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divaofmads · 27 days ago

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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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thelivingautomaton · 5 months ago

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MANNNNNNNNN ok. not to get my SEVERANCE brainworms all over the place but i literally cannot stop thinking about this show. also i keep reading theories on reddit and some of them are really good and some are unbelievably stupid/media-illiterate. so i am dumping my wild predictions/theorizing/thoughts on season 2 here. Please Enjoy Every Bullet Point Equally(TM)

OKAY let's get the big one out of the way: it seems pretty apparent now that cold harbor (and maybe all of the datasets mdr is given to "refine") is binning memories/experiences/brainwaves into severance chips, likely in order to reformat or rebuild someone's personality from the ground up.

this reddit post sums a lot of the evidence up but tl;dr you see an electron microscopy image of neural axons, as well as an etCO2 statistic, which is typically used to monitor respiration of someone who's in a coma or on ventilation

MOREOVER, the four aspects of mdr's data line up with kier eagan's four tempers (woe, frolic, dread, malice -- i've also seen it pointed out that this aligns with the four mdr workers, and in the original pilot script there's a reference to "needing" four workers, but iirc they all work on separate files??), and apparently one of his Whole Things(TM) was the idea that you can neatly sort a person's entire personality into those four boxes

the numbers provoke an emotional response in the refiner based on their interpretation of the data, which we can surmise is likely neural/electrical signals of some kind, specifically from brains that have been frozen or cryogenically preserved and are slowly being thawed. hence all the stress over "finishing" files on time, before they "expire" (i.e. brain thaws too much)

the opening credits for season 2 places a HUGE emphasis on big swollen misshapen heads, on brains, and also on ice...including a blink-and-you-miss-it glimpse of a crashed car sinking into the ice, which takes us into our next big point:

gemma obviously didn't die in the car crash BUT!!! lumon taking her and (presumably) replacing her body with a double (mark says he identified her but that she was also "burned" so that's obviously questionable) was actually something of a random fluke. for whatever reason the circumstances of her death made it so that she was ideal to use as a guinea pig for "part-time employment"

again, kind of going off the s2 opening credits here and the image of the car sinking into the ice -- obvs mark visited the tree where she crashed, but i feel like i remember he had to drive on a bridge overlooking a body of water to get there? maybe gemma and the car both fell in and were frozen (since everything in SEVERANCE apparently happens in the wintertime, lol)

i mean, it wouldn't surprise me if we learn that the car accident was "arranged" by lumon??? (either purely to harvest bodies or potentially if gemma turns out to have been involved in anti-eagan stuff on the DL) but idk, i don't love the idea cos i don't like it when shows try to tie LITERALLY EVERY SINGLE THING together into the big overarching mystery, y'know? like, some things are really just down to dumb luck and chance

i also don't think miss casey herself is a clone of gemma, so either her body was WAY less fucked up by the car crash physically than we might otherwise think, or lumon has some top-secret super-healing tech on the testing floor. maybe both!

ANYWAY, remember "allentown"? mark s's first-day fluke, where he completed a file in one day? that was him refining gemma into miss casey the first time around. YADDA YADDA LOVE TRANSCENDS SEVERANCE he literally put the splintered icy fragments of his dead wife back together again because she LIVES IN HIS VEINS guys. and now he's doing it AGAIN with cold harbor. this is why lumon was so desperate to keep him around even while they fired irving and dylan at the drop of a hat: they know he can get the job done, ESPECIALLY when it comes to working on gemma/miss casey. (see also: mark w commenting about how his team from the branch that shut down never made quota)

i've seen the idea tossed around that all the refiners are assigned to someone who was emotionally close to their outie (e.g. irving's deceased father) but i really don't think that's the case -- like, dylan says mark's freshman fluke let lumon devise new techniques for refining to cut down on the time it takes to finish a file, and istg i can see it perfectly in my head: cobel asking mark s how the FUCK he managed to do that and him just being like "i don't know, the numbers looked...scary??????" and her just. rolling with it.

(also i feel like that's why dylan's generally a good refiner -- he can read people! his outie knew what to say and how to act to impress the door factory guy in s2e2!)

so lumon really really needs cold harbor to work. if it's not because they care about gemma SPECIFICALLY for some secret reason, it must be that they care about the technique. lumon (i.e. the board and/or the eagan family), like so many corporate overlords before them, are selling immortality.

i'm on the fence about whether they're trying to resurrect/immortalize kier eagan specifically -- like it would make the most thematic sense, and they have a ton of material FROM his life certainly to work with, but he's supposed to have died in 1939 and cryonics tech just wasn't advanced enough at the time. but also the world of SEVERANCE is pretty distinct from our own so i guess it's plausible

i feel much more confident in saying they're trying to get the technique working specifically for the sake of current ceo jame eagan, who is an old decrepit fart. imo the "revolving" he mentions to helly in the s1 finale is key to this -- like, it kind of sounds like eagan-speak for rotating through/swapping into a new body???

this MIGHT be where the idea of cloning becomes involved, which i can see supported by the emphasis in the s2 opening credits on babies (including baby kier at the end ofc), but i also just had the even more fucked up thought that what if the end goal is to upload the eagans' personalities (and those of their chosen cronies) into the bodies of severed workers. hence the continued necessity for a severed working underclass as well as their ruling higher-ups -- it's a body farm, an endless cycle of severed workers toiling away to let the rich live on and then having their bodies/minds/souls co-opted when they've lost their other utility. oh my god helly was right THEY LITERALLY ARE LIVESTOCK

guys holy shit what if the season ends with jame (or KIER) eagan's personality getting uploaded into miss casey's chip and overwriting miss casey (and also gemma?? idk i feel like mark scout/mark s are both going to have to come to terms with the idea that gemma as she was is capital-g Gone, even if her body and brain are still sort of alive). and then season 3 has dichen lachman chewing the scenery as creepy old man eagan. I THINK IT WOULD BE FUN AND ALSO FUCKED UP

okay so what about cobel, right? like, obviously she's been drinking the eagan kool-aid, she is All In on immortalizing kier (or jame or whoever). but there's more to it than that!!! she's the one harping on about reintegration being real and possible, AND she's desperate seeking for any signs of it during mark s and miss casey's wellness sessions. why? cobel wants to revive her mother charlotte (we see her medical tag on cobel's eagan shrine), but she wants HER MOTHER, not a blank slate -- in other words she's rooting for the chips to not function properly in order to truly resurrect someone who's been dead

in particular i think this is why she flipped her lid on mark at the end of s2e2 when he asked what she knew about gemma -- like, idk maybe it's confirmation bias at play but to me her primal scream felt like it was coming from a place of...jealousy? like, "how DARE you ask me that, how are YOU the one who's allowed to get your loved one back and I'M being promoted up the ladder so lumon can get me out of the way even though MY motivations are pure". that kind of thing

cobel's attitude towards lumon and helena in s2e2 is SUUUUUUPER ambiguous -- i think she's going to turn from outright enemy into kind of a weird "enemy of my enemy is my friend" thing this season?? especially since i got the feeling that she really did kind of care about mark and devon in her own supremely weird, fucked-up way

oh god you guys. what if her "mrs selvig" persona was cobel imitating her own mother, mid-atlantic accent and corny outdated references to clark gable and all. FUCK

also the fact that she's looking for miss casey and mark s to remember each other implies that reintegration is possible even without outside interference with the chip itself (i.e. however reghabi reintegrated petey). and you know what?

i think she's right.

THE BIG BOY THEORY: MARK SCOUT AND MARK S WILL START TO SPONTANEOUSLY REINTEGRATE THIS SEASON

i will live and die on this hill, ben stiller i swear to FUCK

what's the overriding symbolism in the season 1 opening credits?? the line between innie and outie is porous (or "mushy", if you will). black sludge seeping from the trash cans that's made of all your other selves (also reflecting how irving dreams of his outie's black paint). mark's innie and outie selves constantly chasing circles around one another until at the end they both collapse on the bed...and then collapse together as a single person.

what's the overriding symbolism in the season 2 opening credits???? not just "mark scout, i.e. mark in red pajamas, delving into lumon's mysteries", not just "mushy confusion of innie and outie feelings re: helly and miss casey" -- mark's innie and outie selves working together. innie mark pulling outie mark out of the severance chip. innie mark hoisting up the curtain dividing outer and inner worlds to let outie mark through. innie mark CARRYING OUTIE MARK IN HIS ARMS. do you see the fucking vision.

of course that's also coupled with the final image of the credits: mark bursting through and out of his own head. which i think emphasizes that there's going to be conflict as well as cooperation between mark's disparate selves (especially when it comes to everything involving the helly/mark/casey love triangle)

why did mark look like he was having a goddamn seizure when he was coming down the elevator. why did he glimpse a mysterious figure following him in the hallway. WHY THE FUCK WAS HIS VERY FIRST INSTINCT TO BOLT FOR WELLNESS AND LOOK FOR MISS CASEY!!!!! (okay this could also conceivably be due to him yelling to devon that she was alive literally one second ago but still)

i think mark's "spontaneous reintegration" is also more or less an insane fluke, basically a product of the fact that he's now working on gemma/miss casey's refinement data AGAIN and both his innie and outie selves are starting to blur together regarding their shock and turmoil over the realization that gemma is alive (and probably loads of other stuff too while we're at it).

but idk, maybe spontaneous reintegration also occurs naturally over time? irving is also having some bleed-through and iirc he's been at lumon the longest of all of them

shit dude. what if outie burt ALSO has bleed-through and that's why he followed irving and was crying. honestly what the fuck was even the deal with that, i don't know!!!!

anyway i imagine that "spontaneous reintegration" would really put a kibosh in lumon's plans to permanently rewire and wipe the brains of severed folks in order to pave the way for an immortal ruling class. also i thought the way they did petey's hallucinatory flip-flopping between his lives/selves was awesome and i would like more of that, please. (also: i miss petey, y'all)

i think if they do end up going this route it's gonna be spoonfed to us pretty slowly though -- like, s2 will slowly build up the mystery of "what the fuck's going on with mark reintegrating", then s3 is his two selves coming to terms with...All Of That

those are all of my big idea theories but i also have some smaller bullet points to address:

dylan's gonna visit his family in the """visitation suite""" and it 100% is going to be paid lumon actors. and the giveaway is gonna come at the end of the episode when we cut back to outie dylan's life and his wife (or one of his other kids, who knows) is terminally sick (maybe wheelchair- or bed-bound?), hence outie dylan's desperation to find another job post-firing

that is one million percent helena eagan down on the severed floor (although i can see the argument for it being helly r and she's just not comfortable sharing her real experience on the outside). her shady story aside, i think britt lower is CRUSHING IT as "helena pretending to be helly but it's kind of off-putting and fake because it's helena's idea of how helly would behave". like, it's giving me the same vibes as in FRINGE when fauxlivia pretends to be olivia and then seduces/sleeps with peter. real ones know

RICKEN IS NOT A FUCKING SECRET EAGAN!!!!!! DEVON IS NOT SECRETLY IN ON ANYTHING (besides keeping her brother safe)!!!!!! HIS FRIENDS ARE JUST PRETENTIOUS SHITHEELS!!!!!!!!!!!!

as much as i would literally chew glass (positive) for mark s and miss casey to be A Thing, i feel like narratively and thematically it's not gonna work with the show's overarching themes of like, struggling to process grief and selfhood and figuring out what makes you you (or someone else their own independent self). gemma is Gone and you can't bring her back and you can't cut yourself off from the grief and the pain. mark has to reintegrate (literally and metaphorically/emotionally) in order to resolve his issues and move on

this show is so!!!!!! OOOOOUUUUGGGGHHGHGHH

#severance #severance spoilers #automatonic posting #if anyone actually reads all this: congrats. you are now in as deep as i am

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