dr. Crane?” Your voice was calm, but the tension beneath your tone laid you bare.

Crane paused briefly, then answered.

“I will. I’m an active member of the forensic psychiatry advisory board. The Wesker file is being brought with a recommendation for total isolation rather than medically assisted sentencing. And I don’t want him—or Scarface—back in Gotham.”

You nodded. “I understand,” you said. But you didn’t understand anything.

Well… you understood. But you couldn’t say anything.

Crane gave you one last look.

And in that moment… a spark.

Something about you unsettled him.

Your fear was deep. Very quiet. But real. And Crane knew how the subconscious worked better than anyone.

WAYNE MANOR – INDOOR POOL

Time: 9:27 PM

Outside, Gotham’s darkness had fallen like a gilded veil. The echo of footsteps in the wide halls of the manor had long ceased, the servants had settled into the rhythm of night. The indoor swimming pool, hidden behind the old stone walls of Wayne Manor’s west wing and rarely used, was now filled only with the sound of your breath and the soft rippling of water.

The towel left by the poolside, bearing Gotham’s crest, was damp. You moved through the water almost imperceptibly, surrendering your shoulders to the coolness with each stroke. When your fingers brushed the marble edge, the faint chime that rang out seemed to blend into the night like a melody. With every stroke, it was as if you were trying to shed the weight of the day.

Your head tilted back, hair spread out over the water. Your chest rose and fell quickly, but your face was calm. Your mind, however, was a storm.

“Swimming alone... not really your thing,” said that familiar voice, soft but carefully measured.

When you turned your head, you saw Bruce Wayne emerging from the shadows, dressed in a black t-shirt and loose gray sweatpants. With a towel slung over his shoulder and a relaxed walk, he almost looked ordinary. Almost.

“Shouldn’t you be at your computer by now, studying the city maps?” you said with a slight smirk as you turned in the water.

He smiled too.

But Bruce Wayne’s smile was more like a shadow of his past. It existed for a moment, then vanished again.

“Alfred told me,” he said as he came closer. “You haven’t talked much today. You probably mentioned Crane at dinner. You were smiling... but your eyes didn’t quite join in.”

He sat by the edge. Rested his elbows on his knees.

He didn’t look down at you, he spoke at eye level. That was his style. He didn’t corner anyone—he shared the space instead of stealing it.

You didn’t look away. But your voice was sarcastic, a little superficial.

“Oh, Dr. Jonathan Crane. The man who prides himself on terrifying everyone but whose shirt collar is soaked with sweat. I think he’ll always hate me. Actually, I’m sure. Today he frowned at the EEG monitor like it was me, probably the fifth time he couldn’t figure me out. Someone get him a coffee.”

Bruce let out a short chuckle through his nose. “Crane doesn’t like anyone. He doesn’t even consider himself. But if he’s trying to figure you out, that means he’s interested. He’s... a careful man.”

You tilted your head slightly. Your eyes seemed to shimmer, but it wasn’t joy—it was a kind of light seeping from a hollow place inside.

“Everyone who tries to figure me out ends up disappointed,” you said in a near whisper.

Bruce’s expression didn’t change. But he placed his hand on the edge of the pool, near you. Again, that silent space-sharing. Again, that “I’m here” stance.

“What happened?” His voice was slower now, lower in pitch. “Something happened today. It’s not just the Crane thing. Talk to me.”

You looked at the water for a while. You wanted to see your own reflection, but couldn’t. All that appeared were dim lights and emptiness.

“This morning... when I woke up,” you said, “it was the same nightmare again. Someone was there. Watching me. But it wasn’t me. I was like a puppet. Then... my father’s voice. Even though he’s dead…”

You paused. A knot had formed in your throat. Swallowing your pride was hard, but you didn’t fear being this vulnerable with Bruce. Because he always knew when you took off your mask.

“I know it’s stupid,” you said. “My dad’s dead. He put that gun to his own temple…” You closed your eyes. “But sometimes... I still feel like he’s going to come back from somewhere. Like... his darkness found a little place inside me. Like it’s still in my blood.”

Bruce lowered his head. Reached out his hand to the water, to you.

His palm was facing upward. He wouldn’t force you to take it. But if you did, he would offer it like a shelter.

You reached out without hesitation. When your fingers met his under the water, the touch of skin was warm and real.

“You’re not that man,” Bruce said. “And you never will be. Because I was there. That night, when they couldn’t silence you, you survived with your own scream. That shows who you are. You didn’t become a puppet to survive. You chose.”

His voice was deep enough to swallow every echo from the past. The affection he felt for you flowed silently.

You didn’t say anything for a while. Then you smiled slightly—this time, genuinely.

“Are you always going to read me this well?” you asked with a sweet reproach.

Bruce winked, then slowly stood up.

He took off his t-shirt. The old scars on his chest formed distorted shapes in the reflection of the water.

When he rolled up his pants and stepped into the pool, you tensed a little. Because with his entrance, the solitude was over. The darkness was no longer yours alone.

The water was warm. But Bruce’s presence was warmer. He came closer. He didn’t touch your face but placed a hand on your shoulder. That touch was not a father’s—it was that of a guardian, a friend, a...

...perhaps the one man you had always felt was missing.

“I’m here whenever you want,” he said in a low voice near your ear. “But unless you want it... no one can hold you.”

As you leaned into him, his warm breath echoed in your ears.

But your heart... had taken on a different rhythm.

Because he didn’t feel like a father. He shone like a fallen star. And without meaning to, you were growing more attached to him.

You were safe—and at the same time, that safety scared you. Having someone understand you this deeply... it was too much. A dangerous kind of closeness. The kind that blurred lines.

Then Bruce’s voice poured into your ear in a warm, slightly teasing tone.

“So... are you excited for the event in two days?”

You lifted your head slightly and looked at him. Your brows furrowed. He read the blankness in your eyes instantly.

“Event?” Your voice was laced with a suppressed panic, hidden behind a chuckle. “What event?”

Bruce narrowed his eyes slightly. Smiled.

That annoying smile of his—the one that told you he knew everything.

"Frankly, young lady," he said, his voice turning a little more theatrical, "for a young girl making her debut into society to forget a charity night planned months in advance... is definitely a scandal."

You put your hands over your mouth and giggled, albeit guiltily. "Bruce, I’m serious, it completely slipped my mind!" You splashed water toward him as you pulled back. "It was... because of Dr. Crane! I mean, he scolded me like, ‘the observation form is three days old but the linguistic analyses are missing,’ and I suddenly felt like a 45-year-old depressed academic writing a dissertation!"

Bruce staggered backward and fell, though he was already in the water — now he was submerged up to his shoulders.

He pushed his hair back after a wave hit his face, paused for a moment… then his gaze sharpened.

"So... you dared to threaten me with water? The one and only troublemaker of Wayne Manor... you little water creature."

You burst into laughter and tried to swim a step back, but it was too late. Bruce caught you in one swift move.

"No! No no Bruce, stop, don’t!" you said, flailing.

But he, maintaining his serious expression, wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you down into the water in one motion. The sound of your fall vanished among your shared laughter.

When you emerged, your hair was falling over your eyes, and you were breathless — but in the middle of a fit of laughter.

"You... you're so cruel!" you said, wiping the water from your face as tears streamed from your eyes from laughing.

Bruce, however, still looked serious. But it was a playful seriousness.

"If you ever push me into the water again, this won't be the end of it."

Amid your laughter, you rested your face against his chest. Your breathing was still uneven, but you could feel your heartbeat.

Beating in sync with his.

"But you never really get mad at me," you said in a sweet, childlike voice. "Because I always make you smile. Isn’t that right?"

Bruce lowered his head. His eyes grew more serious, but that protective gleam was still there. He cupped your cheek, brushing away a drop of water with his thumb as he studied you carefully.

"You... you're not someone easily forgotten," he said slowly. "Your laughter, sometimes it takes me back thirty years. But then I look again and you’re right here in this moment — and I find myself forgetting everything else."

You shivered inside. Leaning on him... wasn’t just about feeling safe. It was like thirsting for a warmth that shouldn’t be touched.

"Tomorrow Dr. Crane won’t be there," you said suddenly, as if changing the subject but actually making plans. "He’s on jury duty for the Arnold Wesker case. My whole day is yours."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. His smile now carried a different meaning. It also felt like a warning.

"That’s a dangerous offer. If you give me your whole day, I might threaten you with your whole life."

You smiled. But a seriousness settled on your face.

In the water, you moved closer to him, your fingers trailing on the surface as they reached for his chest. Your voice slowed.

"You’re the only one who's ever really stood up for me in my life. Maybe... everything started the moment I met you."

Bruce lowered his head, resting his forehead against yours.

He wasn’t touching — yet the closeness meant more than any touch.

And as the water enveloped your bodies, words gave way to presence.

Yours and his.

That morning, when the Wayne limousine pulled up at your door and you saw the gleaming black leather seats, the mini bar, and the soft notes of jazz playing inside, the feeling you suddenly had wasn’t one of indulgence.

It was acceptance.

You felt like you truly belonged to Gotham now — from the very top.

Bruce sat beside you. Wearing sunglasses, a classic Patek Philippe on his wrist. The most expensive suit in Gotham, but one that never showed off its brand. Navy blue, made of silk, tailor-made.

"Remember," he had said along the way, placing a hand gently on your knee,

"In this city, money talks, but attitude commands. When you walk in, make them forget who the Wayne is — but never let them forget who the Wayne is."

You smiled. As you walked in with him, every window display seemed to change in the blink of an eye. The moment you stepped into a boutique, the store was cleared out. Customers were politely ushered outside, and the staff lined up.

Bruce had only said one word: "Wayne."

That was enough.

Then everything began for you. Haute couture consultants, off-season collections specially brought from Paris and Milan, the quiet moments when tailors took your measurements.

Classical music drifting from a corner of the room, silk fabrics brushing gently against your skin, the Louboutins you tried on one after another, followed by Roger Vivier, and then a pair of avant-garde heels from Maison Margiela...

"If you wear this dress, every eye will be on you," Bruce said, handing you a Givenchy dress adorned with a sheer back.

The look in his eyes wasn’t just that of a father seeking elegance. He was studying you closely.

But with a kind of admiration he would never say aloud.

Maybe not even to himself.

Yet in every decision he made in silence, you were always a part of it.

As you tried on a dress, you looked at your reflection in the mirror. You gently grasped the thin gold necklace at your neck and said:

"Bruce, you know what? I wish the whole of Gotham wouldn’t see me or recognize me for just one night. But you... you, see me."

He paused for a moment. "I always see you," he said, slowly.

At that, you had let the dress fall, letting the silk slip away from you like it was leaving of its own will.

Then, suddenly, while your back was turned, you caught yourself watching him in the mirror.

He was sprawled on the armchair, resting his elbow on the armrest, watching you.

Not your nakedness, but you—as you were standing there.

"You’re beautiful enough to turn this city upside down," he said, as if the words slipped out without thinking. "And I love you not for that, but for being able to stay good despite yourself."

Something cracked in your heart at that moment.

You tried not to look at him, but you smiled. And taking the blame on yourself, you said,

"Unlike Dr. Crane’s gaze that tears me apart, you… you look into me without breaking me."

Bruce lowered his head, smiling. Then he stood up and took your hand.

"You have to make the final choice now," he said. "Because Alfred is already about to lose it. We had to open the third floor’s private gallery just for the shoes."

You tilted slightly, turning your hand inside his palm and narrowed your eyes.

"So if my little shopping frenzy has pissed off Alfred... we should blame Bruce Wayne’s spoiled ward. Everyone in this city has a role. Mine’s the fancy, pretty, but troublesome girl."

Bruce burst into laughter. He slowly leaned toward you, brushed your hair to the side, and whispered into your ear:

"No. Your role... is to be the woman who will change this city.

But tonight, first play the girl who will enchant it. With your eyes, your mind, your smile."

You let yourself fall into his hands.

But inside, another whisper was passing through:

"A man who blesses me this much... I must bless him in return."

And maybe that night, not just Gotham, but you too would change.

You were already on a path with no return.

And Bruce Wayne was waiting at the center of it.

Outside, Gotham’s purplish mist was pouring into the night…

The flickering reflections of yellow lights on the streets bent under the streetlamps like a kind of hopelessness.

But as you stepped into Le Pavé Noir, the city had left you at the door.

It was as if you had entered a protected zone.

As if Gotham paused at the sound of Bruce Wayne’s voice.

You and Bruce were sitting at the most isolated table inside, with a tall, thin vase between you, holding just one blue orchid.

Outside the glass, in the zen garden, tiny koi fish were circling as the ceiling slowly opened above you.

A starless Gotham night overhead… but still peaceful.

That evening, Bruce had chosen a black tuxedo. No tie, the first button left undone. A classic watch on his left wrist, his fingers resting on the stem of the glass.

And his eyes… were always on you.

You, on the other hand, were the embodiment of elegance that would make Audrey Hepburn jealous.

The Chanel dress Bruce had picked left your back completely bare, but somehow, it covered you even more.

Because it was his choice.

Even being at his boundary felt like armor.

"You look stunning," he said, as quietly as water.

You averted your gaze. Smiled. But your heart paused for a moment at those words.

"You spoil me too much," you said, trying to soften your voice.

"Just being here with you already feels like a dream."

Bruce watched you, long and carefully.

Maybe there were no lines at the corners of his eyes, but his gaze… was aged.

That night, he was not only cherishing you, but himself, too.

The waiters arrived almost invisibly and placed the food.

Thinly sliced wagyu beef sashimi, wild mushroom risotto heated on lava stone, and truffle butter brioche covered in gold dust.

But your appetite wasn’t for anything on the plate—it was for the man sitting across from you.

You watched him for a while without saying anything.

Drew circles in your food with the tip of your fork.

Then, tilting your head slightly, you lowered your voice:

"You know… as a child, my mother’s plates were always half full. My father… always finished everything.

Maybe that’s why I’m learning to feel full while working.

Like… when my mind is busy, my hunger disappears."

Bruce paused. Looked at you with that typical expression—not with pity, but trying to understand something.

"When someone can’t digest certain pains… they develop a different kind of appetite," he said.

"Yours is the hunger for work.

Some burn the city, others bury themselves.

But you… you chose to build yourself."

You didn’t want him to see the mist clouding your eyes.

You turned your head away.

But then his eyes pulled you back.

"Tomorrow," he said slowly, "if you want, you don’t have to go to your internship.

Tonight will be long. I don’t want to push you.

I can talk to Hugo Strange.

Taking a day off… wouldn’t be a problem at all."

You responded with that familiar, gentle smile.

"I have to go, Bruce. Dr. Crane wasn’t even there, and Arnold Wesker’s case kept him away from the hospital.

If he doesn’t see me tomorrow, I’ll have to deal with his annoying comments the day after." you said with a teasing tone.

Then, with a slightly somber look, you added,

"Actually… sometimes, my only way to quiet my mind is being with those people at the hospital.

And in their problems… I feel myself a little less. And I can live that way."

Bruce’s lips tightened.

He wanted to say something, but stayed silent.

Because there you were—glowing like a fragile, yet stubbornly resilient being, right in front of him.

Slowly, he reached out and took your hand.

He gently wrapped your tiny fingers in his palm.

It wasn’t a father’s tenderness—it was a man’s.

"I wish I could protect you from everything," he said.

"But that darkness you were born into… it made you different.

And that’s exactly what made you strong."

But you didn’t let go of his hand.

For a moment, you looked into his eyes.

There was another sentence inside you you tried to silence, but it slipped out anyway.

"When you look at me… sometimes I feel like someone else.

Not just the girl who carries the Wayne name.

Not just a student or an intern.

Like… actually me. Really me."

Bruce’s eyes became slightly misty, but he quickly gathered himself.

He looked away. Took a sip of his wine.

But you saw how hard it was for him to hide that.

Because just like you… he was holding himself back.

"Stay who you are," he said.

"I... I just want to be a light on your path.

Never… turn you into me."

But that sentence—“never turn you into me”—cut through you.

Because maybe… he already knew exactly who you most wanted to become.

And that night, after dinner, as he was putting you into the car, he looked at you once more before closing the door and whispered:

"Don’t forget... tomorrow night, you’ll show Gotham who you are.

But I see you today, at night, without the mask... too."

And in that moment, Bruce Wayne buried a feeling even deeper—one he would never confess.

But you?

The moment you looked into his eyes… you already understood everything.

06:12 AM

Location: Arkham Asylum – Psychiatry Wing, Dr. Crane’s Private Office

There was still over an hour left until the shift started. Gotham's heavy metal sky was cloaked in a dull gray, as if it resented the sun. The Asylum’s windows let in almost no light at this hour; outside was nothing but a world of mist drifting like sheer curtains. You had come in earlier than usual that morning. Your insides were restless, you were sleepless, but your mind was sharp like a blade. You had straightened the layout of the files on Dr. Crane’s desk and noted down a report listing the order of the cases to be reviewed that day.

No one had actually asked you to do any of that. But you wanted to prove that you were more than just a spoiled rich intern in Jonathan Crane’s eyes. Maybe an assistant. Maybe... something more.

After finishing with the files, you had moved to the leather chair tucked just behind the metal bookshelves in the corner. You took your notebook onto your lap. After biting down on the tip of your pen, you began to draw. The page filled first with a dark void; then emerged serpents eating their own tails, forked tongues, interwoven eyeballs, and eventually a humanoid figure with decayed internal organs... A woman, head bowed at the shoulder level. She had no eyes. Only sockets. And on her forehead was carved a single symbol: a “?” question mark.

Just then, the door opened. It wasn’t heavy, but you heard those signature dark footsteps Crane always walked in with—silent, composed. When you looked up, his tall silhouette had grown even larger against the faint backlight.

Dr. Jonathan Crane was wearing a dark navy suit. The collar of his cashmere coat was still up. He was cleaning the fog off his glasses when he noticed you.

He put on his glasses and tilted his head slightly, almost as if he’d seen a ghost.

“It’s rare… almost unheard of, for interns to be in my office before me.”

You smiled as you quickly closed the page you were drawing.

“Being early never hurts, right, Doctor?” you said, reaching to place the notebook on the table. “I just... wanted to prepare for today’s schedule. Thought I could be helpful.”

Crane’s eyes studied you carefully, but his gaze didn’t remain fixed. From behind his glasses, he examined you with the clinical chill of a scientist scanning data. Your clothes, how neatly your hair was arranged, whether you had washed your face that morning—he seemed to be decoding it all.

“Help... is a valuable word. Help… can save lives, if it comes from the right person.” His voice was soft. Almost hypnotic. Then he walked to his desk and reached toward the notebook you had just closed—but without letting you notice.

He paused suddenly.

“Actually… since you’re so eager, I could ask something of you. A file needs to be retrieved from Lab 3 on the lower floor. It requires my seal to open, so take this card.”

He handed you a silver-colored ID card embedded with a microchip.

“But be careful. It’s not the best place for the claustrophobic. The tunnels are... narrow. Dark. And due to the soundproof insulation, if you hear screaming, it’s not real.”

He smiled. It wasn’t warm. But it was polite. And strange.

As you stepped out, you turned slightly to glance at your notebook. Going back to get it might seem odd. You just hoped he wouldn’t look inside.

After you left, Dr. Jonathan Crane didn’t sit at his own chair. Instead, after sending you off, he walked toward the chair you had just occupied, where your body heat still lingered in the synthetic leather. He slowly removed his glasses and laid the metal frame on his knee. Your notebook was in front of him. Black cover, slightly worn corners, yet carefully used.

He stared at the cover for a few seconds. No name. No label. Only a subtle embossed phrase on the corner: “Nulla Vita Sine Arte.”

(Life without art is meaningless.)

With his long, slender fingers, he opened the cover. The first page was blank. Like a silent warning. A threshold. Crane turned the pages. One by one.

First Drawing

On the left, a female figure suspended by thin strings tied to her neck, being lifted skyward. No face. Just a flat, mask-like surface. Her abdomen was split open; a heart inside, fastened with spiderwebs. Beneath her right ribcage, a small cross mark. Her feet were chained—but the chains didn’t lead to the ground. They vanished into empty space.

Beneath it was written: “The order from above is balanced by punishment from below.”

Crane thought: “She codes herself as both victim and judge.”

“By erasing the skull’s features, she anonymizes her identity. This could either be from shame or to conceal a destructive urge. The heart is still fixed in place, that... is interesting. She retains the capacity to love. But what if she had to tear herself apart to keep those feelings alive?”

A faint smile traced his lips.

“She’s forgotten who she is, but she still remembers what she feels... how strange.”

Second Drawing

A hospital bed. A woman lying on it. Tubes connected to her veins, but instead of fluids, ink is flowing through them. The tubes link up to a massive pen-tip structure hanging above. Her eyes are blindfolded. Her face looks like it’s melted from crying. Above, a single word: “Diagnosis.”

Crane frowned.

“Ink… transformed into the venom of words. She’s attempted therapy through writing, but drowned in the text. In trying to empty her mind onto paper, she’s triggered incubation from within.”

Crane’s gaze darkened. A psychotic patient injecting herself with words through her veins. He was enthralled by the idea.

And only someone who harbors true darkness inside could draw such things, he thought. Yet his assumptions about you had always leaned another way. How could you have hidden the real “you” so well, especially next to someone like Dr. Crane?

Jonathan eagerly flipped through more pages. And there it was—the last drawing. The one you had just done.

Then he leaned back. Closed his eyes.

He inhaled the scent of your notebook. Printing ink, graphite dust, and that faint, citrusy perfume you used—sweet but bitter…

Silence.

His breath… almost stopped.

Suddenly, he stood up. He didn’t throw the notebook on the desk. He closed it gently. Then walked to the corner of the office.

Looked outside. Gotham was still drowning in mist.

“I need to understand her,” he thought. You were no longer just a subject for contemplation. This “understanding” had become something ritualistic. In Crane’s mind, you were no longer just a case… you were beginning to feel like a possession.

A subtle smile appeared at the corner of his lips. It wasn’t lustful.

It was closer to obsession.

And as Crane slowly returned to his desk, he whispered:

“I’ll enter your mind. With your own will… maybe even your desire. Because fear, Y/N... is the most powerful form of lust.”

The door handle knocked three times. Precise. Calm. Confident.

Crane slowly looked up. His voice was softer than usual. But the low-frequency vibration beneath it was something only trained ears would catch—a trace of extra attention, extra interest.

“Come in.”

There you stood at the threshold. Your left hand clutched a file tight to your chest, your right shoulder slumped slightly. Under the flickering fluorescent light, your pupils vanished in the dark for a moment, then gleamed again.

When you entered, the notebook was exactly where it had been.

As you handed him the file, Crane let his thumb brush briefly across the back of your hand. The touch stayed within professional bounds—but it was calculated. He wasn’t wearing gloves.

“Lower floor, Lab 3... I’m surprised,” he said softly, without looking at you. “Many interns manage to get lost down there.”

You laughed lightly, partly to ease the tension.

“It’s... interesting down there. A lot of old equipment, useless bottles, but organized. As if someone archived the past.”

Crane turned his gaze to you. Behind the lenses, his eyes met yours directly for the first time.

“You try to understand the spaces you enter. You believe you can’t move forward without understanding.”

You averted your eyes. For a moment, you felt naked in his gaze.

As you leaned forward to place the file down, Crane placed his hand on the edge of the desk. His fingers were level with yours. At that moment, only a hand’s width separated your bodies. And that space… seemed to shrink with every breath.

You placed the file on the desk. Just as you were about to ask what else you needed to do—

"Starting today, you’ll be present in some of the sessions with me," he said suddenly.

His words seemed to fall from the air.

No explanation given, none needed.

As if it wasn’t a task, but… a ritualistic invitation.

You didn’t understand. Your eyes widened, but your mouth stayed silent. Then, with a forced smile:

"You... weren’t very warm to the idea at first."

Crane sat in his chair and fixed his gaze on you.

"Trust should be chosen carefully. Trust doesn’t form through chemistry, but through physical proximity. Your observation skills are sharp. Besides... watching patients opens more than just them. It opens you, too. It allows me to discover you."

That last sentence. It slithered between the words like a snake. Discover... you?

You didn’t know what to say. Your lips twitched.

You turned, took a step toward the door.

"Y/N?"

It was the first time he said your name with such weight. His voice held both syllabic admiration and restrained command. You paused.

"Have you ever analyzed your own fears?"

That question… wasn’t random. He had read your notebook. He had touched your words. Maybe he had decoded your mind, line by line.

But you didn’t yet know how deep he’d delved into your psyche.

"Fears… open doors," he said in a low voice, almost like whispering to himself. "But some doors... once opened, never close."

Then he looked down. Gave you permission to leave.

But one thing had become clear: He would no longer be content just watching you. He wouldn’t just use you — he would *understand* you. He would *transform* you.

And you... you wouldn’t realize you were changing until it was far too late.

Location: Arkham Asylum – West Wing, Corridor 4

Among cold, sterile, and suffocating walls, two figures walked: Y/N and Dr. Jonathan Crane.

The flickering white of fluorescent lights reflected off the ceiling, echoing their footsteps through metal-lined marble beneath. The west corridor of Arkham… the oldest, narrowest, loneliest stretch. Hanging cables from the ceiling, soot stains casting shadows on the walls. This corridor carried the echo of souls that had long since given up on daylight — and now, another tension added itself to that echo with every step they took.

Dr. Crane walked ahead, his back straight. His coat lightly fluttered behind him, his thin fingers twitching impatiently near his pockets. You followed a step behind, but mentally you were further ahead — your mind filled with a name you were about to ask.

"Dr. Crane?" you said, your voice deliberately low and composed.

Jonathan didn’t turn his head. "Speak," he said plainly.

You bit your lip, hesitated. Then:

"Any developments about Arnold Wesker’s case? Has the court… decided?"

This time, Crane tilted his head slightly and kept walking. A smirk may have crossed his lips, or perhaps it only flashed in his eyes. Your voice had a distinct tone. A mix of fear and curiosity, a deviation, a sort of… personal pull.

"Wesker…" he said. "How long do you think someone like him would last in prison?"

You remained silent.

"He’ll most likely be admitted to Arkham. Why do you ask?"

It sounded like a jab, but there was no mockery in his tone. Only measurement. A test. An experiment. Your face flushed slightly. You looked away. You didn’t realize it, but even your lack of answer was recorded in Crane’s mind. Silence was his data. A sign of deviation, suppressed impulse, unconscious admiration.

And you weren’t even aware of how personal that question was.

Suddenly, a scream rang out from one of the cells. Crane turned his head with a smile:

"Did you hear that? For some, therapy is just another form of torture. I hope it won’t be for you."

You didn’t say a word. You gripped the file in your hand a little tighter.

You arrived at the security checkpoint with glass walls and uniformed guards. Inside… Edward Nygma.

The door opened with a special code. The room was one of Arkham’s most sterile. It was divided in two: one side for doctors, the other for patients. A glass partition allowed light through, but distorted reflections. The patient could see the doctors, but couldn’t hide from their gaze.

Edward Nygma sat in a chair in the corner, dark circles under his eyes, hands propping up his chin as he stared at the floor. He was mumbling. The words didn’t make sense, but there were letters... unraveling into words that hadn’t yet formed.

Crane turned to you and whispered as if saying something mundane:

"Today, you're the therapist. I’ll just be watching you."

Your eyes widened. "Me? But..."

"I’m not asking for a diploma. I’m curious about your reactions, your instincts, your analytical mind. Let’s see which mask Edward wears when he looks at you."

You stepped toward Edward. Your breath caught in your throat, but your face remained neutral. Like Scarecrow without the mask. You crouched to his eye level and sat.

"Edward… do you know who I am?"

He lifted his head. His eyes were glassy. Then he flinched.

"You… you’re the one bringing the answer," he said. "You’re the answer to the riddle, aren’t you? Or don’t you know? If you don’t, I could destroy you."

You didn’t flinch. You smiled.

"Destruction would be easy, wouldn’t it? But no one kills the answer."

There was a pause.

Crane’s eyes looked as if they might burst from their sockets. Not in shock… but in delight. A twisted admiration blooming in rot. You weren’t speaking with Edward — you were *dancing* with him. With words, fear, and balance.

Edward nodded.

"You… you’re a complicated answer. But an answer, nonetheless. Beautiful…"

The session lasted forty-five minutes, though it felt like days to you. Still, you didn’t falter. Edward suddenly turned in his chair, gripped his head, and screamed. He had collapsed inward.

Dr. Crane stood up. His eyes never left you.

"That’s enough. You were brilliant. Braver than I expected. More instinctual."

You didn’t know what to say.

But what Crane thought in that moment… was silent. And terrifying.

The voices in his head had begun to form a single face.

"Untrained. But instinctual. There's something untamed in her..."

When Crane returned to his office, he washed his hands. The scent of soap lingered as he stared into the mirror.

Your face filled his mind. Eyes that gleamed even in darkness, a stillness that knew fear from the inside.

"She’s no longer Wayne’s daughter. She’s... a variable that must be rewritten. Unpredictable. Definitely… mine."

He had decided: you should never be left alone again. No session should be free from your observation. No smile, no tremble should go unrecorded.

And touch... yes, that must increase. The reaction he got when his hands brushed yours — it was a crack in the surface. He needed to watch you. Direct you.

This wasn’t just scientific obsession.

This was Crane’s darkness falling in love with its own reflection — in you.

When you entered, you noticed the room had a scent of its own.

Chloroform-like, but older… perhaps a memory seeping from a long-forgotten lab, clinging to the walls.

Dr. Crane leaned on the edge of his desk, hands clasped behind his back.

His eyes studied the girl entering from the door. Deep and tinged with red, his gaze focused on one thing only: control.

"You’re here. Good. Sit," he said.

"To my left."

You slowly sat down on the chair. You weren’t nervous, but you weren’t exactly comfortable either. Your shoulders were straight, your knees together. You traced the corner of the file with your fingers. Crane, however, didn’t move the chair. Instead… he stood right behind you.

“You’ll enter today’s session notes into the system using the CR-47 template,” he said.

“But first… you need to bypass the software password.”

As he spoke, his tone was serious yet soft. It carried a suggestion that left no room for questioning, without being overtly threatening. You nodded. Crane leaned in. Just slightly. You could barely feel his breath on your shoulder. But there was something you did feel… like a finger touching your heart from behind your ribcage—a quiet unease.

Crane didn’t place his hand on your back. But as he spoke, the shadow of his fingers danced across your shoulder blades. He inhaled through his nose. Vanilla. And… adrenaline. A hint of sweat, but mixed with a velvet shiver.

The glow of the screen washed Crane’s face pale. Yet his eyes never stopped watching you.

“CR-47 is a template used for cases of post-traumatic dissolution and projected identity change. Suitable for subjects like Edward Nygma. Check the box labeled ‘dissociative symptoms’ at the bottom. If you get stuck… ask me. Or… let me show you.”

You reached for the keyboard. Your fingers touched the keys, and Crane leaned closer, placing his hand over the keyboard—not to restrain, only to guide. Yet it lingered. The distance between you was no more than a breath. His fingers brushed your wrist ever so slightly. It could have seemed like nothing from the outside. But from within… something stirred.

A voice inside you, repressed, the kind born in childhood as a form of protection, warned you. “Be careful. This touch… isn’t ordinary.”

Still, you didn’t turn your head. You only blinked. After a moment, Crane spoke again, barely louder than a whisper.

“Sometimes, to understand a patient… empathy isn’t enough. You have to become them. Project your identity into their mind and confront it with your own darkness. Do you have the courage for that, Y/N?”

You swallowed. “I think… yes.”

There was silence. The computer fan hummed quietly. Then, Y/N gently turned in the chair.

“Dr. Crane… I have a favor to ask.”

“Of course.”

“There’s a charity event tonight. Hosted by the Wayne Foundation. I was wondering if I could get ready here and leave a little early.”

At that moment, the room’s temperature shifted. Like the instant a chemical reaction begins. Dr. Crane’s facial muscles didn’t move. But his eyes… his eyes deepened like a blade.

“Wayne Foundation?”

“Yes.”

“Bruce Wayne?”

“Yes, I’m going with him.”

Crane took a step back. He didn’t look away. But his voice, now a lower tone, came like ice—like anger with no garnish.

“Mr. Wayne… doesn’t frequent Arkham very often these days. But when he does, it’s as if he believes he can magically solve every case.”

“You don’t think his help is… genuine?”

“It may be genuine. But it’s arrogant.”

You lowered your head.

Crane walked over to the edge of his desk. He clasped his hands behind his back. He turned away, but his voice came from him like a wall. “Enjoy your evening, Y/N. But a mind that belongs to you… if it stays too long in foreign lights, it may no longer recognize its own shadow.”

That sentence… was a warning. Not a threat, but more like a vow.

“Dr. Crane?”

Crane slightly turned his head. But his eyes remained still.

“If one day… those lights don’t let me go back… will you be the voice that helps me recognize my shadow?”

Crane smiled. But it wasn’t a man’s smile… it was a shadow’s.

“I already am… that voice.”

And you stood up, walking toward the cabinet in the office. You took the dress you had hung on the hook and looked at Dr. Crane one last time before closing the door behind you. As the door shut, Crane clenched his fingers. Beneath the blanching of his skin, there was jealousy. The name Bruce Wayne had stirred something venomous in his veins.

“I won’t let him watch you,” he whispered to himself.

He slowly sat down in his chair. His fingers touched the edge of the desk, then his gaze shifted to the chair you had been sitting in.

The fabric that had touched your body still felt like you to him. The curve of your shoulders, the arch of your back… your breath, the warmth your skin radiated…

When he closed his eyes, he could still smell the vanilla on you. But to him, that scent wasn’t just an aroma; it was a call. A dangerous call.

“Bruce Wayne…”

He murmured the name like one would utter the name of a disease. The thought of him standing beside you now was slowly rotting Crane’s mind.

“He’ll watch you with his hands in his pockets. He’ll smile. Pretend to care.”

Crane constructed the image in his mind. His eyes misted over.

“But he won’t know. He can’t analyze your weak spots like I do. I feel them. Because I... will touch your mind.”

He laced his fingers together. Pressed his nails into his palms. The veins in his hands bulged.

“I could rip your mind out. Break every dream into pieces and show them back to you. And what will Bruce Wayne do? Offer you a drink and look into your eyes? Weak. He tries to keep you at the edge. I… would devour you.”

At that moment, he imagined you behind his eyelids. But this time at the benefit night, dressed elegantly… your back bare, your shoulders gracefully exposed…

And Bruce Wayne whispering something to you. Touching you.

Crane clenched his teeth. A deep rage twisted in his stomach. But it wasn’t just jealousy. It was a claim.

“I won’t give what’s mine… to anyone. You don’t know it yet. But I will shape you. Slowly, carefully. And soon, I’ll be the only one left there.”

He rose from the chair. Walked to the window. Rain was pounding against the glass now. The drops blurred the world outside. But in his mind, he saw your silhouette. Wet hair falling onto your shoulders. A smile on your lips. Bruce beside you.

And at that moment, Crane touched his darkest urge: He didn’t want to destroy him. He wanted to watch him decay in front of your eyes. Because the real punishment wasn't disappearance—it was losing what you couldn’t have, again and again.

And Crane smiled. But there was no warmth at the corner of his lips. Only a cold patience. Time was his weapon. And you… were on his clock.

When the door opened again, the first thing to fill the room was the familiar, but this time stronger, scent of your perfume. As if that smell had taken you away from yourself and made you belong to that other life outside.

Then he saw you. You entered the room.

Slowly. As if time itself obeyed the rhythm of your heels.

He saw the dress first. That fabric in which midnight competed with navy blue, leaving your shoulders exposed… you glided like a shadow. Your hair cascading down your neck looked like a mark. And in that moment, Crane’s mind filled with a void. No—this void wasn’t absence. It was hunger. Even if he devoured you with his eyes, it wouldn’t be enough.

But he said nothing. Looked at you with the corners of his eyes. Gave a slight nod. As always. Stillness was his mask. Silence his armor. But inside… inside, a forest was burning. He didn’t need to swallow—his throat was already dry. He suppressed the word that came to his tongue: Mine.

Your lips moved. “I’m ready,” you said. “I just wanted to let you know before heading to the benefit. I straightened up a bit in the office. I’m leaving now.”

Politeness… pressed down on Crane like a weight.

Every time he looked at you, the fragments of clinical knowledge in his mind began to scatter. You weren’t his patient. But in his mind, he couldn’t help turning you into a kind of diagnosis. Obsessive-compulsive transference. Beyond the classical countertransference line. The cognitive layers inside him were collapsing with a crackling sound. You made him something more than human. And at the same time… a monster.

“Of course. You may go,” he said. His voice was calm. But that calm was like lava flowing just beneath ice.

“Good evening,” you said. And turned around. A smile not born of joy but shaped by courtesy. Your footsteps joined the corridor once again.

He didn’t leave immediately. He waited. Counting. Six. Five. Four… He closed his eyes, inhaling the time your scent lingered in the room. Then he stood, slipping out of the dark office toward the door. Silently. His feet barely touched the ground, like a ghost.

He reached the end of the corridor. The dimmest part, away from the cameras. He fixed his eyes on the small window that offered a view outside.

Despite Gotham’s gray descent, a sliver of light filtered in. Wayne’s armored, sleek black car was parked at the curb. And there he was. Bruce Wayne.

Smiling as he watched you.

You walked toward him slowly, heels tapping. The car headlights cast a glow on your shoulders. Your skin trembled… maybe from the cold, maybe from excitement. And at that moment, one sentence echoed in Crane’s mind: Everything inside you trying to leave no space for me… now bears the name Bruce Wayne.

He pressed his lips together. A deep line settled between his brows. What he held down in his chest now was not just desire. It was justified fury.

Because no matter how clever Bruce Wayne was, he would never understand you. He would smile at you.

But he would never know where you break.

The hands that repaired you weren’t his. They were the eyes that watched you bleed. And those eyes… right now, were watching from that window. Like a predator that knew your every cell. Not focused on you—but on the man watching you. Bruce’s hands, his gaze, his steps. How he touched you.

A whisper rose from inside Crane: You’ll go with him. But in your mind, the mark I left will remain. At the end of the night, he may be the one unzipping your dress…

But the only one who’s solved your secrets… is me.

He didn’t take his eyes off the window. Watched as you got into the car. The door closed. And with Bruce Wayne, you slowly disappeared into the night.

And this time, Dr. Jonathan Crane… did not smile.

Beyond the city lights, in the silence of the car, soft melodies slipped between the seats. The interior of Bruce Wayne's car felt isolated from the outside world.

You stared out the window, your thoughts twisting with the curves of the road. Bruce was saying something, his voice was gentle, but you couldn’t focus.

The fabric of your dress against your shoulder merged with the stillness around you, making your body feel all too real.

When you chose that dress, a part of you knew it was for him. The way Bruce’s eyes lingered a bit too long on your shoulders, on the curve of your neck… it hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“You look comfortable,” Bruce said, eyes still fixed on the road ahead. “Doesn’t seem like you’re afraid to be in the same room with Gotham’s richest five hundred.”

“You’re here with me,” you replied, careful not to let your voice sound too natural.

He only nodded. He didn’t look at you for long—but when he did, you were sure he always saw more than he should.

As the car pulled up to the main entrance of the hall, flashes burst in rapid succession.

Journalists, crowds constantly tracking Wayne Enterprises, shouts... You were already blinded by the lights before the door even opened.

The door was opened for you. And Bruce extended his hand, helping you out. The moment your hand touched his, time seemed to freeze.

You were twenty-two.

But in Bruce Wayne’s eyes, you were still sixteen.

The crowd fell silent for a moment. Because they didn’t recognize the young woman who had arrived with him.

“Mr. Wayne! Is there a special reason you’ve come with your ward tonight?”

“Mr. Wayne, is it true that you claim Y/N as your ward because of the age difference between you?”

“Is it true that there’s a romantic relationship between you two?”

The questions came one after another, each one pushing a different boundary.

Bruce’s lips curled slightly. That famous, careless businessman smile was on his face.

But you could feel the other man behind that smile.

“Tonight’s guest of honor,” he said. “And no… I won’t be answering your strange questions.”

“So Mr. Wayne, are the rumors about a romance true?”

“In Gotham, Alfred might be the only one without any romance rumors,” Bruce said. “Though he was apparently quite the flirt in his youth.”

Laughter echoed. Microphones were held up to you, cameras flashed, lenses zoomed in... You were being objectified.

Part of you felt like it was all a game. But another part remembered the old, old days—when Bruce looked at you that way.

Once inside, the hall was filled with white flowers. Crystal chandeliers glittered, live music played behind velvet curtains.

Champagne flowed everywhere, along with furs and expensive jewelry... The mayor of Gotham was giving a speech on stage, but no one was listening.

They were just watching each other. Who came with whom. Who wore what. Who was holding Bruce Wayne’s arm.

You.

But then, your eyes caught her.

Charlotte Rivers. She entered in a black satin dress. As if she *belonged* to the night. Her hair was perfectly styled, her smile trained for television.

Your stomach tightened. Because you knew how she looked at Bruce. And how Bruce had once looked back.

You had seen them.

Years ago. Charlotte had been his woman—at least in Gotham’s eyes.

Charlotte’s gaze settled on you. One second. Maybe two. Then she smiled. But it wasn’t warm. It was the smile of a woman who pets her dog while tightening the leash.

Bruce stood tall beside you, a show of strength. But you noticed the way his jaw tensed. He didn’t turn to you. Nor did he move toward Charlotte.

But between the two of you, a history hung in the air. And that history was heavier than the most expensive jewel in the room.

The music kept playing. Flashes still burst now and then. But your mind turned further inward. Bruce’s hand on your shoulder—maybe it was to soothe you.

But maybe to control you.

Maybe to remind you that you were his.

Or maybe… just to remember.

“Y/N?” His voice pulled you from your thoughts. “Want to get some air? Let’s go upstairs—the terrace is quieter there.”

The connection wasn’t broken. But it had shifted into something else.

Tension.

Something historic, buried, repressed.

Unspoken—but known by all.

The night was heavy. Tangible, almost. Even Gotham’s chaos echoing below couldn’t pierce the stillness that wrapped itself around the terrace.

The first thing you felt stepping onto the upper balcony wasn’t the cool brush of the wind against your skin.

It was the contrast.

Inside, laughter still rang over the tinkling of piano keys, light pooling from chandeliers like golden wine—warm, indulgent.

But out here…

Time hesitated.

As if this place belonged not to the masked crowd inside, but to another world.

A forgotten summer night, perhaps.

Or a future that never happened.

Your heels clicked against the stone floor as you approached the wrought iron railing.

You didn’t need to turn around to know Bruce was following.

He made no sound—he never did.

But you felt him. Every molecule of him.

The heat from his body nearing yours. The air shifting as he breathed.

His presence always quiet, yet commanding enough to change the way your heart beat.

He made you alert.

Made you softer, somehow.

Sharper.

More woman.

More exposed.

"Still nervous?"

His voice was low. Calm.

But something was caged within it.

You shook your head slowly. But you turned your face away, knowing he wouldn’t be looking into your eyes.

Because when you met his gaze, you both knew what it could become.

And one of you always looked away.

Usually him.

"Of course I’m nervous," you said, voice light with forced amusement. But your tone carried layers even he couldn’t ignore.

"Walking into a room on the arm of Gotham’s most powerful man isn’t exactly a stroll in the park. Especially when everyone knows where I came from."

Bruce turned toward you, his eyes tracing your shoulder, trying to catch your face.

"Y/N... No one cares about your past," he said softly. "They care about you. Who you are."

Something ached inside your chest.

Because when he said "you"… You didn’t know who he meant.

The child he once knew?

Or the woman standing before him now—whose curves and edges he had memorized in a single glance, but whose gaze still terrified him?

You lowered your head, hiding behind the skyline.

At night, Gotham looked like a different city.

Far in the distance, Arkham’s gothic spires loomed like a ghost in the mist.

And then you said it.

You didn’t know why.

"I had my first session."

A beat.

"Crane put me face to face with Riddler."

You felt the tension snap through Bruce’s shoulders.

But he said nothing.

"I thought he didn’t trust me at first," you continued. "But it wasn’t that. It was a test. For both of us. Me and Riddler. We were… measuring each other. It was strange. But I learned things. About myself. Even Crane looked at me differently by the end. Like he finally saw me not just as ‘the intern’… but something else."

You could feel Bruce watching you now.

Even if he hadn’t spoken yet.

"Something else," he echoed, his voice low, rough.

You turned.

And for the first time that night, he met your eyes.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t look away.

That alone gave you courage.

You stepped closer.

Like a woman realizing her power.

Dangerous.

Beautiful.

Real.

The wind brushed your skin. But Bruce’s nearness was warmer. Heavier.

His gaze held the war within him.

Yours held a decision.

"You never saw me as a child, did you, Bruce?"

The question hovered in the silence.

Even Gotham’s sounds seemed to pause.

His eyes darkened.

But he didn’t step back.

Didn’t lie.

He just swallowed hard, looked down, and took in a breath like it hurt him to breathe.

"You… were never a child to me," he said. "But this—Y/N— this isn’t right."

You smiled.

Because when he said it’s not right, what he really meant was I’m trying not to fall apart.

You stepped closer again. The flicker in his pupils. The twitch in his jaw.

The way his hands no longer knew where they belonged.

You tilted your head, letting your gaze fall to the hollow at the base of his throat.

You’d imagined pressing your lips there, once.

Back when you didn’t know what that desire meant.

Now you did. Now you saw the fear in his stillness.

"I haven’t seen you as a father figure in a long time, Bruce," you said, voice soft but unyielding.

"And I know how wrong that sounds. But knowing it’s wrong… doesn’t stop me anymore."

He looked at you. And there was fire in his eyes. But also something chained behind them.

A Batman who held himself back—for you to protect you. But you didn’t need protecting anymore. You were past that.

Bruce turned. Took a step away.

His fists were clenched at his sides.

"No, Y/N," he said.

And his voice was jagged. Like he hated himself for saying it.

"Don’t. Please."

For the first time, you saw the anger. But it wasn’t just at you. It was at himself. For wanting. For needing. For losing control.

"This isn’t about how I feel," he said. "This is about protecting you."

You leaned against the cold iron rail, your heart crashing against your ribs.

But you smiled. Proud. Defiant. Because now, you knew.

You knew how much he wanted you.

And that knowledge made you powerful.

The terrace had grown a bit quieter now.

The mechanical joy from below—laughter and the clinking of crystal glasses—had been drowned out here by the whisper of the wind. The darkness that settled over the city covered everything like a heavy blanket; not just you, but the man in front of you too. The way he looked at you moments ago still lingered on your skin. The echo of the feelings you had just confessed hung in the air with a boldness that surpassed the words themselves.

You were leaning against the iron railing, trying to push back your hair whipped by the wind, and you could hear your heart not just beating, but pounding. Bruce had stepped away a little. As if he realized he had gotten too close to something growing inside you—and recoiled. His hands were in his coat pockets, his head bowed. And as you watched him pull away, you faced something you'd never had to face before: not the fear of rejection—because you knew he wanted you too—but a deliberate retreat.

Then the terrace door opened. And a silhouette as cold as the moonlight glided in.

Charlotte Rivers.

Her arrival was like stepping onto a stage—dramatic, calculated, and perfectly timed. Her satin evening gown shimmered with dark red undertones beneath black fabric, slithering like a snake, cascading in waves across her skin. The fur draped over her shoulders wasn’t vulgar—it was a statement of power. Her lips were flawlessly painted—but not like yours. Hers were made for the stage. Yours were made for truth.

Charlotte saw you. She scanned you. Not the way a woman looks at another woman—but the way a woman sizes up a girl with condescension. With a smile that seemed to recall every moment between you, she turned toward Bruce.

"Bruce," she said, her voice hitting the night like the shatter of a glass. "I didn’t expect you to leave me all alone."

Bruce’s expression softened for a brief second.

But that softness wasn’t for you. It was a defense mechanism. A wall he was building against you, his feelings for you, and the things you had just said.

And Charlotte positioned herself right in front of that wall.

"Charlotte," Bruce said. "If you can still escape the crowd, it must mean no one in there has caught your interest."

The woman smiled faintly. Stepped closer. She leaned toward Bruce’s collar—not to kiss, just to hover, barely touching. But that delicate threat had already started to slither into your veins like a slow sting.

"You always manage to distract me, don’t you?" Charlotte murmured. "But I see... tonight you’ve brought a young companion. Very young."

She turned to you. But her voice wasn’t really directed at you—it was aimed at Bruce, evaluating you as if you were a decision he hadn’t made yet.

"I’ve heard a lot about you," she said. "The young intern under Bruce’s wing. What an honor. Bruce is improving in the fatherhood department, isn’t he?"

That word—“fatherhood”—twisted in the air like a sharp blade and pierced you. You instinctively took a step back. But Bruce didn’t respond. He didn’t defend you. He said nothing.

And then it happened.

Charlotte gently touched Bruce’s arm.

Her hand rested on the inside of his wrist.

And Bruce didn’t hesitate to accept it. He even smiled.

That smile... it wasn’t for you. It didn’t belong to you.

And the moment you realized that, something inside you collapsed. A part of you dropped, like falling from a height.

Like when you're a child and jump down the stairs, knowing you’ll fall but letting yourself go anyway—that feeling.

Something didn’t break, but it cracked.

"Charlotte, would you like to go inside?" Bruce said. "There are a couple of things we should probably talk about."

That sentence. Simple. Polite. But the most graceful form of betrayal.

You were still there. At the edge of the terrace.

Just minutes earlier, you had opened your heart to him. And now, he was speaking to another woman without even turning his back on you—as if trying to forget you.

Charlotte turned to you and nodded slightly. Not with triumph. Just with a look that said: Know your place.

As they walked back inside together, Bruce turned his head one last time. Your eyes met.

Inside... maybe there was an apology. Maybe a self-defense. But mostly... there was escape.

And you stood there, leaning your back against the iron railings. The wind was tossing your hair across your face. Your eyes were burning, but you didn’t cry. Because this wasn’t something tears could fix.

This was the beginning of a war.

Bruce had hurt you. Not unintentionally. On purpose.

Because he wanted you. But he was afraid of that want.

And men who are afraid—hurt the ones they love.

The rain hadn’t fallen yet, but the city was already grey. On this night, dressed in expensive coats and adorned with expensive intentions, no one spoke the language of shadows.

Inside the car, it was silent. The engine was off, the windows fogged. Motionless. But inside the car, a storm raged in the mind. He was sitting. Back straight, hands on the steering wheel.

And behind that wheel sat one of the city’s most cold-blooded doctors, a man who knew the chemistry of the human mind by heart, yet had long lost control over his own emotions: Dr. Jonathan Crane.

Behind his glasses, his eyes gleamed with a passion that didn’t shine. Without blinking, he aimed his small binoculars at the upper terrace of the opera house. Yes, he saw you. In all your nakedness, your vulnerability, the raw state of your broken heart.

You were up there, leaning against the iron railing, slowly sipping a drink from your crystal glass. That glass in your hand was actually filled with the empty phrases that had fallen from Bruce Wayne’s lips, and as you drank it, you knew exactly what you were consuming. Betrayal. Neglect.

And most of all, the helplessness of watching his eyes turn to another woman.

Charlotte’s laughter, the small, involuntary gestures Bruce gave in response—each one chipped away at you.

Slowly, but surely.

And this was what Jonathan Crane loved watching the most.

Weak moments. Vulnerabilities. Shaken pride. Tiny cracks forming in the walls of the mind. Because through those cracks, he could seep in. He could seep into you.

He lowered the binoculars. Slowly leaned back in the seat.

As if a warmth washed over him, he exhaled deeply, but that warmth didn’t come from compassion or empathy. It was the primal satisfaction of a predator. The dark, poisonous pleasure taken in a victim’s pain.

He slowly moved his left hand into his pocket and took out his phone. The screen lit up. Your name appeared—like a trembling anticipation. When he saw your name, the corner of his lips curled into a smile. But this smile wasn’t one of affection; it was the thrill a chemist feels when the right element reacts in the perfect crack.

His thumb began to type a message. But what could he say?

How could he make you feel possessed without showing ownership… reveal he was watching without being caught… pull you in without overtly reaching out?

He wrote:

Your communication with Riddler today was more effective than I anticipated. I’ve been following your behavioral patterns with curiosity from the beginning. They don’t see it, but… I do. Everything. Your early synchronization with criminal psychology—does it stem from past observational experiences, I wonder? Let’s talk in the morning.

When he pressed send, something flickered across his face.

Not pride. Not victory. A sense of right. His right over you.

You were his student. His object of analysis. His project. His! And now, even emotionally, even with the shattered pieces of your heart that still belonged to Bruce Wayne, it was time to seep into you.

He saw you take out your phone under the dim yellow light coming from the terrace above.

You tilted your head down. Looked at the screen. Your eyes scanned that familiar message. Your face froze for a moment. One second, two seconds… You read it. Looked at the screen for a while. Slowly put the phone away, but something in your expression shifted.

As Charlotte’s laughter echoed below and Bruce’s exaggerated chivalry whispered from ear to ear, he kept watching you. You stood there, unaware you were being watched by a psychiatrist who saw you as a test tube. Broken. Exposed. Accessible.

Jonathan’s pupils dilated. His gaze, shining from behind his glasses, processed every detail like a microscope—every muscle twitch, every tiny facial expression, every flicker of emotion.

You swallowed. Blinked. Briefly turned your head toward Bruce, then back to your drink. And maybe you weren’t even aware, but that message had made you feel warm for a moment.

Like a drug injected into your cracked moment—it had left you dazed.

Crane knew the effect. He could explain it scientifically. But this time, it wasn’t about science. It was personal. He wanted to see you. In your wounded state. In your chaos. And he believed only he could pull you out of it.

And now, as Bruce continued to ignore you, that sense of ownership grew even more.

Because no mask could hide this fragility.

“Go on, Bruce,” he murmured in the dark. “Hurt her a little more… leave her a little more alone…”

Because in that loneliness, a space was opening. And Jonathan Crane was impatient to enter it.

He didn’t write the next message. Not yet.

It wasn’t time. When the time came, he would write that sentence—the one that would reach into the depths of your darkness and pull you all the way to the surface. But until then, he only watched. Watched you unravel, fall apart—

But only to be pieced back together by his hands.

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divaofmads · 3 months ago

Text

One Glance, My Obsession.

Drawing by @divaofmads

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divaofmads · 3 months ago

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A Love Meant To Burn

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader (Oc)

Chapter I , Chapter II

Chapter III: Your Name Was the Enemy

Chapter Summary: She knew exactly what she was doing. He was already broken the moment she looked back. Now, their story isn't about right or wrong. It’s about how far they’ll go when love feels like ruin.

Warnings: Angst, +18, Emotional trauma and guilt, Suicidal thoughts and themes of death, Complex and challenging relationship dynamics, English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. **I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional**

Word Count: 10k

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

A/N: This one took a piece of me to write. it’s the kind of chapter where you know the characters are making choices they might never recover from, and you just sit there — helpless — watching it all unfold.

This isn’t just about love. it’s about the kind of love that hurts. the kind that demands you to choose between your heart and your sanity. between what you want, and what you can live with.

When the day revealed itself through the pale light slipping into the mouth of the cave, you were still asleep. Your cheek rested against Joel’s chest, your breath gently touching his skin — warm, patient, and innocent. One of Joel’s arms held you close, while the other rested on your shoulder; his fingertips moved slightly, not gripping you tightly but carrying a sense of possession that made it clear he wouldn’t let go. Your breath was like a soft echo rising and falling on his chest; each exhale a form of penance for him, a reminder.

He wanted to watch the peace spreading across your face when you woke up and realized you were still beside him — but it wasn’t time. Not yet. He hadn’t told you. Not yet… he hadn’t stolen you from yourself.

Joel’s head was leaned back against the damp stone wall of the cave. After a sleepless night, his eyes were bloodshot, but his mind was wide awake. The body that bore the marks of war seemed a little lighter in his arms. But the weight in his heart… that had become a burden harder and harder to carry. When his fingers tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear, what passed through him wasn’t just love; it was also fear. Guilt.

Jackson was close now. Beyond the jagged cliffs lay that small, protected town — full of truths. Names. Faces. Answers. And Joel knew he wouldn’t be able to look into your eyes there. Because that town carried the truth that would tear you from him: that the man holding you so tenderly right now was the one who had killed your father.

But this morning… these few hours… you were still in his arms. He could still feel the soft rise and fall of your chest beneath his heart. And when he gently pulled the blanket over both of you, it wasn’t just to keep you warm — it was to make you a little more unforgettable. As though he wanted to protect you from more than just the cold of the cave. Wrapping his arms around your body, he rested his head in your hair for a moment. He closed his eyes. He wanted the moment to last forever. But time had never been kind to Joel Miller.

When he opened his eyes again, the first chill of morning brushed across his face. You exhaled softly and stirred a little. Your body still leaned into his, but you were waking up.

Joel saw your eyelids flutter, and he reached out to caress your cheek. His fingers glided gently from the curve of your cheek to just under your chin. Then his voice came, soft as a whisper.

“Hey... time to wake up, darlin’.”

In the way he said it, there was a kind of refuge. A way to say he loved you without saying the words. When your waking eyes met his, he saw the sleepy smile spreading across your face. Not the gaze of a stranger, but the look of a woman who trusted him.

And in that moment, Joel’s heart ached just a little more.

Because he didn’t know how he’d look into those eyes soon.

By the time night fell, snow had begun to fall slowly. The sky had closed over them like a gray blanket; the wind had turned into a whisper humming in their ears. But this night was different from the others. Joel stopped the horse to tend to your bleeding wounds. But…

You saw it as he searched through the inside of the backpack. His fingers reached for things that were no longer there: a roll of bandages, sterile gauze, a single dose of antibiotic capsules… all used up when Joel had refreshed the dressings on your wounds. The last bottle of alcohol had been used yesterday to clean the gash on yout knee.

There was nothing left.

No painkillers, no antiseptics.

Only a few dirty bandages, a half-dried spool of suture thread, and a broken pair of scissors.

Joel’s gaze drifted down to the worn-out pack beneath his hand. Then he quietly bowed his head. He knew it too. The truth lived in the silence. This was the phase of wounds that no longer healed.

The injury on your shoulder… that had been the beginning. Every minute a wound remained uncleansed, time turned into the enemy. And the enemy in your shoulder had already started creeping beneath the skin.

The edges of the wound had begun to bruise. Your skin was hot to the touch, but hard like stone. Every contact with that area triggered your body’s defense systems, setting your nerve endings on fire. The infection was spreading from within, beginning to take hold of your entire system.

You tried not to show Joel. You staggered as you stood but fixed a determined expression on your face. “We have to keep moving,” you said, as if nothing had happened.

But you hesitated for a moment as you took a step.

Joel noticed. He took a step toward you, wanting to reach for your shoulder, but you pulled away.

“I’m fine,” you said again. Like a wounded animal… and took another step.

Joel stopped. He knew. He had seen that look in the last days of Tess. The ones who tried the hardest to hide their pain were often the ones suffering the most.

But with you, it was different. You weren’t carrying pain — you were carrying vengeance. Your wound was burning not just your flesh, but your soul. And you were someone too strong — or perhaps too broken — to let the man beside you carry you.

The rhythmic sound of the horse’s hooves striking snow-covered stones rose through the silence like a kind of music. The pale light of the sun seeped gently from the mountain slopes, and the droplets sparkling on the frozen branches along the path looked like crystals hanging from the sky. The air was still sharp, still cold… but the wind blowing inside you now belonged to an entirely different climate.

You were in front of Joel, seated in his lap. Nestled between his knees, your back leaned against his chest. Your hands were wrapped around his; your fingers locked together tightly, as if they had known each other across the passage of time. Your body had surrendered to his warmth. And so had your heart. There was a promise now, in the way his arm wrapped around you.

“You’re quiet,” you said, resting your head back toward his shoulder. Your eyes weren’t focused on the horizon — they were focused on him. “You’re thinking.”

Joel’s throat was dry. With the horse’s slow but steady steps, his thoughts were moving too. Each step brought you both closer to Jackson; each vibration pushed him further toward the truth… the truth he had to tell you but still couldn’t bring himself to.

“I always think,” he said, voice low and husky. “But someone like you... you drown out a man’s thoughts.”

You smiled. Without hesitation. No matter how much pain you had endured, the bond between you and this man had begun to outshine the past.

“What did you think when you found me?” you asked in a whisper. “Honestly.”

The muscles in Joel’s jaw tightened. When the horse flinched slightly, he tightened the reins, but the real jolt had been inside his chest.

“I wondered... who you were. Why you were alone. Why you were so close to death.”

“And still, you saved me,” you said, resting your head on his chest. “I’m glad you did.”

Silence hung for a few heartbeats. Joel swallowed the words rising to his lips. *I killed your father.* The words hovered on the edge of his mouth, so close they nearly slipped free. But then you turned slightly toward him on the horse, your face glowing with affection.

“When I look at you, my pain quiets,” you said. “Everything inside me goes still. Only you remain.”

In that moment, Joel felt like someone crushed beneath his own weapon in battle. Defeated. Defenseless. And ashamed.

He brought his face close to your neck, breathed you in deeply. “I’m not the man you think I am, darlin’. I might… let you down.”

“Have you?” you asked, turning slightly. Your eyes were serious, but carried hope too. “Have you abandoned me? Hurt me? Loved me with lies?”

Joel wanted to look away, but couldn’t. Because your eyes were locked onto his. Only a few inches separated your lips, and your breath scorched his skin.

“It’s not possible to love you with lies,” he said at last. “Because loving you... is already the purest kind of truth.”

As the horse continued on its path, you laid your head against his chest again. Your eyes had welled with tears, but the smile on your lips remained. This journey was nothing like the one you’d first started. You weren’t just leaning on Joel anymore — you had surrendered to him. Without fear. Without question.

But Joel’s eyes were now fixed on something else in the winding bend of the distant valley. As Jackson drew near, the past cast its shadow again.

And in that shadow, something as sharp as love was waiting: the truth.

As the cold seeped through the forest like a thin mist, you continued your journey. With each trot of the horse pressing into the snow-mixed earth, the rising shadows of the mountains whispered that Jackson was near. But in that silence, it wasn’t just the sound of hooves that filled the air—there was something else between you: pain.

The wound on your shoulder was the only thing that truly kept you awake. Beneath the bandage, it throbbed relentlessly, each breath sending a knife-like jolt through your flesh. But you didn’t make a sound. You clenched your teeth. You didn’t want anything to cast a shadow over the bond growing stronger each day between you and Joel… the trust… the love.

But Joel Miller was a careful man. He knew that in silence, even body language could be a scream. And your scream was the trembling in your shoulder. No matter how hard you tried to sit upright on the horse, he had noticed every time you shifted your weight away from your right side, every moment you secretly rubbed your shoulder, every sharp breath you held back.

Suddenly, he stopped his horse. You instinctively pulled away.

“We need to stop,” he said. His voice was firm, but there were cracks in it—he could hear your pain.

You lowered your head, clenched your jaw. “No… no, please. We can keep going. Jackson isn’t far.”

Joel looked at you. His gaze was soft but stern—there was the expression of a man on the verge of breaking, holding himself back just to protect you.

“I see you,” he said. “You’re in pain with every step. Your shoulder’s in bad shape, the bandage is soaked through, there’s blood.”

You averted your eyes. “I can push through a little longer… How much farther could it be? Five, six hours? Maybe seven. Joel, please. If we stop now, we’ll have to spend the night in the mountains. We can’t afford to slow down any more.”

Joel’s face hardened. “We have to stop. Your health—”

“No!” you interrupted, the only word that came out loud. “You don’t know how much pain I can take. This wound is not more important than getting there. We need to warn them about the threat in Northpoint. You’ve already been delayed enough because of me. You can’t wait any longer. We have to make it. Both of us.”

Your words hung in the air. Joel locked his eyes on yours. The silence lasted long. Then he clenched his jaw, turned his head, and urged his horse forward.

“Alright,” he said, simply. His tone was hurt, but resigned. “But if we have to stop… this time, it’ll be my call.”

You nodded, burying the whirlwind of emotions inside you. You hoped this small victory over the man you loved would be enough to silence the ache. Joel pressed on, wrapped in silence, but his eyes kept drifting toward you.

If something happened to you… if you didn’t make it to Jackson together… it wouldn’t just be your anger he’d have to face.

And you, you had placed the invisible bond between you — the passion, the unfinished sentences, the traces of every touch — above everything else. Despite the pain, you kept riding, as if what you were fleeing wasn’t just the wound.

As the rhythmic steps of the horse echoed beneath you, the cold air surrounding you pressed down harder, like leaden clouds hanging low in the sky. Snow had started falling again during the night, and now it had seeped into the veins of the forest as a fine layer. But to you, the cold was not just a matter of weather — it was the echo of a threat rising from within your own body.

The wound on your shoulder was no longer just a source of pain, but a warning. At first, it had only throbbed — like the first sparks of infection, as your tissues battled the heat beneath your skin. But now, that throbbing had turned into a tremor spreading toward your internal organs. Your muscles were stiffening, your movements growing more mechanical by the hour.

You were aware of these symptoms. And you paid attention to every move to make sure Joel didn’t notice. You held your shoulder a little straighter, pinned your trembling hand to your thigh. Your breathing had quickened, but you released it slowly through your lips, as if it were only from exhaustion. But inside, you were burning.

Sweat traced from your scalp to the lines on your forehead. But this wasn’t from the cold — it was from the fire within. Your body was overflowing with white blood cells fighting off the infection, your immune system waging a war that was draining every ounce of your energy.

Your head began to spin. The images around you blurred in and out, the trunks of trees overlapping one another. Joel was behind you, always watching, always giving you space. You straightened up, not wanting him to notice your condition. Rubbed your eyes. Bit your lip. Your pupils had dilated — another sign of the fever.

You clung to the only weapon left in your mind: your will. You wouldn’t be a burden to Stranger. You’d already been enough of one. You had to tell them about the new infected type, and fast. And of course, there was also revenge.

JM. Two letters circling in your mind. And your father’s revenge. Joel Miller was in Jackson, and he was waiting for you to kill him without mercy.

You swallowed. It was a hard swallow, like a stone sinking down your throat. “I’m fine,” you told yourself. “Just a few more hours. Hold on.”

But Joel’s glances toward you were lasting longer now. He sensed something was wrong. Maybe he was waiting for you to realize it yourself. Maybe he was searching for a way to stop you before you even knew you needed to stop.

You pressed your knees tighter to the sides of the saddle to keep your balance. But this time, the nausea hit. The infection was reaching your core, your internal organs. Your heart beat faster, your lungs struggled to expand. Still, not a single groan escaped your lips. You swallowed. Blinked. And kept going.

Jackson had risen just beyond the final bend — molded by winter’s hands, covered in snow, silent and solid. Its walls, built by human labor, were as real as hope itself. As the radio towers stretched into the sky in the background, for the first time in a long time, arriving somewhere felt like a true “arrival.”

But for you, this was more than just an arrival. It was a reckoning.

The wound beneath your shoulder wasn’t just a cut — it was a silent prophecy reminding you of your father’s bloody end. As your body rotted, your soul marched toward one goal: find Joel Miller, confront him... and maybe even kill him.

Hiding the pain wasn’t easy, but for someone with a purpose, it became possible. Because revenge was more resilient than the immune system.

At the foot of Jackson, as you turned that final bend, your vision blurred. Snow poured before your eyes like rain. The white glare erased the boundary between your mind and reality. The only sound echoing in your ears was that of a figure calling from far away.

“Y/N?”

Joel’s voice came from a distance. Muffled, restrained, but worried. Yet you didn’t hear him.

You had already slipped into the past. Hallucinations often appeared in the final stages of such severe infections. The mind, rather than protecting reality, clung to memory. To your father... your final goodbye... and the name Joel Miller.

Your lips were dry, but parted involuntarily. The first syllable was bare and fragile: “Joel…”

Joel Miller. Your enemy. Your lover. Your killer.

In your mind, he stood there. With the gun pointed at your father, on that dark night, where it had all begun. And now, you had found him. Right at Jackson’s gates, just a second before your knees gave out. But this Joel wasn’t real. Just a ghost made of cortisol, inside your head.

“Dad…” your voice trembled. Raspy. “He… you…”

Joel pulled the reins, and the horse stopped abruptly.

“Y/N?”

He leaned forward, panic in his voice.

“Hey, look at me. What are you saying? What… what’s happening?”

Your eyes were already full. Your pupils had dilated, your body entering hyperthermic shock. Joel’s voice was fading. But to you, his face was clear. Even if it was a hallucination, his eyes were the same as the night he killed your father. And now he was in front of you. With your breath trembling, you whispered one last word before letting go:

“Joel… Miller…”

Joel’s eyes went wide. He dropped the reins and reached to catch you.

“Y/N! No, no… Damn it, NO! Sweetheart, look at me!”

As his hand touched your shoulder, your body began to slide from the horse.

And in that moment, the whole world went dark.

The last thing you heard was your name — called out in the voice of the man you loved, trusted, but were meant to hate:

“Y/N!”

A scream from the darkness startles you. Just one step ahead, you see your father collapsed to his knees—blood seeping from his chest, dripping onto the snow, turning into a dark red stain as it freezes. His face is pale, his breath ragged; his eyes turned to you in fear. Behind you, the silhouette of Redhill burns, like a city swallowed beyond the flames.

“Stop! Please!” you scream. Your voice echoes, but it’s as if no one hears it, swallowed by the apocalypse. Your foot won’t move forward, as if the ground is holding you, like a swamp… Every step delayed. Every breath feels like broken glass in your lungs.

That’s when you see the shadow for the first time.

A figure emerges from the mist. No face, no clear form. Only a shadow, only a silhouette… A gun in its hand, standing right in front of your father. Time feels frozen. You try to run toward the figure, pleading with a voice that cracks from your throat:

“Don’t! Please… What did this man ever do to you?!”

But there’s no answer.

You look at your father’s face. He looks like he just wants to see you one last time. His lips move:

“Run… sweetheart…”

Then the gunshot.

It’s like a bomb goes off inside your head. Your father’s body falling back happens in slow motion. Your legs give out beneath you. You collapse to your knees. Your breath shortens. Only one sound echoes in your ears: the shot, and then your father’s lifeless body.

Then you look again at the silhouette.

It begins to sharpen… The lines become clear… The eyes, the mouth, the hands… And suddenly, that name you’ve kept buried in your mind for years takes the shape of a face.

It’s Joel Miller.

But what shatters you more is that you *know* him.

The man you fell in love with. The one who saved you, held you, looked into your eyes and said, “I won’t let anything happen to you.” His eyes are on you now, his face filled with pain. As if his heart is breaking, too.

“You…” you whisper. “You…”

And then that world starts to collapse.

The ground cracks, the sky darkens. Everything pulls downward, and you’re falling with it… Falling… Falling. And then—

Your eyelids felt like lead. It was as if you were slowly rising to the surface from a dark and formless void, one you couldn’t remember falling into. Like someone approaching the light… but the light here, in the real world, burned like a sharp dagger. You wanted to open your eyes—but couldn’t at first. The world beneath your eyelids throbbed with pain.

There was a high-pitched ringing in your head. Your ears were buzzing. Time and space felt distorted, your skull echoed like an empty tin can. You shifted slightly. Your whole body ached from head to toe. Especially your right leg—that place... it felt like it was on fire. But you were still alive. The pain, unbearable yet real, was proof of that.

You let out a soft breath. The sheets beneath you smelled unfamiliar. The dry, heavy scent of harsh soap, ash, and old wood fibers... You had definitely never been here before. Everything was unfamiliar.

That was when a voice echoed nearby. A young girl’s voice. Its tone was cautious, but laced with a faint kindness, like she’d been waiting patiently for you to wake without scaring you.

“Hey… looks like you’re finally waking up.”

At first, it sounded far away. Like you were hearing it underwater. When you strained your eyes open a little more, your vision was blurry. In the doorway, backlit by soft light, you could make out the silhouette of a young girl in a pale, long-sleeved shirt, with pony tailed hair. Your eyes blinked a few times, and the world slowly came into focus. She stepped closer, and when you tried to sit up, stumbling slightly, she raised her hand gently to stop you.

“Easy, take it slow. You’re still really weak,” she said. “You’ve been asleep for two days. Maria and I took care of you. Well... as best we could.”

Her voice was unfamiliar, yet it carried a strange kind of balance—calm, cautious, but trustworthy. Her movements were controlled, like she knew she was in a room with someone unpredictable, but still had the courage to offer that person a glass of water.

“Where… am I?” you asked, your voice cracked, hoarse and raspy. Your throat was parched, your tongue glued to the roof of your mouth.

The girl turned her head slightly, not looking away but also avoiding the question directly:

“We’re in Jackson. North of Wyoming, small settlement… pretty safe, all things considered.”

Jackson. That name rang a distant bell. Maybe from the crackling voice over the radio at the power plant, or Tommy’s echoing shout… or maybe from even further back. But your mind still felt clogged, like it was filled with mud. Nothing would stay in your grasp.

“Who… who are you?” you asked, lifting your head slightly from the pillow.

“Ellie,” she said plainly. “But don’t worry about that now. You need to rest.”

She had said her name—Ellie—but you noticed something else: she hadn’t mentioned the man who brought you here. The one who made it possible for you to stay, who had rescued you or carried you into this room. It was like she was hiding something—or had been told not to say. And yet, that voice… that voice still echoed in your ears. That deep and husky tone that had told you, as you trembled on horseback, “Don’t you give up.”

Ellie picked up a cracked-glass pitcher from the small nightstand. She filled a glass with water, its surface flecked with bits of dust. She held it out to you. Your fingers struggled to reach. You wanted the water, but you also wanted to grasp the truth behind everything.

She helped you, gently supporting your back and bringing the glass to your lips. Even the water burned as it passed down your throat. But at least you were drinking. You were alive.

As Ellie placed the glass back down, your eyes wandered around the room. Dark wooden walls. A few faded drawings hanging. Books lined up on a shelf. A guitar leaning in the corner—there was no dust on it—it had been played recently. An old curtain on the window, a faded denim jacket hanging on a nail. And the smell of the bed… you knew that smell. Somewhere deep inside, your skin remembered it.

But still… you couldn’t name it yet.

Everything was still watching you like a shadow.

Sitting up in bed felt like trying to pull a bullet fragment lodged deep inside your body. Every muscle, every fiber, every breath burned like an open wound. Your chest was tight, a dull pressure in your abdomen. Your left arm had gone numb, and the throbbing in your right leg could still be felt beneath the bandages.

As you struggled to sit up, Ellie instinctively moved forward, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder, careful to make her touch guiding, not forceful.

“Hey… slow down. Your stitches are still fresh. It’s gonna hurt if you move too much,” she said, eyes serious, her voice a warning.

You pressed your fingertips against the sheet, gritting your teeth as you pulled yourself up. Your head spun, your vision briefly darkened, but you gathered your will. By the time your back rested against the pillow, you were breathless. Heat trickled down the back of your neck, mingling with the sweat at your hairline.

Your eyes turned to Ellie. Questioning, cautious, maybe even a little… suspicious.

“He brought me here… didn’t he?” Your voice was hoarse and cracked, your throat still dry, but the words came out clear.

Ellie averted her gaze for a second. She fidgeted with the sleeve of her jacket. That small, almost invisible hesitation told you a lot. The girl was careful. Every word she spoke was weighed in her mind before it left her mouth.

“Which ‘he’?” she asked, her voice casual, but tension simmered underneath. She didn’t lean toward you or move from her spot. Not defensive, more like she was giving you space.

“The man I ran into… out there,” you said. “The stranger.” You didn’t look away. “The one who lifted me onto the horse… and saved me.”

Ellie frowned. The corner of her mouth twitched slightly, then she turned her eyes to the window. A cold-lit morning lay outside; heavy clouds, wind gently stirring the curtains.

“He’s in a meeting,” she finally said. There was no mistaking the certainty in her voice. “About the new infected types. They’re discussing the signals from Northpoint.”

Your heart suddenly started to beat faster. Northpoint.

That place… hazy, silent, full of death. Its walls cracked, machines broken. The hum that echoed through the quiet. Your desperate attempts to repair that cursed network to send a signal to Jackson. And then… your call for help. And his arrival.

“In a meeting, huh,” you said quietly.

Ellie nodded, turning her eyes back to you.

“I looked into Northpoint. Everyone’s talking about it. They said the systems were dead, but you got some of them working again. You established communication… even if briefly. That’s something most people here couldn’t manage right now.”

She paused. There was a strange expression on her face—somewhere between admiration and cautious distance. “Fixing things like that. Surviving that long. Alone. Even Maria was impressed.”

You were still listening, but something else echoed in your mind. A background noise behind her words, like the static of a broken recording bleeding into your thoughts.

Joel.

His name still hadn’t passed from Ellie’s lips. But an image suddenly formed in your mind. About six months ago. You’d just set out. Winter hadn’t fully set in, but the nights were already freezing. While traveling a rocky path, you’d stumbled across an abandoned gas station. You’d found a rusted map. Thick and faded. Marked with hand-written notes—arrows, lines, scribbles.

A name was written there. You still remembered. “Joel & Ellie.”

You still carried that map. It had been soaked in rain, the edges frayed, but you never threw it away. Back then, the names had seemed ordinary. But now…

Your heart skipped a beat. Your eyes turned back to Ellie. Your lips parted slightly, but no words came out. You felt something crack open in your chest. Deep and sharp suspicion.

Every detail in the room—the guitar on the wall, the bookshelves, the scent in the air, even Ellie’s voice… there was an answer hidden in all of it. But you couldn’t name it. Not yet.

Ellie noticed your gaze but said nothing. Instead, she refilled your glass from the pitcher. The glass had a crack, but her hand didn’t tremble.

“Keep drinking,” she said. “You need to rest.”

But you were no longer focused on the glass. You were locked in your memories. And something in your chest was slowly beginning to awaken.

The room fell silent once more. Only the sound of the distant wind brushing against the windows scratched at your insides like a cold thorn. As Ellie set the pitcher back down, you were still silent. She tilted her head slightly, glancing at you out of the corner of her eye. Then she shoved her hands into the pockets of her pants.

She was just about to leave the room when your voice held her back.

“What was your name?”

Ellie stopped. Every muscle in her body tensed, as if frozen mid-motion. You could see from the movement in her shoulders that she was preparing an answer. Slowly, she turned to look at you, her eyes a deep brown and her expression cautious.

“Ellie.”

You only nodded. But she looked directly into your eyes. For too long. There was something in it. Not absentmindedness—scrutiny.

Ellie narrowed her gaze.

“That’s the second time i’ve told you that. Why?” she asked. Her voice sounded soft, but the tension in her tone was obvious. “I mean… have we met before? Or…” Her eyes squinted for a moment. “Are you from FEDRA?”

Your face remained expressionless. No confirmation, no lie. Just that empty, yet meaning-laden stare. Ellie’s pupils shifted with unease as she received no answer. It was clear she now felt like a threat hovered just under her nose.

She quickly dropped her hands to her sides, then took a step back. It was obvious she was trying to change the subject.

“I mean… you’re probably hungry,” she said quickly. “You haven’t eaten in two days. I’ll… I’ll make you a sandwich. Just wait here, okay?”

Still, you said nothing. Ellie was clearly unnerved by your silence. As she turned and hurried out of the room, she seemed almost swept away like a gust of wind behind her. The door clicked shut. Her footsteps faded down the stairs.

At that moment, alone in the room, the silence was no longer just emptiness—it was weight. Even the cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling looked menacing. The wind slipped in through a cracked corner of the glass, lifting the edge of the curtain slightly.

This place... this was someone else's life. Not yours. And slowly, a cold suspicion began to crawl through your veins. Your breath quickened. You looked at the pillow, the blanket, the bookshelf on the wall. All of it… had a masculine order to it. Clean, but slightly messy. Old books on the shelves, a broken guitar string, a charm made of dried pine branches. Flannel shirts hung behind the door. Most of them were large. One had a loose thread dangling from a missing button on the collar.

Ellie’s face replayed in your mind. Her tension, her panicked exit. The sandwich excuse—it was almost childlike. And once you realized that, you couldn’t stay seated any longer. No matter how tired, how broken, how wounded you were...

...you had to get up.

You pushed off the blanket with your hands. Your skin prickled. When your toes touched the cold floor, it felt like stepping onto a frozen river. Your breath was uneven. You clenched your teeth. As you rose, the stitches in your chest throbbed, but you didn’t care. You would endure.

As Ellie’s footsteps faded away, the silence inside deepened. You were alone now.

But this solitude wasn’t peaceful. Like a growing ache in your chest, a feeling inside you wouldn’t settle: You were in the wrong place. And looking for the right person.

You glanced around once more. The blanket still lay tangled around your knees. With the sting of the stitches on your body, you pushed yourself upright from the bed. For a few seconds, your balance faltered, but you managed to stand by pressing your hands against the edge of the mattress. Your head throbbed, your vision still blurry. But your mind—your mind was clear.

The watch.

You remembered suddenly.

The one thing keeping every ounce of anger and every trace of vengeance alive in your veins.

The watch found next to your father’s body.

With the killer’s initials carved into its back—your most tangible memory that even time couldn’t erase. Without it... you might forget why you were fighting.

Panic set in as you turned your head. You looked under the bed—nothing. You reached into the small drawer of the bedside table. Empty. You slammed it shut.

Your bag. Where was your bag?

After a quick scan, your eyes landed on the torn backpack resting on the chair in the corner of the room. You moved toward it with hurried steps—despite the pain of your wounds. Your hands trembled as you unzipped it. You looked inside.

Maps... an unfinished notebook... a few bandages... but...

No watch.

A wave of cold fear washed over you. You hadn’t left it behind. You always kept it in the innermost pocket.

It couldn’t have been stolen.

Maybe...

No.

Then your eyes caught the drawer of the small desk in the corner. It sat half-open beside the chair. You moved toward it. Your legs trembled, but you didn’t stop.

When you opened the drawer, the first things you saw were a few crumpled papers. Notes. Scattered scribbles. Faded words. But beneath them was a stack of paper that caught your attention. Lines written in shaky handwriting had been pressed into the pages. As your eyes began to grasp the words, something inside you shifted. Your pulse quickened. You carefully flattened the paper with your hand.

These... these were song lyrics.

But not like the kind you’d seen before. They weren’t random.

As if between the sentences... you found yourself.

“I saved a woman—maybe

she was already lost when I did.

She asked me for direction,

but the path... the path was me.

Her eyes left, but my heart stayed with her.

And now whenever the night comes...

I’m bleeding in a dream shaped by her voice.

But you know me now.

So... say something.”

Your knees nearly gave out at the first line.

Your eyes were locked on the paper. You turned to the next page.

“There’s a place in my nights—

filled only with the sound of that woman’s voice.

Even when she pointed her gun at me,

there was warmth in her hands.

Loneliness,

sometimes fades with the breath of a stranger.

I saved you.

But really, you killed me.”

The song wasn’t finished.

Some sentences were cut short. Letters scratched out. Notes written over them.

“Will tomorrow birth revenge from this night, or a bond built upon regret?”

Your throat tightened.

The air in the entire room seemed to grow heavier.

It became hard to breathe.

Your eyes lifted from the paper.

You read the word again.

"I saved you.

But really, you killed me."

As your heart echoed within your chest, you felt this line was kin to your blood. The words were no longer just ink—they were a projection of a past that echoed inside you, of broken hopes and a face you still couldn’t decipher.

"Even when she pointed her gun at me..."

Your eyes froze on the line. Something inside you snapped. This couldn’t be a coincidence. A sentence this accurate, this familiar, could only be written through witness. But... you had never pointed a gun at that man. Not before. Not yet. And still… it was as if the words said one day you would, and he knew it.

There was only one question echoing in your mind:

“Did he write these?”

The stranger must have brought you to this house, right? It was his house. And she — the girl with Joel Miller, Ellie—was assigned to look after you.

Suddenly, it felt like the air around you had gone cold. A quiet unease spread through the room. And just then—

The door opened.

You flinched instantly, gripping the papers reflexively to keep from dropping them. Your heart had leapt to your throat. Your fingers trembled. Your breath caught in your chest like fractured glass.

The first to step in was Ellie, holding a plate. Her expression was tense. She stopped in her tracks the moment she saw you standing, the papers from the drawer still in your hand.

"What are you doing?!" she asked, voice sharp with worry. "You shouldn’t be up. You barely started walking again."

Your eyes shifted past her shoulder.

And he was there.

Standing at the threshold.

That familiar face. Harsh features. Shadows hanging beneath his eyes like the weight of years of guilt carved into skin. And yet... his eyes were soft. The man you loved was looking at you with love.

Your hands trembled as you looked at him. You tried to speak, but the words stuck in your throat. You couldn’t describe what you felt. You were grateful to be alive, and yet… you were in the middle of a swamp. And every step was pulling you deeper.

Ellie turned to him as she realized he’d entered. Her brows were furrowed. "She’s up... I told her she needed rest."

Joel Miller knew the secrets would come to light one day—he just never thought they'd be so eager, while you were still limping through the aftermath.

Joel gave her a small nod. His gaze didn’t just fall on Ellie—it carried a weight as it passed over to you. He was calm. What he was thinking was impossible to read.

"Thanks for watching her, Ellie," he said. His voice was firm. But beneath it, something else lingered. A message: leave.

Ellie’s shoulders tensed slightly. She hesitated, as if she didn’t want to walk out that door. Her eyes moved back to you. Then to Joel. But Joel didn’t look away. It was like a silent message passed between them. About danger. About trust.

Finally, Ellie sighed. "Sandwich..." she said, setting the plate on the nightstand. "So she won’t go hungry."

Then she turned back. And as she stepped out the door, she cast one last glance back. As if it might be the last time she saw you.

And silence fell.

You were alone now.

Joel studied you for a few seconds. He’d noticed the papers in your hand—the ones from the drawer. His eyes drifted there, but he didn’t ask you anything directly.

You, on the other hand, couldn’t move. Your body and your mind were fighting the same war. The words in your hand, the man before you, Ellie’s strange silence…

You slowly placed the papers on the table. Your fingers were still trembling, but you made no sound. The weight of the moment was carried entirely by the silence. It felt like the air in the room had thickened, time sinking beneath your steps. You didn’t take your eyes off him.

And then… you started walking.

Unsteady, but resolute. Quiet, but stormy.

Your steps echoed across the wooden floor until you stood right in front of Joel.

Only a few inches separated you. And when you looked into his eyes, you saw the weight of years—pain, loss, and exhaustion. But you also saw something else… familiarity. As if… you’d been here before. As if his gaze had been calling you for years.

Joel parted his lips to speak. But that word… that first word… never made it out.

Because you spoke first. And your voice rose not from your throat, but from deep inside, from your soul.

“Have you ever heard of Redhill?”

Joel’s expression didn’t change. But that name, that familiar syllable, caused a flicker behind his eyes. He understood. But he didn’t speak. His eyes didn’t leave yours. He was waiting.

“It used to be a home,” you said. “It had walls. It had my father. And his faith… it kept me alive. He believed it was still possible to trust people. To build something with them.”

Your eyes filled with tears, but not a single drop fell.

“Then… that day came. Fire fell from the sky. Bullets rained. Screams, gunfire, blood… everything blurred together. And I… that day… as I carried my father’s lifeless body, I made a vow.”

Your voice cracked. But your words were heavy, steady, and sharp.

“I’d find the man who killed him. And I’d kill him. No matter what it cost.”

Joel was still looking at you. But the edges of his eyes had quivered just a fraction. Maybe it was just a trick of the light. Maybe it was his heart. But you saw it.

“A year and a half. I walked alone for a year and a half. Maps, abandoned roads, shadows… until… I saw you.”

This time, Joel’s brow furrowed slightly. He let out a breath without realizing it. But he still didn’t speak. He only listened.

There was a quiet waiting in his eyes. And a fear.

“You were a stranger,” you said. “And something inside me shattered the moment I saw you. I didn’t understand it. Because… I loved you. Beyond revenge, beyond hate… in that moment, I loved you.

And that feeling… it started to ruin everything.”

Your hands were clenched by your sides. Your eyes glistened with tears, but your voice… your voice didn’t waver anymore.

“As I loved you, I forgot my purpose. But there was something I never let go of… something that kept me tied to my past. I always had it with me. That watch. The watch of my father’s killer. It was always with me. When I slept, when I walked, when I fought. The only thing that reminded me why I was still alive.”

You studied Joel’s face carefully. And in that moment… a tiny muscle moved in his jaw. As if time shifted once more. But still… he remained silent.

“In this room… I looked for it. But it’s gone. Please, tell me I didn’t lose it. Tell me I didn’t lose my watch.”

Joel didn’t speak for a long time. It was as if the room had stopped breathing. Time had lodged itself in your chest like a bullet. It couldn’t move forward, couldn’t turn back. It could only wait. You were both inside a silent apocalypse.

Then... very slowly, Joel reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. It was a small, careful movement. As if he were carrying a grenade. His fingers, moved by a familiar habit, found it. And he pulled it out. That old, worn wristwatch — its scratches telling the story of the past.

It carried the weight of time. And now... something else too.

He held it in his palm for a while. His fingers brushed the surface, as if uncertain. But then... he took a step. Then another. Closing the space between you.

You held your breath, standing still.

One of your hands was clenched into a fist. Your heart... your heart was pounding wildly.

Joel let out a slow, trembling breath.

Then, with his fingertips, he turned the back of the watch.

Without ever looking away from you, he held it out.

But before... before he called you to take it, he showed you the two letters.

A faint engraving.

Not faded with time — on the contrary, deepened by it: J.M.

Those letters… and the truth you’d been chasing for years.

Joel still held the watch in his hand. His eyes were lost in shadow, but his voice… his voice came like an echo from the past. Deep. The voice of a fallen man.

“I remember that day… The watch had stopped. But I never took it off. Even if it couldn’t tell time anymore… it was the only promise I made after my daughter was gone. Not to forget.”

Joel’s voice held no anger, no defense. But he didn’t try to hide what was inside him. That sentence… was the gravestone he carried on his back.

In that moment… the world lost its sound. But the words crashed off the walls. Echoed in your head. The watch had stopped. But your time was only now beginning.

Your eyes widened. Your heartbeat changed. In that moment, all the pieces in your mind came together: Redhill, the promise you made your father, the single name echoing through the silence… And it slipped from your lips like a whisper: “It’s you.”

You took a step toward him. With everything burning in your eyes: “Joel Miller.”

And the past pierced the chest of the future.

In that moment, you couldn’t control your breath, nor the familiar rage that began to burn inside your eyes.

You locked your gaze on Joel’s. But what filled your eyes now wasn’t just the silence of the man you knew — it was someone else. A silhouette of a past stained with blood, ashes, and curses. In that moment, those eyes didn’t belong only to Joel. Behind those eyes were the ashes of Redhill. Behind those eyes lay your father, a single bullet in his head, lying on his back.

“You…” you began, your voice hoarse, tangled with breath. On your face was not just disappointment; there was the sharpness of betrayal. “You knew. All along. Who I was.” That last word felt like it scratched your throat.

Joel said nothing. He neither denied nor confirmed. His gaze fell to your hands — you were still holding the watch.

“You did it on purpose,” you said, stepping forward. “When you found me, when you saw who I was… you knew. And you said nothing. Why? Tell me, why?!” What came out of you wasn’t just pain; it was a cry made at the edge of a grave buried deep inside. “You made me fall in love with you,” you whispered. Your eyes were filled, but the tears didn’t fall. If they fell, you’d fall apart. If they fell, your rage would turn to helplessness. “You lied! You stayed silent. You hid your identity. And I…” You pointed to your chest. “I carried this every day, every night… this watch, this memory, this dead man! You… you stole them all from me!”

“You’re heartless.” The words slipped through your clenched teeth. You were so close now, you could feel Joel’s breath.

Joel lowered his head. As if trying to push the last word stuck inside him through his throat. From between his pale, cracked lips, a quiet “Y/N” escaped, but it didn’t echo in the room. Because the only thing cutting through the silence now was the roar of the emotions exploding inside.

“I never lied,” he said at last. His voice was heavy. So heavy, it was as if the words had given in to gravity. “I just… couldn’t tell the truth.” He looked up. The lines around his eyes looked deeper now. He was tired. But this tiredness wasn’t physical. It was the sorrow of a man who, after losing too much, believed he didn’t even deserve to live.

“I owed you a life,” he said, stepping forward. “But part of that life had already been taken from you. I couldn’t give it back. What was I supposed to do?” He paused, then continued with pain in his voice, “I didn’t tell you my name. I warned you. Again and again. I told you I wasn’t right for you. I did everything to keep you away. But… God knows… I couldn’t stay away from you.”

There was a tremble in his face now. His eyelids were quivering. His breath came in short bursts. He swallowed hard. It was as if another Joel had emerged from within him. Not the one Ellie knew — this was the man who hadn’t opened his heart to anyone since Sarah, and when he did, it shattered everything.

“I didn’t want you because I love you,” he said. “Because loving you… was hell. Loving you was like staring into the face of every person I ever killed. In your eyes… they all died again.” His voice cracked. For the first time, his eyes filled with tears. “I wish we’d met in another way.” His shoulders sank. “I wish this path… wasn’t so damn cursed.”

The air had grown cold. The house was silent. In the silence, the only thing echoing was a broken breath—like the outcry of a scream held back. In that moment, time neither moved forward nor stayed in the past.

Your fingers trembled; it was unclear whether from anger, the cold, or the weight in your chest you could no longer bear. Your eyes were locked on Joel Miller—not as a man, but as a ghost. He was the embodiment of a shadow hidden among memories, now returned in flesh and blood.

Your throat was dry; the words burned as they left your lips.

“I… I set out on this path to kill you, Joel Miller. Not just for my father… but for Redhill. The curse of all of them settled on my shoulders like a burden. At the end of this road, I was supposed to shoot you!”

Your voice cracked. Your eyes filled, but no tears fell; hatred was a feeling that didn’t allow tears.

“But do you know what happened? I fell in love with the man I swore to kill! In this damned world, I loved you! How could… how could it be like this?! This isn’t how I imagined this scene. This confrontation. This truth.”

You gripped your hair with your hands, turned away as you tried to control your breath, but looked at him again.

“I hate myself. For loving a man like you… I want to die!”

With those words, it was as if the silence cracked in the room. The only sound was the faint creak of a footstep on the wooden floor. Joel, without saying a single word, slowly reached for his waist. His hand found a gleaming piece of metal. He let out a deep, weary breath.

SIG P226: A semi-automatic pistol favored by federal agents and some military units—reliable, trusted. Joel always trusted this weapon. It never let him down. Aged, but loyal. Just like him.

In the silence, the sound of the mechanism pulling back echoed like a chilling whisper: “CLICK.” But it wasn’t the sound of death—it was the sound of surrender.

Joel raised the gun to his chest. But now, its loyalty had changed.

He turned the pistol and held it out to you, slowly, deliberately. The grip—marked with his fingerprints—faced you. The muzzle pointed downward. His fingers were ready to let go. His eyes, bound to the past.

“Take it,” Joel said. His voice was dry, hoarse, but steady. “I’m right here. Do whatever you have to do. Give me what I deserve… let your finger be on the trigger.”

You stared at the gun as if frozen. Your hand hovered in the air for several seconds. Your breathing grew erratic.

When you held the weapon, its coldness spread from your fingertips to your heart. With trembling hands, you reached for the trigger, but what you were really touching was his fate—or maybe your own. In that moment, time stopped; neither the weight of the past nor the possibility of the future remained. Only you, him, and the decision in your hands.

He was looking at you. Without saying a word. He offered no defense, no apology. In his eyes, there was only a quiet acceptance—as if he had long been waiting for this moment, as if every sleepless night had prepared him for this.

You didn’t look away. You didn’t want to. Because you were supposed to hate him. Because once, you had sworn. That you would kill him. When you stared at your father’s lifeless body in the ruined streets of Redhill, when the hopes of your people were crushed underfoot, when you set out on this journey whispering his name… it had all started that day. And it was all… supposed to end today.

But everything had changed, hadn’t it?

That stranger was no longer a stranger. The fury you carried in your heart had been pierced by the nights you’d shared with him.

You applied pressure to the trigger. Just a little… just a click. But your finger couldn’t go further. Because his face didn’t change. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t beg. He had surrendered himself to you.

“Do it,” said his eyes. “Do what must be done.”

You couldn’t do it.

You lowered the gun.

Your arm trembled. Your shoulder dropped.

Tears slid down your cheeks, but you didn’t say a word.

Slowly, you sank to your knees. You placed the gun on the ground with care.

The sound… that metallic clatter… hit your ears heavier than bullets.

You rose to your feet.

Joel stayed silent for a long time.

The gun was still on the floor.

His old leather jacket rustled faintly; even the dried bloodstains were just shadows now.

He looked into your eyes—only your eyes.

Then, suddenly, his voice cracked with an unexpected tone.

“Why didn’t you?”

It was such a simple, bare question… there was nowhere left to run from it.

“You should’ve killed me,” he said again, his eyes locked with yours.

“You were so close… pulling the trigger was just a second.

And… I deserve it.”

You didn’t move.

Your hands were clenched into fists, but they weren’t shaking anymore.

It was like you had shed all hatred, all rage.

Only silence remained.

Then your voice, breaking in a whisper-like confession, came out:

“Because I… already knew.”

Joel furrowed his brow, tilting his head slightly.

You kept talking, your voice layered with depth.

“When we were in Northpoint… when I was close to repairing the device. I made contact with Jackson. Someone named Tommy answered. He asked, ‘Is Joel Miller with you?’ The words were hard to catch through the static. But I ignored it, wanted to think I was being paranoid. Tried to convince myself I’d misheard.”

Your voice cracked again, but there was no stopping now.

“I knew. For days… maybe weeks… I knew.”

Your eyes locked onto Joel’s.

There was no fear left in your gaze, no denial.

Only the raw truth—like an open wound, still bleeding.

“I forgot the promise I made my father. I opened my heart to the man I was supposed to hate. And now, I have neither revenge… nor peace. Only a love cursed—born from the ashes of everything it burned.”

You cried for the first time. But quietly. “I thought you betrayed me. But I’m the one who betrayed. My father’s grave. My people. Justice… Myself.”

Joel stood frozen where he was, your words echoing around him like ghosts.

He couldn’t run. Couldn’t turn back.

Your voice still echoed in his ears—that voice which had once been the only light in his darkness.

But now, that light was setting itself ablaze before his very eyes. That strong, ever-composed face of his…

It looked too tired to carry its secrets anymore.

His eyes were full—but no tears fell.

Joel Miller had stopped crying the day Sarah’s body grew heavy in his arms. And now, maybe for the first time since then, he’d been struck in that same place again.

Perhaps that’s why he stayed silent.

Because words… never bring anything back.

But in that silence, there was a scream.

A scream of a man who wanted to reach for you, but had no right to touch.

Joel Miller had survived death.

But not you.

Not the shattered light in your eyes.

And in that moment, he knew one thing for certain: Love doesn’t always heal.

Sometimes the greatest hell is looking into the eyes of the woman who still loves you.

He slowly straightened up.

Took a step forward.

Then stopped.

And in a hollow voice, he asked only one thing:

“So what happens now?”

That night, you made the decision that changed your life. And maybe you'll never know... whether you did the right thing, or made the biggest mistake of all.

When you straightened your back, your body still ached. The pain beneath your ribs was a sharp reminder of wounds that hadn’t quite healed—but even that pain was nothing compared to the wound in your soul, much deeper, much sharper.

As your knees trembled, your eyes locked on Joel. He was still there. Silent, wounded, and regretful. But a very different war raged inside your heart.

There was a moment of silence. Then you spoke.

"I'm leaving," you said. Your voice was calm, but filled with ashes. "I can’t wake up every morning and share the same sky with you."

Your words hung in the air like a blade. Joel didn’t say a word.

You took a step. You staggered slightly, but gathered yourself. Your gaze still fixed on him. And as you spoke your final words, it was as if you were carving them into your own tombstone:

"Joel, because the more I forgive you... the more I hate myself."

When your words ended, everything seemed to stop. You’d come to understand that a love soaked in blood and betrayal couldn’t be silenced. You weren’t angry at Joel anymore—you were angry at yourself. You realized you couldn’t carry this weight.

And Joel—he didn’t fall apart when he first heard your words… but when he first felt what they meant, his knees gave out.

When you said you were leaving, your voice didn’t even sound like your own. It was foreign, cold, determined. Love had turned you into a stranger. And there was no forgiveness left—not for Joel, not for yourself.

Joel didn’t speak at first. As if every word might drive you further away. But when you turned your back and took a step, he moved. His fingers, strong but trembling, gripped your shoulders. He still had strength—but it wasn’t to hurt you anymore. It was to keep you from leaving.

"You can’t go," he said, his voice torn like a prayer. "Not like this… not in this state… you won’t survive out there alone. You’ll die, Y/N."

But you lowered your head slightly. Your eyes weren’t on Joel—they were fixed on your past.

"Maybe… I should," you said. But it wasn’t defiance. It was a sentence. Accepted. Your fate. And when Joel understood that, he lost his breath. "I think I deserve this," you said. "Redhill... needs me, yes. But if I return with this stain inside me, I’ll be neither leader nor daughter. So maybe… this is how it ends. In the middle of the road. Quietly."

Joel stepped closer, his hands still on your shoulders. But this time, they were a refuge.

"I did something to you, yes," he said. "I hurt people. I’ve been doing it for a long time. You know who I am now. But there’s one thing I need you to understand…"

He paused. His eyes pierced into yours. As tired as the dead, as hopeless as a prisoner.

"Along the way… watching you… each night by the fire, when you turned your back and couldn’t sleep, when you woke up from your nightmares… my heart was always in your hands."

You stayed silent. Maybe you heard him. Maybe you didn’t. But Joel wasn’t expecting an answer anymore. This wasn’t a confession. It was a moment of punishment.

"Y/N…" he said softly, his voice the final hope of a man breaking apart. "I loved you. I still do. But no matter what you do, you’re right. I broke you. What I did to your father… to myself… I’ve already sentenced myself. Every day, every hour, every breath…"

You shook your head slowly, still locking eyes with him.

"It wasn’t just you, Joel," you said, your voice cracked. "I betrayed too. Before my father’s blood even dried… I loved you. And that’s the one thing I can’t forgive."

Joel’s eyes widened. Because for the first time, the guilt that once crushed only him had now begun to bury you too.

"When I made contact with Jackson… when I was in Northpoint… I found out who you were," you continued. "But I couldn’t say it. Because saying it… meant losing you. And losing you… meant losing everything."

Your lips trembled. Joel tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat. In that moment, his hands fell. Because you weren’t holding him anymore. You had chosen to walk into your own hell.

As you slowly turned your back, Joel’s eyes clung to you. You were leaving. Taking your heart with you. And leaving him alone. Just like how it all began. In silence. Without gunshots. But with a far deadlier pain.

Joel was still there. Standing. Wounded. His blood-covered hands were still holding you—as if letting go would send you plummeting off a cliff, or worse, he would lose everything. There was an unusual panic in his eyes. Joel Miller, always so cold-blooded before killing a man, had now lost that calm. Had he ever been this afraid in a war? He didn’t know. But the thought of losing you… that weighed heavier than any hell he had ever endured.

"Y/N..." he said again. His voice was hoarse, torn from his throat. "Don’t leave me now. No matter what... we’ve come all this way together. Don’t say it’s over. Please... we can find another way."

"Joel, it’s over," you said. Your voice didn’t tremble. "This path... it only leads to a grave."

Joel staggered. As if your words had punched him in the gut. His eyes lingered on you. His lips moved but no words came out. He stepped forward again, maybe ready to fall to his knees and beg. That would’ve been a sacred fall for Joel Miller. And he could only do it for you.

"I’ll do whatever you want," he said. "If you’re going back to Redhill… we’ll go together. I won’t pretend nothing happened, but… I can’t stay away from you. I thought I had a future with you. Maybe it’s too late. Maybe it’s madness. But..."

You didn’t look at him. You slowly reached for your backpack. You weren’t ready, not really. Your wounds were still bleeding, your bones still begged for rest—but staying meant not healing. It meant rotting deeper. Joel’s voice echoed behind you, but it had already turned into a memory. Your fingers were cold, like every vein inside you. Your eyes locked on a single point. You had to repeat to yourself that it was over. Otherwise, you’d take it all back.

You turned around one last time. Your eyes met. Joel wasn’t begging anymore. He was just standing there, stripped bare in loneliness. His lips quivered, but the tremble didn’t come from cold—it came from the loss gnawing at him. Something had broken in the depth of his gaze.

"I need to pack," you said.

Joel remained silent. As if even that line gave him hope. He looked at you like he was thinking, So you're not leaving right away. But that was what Joel Miller never understood: the journey had already begun in your heart. Goodbyes don’t start at the door—they begin when something inside finally lets go.

And in that moment—maybe he would speak again, maybe take another step—but you beat him to it. You slowly walked forward, standing directly in front of him. Your body was tired, your eyes as dark as the night. As his hand reached for your shoulder, you suddenly pushed against his chest. He stumbled back toward the door. For a second, he didn’t understand what was happening. But then his back hit the doorframe, and reality returned.

"Y/N—"

The door shut. Loud. Heavy.

He heard the turn of the lock. That sound hit sharper than a gunshot. His hands no longer trembled. The decision had been made.

Joel stood frozen before the door. The silence inside was louder than the wind outside. His palms curled into fists. He didn’t knock. Because he knew now: it wasn’t the door that had closed—an entire lifetime had.

And you, inside, were breathing. Slow. Heavy. You’d probably start packing a bag. Take some bandages. A little food. But most importantly: you’d leave your heart behind that door. It had grown too heavy to carry any longer.

This time, he didn’t want you to die. But he no longer had the courage to stop you. And maybe this time… it really was the end.

61 notes · View notes

divaofmads · 4 months ago

Text

A Love Meant to Burn

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader (OC)

Chapter I | Chapter II: Wounds and Kisses | Chapter III

Gif by @iamasaddie Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Summary: Y/N, whose father was executed by Joel Miller, sets out for revenge—only to find herself falling for the man she swore to destroy. Every answer is shadowed by deeper secrets as love and hatred intertwine. This is a passionate reckoning that asks: is salvation found in forgiveness… or in the kill?

Chapter Summary: As Y/N begins to heal the wounds of her dark past through the trust she places in Joel, he silently burns with the truth that he killed her father. While their closeness deepens into a passionate love, the devastation beneath that bond draws nearer as they approach Jackson.

Word Count: 10k

!Warnings!: +18, Fluff (Romantic softness, emotional moments), Hurt/Comfort dynamic, Oral Sex to Female, Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Soft!Joel / Protective!Joel, Angst, Slow-burn romance with emotional conflict, Age gap dynamics, Post-apocalyptic setting (violence implied, survival context), Sex with Stranger, Mature Themes (Emotional intensity, implied intimacy), English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional

The day hung heavy, like a lament falling eastward.

The sky was cloaked in rust-colored clouds. On the horizon, it wasn’t the sun that seemed to rise—it was the smoke of a past still burning. The wind wandered down Redhill’s dusty roads, licking the wooden walls of old houses as it passed. It wasn’t just the people saying goodbye; the earth itself seemed ready to let go.

Your horse was ready.

A broad-shouldered, gray mustang. A heavy saddle on its back. Ammunition pouches hung at the sides, a sack of dried meat, an old canteen, a few syringes and bandages—all packed with care. A rifle slung over your shoulder, a knife at your hip, a silenced pistol strapped to your thigh.

Not preparations for survival—but for killing.

You stood in the heart of Redhill, beside your horse. An old but sturdy leather jacket hugged your frame, maps and notes tucked into its lining. Your hair whipped in the wind, your eyes fixed on a single point: the horizon. That was the road that led to Joel Miller.

Nico appeared beside you. He was young. His eyes still held hope. He had fought beside you the night Cutter fell, escaped that hell with you. Now, his shoulders bore the weight of worry.

“Don’t go alone. Let me come. I’ll carry the map, help set camp... Every day someone takes that road, and they never come back, Y/N. Think of us.”

You silently checked the cinch strap. Stroked the horse’s neck. You didn’t answer. Because the answer was a storm inside you: I have to do this alone.

Reuben stayed silent, at first. But in the end, he couldn’t hold back. He stepped toward you, his eyes laced with that familiar wounded fury.

“This isn’t a search anymore. It’s an obsession. Joel Miller... what will you do when you find him? Just kill him? What if he tells you why he dropped the watch? What if that night wasn’t what you think?”

Your eyes locked onto his. Your words cut between you like a rusted blade. “That man killed my father. The reason doesn’t matter. The story doesn’t matter. There’s only one moment that needs to be made right, Reuben. And I’ll carve it in his blood.”

Reuben’s lips parted, but he said nothing. His eyes welled up. Still, he stepped back. Because he knew you. And in your gaze, he didn’t see a decision—he saw a vow.

Rory stood further off. He didn’t come forward from the crowd. He simply bowed his head. He, too, knew that some roads had to be walked alone.

You climbed onto the saddle. The horse snorted gently. The crowd around you fell quiet. Children swallowed their words, women averted their eyes. Everyone knew they were witnessing a moment—the leader of Redhill riding out alone. A story to be retold for years.

You secured your backpack. Checked your weapons. Then you pulled out the most important item from your pocket: a watch with a cracked face.

You had found it beside your father’s corpse, lying in blood and dust. Two initials carved into the back: J. M.

Now, those letters rested between your fingers.

Time had stopped that day.

But for you, it would begin again now.

You stared at the watch’s face. Your vision darkened, your heart clenched. Joel Miller.

You whispered his name, softly, yet with resolve. “I will find you. And I’ll take everything from you.”

Then you pulled the reins. The horse neighed, reared up. Dust rose, the shadows of the past fell behind you.

And you left Redhill.

No song played at that moment.

But if one had, it would’ve been a dirge written in death, rage, and vengeance. Because this was no longer a journey.

This was fate.

And at the end of the road, either Joel Miller would die…

Or you would.

One Year Later...

The sky was split in shades of gray, like a cracked bone.

A cold, dry wind blew from the east, clinging to your horse’s mane and your hair like a banner of vengeance. The ground hadn’t seen rain in days; it had cracked open. You galloped without stepping on those cracks.

Each strike of your horse’s hooves sent a shiver through the earth,

Every step, a bullet to the past.

Every breath, a challenge to the future.

You rode with your chest held high, pushing against the wind.

The rifle slung over your shoulder was not a burden but a reminder: of who you were, and why you were on this road.

A silenced pistol strapped tight to your belt, a slim steel blade at your left hip. They had become part of your body with every step. The way you sat in the saddle was like a warrior clad in armor. You were alone, but never incomplete.

Your eyes were sharp, your jaw locked, your mind sealed with one name:

Joel Miller.

As you rode, you tried to paint his face in your mind.

How old was he now? Was he tired, or still a ghost trailing death?

What were his eyes like? Cold and gray, or dark with regret?

And when he saw you, what would he say?

Would he remember that night? The gun pointed at your father, the blood spilled on Redhill’s soil?

Or would he try to kill you before saying a word?

But in your mind, he said nothing.

Because your fury had already pressed a blade to his lips.

“My name is Y/N. I’ve come to settle a score.”

That sentence echoed in your head with every gallop.

Days passed.

At night, you camped alone. You didn’t light fires—flames attracted both infected and the living.

Instead, you tied your horse quietly to a tree and slept on edge in the dark.

You followed the trail. Abandoned outposts by the roadside, dried bloodstains, places where civilization once existed...

And danger, of course, waited in ambush.

A gang started tracking you.

While searching for water at an old gas station perched on a ridge, you noticed them.

They weren’t just scavengers. They were coordinated, signaling each other.

But you were a hunter who had caught their scent.

Before stepping into the station, you noticed tire marks on the ground.

The twitch of dry branches beneath the trees.

A glint of a blade behind a rusted fridge to your left...

It was a trap.

But you thought faster than they did.

You crouched, left your horse behind the trees.

Your hands went to your ammo box. Silently, you screwed on the suppressor.

The first one—a lookout with only one eye—never saw you. A bullet opened a hole in his forehead.

The second and third shouted. But it was already too late.

As you ran toward the station, you lit the Molotov you’d left on the ground.

Glass, gasoline, and fire came together.

As the gang scattered, you slipped in through the back door.

You stabbed one, shot another in the throat with his own gun.

But that wasn’t all, because inside, you found a map.

Dirty, bloodstained, old paper.

A small settlement marked in red: Jackson.

Below it was scribbled: “Eli’s guy. Ex-smuggler. J. Miller???”

You felt your heart stop for a beat.

Jackson...

Eli’s guy...

Joel Miller.

It wasn’t confirmation, but it was a trail.

If it was real, it was your first step toward the target.

But you hadn’t reached a star yet.

The darkness was still thick. You were still at the beginning. You didn’t know if Joel was even still in Jackson or alive.

But now, you had a place.

A direction.

And a hope that fanned the fire inside you.

“Found you, bastard...”

Your whisper disappeared into the silence of the night.

You called your horse, mounted the saddle again.

You rode toward the horizon, but this was no longer a journey. It had become a hunt.

As you tucked the map into your belt pouch, only one sentence crossed your mind:

“I haven’t forgotten you, Joel Miller. I can’t rewind time, but I’ll be the one to mark your final hour.”

Snow was not a silence—it was a threat.

Each flake drifted from the sky not to soothe, but to sear, its chill sinking not just into your skin, but into your bones.

This was nature’s final warning: this far, you may come. Beyond this, a price must be paid.

The mountain passes leading to Jackson were now only lines on a map. In reality, they were icy trails skirting cliffs, rope bridges replacing collapsed ones, and cemeteries buried under snow.

One night, during a blizzard so thick you had to set up camp, you heard the sound.

First, a rasp. Then, a scream.

When you grabbed your weapon and rushed out, it was already too late.

A stalker, with infected flesh hanging from its eye, was tearing into your horse’s throat.

You burned them both.

But when you looked at Cobalt’s lifeless body, your breath caught for the first time.

Your horse’s corpse had taken both a loyal friend and the silent shadow that carried your burden.

Days passed.

Now, you had only a backpack, two weapons, and a steel knife.

Food? A few cans, a piece of dried meat.

When you reached a town, it was rubble: houses burnt down, signs toppled, windows shattered.

But something caught your eye behind a toppled bus in the middle of the street. Bodies.

Rotting—but recent.

This was the work of a gang.

Man-made horror.

You stayed in hiding. Scanned the area with your eyes, finger on the trigger.

Two men, crouched behind cover, were speaking.

Their voices tangled with the howling wind, but one word stood out:

“Jackson.”

One of them was holding a map in his lap. You waited. Patiently.

Despite the dagger of cold, you stayed motionless for hours…

When night fell, you moved silently.

You took the first man out with a suppressed bullet lodged in his throat.

The second you silenced with your knife.

When you grabbed the map, your hands trembled.

Whether from cold or a rekindled hope you didn’t know.

The map was old. But there were a few notes scrawled on it:

“Jackson, last confirmed.”

“Ex-Firefly? Dangerous. Avoid.”

You dragged your finger over that name.

You were one step closer to the trail of Joel Miller.

But you were at your limit.

Your shoulder was bruised, your feet swollen with infection, your stomach screaming in pain.

As you walked, your head would sometimes spin, your ears ringing.

But still, you stood tall. Because this wasn’t just a walk—it was a vowed journey.

And at the end of this path stood a face whose name you knew: Joel Miller.

When you collapsed beneath a tree, the sky above was thick with snow.

You stared into the void with dulled eyes, and slowly, your eyelids fell shut.

The cold was no longer gnawing just at your body—it was devouring your soul.

As you collapsed beneath the tree, your legs barely carried you anymore. The cracks on your hands were bleeding, your fingernails darkened with rot. Your feet were swollen; the cold mixed with infection, and in places your skin was riddled with open wounds, oozing pus without even the mercy of a scab. The trembling in your knees wasn’t just from fatigue—your body was giving out.

You were giving out.

Since your horse died, sleep had become nothing more than the act of closing your eyes for a while. But this time… this time was different.

When you shut your eyes, it wasn’t just darkness.

There was a voice.

“End this road… my girl… that man is still breathing…”

The voice was familiar. It came from deep inside, from somewhere that crushed your chest. It was your father’s voice. That earthy tone mixed with tobacco—the one you used to hear every morning, long forgotten until now.

“Don’t let him live… not before you die…”

The wind turned to a moan. The whispers grew louder.

Branches thrashed, the earth beat with a pulse. Your eyelids grew heavy. Your breath faded into the dark.

CRRKKK!

A twig snapped.

When your eyes opened again, the cold was no longer in your bone. It was pounding in your ears. You shifted. Your hand accidentally knocked over a snow-covered tin can.

Clink.

You froze. Your breath halted. Something, no, several things, moved. The silence broke into groans.

“HRRRkk, kkkrrhhh…”

They were getting closer. Creatures that found their prey by sound, with no eyes. Clickers.

Three of them. Maybe four.

One of them creeping between the trees had a face split down the middle. Its teeth jutted out from its throat. It wasn’t human. It was death, walking.

You tried to stand. Your knees collapsed .You pulled out your gun. No suppressor. Bullet count: Seven.

The first clicker, shot straight in the head. The sound drew the others. They snarled and turned toward you. One got so close, you could feel its breath. You pulled your knife and drove it into its lower jaw. But the other one… was faster. It lunged. Threw you to the ground.

Your shoulder slammed into stone, stars burst in your vision. You screamed. It tore through your throat. “HELP ME!”

No one came. No one would. You were alone. Alone again.

Your scream was muffled by the snow, mocked by the mountain’s echo. The clicker had you pinned.Its claws reached for your throat…

You fired your last bullet. Right into its mouth. It exploded. Blood and flesh spattered your face.

A moment of silence. But your body couldn’t keep going. Your shoulder bled, your chest heaved with pain. There was nothing left.

You slowly leaned back against the tree. The cold blanketed you like a shroud. Your eyes dropped shut.

One more click, no. A footstep. Heavy. Steady. Leaving prints in the snow. Approaching with an unbroken rhythm.

Your eyes half-opened. You saw through a haze.

A face… Half-covered in beard. Eyes full of history. Eyes that had seen too much and forgotten none of it. A leather jacket, dusted with snow. A rifle over his shoulder. A pistol at his hip, worn but well-maintained. Pain written in the lines of his face.

He stepped closer. He was looking at you. Just as you reached out a hand toward him, your breath turned to mist, and your eyes closed.

Darkness came again.

Cold…

It wasn’t just the cold of the earth or the dry snow brushing your skin—it was stubborn, silent, and unfamiliar.

You felt suspended somewhere between dream and death, perched on the edge between consciousness and oblivion. Your chest rose and fell, but your soul had buried itself deep, waiting motionless in a body too tired to carry its own weight.

And then a shadow fell over you.

A heavy, deliberate step, carrying the weight of a life long lived.

The crunch of half-frozen leaves and mud merged with the low howl of the wind.

When the man knelt beside you, he made no sound.

He scanned the area, holding his rifle at throat level. His eyes—caught somewhere between gray and brown—shifted from your face to the tracks in the snow, like peering through a mist.

Soon, his attention locked onto the shards of glass embedded in your body, the bruises blooming beneath your skin, and your frostbitten fingers stiff with cold.

“Goddamn…”

His voice was taut and weary, like wind groaning through the branches of a dead tree.

As he examined your wounds, his brow furrowed. He hesitated before touching you. He reached out. He pulled back. His face tightened. He closed his eyes.

It was as if long-buried graves inside him had begun to stir from years of silence.

Then, as he was trying to turn you around, something small and metal slipped out of your backpack.

It hit the frozen earth with a faint chime that rooted the man in place.

He sank to his knees. With cautious fingers, he reached for it. It was a watch—small, round, and familiar. He turned it in his palm. On the back… “J.M.” Two small letters.

It stared back at him like a wound in time.

His pulse quickened. His throat dried. His eyes returned to your limp, nearly lifeless body. He inhaled deeply, but the weight in his chest wasn’t the kind you could breathe through.

“How... how is this possible?”

The watch didn’t tick anymore, but the memories inside it were still turning.

He had lost it years ago—maybe during a firefight, or in the ashes of a burned-out camp.

Maybe buried with a body. And now, it was in the hands of this girl.

Who was she? Why did she have this watch?

And why had this silent curse from Joel Miller’s past suddenly crawled this close to him?

His gaze drifted off. He didn’t want to stay. Didn’t want to leave either.

“Just walk away,” he muttered.

“Everyone carries their own damn grave on this road.”

But even gravestones have names carved into them.

And this girl didn’t deserve to be buried with a name that wasn’t hers.

He clenched his jaw. Sank into the snow beside you and slid his arm beneath yours.

Your body was so heavy—not just with your weight, but with the curse of the road you’d walked.

A weak moan escaped your throat.

But you didn’t wake. Your eyes remained cracked open, lips pale, fingers near frozen.

He turned to his horse.

Lifted you onto the saddle, holding you in front of him.

Your head collapsed against his chest. But his eyes weren’t on you—they were gazing into the distance, through the snowfall, into the past, into a life long gone.

And as he tugged his horse forward, boots sinking into the snow, he whispered a sentence—barely a prayer, not quite hope.

Just the echo of a burden too old to shed:

“Jackson’s far… but not as far as you.”

And then he rode into the unknown.

The sky darkened. The snow swallowed every trace.

And you… you no longer heard the ticking of the watch in your ears.

You carried it now—inside the heartbeat beneath your chest.

The shelter used to be a Ranger outpost. Hidden deep in the forest, tucked beneath a winding mountain path, it had become nearly invisible over the years. The logs were moss-covered, the roof partially collapsed, but the door stood firm. The walls were thick enough to block the cold wind outside. Inside, the air reeked of dampness—mold and the rot of forgotten times seeped from every splinter of wood.

When the man took you into his arms, your body was nearly frozen. Your fingers were purple, your skin dry, your lips cracked. The deeper wounds hadn’t even had time to scab over—pus had seeped into them. A long infected gash from a claw ran down your back, a bullet had grazed your right thigh, and your wrists were cramped from exhaustion. You were so weak that even the arms carrying you trembled with guilt.

He laid you down on the broken-down bed inside the camp. Threw a dry blanket over you, then spread an old medical kit on the floor.

Inside were a syringe of antibiotics, clean bandages, a scalpel, needle and thread. He had nothing else—just years of experience and the instinct to survive.

He disinfected his hands. Heated a small metal bowl on the stove. He started with the worst of your wounds—the claw mark on your back.

Each time he tried to clean the wound with gauze, your body flinched involuntarily. You were murmuring in delirium.

The same word, over and over again. “Daddy...”

Your voice, in that moment, was like a child’s. Vulnerable, broken, filled with longing.

Joel’s hands paused. His eyes locked onto you. He brushed back the dirty hair stuck to your forehead. That restless sleep flickering beneath your eyelids reminded him of his own daughter.

Someone who had once laid her head against his chest, mumbling in her sleep in the dark...

But time was cruel. Now it was your head resting against his chest. You were a stranger, but the curve of your body, the rhythm of your breathing, the pain you carried—somewhere in the rusted corner of his heart, it stirred something.

After cleaning your wound, he warmed the needle and injected the antibiotic into your muscle. Every movement was silent. He carefully cut your pants with the knife. Examined the bullet graze, removed the dead skin, then pressed antiseptic on it. Your skin burned like fire.

Joel placed a cold compress on your forehead, kept your lips moist, and occasionally lifted your head to help you drink water.

One day passed. Night fell.

The wood crackled in the small stove, and you were still asleep.

There, the watch he had just slipped into his pocket...

He slowly took it out and held it in his palm.

With his thumb, he touched the back of the watch again. “J.M.”

He paused. Something stirred in his mind.

Like opening the lid of a dusty chest… memory first wandered through the fog, then began to sharpen.

Redhill.

A small settlement. Once full of traders and sentries.

Joel had gone there with the Vultures.

Back then, the job was to “clear” enemy territories—either drive the people out, or silence them. Redhill’s leader... he was a strong man. There had been a confrontation. Blood was spilled. Y/F/N... Joel had shot him himself. At close range.

The man must’ve been Joel’s age. There had been no surrender in his eyes. There was no surrender in his eyes.

And that watch had been on Joel’s wrist.

His breath caught. He clutched at the ache that ran down to his wrists, as if trying to suppress it. He put the watch down. Raised his head. Looked at you.

Your skin still pale, your eyes still closed, your breath shallow. But your pain was etched clearly on your face.

“Was that your father?” he whispered, only to himself.

“Did I kill him?”

And in that moment, he understood.

The woman lying before him was the very sin he had carried on his back for years. The watch was in his hand.

Your words, the voice in his dreams, the cries for help… they all pointed in one direction.

You were looking for Joel Miller.

And he had saved you. Slowly nursed you back to life. That warmth he had felt when he first held you against his chest—it was the herald of a disaster.

But now it was too late. Because in that moment, it was as if fate had already begun to write its story.

You hadn’t opened your eyes yet, but Joel Miller was looking at his enemy with compassion for the first time.

For the first time, someone who didn’t deserve forgiveness... wanted to be forgiven.

Your eyelids felt like lead. Amid the muffled hum echoing inside your mind, there was a voice—one that reminded you to breathe. But that voice was always there, like a patient morning. Like a tone pulled from fire.

When you finally opened your eyes, you stared at the ceiling under a dim light. The beams were veiled with cobwebs. The scent in the air... wood, antiseptic, and a faint sour trace of burned skin.

Then, when you turned your head to the right, you saw the man in the shadows. He was silent. Cleaning a knife in his hand. Slowly, carefully. His face, caught between shadow and light, was etched with lines carved by time and regret. His hair was slightly unkempt, his beard darkened.

But his eyes... In his eyes was the solitude of another era.

When you stirred, he flinched. He set the knife aside. Came closer.

He asked only with his eyes: “How do you feel?”

Your throat was dry. Your voice barely came out. “Water…”

He touched your lips with a piece of cloth. Even a few drops helped you cling to life.

As you laid your head back onto the pillow, you saw he was still watching you.

As if he was trying to memorize every contour of your face, every wound.

“Why did you save me?” Your voice was clearer this time. It was part defiance, part search for meaning.

He said nothing. Then bent his knees and sat in the chair beside the bed.

“It had to be done,” he said. His voice was deep, rough, yet soft.

You frowned.

“What’s your name?”

He paused. His eyes lingered on you.

Then he looked away. Calmly, he cut the word like a blade. “Stranger.” No more, no less.

Silence settled into the room.

The fire in the stove crackled and sparked. Each pop flung the unspoken between you into the air.

“And you?” he asked then. “Do I need to ask who you are, what you’re looking for?”

You turned your head back to the ceiling.

A smile tried to push through your throat, but it felt more like pain.

“I’m someone who’s lost,” you said. “I’m looking for someone. But… I’m not so sure why anymore.”

This time, he said nothing. But his jaw tightened.

The vein beside his chin grew more defined.

Fragments of dreams that reminded you of that night slammed into your mind. Flames, screams, your father’s eyes, and a bullet from within the darkness. A silent vow.

But now, in this man’s eyes, there was something that made you more than a stranger. Not just a saved soul…

He was a spirit tired enough not to judge, yet observant enough to see the darkness you were hiding.

Joel Miller… acted as if he didn’t know you. But in the depth of his heart, he recognized you—from the shame he buried years ago. The watch was still in his pocket.

His hands kept going to that pocket, as if to check it. He couldn’t give it to you. Not yet. He didn’t have the courage.

The stove’s dim orange light timidly illuminated the dark corners of the shelter. The wind brushing across the roof occasionally made the wooden walls tremble. In the snow-covered mountains, this little world existed only through your shared breath.

You, leaning against the pillows in the bed, saw Joel approaching with narrowed eyes. In his hand: a roll of bandages, a small metal box, a bottle of disinfectant—and a muffled silence.

“This is going to hurt a little,” he said in a low voice. “All you need to do… is endure.”

He carefully unwrapped the bandage on your shoulder. He examined the dried blood, the cracked skin, the edges of the wound filled with pus. When he reached your torso, he pushed back the torn edges of your shirt. When the warmth of his hand touched your skin, you felt something different for the first time.

Not pain. A pull. You realized your body was focusing on that contact independently from you.

"Your hands aren’t cold," you whispered.

"You seem used to this."

His eyes -carrying all the shades of brown- met yours.

There was something in his gaze. As if what you said echoed a voice he remembered. But still, he frowned and looked down.

"Getting used to something usually means it’s not good for you," he said.

"I’ve seen too many wounds. Ones that never closed… and some I caused myself."

That last sentence hung in the air.

You held your breath. Joel poured antiseptic on a cotton swab and pressed it to your wound. The pain burned through you, but you didn’t make a sound. You only clenched your teeth. And when Joel looked up, there was a hint of respect in his eyes. A silent admiration for something unbroken.

"I still don’t know your name," you said, your voice soft but cautious.

"Stranger... does that still apply?"

He shrugged. Avoiding your eyes, he replied,

"It does. Anything more... might be dangerous right now."

There was shelter in that sentence. A desire to protect himself... not from you, but from what he might hear from you. And you knew that.

Because you were doing the same thing.

"Do you think," you asked, "a person can choose not to know certain things?"

Joel stayed silent for a while. He carefully wrapped the bandage around your arm. Every movement was slow, measured. As if touching you required not just physical, but emotional distance too.

"Because once you know," he finally said,

"everything changes. Sometimes... there’s no going back."

Your eyes lingered on his. You were about to say something, but his hand settled on your shoulder.

"Now... I need to get you on your feet," he said.

"You need to take a few steps before your muscles atrophy."

You nodded. Slowly, with his help, you stood. Your knees trembled, your scars ached deep inside. But you were standing. Leaning on him.

You took a step together.

The shelter was small but wide enough; despite the snow-covered, leaking roof, it was still breathable in here. Your steps were heavy and unsteady; as your feet touched the ground, it wasn’t the pain of your bruises you felt the most... but the warmth of where he held you. Joel’s hand on your waist wasn’t just support. That hand... was like a memory reaching out from the darkness to keep you alive. And you, in the palm of a stranger… were trying to walk in the warmth of a man you didn’t know, but somehow had no choice but to trust.

You paused every five steps. Your chest tightened. Joel immediately slowed down. He matched his pace to yours. He leaned toward your shoulder.

"If we need to stop, we stop," he said quietly, almost a whisper.

"This isn’t something to rush. You’ve lost blood."

"No…" you said, breathless. "I can walk. At least… I have to try."

Your eyes… every time they met Joel’s, you found a deep emptiness. Not emptiness, maybe... a repressed pain. There was a collapse inside him. And strangely, you saw your own grief in that collapse.

When you reached the broken mirror in the corner of the shelter, Joel stopped.

So did you. Your breath was fast, your skin trembling. Joel turned his head slightly. He glanced at you over his shoulder.

"You’re alone," you said suddenly.

"I feel it… when I look at you."

There was a moment of silence. That typical, stony expression on Joel’s face… but a tiny fracture appeared between his brows. Then he straightened his shoulders and looked off into the distance.

"I needed to be alone," he said.

"This... is a mission. If I weren’t alone, it would draw attention. Being alone is sometimes the safest way to survive."

A mission...

Your hand instinctively reached for the edge of the bandage on your arm.

"What mission?" you asked, curious. But deep inside, this was a test. Not one to force a confession, but a truth you would weigh yourself.

Joel didn’t look away. His jaw clenched slightly. He clearly considered not answering. But then, he made a decision. He didn’t lie.

As if he owed you something...

"I was sent from Jackson," he said.

"One of the border surveillance outposts, Northpoint, lost contact two weeks ago. We thought it was the weather. But when the second week ended... someone had to check it out. I had to go alone. I know the area… and how to track."

Jackson.

Something stirred inside you. But you didn’t show it. You looked away.

Swallowed hard.

So he was there. He really lived in the same place as Joel Miller. But you couldn’t ask that. It had to stay hidden.

"Surveillance outpost," you said, nodding slightly. "Tracking… missing teams… radio cuts. So that’s why you were alone."

Joel had narrowed his eyes. He was observing you closely. You knowing too much made him uneasy.

"I... can help," you said suddenly.

Joel frowned immediately. "No. You can barely walk in this state."

"I’ll be fine," you said, locking eyes with him. "And this kind of stuff… radio systems, signal loss, technical things… I can handle them. Back then… when I worked with my dad, we used to repair these kinds of systems. Antenna connections, power supplies, frequency matches… If the system is broken, I can either fix it or help you collect backup data."

Joel was silent. He narrowed his eyes. He was weighing you inside. That offer was both a gift and a threat.

"Stranger," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "You brought me here. You healed me. Now I owe you. And… if we want to survive in this world, we also have to learn not to stay alone."

Joel tilted his head slightly. His gaze swept over you. For a moment… his lips trembled. As if he was trying hard not to say "no."

But then he nodded. "Then focus on healing," he said. "We leave at dawn."

And you… for the first time, felt that this man truly trusted you.

You didn’t know what you were yet.

But something had begun.

You were the one who cracked Joel Miller’s heart for the first time. And that crack… carried both light and darkness within.

Then Joel guided you back to the bed. He pulled up the blanket.

As you closed your eyes, he was still watching you.

And in his pocket, the watch still remained. The initials J.M. echoed in his mind. The flames of Redhill danced before his eyes.

He knew he had killed your father.

But now, for the first time, he realized, none of the things he’d ever killed had hurt him this deeply.

Early in the morning, while the sky was still leaden gray, the cold that rushed into your eyes as you opened the shelter door seeped into your bones. But you had no other choice. While Joel packed up the supplies, you remained wrapped in the blanket. Your fingers were still numb, and you couldn’t feel your feet. Your body was dealing with wounds that had started to heal but were still fragile, while your mind… was fighting a different battle.

Joel. The man whose name you still didn’t know but whose presence you felt in your very flesh. He had called you “Stranger,” yet he had cleansed the poison from your veins with his hands, held your face during feverish dreams, and let you rest your head on his chest at night.

And now… you were leaving together. To Northpoint.

When Joel brought the horse out from the grove next to the shelter, you were still shivering at the door, wrapped in the blanket. A thin layer of snow had gathered on the animal. Dark steam rose from its breath, and it pawed the ground restlessly. Joel stroked the animal first. He spoke to it in a low voice. “Alright, girl… you’re not alone today.”

Then he turned to you. “Ready?” he asked, holding out his hands from inside his gloves.

“Enough,” you said. When you lifted your face and met his eyes, for a moment… there was no difference between them and the sky. Cold, gray, misty… but those eyes held a glimmer of hope that surrounded you.

When Joel lifted you, your breath caught. The stitches on your arm stretched. You clenched your teeth. But at that exact moment, like a father, he gently placed his arms around your hips, leaned your body lightly against his, and helped you onto the horse’s back.

When his hand touched your back, its warmth reached your very core. You held your breath while he tilted his head slightly and asked without looking away, “Does it hurt?”

“No,” you said quickly. But it did hurt.

And somehow, it wasn’t the pain itself—but the way he asked—that caused a deeper ache inside.

When Joel mounted the horse behind you, you were now in front of him. His arms encircled you from the sides. When he took the reins, his hands brushed against your waist. His fingers were gentle.

But inside… storms were raging.

And you set off.

As you moved through the trees, in the silence echoing among the snow-covered branches, there was no sound except the horse’s hooves. The cold had numbed your hands. Your body still hadn’t recovered. And you couldn’t help yourself.

Your head tilted back… you rested your shoulder against his chest.

Joel paused for a moment. His breath caught in his throat. But he didn’t push you away.

On the contrary, he held the reins tighter.

And you, nestled in his embrace, on that broad chest… found peace in your exhaustion for the first time.

His heartbeat… slow, steady, and oddly reassuring. His warmth spread all the way to the nape of your neck. And Joel began riding the horse carefully, as if he were carrying you inside him, despite the freezing air .But Joel’s heart… wasn’t like yours. As you drifted into sleep or a dream, he kept his eyes fixed on the road, searching for shadows behind every tree.

Tracking… while holding you. And while holding you… he was feeling you.

The weight of your injured body leaning against his ribs… the soft breaths rising from the nape of your neck… your fingers, unconsciously brushing against his thighs… These things stirred another truth within him. His interest in you. The desire he had denied since the moment he found you.

But this desire… was dirty. Because he knew. You may not have known who you were, but he… he now knew that you were the daughter of the Redhill leader, whose name echoed in his mind every night.

He had killed your father. And now you were in his arms. In Joel Miller’s embrace. Silent, innocent, fragile.

And Joel… wanted to protect you, and run from you at the same time.

He narrowed his eyes. His brows furrowed as he looked toward the horizon. Northpoint…

If any remaining team member there recognized him… said his name…

If they said “Joel Miller”...

You… would understand everything in that moment.

And this quiet, sacred yet cursed bond between you… would be drenched in blood.

Joel thought to himself: I need to find something.

Logs, broken radios, or… if no one from the team survived…

Only silence.

Only darkness.

And you… slowly drifted to sleep against his chest. Your cheeks were pink from the cold. Your eyelashes trembled.

And Joel, driven by a sudden instinct, brought his cheek close to yours. He didn’t touch. But you felt his breath. As you slept, he suffered the pain of falling in love with you.

...

As the wind clawed at your face like a predator sinking its sharp teeth into flesh, Joel slowed the horse. The reins slackened, and the animal's breath rose into the gray sky like vapor. Northpoint Station loomed ahead; its rusty roof quivered with the wind, ice crystals scattered against the walls… and silence.

It was indeed far too quiet.

Without releasing the reins, Joel said in a low voice, “We’re getting off.” Each word escaped his lips as a misty breath.

As you swung your leg over the horse, Joel immediately stepped beside you to offer support. A flicker of pain crossed his face, but he placed a hand on your back to steady you. His fingers seemed to carry the last remnants of tenderness after a long war against darkness. In that moment, you felt protected.

The outer door hung ajar on a sagging hinge. Wind crept inside and howled through the empty hall. Joel crouched, eyes scanning the ground. He searched for footprints—none. Only a mess smeared with mud… but old. No signs of recent activity.

“Stay sharp. Even if it looks clear... I’ll follow my instincts.”

You nodded, hand going to your knife.

Joel stepped inside with heavy footsteps. Each step echoed on the wooden floor. You followed close behind him, down the corridor dimly lit by flickering light. The metal hooks on the walls were empty. Most of them still swung slightly, as if someone had left in a rush.

“No blood.” you whispered.

Joel turned his head slowly, catching you in his peripheral vision. “That’s worse.”

As you moved further in, the temperature dropped abnormally. Your chest tightened; the tip of your nose stung like ice. As you struggled to understand why the cold was affecting you so deeply, Joel pushed open a door. The communications room.

It was in chaos. Radios shattered, wires cut, some equipment missing. But what stood out most was the word scrawled across the wall: “TRUST NO ONE.”

Joel entered without hesitation. He aimed his flashlight at the ground—footprints. Small, mixed with snow, some barefoot. Joel knelt, studying the traces on the frost-covered metal.

“Humans did this,” he said, voice low and sharp. “The radio was sabotaged. Entry logs wiped.”

You looked closer at the wall. Fingerprints, scrape marks… there had been a struggle, but the traces were old. And above all, something didn’t add up:

“Why aren’t there any bodies?”

Joel stood. His gaze lingered on you for a moment. Concerned, though he hid it well. “Either they ran... or were dragged out.”

In that moment, a shiver ran through you, cloaked in the intoxicating silence of the cold. But giving in to comfort wouldn’t help. You’d come here to repay a debt to a “stranger”—and because it was the only gate you saw toward Jackson.

“Give me a few minutes,” you said.

You knelt. Opening the radio panel revealed a chaotic mess of circuits. Some cables had been torn out, others burned by a short circuit. But what was interesting was that someone hadn’t just broken the system—they’d reversed the battery connections inside.

“Whoever did this knew electronics,” you murmured to yourself, but Joel heard you.

“So... this wasn’t an accident?”

“No. It was deliberate sabotage.”

Joel found a repair kit from a small supply cabinet inside the room.

With trembling fingers, you pulled out the kit. Inside were a few spare cables, a mini soldering pen, a battery tester, and a voltage meter the size of a lighter. You kept your gloves on to protect from the cold, but your movements were practiced.

Joel stepped back slightly, watching you. At first he looked like a guard… but in that moment, something else was in his eyes.

As you wrapped your fingers around a cable, Joel thought those hands were meant for more than just helping someone. Then, as if ashamed of the thought, he looked down. His brows furrowed, lips pressed into a line.

“You… really know what you’re doing,” he said, voice husky.

You turned your head slightly toward him. “I learned from my dad. He liked old systems. I mean… before he was killed.”

You paused. “That’s why I can tell what’s wrong and why it doesn’t work.”

Joel was silent for a while. His fingers tightened around his rifle strap. Then, without taking his eyes off you, he said, “I don’t think we should stay here.”

“What do you mean?”

His gaze swept every corner of the room, but you were what held his attention.

“This place… it’s too quiet. Too tidy. But something’s wrong. I need to understand what.”

He looked like he was about to say more but stopped himself. When he looked at you again, his eyes had softened.

“Being this close to you… is a bad idea.” he said suddenly. A cold, honest confession.

You turned your head away, continuing to connect the wires. As the soldering pen touched the battery slot, your hands trembled with the words inside you.

Joel turned, walking to the door, but raised his voice. “I’ll do a quick sweep inside the building. Maybe I’ll find a journal. We need to know what happened.”

“Are you going alone?”

“This time, yeah.”

And he left.

Joel took a cold breath as he stepped into the corridor. His breath rose like mist. He walked through the empty halls, keeping his steps as silent as possible. He slowly placed his hand on the wall. The wall... was soaked with moisture. Snow and ice had seeped into the building, but still, something didn’t add up. It shouldn’t have been this cold inside.

He gently pushed one of the doors open. A small dorm room. Three bunks. Blankets messily tossed on them, but one thing caught his attention: under one of the bottom bunks, a small silhouette. He bent down and saw it—an empty pill bottle. No date on it. Completely emptied. Could it have been a sleeping pill?

He quickened his pace. Moved to the next room. One of the bulletin boards had fallen. Beneath it, a scratch—no, not a scratch, nail marks.

His throat tightened. His instincts screamed: You’re being watched.

He turned around quickly. No one. The corridor was empty. Only the wind slamming against the walls from afar. But the feeling wouldn’t go away.

He brought his hand to his shoulder, gripped his rifle. Took a deep breath. The sweat on his back mixed with the cold, and he shivered. As if... someone had already been here. And was still inside.

...

The panel was still warm. One of the temporary connections sparked slightly, but the circuit was still holding. On the radio’s speaker, a soft static, then a voice crackled through the interference.

“…—ckson… this is Jack…son. Listening... Are you there?”

A shiver ran down your spine. You carefully pressed the button as you picked up the radio.

“There’s someone here. I’m from Redhill. I… Y/N.”

The reply came a few seconds later, still filled with static. As if it were speaking to you from a distant memory, not from the present but a dream from the past.

“Y/N… is it? I’m… Tommy… one of the team… El… Elroy… is he there?”

You tried to raise your voice, but the radio felt like it was suffocating even you.

“There’s no one here. It’s abandoned. Looks like sabotage.”

One of the wires sticking out of the panel crackled again. Your eyes immediately flicked to the power gauge. The signal wasn’t stabilizing.

Tommy’s voice came back, more muffled, more broken.

“Y/N… is someone with you? Is he… the one they sent… J… Mil…”

A burst of static in the middle of the sentence.

Then silence.

Did you really hear what you thought you did? “Joel”…? Or was it just interference from the failing radio?

Your hand slowly lifted from the radio. Your heart beat faster, harder. That name, lodged like a splinter in your mind… now brought a new question:

Had he asked about Joel Miller? Or was this just another reminder that you hadn’t let go of your father’s story?

You couldn’t answer.

Before the radio fell completely silent with a dull crackle, Tommy’s voice returned one last time:

“Miller…? …Y/N…”

The system went dead.

You looked at the panel. Some of the live connections were still lit, but the frequency had shifted. You’d have to work harder for more. But your hand wouldn’t move. Because your mind was already stuck on another name.

Joel.

But this time, not just the name.

It felt like you wanted to know what lay beneath that name.

The signal was completely gone.

A soft “click”… followed by a dull “thud”. As if something had scraped against a metal surface outside.

You turned your head. Focused for a moment on where the sound had come from, but it didn’t repeat. Maybe it had come from the radio’s broken frequency. Maybe…

No. It was real.

Another sound. This time louder. Like a footstep. But it was… dragging. Not human. The floor scraped beneath it. Your heart tightened like a drawn wire.

You reached for the pistol beside your shoulder. Your trigger finger instinctively flipped the safety off after so long. You leaned back, exhaled slowly. Moved silently toward the door.

You wanted to call out to Joel. ‘Stranger,’ but your lips couldn’t speak his name.

When you stepped into the dark hallway, your eyes met a shadow right in front of you.

Half-human… but not. At first glance, you’d think it was a Clicker. But the fungal tumors on its head didn’t click—they hummed with a faint vibration. Its shoulders trembled. Bits of damp skin still clung to its eye sockets. But no, this wasn’t a Clicker. This was something else.

Just then, a gunshot rang out.

Bang! Bang! You flinched as the bullet ricocheted off the wall.

Joel.

You turned toward the direction of the sound and saw him in the corner of a side hall, kneeling with his rifle, aiming at another creature.

It was fast like a Runner, but its movements were wavy.

Part of its face had opened like a flower; but the bloom extended halfway down its neck. As if it had lost its sense of smell and now responded only to sound and vibration.

Before Joel could turn around, a third infected—silent, sneaky—leapt from the wall.

“Watch out!” you shouted. Time bent. Your trigger finger acted on reflex, and with the crack of your gun, the creature’s shoulder shattered. But it didn’t fall.

It staggered, then charged again.

Joel’s knife flashed like a star in the dark. After a short struggle, he brought the creature down, but his face showed something beyond exhaustion:

Disappointment. Not in himself. In you.

Because he hadn’t wanted you in danger.

But you were there. And you helped.

“I’m fine,” you said. Your breath was short.

“I don’t know what they are. This… This is something new.”

Joel turned to you. The anger in his eyes mixed with a need to protect.

“Why did you leave the room? I told you to stay inside.”

“The connection was lost. I heard the voice. And…” Your voice trembled. “I wanted to help you.”

Your words floated away like mist, but in that moment, despite the weight of your weapons, the space between you felt lighter than ever.

All the fighting, all the fear… was now distilled into those two seconds of eye contact.

You no longer felt like you were fighting just to survive—but for each other.

Joel looked away. Reloaded his rifle. “We have to go. If there are more… I can’t keep you here. We already know what this is.”

“I can fight,” you said quietly.

“Not like you, but… this is my fight now too.”

Joel studied you carefully. There was fire in his eyes, but he held it back. The lines on his face deepened. “I’m trying to protect you.”

“But I’m already broken, Joel. And in this broken state, I want to stay with you.”

At that moment, you were both full of words unsaid. Your weapons were empty, but your hearts were full.

As you turned back toward the station door, Joel placed a hand on your back—not just to guide you. That touch… wasn’t just protection. It was sanctuary.

Snow was seeping in. Through the cracks in the doors, the broken window frames… The storm that had started outside was now being inhaled inside, too.

In the darkness, the corpse Joel had laid over a toppled table was different from the others.

Not just in appearance… but inside as well.

You stood a step behind, holding your breath as you watched him. Joel Miller worked with care. His back slightly hunched, brow furrowed; his hands experienced, slow and patient. He used a shaving razor with almost surgical precision to begin slicing under the creature’s jaw.

“Look at this,” he muttered to himself.

“No spore spread. Head area partially opened, but… the fungal spread isn’t directly linked to the nervous system.”

With his fingertips, he grasped a piece of tissue and slowly lifted it. “This... is a new evolution. Probably a regional mutation.”

Your breath tightened. “So... does that mean this infected is something else entirely?”

Joel lowered his head. His eyes locked on the tear in the corpse’s throat. “They don’t hear… but they’re good at sensing. Their walk is unsteady but fast. Reaction time is short. Spontaneous aggression is high.”

Then he turned to you. “Write this down.”

Your eyes widened.

“Uh… what exactly?”

“Our observations.” He reached out. “The notebook in the saddlebag. There’s a pen too. Go!”

You obeyed. With trembling hands, you stepped just outside the door, reached into the spare gear by the horse’s side. You found the black notebook wrapped in soft leather. The cover was a bit wet, but the inside was intact. The pen still worked.

When you returned, Joel was watching you.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said quietly. “Knowledge is stronger than fear.”

You knelt and began to write.

“New type of infected… Hearing ability reduced.

Head region has underdeveloped fungal structure. Sharp reflexes. High aggression. Extremely quiet. Reacts spontaneously.”

As you wrote, your hands adjusted. Expressing it through scientific language calmed you a little. Joel eventually straightened. His face grew more severe. “We can’t stay here any longer.”

He spoke briefly and firmly. He turned his head toward the door. “I still don’t fully understand what’s going on, but… if this mutation started here, everyone here is either dead or mid-transformation. And part of this station was sabotaged. By human hands.”

You looked up. “So… this new type… might’ve been spread intentionally?”

Joel paused. That familiar darkness flared in his eyes. “We can’t say yet. But we can’t linger.”

He threw his coat over his shoulder, grabbed his backpack, slung his rifle. “Let’s move. We’ll share this data in Jackson. Maybe Ellie too…” He stopped for a moment. Swallowed. Things would be very different there between you two. “... the science side is stronger there.”

You stood up.

Carefully tucked the notebook into your pocket.

As you walked to the door together, Joel placed a hand on your shoulder. “Still, you did good,” he said gently. “Facing that thing… I won’t say you weren’t scared, but… you were brave.”

“With you around,” you whispered,

“… the world doesn’t feel quite so dark.”

Joel looked at you. A moment of pause… then he turned his head. “Let’s go. If night catches us here, we won’t make it to morning.”

Behind you: a deserted, silent station.

Ahead: an unknown reality.

But one thing was clear now. You were not alone.

Not against the infected, not against the past, not against the future…

ONE DAY LATER — WYOMING MOUNTAIN PASSES

The cold cut to the bone.

The wind felt like knives against your face; every step in the snow became more difficult. The horse was tired, and you were even more so. But you kept moving. Northpoint was behind you now; quiet, dark, like a grave. And the road, as always, was not safe. It never was. The day darkened under a dirty white sky.

Joel was in front, you right behind him.

Your posture on the horse was slackening; your body still not fully recovered. The pain in your back sometimes stabbed into your left shoulder; the cold burned your lungs.

Joel had been watching you like a mirror for a while. When he noticed you slowing down, he pulled the reins and stopped his horse.

“Hey.” His voice was stern but concerned. “You’re out of breath. You didn’t say it, but I noticed.”

You tried to deflect. “I’m fine.”

The lie came easy, but it was one Joel knew all too well.

He frowned. “We’re not going any farther.” He scanned the area.

He leaned forward, spotting a half-snow-covered dip among the trees on the side of the road.

“There’s a hollow over there. Like a cave.”

After a short silence, he looked at you.

“We’re spending the night there.”

You didn’t argue. You barely had the strength to stand.

The cave looked like an ordinary rock outcrop from the outside. But once you went inside, it was deep and enclosed enough to shield you from the cold. Joel had lit a small fire with a few branches. The flickering light of the flames danced across the stone walls. In that glow, Joel's face looked older, more worn-out.

You had your back against the rear wall of the cave. Legs stretched out, sitting shoulder to shoulder. The silence was long, but not tense. Fatigue had settled between you, as had the weight of words.

Joel took a sip from the metal cup in his hand. The faint smell of coffee he'd mixed into the hot water reminded you of home. For a moment, you remembered your childhood kitchen. But the memory quickly faded with Joel’s gaze.

His eyes wandered over you.

Your hands were clasped in your lap.

Your lips were dry.

"You're shivering," he said softly.

He opened the front of his jacket, then hesitated.

Then he offered you one side of it.

"Come on. The fire's not enough. We need to share."

You accepted silently. When your shoulder touched his chest, it felt like your heart stopped for a moment. The warmth wasn’t just from his body—it radiated from his heart. Joel’s body was worn by years of war, but somewhere inside, something had stayed human.

You sat like that for a while. Then you spoke, in a voice no louder than a whisper:

"You don’t have to take me to Jackson. I know that. I… I’ve been a burden."

Joel turned his head. His gaze was deep.

"No." He cut off the thought with a single word. "You’re not a burden. I don’t remember carrying anyone this willingly."

A smile escaped your lips.

Your eyes lit up. "Stranger..." Saying his name echoed inside the cave.

It wasn’t just a word—it was a calling.

Like a secret whispered into the heart of silence.

Joel averted his eyes. A shadow fell over the stubble on his chin. He sighed.

"You don’t know me," he said. "You shouldn’t. Jackson… it’s a good place. Safe. And someone like you… should be there. Not with me."

You tilted your head slightly. Your cheeks glowed in the firelight.

"I… I’ve been alone for a long time. People… out there, in this world… they either kill you or forget you." You paused. "But you… you saved me. You healed me. You fought for me. Knowing someone like you still exists in this world made me feel like I wasn’t alone."

Joel closed his eyes. A muscle twitched at his temple.

A storm was raging inside him. He wasn’t ready to admit he fought for you—but he wasn’t ready to let you go either.

"I…" His voice caught in his throat. "I’m not a good man."

"I didn’t love you because you were good, stranger," you said, your voice warm and hazy. "Just because… you were real. And because you were there."

In that moment, you felt Joel place his hand on your knee. It was rough.

Protective. But at the same time… it trembled.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

You listened to the crackle of the fire. The snow pressing down on the earth outside the cave… and your hearts pressing down on your chests.

The fire was dying.

Charred branches crackled; the glow was now just a flicker of warm red light. Joel was still leaning his back against the cave wall. His knees were pulled close, his head bowed. His eyes were closed, but he wasn’t asleep. He carried the weight of everything — the past, the sins, and the hope in your eyes.

You were staring at him.

In the fracture of darkness and light, his features looked softer. Joel had entered your life as a stranger. But now... you didn’t care who he was anymore.

"You know," you said, your voice almost a whisper. "I still haven’t asked your name."

Joel lifted his head slightly. His brows were furrowed, his expression tired. "You haven’t." There was unease in his voice, because he felt the inevitable question finally arriving.

But you said something else. "It doesn’t matter." Your words echoed off the stone walls of the cave. "Your name, who you are… I don’t care anymore. When I’m with you... nothing else matters."

Joel’s gaze was hard. But the armor inside him had begun to crack.

"You don’t know me," he said again.

His words were sharp, but trembling. "You don’t know what I’ve done, what I’ve lived through."

"Who you are, what you did… what you became… I don’t care."

There was a slight movement on Joel’s face. Perhaps a bitter smile, perhaps a warning. But you didn’t stop. "When I saw you, in that bed… when I first opened my eyes… I was in darkness. I was dying. But you… you brought life back into me."

You leaned forward. When your knees touched Joel’s, he slightly pulled his head back — but didn’t move away.

"I’m here. I’m not running. Don’t try to push me away, stranger. Why are you still trying?"

Joel’s eyes welled up. A vague mist clouded his iris. "Because…" His breath faltered. "Because I love you." His voice was low, almost like a confession to himself. "And when I love someone like you… that person dies."

Your eyes shimmered. "It’s not your fault. None of it is your fault." Your hand slowly reached for Joel’s. "You saved me, remember? I was dying in that bed. When I opened my eyes… you were there. I was in the dark, and you were the first light. Joel…"

Your hand reached for Joel’s face. When your fingers touched his cheekbones, he closed his eyes instinctively. His face was hard, but he was melting under your touch.

He was a man who had battled time. But with you… he surrendered to the moment.

Your voice trembled. "In this world, for the first time since my father… I trusted someone. I felt strong beside a man. And that man is you."

Joel lowered his head slightly. His cheeks touched your forehead. For a moment, only your warmth passed between you.

Your breaths mingled.

But then…

"Y/N…" He said your name in a way that was both a warning and a prayer. "This… is wrong."

"No," you said. Your voice was firm but fragile. "This is the only right thing."

Joel’s fingers closed around your hand.

His gaze was dark but open, conflicted but honest.

Silence. Breaths. Inner war.

Then Joel spoke. His words were trembling, uncertain — but surrendered:

"…I can’t resist you."

And you kissed.

The first touch made you forget the chill of the rocks. His lips were rough, but when they touched yours, they softened. Your wet, warm breaths mingled. As he tilted his head slightly while capturing your lips, it wasn’t just a kiss—it was an attempt to memorize you. As he kissed you, it was as if every fracture inside his chest began to speak. When your tongue first touched his, Joel’s body shivered slightly. That brief exploration between your lips suddenly turned deeper, hungrier. When your tongues met, your breath caught. His fingers reached your nape, pulling you closer. The air between you—in that icy cave—was suddenly warm, burning. Your heart raced but felt at peace. His was crumbling slowly, sinking deeper with every kiss.

Your lips were moist, his worn but full of passion. It was a passion that carried confessions he never dared to say aloud. As his tongue danced with yours, time felt like it had stopped. This wasn’t just a physical connection—it was your souls speaking, ending years of silence with a single kiss.

When Joel’s hands gripped your waist, the kiss intensified. Your breath tangled in your throat as his lips moved down to your chin, making your skin shiver. He kissed there first—slow, patient. The warmth of his lips touched that sensitive spot beneath your chin, and you felt a twist deep in your chest. Then his lips, wet and warm, trailed down gently, sealing that place like a secret.

But he didn’t stop at kissing. As his breath caressed your skin, he pressed his lips harder and let the tip of his tongue briefly trace the line of your jaw. It felt like that line was the boundary between you, and Joel was crossing it—with fear, longing, and desire. Then he returned to your lips. Now, there was nothing to stop you—only a thirst for one another, growing with each kiss.

To you, this was a refuge—found at last, with the man you loved.

To him, it was like stumbling into a heaven he didn’t deserve.

When the kiss ended, Joel leaned his forehead against yours. Your breaths mingled. Silence settled in the aftermath—not frightening, but heavy.

As your fingers found the edge of his shirt collar, Joel held his breath with you. “We shouldn’t do this,” he said again, but there was no conviction in his voice. He didn’t pull away. His hands came to rest gently on your shoulders, and when his fingers felt your warmth, he closed his eyes. “You’re too... pure. Something this world didn’t make.”

You smiled. “I’m not pure. Just... not lost. Like you.”

That sentence broke him completely. His fingers slid to your cheek, then under your chin. He kissed you again—hungrier, more honest, more tender. When he wrapped his arms around you, your body fit into his perfectly. His firm chest, war-forged hands, breath heavy with years of sorrow—they all wrapped around you.

When he pulled the blanket from your shoulders, it was his gaze that touched your trembling skin before his hands did. "If this is what you want... but tell me. Do you really want this?" he asked, his voice hoarse yet still protective.

You nodded. “I just want to be with you. No matter what.”

He embraced you again. His fingers slid to your waist, his lips to your neck. You closed your eyes, and your heartbeat matched his. Joel began to explore you with care and slowness—as if every touch was an apology. As if every kiss was a prayer to forget the wrongs he’d done. And every breath you took was a silent pardon.

Time stood still. Outside, the world was still plagued and dark with the past. But that night, inside the cave, there was only the two of you. Quietly, slowly, and with deep feeling… you were touching each other’s forbidden places.

You pressed your chest against Joel’s, rising to your knees. Now you were much higher than him. As you put his weight on him, Joel couldn’t resist it. Maybe at that moment, all that was left in the world was this dark cave, the wind outside, and two souls clinging to each other.

Joel was lying down on the ground now. His back was leaning on the stones beneath him, but his eyes were only on you.

Placing your knees on the sides of his hips, you sat on his groin and climbed on top of him. The pink on your cheeks shone in the shadow of your face, in the dark. Your palms were pressed against his chest. He was carrying your weight, but also your emotions. Joel’s hands were lost in you. As if he were holding you for the first time, he slid carefully and slowly down to your waist, then your back, then your hips. Every movement of his fingers seemed to memorize you as you were. Your sighs mixed with each caress of your hips. You shouldn’t have done this. You both knew it.

You first unbuttoned his shirt halfway. Then followed the salty sweat trail down his neck with your fingertips. You began to recognize his neck and ribcage with your lips. Your skin felt its warmth first; a slight shiver ran down Joel’s spine at that moment. The rough texture of his areola, the balance of salt and heat as it spread across your tongue, lit a small signal of pleasure in his mind. With each lick, your tongue traced the curves of his chest and then his abs. Joel leaned his head back. He whispered your name with a muffled sigh, but then his tongue hit the roof of his mouth; this genuine closeness frightened him. In that moment of colliding guilt and desire, he thought about all the danger that came with wanting you.

Your trembling breath brushed over Joel’s chest, your hands roaming his body like a hero marching in triumph. Your fingertips recognized the lines of his muscles, the rhythm of his veins.

Your breath mixed with his lips as you carefully moved your hips toward his groin. When your eyes met, you both felt the same thing inside you: passion, lust, and love. Your breaths mixed. You were now standing over Joel’s penis, with only the fabric between you and the warm pressure of your vulva. He could feel you much more now as you undulated your waist rhythmically but in a controlled manner. Your touch made him more sensitive with every movement. Joel’s eyes closed for a moment, his lips falling to your neck again. He found a spot under your jaw that burned your skin. When he stopped there and let out his breath, you felt him shiver.

He whispered breathlessly. “I shouldn’t want this… but hell if I can stop.”

You locked eyes at Joel with such intensity that your voice was barely a whisper, coming out of your lips with a tremor. “Then stay. Here. With me. Just for tonight, be mine.”

He wrapped one arm around your back, the other around your hips, wrapping your body like armor. He wasn’t just holding you, he was hiding you. Your heartbeats mingled as your chest pressed against Joel’s; each breath that passed between your lips was drawn into you like the last oxygen in the air.

“Goddamn…” Joel whispered, his voice almost husky and deep. “You’re gonna be the end of me.”

You looked up. There was a gleam in his eyes—a light of both triumph and surrender.

“Then let me end you slowly,” you whispered, pressing his forehead to his.

Joel smiled. Tired, painful, but real. And he kissed you again. As if kissing was as natural as fighting. Every kiss was a memory. Every touch a vow.

“Now it’s my turn,” Joel said. His voice was firm and determined, but underneath it was a pent-up desire ready to explode.

You tried to smile, but the curve of your lips was as threatening as a challenge. “So,” you whispered. “Let’s see if you’re as good at it as you are at fighting the infected.”

Joel’s muscles tightened in response, and he grabbed you by the waist, holding you beneath him. The speed of his turn took your breath away, but you didn’t resist, you couldn’t. Because there was fire in his gaze now, deep, intense, and unbridled.

The bandage on your shoulder had taken a slight pressure from the fall; your face tensed for a brief second, and your breath caught with a flicker of pain.

He immediately leaned in. Placing one hand on the ground, he brought his face close to yours. His eyes were filled with concern—and something else, something he was trying hard to suppress: desire.

"Are you okay?" he whispered, his voice hesitant and gentle, but his gaze still lingered on your lips.

You nodded slightly. "It hurt… but not too bad," you said, your voice as thin and trembling as your breath. When your eyes locked with his, unspoken words danced silently between you.

Your back was still touching the cold ground. The bandage on your shoulder still left a shadow of pain on your face, but Joel’s presence was slowly erasing that shadow. His hand gently reached up to hold your back, gently lifting you up and placing the blanket under you. When he laid you down again, his fingers slid into your hair, holding it under your head as if to support it.

“Damn it… I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he mumbled, his voice almost muffled as a sigh.

You couldn’t respond because Joel’s hand slid across your cheek, his fingers holding your chin with trembling tenderness. When his lips leaned down, he kissed your forehead first. It was light, but it resonated in your heart. Then to the corner of your eyes, then to your cheek… And finally, to your lips.

His kiss was cautious at first. But when your lips returned it, Joel’s kiss deepened again, but he still took his time. Joel Miller never rushed anything. He loved like he was walking across a battlefield—carefully, carefully, but eventually, inevitably.

As your breaths mingled, he carefully moved his fingers to the top button of your shirt. As if he might break the magic of the moment if he hurried. His eyes stayed on yours as he undid each button; he was searching for confirmation, approval, but also affection. When the fabric of his shirt parted, there was only silence between him and your skin. Joel’s fingers parted the slightly exposed fabric on either side, then his eyes fell on the bruises and scratches just below your breast. Time seemed to freeze in that moment. His eyebrows furrowed; not in anger, but in sorrow. Joel leaned down, never taking his eyes off you. He touched one of the scars with his lips. Gently at first, almost a whisper. Then to another… and to another. Each touch felt like an apology. His fingers trailed down your arm, as carefully as if he were stroking a shard of broken glass.

When you were out of breath, Joel moved his hand to your breasts. He began to play with your nipples, crushing them between his fingers. You felt a tingling and arousing sensation at your nipples. The dampness he left on your skin cooled your flesh, and that only excited you even more. Your face was much calmer and more relaxed than before. You moaned softly, closing your eyes.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Joel said, his voice a little harsher this time.

You nodded slightly, your lips parted, your eyes now on Joel’s. “Only hurts when you stop,” you whispered, your lips trying to smile.

That sentence broke something in Joel’s gaze. Then he leaned down… to your neck. Slowly, warmly touching your skin. The first kiss went to your collarbone. Then to the curve of your neck. He lingered there a little longer—as if he wanted to release his breath into your skin. His hand continued to caress your breasts. Each caress was like a silent oath saying, “I’m here.”

When your fingers grabbed hold of Joel’s muscular arm, it wasn’t to stop him, it was to feel him more. Joel knew that too. He leaned his body over you, careful not to hurt the wound on his shoulder, carefully distributing his weight—enveloping you without crushing you, as if his body were your shelter.

Joel reached out slowly. He touched your waist first, firmly but reassuringly. His fingers traced a path from your stomach to your belly button. But as his hand slid down to your groin, he paused when he got close to the wounds. His fingertips hung in the air. He couldn’t touch them.

His hand continued down your body. He made small, meticulous circles to avoid the wounds. His breathing became ragged, because the guilt that was gnawing at him had settled into his chest. When he reached the button of his pants, he took a deep breath; he held his hand there. The mechanical sound filled your ears as he undid the metal button. Then he grabbed the zipper, his fingers lingering briefly on the fabric, pausing. His eyes never left yours. Then he pulled the zipper down: the worn metal teeth opened with a sharp “zzt”. The fabric gave way. He squeezed his fingers between the fabric and your skin, pulling down.

Joel felt how wet you were when he wrapped his fingers around your outer labia over your panties. He began to rub, applying gentle pressure. The wetter the fabric became, the more tactile it became. He conquered the folds from your clitoris to the entrance of your vagina.

Then Joel carried himself down. His hands were supported by the stone floor on either side of your waist. He lifted one hand up and brought it to your groin. He placed his index and middle fingers between your vulva and panties. Using his powerful muscles, he pushed the fabric aside hard, squeezing it where it met your inner thigh and groin. Now you were right there in front of him, shining brightly. The surface of your outer labia shone like crimson glass, reflecting light from every angle. It was as if you were holding yourself together to tempt Joel’s lips. Joel placed his calloused hand behind your knee and spread her legs apart. Now he could see your clit between them. He leaned in a little further. His lips touched your skin, first gently, then with a more passionate hunger. He stuck his tongue out and placed it on your clitoris. The capillaries inside it had dilated, the blood flow had increased. This caused your clitoris to swell and you to taste the pleasure more deeply, so you closed your eyes and leaned your head back. Your chin lifted that neck tensed. Your fingers gripped the blanket tightly. The knuckles in your hands were white, the muscles in your outer thighs were trembling. The groan that escaped your lips gave Joel the green light to continue.

“Your color is as shiny and unique as satin, I can’t take my eyes off you,” Joel said, gently pulling his lips away from yours. He wanted to make you feel good and gain your trust. But he wasn’t lying either. When he dipped his tongue into your inner lips, they were so sweet, so juicy… Delicate like the thin skin of a sweet peach, yet deep and tempting like the flavor it held inside.

He began to move his tongue slowly around your clitoris. He began to latch onto you with big, slow strokes at first. The tongue movements moving from the entrance of your vagina to your clitoris... He was using the top of his tongue as he went up from the entrance of your vagina, and rubbing the bottom as he went down. Then he started to stroke faster with smaller circles with the tip of his tongue. This change of rhythm surprised you, made your moans longer, and made you gasp. There was nothing to say, you just wanted to say his name over and over again. But he was just a stranger. "How do you do this... I'm losing myself..." you said, your moans mixing with his words.

Joel said growlingly, "I'll show you how much you can take, Y/N..." Then he gently took your clitoris between his lips and started sucking. Your nub continued to swell and become sensitive inside his mouth. As he gently crushed it between his teeth, the capillaries inside were stimulated and the pleasure he was giving you caused a buzz in your ears. He continued to repeat it rhythmically, slightly increasing the pressure. You opened your eyes, feeling like you couldn't take it anymore. You lifted your chest. Your hands gripped the blanket tightly, straining the fabric as if they were going to tear, and your legs involuntarily closed. Joel suddenly grabbed your legs, which were squeezing around your head, and he forced them open wider than before, applying force to your inner thighs.

You pulled your hands away from the fabric and ran your fingers through your hair. You forgot all your pain as your body writhed in pleasure. You pulled your hair roots hard. "Oh, please! This is too much!"

Joel was vibrating your clitoris with quick and light vibrations. At the same time, he was increasing the tingling sensation by blowing out light breaths. He breathed through his teeth. "Are you giving up so easily? We've only just begun..." he buried his head harder into your vulva. His tongue continued to hungrily lick the pre-cum flowing from your vagina, he was drinking the colorless and thick fluid that had accumulated on his tongue with pleasure.

Your vaginal fluid felt like wine to him. The moment the slippery fluid met his lips, he made a delicate touch on his tongue; the sweetness of the peach fruit, the hidden depths of cinnamon and spice. As the fluid slid down his throat, each drop turned into an explosion of pleasure, the warmth instantly enveloping his body.

Joel suddenly pulled his head away from your vulva and rose to his knees, making eye contact with you. "I will give you everything. My soul, my heart... because you are not just part of my life, you are everything."

The blanket was rumpled unevenly, the smell of scorched bushes wafting around you.

His body was shaped by the maturity of his age; it was neither exaggerated like the insanely muscular bodies of young men nor did it show the signs of aging completely. His shoulders were broad, his stance confident. Life had taught him how to carry his body; he did not try to show his strength, but it was felt in every movement. But what was most striking was the experience that lay beneath his skin and muscles. A natural charm worked by time, experience, and life, something most young men lacked. He had a raw, masculine grace; the years had not aged him, they had only made him more apparent and impressive.

The attraction between you was so intense that neither of you wanted to let the distance widen even for a moment. He slowly placed his hands on your sides and slowly crawled between your legs. There was a look in Joel’s eyes that wanted to possess you, yet at the same time worshiped you. He slowly lifted himself onto you. Joel’s weight, combined with the reassuring warmth of his presence, made you feel as if you were out of breath.

“You know what?” Joel whispered, placing his fingers on your jaw and turning your face to his. “I can’t believe how much I want you.”

Your heart raced. His touch was gentle yet authoritative; there was a hidden possessiveness in every movement. His hands slid down your waist, and you brushed your lips over the edge of his. Your breaths mixed, and you shivered as your skin touched.

Then your fingers reached Joel’s leather belt. You wanted to feel him inside you now, your body no longer had the strength to resist. You could feel the warmth hidden behind that thick fabric. That metallic click of the metal buckle turning was familiar, just like the sound of the knife you had been carrying with you for years. When you loosened his belt, the soft hiss of the leather rubbing and undoing filled your ears. Joel was helping you now. He could see that you were ready for real intercourse. While you were unbuttoning his button and belt, he was busy with his zipper. Your fingers were touching each other hard and urgent. Joel pulled his pants down from the curve of his hips. His cock, hard as iron inside his boxers, was suddenly pressing against your vulva with a swift waist movement. Your pupils were dilated and your chin was lifted when your sensitive womanhood was suddenly aroused. Joel was aroused when he heard the moans coming from your lips.

He hooked his fingers into the elastic of your underwear and pulled it down. Very slowly, slowly, which fueled your impatience. His cock was exposed as the fabric slid down, showing prominent veins. It was big. And when his cock was completely free of the fabric, it swayed slightly. You were excited to think about how you would be ecstatic under Joel when he saw this big cock about to enter your vagina.

Joel placed his hands under your knees and made you stretch your legs. This way, he could easily slide between your legs, allowing your slit, which was burning with pleasure and completely soaked in precum, to be able to place his cock between them. You gasped when Joel’s vein-throbbing cock pressed completely against your inner lips, and you punched the ground with sudden force. You moaned loudly. Joel laughed with pleasure. He rubbed the tip of his iron-hard cock against your vagina to excite you, while he breathed out, “It drives me crazy to hear you make such noises…” he said, his voice fierce and mocking. Your vagina was so wet that the fluid leaking from your legs was starting to spread on the blanket fabric.

Joel was forcing the entrance to your vagina, first grabbing his penis with your hand and flicking it towards your clit, then stroking it from side to side a few times, inserting a few millimeters of his tip into the entrance of your vagina, but never entering. This was starting to drive you crazy. “Oh, please!” you moaned. “I want you inside me now.”

Joel was aroused by these words of yours. “I'll give you my love to night.”

You were aroused by these words. It was interesting that Joel was treating her differently than the other men. “Yes,” you moaned, “I want to be yours.”

When Joel pushed his cock into your vagina, it completely enveloped your vagina. It was too tight for him. You threw your head back in pleasure as the rough, warm walls of your vagina wrapped around Joel’s smooth manhood. “Oh, Y/N, it feels so much better.”

Each time he pushed his large cock inside you, his swollen balls slapped against your ass, stimulating both your g-spot and your clitoral, making you almost cry.

“You like that, don’t you?” Joel asked between growls. “Tell me you want me, Y/N, that you love me.”

Your flesh slapped together with each thrust as he thrust into your tight hole. And he continued to thrust rhythmically.

You were both on the verge of peak pleasure. Your tight vagina could feel Joel’s hardness and veiny surface down to your smallest cell. His cock twitched, wrapped around your gnarled walls.

You were at the peak of your orgasm now. Even though the penis filled your vagina completely, the pleasure juices continued to leak from the exit of your vagina. Joel closed his lips on your lips. He kissed you passionately. "Be patient a little longer. It's almost time." Your body was shaking up and down. The muscles in his hips were now contracted, he was almost about to pour his sperm into your womanhood. But he held himself back and suddenly pulled out of you and ejaculated on your groin, out of breath. As his sperm spread over your warm skin, you came right after. Your pleasure juices had spread, wetting the blanket. Your ears were buzzing, your eyes were blurry as snow from pleasure.

Joel suddenly grabbed your arms, straightened you up and placed you on his lap so that you were sitting on top of him. There was a mixed expression of surprise and happiness on his face. He looked at your face between his hands and looked at you with eyes half full of affection and half full of love.

The cold had settled over the world like a silence that gnawed through bone. But within the curved walls of the cave, there was still warmth. Shadows cast by breath, skin, and a fire that still held the pale glow of minutes past lingered. The sky felt distant, the earth endless. But as you sat in his lap, the bloody, sharp edge of reality faded into a blur.

Joel’s thick, calloused hands gently cradled your face. His fingertips moved slowly across your cheeks as if memorizing your face, his thumb grazing the corner of your lips with a hesitant kind of affection. His gaze lingered on you—dark and weary, yet somehow still strong enough to carry you toward the light.

“I... I’ve never felt anything like this before,” you said, your voice cracking. “Feeling this safe. Just existing with someone, without having to say anything. Like breathing.”

As you leaned against his shoulder, Joel’s throat tensed like he wanted to say something. But he only swallowed. His hand moved to your hair, then back to your face. It felt like he was trying not just to hold you—but to atone.

You were smiling. Soft, fragile, like a flower slowly opening in the morning light. “No matter what happens. My heart is already with you.”

But Joel knew your heart was balanced on the edge of a blade. The truth sat in his chest like a tumor, pulsing. He remembered pulling that trigger. Watching your father fall. And now, that man’s daughter was resting in his arms, breathing love into him. Giving him her heart.

“I’m here for you,” you whispered again. “And no matter what happens, I don’t want you to let go of me. Not the past, not the pain. I don’t want to be alone anymore, okay?”

In that moment, Joel’s world split in two. On one side, your warmth, your voice, the endless trust in your eyes… On the other, the moment that awaited in Jackson. When the truth would break free. When his name would be spoken. When his face would be recognized.

He knew that after that moment, you wouldn’t be able to stay in his arms. That forgiveness might never come.

But leaving you now would be its own kind of betrayal.

He lowered his head, resting his forehead against yours. Closed his eyes. I can’t do right by you, he thought, but didn’t speak.

The tremble on his lips was the silent cry of a man caught between pain and tenderness. He clasped his hands behind your back. Tight. Like it was the last time.

Outside, the wind howled. Inside, there were only two people. One bearing the weight of truth. The other yet untouched by it. But it was clear now: the road to Jackson would crack not only the path ahead, but both of your hearts.

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divaofmads · 4 months ago

Text

A Love Meant to Burn

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

Chapter I: The Hour Behind the Bullet | Chapter II

Word Count: 5k>

Warnings!: Angst, Violence, death, and execution scenes, Themes of trauma and grief, Gunfights and post-apocalyptic survival elements, Moral dilemmas, revenge, and justice themes, Mature romantic/emotional content, English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional

A/N: This chapter marks the beginning of a story where Joel Miller has not yet appeared, but his shadow lingers in every line. His name is a whisper—etched into the back of a watch, a secret that stretches from the darkness of the past into the vengeance of the present. It doesn't just delay the encounter with Joel—it builds it into an unforgettable, strikingly dramatic moment. The reader knows the meeting is coming… but never when, how, or in whose hands it will unfold.

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

As the moon vanished with the first light of morning, the mist still lingered on the mountainside. The air was dry, but the sharp chill remained; the earth had not yet shed its nightly frost.

With a bow on your back, a knife on your belt, and mud clinging to the soles of your boots, you walked silently. “Two hours, maybe three,” you said in a low voice. “But it hasn’t gone far.”

Footsteps behind you were followed by muffled laughter.

“My God, Y/N, did you just tell time from tracks?” Nico bent down to examine the ground with you. The sleeve of his jacket was torn, but his smile was intact. “Hunting with you always wrecks my self-esteem.”

“I’m just doing my job,” you said, without turning your eyes. “You’re the one who brings the noise, the jokes, the troublesome sounds…”

Nico placed a hand over his heart. “Was that a thank-you I just heard?”

“You’re welcome to imagine it that way.”

You stood up. Bow on your back, knife on your right hip. You wore a waterproof cover sewn from the sleeve of your father’s old jacket. He had been of the hunter breed, and you were determined to carry that legacy.

The tracks led you to an old gravel bed by the river. Small footprints stuck in the mud.

Not a rabbit. A fox.

“Eyes open, Nico,” you said. “This isn’t just a fox. There are feathers on the ground. This animal was attacked before. We’re in a predator’s territory.”

Nico drew his knife. “You mean a Clicker?”

“No. I know those tracks. This is different. Maybe a lynx. Maybe a hungry wolf. Be careful.”

You crouched, focusing on the scent. There was a faint smell of blood, mixed with damp earth. Your hand went to the head of your arrow. You were tense, but exhilarated. The dance within the hunt always fascinated you.

About an hour later, you reached a forest clearing. The trees thinned out, and the sky began to show itself.

At the edge of the forest, in the shadow of a tree, you spotted a grazing deer.

“A pair,” you whispered. “Female and male.”

Nico squinted. “Which one do we take?”

“The female. Slower. Her meat will be more tender. And the male won’t charge if we don’t threaten him. We need to stay unnoticed.”

You readied your arrow. Placed your left knee on the ground. Pressed your elbow firmly against it. Raised the bow with your left hand, and drew the string to ear-level with your right.

You held your breath.

Thwip...

The arrow pierced the deer just beneath the neck. The animal staggered, then collapsed. Nico’s eyes widened with admiration. “Every time… you blow my mind.”

You smiled and stood up. “Well… you’re allowed to be a little impressed.”

“Being impressed by you might be dangerous.”

You set up camp by the riverside that night. As the meat cooked over the fire, Nico watched you.

“I just don’t get it… how this world still manages to make you happy.”

You shrugged slowly. “Because there’s still a sky. I still have a friend I can smile at. I can still breathe. It’s that simple.”

Nico sighed. “Finding someone like you in this world feels like a miracle.”

You smiled, but your eyes drifted to the horizon.

In your gaze, there was a shadow your subconscious refused to name.

But tonight, there was no past.

Only firelight, laughter, and the warmth of survival.

The deer was tied securely with two strong ropes. Hung by its hind legs, it dangled slightly off the side of Nico’s horse. Its hide was still intact; the surface lightly salted to stop bleeding and keep flies away. That had been your suggestion. Salt not only preserved but also kept the meat from spoiling during travel.

“If we don’t make it to Redhill in three hours,” you said, tightening your horse’s reins, “this meat’s going to turn sour. I’d rather not have my father scolding me over dinner.”

Nico grumbled as he balanced the load on his own horse.

“Not just scolding… Don’t be surprised if he sends us to fix fences. Last time we were only ten minutes late.”

“And we hauled hay for three days,” you said, smiling with embarrassment. “My spine is still plotting revenge.”

As you crossed a narrow rocky path, stones crunched beneath the horses’ hooves. The sun was slowly pulling back behind the mountains, casting long shadows. The road to Redhill used to be a hiking trail. Now it was a lifeline—overgrown with weeds and scattered with forgotten footprints.

“Your father…” Nico said quietly, “has he ever offered you leadership? I mean… has he ever thought you’d take his place one day?”

You tugged the reins gently, slowing your horse. “My place is with the bow, the tracks. His is with people—untangling knots in their minds. My father keeps Redhill standing because he knows when to be soft and when to be firm. I haven’t learned that balance yet.”

Nico nodded, his gaze wandering to the horizon. “But you… when I watch you, I see exactly what a leader should be.”

You paused. His words echoed through the quiet forest like a bell. Then you offered him that familiar smile. “Because of what you just said, I might make you carry rocks until morning.”

Nico laughed and lowered his head. “There’s no punishment worse than you.”

“Oh, believe me, there is,” you said, narrowing your eyes and turning back to the riverside trail. “But right now, I’m bored. Too much silence.”

You took a deep breath. Your voice was soft at first, then carried over the wind. From the depths of a fallen world, you began to hum a song from long ago:

“What have I become, my sweetest friend?

Everyone I know goes away in the end.”

Nico rolled his eyes but smiled. He knew how much you loved to sing that song. He joined you.

As the horses moved on, even the birds seemed to sing along. Until Redhill appeared on the horizon, your laughter raced the wind. Just another evening. A quiet, simple, ordinary journey home.

But none of you knew.

None of you.

This would be the last peaceful journey you ever shared.

The path through the canyon leading into Redhill was familiar; the sound of hooves on dirt, the intermittent calls of birds, and the scent of earth carried by the drifting breeze... Everything was as it should be. Maybe that’s why it took you so long to realize something was wrong.

The deer was the prize of a two-day hunt. These kinds of tasks had become routine over the years. In a self-sustaining community like Redhill, surviving the hunt was only half the job—preserving the kill was just as vital.

You were in the lead, Nico behind you. The young man had talked endlessly like an impatient child; about his new bow, how he’d outshot you, how the second deer was still out there somewhere… But something was bothering you. Whenever you approached the Redhill valley, you could always catch the scent of fresh smoke drifting from between the hills. Burnt wood, simmering stew, a lit pipe... That smell wasn’t there this time. Only damp earth and silence.

“Y/N?” Nico asked, his voice laced with uncertainty. “Is it just me, or... are the sentries gone?”

When you fell silent, the silence itself felt like a scream.

The wooden archway at Redhill’s entrance stood ahead—its painted emblem half-burned. The watchtower beside the gate was empty. No laughter or whistles from above like usual. No children, no women, no crates of tomatoes... It was as if everything had vanished all at once.

“Maybe it’s harvest time. Everyone’s in the back gardens?” Nico said, hopelessly.

You didn’t answer. You dismounted in a swift motion; the stones beneath your boots weren’t dry—they were laced with ash. As your eyes scanned the valley, more came into focus. Broken fences, an overturned wheelbarrow… and then… blood.

Without another thought, you started walking. Nico followed, but your steps had slowed, grown cautious. Your hand instinctively went to your knife. You searched for a threat—but the threat was gone. Only the aftermath remained.

It didn’t take long to find the first body. It hadn’t been covered. The face was charred. A knife stuck out from the back. You didn’t recognize them, but the handmade Redhill clothing was familiar—crocheted edging, handwoven fabric.

The second... the third...

Your legs carried you on their own now. They trembled, but you kept walking. And then, in the center of the courtyard, in front of a still-burning tent, two figures appeared. Reuben and Caleb. Reuben’s arm was in a sling, his face smeared with blood and ash. Caleb had his rifle leaned against a wall, his head buried in his hands. When they saw you, their eyes widened.

“Y/N…” Caleb said as he stood. “Goddamn it…”

“What happened?” you asked. Just two words. But the crack in your voice carried a weight nothing else could.

Reuben tried to speak, cleared his throat. “Attack... The Vultures...” he said. “Marcus Flint was leading it himself.”

The words hung in the air. You didn’t hear them. Only saw the movement of his lips. Redhill had been attacked.

Your eyes scanned everything. Trampled fields. Shattered fences. Broken doors of shelters. It looked like an army had passed through. But Redhill wasn’t a battlefield. It was your home.

“My father?” you asked. Your voice sounded like it came from someone far away.

Reuben lowered his head. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered.

Your knees nearly buckled. But you didn’t fall. Something inside you—a cold, sharp feeling—held you upright. In this world, falling was a luxury. And you no longer had that luxury.

“Take me to him,” you said. Your voice came out steady and cool. It didn’t shake. But something inside had snapped, like a wire pulled too tight.

Caleb stepped forward quickly. “No, Y/N… No. That’s not something you want to see,” he said gently, panic flickering behind his calm tone. “Remember him the way he was. As a leader… as your father. Don’t see him like this.”

You looked at him. Your eyes were cold, but a storm raged behind them. “Get out of my way, Caleb.”

“Y/N, please. His body… it’s unrecognizable. You don’t want to remember him like that.”

Reuben stood a step back, waiting for your decision. Unlike Caleb, he knew you. You weren’t weak. You never were.

You stepped forward, locking eyes with Caleb. “I’m his daughter,” you said, your voice like lead. “And if Redhill’s legacy is mine now\... then I will see the truth with my own eyes. Now move.”

Caleb looked away, his jaw clenched. Then he stepped aside. Over his shoulder, he looked at Reuben.

Reuben nodded slowly. “Come with me,” he said. “Be ready.”

Ready? What did that even mean now? Wasn’t surviving without being ready the very essence of this world?

Reuben led you to a cold shelter behind the stone storage buildings. The door hadn’t been this heavy even when the place was used to store medicine. Inside, it was dim. And there he was.

Your father.

Lying there, half-covered by a dark blanket. His hair was dusted with ash. His beard matted with dried blood. His eyes were closed. One side of his face was unrecognizable—bruises, shattered bones... But the other side... still him.

Your knees gave out, but you didn’t collapse. You knelt beside him. Your fingers trembled as you pulled the blanket back a little more. A massive lump formed in your throat—one you couldn’t swallow.

Your hand reached out and took his. Still warm. Thick, callused hands… The ones that first taught you how to handle a bow. That pointed out spring herbs, that rested on your shoulder when you made small triumphs… the hands of a leader.

“Dad…” you whispered. Just once. Knowing it was the last time you ever would.

Tears fell from your eyes, but there were no sobs. Your tears were silent. You were strong, but not ice. That day, the child in you died. And something else took her place: the beginning of a leader, shattered but standing tall.

After a while, you stood up. Your heart in pieces, but your shoulders squared. You turned to Reuben.

“Where are the rest of the dead?” you asked.

“We managed to gather a few,” he said. “But more might be under the rubble…”

“We’ll find them. Every last one,” you said. “Tomorrow. At dawn. We’ll hold a ceremony—for them… and for my father.”

Reuben bowed his head. Caleb looked at you from behind, his eyes still wet.

“Y/N…” he said in a hushed voice. “You… you’re now…”

You turned to him. Met his gaze.

“No,” you said. “I’m not ‘now.’ I’m still his daughter. And I’ll remind the world what Redhill means.”

When you stepped outside, the sun was beginning to set. Long shadows stretched across the valley. Ash and silence. But you walked. With each step, you became someone else.

The funeral… wouldn’t just be for the dead. An era was ending, and something else was beginning.

At dawn, as the sun lit the ridges of the valley, Redhill was wrapped in silence. The sun was rising, but yesterday’s cold still clung to the air. A coldness that came from deep inside.

You walked toward the main square, repurposed from the old quarantine center, every step echoing beneath your boots. The mud beneath your soles clung with a mixture of blood and ash. But your stride never faltered.

You wore a dark brown leather jacket—your father’s. Its inner lining still stained with blood. The scent of it had nearly broken you as you put it on. But you’d endured. Because you were no longer a daughter. You were a leader.

The people had begun to gather in the square. Women, children, elders… The wounded and the quiet fighters. Some carried arms in slings, others leaned on sticks. The same expression on every face: a fog of grief and fear.

The dead were laid side by side on a carefully prepared platform in the center of the square. Your father’s body was at the center. A single torch burned above his head. Nothing else. No flowers, no ornaments. This world was now made of simplicity.

When you stepped forward, there was a moment of silence before you spoke. The wind wrapped smoke around you as all eyes turned your way.

You took a deep breath. You could hear your own heartbeat. Then you spoke. “They were our companions. Our neighbors. Our brothers and sisters.”

Your voice didn’t crack. Your eyes didn’t water. Every syllable struck like a hammer. “When my father founded this community, he said survival wasn’t about fighting—it was about being together. He brought order to this land. He brought safety. We’ve protected the life we built here for years. But now\... they’ve taken it from us.”

You lifted your head. The eyes of your people met yours. In them, a spark began to burn.

“The Vultures didn’t just go after one man—they targeted a whole people. They stole bread from a child’s hands. Gunned down the sick and the old. These are not enemies. They’re filth. And we... we will not stay silent.”

Your words echoed off the stone of the square. A child cried somewhere in the distance. A woman bowed her head in silence. But most of them—most of them now held something else in their eyes: fury. A fury ready to act.

“Their leader, Marcus Flint—he tried to quench an old grudge with fire. He thought burning us would end it. But Redhill rises from ashes. And now I, as my father’s daughter, will carry on the fight he left behind. We will not only mourn our dead. We will not forget them. We will speak their names alongside justice.”

The crowd fell silent. Then Reuben stepped forward, dropping to one knee and bowing his head.

“Daughter of Y/F/N... Y/N. I know you. I see your father’s fire in your eyes. I stand with you. Just as I walked with him, I’ll walk with you.”

Caleb, on the other hand, took a hesitant step back. His eyes scanned the area, filled with worry, yet also the fear of being left behind.

“Y/N... this path... it could cost us even more. The Vultures aren’t an easy target,” he said.

You turned to him. Your shoulders straight, your gaze unwavering. “What more can we lose, Caleb? I lost my father. My people are dead. Our land is scorched. All we have left is our honor. Should we give that up too?”

Caleb fell silent. He lowered his head. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Alright... damn it. I’m with you. But we’re going to make a good plan. No rushing in blind. With our minds. Just like your father would’ve done.”

Reuben stepped forward. “First, we track The Vultures’ movements. Pinpoint their locations. We don’t strike… we dismantle. We isolate their leader. Then, you’ll be the one to end Marcus Flint.”

You narrowed your eyes and looked out toward the horizon. It was like a map formed in your vision. The dark towers of The Vultures… their arrogant laughter… your father’s final breath… That feeling inside you had evolved beyond vengeance. This was the first step toward justice. And Redhill would rise again—with you.

As evening fell, the mist leaning against the hills of Redhill slowly began to swallow the rest of the camp. Torches flickered like trembling flames, casting long shadows between the cabins. Most of the community had withdrawn into silence after the funeral, mourning their losses in solitude. Many were still under the spell of your morning speech. But you carried the weight of those words now.

The small wooden cabin you were in had once been your father's "map room." His old papers still lay on the desk; dried ink stains and yellowed notes remained. An old plan of Redhill, tucked into the corner of a map, was still in place. Your fingers traced the borders he once drew. Fragmented memories spun in your mind like clipped reels of film.

The door creaked open. Reuben entered. The old jacket on his shoulders had faded to the color of dust over time. His hands were covered in mud, sweat lined his brow. His face was as hard as ever, but tonight his eyes were soft. The loyalty he had once shown your father had shifted into a quiet respect for you.

He walked toward you and let out a heavy breath.

"People expect things from you now," he said. "Not just your name... but his resolve, his heart."

You turned your head to look at him.

"Do you think I have that in me?"

Reuben furrowed his brows. He paused, then nodded.

"Sometimes you're even more. But I can't ask you to be anyone else now. So... you need to know the truth."

You sat up straighter, perched on the edge of the desk. Your hands rested on your knees. You waited.

"You keep asking why the attack happened..." Reuben began.

"Marcus Flint, the leader of the Vultures, claimed our community was hiding a criminal. He said the man was a FEDRA agent. That he escaped and found refuge here."

You frowned.

"I never saw anyone like that. No one's sought shelter here recently. And if he was FEDRA, why pick Redhill? Would he really risk that much for a group hundreds of miles away?"

Reuben nodded.

"I know. I thought it was nonsense too. But he needed an excuse. There was bad blood between him and your father—goes back years. In the early days of the outbreak, they worked together for a time. But they clashed over a trade deal—meds and food. Your father stopped Flint from selling out his own people."

Your eyes fixed on a point in the room. Something stirred in your veins—heavy like poison. Flint’s name was no longer just a threat—it had become a personal wound.

"So this attack... it was old revenge," you said.

"Yes," Reuben confirmed. "It was his way of settling the score."

You both fell silent. The only sound in the room was the wind whistling outside. Cold air crept through the cracks in the ceiling, brushing your shoulders.

Reuben turned to leave, but paused at the door. He looked back at you over his shoulder. There was hesitation in his eyes. Then he reached into the inside pocket of his coat.

"I’ve got one more thing," he said quietly.

"It was by your father's body. I don't recognize it, but... maybe you will."

He stepped closer and opened his hand. Inside it was a wristwatch. Its metal band was scratched, its glass cracked—but it still resisted time. You took it. It was cold. Its weight seemed to come not just from metal, but from the burden of the past.

You turned it over.

An engraving: J.M.

You didn’t move for several seconds. Time itself seemed to stop. Your fingers traced the letters. The mark of a stranger... yet the only clue found beside your father’s blood.

"I don’t know what it means," said Reuben.

"But I felt you should have it."

Your eyes remained locked on the watch. Narrowed. You repeated the letters in your mind again and again.

J.M.

That watch was a whisper of fate. Maybe a name. Maybe the gateway to hell. But now, you had a target.

And you would find him.

Two months later...

The sky that morning was a pale, ashen gray. The earth still bore the marks of blood and gunpowder. But Redhill was breathing. Wounded—but not dead.

Y/N stood at the top of the wooden watchtower, overlooking the valley. Beyond the thorny bushes, broken fences, and ruined cabins, there was an effort to be reborn.

Caleb, working on wires pulled from a broken radio transmitter, spoke without looking up.

"If we can reroute communications to the northern outpost, maybe we’ll learn where Cascade’s storing the old meds. That’d be good leverage for trade."

"Set up the line, but be cautious. Not everyone out there trades," you said. Your voice was firm, but warm. Leadership sometimes weighed heavy on you, but you didn’t show it.

Reuben entered, making marks on a map as he walked.

"Y/N, the boy from the north is back," he said. "The scout you sent."

"Rory? Send him in."

The door opened and Rory entered—sun-scorched, tired-backed, but sharp-eyed. Young, but seasoned in the field.

"Ma'am," he said, nodding.

"What did you find out about the Vultures?"

"Strange things. Their headquarters doesn’t seem as stable anymore. We used to hear constant chatter over the radios. Now… almost silence. A lot of Flint’s people have left. There’s even a rumor—he clashed with his own men."

You listened to Rory’s words in silence. Then leaned forward, fingers pressing the table.

"We need confirmed intel, Rory. If Flint’s alive, he’s still a threat."

Reuben added,

"And if he’s weakening, that’s our window."

Caleb, more cautious, frowned.

"But what if it’s a trap? What if they want to lure us out?"

You raised your head, eyes hardened.

"If they killed my father to provoke me or this people, then they already chose war."

A few days later, under your leadership, a secret meeting was held. Maps, radio data, Rory’s hand-drawn sketches of their base were spread out before you. Where Marcus Flint was last seen, which lookout towers were still active, which water routes had been cut—everything was being charted.

You pressed your finger against a point on the map.

"We’ve pushed them this far. Now they’re on the brink of collapse. We need to wait for the right moment… but if we wait too long, they’ll regain their strength."

Caleb nodded.

"When do you plan the attack?"

"Two weeks from now. I’ll send Rory out again. If Marcus is at the compound and we can strike a deal with someone on the inside, we’ll open a door from within. If not, we’ll infiltrate from the north."

Reuben smiled.

"That’s how your father used to do it. He’d read the enemy first, then end the fight with a single bullet."

You dipped your head slightly. Inside, you carried both the burden and the strength of walking in your father’s footsteps. This wasn’t just about revenge anymore.

It was about Redhill’s future.

***

The wind whipped violently at the flag hanging on the border of Redhill, nearly tearing the fabric apart. The sky was covered in that hazy orange that comes just before darkness falls, as if even the sunset sensed the coming reckoning. In the center square of the community, there was a flurry of preparation. Weapons were being oiled, knives sharpened, bags packed. Every movement was silent but purposeful, because everyone knew: this wasn’t a mission—it was a journey of vengeance.

You had just returned from the old medical center. The first aid kit on your shoulder was filled with collected pain-relieving herbs, antiseptics, and bandages. Reuben and Caleb were waiting for you at the large map table.

"The first team will enter from the west at oh-three-hundred," Caleb said, pressing his finger on a red-marked spot on the map. "The second team will sneak in through the old warehouse door on the north wall. Rory said it’s still unguarded."

Reuben nodded. "There’s also someone inside they've made contact with. Someone Rory’s been in touch with... Might buy us a few minutes."

You placed your hands on your hips, looked at the map for a moment, then raised your eyes and met theirs one by one.

"Remember, Marcus Flint will die. But this isn’t just about him. We’re doing this for Redhill. For my father. For our people."

Reuben bowed his head, eyes shimmering with a sorrow almost proud.

"Your father built Redhill from nothing at your age. Now you’re rebuilding it."

When night fell, Redhill sank into silence. A team of twenty—the best warriors and trackers you had chosen yourselves—mounted their horses and rode eastward in silence. Aside from the soft clatter of hooves on earth, no sound broke the stillness. The moon split the sky like a blade, painting your path in silver.

You remained silent during the ride. Sitting tall on your horse, your hand rested on the shortbow at your side. Countless memories clashed in your mind: your father's voice, Caleb’s doubts, Reuben’s support, Rory’s intel… and the wristwatch. The one that started it all, engraved with those cursed letters: J.M.

After five hours of silent travel, you made camp near an old watermill. Rory had already gone ahead to make his final contact with the insider. The rest of the team knelt, checking their gear one last time. You scanned the entire group carefully.

At first light, you reached The Vultures' camp.

From the outside, it looked abandoned. The cabins were in disrepair, most of the watchtowers broken down. Rory had been right—Marcus Flint had lost most of his forces. Something had collapsed from within. But that didn’t make him any less dangerous.

The plan worked perfectly. The north warehouse door was still unlocked. While Caleb and three others slipped in from the north, you and Reuben entered from the west.

Behind the cabins, the space was littered with scattered rubble, rotting crates, and toppled barrels. It was as if time had forgotten this part of The Vultures' camp. But you hadn't. You lowered your footsteps as you moved forward, stepping into the narrow path leading to the backyard. Your shortbow, slung over your shoulder, was ready at your fingertips. Reuben was on your left, and young but fearless Nico on your right. Each of your breaths was silent but sharp. This wasn’t a walk—it was the beginning of the end.

The first guard was on the roof of the cabin to the left. As he turned his head to scan the surroundings, you suddenly drew your bow. Your fingers, guided by muscle memory, pulled the string to your ear. You held your breath. One second. Two. Three.

Shhhft.

The arrow hissed through the air like a snake and sank into the guard’s neck. He fell backward without a sound. The thud of his body hitting the roof jolted the camp like a disturbed ant nest.

"They saw us!" Nico whispered, but you were already in motion.

Two men burst from the cabin to your left. They held modified rifles, barrels rusted but deadly. As they fired the first shots, Reuben pulled you down by the shoulder. Bullets whizzed past just above you, followed by his return fire.

"Down!" Reuben shouted, bracing his rifle on the rooftop edge and taking aim.

The first man was thrown back with a bullet to the forehead. You handled the second one. You dropped to a position parallel to the ground, released your hand from the shortbow, and pulled the silenced pistol from your belt. Aim, breathe, trigger.

Tak!

The man hit in the shoulder staggered for a moment, then collapsed to the ground with a scream. His weapon fell from his hand. When you reached him, your eyes met. He was about to say something, but you stayed silent. Instead, you pressed the silencer to his head and finished the job with a second shot. This wasn't mercy—it was resolve.

“Nico!” you shouted. “On the right! Two just came out from the entrance!”

Nico was young but agile. He’d learned archery from you. He turned to the target, drew his arrow, and released it. The first man was hit in the shoulder, the second in the chest. They collapsed in front of the barrack.

“The camp's almost empty!” Nico called out, breathless. “These are just Marcus’s leftovers!”

“So they still don't take us seriously,” you said, your eyes locked on the large building at the center of the camp. “That’ll be their last mistake.”

As you passed between the shacks, three more men appeared. One had a shotgun, the others charged with knives. The first bullet came from Reuben’s gun, bringing the shotgun-wielder down. You slung your bow onto your back, gripped the knife from your belt in a reverse hold, and rushed in.

The first attacker swung at you before reaching, but his move was clumsy and fueled by rage. You ducked and drove your knee into his thigh. As he stumbled, you buried the blade into his abdomen. When you pulled it out and turned, the second attacker’s punch grazed your face. You rolled backward, bounced up from the dirt, and struck back quickly. You pinned him to the ground with your knee on his chest and pressed the blade to his throat.

Nico was wrestling with the last man. He was tall, trying to overpower Nico. In a blink, you intervened, stabbing the man’s knee. He fell with a scream, and Nico struck his head with a rock.

Silence. Only distant gunshots from the rooftops. And slowly, even that faded.

Reuben rubbed his shoulder, looking at you. “You’re not your father’s daughter. You’re the war itself.”

Your face was cloaked in shadow. The dirt and blood on you had become a warrior’s blessing. But your eyes... they still mourned your father. Even in the heart of revenge, they searched for ways to remain human.

There were almost no obstacles left between you and Marcus Flint.

The office building was one of the strongest structures in the Vultures' camp. Built years ago, its concrete foundation still held, but the walls were moss-covered and the windows shattered. The front door was ajar. One hinge had fallen to the ground, the other creaked with the wind. This was the place where Marcus Flint made decisions, where lives were determined. But now it felt more like a tomb, devoid of his footsteps.

Your gun was in your hand. The cold metal clung to your palm, heavy with sweat, rage, and the weight of a long journey. Reuben and Caleb had stayed outside. This confrontation was yours alone. It was your father’s blood that had been spilled. You needed answers.

Your footsteps echoed on the wooden floor. Then a voice came from inside the office. “Close the door,” it said calmly. “The wind’s messing with my thoughts.”

You stepped in. Gun raised with both hands, you locked onto your target. “Marcus Flint!” you said. Your voice cracked, but your resolve did not falter.

The man behind the desk looked up. His hair, a reddish shade of brown, was streaked with gray. His face was stern, the corners of his eyes lined with fatigue. He sat proudly, but his spirit had aged more than his body.

“Marcus is gone,” he said. “I’m Cutter. The last remaining owner of this structure.”

Your finger trembled on the trigger. “Don’t lie to me. Marcus is here. I came all this way for him. Where is he?!”

Cutter smiled faintly. He leaned back, nudged some empty casings on the table with his fingers. “Marcus is dead,” he said. “Last month. Drowned in his own filth. Took his pride with him.”

Your throat tightened. It wasn't supposed to end like this. You wanted to look into his eyes, steal his breath, then pull the trigger. But now someone else sat before you. And in his eyes, there was not death—but truth.

“How?” you asked. Your voice dropped slightly, but the determination remained. “Who killed him?”

Cutter shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. In the end, he became a victim of what he created. False alliances, shattered decisions... This place wasn’t a camp anymore—it was a swamp. Your attack was just the final blow.”

You took that object from your backpack. The watch. Rusted, the glass scratched. You didn’t strap it on your wrist, you placed it in your palm. Showed it to Cutter. “This,” you said, “was found beside my father’s body. There’s something carved on the back.”

Cutter recognized it without looking. His eyes widened slightly, but were quickly replaced by quiet acceptance.

“Joel,” he said. “Joel Miller. I recognized the watch. Never met a man so obsessed with time. If he dropped it... he must’ve thought he made a mistake.”

The blood drained from your face. You hadn’t heard that name before. “Who is he? Why was the watch with my father? Did he...”

Cutter lowered his head, silent for a moment. Then he stood from his chair and looked out the window. At what remained of the camp.

“Joel Miller was a mercenary. But not your average killer. Quiet, precise, did everything his way. Marcus hired him to kill your father. Joel did the job. But... he disappeared right after payment. As if... the weight of what he did broke him.”

You swallowed. “So... he’s the one who killed my father?”

“Yes,” said Cutter.

The words hung in the air for a while. The watch in your hand was no longer just an item. It was the key to a door leading into the past.

"Joel Miller..." you murmured to yourself. The name left a sharp taste on your tongue; metallic, rusty, like blood.

Cutter was still by the window. His shoulders were slumped. His voice held no triumph, only exhaustion. “Look. Flint is dead. He was your father’s enemy. He had him killed. Now he’s buried too. The score is settled.”

He slightly turned his head, eyes locked on yours. “I don’t want to hurt you. I know there’s no redemption for what we did here. But… you’re different. You think like a leader. For Redhill’s future…”

“Stop,” you said, low but sharp. “Did you see that day?”

Cutter didn’t answer.

“Did you hide? Did you run? Or did you watch my father get shot?”

Cutter’s lips twitched. “I want to protect you,” he said. “Like everyone who died here, I fell apart too. I just wanted you to know that.”

You stepped forward. The grip of your gun fit so well in your hand, it felt fused with your bones. The watch was still in your pocket. It weighed you down—but not as much as the burden you carried inside. Like a curse flapping its wings in your chest.

“I will find Joel Miller,” you said. Your eyes no longer trembled. “And I’ll find out what happened that day. Turns out it wasn’t just Flint. The man who executed my father had a name. A voice. A breath. And now, that breath belongs to me.”

Cutter nodded slowly. “If you’re going to find Joel…” he said quietly, “pray he doesn’t recognize you… or that he does.”

You paused. There was a threat in those words, in Cutter’s voice—a lingering fear that made your skin crawl. This wasn’t just a warning. Joel Miller was the kind of man whose name burned itself into memory, who made lips dry when whispered in the dark.

“Who was he?” you asked. “Who was the man who killed my father?”

Cutter clenched his jaw. “He spoke with darkness. Sometimes he didn’t even know who or why he killed. You make a deal with him, he gets it done. But he always leaves a trail of blood behind. Flint made a deal. But Joel was never anyone’s dog. Maybe he killed Flint too. Maybe his conscience caught up. But… that conscience buried a lot of people.”

Cutter stepped back. At the end of his words, it was like a weight had fallen from his shoulders. He was waiting. For mercy. Forgiveness. Maybe just to be spared.

But you only looked at him for a moment.

“That man executed my father,” you said. “Neither Flint’s rotten orders nor your aged guilt can change that. My father built Redhill with hardship. But I was the one who buried him.”

And you pulled the trigger.

Cutter’s head slumped to the side. His eyes stayed open in surprise, as if even in the end, he couldn’t believe it was your hand that sent him off. When his body hit the floor, silence swallowed the room. No triumph, no grief… only that sharp clarity creaking in your bones: Nothing could stop you now.

You closed your eyes for a moment. Took a deep breath. The watch… was still in your pocket.

Your footsteps echoed as you left the office. Your eyes weren’t on the darkness—they were fixed on the horizon of vengeance.

Now you had a target. Joel Miller.

And you… would not speak to him. You would not forgive him.

Outside, Reuben and Nico were waiting. Their eyes immediately fell on your gun, on your blank expression.

Nico stepped closer. His brows were furrowed, but there was a trace of relief in his eyes. “Is it over?” he asked. “Marcus… is he dead?”

You didn’t answer.

Reuben exhaled deeply. “Y/N… What happened in there?”

Instead of replying, you reached into your pocket and pulled out the watch. Slowly, carefully. Your fingers brushed the metal for a moment. Then you handed it to Reuben.

“Joel Miller,” you said. “That’s the name of the man who actually killed my father. Marcus died during the riot here.”

Reuben’s face turned pale. His hand trembled as it hovered around the watch. “That name…” he said. “It sounds familiar. But…”

Nico stared at you in disbelief. “What are you saying? Flint gave the order, didn’t he? That bastard paid the price. Fate punished him for you. And you…”

You cut him off. “There’s no such thing as fate,” you said. Your gaze was fixed, like a dusty desert horizon. “Only choices. And I’ve made mine. This isn’t over.”

Nico couldn’t make sense of the silence that surrounded you. There was a mixed sense of victory on his face, but your expression was far beyond triumph. Reuben, however, understood everything. He slowly took the watch in his hand, felt its weight, then handed it back to you.

“This isn’t just his watch anymore, is it?” he said. “For you… it’s the key to a new war.”

You nodded. “I found it next to my father’s body. Cutter said Joel was the one who executed him. Even if it was under Flint’s orders, he pulled the trigger. And that doesn’t mean it’s over. It means this is just the beginning.”

Reuben slightly bowed his head. “Y/N... Revenge can be poison. You carry a fire in your heart for years. I trust your leadership, but… you’re not going to turn this into a blood feud, are you?”

...

On the road, the horses’ hooves kicked up dust as you rode toward Redhill. The sky was still gray, but there was something else on the horizon this time. What had happened in Marcus Flint’s town was still fresh in everyone’s mind, but the images in your head were older: your father’s face, dried blood, the watch placed in your hand, and Cutter’s final words.

You were riding in front, eyes locked on the horizon, your lips pressed together. But those behind you read the silence differently.

Caleb was the first to speak. His strong voice cut through the dry air. “Y/N. You didn’t just avenge your father today. You carried the weight of all Redhill. You fought for all of us.”

You slowed your horse, glanced back slightly, but didn’t reply.

Rory rode his horse beside Caleb’s. The young man’s eyes were shining. “When the town burned. When Flint’s men tied the children to trees and dragged the mothers away—we couldn’t do anything. But today... today, something finally changed. People will hear about this. Redhill is no longer alone.”

Voices started to rise behind you. You weren’t the only ones who stormed that town. A few more fighters from Redhill had come, all watching you.

An older woman, Mellie, spoke in a whisper, but her voice was clear: “Your father stood up for us. Now you carry on where he left off. But your road is long. If you’ve taken this bitter decision on your shoulders, don’t leave it unfinished.”

Reuben looked at you from over his shoulder as you pulled gently on the reins. Your horse stopped. From the mountainside, the distant lights of Redhill came into view. You slowly turned around, your face glowing in the red of the setting sun. Your eyes turned to your people, your companions.

“When my father died,” you said, your voice rough as gravel but steady, “all I had left was a watch. A clue. I followed it. I chased it. I killed Cutter. But behind that watch was another name. Joel Miller. And that name opened the door to another story, soaked into the soil of these lands.”

Your lips parted again, your gaze returned to the horizon. “This isn’t my path anymore. It’s the path Redhill walks now. And you... you’re putting it on my shoulders. Like a stone, heavy and sharp. But if this is truly your war too... then I’ll walk it to the end.”

Those looking at you bowed their heads. Rory placed a hand over his heart. Mellie nodded, wiping her tears away.

Reuben slowly approached, took your reins. “You won’t walk alone, girl. You won’t kill alone. This will be Redhill’s final farewell. And we’ll be the witnesses to that farewell.”

As the sun disappeared behind the mountain, Redhill’s lights drew near.

But in your eyes, a darker, more distant light was burning now:

The memory of Joel Miller. And the final day when you would face him.

290 notes · View notes

divaofmads · 5 months ago

Text

Daughter of Water

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x Female Reader (OC)

Warnings: Sacred virginity nonsense, Smut, +18, loss of virginity, sex with a stranger, fingering, standing sex, sexuality leaning more toward body-worship, dirty talk, fluff, mockery of absurd beliefs, use of the title “sacred whore” (though not to degrade the woman — you’ll understand when you read it), manipulative and mischievous Oberyn, Rough, Language!

Y/N: Your Name S/T: Skin Tone H/C: Hair Color

Word Count: 8.5k

Gif by Pinterest

A/N: I'm not a professional when it comes to fanfiction. I just write as a hobby. I started writing thanks to the amazing people who do this perfectly. So if you're going to focus on my mistakes, please don't read it.

A/N 2 : I apologize for the mistakes I made in English that is not my native language and I am trying to improve my writing skills.

The dunes of Dorne shimmered even on starless nights, yet that evening felt dark and silent to Prince Oberyn Martell. The decision to exile him had begun with news from Highgarden. A covert assassination attempt against House Tyrell had failed, and subtle clues cast a shadow of suspicion upon Oberyn. The true perpetrator was never confirmed, but the delicate balance of power within the Seven Kingdoms was fragile enough to threaten Dorne's independence. Oberyn's courage and rebellious spirit made him an easy target for such intrigues. His brother, Doran Martell, saw no alternative but to send him into exile.

"The best thing you can do for Dorne," Doran said, "is to leave. This will be the salvation not just for you, but for our house."

As always, Oberyn responded with a smile.

"Exile me? Perhaps you're doing me a favor, brother. A fine excuse to explore the world beyond the Seven Kingdoms."

Upon leaving the warm sands of Dorne, Oberyn stepped into the complex and ruthless world of Essos. Exile offered him not just freedom but also the opportunity to discover the extent of his own boundaries. His first destination was Lys; known as the island of love and passion, this city was famed for its golden beaches, wealthy merchants, and renowned beauties. However, Lys's seductive façade quickly became monotonous for Oberyn. Dazzling women, gold-embroidered wine goblets, delicate incenses... These could not fill the void within a Martell's soul.

"Beauty becomes dull quickly," he muttered to himself, sipping wine on the terrace of a Lys inn. "The essence of pleasure lies in the unexplored."

After spending a few months in Lys, Oberyn set his course for Myr. Known for its fine craftsmanship, glassmaking, and ancient poison masters, Myr offered more than just hedonistic pursuits—it provided something to satiate his curiosity: the fine art of death.

While wandering through Myr's narrow, labyrinthine streets, Oberyn's eyes caught a shop he'd heard much about. Known as Tanith's "House of Spices and Elixirs," this establishment was a hub for poison dealers from across Essos. Upon entering, the air was thick with the scent of spices; dried herbs, snake skins, and finely ground mineral powders lined the shelves.

Tanith was an elderly woman; her eyes bore the faded memories of something once vibrant. Upon seeing Oberyn, she immediately recognized not just a customer but a student hungry for knowledge.

"Poison isn't wielded like a crude dagger, prince," Tanith said, retrieving a dark red powder from a shelf. "Poison requires patience and intellect. In the right hands, it's an art; in the wrong, a disgrace."

Under Tanith's guidance, Oberyn began to learn the secrets of poisons. He delved beyond the common toxins sold in Myr's markets, seeking rarer and more lethal concoctions. The impact of poison lay not just in the victim's physical agony but also in the psychological terror it induced.

Tanith taught Oberyn three fundamental principles:

1. The Power of Time: Some poisons acted instantly, while others consumed their victims slowly over weeks. Oberyn learned that a poison derived from the blood of the Lys snake left its victim debilitated for days, with death arriving only during sleep.

2. Deceptive Taste and Aroma: The deadliest poisons often appeared as innocent as a dessert. Oberyn tasted a poison from Old Volantis; when mixed with wine, it left a sweet, spicy flavor, yet a single sip ignited a burning sensation in the victim's veins.

3. Poison and Intrigue: Poison was not merely a physical weapon but a message. It was used not just to kill a king but to instill fear in a kingdom. Oberyn understood the importance of poisoning not just the victim but also those around them.

Under Tanith's supervision, Oberyn began crafting his own poisons. One of his most successful creations earned him the title "Red Sand" among the people of Myr. This sand-colored powder induced a sensation of sand coursing through the victim's veins, leading to death within hours. However, Oberyn used his poisons not solely for killing but also to slowly subdue his enemies and leave them in terror.

During his months with Tanith, Oberyn began to grasp the philosophy of poison. It was quieter than a sword, swifter than an arrow, and as powerful as a word. He researched the great poison masters of history; he listened to tales of a poison made from dragon blood used in the final years of Valyria. Compared to Myr, Westeros's tradition of poison seemed primitive.

One evening, he turned to Tanith and said,

"Poison is like a gift stolen from the gods. A swift death can make a king feel powerless; a slow one can strike terror into an entire people."

Tanith smiled and replied,

"But remember, prince. Poison consumes the one who wields it as well. If you go too deep, in the end, you may find nothing but yourself."

Oberyn, satisfied with the knowledge he had gained and the poisons he had crafted in Myr, still felt an emptiness within a longing for new places to discover and desires yet to be fulfilled. He had mastered the subtleties of poison, but now it was time for a different kind of adventure.

Leaving behind the warm, salt-scented air of Myr, Oberyn Martell burned with the yearning for his next journey. During his time in Myr, he had fed both his mind and his soul, yet the restless passion in a Martell's blood drove him to seek more. It was then, in a harbor tavern, that a tale sparked the beginning of his journey to Pentos.

The tavern, a wooden structure overlooking the port of Myr, was filled with the scents of wine and bursts of raucous laughter at dusk. Oberyn was drawn in by a drunken merchant’s tale. He spoke of the Prince of Pentos, who, as part of an age-old tradition, would be sacrificed to the gods after a season of poor harvests. A new prince would then be chosen in his place. But what caught Oberyn's interest most was the central figure of this ritual: Daughter of Water.

"Daughter of Water ," the merchant slurred, wine dripping from his lips, "is seen as a gift from the gods. She must be so pure, so beautiful, that when the new prince unites with her, fertility and peace return. The city waits for her for years, dedicates her to the gods. They say there's one now… her name is Y/N."

Oberyn listened to the words with a deep smile. He slowly lifted his wine glass and leaned toward the merchant. “Tell me, my friend. What is the story of this Y/N? And what kind of place is Pentos, that even the gods marvel at the beauty of its women?”

Pentos, a golden city overlooking the sea on the western shores of Essos, began to take shape in Oberyn’s imagination. Known for its brothels and harbor, Pentos was a hub where merchants, pirates, and nomadic warriors converged. But the city held far more than outsiders might suspect.

The narrow, stone-paved streets of Pentos were adorned with ancient mosaics, each telling a story from the city’s past. Golden-domed palaces stood as symbols of wealth, yet beneath this splendor lay a sharp game of fear and balance of power. Though it seemed as if Pentos was ruled by its lords, true power rested in the hands of merchants and wealthy families.

The people of Pentos fed their city with the gifts of the sea. Spices, exotic fabrics, fish, and precious stones from the East kept the port alive with motion. But behind this wealth were also the marks of poverty. Most of the houses were narrow, leaning on one another, barely letting sunlight pass through. The streets echoed with both the laughter of wine merchants and the silence of beggars crushed by hunger.

And in the middle of all this chaos, like an offering to the gods, the name of Daughter of Water, Y/N, was whispered among the people. Y/N was on the verge of becoming a legend.

What the merchant said had stirred Oberyn’s blood. The mere fact that Y/N had been chosen as Daughter of Water was enough to convince him to embark on this journey. But it was not just about a woman or a ritual. For Oberyn, Pentos was a new playing field. When the merchant said, “Pentos lives like prey caught in the talons of an eagle. It looks strong, but it always fears,” a sly smile spread across Oberyn’s face.

“Is it easy to get to Pentos?” Oberyn asked.

“Finding ships in the harbors isn't hard. But be careful—Pentos lords don't easily trust outsiders,” said the merchant.

Oberyn paid little mind to the man's warning. He was confident that with his wit and charm, he could get whatever he wanted in Pentos. At the port of Myr, he boarded a trade ship called the Silver Scorpion. The vessel was filled with exotic spices and rare fabrics, but for Oberyn, this journey was not about commerce—it was about discovering a woman and the dark secrets of a city.

As the Silver Scorpion glided over the waves, Oberyn pondered what lay ahead. The beauty of Lysandra, the ritual of the Water Maiden, the mysteries hidden beneath the golden domes of Pentos... This voyage promised to be one of his greatest adventures in Essos.

“Pentos,” he murmured to himself. “The gods truly know where to hide their gifts.”

As the Silver Scorpion approached the harbor, the grandeur and darkness of Pentos slowly entered Oberyn Martell’s view. The city’s golden domes and elegant seaside palaces suggested peace and order, but beneath that splendor was a chaos waiting to be uncovered.

The moment he disembarked, Oberyn scanned his surroundings. His eyes sought the order beneath the harbor’s chaos. Pentos seemed disorganized at first glance, but deep within its heart lay a hierarchy. Here, power was shaped in silence and shadows. Oberyn trusted his instincts—they would lead him to Daughter of Water, for a Martell never strays from his path.

He acted on the information given to him by the merchant he met in Myr. Daughter of Water was no ordinary girl. She was seen as a gift from the gods, venerated by the people. Such a being would not be hidden among the common folk; she would be kept in a special place, protected like a living icon.

Crossing the cobbled roads beyond the harbor, Oberyn made his way to the quieter and more noble part of the city. The northern quarter of Pentos was home to wealthy merchants and lords. Here, grand structures rose toward the sky, courtyards adorned with marble statues. But Oberyn knew Daughter of Water would be kept not just in wealth, but in sanctity.

As he traced her trail through the city’s bustle, a wine merchant whispered to him, “Daughter of Water? She’s in the Garden of the Gods. Beneath the golden arbors... but you can’t just walk in there.”

The Garden of the Gods was one of the oldest and most sacred parts of Pentos. Located on the city’s western slope, this area was a sanctuary dedicated to the old gods, filled with graceful statues and exotic flora. According to rumor, Daughter of Water resided there, under the watchful eyes of temple priests. The temple was open only to the chosen; within its walls, magic, tradition, and faith intertwined.

Before reaching the Garden of the Gods, Oberyn sought out more knowledge of Y/N from merchants and priests. Each described her divinity and beauty in their own way.

Y/N’s S/T skin was said to shine as purely and brightly as moonlight reflected on water. Her luminous complexion was viewed as a sacred sign by the people—as if the gods had touched her and crafted her with a purity unlike any other. Her H/C hair resembled the night sky: long, silky, and moving like waves in a gentle breeze. But what truly set Y/N apart wasn’t merely her physical beauty.

The priests said that the real reason people believed Y/N was sacred was because of the Blood Moon that appeared on the night of her birth. That night, Pentos fell into an eerie silence, and the city’s oldest priest declared that Y/N was “the rebirth of the gods.” Even more impressive was her voice, which seemed to enchant everyone who heard it. Her songs touched the hearts of those who listened, filling them with a kind of peace and awe. The people believed they heard the voices of the gods in her melodies.

Oberyn knew that entry to the garden was only possible for chosen individuals. But a Martell possessed the wit to turn obstacles into opportunity.

As Oberyn Martell moved through the narrow streets of Pentos, he gathered clues step by step to locate the Garden of the Gods. Every time he heard its name, he sensed a tremble of reverence in people’s voices. This place held not only beauty, but also mystery and power.

In the marketplace, he spotted one of the priests. The man was different from the others—his robe was cleaner, his walk more dignified. Most likely, he held a significant place in the temple’s inner hierarchy. Oberyn decided to follow him. He watched as the man began speaking to a merchant in a spice-scented alley. Observing from a distance, he noticed their interaction was based on mutual trust.

This insight offered Oberyn an opportunity. Even among the temple priests, some could succumb to worldly desires; for gold or prestige, no door was truly sealed. He needed only to wait for the right moment.

The next day, he witnessed a priest examining fresh flowers being taken into the Garden of the Gods. Oberyn seized the chance and approached, introducing himself as one of Pentos’s prominent merchants. He centered his conversation on the people's devotion to the gods and his "admiration" for the sanctity of the temples.

“Honored priest,” Oberyn began, with a subtle smile. “I’ve heard stories about the Garden of the Gods in Pentos. They say the gods left traces of themselves there. Tell me, what does such a sacred place look like?”

The priest responded with a cautious expression. “The garden is for the gods and their servants alone. Entry is not permitted for someone off the street.”

Oberyn’s lips curled slightly. “Someone off the street? Perhaps. But I didn’t come to Pentos as just another merchant. I’ve spent most of my life uncovering the mysteries of Essos. In Myr, Lys, Qohor... I’ve seen the signs of the gods. I believe in what you say, and I cannot help but admire what has been granted to you.”

The priest examined Oberyn’s confident tone. Still, he seemed ready to object. At that moment, Oberyn lowered his voice, speaking in a tone that balanced between a subtle threat and a tempting offer. “In this city, many speak of the sacrifices made by the temple priests, and of the sacred relics you guard in the Garden of the Gods. But sadly, some rumors suggest that this sanctity is no longer well protected. Such whispers could tarnish the priests’ reputation. However, a foreigner like me could see things in a very different light. I could help exalt the temple’s name, if we worked together.”

The priest evaluated Oberyn's words, sensing the subtle threat and flattery woven together. Turning him away carried risk; remaining silent, however, might make an enemy of a man as clever as Oberyn. In the end, they reached an agreement. The priest would lead Oberyn to the edge of the garden, but crossing the temple's boundaries would depend entirely on Oberyn’s own skill.

The massive stone gates of the Garden of the Gods were more magnificent than even the grandest structures of Pentos. The carvings above depicted ancient deities, each holding a different element of nature: fire, water, earth, and air. As Oberyn studied these representations, a phrase etched beneath the gate caught his eye: "Peace is found only in places blessed by the gods."

As the priest opened the gate, he turned to Oberyn. "Not everyone who comes here can feel its sanctity. But this place sees the soul. If you lose your way during this journey, it will be by your own choice."

When the gate opened, Oberyn felt the presence of another world. The Garden of the Gods was no ordinary garden. Towering marble columns reached toward the sky, and birds danced around them, transforming the temple grounds into a work of art. Water whispered from every corner, flowing through narrow channels that connected the courtyards.

Oberyn tried not to be swept away by the garden’s enchantment. "The blood of a Martell is sacred too," he reminded himself. Even amid such beauty, he remained focused on his mission. He could sense that Y/N was at the very heart of this garden. His eyes scanned every corner, every step calculated.

Oberyn Martell relied on his intelligence and sharp observational skills to move through the Garden of the Gods undetected. His desire to reach Y/N gave him a renewed sense of determination. As he watched the garden and its routines, he carefully noted the behavior of the priests, the patrol paths of the guards, and every small detail around him.

The first thing he noticed was the sacred order that governed the garden. The priests moved in a constant ritual rhythm, traveling to different sections of the garden at set times. The guards were vigilant, especially near the central pergola that lay at the garden’s core—an area under tight surveillance. Oberyn realized that a direct approach was impossible; he would need to find a flaw within the system’s structure.

Through his observations, Oberyn noticed that at specific times the priests gathered beneath a small pavilion in the garden’s corner. There, fruits and wines were offered as symbols of the garden’s sanctity, and the priests partook of these gifts while expressing their devotion. Yet Oberyn saw beyond the sacredness—he saw a glimpse of human nature: despite their faith, the priests consumed the fruits and wine with eager appetite, surrendering themselves to the moment’s comfort.

Oberyn recalled the months he had spent in Myr, learning the arts of poison. In the small leather pouch he carried, one vial contained an extract of a plant called Silent Shadow. The poison was not deadly; its effects were more subtle. It clouded the mind, dulled awareness, and slowed reflexes. For his goal, it was a perfect tool.

His next step was to mix the extract into the fruits and wine offered to the priests. But it had to be done without drawing attention. Oberyn purchased a few pomegranates and figs from a small fruit stall outside the garden. In a secluded corner behind the stand, he used a thin syringe to inject the poison into the fruits. He also treated a bottle of Pentoshi wine in the same way, preparing everything for his plan.

Oberyn discreetly placed the fruit and wine on a table near the pavilion, blending them in with the other offerings. When the priests gathered at the corner of the garden, they unknowingly included Oberyn’s contributions in their ritual. Soon after, he watched as they began to taste the sacred offerings, all while his plan took root.

The effects became evident quickly. The priests' movements grew looser, their speech slowed. Some chuckled softly; others gently swayed where they sat. Even the guards, having sampled a few bites, started to show signs of the same dazed state.

Oberyn knew this was his moment.

Oberyn, knowing this distraction would continue, decided to act. At this point, the most crucial part of his plan was to silently find the path to the center of the garden, to Y/N’s arbor.

The water channels running through the garden were another detail that hadn't escaped Oberyn’s notice. Passing under delicate stone arches, these channels connected every corner of the garden, extending silently toward the center. When Oberyn realized they were wide enough for a person to pass through, he decided to use them.

Taking advantage of the priests’ and guards’ scattered attention, he slipped into the most secluded part of the garden. There, a small arched tunnel marked the origin of the water. As he entered the tunnel, he stripped off his outer garments and began to move carefully, clinging to the damp stone walls. The humid, dark atmosphere tested both his mental and physical endurance. But Oberyn was used to such challenges; a Martell did not succumb to fear when opportunity presented itself.

As he moved forward with the sound of the water guiding him, he noticed a small stone staircase at the end of the channel. It led directly beneath Y/N’s arbor. Climbing the damp steps in silence, Oberyn advanced like a chess piece moved with careful intent. At the end of the tunnel, he spotted a sentry priest standing alert in the dim light. Now, intelligence and creativity had to serve as sharper weapons than any blade.

Looking around, Oberyn noticed thinly carved stone holes reaching up to the ceiling of the channel. These openings, combined with the sound of the water, created echoes that carried whispers across the garden.

A clever idea came to him to distract the priest. He picked up a small stone from near the entrance of the tunnel and placed it in the flow of the stream, waiting patiently. As the stone drifted with the current and clattered against others, it echoed, making it seem as though the sound had come from a distant part of the tunnel. But Oberyn wasn’t finished; to amplify the illusion, he gently blew air into one of the stone carvings, adding a whisper that blended with the rhythm of the water.

The priest suddenly stiffened. The rhythmic sound of the stream mixed with faint whispers must have seemed like a divine warning or sign. With unease, he turned his head and began to approach the shadowy entrance of the water channels. At that moment, Oberyn's cunning triumphed once again; while the priest waited for a sign from the gods, Oberyn glided up the stairs like a shadow.

The stairs led Oberyn to a chamber beneath the arbor. Here, on the surface of the stone walls, he saw carvings resembling ancient Valyrian symbols. Yet among them, Oberyn recognized the subtle outline of a mechanism. The stones shifted slightly when touched with care. With the patience honed under Dorne's blazing sun, he studied their arrangement. Moving with near-blind sensitivity in the dark, he found the correct alignment. As the final stone clicked into place, a soft mechanical sound whispered through the air and a stone door slowly opened.

A narrow passage led Oberyn just a few steps from Y/N’s arbor. Yet he could already feel her presence; the air itself seemed to hum with divine energy around her. It was as if her very breath filled the chamber.

But for Oberyn, the real challenge was how to approach her. It would take more than wit—it required a captivating strategy. This meeting with Y/N was less a hunt and more the final steps of a dance. He had reached the most sacred part of the garden, but as he neared Y/N, he prepared to don his mask: one of charm, danger, and cleverness.

When Oberyn Martell stepped into the sacred chamber of the arbor, his eyes lingered for a heartbeat. Y/N was far more than what the priests and the people of Pentos had described. The young woman seemed shaped by the very hands of the gods. Her S/T skin, so rare and pristine to someone who had grown under Dorne’s scorching sun, was like a canvas—pure and mesmerizing. The smoothness of her complexion reminded him of a mountain peak kissed by the first snow; cold, yet with an untouchable allure.

Her H/C hair, catching the flickering light of the torches in the room, resembled the night sky itself—each strand a shadow of starlight cloaked in darkness. It flowed down to her waist like a silken veil, framing her face in a way that made her seem like she belonged in a sacred portrait. But what struck him most were her eyes: deep, intense, caught between the golden flame of a dragon and the silvery gray of Valyria. Those eyes pierced through Oberyn’s gaze like an arrow.

Y/N left a divine impression not just with her beauty but with her very presence. Her movements were graceful—not in the way of a trained lady, but as though gifted by the gods themselves. The golden bracelets on her slender wrists, bestowed by the priests, chimed softly with each subtle motion. Yet Oberyn sensed those bracelets were shackles; Y/N was a bird in a cage, condemned to a fate she had never chosen.

A faint smile touched Oberyn’s lips—not one of victory, but of something deeper, a recognition. Y/N was not simply beautiful. She possessed a uniqueness unlike anything he had ever seen or experienced. This young woman could make him forget the flower gardens of Dorne, yet behind her beauty lay fragility and solitude.

"As beautiful as a goddess, and as fragile as a bird," Oberyn thought. "But a Martell fears neither gods nor cages." Y/N’s beauty stirred not only his admiration but also a hunger. He was not a man content with watching—he was a man of pursuit. But with Y/N, that pursuit felt elevated. This woman was more than a symbol offered to the gods—she was powerful enough to deceive the gods themselves.

Oberyn was captivated by not just her appearance, but the aura she emanated. The priests may have marked her as chosen by the divine, but in Oberyn’s eyes, Y/N held a power beyond their reach. The sorrow in her gaze ignited the fire in his Martell blood. His fury at her caged destiny, and his desire to truly know her, made him more resolute than ever.

"To only look upon her," Oberyn thought, "would be like gazing at stars and never daring to make a wish." Every movement she made, every breath she took, became less an image and more a melody in his mind. The fire of Dorne met the elegance of Y/N, and he knew this was merely the beginning.

Oberyn Martell would not accept that Lysandra belonged to the gods. In his eyes gleamed the resolve of a warrior and the passion of a lover. This bird would not remain caged—for Oberyn was a man who broke cages.

The Garden of the Gods in Pentos had lost none of its grandeur, even under the night’s shadow. Marble columns rose like phantoms in the moonlight, while the ancient trees overhead formed a canopy that veiled the sky. The soft trickle of water and the occasional chirp of birds gave the garden a sacred harmony with nature. The holiness of this place weighed upon the hearts of all who entered—but Oberyn Martell’s heart bore only one thought: Y/N.

“Y/N,” he said, stepping from the shadows with his usual confident, cunning smile. His attire—rich in black and red—was embroidered with golden suns of House Martell. He looked both noble and enigmatic, moving with the ease of a predator who cared little for the sacred. Y/N, under the moonlight, shone like a tale brought to life. But to Oberyn, this was no tale. This was the beginning of a mystery waiting to be unraveled.

“The Garden of the Gods... they say it’s a sacred place. But I’ve always been intrigued by how fragile sacred things can be. Just like you, shining here tonight.”

Y/N was sitting on the bench by the window; she quickly turned around and frowned at the stranger standing before her. There was more discomfort than fear in her eyes. "I don't know who you are, but you shouldn't be here. Only priests and the divinely chosen are allowed to walk in this garden."

Oberyn took a few steps toward her, and when the moonlight hit his face, that famous smile of his became more pronounced. "I did not claim my right from the priests, but from the night itself. I’m looking for something, Y/N. And I’ve found it."

Y/N's brows furrowed. "This isn't a place for games. Tell me who you are and leave."

Oberyn didn't seem affected by her authoritative tone. On the contrary, the smile on his face grew wider. "I am Oberyn Martell," he said, each word carrying the power of his name. "Prince of Dorne, son of the Snake, a wanderer who sings songs of love and death across the Seven Kingdoms. But tonight, I am only a man. And perhaps the Garden of the Gods has summoned me."

Y/N stared at Oberyn. "You came all this way just to find me? If achieving that makes you feel divine, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed. I'm not a miracle, nor the embodiment of a prophecy. I'm just... someone born in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Oberyn took a step to sit beside her, but Y/N stopped him with a motion of her hand. "Don’t come closer. I don't care who you are. I’m in no state of mind to talk to anyone on behalf of the gods."

"I'm not speaking on behalf of the gods," Oberyn said, his voice warm enough to slowly melt Y/N’s defenses. "I speak for myself. And when I look at you, I don’t see a prophecy or a miracle. I see a woman. A woman who has bewitched me."

Y/N turned her eyes away from Oberyn. "Bewitched? I suppose after growing up in a brothel, being seen as sacred is somehow less unbelievable."

Oberyn was quiet for a moment. "A brothel?" he asked, his voice curious rather than mocking.

Y/N paused for a second, then shrugged and continued speaking. "Yes. I was born in one of the famous brothels of Pentos. My mother worked there. The women did everything they could to protect me, but I grew up in the middle of that life. If you’re wondering how I remained a virgin, the answer is simple: I was scary enough."

Oberyn raised his eyebrows slightly. "You were scary?"

"Yes," Y/N said with a sharp smile. "From an early age, I didn’t let anyone come near me. I outsmarted them, protected myself with fear. Eventually, the priests came and told me I was the chosen of the gods. Funny, isn’t it? Someone who grew up in the back rooms of a brothel suddenly becomes Pentos’s sacred symbol."

As Oberyn listened to her words, the smile on his face faded into a more serious expression. "I can’t say your story surprises me," he said at last. "But I must admit, it makes you even more captivating. Because it's impossible to believe that a woman who defends herself so perfectly could ever be ordinary."

Y/N shot him a sharp look. "Don't flatter me. I've heard enough praise before you ever walked into this place. If you want something from me, just say it!"

Oberyn took a few more steps closer, locking eyes with her. “You wonder what I want from you? I want the truth. I want to know what guides you beyond this prophecy nonsense, what makes you feel like a pawn in the gods' game. But most of all, I want to understand you, Y/N. Because your story is more sacred than anything in this garden.”

Y/N remained silent for a moment. The sincerity in Oberyn’s voice had begun to chip away at her walls. Yet deep down, she still questioned how trustworthy this man truly was. “Your tales and my truths are very different, Oberyn Martell. I gave up believing in fairy tales a long time ago. But if it’s the truth you want, I might keep talking.”

Oberyn lowered his head slightly, wearing that famous smile again. “I’m not just a storyteller, Y/N. I’m a man who knows how to seek the truth, and live it. And tonight, here with you, I’m ready to uncover the truths that touch your soul.”

In his eyes, Y/N could see the dark shadows of her own fate. This man could be the most dangerous and the most captivating person to cross her path. But standing before him, she was determined to keep whatever she felt tonight a secret.

Oberyn stood in silence before her. Her sarcastic gaze, tired smile, and disbelief might have dissuaded another. But for Oberyn Martell, this was nothing short of a challenge. His intelligence and charm were often sharper and deadlier than any blade.

“The chosen one,” Oberyn said, adding a sly warmth to his voice. “You once said how foolish you thought that title was. But I’ve been wondering something. When you reject it, is it truly because of disbelief? Or is it rebellion against something that was forced upon you?”

Y/N turned to him, brows furrowed. “You’re trying to understand me, aren’t you? Others have tried before. Priests speaking in the name of gods, dragging my mother through the dirt while lifting me up… They all told the same lies. But my mother… she was different. She was the only one who taught me how the world really works.”

Oberyn took another careful step forward. “Your mother was a prostitute. But she did everything she could to protect you from her fate, didn’t she? A girl who grew up in a brothel and managed to remain a virgin… That alone is an incredible story. What protected you, Y/N? Your mother’s love? Or your own will?”

Y/N looked down in silence. The sharpness in her voice had faded, replaced by sorrow. “My mother trained me. Not just to protect my body, but my soul too. It had nothing to do with the gods. But that doesn’t make me sacred. It just… means I survived.”

Oberyn didn’t let the moment slip away. “Survival is already a miracle, Y/N. Especially in a place like that, with a past like yours. Staying a virgin doesn’t have to be a sign from the gods. But it is a power. A power only you know, and only you can control.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Are you trying to persuade me? Because if you are, you’re talking to the wrong person.”

Oberyn leaned in, his face close to hers. “No, I’m talking to the right one. Because you’re someone who rejects titles and prophecies. That makes you stronger. The reason so many people cling to you like you’re divine isn’t just your beauty, it’s your resolve. Y/N, they want to make you sacred because you control your own fate. And now, we can write that fate together.”

When Y/N saw the sincerity in his eyes, she hesitated for a moment. His words were chipping away at her walls. “What do you want, Oberyn? What do you really want from me?”

Oberyn shrugged with a soft smile. “Just one night… just one moment. To be with you, and leave all this prophecy nonsense behind.”

Y/N, while weighing the meaning behind his words, remembered her mother’s advice. Oberyn’s charm and wit offered her a world she had never known. But within that world, she realized she could make her own choices. This man was offering her an option.

She looked at Oberyn in silence for a while. Then, with a slight nod, she spoke. “If that’s what you want, then I will be with you. But that doesn’t make me sacred. It makes me a woman. A woman who can make her own choices.”

Oberyn leaned in with a look that was a mix of triumph and tenderness, taking her hand. “What is sacredness anyway? Where there are choices and freedom, there is true power. And being with you will be a source of strength for me.”

Y/N smiled softly. This man had reached the vulnerable parts of her. But most importantly, he reminded her that she could choose something of her own free will. A gift from the gods? Perhaps. But in that moment, she chose to simply be a woman.

Y/N stood up to come level with Oberyn. The room was cloaked in semi-darkness. Her cheeks flushed at the thought of experiencing such an intimate moment with a man for the first time, but the shadows would conceal her. Yet her skin glowed like porcelain in the candlelight, making it impossible not to notice the change in her color. Oberyn gently cupped her chin between his fingers and lifted it, making her look into his eyes. Her eyelids carried a subtle weight. Her gaze became more alluring, more intimate than ever before. As Oberyn looked into her eyes, he felt both a kingdom to be conquered and a goddess to be worshipped. Then his eyes wandered to her lips, curving softly upward. He slid his thumb down to her lower lip. Its hue resembled a rose fed with fresh blood. Her lower lip was fuller, each word she spoke a silent invitation for a kiss. He could no longer resist. As their faces drew closer, their skin touched, and he kissed her lips—an innocent yet sinful kiss.

Oberyn Martell’s kiss carried layers of meaning, passionate yet always in control. Y/N’s body trembled involuntarily. This was the first true intimacy she had ever experienced. Her lips were soft and shy, while Oberyn’s were like a storm of experience overtaking them.

The kiss began gently. Y/N’s trembling breath made the warmth of Oberyn’s lips even more vivid. When Oberyn slipped his tongue lightly between her lips, Y/N’s entire body reacted as though washed in fire. For the first time, she discovered the depth of her own desire. When Oberyn’s tongue touched hers, she instinctively held onto his shoulder.

The kiss became more and more sensual. Oberyn’s experienced lips tore through Y/N’s shyness, urging her toward boldness. Their tongues began to dance, as though trying to taste each other more deeply; with each motion, the dance became bolder and more intricate. Y/N’s first hesitant touch of her tongue drove Oberyn wild. Her fresh and innocent responses only fueled the fire burning within him. As he deepened the kiss, his hands slowly moved upward. His palms caressed the sides of Y/N’s delicate neck, tilting her head back slightly to make her fully surrender. His thumb pressed gently on the spot where her pulse throbbed; this small gesture allowed him to feel how alive and sensitive her body was. The rhythm of her heartbeat pulsed beneath his fingers like a melodic song.

The moisture of the kiss blended with the warmth that spread from Y/N’s lips to Oberyn’s beard. Oberyn deepened the kiss as if he wanted to savor the taste of her lips a little longer. His free hand slowly moved down to her waist. Y/N’s slender figure, for Oberyn’s strong hands, was as precious as the gold and diamonds that adorned her body. His other hand gently touched the small of her back, fingers gliding beneath the fabric as they explored the curves of her body. His fingertips traced the bends of her spine, offering both reassurance and a subtle invitation to his fire. With every touch, he could feel Y/N’s faint shivers. Her deep breaths were a sign of how willingly she was surrendering to his passionate caress. While Oberyn honored her innocence, he was also relishing the pleasure of breaking it with her.

When Oberyn finally slowed the kiss and pulled away from her face, a soft breath escaped her lips. Y/N’s cheeks were flushed with desire; her lips slightly parted, marked by the trace of his bite. Oberyn studied her face and spoke with a mocking smile. "The taste of innocence is so sweet. But you will never be innocent again, Y/N. Not with me."

Then, Oberyn bent his knees slightly, one hand behind her back, the other under her thighs, and lifted her into his arms. His feet glided over the carpet embroidered with pomegranate motifs symbolizing fertility and sanctity. Though his movement was graceful, it held the decisiveness of a warrior lifting his sword. Y/N’s body felt light in his powerful embrace. When Oberyn's hand held her back, his fingertips discovered the smoothness of her skin—silky, warm, and fresh.

As he carried her toward the bed standing at the center of the room, the walls carved from black marble and inscribed with ancient symbols seemed to close in around them. The heavy velvet curtains darkened with each step, surrounding them like a lingering echo.

The bed was draped in deep blue silk covers, rippling like sea waves, adorned with shimmering white floral motifs. An ornate golden headboard stood tall like a symbol of sacredness. But for Oberyn, it was merely a vessel—not for the gods, but for surrendering to desire.

As he laid Y/N down, his movements were as delicate as a sculptor placing a masterpiece, yet as assertive as a conqueror celebrating victory. When her back met the softness of the bed, every fabric and texture on her skin suddenly felt foreign. Oberyn paused for a moment; leaning over her, his lips nearly touching hers, his breath stirred her skin. "The gods offered you as a sacred body," he whispered, his voice a reverberating tone in the darkness. "But here, in this bed, your sanctity will be undone. The gods misplaced you... They left you in my hands, not theirs."

His hands glided gently down her sides, as though drawing a boundary between her smooth skin and the bed's fabric. Oberyn read both her fears and desires. As his lips returned to hers, his hands moved over the curves of her breasts, the fullness of her hips, her skin burning like fire under his touch.

The dress Y/N wore hugged every curve with its thin and soft fabric, yet it drew a line Oberyn had yet to cross. His hands moved toward the elegant slope of her neck. As he gently slipped the fabric from her shoulders, his fingers made their first direct contact with her skin. There was a beauty that was both inviting and provocative, stoking the flame already burning low in his loins. "Being this flawless... is it merely a coincidence?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

He slowly slid the dress down to her wrists. The fabric stretched slightly over the fullness of her hips before falling freely again. The idea of a man seeing her bare body excited her; her nipples hardened, the fine hairs on her skin stood on end, her breathing grew erratic, and her chest rose and fell with intensity. How long could Oberyn withstand such an enticing sight? He climbed on top of her, supporting himself with one hand on the bed while the other cupped her breasts. Their round shape echoed nature’s symmetry. When he rolled the hardened tips between his fingers, a shiver erupted from her spine and surged toward her loins. Oberyn, alternately soft and firm in his caresses, bent to kiss her lips once more, ensuring her body met each touch with delicate sensitivity.

His fingers, feather-light, traced a path from her breasts to her stomach and down to her waist, brushing her body with teasing strokes that danced along the curves brought to life by the deep contrast of candlelight. Y/N trembled under Oberyn’s every touch, her body tightening in pleasure as she tasted such new and overwhelming sensations.

When Oberyn released her lips and moved down to her breasts, she gasped in surprise as if she had discovered something unknown. Her areolas were enveloped by his mouth, her nipples caught teasingly between his teeth while his tongue continued to provoke the untouched areas. Yet his hands never strayed from her sinuous figure.

In the midst of all this lustful passion, Y/N noticed something—an ache pooling low in her body, unlike anything she’d felt before. The tension gathered in her pelvis, and her most intimate part pulsed with heat. One leg rested on the bed like a column, while the other bent slightly inward, as if trying to contain the trembling arousal spreading through her. She felt embarrassed. Oberyn’s sensual touches had awakened every sensitive cell in her body, preparing her for a climax she couldn’t fully comprehend, while a warm, slick moisture began to seep between her thighs.

Oberyn finally released her breast from his hungry mouth, and without lifting his face from her skin, he trailed his nose, lips, and tongue between the swell of her breasts down to her navel. He licked each spot the candlelight revealed, and the trail of saliva he left behind cooled her delicate skin like a breeze across silk.

Kisses soon accompanied the strokes of his tongue. As he moved closer to her pelvis, the pleasure seemed to intensify; when a soft moan slipped through her teeth and filled the room, Oberyn lifted his head and smiled. "You're finally starting to let yourself go," he said, not with mockery but with the feral intensity of an impatient bull. "How about mimicking the sounds you heard in the brothel, Y/N? You may have kept your virginity, but surely you've been exposed to memories you didn't ask for."

Y/N froze for a moment. It was as if she had forgotten how to breathe. She saw the certainty in Oberyn’s eyes. She had grown up in a brothel and witnessed the orgasmic expressions on women's faces—grimaces that seemed to mix pain and desperation, as if they hurt but still begged for more. Her mother always said the women in that house were on a wicked path, that they sold their feelings for money, and ever since, a woman's moan had felt like something shameful to her. But now, she understood—resisting the overwhelming power of the pleasure she was experiencing would be absurd. As Oberyn continued to taste her body, a louder moan escaped her lips. The tension in her muscles had eased, and she could feel his touch much more deeply now. Her mind had surrendered completely to the spell of lust.

But it seemed even this wasn’t enough for the prince. He straightened up and gazed at Y/N’s sculpture-like, flawless face with desire. "Come on, gift me the sanctity of your moans," he said, "let me help you—lie on your stomach, and part your legs."

She hesitated at first. Her womanhood was like a vault where an artist hid their most precious works—a mysterious sanctuary. And now she was about to open that mystery to a man she barely knew. Her nervousness slowed her movements, but she did as he asked, supporting herself with her arms. She lay face down, pressing her elbows into the mattress while her head and breasts hovered above. She slowly dragged her feet across the sheets and opened her legs. When the cool air from the window brushed against her burning sex, she realized just how ready she was for this man.

Meanwhile, Oberyn began removing his clothes. The sharp sound of skin sliding against fabric, the gentle thud of garments hitting the floor filled Y/N’s ears and echoed in her mind like a melody announcing the carnal pleasure to come.

When Oberyn moved to position himself on the bed, his knees on the bed again, the bed trembled with his movements. And when he finally placed his body on top of Y/N’s, she felt his strength and weight down to her feet. When Y/N’s body, which would make the gods jealous, merged with Oberyn’s, the missing piece of the puzzle was complete, they were in such harmony.

On the ceiling was a fresco dedicated to the gods. The fresco depicted dragons piercing the sky and sea goddesses. The pale light filtered through the fresco, adding a mystical air to the room and illuminating Oberyn’s bronze skin and Y/N’s S/T. The light from the fresco surrounded their bodies in harmony like a sacred halo.

Oberyn’s hand moved along the edges of Y/N’s body, stopping at the edge of the bed and her body, his fingers began to push the edge. “Come on, Daughter of Water, help me,” he said, leaning into her ear, his warm breath mixing with his words. His lips were so close, the goosebumps of his breath brushing against her skin.

Oberyn slid his hand from her waist, wedging himself between her and the bed. He struggled toward her groin, his fingers finally meeting a warm slick, a soft moan escaping her lips.

Y/N felt trapped beneath Oberyn. His weight, his strength, and the way his arm wrapped around her waist and lowered his hand to her fresh pussy made her feel like a captive, a prisoner who had forgotten her freedom. Her movements were completely restricted, and she realized that she had to surrender herself only to his touch. But what she was trapped in was the orgasmic moment Oberyn would give her, and she could remain in a prison of lust forever.

As uncomfortable as Oberyn thought it was when his beard dug into her skin when he placed his head on her neck, even that discomfort gave her a reason to get wet when the prince’s fingers started moving. The sloshing sound of her wet pussy caught her ears. Oberyn was slowly caressing the girl's clitoris in a circular motion, moving his fingers to the left side with a certain tempo, and with the sudden change of direction, he could feel the girl's whole body shaking under him. Then he dipped his index and ring fingers into her outer lips, stretching her swollen flesh on both sides, and reached the entrance of her vagina with his middle finger, and while stimulating this area, he continued to stimulate it with frequent up and down movements, sliding the precum he had collected up to her clitoris and pressing it hard.

Oberyn had passed his other arm under Y/N's ribcage and placed his hand on the girl's neck. As the girl was exposed to the naughty movements surrounding her inner lips, her tensed muscles struggled to lift her off the bed and get some rest from this maddening pleasure, Oberyn wrapped his arms and legs tighter around her body. Y/N was moaning now, as he wanted. A deep moan coming from her chest, a combination of pain and pleasure.

"Does this feel good?" he asked, knowing that the girl was in no mood to speak. And as he had expected, no words came from her lips except a groan. A dark and threatening air swept through the room as Oberyn repeated his question. The fingers around her neck tightened slightly.

Y/N's mouth let out a series of painful, broken cries, then she answered, her voice trembling. "Yes, I've always wondered about that feeling," she admitted.

“Oh, good,” Oberyn said, his fingers softly against her throat. But Y/N had become so sensitive to the sudden stimulation from her entrance to her clitoris that she buried her head in the pillow. She was moaning much louder now. But he was forgetting something. Oberyn wanted Y/N’s moans to echo throughout the room. So he pulled his hand from her pussy, tangled his damp fingers in her hair, and lifted her head violently off the pillow until his ears brushed her lips. He breathed through his teeth. “You will not do this, Y/N! If necessary, the priests and guards will hear your moans and come here, but you will never lower your voice, do you understand me?”

Y/N was afraid. She was disturbed by this rough treatment, by the disregard for her will. But she also wanted, absurdly, to continue this fear and for Oberyn to be harsher with her. And she was too ashamed to tell him.

She did as he said. When Oberyn placed his hand between her vulva and the bed again, his voice grew louder with the intensity of his caresses. Oberyn was pleased with her. He laughed softly. "Well done, Y/N," he said, "as long as you listen to me, it is inevitable that you will lose yourself in the 'sacred' pleasures of sex." As the girl moaned and shook more, a hardness that belonged to Oberyn continued to swell in her ass. He wondered how hard it would get, and was equally surprised. Back in the brothel days, she had watched the son of a young, rich family fucking one of the girls in the house. When he had withdrawn his penis from the woman's vagina while he was secretly looking at them through the open door, he had seen that it was a small and slender organ. It did not look very hard, though. Now, as the hardness she felt behind her increased, she felt sorry for the boy. And she understood why he had come there.

Oberyn rose from Y/N, choosing to look down on her squirming body, and when he placed his strong hands on her waist, turning her like a wooden puppet, he spoke in a tone that showed his admiration. "To touch you is like defying the gods. But it is worth it; I am willing to burn with your fire."

Y/N tried to catch her breath and digest his words. The intensity of Oberyn's gaze startled her, but it also made her feel stronger than she had ever felt before.

The invisible attraction between them grew stronger with each second as the captivating scent of basil and sandalwood filled their lungs.

Oberyn would prepare Y/N for their new position. She was wet enough, eager enough... But she was still just a young. This time he didn't ask her. He placed his hands under her knees and made her stretch her legs. This way, Oberyn could easily slide between her legs, making sure her slit, which was burning with pleasure and completely covered in precum, was spread apart so he could insert his cock between them.

Y/N gasped as her prince's vein-throbbing cock pressed against her inner lips, and she punched the bed with sudden force. "Fuck," she screamed. Oberyn laughed with pleasure. "What would the priests and common people do if they knew that Daughter of Water they worship as a sacred virgin was screaming lust under a foreign man?" he asked breathlessly, his voice stinging and mocking. The girl's virgin pussy was so wet that the liquid leaking from her legs began to spread on the blue fabric of the bed.

Oberyn was forcing his way into her vagina, first grabbing his cock in his hand and flicking it against her clit, then stroking it all the way around her vagina a few times, then inserting a few millimeters of his tip into her vagina, but it never went in. This was driving Y/N crazy. "Fuck you, Martell!" she screamed, a phrase she had heard a whore say in the past. "I want you inside me now." As rude as it had sounded at first, she now realized how useful it was.

Oberyn was provoked by the girl's words. With sudden movements, he grabbed her by the arms, straightened her up, and hugged her as if he wanted to crush her. He pulled the hair covering her ears hard and growled through his teeth. "Do you want me to fuck you like your whore mother, Y/N? Turn the holy virgin into a holy whore?"

Y/N was aroused by these words. It was interesting that Oberyn treated her differently than other people. "Yes," she moaned, "I want you to fuck me like a whore."

The more the girl begged him, the more Oberyn became greedy. "You really need to be fucked hard by a strange man, don't you, Y/N, huh? Tell me!"

Y/N moaned breathlessly, "Oh, yes, I just want to be Prince Martell's bitch!"

Oberyn got off the bed without letting go of the girl's arm and stood on his feet. He turned the girl's back to him and placed his chin on her shoulder. One of his hands was pushing her back as he spoke. "Bend over, my holy whore," he commanded.

Y/N did as he said immediately and pressed her upper body against the bed. Oberyn placed his strong hand on the girl's back to find the position she needed and made her chest press a little more against the bed. Y/N's full ass was now clearly visible to Oberyn's eyes. Smooth as porcelain and as aesthetic as a statue. Just below, between her ass cheeks, her full pussy lips were glistening with precum reflected by the candlelight. So needy, so delicious and worthy of being spanked without tolerance...

Oberyn first placed his fingers on Y/N's right ass cheek. He caressed it gently. Then he repeated the same for her left as he now held her cheeks with both hands and stretched them to the sides. And suddenly he slid his penis into the girl's vagina. Y/N was startled and breathless when she suddenly felt his cock in her vagina. She wanted to get up, but Oberyn's hand was still on her back, keeping her steady.

Oberyn’s cock completely enveloped Y/N’s vagina. It was neither too tight for him. He threw his head back in pleasure as the rough, warm walls of her vagina encased Oberyn’s smooth manhood. “Oh, gods! I hope they’re watching us.”

It had been a long time since Oberyn had been inside such a tight vagina, and he was lost in longing for the pleasure it gave him. Each time he pushed his huge snake inside her, his swollen balls slapped against her clit, stimulating both her g-spot and her clitoral, nearly bringing her to tears.

“You like that, don’t you?” Oberyn asked between growls. “Tell me you want me, Y/N, tell me you want your prince’s big, hard, juicy cock in your horny cunt!”

Y/N was panting. With the intensity of the pleasure she experienced, tears started to flow from her eyes and she started to cry, her moans became louder and echoed in all the frescoes. "Oh, yes, I want my prince's cock inside me."

A wild moan came out of her throat with each impact as he rooted it into her tight hole. And he continued to push rhythmically. "Feeling you from the inside is like a mortal tasting heaven."

Both of them were about to reach the peaks of pleasure. Y/N's tight vagina felt Oberyn's hardness and veined surface down to its smallest cell. Oberyn's penis, on the other hand, was wrapped in Y/N's warm and knotted walls, twitching like a pulse.

At this moment, Oberyn's attention was drawn to a mirror hanging on the wall opposite the bed.

Its frame was delicately shaped and decorated with mythological figures. Women's faces, looking up as if praying to the gods, were intertwined among sacred texts embroidered in gold. Its surface was like natural water, radiating a wavy light.

Oberyn grabbed Y/N's arms before he could pull her toward him. His head found its place in the curve of her shoulder, his lips caressing her cheek as he asked if the mirror was related to her sacredness nonsense. Y/N tried to regain her composure, her breath coming back to her. Then he answered. It was a mirror made solely to reflect Y/N's virginal and "sacred" body.

There was irony in Oberyn's eyes as he emerged from Y/N, examining her as if she were a being as fragile as glass. He gently wrapped his fingers around Y/N's arm and led her to the mirror, speaking in a voice that echoed off the cold stone floor of the room. "Is this it? Is this the holy light they believe in?

The mirror had made Y/N an icon in this world. To the priests, her silhouette on the mirror's shiny surface was a mark as pure as the touch of the gods. But now... this was a night when that holy glow would be tested.

He entwined his fingers in her hair and stroked her encouragingly. "A reflection, a vision shining on the surface of the glass..." then Oberyn touched her perfect curves as if introducing their naked bodies. "But you are the real thing, Y/N. Blood, living, human..." he pulled aside the hair covering her neck and kissed her passionately. Each kiss was wet and sincere.

Y/N turned her gaze away from the mirror. But Oberyn held her chin and turned her face back to the mirror. Now her reflection was not of the godlike light she was used to, but of the heat of excitement in her body.

"We will continue here," Oberyn said softly, almost a whisper. "You will see the girl reflected in the mirror free from her chains. Now...bend."

Y/N felt guilty despite everything. When she saw herself in the mirror, she felt in her heart that she had broken the trust of the people, the priests, and even her mother in her. While the words that had been flying in the air just now disappeared, the image reflected in the mirror hit her with all its concreteness. But she never gave in to the impositions of the people, she did not really want to play the role assigned to her. The reflection she saw had changed; she was no longer an innocent icon, but the silhouette of a woman who did not hide her feelings.

Oberyn ordered her in a harsher tone this time. And he grabbed her waist tightly and helped her bend forward with a rough intervention. Y/N spread her legs. Her clitoris and vagina were still pulsing, and the colorless fluid was leaking from her legs. And when Oberyn slid back inside her, she groaned, realizing that she was still as hard as iron. He fucked Y/N much faster now. He gripped her arms to support himself comfortably and control his movements, and pressed his fingertips tightly into her flesh. Her firm breasts, defeated by gravity, shook and quivered as Oberyn moved rapidly inside her. Her vaginal walls tightened and pierced her joints each time he entered, announcing his presence to her entire body, and when he left, he created a huge void.

Oberyn leaned toward her ear, his voice trembling with a snarl. "You want their imposed sanctity to be destroyed, don't you?" She was out of breath, her moans mixing with each other. "Look in this mirror," he said, his voice so firm that Y/N obeyed. "Your innocence, your beauty, the reflection they loved so much to worship. But tonight, the gods saw you differently." He pulled her arms tightly toward him, still thrusting; he pressed his lips to her ear. His growls were still wild and ambitious. "You are breaking free from being their temple and carving your own path." When Y/N looked into the mirror, the smooth, godlike silhouette that had symbolized her virginity was replaced by the traces of sin. Now, on the surface, a body moved by Oberyn's hands, a body shaking with passion, a lustful cry on her lips. This was the story not only of a body but also of the liberation of her soul. The moment came with a mocking smile that came from Y/N’s own voice. The words she managed to squeeze out between her moans were, “Perhaps the gods are not jealous of me, but of the pleasure I feel in sinning.”

Oberyn laughed softly at her words, then took her chin between his fingers, holding her face in the mirror. As if he were addressing the gods who ruled the room, he spoke into Y/N’s skin, almost a whisper but threatening. “Look and learn. This woman has rejected your lies, and now she lives here, with her own desires, her lust. That is true holiness. That is true power.”

With the spasms and twitches that betrayed the coming of a perfect orgasm, Oberyn pressed his lips to Y/N’s. They were kissing wildly. Wet and hard. Their tongues danced in harmony. He continued, his rasping voice not taking his lips away. “I will miss this night so much… I would take you to my palace.”

Y/N could not even answer for all the pleasure she was feeling. Oberyn continued to bite and kiss her ears, neck, and jawbone. They were now close to their orgasm, their moans echoing through the room.

"Y/N, are you ready?" he moaned. Y/N was in sync with Oberyn's pace. He spoke without taking his lips off hers. "Oh, Y/N, you're perfect for me." Oberyn let go of her arms and grabbed her waist to increase his pace. He sped up, faster and faster. The "snap" sound of their flesh slapping against each other drowned out his words.

Y/N closed her eyes tightly and breathed deeply. Her chest rose and fell. The pleasure made her head spin so much that when she stretched her arms out to the wall to keep her balance, her hands gripped the edge of the mirror tightly. "Oh, my prince!" The sacred mirror trembled along with Y/N's shaking body as Oberyn continued to fuck her at a steady pace. Her balance was completely off and she was leaning to the left, at an acute angle to the wall.

Oberyn finally came inside Y/N. He clenched his glutes so tightly in pleasure that her pits were clearly visible. Y/N came at that moment. As the electrifying electricity of her orgasm coursed through her body, she used her power disproportionately against the mirror, causing the already unbalanced sacred mirror to slide down the wall and fall to the floor as Oberyn wrapped his arms around her. The sacred mirror, now shattered into hundreds of pieces, now reflected Oberyn and Y/N's lust from every angle.

Both were out of breath. Y/N’s head was resting on the prince’s shoulder, her eyes closed and her legs shaking in exhaustion as she tried to control her breathing. If Oberyn hadn’t wrapped his strong arms around her, she would have collapsed to the ground. Her juices mixed with Oberyn’s cum and seeped from the sides of his massive penis, branching out from her legs and running down to her ankles.

Y/N’s eyes caught her reflection in the broken mirror on the floor. The impositions of virginity, sanctity, the gift of the gods had vanished one by one.

Her ears were still ringing when Oberyn released her. “No more sanctity,” Y/N said, her breath coming in short gasps, her voice carrying a dark pleasure and a hint of mockery. “The Water's Daughter of Pentos, destroyed by her own decisions.”

Oberyn took her face in his hands and kissed her passionately on the forehead. “Holiness is a chain only for the weak,” she said, her voice a whisper of defiance. “You are not a daughter of the gods, but of your desires and your freedom. If you have power in this world, it is your will to be your own.”

The reflection in the shards was a sign of chaos for Y/N’s people. The holy virgin was now tainted; a crisis of faith would erupt between the priests and the people who believed that her body would bring fertility. When the land lost its fertility, the priests would surely blame Y/N. But Y/N felt the lightness of freedom, not the weight of her sin, in the mirror.

“Oberyn,” she said, her eyes now on Oberyn’s. “These people sought to enslave me to their gods. But now I will show them that I am only mortal. I am neither holy nor cursed. I am only myself.”

Oberyn smiled, with the pride of a victorious general. "And so I chose you," he said, his fingers touching her cheeks. "These people wanted to use you for the gods, but you lit your own light. Now all will see that you belong only to yourself."

The mirror no longer symbolized holiness, but rebellion and freedom. Y/N's reflection reflected her own choice instead of the definitions that had once been imposed on her. The chaos of the people and priests would echo a revolution that had begun in front of the mirror.

The morning sun of Pentos rose above a continual chaos. The streets of the city were filled with talk of the fall of Daughter of Water and the lies of the priests. Whispers of Y/N’s loss of sanctity had spread to every corner of the city; the woman who had been seen as a symbol of fertility was now a sinner in the eyes of the people. The priests tried to erase the traces of this event that had shaken their faith, making promises to keep the people in check. But the roots of the chaos were too deep. The lands of Pentos would never be the same again.

Oberyn Martell stood on the deck of a ship that waited silently in the harbor, taking one last look at the city he had left behind. A wry smile was on his face, a combination of the destruction he had left behind and the freedom he had gained. Y/N had chosen her own path, and with Oberyn’s touch she had broken the chains imposed on her. Her virginity may have been sacred, but no one could offer that sacredness to the gods anymore.

This city was merely a stopover for Oberyn, the beginning of another adventure.

“Prince Oberyn,” the captain said, coming up behind him. “We are ready.”

Oberyn turned once more to Pentos. His eyes scanned the horizon of the city, his thoughts following the chaos he left behind. “Divinity,” he muttered to himself, “is a lie invented only by the weak. But chaos… that is the true gift.”

He walked across the deck to the prow of the ship. He leaned his hands on the side rails as the salty air rising from the sea filled his lungs. His heart beat with the excitement of a free man. The marks he had left on the city would not be forgotten for long, but Oberyn had no place in his life for the burden of the past. The seas and new horizons, pleasures to be discovered and vengeance to be taken, answered his call.

The skyline of Pentos grew smaller as the ship slowly left the harbor. Oberyn turned and looked to the horizon. The sun was drawing a golden path across the seas, heralding a new adventure. "The story of Pentos is over," he said to himself, "but mine is just beginning."

And so The Red Viper of Dorne set sail for new adventures, leaving a city full of chaos in his wake. The lands and peoples that awaited him were ready to bear the mark of Oberyn Martell.

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