AN: First of all, I am SO, SO sorry that this chapter is over three weeks late. Life's been a bit of a mess with figuring out internships, jobs, online classes, and the mess that is the world right now. I hope you enjoy the chapter and that it isn't disappointing after the long wait . You guys are the best, and I appreciate you dearly and hope you've all been well! (My deepest apologies if this chapter is trash, it was a bit of a struggle for me to finish, 😭)

My throat constricts, stomach tightening into a heavy lead ball that sinks deep until it pins me to my seat. I'm beginning to wish that I hadn't gotten out of bed after all.

Calling in sick seems like a great idea now.

But it's too late—I can't go back and unsee this massive mess in front of me, even though I'd give almost anything to be curled up under my blankets and my head buried under my pillow, warm and groggy. Jason stayed the night at the apartment, and I slept so deeply that I forgot he was there until I felt his arm draped around my waist, his thumb running up and down my ribs, his breathing so deep and even against my back that it felt like my own. But I didn't feel afraid, my nightmares didn't bleed over into reality, it felt… like we'd done it a thousand times—sleeping next to one another, my back against his chest and curled into him, my dreams forgotten in the morning. I liked having him there, that he stayed, how my body fits into his. I woke up first, trying to find it in me to tell him to leave, but I didn't want to. I didn't want the morning to end. Maybe that was the dream—some pleasant and foreign reprieve.

Yep. Should've definitely stayed in bed.

He was still asleep when I ran down to the small cafè a street over, grabbing a random assortment of bagels and coffee for breakfast. God knows I don't have much of anything edible in the apartment, and he was awake by the time I got back. It was one of the best mornings I've had in a long, long time. But it had to end, just like everything does, and I'm still struggling not to let myself feel disappointed, that I didn't try sooner, that a part of me is still looking for where this is going to go wrong. I was almost glad when Jason left to go to his sister's place, and I've been sitting at Sal's Diner to sift through the data I pulled from Roman's computer for almost four hours, losing myself in it until now the only thing I'd like to do is go back and slap myself for thinking any of this is a good idea.

Everything you do feels like a mistake.

The 50's decor and neon lights don't help the pulsing behind my eyes, or how they're struggling to focus on the lines of text and code. I've been cross-referencing incoming shipment schedules and manifests with the attacks credited to Red Hood all over Gotham. They match up—wherever Roman was expecting a shipment, it was the exact time that Red Hood would attack.

Brilliant.

The initial case dossier said that they thought the heroin was coming through the overseas shipments, and Red Hood beat Homeland and the DOD to the punch. The night of the Docks fire, the one that The Gotham Times said was as an accident and had been corroborated by the falsified police report, matches a shipment of goods coming from Korea, but when I compare it to a near-identical copy that was buried and encrypted in Roman's hard drive, it shows that it was routed through Afghanistan first. And it was Afghanistan or Pakistan that the DOD thought the drugs originated from.

"Jesus," I mumble, rubbing my tired eyes. Staring at the computer screen for this long is making my vision blur and a headache pound at my temples.

Can't stop now, though.

If that wasn't enough to incriminate Roman, then his separate payroll accounts would've done the trick. One of them is legit; they connect back to employees who've been with Janus Cosmetics for years, if their LinkedIn profiles are to be believed. The other payroll list connects to bank accounts in Switzerland, saved under the filename 'FalseFaces'. Roman was arrogant enough to keep both of his little empire's stockpile of information together on his computer. Well, I wouldn't have been able to access any of this if I hadn't ripped it from the CPU itself—whoever set up his encrypted network was good enough to have kept me out for a while if I tried to force my way in, but still—his ego rivals even that demented clown's. The rotten cherry on top of this rancid sundae is the list of last names accompanied by more bank accounts, and Roman's done most of my work for me—he named the file 'GCPD'.

Fucking hell.

The finer details still need to be sorted out, and I still haven't figured out who's running the specifics of the FalseFaceMarket website for him, but this is enough for Naomi and Gordon to sic their entire teams on Roman.

And what about Bruce?

I think about calling him, giving him a heads up before Homeland descends on the entire thing. But what if Naomi found out? She'd have my hide, not to mention the whole collusion with vigilantes bit.

You're screwed no matter what, so… pick the one with the least consequences?

No matter what I do, there's going to be a fallout, things I can't predict. If I give it to Naomi and Gordon first, they're going to run the whole investigation, and that means there's a long list of people who are being paid to make sure none of this sees the light of day and who possess an incredible incentive not to get caught. Getting enough to arrest Roman could take months, and the subsequent trial—if it even gets that far—will take even longer.

And how often do the rich and powerful actually do the time they're supposed to in this city?

Not often enough. Not before Batman came, anyway. It's an uncomfortable thought that I technically fit within that category, being exempt from scrutiny, taking responsibility. I want to justify it, court the thought that I didn't really do anything wrong, but that wouldn't be true. Maybe that in itself is reason enough for me to not be part of seeing this through, passing it onto better, more capable hands. It's too important for me to screw up.

And if you don't cut off the head of a snake…

That almost makes my decision for me, but I need to think. What would happen if I gave this information to Bruce, if he went somewhere and got hurt? I mean, yeah, he beats the shit out of people as a permanent, all-consuming hobby now, but how many times could he get lucky before he got hurt, especially with nut jobs like Black Mask and Red Hood out there? I don't know if it's my stubborn unwillingness to indulge his self-destructive pursuits or the genuine fear crushing my chest that makes me want to leave him out of this, but the indecision is paralyzing.

Objectively, who do you trust more to make things right?

Temples throbbing and suppressing a groan, my pulse jumps in my throat when I dial the number I memorized two years ago, already feeling tongue-tied.

"Please, don't let this be a mistake, please…" I mumble under my breath as the line rings.

"Wayne Enterprises, how may I direct your call?" a woman answers, sounding way too goddamn chipper than anyone ought, even if it is after lunch.

I hide my face behind what's left of my hair, speaking as low as I can. "Can I speak to Lucius Fox, please?"

Lucius is the one Bruce goes to for this, I'm assuming. Giving the data to him will be more helpful—he has more tools to compile everything quicker than I can—and I know Bruce will get everything he needs. They can help. And I'll be far away from tainting any of it.

"I'm sorry, he's not here at the moment. Can I take a message?"

Shit, shit, shit.

That means calling his cell. Having a more personal conversation than I think I'll ever be ready to have. "Um—no, that's alright," I sigh, ready to hang up before a thought strikes me. "Wait—do you know when he'll be back?"

"Let me check his schedule." I can hear clicking in the background, the gentle sound of her breathing, and I try to ignore how the hair on the back of my neck stands up. "He's back for a meeting in two hours."

"OK, great, um—"

Now what?

"If… If I drop something off in the next hour, can you make sure it gets to him? It's for a joint project. Sensitive files that I can't send over email."

That sounds legit, right? Like I'm not just bullshitting my way through all of this?

It probably does sound like you're bullshitting, let's be real.

"Certainly. I'll make a note to expect it. Sorry, I didn't catch your name, Miss…?"

"It's Proxy." He'll know what it means. Well, he'd better, being that he's the first one to figure out I used that as my online alias. "Thanks."

I hang up before she can reply and make a comment about the name, putting in a new thumb drive into my laptop and downloading the files. No matter what I do, everything feels like a mistake, and it's only a matter of time before this ticking time bomb blows up in my face.

Or someone else's.

"Kane."

Nearly knocking my laptop off the table and half-climbing out of my booth, I reach for the knife in my back pocket. Anyone saying my name is a bad sign, and I don't recognize the voice. My eyes don't focus until a large man sits across from me, landing heavy as he adjusts in his seat, the pungent smell of meat and sweat wafting in with him. Anger is what comes first, but I push it down, even when all I can think about it smacking him on this meaty head.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I all but yell at David. More choice words rise to the tip of my tongue, but I swallow them when the waitress walks by, smiling as I wave away her offer for more hot water for my tea with a tight smile. "No, wait—better question: How did you know I was here?" I finish when she leaves, seething.

He's red in the face like he just came from a run—something I find unlikely given the pouring rain outside and the heavy trench coat he's wearing. His skin is blotchy and his eyes shift around the room and never land on me. When I met him, he seemed decidedly bored by everything, stoic and passive. He didn't seem present, and now it's like a switch's been flipped in his head, like he remembered how to be alive. But not in the thriving sense—he's lacking the verve. No, he reeks of paranoia and… is it desperation?

"Asked Naomi," he says after a moment, coughing into his hand and staring out the window.

My eyes narrow, and I force my thoughts to quiet, to keep myself from throttling his thick neck. "She didn't know I'd be here."

The only person who would've guessed it is Jason, and I know for certain they've never met. David finally looks at me, his eyes big and wild, before twisting to look at the diner exit, his bulk pushing against the table until the edge hits my stomach. "GPS. I—I asked her to look it up," he mumbles, hiding his mouth behind his hand.

This is getting weirder and weirder.

"Why would you do that?"

I lean forward on the table, trying to take up more of his line of sight. He stumbles for a minute, his mouth gaping open before shutting, and he struggles to look anywhere near me. His hesitation doesn't last long before he stiffens, face turning hard even as his eyes stay frenetic and wild.

"You're supposed to keep me in the loop. What's happening with your end of things."

Falling back against the booth cushion, my jaw tightens. "So instead of calling, you just decided to stalk me and then just sit down and have a chat?"

David shrugs, peering at the diner counter and into the kitchen through the swinging doors as water—or is it sweat?—pours down his temples. He says nothing, offers nothing. Putting my faith in Bruce over Naomi feels all the more warranted now, and I growl in frustration, struggling not to smirk when he flinches.

"I think I have something," I say eventually through gritted teeth when it's clear he's unwilling to speak. "Can't tell you how, but I know who Black Mask is."

"You—you do?" His head snaps forward, the muscles in his neck jumping to an erratic, staccato beat. For how David's looking at me now, it's easy to think his heart's giving out. He clutches his arm and wheezes like he's in pain.

What's wrong with him?

Something… isn't right. He's acting strange, enough that ignoring it would be a problem. Either he's high, or he knows something I don't.

Then how do I handle this, with the truth or a bluff?

"I'm going to be scrubbing everything tonight, compile what I can get and all the metadata will be ready with a detailed report for you and Naomi in a couple of days. Happy?" It's not exactly true; she's going to have it by tonight or tomorrow, and I already have all the data in front of me. David goes pale, the redness gone until I can see the purple and blue outlines of his veins under his skin, his eyes straining. He's finally looking at me now. "Why do you look like you're having a stroke? You're not, are you?"

He blinks once, twice, and he still can't summon a noise. I'm worried that I'm actually going to have to call 911 before his chest starts to move and his cheeks flush crimson when he sucks in a rattled breath. He tries speaking three times before he can make more than a faint squeak. "No—no… Uh, how'd you get all of that?"

He's trying to be careful now, composed. Too bad that doesn't work so well when you're a terrible liar. Or, too afraid to be able to lie well. This rubs me as wrong, off—all of it. I sit up straighter, purposely relaxing my face and keeping my breathing even. "Does it matter?"

I shrug, unwilling to offer more than that. He looks out the window and his eyes go wide, his breath coming out in a pained wheeze. I try to see what he does, but all that's out on the street is a bunch of parked cars and people walking with their heads bent down against the rain or hiding behind umbrellas. The bad feeling curdling in my stomach sours when he starts hyperventilating.

"David, what's wrong?"

He jerks away when I move forward, standing up and almost knocking over the booth table with him. He hardly seems to notice. "I, uh—I need to go."

"David?" He turns his back to me, all but sprinting for the door. I get up and follow—I thought I'd be faster than him, but he's out the door before I can grab his jacket. "David!"

He's gone, vanished around the corner and my shouts swallowed by the rain. A few passersby stare, their brows raised before they continue on. The feeling doesn't leave when they keep moving—like eyes are fixed on the back of my head. The hair on my arms rise, my nerves sparking.

Something's very wrong.

I don't know what it is, but I've learned to recognize this feeling, the subconscious knowledge that things are about to go sideways. Closing the door and walking slowly, I smile at the waitress like the strange exchange between David and I didn't happen, ignoring both her look of concern and her soft questions. I grab my laptop and stuff it in my bag, pulling on my jacket and throwing three twenties on the table before leaving the diner. Rain soaks through my hair to run down my scalp before I get to the car, the sparked feeling transcending into a burning fire under my skin. Paranoia and instinct tell me I should take a cab when I get behind the wheel, shivering and teeth clattering together, but I dial my phone first, my jaw tight as I wait for her to answer.

"Make it quick, Kane."

Maybe I'm more tense than I realize, or maybe I'm just fucking furious that Naomi is not only babysitting me but compromising my work on top of that, but I breathe fire, anger licking up my spine, the pleasant remnants of this morning forgotten. "Why the hell did you give David my location? You could've asked and I'd have met him somewhere, but he's acting like a fucking crackhead and—"

"I didn't give him shit," Naomi interrupts, barely audible for the intense noise that's like a plane engine roaring in the background. Still, I can tell she's mad, probably at my tone, but she also sounds confused, and that's never a good sign. Today seems to be full of those. "He never called me."

"Then how did he—"

"What did he ask?" The noise on her end of the call quietens, like she just shut a door. Other voices seem to whisper in the background.

"He wanted to know about what I have so far on the Black Mask case."

"Did you tell him?"

Her voice is hard, but I've never heard it quite like this before. I almost want to lie to her, tell her I made a mistake, that things with David are fine, that I'm overreacting. I know I can't do that, but my throat is tight, David's erratic behaviour infecting me and fixating on everyone who passes the car and seems to linger for a second too long.

"No, just that I had an ID on Mask pending confirmation." Naomi lets off a long string of curses, less than half of which I can hear, and she groans. I'm sweating like David was, the inside of the car windows fogging until I can't see anything. "What's going on?"

She doesn't answer for several moments, her breathing heavy and barely controlled. "You're still meeting me at City Hall, correct?" she murmurs; something shifts in the background.

"Yeah…"

I imagine her nodding, her expression hardening into marble like when she does mission briefs; her tone is no-nonsense and curt. "Get your laptop right now if you don't have it. Don't go back to your place, don't stay with your cousin, and only use cash if you're going to buy anything." Her voice is almost swallowed by sound again and she muffles the line, speaking quietly to someone else before she comes back, loud and clear. "Leave the car where it is and find another ride. I'm flying into Gotham in two hours, meet me in three. Don't tell anyone where you're going and keep your phone off—buy a burner and text me so I know how to contact you."

We'd talked about protocols like this in training, cutting ties and getting the hell out of dodge. It's saved for when you're compromised, when they need to pull people out of the field. I've helped coordinate several extractions before, but her words still hit me in the stomach, my body coiling until my ribs are too tight for me to breathe.

I've been burned. David's been talking to people he shouldn't have, and now it's a matter of staying a few steps ahead before someone puts a bullet in me.

Or worse.

And there's always worse.

It's like a dozen pairs of eyes are on me, coming closer and waiting for me to open the door. I want to speed away, drive to the Manor and see someone familiar, have help so ready at hand, but if they're tracking the car, then I'm screwed.

Correction: you're already screwed.

Something jumbles the line. She's hanging up, leaving me to panic all on my own. "Naomi, wait—"

"No one can access your files, right?" she interrupts again, and I finally pick up a hint of the same panic flooring me in her voice, how it shakes, how it's so uncertain.

"No, not right now—"

She sighs. "Keep it that way. I'll call as soon as I'm on the ground."

I don't have time to do anything else; she's hung up by the time I take a breath. My hands shake so badly that I almost drop my phone. I'm staring at the steering wheel in paralyzed shock, fear flooding into me, slowing my blood until it all but stops in my veins.

Breathe through it. C'mon, sitting here won't help. You've survived worse.

Hands trembling, I pull out the memory card from my phone and turn it off, leaving the keys in the glove box. The next idiot to come in here will find it when it inevitably gets carjacked and it might distract the right people. The shake in my hands flows up my arms until my body's racked with them when I stand out in the rain. It pelts through my jacket, pouring down the collar of my shirt and down my back. I'm not sure what direction I should go, where it's safe and how much time I have. The streets seem flooded with people waiting to kill me. Will they do it with a knife, stab me and flee? Or will it be a bullet to the back of my head like I'm a troublesome dog who's disobeyed one too many times?

"Don't think like that. Use your head," I mumble to myself, drawing my jacket closer around me and picking a random direction to follow, keeping my head down and my eyes darting around me, watching for hands buried in their inside jacket pockets, malicious intent in their eyes, anyone who stares too long. The most terrifying thing is that I really have no idea. My enemy is a faceless one now, could come any time. I almost throw up in the gutter, panic bleeding out my pores.

Who got to David? Who has the reach to pull that off?

There's only one answer to that, given my recent activities.

Roman.

He might not have realized I ripped everything off his hard drive when I saw him last night, but he's probably figured it out now. He was willing to sabotage Bruce's car when he theoretically didn't know I was onto him, was a complete creep when he didn't know I'd figuratively screwed him. What will he do now?

Nothing good.

I need more answers, and I can't wait for Naomi, I can't wait for Bruce. Naomi never told me about any safe houses before I came to Gotham, didn't mention any on the phone, and I figure moving from location to location is better than hiding out in a McDonald's somewhere. Wiping the water streaming down my face from my eyes, I throw my phone in the gutter, crushing it under my heel until it's just shattered glass and bent metal.

Creating a mental list to work through, I walk down the street, hoping to pass by an electronics store or 7Eleven. Burner phone, text Naomi—even getting a new jacket and a hat might be a good idea—text Alfred so he can get a hold of me, see Eugene—

"Miriam?"

My body goes rigid but doesn't shut down this time; I recognize the voice, how he says my name. Despite that, it doesn't calm my heart, doesn't stop it from seizing like someone's gripping it in their fist. I don't know how much more of this I can take.

It's Jahan. He's wearing a leather jacket, and I can't help but wonder if it's the same one he wore when he rode off on his bike when I was a kid, it certainly looks old enough, and his head is like mine, naked to the rain, his curly hair hanging around his head like black springs.

"How did you—?"

I stop myself, unsure if I want to hear the answer. Maybe he's the one Roman's paid to kill me, wanting to add in an extra dose of dramatic irony and misery. I'm waiting for his hand to leave his pocket, to see the shape of a handgun, a switchblade before the knife extends, perhaps a look of regret on his face or fury.

But I don't see any of that, and I realize it was foolish to think it in the first place. He has a walking boot on his bad leg, and he's leaning more heavily than before on his cane. He's haggard, his dark skin ashen and drained, purple circles line his hollow eyes, and deep bruises mark his jaw and throat. I still see my father, the man who let me down, one of the people I used to hate the most, but now I also see a man who looks utterly broken. It's like before—my anger drains away, and something miserable takes its place, and I can't help but feel sorry for him.

Is that what I looked like, once?

"You were here before. With the tall boy," he says, shuffling back so that he's out of the immediate downpour and under the green awning of an Italian restaurant. He winces when he moves his leg, and he shakes harder than I do from the cold.

"What made you think I'd be here again?" I ask, following after him and pulling my collar up closer to my face, both to obscure it and keep out the wind.

"I asked after you once. They said you came often—to the diner, so I…" His voice dies, and he looks at his feet. I don't miss how it sounded thick, how his accent deepened, like he was about to lose that tight control of his emotions he always prided himself on having. His hand clenches as he winces again. "I waited for you."

My nose crinkles, appraising him again for some sort of clue to make sense of that. He's soaked through, he might've been standing out in the rain for hours hoping to run into me. Why not wait in a car, why risk being spotted?

Why does it still hurt so much to look at him?

"You realize you just admitted to stalking, right?" I bite, struggling to hold onto my sympathy. Bitterness coats my tongue, acrid like burnt coffee. Bitter because I want to be angry with him and I can't. Bitter because, despite everything, some small, young part of me is glad to have him near. I clear my throat, thinking of the last news I'd heard about him—how he might've been dead, how everything he worked for is gone. The bitterness grows when I find that I can't even feel smug about that, either. "The police are looking for you, the Amaseena looks like a warzone, so why are you here?"

He looks past me, down the street with his thick brows drawn together, something I almost mistake for longing passing over his expression.

You don't have time to stand around while he wallows in self-pity.

It hurts to turn from him, to break the small distance between us and move away, but I do, swallowing the tears stinging the back of my eyes. "Nothing changes with you, does it?" He doesn't answer, and I sigh. "Goodbye."

I don't make it more than ten steps but, even over the thundering rain, I can hear him as clear as if he was beside me. "Sakhif aljahim." I'm not sure what it means, but it sounds like a curse. Deciding not to care whether it's aimed at me or not, I force myself forward, my head down. "Please wait, habibti."

Listening is a bad idea. Staying here is, too. He could be stalling, waiting for someone else. I want to believe that, but it doesn't feel true. I take a deep breath. "What do you want?"

He hesitates, his eyes searching mine. It's strange, being able to see so clearly what he's thinking, seeing the conflict there. Would I have had these same realizations about Mom if she was alive? Would her memory of being so strong, my rock and my friend, indomitable and stubborn have ebbed until all I could see was the sad, flawed person that the idealization of childhood blinded me from ever noticing? Would she have disappointed me so thoroughly?

"You need to leave Gotham. Tonight," he says, finding some courage, a reason to keep his back straight. That's certainly not what I expected to hear from him. "Maryam… Miri." He looks down the street and gestures me closer, and I begrudgingly obey. "You've pissed off the wrong people."

The scoff is involuntary, but my eye roll isn't. "I seem to have a penchant for that," I mumble.

"Go back to where you were. Gotham is no place for you." He doesn't even seem as tall as he used to before, and he's lost weight. I wonder if this is what it would've been like to talk to my grandfather if I ever had the chance to meet him.

I laugh, but it's forced. "That's rich." My tongue feels thick, swollen in my mouth, like it doesn't want me to spit out anymore hurts. I can't seem to help myself anyway. "Why the hell do you care? You can't just—just come here and pretend and try to be a father now." He flinches like I hit him, staggering until his back smacks against the brick wall. My lip curls into a snarl. "How the fuck would you know anything—"

"I just do, habibti," he murmurs, eyes at his feet.

"No, that's not good enough. Tell me." Shifting, I move in front of him, demanding that he look me in the eye. "Tell me."

"Do not shout," he says, almost reaching to touch my arm before dropping it back to his side. He huffs and rubs his eyes, the rain bleeding down his skin. "I tried to live a life without regrets. I do not think I succeeded. There is much I regret." His voice sounds thick again, full of something I almost want to call remorse. Is that something he's ever felt before? Is he faking it here with me now? It's like I'm back on the beach with him, young and wanting to believe he's capable of something I know deep down he isn't. But, this time, the sun's gone, the sky overcast and his face obscured in shadow, his light drained away. "I… I wish things were different."

The awful thing is, I think he means it.

Hot pinpricks trail down my cheeks, stinging and useless. Why be upset over something that can't be changed?

"Yeah. So do I." My throat's been scraped raw, and no matter how much I clear it, the feeling doesn't go away.

"Bad things will happen tonight. You can't be here."

He sounds grave, like Naomi had on the phone. My stomach sinks. Too much is converging at once, and it's only a matter of time before I'm right in the middle of a trainwreck. I wish I could talk to Bruce, have him figure this out with me, but I can't do that now. Roman would expect me to be with him, and I can't drag him into my immediate mess if he's going to sort out the larger problem.

Right?

Something breaks through at that thought, and I don't know why I didn't think of it earlier. "You work for Red Hood, don't you." It's not a question—I remember what Gordon and Bruce said. I can still remember what it was like when I met him, his lack of mercy and cold resolve.

He hesitates for a moment until I cock my head knowingly. For once he swallows his liar's tongue. "Yes. He did not give much choice."

I wonder if he's the reason Jahan looks like this, given the fearful gleam his eyes take at the mention of his name. If Red Hood doesn't have mercy or give much thought to killing underlings, he didn't even flinch when he shot the one in the knee and pistol-whipped the other, and I'm not sure I want to know how he treats his criminal partners. Red Hood's known about Roman being Black Mask the longest, being that he's attacked his shipments for weeks, but how did he know?

Maybe he's the one causing the trouble tonight…

"Is it him that's doing this? Who I need to stay away from?" I ask. Jahan's paranoia heightens my own, and I look over my shoulder for anyone stopping to listen, people who are standing too close.

"No—he plays a different game. It's Black Mask. He is…" Jahan curses under his breath in Arabic, closing his eyes and shaking his head like he bit into something rotten. "He is sharir. Devil. There are… rumours. Nasty rumours."

He doesn't expand, growing quiet as the implications loom over me. I've seen what kind of site Roman runs, felt a low dose of him being a creep for myself. The thought of there being more makes my stomach twist.

'Don't ask questions you don't want to know the answers to, remember?'

"Like what?" I breathe, unconsciously drawing closer.

He sighs, weary and fearful. "Rumours that make the Joker sound like a merciful man." That makes my spine straighten, sweat collect at the nape of my neck. He touches my arm and I flinch, stumbling away and my heel almost catching in a large crack in the sidewalk. Jahan looks stricken, but he hides it quickly, drowning it in passivity as I lean against a light post, my chest heavy and tight. "Too many know you are here, and you need to leave. Tonight." He takes his hand back, looking at it as if it somehow betrayed him. I think he's going to say something else, but he blinks and turns away. "Goodbye, habibti."

Maybe it's in the way he says it, or maybe how he holds the words in his mouth, how they rest against his tongue, but it strikes another memory. Or, rather, one that's missing. I can't remember the last time I saw him smile. If he ever had in front of me.

"Babba." I don't know why I'm speaking, why I'm trailing after him, but it's like I can't stop myself. "You… Why did you never try leaving?" I ask. He tilts his head, confused. "You could, too. Tonight."

Realization dawns, and he stares at me, looking as if seeing me for the first time and liking what he finds. I remember now how badly I wanted his acceptance, how special I would feel when he was with me. It hurts, hurts like someone's pressing on my throat, like my lungs are weighed down with bags of sand. It's like I forget all those years of hating him, all the shame and pain that came with being related to him. I'm yearning for something I know never existed, but I can't help but want it.

"No, no," he says softly. "I have… how do they say… 'I've made my bed'. There is no leaving for me, Gotham is my home now." The hard angles of his face disappear and, for a moment, he looks like the father I never had but the one I always imagined. "Fi Amanillah, habibti."

"You said that last time," I say, catching up to him. I'm not sure why it's now that I'm suddenly determined to rekindle a relationship that never existed, one that he willingly threw away almost twenty years ago, but that stupid, childish part of me wants to keep trying. "What does it mean?"

"It means goodbye, little one." He smiles now, but isn't quite real—there's no mirth, it's sad. I can't speak the words building in my throat. "As-Salaam-Alaikum."

I don't know what it means, but he's already leaving. For the first time in more than a decade, I wish I remembered what he'd taught me when he gave me Arabic lessons, how to move my tongue to form the words, what the elegant curves and short lines, almost like they were some strange and beautiful kind of sheet music, scrawled across the page meant. It's lost to me like so much else, and it's only now that I wish I'd held onto more. But he's gone, immersed in the lunch hour crowd and swallowed in a sea of black and miserable grey, and there's no more hate in my heart, no more malice to fill what's been empty for so long. But there isn't any hope to replace it, not even now. I'm not expecting to see him again, for things to be different for us.

Goodbye, babba.

I'm glad that it's raining, that it lets me pretend for a while longer that I'm not crying, that it's fear that's making my heart ache like it's being carved out of my chest and not the all-too-familiar grief swelling inside of me, reminding me of what could've been before taking that away, too. Just like everything else. And I can't help but wonder if I could've made it different, or if everything I do really is meant to fail, that I really wasn't supposed to have any of this after all, and that I was foolish for ever thinking I did.

The road ahead of me is dark. Faint green light comes from the small clock in the dashboard, the illuminated lines for the fuel level and engine temperature and speedometer adding a little more to show the backside of the steering wheel. The headlights are low, and the thick trees hide any wildlife hiding behind their trunks. I'm glad I left early to go to the meeting point—I've gone the wrong way three times and had to circle back, but I think I'm getting close.

Running away and leaving Gotham isn't an option, so I've elected to pursue an alternative route: do what no one expects me to and hope for the best. They can't find me if they don't know where to look. That in itself probably makes this a terrible idea, but there's only so much I can do on my own while staying out of the way of the important things.

Still, following a set of handwritten directions down a back road to the rear of the Arkham Asylum grounds seems especially stupid.

What else were you supposed to do?

Naomi never showed up to City Hall. Gordon wasn't there either. No one I spoke to knew where either of them are. As far as I know, her plane landed, but I couldn't try locating her with my laptop without staying in one place for a few hours, and that wasn't an option either. She didn't answer her cell even though I left her four messages, and I had no new instructions, no planned contingencies. So, I'm… improvising.

That's one thing to call it.

I risked going to a bank to pull out cash after I walked to Wayne Enterprises to drop off the data with a note saying it was urgent, and it wasn't the first time I've been smacked in the face with the immense benefits of being rich. It only took five grand to buy an old Sunfire off a random person I walked by with no papers even though this thing with its rattling engine and sticky gears is only worth closer to a grand, but I didn't need him telling anyone about it. Without any contacts or places to go, staying on the move seemed like my best bet, and I found Eugene Klein at his apartment on the West Side of Gotham easy enough, and I was glad I did my research on him last night. I couldn't blame him for being afraid—having someone you've only met at an asylum for the mentally ill show up at your door is probably written in a medical handbook under psychosis-fueled erratic behaviour. He jumped so high when I greeted him that I genuinely thought I'd given him a heart attack, and it took ten minutes of explanation in between bouts of hyperventilating for him to listen and agree to meet me and agree to my request. It's him that gave me a set of directions and suggested the spot after thinking for a couple of minutes. He kept looking around erratically, eyes sweeping the street like he was waiting for someone to jump out at him from behind one of the parked cars.

For all you know, someone might've been.

Paranoia seems to be both abundant and necessary today, so I can't blame him. Eugene told me to meet him for nine, and I'm going to be fifteen minutes early. I was supposed to go to Arkham tomorrow, but I won't be making that appointment. If something is happening tonight, then I can't wait until tomorrow to try and work through all the security in the daytime when I need to talk with Eugene. And then there's the suicidal notion that I need to talk with the Joker.

You're insane. Absolutely insane.

Well, I've had worse plans. I think.

I turn off my headlights completely when I'm close, but I can see the hulking outline of the Arkham facilities. They're a void of black with their bright perimeter fences and guard towers, and even those are almost a kilometre out from where the road ends. Eugene described an old, dilapidated storage shed, and I think I can see the roof of something beyond some tall grass. I shut off the engine, ignoring how my hands shake and my stomach feels like I'm on the precipice of a rollercoaster about to hurtle over the edge and I can't see where it ends or what's waiting along the way.

The grass is wet, licking against my face as I push through it. I'm by no means short and Eugene is smaller than I am, so how the hell he's making it through here without getting lost is a mystery, but I make it to the shed. It's abandoned and Eugene wasn't lying about the state it's in. The beams look rotted through and what's left of the roof is covered in lichen and moss, still dewy from the rain. Any of the light from the guard towers doesn't reach here, leaving me with the grass at my back, the dark interior of the shed, and the tension smothering me.

I check the burner phone after what feels like fifteen minutes but has really only been four, and I'm on the verge of leaving anyway and settling for hiding out in a McDonald's after all when I hear a car engine, see the light filtering through the green. I grip my knife tight in my hand, blade extended, my body tense like a strung bow ready to snap. If I thought Eugene was a mess of nerves before, it's nothing in comparison to the mess of exposed nerves in the form of a man walking toward me, my own anxiety pale in comparison. His hands wring one another violently as he makes his way through the last of the grass, shaking out his legs where it clings to him.

"I'm glad that you came," I say, smiling gently when he gets closer, my voice low just in case TYGER guards do end up walking patrols out this far. Not that I think they would, there'd be sense coming out to something that's half-rotted and abandoned unless they had a reason.

So let's not give them one.

Eugene tries to smile but he's covered in a cold sweat, his shirt sticking to his skin. He jumps at each sound of a cricket chirping around us and his own feet crushing rocks beneath them.

"H-Hello, Miriam," he says, looking down at his hands. It's quiet, and his nervousness is just as infectious as Jahan's paranoia.

"Why did we come all the way out here?" I ask, breaking the silence. His head jerks up like my voice was a gunshot, eyes wide and fearful. He reminds me overwhelmingly of a petrified deer, and I keep calm even if I'm not feeling very different. "Why didn't you want to talk about this at your apartment?

He nods, taking his chapped bottom lip between his teeth as he walks forward, tentatively peering into the shed before nodding again. "I—I'm… I'm not sure. It's—it's a feeling."

That's helpful.

Sarcasm isn't the way to go with Eugene; I keep smiling, trying to gently keep his attention on me. "Something's very, very wrong here." He meets my eye at that, and I can almost see his pulse hammering in his throat. "Am I wrong?"

He takes a deep breath and shakes his head. "N-No, you're not." He puts his hand on my elbow, nudging me further into the shed. I'm not worried about Eugene, even with a gun I could take him, but it's what else that could be waiting that's worrying. Still, I follow. "It's… It's the patients."

"What's going on with the patients?"

All I have is sound in the wet dark that is the shed. "I… I'm a psych nurse, I—I was in ch-charge of giving med—medicine to the high… high-risk patients." I can hear him breathing, each laboured inhale as he struggles to speak coherently. "But then…"

I'm going to have to drag everything out of him, won't I?

"I want to help, Eugene. You didn't want me here, did you. When we first met." He vibrates next to me, and I can see his shadow nodding. "Why?"

"He—he'd talk about… about you. Sometimes." I almost want to tell him not to say it, that I know without it needing to be spoken aloud, but I'm too late. "Joker." My stomach falls. The ride's begun and there's no getting off it. "They… There was an—an incident about a year b-back. He got loose and… he killed three people, w-wounded four more." The Joker being violent is nothing new to me, but my heart still clenches. It's how Eugene says it, how afraid he is. "He kept… kept shouting how he wanted you to die."

That's not a surprise either, but I still can't find anything to say. I can only imagine what that might have looked like, what kind of damage he'd do when he didn't have access to knives and explosives. For a moment, I think Eugene's crying, but I see a wave of movement in the form of him rubbing his eyes and breathing deeply.

"He… he used to be p-part of my rounds, but th-then it was like… like he—he disappeared."

"Disappeared how?"

Eugene takes something out of his pocket, and I have to blink and shield my eyes when he turns on his phone's flashlight function. The inside of the shed is worse than I imagined; I don't know how the thing isn't caving in on us now. But what's the most surprising is the storm doors built into the floor, rusted slabs of metal that Eugene swings open. A long set of stairs greets us with a gust of cold and musty air, and there is no light to guide the way, which is why it's surprising that Eugene is the one leading the charge down into the labyrinth.

Fucking hell.

I go in after him, leaving the doors swung open behind me. I think about sending a message to Bruce, but if he's doing what I suggested in my note to Lucius, he'll be too busy to answer anyway.

Looks like you're on your own.

"They—they said he—he was in one of the person… personal safety rooms. I-Isolation cells." The stairs go down for a long time, deep into the earth. Even with my jacket on, it's freezing by the time we get to the bottom. He shoulders a door open, his small frame struggling as the creaking hinges finally give and a door opens. Lights flicker and glow, and a long tunnel stretches as far as I can see. I swallow down bile, the sick memories from Amusement Mile, ignoring how this is going to have the same destination as it did back then. I try not to think of what that means. "I couldn't find him when I—I'd check for h-his medical charts. And then… then more went missing." He checks every once in a while to make sure I'm following, and other tunnels branch off to the sides of us, marked by letter and number combinations.

This must lead to the different Arkham facilities.

I wonder who else knows about these, how long they've been here and why they were built in the first place. They seem old, rust and built-up lime deposits bleed down the walls, pooling on the floor. Being that one of the entrances is outside the perimeter fence, I'm banking on the hope that the guards don't know about this one.

"I… I recognized the l-last man. The one wh-where they h-had the comp—composite sketch," he continues, and I stop, eyes wide. His voice turns into a hoarse whisper. "Leonard Wilkes. He'd… he'd been a patient s-since the g-gas attack. From the—the Narrows. No immediate family… no one to ask after him."

"What are you saying?" I wait for him to answer, but his face flushes crimson. He won't meet my eyes, his lips shaking. "Eugene. Why didn't you tell the police?"

He turns from me, his eyes brimming with tears, and keeps walking. Memories—ones of being trapped in a maze and holding up Parker, him dying and fighting for every breath, me pinned to a cold floor as my heart was cut out—make it hard to keep pace with him, for my head to stay clear. I tell myself to breathe through it, to focus, to keep my anger from tearing me apart.

"Th-They were… doing something to him. Th-The Joker. O-Others would… would disappear and come b-back weeks—sometimes months l-later, and they… they were… different," he says, ignoring my questions and forging on, taking the next left as the path behind us goes black.

"Different how?"

He turns and opens his mouth, but he shuts it quickly. He looks haunted, a man on the verge of losing his grip on his life and reality.

"If you've noticed all this, why haven't you said anything?" I try again, my voice rising. "People are dying, Eugene—"

He shakes his head violently, and I can almost see his skin rippling, his pulse jumping like live wires. "He on-only reappeared after I—I spoke to a w-woman. His lawyer." We take the next right, and the tunnel here is shorter, colder. My breath fogs as I breathe. "Brenda Sheppard. He came back, but... " he runs a hand through his hair, pulling at it with white knuckles, "but no one else."

The name Brenda makes me pause. That's the name of the woman Roman was talking to. If he's collaborating with Strange on some level, then is she the connection?

You have too many questions and not enough answers.

"Why didn't you talk to the police, Eugene?" It's hard for me to stay composed, and he flinches from my voice like I threatened to hit him.

"I—I wanted to, b-but after…" He stops suddenly, his shoulders shaking as he finally starts to cry. "Th-They l-locked me—me in W-Wing D during a br-break out. They… I hid, a-and after, Strange, he—" A sob chokes out of him, and his small frame looks close to crumbling. "I—he... he showed m-me... things."

I'm tempted to ask what he means by that, but the absolute terror running through him in the place of blood wards me off voicing my questions. Strange is a sick bastard, I already know that and I've met him twice. I don't think I want to know what else he's doing.

Is that why Roman's meeting with him? They're in on some demented project together involving Arkham patients?

The victims all looked like the embodiment of fear—their mouths open, their tongues either missing or chewed to pieces, nails gone and teeth chipped and pieces of their own skin caught between the gaps of them. Jonathan Crane ruined the lives of nearly ten thousand people when he released that toxin in the Narrows, and he cooked that up in the old asylum. What Strange could be doing here with his own private guard and unlimited city funding is too much to think about. There's too much conjecture—I need definitive answers, and Eugene's my only way to get them.

"Eugene, it's OK—it's OK. Breathe, alright?" I say, hesitating as I put an arm around him, rubbing his arms as he struggles to breathe. Eventually, he pulls away and pushes through one last door, revealing another set of stairs. At the bottom is a box.

"Here," he says, putting his glasses on the top of his head as he wipes his cheeks with one hand and passes me a white doctor's coat and a badge with the other. It's for someone named Doctor Anika Singh. We look alike only in how both of us have black hair and dark skin, but the chances of some white guard looking close enough to tell the difference are slim. I shrug off my coat and start putting on the white one before pulling what I can of my hair back and tying it into a half-ponytail. Eugene takes his own credentials and coat, and he follows suit, straightening himself out as he tries to compose himself.

I pull out a memory stick from my jeans pocket. "This is what I need you to put in one of the server towers, as far from the entrance as you can, OK? Just like I mentioned at your apartment."

His fingers tremble, but he takes it from me. His eyes are red, but he finally holds my gaze. "I… You shouldn't be a-alone with him. He—he's dangerous—"

"I know, Eugene. I know." I try to smile, but it doesn't last long, doesn't feel real. If what Eugene is saying is true, then the Joker might be the only one alive who knows what Strange is doing and how Roman is connected. If there are more people trapped here who need help, then their only hope is a manipulative psychopath who gets off on playing mind games with me. But if Batman's going to deal with Roman, I need to deal with Strange, even if that means dealing with the Joker, too.

For any of this to mean something, you have to cut off the head of the snake. All of the snakes.

"I'll be OK. He's medicated and usually strapped to his bed, right? I'll be fine."

I hope I sound more convinced of that than I feel. My face feels tight, my skin thin. I just need to hold myself together for a little while longer, get through this and be comforted knowing that Gotham will be a little safer for not having people like Roman, Red Hood, and Strange trying to capitalize on the misery of Gotham. And maybe Bruce won't have to work as hard, he can take a break.

Now that's wishful thinking.

"Yeah.. yes, that's the s-standard procedure."

Eugene nods, and I feel a little more comfort for it. But I know, maybe better than anyone, that the Joker's greatest weapon is his words.

"O-On the other side is... is Wing D. This is—is how you get to his room, and... here's the codes." Eugene passes me a piece of paper. I speed-read through it, trying to memorize as much as possible, and Eugene's breath starts to shake again. "You only have fifteen minutes. Then you need to—to meet me by this door."

I look at my phone, noting the time and confirming with Eugene. He slips through the door first, heading for the server room. I count to thirty before I open it, check both ways, and keeping my head down, my pace even despite wanting to bolt through the halls. The fluorescent lights are jarring after the dimness in the tunnels, the halls too bright. The pungent smell of chemicals fills my nose and I try to ignore the overwhelming sensations, how my body's finding every reason to panic. I have a mission. I have an objective to focus on. Things go wrong when I lose myself, and I can't do that here. No one will come if I need them this time.

My resolve almost goes out the window when I pass two TYGER guards, but they don't even glance at me. The badge Eugene gave me works through every door, getting me through the intermittent security doors and their thick bars until I'm in the isolation area. On the doors lining the hall have numbers instead of names, and I check the sweaty note in my hand.

0801

It's at the end of the hall, the last door on the right. Just like it was at Amusement Mile. I feel like Eugene, ready to snap and burst into hysterics.

'I thought about you every day. Did you think about me?'

He won't get the better of me this time. I won't let him. I know what to expect and it won't happen. And there's nothing to stop me from stabbing him this time.

You can do this, Miri. You have ten minutes.

Any of the half-assed lines of argument I thought of on the way to meet Eugene won't be enough. Anything I plan when it comes to him doesn't work, so it's time to try something new: No plan at all. A plan can't go wrong if you don't have one.

Better hope that's not your epitaph, Jesus.

Fingers trembling, I punch in the code and swipe the badge. The electric locks click and the door opens, and after pausing for a beat, I step inside, shutting it behind me.

Eugene was right, the Joker's in a straitjacket and laying flat on his back. The room is dark, but his eyes stay closed when the lights flick on. My chest is heaving, and I resist the urge to shift, to arrange my clothes, push my hair back, standing straight and emulating Batman's trademark stoicism. His eyes move behind his closed lids, but I don't think he's sleeping. It smells like him in here, that powerful aura of sweat and, somehow, gasoline. Like it's permanently part of his blood, pumping through his heart. It's stifling, overpowering. But I hold my ground.

"Wake up."

My voice sounds too loud and I wince, but it works. One lid opens, and he groans, rumbling deep in his chest as he rolls onto his side.

"Go a-way."

I open my mouth to say something but, in all the scenarios I ran in my head, I wasn't expecting that response.

Is... Is he still sleeping?

"What?"

He shoots up in bed, both of his eyes open and bleary.

"What?" His faces scrunches like he's about to sneeze, his scars bright pink against sallow skin. The surprise and disbelief shifts as he blinks and wakes up, recognition lighting his eyes. He blinks three times, closing them on the last for a moment before peeking one open, like he's expecting that I'll disappear.

"What are you doing?"

I didn't mean to ask that, but it seems to clear up whatever just came over him. He straightens and wiggles his shoulders as best he can with the straitjacket on. His eyes narrow, his mouth pulling to one side as he cocks his head. "Huh. How 'bout that," he mutters to himself, smiling salaciously. "To what do I owe the, ah, pleasure, Miriam?"

Okay... now some bad news. 🙈 Let me explain first do some explaining: I've been working on the Watching the World Burn series for two years straight this coming July with no real breaks in between that. The short breaks I did have were so that I could finish school projects, do things for work, etc, but even during all of those things, I was always writing and plotting for this in almost every waking moment of spare time I had. I even dream about it often! But working for two years on something non-stop, with no real breaks has left me feeling burnt out. Both mentally and creatively. I have a plan for this story, I really do, and this isn't me abandoning it, I promise! But, for right now, I need some time to explore other projects and space out my publishing so that when I am publishing, it's the best content that I can give you guys. It's because of you, all of my lovely, wonderful readers, that I've been able to strive so hard and be so motivated, and I hope you can understand why I need a break right now and remember how much I appreciate every single one of you. I'm not disappearing, I promise I'm not abandoning this story, and I really hope I can get back to it with more steam come this fall since school won't be as intense, and I hope you can wait this out with me. 💖

On a completely different note, one of the projects that I started and am going to be working on over the summer is called Incantare, a Jack Napier origin story that's not much of an origin, haha. I won't say more because ~spoilers,~ but definitely check it out if you like! It's a completely different writing style than what I've done before, and I hope you like it :) Also! I had someone comment and ask what I thought Miriam looks like, so I decided to do a tumblr post that y'all can check out if you're curious! It's pinned to the top of my profile if you look up "ladyoftheseastuff".

Thank you all again, and I hope you know I appreciate you all from the bottom of my heart. Stay safe, look after one another, and take care of yourselves! 💖