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ellesthots · 5 months ago

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Fateful Beginnings

I. “the club within the club”

parts: next

plot: when you find yourself needing a topic for a journalism final, you seek out an interview from Gotham’s elusive vigilante: Batman. this proves even more difficult than it already sounds, and tensions rise when you discover an intimate secret—just as Bruce Wayne realizes his own.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+ MATURE! NSFW! canon-typical violence, slow burn, enemies to lovers, angst, fluff, forced proximity, eventual smut, mutual pining, POV alternating, Bruce Wayne needs a hug, mental health issues (psychosis, suicidality), substance use, blackmail (or is it?), serious health issues, grief, brief mention of sa, gaslighting, mild gore

words: 2.1k

a/n: this is my first fic i’ve posted to tumblr and ao3, very excited to see how people like it ✨ same user on ao3 :) comments and reblogs are so appreciated! 💖

"I haven’t turned in the assignment yet, I'm so sorry," You fumbled with your book and it slipped forward on the desk. Your professor wasn't too happy with you; already a week late, this assignment was creating a piece of journalism about happenings around the city—the city was used loosely, because it was school policy not to require students be in the field for assignments. You never wanted to linger on what might have caused that rule to be enforced.

Dr. Vry was usually the picture of impatience, though she had a soft spot for you—she described you as a ‘journalistic prodigy’. You couldn’t see it, and it didn't help that you couldn't write your final piece when graduation was so near. While you’d done well in the intro courses, now that the material was more complex… you were struggling. She would say it was all in your head, and the only thing holding you back was lack of confidence in your burgeoning journalism skills, but you weren’t so sure. You had come from a sociology background but had interest in learning journalism with your last few credits, unaware how much grief this would cause you.

"Y/N, you're overthinking it.” She gently shook her head, her salt and pepper hair unmoving in the slick bun. “I'll extend it until the end of next week without point reduction. But after that it's out of my hands!" With that you thanked her, hurrying out of the class with your book tightly squeezed to your chest. Thank god, you thought. I can't fail out of a class in my last term.

That evening you holed up in your apartment per usual. You absentmindedly texted your one friend here, Margaret, but knew she was out clubbing. You’d met in a sociology course last year when you transferred. She had been the only one kind enough to show you around the city, the social butterfly she was; holding your hand as she dragged you from bar to bar, club to club. This led to a cat and mouse dynamic between you both: her always hopping to the next party albeit the occasional pit stop in your apartment and you, the reclusive homebody. You hadn’t always been so subdued, but you hadn’t always lived in the crime capital of the US.

You longed for more companionship, but focused on how you'd be leaving Gotham after graduation. The sting of loneliness here was too great, and it was no use stringing more people along. Mar had snuck her way into a crack in the first few months of your arrival. Back when you thought you might find something here. Back before you were proven wrong, and you’d given up on this godforsaken city.

Mar didn’t usually respond but tonight, she did.

Y/N, get your ass to the club! I miss you.

You chuckled a little to yourself at the idea of getting all ready to be sweaty in a room full of strangers. No thanks, have fun!

Within a second she had disliked your message and sent another: You'll find more inspo here than in your studio. I'm sending a taxi, be ready in 10

You groaned and threw the phone down. Ugh. You were tired from a long day of classes, and didn't want to pay to be humped by random clubgoers. Men in Gotham were nasty, taking every opportunity to try and get something from a woman. Plastered all across downtown were blistered posters with a faded number to report drink tampering. You should have expected as much with the city’s reputation, but coming from a small town you were naive. You picked up your phone and her text stared back at you. The day’s exhaustion had worn on your resolve, and the longer you looked at her text, the closer you were to giving in. More inspiration... she might be right. You looked around at your empty walls and the waning light outside, the sun rapidly giving way to a dark, rainy abyss.

Fine, only for an hour.

You reluctantly walked over to your closet to pick an outfit. This was gonna be a long night.

You found yourself standing out under your apartment patio, shivering in your dress. You chose something subtle: mini, dark, with some heels to match, though you admittedly didn’t have many options. You’d hurried and only put on lashes, lipgloss, and brow gel, because you thought your driver would be on time. Staring out at the flashing headlights threatened a migraine, so you whipped out your phone and went onto Scypher, a Gotham-area social media. You didn't bother going on very often, only on the rare occasion Mar dragged you out into the city. There was a handy 'Crime' tab, which had up-to-the-minute updates. It seemed pretty empty, only some car vandalisms the past hour. Hmm. You felt uneasy, the environment unusually calm for a Friday evening. Maybe it's a good thing. Wouldn't want to go out during a crime surge. You looked up as you heard a tire tempt the curb. Your driver called out your name, and you slunk into the backseat.

The drive was quick, with clubs practically on every corner. Mar hadn't told you which one, so you weren't prepared when the car pulled up to one of the most elite clubs in the city. Your face went pale, and your voice cracked as you failed making excuses to the driver. "I'm so sorry, my friend must have given you the wrong directions—"

"No, it's correct." He was stern, and when you started taking out cash to pay, he waved a dismissive hand toward you. "Your friend already paid, Miss." Flustered, and frankly confused he hadn’t sneakily accepted double payment, you thanked him and stepped out. The line wasn't too long, so you got behind a few people who were laughing hysterically. You noticed some green tinfoil out of their pocket: Drops. You forgot all the biggest dealers hung around here every night. What was Mar thinking bringing you here?

The line moved fast so you didn't have time to find an excuse to leave. You held out your ID to the burly, tall bouncer who gave you a once-over and a smirk. You stifled a groan, hating being looked at like a meal. Living in Gotham meant always feeling eyes on the back of your neck. The bouncer grinned and handed back your card, holding out another hand for the club fee. Shit. You fumbled in your bag and realized you didn't know the amount. Sheepishly, you looked over from your bag and scanned the wall behind him as quickly as possible. $50. Jesus. You managed to find three twenties crumpled at the bottom of your bag, and begrudgingly handed them over. He smiled and opened the door for you. "No change."

Well, guess I'm eating ramen this week.

Your ears began ringing the second you entered the booming club. People were packed in like sardines, and before you could even muster a thought you were grabbed fast from behind. You suppressed a scream.

"Y/N!!!" Mar wrapped you in a hug and you grabbed her to steady yourself. "Shit, Mar,"

"You look SO good! Fuck yeah!" She smiled and smacked your butt as she took your hand and led you towards the stairs. You hadn’t gotten much of a look, but her eyes looked bleary, red. "I met some guys that got us a lounge!" She was giggling but you pulled back, wincing. You'd already been sufficiently creeped on by the bouncer.

You rolled your eyes. "I thought this was a girl's night,"

She shook her head, grinning. "C'mon Y/N, get loose!" As she turned back to step up the stairs, a circle of green tinfoil fell from her pocket. You yanked your hand back, frustrated. No fuckin’ wonder. She was wasted. "MAR." You bent down to pick up the litter just as a man came up behind you, grinding against your ass. A bit of his drink spilled on your side, and you spun around to shove him back. Mar stepped up, always a willing wingman. "Hey, don't fuck with a woman like that, bitch!"

BAM BAM BAM BAM. Popping noises that sounded like gunshots rang out from the far corner of the bar. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. You grabbed for the railing to head for the exit when people running from downstairs rammed into you. After a few seconds desperately straining your vision to look for Mar, you covered your head with your arms while you ducked. The gunshots inched closer and closer, egging on your heart rate, curdling your thoughts sour. I shouldn't have come. I don't want to die. I shouldn't be here. What the fuck am I doing here? I shouldn't have come. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I'm going to fucking die.

You heard a rapid increase in gunfire and then a total ceasing. You wanted to look up, but it was too terrifying. Sweat beaded on your entire body as it became electrified with adrenaline—you had known how unsafe Gotham was, you just hadn't seen yourself in the crossfire… until now. You squeezed your eyes shut, pushing yourself hard against the side of the stair to try and make your body as small as possible. You wondered if everyone else had been killed, and they were looking for any survivors… The rough concrete texture burrowed itself into your arm as you jammed it even harder, forcing yourself to be compact. I could be dead with just one bullet.

Before more morbid thoughts could form, you yelped as you felt your body being lifted and slung over someone's shoulder. Something was hard and slick against your stomach, and you opened your eyes manically to see the world whizzing around you. The arm that held you was strong, so strong you couldn't slip out if you tried. You ducked your head as the person ran you both toward the back exit with total ease. Panic started to set in. It's so dark. Who is this? Is he gonna have his way with me?

As soon as you were brought an alley down, fully away from the chaos, you began fighting against the stranger. The streets were so dark you still could hardly see, but it felt like the person was armored. You’d heard some small grunts from them on the short sprint here, or maybe you’d imagined them? Regardless, you couldn’t place the voice while your ears were still bright with tinnitus. You shouted, trying with all your might to shove them off of you, to no avail. "Let me GO!"

"Stop fighting." A low, gravelly voice spoke right next to your ear. You continued struggling to the point you felt a bruise forming on your bottom ribs. It was as if the entire world had zoomed in, and nothing mattered more than escaping. You drew a quick breath, tensing your body to fight. This motherfucker isn't gonna let me go, is he?

Without warning he relinquished his grasp and you slid off the man, landing squarely in a puddle. You looked up and through the darkness saw a masked man clad in deepest black... the Batman.

"Thanks, uh," You immediately broke eye contact, feeling awkward. The tornado of panic in your chest relaxed ever so slightly. You felt bad for fighting so hard against him, but you hadn’t known any better. Before you could fully realize the gravity of what had just happened, how Vengeance himself was standing before you, he noticed something glint behind your ear.

"Turn around." The voice was low and gravelly still, and you spun around instantaneously. You'd heard good things about the Batman in your year and a half here. A few of your classmates had direct experience with him, having been saved on one occasion or another. "He never stuck around, he was always gone as quickly as he came." It seemed almost instinctual to trust him. And, his voice brooked no argument.

Suddenly the back of your head lit up in flaming pain.

"You need stitches." He stepped back and through the deadened night you saw a screen light up on his arm. "Victim with head wound on Feller and Kelley." You heard a faint 'Roger' before the screen went black. Fear shot through you the same time as relief. You were safe, but you had to get a needle snaked through your scalp. The thought made you physically ill.

To your surprise, he was already halfway down the alleyway when you looked back; just as he turned out of view, police lights illuminated the alleyway. Holy fuck, you'd just met the Batman.

And you hadn’t gotten a good look at him.

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batmanlovesnirvana · 4 months ago

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Chapter one | echoes of the past.

masterlist

universe : reeves, the batman 2022.

pairing : battinson!bruce wayne x fem!oc.

words : +6k.

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

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

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

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

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

The sterile, cold room, where life had been stripped down to clinical examination, felt even more somber tonight, its usual detachment laced with a deeper sense of finality.

Inside this stark sanctum, time seemed suspended, weighed down by the quiet presence of the dead.

And it was here that Dr. Maryam Ben Halimi sat, like an angel watching over the dead.

An ethereal presence among the cold gleam of stainless steel and unforgiving white walls, she hovered over a lifeless body, her movements quiet and reverent, like a priestess tending to sacred rites. Her hands, steady as the Fates themselves, guided the delicate threads of mortality to their inevitable end.

Light brown hair, meticulously swept into a French twist beneath a whimsical unicorn scrub cap, glowed with a caramel sheen, catching the light in such a way that it seemed kissed by the sun, even in the shadow of death. The warmth of her tanned, almost bronze skin carried the whisper of far-off lands, of deserts and ancient places where myths were born and legends thrived.

Under the harsh, artificial light, almond-shaped hazel eyes flickered with a brilliance that seemed otherworldly, shifting from deep forest green to molten gold. They were windows to a soul that had seen much, that understood both the sanctity of life and the inevitability of its end.

A straight nose, with its barely perceptible bump, added a quiet dignity to her face, like the subtle scars on a warrior's shield.

Sculpted high cheekbones framed features that balanced delicacy with strength. Beauty marks, scattered like faint stars in a night sky, adorned her skin—small celestial maps beneath her eyes, along her lips, and down the curve of her neck.

They were not marks of vanity but symbols of a life well lived, silent testaments to a beauty that was both raw and real, as mortal as it was divine.

Her lips, full and inviting, wore a deep crimson, the shade of a blood moon, of prophecies whispered in the dark. When she smiled—rare and fleeting, like the smile of a Sphinx—it hinted at mysteries long kept, a quiet gesture that left its mark without need for words.

Dark, elegant brows arched above her expressive eyes, while long lashes curled naturally, casting soft shadows over her cheeks like the wings of ravens in graceful flight.

The beauty of Dr. Halimi was not a secret, but it wasn't the kind that faded with time or was spoken of lightly. It was a beauty drawn from legend, shaped by the hands of destiny, touched by both light and shadow. A mortal vessel carrying the weight of a thousand untold stories, she held a quiet power that captivated without ever needing to command, with just a single glance.

And the longer you looked, the more striking her beauty became, as though it revealed itself in layers—quiet elegance intertwined with a natural grace.

It was the kind of presence that lingered in your mind, leaving behind a lasting impression, not for its boldness, but for the way it gently captivated, offering both intrigue and comfort in its subtlety.

It was as if she was Persephone herself—half goddess, half mortal, forever bound between life and death, beauty and decay.

A guardian of both realms, with the quiet strength of one who has walked through darkness and returned, not unscathed, but unbroken.

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

A pale young girl of only nineteen, with fiery red hair and blue eyes that had turned a disquieting red—a common occurrence in deaths involving certain substances. A life that had barely begun, now extinguished by the scourge of "Drops," a drug as ubiquitous in Gotham as the rain.

Fiona, like so many others, had sought solace in the chemical embrace of drugs, a brief escape from the harsh realities of living on the streets without support.

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

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

As Maryam turned to her desk, ready to tackle the inevitable paperwork, the door creaked open.

Tamara Nguyen, known affectionately as Tammy, breezed in with her usual air of lateness and cheer, two steaming cups of coffee in hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maryam sighed, setting her coffee down next to the papers, wincing as a few drops stained the corner of the form. She rubbed her temples, eyes closed briefly in weariness. "Another Drop case, as usual," she said, her voice tinged with frustration.

Her hands dropped to her lap, her hazel eyes now open and glinting with a mix of concern and anger. "It's getting out of hand. Too many bodies, too many kids, dead because of those fucking drugs! If it's not Drops, it's some other damn substance. And nobody's listening! I tried talking to Commissioner Savage and the cops—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The television in the corner of the room played the nightly news on GC-1.

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

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

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

The camera lingered on old photos of the Wayne's: Thomas, with his charismatic smile; Martha, radiant and elegant; and a young Bruce, holding his mother's hand. Maryam watched, transfixed, the light from the TV reflecting in her hazel eyes.

Their family had always seemed like royalty to the people of Gotham—untouchable, revered. Their legacy was intertwined with the city's very foundation, their wealth and influence reaching every corner of Gotham.

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

Twenty years ago, every Thursday afternoon, she would take the subway to fetch food for her family. It was during these trips that she would catch glimpses of Bruce Wayne and his mother.

Mrs. Wayne, with her striking blue eyes that mirrored her son's, would sit with a book in one hand, her other gently holding her son's. Bruce, just a small boy back then, would clutch a tiny knight figurine, his face often illuminated by a shy, endearing smile.

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

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

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

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

This silent routine unfolded every Thursday until that fateful week.

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

But that meeting never came.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Bruce," Maryam corrected.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey, Jamie. What's up?" she asked tiredly, trying to sound casual.

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

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

"Thanks, Mar. I'll see you soon." Gordon hung up, his thanks echoed in her ear.

Maryam glanced at her phone, her mind racing with worry, primarily about George, the mayor's son. Was he safe? Had he been hurt—or worse, killed?

Shaking her head to dispel the gnawing anxiety, she abruptly stood up, her chair rolling backward with a loud squeak. Gathering the stacks of papers with determined urgency, she made her way to the room where the bodies were kept. As she entered, she found Tammy scrubbing the tools used for the autopsy, her movements methodical and focused.

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

Tammy looked up, eyes widening "No problem! Have fun!"

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

As Maryam stripped off her black scrubs and the scrub cap adorned with tiny unicorns, she quickly dressed in her civilian clothes.

Despite the rush, her French twist updo remained perfectly styled. She stumbled through the empty hospital corridors in her black high-heeled boots, the click-clack of her heels echoing through the space as she balanced her medical kit and car keys.

The cold Gotham air enveloped her as she made her way to the parking lot. But just as she was about to reach her car, someone grabbed her arm, abruptly stopping her.

Instinctively, her eyebrows furrowed in annoyance, her expression already hardening into a glare. "What—"

"Where are you off to like that, Maryam?" The voice was smooth—too smooth. It belonged to Dr. Thomas Elliot, the hospital's head of neurosurgery, known as much for his surgical prowess as for his striking looks.

His blonde hair was meticulously combed back, and his dark eyes, almost black, gleamed with something unsettling as he gave her a slow once-over, a smirk tugged at the corners of his lips.

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

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

Maryam resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

She didn't just dislike him—she couldn't stand him—despite his charms that seemed to win over everyone else at the hospital. Sure, he was a gifted surgeon, undeniably handsome, and to top it off, came from a wealthy family with the charm to match.

To many, he was the perfect man. But to Maryam, there was something deeply unsettling about him, something that triggered alarm bells in her subconscious.

He was too perfect, too polished—his charm felt like a thin veneer concealing something far more sinister. Her instincts always flared up when he was near, as if he were hiding something dark behind that charming facade.

At first, she had thought she was just being overly cautious. Dr. Elliot had seemed too nice, the perfect doctor who always listened to his patients. But there was a strange sense of superiority in him, a subtle way he diminished others just because he could.

He used his charm and wit to manipulate people, often for personal gain—most often, it seemed, for sex.

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

But what disturbed Maryam the most was his behavior when he had to deliver bad news to a patient's family.

He would play the role of the empathetic surgeon flawlessly, but as soon as he turned his back to the grieving family, a sardonic smile would spread across his face. And it wasn't a one-time thing; no— it happened too many times for her to ignore. Each time she witnessed it, it chilled her to the bone.

Dr. Elliot seemed friendly and outgoing, but to Maryam, it all felt like a carefully constructed ruse.

Maybe she was too observant, too wary, or even too avoidant of people. Dr. Elliot's influence at the hospital was undeniable, and she knew that voicing her concerns could lead to serious repercussions.

So, she tried to be civil, keeping her distance as much as possible. But Dr. Elliot was relentless, always flirting, always trying to get under her skin, as if he enjoyed watching her squirm under his attention.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was a man who thrived on control, on bending others to his will, and his interest in her felt like a noose slowly tightening around her neck.

Unfortunately for him, Maryam was not one to be easily swayed or intimidated. She had survived far worse than the likes of Thomas Elliot, and she had no intention of becoming another one of his conquests.

As she turned on her heel and made a beeline for her car, she could feel his gaze lingering on her, a heavy weight that made her skin crawl.

Sliding into the driver's seat and tossing her tool bag onto the passenger side, Maryam took a deep breath, pushing away the lingering unease. As she turned the key in the ignition, she muttered a curse, the engine finally sputtered to life with a reluctant growl.

She exhaled deeply, her grip on the steering wheel tightening as she prepared to face the long road ahead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As she stepped into the study, the scene that greeted her was both grotesque and meticulously staged : Mayor Don Mitchell Jr. lay sprawled across a chair in his study, his body arranged in a macabre tableau. His head, mummified in duct tape, was covered in blood, and a chilling message in red read:

“NO MORE LIES.”

His thumb was severed, blood pooling around him, making the scene all the more haunting.

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

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

She approached the body with her medical kit, carefully extracting her tools: a pair of gloves, a scalpel, and a digital camera.

The forensic team was busy capturing every angle, but Maryam’s job was to verify and document the specifics of the body’s condition.

She began by photographing the scene. The camera’s flash briefly illuminated the macabre scene: the mayor’s head was encased in duct tape, with the stark message scrawled across his mouth in red.

The severed thumb, a grotesque testament to the brutality of the crime, was captured from multiple angles. Each image was carefully framed to preserve every detail, ensuring that nothing was lost in the documentation process.

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

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

She then took a moment to examine the scene itself.

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

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

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

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

This was indeed going to be a very long night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As investigators turned to look, Maryam, briefly distracted, spun around to greet Gordon. She nearly bumped into the imposing figure of the vigilante, whose presence felt both overwhelming and intense. In that split second, their eyes locked—her hazel meeting his dark, unreadable blue.

Her eyes widened in surprise, while his remained inscrutable.

Instinctively, Batman reached out, steadying her with a firm grip on her forearms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gordon, observing the interaction, shifted gears.

“There was a card,” the detective prompted, holding out an envelope.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the hallway, Maryam paused, gathering herself before heading toward a nearby room where she knew Elliott, the mayor’s young son, was being questioned.

The memories of seeing the little boy during her visits to her aunt’s house surfaced—Meysa had often babysat George, and Mar had developed a fondness for the quiet, sweet child.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As she spoke, Batman and Gordon made their way down the dimly lit hallway leading to the boy's room.

Their faces were shrouded in shadow, the limited light casting long, ominous silhouettes on the walls.

Batman’s gaze fell upon the tender scene before him, and for a moment, his usually stern expression softened.

A flicker of something—perhaps empathy, perhaps sorrow—crossed his face as he observed the small, traumatized boy clinging to Maryam.

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

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

Turning to leave, the Bat couldn't shake the image of the boy's tear-streaked face, clinging desperately to Maryam as she knelt beside him, her arms wrapped protectively around his small frame. The way she whispered reassurances, her voice soft yet firm, as if her very presence could shield him from the horrors that Gotham had already stolen from him.

It was a fleeting moment—one that Vengeance had seen too many times before—but it cut deeper than he was willing to admit.

The boy's trembling body, the way his eyes held that fragile mix of fear and trust, reminded him all too well of what Gotham does to its children. The city—his city—ripped away innocence with ruthless efficiency, replacing it with a cruel knowledge that the world wasn't safe, that monsters lurked around every corner.

And yet, in that moment, as the boy buried his face in Maryam's shoulder, there was a fragile hope clinging to him, a belief that maybe, just maybe, someone could still keep the darkness at bay.

A poignant reminder of what had been lost—not just by this child, but by so many others who wandered the streets of Gotham.

The shadows loomed large, suffocating, threatening to consume everything. And yet, Batman still stood against it, even when it felt like the city was punishing him for it.

For not giving in.

For refusing to let despair swallow him whole.

The way Gotham seemed to revel in breaking people, stripping them of hope, only made his resolve stronger. He wouldn't let it win.

He just couldn't.

But watching that woman, with her quiet strength and unwavering gentleness, something inside him ached. Maybe that's what Gotham had taken from him, too—the ability to offer comfort in the way she could. He had become the embodiment of fear to keep others safe, but gentleness?

That was something he had long since buried.

But not her. Not the medical examiner. Not Maryam.

Even with the ghosts that haunted her, she had found a way to reach out, to give warmth in a world so cold. And that, perhaps, was what the boy needed most.

next chapter (chapter two)

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

habibi : darling

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