I'm still not over Ron's makeup at the convention Midsummer Scream from last year. He looks just exactly like his great-grandfather and it's eerie! He needs to do professional photoshoots and they need a great Christine!
To be honest, I would probably die if I saw him in person. Then again, my Phantom-loving ass would wanna take him home. 😅
IM LOVINGGGG YOUR FICS OH MY GOD, would you ever write more for gotham!ed nygma? i miss him sooo much. your vday fic for him was so perfect
Erotomania
Pairing: Edward Nygma x Female Reader x Bruce Wayne
Summary: Edward believes Bruce Wayne corrupted Y/N and became obsessed with “restoring” her former innocence.
Warnings: +18, Smut, Psychological Horror, Dark Romance, Obsession / Erotomania, Kidnapping, Manipulation, Emotional Abuse, Psychological Abuse, Electroshock Torture, Non-Consensual Restraint, Stalking, Abandonment Themes, Body Horror Elements, Stockholm Syndrome Themes, Sadistic Undertones, Loss of Autonomy, Dark Psychological Themes,Graphic Emotional Distress, English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional.
A/N: This story was actually requested a long time ago, and even though it took me forever to finally write it, I never forgot it. Or Edward Nygma.
What started as a simple request slowly turned into something much darker, more psychological, and honestly more disturbing than I originally planned — but that’s also the kind of storytelling I love most. I’ve always been fascinated by dark psychology, obsession, distorted love, fear mixed with intimacy, and characters who genuinely believe they’re loving someone while slowly destroying them.
So yes, this story became violent, emotionally messy, and deeply unsettling in places. But Edward was never a character I could write “softly.” His love, at least in my interpretation, is possessive, obsessive, lonely, and terrifyingly sincere.
And maybe this is also my way of apologizing for taking so long to finally write it.
I hope it was worth the wait.
Divider by @gifcitiesfrequenter
The smell of rust filled your lungs as you ran; every breath tore at your throat, and shards of broken glass cracked beneath your shoes, echoing through the cursed hallway. Because this wasn’t just an abandoned asylum. As Edward had told you over and over again, years ago this floor had been designed specifically for the “dangerous” schizophrenic patients, and its architecture had been built deliberately like a maze. Corridors that looked identical to one another. Rooms carrying the same numbers. Passageways that brought you back to the very place you started from when you thought you’d found a dead end. Crooked lighting systems installed in the ceilings to distort a person’s sense of direction… It had all been designed not only to trap the body, but the mind itself.
Most of the walls were covered in moss. Layers of old green paint peeled away in strips, damp wallpaper bulged outward like diseased skin, and above some of the doors, patient names could still barely be read beneath the rust. The building felt less like it had been abandoned for years and more like it had been silently breathing, waiting, watching you.
You didn’t dare look behind you because you had no idea how closely Edward was following you. That was exactly what was wrong with him—he never approached you like a normal person. Every interaction you’d ever had with him in Arkham had become twisted inside his head. Your kindness toward him, the way you listened to his ramblings, solved his riddles, stayed beside him a few minutes longer so he wouldn’t feel alone… he had mistaken all of it for love. And when he saw you with Bruce, the fragile world inside his mind had cracked completely. In his head, you had already belonged to him.
That was why he had kidnapped you. Why he had dragged you all the way to this rotting building outside Gotham and locked you inside the very floor where patients had once gone insane and slaughtered each other. Edward knew every path here. He had described it to you before with that disturbing gleam in his eyes, like it was all some kind of game.
“If you choose the wrong door,” he’d said, smiling, “you end up right back where you started… just like liars do.”
Your trembling hands shoved against the heavy iron door, and when you stumbled inside, the room greeted you with the silence of a tomb.
There were two rusted hospital beds inside. One had been overturned; the other still wore a filthy white sheet stained with rotting brown marks. Half of the ceiling lamp was shattered, and the wind slipping through the open window stirred the sheet ever so slightly, making it seem as though someone in the room was breathing.
The mirror above the sink was completely cracked. When you looked at your reflection, you could barely recognize your own face.
You collapsed into the corner, clamping both hands over your mouth as your heart pounded so violently you were terrified Edward would find you from the sound alone.
The silence here wasn’t normal silence. Even when the building was quiet, it whispered. Metal scraped somewhere far away. Water dripped steadily from the ceiling. Sometimes the wind rushed down the corridor and echoed like a muffled moan. And then you heard him.
Not his footsteps.
His voice.
From somewhere deep within the corridor, his calm voice rose almost playfully:
“It’s not nice to tell lies,
It’s not nice to tell lies…
You’ll be called a liar,
You’ll be called a liar…
Don’t make it a habit,
Don’t make it a habit…
Or you’ll repent…
You’ll repent.”
The final word stretched through the hallways as an echo, and your eyes slammed shut instantly because Edward did this on purpose. This was his favorite way to terrify you. Before physically catching you, he wanted to break your mind apart first.
You covered your ears and buried your face against your knees, your breathing turning ragged as your shoulders trembled uncontrollably.
“Stop… make him stop…” you whispered to yourself. Because hearing his voice dragged you right back to Arkham—to the way he used to stare at you with that strange admiration burning behind his eyes.
Edward had never been the type to scream. That was what made him worse.
Even when he spoke softly, it felt as though he were peeling your skin away and looking directly into your mind.
A door slammed somewhere in the corridor.
Then another.
Then another.
As though he were randomly entering rooms one by one. But you knew that was a lie because Edward never did anything randomly. This was part of the game too. He wanted you panicked. Wanted you unable to guess where he’d come from next.
Your fingers tangled into your hair as you squeezed your eyes shut tighter—and then you noticed the darkness beneath the door shifting.
Someone was standing outside.
Your breath stopped completely. You tried not to make a sound, but when terror takes hold of the body, even your own heartbeat becomes impossible to silence. The stillness beyond the door stretched on and on.
Then Edward spoke from the other side, his voice almost amused. “You know… most of the patients on this floor thought they’d found the exit, only to end up back in the same corridor.”
Your eyes burned with tears, but you fought not to cry because you knew he loved this. He loved seeing you powerless. Loved seeing what fear did to you.
“And do you know the most tragic part?” he continued softly. “Some of them never realized they were lost at all.”
His footsteps slowly began to retreat, and for a few seconds you desperately wanted to believe he had finally gone. But just as you dared to breathe again, a sudden theatrical shout exploded from somewhere deep in the corridor:
“TA-DA!”
Then his laughter spread through the darkness. Not from outside the door. Not from down the hall.
From somewhere impossibly close.
As if it had come from inside the room itself.
He sounded so confident, so exhilarated, that you screamed in terror, convinced he had found you. But he hadn’t.
It had been a bluff—a trap meant to force you into revealing yourself. And in the end, it worked, didn’t it?
His voice remained unnervingly calm, and that was the worst part of all. Beneath that calmness, there was something festering—resentment, obsession, fury—all waiting for the perfect moment to sink its claws into you.
“Ah… so this is where you are, little piggy,” he laughed softly. “Don’t make Daddy work so hard. There’s nowhere you can hide.”
You cried in sheer horror, your eyes locked on the door as if staring at it hard enough could stop it from opening. If he truly found you, you’d shove him aside and run. You’d run with everything you had.
Trembling violently, you pushed yourself upright, gripping the edge of the filthy bed stained with old blood, urine, and rot. Sweat rolled down your forehead and mixed with the tears streaming along your cheeks. Damp strands of hair clung to your face until you shakily brushed them aside, widening your blurred field of vision.
A low growl came from beyond the door.
“There you are, piggy…”
That word again. The name he used whenever he wanted to humiliate you.
The second the door burst open, you bolted toward the opposite corner of the room. You had no space to escape where you’d been hiding before. And now he stood directly in front of you.
You broke into hysterical sobs.
“WHY?! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?! WHAT DID I EVER DO TO YOU?!”
He didn’t even seem to hear you.
When you looked into his brown eyes, all you saw were cruel plans soaked in sadism.
The moment he stepped close enough, you lunged at him without warning, shoving him back with all your strength before trying to run.
You made it out of the room.
You were already sprinting down the massive corridor when the Riddler suddenly roared behind you—
“TOO EASY, Y/N! WAY TOO EASY!”
Just as you had finally begun to pick up speed, a brutal force yanked at the back of your neck.
Pain exploded through your skull in an instant as Edward twisted his fist into your hair and jerked you backward so violently that your entire body lost balance. Your head snapped back involuntarily before your spine and knees slammed against the floor with a deafening crash.
Broken tiles, rusted metal fragments, and scattered rubble dug into your skin as a muffled cry tore from your throat, the impact knocking the breath straight out of you.
The hospital floor was freezing cold. Dampness seeped through the thin fabric of your clothes and into your skin while your palms scraped against the ground, leaving raw cuts behind. But Edward didn’t care about any of it.
He still hadn’t let go of your hair. His fingers were tangled so tightly at the roots that it felt as though he were trying to prove he could control your entire body just by holding you there. And that was exactly the point.
More than hurting you, he wanted you to feel his control over you.
“Stop running…” he whispered through clenched teeth. His voice wasn’t loud, but somehow that only made it worse. Every moment he tried to suppress his anger made him more frightening.
As he dragged you back to your feet, he pulled upward by your hair, forcing your neck taut until a trembling breath slipped painfully past your lips.
Your eyes brimmed with tears as you begged him.
“Please… Edward, don’t…” But every time you tried to pull away, his grip only tightened.
Your bodies kept colliding as he forced you down the dark corridor. One of his hands remained locked in your hair while the other wrapped around your throat, his thumb pressing beneath your jaw as he yanked you toward him, controlling the direction you moved.
The struggle between you was so close, so suffocatingly physical, that you could feel his breath against your face. Edward’s uneven breathing brushed near your ear one second, struck the side of your neck the next. And somehow, instead of only terrifying you, that closeness carried a strange, unbearable tension beneath the fear. Because Edward wasn’t touching you with anger alone.
You could feel his obsession bleeding into every movement.
The pressure of his fingers against your throat mixed with the burning pain in your scalp until your body, even while desperately trying to escape him, was forced to remain constantly aware of his physical presence.
Stumbling through the corridor, your shoulder smashed against the wall, the rusted surface scraping painfully across your arm—but Edward immediately dragged you back toward him, so close you nearly collided with his chest.
Behind his glasses, his expression looked completely unraveled now. Jealousy, rage, and that sick, obsessive desire he felt toward you had blurred together into something unstable.
“Were you this scared when you kissed him?” he asked quietly. And as he said it, his grip around your throat tightened just a little more.
Your heartbeat staggered unevenly inside your chest because there was a suffocating line between Edward wanting to hurt you and Edward wanting to be this close to you. And what terrified you most wasn’t just how strong he was.
It was the way he seemed to enjoy touching you.
By the time Edward dragged you to the end of the corridor, you were barely walking anymore—more stumbling than moving. Your bare feet splashed into freezing water, the sharp edges of cracked tiles slicing against your soles with every step while filthy water surged up around your ankles.
The dark, stagnant water flooding the hallway reflected the broken wires hanging from the ceiling and the sickly green light above, making the hospital look less like a building and more like the inside of a rotting nightmare.
The hem of your thin dress was completely ruined now, soaked to your knees and stained with rust and grime. Your damp hair clung heavily to your back; every time Edward jerked you forward, dark strands spilled across your face and stuck to your lips .You were out of breath.
Exhausted from trying to escape, yet too terrified to stop because the anger in Edward’s grip kept growing stronger.
When he suddenly yanked you toward him, your chest slammed hard against his. You stumbled, and immediately his hand wrapped around your throat again. His fingers were cold. But his grip burned.
It was painfully obvious that he enjoyed controlling you, and that realization twisted something else into your fear—something tense and unbearable. Behind his glasses, his gaze had darkened completely now. The way he looked at you felt conflicted, as though he wanted to destroy you and claim you at the exact same time.
“What are you going to do to me…?” you finally whispered.
Your voice trembled. You couldn’t even tell anymore whether it was from fear, lack of oxygen, or simply from having him this close to you.
Edward didn’t answer right away. He just stared at you. His head tilted slightly to the side, almost like he had been waiting for you to ask. Then a small, unstable smile slowly formed at the corner of his mouth.
“First,” he said quietly, sliding his thumb along your throat, “I’m going to punish you.”
Your heart tightened painfully in your chest.
“Because that man ruined you.”
“Before Bruce Wayne…” he murmured, stepping closer. His breath brushed against your face, and instinctively you tried to lean away—but your back had already hit the wall. “…you were so much more innocent.”
“Edward—”
“No.”
His voice sharpened instantly.
“No. You’re going to listen to me.”
One of his hands pressed against the wall beside your head, completely trapping you in place. The damp surface stuck coldly against your back, the thin fabric clinging to your skin.
Edward stood so close that you could feel the movement of his chest every time he breathed. And when his eyes dropped to your lips, your stomach twisted violently because for a few terrible seconds, you truly thought he was about to kiss you. His face moved closer and closer until the tip of his nose almost brushed yours.
Your lips parted involuntarily.
Fear and tension locked your entire body in place. But he didn’t kiss you.
He only smiled while looking at you. And somehow, that was worse.
“You know I wasn’t lying…” you said desperately. “I cared about you. I really did. But I… I was never in love with you.”
The second the words left your mouth, something in Edward’s expression changed.
Instantly.
Completely.
As though something he’d been holding inside himself had finally snapped.
When his hand suddenly tangled harshly into your hair again, pain stole the breath from your lungs. He forced your head back and slammed you harder against the wall. Behind his glasses, his eyes looked wild now—unsteady, almost insane. “Shut up,” he hissed through clenched teeth.
The hand around your throat slowly slid upward until it gripped your jaw instead. He stared at you so intensely that even trying to look away felt impossible.
Like he didn’t just want to see you.
Like he wanted to crawl inside your mind.
“You played games with me,” he said, his voice dropping lower and lower. “You smiled at me. You talked to me. You solved my riddles. You made me feel special.”
“I was just—”
“JUST WHAT?!”
His voice echoed violently through the corridor, rippling across the water.
Your breathing quickened.
When Edward leaned closer again, his lips lowered near your ear, his voice now barely above a whisper. “I still love you,” he murmured. “That’s the most tragic part.”
You shivered when his fingers brushed against your throat again because his touch was rough, yet disturbingly careful at the same time—like someone who didn’t want to hurt you, but wanted to make you completely his.
“I’m going to fix you,” he whispered slowly. “Whatever that man took from you, I’m going to take it back.” Then he buried his face into your hair. His fingers slid through the damp strands as he inhaled deeply. “And in the end…” he said, his voice muffled against you, “...I’m going to make you mine.”
When Edward dragged you into the room, you immediately felt that even the air inside was different from the rest of the hospital.
This didn’t look like an abandoned patient room. It looked like a torture chamber where people’s screams had soaked into the walls for years.
The massive surgical lamp hanging from the ceiling still worked, but the light flickered every few seconds, illuminating the room in broken flashes. Metal pipes stretched overhead, and a deep mechanical hum vibrated through the walls, filling the entire room with a suffocating resonance.
In the center stood an old electroshock table covered in cracked leather restraints. Dark brown stains had seeped permanently into the material over the years, and beside it sat a rusted machine with loose wires still hanging from its side.
That was the moment you understood. Truly understood. Edward wasn’t just trying to scare you. He hadn’t only meant to punish you. He was actually going to do this. And the instant that realization hit, every piece of control inside your body shattered.
“No… no, no, no…” you began gasping breathlessly as you staggered backward. The moment you saw the table, panic swallowed everything else. Your bare feet slipped across the freezing floor, wet strands of hair sticking to your face while your filthy clothes clung heavily to your skin.
All you could think about was reaching the door. But Edward was faster.
The second his hand locked around your arm, your entire body seized with terror. You shoved at him, clawed at him, truly struggling now—wildly, uncontrollably.
Your breathing had turned ragged. “Edward, please— no, you can’t do this—”
“I can,” he answered calmly. And that calmness terrified you even more because there was no rage in his expression anymore. Only horrifying certainty. “Because I’m trying to help you.”
When he dragged you toward him again, your palms slammed against his chest, but you couldn’t stop him. He pulled you toward the table while your legs scraped across the floor, striking against the metal supports beneath it. That was when the panic completely consumed you.
Fear shredded your thoughts apart.
“Let me go!” you screamed, your voice cracking violently. “Edward, please!” But he only stared at your face, almost as though watching you like this convinced him he was right.
“I don’t understand why you’re so afraid,” he said while forcing you down onto the table. “Bruce Wayne approved of this too. And he’s not even a doctor.”
For a split second, your movements froze.
Edward noticed. And smiled. “Don’t lie to yourself,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly. “I know who really has influence over the Arkham board. I know how he manipulates the doctors.”
“You’re wrong…” you whispered, but the strength in your voice had already collapsed.
Edward shoved you firmly onto the table, and the second the surface touched your back, your entire body shuddered from the freezing cold.
You kept struggling, but Edward had clearly been waiting for panic to weaken you. First he pinned your wrists, then threaded the old leather restraints through the rusted buckles, tightening them securely around you.
Every pull of leather against your skin made your breathing faster. Every metallic click echoed through the room. And when your ankles were restrained too, you finally understood that you were truly trapped.
The surgical light burned directly into your face, making your eyes ache. Your hair spilled over the edge of the table, damp strands sticking to your throat. “I hate you…” you whispered eventually, tears filling your eyes. “I hate you, Edward…” And that was the moment the atmosphere in the room changed.
Edward stared at you silently for several seconds. Then slowly stepped back. At first you thought he was going to lose his temper. Scream at you. Maybe turn the machine on immediately. But he didn’t.Instead, he slowly lowered himself to his knees. The movement was so unexpected it stole the air from your lungs.When he lowered his head and gently took your bare foot into his hands, your whole body tensed because his touch wasn’t rough anymore.
It was disturbingly careful.
His thumb slowly brushed away the dirty water marks from your skin, tracing the tiny cuts along the sole of your foot while he looked at you like you were something fragile enough to break. And that look was terrifying. Because there was as much reverence in it as violence.
“Look what they did to you…” he murmured hoarsely.
The moment his lips touched the top of your foot, your body jerked involuntarily. There was nothing romantic about it. Nothing safe. If anything, it terrified you even more because Edward’s love wasn’t normal love. It was obsessive. Suffocating.
The kind that strips away your humanity.
His eyes closed as he kissed your filthy foot, almost as though he were touching something sacred. Then his lips slowly moved upward toward your knee while his hands stroked your leg, his warm breaths brushing against your skin.
“You have no idea what I’d do for you,” he whispered. “If I had to… I’d kill everyone.”
When he lifted his head to look at you again, there was something genuinely insane burning behind his eyes now. “Bruce Wayne doesn’t deserve you.” His fingers drifted slowly across your knee. “He ruined you. He scared you. He changed you.”
Then he rested his head lightly against the edge of the table, his hands still wrapped around your leg. “But me…” he whispered shakily, “...I love you exactly as you are.”
The restraints were digging painfully into your wrists. Every time you tried to move, the leather tightened harder against your skin. Meanwhile, Edward’s touch only became slower. Gentler.And that contradiction made the room feel even more suffocating because the man restraining you to an electroshock table was looking at you as though he worshipped you. And somehow—that was more terrifying than the machine itself.
Lying restrained on the table, you could feel even his breathing beginning to change because the fragile admiration in Edward’s eyes was slowly turning into something else.
At first, you could still see the part of him that loved you—the part that trembled whenever he touched you. But within seconds, that expression would fracture apart, replaced by something cold, calculating, almost emotionless.The shift was so sharp it felt as though two completely different people were living inside the same body .One moment, his fingers traced the tiny cuts on your legs as though they genuinely upset him. The next, every trace of warmth vanished from his face, and he looked at you like nothing more than a problem waiting to be solved. So when he finally spoke again, you noticed the difference in his voice immediately.
Calmer.
More controlled.
More dangerous.
And the moment you realized that, you forced yourself to think through the fear again because Edward’s greatest weakness had always been himself.
His need to be seen. To be understood. The way he confused love with intellectual intimacy.
So you looked at him, trying to steady your breathing, suppressing the panic in your eyes while softening your voice. “Edward…” you whispered slowly as the restraints bit into your wrists. “You’re scaring me, but… I’m trying to understand you.”
Silence filled the room. Edward looked at you. For a long time. Too long. And then he smiled. But it wasn’t the same smile as before. This time, there was no warmth in it. It was the smile of someone who realized you were trying to pry him open and look inside.
“You’re trying to manipulate me,” he said calmly.
Your heart lurched violently, though you tried not to let it show.
Edward slowly rose to his feet. The flickering surgical light split his face in half—one side hidden in shadow while the lens of his glasses reflected the pale glow.
He barely looked human anymore. More like the walking remains of a shattered mind. “This is my favorite part,” he said as he began pacing around the room. “The part where people try to use their intelligence after fear sets in. Because this…” He smiled faintly. “This is where you always make mistakes.” His fingers dragged slowly across the electroshock machine, and the metallic scrape tightened your throat.
You watched him carefully, trying to understand which version of Edward stood in front of you now. The one who knelt before you? The one who kissed your feet? Or this man studying you like a living experiment? Maybe they had always been the same person.
“I’m going to ask you a riddle,” he said at last, turning toward you. “It has two answers. Technically, both are correct.” The corner of his mouth curved upward slightly. “But only the answer I’m thinking of will set you free.”
You closed your eyes for a brief second because you knew him. You had spent countless hours in Arkham watching the way Edward thought. The way he chose answers. The way his ego mattered more to him than logic itself.
Even his truths were emotional. Edward leaned closer. “When does a person stop being themselves?” he asked softly.
The room fell silent. Only the hum above you remained. This was exactly the kind of riddle Edward loved. “Your mind” could have been the answer. “Your heart,” too.
But Edward had never been ruled by logic alone. He saw himself as the tragic hero of some doomed love story. And you were his psychiatrist. You knew which answer he wanted.
You lifted your eyes to him. “When they lose the person they love,” you whispered.
For a split second, the expression on Edward’s face froze. And that was how you knew you had chosen correctly.
But then—something changed. His eyes darkened. And he smiled. “Wrong answer.”
Your breath stopped. “No,” you said immediately. “No, that’s the one you’d choose. I know you, Edward.”
“Then you don’t know me well enough.”
“You’re lying.” Your voice came out sharper this time. “You’re doing this on purpose.”
Edward stared at you silently for several seconds. Then suddenly moved. The instant his hand tangled violently into your hair, pain tore the breath from your lungs. He yanked your head backward by the roots, exposing your throat completely while forcing your spine harder against the table. Your body arched involuntarily. The restraints burned against your wrists as they strained tighter. And Edward just watched you. Hungrily. Almost reverently. Like he could no longer tell the difference between hurting you and touching you.
“Why are you doing this…” you whispered, your voice trembling now.
Edward didn’t answer. His gaze wandered slowly along your throat, watching the frantic pulse beating beneath your skin, studying the way fear moved through your body.
Then he leaned closer. Closer. Until his breath began brushing against your lips.
Instinctively, you tried to pull away. But you were restrained. You couldn’t escape.
For one second, you thought he was going to kiss you. Then he actually did. The moment his lips crashed against yours, it wasn’t gentle. It was meant to silence you.
Hard.
Hungry.
Out of control.
The hand tangled in your hair still hurt, forcing your head back painfully while your jaw trembled beneath the pressure. Fear surged through your body like electricity as his mouth pressed harder against yours, stealing the air from your lungs. It didn’t even feel like Edward was kissing you. It felt like he was trying to claim you. Like he wanted to stop you from speaking, thinking, resisting him entirely.
When the kiss finally broke, your lips hurt. Edward rested his forehead against yours, his breathing ragged now. “I hate that you can figure me out…” he whispered hoarsely. “And somehow I still can’t stop thinking about you.”
Then suddenly he pulled away. And his expression changed again.
Empty.
Emotionless.
When he walked back toward the machine, the sound of the metal switches echoed through the room. Your breathing quickened as Edward picked up the wires, an almost peaceful look settling across his face. “This is going to hurt a little,” he said calmly. “But afterward, you’ll feel better.” As his finger hovered over the switch, he looked at you one last time. “And in the end…” he murmured, broken admiration flickering in his eyes, “...you’ll finally be cured.”
Before lowering his hand onto the switch, Edward watched you for several long seconds. The flickering surgical light overhead spilled across his face, pale reflections glinting against the lenses of his glasses.
In that moment, everything in the room felt horrifyingly vivid.
The smell of rust mixed with the scorched-metal scent of old wires. The groaning pipes above sounded almost synchronized with your pulse, vibrating through the ceiling in slow, suffocating waves. And you were struggling against the restraints now.
Your wrists had turned red beneath the leather straps, deep pressure marks bruising your skin. Every attempt to pull free only made the old restraints tighten harder, burning against your flesh. Your ankles scraped painfully against the metal footrests while your bare feet curled involuntarily from panic.
Your breathing had become uneven.
Fear wouldn’t let your lungs fully fill anymore; every breath stopped halfway.
“Edward, please…” you begged, your voice breaking apart. “Don’t… I don’t want this… please…”
But he wasn’t listening anymore.
Or maybe worse—maybe he was listening and truly believed this was part of helping you.
Standing beside the machine, his expression had changed again. The man who had kissed you harshly only moments ago, who had tangled his hand in your hair, seemed gone now.
In his place was a cold, clinical calmness. And somehow, this version of him was even more terrifying because he no longer looked at you like a person.
He looked at you like something broken that needed to be fixed.
As his fingers adjusted the wires, there was almost a gentle attentiveness in his movements. Combined with the rusted torture equipment surrounding him, it created something deeply sickening.
“Sometimes people are afraid of healing,” he said calmly. “Because they become attached to their pain.”
You shook your head frantically from side to side. Your hair spilled over the edge of the table, damp strands sticking against your throat while tears slid down the sides of your face toward your ears.
Fear had completely overflowed your body now.
Your shoulders trembled uncontrollably, your back arching slightly off the table each time you struggled against the restraints.
“Edward, no— no, please, I’m begging you—”
Suddenly, he stopped.
A slight crease formed between his brows.
Then he looked at you as though he had just remembered something important.
That expression—you recognized it.
It looked exactly like the moments doctors in Arkham had when examining a patient.
“Wait a second,” he murmured softly to himself.
When he began searching through the metal tray beside the machine, your breathing became even faster because you couldn’t understand what he was doing. The sound of rusted instruments clinking together echoed through the room until finally he found a small, old mouth guard.
It had yellowed with age, its edges worn down, but Edward picked it up carefully.
“I forgot,” he said as he approached you. “You could break your teeth.”
Your stomach twisted violently.
“No— no, I don’t want it—”
You tried turning your head away, but his hand immediately closed around your jaw. His fingers held your face firmly while he stared directly into your eyes.
There was something horrifyingly loving in that look.
The kind of love that tries to protect the body while destroying the soul.
“You’re going to be okay,” he said quietly. “Just trust me for a few minutes.”
Then he slid the mouth guard between your teeth.
The instant the taste of old plastic filled your mouth, panic surged even harder because that single movement made everything real.
This was no longer a threat.
It was about to happen.
You tried shaking your head, muffled sounds escaping around the mouth guard as you thrashed against the restraints. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, your thin clothes sticking to your skin from sweat.
The light above burned painfully into your eyes now. And Edward just watched you.
With admiration.
As though seeing you like this didn’t upset him—it only made him feel more attached to you.
Slowly, he leaned down.
When his lips pressed against your damp forehead, your entire body tensed because despite how gentle the kiss seemed, it was terrifying.
It didn’t feel loving.
It felt possessive.
He wasn’t acting like a lover trying to calm you.
He was acting like someone trying to repair a broken toy before it shattered completely.
“Breathe,” he whispered close against your forehead. “I’m right here.”
Then he pressed the switch.
The first sound was small—just a low electrical hum rising from inside the machine. But even that noise alone was enough to lock every muscle in your body tight.
Your eyes widened instantly. Your breathing faltered. The crackling current running through the wires echoed violently against the metal surfaces of the room while Edward stepped back and simply watched you.
And in that moment, the most horrifying thing in the room wasn’t the electroshock machine.
It was the peaceful expression on Edward’s face as he looked at you.
The moment he pressed the switch, it felt as though your body stopped belonging to you.
At first, a thin, burning pain shot upward through your spine. Then every muscle in your body seized all at once, arching violently against the table without your control. The restraints dug deep into your wrists, the old leather straps cutting painfully into your skin because your body was instinctively trying to escape—but there was nowhere to go.
The mouth guard muffled your scream, reducing it to broken, strangled sounds swallowed by the room. Your eyes slammed shut involuntarily before flying open again; the surgical lamp above blurred in and out of focus, the entire room trembling as though submerged underwater.
The pain wasn’t only physical. It felt like the electricity was threading itself between your nerves, tearing apart your thoughts themselves. Your fingers curled violently inward. Your bare feet stretched toward the metal edge of the table, even the muscles in your soles trembling uncontrollably. And Edward simply stepped back and watched you.
The expression on his face was horrifying. Because he didn’t look afraid. He looked happy. There was a light in his eyes now. Watching you thrash helplessly, watching your body lose control, watching your tear-filled eyes wide with terror—it looked as though he had finally reached something he had been chasing for a very long time. His fingers drifted across the controls of the machine while he tilted his head slightly, studying you. In that moment, he didn’t look like the Riddler. He looked like a man admiring his own obsession.
“There…” he breathed softly, almost reverently. “There’s the real you…”
Another wave hit.
Your back arched violently off the table, a muffled scream tearing from your throat while the veins in your neck strained visibly beneath your skin. Tears streamed sideways toward your ears, damp strands of hair sticking to the metal beneath you. You tried to think through it. Tried to hold onto something. But the electricity shattered everything apart. Time itself seemed to warp. Seconds stretched endlessly while sounds blurred together.
Edward took a few slow steps toward you. “Look at me,” he said gently. “Look at me, sweetheart.”
The word made your stomach twist in disgust. But Edward either didn’t notice— or didn’t care.
If anything, his expression softened further as he approached. He seemed to love the way fear had reduced you into something vulnerable and broken.
When his fingers brushed along your cheek, your skin trembled involuntarily because your body was still spasming from the shocks.
“You were never like this with him,” he said, his tone sharpening slightly at the mention of Bruce. “I’m the one who really sees you. The real you.”
Then he adjusted the switch again.
This time, the pain hit harder.
Your entire body locked rigid, your head falling helplessly to the side while muffled cries broke through the mouth guard in shattered sounds. Your shoulders shook violently, your chest heaving desperately for air. Your heart pounded so fast it felt ready to split through your ribs. Even after the current stopped, your muscles refused to relax immediately. Small tremors continued rippling through your body while ragged breaths tore unevenly from your throat.
Edward never looked away from you. As though watching you like this intoxicated him.
“You know…” he murmured quietly as he moved closer again, “people always say love destroys people.”
The corner of his mouth curved faintly upward.
“But even while I’m destroying you…” he whispered, “I still love you.”
When he sat down on the edge of the table, the metal groaned softly beneath his weight. His hand rose slowly to your throat, fingertips gliding across your sweat-damp skin.
His touch seemed gentle. But by now, you knew that didn’t make it safer. Because the most horrifying thing about Edward was the way he blurred tenderness and violence together until they became impossible to separate.
“Even when you said you hated me…” he whispered, leaning closer to your face, “…I still didn’t want to stop touching you.”
Then he closed his eyes and rested his forehead against yours. His breathing was still uneven, almost as though the machine had affected him too.
“One day, you’ll understand why I did this,” he murmured hoarsely.
His trembling fingers brushed your hair behind your ear.
“And when that day comes…” he whispered, broken devotion flickering in his voice, “…you’ll finally love me back.”
Even after the electricity stopped, your body didn’t immediately feel like your own again. And that was the most terrifying part.
The pain was gone, but its effects still lived inside your nerves. Your fingers continued trembling in small, involuntary spasms while the muscles in your legs tightened and released on their own. Your chest rose and fell unevenly, never seeming to draw enough air into your lungs—as though your body had forgotten how to breathe and was now operating on survival instinct alone.
The surgical lamp above blurred in and out of focus. The light expanded, shrank, disappeared completely for a second, then returned again. The edges of the plastic mouth guard tasted metallic against your tongue, and your teeth still ached faintly. Sweat had gathered at your hairline and run down your neck, damp strands sticking to your cheeks. Beneath the restraints, your wrists throbbed painfully. And Edward watched all of it in silence. As though studying the results of an experiment. But what burned in his eyes was far more personal than scientific curiosity.
Something sicker.
When he stepped back toward the table, even the sound of his shoes against the metal floor was enough to make your stomach tighten because your body had already begun conditioning itself to his presence. The second you sensed him near you, fear spread through your muscles before it reached your thoughts. And realizing that something else stirred beneath that fear made you hate yourself. Because Edward’s touch no longer felt like only a threat.
After the electroshock, your mind had become blurred, your sense of reality fractured. The rest of the world felt submerged in fog while Edward remained the only thing that seemed painfully clear—his voice, his breathing, the warmth of his hands.
That realization horrified you.
When Edward began undoing the restraints, your first instinct was to pull away. But your body didn’t obey.
Even after the leather loosened around your wrists, you couldn’t immediately move your arms. You only lay there trembling weakly against the table. Your muscles were so exhausted that even moving felt heavy now. And when Edward noticed that, a strange, softened satisfaction crossed his face.
“See?” he said quietly. “You’re not fighting me anymore.”
The satisfaction in his voice made your stomach twist, but you couldn’t gather enough strength to answer him. Your lips remained slightly parted, your breaths warm and uneven.
When Edward leaned down and carefully removed the mouth guard, your jaw trembled involuntarily. The instant his fingers brushed against your lower lip, your entire body shivered.
This was fear.
It had to be. But your body was beginning to lose the ability to separate fear from everything else. And Edward seemed to notice.
His thumb lingered against the corner of your mouth for several seconds too long. When his gaze dropped to your lips, there was a hungry admiration in his expression—as though he found you even more beautiful like this, broken apart.
“You look so beautiful when you look at me like that…” he murmured hoarsely.
You shook your head weakly from side to side. “No…” you whispered. But even your voice no longer sounded like it belonged to you.
Edward, however, didn’t interpret it as rejection.
He interpreted it as shyness.
“You’re still trying to keep me at a distance,” he said calmly. “But I saw the way you looked at me a moment ago.”
Your heart clenched painfully. Because you were terrified he might be right.
While your mind had been splintering under the shocks, Edward had become the only fixed point in the room. After every wave of pain, his was the first face you saw. During every desperate struggle for breath, you heard his voice. And now your brain was beginning to confuse that with safety.
The realization panicked you internally while simultaneously making it harder to think clearly.
When Edward slid his hands beneath your waist and slowly helped you into a sitting position, your head fell weakly against his chest without your permission. The second you realized it, you wanted to pull away— but your muscles were still weak. And Edward smelled like sweat, metal, and faint cologne.
A real human scent.
In the middle of the hospital’s rotting stench, he felt like the only thing alive.
That frightened you even more.
Edward exhaled softly into your hair. His fingers moved slowly across your back in calm, rhythmic strokes meant to soothe you. And that was exactly what made it disturbing. Because the same man who had strapped you to the table was now comforting you.
“You can feel me now,” he whispered near your ear. “I understand you better than he ever could.”
You closed your eyes because your head was spinning. But Edward interpreted that differently.
His arms tightened around you slightly, as though he believed you were finally moving closer to him.
Then his lips touched yours again.
This time, it wasn’t rough like before.
It started slowly. And somehow, that made it worse. Because for a few seconds, your body didn’t immediately push him away.
Your lips were still numb. Your breathing remained uneven. As Edward kissed you, one of his hands slid behind your neck, fingers threading gently into your damp hair. And for just a few terrible seconds— you felt like you forgot to resist.
The realization turned your stomach violently.
When Edward finally pulled back, there was an almost intoxicated happiness in his eyes.
“There…” he whispered, resting his forehead against yours. “You’re finally letting me in.”
While Edward held you half-upright against the table, the low mechanical hum of the room still echoed inside your skull. The metallic sound of the electroshock machine felt lodged somewhere between your nerves now, refusing to fade away.
Your head felt heavy. Thinking itself was exhausting. And your body no longer felt entirely like yours; tiny tremors still rippled through your muscles while your shoulders shivered involuntarily. In moments like this, the human mind could begin confusing danger with relief. Because after intense pain, slowness, silence, and physical contact could all be mistaken by the brain for safety.
You knew that. That was why every time Edward touched you, one part of you wanted desperately to pull away— while another part of you relaxed in a way that horrified you. And it felt like something inside you was beginning to rot because of it.
Edward could feel it too.
Maybe that was the most terrifying thing of all.
The way he looked at you had changed now. He no longer resembled only an obsessive lover; he looked like someone who had finally recovered something precious after believing it lost for years.
When his fingers rose to your face, his movements were astonishingly slow. His thumb brushed away the dampness beneath your cheek first, almost carefully trying to decide whether it was sweat or tears.
Then his palm closed gently around your jaw.
The touch wasn’t harsh.
But it was possessive.
As he tilted your head upward slightly, he looked into your eyes with such intensity that for a few seconds, everything else in the room seemed to disappear.
“Look at you…” he whispered hoarsely. “Look how badly they frightened you.”
The words twisted painfully inside your stomach because he was the one terrifying you. But Edward’s mind no longer accepted that reality.
He viewed the pain he caused as some kind of purification—something that stripped you down and brought you closer to him. He broke you apart, then convinced himself that only he could put the pieces back together again.
When he leaned closer, his lips touched your forehead first.
The kiss was long.
Heavy.
There was almost no lust in it—only a strange, warped tenderness. And somehow, that made it more disturbing. Because he no longer felt like a lover.
He felt like someone pathologically protective.
His lips lingered against your damp forehead for several seconds before moving lower—to your temple, then your cheek. Every touch was slow, careful, almost ceremonial.
As though he wasn’t trying to comfort you.
As though he was trying to transform you into something that belonged to him.
Meanwhile, you struggled to regulate your breathing.
When Edward’s mouth drifted lower along your jawline, a thin shiver slid down your spine. Your body was still hypersensitive from the electroshock; every touch felt far more intense than it should have.
The warmth of his lips lingered against your skin, making your heartbeat speed up, and that realization panicked you because you were supposed to fear him. And you still did. But now something else had begun mixing into that fear.
Something that humiliated you.
Something that made you disgusted with yourself.
Edward misunderstood it completely.
When his fingers threaded through your damp hair and tucked the strands behind your ear, a strange softness settled across his face.
Like he truly believed you were finally beginning to surrender to him.
“You’re not trembling anymore,” he whispered.
He was lying.
You were still trembling.
Just not only from fear anymore.
When his lips reached your throat, your breath caught involuntarily. He lingered there, directly over the frantic pulse beneath your skin. At first only his breath touched you.
Then his lips did.
You closed your eyes immediately because your body’s reaction terrified you. Your throat was already sensitive from the way your body had strained during the shocks, and now Edward’s slow kisses only heightened that sensitivity further.
The skin beneath his mouth shivered.
Your shoulders tightened involuntarily. And when Edward felt it, his arms tightened around you slightly.
“There…” he murmured softly, almost like he was speaking to himself. “Now you’re safe.”
The sentence echoed violently inside your head.
You weren’t safe. But somehow, in that moment, your body leaned just a little further into his chest.
The movement wasn’t conscious.
It came from exhaustion, fear, shock. But to Edward, none of that mattered because by now he interpreted every action through the lens of his obsession.
As his fingers moved slowly across your back, he began stroking you with slow, rhythmic motions, the kind someone might use to calm a frightened child. And that was exactly what made it horrifying. Because the man who had strapped you to the table and watched you scream was now trying to comfort you.
“No one has ever looked at you the way I do,” he whispered near your throat. “No one has ever loved you the way I do.”
His words thickened in the rotting darkness of the room while his lips brushed your neck again.
This kiss lasted longer.
His breath warmed your skin while his fingers slid slowly downward from the base of your neck. And that was when you began realizing the most horrifying truth of all: His touch disturbed you. But at the same time… it comforted you too. And that realization frightened you more than the electroshock itself ever had.
As Edward’s lips continued to wander along your neck, the fog inside your mind slowly began to clear; the heavy numbness that had settled deep into your body after the electroshock hadn’t fully disappeared yet, but your thoughts were beginning to reconnect with each other again. Your heart was still racing, though this time it wasn’t only because of fear, and the moment you realized that, your stomach tightened painfully. Because the strange sense of relief his touch created inside your body was colliding violently with the terror your mind still felt toward him. That contradiction was tearing you apart from the inside out. Your head rested weakly against his shoulder while you could feel the uneven rhythm of his breathing; erratic, but satisfied. As if he truly believed he had finally broken you enough to pull you closer to him.
Then his lips found yours again.
This kiss was slower; less hungry, more possessive. It didn’t feel like he was trying to silence you this time, but rather like he was trying to soothe something that already belonged to him. His fingers held your chin gently as he tilted your head, mixing his breathing with yours so he could kiss you deeper. The damp air inside the room had become suffocatingly heavy; the mold and decay clinging to the hospital walls mixed with the metallic scent of sweat lingering on Edward’s clothes. Every breath shared between your lips made you feel as though you were slipping further away from yourself.
And then his hands began to move.
At first, they only touched your shoulders.
The tips of his fingers slid slowly over the thin fabric covering your skin, and your body instinctively tensed because you immediately understood what he was about to do. You tried to pull away, but Edward didn’t let you go so easily; he rested his forehead against yours and let his eyes wander over your face for several long seconds. There was something deeply unsettling in that look—something that carried tenderness and possession at the same time. It didn’t feel like he simply wanted to see you. It felt like he wanted to completely uncover you.
“You don’t need to hide anymore,” he whispered.
The moment his hands moved toward the collar of your clothes, your breathing became uneven again. The fabric had already been clinging to your skin from sweat and the dampness filling the hospital air, and when Edward slowly slid it down from your shoulders, the cold air touching your exposed skin sent a shiver down your spine. You still hadn’t fully recovered; your muscles were weak, your head still spinning faintly. Even so, something inside you began sounding the alarm again.
“Edward…” you whispered weakly. “Stop…”
But Edward no longer heard your voice as resistance. To him, it sounded like frightened vulnerability instead. As his hands traveled from your shoulders down your arms, he buried his face against your neck again; his lips brushing your throat while his breath left warm traces against your skin. For him, violence and affection had completely fused together in this moment. He acted as though he was calming you down while slowly making you into something that belonged entirely to him.
When the fabric slipped lower past your waist, the cold air touched your bare skin fully, and your body instinctively tried to curl inward. You attempted to pull your arms toward yourself, but Edward gently caught your wrists and relaxed them again. That gentleness was terrifying because it felt as though he believed force was no longer necessary. His eyes wandered over your body with an expression that looked almost reverent, as though your trembling, broken state had become something sacred to him.
“Look at you…” he murmured hoarsely. “How could they leave you all alone like this?”
After those words, his hands continued moving slowly along your back; careful, patient, disturbingly tender touches. As though he no longer wanted to hurt you. But that was exactly what made it so horrifying, because the same man who had strapped you to that table and sent electricity through your body was now caressing your bare skin as if this were some twisted form of love.
And when you realized, despite all the discomfort crawling beneath your skin, that his touch was actually beginning to calm the trembling in your body, your eyes slowly fell shut.
That realization was darker than anything else inside the room.
As the hazy admiration in Edward's gaze grew increasingly heavy, the way he laid you back down onto the gurney possessed an almost ceremonial slowness. When your back met the gurney again, a fine shiver traveled up your spine; the cold surface, merging with the sensitivity that still lingered on your skin like a burn, caused your breath to turn involuntarily ragged. There was a peaceful expression on Edward's face as he carefully swept your hair over your shoulder and let it fall back. This peace looked so entirely wrong amidst the decayed walls and rusted equipment of the room that it made your stomach churn.
Then, he began to fasten the straps again.
But this time, his movements were different.
He wasn't rushing to restrain you like the first time; instead, he acted as though he were putting you back "in your proper place" with his own hands.
"Don't try to run anymore..." he whispered in a soft voice. "These aren't the things holding you back."
Following those words, when he slowly lowered his head, the air inside the room shifted once more.
Edward’s lips lingered just above your knee at first, leaving long, heavy kisses, as if rewriting you in his own mind through the touch of your skin. As his fingers slowly traced your legs, there was a strange sense of worship in his movements. He behaved less like a lover and more like someone immersed in a dark ritual. And then, he lowered his head a little further.
In that instant, every sound in the room transformed. His fingers found the outer lips of your labia, pulling them apart. When his tongue gently brushed against your clitoris, the humming of the pipes drifted away, and the buzzing of the lamp grew muffled. Nothing remained but your own breath—irregular, fragile, quickening all the more the harder you tried to control it.
Edward’s touches felt less like words now and more like shadows; something not directly seen, yet spreading through the entire room. As his tongue flicked between your clitoris and the opening of your vagina, the tension in your body fractured somewhere between fear and surrender. Because what you were experiencing wasn't merely physical; the boundaries of your mind were shifting as well.
Edward could feel this.
Occasionally, he would lift his head to look at you, a nearly peaceful hunger in his eyes. It was as if seeing you so utterly vulnerable triggered a twisted protective instinct within him. He was the one who had hurt you, yet now he was assuming the role of the one calming you down.
"No one can take you from me now..." he murmured in a husky voice.
Your fingers curled involuntarily beneath the straps. You turned your head to the side and closed your eyes tightly, terrified of the responses your body was giving. You were afraid of this room, of Edward, and of yourself. Yet beneath all this fear, in that dark void opened in your mind following the electroshock, the sinister sense of relief brought on by his touch continued to linger. The capillaries in your clitoris were so intensely stimulated that Edward quickened his pace and hardened his movements with your every breath.
"Did you see that?" Edward said, letting his breath brush against your skin as he tilted his head. "You cannot resist. Because this is not a war. This is... love. You and I. The soul of this room and our own souls. They all want the same thing: the truth."
Finally, he moved. As he removed his white shirt and vest, every motion was controlled and theatrical. Beneath lay pale, almost translucent skin and lean muscles. As he unbuckled his trousers, the metallic clink resonated sharply in the silence of the room. "Now," he said, "the real part of our experiment begins."
His body possessed lean yet hard contours, and as he leaned down over you, the hardness of his erection was tangible proof of his power and desire at that moment. When he climbed on top of you, you felt crushed beneath his entire weight on the gurney. While the cold fabric bit into your back, his skin felt like fire.
"Don't get weary now, doctor," he whispered right into your ear, his warm breath seeping into your hair. "This is our first night together. Our love will reach its purest form."
Without any warning—not slowly, but all at once—he entered you. In that instant, it felt as though your body was being torn in two. The pain was sharp and searing, forcing its way in as if tearing your vagina. A scream caught in your throat but wouldn't come out. Warm tears streamed down your cheeks. Edward did not stop. He began to move his hips rapidly, rhythmically. With every thrust, the metal legs of the gurney screeched against the floor, creating ripples in the water on the cracked tiles. The flickering light caught and lost the mixture of pain and pleasure on his face.
"Look," he said, grabbing your hair and pulling your head back. You were forced to look into his eyes. "Look at your body. It is taking it in. It accepts it. Because this is the way it is meant to be."
He was lying. Your body wasn't accepting it; this was an assault. But... within that damp, bloody space between you, something was changing. Amidst the pain, involuntarily, a sickening leak of pleasure began. This betrayal by your own body was louder than the screams of your mind. This was exactly what Edward wanted: to break you both physically and mentally, to make your body defy your mind, and by forcing you to witness it, to inject guilt into your veins like poison.
"There it is," he groaned, quickening his pace. "Did you see that? You want it. You want it more than ever."
His words pierced into your mind, one by one. Yes, a part of your body wanted this. This humiliating, painful, filthy union. It was like a form of punishment, a form of reward for that melancholy, self-destructive piece inside you. You felt yourself lifting your hips toward him. In that moment, you knew something inside you had broken. You couldn't fight back because you had no strength left to fight. There was only this invasion, this surrender.
With a cry, Edward ejaculated. As his warm semen exploded inside you, your entire body convulsed. It wasn't the tremor of an orgasm, but that of a final collapse. As he got up off you, his penis slid out of your vagina, and blood mixed with fluids trickled down. Standing over you, he pushed his glasses to the bridge of his nose. He looked down at your naked, pale body, your broken state, your hands and feet bound to the straps. His face held a mixture of triumph and, strangely, pride.
"You are magnificent," he finally said, his voice exhausted yet pleased. "You are exactly as I imagined. Shattered, yet... beautiful. So beautiful."
Lying there on the gurney amidst the dirty water and blood, the guilt of that moment felt like a weight of thousands of pounds crushing your shoulders. Why hadn't you made a sound? Why hadn't you fought harder? That disgusting reaction from your body... it had proven Edward right. And that opened a wound far deeper than any physical pain. You hadn't resisted. And now, you were a part of this room, a part of this man, and a part of your own betrayal.
Pairing: Jonathan Crane x Female Reader x Bruce Wayne
Chapter VII: He looked at me like a diagnosis
Summary: What Jonathan Crane felt for you looked like love, but it wasn’t; love would’ve wanted to protect you, while Jonathan wanted to bury you inside your fears until the only place you could return to was him, and the moment you started calming down just by breathing beside him, both of you realized how dangerously intimate that had become.
Warnings: Subtle Erotic Undertones (Non-explicit), Jealousy / Envy, Obsessive Behavior, Age Gap Jealousy & Emotional Fixation, Yandere Themes / Possessiveness, Angst, Emotional trauma and guilt, Touch Starvation Themes, Taboo Love, Slow Burn Sexual Tension, Gothic Horror Atmosphere, Forbidden Desire, Manipulation & Gaslighting, Obsessive Love, Dark Romance. English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional.
Dividers by @strangergraphics @cafekitsune
Charlotte Rivers’ apartment stood high above Gotham, in that sterile altitude where people only watched the city’s filth from a distance; glass walls pulled in the violet-black tones of evening, and the flashing siren lights far below softened before they could reach this height, turning into something almost aesthetic. Inside, everything was immaculate: marble counters, neatly arranged files, a laptop left open on an unfinished article, and on the coffee table, folded with quiet significance — The Gotham Gazette.
When Bruce stepped inside, he didn’t even bother closing the door. This wasn’t a visit. It was something more direct — anger, barely contained, arriving exactly where it had been building.
Charlotte hadn’t been expecting him, but she wasn’t surprised either. She simply looked up, her expression calm, already braced — as if she had known this conversation was inevitable. Bruce took a few steps forward, picked up the newspaper from the table, and held it without opening it. He didn’t need to read it; he already knew every line, every word, every consequence.
“You did this,” he said. His voice wasn’t raised, but it wasn’t calm either — there was pressure beneath it, the sound of a man not losing control, but fighting not to.
Charlotte stood, keeping her distance without retreating. This was her space, and she wasn’t going to give that ground up. “Yes,” she said plainly. “I did.” Her shoulders straightened, chin lifting slightly. “Because it needed to be done.”
Bruce finally unfolded the paper, gripping it tight enough to crease it down the middle. His eyes moved across the headline, then the right column, then back again. “Needed?” he repeated, his voice lower now — sharper. “You mean giving Strange time? Letting him clear the tunnels? Erase the evidence?”
He stepped closer.
“Or ending the operation before it even began?”
Charlotte’s brow tightened slightly, but she didn’t step back. Her defense wasn’t emotional — it was logical, and she trusted it. “The truth came out,” she said. “For the first time, this city saw what it’s been living on top of. This is bigger than your secret operations, Bruce. This is public pressure. Accountability.”
She gestured toward the paper. “Nothing changes without this.”
Bruce’s gaze hardened, but his anger wasn’t unfocused — he knew exactly where to direct it. “You killed the timing,” he said. “And you know what that’s going to cost.”
Charlotte tilted her head slightly, a faint tension pulling at the corner of her lips. “I do,” she said. “But you also know that if we waited… someone would have buried all of it.”
“Who is ‘someone,’ Charlotte?” Bruce asked, his voice now sharper, more direct. “Strange… or something bigger than him?”
The question hung in the air. Charlotte didn’t answer — her gaze flickered for a brief second before returning to him.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “The result is the same. This city can’t stay silent anymore.”
Bruce folded the newspaper again — slowly this time. Not because the anger had subsided, but because it had changed shape into something more dangerous. “You didn’t just publish a story,” he said. “You exposed an operation.” A brief pause. His eyes locked onto hers. “And you turned an internal source into an open target.”
This time, Charlotte’s expression shifted — not retreating, but real. “I didn’t name her,” she said quickly. “I protected her.”
Bruce’s gaze cut through that statement. “Not enough.”
Silence stretched between them. A siren wailed somewhere outside, filtering faintly through the glass, but it did nothing to break the tension.
Charlotte inhaled slowly, then stepped closer — this time, she closed the distance. “That’s how you see it,” she said, softer now, but still resolute. “But I did what was right.”
Bruce answered immediately. “What’s right,” he said, “keeps people alive.”
Charlotte’s eyes narrowed; she searched for a response, found it, and delivered it without hesitation. “Or is this,” she said slowly, choosing each word with precision, “not really about keeping people alive?”
Bruce’s expression didn’t change, but his gaze deepened — that brief, dangerous silence that followed a question that hit its mark.
Charlotte leaned in slightly, her voice lowering — more personal now. Or is it…” she continued, “…that I disrupted James Gordon’s plan?”
A pause.
“Or is it,” she said, her eyes never leaving his, “…that she’s the one in danger?”
Her.
The word didn’t echo — but its weight filled the room.
This time, Bruce didn’t answer. But Charlotte didn’t need him to.
When Charlotte’s question lingered in the air, the tension in the room began feeding not only on what had been said, but on the weight of everything left unsaid. Bruce didn’t speak for several seconds, because whatever answer he gave wouldn’t just affect the argument — it would unravel the fragile balance he had built within himself. Finally, he turned his head slightly, his jaw tightening, and his voice returned to that familiar, controlled line — but this time, something else strained beneath it.
“This,” he said slowly, “was an operation. Gordon’s plan. Timing was critical. You…” He paused briefly, his gaze locking back onto Charlotte. “…you destroyed it.”
Charlotte didn’t step back. On the contrary, she moved a few steps closer; she wasn’t allowing Bruce to control the distance anymore, because she had already decided she wouldn’t be the one to retreat in this conversation. “You’re still calling it an operation,” she said, her tone sharpening. “Still calling it a plan.” She lifted her brows slightly, her eyes scanning his face. “But I see something else.”
Bruce’s patience was walking a razor’s edge, but he was still holding it together. “She’s an intern,” he said, firmer now, harder. “Someone who shouldn’t be in the middle of this. You pulled her into this file. You…” He hesitated for a fraction of a second, choosing the word. “…made her visible.”
Charlotte tilted her head slightly, as if she had been waiting for that exact sentence. A faint, almost pained smile touched her lips. “There it is,” she said quietly. “You’re finally starting to say the real reason.”
Bruce’s gaze darkened. “That’s not a reason. That’s—”
“—protective instinct,” Charlotte cut in. “I know. It’s always the same.” She stepped even closer; the space between them was now dangerously thin. “But this time, it’s different.”
“It’s not,” Bruce snapped, his voice tightening.
Charlotte shook her head slowly, as if watching a child deny an obvious truth. “No,” she said. “It is.”
The silence didn’t last long, but it sharpened.
“Because you’re not just protecting her.”
Bruce’s jaw locked. “What are you implying?”
Charlotte’s voice softened — but there was a blade beneath it. “I’m saying,” she said, “you’re not losing your plan over that girl… you’re losing yourself.”
The words hit Bruce. His expression didn’t change, not visibly, but that tiny shift in his gaze — that microscopic crack — was more than enough for someone like Charlotte.
“Father and daughter,” she continued, choosing each word carefully. “Is that what you tell yourself?”
But Charlotte didn’t retreat. She held his gaze without blinking, without flinching. “You’re in love with her, Bruce.”
The room froze. For a moment, Bruce’s breath caught — as if those words hadn’t just reached his ears, but struck something locked deep inside him. “That’s ridiculous,” he said immediately, reflexively — but that slight delay in his voice weakened the denial.
Charlotte lowered her head slightly, almost whispering now, but every word was clear.,“I’ve seen the way you look at her.”
Bruce said nothing.
“I’ve seen how you change when you’re around her.”
Silence.
“And when someone else gets close to her,” Charlotte continued, sharper now, “I’ve seen how you tense.”
Bruce’s fingers curled involuntarily, but he held himself back. This wasn’t a physical threat — it was something far more dangerous, because what Charlotte was saying wasn’t false. It was simply something that was never meant to be said out loud.
“That,” Bruce forced out, “is your interpretation.”
Charlotte let out a soft laugh — not amusement, but certainty.,“No,” she said. “It’s the truth.”She stepped closer. “And you can use that to hate me if you want,” she added, “but you can’t change it.”
Bruce’s gaze hardened — this time reaching a genuinely dangerous edge. His shoulders tensed, his body leaning forward slightly, as if he was on the verge of doing something, not just saying it — something he didn’t want to do, something he shouldn’t do. “Enough,” he said.
But Charlotte didn’t move. “Not enough,” she replied calmly, with brutal clarity. “Because you’re still lying to yourself.”
Bruce took a step forward. “This is over,” he said.
For the first time, Charlotte’s expression truly shifted. “What?”
Bruce didn’t take his eyes off her. “Us,” he said. “It’s over.”
Charlotte took a step back, genuinely shaken now. “No,” she said immediately, shaking her head. “No, this—this doesn’t happen like this.”
Bruce’s voice was cold. “It just did.”
Her breathing quickened. “You’re not serious,” she said. “Over an article—”
“This isn’t about an article,” Bruce cut in. “This was a choice.”
Charlotte shook her head, her eyes hardening. “And now you’re making one too,” she said. “You’re choosing her.”
Bruce didn’t answer. That silence said everything.
Charlotte’s voice didn’t break this time—but it sharpened. “This is a mistake,” she said. “You’ll take it back.”
Bruce stepped away, putting distance between them. “No,” he said.
And then—
The city split open.
The explosion tore through the sky like a crack ripping it in two; the windows trembled, the massive glass behind Charlotte flared white for a single instant before a burst of orange flame climbed upward, tearing through Gotham’s darkness.
Both of them turned toward the window on instinct.
In the distance — but close enough — a building was on fire.
Sirens.
Screams.
Chaos.
For the first time, Charlotte’s expression changed. “What is that—”
Bruce’s already had. His eyes searched the flames for something.
Someone.
And in that moment, they both thought the same thing—
…but only one of them admitted it.
While the echo of the explosion still rang in his chest, Bruce Wayne pulled away from the window without hesitation; there was no time to deliberate. In this city, hesitation was a luxury—and he had buried that luxury long ago.
As he moved toward the door, his steps were sharp, fast, and irreversible. He heard the voice behind him—but he didn’t stop.
“Bruce—” Charlotte Rivers called after him, her voice still carrying the fractured remains of their argument. “I’m coming with you.”
Bruce opened the door, but paused for a brief moment before stepping out. He turned his head slightly; his face fell into shadow, and his gaze closed off completely—not from emotion, but from decision.
“No,” he said. His voice was flat, but unyielding. “Stay here.”
Charlotte took a step forward, no longer the journalist, but someone refusing to stay outside the fight. “This is my story—”
Bruce cut her off mid-sentence. This was no longer a discussion. It was a line being drawn.
“This isn’t a story,” he said, his eyes locking onto hers for a fraction of a second. “It’s a fire.”
A brief pause. Then, lower—sharper: “And you’ve already fueled it enough.”
When the door shut, the silence left behind was heavier than the sirens outside.
Bruce took the stairs two at a time. By the time he stepped outside, the night was no longer the same; the sky was stained with the orange reflection of rising flames in the distance, and the city tensed like a living organism on the verge of losing control.
He reached his car, slammed the door shut, and started the engine—activating his comms at the same time.
“Alfred.”
The response was immediate. Alfred Pennyworth’s voice was as composed as ever, but there was an unusual urgency beneath it. “Sir, I was about to call you. We’re receiving multiple reports of explosions in the city center, particularly—”
“Location,” Bruce cut in, his grip tightening on the wheel. “Nearest active site. Now.”
A brief pause—data streams, keyboard input, system scans humming faintly in the background.
Then Alfred again, faster now, precise. “I’m sending coordinates. Gotham Central District, eastern sector. Not the epicenter of the blast, but… within the impact radius.”
Bruce’s phone vibrated once. The map lit up, the route automatically plotted. His eyes flicked to it for less than a second—enough.
He hit the accelerator.
The city was no longer normal.
The streets were chaos—people running, some shouting, others frozen in place; sirens overlapped, red and blue lights shattered across glass and steel. Bruce cut through traffic with sharp, controlled maneuvers as Alfred continued.
“Following the article,” Alfred said, his voice still controlled but now carrying heavier implications, “several activist groups mobilized rapidly. Protests have begun against the government and Arkham administration.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. “Go on.”
“However, these gatherings did not remain peaceful for long,” Alfred continued. “According to incoming intelligence, local gangs, organized crime elements, and possible terrorist cells have infiltrated the crowds. The protests… are evolving into coordinated chaos.”
Bruce didn’t take his eyes off the road, but his mind was already assembling the pattern. This wasn’t spontaneous.
It was engineered.
“The explosion?” he asked, short and sharp.
“Highly likely part of this wave of disruption,” Alfred replied. “But the chosen location… is not random.”
The car surged forward, the engine deepening as the city blurred around him.
“What do you mean?”
Alfred paused—a pause that carried weight.
“Sir… near the coordinates I sent, there is a public building.”
Bruce already knew. Still, he asked. “What building?”
Alfred’s voice lowered. “A library.”
Bruce’s grip on the wheel tightened further.
Alfred continued—direct, without hesitation this time: “And according to current information… the last confirmed sighting of Y/N was there.”
Time narrowed in that instant. Bruce’s mind stopped calculating possibilities— It locked onto a target. He pressed harder on the gas.
The city blurred behind him.
And for the first time—
This didn’t feel like a mission.
This was a race to reach someone.
–––
It was past eight in the evening, but inside the library, time had already fractured, severed from the rhythm of the outside world. Part of the ceiling had collapsed; heavy stone and splintered wood had caved into the floors below, shelves lay overturned, and pages—thousands of pages—drifted slowly to the ground with the dust, as if even the words themselves had been crushed beneath the violence. Fires burned in scattered pockets: a curtain being devoured by orange flame in one corner, sparks leaking from exposed electrical wires in another, all fed by the wind pouring in through shattered windows, sending smoke rising in thick layers. There was barely any light; the weak yellow flicker of emergency lamps stretched shadows into something larger, more threatening than they were. Most of the exit signs were broken or displaced. In this building, direction was no longer something you could trust. And yet—you chose to stay in the middle of it.
Instead of running, you turned toward the sounds, trying to find those who needed help. In this city, survival was often measured by how quickly you could save yourself—but there was something in you that resisted that.
“I’m here!” you called out, your voice muffled by the smoke, bouncing through an acoustic chaos that made it impossible to tell where a response might come from. A cough from somewhere, glass shattering from another direction, a distant scream—they overlapped, blurred together, distorting your sense of direction.
Still, you moved forward. Because there was no clear way back anyway.
The first person you found was a woman trapped beneath a fallen shelf. Your hands moved on instinct; you tried to lift the wood, the weight pressing down on your shoulders, but you didn’t let go—because what you saw in her eyes wasn’t just fear. It was surrender.
“Look at me,” you said, forcing your voice to stay steady. “Breathe. We’ll get you out together.”
She nodded, her gaze locking onto yours as if your presence was the only thing keeping her anchored. That was what pushed you forward—not your own fear, but the responsibility that came from seeing someone else’s.
Eventually, you managed to shift the shelf, pulled her free, and guided her toward a relatively open space. You tried to direct her toward an exit—but you weren’t even sure the direction you gave truly led to one. Still, giving direction was better than giving none.
As you moved deeper, the building began to change—not just physically, but in how it felt. When you turned into a corridor, the smoke thinned—but the silence grew. That unsettling, ringing silence. The panic from before faded behind you, replaced by something hollow. The sound of your footsteps crunching over broken glass echoed too loudly in the emptiness, betraying your every movement.
Then you saw them.
Children’s books scattered across the floor—pages torn, covers crushed. Bright colors, unnaturally vivid against the darkness. You took another step. And then you noticed the strings. Thin. Nearly invisible. Hanging from shelves—some snapped, others still intact. At first, you didn’t understand what you were seeing. Then you looked down.
Small wooden fragments. Broken shapes that resembled puppet joints. Half-formed figures tangled in strings. None of them whole. None of them complete. But together—they triggered something in the back of your mind. Something familiar. Your heart quickened. This wasn’t the gas. This was the place. What you were seeing—what you remembered—what you didn’t want to remember. You didn’t stop. Because you knew what stopping meant.
Then you heard something.
Faint. Brief.
A breath—or the sound of something shifting. You couldn’t tell. “Who’s there?” you called, your voice quieter now, sharper.
No answer. But the feeling didn’t leave. The sense that you weren’t alone. It wasn’t panic—yet. It was awareness. Something settling between your shoulders, keeping you alert.
You tried to turn back, to retrace your steps—but the corridor no longer looked the same. Fallen shelves, scattered debris, shifting shadows—everything had altered your sense of direction. When you turned another corner, you entered a lower section of the building. There was no fire here—but the air felt heavier, as if this space had been deliberately preserved, isolated from the chaos outside.
And in that moment, you understood—not exactly how—but that none of this was accidental.
That certain paths had led you here. That certain exits might have been deliberately closed. The thought didn’t fully settle—but it didn’t leave either. Still, you didn’t retreat. Because the possibility that someone might need you always outweighed everything else.
“Is anyone there?” you called again, more careful this time, moving slower. Your fingers brushed against the edge of a fallen shelf as you steadied yourself, your eyes straining to adjust to the dark.
And then—before you saw anything—you felt it. A presence. Not seen. Not heard.
Just… there.
Your breathing slowed instinctively. Your heart still raced—but it wasn’t panic. It was anticipation. Then, movement.
Subtle.
Controlled.
And before you could even turn— the empty space behind you filled.
“Right on time,” a voice said—low, calm, and disturbingly familiar.
Jonathan Crane stepped forward from the darkness; fractured light leaking through stained glass illuminated part of his face, leaving the rest in shadow—as if he carried two different selves at once.
“Even in all this noise,” he continued, his gaze never leaving you, “finding your way here…” He took another step closer. “…impressive.” A pause. “Or,” he added softly, “…inevitable.”
And in that moment, you felt it down to your bones: This place was not an accident. And neither was you being here.
The realization that where you were standing was no longer a coincidence didn’t remain just a passing thought; in that moment, as every piece clicked into place, it sharpened into something real—cold, precise, undeniable. Your breathing was still fast, your heart still hammering against your ribs, but this wasn’t panic anymore. It felt like an equation on the verge of collapse suddenly solving itself. As your eyes adjusted to the darkness and the silhouette of the man in front of you became clearer, the tension inside you shifted—fear giving way to anger, to questioning.
“This…” you said, your voice trembling at first before hardening mid-sentence, “this isn’t an accident.”
Jonathan Crane watched you—openly, without evasion, almost as if studying you. There was that familiar clinical distance in his gaze, but beneath it now lingered something else. Something more personal. Deeper. Dangerous.
“It isn’t,” he said calmly, as though he had never intended to deny it.
The answer silenced you for a brief second—but you didn’t step back. Instead, you took a step forward, closing the distance, because you knew retreat would make you look weak in this moment.
“The Court of Owls,” you said, not breaking eye contact. “This is their doing.”
A barely perceptible shift touched Crane’s lips—not quite a smile, but not denial either.
“And you,” you continued, sharper now, more direct, “you’re part of it. Or at least… close enough.”
The silence that followed was brief but dense. Smoke curled between you, carrying the scent of burning paper. Crane tilted his head slightly—not like someone hearing an accusation, but like someone weighing something he already understood.
“I know them,” he said at last, his voice low and cutting as ever, “but this… isn’t the entirety of their plan.”
“So this is a plan,” you pressed immediately, catching his words before he could step away from them. “And you knew about it.”
This time the silence was heavier.
Crane stepped forward—slowly, deliberately. Not enough to startle you, but enough to remove any easy escape. The distance between you thinned until you could feel the warmth of his breath.
“Yes,” he said, softer now. Almost intimate. “I knew.”
The confession wasn’t as shocking as it should have been—because you already knew it. And yet something inside you still tightened.
“And you still came,” you said, holding his gaze.
“Because you were here.”
That sentence shifted everything.
The smoke still hung thick in the air. The fire still burned. The building was still collapsing around you. But his words carved out a new axis—narrower, more personal, far more dangerous.
“Did you come to save me?” you asked, your tone edged with faint sarcasm—but beneath it was something real.
Crane’s gaze moved across your face. This wasn’t clinical anymore. It wasn’t observation. It felt like… recognition. As if he saw not only who you were in that moment, but every version of you that existed in his mind.
“I came to protect you,” he said.
That word—protect—struck something inside you.
Your mind reacted immediately, rejecting it, wanting to pull away. You knew this man wasn’t someone to trust. You had told yourself that again and again. But your body… your body didn’t process that truth at the same speed. Because his voice, his tone, the way he moved closer to you—somewhere, deep beneath thought, it all felt familiar.
“You expect me to believe that?” you asked—but your voice wasn’t as sharp as before.
Crane stepped closer again. Now there was almost no space between you. Even through the smoke, his presence felt sharper, more defined.
“No,” he said slowly. “But I don’t expect you to deny what you feel either.”
Your heartbeat faltered.
“How do you know what I feel?” you asked—this time with genuine curiosity, and something dangerously close to fear.
His answer came without hesitation.
“Because I know how your fear works,” he said. “And how you… remain standing even inside it.”
It was a compliment. And a diagnosis.
Your eyes locked onto his. You wanted to pull away—but you didn’t. Because part of you knew he was right. And that truth didn’t unsettle you the way it should have. It steadied you.
This was the moment you should have stepped back. But you didn’t. Because the next thing that happened wasn’t entirely conscious.
You moved closer. Your hands found his jacket, gripping it instinctively, and suddenly you were pressed against him. The motion existed somewhere between intention and impulse—a dangerous in-between.
Crane didn’t look surprised.
If anything, it was as if he had expected it.
His hands settled against your back—firm, but not restraining; not loose, but not trapping. Just enough to keep you there without forcing you. His breath brushed against your hair as his voice dropped closer to your ear.,“We need to get out of here,” he said, more practical now, more immediate—yet still carrying that same calm.
You were still against him. And the most dangerous part was this: You should have been afraid.
But you weren’t.
Not entirely.
That realization flickered at the back of your mind like an alarm—but your body didn’t respond fast enough to it. Being close to him… felt wrong.
And yet, somehow—right.
Crane pulled back slightly, but didn’t fully let go. His eyes found yours again—clearer now, more certain.,“This place isn’t safe,” he said. “And this… is only the beginning.”
“Who?” you asked, still that close, your breath mingling with his.
His gaze darkened for a fraction of a second. “Them,” he said simply. It wasn’t enough of an answer. But it was enough for you. Because in the next moment, when he began to guide you—with the subtle pressure of his hand, with the direction in his voice—
You didn’t resist. And somewhere unseen, for those watching this unfold, the conclusion became clear:
You weren’t broken.
But…
You weren’t alone anymore.
Inside the library, it was no longer just a disaster zone—it had become a labyrinth where your sense of direction slowly unraveled, where sounds overlapped until they lost all meaning, where every step erased the certainty of the one before it. Dust drifted down from broken beams in the ceiling, moving slowly in the fire’s orange breath, and the dry crackle of pages crushed beneath your feet sounded unnaturally loud in the hollow silence.
Jonathan Crane, by contrast, was a strange constant in the middle of the chaos. His movement through the smoke wasn’t hurried, wasn’t panicked; if anything, it was detached from the destruction around him—as if the collapsing structure didn’t dictate his pace, but instead he imposed his own rhythm onto it. As you moved with him, even while everything around you continued to fall apart, the steadiness of his steps created an unsettling sense of balance within the disorder.
“This way,” he said quietly, guiding you with a light pressure of his hand.
The touch wasn’t forceful—but it wasn’t open to debate either. It didn’t just suggest a path; it carried the certainty that this was already the only one.
Your mind was still working, still calculating, still reminding you that this man was not someone to trust—but your body wasn’t following that warning at the same speed. Because his voice had become something else in the darkness: a line to hold onto, thin and dangerous, but impossible to let go of if you didn’t want to lose your way.
“This isn’t an exit,” you said, glancing around, gesturing toward the narrow passage formed by broken shelves. Your logic resisted. It still questioned.
Crane turned his head slightly toward you; his eyes found you through the smoke. For a moment, there was something softer in his gaze—but it wasn’t kindness. It was recognition. A calm that came from seeing something familiar.
“The path to the exit,” he said, “is not always the most obvious one.” He paused briefly, then added. “But the safest one is usually… the one I know.”
That was a sentence you should have argued with. But you didn’t. Because in that moment, something broke loose above you—debris crashing down a few meters away, the impact shaking the ground beneath your feet. Instinctively, you moved closer to him; your hands brushed his arm—and then didn’t let go.
Crane noticed. But there was no triumph in it.
Only acceptance.
As if this had always been inevitable.
His hand settled lightly at your back, just above your waist; the pressure was gentle, but directive. When he guided you forward, placing you slightly ahead of him, the distance between you became more than physical—it began to take on a mental closeness as well.
“They brought me here,” you said, your voice still controlled but coming from somewhere deeper now. “Didn’t they?”
Crane didn’t answer immediately. He paused instead, listening to the space around you, then urged you forward again. “They guided you here,” he said at last, choosing his words carefully. “But coming… was your decision.”
“This is a test,” you said, more certain now. “They’re watching me.”
A faint shift touched Crane’s lips—an acknowledgment, but not a direct answer. “Yes,” he said. “They’re watching.”
Your heart quickened again—but not from panic. It was the sharp awareness of understanding the scene you were in. “And you’re one of them,” you added.
Crane didn’t nod. Didn’t deny it. “No,” he said calmly. “But I know what they’re doing.”
“So you knew about this trap.”
“Yes.”
“And you still came.”
This time, he looked at you fully—closer, more intense, as if his gaze cut through the smoke to reach you directly. “Because you were here,” he said again. The second time, the words landed heavier.
You took another step toward him—unintentionally, unconsciously. This closeness wasn’t just about seeking safety anymore. There was something else in it. A pull you couldn’t explain—and didn’t want to.
“I know I shouldn’t trust you,” you said, almost to yourself.
Crane didn’t hesitate. “I know,” he said. “And yet you still come to me.”
That sentence should have stopped you. But it didn’t. Because something collapsed again—far off, in another section. The vibration rolled through the floor, the smoke thickened, and this time you moved closer to him for real. Your hands gripped the fabric of his jacket, your balance faltering—and it was his hands that caught you.
One at your back.,The other at your arm.
Holding you steady.
Not letting go.
“I’m here,” he said, very close now—his voice low enough that only you could hear it. And those two words— felt familiar. Dangerously familiar.
Your breath mingled with his, and for a moment, everything else fell away—the fire, the collapse, the distant shouting. All of it receded until the only thing in your focus was him.
This wasn’t the absence of fear. It was fear… redirected.
“You did this to me,” you said finally, your voice low but clear. “To my mind.”
Crane didn’t pull back. “I didn’t hurt you,” he said.
“You changed me.”
The words hung between you.
His gaze didn’t soften—but it deepened. It wasn’t the look of someone denying the accusation. It was the look of someone accepting it… and justifying it.
“I made you closer to what you are,” he said.
That answer should have frightened you. But it didn’t. Because a part of you—thought it might be true. And that thought—was the most dangerous thing of all.
Crane guided you forward again. You moved through a narrow passage, ducking beneath fallen debris, slipping between broken shelves, until you reached a more open space. The fire burned stronger here, the light brighter—but it was also closer to the outside. Air moved more freely, wind slipping in and dragging the smoke with it.
And in that moment
Even from a distance, the library’s exterior looked like a body split open; its windows blown outward by the force of the explosion, its stone walls cracked in places, and the smoke rising from within drifting into the night like a black curtain. The echo of sirens circled the wreckage, and yet there was something disturbingly clear in the realization that no real intervention had reached this point.
When Bruce Wayne stopped the car, the engine was still trembling—but he was already out, already moving into the darkness. His steps were fast, but not reckless, because this wasn’t just a rescue.
This was a silent war—driven by instinct, fought against the possibility of loss.
The moment he stepped inside, the air changed. Smoke clung to his throat, the sharp scent of burned paper filled his lungs, and the ground shifted slightly beneath each step, reminding him that the structure was no longer safe.,But he didn’t stop.
“Y/N,” he called. At first, his voice was low—but as it echoed through the darkness, it hardened, sharpened, grew more decisive.
No answer.
Only the distant crackle of collapse, the groan of falling debris, the dry snapping of burning shelves.
As he moved deeper, the library’s layout lost all meaning. Shelves had toppled, paths were blocked, exit signs were either broken or pointing the wrong way. And this disorder—it wasn’t random.
It was too structured.
His eyes caught that detail—but his mind refused to process it. Because right now, there was only one thing that mattered.
“Y/N!”
This time, his voice cut sharper.
He turned into a corridor. The ground here was more stable, the smoke thinner—and even that was a warning. Moving away from the fire meant survival. But it also meant isolation.
His steps slowed for a fraction of a second. Because this space felt different.
Too quiet.
Too contained.
Too… prepared.
And then he saw it.
Not the movement first—
The silhouette.
Then both of you.
You stood among fallen shelves and shattered books, your hair tangled in smoke, traces of exhaustion and tension etched across your face—but there was no panic. Not as much as there should have been. And beside you, close enough to nearly touch you, stood Jonathan Crane. His posture was calm—disturbingly controlled—and his proximity to you… didn’t look accidental.
Bruce stopped. Time tightened. And in that brief moment, what he saw wasn’t just two people—it was a picture.
The way you leaned, not toward him, but slightly toward Crane. The way Crane’s hand rested against you, guiding—and you didn’t pull away. The rhythm of your breathing—not panic, but something closer to… alignment.
This wasn’t the scene Bruce expected. This was the one he feared.
Something inside him tightened sharply—something unnamed but unmistakable. Jealousy, guilt, and the loss of control collapsed into a single point. And in that instant, no matter how fast he had come—he understood.
He was too late.
“Y/N.” This time, his voice was lower. But heavier.
When you turned your head, your eyes met his—but what he expected to see wasn’t there.
No fear.
No plea for help.
No movement toward him.
Only… awareness. And that made the tension inside him deepen even further.
Crane turned his head slightly, saw Bruce—and showed no surprise. As if he had expected this moment. As if this encounter had never been outside his design.
The faint, almost invisible expression at the corner of his lips wasn’t a challenge. But it wasn’t innocent either.
He didn’t say, You’re late. But his gaze did.
Bruce took a step forward. Then another.
The distance between you closed—but the tension grew, because this wasn’t just physical space. It was the collision of two different ways of “protecting.”
“Are you okay?” he asked you. But his eyes never left Crane.
The question was simple. But it carried weight.
Before you could answer, Crane’s hand shifted slightly on your shoulder—not to hold, but to guide. And still… it didn’t let go.
“We need to leave,” Crane said quietly.
As if Bruce wasn’t there. As if the decision had already been made.
Bruce’s gaze dropped to that touch. And in that moment, everything inside him sharpened. Because you didn’t pull away.
That small detail—that almost imperceptible lack of movement—expanded in Bruce’s mind, took shape, settled into meaning.
It could have been instinct.
Shock.
A misunderstanding.
But to him—
It was a sign.
And the worst part was this:
That sign left him outside.
“Let her go,” Bruce said. His voice now harder. Clearer. More… personal.
Crane didn’t answer directly. He only looked at you. Then back at Bruce. As if he knew—the line between them would be drawn by you. And that made Bruce angrier. Because for the first time—
This choice wasn’t his to control.
The interior of the library—the narrow space that moments ago had been filled with the breath of three people—had now folded back into its own darkness. Smoke drifted upward in slow layers, the scent of burned pages still hanging in the air, while sparks slipped between collapsed shelves, flickering one last time before dying out.
Even though the tension of the encounter had physically dissipated, its residue lingered in the space—and within that hollow, Jonathan Crane stood motionless. He neither hurried nor moved to leave. It was as if he were replaying what had just happened in his mind, measuring every detail, reassessing every reaction.
He tilted his head slightly, his gaze falling to the spot where you had stood moments before. A faint glint appeared in his eyes—cold, calculating, yet disturbingly personal. The corner of his mouth shifted almost imperceptibly; not quite a smile, but the quiet expression of someone who had reached a conclusion.
“Faster than I expected,” he murmured, his voice low enough to dissolve into the smoke, yet clear enough to himself.
He took a step. The crunch of broken glass echoed in the silence. Then he stopped, reached into his pocket, and pulled out his phone. The screen lit up his face for a brief second—and in that light, the expression he wore was far darker than the calm he had shown you.
He dialed from memory.
When the line connected, he didn’t speak immediately. He listened to the breathing on the other end, weighed the silence for a moment—then spoke. His voice was different now: sharper, controlled, belonging to something… else.
“It’s begun,” he said.
The shift in his gaze alone was enough to understand the tone of the conversation. His eyes hardened; that almost softened expression vanished completely.
“No,” he continued. “This isn’t street chaos. This is… directed.”
A brief pause. His eyes lifted toward the fractured ceiling of the library, then lowered again.
“Strange couldn’t generate this kind of reach on his own.”
He listened.
Then gave a slight nod, as if he had already known what the other person was saying.
“Yes,” he said. “I came to the same conclusion.”
He stepped deeper into the shadows; half his face was now completely swallowed by darkness.
“This is about the ones behind him.”
A short silence.
“The Court of Owls.”
Even here, the word carried a colder weight.
Crane’s eyes narrowed, as if a possibility had just come into sharper focus. “Strange… is just a face,” he said. “But the structure behind him… older. More patient.” His fingers traced the edge of the phone absently—not restless, but habitual, the movement of someone thinking. “And what happened tonight…” he paused briefly, “…wasn’t a purge. It was a probe.”
The voice on the other end responded.
Crane’s lips curved faintly.
“Yes,” he said, quieter now. “They’re testing too.”
His gaze drifted again—to where you had stood.
This time, there was more than analysis in his eyes.
There was possession.
“And so am I.”
The words were meant for the other side—but more than that, they were for himself.
The voice on the line rose again; this time Crane answered briefly.
“Not yet,” he said. “Before they make their move…” He paused, exhaled slowly. “…I don’t intend to disrupt the balance.”
A slight tilt of his head.
“Let the shadows remain where they are.”
It sounded like an order. Before ending the call, Crane added one final thing. His voice dropped to almost a whisper—but its weight deepened. “If the Court of Owls has opened this game…” he said, “…then I’ll change the rules.”
He ended the call.
For a moment, he remained still. He didn’t leave. Didn’t move. As if there was one last thing he needed to fix in his mind before stepping away. Then, slowly, he lifted his head. His gaze returned to that same spot—where you had stood. And this time, there was clarity in it.
A decision.
“I won’t hide you anymore,” he murmured.
The words were spoken into emptiness.
But their weight—belonged to what was coming next.
The air in the Batcave had always carried the scent of metal, dust, and suppressed anger—but tonight, another smell clung to it: the heavy odor of burned paper and smoke-soaked stone. Your clothes still carried the collapse of the library; the soot tangled in your hair dragged those dark corridors back into your mind with every breath. Shadows hanging from the cavern’s towering ceiling fractured beneath the cold glow of computer screens, while massive monitors flickered with live feeds from across Gotham: burning streets, police barricades, screaming civilians, masked criminals weaving through protests.
The city wasn’t merely afraid anymore.
The city was breaking apart.
You sat on the edge of the medical platform while carefully cleaned the cuts along your arm. His touch carried the steady confidence of old hands long accustomed to keeping people together, and in the harsh mechanical atmosphere of the Batcave, it created an oddly human warmth. When the alcohol touched the wound, your breath hitched involuntarily, but you didn’t make a sound. Alfred noticed. He glanced at you over the rim of his glasses; there was concern in his expression, but also a seriousness that never once diminished you.
“The entire eastern line of the city is locked down,” he said calmly, though his tone carried weight as he secured a fresh bandage. “After the library explosion, the public turned the area around Arkham into a protest zone. The police have sealed the primary entrances to the forgotten tunnels.” He paused briefly before adding, “And unfortunately, it’s not only protesters in the streets anymore… opportunists have joined them.”
A few meters away, didn’t answer. He stood before the Batcomputer; one monitor displayed Arkham’s old infrastructure plans, another scanned maps of the underground tunnels, while a third played distorted security footage. Parts of his armor had been removed, but he still didn’t entirely look like Bruce Wayne. The stiffness in his shoulders, the tension in his jaw, the intensity with which he stared at the screens—it all revealed that Batman hadn’t fully left the cave. But you could tell his attention wasn’t truly on the monitors. Because every time he looked at you, something in his gaze changed. And inside that change lingered the shadow of what he had seen in the library:
Crane’s hand against your back.
The way you had stood close to him.
And worst of all—
the fact that you hadn’t been afraid of him.
“The western drainage line collapsed,” Bruce said at last. His voice was flat, but too controlled—the kind of control people used when forcing something down. His fingers entered a few more commands, another section of the map expanding across the screen. “The main entrance is unusable. Even if we got past the police barricades, movement inside would be impossible.”
You straightened slightly; your shoulder protested immediately, but you ignored it. “The old morgue connection,” you said quickly. “There was an unregistered service tunnel in Arkham’s north wing. Crane once…" You stopped halfway through the sentence.
That was the mistake.
Bruce’s fingers froze over the keyboard.
The silence in the cave suddenly felt heavier.
Even Alfred slowed his movements for a brief moment.
Bruce didn’t lift his head, but his shoulders tightened; only someone watching him carefully would have noticed.
“Crane told you that?” he asked finally.
The question was simple. The tone wasn’t.
You felt it immediately. “No,” you answered, speaking faster than you intended despite not wanting to sound defensive. “I saw it while reviewing archival layouts during the internship. Those tunnels were used by maintenance crews.”
This time, Bruce looked at you.
The glance was brief, but sharp. Not pure anger—something darker, more restrained. Because this wasn’t really about the tunnels.
It was about the invisible line inside him that tightened every time Jonathan Crane’s name surfaced.
“That’s too dangerous,” he said.
“For Batman?” you shot back immediately, exhaustion sharpening your voice into a challenge. “Or for me?”
Bruce’s jaw tightened.
The blue glow of the Batcomputer lit half his face while leaving the other half in shadow—just as Gotham itself seemed to split him in two.
“For both,” he said quietly.
“Half the city is trying to kill itself in the streets right now because we found Strange’s lab,” you said, turning fully toward him now. “And if we don’t get into those tunnels, every piece of evidence will disappear.”
Bruce stepped toward you. Not aggressively, but with certainty.
“Those tunnels are collapsing.”
“I’m not afraid.”
The moment the words left your mouth, his expression changed. Because Bruce knew they were true. That was the problem.
Your lack of fear.
Or rather, the fact that fear didn’t stop you.
And another thought he didn’t want was still lodged in his mind: in the library, standing beside Crane, you had looked exactly the same. You had been injured, your breathing uneven—and still, you had moved toward him. After seeing that, Bruce could no longer suppress things as easily as before.
“This isn’t courage,” Bruce said, his voice harder now. “It’s throwing yourself into the fire.”
“You’ve been doing that for years.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“I’m learning.”
That answer changed the air between you.
For several seconds, Bruce said nothing. There was anger in his stare, but beneath it moved something far more dangerous—fear. Because for the first time, he wasn’t seeing you merely as someone who needed protection anymore.
He was beginning to see you as someone truly stepping into Batman’s world. And he hated it. Because even imagining you inside that world was tearing him apart from the inside.
Alfred quietly stepped back. As he gathered the medical instruments with slow, deliberate movements, he watched the two of you for a moment before clearing his throat softly.
“I suspect,” he said in his usual polite tone, though there was unmistakable intent beneath it, “that the two of you have quite a few things left to discuss.”
Bruce never took his eyes off you. And you didn’t look away from him either. When Alfred disappeared toward the upper platform where the light faded into shadow, the Batcave suddenly felt larger, quieter, and far more dangerous. The hum of the computer systems could no longer fill the silence between you.
Bruce took another step closer. And in that moment, the tension inside the cave stopped being only about the Arkham tunnels.
The silence inside the Batcave grew heavier after Alfred disappeared onto the upper platform; the cavernous emptiness beneath the earth was now filled only with the low hum of computer screens, and even that mechanical sound wasn’t enough to smother the tension between you. Gotham’s underground tomb had always been cold, but tonight the coldness wasn’t only in the air—it lived in the stiffness of Bruce’s shoulders, in the way he kept looking away from you, in whatever he was trying so hard to force down every time he breathed. The smell of smoke still clung to him. Burned paper lingered in your hair, soot stained your clothes, and the thin cuts along your skin kept dragging him back to an image he clearly didn’t want to relive:
Crane touching you.
For several seconds, said nothing. The blue light of the Batcomputer split across the sharp lines of his face, hardening the tension in his jaw and deepening the exhaustion beneath his eyes. But exhaustion wasn’t the real problem.
The real problem was that the things he was used to controlling were beginning to slip from his grasp.
Gotham’s chaos, Strange, the Court of Owls—those were solvable problems to him. But what he had seen in the library—your closeness to Jonathan Crane, the fact that you hadn’t been afraid of him, the way you had instinctively held onto him—none of that felt solvable.
And you could feel it.
Because every time Bruce looked at you, something in his eyes hardened for the briefest moment before he forced himself to look away again, as though part of him wanted to see you while another part hated what he saw. The longer the silence stretched, the more restless the tension inside you became, until finally you spoke, because saying nothing felt heavier than speaking.
“You’re acting like this because of Crane.”
Your words didn’t echo through the cave, but they hit Bruce immediately; his shoulders tightened, his gaze flicked instinctively toward you before snapping back to the screens. It wasn’t denial.
It was the reflex of someone being struck directly on a wound.
“This isn’t about Crane,” he said at last, his voice low and far too controlled.
You let out a short, breathless laugh—tired, but sharp. “No?” you asked quietly as you slid off the medical platform. “Because that’s not what it looks like to me.”
This time, Bruce turned fully toward you.
The distance between you wasn’t large, but it carried enough electricity to make the dim light of the cave feel intimate and dangerous at the same time. Shadows swallowed half your faces, making the conversation feel far too personal.
“You were standing in the middle of death back there,” he said harshly. “And you—” He cut himself off. Because he didn’t want to say the rest. But you wanted to hear it.
“And I what?” you asked, your voice softer now.
Bruce’s jaw tightened. His eyes flickered briefly to your shoulder—to the place where Crane had held you. The glance was so quick that someone else might have missed it.
You didn’t. And in that moment, you understood: this wasn’t only fear.
It was something more physical. More instinctive. “I saw him touch you,” Bruce said finally.
The air inside the cave shifted.
The moment the words left his mouth, he looked away from you again, as though even he could hear the weight of what he had admitted. His hand tightened hard against the edge of the Batcomputer; it looked like anger, but beneath it was something else entirely—helplessness. Because he couldn’t get the image out of his head.
Crane’s hand against your back. The way you moved toward him. The fact that Bruce had arrived a few seconds too late.
“Bruce—”
“And you weren’t afraid,” he continued, his voice lower this time, a fracture hidden beneath every word. “That’s the real problem.”
Silence settled over the cave again, but now it was different—more personal, more exposed.
You stepped closer to him because you wanted to see what he was really feeling.
“Do you want me to be afraid of him?” you asked.
Bruce shook his head slightly, though the answer didn’t come right away. And when his eyes finally met yours again, you saw the crack inside him more clearly than ever before—a fear buried beneath Batman’s discipline, something he hadn’t allowed anyone to see in years.
“When I looked at you standing beside him…” he said slowly, as though every word hurt to force out, “…it felt like I was losing you.”
Your heartbeat stumbled. Because Bruce Wayne was not someone who confessed easily—especially not his fears, especially not fears that involved you. But the man standing in front of you now was fighting something far more personal than Gotham’s darkness. And feeling that created a warmth inside you you didn’t want. But at the same time, another thought surfaced.
Charlotte.
The name moved through your chest like a thin, sharp blade of jealousy, and before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out.
“There’s still Charlotte.”
Bruce’s expression shifted; the name caught him off guard, but he didn’t retreat. For a few long seconds, he simply looked at you before exhaling slowly.
“I know,” he said.
“No, you don’t,” you answered immediately, your voice sharpening as the insecurity you’d been trying to suppress finally surfaced. “You look at me like that in the library, and now you’re saying these things to me, but then you’ll go back to Charlotte and—”
“I won’t.”
He cut you off so quickly the rest of your sentence died in your throat. Bruce stepped closer. Now the distance between you was close enough to feel his breath. His face remained half-shadowed, but his eyes were completely open now. He wasn’t looking away anymore. “It’s over,” he said quietly, but with absolute certainty.
Your breath caught involuntarily. “What?”
“With Charlotte.” He paused, his eyes moving across your face as though he were finally allowing himself to stop suppressing something he’d buried for years. “It should’ve ended a long time ago.”
There was guilt in that confession. But no regret.
“When?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper now.
Bruce lowered his head slightly. His eyes closed for a moment before lifting back to yours.
“When I saw you with him in the church…” he said—and even without speaking Crane’s name, both of you knew exactly who he meant. “…I stopped lying to myself.”
The air in the cave grew heavier.
Bruce was standing very close to you now. The scent of smoke still clung to him, mixing with the ash and burn marks still covering you. He lifted his hand, but didn’t touch you immediately; his fingers stopped only inches from your face, as though he knew crossing that final line would mean there was no going back.
“I never wanted this,” he admitted honestly, his voice sounding truly exhausted for the first time. “I didn’t want you in this world. I didn’t want you near Batman. And I never wanted you anywhere near Crane.”
Finally, his fingers touched your cheek.
The contact was slow, careful, and painfully personal; his hand lingered against your skin for several seconds too long, as though he needed to convince himself that you were really there.
“But now…” Bruce’s voice dropped into almost a whisper, his breath close enough to brush your lips, “…being away from you feels more dangerous.”
And in that moment, it felt as though all the coldness of the Batcave was melting beneath the heat building between you.
The air inside the Batcave was heavy—not only because of the cave’s natural cold, but because the emotions that had been suppressed for hours were finally beginning to fracture beneath the surface. Blue light from the computer screens broke across the stone walls, while the mechanical hum echoing from the depths of the cavern pulsed beneath the silence between you like a low heartbeat. But no sound could smother the tension created by the fact that Bruce was standing this close to you anymore.
The smell of smoke still clung to him, mixing with the scent of burned paper lingering against your skin, turning the air between you strangely warm and suffocating. Bruce’s fingers were still resting against your cheek, and the carefulness of that touch unsettled you more than anything else—because you could feel him trying to hold himself back, as though he knew that if he truly touched you, he would cross a line he could never return from.
But he wasn’t pulling away.
Neither were you.
His breath brushed your face now. It wasn’t uneven, but it was too controlled; people only breathed like that when they were trying desperately not to lose control. When his eyes dropped briefly to your lips, your heart slammed hard against your ribs, because there were years buried in that look—longing, guilt, fear, jealousy, and the devastating realization of how deeply the thought of losing you had affected him. Especially after seeing you beside Crane. That image hadn’t left his mind, and you could feel it.
“Bruce…” you whispered, though your voice came out far more breathless than you intended.
Bruce didn’t close his eyes. He refused to stop looking at you, as though he knew that if he looked away, he might still be able to regain control of himself.
“I shouldn’t do this,” he said finally, but there was no conviction in the words. It sounded more like a warning—the last thing he was saying to himself.
“Then don’t,” you answered softly, but you didn’t step back.
That was the mistake.
Because whatever final line Bruce still had left inside him shattered in that moment.
The pressure of his hand against your cheek deepened slightly—not rough, but possessive—and the next few seconds moved so slowly it felt as though time itself had thickened around you. Bruce rested his forehead against yours first, closing his eyes as his breath trembled just above your lips, like he was genuinely trying to stop himself one last time.
Then he tilted his head slightly.
And finally kissed you.
The kiss didn’t begin harshly.
If anything, it was terrifyingly careful.
Bruce wasn’t rushing. The movement of his lips against yours was slow, deep, almost cautious—but beneath that restraint was such intense suppression that your breath caught involuntarily. And when he trapped your lower lip between his own, you felt the wild hunger hidden beneath all that control. Slowly, as though he wanted to memorize every part of you, he drew your lips between his, and the warmth and softness of that moment surged through your entire body.
Your hands instinctively curled into the front of his suit, and Bruce inhaled sharply at the feeling, the sound muffled between your mouths.
“God…” he murmured against your lips, his voice roughened and frayed.
It sounded less like desire than surrender.
When Bruce kissed you again, he let himself fall deeper into it this time; his lips lingered longer against yours, your breaths tangled together, and the coldness of the cave seemed to disappear completely. The innocence of the first touch dissolved into something wetter, hotter, unbearably impatient. A muffled sound escaped him into your mouth as his breath merged with yours.
When he drew your upper lip between his lips and kissed you with a slow, aching intensity, a sharp wave of electricity rolled through your body hard enough to make your knees weaken. The instant Bruce felt it, his hand tightened around your waist, sealing you against him. You could feel more than the hardness of his chest now—you could feel the way his entire body responded to you with every breath, the restrained pulse of desire beneath muscles held together by sheer discipline.
Then his lips parted slightly. And when the tip of his tongue touched yours for the first time, time stopped completely.
The contact was impossibly warm, impossibly intimate. The slow meeting of your mouths felt too honest for words; every unspoken confession, every buried feeling, every year of restraint came alive in that single moment. As Bruce deepened the kiss, it no longer felt merely physical—it felt like he was opening the darkest parts of himself to you.
Moisture gathered where your lips met, catching the faint blue light every time you separated just enough to breathe before finding each other again.
Bruce’s fingers slid deeper into the hair at the back of your neck as he tilted your head slightly, deepening the kiss further. Now your mouths moved against each other with a hungrier, more demanding rhythm. Every slow pull of his lips, every deeper kiss, dragged a rough, restrained sound from his throat—proof that the wildness he had spent years suppressing was finally slipping free.
His breath burned against your skin now.
When you finally broke apart long enough to breathe, both of you were genuinely breathless. But Bruce didn’t move away. Instead, his lips trailed down to your jaw, then lower to your neck, leaving warm, damp kisses against your skin. You could feel the heat of his mouth everywhere he touched you.
His forehead rested against yours again. His eyes were half-lidded now, and for the first time his breathing had truly become uneven. Gotham’s most controlled man looked shaken by the simple act of touching you.
His thumb brushed slowly across your cheek before his eyes drifted back to your lips.
“You’re going to ruin me,” he said in a low, almost broken voice.
Your heart lurched again.
Because he wasn’t saying it like an accusation.
He sounded like someone who was terrified of it—and still didn’t want to stop.
Before you could answer, Bruce kissed you again. This time the kiss was deeper, more open, more honest. His lips stayed against yours longer, his breath tangled with yours, and when you pulled him closer by the front of his suit, a restrained breath escaped his throat.
His hands were entirely focused on you now; one remained at your waist while the other moved slowly beneath your neck, and with every second of his touch you could feel how desperately he was still trying to be careful with you. But that carefulness wasn’t enough anymore. Because while Bruce kissed you, he was finally letting go of everything he had spent years trying to suppress.
And both of you could feel it.
In the cold heart of the Batcave, beneath the blue glow of computer screens, Bruce Wayne touching you made the chaos consuming Gotham feel distant for a few stolen minutes. And that was exactly what made it dangerous—because both of you knew it wouldn’t last.
Bruce’s hand slid lower along your back before he lifted you effortlessly into his arms; the movement was so natural, so strong, that your breath trembled between your lips. A second later he sat you on the edge of the worktable, and the cold metal against your body made you shiver softly—but Bruce stepped between your legs immediately, his tall frame settling there until the cold vanished completely. He was so close now that your breaths tangled together, every movement instinctively answering the other. His hands rested on your waist, but the pressure of his fingers became more possessive with every passing second, sending your heartbeat racing even faster.
“Bruce…” you whispered breathlessly, but even the way you said his name had become something else now.
Bruce tilted his head slightly; his lips brushed the edge of your jaw, then drifted toward your neck, his breath warm and uneven against your skin. His grip tightened around your waist, and when you instinctively leaned closer to him, a restrained breath escaped his throat. The sound was small, but it carried the crack of something that had been held back for years.
“Don’t do this to me,” he murmured, his lips still close to your skin, voice rough and low.
“Do what?”
Bruce lifted his eyes to yours, and there was something in them now that could no longer be hidden. “Act like I could ever let you go.”
Your heart slammed hard against your ribs.
When his lips moved against yours again, deeper this time, you leaned into him without thinking; your hands slid from his shoulders to the back of his neck, and another muffled breath broke from Bruce. That sound alone was enough to ruin you, because Bruce Wayne was not a man who lost control easily. But the uneven rhythm of his breathing, the tightness of his hold on you, the way he kept coming back to your lips again and again—it all revealed how long something beneath all that discipline had been buried alive.
“Breathe,” he murmured, resting his forehead briefly against yours. But his own breathing was uneven now too.
A faint smile touched your lips, still only inches from his. “You’re not breathing either.”
For a few seconds Bruce’s eyes wandered slowly over your face—your lips, your neck, your disheveled hair. Then he kissed you again, slower this time, but more intense. His hands slid upward from your waist, fingers moving heavily along the fabric over your back, and your entire body tightened involuntarily beneath his touch. The lights of the Batcave blurred behind your eyes until the only thing that felt real anymore was him.
When you finally pulled back for air, your head tipped slightly backward; Bruce’s lips left brief, burning kisses along your jaw and just beneath your neck, and your heart lurched violently again. Feeling it, Bruce closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, as though making one final attempt to stop himself.
“Bruce…” Your voice trembled this time.
“I know,” he said immediately, his voice roughened. “God, I know.”
But he didn’t pull away.
If anything, he moved closer. His forehead rested briefly against your shoulder, his breath warm on your skin, one of his hands gripping the fabric at your waist without meaning to. In that moment he no longer looked like the most dangerous man in Gotham—just a tired man who couldn’t stop touching you.
“What happens now?” you finally asked, still breathless; and both of you knew the question wasn’t only about the way you were holding each other.
Bruce kept his eyes closed for several seconds before finally lifting his head. “Arkham,” he said quietly. “I’m looking for another entrance to the Forgotten Tunnels. The protests made the main access unusable, but the old morgue connection might still work.”
You watched him carefully; his lips were still flushed from kissing you only minutes earlier, and the sight alone made it difficult to think clearly. Still, a small smile appeared on your face.
“So we’re finally going together.”
Bruce’s hands stopped instantly against your waist.
His expression sharpened; the warmth from moments ago hadn’t vanished completely, but it was already giving way to that familiar Batman severity. “No,” he said immediately.
You lifted a brow slightly, as though this had already been decided. “Bruce.”
“No,” he repeated, firmer this time. “This isn’t up for discussion.”
But he was still standing between your legs.
Still touching you.
And that contradiction made his words almost impossible to believe.
When you noticed it, a small, breathless smile touched the corner of your mouth. “A minute ago you were kissing me,” you said softly. “Now you’re giving orders?”
Bruce’s eyes darkened—not with anger, but with the tension of a man trying desperately to regain control of himself. He didn’t remove his hands from your waist, but he leaned back slightly, as though he knew that if he stayed any closer he’d only end up kissing you again.
“This isn’t a game,” he said sharply. “You saw what happened in the library.”
“And I’m still here.”
“That’s exactly the problem.” Bruce’s voice suddenly deepened with intensity. “You still think this won’t break you.”
You opened your mouth to answer, but Bruce continued before you could speak. Now there was something in his voice beyond protectiveness—something dangerously close to tenderness wrapped in anger.
“If I go in there, all the attention will be on me,” he said. “But if you’re beside me…” He cut himself off abruptly, jaw tightening. Because he didn’t want to say the rest aloud.
Because the rest was:
I’m afraid of losing you.
And both of you already knew it.
Bruce’s last sentence seemed to linger in the cave long after he said it. The stone walls of the Batcave were used to swallowing sound, but some words refused to disappear—especially when they came from Bruce Wayne. His hands were still on your waist; he wasn’t pushing you away, but at the same time he was holding on just a little too tightly, as if he were afraid that if he really let go, Gotham’s darkness would swallow you whole. The hard surface of his armor pressed against your legs, his breathing was still uneven, and in the middle of it all, what you saw in Bruce’s eyes shook you more deeply than you expected: not Batman’s fear, but Bruce’s.
You breathed in slowly. Your lips still carried the warmth of his kiss, the ghost of his breath lingered against your neck, and your entire body still felt overheated from the closeness you had shared only minutes earlier. But the tension between you was no longer only physical now; it had shifted into something heavier, more dangerous. Because for the first time, Bruce wasn’t simply telling you not to go. For the first time, he was openly showing you that the thought of losing you would truly destroy him.
“You think you can fix this by protecting me,” you finally said. Your voice came out soft, but there was restrained hurt beneath it. One of your hands still rested against his shoulder; beneath your fingers you could feel how tightly his muscles had locked. “But by keeping me out of it… you’re already losing me.”
Bruce’s gaze snapped immediately back to your face.
The words hit him like a physical blow.
Because they were true.
And Bruce Wayne had spent his entire life unable to escape the cruelest truths.
His breathing grew heavier. There was no anger in his eyes as he looked at you now—only something more vulnerable. He lowered his head slightly, as though trying to choose his words carefully before speaking, though the problem wasn’t that he didn’t know what to say.
The problem was that he knew exactly what he felt.
“You weren’t born into this,” he said at last, his voice low and intense. “I was.”
“No,” you answered immediately, without backing away. “You chose it.”
That silenced him.
The blue glow of the Batcomputer sharpened the hard lines of his face as he stared at you for several long seconds, as though reevaluating you—not as someone who simply needed protection anymore, but as someone capable of making her own choices. And that realization unsettled him. Because you were no longer the girl standing at the edge of the cave, looking into Batman’s world from a safe distance.
You were walking into it now.
And the more Bruce realized he couldn’t stop you, the more personal his fear became.
Then his hands slowly slipped away from your waist.
It wasn’t abrupt.
It was gentle.
But you understood exactly what he was doing.
He was trying to pull back.
Maybe not physically, but emotionally; trying to gather up the control he had lost while kissing you, trying to force logic back between the two of you. When he shifted slightly, as though to let you step down from the platform, you instinctively caught his wrist.
Bruce stopped.
His eyes dropped immediately to your fingers.
Then lifted back to yours.
“Do you really think you can leave me behind?” you asked quietly.
The question didn’t echo through the cave, but you could see it echo inside him. You felt it in the way his jaw tightened again, in the unevenness of his breathing, in the brief moment his eyes closed. Because maybe he wanted to leave you behind—but for the first time, he was truly understanding that it was no longer possible.
“You don’t understand,” he finally said. This time his voice sounded tired rather than hard. “Crane… I can see what he left in you.”
The moment you heard the name, tension shifted inside you again. Bruce noticed immediately; his gaze moved across your face with Batman’s relentless attention, missing nothing.
“You don’t know what he’s done to you,” he continued quietly. “The way you looked at him in the library…” He stopped. He didn’t want to finish the sentence.
But he did anyway.
“It was like you trusted him.”
Your chest tightened, because there wasn’t only jealousy in those words.
There was hurt too.
You stayed silent for a few seconds before stepping slightly closer to him again. When the distance between you narrowed, Bruce’s breathing changed, but he still didn’t pull away.
“And what about you?” you asked.
Bruce’s brow furrowed faintly.
“What?”
“What you’ve done to me… is that any different?”
The question caught him completely off guard.
Something painfully rare flashed across his face then: vulnerability. Because you weren’t only talking about Crane. You were saying that Bruce affected you too. That he pulled you toward him. That he wouldn’t let you go. And Bruce could no longer deny it.
The silence deepened.
The only thing left in the cave was the sound of your breathing.
At last Bruce lowered his head slightly; his forehead rested against yours again, and when he closed his eyes you felt the faint tremor that passed through his shoulders. It wasn’t Batman trembling.
It was a man who had held himself together like stone for years finally beginning to tire.
“I did everything I could,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper. “To keep you away from this. From Batman… from Gotham… from me.”
His hand rose to your face again; his thumb moved slowly across your cheek before he lifted his eyes back to yours. And now there was an honesty in them that had finally stopped fighting.
“And now,” he said, his breath close enough to brush your lips, “I’m terrified this city is going to take you away from me.”
And with that sentence, every wall between you finally began to crack.
The air inside the Batcave had grown heavy not only from emotional tension, but from the familiar silence of war that always settled in before an operation. Even though the warmth of what had passed between you only minutes earlier still lingered against your skin, the rhythm of the cave was beginning to shift again. When Bruce stepped back, it didn’t feel like rejection; it felt more like the harsh discipline of a man forcing himself back into being Batman.,But this time, there was one important difference:,He wasn’t trying to leave you behind anymore. He just wasn’t fully ready to stop fighting it yet.
As the massive Batcomputer screens flickered back to life, blue map lines spread across the dark stone walls of the cave; old Gotham infrastructure, Arkham’s long-abandoned service routes, underground drainage systems, and forgotten passageways connected to the hospital morgue unfolded layer by layer across the monitors. Bruce stayed silent for several seconds, his fingers moving rapidly yet precisely over the keyboard, the focused expression on his face sharpening more with every passing moment.
He was becoming Batman again—the version of himself built to solve problems.
And yet you could still feel the presence of the man beneath that cold concentration, the man who hadn’t forgotten the way he had kissed you only moments ago.
Alfred Pennyworth adjusted his glasses slightly as he studied the maps over Bruce’s shoulder. The glow of the cave lights deepened the lines on his older face, but his eyes remained sharp and attentive.
“The northern morgue line,” he said at last, pointing toward one of the thin routes at the bottom of the map. “Official records list it as sealed, but according to Gotham’s older hospital plans, there used to be a service elevator here.”
Bruce acknowledged it with a brief nod. “It was shut down after the fire,” he said. “That’s why the police aren’t monitoring it.”
“Which is exactly why the Court would use it,” you said without thinking.
Bruce’s gaze snapped toward you immediately.
That look no longer surprised you; when you spoke, he listened now. Truly listened. When Batman focused his full attention on someone, it changed the rhythm of their breathing instinctively, because Bruce Wayne didn’t just analyze words—he analyzed hesitation, pauses between breaths, even where your eyes drifted while you thought.
“How do you know?” he asked.
You stepped closer to the Batcomputer, the cold glow of the monitors illuminating your face and making the traces of smoke and soot still visible on your skin.
“Crane used to say old structures were more useful than modern security systems,” you said slowly. “Especially Arkham’s abandoned service sectors. Because nobody ever thinks to check the old blueprints.” You paused briefly before adding, “Once, he told me the northern morgue line had been used off-record for years. Not by maintenance crews… by experimental transport teams.”
The moment you said it, Bruce’s expression hardened again.
Jonathan Crane’s name changed the atmosphere of the cave every single time it was spoken; by now you could feel it clearly. Bruce said nothing, but you saw his jaw tighten once more. Because for him, this was no longer just about Crane being dangerous.
Crane had gotten inside your head.
And every time Bruce thought about that, something deeply physical and deeply restrained twisted inside him.
But this time Alfred didn’t stay silent.
“Master Bruce,” he said calmly, though with deliberate emphasis, “underestimating her would be a serious mistake.”
Bruce looked toward Alfred.
Alfred continued, his voice carrying its usual politeness, though there was a subtle sense of defense beneath it. “She’s the one who extracted information from inside Arkham. She’s the one who found Strange’s laboratory. And at the moment, she’s also the one giving us the only viable route we have.” He turned his head slightly toward you. “It isn’t difficult to understand why Dr. Crane trusted her.”
Bruce did not like that sentence.
You saw it immediately.
Because Alfred had unintentionally touched the exact thing that unsettled Bruce most: Jonathan Crane had trusted you. Had taken you seriously. Had brought you into his dark world. And now Bruce was slowly being forced to accept that he could no longer keep you outside of it.
The silence stretched for several seconds.
Then Bruce exhaled heavily and closed the map on the Batcomputer.
“We leave in ten minutes,” he said in a short, decisive tone.
You looked at him instinctively.
This wasn’t a discussion anymore.
It was acceptance.
Bruce seemed to realize that too, because his eyes met yours briefly; there was still fear in them, but now there was resolve as well. Then he turned and walked deeper into the cave, the dark plates of his armor casting heavy shadows beneath the low lighting.
After a few seconds of hesitation, you followed him.
This section of the Batcave was darker; lined with weapon lockers, equipment panels, tactical shelves, and half-shadowed technological stations. When Bruce opened one of the large metal cabinets, rows of carefully organized gear came into view: cables, compact light modules, cutting tools, protective masks—all arranged with military precision.
After collecting several items with his back still turned to you, Bruce finally looked over his shoulder. When he held out a dark fabric mask, the cave lights caught faintly against the matte black material between his fingers.
“You’re wearing this,” he said.
You took the mask from him; the inside contained layered filters, heavy but high quality beneath your fingertips.
“What is it?”
Bruce watched you for several seconds before stepping closer. As the distance between you narrowed again, the warmth of the kiss you’d shared moments earlier returned instinctively. Because Bruce’s voice had lowered again, and even while handing you equipment, his gaze briefly dropped to your lips.
“There could be old chemicals in the tunnels,” he said. “Mold, combustible gas, degraded experimental compounds… we don’t know what they hid down there.”
Then he reached out and fitted the mask onto your face himself.
The gesture was unnecessary. And both of you knew it. But Bruce did it anyway.
As his fingers carefully adjusted the straps behind your ears, his breath brushed softly against your cheek; the touch felt too slow, too personal. When you stayed still and looked at him, Bruce held your gaze for several long seconds.
For a moment, the rest of the cave disappeared again.
“Get ready,” he said at last, his voice still low. “Your first real mission is waiting for you.”
Jonathan Crane’s estate was one of those places that felt severed from the rest of Gotham; while the city’s rotten heart screamed in the streets, while protests tangled with police sirens and newspapers kept Hugo Strange’s name pinned across their front pages, this old manor remained silent, as though it belonged to another century entirely. Dry ivy crawled across the exterior stone walls, shifting faintly in the wind, and the rain-darkened masonry looked like gravestones beneath the moonlight.
When Charlotte Rivers stepped out of the car, even the sound of her heels striking the stone path felt too sharp in the silence. She still carried traces of the fight from earlier that evening—disheveled hair, hastily repaired makeup, and the hardened anger of wounded pride. The alcohol in her system hadn’t ruined her movements, but it had sharpened her emotions; every thought felt more pointed, every jealousy more raw.
When the door opened, Jonathan Crane’s expression didn’t change.
He wore a dark shirt with the top buttons left undone, and when he looked at Charlotte through his glasses, there was neither surprise nor pleasure on his face. That unsettled her in a way she hated, because this was the most frightening thing about Jonathan Crane:
He stayed calm even when everyone else was falling apart.
The long corridor behind him was dimly lit; the house glowed with low amber lighting, heavy bookshelves and antique wooden furniture making the manor feel even more suffocating. The moment Charlotte stepped inside, she caught the mingled scent of old paper, medicine, and something dry that faintly resembled incense.
“Dr. Rivers,” Crane said softly as he closed the door behind her. “I wasn’t expecting you at this hour.”
Charlotte let out a short, bitter laugh. When she dropped her purse onto the table, the sound of the glass bottle inside echoed faintly.
“I wasn’t expecting Bruce Wayne to leave me for an intern either.”
The sentence landed in the room like a knife.
Jonathan’s face didn’t change.
But Charlotte saw his eyes.
And for the first time, she truly felt disturbed.
Because there was jealousy in Jonathan Crane’s gaze—but not the kind an ordinary man would feel. It was quieter than that. Deeper. More possessive. As though the information hadn’t angered him so much as confirmed a thought that had already been growing inside him for a long time.
Crane walked slowly toward the bar. His movements weren’t rushed; if anything, they were frighteningly controlled. As he poured a drink into a crystal glass, he spoke over his shoulder.
“I never considered Bruce Wayne’s decisions emotionally consistent to begin with.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes, but the anger inside her flared again.
“He tried to tell me it was just some protective instinct,” she said sharply. “That father-daughter nonsense. But I’m not stupid.” She stepped closer, the sound of her heels echoing across the wooden floor. “I saw the way he looked at her.”
When Jonathan handed her the glass, their fingers brushed briefly. Crane’s hands were warm, but his expression still looked professionally composed.
That only unsettled Charlotte more.
Because his tone was calm.
But whatever lived beneath it was not.
“And how did he look at her?” Crane asked quietly.
Charlotte took a long drink before looking back at him. Jonathan’s eyes were fixed carefully on her face, as though he wasn’t merely listening to her words—he was analyzing them.
“Obsessed,” she finally said. “Like if that girl stopped breathing, Bruce Wayne would stop too.”
Jonathan’s gaze remained perfectly still for several seconds.
Then he smiled very faintly.
There was no warmth in it.
And when Charlotte noticed that, a cold shiver slipped down her spine.
“Interesting,” Crane said slowly. “Because I thought the exact same thing.”
The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly.
For the first time, Charlotte truly felt she had come to the wrong place.
Because Jonathan wasn’t mocking her.
He was being sincere.
Crane sat down with measured movements, his long fingers gliding slowly along the rim of his glass while his eyes never left Charlotte’s face.
“Bruce Wayne thinks he can protect her,” he said calmly. “But what people fail to understand is this…” He paused briefly. “Some people don’t want protection.”
Another pause.
“Some people move toward the darkness.”
Charlotte frowned. “That’s not romantic, Jonathan.”
“No,” he said immediately.
The answer came too fast.
Then he leaned back slightly in his chair; behind his glasses, his gaze looked sharper in the shadows now.
“It isn’t romantic,” he repeated more quietly. “But it may be inevitable.”
Unease began crawling through Charlotte because the way Jonathan Crane spoke about Y/N wasn’t normal. He wasn’t speaking like a doctor anymore. He wasn’t even speaking like a man in love.
It sounded more like someone slowly moving toward claiming something he had already carried inside his mind for a very long time. And the moment Charlotte realized that, some of the drunken anger inside her gave way to something far more real:
Fear.
“You’re not in love with her,” she said before she could stop herself.
Jonathan’s gaze shifted toward her slowly.
The silence deepened.
Charlotte continued because she knew if she stopped now, she would become afraid. “This is something else.” Her lips suddenly felt dry. “You want to possess her.”
Jonathan said nothing for several seconds.
Then he tilted his head slightly, and something dark—almost gentle—moved behind his eyes.
“The human mind,” he said softly at last, “returns to the place where it feels safe, Charlotte.”
The sentence sounded simple. But suddenly Charlotte remembered why Y/N hadn’t been afraid of Jonathan in the library.,And for the first time, she genuinely shivered.,Because a terrifying thought settled into her mind: Maybe Jonathan Crane had already gotten much deeper into the girl’s head than anyone realized. And maybe—it was already far too late to stop him.
Jonathan Crane stayed silent for a long time.
At first, Charlotte Rivers assumed it was deliberate—another psychological game. She knew Crane enjoyed unsettling people with silence; he used it on patients at Arkham too, letting silence come before words, allowing the person in front of him to drown inside their own mind. But this silence felt different. Heavier. More personal. Even the crackling of the fire in the fireplace sounded uneasy within it, and the longer Jonathan’s gaze remained fixed on her face, the more Charlotte felt the warmth of the alcohol inside her slowly turning into fear. Eventually, Jonathan set his glass down on the table. The crystal striking wood created a small but sharp echo through the room.
Then he rose slowly to his feet. There was no visible threat in the movement. And that was exactly what made it threatening. An angry person could shout, lose control, make mistakes—but Jonathan Crane never lost control. He only moved closer. “Bruce Wayne left you,” he said calmly. “Because he finally realized what he wants.”
Charlotte’s jaw tightened. “Is that why you invited me here? To psychoanalyze me?”
Jonathan tilted his head slightly, his gaze glinting behind his glasses in the shadows. “No,” he said slowly. “I didn’t invite you.” A brief pause. “You came here.” The sentence settled inside Charlotte like a bad feeling. Because it was true.
She had walked into this place on her own. And for the first time, she began to feel truly alone inside the manor.
Jonathan crossed the room with slow, measured steps. When he opened the drawer of a small table between the bookshelves, his back was turned to her, yet Charlotte still felt completely seen by him.
Crane pulled out a file. Then several newspaper clippings. The Gotham Gazette headline sat on top. Y/N’s name. Arkham. The explosion. Wayne Foundation.
Jonathan laid the clippings carefully onto the table. The movement was almost gentle. “How do you think people break in Gotham, Charlotte?” he asked suddenly.
Charlotte frowned. “What?”
Jonathan turned toward her. And for the first time, Charlotte truly saw the expression on his face clearly. This was not the face of a jealous man. It was the face of an obsessed one. “People think breaking someone requires violence,” Jonathan said softly. “It doesn’t.” He slowly touched one of the clippings; beneath his fingers, Y/N’s name was visible. “The most effective method… is learning a person’s fears.” Then his fingers moved slightly across the paper. “And after that,” he continued quietly, “you build a world around those fears.”
Charlotte’s throat went dry. “Jonathan…”
“I remember the first day I saw her,” Crane continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “People only saw a broken girl. Traumatized. Angry. Distracting.” A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth. “But I saw more.”
Charlotte suddenly wanted to back away. Truly leave. Because Jonathan Crane was no longer speaking like a doctor. He was speaking like a man admiring his own obsession. And it was unlike anything Charlotte had ever seen before.
“You’re sick,” she said before she could stop herself.
Jonathan’s gaze shifted slowly toward her. And he smiled. This one was more visible. But still completely empty of warmth. “We all are,” he said calmly. Then he started walking toward her.
Charlotte instinctively stepped back several paces; her heel caught the edge of the rug, but she couldn’t pull her eyes away from him anymore. Because Jonathan’s voice remained calm— while whatever lived beneath it grew darker and darker.
“Bruce Wayne thinks he can protect her,” he said. “Batman believes he can keep her away from the darkness.” He tilted his head slightly. “But he doesn’t understand how fear works.”
Charlotte’s heartbeat quickened.
Jonathan watched her silently for several seconds. Then he continued in the same disturbingly calm tone: “The human mind attaches itself to repeated emotions. Safety. Fear. Relief.” His eyes drifted briefly into space, as though he could already see Y/N inside his thoughts. “They’re all chemical cycles.” His gaze lowered slightly. “And if someone finds you beside them in the middle of their fear…” he said softly, “they come back to you.”
Charlotte’s stomach twisted. Because now she understood. The library. The way Y/N had clung to Jonathan. That disturbing sense of trust. And the horrifying calmness on Jonathan’s face as he described it.
“What did you do to her?” Charlotte whispered.
Jonathan’s eyes returned to her. For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Then he gave the faintest shrug. “I helped her.”
Charlotte genuinely wanted to leave now. She reached for her bag, but Jonathan’s voice stopped her.
“I think you should sit down.” It sounded like a request. But it wasn’t.
Charlotte felt that truth in her bones. When she looked at him again, Jonathan’s expression hadn’t changed—but something much darker now lived openly in his eyes. The naked threat beneath his calmness had finally surfaced completely.
“You need me,” Jonathan said quietly. “Because Gotham is going to start looking for someone to blame very soon.” A short pause. “And when people are afraid,” he continued, “they’re very easy to direct.”
Charlotte’s breathing tightened.
Jonathan stepped closer. “You’re intelligent,” he said. “So you can understand this… some people only need a very small push to completely fall apart.” He tilted his head slightly, his tone almost gentle. “Sometimes,” he murmured, “a little gas is enough.”
The blood drained from Charlotte’s face. Jonathan saw it. And he liked it. “You’re going to continue working with me,” he said finally, calm but absolute. “Because you know far too much now.”
Charlotte backed away, throat tightening. “No.”
Jonathan’s eyes moved slowly across her face. Then, very slowly, he smiled. “Saying no,” he said softly, “only matters when someone truly has a choice.”
The silence in the room deepened. The fireplace crackled. And when Jonathan’s gaze briefly drifted toward the newspaper clipping on the table, Charlotte saw the expression on his face clearly.
This wasn’t love. It was something closer to hunger.Jonathan slowly brushed his fingertips over Y/N’s photograph on the clipping. The movement felt almost intimate. Then he closed his eyes, as though replaying her inside his mind—the way she had clung to him in the smoke-filled library, her frightened breathing, the way she had trusted him. And the next sentence that left his lips turned Charlotte completely cold inside.
“She’ll come back to me,” Jonathan whispered. “Because now… she looks for me inside her fears.”
Summary: After uncovering what was never meant to be seen beneath Arkham’s foundations, she becomes something far more dangerous than a witness — she becomes a variable in a game controlled by men who do not forgive exposure, who do not tolerate curiosity, and who certainly do not overlook a young woman brave enough to disturb their architecture of fear.
As headlines circulate and alliances fracture, one man tightens his grip in the name of protection while another sharpens his devotion into something far more possessive, and neither of them realizes that somewhere in the dark, older powers are not asking whether she should be silenced — only when.
Warnings: Dark Romance, +18, MDNI (Dark psychological themes & romantic intensity), Dark Erotic Tension, Moral Ambiguity, Obsession and Unhealthy Attachmen, Cat-and-Mouse Dynamics, Jealous!Bruce Wayne, Breath-On-Skin!Jonathan Crane, Violence (Non-Graphic), Secret Societies / Cult Influence, Jealousy & Emotional Conflict Love Triangle Tension, English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional.
Story Tone: Dark Romance / Psychological Thriller / Gothic Noir
Word Count: +10k
Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Female Reader x Jonathan Crane
Dividers by @strangergraphics @cafekitsune Banner by Me Gotham Gazette by Me
Months Before Everything Changed
When you entered Dr. Jonathan Crane’s laboratory, you closed the door behind you almost holding your breath; the air inside was heavy, thick with an antiseptic, metallic chemical smell, and the pale white glare of the fluorescent lights rendered every surface unnervingly clear. The rows of glass tubes, labeled bottles, and precision instruments lining the counters reflected the orderly yet obsessive architecture of Crane’s mind. Your purpose for being there was clear: to find proof that the therapy he’d been subjecting you to was illegal. Your fingers, steady but too careful to deny the tension inside you, lifted the edge of every file, read the label of every chemical bottle, opened and closed each drawer in silence; yet everything was flawless, disturbingly clean, as if Crane had turned the art of leaving no trace into a discipline.
The steel cabinet on the back wall caught your eye because it was different from the others; it was sealed with a thick electronic lock, a small red sensor light glowing steadily. When you crouched to examine it, it didn’t take long to realize that any attempt to force the code would immediately alert Crane. You could sense that something was hidden inside—you knew it instinctively. Most likely everything he had tested on you, every note, every formula, was in there. As you considered ways to crack the code, your mind rapidly scanned possibilities, trying to recall Crane’s habits, his recurring numbers, his obsessive patterns; but no combination felt safe enough. One wrong attempt could end everything.
That was when your gaze shifted to the medical waste bin in the corner of the room. The black-lidded container marked with a biohazard symbol looked like the only chaotic element in Crane’s otherwise perfect order. Kneeling down and lifting the lid slowly, you were hit with a sharp chemical odor. Inside were used syringe casings, empty ampoules, and gauze stained with chemicals. You picked up each small tube one by one, trying to read the faded labels, but none of them gave you what you were looking for. Just as you were about to give up, crumpled, torn scraps of paper at the bottom of the bin caught your attention. When you carefully pulled them out and spread them across the counter, your heart quickened.
Putting the pieces together required patience. As your fingers matched the edges of the paper, your mind worked just as fast; parts of the chemical formulas were legible, while the rest were nearly erased by liquid stains. One fragment of a note was clearer than the others. When you leaned in to read it, your stomach tightened: “Strange’s raw formula is still irrationally unstable — the side effects are unpredictable.” Beneath it, another hurried line mentioned how dangerous Strange’s experiments were and that they needed to be stopped. This was no longer just Crane’s personal obsession; it was part of something bigger and darker. Along the edge of the paper, an almost completely faded phrase could be made out through the chemical smears: Beneath Arkham — The Forgotten Tunnel. You couldn’t pinpoint its exact location, but it wasn’t hard to understand that it pointed to a hidden laboratory.
In that moment, the scandals that had erupted around Arkham in recent months rearranged themselves into a new pattern in your mind. Hugo Strange could be at the center of all of them. The therapy Crane had been administering to you might have been a byproduct of these larger experiments. As you quickly gathered the papers and stuffed them into the inner pocket of your jacket, a cold shiver slid down your spine. You suddenly realized you weren’t alone. The air in the lab had changed; the presence of someone behind you settled on your shoulders like an invisible but crushing weight.
You didn’t turn around. You didn’t show it. As Bruce had taught you years ago, you regulated your breathing, kept your hands steady, and acted as if you were still absorbed in the papers. While your heart pounded hard against your ribs, your ears strained to catch the slightest sound. Then you heard a voice—low, hard, and certain.
“I knew Crane’s weakness for you would become a problem for us.”
The owner of the voice took a few heavy steps closer. On the polished surface of the lab counter, a broad, imposing silhouette was reflected. You immediately recognized Hugo Strange’s most loyal assistant; she was the woman whose presence filled space even in Arkham’s corridors. Her muscular arms were crossed over her chest as she watched you. The air suddenly felt tighter, more suffocating.
As your fingers instinctively tightened around the papers in your pocket, the woman stepped closer, her voice now nearer and more threatening.
“Now,” she said slowly, “you’re going to hand over what you’re holding… or you’re never leaving this room.”
As the fluorescent lights hummed above your head, you realized the door stood between you and the woman, and you began calculating escape routes in seconds—because what you saw in her eyes told you this was not just a threat.
As the woman’s words hung in the cold air of the laboratory, you slowly turned to face her. Your heart pounded against your ribs, yet your expression was unexpectedly calm—almost dismissive. You had swallowed your fear and turned it into anger. Locking your eyes onto hers, you spoke while making the presence of the papers in your pocket feel like a deliberate act of defiance.
“I know you’re exploiting vulnerable patients,” you said in a low but steady voice. “Your experiments, the illegal therapies, Strange’s laboratory… all of it. And it’s all going to come out.”
The muscles in Ethel’s face tightened; her jaw locked. For a brief moment, pure anger flashed in her eyes—the look not of a professional employee, but of an accomplice cornered.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she hissed.
“I do,” you shot back immediately. “And you’re afraid.”
That last word fell like a spark. Without hesitation, Ethel lunged at you. Her large body moved faster than you expected, her arm swinging toward you. The reflex Bruce had drilled into you over and over kicked in without thought; you stepped back and twisted your body aside, slipping free as her hand tried to grab your wrist. A metal tray clattered to the floor after hitting the counter, and one of the glass tubes shattered, spreading across the tiles.
When Ethel attacked again, you kicked a chair between you, throwing off her balance for a split second.
“You can’t run,” the woman growled, shoving the chair aside.
“You won’t know until I try,” you panted.
The laboratory began to feel suffocatingly small; with every step you bumped into something, knocking things over. As Ethel tried to seize you, you circled the counters, recalling the basic escape maneuvers Bruce had taught you and trying to create distance. But she was stronger, heavier, and eventually she cornered you. Your back hit the cold steel cabinet, and there was nowhere left to go.
Without taking her eyes off you, Ethel touched the small earpiece at her ear.
“I’ve got her,” she said in a short, hard tone. “In Crane’s lab.”
The crackling reply from the earpiece didn’t reach you, but Ethel’s lips thinned into a tight line.
“Understood,” she muttered. “I’m bringing her in.”
At that exact moment, when her attention flickered for a single second, you grabbed a glass bottle from the counter and hurled it to the floor. It exploded, releasing a sharp-smelling cloud of fumes, and Ethel recoiled on instinct. You didn’t waste the opening; slipping past her, you lunged for the door. Her hand brushed your jacket, nearly catching the fabric, but you managed to wrench the door open and burst into the corridor.
Your footsteps echoed down Arkham’s long hallway as you heard the heavy thud of steps behind you. Ethel was chasing you. The corridor’s fluorescent lights glared in your eyes, distorting your sense of direction. You overturned a cleaning cart in your path, sending buckets and mops sprawling to slow her down.
“Stop!” Ethel shouted from behind.
You didn’t answer; your lungs burned and your legs trembled, but stopping felt like death.
When you rounded the corner, you saw two guards blocking the corridor. Their uniforms were standard, but their expressions were not; instinctively, you knew they were Strange’s men. Your heart seemed to drop into your stomach. You knew you couldn’t fight them. Your only chance was to remember the simple but vital lessons Bruce had taught you: survive. Create distance. Find an exit.
As one of the guards lunged toward you, you smashed the glass of the fire alarm with your elbow and set off the siren. The piercing alarm filled the corridor as red lights began to flash. Seizing the sudden chaos, you ducked under the guard’s outstretched arm and slammed hard into the other’s knee. You weren’t professional—your movements were messy, driven by panic—but they were unexpected enough.
The brief opening created by your collision with the guard’s knee didn’t last as long as you’d hoped. The second guard reacted on instinct, looping his arm around your neck and yanking you backward. When your back slammed hard into the wall, the air burst from your lungs in a painful rasp. As your hands clawed at his wrist in panic, the first guard recovered and drove his fist into your ribs. The blow was sharp and heavy; pain spread through your chest like a stone dropping inside it, and your knees nearly buckled. You weren’t professional—your body wasn’t used to absorbing hits—and every impact left you reeling. But Bruce’s voice echoed in your mind, the sentence he’d drilled into you for years: Don’t focus on the pain. Focus on the exit.
To break free from the arm crushing your throat, you tucked your chin and suddenly dropped your weight, then slammed your heel down on the guard’s foot with all your strength. When his grip loosened for a split second, you threw your elbow backward, blindly but with desperate force, into his ribs. At the same time, the first guard lunged for your hair, his fingers clamping cruelly around your scalp. Your eyes watered as your head was jerked back. While pain exploded behind your eyes like white light, your hand fumbled along the wall until it closed around a metal fire extinguisher, and you swung it without thinking. It struck the guard’s shoulder with a dull thud, and he staggered.
“That’s enough!” Ethel shouted from the other end of the corridor, her voice cutting through the wail of the alarm like a blade. As she approached with heavy steps, her face was twisted with pure hatred. “Do you think you can run? You’re not Wayne’s little pet anymore. No one’s going to save you here. You’re going to be part of Strange’s project, understand? A test subject!”
Her words left an icy weight deep in your stomach, but they also sharpened your anger. When one of the guards lunged again, you remembered the simple lesson Bruce had taught you about balance: instead of meeting force with force, you shifted sideways and used his momentum against him, pulling his arm and redirecting him into the wall.
As Ethel tried to reach you, you shoved the overturned cleaning cart between you with your foot, sending buckets and slick water spilling across the floor. The ground instantly turned into a dangerous sheet of ice, and one of the guards slipped and fell. Seizing the brief chaos, you darted through the nearest door. The room was dark—probably an unused storage space. When you closed the door quietly and pressed your back against it, your heart thundered in your ears, and the pain in your ribs flared with every breath.
While footsteps and shouts echoed outside, you slipped between the shelves and hid in the shadows. As you forced your breathing to slow, another of Bruce’s lessons surfaced in your mind: buildings are like people—they have blind spots. When you spotted the small security camera on the ceiling, you quickly calculated its field of view and realized the triangular patch of shadow formed by the shelves lay outside its range. You crouched there and waited without moving.
After a while, the door opened and light spilled inside.
“She ran out,” one of the guards said, breathless.
“Search everywhere!” Ethel shouted. “She can’t have gone far!”
As their footsteps receded from the doorway, you felt your muscles gradually loosen, though you stayed still for a few more minutes. Then you cracked the door open and glanced into the corridor. The red alarm lights were still flashing, but the hallway was empty for now. Mapping the cameras and their angles in your mind like a blueprint, you moved from shadow to shadow, slipping through the building with every step carefully calculated.
When you finally reached the service exit, your hands were trembling, but you managed to push the door open. The cold night air hit your face, burning your lungs as you filled them. Arkham’s dark silhouette loomed behind you. Feeling the papers still safe in your pocket, one thought crystallized in your mind despite everything you’d been through: you had to get this to Bruce.
–––
After leaving Arkham, when the city air filled your lungs, it should have felt like freedom—but what you felt was closer to exposure. The blood in your nose had long since dried, yet with every breath you could still taste its metallic tang at the back of your tongue. The split in your lip stung with every movement, the bruises on your hands throbbed in the cold night air, and all of it, strangely, made you more alert. As you walked, you deliberately kept your steps pointed away from Wayne Manor, instinctively and stubbornly turning your route toward the Gotham City Police Department. You didn’t want to go to Bruce; you didn’t want to look into his eyes and see that familiar fear, that look of someone trying to protect you like fragile glass. But you could talk to Batman. Batman wasn’t just a mask—he was the language of everything Bruce couldn’t say, and tonight you wanted to speak to that language, not to Bruce.
When you slipped onto the GCPD rooftop, it was a little past two in the morning, and the city was suspended in that strange half-sleep; the neon lights were still burning, but the streets had thinned, as if Gotham had retreated into its own shadow. The heavy metal body of the Bat-Signal stood at the center of the roof, and when you saw it, a childish thrill from your past stirred in your chest. You rested your fingers on the projector’s cold surface and hesitated for a moment before turning the switch. As the light tore through the sky and carved the black bat silhouette onto the clouds, your heart quickened. You knew the gesture was theatrical, but that was exactly why it felt right. This wasn’t a call to Bruce Wayne. It was a summons sent to Batman. And you were standing on the side you’d dreamed of since childhood—the one making the call.
You didn’t hear him arrive; Batman was never heard. He was simply there. When he stepped out of the shadows and into the edge of the light, the hem of his cape stirred softly in the wind, and the eyes behind the mask found you immediately. You saw him freeze, that millisecond of hesitation tightening something in your chest.
“…You,” he said in a low, hard voice, trying to contain his surprise. “What are you doing here?”
You stepped a little further into the light, making no attempt to hide the damage on your face. Your bloodied nose, split lip, and bruised hands became brutally visible in the projector’s pale glow. The gaze behind the mask sharpened; his shoulders tensed.
“Before you answer,” he said, taking two quick steps toward you, his voice lower now but heavier, “who did this to you?”
The corner of your mouth curved involuntarily. “No hello? This is our first meeting, Batman.”
When he reached for your chin, you didn’t flinch. His touch was surprisingly gentle as he tilted your head slightly to inspect your nose. There was restrained anger in the contact—and something deeper: fear. Not fear of hurting you, but the careful precision of someone afraid of losing you.
“This isn’t a game,” he murmured. “You’re wandering Gotham’s streets at midnight, showing up here covered in blood, and—”
“And using the Bat-Signal,” you cut in lightly. “Admit it. It was cool.”
The jaw beneath the mask tightened. “This city isn’t a stage. And you—” he paused, weighing his words, “—you shouldn’t be involved in this.”
A familiar ache rose in your chest, but you forced it down. You pulled the crumpled papers from your pocket and handed them to him. “Then you’re lucky,” you said, your tone turning serious. “Because this is already inside my world. Strange… this explains the unrest that’s been happening at Arkham.”
As he took the papers, his gloved fingers brushed yours; the contact was brief but electric. His eyes scanned the lines quickly, and the expression on his face hardened into stone. After a moment, he looked up.
“This,” he said at last, his voice low and vibrating with intensity, “will help open an investigation into Strange.”
He lowered the papers slightly but didn’t release them. When his eyes returned to you, the hardness in them was more personal. “Where did you get this?” he asked, each word precise. “No—” he shook his head faintly, correcting himself, “what did you do to get this?”
You shrugged, but the movement betrayed the pain in your body; his gaze flicked instinctively to your bruised hands. His jaw tightened again.
“You went into a lab at Arkham,” he said. “Alone. Into a locked area. A place under Strange’s direct control.” His voice didn’t rise, but each word landed heavier. “What were you doing there?”
You opened your mouth. You were about to say Jonathan Crane’s name—the lab, the illegal prescriptions he’d put you on, his invasive closeness, the voices seeping into your mind… And in that exact moment, a door slammed shut inside your head. The hesitation wasn’t accidental. The methods Crane had used in his therapy sessions went beyond classical suggestion. Words he had planted in your mind while you were in REM. Conditioning built specifically on post-hypnotic association. The word trust had fused with the tone of his voice in your mind; it functioned like a safety cue, a key that suppressed your sense of threat. Whenever you tried to speak his name, your subconscious muted the alarm signal and replaced it with a false calm. Your heart raced, but your thoughts fogged over. Cognitive inhibition.
Realizing it was almost as terrifying as experiencing it.
Batman waited. He didn’t force the silence.
“Go on,” he said at last, softly but firmly.
You swallowed. You still couldn’t say Crane’s name. Your tongue was fighting your mind.
“I noticed… something was wrong,” you managed. Even that sentence cost you effort. “In the prescriptions. The protocols. At Arkham.”
He lifted the papers closer to his chest and glanced over the notes again; his professional mask was slowly sliding back into place, but the crack that had appeared moments ago was still there. “All this time,” he said in a more controlled voice, “the place I’ve been searching for was right in front of me… How did I miss it?”
You frowned. “The place for what?”
“The Forgotten Tunnel,” he said. When the words left his mouth, it was as if a lock clicked into place.
You repeated the name, but it meant nothing to you. “That doesn’t tell me anything.”
“It tells me,” he replied, and his voice darkened. “And if I’m right, it means there’s a battlefield buried beneath Gotham.”
“We need to talk to Gordon,” you said, your breath steady but tight.
He stepped closer; the distance between you narrowed, his shadow swallowing you whole. His gaze dropped to the injuries on your face, then rose back to your eyes. “You’re not getting involved in this, Y/N,” he said, his voice low but absolute. “Because this isn’t a game. Strange—” he paused, weighing the word, “—if he’s done even half of what I think… I’m not dragging you into this war.”
“You’re not dragging me,” you shot back. “I’m already in it.”
Your hands curled into fists; your bruised knuckles throbbed, but you didn’t pull away. “I saw what’s happening in Arkham. I found that lab. I pulled those papers out. This isn’t something you can carry alone anymore.”
Batman shook his head slightly; the gesture was tired and stubborn. “You’re hurt,” he said. His eyes flicked to the dried blood on your nose and your split lip. “And this is just the beginning. Next time you might not be this lucky.”
“It wasn’t luck,” you whispered. “It was preparation. What you taught me.”
That sentence opened another door between you. The hardness in his eyes cracked for a heartbeat, replaced by something rawer. Memory. Guilt. Fear.
“I taught you that to survive,” he said. “Not to walk back into the fire.”
“The more you try to keep me away from the fire,” you replied, your voice sharpening without rising, “the more you push me straight into it. Don’t you see that? You’re trying to protect me, but all you’re doing is leaving me in the dark. And I’m not blind in the dark, Bruce.”
When his name left your lips, the air shifted. The eyes behind the mask sharpened, but you didn’t retreat; you stepped closer instead. There was almost no space left between you. You could feel his breath—measured but deep.
“I’m not your weak point,” you said quietly. “I can be your partner. I want to be. Because it’s the right thing to do. Because what they’re doing to those patients… I can’t ignore it.”
Batman’s hand moved to your arm on instinct; his grip wasn’t harsh, but it was possessive, as if he wanted to anchor you in place. “I can’t risk losing you,” he said. This time the words were unfiltered. “I lost my family once. I’m not making the same mistake again.”
Your fingers slid to his wrist; beneath the hard edges of the armor you felt his pulse, fast and strong. “The only place I’m safe is beside you,” you said intensely. “In front of your eyes. Somewhere you can control. That scares you, because then you’d have to admit how much you need me.”
The words settled heavily between you. Batman didn’t close his eyes, but his gaze softened for a fraction of a second; the edges of his resistance were wearing down.
“If I accept this,” he said slowly, “you play by my rules. You don’t leave my side. You don’t act alone. And if the smallest thing goes wrong—”
“—I pull back,” you finished. “I promise.”
You held each other’s gaze a moment longer; it was more than an agreement. It was a silent negotiation of trust, fear, and an attraction neither of you named.
At last, he inclined his head by a fraction.
“All right,” he said. He raised his right hand slowly to the side of his mask near his ear. With his index and middle fingers, he tapped the armored surface lightly. A faint beep sounded.
In a low, rough, authoritative voice, he said, “Gordon,” when the connection opened. “We need to meet. There’s a new development. Hugo Strange…”
Inside you, there was less victory than relief. Gotham kept breathing below, and as you stood at his side, you felt that this wasn’t just an operation—it was a partnership that would carry you both past a point of no return.
In the early hours of the morning, the bathroom of Wayne Manor still carried the silence left behind by the night; beneath the high ceiling, the marble surfaces softly reflected the pale daylight, and the gray-blue light filtering through the wide windows spread a cool yet peaceful brightness into every corner of the room. The dark veins in the stone walls and the old gothic carvings gave the space an almost cathedral-like weight, but the warm yellow sconces above the sink softened that severity, making the atmosphere unexpectedly intimate. You were sitting on the edge of the marble counter; your bare feet touched the cold floor, and the thin fabric of your morning robe brushed lightly against your injuries on your shoulders. The sharp scent of antiseptic hung in the air, but mixed with the manor’s clean, aged wood smell, it felt strangely comforting.
Bruce stood directly in front of you; the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows, and even that simple detail brought back an image you recognized from years ago. He wasn’t wearing gloves. His fingers were bare. After dipping a piece of cotton into antiseptic, he gently held your chin between two fingers and turned your face toward the light. His touch was careful, measured, as if you might break.
“This is going to hurt,” he said in a low voice.
“You said the same thing yesterday,” you replied in a lightly teasing tone. “And I’m still alive.”
When he pressed the cotton to the cut at the corner of your lip, your breath caught involuntarily; the pain was short and sharp, but the warmth his fingers left against your skin was far more distracting. Your eyes drifted to his face. His brows were furrowed, all his attention fixed on your wounds, as if all the chaos in Gotham had ceased to exist for that moment.
“You’re underestimating this,” he said. “It could have been worse.”
“But it wasn’t,” you murmured. “And if I kept you from going down into the underpasses…”
His hand paused for a moment. He lifted his eyes to you; there was no accusation in his gaze, only a thoughtful seriousness.
“Strange is probably erasing the most obvious evidence right now,” he said. “When people panic, they make mistakes. They leave behind things they consider insignificant.” He set the cotton aside and carefully turned your bruised hand with his thumb. “Uncertainty might seem like it’s buying him time, but it’s actually buying it for us. We’ll talk to Gordon. Once an official investigation begins… they won’t have anywhere left to run.”
His fingers closed around your wrist; the grip should have felt purely professional, but feeling the rhythm of your pulse scattered your thoughts. You smiled faintly.
“So I didn’t really stop you,” you said. “I just… forced a strategic pause.”
The corner of his mouth moved almost imperceptibly. “If that’s what you want to call it,” he replied.
The silence was brief but dense. The light filling the bathroom brightened slightly; morning was advancing. Your eyes wandered around — the familiar marble, the old mirrors, the orderly shelves — and an unexpected warmth spread through your chest.
“I missed this place,” you said, as if mentioning something trivial. “The smell of Alfred’s coffee. The echo of footsteps in the corridors.”
Bruce’s hands stilled for a moment. He didn’t lift his head, but his shoulders tightened.
“This has always been your home,” he said quietly.
“I know,” you whispered. “But some things… look different once you step away. It feels like coming back to a place you once belonged to as a guest.”
This time he raised his eyes. His gaze met yours directly; there was something restrained inside it, the weight of years and unsaid sentences.
“There were times I thought I’d lost you,” he said with unexpected honesty. “Not physically. But…” he weighed the words. “What’s between us.”
Your breathing grew shallow. You tried to maintain your lightly teasing mask, but your voice softened. “I don’t get lost that easily.”
“I know,” he said. “But that… doesn’t erase the fear.”
The distance between you had narrowed without either of you noticing. His hand was still around your wrist; his thumb rested over your pulse. His eyes dropped to your lips, then returned to your gaze. The silence in the bathroom thickened; you seemed cut off from the outside world, hearing only each other’s breathing.
“Bruce…” you began, your voice barely a whisper.
The way you said his name changed the air. His face moved a few centimeters closer; his other hand slipped instinctively to your waist, as if steadying you, but the pressure of his fingers lingered longer than necessary. The space between your lips thinned, the tension becoming almost tangible.
At that exact moment, the vibration of your phone echoed sharply across the marble counter.
Both of you froze.
When you glanced at the screen, the name caught your eye: Jonathan Crane.
Bruce’s jaw hardened. His hand remained at your waist, but his fingers tightened slightly. His eyes flicked to the screen, then back to your face.
“Strange,” he said in a low voice, not taking his eyes off the phone. “He must’ve told him about last night.”
Bruce was thinking — fast, layered. “Crane’s reports,” he murmured to himself. “Whether he’s against Strange or working with him… this could be a way to find out.”
His gaze returned to you. “Answer it.”
You hesitated for a second.
That second didn’t escape Bruce’s notice, but he misread the reason — he saw it as danger, suspicion, operational tension.
He tilted his head slightly. “Put it on speaker,” he said.
You answered the call. Your fingers were faintly damp.
“Dr. Crane,” you said in a controlled voice.
The voice on the other end was soft, measured, wrapped in clinical politeness. “Y/N. I apologize for disturbing you this early. But after last night… it would be difficult not to feel some responsibility regarding what happened.”
Bruce was watching you. Your eyes, your expressions, your breathing — everything.
His gaze sharpened. The muscle in his jaw twitched.
“I’m fine,” you said shortly.
Crane was silent for a few seconds. Then his voice lowered. “Even so, I think we should speak face to face. I have… certain concerns about your safety.”
Bruce’s eyes locked onto yours. His lips moved — without sound.
Go.
He gave the faintest nod. Approval.
“What about?” you asked, not taking your eyes off Bruce.
“I’d rather not discuss it over the phone,” Crane said. “Today. Alone.”
Bruce’s gaze darkened further, but his lips shaped another silent word.
Accept.
“All right,” you said. “Time and place?”
Crane gave the details. His voice was calm as always, but beneath the lines something else flowed — a tone only you could recognize, carrying the tense shadow of your history.
“I’ll be there,” you said, and ended the call.
You set the phone down slowly on the counter. The bathroom’s silence returned, but it wasn’t the same; the intimate warmth from before had given way to an operational chill.
Bruce spoke first.
“This is an opportunity,” he said. “To understand his connection to Strange. What he knows. What he’s hiding…”
“And you’re going to use me as bait,” you said flatly.
His gaze didn’t soften, but it didn’t harden either. “I won’t leave you alone. You’ll have a comm in your ear. I’ll hear every second of that conversation. I’ll guide you.”
You couldn’t suppress the wave of discomfort rising inside you.
“Bruce…”
The unease in your voice made him pause.
He tilted his head slightly. “Is there a problem?”
There was.
In your mind, that moment flashed — Crane standing too close, the distance where his breath brushed your face, the tone of his voice dropping to a whisper, the unexpected warmth when his lips touched yours. Your body’s split-second response that had felt like betrayal. Then you pushing him away. Your harsh words. Your escape.
Your stomach tightened.
“No,” you said too quickly.
Bruce fell silent.
He looked at you — long, careful, intuitive. The look of someone who had read you for years. He saw your discomfort, but not its source. And he didn’t try to force it. Because he understood you were hiding something. And that if he pushed, you wouldn’t tell him the truth.
So he only nodded.
“We’ll make him talk,” he said in a calm but resolute tone. “Whatever he’s hiding will come out.”
Bruce stepped closer again. This time his touch wasn’t operational; he placed his hand lightly beneath your cheek, turning your face toward him.
“If anything goes wrong,” he said in a low voice, “I’ll get you out of there in seconds.”
You looked into his eyes. The protective determination in them collided with the lingering warmth of the moment you’d nearly kissed in the bathroom.
“I know,” you whispered.
But in the back of your mind, Crane’s voice was still echoing.
And both of you — for very different reasons — could feel that this meeting wouldn’t be just an operation.
---
The church was like a rusted nail driven into one of Gotham’s forgotten veins; it wasn’t completely ruined, yet it wasn’t standing strong enough to be called intact. The afternoon light filtered through the leaden clouds in the sky and slipped inside through the gaps of the shattered stained-glass windows, spreading across the layers of dust on the floor like a blood-stained reflection. The stone walls smelled of damp; the rotting wooden pews had warped, and the hollow where prayers once echoed now carried only the wind’s low moan. This was a place even abandonment had abandoned.
On the upper level, standing before the wide, fractured stained glass, was Jonathan Crane.
His silhouette appeared like a thin, dark line against the light; the colors filtering through the broken glass fell across his face, painting the shadows beneath his eyes violet and his cheekbones in tones of blood-red. One hand rested in his coat pocket, the other pressed lightly to the phone at his ear. He had already seen the silhouette walking up the road toward the church — you.
As you walked the narrow stone path leading to the chapel, your steps slowed; you couldn’t explain why, but even the ground here felt uneasy. You could feel the weight of an unseen gaze behind your shoulders, yet whenever you turned, no one was there. When you stopped before the church doors, the rhythm of your heartbeat shifted — like a pulse suspended between turning back and going inside. But Crane had already looked away from you, his gaze turned toward the city; he wasn’t impatient. He was calm, like a hunter who enjoyed waiting.
On the other end of the phone was Dr. Hugo Strange.
The corner of Crane’s mouth curved slowly. “You noticed,” he said into the phone, his voice low but carrying a sharp calm. “How long did it take?”
The voice on the other side — Hugo Strange’s — echoed with metallic composure. “Fast enough,” Strange said. “I saw my files being moved, my experimental records — including the ones involving you — erased, the financial traces… rewritten. Manipulation on this scale isn’t the work of one man.”
Crane’s lips curled into an almost invisible smirk. His eyes remained fixed on you as you crossed the church courtyard. “You underestimate me, Hugo,” he said softly.
“No,” Strange replied, his voice harder now. “I take you very seriously. Which is why I’m asking: who’s behind you?”
Crane didn’t answer. He tilted his head slightly; the light from the broken glass fractured in his pupils. “Because,” Strange continued, “this confidence… this sense of immunity… doesn’t belong to a scientist alone. It rests on power. And when I find that power… I’ll eliminate you, and them.”
The implication was clear. Behind his words lingered the cold shadow of the Court of Owls — ancient, aristocratic, invisible.
Crane tilted his head faintly; his gaze drifted down to you walking below. As you approached the doors, he watched you with a hunter’s patience.
“I know how solid you believe your structures are, Hugo,” he said slowly. “But sometimes… there’s another structure behind the structure.”
Strange fell silent.
Crane continued, never taking his eyes off you, his voice soft as velvet but carrying a hidden blade. “The Owls hunt at night… true. But there are shadows even an owl wouldn’t dare fly above.”
For the first time, real silence formed on the line — analytical, calculating silence. When Strange spoke again, his voice was still controlled, but sharpened with new caution.
“You don’t know who you’re playing with.”
Crane lifted his chin slightly. His gaze slid back to the path below — to you. He watched your hesitant steps as you neared the church, the tension in your shoulders, the instinctive unease in your posture. And inside his chest, a familiar dark warmth spread. Obsession rose from the deepest layer of his mind to the surface.
“On the contrary,” he said into the phone, his eyes still on you. “I know exactly who I’m playing with.”
Strange’s voice sharpened. “This is a war, Jonathan. And you—”
Crane cut him off. “No,” he said with calm certainty. “This is a hunt.”
His gaze tracked you as you reached the door.
“And the difference between prey and hunter… I understand far better than you think.”
When you pushed the door open, the sound of rotting wood groaned through the air. Crane’s pupils widened slightly; the strategic coldness in his gaze gave way to something else — more personal, deeper, more obsessively intense.
The phone was still at his ear, but his focus had shifted entirely to you.
“You won’t be able to protect her,” Strange said suddenly. “Y/N made a grave mistake touching my projects. And that… turns your weakness for her into my prey.”
The smile on Crane’s face froze — then sharpened into something more dangerous. “Don’t say her name,” he said, for the first time with open hardness.
Silence.
You had stepped further inside, approaching the staircase that led to the upper level. Your footsteps echoed through the hollow space.
Crane spoke one last time:
“If you want to know who stands behind the shadows… look up, Hugo. Because sometimes the hands holding the strings are far higher than you expect.”
A brief pause.
“And I… can feel their breath very close.”
Without waiting for a response, he ended the call.
Crane didn’t move for several seconds. He waited for you — with his entire mind. In the middle of that decaying church, where his childhood fears had once imprisoned him… the thought of seeing you now created a strange, dark fusion inside him: trauma, desire, possession.
All you could see was his back. He was still looking out through the glass.
The silence stretched.
At last, to draw his attention, you spoke:
“Dr. Crane.”
When your voice echoed through the church, Jonathan Crane slowly turned his head; the crimson light filtering through the shattered stained glass painted one half of his face while leaving the other in shadow, and that half-lit, half-dark state gave his gaze an almost supernatural depth. When he saw you, the faint smile forming at the corner of his lips was not merely a greeting — it was the quiet satisfaction of waiting, calculating, and… the desire to possess.
“You’re right on time,” he said, his voice echoing through the hollow church like velvet. “As always.”
The subtle, personal vibration in his tone was immediately noticeable; this was not just a therapist addressing his patient, but the impatient satisfaction of a man watching the woman he had been waiting for arrive.
You stopped a few steps in front of him, measuring your distance.
“For a conversation,” you said coldly, “you could have chosen somewhere less… symbolic. Why here?”
Crane’s gaze drifted briefly around — the broken pews, the darkened altar, the shadows along the ceiling — before returning to you.
“Because this place,” he said slowly, “is my turning point.”
There was a cold echo of the past in his voice; he chose his words as if walking carefully over stone.
“There are places in a person’s life,” he continued, “that shape you, break you… and rebuild you.” A brief pause. “Bringing a woman I value to such a place… felt meaningful.”
He took a step toward you. Your reflex was faster than thought; you stepped back. The movement was small but drew a sharp line between you. Crane noticed. Of course he noticed. For a brief instant, the ghost of that moment in his office flickered in his eyes — the moment he had cornered you, when his lips had touched yours. But he didn’t confront you with it. He only looked.
A few streets away, inside a parked car near the church, Bruce Wayne had heard all of this. He was listening to every syllable, every breath through the earpiece. Crane calling you “a woman I value”… that tone… that soft possessiveness.
At first, he couldn’t process what it meant. Nonsense. Psychological manipulation. A distraction tactic. But in truth, he had understood. He wasn’t stupid enough to miss the shift in Crane’s voice, the personal undertone beneath his words. His analytical mind was fully capable of decoding the psychology behind symbolic choices — but when it came to you, he chose to shut those pathways down in his subconscious.
He forced his focus back to the conversation.
You, meanwhile, kept your distance.
“You said this was about last night,” you said directly. “That’s what we should be talking about.”
Crane’s gaze sharpened, but he wasn’t offended; on the contrary, he seemed to take a strange pleasure in your continued caution and distance.
He tilted his head slightly; the dark focus in his eyes sharpened again.
“Of course,” he said. “Strange’s illegal experiments, the structure behind him… and my role in what I should do with the evidence I’ve gathered about him.”
Bruce’s voice came through your earpiece — short, sharp:
Ask why he’s doing it.
“Why?” you said. “I thought you were working together. Did you have a falling-out… or are you planning to sell him out?”
Crane’s smile deepened this time.
“Strange forgot who he was,” he said. “Arkham’s legacy. Amadeus Arkham’s ideals.” His gaze hardened. “Whoever takes over that institution must not betray that legacy.”
You tilted your head slightly.
“Is that successor you?” you asked.
Crane clearly enjoyed the question; a thin glint lit his eyes.
“I like hearing you say that,” he replied softly. “But the power behind Strange… is greater than you think. Working behind his back wasn’t sustainable for long.”
Bruce’s voice returned through the earpiece:
What changed his mind? Ask.
“And now?” you said. “Why aren’t you afraid anymore? Why move now to expose what you know?”
This time, Crane looked at you before answering — long, measured, intensely personal.
“Because it’s no longer just about Arkham,” he said in a low voice. “You’re involved.”
A thin tension stirred in your chest.
“Strange’s attention has shifted to you,” he continued. “And that… changes everything.”
He stepped closer. You didn’t retreat — but you froze.
“Protecting you,” he said, his voice darkening like velvet, “has taken priority over everything.” His eyes moved across your face — as if he wasn’t only looking, but touching.
Bruce’s breathing shifted in your ear; you felt it too.
“Even your shadow isn’t safe near him,” Crane whispered. “But with me… you are safe.”
The words echoed in your mind.
Shadow.
Safe.
He continued, his voice dropping further.
“I won’t allow anyone to touch you. And if someone is going to…” he went on, his tone velvet-soft but dangerously possessive, “…I know how it should be done.”
Touch.
The word struck somewhere deep in your subconscious — sending vibrations through buried memories, like echoes of past therapies and sedated recollections.
Then his hand lifted. His fingers moved toward your cheek.
You should have pulled back. But for a moment, your body hesitated — locked in surprise, in that strange conditioned calm from your subconscious.
The warmth of his fingers touched your skin.
At the same instant, inside the car, Bruce Wayne’s fingers slowly tightened around the leather of the steering wheel. His face showed nothing. But what rose inside his mind… was dark. Jealousy, in him, was something cold and silent; it didn’t explode, didn’t shout — it took root. He didn’t see it… but he heard it. Hearing Crane touch you, hearing the possessiveness in his words… awakened the most primal protective instinct in him. He didn’t want to kill him. But he now knew how Crane looked at you. And that knowledge moved through his veins like a slow, poisonous fire.
While the ghost of the warmth Jonathan Crane’s fingers had left on your cheek had not yet faded, Bruce’s voice came through the earpiece again. This time it was no longer just a whisper carrying the shadow of jealousy; he had regained control — the measured tone of a man retreating into strategy.
Invite him tonight.
You steadied your breathing, keeping your voice even while you felt Crane’s gaze resting on you.
“Tonight,” you said, “there will be a meeting at the old Wayne building. I’ll send you the location. Gordon will be there. Batman too.” You paused briefly, measuring his reaction. “To open an official investigation into Strange.”
Crane’s eyes sharpened, but he didn’t pull back; if anything, the proposal intrigued him more than you expected.
“I see,” he said slowly. “And Bruce Wayne?”
“He’s working to clear the Foundation’s name, so I’ll be there representing him,” you added.
Crane tilted his head slightly; a thin, calculating glint moved through his eyes.
“In that case,” he said, “Charlotte Rivers should attend as well.”
The name echoed against the church’s cold stone. An involuntary tension stirred inside you. Your brows tightened before you could stop it.
“Charlotte?” you asked, trying to keep your tone neutral. “Why?”
Crane’s lips curved slowly. “For the public dimension. For the possibility of a media leak. If we want to expose Strange… we’ll need a journalist.” A brief pause. “And Rivers is already close to the Wayne Foundation.”
In your earpiece, Bruce’s breathing went quiet for a second — then returned.
Accept.
Your jaw tightened. You suppressed the unease her name stirred in you, but this time Bruce’s voice came softer, more personal:
I approve.
Your heart tightened with a thin ache. That woman’s name was like a sharp blade, reminding you of her place in his life. But you didn’t let it show.
“All right,” you said to Crane. “Charlotte will be there.”
Crane watched you; he seemed to catch even the smallest tremor her name had caused. But he didn’t press it. Not yet. Silence fell between you like a heavy curtain. Then Crane didn’t step back. On the contrary… he moved closer. His step was slow, measured — as if he didn’t want to startle you, yet certain enough not to let you escape. The stained-glass light fell between you; red and violet shadows painted his face.
You should have stepped back. But your body froze, stunned.
Crane’s face drew closer to yours; you felt the warmth of his breath. His eyes dropped to your lips, then rose back to your gaze. There was desire in that look — but mixed with something darker, more possessive.
Bruce’s voice didn’t come through the earpiece. But you felt the weight of his silence.
Crane tilted his head slightly; his lips were only a breath away from yours.
You thought he would kiss you. Your heart quickened — with an unwanted tension, the shock of an unwanted closeness. But his lips never touched yours. Instead, he stopped near your cheek; his voice dropped low enough that only you could hear it.
“People think love is pure,” he whispered. “I don’t.” His breath brushed your skin. “What I feel for you… has already crossed the line between protecting you and possessing you.”
He paused.
“And if I can’t pull you out of the darkness…” his lips curved faintly, “…then I’ll keep you safe inside it.”
Then he pulled back. Without touching you. Without kissing you. But what he left behind… was heavier than a kiss.
He turned away, walking slowly toward the church exit; his coat brushed the stone floor as his silhouette passed through the stained-glass light and dissolved into shadow.
There was still silence in your earpiece. Bruce didn’t say a word. He only waited.
When you were alone in the church, you headed for the door and stepped outside; the evening light hit your eyes. Down the road, the black car was still parked.
As you approached, Bruce was at the wheel. His face was half in shadow.
When you closed the door of the black car, the cold that had seeped from the church’s stone walls still clung to you; the red light of the stained glass flickered behind your eyes, and Crane’s breath lingered in your mind along with the warm ghost it had left on your cheek. Bruce sat behind the wheel, his hands resting on the leather too calmly, too controlled; but beneath that control, you could see how tense his muscles were, how white his knuckles had become. The engine started, the car moved forward slowly, yet the silence inside was heavier than the hum of the road; his silence wasn’t an absence, it was a choice. Bruce Wayne sometimes said more by remaining quiet, and today that silence settled between you like a blade sharper than words.
As the city lights streamed past the window, you watched his profile; his jaw was set, his eyes fixed on the road, yet you could feel that his mind was elsewhere. He had heard Crane lean close to you in the church, had listened to his whispers, but he hadn’t said a word; now the echo of that moment lingered inside the car. Bruce’s jealousy didn’t explode like anger — it condensed inward like pressure; he was trying to think like a strategist, to analyze the emotion, to keep himself under control. But control did not always mean the absence of feeling; sometimes it was only its postponement.
“I told you to call him,” he said at last, his voice low and measured, as if he were discussing only the plan, not what had just happened. “He’s the only bridge we have to reach Strange.” His sentences were logical, perfectly placed; yet the tension beneath his tone pointed elsewhere. His grip on the steering wheel tightened slightly, his eyes flicked toward you for a brief second before returning to the road. “He didn’t need to get that close to you,” he added, stepping outside the boundaries of strategy.
Your breath caught slightly; you hadn’t expected him to say it so directly. “He didn’t,” you replied carefully, choosing your words. “He only talked.” The sentence was true, but incomplete; what it lacked was the tension of that moment, his breath against your face, the way your body had frozen. Bruce’s brows knit faintly; he wasn’t accusing you, but he was trying to complete a picture in his mind. “I heard the way he looked at you,” he said, his voice more personal now, more exposed. “And I didn’t like it.”
The air inside the car grew heavier; Bruce Wayne usually analyzed what he disliked with cold composure, but this time analysis and emotion were intertwined. In that moment he wasn’t seeing Crane merely as a threat, nor you as a piece in an equation; he saw you as a woman, as a bond, as something that could be lost. “Since your internship began…” he said slowly, weighing the words, “is there something between you and him that you haven’t told me?” The question wasn’t accusatory, but it was wounded; it walked that thin line between wanting to know and fearing the answer.
Your heart tightened because there was something he didn’t know — though not in the way he imagined; you had no awareness of the words Crane had planted in your mind, but not every moment of the therapy had felt entirely innocent to you either. “It was only therapy,” you said, meeting his gaze. “About the puppets.” Bruce nodded faintly; he knew it was therapy, his mind accepted that, but another voice inside him remained uneasy. “You could have told me,” he said, this time softer. “You didn’t have to be alone with your fears.”
There was something heavier than jealousy in that sentence: a sense of being left out. Bruce was used to protecting you, to standing beside you in your weakest moments; but the fact that another man — Jonathan Crane of all people — had touched your fears unsettled him. That discomfort was less about possession and more about lateness; the quiet ache of not having been there in a certain moment. “Don’t let him get close to you,” he said finally, his voice controlled again, though a crack ran through it. “We can move against Strange together. We can plan. But Crane… he’s someone who doesn’t recognize boundaries.” He paused briefly, as if he knew he shouldn’t continue. “And I’m not leaving you inside that line.”
As the car approached the gates of the manor, the conversation wasn’t finished — it had only sunk deeper; Bruce’s jealousy was like a fire held under control, from the outside only warmth was visible, but inside the flames were rising silently. The possibility of losing you, Crane’s gaze, the small fragments of doubt that had gathered since the first day of your internship — they had all melted into the same crucible. And Bruce Wayne, carrying both Batman’s cold intelligence and a man’s fragile heart at once, without looking at you yet feeling your presence in every cell of his body, thought this: the war between protecting you and setting you free might be the hardest battle he had ever faced.
Location: Abandoned Mausoleum belonging to the Wayne Family
Time: Midnight
When the door of the Wayne family mausoleum opened, even the air that slipped inside felt aged — heavy with damp, stone, and forgotten grief. As you stepped in, the sound of your footsteps echoed beneath the domed ceiling, returning to you as though rising from between the tombs themselves. This wasn’t just a family burial site — it was the frozen heart of Bruce’s past.
Sarcophagi lined the walls; the old engravings of the Wayne name carved into their marble surfaces flickered under candlelight, the shadows making the letters seem alive. Stone statues — ancestors of the Wayne lineage — stood with heads slightly bowed, eyes fixed into emptiness, like silent witnesses observing the meeting. The long stone table at the center, usually meant for prayer offerings, had been transformed tonight into a war council.
And he stood at the center of this darkness.
Batman.
His tall black silhouette was motionless before the tombs; his cape touched the ground, candlelight carving sharp lines across his mask. When he turned his gaze toward you, there was more than operational composure in it — there was the inner tension of having brought you here.
James Gordon stood to the right side of the table; thick case files, photographs, and maps were spread open before him. The exhaustion etched into his face deepened under the light. Charlotte Rivers stood at the opposite end — her journalist’s instinct scanning not only the criminal implications of the room, but the emotional tension flowing through it.
When the door opened a third time, Jonathan Crane stepped inside.
He walked slowly, studying the space — the stone walls, the sarcophagi, the carved Wayne names. This place was a traumatic sanctuary for Bruce; Crane could feel it. Then his gaze found you. Not Gordon. Not Batman. You. His eyes lingered for only a second — but that second was deeply personal. Then he shifted his attention to the table as if nothing had happened, analytical composure settling over him again — though something more private lingered beneath it.
“Gathering in the midst of death…” he said slowly. “Strategic… as much as it is symbolic.”
Batman opened the discussion.
“Hugo Strange is at the center of the investigation,” he said. His voice echoed across the mausoleum’s stone walls, deep and authoritative. “Missing patients. Illegal experiments. Financial record manipulation.”
Crane inclined his head slightly, listening without interruption. Then he spoke.
“The purpose of the experiments isn’t treatment,” he said. “Not to erase fear… but to weaponize it.”
Gordon opened a file.
“The evidence we have so far is circumstantial,” he said. “Without the exact lab location, experiment records, financial chain… we can’t file charges.”
Crane was about to speak when Batman turned slightly toward you — you felt the masked gaze signal you.
You were meant to provide the information.
You steadied your breath.
“The primary facility where Strange’s experiments are conducted,” you said, “is beneath Gotham. In the old infrastructure tunnels connected to Arkham.”
Charlotte lifted her head.
“How far beneath?”
“In the convergence zone of the city’s abandoned metro and service lines,” you continued. “A network erased from maps.”
Batman added a single phrase:
“The Forgotten Tunnels.”
At the words, Gordon’s face hardened.
“Getting in there is nearly impossible,” he said. “Even the maps are incomplete.”
Charlotte spoke up. “If I publish this,” she said, glancing at her notebook, “the city will erupt. But the Wayne Foundation will burn with it.”
Batman turned to her. “I’m here to protect the Foundation.” His voice was clear. Cold. But you knew the man behind the mask — this wasn’t just institutional defense; it was a reflex to protect his family’s legacy.
Crane’s brow lifted slightly. “So you already knew the location,” he said, looking at Batman.
Batman answered without delay.
“I learned it from her — it was in the report she found in your lab.” He inclined his head slightly toward you.
The power balance in the room shifted.
You were the source of the intelligence. Crane looked at you for a long moment, impossible to read. What he was truly processing now was that your real target might be him. And that realization… fed the darker motivations already forming in his mind.
Charlotte stepped closer to the table. “If this is accurate… Strange’s experiments aren’t just a medical scandal. This is a city-scale criminal network.”
Crane reached into the inner pocket of his coat. He placed a small black USB drive onto the table. Candlelight flickered across its metal surface. “Your real task is to expose the information inside this device,” he said, then continued, “A journalist’s golden key — and it found you.”
Charlotte picked up the USB. “What is this?”
“Strange’s experimental budgets,” Crane said. “I traced the expenditures. Proof the funds never passed through the Wayne Foundation.”
Charlotte’s gaze sharpened. “Source?”
Crane smiled faintly.
“Encrypted email chains. Orders issued through false identities. Experiment directives. All routed through Strange’s own network.”
Gordon closed the file.
“This… opens an official investigation.”
Silence settled over the chamber.
Charlotte added:
“If I publish this, the city will erupt.”
Batman’s voice cut through — cold, precise:
“That’s exactly the point. To divide his attention.”
Crane spoke again, without taking his eyes off you:
“Strange’s interest is no longer limited to me.”
The sentence hung in the air.
Batman’s shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly.
Crane continued, still looking at you:
“There’s a new name on his target list.”
The candle flames in the mausoleum trembled. And you felt, in that moment, that this meeting was not just the planning of an operation…but the beginning of a war with you at its center.
As Crane’s words — “There’s a new name on the target list” — echoed beneath the stone dome of the mausoleum, the candle flames seemed to tremble under the weight of that sentence.
Gordon was the first to recover. “Who?” he asked sharply.
Crane didn’t answer. His eyes remained fixed only on you. The silence said more than any word could.
Charlotte noticed it. She looked at you first, then at Crane, and finally at the figure behind the mask — Batman. Her journalistic instinct had already begun reading the invisible currents moving through the room. “Is there something else that isn’t being said here?” she asked.
The question landed on the table like a blade. No one answered immediately.
Batman’s gaze locked onto Crane; his face was hidden behind the mask, but the tension in his shoulders showed even through the folds of his cape.
Crane smiled — a thin, provocative smile. “I can say that Strange has taken… a special interest in certain subjects,” he said. “Especially those with high mental resistance potential.”
Gordon cut in. “Let’s stay on topic.” He spread a map across the table — Gotham’s underground infrastructure plans, marked heavily in red.
“There are three entry points into the Forgotten Tunnels,” he said. “But all of them are either collapsed or being monitored.”
Batman spoke:
“We’re going in anyway.”
Charlotte lifted her head. “If the press finds out—”
“They won’t,” Batman said.
Gordon frowned. “This is a suicide mission.”
Silence followed.
When you spoke, your voice was calmer than you expected.
“I’m coming too.”
All three men turned to you at once.
Gordon objected immediately. “Absolutely not.”
Batman said nothing, but you felt his stare harden.
Crane, however… smiled faintly. “That would be interesting,” he said softly. “Observing her mental resistance in the field.”
Batman’s voice came out sharper this time:
“This isn’t observation. It’s an operation.”
Crane shrugged. “Same thing.”
Charlotte spoke again, but this time her voice sounded less like a journalist and more like a woman: “Do we have to put her at risk?”
With that sentence, Charlotte’s gaze locked directly onto you for the first time — measuring, weighing, comparing.
A brief silence fell.
Batman finally spoke: “No.”
It was a single word, but it cut the discussion in half.
Crane tilted his head slightly. “Even so… if Strange has already targeted her,” he said, his eyes returning to you, “keeping her out won’t protect her.”
That sentence changed the air.
Gordon closed the file. “The operation will be in two phases,” he said. “Recon first. Then intervention.”
Charlotte lifted the USB drive.
“I’ll analyze this data. Spending chains, forged emails, financial links… we can dismantle Strange in the court of public opinion.”
Batman gave a short nod. “Be fast.”
The meeting began to disperse.
Gordon gathered his files. Charlotte put on her coat. Both of them headed for the door.
But you didn’t leave.
Crane didn’t leave either.
Batman hadn’t moved from his place at all.
When the heavy door of the mausoleum closed behind Gordon and Charlotte, the silence that remained wasn’t merely environmental — it was the kind of silence where three different heartbeats, three different intentions, collided in the same darkness, where tension gained physical weight. Candle flames cast trembling shadows across the stone walls, and the sarcophagi of the Wayne family rose like silent witnesses to the scene.
The three of you were alone.
Crane spoke first.
He didn’t raise his voice; he lowered it — as though speaking loudly in this place would disturb the dead.
“You’re not taking her into the field,” he said to Batman.
But his eyes weren’t locked on the mask.
They were locked on you.
That gaze… wasn’t the gaze of someone who wanted to protect — it was the gaze of someone who wanted to possess.
Batman didn’t answer.
His cape shifted slightly; you saw the tension tighten across his shoulders, though his face remained buried in shadow.
Crane stepped forward. His footsteps echoed against the stone floor and up into the mausoleum’s dome. “You want to protect her,” he said softly. “But the darkness has already found her.”
This time Batman’s voice came — low, sharp, barely restrained. “Watch your distance, Crane. ”It was a warning. And a line drawn in stone.
Crane stopped. He smiled. “I didn’t even touch her.”
The sentence carried the ghost of that moment in the church into the mausoleum’s cold air. That second when you hadn’t stepped back… the closeness of his breath against your face… it all seemed to exist again.
Batman’s jaw hardened.
He said nothing — but you saw his gloved fingers slowly curl, the leather creaking loud enough to reach the stone walls.
The silence grew heavier. And standing between them, you felt it in your bones — this tension wasn’t only about Strange anymore… it was becoming a darker, more personal war growing between the two men.
You steadied your breath. You couldn’t stay silent. You felt you had to be the one to speak. “I’m joining the operation,” you said. Your words echoed through the mausoleum.
Batman didn’t turn immediately, but you felt the gaze behind the mask shift toward you. “No,” he said, short and final. That tone… the one you’d known for years — the one he used when he was trying to protect you. And this time, it made you angry.
You stepped slightly toward Crane’s side — a deliberate, measured, unmistakable move. “This is my war too,” you said. “Strange’s experiments, the patients in Arkham… I was at the center of all of it.”
Crane was watching you — attentively, with quiet satisfaction.
“This isn’t only about Strange for me,” you continued. “This is… the name of the Wayne Foundation. A legacy that belongs to Bruce’s family. And I—” You hesitated. But you didn’t step back. “I owe that name.”
The moment that word fell into the air, everything changed.
Owe.
Behind the mask, Bruce Wayne’s inner world fractured around that single word. Because to him, you were never: A responsibility that had to be protected. A burden that had to be repaid. Someone bound by a debt of gratitude. The only reason he kept you close, protected you, made space for you… was unconditional love. And now you were calling it a debt.
Batman said nothing. But his silence grew heavier. His shoulders tightened. His gloved fingers slowly curled around the edge of his cape. This wasn’t just anger — it was hurt.
You didn’t see it. But Crane did. Of course he did. He had been analyzing Batman with clinical precision ever since the Riddler claimed that Batman was Bruce Wayne. And because he was impatiently waiting for the day Riddler would be proven right, he never hesitated to slip into any crack he found.
“High sense of responsibility,” Crane said softly. “That… is a valuable trait.” He stepped closer to you — slower this time, more measured. “Keeping her away from the field won’t protect her,” he said, looking at Batman, though there was warmth in his tone directed at you. “Preparing her will.”
With that sentence, you felt yourself unintentionally positioned beside Crane.
Batman’s gaze hardened. The silence stretched. Candle flames trembled.
Finally Batman spoke — but not to you. Into the air. “This isn’t a mission.”
He stepped closer. Now the distance between you was dangerously thin. The shadow of his mask fell across your face. “This… is a line you don’t come back from.”
You felt the warmth of his breath. But you didn’t step back. “I already crossed that line,” you said. “The moment Strange learned I’d been secretly searching his lab.”
A brief silence followed.
Crane was watching the tension — like a scientist observing two different species of fear colliding.
At last Batman stepped back. But the movement wasn’t approval — it was restraint, an act to prevent losing control.
He stayed silent. And in that silence, you felt something shift: Even if he didn’t take you into the operation… He couldn’t stop you anymore.
As the candlelight of the mausoleum flickered, the gazes of the two men met on you again.
One wanted to keep you away from the darkness.
The other… wanted to claim you within it.
And you stood between them.
---
At four in the morning, the corridors of Wayne Manor felt less like the interior of a living residence and more like the inside of a monument holding its breath; the paintings on the walls were swallowed by darkness, and the crystal chandeliers no longer gave light, only the quiet awareness of their presence. When Bruce climbed the stairs with heavy steps, his footsteps didn’t echo across the marble floor — as if the manor itself refused to disturb his exhaustion, swallowing the sound. When he noticed your door slightly ajar, he paused; the faint draft from inside revealed the window was open. Without pushing the door further, he stepped in — and saw you, your back turned to the window, motionless like a night that refused to give way to dawn.
You hadn’t heard him arrive; your mind was occupied by another possibility, tying Bruce’s late return to Charlotte, imagining — unwillingly — that he might be with her. You had tried to suppress the thought, but jealousy sometimes overpowered reason; that was why your fingers gripping the window ledge were tense. Bruce watched you for a moment — not just looking, studying; he remembered your stance at the meeting, your resolve in the mausoleum, the dark spark in your eyes when Strange’s name had been spoken. He had wanted to keep you outside this world, but now he realized that was no longer possible — perhaps it never had been.
“You didn’t sleep.”
His voice came from behind you, and your shoulders flinched slightly; you turned slowly. He stood by the door, tie loosened, jacket still on; tired, yet his gaze was alive — not hardening when it landed on you, but deepening. He took a few steps forward, slow but deliberate, as if making one last calculation about whether to approach you or not.
“At the meeting…” he said, his eyes fixed on your face, “…you were very resolute.”
There was unhidden pride in his voice; this wasn’t praise directed at a colleague, but at someone he had raised. “You didn’t step back when Gordon spoke. You weighed Crane’s words. You didn’t avert your eyes when Strange’s name came up.” A brief pause. “You were brave.”
A faint shadow touched the corner of your lips. “You raised me,” you said quietly. “You shouldn’t be surprised.”
The sentence lingered in the room; Bruce’s gaze softened, but then drifted to the window — the same window. Both your minds were pulled to the same memory: the night you had said you would give up the Wayne surname. You had stood there, back turned to him, drawing a sharp line between you. That window had witnessed your first great fracture; now you stood at the edge of another turning point.
“I heard what you said tonight in the mausoleum,” he said at last, his voice lower. “Debt.”
When he repeated the single word, there was no harshness in his tone — only a fragile weight.
“I don’t want you to see yourself as indebted to me… or to this family.” He stepped closer; the distance between you narrowed. “The reason I keep you beside me isn’t gratitude.”
Your eyes turned to him. “But that’s how it feels,” you admitted honestly. “I lived under that name. I grew up in that house. When I said I might leave it one day… it felt like betrayal.” Your fingers slipped from the window ledge, replaced by a hesitation hanging in the air. “That’s why I want to be worthy. Of this life. Of this name. Of you.”
Bruce was silent for a long moment; the silence wasn’t anger, but the effort of placing emotion into the right words. He lifted his hand hesitantly, then brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The touch was light, but he didn’t withdraw; his fingers lingered against your cheek for a moment too long — at the border between tenderness and something more restrained.
“You were never a debt,” he said. “And you never will be.”
The certainty in his voice was as deep as the night beyond the window.
He watched you for a while; his gaze moved over your face, carrying not only emotion but a protective analysis. “Tonight…” he began, then stopped before finishing the sentence. He didn’t say it directly, but the implication hung in the air — Crane standing close to you in the mausoleum, his gaze, the possessive tone in his voice.
“Some people,” he said at last, choosing his words carefully, “interpret boundaries differently.”
It was a sentence spoken without naming anyone, yet its meaning was unmistakable.
“Seeing you in the field… divides me in two,” he continued. “One part of me sees how strong you stand there. The other… doesn’t want to think of you on the same line as everyone else in that world.”
He stepped closer; the space between you shrank to a breath. When the warmth of his hand touched your arm, the contact wasn’t accidental; it wasn’t to pull you back, but to keep you near.
“I want to protect you,” he said quietly. “But not by underestimating you.” A brief pause; his gaze locked onto yours. “And I won’t allow anyone to measure you by the way they think they can get close to you.”
Jealousy didn’t shout in that sentence, but it ran deep; Bruce Wayne’s possessiveness was never loud — it was quiet and absolute. His fingers slid from your arm to your wrist, the touch still controlled, not crossing the line but making its presence known.
“Once you step into this world, there’s no going back,” he said. “I can’t hide that from you.” Then his voice softened, cracked but didn’t break. “But I’m afraid of losing you inside it.”
You stood before the window — the very place where you had once said you would walk away from him — now defending your choice to walk into the darkness beside him. In Bruce’s gaze, two men existed at once: the one who wanted to keep you away from this life, and the one who could no longer deny how strong you stood within it. And in that gaze, even unspoken, one truth pressed down with full weight:
He wanted to protect you. But he knew now… he could no longer stop you.
Candlelight struck the stone walls and returned in wavering echoes; the circular chamber beneath the city felt like a courtroom untouched for centuries. Perhaps night was beginning to loosen its grip above Gotham, but down here there was no passage of time — only decisions, only sealed fates. The figures seated around the long marble table were motionless, each of them having left behind identity, status, even humanity behind the mask of an owl. Authority filled the room before a single word was spoken; this chamber carried power long before it carried sound.
The newspaper placed upon the table landed like a gavel strike against stone.
The front page was opened.
“DARKNESS BENEATH ARKHAM.”
The headline trembled in the candlelight; when a pale shaft of light filtered down across the page, the ink looked less like print and more like blood. One of the masked figures drew the paper closer — not with fingertips, but with the slow deliberation of someone touching something that already belonged to them.
“It has surfaced,” a muffled voice said.
Another figure leaned forward; the darkness inside the eye sockets fell over the page.
“Earlier than expected.”
The silence that followed was brief but heavy. None of them panicked — Owls did not panic. They calculated, and then they countered.
A subheading was read aloud:
“Young intern…”
That word shifted the balance of the room.
One mask tilted slightly. “From inside.”
“Not an observer,” another corrected. “A witness.”
The paper was pushed back to the center of the table. The phrase Forgotten Tunnels, the insinuations toward elite families, the financial chains — each detail was examined without emotion. There was no outrage, no surprise. Only risk assessment.
Then the eldest among them spoke. His voice was calmer than the rest — because power did not need to raise itself.
“The laboratory will be cleared.”
Another added:
“The files will be relocated.”
A third:
“Connections will be severed.”
The decisions followed one after another, delivered with ceremonial gravity. Strange’s name was not spoken directly, but everyone knew what was required. This was not about saving a man — it was about preserving a system.
Silence settled again.
One of the masks reopened the newspaper. A finger stopped on a single line:
“…the intern’s safety is among the most critical concerns.”
For the first time, the air in the chamber shifted.
“Safety,” a low voice repeated. “So they are afraid.”
Another inclined his head slightly. “They should be.”
This silence lasted longer. The decision was not yet named, but its shape was forming. The Owls never rushed — they studied their prey, learned its habits, and struck in a single, decisive motion.
At last, the figure at the head of the table lifted his gaze.
“The witness…”
The word hung in the air.
“…will she continue to see?”
The question did not seek an answer; it initiated a procedure.
One of the masks dipped faintly — whether in approval or simple acknowledgment, it was impossible to tell.
The candle flames trembled in unison.
“Watch her,” the elder voice said.
A brief pause.
“Do not approach… not yet.”
That yet was the coldest thing in the room.
The newspaper was folded closed.
The headline showed one final time before sinking back into shadow.
The meeting did not adjourn — the Owls did not disperse. They simply receded into darkness.
And as dawn rose over Gotham, a decision had already been made beneath it.
Summary: They were two strangers — together, yet alone, drawing closer each time they loved, only to wound each other a little more with every closeness. And so their bond swayed between tenderness and ruin; even when they held each other, they were falling, and even when they made love, they were grieving. Like two people who tasted both honey and poison from the same lips, they did not heal one another — yet neither could they let go.
🚬 Warnings: +18, MDNI, Distrust & paranoia, Obsessive!Cillian, Jealousy, Gaslighting-adjacent dynamics (implicit), Physical violence (mutual bruising / marks), Loss of control during conflicts, Sexuality intertwined with psychological tension, Grief (loss of a child patient), Unhealthy marriage, Codependent attachment, Toxic relationship, Themes to Avoid: Romanticizing Abuse: The relationship is not depicted as a healthy or ideal romance. This is a story about control, manipulation, and the toxic behaviors that arise within it. It does not glorify Cillian's and Y/N's actions but rather highlights the consequences of an abusive relationship. English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional.
Word count: +10k
Gifs by @rickys-crypt Banner by @strangergraphics
There was a silence unique to night shifts; when the hurried footsteps, unspoken fears, and rapid conversations that clung to hospital corridors during the day receded, what remained was only the rhythmic breathing of machines and the dull white glow of fluorescent lights seeping through closed eyelids. Cillian liked this silence — or at least, he could tolerate it — because it was controllable; the steady beeping of monitors, the intermittent drip of IV lines, the measured rasp of ventilators… all of it was measurable, predictable, intervenable. Human life was fragile, but here, in these rooms, even fragility obeyed protocol.
When he pushed open the glass doors of the intensive care unit, a reflexive gentleness settled over his shoulders; his voice lowered, his steps softened, his gaze shed its edge. You couldn’t approach anyone here with sudden movements — fear echoed far faster in children than in adults. As he walked between the small beds, he glanced at each monitor in passing, silently counting the rhythm of the readings in his mind: heart rate, oxygen saturation, blood pressure… each was a number, but also a story. Some climbed, some fell, some went silent without warning.
When he sat at the bedside, the little girl’s eyes were open. She stared at the ceiling with the glass-thin gaze of sleeplessness. Her tiny wrist, threaded with IV tubing, was barely visible beneath its bandage. Cillian pulled the chair closer, slowing his movements deliberately; to avoid frightening her, he used only his voice at first.
“Can’t you sleep?”
The girl turned her head slightly. That familiar expression lingered in her eyes — fear born less from pain than from uncertainty. Cillian checked his gloves, then leaned in, resting an elbow lightly on the mattress edge; his voice had dropped to nearly a whisper.
“If you’d like, I can tell you a story. Everyone here asks for one when they can’t sleep.”
Her lips moved faintly. Consent, or simply exhaustion — it wasn’t difficult to tell. When children were afraid, they preferred listening to speaking. He placed his hand on the edge of the bed, not touching her, just close enough for her to feel he was there.
As he began inventing the story, his voice softened further; he spoke of a lost lighthouse, of a small ship trying to find its way, of a place that never lost its light even in the heart of a storm. The rhythm of the story was intentional — almost aligned with the tempo of the heart monitor; each sentence a beep, each pause a breath.
When the girl’s fingers loosened against the blanket, Cillian slowly brought the story to a close. Her eyelids grew heavy, her breathing syncing with the ventilator’s rhythm. He always watched that moment carefully — the moment of crossing into sleep — because it was the moment fear left the body.
As he stood, he realized he was unconsciously clenching his left hand. His thumb was turning his ring. The gold band caught the fluorescent light with a dull glint; hospital lighting made nothing romantic — even the ring looked less like jewelry and more like a simple circle of metal. Yet he still felt its weight — not on his finger, but somewhere deeper.
He didn’t remove it as he walked down the corridor; he never did. Not while putting on gloves, not while washing his hands, not even while assisting in surgeries. It felt as if the moment he took it off, something would unravel, a bond would loosen — and he either didn’t want that loosening, or he was afraid of it.
When he pushed open the locker room door with his shoulder, the weary emptiness of the night shift greeted him; the cold faces of metal lockers, the half-dim lighting, the antiseptic smell soaked into the walls… The hospital was silent here too, but not the controlled silence of intensive care — this one was more personal, more exposed.
He opened his locker.
Inside were spare shirts, folded scrubs, and on the lower shelf a black shirt tossed carelessly aside. When he bent to pick it up, he saw the dark stain on the fabric — dried, turned brown with age. It caught the light like a dull crust.
For a moment, he didn’t touch it.
He only looked.
In intensive care, blood meant intervention. It meant the possibility of saving someone. It meant procedure.
But this stain… wasn’t sterile.
His thumb drifted back to his ring, turning the metal band slowly, absently. His knuckles blanched faintly.
Knowing that the hands he used in the hospital were the same hands he used at home — that was a thought no protocol could regulate.
He didn’t close the locker right away.
He looked once more at the shirt, then at his ring.
And for the first time that night, he thought about how immeasurable his life was outside the controllable silence of intensive care.
---
The air inside the studio was, as always, metallic and dense; the antiseptic smell mingling with fresh ink, burnt skin, and cheap coffee created that familiar atmosphere that unsettled first-timers but calmed Y/N’s nervous system in a strange, almost ritualistic way. Fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling in a harsh white glare, polishing the steel workstations and sterile needle packs with operating-room coldness — yet under that light, Y/N never looked clinical. If anything, it made her pallor more dramatic, her gaze more shadowed.
Half-reclined in her chair, she extended her cigarette out through the studio’s open back door, blowing the smoke into the night instead of the room. Her hair was tousled from running her hands through it all day, its natural waves falling past her shoulders. Her mascara wasn’t as sharp as it had been that morning — it had smudged slightly beneath her eyes, giving her that sleepless, careless, faintly shady expression. She hadn’t wiped it away on purpose; perfection had never been part of her aesthetic. When her beauty unraveled, she looked more real — more touchable.
The layered black outfit she wore fractured the light with shifting textures as she moved; sheer striped fabric revealed hints of her pale skin, while the asymmetrical skirt concealed one leg as it exposed the other when she walked. The thin tie wrapped around her neck tightened subtly with each breath, creating an unconscious tension in those who watched her — Y/N liked feeling people’s eyes on her, but she never looked back. She always reversed the power dynamic.
“I’m ready,” she said when the client sat in the chair.
Her voice was calm but carried no warmth — professional, distant, faintly mocking. As she pulled on her gloves, she flexed her fingers slowly. When she picked up the machine, its vibration crawled up through her bones — for her it wasn’t just the sound of work; it was a pulse that sharpened her focus.
When the needle first touched skin, the client held their breath. Y/N tilted her head slightly; her hair slipped forward over her shoulder. Her eyes were half-lidded, as if what she was drawing wasn’t a tattoo but a thought. She never denied the sense of control that came with leaving permanent marks on human skin — some called it art. She was more honest:
Leaving a mark meant not being forgotten.
As the hours passed, the studio emptied. The buzzing of machines faded, lights clicked off one by one. When Y/N stood before the mirror, she studied her face for a long moment; the mascara had run further now, thin black shadows settling beneath her eyes. She tried wiping it away with her thumb but didn’t clean it fully — only smudged it more.
She liked the aesthetic of imperfection.
She didn’t take her jacket; the night was cold, but she liked feeling cold. When she locked the door and stepped into the street, the city’s noise had already thinned — a few passing cars, a distant siren, solitary footsteps echoing along the pavement. The thick soles of her shoes struck the asphalt slowly; there was an intentional slowness to her walk. She wasn’t in a hurry to go home — home had never been a place of rest for her.
Climbing the apartment stairs, she pulled her keys from her pocket — but when she reached the door, she paused for a few seconds. There were no lights inside; she could feel it even through the seam of the door. The silence seeped from the other side like a presence.
She slid the key into the lock.
Opened the door slowly.
The apartment was dark — but not entirely. From the depth of the living room, city light spilling through the window carved out a silhouette.
Cillian.
He was sitting on the couch.
Not moving.
Just watching.
Y/N closed the door behind her; the click of the lock echoed louder than it should have in the empty apartment. She didn’t speak at first; she let her bag slip from her shoulder, nudged the door shut with the tip of her shoe. The layers of fabric she wore rustled as she walked — the sound felt strangely intimate in the dark.
She could feel the weight of his gaze on her, but she didn’t look at him right away; she ran her fingers through her hair, exposing her neck, her mascara still deliberately unsmudged — deliberately imperfect.
Finally, she turned her eyes to him.
Cillian’s face remained in shadow, but she could make out the hardness in his gaze — nothing of the gentleness he carried in the hospital remained. The silence between them held that familiar tension before a fight — thin, sharp, inevitable.
The corner of Y/N’s lips curled slightly.
She didn’t apologize.
Didn’t explain.
She only looked at him. And in that moment, they both knew — the night was only just beginning.
Cillian was still sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together, head slightly bowed but his eyes fixed upward on her. She knew that look; the softness he wore in the hospital was completely gone, replaced by that darker gaze that measured, weighed, judged.
She didn’t take off her shoes.
Didn’t put her bag down either.
She just took a few steps and stopped in the middle of the living room; the sheer layers of fabric she wore rustled faintly, the sound echoing with an intimacy that felt almost indecent in the dark. She could feel Cillian’s gaze sliding down from her shoulders — from the disarray of her hair to the tie at her neck, then lower, to the pale skin beneath translucent fabric.
Then Cillian spoke.
His voice was low — but not calm.
“Your perfume’s different.”
Y/N tilted her head slightly, a thin smile curving one corner of her lips; she didn’t explain, didn’t deny — just shrugged. That indifference was the first match thrown into dry tinder.
“Whose was it?” Cillian asked this time, lifting his head.
Y/N finally set her bag down on the table, slowly gathered her hair at the nape of her neck, then let it fall again — she wasn’t buying time; she was prolonging it deliberately.
“I was at the studio,” she said flatly.
Cillian stood.
The movement wasn’t sudden — but it was decisive. The distance between them closed in a few steps. Y/N didn’t retreat; she held her ground, lifting her chin slightly — a reflex of defiance.
“That’s not studio smell,” Cillian said.
The air between them had shifted now; their voices were still low, but the tension was thick enough to touch. Cillian stepped closer, leaning toward her hair as if to confirm the scent — and what surged through Y/N in that moment wasn’t fear, but a trembling laced with anger, almost electrical.
“Since when did you earn the right to question me?” Y/N said, her voice now sharp.
Cillian’s jaw tightened.
“The day we got married.”
That single sentence cut through the air.
Y/N laughed — short, mocking, devoid of warmth.
“Being married doesn’t mean ownership.”
Cillian’s hand moved to her arm almost involuntarily — not violent, but firm; a grip that didn’t release. Y/N jerked her arm back on reflex, the push now mutual. The distance between them collapsed, then snapped open again.
“Let me go,” Y/N said through her teeth.
But Cillian didn’t.
Only for a few seconds — but those few seconds were enough; Y/N’s sharp shove with her shoulder didn’t unbalance him, but it forced him back. She pushed again, harder this time. His hand swung outward — and struck her face.
It wasn’t a deliberate slap.
But the result didn’t change.
The sound was small.
The impact wasn’t.
Y/N’s head snapped to the side, hair falling across her face. For a moment, she said nothing. Then she felt a thin warmth slip from the corner of her lip — she touched it with her tongue, tasted the metallic tang.
Blood.
Cillian froze.
Truly froze — his breath stalled mid-air, his gaze locked on the red at her mouth. The anger from moments ago dissolved, replaced first by shock, then by that familiar guilt that followed close behind.
“Y/N…” he whispered.
He lifted his hand, as if to touch her lip — but hesitated just before contact. Y/N raised her head, her eyes dark, mascara fully smudged now, her gaze almost alien.
Still, he touched her.
He wiped the blood away with his thumb. And that touch was not the moment the fight ended — but the moment it turned into something else.
Cillian leaned in — slowly, hesitantly, but without retreat — when his lips met hers, it felt less like a kiss and more like a loss of control; suspended between apology and desire, neither fully gentle nor fully possessive.
Y/N didn’t react for a second.
Then suddenly she shoved him away.
Hard.
“I hate you!” she shouted, her voice trembling now — whether from anger or something else was impossible to tell.
She stumbled backward, wiping the blood from her lip with her sleeve, smearing her mascara further.
“Don’t touch me… don’t you ever touch me…”
She turned and rushed toward the bathroom, slamming the door shut. The lock clicked from inside.
Cillian didn’t remain right at the door — he stopped a few steps back, his breathing still uneven.
From inside the bathroom came the sound of running water.
Then Y/N’s voice — muffled, shaking, but still furious:
“I hate you! Do you hear me? I’m leaving you… this time I’m really leaving you!”
Cillian didn’t answer.
He didn’t approach the door.
He just stood there in the dark hallway, fingers drifting involuntarily to his left hand — slowly turning his wedding ring.
The first knock on the bathroom door was light — almost hesitant; stripped of the controlled certainty Cillian usually carried, it sounded more like a quiet I’m here than a demand to be let in.
Y/N was gripping the edge of the sink, her head bowed, watching the thin red line dilute beneath the running water. As the blood mixed with her mascara, it left a murky shadow across the porcelain basin. Her breathing was uneven, but it hadn’t broken into sobs yet — she was holding the tears back, because in her mind, crying meant weakness.
The knock came again.
“Y/N…” Cillian said, his voice muffled through the door. “I’m sorry.”
She didn’t lift her head.
“Go,” she said.
Short. Sharp. Closed.
“Open the door… I need to look at it—”
“I said go!” she shouted this time, her voice cracking between anger and tears. “Leave me alone!”
Silence lingered on the other side of the door for a few seconds. Y/N turned off the water and pressed fresh cotton to her lip, but the more she pressed, the sharper the sting became. When she looked at her reflection, she saw how badly her mascara had run, black shadows pooling beneath her eyes. The blood at the corner of her mouth looked too vivid against her pale face.
Cillian spoke again.
“I want to come in,” he said — lower now, but more resolved. “I want to… make this right.”
Y/N laughed — a short, trembling, fractured sound.
“Make it right?” she whispered, then her voice rose. “You say the same thing every time! I want to make it right… I’m sorry… it won’t happen again…”
She threw the cotton into the sink.
“And it does! It always does!”
The doorknob jerked sharply.
The lock didn’t turn — but the door strained. It resisted for a second, then gave under Cillian’s weight; the lock hadn’t fully set. Y/N flinched, stepping back, but she didn’t shout this time — she just held her breath.
When Cillian stepped inside, the narrow bathroom seemed to shrink instantly; his presence wasn’t only physical — it filled the air.
He didn’t speak at first.
His eyes went straight to her lip, then to their reflections in the mirror.
He moved as if the fight had never happened.
He picked up fresh cotton from the sink, opened the cabinet, and pulled out antiseptic solution, gauze, small metal scissors — all with the reflexive precision of the hospital.
Y/N tried to step back, but his hand caught her wrist — not harsh, just firm enough to stop her escape.
“Stay,” he said quietly.
He soaked the cotton, then lifted her chin between two fingers. Y/N’s breath hitched — the touch was clinical, professional… but the distance between them wasn’t; their breaths mingled in the small space.
When the damp cotton touched her lip, it stung lightly. She clenched her teeth but made no sound. Cillian cleaned the blood slowly, carefully; each movement lingered longer than necessary, as if he were trying to wipe away not just the wound, but the eruption between them.
Then his gaze shifted.
To her neck.
To the bruises visible beneath the sheer fabric.
Marks from old fights — yellowing at the edges, some still dark. His fingers moved there involuntarily, pausing just before contact… then his thumb brushed lightly over one.
Y/N’s body trembled at the touch.
Not from pain.
From recognition.
And in that moment, tears slipped from her eyes — silent, uncontrolled, like a release she hadn’t noticed beginning. When Cillian saw it, he didn’t pull his hand away; if anything, his touch softened, no longer tending a wound but resting against her skin.
She turned her head slightly — but didn’t pull back.
Their reflections aligned in the mirror — her smeared mascara, his focused gaze.
And that image triggered another memory in her mind.
A hospital corridor.
But this time it wasn’t night — it was day.
Y/N was sitting in a chair, visitor’s band around her wrist, restless from not being able to smoke, her hair just as disheveled that day. Someone had been in surgery… she couldn’t recall who exactly, only that she hated waiting.
That was the first time Cillian had approached her.
Coffee in his hand.
“It’s going to take a while,” he’d said softly.
She hadn’t taken the coffee at first.
Then she had.
Cillian was still cleaning her lip now, patient, as if time had never moved forward.
Another tear fell from Y/N’s eyes. This time, a hitching breath followed.
Cillian’s hand remained at the bruise on her neck. And that touch — neither fully medical nor fully intimate — tied the first real knot in the dangerous bond forming between them.
The violence wasn’t over. But it was no longer alone.
Desire lived inside it now too.
The room was dark — but not entirely. City light seeped through the curtains, laying a pale silver sheen across the bed, tracing Y/N’s body where she lay on her back in a thin, almost ghostlike glow.
Her satin nightgown — pale pink, silken, its lace trimming casting delicate shadows along the line of her chest and the hem — caught the light and returned it softly; the fabric rippled when she moved, small fractures forming across her breathing as it rose and fell.
Cillian lay on his side, his entire body turned toward her.
Elbow braced against the pillow, head resting in his palm, he had been watching her in silence for a long time. That gaze wasn’t filled with admiration — it was denser, more consuming. When he looked into Y/N’s eyes, it didn’t feel like he was looking at her, but being pulled into her. As if her gaze wasn’t a surface, but a depth — and in that depth, control didn’t belong to him.
He reached out.
Touched her hair first.
Y/N’s long hair was spread across the pillow; when his fingers slipped into it, he slowed instinctively, separating strands one by one, tracing the texture as if examining an object. The touch was gentle — but not romantic. It carried ownership, heavy with the weight of mine.
“Your hair…” he murmured softly, “…should always stay like this. Messy.”
Y/N didn’t look away from him.
His fingers slid from her hair to her cheek, his thumb passing beneath her cheekbone; when it brushed the healing cut at the corner of her lip, he neither increased nor lessened the pressure — he only reminded her it was there.
“I see the way people look at you,” he murmured, his voice now rougher, edged with something dangerous.
It sounded like a compliment.
It wasn’t.
His hand moved lower — over the thin strap of her nightgown, along the curve of her shoulder, toward the upper line of her chest; the satin whispered softly beneath his touch. Y/N realized she had held her breath — but she didn’t pull away.
His gaze didn’t linger long at her chest — it slid downward, to her waist. His hand followed the same path; the thin fabric gathered beneath his palm, and a tension moved through Y/N’s body involuntarily.
“These dresses…” Cillian said thoughtfully, “…make you beautiful.”
A pause.
“Like a display flower.”
The words hung in the air.
Y/N’s eyes narrowed slightly, but she didn’t argue; because this was the shape of his love — to see, to display, to possess. Not to love, but to love being seen beside her.
His hand slowed as it moved from her waist to her hip; his fingers caught briefly on the lace hem, then instead of moving lower, they traveled back upward — the intention had shifted now. This time he felt not the fabric, but her skin.
Then his hands changed direction.
Toward her tattoos.
He found the first behind her shoulder — a small, fine-lined motif. He traced its borders with his thumb as though memorizing a map.
“One,” he said.
Then he moved to the script beneath her ribs.
“Two.”
Y/N exhaled, eyes drifting to the ceiling.
Cillian kept counting — the one on the inside of her arm, the mark along her waist, the small symbol near her thigh. With each touch, his expression shifted; that soft examination tightened into tension.
“I hate these marks,” he said through his teeth, pulling her sharply by the waist, almost hard enough to bend her. “I hate every line that isn’t mine. Your body is like a map — but some of these roads… I didn’t draw.”
Y/N turned her head toward him.
“I don’t belong to you either,” she said quietly.
Cillian smiled. But the smile wasn’t warm. He placed his hand at her waist again, fingers closing — not tight, but firm enough to deny escape.
“Then being married to me must be terrible, hm? A prison for you. But for me… it’s a temple where I get to study every weakness, every tremor you have.”
He leaned closer, his breath brushing her lips.
“But do you know what’s worse? Even if I knew I had to hurt you… I still wouldn’t let you go.”
It sounded like a declaration.
A verdict.
He looked back into her eyes — into that depth, that swallowing pull. This time he didn’t retreat; if anything, he held her gaze more firmly, as if consciously choosing to be lost in it.
His thumb drifted to his wedding ring — reflexively, without thought — then returned to her waist.
“I’ll keep you,” he whispered.
Y/N knew, in that moment, it wasn’t a sentence about love.
It wasn’t about staying.
It was about being kept.
And the most disturbing part was this:
Cillian wasn’t sorry when he said it.
He was satisfied.
–––
The noon light filled the bedroom not harshly, but with a merciless clarity; the darkness that romanticized the night was gone, replaced by daylight that showed everything, leaving no corner to hide in.
When Y/N opened her eyes, the first thing she felt wasn’t the ache in her head, but the weight in her body — as if what had happened the night before hadn’t settled only in her mind, but in her bones.
Cillian’s scent still lingered on the edge of the pillow — faint, clean, that orderly masculine smell mixed with the sterile trace of the hospital — and Y/N’s stomach tightened with that familiar contradiction.
She wanted him.
And she wanted distance from him.
The other side of the bed was empty; he had already left for work. His weight still lived in the creases of the sheets, and Y/N stared at that hollow for a few seconds. She had wanted him gone.
But now that he was — there was a strange collapse in her chest.
Does he really love me… she thought.
…or does he just want to own me?
She didn’t know the answer.
Worse — maybe she didn’t want to know.
She sat up slowly, placing her feet on the floor; the cold parquet touched her skin, grounding her. She wouldn’t go to the studio today. After last night, she knew she couldn’t look clients in the eye and stay steady. Her hand might not shake while holding a needle — but her mind would.
But staying home felt worse.
The apartment was too quiet for thinking.
So she decided — she would visit Cillian at work. Not to start a fight. Not to accuse him. Just to see him. To see who he was in daylight. To place the hands that touched children beside the hands that had touched her in the night — side by side in her mind.
Maybe to lie to herself.
She opened the wardrobe in the bedroom. The outfit she chose was almost a deliberate contradiction: a long black coat, a fitted buttoned vest, a long straight skirt, glossy knee-high black boots. Masculine. Sharp. Distant. She fastened a thin black choker around her neck — it fell exactly over the bruise at her throat. When she looked in the mirror, she appeared stronger this way — as if she had pressed her fragility down beneath layers of fabric.
But foundation mattered more in hiding the truth.
When she sat at her vanity, she noticed how dim the light in her face had become; purplish shadows had settled beneath her eyes, the marks of sleeplessness and tears etched into her skin. She pressed foundation over the bruises with her fingertips, movements calm but mechanical; when she reached her neck, she paused. Her fingers hovered over the bruise’s edge.
Did she like these marks?
No.
But she didn’t want to erase them completely either.
In the end, she covered them — the bruises, the memory at the corner of her lip. She created a smooth, controlled face. The darkness under her eyes softened, but didn’t disappear; the exhaustion remained in her gaze anyway.
She looked at herself in the mirror.
Silent.
But still standing.
She took her bag, pulled the door shut, and the click of the lock echoed through the stairwell. As she turned toward the stairs, the upstairs door opened.
“Good morning, Y/N!” her neighbor called, with artificial cheer.
The woman’s name was Margaret — late forties, always overly groomed, overly interested, the type who gathered everyone’s lives like puzzle pieces and redistributed them over evening coffee. She wore a robe, but her makeup was complete.
Y/N gave a small smile.
“Morning.”
“There was a bit of… noise last night,” Margaret said, her voice soft but her words carefully chosen. “Everything’s alright, I hope? The kids were a little scared…”
Y/N’s shoulders tensed slightly, but her expression didn’t change.
“It’s fine,” she said calmly.
Margaret tilted her head, sympathy painted over curiosity.
“You know we’re like family here… if there’s a problem… I mean… you’re not separating or anything, are you? It’s always sad to see… you’re so young…”
The words weren’t a knife — more like a thin needle pressed slowly inward. But the intention was clear. This wasn’t concern; it was material gathering.
Y/N held the woman’s gaze. Something inside her wanted to crumble, to shout, to throw the truth in her face.
She didn’t.
“Don’t worry,” she said softly, but closed. “We’ll handle it.”
Margaret pursed her lips, disappointment flickering beneath politeness.
“Of course, dear… of course… just for the peace of the building, you know…”
Y/N inclined her head slightly.
“Have a good day.”
And without waiting, she turned toward the stairs.
She felt the woman’s gaze on her back — there was no kindness in it, only a hunger for information. Another story for evening coffee.
As she descended the stairs, a heaviness formed in her chest. Troubled marriages didn’t stay between two people; they seeped through walls, echoed in stairwells, turned into other people’s curiosity.
When she stepped outside, the noon sun struck her face.
She drew in a deep breath.
As she walked toward Cillian, two opposing emotions moved together inside her:
She wanted to see him.
And she wanted to run from him.
Which one weighed more —
she still didn’t know.
When the hospital’s glass doors slid open automatically, the first thing Y/N noticed was the smell; antiseptic, metallic, and strangely neutral — a scent that carried the sense of order trying to suppress everything human about the body. Unlike the ink and burnt skin smell of the tattoo studio, the air here didn’t just feel sterile — it felt as though it tried to sterilize emotion too.
As she walked toward the reception desk, the sound of her shoes echoed; in hospitals people always walked slower, spoke quieter, as if loudness itself might reduce someone’s chances of recovery.
The man behind the desk looked up.
“Hey, Y/N.”
His name was Ethan — early forties, an administrative coordinator working between emergency intake and pediatric services. Technically this wasn’t general reception, but the patient services desk for pediatric coordination; the unit where families were directed, room information checked, visiting hours managed.
Y/N gave a small smile.
“Hi, Ethan.”
He knew her — not only because of Cillian, but from the few times she had come to pick him up after night shifts. When he saw her, that measured but warm hospital smile settled on his face.
“Didn’t expect to see you today,” he said. “Everything alright?”
Y/N shrugged, adjusting the strap of her bag.
“Just came to see if he’s free.”
Ethan glanced at his screen; the pediatric intensive care rotation list, patient room numbers, nurse assignments were open.
“He’s on PICU rotation today,” he said — Pediatric Intensive Care Unit. “Room 3. He’s with a patient right now. Not really interruptible.”
Interruptible.
The word stirred something strange inside Y/N; she found herself wondering how “interruptible” Cillian was with her.
“That’s fine,” she said evenly. “I’ll wait in the staff lounge.”
Ethan nodded.
“Sure. He’ll probably be on break in forty minutes or so.”
Y/N thanked him and turned away.
But she didn’t go to the lounge.
As she passed through the security doors at the end of the corridor, no badge was required; visiting hours were open, and families were allowed up to the waiting area outside pediatric intensive care. When she stopped before the glass-paneled section, she could see inside clearly.
PICU was always quieter than other wards — machines made noise, but people didn’t. Monitors gave rhythmic beeps, ventilators pushed measured air, infusion pumps regulated fluids to the milliliter.
And Cillian…
He was in Room Three.
He was sitting at the bedside — not standing, but fully seated, close enough that his knees nearly touched the mattress. He was holding the hand of a small girl; an IV line ran into her arm, a pulse oximeter clipped to her finger. Cillian had lowered his head to her eye level — even through the glass Y/N could see the softness in the way his lips moved when he spoke.
At first, she didn’t recognize that expression.
Then she did.
And realized it had never been directed at her.
Cillian wore that hospital expression — patient, gentle, absorbing fear rather than reflecting it. He held the child’s hand in both of his, thumb stroking lightly across her skin; the gesture was more human than clinical.
The child said something.
Cillian smiled.
That smile didn’t feel familiar to Y/N.
It was soft.
Unconditional.
Unwounding.
And something thin and sharp formed in her chest.
Jealousy.
But not romantic jealousy — jealousy of tenderness.
You’ve never looked at me like that, she thought. The thought didn’t just pass — it settled.
She couldn’t pull her eyes away from the glass; Cillian brushed the child’s hair back, checked the infusion rate, glanced at the heart rhythm monitor, then leaned closer again, speaking softly — like telling a story, like easing fear.
Those hands… They were the same hands that had touched the bruises at her throat the night before. Now they were measuring a child’s pulse.
Y/N’s breathing slowed. You’ve never touched me the way you touch them, she thought this time.
Something inside her shrank. Something else grew angry. And another part wanted to pull that tenderness toward herself — like a sick hunger. Because here, Cillian healed.
At home, he wounded. And for the first time, Y/N realized she wasn’t jealous of his profession — she was jealous of his compassion.
I’m not your patient, she thought. …is that why you don’t look at me that way?
She remained behind the glass. Cillian was still holding the child’s hand. And in that moment, Y/N understood something with quiet clarity:
Cillian could save people.
But her…
He had never tried to save.
There was a kind of exhaustion that traveled home from hospitals at night — not just physical, but something that clung to the back of the mind and refused to let go.
When Cillian opened the door, silence greeted him. The lights were off, the living room orderly — Y/N hadn’t come home yet. He knew that was normal; she had told him before she left — she was meeting old university friends, might be late, might even drink. All of that made sense.
It was normal. But the first thing he felt when he stepped inside wasn’t logic. It was absence.
He dropped his coat over a chair, loosened the buttons of his shirt, and instead of going to the kitchen, he walked straight to the balcony. When he cracked the door open, cool night air hit his face; the narrow apartment balconies stood close together, iron railings old, the potted plants nothing more than shadows in the dark.
He leaned over the railing, pulled a cigarette from his pocket. The lighter flame briefly lit his face.
He took the first drag deep.
Exhaled slowly.
He looked like he was watching the city — but he wasn’t seeing anything. His eyes were on the street below; his mind was somewhere above, where Y/N was.
His phone rested on the small table beside him. He reached out and picked it up, unlocked it, and opened the message thread. There was nothing. Just old conversations, old timestamps, old “I’m coming home” texts. His thumb hovered over the text field.
He pulled it closer, turned the screen on, off, on again — as if staring at it might change the fact that nothing had come through.
He wanted to type.
When are you coming home?
Are you okay?
Who’s there?
But he didn’t.
He was annoyed at himself for even thinking it; he didn’t want to control her — at least not consciously. But his mind was doing something else.
It was filling the empty spaces.
Was she laughing right now?
Leaning her head back while drinking, laughing freely?
He realized he had never seen her laugh like that with him.
He took another drag, exhaling harder this time.
Picked up the phone again.
Opened the message screen.
Closed it.
That’s when headlights appeared on the street below.
He looked down instinctively.
A black, polished, expensive-looking car slowed in front of the building. The engine sound was luxury — quiet, low, self-assured. Cillian’s hand froze midair with the cigarette.
The car stopped.
For a few seconds, the door didn’t open.
Then the passenger door swung out.
Y/N stepped out.
For a second, he almost didn’t recognize her — the red satin dress shimmered like liquid under the streetlights, the corseted waist sharpening her silhouette, the thick red cardigan draped over her shoulders as if masking that fragility. Her knee-high black boots struck the asphalt with a solid sound. But what caught Cillian’s attention wasn’t the outfit.
It was her face.
She was smiling.
Truly smiling — relaxed, unguarded, shoulders lowered, her face lit from within. There were no defenses in that smile, no thorns, no distance.
Cillian lowered the cigarette from his lips.
A man stepped out of the car after her.
Tall. Easy posture. Standing a little too close when he spoke to her. He said something; Y/N tipped her head back and laughed again — shorter this time, but more genuine.
Something thin tightened inside Cillian’s chest.
The man closed the car door, brushed a light hand over Y/N’s shoulder — brief, a farewell touch, but still a touch.
In Cillian’s eyes, it lasted too long.
Y/N leaned in slightly, said something, then turned toward the building. The car pulled away, headlights dissolving at the corner.
But Cillian kept looking down. The cigarette between his fingers was nearly burnt out. He couldn’t erase that expression from his mind — that lightness, that ease, that defenseless joy… An expression he had never seen when she was with him.
His phone didn’t vibrate. No message came. And in that moment, Cillian thought: You don’t laugh like that with me. He crushed the cigarette out.
But the thing inside him didn’t extinguish. If anything — for the first time, it began to take shape. Not just jealousy.
Paranoia.
The lock turned with a metallic click that echoed louder than it should have in the apartment stairwell; that short, dry rattle of the key in the mechanism cut a thin line through Cillian’s frozen waiting in the dark balcony.
Before he even saw her, he recognized Y/N’s footsteps when she stepped inside — light but uneven, carrying the loose rhythm of someone slightly drunk; not stumbling, but not fully measuring the ground beneath her either.
Her silhouette appeared first through the dim light filtering in from the balcony glass — then her face. Her cheeks were faintly flushed, her eyes bright, the edges of her lips still holding a trace of joy she had brought home from the night.
The red satin dress she wore looked like it carried the night on its surface; the fabric fractured the light as she moved, the corseted cut lifting her chest, sharpening the line of her waist. The thick red cardigan draped over her shoulders seemed to try to mute that exposed shimmer — but it couldn’t.
When Cillian stepped in and closed the balcony door behind him, she noticed him and gave a brief, loose smile — not vulnerable, but not guarded either.
“You’re back…” Y/N said, her voice soft, warmed slightly by alcohol.
Cillian didn’t answer at first. He walked further inside, shutting the balcony door; the smell of smoke and night air followed him into the living room. Y/N dropped her bag on the table and leaned against the edge of the couch without removing her boots.
“How was it?” Cillian asked finally. His voice was normal. Not overly soft, not sharp — measured, controlled.
“Good,” Y/N said, meeting his gaze. “I haven’t laughed that much in a long time.”
The sentence sounded innocent in delivery — but it struck something else inside him; a long time implied that the time spent with him hadn’t contained that laughter.
“Who was there?” he asked.
“A few people from uni… Lara was there, Miles… you know, the old group.”
Cillian nodded, the dim lamp light cutting his face into shadow. He fell silent for a few seconds, then glanced at the phone on the table — still dark. “You didn’t think to text?” he asked, his voice lower now, flatter.
Y/N lifted a brow slightly — she noticed the tone but didn’t escalate it. “It was loud,” she said with a shrug. “My phone was in my bag most of the time.”
Cillian tilted his head, his gaze moving from her face to her dress, then back again. “Not once?” he asked. “Not even one message.”
The question itself was small — but something bigger was swelling beneath it. Y/N felt it; the warmth she had brought in with her began to cool into a tired defensiveness.
“Cillian…” she said, softly but as a warning. “I told you the night was nice. I’m not in the mood to fight.”
His lips curved into something that resembled a smile — but without warmth. “I’m just asking.”
“I just went out with friends…” Y/N said, her voice still calm but impatience slipping under it. “…and even that becomes a problem for you.”
Cillian stepped closer.
The movement wasn’t aggressive — but it left no space to retreat. As the distance narrowed, the air in the room thickened.
“I saw you getting out of someone’s car,” he said.
A brief pause crossed Y/N’s eyes — not guilt, but the quick freeze of being seen.
“A friend dropped me off,” she said immediately. “I’d been drinking.”
“What’s his name?”
The question came fast. Too fast.
Y/N tipped her head back, the thin line of her patience tightening. “Cillian, don’t—”
“You didn’t remember to text me, but you remembered to get into his car?” he continued, his voice warmer now — but dangerous in its warmth. Not anger.
Jealous heat.
Y/N took a few steps back, lifting her hands slightly. “Stop,” she said for the first time more firmly. “Seriously, stop. I don’t want to argue.”
But Cillian didn’t stop. If anything, he followed — not just physically, but emotionally. “You don’t laugh with me the way you laughed with him,” he said. It wasn’t an accusation. It was an exposed observation — and exposed truths often cut deeper than blame.
Y/N’s breathing quickened. Something inside her didn’t rise to defend — it began to collapse instead; because the argument had shifted somewhere deeper than fidelity.
“I…” she started, but couldn’t finish.
Cillian’s gaze dropped to her dress, then rose again. “Did you dress like that for him?”
That was the moment her patience snapped. She started pushing him — not violently, but trying to create distance, rejecting contact. “Enough!” she shouted. “Enough already!” She didn’t defend herself. She broke. “What do you want to hear?!” she yelled, her voice cracking upward. “That I cheated on you? That I’ve been in other men’s beds?!”
Cillian froze.
Y/N kept going — the words spilling out uncontrolled now. “Yes! Maybe I have! Maybe I sleep around with everyone! Maybe I’m worse than you think!” Tears started pouring down her face, but she didn’t stop. “When was I ever enough for you anyway?! I’ve never been enough for anyone!”
Her voice wasn’t just shouting anymore — it was splintering, loud but shattered. Suddenly she turned, yanked the balcony door open, and rushed outside. Cold night air hit her face but didn’t slow her. She went straight to the railing, gripping the iron, her chest rising and falling fast.
Then she shouted down into the street: “Yes! I sleep with men! Did you hear me?! All of you hear it!” Her voice tore through the apartment walls, ripped into the night. “Every night I crawl out of someone else’s bed! Are you satisfied now?!”
Tears streamed down her face as she kept shouting, her voice trembling but rising louder into the street below.
Seeing her on the balcony — shouting like she was tearing herself apart, in an openness where anyone could hear — triggered another alarm in Cillian’s mind. This was no longer about loyalty.
It was about the possibility of losing her.
He moved suddenly.
His steps were fast but not uncontrolled; when he reached her, he grabbed her arm — the grip was firm, but not punishing. More like pulling someone back from the edge before they could fall. Y/N was still shouting, her voice breaking, dissolving into sobs, but when Cillian pulled her away from the railing and turned her toward him, the words cut off.
“Enough,” Cillian said, his voice low but shaking. “That’s enough.”
He pulled her inside, kicking the balcony door shut behind them. This time she didn’t resist; her body was still tense, but her energy felt drained — she had fallen into that hollow that comes after an emotional outburst.
Her face was wet, her eyes red, her lips trembling — and like that, she no longer looked like the woman who had been screaming into the street moments ago, but something fractured.
The fingers that had tightened with jealousy earlier now shifted into a careful gentleness, mindful not to hurt her. He lowered his head, his forehead nearly touching hers; his breath was still fast — not from anger now, but from panic.
“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, rushed, like he was late saying it. “I’m sorry, I… I didn’t mean it like that.” His sentences collided, unfiltered. “I just… when I saw you like that… I—” He couldn’t finish.
Through her tears, Y/N looked at him; her eyes were still wet, but there was calculation beneath the fragility — that familiar testing gaze.
His hands rose to her face, cupping the sides of it, his thumb brushing along the path of her tears. “I love you,” he said quickly, like a confession pressed down too long. “Do you hear me? I love you… I’m in love with you.” He spoke as if saying it fast enough might undo what had just happened. “I’m just… afraid of losing you.”
That sentence came slower. Bare.
Y/N’s breath trembled, but she didn’t pull away. She could feel the shift — anger dissolving into guilt, guilt into the need to hold on.
She didn’t close her eyes; she looked at him closely enough to see the panic flickering in his. And right then, that familiar inner reflex surfaced — conscious or not, but always there. “I’m a bad wife,” Y/N said, her voice still shaking but her words chosen.
Cillian reacted instantly. “Don’t say that—”
“It’s true,” she cut in, holding his gaze. “I make you unhappy. I start fights. I exhaust you.” She placed her hands against his chest — not to shove him away, but to create space — yet her eyes never left his. “If you don’t want this… I can leave.”
His expression shifted instantly; guilt twisted into fear, fear into something primal — the reflex to hold on. He closed the distance in a single step, this time gripping her by the waist — not violent, but certain enough to stop her from going anywhere.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, voice roughening. “Don’t say that again.”
But Y/N didn’t retreat.
This test couldn’t be left unfinished.
“I can’t make you happy anyway,” she continued, tears gathering again. “Maybe you’d be better off if I left.”
The knot inside him tightened further; he pulled her closer, their bodies nearly pressed together, his forehead resting against her hair. In that position, he both held her and enclosed her — somewhere between protection and possession.
“You’re not leaving,” he said, low but absolute. It wasn’t a plea. It sounded like a verdict — but fear lived inside it. “Do you understand? You’re not leaving.” His grip tightened, then softened again — he didn’t want to hurt her, only keep her there. “You can hate me… you can fight me… you can drive me insane…” he said, his voice thickening. “But you’re not leaving.”
He fell silent for a moment, then the most naked sentence slipped out. “Because I…” he began, voice hovering at confession. “…I don’t know who I am without you.”
Y/N was pressed against his chest now; her face there, her breathing uneven. Being inside his arms felt both like shelter — and like a room locked from the inside. “Do you really love me…” she whispered into the fabric. “…or do you just want to own me?”
Cillian didn’t answer immediately. His arms only tightened slightly — not hurting her, but not letting go either. And in that moment, they both felt the same truth: This bond wasn’t healthy.
But it wasn’t weak enough to break either.
His hold felt less like an embrace and more like a lock — and yet, Y/N didn’t step out of it. Because those arms… Were both a threat. And her only refuge.
After that night, their marriage changed.
It didn’t happen like a miracle — not through some dramatic confrontation, not because they woke up one morning and decided we’re different now. It was a quieter transformation. As if they had both grown tired at the same time. Exhausted at the same time. Crossed a line at the same time.
The days that followed the night when Y/N had been screaming on the balcony and Cillian had held her as if to keep her from disappearing carried an unexpected stillness.
The house was quieter. The arguments had thinned. Voices didn’t rise anymore; the tension was still there, but more controlled now — pulled inward. Y/N provoked less. Cillian questioned less. They touched each other more carefully, spoke more measuredly. As if they were circling something made of glass, both afraid to shatter it again.
From the outside, they had begun to look like a normal marriage. But their normal had never been ordinary.
After that night, Cillian made a decision within himself. He thought he couldn’t live with this jealousy. He realized this need for control was slowly making him uglier — that his fear of losing Y/N was, in fact, the fastest way to lose her.
So he began giving himself affirmations. Driving to work in the mornings, looking at himself in the rearview mirror:
You have to trust her.
She just went out with friends.
Anyone can get a ride home.
If you suffocate her, she’ll run.
He repeated them.
While checking children’s heart rates in the hospital, he tried not to imagine Y/N texting the man from that night. Every time he looked at his phone, he stopped himself.
Don’t text.
Don’t ask.
Be normal.
He tried to discipline himself. He stopped following her. He didn’t check her phone.
When she came home late, he didn’t question it. There were even moments when he looked directly into her eyes and consciously pulled himself back; whenever he felt the jealousy rising, he suppressed it. But suppressed things don’t disappear.
They relocate. Cillian’s distrust didn’t fade. It became invisible. He learned to lower its volume — but the echo inside him only grew louder. Suspicion no longer turned into questions; it turned into observation. He began reading her expressions more closely. The smallest shift in her smile. The movement of her lips when she typed a message. How long she lingered looking at herself in the mirror.
Each affirmation he repeated only strengthened a state of vigilance.
When he said, You have to trust her, a corner of his mind whispered: Then there must be something not to trust.
When he said, If you suffocate her, she’ll run, the real sentence beneath it was: So she could run.
And that possibility… Began to take root inside him.
On any given day —
Night recognized the invisible weight carried home by those who returned from hospitals; while the city looked the same from the outside, some apartment doors let in an entirely different darkness. When the door opened that night, it wasn’t only Cillian who entered — the fluorescent lights of intensive care, the moment the monitors fell silent, the cooling weight of a small hand came in with him.
Y/N understood it the moment he stepped inside.
He didn’t take his coat off. Didn’t even remove his shoes properly. His movements were mechanical, delayed — as if he hadn’t fully returned to his body yet. He still carried the hospital smell — antiseptic, metallic, exhausted. His eyes weren’t red, but they were dull; the dullness of someone who hadn’t cried yet, not someone who had.
“What happened?” Y/N asked, her voice low, careful.
Cillian didn’t answer at first. He walked into the living room, stopped in front of the couch — then sat down as if his knees had suddenly given out. He rested his elbows on his thighs, ran his hands through his hair. The posture wasn’t defensive.
It was collapse.
Then —
His shoulders trembled. His crying didn’t begin quietly; something suppressed broke all at once, the first sound that left his throat raw and uncontrolled. Y/N froze. Because she had never seen him like this — without anger, without armor, shattered.
“We lost her…” Cillian said, his voice breaking. “No matter what we did… we couldn’t hold on.”
He didn’t say child — but Y/N knew. It was one of the patients he had bonded with most; she had heard the name before, the stories, the fears, the way Cillian told her bedtime tales to calm her.
Cillian lowered his head, his hands covering his face, and this time the crying came openly; tears fell without restraint, his breathing uneven. This wasn’t a doctor crying. This was a man breaking over a child he couldn’t save.
Y/N couldn’t move for a few seconds. She watched him. And in that moment, an unexpected, sharp emotion rose inside her.
Jealousy. But not romantic jealousy — a forbidden, shameful jealousy of tenderness.
You never cried like this for me… the thought passed through her. It didn’t leave once it arrived. As she watched his tears, a darker voice spoke somewhere inside her:
I screamed, I shattered, I was taken to the hospital… and you never collapsed like this for me.
After that thought, another impulse rose — darker still.
I want to hurt you now. I want you to suffer as much as I did.
For a fleeting second, rejection, distance, even betrayal crossed her mind — leaving him alone in that pain, taking revenge in the smallest way.
But she didn’t. Because the tremble in his shoulders was real. Because even her jealousy felt small beside his grief.
She sat beside him slowly. At first she didn’t touch him — she just sat there. Then she placed her arm gently over his shoulders. Cillian didn’t react immediately, but he didn’t pull away either. Y/N lifted her hand to his hair, letting her fingers move through it slowly; this touch wasn’t born of desire this time —
It came from tenderness. “I know…” she whispered. “I know you did everything you could.”
He didn’t lift his head, but his breathing shifted — that small loosening breath that comes when someone shares your pain.
Y/N moved closer, drawing his head gently toward her chest. At first, he resisted slightly — he wasn’t used to this position, the strong one being held instead of holding — but then he let himself fall into it.
He rested his head against her.
Y/N kept stroking his hair — rhythmic, slow, soothing. As the strands slipped between her fingers, the weight resting against her chest gave her a strange sense of power — she had never held him this vulnerable before.
His breath warmed her through the fabric.
“I couldn’t hold her…” he murmured, still broken. “She slipped right out of my hands.”
Y/N closed her eyes.
Even while comforting him, her jealousy hadn’t fully disappeared — but it had changed shape. She didn’t want revenge anymore. She wanted to protect this version of him. Because for the first time, she was seeing him fully real.
Not the possessive version.
Not the controlling one.
Not the angry one.
Only the broken one.
“Sometimes…” she whispered into his hair, “you can’t hold on. But that doesn’t mean you didn’t love them.”
His hands moved slowly to her waist, instinctively — clinging. The hold came not from passion, but from refuge — yet it was still intense.
She kept his head against her chest, her fingers moving through his hair. And the final thought that passed through her mind — softer than the darker ones before it — was this: Maybe he didn’t cry for me… But now… he’s crying in my arms. And that formed a bond between them strong enough to soften even her jealousy.
Y/N was still holding him against her chest when she gently leaned her head back; her fingers slipped from his hair, creating just enough distance to see his face. Cillian’s eyes were still red, lashes damp, but the raw devastation that had shattered him moments ago had settled into something heavier — exhaustion, emotional depletion, the hollow quiet that follows collapse.
Y/N studied him for several seconds. She didn’t just look — she read him. She saw the fracture, the shame, the guilt turned inward.
“You should take a shower,” she said at last, her voice soft but steady. “It’ll help… the hospital smell is still on you.”
Cillian lifted his head slightly, as if he might protest — but he didn’t have the strength. He only looked at her, and in that look there was none of the control she was used to. Only fatigue. A quiet willingness to be guided. Y/N reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his, and slowly pulled him to his feet.
“Come,” she whispered. “Just stand under the hot water… don’t think about anything else.”
He followed her to the bathroom in near-obedient silence — a version of him she wasn’t accustomed to. He was usually the one directing, containing, deciding. Now he was the one being led.
The bathroom light was dim; their reflections in the mirror looked softened under the yellow glow — tired, human, stripped of armor.
After closing the door, Y/N turned to face him. Her hands rose to his chest, fingers moving to the buttons of his shirt.
Cillian’s eyes flickered reflexively to the movement — there was no desire in that look. Only surprise. “Leave it…” he murmured hoarsely. “I’ll do it.”
Y/N shook her head. “Not tonight,” she said. “Tonight you don’t have to do anything alone.”
She began unbuttoning his shirt slowly — no rush, every motion deliberate. When the fabric slid from his shoulders, his breathing shifted — not from cold, but from the vulnerability of being touched.
When the shirt fell away completely, Y/N’s hands stilled. Because what she saw wasn’t only exhaustion.
There was a faded bruise high on his shoulder — old, yellowing at the edges but still visible. A thin scratch along his rib, shallow but deliberate, as if made by fingernails. And on the inside of his wrist — faint finger-shaped marks, like the ghost of a grip.
Y/N’s breath caught. Her hands moved instinctively to the bruise, thumb brushing it lightly. “Did I…” she asked quietly. “…do this?”
Cillian didn’t answer at first. He looked away. His shoulder muscles tightened.
“I don’t remember,” he said finally — not trying to lie, but not wanting to remember either.
Y/N’s gaze drifted to the other marks — the scratch on his ribs, the faint crescent bite below his collarbone…
Each one the residue of a night, a fight, a loss of control. “I…” she began, her voice trembling. “We’ve hurt each other so much.”
Cillian looked up then. “No,” he said softly, but firmly. “I hurt you.”
The correction sharpened the guilt — not mutual violence, but a shared descent into darkness.
Y/N’s fingers were still resting on the bruise. “Does it hurt?” she asked, the question carrying a childlike guilt.
Cillian gave a tired, almost sad smile. “Not as much as yours.”
There was no accusation in it. Only memory.
Y/N’s eyes filled, because in that moment she realized: every mark she carried had an echo on him. The man who hurt her bore the marks of the woman he hurt. “This is mutual…” she whispered. “We’re destroying each other.”
Cillian reached for her wrists then, holding them gently. “Maybe,” he said. “But we’re not letting go either.”
It wasn’t healing he was confessing. It was attachment.
After she removed his shirt completely, Y/N placed her palms flat against his chest — the touch born not from desire, but confrontation. She was touching not his body, but the evidence of what they’d done to each other.
“Take a shower,” she said again, her voice softer now. “Hot water… might lighten it a little.”
Cillian nodded. But he didn’t stand alone under the shower that night. Because Y/N didn’t step back.
When she closed the bathroom door, the air inside thickened with the dampness trapped in the old tiles; pale green ceramics climbed halfway up the walls, holding a dull sheen beneath the yellowed light, giving the room the dim, echoing atmosphere of an aging hotel bathroom. The bathtub porcelain was cold, its metal feet planted firmly against the floor. When Y/N turned the water on, the first stream came thin and cold — a metallic shudder running through the pipes — then gradually warmed, steam beginning to rise.
“Come,” she said softly, holding out her hand. “Sit… just sit.”
Cillian didn’t protest. He stepped into the tub and leaned back, resting his head against the tiled wall. As the hot water ran over his shoulders, the release in his muscles was painfully visible — as though not only his body, but the weight of death he had carried all day was being washed away with the water.
Y/N knelt beside the tub. Her knees pressed into the damp floor, soaking up the moisture, but she didn’t seem to notice. For a while, she only watched — the way the water broke across his tense shoulders, the droplets gathering at his collarbones, the faint tremor in his throat. There was no hunger in her gaze. Something deeper, more burning — a sense of belonging.
She took the shower head, tested the temperature against her wrist, then directed it toward his chest.
“Too hot?” she asked, her voice blending with the sound of water.
Cillian didn’t open his eyes. He only tilted his head slightly.
“No… it’s exactly right.”
Y/N took the soap from the shelf, working it slowly into foam in her palms. Her movements were so unhurried it felt as though time itself had stalled in that small bathroom. When her lathered hands settled on his broad shoulders, his breath faltered. Her fingertips moved as if trying to memorize each muscle beneath the skin — washing, but also touching. There was no lust in it, only a careful tenderness, like cleaning a wound.
“You don’t have to do this,” Cillian murmured, his voice more fragile than usual.
“I do,” Y/N replied, her fingers moving through the tight space between his shoulder blades. “I need to wash you clean… even from yourself.”
As the soap slid over the bruises and faded scars on his back, her touch paused briefly over each one.
“That’s bruised too…” she murmured, tracing one of them.
Cillian opened his eyes this time, turning his head slightly.
“So are yours,” he said.
Y/N didn’t answer. She kept washing his back, foam slipping down his skin as the water filled the room with its steady sound.
Silence lingered.
Then Cillian lifted his hand slowly — careful not to startle her — and touched her wrist. The contact was gentle, not restraining, simply feeling.
“Are you tired?” he asked.
Y/N looked up at him and gave a small smile.
“No.”
His hand slid from her wrist up along her arm, fingertips searching her skin as if for proof she was still there. When he reached her shoulder, his thumb grazed a faint bruise. He didn’t pull away. His touch traveled from her shoulder to her neck, then to her cheek — softer now, more emotional, as though confirming her presence.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.
Y/N set the soap aside and placed her hand over his.
“I know,” she whispered. “I don’t want to hurt you either.”
She rose slowly, then stepped into the tub, kneeling across from him. Her thin shirt darkened under the hot water, clinging to her skin. The soaked fabric revealed the lines of her body more clearly, each curve rendered in shifting shadows beneath the steam.
Cillian’s eyes moved over her — not with hunger, but with helpless awe and aching need. There was something almost sacred in the way she knelt before him, yet the atmosphere between them carried the charged stillness of something forbidden, ritualistic.
The water continued to run over his shoulders. Y/N lifted the shower head again, rinsing the soap away. The heat loosened him further.
She leaned closer, her lips nearly brushing his wet forehead. Pushing his hair back, she poured shampoo into her palm.
“Lower your head,” she said gently.
He obeyed. Her fingers moved through his hair, working the foam in slow circles against his scalp. His breathing eased instinctively beneath her touch — it wasn’t just cleansing, it was calming.
“It feels good…” he murmured.
“I know,” she said softly.
As her fingers moved through his hair, Cillian lifted his hands and placed them at her waist. The hold wasn’t tight — just resting, feeling warmth. But after a few seconds something else stirred within that contact — not just the need to be held, but to be close.
His hands slid slightly upward along her wet skin, the water making the movement smooth. She didn’t pull away.
Then, slowly but deliberately, he drew her closer.
Her balance faltered in the narrow tub; water rippled, spilling over the edges in thin streams. Cillian lifted his head, his eyes still tired but carrying something new — gratitude threaded with fear of loss.
“You’re here…” he murmured.
She didn’t answer. Because her reply came through her lips.
When he kissed her, the motion wasn’t forceful. There was no urgency, no claim of possession — only refuge, reassurance. The heat and steam thickened the air between them as their lips met. Y/N didn’t freeze; she placed her hands on his shoulders and returned the kiss slowly.
The water shifted around them with every movement, forcing their bodies closer in the narrow space — knees, hips, chests brushing not in aggression but in the instinct of survival, of clinging after a storm.
Cillian finally broke the kiss for a breath, resting his forehead against hers.
“Don’t leave me,” he whispered.
Y/N lifted her hands to his face, wiping a drop of water from his cheek — tear or shower, impossible to tell.
“I won’t,” she answered.
Then she kissed him again — this time the one who began it. But this time, not only to his lips.
Y/N let the kiss drift slowly — first to the edge of his jaw, then down beneath his neck. The heat of the water had flushed their skin, the steam softening everything. Cillian’s breathing shifted the moment her lips touched his throat — that small, involuntary exhale… the first sign of a man beginning to lose control.
Cillian had always been the one who led.
In arguments, in bed, in life.
But in that moment…
He lifted his hands, placed them on Y/N’s shoulders, then slowly lowered them. Not to hold her — to refrain from interfering. His fingers slid to the rim of the tub, gripping the slick porcelain. It wasn’t withdrawal.
It was a conscious surrender.
Y/N felt it.
Her lips moved along the sensitive lines of his neck without hurry, as if following a map she knew by heart. When she pressed a soft kiss beneath his ear, his shoulders tightened; the breath that followed was nearly a groan, but restrained.
“Look at me,” she whispered, her lips still close to his skin.
Cillian opened his eyes.
There was something in that gaze beyond desire — submission.
Letting go of control was frightening for him. Control was his identity. The strong one, the directing one, the possessive one — that had always been him. Now he sat in the tub, wet and exposed, yielding to the touch of his wife’s mouth.
When Y/N pressed her lips to his flushed chest, droplets of water trapped between their skin burst into warmth; the heat was no longer only from the water, but from the raw current between them.
His heartbeat pounded beneath her mouth — not just audible, but palpable, a relentless rhythm she felt against her lips.
She lingered there, her touch deliberate, attentive — not hurried, not aggressive, but deeply intentional. Each movement dissolved another layer of tension in him, until his breathing roughened and his grip on the porcelain edge tightened.
A low sound escaped his throat — not loud, not controlled either. His head tipped back, jaw clenched as sensation overtook restraint.
“Relax,” Y/N murmured softly — not a command, but a grounding reassurance.
Something in his mind gave way then.
Let go.
Don’t lead.
Just feel.
This was new for him — not pleasure itself, but trust. Trust that she wouldn’t hurt him, wouldn’t humiliate him, wouldn’t leave.
Y/N’s lips moved upward again, tracing the firm line of his jaw. The tip of her tongue followed the sharp bone from chin to ear, leaving a heated trail in the wake of cooling water.
When she returned to his mouth, the kiss deepened. Cillian responded — but didn’t direct. Y/N set the rhythm now. She closed the distance, controlled the breath between them, determined when to draw closer and when to ease away.
The bathwater shifted gently around them; steam had fully claimed the mirror. They felt sealed off from the world.
Inside Cillian, something divided:
One part still jealous, still obsessive, still claiming mine.
The other leaning back against wet porcelain, surrendering to his wife’s touch, finding quiet within it.
And that second part…
For the first time in a long while,
was breathing again.
When Cillian finally pulled away from Y/N’s lips, he didn’t do it like a brief, ordinary kiss; instead, he held the moment longer — deeper, more deliberate, as if he wanted to carve it into memory. He withdrew while the warmth of her mouth still lingered on his, resting his forehead lightly against hers for a second.
There had been desire in that kiss, yes — but also gratitude. And beneath that gratitude, a strange relief… as though, for the first time, they hadn’t survived a war together, but a loss.
Then he stepped out of the tub.
When his bare feet touched the wet floor, the chill of the bathroom crept into his skin, but he didn’t mind. He draped a towel over his shoulders, absently drying the water dripping from his hair.
Y/N remained behind him — still beneath the shower, the sound of water rising with the faint hum of her voice.
By the time Cillian stepped into the bedroom, he could hear it more clearly.
She was singing. Not loudly — but it carried. That half-whispered, half-melodic sound slipping through the steamed door… The song was old — “Wicked Game.” The lyrics weren’t fully clear, but the fractured, seductive melancholy of the melody drifted from the bathroom into the hallway.
Cillian paused to listen.
It wasn’t the song itself that struck him — it was the way she sang it. A woman who had cried minutes ago, now able to sing beneath hot water… there was a strange resilience in that voice. And inside it, a freedom that didn’t belong to him.
The bedroom light was dim.
Her vanity chair sat empty. He moved toward the mirror, drying his hair with the towel as he studied his reflection.
There was exhaustion on his face — but beneath it, something deeper. Satisfaction. The thought that surfaced carried no guilt.
I didn’t lose her, he thought.
She’s still here. Still with me.
His mind went further. The intimacy of that night — her washing him, holding him — felt like a sign. Maybe… I finally have her under control. When he noticed the thought, he didn’t correct himself. Because it brought him peace.
For the first time in a long while, he felt calm — even happy. Y/N’s singing continued faintly in the background as he looked at himself in the mirror and allowed a small smile.
Her phone lay on the table.
He hadn’t even noticed it.
Not until the notification sound cut through the room.
That short, metallic vibration sliced the silence. His gaze flickered toward it reflexively — the screen lighting up against the dimness.
At first, he didn’t look. More accurately — he decided not to look. He turned back to the mirror, continued drying his hair. But he kept seeing the light in the corner of his eye. A quiet war began in his mind.
Don’t look.
It’s not your business.
You need to learn to trust.
He resisted for a few seconds. Then he listened — the shower still running. Y/N’s singing uninterrupted. The door closed.
What overcame him wasn’t curiosity. It was fear. He picked up the phone. It was unlocked — she rarely locked it anyway. The notification was from Instagram. She’d been tagged in a photo.
At first he only looked at the preview. Then he opened it.
The first thing he saw was her face — smiling. But it wasn’t the smile she had worn in the bathroom while holding him. This one was lighter. More outward. Freer. A man stood beside her. Young — casually dressed — standing closer than necessary, his shoulder almost touching hers. She hadn’t moved away. The photo was taken at night — party lights, drinks in hand, blurred figures behind them. But what fixed Cillian’s gaze wasn’t the image. It was the caption beneath it. The photo had been posted by the man.
He’d written:
Best surprise of the night. Driving you home was just an excuse — I missed talking to you.
Cillian’s fingers froze on the screen. Time didn’t move normally in that moment; seconds didn’t pass in a line — they layered, thickened. His eyes stayed on the sentence, but his mind didn’t just read the words — it expanded them, echoed them, darkened them.
The car he’d seen from the balcony returned first — headlights, the black door opening, Y/N’s laughter… But now the memory had shifted. Not as it happened — as his mind reconstructed it. The man’s touch lingered longer. Their goodbye closer. The moment she threw her head back laughing stretched further.
Then came the absence of a message. Her not checking her phone.
The empty message thread.
“It was loud.” He remembered her explanation — but it no longer sounded innocent. His mind had already filled the gap.
Not loudness.
Priority.
Not texting meant not thinking.
Not thinking meant not caring.
Everything converged into a single line in his mind. But it wasn’t straight — it was dark, thickening as it went.
The shower was still running. And Cillian, standing in the dim bedroom, holding his wife’s phone… Felt the calm he’d held minutes ago crack apart — felt that old, dark paranoia inside him slowly returning. The control he thought he had… Had never been his at all.
Cillian placed the phone back down slowly.
The movement wasn’t abrupt; on the contrary, it was almost excessively controlled — as if what he’d been holding wasn’t just a device, but something primed to explode. When the screen went dark, the room fell back into dimness, his reflection half-lost in the vanity mirror’s shadow. His fingers were still trembling slightly, but he forced them still.
A few seconds later, the bathroom door opened.
Y/N stepped out.
Her hair was wet, droplets sliding down her shoulders; she wore nothing but a thin towel wrapped around her body. But the expression on her face… it wasn’t quite the same as the woman who had just washed him, held him.
She looked calmer. More measured. And her eyes were studying his face, reading him. “Are you okay?” she asked softly.
Cillian lifted his head and looked at her — but said nothing. His expression was sealed, controlled, flattened into something unreadable.
Y/N watched him for a few seconds. Then she tilted her head slightly. And in that moment, something almost imperceptible touched the corner of her mouth — too faint to be called a smile, yet distinct enough to resemble satisfaction.
It was easy to miss. But it was real.
Her gaze flicked briefly toward the phone on the vanity. The screen was dark. But she noticed it had shifted — just slightly. Then she looked back at Cillian. And a thought passed through her mind, audible only to herself:
So you saw…
She tightened the towel around herself and walked slowly toward the wardrobe. Her face wore the expression of a concerned wife. But deep in her eyes… There was the quiet glint of something she had been waiting for. And in that moment, it became clear —
The photo had not been random.
The tag had not been innocent.
And Y/N, in order to measure Cillian’s love…
Had lit the fire herself.
Because Y/N’s understanding of love had never grown from calm, safe, balanced ground. To her, love was not something that could simply be felt and trusted. Hearing she was loved was not enough — she wanted to see it. Seeing it was not enough — she wanted proof. Proof was not enough — she wanted to test it. And that test did not come from conscious cruelty.
It came from a chronic hunger rooted in the fear of being abandoned.
Warnings: +18, NSFW, Smut, Sex Toys (Vibrator, Riding Crop), Language!, Fetish, Gothic Horror Elements, Violent Imagery, Madness Aesthetic, Obsession / Possessive Behavior, Mild Body Horror, Dark Romance / Toxic Relationship Dynamics, Blood, Vaginal Sex, Kidnapping, English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional.
Dividers by @saradika-graphics @sisterlucifergraphics @dollywons
A/N: This was written as a Valentine’s Day gift to all the fictional red flags we refuse to stop loving. It’s soft, unhinged, and absolutely not a guide for healthy relationships. Gotham’s villains were never meant to be sweet—but here we are. Consider this a love letter with a warning label. Happy Valentine’s Day.
Jonathan Crane
Evening had drifted into those heavy, dim hours that settle deep within a house; the yellow light of the lamp cast lazy shadows across the edges of scattered papers, files, and half-finished mugs on the dining table. Jonathan sat at one end, peering at medical reports through his glasses, his fingers tracing the edges of the pages in an almost ritualistic fashion; his lips parted slightly every now and then, as if he were breathing the words he was reading back to himself. You were at the opposite end, knees tucked under the chair, hunched over your laptop drafting company regulations, but your focus wasn’t on the lines—it was on his face. You were typing slowly on purpose, pausing between words, trying to catch his gaze whenever you looked up. Your stares were a bit long, a bit meaningful; you tapped your pen lightly against the table, bit your lip, and even checked your watch, thinking to yourself, "He has to notice by now." Jonathan, however, slipped right through these small cues, catching none of them.
“You’re very busy today,” you finally said, keeping your voice deliberately soft but tinged with a slight reproach. “Even more than usual.”
Jonathan raised his head, studied you for a brief moment, then returned to his file. “Not busy,” he said in a calm, almost didactic tone. “Just important. If certain results are delayed, the consequences are difficult to rectify.”
“I understand,” you said, leaning back slightly in your chair. “But some days… some things can be more important.”
His brows furrowed slightly—not in anger, but in analysis; he was evaluating you like a case. “You’ve been more sensitive lately,” he said. “I suspect it’s work-related. You’re taking on too much responsibility.”
That sentence tightened something inside you. For a year, you had accepted his strange tastes, his way of controlling things, the way he read you like a book; most of the time, you had even responded willingly. But today, of all days, you had wanted him to remember. A candle, a word, even the tiniest hint would have sufficed. You snapped your laptop shut a bit too hard. “Could you stop analyzing me, Jonathan?” you said. “Sometimes I just… want to be noticed.”
This time, Jonathan turned to you completely. He leaned forward slightly in his chair, resting his elbows on the table. “You think you’re not being noticed?” he asked in a low voice. “That’s an interesting deduction.”
“It’s a frustrating deduction,” you countered, your lips pouting involuntarily. “And yes, that is how I feel right now.”
At that, he closed the files. Even this movement was controlled, as if he had pressed a button. His voice softened as he stood up. “We need to calm down,” he said. “Both of us.” Then, as if nothing had happened, he approached you. He caught your chin gently with his fingers and leaned in to kiss you—a short but intense kiss that started softly and then, for a moment, became more demanding, just enough to warm your chest and cloud your mind. “I’ll make you some chamomile tea,” he whispered. “It’s truly soothing.”
You watched his back as he walked toward the kitchen. He hadn’t said a thing. No smile, no recollection, not even the smallest sign regarding the significance of the day.
The first thing you encountered as you pried your eyes open was the rhythmic, mechanical ticking of massive gears seeping through the blurred veil of fog in your mind; your head throbbed as if under a heavy burden, and the metallic, foreign aftertaste of that tea still lingered in your throat. When you turned your head slightly to discern your surroundings, you realized that the familiar warmth of home had been replaced by the bleak, industrial chill of Gotham; two gargantuan clock faces stood before you, staring out at the dark city like the eyes of a beast, while moonlight filtered through the massive glass panes to create eerie geometric shapes on the floor. Directly across from you, Jonathan sat in a leather armchair touched by the dim light; with his legs crossed and his fingers pressed together in that signature steeple gesture, he watched you as if observing a rare laboratory specimen beginning to wake. The unwavering focus in his gaze and the twisted, possessive expression on his face were proof that he saw you not merely as a partner, but as a property he intended to dominate down to every last cell; it was evident from his motionless shadow alone that he had spent every minute until your awakening simply watching you.
“You’ve finally returned,” Jonathan said, his voice echoing against the stone walls of the clock tower; with his usual monotonous tone—though this time carrying undercurrents of suppressed passion—he leaned slightly toward you without rising from his seat. When you questioned in a trembling voice where you were and why he had brought you to this daunting tower, a faint, shadowed smile appeared on Jonathan’s face; standing up to gesture toward the perfect dinner set illuminated by a single candle on the table, he began to express his love through his dark, morbid brand of romance, saying, “It was your mistake to think I had forgotten the significance of this day, my balanced darling; I never forget, especially not a single detail, a single fear, or a single desire concerning you.” As he spoke, the terrifying reality of your location struck your mind like a blow as your consciousness returned; the tower was so high that it felt as though you were among the clouds, and the howling of the wind outside rang in your ears as a testament to the building's immense height.
When you stood up, supporting yourself by the edge of the table with knees that felt like lead, your eyes briefly caught the infinite void outside the glass, and in that moment, your primal, paralyzing fear of heights collapsed upon you like an avalanche. Your heart began to hammer against your chest as if trying to tear through it, and you felt as though the floor beneath you were sliding away, as if the tower might tip over at any second; the sharp cramp in your stomach and the numbness climbing up from your fingertips pushed you uncontrollably backward, toward the farthest corner from the window. “Get me out of here, Jonathan, please... it’s too high,” you moaned, your breath catching in your throat, but he perceived your terror not as a weakness, but as an invitation, and began to advance toward you with slow steps. With every step you took to escape, Jonathan blocked your path like a shadow, and when he finally caught you by the arms, the trembling of your body resonated against his unyielding chest.
As he began to drag you with a harsh, uncompromising force toward the very front of the glass—toward the edge where that boundless void began—your fear turned into wild panic. “Don’t! Jonathan, stop! I beg you!” you screamed, raining blows with your hands against his chest, against that immovable frame, shouting at the top of your lungs that you hated him; but he wrapped his arms tightly around you from behind as if you were in the safest place in the world, resting his chin on your shoulder and forcing you to look out into the darkness. “Hatred and fear are so close to one another, aren’t they?” he whispered into your ear, his warm breath making you shudder even more as his lips brushed your skin; “This height, this horror... it is all for us. Give your fear to me, my love; your weakness is my strength, and tonight, in this tower, there is only your fear and my hunger for it.” Suspended there in his arms before that massive window, the toxic mixture of your inevitable physical attraction to him and the terror of falling was intense enough to darken your consciousness once more.
After watching your pale face and trembling lips for seconds with that clinical yet hungry gaze, Jonathan crashed his lips onto yours with a sudden, forceful movement, as if the dark passion within him could no longer be restrained. This kiss held a savagery that was the polar opposite of his rational world; as his lips locked harshly onto yours, the pressure of his teeth against your lower lip shattered the fine line between pain and lust. When the hot, wet invasion of his tongue seeped into your mouth, you tasted the sharp hint of coffee mingled with his always-sterile scent; the muffled, wet sounds of your tongues intertwining drowned out the mechanical ticking of the clock, and Jonathan’s breath became trapped in your lungs. You were devastated—on one hand by the horror of the bottomless void beneath you, and on the other by the suffocating desire of his kiss; you dug your nails into the fabric of his arm, hard enough to pierce the skin, while your body shook like a leaf, finding balance only by clinging to his unyielding frame.
When he slowly pulled his lips away, the thin string of saliva stretching between you glistening in the dim light, Jonathan rested his forehead against yours; his eyes looked deep into your panic-widened pupils as if trying to touch your very soul. He wrapped one hand around your neck, his fingers so tight and sensual over your carotid artery that your breath hitched, and you felt the frantic pumping of blood in your veins through every cell. “Tremble, my love; this shaking isn't just from the height—it's from that irrepressible hunger you have for me,” he whispered, his voice like a dark symphony echoing directly inside your mind. As he slowly reached into his pocket, his lips wandered just beside your ear with a heat that scorched your skin: “I told you I would make today unforgettable. Our first anniversary must be crowned with that magnificent union of your fears and my control; we both deserve this destructive passion, this unique surrender. You are my most precious case, my deepest craving, and my never-ending obsession; I can protect you even from yourself, but I will never deprive you of me.”
The moment Jonathan finished these poisonous and mesmerizing words, he brought a small, silvery vial to your face with the precision of an artist; before you could even comprehend what was happening, a single flick of his thumb released a light, sweet scent that took your senses captive. This was not one of his infamous fear toxins, but a special formula that tore down all barriers in your mind, transforming that paralyzing fear in your veins into wild courage and uncontrollable lust. As the cool mist of the gas hit your skin, there was a moment of silence, and Jonathan, with the unwavering calm of someone who had already taken the antidote, began to watch the devastating effect of the gas upon you. Within seconds, the fear of heights that had consumed you just moments ago was replaced by a searing, dark desire climbing up from your core; you were no longer focused on the void beneath, but only on the man holding you tight at the edge of that void—your dark savior.
“Now,” Jonathan said, tightening his fingers further around your neck and pressing you slightly against the cold surface of the glass, “tell me in your own voice what has taken the place of your fear.”
In those first seconds as the sweet scent of the gas filled your lungs and mingled with your blood, the terrifying void outside the tower no longer appeared as a deadly pit pulling you down, but as a magnificent stage proving the power of the man behind you. As your body absorbed the adrenaline of the previous paralyzing fear and transformed it into pure, raw lust, your hands let go of the fabric of Jonathan’s arms and climbed upward, as if severed from your own will, to entangle in the stiff strands of hair at the nape of his neck. When Jonathan felt this sudden and wild change in you, a dark murmur escaped his throat—one he always suppressed but was now releasing; burying his head in your neck, he licked the sensitive pulse point of your carotid artery, reminding you once more that you were his property by grazing his teeth lightly against your skin. Your breaths were now intertwined, and the metallic sounds of the clock’s massive mechanism had turned into a faint whisper beside your uncontrollable moans.
“Tell me,” Jonathan whispered, his lips wandering in the most sensitive hollow of your neck; every word was like a seal scorching your skin. “When that wretched fear recedes, what is the naked truth that remains? Is your little heart beating this fast because you’re afraid of falling, or because of the irrepressible desire for what I am about to do to you? Speak to me; you are in the most fascinating stage of my case.” As your hands tried to unbutton his shirt with enough force to tear them off, you brought your lips close to his ear and, with the daring intoxication of the gas, moaned, “The fear is gone, Jonathan... now there is only you. You dragged me to the edge of this glass, now finish it.” At these words, Jonathan gripped you by the waist, lifted you, and slammed your hips onto the table, right next to the elegant anniversary dinner and the overturned candle.
As Jonathan’s hands climbed up between your legs with an unapologetic possessiveness, his eyes looked into yours with a love so deep and obsessed that it was impossible not to be crushed under their weight. “My little lab rat, how brave you’ve become,” he said, his voice thickened with lust and a dangerous tone. “It only took a small chemical touch to awaken this darkness within you; so this was the suppressed craving you couldn’t even admit to yourself. I want to tear you apart here at the top of this tower, with Gotham’s cold breath on our necks; I must break you down first to rebuild every cell of your soul with my own hands.” When your legs wrapped around his waist, the searing friction between you and his unyielding frame wiped away all remnants of logic in your mind; when your tongues tangled again, it wasn't just a kiss this time—it was the struggle of two predators wanting to rip the soul out of one another.
Pressing against you with a hardness felt even through clothing, Jonathan grabbed your chin with one hand, pushing your head back and forcing you to look at that boundless view. “Look! Those people living like ants outside will never taste this destructive passion we feel,” he roared, his voice echoing through the stone walls of the tower like a cry of victory.
As the first seconds of the sweet-smelling gas infused your blood with an artificial but searing courage, the terrifying void outside the tower no longer seemed a deadly pit but a stage for your own dominance; you shoved Jonathan’s firm chest back with unexpected strength, sending the silver candelabras sliding toward the edge of the table. Even as his back hit the cold stone wall, Jonathan maintained his calculated composure, watching your transformation into an unbridled predator with that signature analytical fascination. Out of breath, your chest heaving, you stepped toward him; wrapping your hands around his tie and jerking him forward, your voice rang out like a dark command: “Not here, not at this table, Jonathan... I want to be at the very top, where the wind cuts the skin; take me there and possess my soul at the summit of Gotham.”
The distorted, dark smile on Jonathan’s lips was proof of how your proposal fed his god-complex; wrapping one arm around your waist to seal you to him, he gripped your chin and whispered: “Leaving the lap of fear to challenge death itself... This is exactly what my masterpiece looks like.” As you dragged him toward the narrow, spiral stone staircase, every step became a front where your sexual tension turned into a physical war. Rising through the damp, dark hollow of the stairs, you stopped every few steps; Jonathan would slam you hard against the rough stone wall. His hands gripped your hips through your clothes, lifting you up as your legs locked around his waist, both of you swaying for a moment as if losing balance into the abyss.
Somewhere in the middle of the stairs, with a growl that signaled his patience had snapped, Jonathan clawed at the collar of your shirt and tore it open; the sound of the fabric ripping cracked like a whip in the silence. His fingers dug into your exposed shoulder like talons while his tongue traced a wet, searing path from your neck to your collarbone. You held the hair at the nape of his neck in your fists, throwing your head back against the stone wall with every harsh touch, moaning with the intoxication of pain and lust. Wedged between his hard frame and the wall, the narrowness of the stairs restricted your movements, but this restriction only made the friction more savage. As Jonathan’s hands tugged at the fabric at your waist as if to shred it, your breaths became a storm climbing the spiral void.
“Higher?” Jonathan growled, his lips millimeters from yours, “Your skin will be like ice, but your blood will boil in my hands.” As he used one hand to part your legs and pressed you against the stair railing, the massive void behind your back and his oppressive presence in front made you feel like the sole ruler of the world. In this ascent where clothes loosened one by one and your tongues sought each other hungrily at every pause, you were in a dark ritual that transcended human limits. You moved toward the dirty lights of Gotham with a wild appetite, leaving teeth marks and nail scratches on each other's skin until you reached that windy platform at the very top.
As the pitch-black night and the sharp, foul wind of Gotham whipped against your face at the top of the tower, you walked to the very edge—the boundary where the endless void began—empowered by the wild surge the gas created in your veins. As the city lights flickered below like the eyes of a dying, wounded beast, you threw your arms wide and screamed against the entirety of Gotham, your voice mingling with the howl of the wind as those daring words mocking Batman spilled from your lips: “Watch us, Bat! See how I unite with the Master of Fear, and tonight, be content with only watching!” This outcry pushed Jonathan’s dark possessiveness to its ultimate limit; he caught you from behind, sealing you to him and forcing you into a true surrender at the threshold of the abyss, right before Gotham’s grimy glow.
When Jonathan’s hands, with a hunger that knew no bounds, slipped beneath your torn blouse to cup your breasts—chilled by the wind but firm—you moaned against his shoulder as the burning trails left by his fingertips seared your skin. He stroked your breasts with a possessive hardness, his thumbs stimulating the peaks, carving his signature into your soul with every touch; gasping for air, you leaned back and slid your hands down to his hips, squeezing those firm, powerful muscles in your palms. The massive tension felt even through his trousers caused a muffled, animalistic growl to escape Jonathan’s throat as your fingers drifted to his penis; as your hand gripped that hardness, stroking it with rhythmic pressure, Jonathan’s lips roamed your neck like a hungry predator, his tongue and teeth growing more savage by the second.
As his hand climbed up between your legs to find your wetness and heat, the oppressive and expert caresses against your vulva swept away the last remnants of logic in your mind; the wet sounds as his fingers explored you were the darkest melody mingling with Gotham’s roar. While you felt every vein of his penis through your fingers, Jonathan pulled you even closer, whispering into your ear in that icy, lustful voice: “While this city burns under our witness, you will melt only at the tips of my fingers; every moan of yours will be etched into Gotham’s darkness.” Despite the wind freezing your skin, you were scorched by the hellfire created by Jonathan’s touch; the deep, wet wound you opened in each other’s bodies had reached the peak of that dark, irreversible ritual.
As the icy wind of Gotham howled at the very summit of the tower, Jonathan pushed you toward the narrow and perilous boundary of the railings; the artificial courage created by the gas had completely seized your soul, and now the void was no longer a threat, but an invitation.
His hands were on your waist, his fingers digging into your skin so tightly that blue bruises would surely remain by tomorrow morning. But you didn't even care. Would there even be a tomorrow? Right now, in this minute, it felt difficult to believe in the existence of anything beyond this single breath.
“Lean over further,” Jonathan whispered, his lips brushing the edge of your ear. His breath was hot, but his voice was stone-cold. “Let’s see how much you can endure.”
You obeyed. You stretched your body forward, your breasts pressing against the iron bars, the cold metal hardening your nipples. As he hoisted you onto the railing, to the very threshold of that fatal void, and laid you across the iron, you knew a single wrong move would send you into eternity; yet you only smirked. Beneath you, hundreds of meters down, the city lights slithered like snakeskin. As the wind whipped your hair, creating a chill on the back of your neck, Jonathan’s fingers gripped your hips, his nails sinking into your flesh.
“Are you not afraid?” he asked, a mocking curiosity in his voice. “One wrong move, one slip… and you become nothing more than a stain upon these stones.” With a crude possessiveness, Jonathan’s fingers hitched your skirt upward, bunching the fabric at your waist and leaving your hips completely vulnerable and bare.
You smiled. “Then at least I’ll die doing my favorite thing.”
Jonathan’s breath hitched. For a moment, there was silence, save for the rhythmic clicking of the tower’s massive mechanism and the frantic beating of your heart. Then, he reached for his belt; the sound of the leather unbuckling mingled with the mechanical clicks as he slowly lowered his zipper. Freed from the fabric, his hard, veined penis was a warm, heavy piece of flesh with swollen veins, a translucent fluid seeping from its tip. He must have felt your wetness, because his fingers slid to your inner thigh. “God, are you always this wet?” he asked, his voice thickening. “Or is it just this height that draws it out of you?”
Then, he grunted like an animal and shoved you against the railing. As your breasts were crushed against the iron, your hips were in the air, your legs spread, exposing your wet vulva to the moonlight. You felt Jonathan’s length, pressing the tip against your wet lips. “Now,” he said, his voice hushed, almost like a prayer. “Now let’s see—are you truly fearless?”
With the first thrust, your breath caught. His penis was too large for you, as it always was, but this time gravity was aiding him. With every thrust, your body slid against the railing, the coldness of the iron biting into your breasts and stomach. Jonathan’s hands gripped your hips, his fingers tight enough to nearly draw blood. “Oh, God,” he moaned, his voice like breaking glass. “I feel you, you’re squeezing me everywhere, as if you want to swallow me whole.”
Your only answer was a moan. His length dived deep, further with every stroke, as if pushing a new boundary within you. The wind carried the wet sounds of your union down to the dark streets of the city. Somewhere, far off, a dog howled, but no one could hinder you. No one could stop you. Jonathan’s breath was on your neck, hot and fast. “Look down,” he commanded, his voice like a whip. “Look and tell me, are you afraid?”
You looked down. The city was a labyrinth of lights and shadows, people moving like ants, none of them knowing you were here, at these heights, in this danger. Jonathan’s penis entered you again, deeper this time, more mercilessly. “No,” you whispered, your voice trembling but full of conviction. “I am not afraid.”
Then, Jonathan tangled his hand into your hair, pulling your head back to expose your neck. He buried his teeth into your shoulder; as he bit down, his length swelled even further inside you. “Then it is so,” he said, his voice a mixture of blood and desire. “Then you are mine. Completely.”
Everything accelerated after that. As Jonathan’s hips collided with yours, the stone frame of the tower seemed to tremble. With every thrust, your body slid further against the railing; your toes clung to the iron while your heels dangled in the air. Jonathan’s hands gripped your breasts, his fingers squeezing your nipples until pain and pleasure became indistinguishable. “I love you,” you whispered, but your voice was lost to the wind. “I love you, I love you—”
When Jonathan’s penis reached your absolute depths, your body arched like a bow. Your orgasm shattered you, your contractions pulling him in as he came with one final thrust, pouring his warmth deep inside you. For a moment, both of you did nothing but breathe, your bodies glistening with sweat and moonlight. Then, Jonathan pulled you back into his arms, holding you as if you were fragile for the very first time.
You looked down at the city lights. Everything was still there—the streets, the people, life. But you were different now. Jonathan’s lips were at your ear, his breath warm. “Now,” he said, his voice soft, almost gentle. “Now I know that you truly aren't afraid.”
And you smiled. Because in that moment, at those heights, in that danger, you felt the immense freedom of being only with him. There was no fear. There was only him. And you. And this infinite moment.
Jerome Valeska
As the pale lights of Gotham faded behind you, the moment you stepped through the rusted gates of the abandoned amusement park, even the wind brushing against your skin felt like a sinister whisper; as if the air itself seeped in not just to pull you inside, but to pull you inward, toward something nameless and wrong.
Weeds had sprouted between the broken stones beneath your feet, and some of the stones were splattered with a deep red paint that looked disturbingly like blood. Each step you took echoed against the metallic skeleton of the park, making it feel as though an invisible crowd was watching, applauding your arrival.
The first thing that greeted you was a clown. But not the kind you'd find at a child’s birthday party, its face paint was peeling, one eye drowned in smudged black mascara, the other painted with the tremble of a laugh that never fully formed. Its yellowed, sharpened teeth gleamed as it approached, voice rasping through a grin:
"The princess has arrived. Looking for dinner... or dessert, maybe?"
It dropped a box of popcorn into the crook of your arm, just as a larger man followed behind, his absurdly polished shoes clicking as he stepped closer, placing a cotton candy into your other hand, but this cotton candy was dyed a toxic shade of lavender, speckled with tiny red dots that looked more like blood splatter than strawberry syrup. Tilting his head, he hissed through his teeth:
"Nothing like sweet blood, is there, sweetheart?"
Another figure gently caught you by the arm, offering you a box of fried mini sausages in gold-embossed cardboard. Scrawled in messy handwriting on the lid were the words: Contents: Unknown.
Then came a woman with hair adorned in colorful threads and fingernails filed to sharp metallic points. She handed you a glass jar filled with what looked like soda, only inside, translucent jellyfish-like creatures floated, writhing.
"Shake it three times before you drink," she said with a manic laugh, tossing her head back. The laughter echoed off the empty Ferris wheel, climbing toward the sky.
With both of your arms now full of bizarre treats threatening to spill, your steps carried you to the mouth of the haunted tunnel. The entrance yawned open through the gaping mouth of a massive clown face, metal and rust forming its twisted lips. Its eyes flickered with electric light, fog seeping out like tears, and inside the smoky tunnel, a silhouette waited for you.
Jerome Valeska.
He looked as if he'd been drawn, or clipped out of a film reel. He wore a velvet coat in shades of black and purple, trailing behind him like a cape; the green shirt underneath looked as though it had been brushed with blood. His hair was wild but perfectly styled, and that same meaningless, endless, and dark smile he had the first time you saw him stretched across his face.
His hands were tucked into his pockets, but his eyes were fixed on you, on the food weighed down in your arms, the specks of lavender sugar, the drop of jelly clinging to your lip.
He took a slow step toward you, the tunnel lights casting shadows that made his face shift like a series of masks.
"Look at me and tell me," he said, voice both flirtatious and deadly, "has any girl ever come to an amusement park looking this poisonous before? Because... I’m seriously holding myself back from eating you right now."
He tilted his head, a childlike hunger in his gaze mixed with sadistic romance.
"Did you bring me treats? Popcorn, sausages... tears, too? A little fear? A little heartbeat? Because tonight, I want to make you laugh and cry."
Another step closer. He began taking each item from your arms — one cotton candy, one box of sausages, one jar of soda... He turned each one over in his hands like it was treasure.
When he took the last item, your fingers touched. A deep silence settled between you.
Then, in a low voice, he spoke.
"Let’s go inside, sweetheart. I’m not here to scare you tonight… I’m here to drive you mad by making you fall in love with me."
And he reached out his hand to you, toward the haunted tunnel, or perhaps, toward a gateway that led straight into the twisted center of his heart.
From the outside, the inside of the tunnel looked like nothing more than a flickering illusion of rusted metal and neon lights, but the moment you stepped inside, it felt like time had curled in on itself, like reality had cracked open like a rotting fruit. You could’ve sworn the tiny, two-seater cart meant to carry you — that old amusement park ride, trembled in sync with your own twisted heartbeat. Covered in purple and green satin, its sides lined with rusted iron bars, the thing looked like something between a teacup ride and a coffin; it promised to carry you, but it also looked built to consume you.
Jerome didn’t sit across from you, he sat right next to you, so close your leg nearly brushed his. When your knees touched, he leaned in and whispered into your ear:
“Hands up, princess. This isn’t a robbery, but stealing your mind is only seconds away.”
As the cart creaked forward, the fog rising from the tracks ahead carried a sharp, metallic tang, and the air inside the tunnel wasn’t just humid, it carried with it the steam of blood that hadn’t fully cooled. At the first turn, Jerome burst into laughter; as his laugh echoed through the tunnel, the lights began to flicker, and the first scene revealed itself.
To your left, at the base of the wall, stood a man hunched like a puppet. His face was wrapped in bandages, hands tied behind his back, but his eyes were open, fixed on you.
"Y/N... This is your fault," he said, his voice shrill and trembling like something torn from your childhood nightmares.
"I was there. Why did you shut the door?!"
His head suddenly snapped back as a massive hammer descended from above, smashing him into the ground. What burst forth wasn’t blood, or at least, at first, you thought it was paint. But the smell was enough to churn your stomach.
As you struggled to stifle your scream, Jerome rested his cheek on your shoulder and giggled like a child.
"Surprise! First scene… origin of trauma!"
The tracks twisted again. The lights suddenly turned red. The tunnel widened, and you arrived at the second scene.
This time, there were two people, one woman mimicking your mother’s voice, and a man trembling with a kitchen knife in hand. The woman crouched on the floor, clapping her hands as she whispered your name in a tone that was both sweet and devastating.
“Come here, sweetheart... Daddy’s gone now. It’s just me. It was always me. Me…”
The man let out a scream and plunged the knife into her chest. But this wasn’t some staged performance, the heat of the blood felt close enough to spatter across your face. Her eyes bulged in horror as she shuddered out a final breath. Behind them, a message painted in blood appeared on the wall:
EVERY MOMENT CAN BE REAL.
Jerome clutched his stomach with laughter, nearly falling out of the cart. Then he steadied himself, leaned in, and brought his face closer to yours.
“It’s all theater, sure... but how many of these actors were volunteers, even I don’t know. Maybe we went a little... improv, huh?”
As the tracks curved again, the cart plunged into darkness. You couldn’t see a thing, but before your eyes could adjust, the stench of rotting flesh filled your nostrils, threatening to burst the fear balloon pounding in your chest. A bell rang from deep within, and the third scene began.
A man wearing a puppet’s head dangled from the ceiling by strings tied to his arms. He called your name as if he knew it by heart, beckoning you.
“I came to teach you how to play,” he said.
Then, from the shadows, a "doctor" figure emerged, their face unrecognizable, carrying a syringe covered in long, sharp needles. They injected the man, who immediately began screaming, thrashing to break free. But with each struggle, he was pulled higher, until, finally, he vanished somewhere into the ceiling.
Jerome was silent during this scene. He just watched you. In his eyes, there was the gaze of a hungry god witnessing the little girl inside you tremble, watching every memory surface one by one.
You tried to take a deep breath, but the air was thick, damp, suffocating.
“These aren’t real,” you said, but you couldn’t even convince yourself.
Jerome tilted his head slightly, his eyes glittering.
“Darling,” he whispered,
“Reality is so boring. I built you a new one. Say hello to your traumas… and then, say goodbye.”
You were approaching the final scene. In front of you stood a figure that looked exactly like you, same clothes, same hair, a mask mimicking your face. Across from her stood a mirrored version of Jerome, hollow eyes, mouth sewn shut. These two slowly walked toward each other. The theater fell silent. The cart stopped.
And then a gunshot echoed.
Your double collapsed.
Jerome’s twin turned and walked away without looking back.
The real Jerome took your hand, warm, firm.
“You chose me,” he said simply.
“What doesn’t kill you… binds you to me.”
The moment you stepped out through the tunnel’s rusted exit gate, it wasn’t Gotham’s humid air that hit you first, it was the fire blazing in Jerome’s eyes. A dim blue light seeped from behind the cart, mist still crawled at your ankles, and the twisted sound of a distant music box pierced the night’s silence like a sly blade. Though a tremble from the tunnel’s filthy air still lingered in your body, your heart was filled with a strange peace, because this uncontrolled plunge into madness didn’t feel like falling... it felt almost like rising.
And then something happened when your eyes met and you saw that slow-spreading dark grin across Jerome’s face. The crazy girl inside you that thing so long repressed, sparkling like a knife wrapped in candy paper, began to climb up your arms, spread to your fingers, your throat, all the way to your mouth.
And you couldn’t resist anymore. You leaned toward him, your lips nearly brushing his chin, but Jerome pulled his head back slightly.
“T-t-t! You think it starts like this?”
He pressed his thumb to your lips, then tilted his head, his eyes full of the impatient glee of a child on their birthday morning, mixed with the careful precision of a killer on his wedding night.
“Even hell has stairs, sweetheart. No love scene without a proper costume rehearsal, hmm?”
Suddenly, his arm wrapped around your waist, and he spun you toward the darkest, most ruined, grotesque corner of the amusement park. Between overturned carts, shattered mirrors, and half-destroyed toy dolls, he brought you to an old puppet stage, but now, it was stained with blood. The puppets were gone. In their place were bodies.
Dressed in colorful clothes, lying still with frozen manic smiles, they looked like victims torn from Arkham’s forgotten past.
Jerome pulled you to the center of the stage.
“The stage... is yours!” he cried, spinning with arms open wide — then suddenly stopped, turning to you with a serious expression.
“But first… a costume change, hm?”
He reached for your dress, not violently, but with such firm intent that the fabric tore like a scream. It wasn’t just your dress he was ripping, but the illusion of "being normal" you’d been trapped inside.
“This isn’t you,” he said,
“You’re a queen hiding behind a mask. And I... I undressed you from it. I’m the one dressing you now.”
He bent down over the corpses, pulling a red tulle clown ruffle from one of them and tying it around your neck. Then he took a sequined jacket soaked in blood from another — too big for you, which Jerome liked even more because of it.
“Oh, how lovely… how funny… how tragic!”
In his eyes shone the admiration of a true artist, mixed with unshed tears.
Then he pulled from his pocket a small, bloodstained brush. Without breaking eye contact, he dipped it in the fresh blood dripping from a victim’s chin, and slowly brought it to your lips.
“Now smile. But... really smile,” he said.
And with that blood-soaked brush, he painted the corners of your mouth into that iconic, crooked, theatrical "Joker" grin.
Once the brush had done its work, he leaned back to examine you, then rested his chin against your cheek.
“I don’t know if my blood’s in your mouth… but in your heart? Ah. Your heart is on fire.”
And then he kissed you. But this wasn’t just any kiss.
Jerome Valeska didn’t kiss like torture, but it wasn’t a celebration either. His kiss was a kind of ritual, a ceremony of ownership.
When he pressed his lips to yours, it wasn’t to give you breath, it was like he wanted to carve scratches into your lungs.
At first, it was hard, angry, like he meant to silence your mouth. But then his hands slid to the back of your neck and pulled you in so close, there was no space left between his breath and your heartbeat.
He didn’t close his eyes as he kissed, he watched you.
He read your every twitch, every breath, every recoil, and drank it all down with a smile.
Then, suddenly, he bit your lip. When his teeth grazed the edge of your upper lip, the air between you sparked like a live wire. It wasn’t exactly pain, nor just desire, the perverse beauty of Jerome’s kiss didn’t lie in the touch itself, but in the way he controlled it. As his teeth bit into your lip, his fingers pressed into the base of your neck, pulling you to him with such force that you could hardly breathe.
But a second later, he pulled back with a childlike giggle.
“Aaah... you bled! This... is perfect! Can I paint you with your own blood?”
He dipped a finger into the thin red line trickling from your lip, then lifted your chin with his thumb.
“Well… you look a bit gothic now, but who cares. The scene is much more... erotic,” he said, eyes fixed on your lips though his gaze had already pierced through your soul.
The kiss didn’t end there. No, for someone like Jerome, a kiss was never a finale, it was always the beginning.
He leaned back into you, this time his body fully pressed against yours, his breath winding around your throat, his hands trailing your back, not randomly, but as if he were trying to memorize your spine.
And then, with a kiss so deep it felt like your feet had left the ground, he consumed your mouth.
Jerome’s kiss was like a swallowing, slowly pulling you in, erasing boundaries, blending his soul with yours until there was no clear edge between the two.
When his tongue met yours, he didn’t play, he explored.
He exhaled through his nose, then spoke into your mouth in a breathy murmur,
“Mmmh... this is dangerous, sweetheart. If you kiss me like that again, I won’t be able to stop myself from dying.”
He cupped your cheeks in his hands and kissed you again, over and over. Not just your lips — your nose, your forehead, under your chin, the side of your neck. Each kiss felt like worship.
But between each kiss came a laugh, not quiet, not restrained, but the wild, unhinged laugh you knew all too well.
Then, when he kissed your neck and ran his tongue down it like a drawn line, he whispered into your ear:
“I could burn down a city with you… but first, we have to set each other on fire.”
In that moment, he didn’t lay you down, no.
He opened you like a stage curtain, but didn’t place you on the floor.
Because to him, you weren’t a bed, you were a stage.
His kisses trailed from lips to throat, throat to chest, down to your waist, every part of you felt like a note in a song. Jerome didn’t play your body like an instrument, he was rigging it like a bomb.
And with every touch, he grew more insane, more intense, more... in love.
Finally, he lifted his head and locked eyes with you.
“Now tell me,” he said in a low, hoarse voice,
“Did I burn you, or did you blow me up?”
And then he kissed you again.
Calm.
Deep.
Insanely slow.
And now, blood, spit, painted smiles, love, and madness were tangled all together.
“You’re ready now,” he said, wiping the blood from your lips with his thumb.
“Before Gotham burns... we burned. We burned, because this was the right fire tonight.”
And you stood there, the new queen of a city not yet aware it had already been claimed.
Your hair soaked in blood, your lips painted with a fake smile, but everything inside you was real, raw, wild, and burning with love.
Oswald Copplebot
The interior of the luxury car moved through Gotham’s night-drenched streets, filled with the tense silence of a deep navy evening. The sharp, heavy scent of the perfume Oswald had sprayed the moment he entered the car clung to the inside of the cabin.
You had spent hours getting ready, convinced you would be dining at some high-end restaurant; you’d styled your hair into those soft waves he liked on you. The thin satin fabric of your black dress whispered quietly every time you shifted in your seat, only heightening the anticipation knotting in your chest.
Sitting beside Oswald always brought a subtle, underlying tension; even when he acted polite, he was a man who carried storms beneath his ribs. Even now, the almost childlike excitement on his face shimmered alongside a darkness flickering in the corners of his eyes, urging you to believe tonight was special.
He had crossed one leg over the other to better hide his limp, his fingers absentmindedly stroking the silver-inlaid head of his cane. “Be patient, my love,” he had said without looking at you, watching the city lights fracture across his glasses. “Tonight… you won’t forget.” The trembling pride in his voice made your heart leap faster than you intended. You assumed he meant a dinner at a newly opened skyscraper restaurant, or a private tasting menu prepared just for him. But Oswald seemed to savor your misconception; the subtle curve of his lips couldn’t conceal the weight of a secret, and his fingers tapped an excited rhythm on his cane.
When the car left Gotham’s center and slipped into emptier, darker streets, your brows had drawn together. You were certain there were no luxury restaurants or hotels in this direction. But Oswald’s lack of reaction—his silent observation of the windows, his occasional deep breaths—kept you from speaking. You wanted to ask him something, but every word you imagined saying felt as though it would shatter the heavy atmosphere inside the car.
When the road veered onto a path lined by towering gravestones leaning into the darkness, a cold shock rippled through you. “Oswald… this is—” you were about to say, but he turned toward you with a firm smile, tapping the windshield with his cane. “Do you know where we are?” His eyes gleamed with a joy interwoven with a dark resolve. You tried to reassure yourself—perhaps there was a historic hotel nearby, or a themed restaurant… something. But Oswald’s silence only tightened the air around you.
When the car finally stopped before the cemetery’s wrought-iron gate, your heart seemed to freeze for a beat before it raced wildly in your chest. You had high expectations for tonight, but the sight of the misty, black-rose-adorned gothic gate shattered every one of them in an instant. “Oswald… really?” you whispered, keeping your voice controlled enough not to reveal your disappointment.
Oswald stepped out of the car with his cane, moving with his uneven gait, and gestured for you to follow—gentle, yet insistent. Your gaze was level with his; he was a few centimeters shorter than you, but the authority in his eyes made that fact disappear entirely. “I wanted to bring the three most important people together tonight,” he said. The trembling pride in his voice made you pause. You didn’t understand at first… but as you walked through the corridor of black roses, candles flickering in the wind, Oswald’s breath grew heavier, his face more solemn.
The cemetery looked like a gothic sanctuary; the sharp cries of crows echoed between arched stone pillars, the scent of black roses hung thick in the air, and the candlelight bounced off cold marble tombstones. It was clear Oswald had prepared this place. Still, you paused, drawing in a deep breath to steady the mixture of surprise and faint disappointment swelling in your chest. He was too lost in his own excitement, his own private world, to notice your feelings. From time to time he would turn back to flash you a small smile, then continue limping ahead. “Come,” he whispered, almost tenderly. “I can’t wait to show you to them.”
At last, you reached a small enclosed area lined with tall marble reliefs. Oswald approached a grave draped in black roses, walking with slow, heavy steps. When the candle flames flickered across his face, you saw him look more vulnerable than ever before. His lips parted slightly; his voice was soft enough to dissolve into the night:
“Mother… I brought someone to you.”
He turned to you then. The darkness you were used to seeing in him was gone—replaced by a trembling, almost childlike hope.
“This is Y/N. My beloved.”
And in that moment, despite the chill of the tombstone, you sensed that Oswald’s heart was laid bare more completely than you had ever seen. You had expected a romantic dinner; but for Oswald, this… this was his greatest intimacy. His deepest confession.
And as you realized that, your disappointment melted into something heavy, warm, and deeply tender.
Oswald drew in a deep breath, his chest trembling as the cold air filled him. He slowly rested his cane on the ground beside him and moved toward you with a slight limp. It was as if with every uneven step, a layer of him fell away—his darkness pulled back, revealing only that soft, private version of Oswald he allowed no one else to see. His fingers reached for your hand with a timid yet determined longing; when you placed your fingers over his, his eyelids fluttered, and an unfamiliar fragility appeared at the edge of his lower lip. Normally he spoke like a man accustomed to power, victory, domination—but now his voice was surprisingly gentle, almost like someone whispering a prayer.
“There’s something I… need to talk to you about,” he said. The nervousness in his voice was too raw to hide. “Something that’s been eating away at me for years… something I never had the courage to tell anyone.” When his eyes locked with yours, the heart of a man dangerous enough to threaten an entire city beat nakedly in front of you. His narrow shoulders trembled; his lips parted, breath fogging in the cold night, and the sharpness in his expression melted into pure tenderness. When he leaned in, the slight brush of his nose against your cheek, the signature tilt of his face illuminated by candlelight, the way he seemed to lower his head as if wanting to rest it against you—each gesture exposed a vulnerability he tried so hard to conceal.
“I… I’m in love with you,” he finally said. He swallowed under the weight of the words, closing his eyes as if a knot that had eaten at him for years had finally come undone. “You… are my greatest weakness.” His voice cracked, breath hitching; he couldn’t have spoken this confession to anyone but you. He had always been a man who displayed strength in front of you—yet now he stood as if stripped of all of it. His slight chest rose and fell rapidly, and the way he had to tilt his gaze upward because of his shorter height gave his vulnerability an even more aching softness.
When he wrapped both hands around yours, the warmth of his touch felt almost like a burn. “I know,” he murmured, his voice swelling like a wave of tenderness, “I’m dangerous… reckless… and sometimes I can’t stop myself. But when it comes to you… when it comes to you… my shell cracks, Y/N.” His fingers trembled. “With you… I’m not afraid to be myself. Because you see me… the real me.”
Then, with another small limping step, he moved even closer, lowering his head as if he wanted to rest his face against your chest. When the edge of his nose brushed the fabric of your dress, he held his breath—as though your scent had momentarily undone him. “I’m in love with you,” he repeated, this time with more resolve, more weight, with a power that suited him. “And that… doesn’t frighten me. Because nothing is as terrifying as losing you.”
In that moment, you knew: Gotham’s most ambitious, most shadowed man had abandoned all his strength, all his harshness, all his darkness in the face of this confession—standing before you simply as Oswald, completely and utterly bare.
As the scent of black roses drifted into the air and scattered with the wind, the small Victorian-style table Oswald had arranged glowed in the middle of the cemetery like a fragment of a dinner scene torn out of time. Your meal was finished, the plates had been carefully cleared away, leaving only the sweetly spiced aroma of dessert and the soft fizz of champagne behind. You could see that the serious expression on Oswald’s face actually concealed an indescribable pride; even the faint scraping sound he made as he pulled his slightly limping leg back under the table seemed to blend seamlessly into the rhythm of the night.
When a large silhouette — someone who looked like a waiter but much more like one of Oswald’s men — appeared with crystal flutes filled with golden, honey-colored champagne, the clink of thin glass echoed sharply through the cemetery’s silence. Oswald took his glass with elegant fingers, his distinctive hooked nose coming so close to the rim it almost touched; after inhaling the drink with a reverent breath, he glanced at you with a subtle smile. “It will go perfectly with the dessert,” he said, a hint of excitement warming his tone.
The dessert placed on the table had stunned you the moment you saw it: thin shards of dark chocolate arranged like petals, ruby-red raspberry sauce pooled between them, and on top, a wisp of steaming vanilla cream… even the most expensive restaurants in Gotham couldn’t serve anything that looked this exquisite.
As you lifted the first bite to your lips, Oswald raised his glass toward the tombstone rising beside him. “Mother,” he said, and for a moment you were frozen, unsure of how to respond to a man toasting champagne in a graveyard, trying to keep the polite smile on your face, “our bride is quite elegant, isn’t she?” He stared at the faded inscription on the tombstone as if his mother were truly sitting across from him. “You know, she chose this dress especially. You can see how carefully she prepared to meet me.” The pride in his voice was immeasurable; you, still stunned, managed a slow smile and kept your eyes on your dessert, softly stirring it with your spoon. If you tried to speak, you weren’t sure where your words would land, so you simply bowed your head a little and responded with a gentle, polite smile.
Suddenly, Oswald straightened and called into the darkness with that familiar, commanding tone:
“Bring it!”
As if some shadow lurking in the cemetery had been waiting for the order, a man appeared within seconds, carrying a small box wrapped in black velvet. When Oswald took the box, that childlike excitement returned instantly; the way his slender fingers stroked the velvet surface, the slight tremble in his weakened knee, the way he stretched just a little despite his short height to hold the box out to you… all of it revealed how eager he was. “This,” he said, extending the box toward you, “is the finest piece I could find for someone worthy of it.”
When you opened the box, your breath caught. The necklace inside wasn’t just a valuable antique — it was a fragment of a story ripped from another era. The filigree patterns engraved into the silver wrapped around a breathtaking red gemstone at the center; Oswald murmured that it once belonged to a queen in the 1800s. Of course, according to Gotham’s laws, something like this leaving its country of origin was absolutely impossible… which is why that mischievous glint never left his eyes as he told you.
Your heart raced as you stared at the necklace; a stolen royal heirloom… absurd, dangerous, decadent, and utterly Oswald. You couldn’t hide the rush of joy that spread across your face. Oswald lifted his narrow chin slightly, leaning closer to you, his voice softening:
“It will suit you… because you are now my history.”
And in that strange, gothic, slightly unsettling yet deeply romantic night, the shine of the gift seemed to soften even the cold of the tombstones.
The moment Oswald placed the necklace around your neck, the weight of the stone resting on your collarbones felt almost like a sacred seal. While fastening it behind your neck, his fingertips lingered — intentionally or not — two seconds longer than necessary; when his breath touched the back of your neck, every shadow in the misty cemetery seemed to tremble. For an instant you forgot how to breathe, while Oswald’s short but solid frame moved closer, close enough for you to hear the rhythm of his heartbeat. His grip on his cane loosened, and he didn’t bother to hide the flood of emotion spreading across the lines of his forehead; it was as if he wanted to rest his face against your chest.
After fastening the necklace, he didn’t look at the silver gleam falling against your skin — he looked at you. A dangerous smile curved at the corner of his lips; even in the dark, that smile said everything about what the rest of the night would become. He stepped back, lifted his cane, and with a sharp command that sliced through the silence of the graveyard, he called out:
“Leave. All of you.”
That single word sent the shadows scattered around the cemetery into motion; the men in black suits withdrew silently, as though they were part of some invisible ritual. Without exchanging a word, without even making a sound with their footsteps, they disappeared into the darkness between the marble columns. When the last man vanished, Oswald set his cane on the ground; the metal tip clicked softly against the stone, and then the entire cemetery sank once again into its deep, ancient silence.
Now you were alone.
All of Gotham seemed swallowed by stillness.
The whole world felt as if it were holding its breath.
“I can’t help it…” he murmured, his voice low and trembling like a dark incantation. “Every time I look at you… I feel as if I’m standing in the middle of a ritual, Y/N.” The candle flames flickered in his eyes. “And tonight… I want to make this union sacred.”
His fingers rose to your cheek. As his thumb traced the edge of your jaw, Oswald leaned toward you; his short height forcing him to lift his face to meet yours, making him appear even more vulnerable, even more sincere. When his slender body brushed lightly against yours, his breath echoed just beneath your lips.
Then, standing right before you, he pressed his lips to yours.
It wasn’t a rushed kiss.
It wasn’t a demand.
It wasn’t a claim.
It was — a silent ritual.
As if some ancient vow, some old bond, some dark enchantment was binding two souls together in the heart of the cemetery.
Oswald’s lips were warm like fire; his kiss carried an unexpected softness, and beneath that softness lay a storming passion. When he placed his hand on your waist, his thin fingers pulled you closer; the way he lifted his face to yours — because of his height — revealed a man who could no longer hide how much he needed the kiss. His heart beat rapidly against your chest, and his breath escaped between your lips in a dark, trembling sigh.
Candlelight formed a ring around you.
The black roses swayed in the night breeze.
The crows seemed to accompany your rite.
This was more than a kiss.
It was a ritual in which Oswald sealed his darkness with you.
And in that moment, you realized:
This man was not merely declaring his love…
He was consecrating it.
As the kiss deepened, Oswald pushed you toward the table. You were sprawled across it, your skirt hiked up to your waist, your legs slightly parted, as if waiting for Oswald to devour you.
Oswald's tongue danced against yours as he continued to kiss you. His cold porcelain skin, in the candlelight, resembled a marble statue; his beak-like nose quivered gently with each breath. The necklace on your neck, part of a stolen fortune, clung to your sweaty chest, shimmering and coming to life with each breath. And the fabric of his trousers tightened. He looked at you, his eyes deep as blue poison, his lips slightly parted, the way the wine had left its mark.
“You look so beautiful, love,” he said, his voice velvety, but with a stinging knife beneath. “Like a sacrifice offered for them, among my parents’ graves.” He caressed your neck with his fingers... where your pulse beat, then placed his palm on the table, his little finger brushing the inside of your thigh. It was cold, but it felt like a fire burning beneath your skin. “They should be happy too. Perhaps my father’s soul, my mother’s bones, are at peace now that I’ve found the woman I love.”
You gasped. Oswald’s touch slowly crept up, under your kneecap, down your thigh, dragging the fabric of your skirt. Crows fluttered their black wings and cawed, their shadows dancing across the table. Oswald’s fingers brushed the hem of your underwear, warming it, then retreating. It was torture for you—giving, but not taking completely. “Open,” he whispered, his voice intoxicating like wine vapor. “Show me how wet you are.”
When you bit your lip, Oswald smiled, his teeth glinting with a vague threat. He finished his own wine in one gulp. Then her fingers moved to his belt, unbuckled the black leather strap, and pulled slowly. The button on his trousers was undone, and there was a metallic click as the zipper came down. His cock sprang out, hard, veiny, a clear drop hanging from its tip—burning like fire despite the night's chill. "Look," he said, shaking it with his hand, "how ready I am for you. I'll take you here. And you, silently, obediently, will take every drop."
His hands wrapped around your hips, pulling you onto the table. The hard wood pressed against your back, but more than the pain, it was the feeling of helplessness under Oswald's control that dominated. You spread your legs wider, your skirt now completely off, your underwear damp and sticky. Oswald's fingers pulled them aside, the cool air brushing against your wet skin, making you even more sensitive. "As the first ritual of our wedding, I'm going to fuck you, baby," he growled, his cock grazing the entrance to your pussy, rubbing slowly, torturously. "And you'll have a screaming orgasm."
With his first thrust, you gasped. His cock filled you, stretching you, each inch opening you wider. The gravestones trembled, and you felt something stir beneath the earth—perhaps spirits, perhaps just the rhythm of Oswald's body. The diamonds on your necklace swayed, sparkling with every movement, as if trying to penetrate the darkness of the cemetery. Oswald's hips slammed into you, the table legs creaking, the wood groaning. "Oh, God," you moaned, your nails digging into the edge of the table, your body tensing with each thrust. "More... deeper, please."
Oswald smiled, his teeth glinting in the light, then leaned down and pressed his lips to your neck. He bit, lightly, then dragged his tongue over the wound. "That's it, baby," he whispered, his breath hot and cold against your earlobe. "They made you mine. Every drop of cum is mine, every moan is mine, every hole is mine." His hand gripped your hips, his nails digging into your flesh, pulling you closer as his cock dug deeper. The hard, relentless rhythm made your moans a continuous melody. The crows cawed louder, the beat of their wings melting into the darkness.
"I'm gonna come," Oswald warned, his voice strained, on the edge of control. "Inside, deep inside. I'm going to fill you with my parents watching." The final thrusts came harder, deeper, then his heat flowed into you in waves, driving you to orgasm. Your vagina tightened, clenching around him as he released his last drops. Panting, Oswald pulled back, his cock still hard, but now wet and glistening. His eyes were on you, triumphant. "Good girl," he said, fingers spreading your pussy, watching the semen flow mingled. "But we're not done yet."
He lowered you from the table and made you turn around. You leaned forward. Your chest almost touched the tabletop, your hands gripping the edge. The skirt of your dress was bunched at your waist, exposing your ass.
Oswald's fingers moved down, stretching your ass cheeks and touching your rear entrance, pressing gently. Your body tensed, but Oswald said soothingly, "Shh." “Relax, baby. I’m going to take you right here, in every hole.” His finger slowly slid into your vagina, lubricating his fingers with the juices flowing from your soaking pussy, preparing you as he caressed your clit with his other hand, rubbing soft circles. “Round two,” he murmured as his cock grew erect again. “And this time, I’m going in through the back door.”
Edward Nygma
The only light in your room was the half-dim yellow glow from the bedside lamp; it cast a warm shadow on the walls, over your pillows, and along the lines of your bare legs. Your hair was messy, you weren’t wearing pajamas— the heat of the room made it easier for you to twist and turn on the bed with nothing but your skin.
You were just about to fall asleep when your phone buzzed.
Britney was calling.
Of course she was.
You answered.
“Ugh girl, pick uuup!!” Britney yelled, pop music blaring behind her. She was definitely crashing someone’s house party again.
“I did answer,” you said, your voice a little sleepy but with a faintly bratty tone. “What’s up?”
“You have your date tomorrow, right? Edward or whatever his name was? Yeah! Edward. So what happened? What are you two planning to do? Where’s he taking you? What are you gonna wear?!”
You rolled your eyes. You lifted your legs toward the ceiling, tracing a little circle in the air.
“I dunno,” you said. “He still hasn’t replied to my texts.”
“What? He hasn’t replied?!”
“Nope,” you repeated, the corner of your mouth curling with a mildly annoyed smile. “No place, no time, no plan. Nothing.”
Britney sucked in a determined breath.
“Maybe he’s planning a surprise! You know… like those mysterious guys… He’s definitely thinking up something huge!”
The romantic, overly-excited tremble in her voice pulled a smile onto your face.
“Hmm,” you said. “Could be.”
Britney immediately spiraled.
“Think about it: maybe he reserved some private place! Maybe candles or something! Maybe he can’t wait to see you!”
“Britney…”
“Maybe he’s prepping something all night long. Like—his brain is just spinning with all these ideas. Something super smart!”
Inside your head, a quiet truth slipped between your lips without sound:
Sure… unless Batman dragged him back to Arkham tonight. But you couldn’t tell Britney that. She didn’t know Edward was the Riddler. As far as she knew, Edward was just some lab technician—quiet, smart, a little creepy, but definitely not in the “danger” category.
So you just said, “You’re right. Maybe he is planning something special.”
“He totally is!” Britney shrieked, now fully hyped. “Y/N, this is sooo sexy! Mysterious guys… I know they’re your thing. And that guy? He’s literally a brain. Brains are sexy. Especially for crazies like you.”
You laughed. She wasn’t wrong. But you weren’t going to tell her that.
“We’ll see,” you said. “Maybe he’ll just show up tomorrow out of nowhere.”
“Oh he will!” Britney was speeding up; if she were in your room right now, she’d tackle you into your own bed. “I’m excited! Girl someone is planning a surprise for you… how does that make you feel?”
You sank into your pillow, lips curving.
“A little…”
Britney cut in immediately.
“Turned on!”
You burst out laughing.
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you felt it.”
“Maybe,” you said, closing your eyes and biting your lip.
Britney exhaled happily.
“Tomorrow you’re telling me everything. Every. Single. Detail.”
“We’ll see,” you said.
But inside, another thought flickered through your mind:
Assuming Edward actually has time to plan a surprise… assuming he’s not being hunted across Gotham right now.
Britney yawned.
“Okay okay, I’ll let you sleep. Call me tomorrow. I’m too excited about your love life to function right now!”
“Night, Brit.”
“Night, you sexy thing.”
The call ended.
Your room fell silent again.
Only your breathing and the distant wail of Gotham’s sirens remained.
When you turned onto your pillow and closed your eyes, Edward’s smile flashed in your mind for a moment—smart, dangerous, amusingly unpredictable.
And you thought:
Do you really think I won’t track you down just because you’re not texting me, Edward Nygma?
When the morning light slipped through your curtains and spread across the pale wooden floor, you felt a heavy dizziness—as if you had woken from a gray dream; you had slept deeply but restlessly, unaware of who might have been watching you through the night. With your eyelids half-closed, trying to sink back into your pillow, you noticed the green card on your nightstand—so distinct, so out of place, it seemed to pull all the light in the room toward itself.
You froze for a moment.
Riddler’s thin, long, wickedly curling calligraphy was etched on the front of the card, and the moment you saw it, a cold shiver slid down your spine.
So he had come in.
He had stood right by your bed and left this paper. While you slept. You hadn’t even heard the door. That constant alertness that came with living in Gotham had shifted into something else this morning: an invasive closeness, dark and strangely thrilling.
Your fingers trembled involuntarily as you picked up the card. Riddler had slipped into your room without disturbing your sleeping body. Maybe he had stood over you, watching. Maybe he had leaned close enough for his breath to brush your hair—you wouldn’t put any of that past him.
When you opened the card, the curling letters looked like a pair of sly eyes staring straight into yours.
“You wake, yet still dream.
You search for the first page of a locked story.
Truth is silent, but the answer is always in the eyes of the one who watches you.
To find me, go first to the heart of the place ‘filled with quiet.’
A single breath of empty space below it, then Riddler’s confident signature note:
“Solve it before your morning coffee, Y/N.
You think… more clearly.” — E.N.
The first thing that washed over you wasn’t anger; on the contrary, it was an excitement you couldn’t explain. This was proof that one of Gotham’s most dangerous criminals had taken your little game to a new level.
And still… something deep inside you accepted it.
Maybe it was curiosity.
Maybe it was that strange pull.
The riddle didn’t take long to solve; “the place filled with quiet” pointed straight to Gotham’s old Public Library, closed years ago. And “the first page of a locked story” went nowhere but the dusty shelves of that building. It had been abandoned for decades, standing in the middle of the city like one of Gotham’s forgotten ghosts.
But the last line stayed in your mind a while longer: “The answer is always in the eyes of the one who watches you.”
A clear reference to mirrors. Absolutely.
You grabbed your coat and left the house quickly. As Gotham’s misty morning fog rose between the streets, your footsteps echoed on the cold concrete; your thoughts tangled into a darkening maze built from Riddler’s words.
Gotham’s abandoned old Public Library looked like it was on the verge of collapsing. Most windows were broken, others boarded up; the copper plaque above the door still carried its faded inscription: Gotham Public Archives.
The moment you stepped inside, the sharp scent of dampness hit you; the dust of books unopened for years mixed with the bitter smell of rotting wood. In the dim light, as you walked between the shelves, dust floated lazily through the air, and with each step the shadows of the shelves stretched into one another, forming a labyrinth.
You searched for a clue Riddler might’ve left—your eyes darting from shelves to the floor, then to the cracks in the walls. Could he have left something? A note? A mark? A symbol?
But you found nothing…
Until you spotted a small mirror with a silver frame lying on the ground, as if dropped.
When you bent down and lifted it, the first thing you saw in the reflection was your own face.
Then—you noticed a darkness in the upper right corner of the mirror.
When you tilted it higher, you realized that darkness was actually the faint outline of a hidden door drawn onto the back wall.
A line invisible to the naked eye appeared clearly in the mirror. Just like the note said: “The answer is always in the eyes of the one who watches you.”
When you brought the mirror closer to the wall, the line sharpened; the frame of a concealed door revealed itself beneath the dust. When your fingers touched the wall, it sank inward slightly, followed by the heavy groan of an old mechanism.
The door opened.
And the darkness inside was deep enough to swallow all the morning light.
One of the broken bulbs hanging from the ceiling flickered for a moment, then died completely, leaving you alone in the darkness. Just when you considered stepping back, a neon-green glow slowly emerged from the depths of the gloom, filling one corner of the room—one sign, one symbol, one signature: Riddler’s glowing question mark.
That eerie light fell across one of the untouched armchairs in the secret room of the old library. And on the very chair you loved—the one you had always imagined as the perfect reading nook—a green envelope lay waiting for you, placed like a trap meant only for you.
Your name was written across it in a thin, elegant line:
“Y/N — If you’ve come this far, my intention today is to read you from top to bottom.”
You knew Riddler’s desire to read you wasn’t innocent curiosity; you sensed his obsessive interest in the twists of your mind, his passion for analyzing your every behavior, his tendency to catch you off guard from angles you never expected—always in control, always watching.
When you opened the envelope, even the faint perfume-like scent along the paper’s edges belonged to Riddler; he loved leaving traces of himself on everything.
“Every mind is a labyrinth
Every labyrinth has a center
And every center, a desire.
Which desire will you accept today?
1. Follow the words,
you will lose your shadow.
2. Follow the sound,
you will lose control.
3. Bow to the image,
you will lose yourself.
Below it, a short paragraph was drawn with meticulous precision:
“There is no right answer.
Only… where you want to call me.” — E.N.
It didn’t take you long to realize that each of the three paths Riddler had crafted for you was a trap; each choice would lead you to one of his carefully prepared spaces, each with its own darkness, its own ritual.
But the phrase “you will lose yourself” in the third option told you far more than it seemed. Since Riddler was someone who played with images, reflections, and the act of looking, the words “bow to the image” stirred several meanings at once.
And still… knowing the answer and choosing it weren’t the same thing.
Going somewhere and accepting the invitation weren’t the same thing.
You were playing this game.
You took out your phone and paused for a moment.
Your fingertips hovered over the screen, words forming slowly in your mind.
“I bow to the image.”
Five seconds after sending the message, your phone buzzed, its screen glowing like the only light source in the dark room.
📩 Message from Riddler
“Perfect choice, my beloved labyrinth.
If you are ready to lose yourself…
Come to XXX.
The door is not open.
But I’ll be watching you.”
You knew the message said much more than it appeared to—“The door is not open” was not just a physical detail; it was Riddler’s usual reminder that the control would remain entirely in his hands. “I’ll be watching you” wasn’t a threat; it was a promise, perhaps even the declaration of a darker intimacy.
Your decision was made. You would play this game by his rules. With every step you took into Gotham’s darkness, a voice whispered inside: You’re entering Riddler’s labyrinth, Y/N… And there’s no turning back now.
The moment you stepped into the storage room, the first thing that greeted you was that familiar metal–ozone mixture hidden beneath the smell of old wood; everything Riddler touched—every surface, every object, every space—felt as though it had been chemically reshaped by him.
The corridor was lit by neon-green question marks, each curl casting trembling shadows on the walls as if they were following you with every step.
You hadn’t even reached the mirror room when the speakers crackled alive one by one.
Each let out a low hum, like a creature inhaling, before Edward’s voice filled the entire place—calm, but with a stirring vibration underneath:
“Welcome… girl who competes with her own reflection.”
You paused.
His voice came from everywhere and nowhere at once—your sense of direction scattered, as if Edward had plucked it apart with his fingertips.
“Keep walking.
The mirrors are calling you… but I’m calling louder.”
His words carried that thin, mathematical arrogance he always had; even desire sounded like a logical problem coming from his mouth.
The deep corridor slowly pulled you into a bending tunnel.
Along the walls, antique glass cases displayed old mechanical toys, broken puppets, porcelain doll heads with floral designs, and gilded frames—each stolen from Gotham’s wealthy families, now part of Edward’s labyrinth.
And finally… when you reached the threshold of the mirror room, the air itself changed.
The ceiling was almost invisible; hundreds of large mirrors in Victorian frames surrounded you from floor to ceiling.
There was no ordinary light—only neon green and white lamps positioned at the tops of the mirrors, multiplying, stretching, and distorting your image into countless versions… each angle exposed, each reflection watchful.
And then… you saw him.
Edward stood leaning against an antique single-seat chair in the very center of the room. Its legs were gilt; its fabric a deep emerald that, when mixed with the poisonous tones of the room, made it look almost alive.
On the tall, thin-legged side table beside him sat a collection that was anything but innocent: whip, harness, vibrator, jeweled butt plug and metal handcuff
Edward stood amidst all that chaos like he was analyzing you—not the room, you.
The intelligence in his eyes illuminated not the mirrors, but your entire being.
He tilted his head slightly; his voice dipped into something almost like an admission:
“You said you would bow to the image.”
When you took a step closer, the mirror-light slid over your face.
Edward smiled—not kindly, but with the restrained satisfaction of a puzzle being solved.
“This room shows me a thousand versions of you.”
He tapped the arm of the chair with one finger.
“But the angle I want to see the most… is the one walking toward me right now.”
As you approached, you could hear not the echo of his breath but the warmth of his body itself. And he watched you with that obsessive delight he had for prolonging every second—holding your gaze within the trap he’d so intelligently crafted.
He fell silent for a moment.
Then lowered his voice:
“Today, I intend to experience you, Y/N.”
Edward’s eyes didn’t leave you for even a heartbeat.
Every look was a code, every breath a command, every moment of silence a touch on your skin. And the mirrors in the deepest part of the room… reflected not just you, but your intent, your desire, your fear. And Edward Nygma was enjoying every second of it.
You stood in the center of the spacious room. The dim lights shimmered in shades of green and white, the massive mirrored walls reflecting every detail twice as clearly. As Edward slowly unbuttoned your black dress, you watched his every move. Your eyes saw how his fingers carefully parted the fabric, eager to reach your skin. Your breathing quickened as Edward moved closer to you, the hem of his green jacket brushing against the fabric of your dress. Every touch ignited a fire in your skin, as if your skin ached to feel his presence.
"Keep your eyes on me," he commanded, his voice a whisper that pierced the silence of the room. You watched, transfixed by his every word, as he pulled down the sleeves of your dress. With each stroke, the fabric dipped, he revealed a piece of skin, your smooth skin reflected in the mirrored walls. When Edward's hands dropped to your waist, he slid your dress down your hips, every curve of your body amplified in the mirrors. Your nakedness evoked a look of triumph in his eyes, as if exploring you was one of his greatest pleasures.
You stood before him in your underwear and black stockings. Edward dropped to his knees. He hooked his long, slender fingers into your black stockings and ripped them off in one swift motion. He pulled the rest of the stockings off your body and tossed them aside. Your black lace panties were now lying right in front of him. As he pulled them down with his fingertips, Edward's eyes fixated on every detail of your body. Your breathing quickened as he watched, your heart pounding wildly in your chest.
This was only the beginning.
Edward reached over to the side table next to the couch and picked up a vibrator with an egg-shaped tip and a long tail. It was green, and the belt connecting the shaft and tail was metallic. He slid his leather-gloved hands between your legs and applied pressure. So you spread your legs wide.
You knew what he was going to do. He would insert it into your vagina and not remove it until he wanted it. He would give you as much pleasure as he wanted, and you could have it as long as he let you. He made you feel like he was in control at all times.
A satisfied laugh escaped Edward's lips when he parted your legs. The fact that you were so ready for him... She was already wet.
"See how needy you are? You naughty girl."
You stiffened when Edward pushed the vibrator into your vagina. Your knees trembled.
He stood up. After smoothing your clothing, he brought his black leather-gloved fingers to your chin and squeezed. A destructive fire burned in his eyes. When he commanded you to kneel, you knew you had no choice but to do as he said. Edward sank into the green velvet fabric of his chair. He forced you to your knees, making you feel his dominance. As he removed his jacket, the lenses of his glasses reflected the dim light, as if the lenses were watching you, not his eyes.
When he reached back to the coffee table, his fingers found the riding crop. Your eyes widened in surprise for a moment. But you didn't want to defy him. You weren't sure what would happen when you confronted him in his lair.
"Are you ready?" his voice a command.
You simply nodded, the words stuck in your throat. Still, you longed to feel the warmth of his touch.
You moaned at the sudden stimulation of your G-spot as he pulled out the remote control for a vibrator and slowly pressed the button. Edward watched your reactions as the vibrations coursed through your body, savoring the control. Your eyes fixated on the taut fabric of his pants as he grabbed your hair with his hands, pulling you closer.
"I love playing with you," his voice echoing in your ears.
You couldn't respond to his words, only surrendered to his touch. As he increased the vibrator's rhythm, every cell in your body trembled, as if each vibration connected you even more to him. Edward unbuttoned his own pants, his eyes never leaving your gaze on the lust on your face. At the sight of him, you opened your mouth, wanting to taste his hardness with your tongue.
Edward leaned forward and grabbed your arm tightly. He forced you to your knees. He grabbed his cock with his free hand, waving his hardening shaft before your eyes.
"Do you want this, Y/N?" he asked, a greedy expression on his face. "Do you want a taste of my lollipop?"
You looked down into his eyes like an innocent girl. Then you opened your mouth and took his hardening cock into your mouth.
It wasn't very long, but it was thick.
It was warm.
Edward's breathing quickened as you slowly stroked the tip with your tongue.
"A little faster," he commanded.
You did as he said, but with his thick cock barely fitting in your mouth, it was difficult to keep up the pace. Your teeth accidentally dug into his skin. He picked up the riding crop and slammed the tip against your ass cheek.
You winced at the sudden pain. Edward slapped you on the other cheek this time. You groaned.
You did as he said, continuing to lick more carefully but quickly.
Edward held your hair tightly as you licked the shaft, starting at the base, his fingers tangling in the strings.
He picked up the vibrator remote with his other hand. He pressed a button and increased the speed. It was hard to moan with his massive shaft in your mouth. A strangled sound escaped your throat.
"Oh, baby," he whispered, "so ready."
The vibrations of the vibrator shook your body, your moans echoing throughout the room. The mirrors amplified every movement, every touch; it felt like you were being watched from every angle.
Edward caressed your hair and cheek, like he would a pet: "Being with you will always be my greatest pleasure."
These words filled you with a satisfaction that filled your body and soul. Everything was under his control and your submission.
"Suck it, little witch," Edward said, taking your hair in his hands.
You took his hardness into your mouth, exploring every inch with your tongue. With every touch, her moans echoed in the room. Edward used the whip in his hand to control your rhythm, changing the tempo with each stroke. The whip's sound echoed throughout the room, your moans ringing in Edward's ears.
You felt him climax in your mouth, every cell in your body tense. Edward brought the whip down one last time, making your body tremble. When he came into your mouth, his semen filled your mouth, and you tasted him. Edward waited until your breathing had evened out, stroking your hair.
Finally, he slid his hand under your arms and lifted you. He sat you on his lap and removed the vibrator. You watched the images reflected on the mirrored walls as he wrapped your body around him. As your breathing steadied in Edward's arms, under the dim lights of the room, the images of you reflected on the mirrored walls immortalized the unforgettable moments of this night.
Edward shifted positions—moving you across his lap. Your back was against his arm. His hand was on your waist. One of your legs was placed on the gilded armrest of the chair. The other was placed atop Edward's long legs.
He reached out to you and commanded you to remove the leather glove. You obeyed. Then, as he slowly inserted his fingers into your vagina, he asked, "You know how I love this hole, don't you?" His voice was both soft and commanding. Your body tensed as he stretched, but you felt pleasure too.
The mirrors showed Edward leaning over you— sucking on your perky breasts. The saliva on your areolas, combined with the chill of the room, made you shiver.
As he removed his fingers from your vagina, he said, "Now here it is," and he grabbed his cock and began rubbing it against it.
He slapped your clit—jerking and flicking his cock. You writhed in Edward's lap, begging for his entrance—couldn't hold on any longer. And as you writhed in his embrace, moaning against his ear, Edward Nygma became even more aroused.
Finally, he thrust into your wet pussy.
As your body welcomed him, Edward pushed deeper. He pulled out his cock and thrust it back in suddenly—slapping flesh against flesh. As he repeated this over and over, your body couldn't take it anymore, and your head fell back onto his shoulder. You were now cheek to cheek. His lips were right next to your ear, his warm breath brushing against your skin. "Are you ready, baby?" he whispered, his voice echoing in your ears.
"Yes," you moaned breathlessly.
Edward thrust in hard. "I'm going to tear this hole apart, you know that, don't you?" he said, his voice even more dominant.
As your moans echoed through the room, Edward pressed his finger against your clit. As his fingers rubbed, you were driven to a double orgasm. Your body trembled, your breathing quickened. As Edward delivered the final thrusts—he bathed your vagina in his semen. The mirrors reflected this wild and passionate scene from every angle. Every movement, every moan, every touch was amplified.
Edward released you and embraced you. "Every moment with you is perfect, baby," he said, his voice filled with satisfaction. Your body still trembling, you felt safe in his arms. The mirrors reflected this moment forever, as if time had stood still.
The air in the room was filled with passion and submission. You, however, were ready for his every command.
"You are mine," Edward whispered as he stroked your hair. The pride and possessiveness in his voice connected you even more to him. The mirrors reflected this moment from every angle, as if the world were just the two of you.
Jervis Tech
Where, only hours ago, ballet figures had twirled beneath crystal chandeliers — scattering like snowflakes — there was now a heavy, adhesive silence… like the strange, inward breath a theater takes at night. The Kingdom of Sweets set still stood; giant peppermint-stick columns, caramel-gold arches, a floor that shimmered as if dusted with powdered sugar…
But with the lights off, none of it looked magical. It looked like the remains of a rotting dream. And you…
You stood at the very center of the stage, placed upright inside a massive toy box.
The lid was half open; the interior lined with ivory velvet… like a jewelry case. But what it held was not a jewel — it was something prepared for display. A porcelain doll. And that doll was you.
Your arms were bound with delicate ribbons; your wrists lifted slightly above your head, your shoulders fixed back. Your feet were secured to the base of the box, your body perfectly upright… The Clara costume had been dressed onto you — layers of white tulle rising to your neck, a wide bell skirt, crystal embellishments, a corset cinched tight around your waist…
When consciousness slowly rose to the surface, the first thing you felt was the inability to move.
When your lashes trembled open, the first thing you saw was a silhouette that standing very close to you.
Head slightly tilted, watching you… And then the voice came. Soft… But soft in an unbalanced way.
“Ah…” It slipped from his lips like a breath. “So you’ve finally awakened, little Alice…?”
Your mind was still fogged; words did not settle into place. But that name — that wrong name — sank beneath your skin like instinctive unease.
The man stepped closer.
When the light struck his face, you saw him clearly.
The eyes of Jervis Tetch — bright, feverish, trembling on that thin line between reason and delusion — studied you with such intensity that your breath knotted in your throat.
“You kept me waiting…” he whispered, his voice like a silk blade echoing through the hollow stage.
He flipped the watch open.
Click.
“Tea time has long passed… The White Rabbit circled the stage three times looking for you… The Queen is impatient… But I…” He stepped closer still. “…I can wait.”
His cold fingers touched your chin. Your body flinched on reflex.
With two fingers he lifted your chin — slowly, possessively… aligning your face to his gaze whether you wished it or not.
“Delicate…” he murmured. “As delicate as porcelain…”
When your eyes opened fully, reality struck like a slap.
The first sound that tore from your throat was a scream.
“No—! Help! Someone—”
Jervis recoiled instantly. He truly recoiled. As if a loud sound had physically wounded him — his shoulders tensed, his eyes widened.
“Shh—! Shh, no, no, no…” he whispered frantically, rushing closer.
He did not clamp a hand over your mouth — but he came close enough that his breath brushed your lips.
“Don’t scream… Don’t scream, little Alice, please…” His voice trembled between panic and pleading. “No one will come… This stage is closed now… Tonight belongs only to us…”
You were still struggling; the ribbons cut into your wrists. “Let me go! I’m not Alice! You’re insane—!”
Jervis froze. His eyes moved across your face. His expression softened. A sorrowful smile settled on his lips.
“Ah…” he exhaled. “How rude of me…”
He lifted a hand to your hair. His fingers slipped slowly between the strands, stroking with unsettling gentleness… as if afraid you might shatter. “I’m sorry… You’re right…You’re not Alice...You’re Clara.”
The word left his mouth with near reverence.
“Of course… Of course Clara…” he continued, relieved to have corrected himself. “Guest of the Kingdom of Sweets… Savior of the Nutcracker Prince…”
He took your chin again.
This time his thumb rested beneath your lower lip, his fingers along your jaw — lifting your face to study your eyes.
“But your eyes…” he whispered. “Your eyes are still Alice’s eyes… Ready to get lost… Ready to fall down a hole…”
You could not stop crying. Your breathing was uneven; your shoulders trembled.
“Please…” you whispered. “Please let me go…”
For a moment his expression darkened — something like discomfort, guilt, even sadness crossed his face. “Of course you’re afraid…” he said softly. His hand moved to your bound wrist. “Your heartbeat is so fast… Poor little heart…” he murmured. Then he leaned in suddenly.
His face neared your neck — not touching, but his breath sank deep against your skin.
His free hand settled at the back of your neck, steadying your head in a possessive hold…
“Shh…” he whispered beside your ear. “Don’t cry… No one can hurt you here…”
But you kept crying.
When Jervis pulled back, there was a strained helplessness on his face. As if your inability to calm down truly unsettled him.
He lifted your chin again — tighter this time. “Look at me,” he whispered. When you tried to avert your gaze, the hand at your neck increased its pressure. You were forced into eye contact.
What you saw in his eyes in that moment was obsession.
Your breathing was still uneven; mascara had run from the corners of your eyes, drawing thin black paths down your cheeks. Every time you blinked, your lashes stuck together, salty tears reaching your lips.
His thumb wiped a tear from your cheek. But never setting you free.
When you tried to pull your head back, you didn’t just cry — you spoke. “You’re… sick…” you rasped at first, breath hitching, then your voice rose. “You kidnapped me… you tied me up— you’re disgusting… Do you understand!”
And Jervis… At first, he didn’t move at all. But then his pupils narrowed — and for the first time, behind that bright, storybook madness, a dark, sharp fracture appeared.
He moved toward you. Suddenly. Fast. His fingers gripped your cheeks, his thumb pushing your chin upward. So close his breath struck your lips. As if he might kiss you…
“No…” he whispered through his teeth. “No… you don’t speak like that…”, his gaze pinned inside yours.“Those words don’t belong to you, little Alice…”
His fingers tightened against your face; your tears pressed beneath his grip.
“Someone must have whispered into your ear…” he continued. “Perhaps the Cheshire Cat… Yes… with that sly smile, he must have clouded your mind… Told you the world was frightening… That you shouldn’t trust me…”
He shook his head faintly. Then suddenly stopped. “Ah… no…” he murmured. “This isn’t that tale…” His eyes dropped to your costume. His fingers slid from your chin to your neck — pressing lightly where your pulse beat. “…It’s the Kingdom of Sweets…” His breath was still close enough to touch your lips. “Then…” he whispered. “It was the Mouse King who poisoned you, wasn’t it…? With his crooked teeth he whispered fears into your ear… Told you not to trust the Prince…”
Your eyes were red from crying, bruised beneath. “Let… me go…” you whispered through your teeth. “I hate you…”
Jervis’s face hardened for a moment. As if another persona inside him had taken control, he softened. “You’ve cried so much…” he whispered. His voice had returned to that sick tenderness. “Of course you cry… A poisoned mind always fears…”
His hand went to your hair. His fingers slipped slowly between the strands — stroking again and again with patient repetition.
His fingers trailed along the edge of your corset — under the pretense of fixing the costume, but with a touch that lasted too long…
He continued with the same gentle expression. “Clara shouldn’t be afraid…” he murmured. “The Prince protects her…”
Then…He stepped away from you. When he retreated several steps into the center of the stage, the pale backlight turned him into a silhouette.
He raised his hand into the air. His fingers opened gracefully. And he snapped them.
The sound echoed across the stage. At the same moment… The music began.
As the Pas de Deux melody filled the emptiness, the trembling violins seemed to seep from inside the set itself.
When the first to move were the toy soldiers. They turned their heads toward you. Then came the steps… Mechanical, but rhythmic. Then the other ballerinas entered the stage — wearing the same costume as you, snowflake roles, sugar fairies… All moving slowly, synchronized, eyes empty but bodies flowing in flawless choreography.
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
“No…” you whispered, trembling. “No… this isn’t real…”
But when the first ballerina stopped directly in front of you, she tilted her head — and her lips parted.
“You are his Alice…”
Another spoke.
“The Alice the Mad Hatter waited for…”
Another stepped forward.
“The owner of the empty chair at the tea table…”
The voices multiplied.
Each one looking at you — but there was no consciousness in their gaze, only an echoed, directed devotion.
“You are the Prince’s Clara…”
“The one he saved…”
“The one he chose…”
“The one he keeps…”
You shook your head side to side, ribbons cutting into your wrists. “Stop!” you screamed. “Stop! This is nonsense—”
But this time they all spoke at once.
Synchronized.
One voice.
“You are the Mad Hatter’s Alice.”
“You are the Nutcracker Prince’s Clara.”
“You belong to him.”
“You are his fairytale.”
“You are the one he chose.”
The voices struck the dome of the stage and came back — multiplying, thickening, turning into a pressure that filled your ears.
And then…
Jervis’s voice joined them.
But unlike the others, it wasn’t hollow — it came warm, trembling, possessive.
“Do you see…?”
He stepped out from the shadows.
“Everyone sees you the same way…” Jervis’s voice dropped to a whisper. “One person can be mistaken…” He took another step. “But all of them…?”
“No…” you breathed, shaking. But your voice was weak.
The music continued to settle over the stage like a drifting fog.
When Jervis stepped out from the shadows toward you once more, he lifted his hand slightly — graceful, yet carrying absolute authority.
He lowered his fingers. It was a command. The toy soldiers moved at once.
As the metallic echo of their steps filled the hollow stage, two soldiers approached the box; their painted faces were rigid, their gazes frozen…
But beneath those painted masks were features you recognized. Your fellow ballerinas.
For a brief second, your heart clenched with hope.
“Please…” you whispered, trembling. “Hear me… Wake up… This isn’t real…”
One of the soldiers began untying the ribbon; as your wrists came free, you drew in a deep breath. But the moment they freed you, they seized your wrists again. Tighter this time.
With a thick silk binding that wrapped from behind, fixing your arms in front of you — not immobilizing, but leaving no chance to escape.
“No— no, please—!” you struggled, but they didn’t hear you.
The two soldiers lifted you out. They guided you forward slowly. Toward Jervis. Then stepped away.
Jervis looked at you. “Ah…” he whispered in admiration. “Now this is more correct…”
He stepped closer. He reached his hand toward you — he held your bound hands between his own. You could feel the warmth of his skin even through the ribbons.
“Only a dance is missing…” he said softly. And he pulled you.
Your body tensed on reflex. But he forced you into the figure.
You had no strength left to struggle. Your eyes burned from crying, your throat ached… And for the first time, you didn’t scream. You only looked at him. With an exhausted, depleted, breathless gaze…
That look stopped Jervis. It truly stopped him. His eyes widened — within that madness, a pure, childlike joy flickered.
“There…” he whispered, trembling. “Now you’re looking at me…” His hand returned to your waist — this time firmer, more possessive. “Alice was afraid at first too…” he went on as he danced. “When she fell down the rabbit hole, she cried… But then she loved Wonderland…” He pulled you closer. “Clara was afraid too…” he continued. “But when she danced with the Prince… she understood his world belonged to her…”
His fingers tightened around your bound hands. “You will learn too…” The music rose. The set revolved. And he whispered: “You will love me.”
While one hand remained at your waist, he slowly slipped the other into his pocket.
The moment you saw that movement, your heart began racing again — because you knew what he was about to take out.
The pocket watch.
Ornate, silver-cased, its chain thin but catching the light… He flipped the lid open with his thumb.
Click.
“Shh…” he whispered near your ear. “Your mind gets very loud when you dance… Let’s quiet it…”
He began swinging the watch chain between two fingers. Light bounced off the metal surface into your eyes. You looked without meaning to. Your gaze focused.
“Good girl…” he murmured, his voice almost caressing. “Just look… Don’t think…”
The watch swayed side to side. In rhythm with the melody.
“This isn’t a stage…” he whispered. “This is where you fell… The end of the rabbit hole… Do you remember…?”
You tried to resist, but your eyelids grew heavy.
“You got lost…” he continued. “ And when you woke, you found yourself in the Kingdom of Sweets… Because Alices are always swept into other fairytales…”
The watch chain left streaks of light across your vision. The edges of your thoughts blurred.
He clasped your bound hands in his own, pressing over the ribbons to guide your movements.
“I’ll teach you…” he whispered. “How to dance with a Prince…”
He spun you. Your skirt caught the light.
His hand settled at your waist — this time more naturally, as if it had always belonged there… “See…” he murmured, leaning to your ear. “Steps are like trust… Once you learn them, the body never forgets…”
Your breathing began to fall into the same rhythm as his.
Unwillingly.
“Love is the same…” he continued. “First you fear it… Then you grow used to it… Then you begin to wait for it…” He drew you closer. “Then you can’t live without it…”
The dance slowed. But it didn’t stop.
He began speaking again — like telling a fairytale, yet each word spun a web pulling you deeper inside… “When Alice fell, she was alone…” he said. “No one understood her… But the Mad Hatter saw her… Chose her…”
His fingers tightened slightly around your bound wrists. “Clara was alone too… But the Prince saved her… Took her onto his stage…”
He lowered his head to your eye level.
“I saw you too…”
Your breath caught.
“In the crowd… Beneath the lights… Everyone was dancing, but you…” His thumb lifted your chin gently. “…you were falling.”
He looked into your eyes — with that romantic conviction inside his madness.
“I didn’t kidnap you…” he whispered.
He stepped closer. “You came to me.”
The rhythm of the dance blended with your heartbeat.
“Fairytales don’t believe in coincidence…” he said. “Alice knows where she will fall… Clara knows which Prince will save her…”
He placed your bound hands over his heart — pressing them there.
“And you…” he murmured. “…you chose me.”
And his voice was still at your ear:
“Love is learned, Clara… By dancing… By listening… By looking at me…”
Something trembled inside your mind at that moment.The rhythm of the watch.The looping music. His voice. All converging in the same point. You looked at the stage. Candy columns. Caramel arches. Cotton-sugar lights…Memories of the real world felt pushed to the back of your mind — blurred, distant, almost unimportant…
He placed his hand over his heart — pressing your bound hands against it as well. “Your pulse still remembers the world above… But it will slow…” He leaned closer. “Because Alices always awaken in other fairytales…”
Your breathing deepened. You tried to resist…But the resistance was no longer sharp — it had become tired, fogged, slippery. He noticed.His eyes lit up. “Tell me…” he whispered. “Where are you now…?”
Your lips parted, but no sound came out. His fingers slid into your hair — stroking slowly, rhythmically, soothingly.
“You’re in the Kingdom of Sweets…” he suggested. “On the Prince’s stage…”
Your head moved faintly — a weak, involuntary nod. He took it as victory. “Of course…” he murmured. “Because you are the fallen Alice… But you’re trapped here…and I…” he whispered at your ear.“…am the Mad Hatter who found you.”
This time, you didn’t look away.Your whisper was weak, but audible. “…I…” you began.You breathed in. “…fell…”
Jervis’s fingers froze in your hair — in excitement. “Yes…” he whispered immediately. “You fell…”
“…and…” you continued, “…I woke up here…”
His smile slowly grew. “Yes…”
Your eyes returned to his — still tearful, still reddened, but no longer filled with only fear. “…In the Kingdom of Sweets…” Your breath trembled. “…I’m trapped…”
At that moment, Jervis’s eyes shone — with the brightest form of that sick romanticism. “And who found you…?” he whispered.
Your lips parted. The answer came almost on its own.“…The Mad Hatter…”
His smile trembled. He lowered his head toward you.“…who saved you…?” he asked more softly.
You held his gaze. “…You…”, whispered. “…You are my savior…”
At that moment, the music swelled.The stage lights flared.And Jervis’s fingers slowly closed within your hair — as if he would never release what he had found.
The stage was completely silent now. The music had ended, yet its vibration still seemed to hang in the air.
Your bound wrists had been untied — you didn’t even remember when it had happened. The ribbons had fallen onto the stage floor, your arms free for the first time…
Jervis hadn’t moved — as if he were afraid the slightest motion might startle you. But his gaze… that gaze was still the same.
But you hadn’t run. You hadn’t even thought about running.
Obsessive.
Adoring.
“Alice…” he said softly. “…aren’t you afraid of me anymore…?”
Your eyes drifted to his lips — then returned to his eyes. You took a step toward him. Close enough that your breaths began to mingle. “You found me…” you said, never breaking eye contact. Your fingers slowly reached for the collar of his coat.
Jervis’s breath caught at that moment.
“…you said you would protect me…” you whispered.
He tilted his head slightly — his eyes moving across your face as though he could hardly believe this was real. “Always…” he murmured. “I will always protect you…”
Your fingers slid upward from his collar — to his neck, his jaw. Your touch was light, but deliberate. You drew him a little closer.
“Alice won’t be alone…” you whispered. “…right… Mad Hatter…?”
The moment that title left your lips, an expression spread across Jervis’s face — a devotion so intense it looked almost sanctified by madness, like reverence… like worship.
“Of course she won’t…” he breathed.
You paused for one last second — holding his gaze.
And then…
You kissed him.
The first contact was slow.
Not shy — but intentional in its slowness, as if you wanted to feel the weight of that moment.
When your lips touched his, Jervis froze completely; he forgot to breathe, remaining motionless for several seconds, as though unsure where to place his hands.
Then…
He slowly set his hands at your waist. Not rough — but firm enough that he wouldn’t let go.
When he returned the kiss, his lips trembled; cautious at first, as if afraid of frightening you… But you didn’t pull back.
On the contrary…
Your fingers slid to the back of his neck. You drew him closer.
That movement seemed to snap the last restraint inside him. The kiss deepened — still not harsh, still not uncontrolled… but intense, hungry, filled with the impatience of a contact that had been waited for, for years.
Your breaths mingled. The stage lights dissolved into bursts of color behind your closed eyelids.
Jervis’s fingers tightened slightly at your waist — as if he wanted to feel you closer, more his.
When his lips finally parted from yours, his breathing was uneven. He rested his forehead against yours. His eyes were closed. “…Alice…” he whispered into his breath.
He opened his eyes. “…you’re mine.”
The words didn’t sound like a threat — they left his lips like a prayer.
You were breathless too. But you didn’t pull away. Instead… You lifted your head again. “…and you are my savior…” you whispered.
As the stage lights rained down over you, the Kingdom of Sweets stood frozen around you like a suspended fairytale… And the real world — was now very far away for both of you.
hii! I just wanted to said i recently finished reading the last published chapter of "Me and The Devil" and i think it's incredible. Im more kneel to Crane but also Bruce is really good written. I'll be waiting for the next chapter, whenever it comes out.
🫶🏻
Thank you so much!! 🖤 I’m really glad you enjoyed the last chapter. Crane is definitely hard to ignore, but I’m happy Bruce felt well-written too.
The next chapter is already being worked on — no exact date yet, but it’s coming.
Hi! First of all, I love the little revamp of your blog aesthetic 😊 Second of all, I’ve been reading MATD since you first released chapter one and every time a new chapter is released, I’m always just so incredibly excited to read your masterpiece. I don’t think there’s anything that can outdo this series. And though I’m 100% favoring Crane, you write both him and Bruce very well. I just finished reading chapter V, and that scene between the reader and Crane at his office—WOW! The tension, the kiss, Crane’s downright obsession for reader was all so seductive. I can’t wait to see how their relationship unravels 😩
Aww, thank you so much! 💖 Your words seriously mean the world to me. I’m beyond happy you’re enjoying the chapters and that the tension between Crane and the reader is hitting just right! The kiss in that scene was definitely one of my favorite moments to write—Crane's obsession is a beast in itself, and it’s thrilling to see it resonate with you. 😏
And trust me, I can’t wait for you to see what happens next. The next chapter is already in the works, so hang tight, it won’t be too long before it’s up. Thank you again for all your love and support, it really keeps me going! 😘 Keep an eye out, because things are about to get even more intense. 😈
omg!! i just finished reading the chapters you've published so far of "me and the devil" - it's MASTERPIECE.🙂↕️🤌🏻
i love it, probably more than anything healthy, i can't wait for what's coming!!!!🤩🤩🤩
finding your blog felt like finally reaching the good part of tumblr lmao,you are an absolutely incredible writer, and please don't doubt your talent.♥️
your writing will reach the right people who know how to appreciate it, meanwhile i want you to know that i feel very, very honored to read you.✨🥹
love.
Wow, your message just made my heart explode with happiness! 😭 I’m so glad you’re loving 'Me and the Devil' – it honestly feels like such a dream to know that it’s resonating with someone so much. Your kind words are everything, and I can’t wait to share more with you. Thank you for being so amazing and for reading my work – it means the world to me!! 💖
Synopsis: After that moment, none of them can return—not Y/N to her innocence, not Bruce to the man who never crossed lines, and not Crane to the doctor who once believed he was in control.
Pairing: Jonathan Crane x Female Reader x Bruce Wayne
Warnings: Adult Themes (Non-explicit smut tension), MDNI, Taboo Love (Step-daddy Bruce Wayne), Dark Academia / Gothic Atmosphere, Dark Psychology, Heavy sexual tension, Dark romance, Dr. Jonathan Crane — Obsessive love / delusional attachment, Guilt, Non-consensual mind influence / suggestion, Emotional dependency, Subliminal Therapy , Moral Decay, subliminal control, destructive love. English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional.
Word Count: +7k
Tag: @christianbalefanatic
Dividers by @cafekitsune Story Dividers by @strangergraphics Photos by Pinterest
A/N: This is a dark psychology / dark romance story — nothing here represents healthy relationships. Characters are written intentionally morally gray to morally black. This fic explores obsession, manipulation, trauma bonding, and corrupted affection. I’m writing this for the aesthetic, the tension, the narrative stakes, not as moral advice. Canon divergence is intentional; this is a stylized Gotham.
The sky had torn open like burned fabric. A blood-red horizon had settled over a darkened field; the wind carried whispers of the dead through the brittle stalks. With every step, you could feel something stirring beneath the soil—grain by grain, as if counting your footsteps.
There was a smell in the air: burnt hay, old medicine, rust, and rotting carnations. You found yourself standing in the middle of a labyrinth—a vast field of scarecrows woven from straw, towering toward the sky. But each post stood as tall as a human... and some of them seemed to be breathing.
“Y/N…”
The voice didn’t come from the darkness. It came from within. A man’s voice—cold, trembling, measured. You knew that scientific rhythm in Jonathan Crane’s words.,But this time, they weren’t an analysis. They were a command.
“Why do you still resist? Fear sets you free.”
Suddenly, a shadow appeared in the middle of the field. A scarecrow, but unlike the others. Its coat was made from scraps of stitched leather, its mask sewn together with rusted nails. A burlap sack covered its head. But worst of all—it was breathing. With every breath, warm vapor rose from beneath the fabric, spreading the scent of straw.
“Do you remember me, Y/N?”
“I don’t know you.”
“Oh… but I know you.”
That voice—its taunting cadence—was unmistakable. It was Dr. Crane’s voice, yet it belonged to something else now… something not quite human. A presence. A god. A curse.
The fingers of his gloves were torn at the tips. Those fingers—long, pale, delicate—like a surgeon’s hands. He began walking toward you.
The sky deepened into red. Crows burst into flight. And when you stepped back, the ground beneath your feet gave way—there were puppets underneath. Wooden limbs, bodies tied together by strings, threads in their mouths, emptiness in their eyes. They all looked like you.
“They were just like you,” said the scarecrow. “They begged for help. But they released their fears. Now they are… mine.”
The scarecrow extended his hand—gas leaked from his palm. That familiar Scarecrow gas, but here it wasn’t chemical. It was spiritual.
When it filled your lungs, the voices came. Children’s whispers, laughter—Bruce’s laughter—your father’s commands… all tangled together.
“Why didn’t you let me go?”
“I saved you,” said the scarecrow.
“No… you destroyed me!”
Suddenly he lunged at you, his hands seizing your face. His mask was burlap, but you could feel a face beneath it. You clawed at the fabric, tearing it bit by bit, until your breath broke. And the face that emerged—
Was Bruce Wayne’s.
So vivid, you could see the tired lines beneath his eyes. His lips moved, but the voice came from somewhere else, distant, echoing:
“Y/N… wake up. Please.”
But that voice, it was Bruce’s, yet it didn’t match the face. Because when Bruce looked at you, his eyes were Jonathan Crane’s. Cold. Blue. Deep. And in that instant, you understood: This was no longer a nightmare. This was the battlefield of your own mind. One side love, the other obsession. And both wore the same mask.
The sky split open. The crows never cried again. And you fell into the darkness caught between Crane’s voice and Bruce’s face. “I told you, Y/N,” said the voice—whose voice, you no longer knew. “Fear is just another face of love.”
---
In the darkness of the night, your breathing was uneven, your chest heavy as stone; sweat clung to your skin through the sheets, leaving a cool dampness along the edges of your eyelids. When you looked at the clock, the blue digits read only three—the loneliest hour of the night.
Slowly, you got out of bed. You walked into the kitchen. The small space felt more like a cell; the tiles on the counter were old, cracked at the corners, a single drop fell from the faucet, and the low hum of the refrigerator broke the quiet of the room.
You decided to make green tea. The sound of the kettle boiling felt more real than the remnants of the nightmare.
As the water heated, the nightmare returned to you—the weight of the scarecrow, the scent of straw, the face beneath the mask that had turned into Bruce’s, and the distant cry for help. The warmth of the dream had mingled with Crane’s cold intellect; part of you screamed this is just a dream, while another part whispered, with scientific certainty, this is not normal. These nightmares had begun only after Dr. Crane’s “therapies.”
You poured the tea, and when the steam brushed your face, your eyes fluttered shut for a moment. You sat at the small kitchen table; it was made for two, but you were alone—the empty chair across from you felt more like a memory than furniture.
Outside the window, a string of dim lights glowed from the neighboring buildings—crumbling apartments, flickering bulbs, smoke rising from the chimneys. In the distance, a siren’s cry stretched thin through the city before fading away. Moonlight traced the spines of the buildings through the dirty glass, casting long, uneven shadows across the street. A sudden ache filled your chest; the longing for Bruce was so vivid it burned. You thought of him—those quiet nights in the Manor, the moments you’d lain beside him, the presence that made you feel safe, even when it made no sense to. Did he miss you too? Or had he already lost himself in Charlotte Rivers’ arms?
Your eyes drifted to the table, where an old newspaper lay—the one your neighbor had left behind, or perhaps something you’d picked up from the lobby and forgotten. As your thoughts stormed, your gaze caught on the headline, it spoke in the sharp tone of gossip, of a photo taken at night: a large, glossy image showing Charlotte Rivers and Bruce Wayne’s “secret romantic closeness.” In the photo, Charlotte’s head rested on Bruce’s shoulder, and Bruce—whose distant smile you knew so well—looked relaxed and intimate instead. The subheadings seemed to whisper: “Gotham’s new couple?” — and in smaller print: “The closeness between Wayne and Rivers has caused a stir among the city’s high society.”
You flinched and lifted the paper slightly; Charlotte’s name seemed to repeat between the lines, like a quiet provocation. For a fleeting, desperate second, you grabbed your phone, trying to think of something to write to Bruce—maybe just Are you okay? or something more—but your fingers trembled and you pulled back. You weren’t sure if the words you wanted to send were your own anymore. It felt as though one part of your brain urged write, while another hissed be silent. Crane’s voice seemed to whisper from somewhere inside the nightmare: Fear sets you free. That whisper now lingered in your waking life, threatening to become a command.
You folded the newspaper again; your eyes lingered one last time on Charlotte’s photo—questioning the smile behind her poised facade, feeling like a pawn in a city puppeteered by Crane’s invisible hand. And once more, your only prayer was a quiet, breaking thought: Let Bruce remember me.
And at that very moment, on the other side of Gotham, in the dark bedroom of Wayne Manor draped with heavy velvet curtains, Bruce had his eyes closed. Charlotte’s fingers played absently with the buttons of his shirt; in the room, the only light came from the crimson reflection of a half-finished glass of wine, and the muffled hum of music weaving between their breaths.
But Bruce’s mind was elsewhere. Even as he leaned toward Charlotte’s neck, he could still smell you — lavender and rain.
When his hands rested on her waist, he suddenly, almost in error, searched for the memory of your skin beneath his fingers. Charlotte’s laughter was soft, sweet, and fleeting, but the only sound echoing in Bruce’s mind was your breath that fragile voice carried by the wind years ago on the balcony of Wayne Manor.
Charlotte whispered something, said his name, but he heard another voice.
Yours.
In the darkness, the moonlight slid along the edge of the bedsheets, and when he opened his eyes, Charlotte’s face blurred, for a heartbeat, into yours.
His pulse quickened. In a brief haze — as if waking from a nightmare — he pulled his hand away.
Charlotte didn’t notice at first. But Bruce knew. No matter how far he ran, no matter how deeply he buried himself in luxury, arrogance, and forgetfulness — you were still there, lodged in the quietest, dirtiest corner of his mind.
Charlotte's lithe body tensed with every thrust of Bruce's muscles against the bed beneath him, his sweat-covered skin glistening in the dim light of the room. Her eyes were half-lidded, her lips parted; your name practically swirled on the tip of his tongue with every breath. Charlotte's fingers slid down his shoulders, their nails digging gently, leaving marks. Bruce's body reacted—his muscles twitching, his heart racing—but his mind was elsewhere. Your laughter rang in his ears, the memory of the moments your fingers brushed against his skin electrifying his nerves.
Charlotte noticed Bruce's absentmindedness. His face was lost in shadow, his lips curled. "Where were you, my love?" she asked, her voice sweet as honey but with a venomous undertone. She pressed her hand against Bruce's chest, feeling his heart pounding beneath her palm. "There it is again, isn't it? Y/N. Her shadow even haunts our bedroom." Bruce didn't answer, but his jaw clenched. Charlotte's fingers slowly moved down, brushing over his abs as she whispered, "Y/N would never do that to you, would she?" Bruce's eyes suddenly darkened, but your face remained lingering in his mind—the innocence in your eyes, your smile, everything.
Charlotte’s fingers held Bruce’s groin, a faint, ambiguous smile on her lips.
“Look,” she said, her breath warm and close, “how ready you seem for me.”
Bruce’s deep inhale echoed in the room; guilt and desire tangled inside him. Charlotte’s voice cut through the air with sharp mockery:
“That girl you used to protect… why ruin a moment like this for her?”
Bruce’s eyes closed involuntarily, and a shadow surfaced in his mind—you. The texture of your hair, the tone of your voice… all of it broke through Charlotte’s voice like cracks forming in glass.
Charlotte pinned him to the bed, her movements confident and dominating. Bruce’s breath caught in his chest; the weight of her body, the heat, the closeness… everything pressed against him as if trying to erase what he didn’t want to think about.
“Let go,” Charlotte whispered as she leaned toward his neck. “Think of me. Only me.”
Bruce’s fingers clung to the sheets. A deep, rough sound escaped his lips—his skin shivered as he gave in to the rhythm Charlotte was forcing on him.
But his mind…
His mind was still with you.
Your face appeared before him—your fragility, your anger, your disappointment.
“Don’t…” he thought.
But his body was already beyond his control.
Charlotte’s voice softened further, sweet in a poisonous way:
“Let her go, Bruce. She didn’t choose you. I did.”
Moments later, Charlotte’s breath trembled against his neck. The room sank into a heavy silence as Bruce noticed the unevenness of his own breathing. When Charlotte collapsed onto him, her warmth was heavy, suffocating—but inside, Bruce felt nothing but emptiness.
His eyes glistened.
Your silhouette lingered in the room—like you were standing in the corner, watching him.
Charlotte lifted her head, victory gleaming in her eyes:
“You’re with me now,” she murmured. “Not her.”
Bruce didn’t respond.
He closed his eyes.
Just to see you one more time.
The lecture hall lights poured a pale, washed-out whiteness from the high ceilings onto the desks, while the murmur inside the room thickened with every passing second. During the lunch break, some students were reviewing their notes, some were skimming through the dog-eared pages of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy Theories, and others were arguing over Gotham’s never-ending rumors.
You were sitting near the front rows, seemingly buried in your notes, but in truth not reading a single sentence—just staring into the void. Your fingers tapped your pen lightly against the desk; the tightness sitting beneath your ribs didn’t know what it was waiting for, only that it was coming.
And then your phone buzzed.
Even though it was on silent, the vibration spread through your body like a warning etched straight into your bones.
The name on the screen knocked the air from your lungs:
Dr. Jonathan Crane – Arkham Asylum
When you opened the message, Crane’s cold, formal writing filled the screen:
“Ms. Y/N Y/S/N,
The last three sessions of your assigned weekly clinical consultations have been missed by you. Interruptions in the therapeutic process diminish the effectiveness of previously applied protocols. A continuation appointment must be scheduled.
– Dr. Jonathan Crane.”
For a moment your fingers froze. You wanted to lock the screen, but you couldn’t; Crane’s words grew inside your mind like shadows, stretching toward you from the dark corners of the room.
Ava, sitting beside you, twisted the lid of her thermos with her black-polished fingers, and noticed.
“Something happened,” she said—her voice soft, yet carrying that uncanny intuition she always had. “You won’t say it, but something happened.”
You looked away. “It’s nothing, Ava.”
Ava let out a low, dark laugh, her dark lipstick curling at the corners. “You blink two seconds too long when you lie. What was on your phone?”
You drew a deep breath. “Jonathan Crane. He’s upset I haven’t been going to therapy.”
Ava tilted her head, her long black hair spilling over her shoulder.
“But the sessions were helping, you know that,” she said. “Your traumatic reactions were easing. Even your puppet nightmares weren’t as strong as before.”
The exhale that left you wasn’t quite a laugh—more like a broken rasp.
“It didn’t heal my trauma,” you said. “It just… replaced it with other things.”
Ava froze for a second. A mix of curiosity and unease flickered in her eyes.
“What do you mean by that?” she asked, but before you could answer, a raised voice from the back of the classroom cut in.
“Batman messed everything up again!”
Hudson’s sharp, anxious voice spilled into the room along with the sunlight drifting through the corridor. A few students had gathered near the front; Heather sat atop her bag with her legs crossed, radiating that dangerous little smirk she always wore when she was about to stir trouble.
“Did you hear?” she said, raising her voice. “Batman hospitalized someone again. And they’re saying the guy was innocent."
Hudson sniffled and adjusted his glasses. “That’s what the Gotham Times reported. People are sick of Batman. No one wants someone like that as a hero.”
Zachary, leaning against an old bookshelf cluttered with files, spoke up.
“That newspaper is full of lies. Batman doesn’t hurt people for no reason. He’s the only real defense this city has!”
Heather rolled her eyes. “Still a Batman fanboy, Zach? Seriously? The guy has a fetish: wearing a mask and beating people up.”
Hudson chimed in, “Maybe Bruce Wayne was right—fixing the city should’ve been done through the police. Someone like Batman—”
Zachary pushed forward. “Don’t bring up Bruce Wayne. The guy’s just a millionaire chasing PR. He has nothing to do with Batman.”
Hudson laughed mockingly. “Sure he doesn’t. You’re such a Batman loyalist.”
You found yourself jumping in before you could stop it. Because you knew what they didn’t.
Bruce and Alfred tried so hard to hide it from you, but all three of you knew the truth.
You were just pretending to be blind, because that was the safer choice.
“Batman wouldn’t intentionally harm an innocent person,” you said, your voice sharper than you expected. “There isn’t a single solid piece of proof that he deliberately hurts civilians. Sometimes he’s the only one working for Gotham.”
The class fell silent.
Everyone turned toward you.
Heather’s face stretched into a sly smile—never a good sign.
“Ohoo…” she hummed, stepping toward you with a mocking melody in her tone. “Well, well. You sound so passionate about defending Batman… wait a second…” She lifted a finger to her chin.
“Didn’t Edward Nygma say last year that his theory was Batman might actually be Bruce Wayne?”
Ava held her breath.
Hudson raised both eyebrows. “Yeah… Wayne disappearing at night and all… I mean, it’s possible…”
Zachary lifted his hand. “Stop it. If Bruce Wayne were Batman, I would—”
Heather cut him off, her gaze locked on your face.
“Maybe…” she whispered, lowering her voice even more, “…you defend Batman because Bruce Wayne kicked you out, isn’t that right? Maybe the wound’s still fresh.”
Your heart jammed into your throat.
This crossed a line.
“What are you talking about?” you said.
Heather’s smile widened.
“Oh come on, Y/N. Everyone knows Bruce Wayne took you in as his adoptive kid. Then suddenly it ended—he tossed you out. And now you comfort yourself by defending Batman. Maybe because they’re the same person… and you miss Bruce.”
The room froze.
Your heart stopped.
Your eyes widened.
Ava shot to her feet. “Heather, enough!”
Heather looked like she was about to continue, but that was when you realized the pen in your hand was about to snap from how tightly you were gripping it. Your lips trembled, but whether from anger, or from the fact that Heather had gotten dangerously close to something real… you didn’t know.
You were the single fragile point in the middle of it all, on the verge of breaking.
Just as the voices were rising and the tension was about to snap, the door slammed open.
Professor Dr. Meredith Holcomb—one of Gotham University’s Psychiatry Department’s most disciplined, most ruthless, most dangerously brilliant women—walked in. Straight grey hair cut at shoulder length, a rigid posture, a cold expression. It was as if someone had switched off the room’s lights; the class fell silent instantly.
“Sit down,” she said. “Now.”
Everyone obeyed, though the sting of Heather’s words still pricked your chest. But what was truly eating you alive… was Crane’s message.
You placed your phone on the edge of the desk, but even with the screen off, its presence scratched at your mind. You could almost smell the gas chamber, feel the dark calculation in Crane’s eyes, that quiet obsession brushing against your skin.
Ava nudged you lightly with her elbow.
“Forget Heather. Really, just forget her. She’s always like that.”
Your eyes drifted toward your phone again, involuntarily.
“Heather isn’t the issue, it’s just… Crane,” you said. “There’s something about him… wrong. Very wrong.”
Ava lowered her head, whispering:
“If you want, you could ask Professor Holcomb. Dr. Crane used to be a professor here, after all. She could tell you if he’s someone who can be trusted or not.”
The thought jolted you. You were just about to say something when Holcomb suddenly turned around—
She pointed at you two.
“You two. You’re disturbing my class.”
Ava stepped in immediately, spinning a quick excuse:
“We apologize, professor. We were discussing something we wanted to ask you after the lecture.”
Holcomb pressed her lips into a thin line.
“You cannot ‘discuss’ anything without understanding the foundations of psychodynamic theory. Now open your minds.”
You drew a deep breath. Ava leaned toward you again, whispering:
“After class… we’ll ask her. She might be the best person about Crane.”
Your eyes dropped once more to your phone.
The screen was dark.
Yet it felt as if Jonathan Crane was watching you from inside the metal casing.
The lecture hall had emptied slowly; the students’ footsteps echoed on the stairs as they drifted away, and the rustling of papers, the clicks of pen caps, and the last murmurs dissolved into the air.
Dr. Holcomb remained alone at her desk, arranging her notes with the cold poise of a judge. Her long, slender fingers separated the files with almost surgical precision; her gaze was as sharp and authoritative as a shard of glass.
You adjusted the strap of your backpack and walked toward her with heavy steps. A faint tension lingered inside you; what you wanted to say frightened you, and it made you measure every word before it left your mouth.
Holcomb spoke without lifting her head.
“Yes, Y/N Y/S/N. What is it?”
You gathered your breath.
“Professor… I interned at Arkham. This summer. And I’m still continuing.”
Holcomb finally raised her head. Her eyes were a deep, icy blue.
“Yes. Quite a valuable experience for your department. For trauma psychiatry and clinical cases, Arkham is unparalleled. Many of them are frightening, but instructive.”
You swallowed slightly. Your fingers tangled together.
“I… I’m working under Dr. Jonathan Crane.”
Holcomb’s eyes froze for the briefest moment. The meticulous rhythm of her movements faltered. She set her pen down and leaned back in her chair.
“Is that so?” she said. “Crane.”
You nodded.
“Yes. I learned a lot from him. But… no one really talks about why he left the university. And… there are some strange rumors going around.”
A shadow of mockery, cold and dismissive, crossed Holcomb’s face.
“Strange rumors.”
The words hung in the air like a cold blade.
“Of course. There have always been ‘strange’ things about Crane. He buried himself in his work far too much. When it came to ethical boundaries in trauma induction processes… he tested them occasionally.”
You felt your breath hitch.
“I… I never saw anything like that, professor.”
The woman smiled faintly, but without warmth; it was more like the beginning of an autopsy examination.
“You wouldn’t,” she said. “Crane is a clever man. Extremely so. But intelligence doesn’t always coexist with morality. In this building… some students who worked with him left the program unexpectedly. Others… seemed fine at first but suffered psychological breakdowns.”
You took a step back. The calculated coldness in Holcomb’s voice unsettled you.
“Professor,” you said, “I don’t think Jonathan Crane is a bad person. He helped me. He really helped me progress with my trauma.”
Holcomb raised an eyebrow.
“Did he now? Crane’s methods are enough to make most students uneasy just by being near them. Those who worked with him often remained… affected far more than necessary. Ask yourself, Y/N: did he make you feel better because he truly helped you, or because he found you interesting to unravel?”
You swallowed again; a tight, narrow tension formed in your throat.
“I trust Dr. Crane. I just… wanted to understand why he left. Why he’s spoken about so negatively.”
Holcomb studied you for a long moment. Her gaze wasn’t the type that simply made someone uncomfortable—it was the kind that scanned you like an X-ray, trying to peer inside. Then she slowly leaned forward, placing her notes into her bag as she spoke:
“If you trust him that much…”
The clasp on her bag clicked shut. She lifted her head.
“Why ask me this, Y/N?”
For a moment, the only sound echoing between the lecture hall’s empty walls was your heartbeat. Gotham’s darkness seemed to reach inside through the window. Her question wasn’t just a question—it was like a fingernail tracing down into your mind.
Holcomb swung her bag over her shoulder and walked past you.
As she headed toward the dark end of the corridor, she said only:
“Crane… always leaves a mark. No student who has worked with him ever gets away completely. Don’t forget that.”
---
As you stepped out of the metro, the hot, iron-scented air hit your face; Gotham’s evenings were always like this— a metallic weight that smothered the city, a hum that seeped into the skin, a bleak melancholy rising from rusty tracks and neon-lit streets. By the time you passed through the turnstiles and reached street level, the sky had already gone dark.
Your steps were heavy; your mind, even heavier.
Dr. Holcomb’s words were lodged in your thoughts like thorns:
“Crane… always leaves his mark.”
“Those who work with him never truly escape.”
“If you trust him, then why did you ask?”
You felt that familiar burn tightening in your throat. A shadow stalked the edges of your mind— Crane’s voice, his measured tone in therapy, the questions he directed at you… that invisible hand brushing against your thoughts. And in that moment, you decided: You were going to end this.
You would sneak into Crane’s laboratory and uncover the gas he used, his records, his notes, his experiments— whatever he was hiding. You would find out what lay behind that flawless scientific coldness. You would definitely find something to hand over to the GCPD. Illegal experiments, ethical violations, overstepped authority…
“If he used me in one of his experiments… I’ll end this.” You muttered to yourself.
You were deep in the most dangerous part of your thoughts—the part tangled closest around Crane—when—
BAM!
Something hard slammed into your shoulder; your balance faltered, your breath froze.
You jerked your head to the side just in time to see a broad shoulder, dangling cables, and a bright LED panel brushing past you.
A cameraman, rushing to shift positions, hadn’t seen you. “Watch where you’re going!” he barked, his voice full of urgency rather than apology. He lifted his camera and continued on, leaving you stunned at the edge of the sidewalk.
You took a few steps to see what was happening, and when you saw what the crowd had gathered around, your breath froze in your chest.
Lights were exploding in front of the restaurant. The flashes outshone even the faded glow of the streetlights, illuminating the scene like a stage. Gotham’s most expensive, most elite restaurant had a swarm at its entrance. Security guards in black suits, a red carpet, the rotten hunger of the city’s tabloid press.
And in the very center…
Charlotte Rivers. A deep burgundy dress, that professional arrogance that lifted her chin, a smile sharpened by experience with reporters. And the man beside her… A shadow, a weight, a familiar gravity…
Bruce Wayne.
Even from afar, he was impossible to mistake. His tall frame, the perfect lines of his dark suit, a still but inwardly tense expression… His eyes didn’t rest on Charlotte; they slid toward the turning reporters and the darker ends of the street.
You froze where you were. Your feet locked, your thoughts ripped away from Crane and pinned to his silhouette.
Reporters competed with each other:
“Mr. Wayne! A few words about tonight’s charity event?”
“Charlotte, do you think you’re becoming one of Gotham’s most powerful women?”
“Mr. Wayne, your new fund announcement has investors thrilled!”
Bruce answered none of them. Charlotte responded with polished, sweet professionalism— moving like a perfect media creature.
You slipped across the street, trying not to be seen, drifting into the shadows of the sidewalk— and just then— Bruce’s gaze hit you. And as you tried to take one last secret look at them, your eyes met.
One second.
Only one.
But that second carried the weight of years.
He stopped you with his eyes alone.
Don’t go.
Don’t go.
Don’t go.
You held your breath.
He had to pretend he wasn’t holding his.
Charlotte’s hand slid along his waist; a thin, showy, expensive touch.
Bruce was supposed to pull that hand away— even you knew that.
But he didn’t.
He couldn’t.
Because he could never break the role he’d been playing for years.
His eyes widened, darkened. That look was far too intense— as if something inside his chest had shaken because of you. But Bruce Wayne, as always… showed nothing on the outside. His face— that cursed Wayne mask, that controlled, wealthy, cold mask— never slipped. Only one thing faltered: his breath. And only you would notice that. Because once, you had shared the same silence under the same roof. Listened to the same echoes in the same halls. Grown in the shadow of the same traumas, the same loneliness. No one had spoken of love… but the weight of it had wandered through every room of your home.
Now it all felt meaningless. Because Bruce—the man raised under James Gordon’s protection, the man who once saved you, the man who once listened to you—was now standing under the lights of the cameras beside someone else. And as you walked away, Bruce watched you— never taking his eyes off you— following the shadow of you disappearing into the dark.
His gaze alone spoke:
“I still want you.”
“I still want to protect you.”
“How can I pretend to forget you when I never did?”
But because of the Wayne mask, not a single syllable could leave his lips.
And you, with Dr. Holcomb’s words burning through your mind, continued to disappear alone into the darkness of the city.
---
The sky cut through the moonlight slipping in from the broken stained-glass windows like a blade of lead. The walls of the gothic manor he’d inherited from his grandmother had swollen and darkened like the pages of old prayer books, soaked with mold and the scent of formalin; every time Jonathan Crane drew breath, something in those rotted stones seemed to stir— as if the manor were a living organism and Crane was the tumor festering inside it.
The office door was shut; its thick wooden body had sagged over the years, its nails rusted. Inside, the only light came from a yellow desk lamp trembling beneath the ticking of a clock. He stood in front of it: a man chained to the floor, crouched on his knees like a trembling animal. He had only just regained his freedom, but in Crane’s eyes that freedom was merely a potential laboratory accident—empty, ownerless, the file might’ve said “fully recovered,” yet the truth was he was nothing but a fractured psychiatric case. A biological toy.
Crane loomed above him; in his hand, the metal applicator filled with his new gas compound fizzed softly. This compound was a hybrid neurotoxin that activated the amygdala’s fear response while temporarily disabling executive function in the prefrontal cortex. It lifted the door between consciousness and primitive instinct, freeing everything inside a human being except their humanity.
The man trembled, saliva dripping from his chin as he struggled for breath. His pupils darted through the shadowed space between Crane’s mask and his face, searching desperately for somewhere—anywhere—to escape.
“Please… please don’t do this…” The man’s voice whined like a coyote trapped in a barren field.
Crane tilted his head. The soft movement held the clinical interest of a scientist. “Fascinating… your prefrontal region has already ceased its inhibitory response. Two minutes until the fear peak.
The man sobbed again. The chains clattered. And at that moment— the phone on the desk rang.
Such an ordinary, pitiful sound… yet in the sanctity of the fear-lab, its intrusion felt almost blasphemous. But Crane recognized it. Even the rhythm of the ringing was disciplined.
Ra’s al Ghul was calling.
Crane wiped the chemical residue off his gloves and answered the phone. His voice was calm, meticulous, arrogance neatly folded beneath it.
“I’m listening.”
The voice on the other end was serene, as if it commanded time itself; it carried civilization and death in equal measure. “Dr. Crane,” Ra’s al Ghul said. “I’ve been informed that the recent incident… has shaken Batman’s standing with the public. A savagery, that one. A wildness that disrupts balance.”
Crane smiled. “The public tends to misread the direction of fear. I merely offered a small… nudge.”
“The nudge worked. Gotham no longer sees him as it once did. Congratulations.”
Without looking directly at the test subject, Crane watched him tremble in his peripheral vision; the man seemed to be collapsing inward on himself. “Keep your praise, Ra’s… but I know that isn’t why you called.”
A brief silence followed—hanging in the night like a suspended dagger.
“Correct,” Ra’s al Ghul said. “I have a second task for you.”
Crane’s brow twitched. “I’m listening.”
“It concerns Bruce Wayne.”
Crane let out a short laugh at the name, though it held no joy; it sounded more like academic surprise. “Interesting… Is this about Batman? If so, I assume you believe Bruce Wayne could—”
Ra’s al Ghul’s voice deepened, almost thundered. “No. Bruce Wayne is not Batman. Not in any way that should matter to you.”
Crane fell silent. He weighed the implication. “Then why? What use is Bruce Wayne’s pain to you?”
Ra’s spoke as if walking across the years themselves—slow, heavy, controlled. “This matter reaches far beyond Batman. It has less to do with Bruce’s physical weakness or identity… and far more to do with where his heart is attached.”
Crane’s eyes brightened; he drew a slow, measured breath. “With my new gas combinations, I could tear Bruce Wayne’s mind apart entirely. The physical and cognitive layers of fear—”
Ra’s al Ghul interrupted. “No, Dr. Crane. That is not the plan.”
Crane was genuinely surprised for the first time. “It isn’t?”
“As I told you… Bruce Wayne’s weakness is not his mind. It is the people.”
Another silence.
In the lamplight, Crane looked at the trembling body on the floor, then at the rotting bookcase behind it… and a darker thought settled at the edge of his mind.
“You want me to test it on Y/N…” he said quietly.
“Yes. Break her. Terrify her. Shape her. And shatter her in front of Bruce Wayne’s eyes. Then… Gotham’s fate will belong to us.”
Crane’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He didn’t close his eyes; he didn’t look away this time. On the contrary, he spoke directly.
“Rha’s,” he said, keeping his voice as cold as possible. “Hurting Y/N… is an unnecessary risk. There are other ways to break Bruce Wayne. The man’s mind can be—”
Rha’s al Ghul laughed mockingly. It was a proud, ancient, impatient sort of laugh.
“I understand you, Dr. Crane. Shall we call it compassion? Or… possession?”
Crane’s gaze darkened.
“I… am speaking strictly about operational efficiency.”
“No,” Rha’s cut him off. “You are lying to me.”
In that moment, an apocalyptic silence hung from the ceiling of the room.
The hiss of the gas, the breath of the chained man… everything turned into background noise.
Rha’s al Ghul’s voice grew even harder.
“Remember, Crane, you are my servant. My plan defines Gotham’s fate. You are merely… the executor.”
Crane’s fingers tightened around the phone; the skin at his nailbeds turned white. He didn’t like being belittled. Especially not by this man.
“Bruce Wayne,” Rha’s continued, “will break when he is tested with what he loves most. And you will be the beginning of that breaking. I did not keep you for questioning my orders. I gave you a city to dominate.”
This time Crane closed his eyes—not in anger, but to control himself. He held his breath inside. His voice was cold as ice, laced with a quietly buried resistance:
“…I understand.”
Rha’s al Ghul hummed in satisfaction.
“Good. Then you still remember who you’re speaking to.”
The call ended abruptly.
Crane stayed still for a long time.
When he dimmed the lamp, the shadows in the room swelled; as if each one was an echo of Rha’s’ command. But then… when it came to you, Y/N… the voice that whispered was no longer that of an obedient servant, but of a man wrestling with the creature inside him.
In the darkness, to himself — not to you, but as though confessing something he refused to admit aloud:
“I will not hurt you… you will be mine. But not in the way they want. I’ll find another way.”
The shadows crept forward. The gas hissed. And when Crane opened his eyes, his decision was already made. He had obeyed, but he had not surrendered.
Wayne Manor was always cold in the mornings—a cold born from loneliness, from old grief soaked into the stone walls, from nights that never truly ended. The gray light filtering through the heavy curtains of the study washed the scattered files on the desk in a dull ash-colored hue. Bruce Wayne flipped through the pages without lifting his head, barely breathing, scanning the same lines again and again as he had all night; as if a single misplaced letter might reveal the heart of the nightmare he’d been chasing for years.
The door creaked, followed by Alfred’s measured, almost ceremonial footsteps. The silver tray in his hands didn’t tremble; even in old age, his soldier’s discipline remained steady.
“Sir,” Alfred said as he set the tray on the desk, “if you intend to refuse breakfast again, I will at least ask you to provide me with a medical justification. I would prefer not to record that you’ve scarcely eaten anything in three days.”
Bruce lifted his head, the shadows beneath his eyes darker than ever.
“I can’t waste time, Alfred. Strange is two steps ahead of me. I thought I found his lab… twice. Both were traps. Do you realize? Every move I made—I made it knowing he might be misleading me.”
As thin steam rose from the tea, Alfred’s voice held no reproach—only the patience of long habit.
“Yes, sir. The restricted psychiatry building at Gotham University… then the underground level of the botanical gardens. Both offered nothing but spiderwebs and questionable ventilation. To be frank, the fact that Dr. Strange can lure you into such simple dilemmas concerns me slightly.”
Bruce shoved some of the files away with irritation.
“I’m trying to understand how he manipulated me this effectively. How did he do it? I— I calculated the probabilities, cross-checked the data, mapped every route… and yet each time, something slipped past me. Something small, invisible. Or…”
He paused.
“Or something distracted me.”
Alfred straightened his tie with a subtle gesture.
“As a matter of fact, sir, that is precisely the point I wished to address. The human mind is not a machine. Even the sharpest algorithms can be disrupted by one thing: emotional diversion. Perhaps the reason you feel compelled to reread the same file thirteen times has less to do with Dr. Strange… and more to do with something else occupying your thoughts.”
Bruce’s brows knitted.
“What are you implying?”
Alfred’s gaze carried a sentence chosen from among thousands of thoughts he’d kept to himself over the years.
“I’m not pointing to a name, sir. But oftentimes, the thing that burdens a man’s heart the most is not the file he works hardest on… but the face he works hardest to avoid.”
Bruce didn’t speak for a moment. It was as if Alfred’s words pulled all the oxygen out of the room. The documents on the desk blurred; Gotham’s entire crime map felt suddenly insignificant.
Then, in a voice that sounded almost like a whisper, he said:
“When I arrived at the charity gala with Charlotte… I saw her.”
Your silhouette had appeared suddenly in the crowd; the white flash of cameras had illuminated your face for a single second. Bruce had held his breath in that moment—a reflex he couldn’t admit even to himself. Even the hand he’d placed at Charlotte’s waist felt foreign, as if he were betraying your shadow.
“We made eye contact,” Bruce said, his fingers tightening against the table’s edge. “Just for a second… but it was enough. When I looked at her… I realized my exhaustion. My emptiness. My darkness. I realized I missed her. But it shouldn’t have been like this.”
Alfred offered a small, gentle smile—never mocking, always steady.
“Sir, letting someone go is sometimes the most painful form of caring. And yet… letting go and giving up are not the same. You know this.”
Bruce’s expression darkened; the thin crack within him—long sealed over—split open again.
“Do you think… letting her go was the right thing? Or… did I make a mistake? When I tried to protect her… perhaps I was really trying to protect her from myself.”
Alfred took a knife from the tray and, with elegant precision, sliced one of the fruits.
“Doing the right thing and suffering often lead to the same door, sir. But I can say this: if your heart keeps returning to the same place despite your efforts to flee… then something there remains unresolved.”
Silence fell. Bruce turned back to the file, but the tension on his face no longer came from failing to locate the lab—it came from his inability to remove you from his thoughts.
Among all the plans, maps, and schematics on the desk, there was a shadow—your shadow. And for the first time, Bruce understood that the reason Dr. Strange had outmaneuvered him twice wasn’t merely a tactical error.
Even in the darkness, he was still searching for you.
Bruce closed one file and opened another, but then he noticed his fingers trembling. The floor plans of Arkham displayed on the computer screen—security patrol cycles, basement tunnels, restricted access points… he looked at all of them, yet he wasn’t seeing any of it. His focus was scattered. His mind was fractured. And Alfred had noticed. But there was something else:
All the thoughts that had been scattered until that moment suddenly converged into a single point.
Bruce straightened in his chair.
“Alfred.”
“Sir.”
“This cannot continue.”
His voice was low but sharp—Batman’s voice, though cracked, the tone of a man trying to hide the part of himself that was still human.
“Strange misled me twice. That means he thinks I’m a fool. But worse… it means he’s after something else. A plan, an operation… something much bigger, maybe. And I can’t see it.”
Alfred clasped his hands behind his back and took a deep, gentle breath.
“The reason you cannot see it may be due to incomplete information, sir… or perhaps because you have not yet asked the right question. But you must admit… your lack of focus is clouding the truth.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened.
“Yes. I know.”
Alfred didn’t raise his brows in surprise; those old eyes simply blinked, as if quietly acknowledging Bruce’s admission.
“And,” Bruce continued, his gaze drifting to the window, to the gray light striking the glass, “there’s only one way to regain that clarity.”
Alfred waited.
Bruce gathered himself, his posture shifting into that cold, composed stillness that belonged entirely to Batman.
“I’m going back into Arkham tonight.”
Alfred tilted his head slightly, concern mingling with that familiar paternal scrutiny.
“Sir… two nights ago, when you entered, you were nearly caught by Strange’s men on the scanning cameras.”
“Yes,” Bruce said, placing his index finger on one of the files. “But this time will be different. Because now… there’s something to divert Strange’s attention.”
Alfred narrowed his eyes slightly.
“Meaning you expect another trap.”
“I do. And this time I won’t follow it.”
He picked up a small USB drive from the desk—an access key he had spent all night preparing, designed to slip silently into Arkham’s security network.
“Strange didn’t hide his meta-human experiments in a single location. I realized that. He was even smart enough to make sure I realized it. He created false entry points to mislead me. Which means the real site must be somewhere inside Arkham.”
Bruce packed Arkham’s blueprints, the USB, and the steel document cases into his bag.
His eyes darkened.
He was waiting for nightfall.
This time he would enter Arkham not just as Batman—but as a man who had lost something.
Tonight… he would confront everything he thought he had left behind.
Especially you.
---
The evening light inside Arkham Asylum never truly looked like “evening”—it was more like the last flicker of a dying candle, fading further as it struck the walls, stirring the old screams buried in the stone texture of the corridors, making the building breathe like a living organism.
You walked with a stack of folders in your arms, trying to keep pace with Dr. Harleen Quinzel and her intern, Chris. Harleen’s voice cut through the numbing silence of the corridor.
“Conditions of the patients can’t be solved through theory alone,” Harleen said, pressing her files to her chest; the soft yet sharply perceptive look in her eyes belonged to someone who had seen far more than any other doctor in Arkham.
“No clinical test can fully explain the exact point at which the human soul decays. These people don’t behave the way the books say they do. You live with them, breathe with them, hear their language… only then do you see where they break.”
Chris scoffed.
“‘Live with them’? This is a hospital. Not… a shelter. Empathy with patients should have its limits.”
Dr. Quinzel smiled, but her smile carried a quiet sorrow—an unsettling expression, the kind worn by someone who had seen too much darkness.
“The only thing without limits here is the institution itself, Chris. If you want to heal someone, you must first touch their darkness. Otherwise you’re nothing more than a clerk who writes prescriptions.”
Beside you, Dr. Ethel—Strange’s arrogant, bone-dry assistant whose fingertips seemed cold even from a distance—pushed her glasses up.
“With ideas this romantic, no wonder the Joker has taken an interest in you, Harleen,” she said with venomous politeness.
“This is not a living room, it’s a scientific facility. ‘Living with them’ is… forgive me, amateurish.”
You were trying not to get involved—because the entire point of this walk was to stay away from Crane—but you found yourself speaking anyway.
“I think Dr. Quinzel is right,” you said. “You can’t understand a patient solely through test data. Human behavior—especially pathological behavior—is far more…”
As you searched for the word, Harleen nodded encouragingly.
“…organic, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” you said.
But beneath that agreement, something else was moving:
You were avoiding him.
His sessions, his questions, his quiet but poisonous closeness…
You were running from Crane.
Chris snorted with wounded pride.
“That’s just a kind of romanticism unique to women. Analyzing criminal minds is something else entirely.”
Dr. Ethel added a mocking laugh.
Harleen’s eyes darkened—but she kept her politeness intact.
You straightened your shoulders, ready to push back against them when—
The sound died.
Everyone went silent.
Even the corridor.
Because he was coming.
You recognized his footsteps—always measured, always controlled, echoing with a rhythm that felt like nails dragging along the curtain of your mind.
Jonathan Crane turned the corner, his shadow falling over all of you; it was as if he absorbed the light itself.
His eyes found you.
Never in a rush, never showing emotion, never questioning—yet a silence that suggested he knew far more than he should.
“Miss Y/L/N.”
When he spoke your name, the word cut the air, and the other doctors seemed to vanish.
“You were supposed to be in my office.”
You swallowed.
You had been running, and this was the moment you were caught.
“I was talking with Dr. Quinzel, actually we can continue, we were just in the middle of—”
Harleen smiled with a kindness too innocent to understand your situation.
“No problem, sweetheart. Dr. Crane always works one-on-one with his trainees, right Jonathan?”
Crane’s face did not change at all; the mask of calm was perfectly still.
But beneath that calmness lay a threat.
A darkness only you recognized.
“Of course,” he said.
“Miss Y/S/N will come with me.”
Chris raised his brows, Ethel turned her head with a graceful little sneer and walked away.
Harleen touched your arm lightly in reassurance which only made everything worse.
You stepped forward unwillingly.
Crane turned. And you chose to walk several steps behind him; your breathing was unsteady, like the shiver sliding down your spine.
The ceiling lights lit up above you one by one, then dropped you into darkness again; your footsteps made an uneven rhythm—his measured, yours anxious, impatient.
Crane kept walking, not stopping—just tilting his head slightly to the side.
Only a centimeter.
Only a shadow of movement.
Only enough to carry that deep, dangerously soft undertone in his voice.
“Why are you walking behind me, Miss Y/S/N?”
You didn’t answer.
He continued.
His tone held no emotion, but beneath it lingered a pull, a dark gravity trying to coil itself around you.
“Unless…” A moment of silence—heavy and alive. “…you’re afraid of me?”
Before the words even touched you, his voice alone had already pinned you to the wall. You held your breath. And he kept walking—his shadow dragging you with him.
The flickering hum of the fluorescent lights in the corridor cut off the moment you stepped into Crane’s office; inside, only the velvet-yellow glow of the desk lamp remained, stretching the harsh shadows of the bookshelves, creating a wall texture that seemed to breathe with you. When Crane closed the door, the metallic click sounded to you like the echo of a cage being shut; he didn’t say a word, but with a single look he declared that the room was now sealed—for you.
Jonathan Crane leaned against the corner of his desk; his long, slender fingers drifted across the wooden surface in irregular, unreadable patterns, and even the faint scrape of his fingertips echoed through the room like a psychological interrogation method. He hadn’t told you to sit. He had deliberately not told you. Leaving you standing was his way of establishing the power dynamic from the first second.
The look behind those thin, rectangular glasses wasn’t at your eye level—it was analyzing you entirely, containing a gray-blue undertone of suspicion, fixation, and a nameless desire that traced over you without haste.
His gaze lingered on your face first, then slowly slid down to your neck, then your left shoulder, then the almost imperceptible shift in your chest as you breathed… He must have noticed you swallow. He always did. Because every bit of your reaction had been planted by him—triggers he had carved into your mind with his own hands.
“Why are you running?” Crane had asked, not as though he were asking with patience, but with inevitability—as if he would repeat the question endlessly until the answer peeled itself out of you. His words were measured like a surgeon’s incision, calculating even the smallest breath you took. This wasn’t curiosity; it was diagnostic.
“I’m not,” you said quickly—too quickly. The word left your lips in a rush, and only after saying it did you realize that the speed of your answer was the proof of exactly what you denied. Your breathing shifted, your shoulders drew in involuntarily.
Jonathan slowly lowered his head, looking at you from beneath his glasses. The edge of displeasure at the corner of his almost-smile was Crane’s version of saying Tell the truth.
“You’re interrupting your sessions. You’re avoiding scheduled meetings. Your files don’t match. Your behavior doesn’t match. But your subconscious…” He paused, a fine smile brushing his lips in a way that raised every hair on your body.
“…your subconscious is very explanatory.”
He tilted his head slightly. “Your breathing changes when you lie,” he said—like someone who only could have learned such a thing by watching you for a long time. His tone wasn’t accusatory—just infallibly certain.
“Trust… there should have been only one thing in this room to represent that.”
“Trust.”
In Crane’s mouth, the word stopped being an ordinary concept; it echoed like a warm fingerprint pressed against your subconscious. It felt familiar, as though it had been taught to you, bound to you, something you had heard before in a half-remembered dream—warming you for a second before fleeing your grasp. And Crane noticed that—of course he did; the brief, sharp gleam in his eyes was proof.
“If there is no trust here,” he continued, “then nothing remains to protect you. And then… you know how easily the shadows can swallow you.”
“Shadow.”
Why did ordinary words, when spoken by Jonathan, suddenly feel like they were opening the door to a dark dream?
And Crane watched it—watched you—like someone holding a piece of knowledge you didn’t have, observing your reactions with a silent, private satisfaction.
“See?” he whispered, his voice a blend of mockery and clinical coolness, sharp as a blade intent on reaching your nerves.
“You can’t pull away,” he said softly, watching you. “Your mind is already leaning toward me.”
Then he stood. The wood of the desk groaned under his shifting weight, the sound spreading through the room as your nerves tightened. Crane’s movements were slow, his steps heavy and calculated—each one designed as if to steal a little more of your breath. His face held that tense expression, that cold, almost merciless stare. The closer he came, the more your body tried to retreat on instinct, but it felt as if some unseen force had pinned your wrists to the table. You won’t escape. The thought rang inside your skull like an echo, and what was truly terrifying was how it felt not like a threat, but like a fact.
Now he stood right in front of you; the space between you was no more than a breath, no more than the shiver his breath sent down your skin. “Breathe.” The word sank into your body like a spell. Your chest rose in a deep inhale that wasn’t yours to control. Your heart raced, but no longer from fear—something more complicated was blooming underneath. A want. A need. Crane’s lips curved, that manipulative, knowing smile forming as if he could feel the shift happening inside you.
He leaned in—further still. Close enough that his breath brushed your cheek.
“Avoiding sessions doesn’t lead to conventional outcomes, Miss Y/S/N.” He spoke as though accusing you, yet his voice flowed like mercy. “When you refuse to come with me,” he said, tilting his head and letting his gaze fall from your eyes to your lips, “you prevent me from protecting you.”
As those words echoed in your mind, you realized your knees were beginning to tremble. Crane noticed. Of course he did.
He lifted his chin, fixing his gaze onto you, and stepped closer; now there was nowhere left to move, your back hitting the cold wall behind you.
And he whispered:
“Good girl.”
The phrase reverberated through your mind like a reward. Good girl. As if it was something you’d been starving to hear. As if those two words were validating your entire existence. Something inside you melted; a warm wave sank from your belly downward, heat blooming between your thighs. Shame tangled with desire. You didn’t know who you were supposed to be angry at—yourself, him, or the situation.
You tried to hide your reaction, but you couldn’t. The heat. The embarrassment. The involuntary shiver rising up your spine.
Crane’s eyes darkened the moment he caught it; and that darkness carried not displeasure, but a possessive satisfaction.
He raised his hand—his fingers touched your wrist. As they slid upward, as the warmth of his palm seared your skin, as his fingers traced along your arm and the fabric of his suit brushed against your bare flesh, it sent a tremor through you, equal parts revulsion and desire.
“Someone as intelligent as you,” he said low, as if sharing a secret meant only for the space between your mouths, “why are you running like this?”
Your breath faltered again; this time it was a mix of the fear of not being able to escape and the shame of not wanting to.
Crane leaned in even further; his lips hovered a breath away from yours, but didn’t touch. Not yet.
“For me to understand you…” he whispered, his breath grazing your lips, “…you need to be honest with yourself, too.”
And you couldn’t breathe—because beneath those words, that closeness, those shadows, the reactions of your body no longer felt like they belonged solely to you.
Crane’s thumb stroked the inside of your wrist—slow, deliberate. Your breath caught again, but this time it was different. There was expectation now. A hunger.
“Come,” he said, the command wrapped around you like a velvet invitation.
And you obeyed.
Your lips crashed against Jonathan’s, the kiss turning dark and greedy. Feeling him—his scent, his presence—pulled you in even as it pushed you back.
Jonathan didn’t pull away from your lips; his breath was hot and heavy. “Don’t be afraid,” he murmured, his voice deceptively sweet. “I just want you to be mine.” His words carried a strange unease that twisted inside you, yet his touch, his presence, forced you into surrender. You struggled to free your hands, but Jonathan only held you tighter. His fingers slipped around your waist, pulling you in. The gloomy air of the office, the locked door, all screamed that there was no escape.
“Don’t be afraid… or be afraid,” he whispered into your ear, his voice shifting instantly—darker, more dangerous. “Both make me want you more.”
You didn’t know what he meant, but when his lips found yours again, the questions in your head vanished. The kiss deepened, becoming more consuming; you felt your body giving in to him.
Suddenly, Jonathan gripped your neck, feeling the pulse hammering beneath your skin. “I lose sleep thinking about you,” he muttered, his breath uneven. “What the hell are you doing to me, Y/N?”
His words struck you like electricity. You couldn’t resist him, yet a question flickered through your mind: Was Jonathan manipulating you with his therapy tricks… or did you truly desire him?
His hands roamed your skin, the fabric of his suit brushing against your bare flesh as your breath quickened. His fingers wrapped around your waist again, pulling you even closer. His warm breath skimmed your ear as he whispered:
“Trust me.”
His words stirred something strange inside you. Should you trust him—or run? You didn’t know, but as his hands traveled across your body, you felt yourself surrendering all the same.
As your body yielded to him, your mind twisted in confusion. The coldness in Jonathan’s eyes, the threat laced beneath his words—it unnerved you. And yet, his touch, his presence, drew you in.
The dim light of the office, the locked door—everything pushed you deeper into his control.
While Jonathan’s lips were still searching for yours, your body—despite those damned subconscious commands—finally jolted awake under the harsh, burning weight of reality. Deep in your mind, the artificial warmth left by Crane’s whispers clashed violently with the real feelings Bruce stirred in you; the externally coded suggestions were suddenly drowned out by stronger neurochemical associations built from years of genuine emotional bonds. Your defenses—the ones Crane tried to weaken with nothing but words—ignited again.
And in that moment… you saw the small glint of metal on Crane’s desk. The key. Your only chance.
With trembling courage, you pushed him away. Jonathan stumbled, and you lunged for the key. But his fingers clamped around your wrist like a shackle—cold, calculated, dangerous.
“What are you trying to do?” he asked, his voice carrying a sharpness close to steel. He leaned in, his breath brushing your neck. “Run? From me?”
As you tried to form words, Jonathan tugged your wrist closer, as if reading your body like a book.
“I…” he said, his voice not losing control but darkening in its shadow, “—I chose you.”
His eyes no longer held the clinical detachment of an evaluator; instead, they burned with a corrupted, twisted possessiveness of a man who believed he’d found something to love.
“No patient, no mind, no darkness I’ve worked on for years has ever meant this much.”
He squeezed your wrist so hard that your pulse beat against his fingertips.
“Don’t run, Y/N. You know you belong to me.”
That word cut something inside you, but it didn’t sway you.
Because your mind had returned now.
The only name, the only voice that could call you back wasn’t Crane’s.
When you felt that, your breath trembled…
but then fear rose up through your throat, choking you, and tears spilled down your cheeks.
“Let go,” you said. “Let me go!”
For a moment, something flickered across Jonathan’s face—not anger, but a darker form of disappointment. Then his grip loosened.
You jerked your arm back and clutched it against your chest, putting distance between you.
“What did you do to me in therapy?”
Your eyes were wet, your breath uneven.
“What did you do to my mind, Crane?!”
Jonathan’s face remained blank, calm—as if nothing had happened at all.
“I did nothing.” There was no remorse in his tone, and he was lying. “I only freed you from your fear… nothing more.”
That sentence made you tremble. “I hate you,” you said, your voice shaking but sharp. “I can’t stay here. I won’t be your puppet. It’s over.”
You gathered your things from the desk and went to the door. Your fingers trembled as you slid the key into the lock and turned it. The metallic click echoed through the heavy air of the room, almost like a growl.
As you opened the door, you heard Jonathan’s voice behind you.
It wasn’t soft.
It wasn’t calm.
It was the voice of a man standing at the edge of something dangerous.
“Y/N.”
You didn’t want to stop. But there was something beneath his voice… something that held you still for a moment. You turned to look at him one last time, and Jonathan Crane looked more exposed than he ever had before.
Like a secret.
Like a confession.
“I could have protected you,” he said. “I… I—” For the first time in months, he was about to say the thing he’d kept buried. He had come to a line he could never step back from. “I’m in love with you.”
The words cut through the cold air like a blade. But you… You only breathed, tears running down your cheeks.
“Your love is a disease,” you said. “And I’m disgusted by you. I always have been.”
The moment happened.
And it ended.
When you stepped out the door, Jonathan’s face didn’t change, but the calm in his eyes snapped like a straight line torn apart. In its place, a bottomless darkness settled. And as he watched you walk away, he made his decision.
He would accept Ra’s al Ghul’s offer. Not to protect you. Not to win you back. But to bury you deep inside his darkness. Y/N would no longer be his. But nothing that couldn’t be his would be allowed to live.
---
When you stepped outside Arkham, the cold air hit your face and numbed your cheeks, but it couldn’t wipe away the nausea sitting like a stone in your stomach. Jonathan Crane’s breath, his fingers, his suffocatingly possessive voice still clung to your skin like an invisible hand crawling across your spine. You stopped for a moment and shoved your trembling hands into your coat pockets.
“Fucking psychopath…” you whispered to yourself, your voice laced with both anger and a vibrating fear. “How… how dare he do that to me—to my mind…?”
As you walked, the sound of your footsteps disappeared into Arkham’s enormous shadow. Then you sped up, your breath uneven, your fists clenched tight. You wanted only one thing: to go home, take a hot shower, and scrub off the filthy sensations that felt like they’d sunk under your skin. Before you had to sit alone with the pressure on your shoulders that felt like it was carved in with fingernails.
“I’m never walking into that place again,” you said through gritted teeth. “Never again.”
But then… you stopped.
You held your breath.
And beneath the nausea, another feeling rose—deeper, sharper.
Your purpose.
Jonathan Crane’s therapy sessions.
His reports.
His recordings.
Everything he’d done.
If you walked away now, Crane’s disgusting experiments—his mind-tampering—would stay buried in the dark. Those reports he’d hidden, not just from you but from everyone in Arkham, would never see the light.
You took a deep breath.
“No,” you said, forcing your voice not to shake. “This isn’t over.”
You melted into the shadows lining the building, sliding along the wall. You watched the light spilling from the staff exit to see if there was still movement inside. You didn’t want to see Crane walk out—but… there he was. In his black coat, his face empty of all expression, walking away from the building. After a while, the other doctors and guards followed.
You cursed under your breath.
“Jonathan Crane… if he catches me, he’ll kill me. He’ll actually kill me.”
You ran a hand through your hair, trying to steady yourself. But then an image hit you: Bruce’s old defense lessons—wrist escapes, breath control, fast exit strategies… all echoing in your mind with his serious, protective voice.
Another shadow slipped out the door. When the last staff member left, the outside of Arkham fell into a graveyard silence.
“Alright,” you whispered. “This is it.”
You climbed the wall, distributing your weight just as Bruce had taught you, finding the quietest gaps between the metal bars. Your fingers gripped the holds; you locked your knees and pulled yourself up. You dropped down the other side with a controlled landing—the soft thump barely audible, no alarm triggered.
“There we go,” you panted. “Wayne training does pay off.”
You knew the camera blind spots by heart—thanks to Crane, though you never wanted the knowledge. You remembered the orientation brochure given to Arkham staff on the first day: the old camera on corridor A-3’s right wall couldn’t see the lower left corner. You hugged the wall, lowering your steps to soften each landing.
Most of the electronic doors were locked, but your resignation hadn’t been processed yet. You pulled out your access card.
click—
The door opened.
The corridor smelled of damp rot. Your heartbeat quickened—fear, adrenaline, and the lingering sensation of Crane’s hands on your skin all tangled together.
“Please don’t come back here,” you whispered. “Please, please be home…”
You slipped deeper into the dark maze.
The metal door on the right…
The old cold-storage room…
An empty medication closet…
And finally:
Jonathan Crane – Restricted Access
Even the scratches on the metal sign above the door reflected Crane’s obsessive nature.
You inhaled deeply.
“Okay, Y/N… you can do this. Go in, grab the reports, get out. Never see Jonathan’s face again.”
When you opened the door, the first hit was the smell: chemicals, old paper, and that cold antiseptic sharpness that defined Crane’s dark laboratory. A dim light was on—Crane hadn’t turned it off when leaving. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to.
Summary: In the shadows at the mountain’s summit, Bruce and Y/N were trained to kill each other, yet they were dragged into a forbidden bond that ran too deep to sever. Will they save one another… or become each other’s undoing?
Warnings: +18, Non-Canon, Smut, NSFW, Sexual Tension, Sexual Violence Fantasie, Explicit Sexual Content, Toxic Love and Attachment, Dark Themes,Psychological Manipulation / Conditioning, Violence & Injury, Implied Torture (barbed wire restraint, captivity), Physical Confrontation / Sword Fighting, Power Imbalance, Forbidden Relationship, Emotional Trauma / Internal Conflict, Cult-like Environment & Fanaticism, Moral Ambiguity, Betrayal & Loyalty Tests, The content is safe until the final divider. Explicit material starts at the end. Proceed only if you're comfortable with it. English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional.
Word Count: +6k
Gif by @sentrysvoid by @strangergraphics Banner by Me
A/N: I swear I sat down to write something gentle. Then the characters started making terrible, delicious choices, and suddenly I was elbow-deep in angst, desire, and morally questionable swordplay. Enjoy. Or don’t. (But you will.)
The crypt beneath the mountain carried the silence of a carved-out tomb; the stone walls felt as if they had cracked from the cold, and the arched dome above seemed ready to collapse with a darkness heavy enough to swallow sound. Beyond the narrow, armor-woven slit of a window, the late-afternoon sun existed, but its light reached inside only as a faint, blue-tinted shadow. The cell’s only furnishing—a long stone bench shoved into a corner—bore the stains of the damp that clung to the dungeon; the metallic scent of rust from the remaining bars lingered in the air. The floor, made of dark stones worn by years of footsteps, radiated a grave-like stillness, each slab cold as a tomb.
Y/N lay right at the center of that stillness, stretched out on the stone floor, breathing with controlled, measured steadiness—meditating. Eyes closed, mind utterly still; indifferent to any sound from the outside world… yet when those footsteps echoed, the calm beneath her skin cracked, and the sharp tension buried underneath rose like a blade drawn from its sheath. Because she could never mistake that walk—that heavy, authoritative rhythm that disciplined even time itself. It belonged to the man who had not visited her in years, who received reports from her instructors instead: Ra’s al Ghul.
When the footsteps reached the other side of the arched door, Y/N spoke without opening her eyes, without breaking her breath—her voice calm yet carrying a glacial resignation:
“So… you’ve chosen a new heir.”
A shadow appeared at the door, a familiar silhouette taking shape behind the metal bars. Ra’s al Ghul stepped inside, slow and deliberate; his stride carried the pride of a king, the certainty of an executioner, and the unshakable coldness of a teacher. He moved toward the center of the room and let his voice rise smoothly:
“Every student has a purpose. And to fulfill that purpose, one must wait for the right moment. Yours has come, Y/N. Bruce Wayne is your rival by destiny.”
Y/N rose from the stone floor and sat up, finally opening her eyes to meet Ra’s’ face. There was no anger in her gaze—anger was too simple. What glimmered there was deeper, more poisonous: jealousy, ambition, and the stubborn ember of humanity that years of training had tried—and failed—to extinguish.
“I’m not surprised you gave my place to someone unworthy,” she said, voice sharp as a blade. “You think you can train him the way you trained me. Yet even you still don’t fully understand what I am.”
Ra’s studied her from head to toe; for a split second, a flicker of satisfaction—almost pride—passed through his eyes.
“I know exactly what you are.” “That is why I want something else from you.”
Y/N raised a brow—a gesture of both defiance and disdain.
Ra’s continued:
“You will push Bruce Wayne to his limits. I will see how far he can go. And if he falls… you will be the reason.”
At that, Y/N slowly stood up, every motion controlled. Shadows slipped through her hair, sharpening her features. She stepped forward, not toward him but to the center of the cell, standing as if stepping onto a battlefield.
“You want me… to test his limits? I am no longer your heir. And you would have me become his executioner?”
Ra’s’ lips curved by the slightest fraction—not a smile, merely the thinnest trace of approval.
“Are you objecting?”
Her gaze darkened—not with sadness, but with pride burnished by resentment.
“You abandoned me for years. Captured me, tortured me when I tried to escape. Gave me a new direction.”
She stepped forward, voice dropping lower:
“And now you want to use me to test that man?”
Ra’s answered without a single tremor of emotion:
“This is an opportunity for you.”
Y/N did not speak. She only held her breath; the silence that fell between them was long enough to turn rage into calculation. Ra’s resumed:
“If you complete your task… you prove your loyalty once again. And I reconsider your position.”
That touched something in her—the dark pride rooted deep. Her eyes narrowed, sharpened.
“Bruce Wayne,” she said with a mocking lilt. “The man you chose after me. If you truly want to see his limits… all you need to do is ask me to break him.”
With unshakable calm, Ra’s replied:
“You will not break him. You will draw him into conflict. You will weaken him. You will force him… to face himself.”
Y/N’s lips shifted faintly—not a smile, but an expression caught between a sigh and a pride-tinged smirk.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll show the man who replaced me how long he can endure.”
Ra’s turned as if to leave, but Y/N stepped forward and added:
“But know this… this isn’t training for me. This is a chance to confront what was stolen from me.”
Ra’s paused, tilting his head slightly though not enough to reveal his full expression.
“Loyalty, Y/N… What you feel is irrelevant. What you do is what matters.”
And when he left the cell, the door echoed through the crypt like a tombstone being sealed.
Alone again, Y/N let a slow breath escape her chest; the spark that flared in her at the mention of Bruce Wayne was not confined to hatred. It was a mixture—of resentment, jealousy, and something instinctive and sharp. She stood in the darkness, but her expression remained visible even through the shadows—dangerous, intent.
Her eyes glinted in the dimness.
“If you want me to break him… then I’ll see what he looks like right before he shatters.”
–––
The darkness of the mountain hung across the ceiling of the massive stone hall like a heavy fog. The cold stones covering the floor bore the marks of years of combat, still holding the echoes of harsh blows in their core. The torches surrounding the wide training ground flickered, their flames casting unsettling shadows across the walls. This hall was where the League of Shadows conducted its quietest yet most brutal trials.
Ra’s al Ghul stood on the stone balcony above, watching below with the air of a god who commanded the very wind clinging to his black cloak. His gaze was sharp, patient, and cold. The moment he had waited for—the moment to place his long-lost student, Y/N, once again in front of Bruce Wayne—had finally arrived.
Y/N stood silently in the corner of the hall. Her form blended with the shadows; she did not even take a heavy breath. She looked less like a person and more like a hunter who had been left alone for years. She advanced like soundless darkness, and as the torchlight struck her face, her sharp features hardened even more. In her eyes burned both a frozen anger and a wild curiosity she showed no one.
When Bruce Wayne entered the training ground, Y/N saw him for the first time—truly saw him.
And in that moment, two knife-like, opposing emotions pierced her at once:
The man who replaced her.
His heir.
His choice.
And
Human.
Untainted.
Unbroken.
A face still untouched by darkness.
Y/N stared at him with a silence that didn’t tremble even for a heartbeat. The first thing that caught Bruce’s attention was the cold savagery in her gaze—not like a creature’s, but like a student stripped of her most primal instincts and rebuilt into something sharper. Yet something stirred inside him—he didn’t know whether it was fear, admiration, or something else entirely.
Bruce stepped closer under the flickering torchlight, lips tightening with hesitation before he finally spoke:
“They told me I’d be fighting you.”
Y/N tilted her head slightly; her voice was ice, empty of any emotion:
“I’m here to test you. But I didn’t choose you.”
Bruce’s brows knitted. “Then who chose you?”
Y/N lifted her gaze to Ra’s al Ghul standing above, then let out a short breath—almost a smile, sharp as a dagger.
“Who chose me doesn’t matter.” “What matters is how fast you’ll fall.”
Bruce’s breath tightened in his chest. “Isn’t it a bit early to underestimate me?”
Y/N took a single step forward. “It’s never too early to underestimate you.”
Ra’s al Ghul’s voice echoed from above:
“Begin.”
Y/N didn’t make the first move; as she’d been trained, she watched—Bruce’s tolerance, breathing rhythm, foot placement, the speed of his blinks. When Bruce moved, Y/N pivoted on her left foot with fluid precision and dodged his first straight punch with natural ease. As his fist sliced through the air, Y/N locked onto his arm with a close-range joint-lock pivot, but Bruce countered with surprising strength.
Bruce swiftly tried to bring his elbow down onto Y/N’s shoulder, but instead of retreating, she dropped lower beneath his arm and executed a sudden under-elbow sweep that knocked Bruce off balance.
Bruce stumbled back two steps, his heels slipping on the stone floor. A brief shock crossed his face.
Y/N spoke:
“You’re stronger than I expected.”
Bruce didn’t back down:
“And you’re more arrogant than I expected.”
A sharp glint flashed in Y/N’s eyes—her wild darkness flaring into a living fire for a moment.
“Then be ready to lose to my arrogance.”
This time Bruce attacked. He aimed for her leg. Y/N blocked, caught Bruce’s ankle, and attempted a swift ankle-twist takedown. Bruce clenched his teeth against the pain but didn’t fall; instead, he lunged to loop his arm around Y/N’s neck.
Y/N recoiled and suddenly her movements changed—more feral, more trained, more lethal. Her elbow grazed past Bruce’s jaw. Bruce withdrew, but Y/N didn’t slow; she lifted her knee and shoved Bruce backward with her foot, pinning him against the wall. Bruce’s breath caught, sweat on his forehead gleaming under the torchlight.
Y/N’s voice was like a surgical blade:
“He chose you for this?” “Because you don’t fall easily?”
Bruce growled and charged forward. His punch aimed at Y/N’s throat was redirected at the last moment by her sharp inside parry. Y/N struck Bruce’s diaphragm with a brutal knee. Bruce’s breath collapsed, his knees hitting the ground.
Ra’s al Ghul watched from above, silent, with the faintest shadow of satisfaction on his face.
Y/N stood right before Bruce. Her breathing was steady, controlled. She didn’t touch him, didn’t lift his head—she forced him with her stare alone:
“Even weakness looks good on you.”
Kneeling, Bruce steadied his breath; his eyes glimmered not with anger but with an unsettling admiration:
“Who are you?”
Y/N leaned down, bringing her face dangerously close to his; her breath brushed his cheek like a cold whisper.
“The one who will darken your path. And the one who will reshape you.”
Bruce didn’t look away.
“Is that supposed to scare me?”
With a faint, deadly smile, Y/N answered:
“No, Bruce Wayne.
It’s supposed to destroy you.”
Ra’s al Ghul’s voice rang out:
“Enough.”
Y/N stepped back, leaving Bruce on the ground. As Bruce rose, a tiny fleck of torch soot fell onto his shoulder; when he looked at Y/N again, he realized he felt two things at the exact same moment:
Danger.
And pull.
Y/N watched him as well.
The man who replaced her…
Yet a face untouched by her darkness.
Between them, something both lethal and inevitable had already begun. And this was only their first encounter.
Ra’s al Ghul sat at the head of the long table; the shadows falling across his shoulders shifted with the flicker of the fire, revealing his face as if it emerged from a block of cold, unforgiving stone. Bruce held his spoon but wasn’t hungry; his stomach felt tight and heavy like rock. The silence in the room carried, as always, the “disciplining weight” of Ra’s’ presence. As Ra’s cut into the meat on his plate with a shapeless sort of elegance, he glanced at Bruce from the corner of his eye—a look that felt like part of an equation assessing how useful a student truly was.
“Your mind is scattered, Bruce,” Ra’s said, setting his knife on the table. “Focus is what aligns a warrior’s mind, not his feet. But you… seem fixated on something else.”
Bruce’s shoulder tensed slightly; he had no trouble understanding what Ra’s was implying, but he didn’t show it. “I have things to think about. Related to training.”
“Yes,” Ra’s replied, with a tone of arrogant wisdom. “Training… and the girl.”
The dismissive edge in Ra’s’ voice sharpened Bruce’s attention like a blade. He frowned.
“Why isn’t Y/N with us? Shouldn’t all students be present?”
Ra’s lifted a brow, smiling with a hint of disdain.
“She is not someone suitable for dining with others. She grew up like a dirty dagger—scratched, cracked, shaped by years in the wrong hands. She is not the type to sit and converse. Besides—” his voice sharpened, “—seeing her weaknesses will not make you stronger. That girl is a blade shaped by anger, not discipline.”
It was the first time Bruce had seen such a clear displeasure from Ra’s directed at her; the nearly personal hatred Ra’s carried toward Y/N stirred a deeper curiosity in him. The flicker of bitterness in Ra’s’ eyes whenever he spoke of her unsettled Bruce. Because when he’d seen Y/N in the training hall, he hadn’t seen someone to hate—he’d seen someone he needed to understand.
---
After dinner, when Bruce stepped into the dim corridor, the weight of his thoughts still clung to him. The stone walls carved into the mountain, the echo of his footsteps, the dry, cold scent of the air… all of it created a deeper, darker fog in his mind. Thoughts of where Y/N might be tightened his chest with an unsettling pull. Instinctive curiosity. A kind of threatening admiration.
In the quietest bend of the twisting hallway, he noticed a door slightly ajar. He didn’t even need to look inside to know it was Y/N’s room; the metallic scent in the air, the shadow cast on the stone floor… they belonged to her.
The thin line of light leaking through the door felt like a thread pulling him inward.
And then… he saw her.
Y/N stood with her back to him, binding her chest tightly with a thick, coarse fabric to make movement easier during combat. The lines of her shoulders carried a sharp, predatory tension; her muscles, her movements, her stance—they were all reflections of someone raised to survive. But what locked Bruce’s attention were the marks on her body.
These were not ordinary injuries from training.
These were the marks of torture, chains, fractures, torn flesh.
Bruce’s breath caught in his throat. Something in him twisted with a nameless anger. This wasn’t the kind of “discipline” Ra’s spoke of. This was the past that kills a person. But Y/N had already sensed him.
“If you intend to watch,” Y/N said, voice sharp with mocking bite, “you should have at least learned how to hide, Bruce Wayne.”
Bruce touched the door without meaning to and stepped inside.
“The door was open. I didn’t make a sound.”
“You’re so eager to make your presence known,” Y/N said, turning slightly as her eyes gleamed with dark sarcasm, “that even if you tried to be quiet, you’d fail.”
Bruce’s face tensed when he noticed a deep knife scar on her bare shoulder.
“These marks… they aren’t the kind you get during training.”
Y/N shrugged.
“They’re a price. The price of being the best. You… came here with a recommendation. Not with sweat. Ra’s chose you, so you ‘deserved’ it. I… chose myself.”
Bruce frowned.
“How do you know I haven’t earned it?”
“Because,” Y/N said, stepping closer and closer to him, “you took my place.”
Bruce felt her shadow fall over him, and though he didn’t hide the quickening of his heartbeat, he didn’t step back.
“Let me tell you something,” he said, locking his eyes with hers. “I don’t underestimate your scars. But training doesn’t have to be like this.”
Y/N laughed. A short, dark sound.
“You don’t know. You can’t know. Whatever pain you’ve felt… it’s nothing but a shadow compared to mine.”
Bruce stepped even closer. His own pride held firm.
“Then tell me,” he said quietly, “who did this to you?”
Y/N lifted her head; shadows covered half her face, her eyes flashing like lightning.
“I did this to myself,” she said. “No one can bend me. I shattered myself with my own hands.”
A lie. Ra’s al Ghul had broken her with unimaginable tortures to reshape her flesh and her mind. The mental torment was far worse.
A moment of silence crackled through the small room like electricity.
For the first time, Bruce realized a person could be this destructive… and this captivating at the same time. Her pain, her strength, her arrogance—they were as repelling as they were magnetic. And Y/N noticed the conflict in his eyes.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Y/N said, her voice low, dark, and cautionary.
“I’m not something you can save.”
Bruce didn’t lower his gaze. He didn’t step back.
“Maybe,” he said, exhaling lightly, “I’m not trying to save you.”
Something in Y/N’s eyes sparked—anger, jealousy, desire, and a defiant pull all at once. And in that moment, the air between them was more dangerous than anything in the training hall. Because this time, they weren’t holding weapons…
They were holding their darkness toward each other.
✦ I’m going to get inside your mind
The mirror room’s walls, ceiling, and floor were covered in the same sheets of ice-cold steel; the entire space was an echo chamber that threw every breath, every glance, every intention back at you.
Windowless. Airless. Timeless.
Anyone who entered here became a prisoner of their own mind.
This was Ra’s al Ghul’s favorite method: To show people themselves.
Y/N stood in the very center. Back straight, chin lifted, gaze sharp with that wild, death-defying acceptance. As if the whole room filled with the silence of her breathing.
When Bruce stepped inside, the door locked.
Ra’s remained outside; his voice reached them as a metallic echo:
“Expose each other’s weaknesses. I want to see which of you is stronger.”
When Y/N looked at Bruce, she felt something:
Anger.
Jealousy.
The unwillingness to share this room with the man who had replaced her.
And beneath her denial, something else—an attraction she couldn’t name.
Bruce stood with his usual self-assured but measured stance, a shadow cutting through the dimness.
Y/N took a step without warning.
The distance between them shrank to nothing.
Bruce’s breath changed ever so slightly—alert, instinctive.
“This room has one purpose,” Y/N said slowly. “I’m going to enter your mind. Everything you’re hiding, I’ll drag it out. That’s what Ra’s wants.”
Bruce’s brows drew together.
“Don’t play games with me.”
Y/N only smiled that cold, ironic, untouchable smile.
She didn’t move. The incense spreading through the room had already begun clouding Bruce’s thoughts, easing Y/N’s passage into his mind.
She simply reached out and took the object resting in the inner pocket of Bruce’s suit.
A chain.
A necklace.
The pearl Thomas Wayne had given Martha—the last thing left in Bruce’s blood-stained hands that night.
It had never truly been there. But the mind is often as powerful as reality itself.
Y/N held it between her fingers; pressed her thumb against the smooth pearl.
“This still weakens you.”
She dragged out the word.
Weak.
Bruce’s expression shifted instantly.
A twist of concealed rage, deep grief, and the battle for control.
He grabbed her wrist almost instinctively, the movement sharp, defensive. They were standing far too close. Too close. Their breaths collided.
Bruce’s voice broke against itself, low and hoarse:
“Don’t touch that.”
Y/N looked straight into his eyes. The earlier mockery vanished for a flicker—replaced by cautious curiosity.
“So it still hurts.” She pressed harder against the pearl. “It’s not the cold of death… it’s the warmth of losing someone that burns you.”
Bruce clenched his jaw, voice strained like metal about to snap:
“This isn’t about you.”
“Wrong, Bruce Wayne,” Y/N whispered. “This is entirely about me. Because this is my job. It’s what Ra’s wants.”
But then, something slipped in Bruce’s gaze. A thin thread of emotion he tried to avoid.
Childhood pain wrapped in darkness.
For the first time, Y/N truly saw him. Not just a rival. Not just an heir. Not merely a man forged to battle the shadows. But a boy who lost something. Someone. A boy who once had something Y/N never did—love.
Y/N’s anger shifted. Didn’t fade. But bent. Softened.
Her voice dropped into a tone even she didn’t recognize:
“It hurts, doesn’t it? Still.”
Bruce’s fingers were still wrapped around her wrist. A proof that his mind was far harder to breach than most yet his grip was loosening. Because he wanted it to. Because the touch had changed—less like combat, more like something trying desperately to protect itself.
“Everyone has a weakness, Y/N,” he said, slow, breath uneven. “What’s yours?”
For the first time, his voice didn’t hold challenge, but something else— curiosity, a trembling sincerity of someone genuinely trying to understand another human being. And that trembling carved a scar across Y/N’s armor. The first crack.
The feeling was foreign.
Unpleasant.
And impossible to stop.
She placed the necklace back into Bruce’s palm. Slowly. Her fingertips brushing his by accident—or maybe not. And immediately withdrew from his mind. Because the fear came too fast— the fear of having her own fractures exposed.
Bruce did not look away from her.
“You’ve been shattered by what you lived through. I can see it.”
The sentence tore through Y/N like lightning.
Like an insult.
Like pity.
But also— like the first time anyone had ever truly seen her.
✦ I Found You In Your Breath
Ra’s al Ghul had dragged his students to the darkest part of the fortress that morning; the coldness of the stone walls, the moldy scent seeping through the cracks in the ceiling, and even the footsteps echoing on the ground sounding as if they were suffocating made Bruce’s insides shiver. Even breathing here felt like a crime loud enough to warrant punishment; Ra’s’ gaze drifted among the shadows, and his words fell over the students not as commands, but as a kind of fate.
“Invisibility,” Ra’s had said, with a sharp wisdom. “Is the most merciless weapon a warrior can wield. If you want to become a shadow, you must first silence even your own existence.”
Then he pointed into the darkness with his finger.
“Bruce. Find Y/N. If you cannot find her… you fail.”
Bruce knew that Ra’s’ words had a completely different purpose—he could feel that Ra’s wanted to reignite the dangerous tension between him and Y/N. The secret satisfaction flickering in Ra’s’ eyes disturbed him, mixed with an extra anger clearly directed at Y/N. To Ra’s, she seemed both like a knife that couldn’t be controlled and a sin he wanted to forget. Knowing this truth, Bruce stepped into the dim tunnels, his chest churned with curiosity, pull, and an anger he couldn’t name.
The corridors stretched like a labyrinth that swallowed his steps; the dampness of the stones, the low weight of the ceiling, and the dust in the air turned even breathing into a sound. Bruce slowed his steps, controlled his breath; but no matter how silently he moved, the faint vibration of his presence felt as though it betrayed him. The walls of the fortress seemed to work against him, echoing each small breath back at him.
Just as he turned a corner, a hand clamped around his wrist like steel; he was yanked suddenly into the darkness, into the narrow hollow of a stone recess. His back hit the hard wall as the shadow swallowed him whole.
And right in front of him… was Y/N.
Her outline sharpened in the dark, her breath brushing against his neck like a thin heat. Her grip on his wrist was so strong that Bruce felt the pressure crawling through his veins like a command. With her face so close it nearly touched his, Y/N whispered:
“Why are you making so much noise?”
The mocking edge in her voice sparked a strange warmth in Bruce’s chest. Her breath hit his jaw and bounced back, heating the air between them dangerously. When they listened to the silence beyond the corridor, the only sound was the presence of two bodies pressed too close to avoid touching. Bruce instinctively lowered his head slightly; the tension coiled in his muscles brushed against Y/N’s body, and she noticed—her lips curved faintly in reaction.
“Maybe,” Bruce said, his voice matching hers in darkness,
“I knew I would find you like this.”
Y/N paused. Her eyes glimmered in the dark like a red spark; Bruce’s words seemed to have caught her unprepared for a moment. No one had ever “caught” her this closely, this silently, with such dangerously calm confidence. Both anger and satisfaction flickered within her; Bruce’s bold tone scraped at a wild corner of her mind no one had touched before.
Y/N’s face neared Bruce’s cheek; their breaths passed so close they nearly mingled.
“I’m a ghost, Bruce Wayne,” she said, her voice like a thin blade.
“You can’t find me. Not unless I let you.”
Bruce tilted his head, answering with a whisper that rose from the same darkness: “What if… I followed your breath?”
Y/N’s fingers tightened on his wrist, but this time the force felt more like an involuntary reaction than a threat. The closeness of Bruce’s body to hers; the heat trapped between them and the cold wall; the way his presence pressed into her instincts—all of it disrupted the hunter’s composure she lived by. Her eyes glowed faintly, and a wild flicker touched the corner of her lips.
“This is a dangerous game, Bruce,” Y/N murmured, lower, nearer.
“If anyone thinks he’s the hunter… it’s you. But here, you’re the prey.”
Bruce’s quiet laugh spread through the dark like a muted challenge.
“I’m not so sure about that.”
Y/N’s breath hitched. Bruce recognized it instantly as the most fragile moment he’d ever seen in her. Someone who lived through reflex and instinct wasn’t used to losing control at such close range. But Bruce’s presence, his heat, his stubborn silence… created a crack in Y/N’s armor she never meant to expose.
Her fingers loosened slightly around his wrist, and that small release felt like a defense door sliding open in her mind.
“Don’t think you’re powerful just because Ra’s chose you,” Y/N whispered. “I… had already seen you in the dark long before this.”
Bruce lowered his head a fraction, his voice an intimate confession born from the shadows.
“So had I.”
His breath touched her ear.
“And I found you by your breath.”
A spark flashed across the girl’s eyes—anger, jealousy, curiosity, and a dangerous desire all tangled into one. For a moment, the entire world shrank into the space between their two breaths. And in that moment… what drew the two warriors together wasn’t sword, strength, or training. It was the darkness itself.
✦ If You’re Cold, You’ll Have to Get Closer
Night had spread across the mountain’s skirt like a heavy, suffocating darkness; the storm drowned the sky in a muddy shade of white, and snowflakes struck bare skin with a sharp, vindictive aggression. The frozen lake’s surface resembled a mirror thinly cracking under the wind’s blows; beneath every step echoed the fragile sound of death splitting open. Ra’s al Ghul had chosen the night specifically for this training—because night was when not the body, but the soul was tested; the hour when cold, silence, and fear ruled at their highest pitch.
“You will walk on the ice without making each other fall. If your balance breaks, you fall together. If you cannot endure the cold, you freeze together.”
Bruce’s breath stabbed his lungs like a sharp ache with every inhale. Y/N, on the other hand, looked carved from the ice itself—unmoving, unshivering, unflinching, her body language unfazed by the cold despite her eyes being blindfolded.
Ra’s al Ghul said: “This bond will either keep you alive or kill you.”
One of the instructors wrapped a thick, harsh rope around Bruce’s wrist and tightened the knot; when the same rope was tied firmly around Y/N’s wrist, a bond sharper than the cold itself formed between them. Both held their breath, because this enforced closeness awakened a far more dangerous fire than they expected.
Ra’s lifted his hand.
“Blindfold them.”
“Who cannot overcome the cold,” he said in a low but razor-sharp voice, “cannot control even their own body. The two of you… will compensate for each other’s weakness. You either endure together, or disappear beneath the ice together.”
Then he left them to the darkness; the howl of the snowstorm soon drowned out all human sounds.
For a moment, Bruce froze where he stood. His eyes were covered, the ice beneath his feet threatening with a thin crack at every step. The wind lashed at his face like thousands of sharp needles. Y/N’s presence stood right beside him, as close as his own breath, like a shadow that had solidified.
Bruce took the first step, and staggered slightly.
At that instant, Y/N’s shoulder pressed into his. The movement was so fast and controlled that Bruce understood she had already calculated his falter.
“You’re losing your balance,” Y/N said, her voice cutting through the wind like a blade.
Bruce growled through clenched teeth:
“This ice… I’m freezing.”
When Y/N heard that, a faint expression crossed her face, but vanished somewhere Bruce still couldn’t see. They took another step; the cracking of the ice sounded more threatening. When Bruce’s breathing quickened, Y/N tugged gently on the rope and pulled him closer.
“Calm down,” she said, this time with a hint of mockery.
“The cold steals your breath too. Uncontrolled breathing = disaster.”
Every breath Bruce exhaled was as loud in Y/N’s ear as the howl of the wind.
Then Y/N suddenly stopped.
Bruce had to stop as well.
The rope between them stretched tight.
And Y/N slowly approached him.
Very slowly.
Very controlled.
Like a predator measuring the heartbeat of its prey.
Then her face neared Bruce’s neck—her warm breath hitting his frost-bitten skin in the darkness.
Bruce shivered. Instinctive, dangerous.
Y/N whispered:
“Staying warm… this is the only way.”
Bruce swallowed. The sound echoed through the dark.
“N-no problem,” Bruce muttered.
Y/N let out a faint laugh—not a laugh, but a breath-laced mockery.
“You swallowed,” she said.
“That gives you away. Is it fear? Or… something else?”
Even with his eyes covered, Bruce turned his head in her direction.
“You shouldn’t trust everything you hear,” he said. “I could be trying to deceive you.”
“You can’t deceive me,” Y/N replied. “Your body betrays you, Bruce Wayne. When a person starts losing warmth, their voice, their breath, their step all change. Besides…”
Y/N stepped closer, this time until her body’s warmth nearly touched his.
Even the rope between them loosened.
“...your pulse went up the moment I got near.”
Bruce couldn’t hide it; his heart really had sped up.
Y/N’s breath on his skin stung sharper than the cold.
In winter, closeness meant survival. But for the two of them, it was something far more dangerous than the ice beneath them.
Y/N whispered: “If you want, I can move away.”
Bruce reflexively pulled his wrist back, but the rope didn’t drag Y/N away.
On the contrary, it brought her even closer.
“No,” Bruce said quietly, but sincerely. “Closer is… warmer.”
Y/N’s breath caught for the briefest moment. It was the one reaction Y/N hated giving throughout all training: unintentional, emotional, dangerous.
Her voice did not tremble, but her breath hesitated—soft, but undeniable.
“Good,” Y/N said. “You took a step toward becoming a warrior. You admitted your weakness.”
Bruce lifted his head, and even with his eyes covered, his voice came out steadier:
“That’s not a weakness. It was acknowledging the truth.”
Y/N brushed the rope with her fingertips. She realized then that the thing binding them was stronger than the ice: Frost, breath, closeness, anger, jealousy, curiosity, attraction.
And Y/N whispered:
“If you fall, I won’t pull you up. Know that.”
But the trembling shadow at the end of her voice said something entirely different: Not true.
Bruce didn’t answer. Because he didn’t have the breath to answer, or maybe, he was afraid to put into words whatever he was feeling. But then… something cracked deep beneath the ice.
When that unexpected sound came “CRACK” the surface under Y/N’s foot gave way; her chest tightened as if she were falling into a hungry void, and a scream lodged itself in her throat.
In an instant, the cold swallowed her like a devouring mouth.
The water stabbed into her skin like a frozen blade, stealing her breath, numbing her mind.
Despite the rope binding them, Bruce managed to grab onto the surface; stretched across the break in the ice, one hand struggling to pull Y/N up from the water, the other fighting to keep himself from slipping in. She could hear the tremor in Bruce’s iron-strong arm muscles, the grit of his clenched teeth.
“Y/N! Hold on to me—no, don’t let go! Don’t you dare close your eyes!”
It was a tone Y/N had never heard from him before:
Panicked. Terrified. Desperately protective.
Y/N couldn’t breathe from the cold.
Even the storm’s howl drowned under the water.
Bruce dragged her across the ice toward the shore, carrying her in his arms. It was as if her weight didn’t exist; his steps carved deep prints into the snow, his breathing ragged. He didn’t lay her on the ground—he cradled her even as he sank to his knees.
One struggle, one sharp gasp, one more crack of ice…
and then her shoulders broke through the surface.
Bruce wrapped his arms around her in a single motion—one arm at her waist, the other gripping the back of her neck; despite her skin being frozen, he pressed her against his own body heat, breathing warmth onto her face, her hair, her cheeks.
Without hesitation.
Without thought.
As if this act were… a reflex he had always possessed.
“Y/N…”
The crack in his voice revealed a side he hadn’t shown anyone in years—fragile, human, recklessly worried.
He leaned over her. His breath hit her cold skin, and her body shuddered involuntarily. Bruce noticed and held her tighter. The rhythm beneath his chest was the frantic beating of his panicked heart.
“Please say something… let me hear you. You can hear me, right?”
Her lips were turning blue. Her jaw trembled uncontrollably. But forcing herself, she whispered:
“…I’m here.”
That small syllable hit Bruce like a tidal wave.
He pressed his forehead to hers; two breaths, two fears, two heat sources meeting at the same point.
Bruce took her hands in his, closing his fingers around them.
Then he removed his gloves and pressed his bare skin to hers.
Warmth spread from his palms up her wrist, her arm—yet Bruce wasn’t looking at her; his eyes were turned toward the storm, tracking danger, but all of his attention was on her.
“Don’t fall asleep,” he said, his voice nearly an order.
“The cold lies to you. If you give in… you don’t come back. Don’t close your eyes.”
He lifted her face between his hands.
His thumbs rubbed her cheeks, as if forcing the blood back into them.
“Look at me. Only me.”
Her eyes were half-closed despite herself; but Bruce leaned in closer, his nose brushing hers.
The heat of that skin-to-skin contact struck her mind like fire.
“You’re warming up, okay… don’t you pull away from me.”
When her trembling worsened, Bruce didn’t hesitate for even a heartbeat. He pulled her directly into his lap.
Her body, held tightly against his, felt as if it had synchronized with his heartbeat.
He slid one hand to the back of her neck—his warm palm grounding her like a magnet.
His other hand moved along her back—pressing first, then rubbing in rhythmic strokes.
He wasn’t just trying to warm her; he was anchoring her breaths, forcing a rhythm into them.
“You’re here, okay?”
His voice was deep enough to overpower the storm.
“I still feel you. I feel your breath. Don’t let yourself slip.”
Her gaze dropped to Bruce’s shoulder.
His warmth… his scent… the overwhelming sense of safety his body evoked… all of it crashed over her like an avalanche.
“Bruce…” she whispered, the single word melting in her mouth like an unguarded confession.
The word tightened Bruce’s expression; the line between his brows deepened.
Because her voice… made him feel something.
Something terrifying.
The possibility of losing her.
The warmth on her arms was so foreign, so indescribable that something in the back of Y/N’s mind ached:
No one had ever treated her like this. No one had made her feel human… not in a long time.
Bruce placed his hand over her trembling fingers.
“Does this hurt? Any signs of frostbite? Y/N, please—look at me.”
“Why…” she said, her voice cracked, stunned, wounded with a kind of fragile curiosity. “Why are you treating me like this? I’m not… used to being cared for.”
For a moment, a shadow crossed his face. That bottomless loneliness inside him—those years of silent pain he never confessed—flickered in his eyes.
“Because…” he murmured, his breath a warm wave against her cheek. “I don’t want to lose you.”
In that moment, the tension in Bruce’s shoulders loosened, like a tight wire finally snapping clean. And then—without warning— he brushed a touch against the side of her face, her jaw, the corner of her mouth.
Not a kiss;
a contact as heavy as a confession.
You held your breath as Bruce’s hand slid beneath your chin, lifting your face slightly; his gaze filled with a hunger louder than the howling storm outside.
And when your lips met his— the entire world went silent.
The kiss began slow, cautious, almost sacred in its hesitation; then Bruce felt your cold, shaking body melt deeper into his lap, and his breath hitched. His fingers moved to the nape of your neck; a mix of possession, fear, hope, darkness—all of it gathered in a single kiss.
And you…
for the first time, felt truly human.
Alive, feeling, wanted.
Bruce’s warmth, his breath, his touch…
pulled your heart back from the edge where it had been dying under ice.
The warmth on her arms was so foreign, so indescribable that something in the back of Y/N’s mind ached:
No one had ever treated her like that. No one had made her feel human… in a very long time.
Bruce placed his hand over her trembling fingers.
“Does this hurt? Any signs of frostbite? Y/N, please—look at me.”
“Why…” she whispered, her voice cracking with shock and a wounded curiosity. “Why are you acting like this with me? I’m not used to… being cared for.”
A flicker of shadow crossed his expression.
That bottomless loneliness he never spoke of glimmered silently in his eyes.
“Because…” he breathed, his warmth brushing her cheek. “I don’t want to lose you.”
In that moment, the tension in Bruce’s shoulders loosened like a rope cut clean.
And then—without warning— as if a breath he’d been holding for years finally escaped— he pressed his lips to hers.
For a heartbeat, her body collapsed helplessly into Bruce’s hands.
The rapid rhythm of her chest collided with his; two hearts speeding, darkening together.
Y/N didn’t pull back.
Not on purpose, there was simply nowhere left to retreat. Bruce brought his hand to her nape, fingers sliding into her wet hair. The tremble at his fingertips was a silent confession of how terrified he was of losing her. He pulled back just a breath—barely an inch.
His eyes gleamed even in the dark.
The war raging inside him was written all over his face—he should leave, he shouldn’t do this, but he couldn’t stop. “I’m not supposed to feel this way…” he murmured, voice hoarse and furious with himself. But the rest of the sentence vanished against her lips as he kissed her again— this time deeper, hotter, more desperate.
He wasn’t leaning in to kiss her; he was leaning in to breathe with her.
Not a kiss; a contact as heavy as a confession.
You held your breath as Bruce’s hand tilted your chin up, his gaze filled with an intensity louder than the storm.
And Y/N…
for the first time, felt truly human.
Alive. Feeling. Wanted.
Bruce’s warmth, his breath, his touch… dragged your heart back from under the ice where it had almost died.
After returning from the ice, the dampness on Y/N’s back had already dried, but Ra’s al Ghul’s gaze still chilled her to the bone. He stood in the shadow of a column, and only the sharp green-gold of his eyes gleamed through the darkness.
Y/N said nothing. Because when Ra’s spoke, even silence became a form of defense.
“You fell.” His voice was calm. Fatally calm. “That is not a word I wish to see in any of my students.”
Y/N drew a breath, but Ra’s lifted a hand—not a gesture to silence her, but more like a warning that if she spoke, he would crush her into the floor. Then that infamous, carved-from-ice smirk appeared.
“But you did not fall alone. You needed someone to catch you.”
The words landed on her shoulders like weight. Ra’s chose his language with precision, pressing directly onto the center of her pride.
“This experience should have made you stronger…” He stepped forward. Close enough to hear her breath. “…or did it make you more dependent?”
Y/N’s jaw tightened before she could stop it. The word—dependent—slapped her pride and left venom in her chest. Ra’s noticed instantly. He stepped again. Her shoulder touched the cold stone wall.
“Do not forget why I chose you.”
A sharp silence fell. Y/N, despite herself, lifted her chin to meet his eyes.
Ra’s continued:
“You were raised in darkness. You understand the dark.” His voice dropped and rose like a hymn—one meant to create a leader, but just as capable of forcing a servant to their knees. “Wayne, however… carries his own light. To break him, all it takes is a single crack.”
He tilted his head.
“And that crack… is you.”
Y/N’s throat tightened.
Ra’s chose that line deliberately. Because he knew she held both anger and an unwanted softness for Bruce. And a leader would never elevate a student whose emotions he doubted.
He would test them. At the deepest point. Ra’s clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace. Then he stopped.
“I will give one final order.”
Y/N’s breath hitched.
His voice echoed in the windless, black courtyard:
“There will be a duel.”
The word was heavy. It sank into the stone.
“The two of you. One room. One night. One fight. Whoever remains standing…” He paused. As though selecting a destiny. “…will meet me at the summit.”
Y/N’s heart slammed so loudly she thought he could hear it. There was a thin, mocking wisdom in Ra’s’s expression.
“If Wayne fails… you will be the one to dominate him.”
Y/N moved as if to step forward, but Ra’s stopped her with a single look. Her mind split open instantly, split in two:
• FIRST HALF — the dark, the prideful, the ambitious:
If you defeat him, you can break Bruce Wayne.
Force him to his knees.
Reshape him.
Control him.
Take your place as heir.
• SECOND HALF — the warmth of Bruce’s arms around her as he carried her from the frozen lake:
You don’t want to break him.
You don’t want to see him in pain.
You don’t want him fighting for his life.
This second feeling… had only just been born. And that made it far stronger.
Ra’s spoke one last time before turning toward the exit:
“This is not training. This is a choice. Whose destiny is heavier… the other will shatter.”
And he vanished into the shadows.
Y/N was left alone. Alone with the lethal tension tearing her mind in two.
The training hall was one of the oldest sections of Ra’s al Ghul’s fortress; its stone walls smelled of damp earth, and the wind slipping through the narrow windows made the air tremble. In the center lay a wide combat floor, its wooden planks darkened by the blood of countless fighters over the years, carved and battered by time. The torches hanging from the ceiling cast long shadows, hiding every breath inside their flicker.
Bruce stepped inside; Y/N was already there. It looked less like she was preparing for a fight and more like she was preparing to kill someone.
As Y/N stretched with the slow, fluid movements of a warrior grounding herself, she turned her head slightly toward Bruce. Her eyes were dark—deep down, the familiar spark of jealousy and hatred flickered.
“You’re late,” she said. Her voice was cold as ice, yet just as silky. “Ra’s expects more discipline from you.”
Bruce stood by the weapon rack, touching nothing. His eyes lingered on Y/N a moment too long; he saw how the invisible anger coiled under her skin, how even the rhythm of her breathing was tuned for war.
“Discipline?” he replied. “You’re the last person who should lecture me on that. You can’t control yourself.”
Y/N smiled, an amused, poisonous curl of the lips.
“If I couldn’t control myself… you’d be on the floor right now.”
She took a single step toward him. The space between them shrank to two breaths.
Torchlight sharpened her features, throwing her shadow across Bruce’s chest.
“And yet you’re still standing,” Y/N said. “Which means I’m waiting for the right moment to touch you.”
Bruce’s face tightened for an instant; every word she uttered felt like both a threat and an invitation. He didn’t step back. If anything, he leaned closer. “Are you trying to scare me?”
“No,” Y/N said. For the first time, her voice softened—almost… a whisper. “I’m trying to figure you out.”
Bruce’s gaze darkened.
Y/N saw the shift, and something in her eyes glimmered—dangerously. She was drawn to this man, but she hated that he had been chosen as the heir. She hated how he shook her, how he unsettled her. And maybe—just as much as she hated him— she was in love with him.
Y/N struck first; there was a wildness in her speed, the ferocity of a predator starved for years. Bruce didn’t even have time to raise his sword before Y/N was already on him, forcing the steel toward his throat with a jarring violence. Bruce pulled back, sliding slightly on the stone floor; Y/N saw the opening and pressed the attack.
The clash of their blades tore through the silence like a scream.
“You can’t beat me, Wayne,” Y/N hissed through her teeth. “This mountain raised me. This steel became my body.”
Bruce tried to steady his breath, swinging his sword sideways to block her strikes.
“This steel also made you alone.”
A flash of anger lit Y/N’s eyes, and then something that struck even deeper: the fear of being understood. “Loneliness is strength.” Her words carried a coldness she didn’t fully believe herself. Y/N lunged forward, broke Bruce’s guard, and pinned him against the wall. The tip of her sword pressed under his chin; her breath touched his neck like a hot line of warning.
They were dangerously close. Y/N’s hair had fallen over her face, eyes burning with a dark, hungry drive. Her chest brushed against Bruce’s.
“You could die here,” Y/N said. Her voice was made of ice—fragile, but lethal.
Bruce’s hands moved toward her wrists— not to touch her, not to understand her… but to stop her.
“You don’t want to die by my hand.”
Y/N’s breath caught.
Her blade trembled.
A terrifying sign of weakness—for her.
“Why… would you say that?”
There was no anger in her voice—only fear.
Bruce tilted his head slightly, his lips close enough to brush her hair.
“Because when you touch me… you lose yourself.”
Y/N’s eyes widened. Instead of pulling back the sword, she pressed harder. “There’s nothing to lose in me.” She sounded like she was about to scream, yet forced her tone into emptiness. “There’s nothing left inside.”
Bruce turned his blade, pushed her arm aside, and slipped from the wall— then spun, taking her into the opposite corner. This time, Y/N was the one pinned.
Bruce’s body almost caged hers entirely.
Y/N’s breath hitched.
Their swords crossed at chest height.
“Those who told you there was nothing left in you,” Bruce said, his voice low and steady, “were people who were afraid of you.”
Y/N gritted her teeth. “You’re not afraid of me.”
“No.” Bruce leaned even closer. “I’m drawn to you.”
Y/N’s heart pounded like a war drum. An unacceptable feeling. She swung Bruce’s sword away and attacked again.
Their blades moved faster—steel striking steel in furious bursts, sparks flying, even the torches seeming to recoil. Y/N kicked Bruce’s shoulder; he staggered. Bruce caught her wrist, twisted; Y/N nearly fell. But as always, she didn’t fall. She was a ghost, a shadow, a sharpened edge. Bruce was approaching his second strike when Y/N suddenly stopped.
“Why won’t you kill me?”
Bruce froze, sword held midair. “Because I don’t want to kill you.”
“You need to!” Y/N swung her sword and pressed it to Bruce’s throat. Her hands were visibly shaking. “Ra’s values you. Not me. That makes you my enemy.”
Bruce pressed his palm against the blade—steel cutting into his skin, blood sliding down his hand—yet he didn’t pull back. “I’m not your enemy.”
Y/N’s eyes dropped to Bruce’s blood, and for the first time, she looked shocked.
“Why…why are you hurting yourself?”
“Because I know you don’t truly want to kill me.”
The words sliced deeper than any blade. Y/N stepped back. Her knees trembled, she tried to hide it.
“I—” The word knotted in her throat. This wasn’t supposed to happen. She had forgotten how to be human beaten, frozen, starved, and tortured until the memory of humanity was carved out of her. But when Bruce looked at her… for the first time, she felt human again.
When Bruce stepped closer, Y/N didn’t retreat. For the first time, she didn’t run. Her sword fell from her hand.
“I… don’t want to hurt you.”
Bruce cupped Y/N’s face with his fingertips—very softly, very carefully—as if she were a sacred relic that could break.
Y/N’s breath tangled in her chest. “Why do I feel this way?” Her whisper was a confession dipped in darkness.
Bruce’s voice didn’t waver. “Because you can’t refuse to love me.”
Y/N closed her eyes. No tears fell—someone who’d forgotten how to cry couldn’t cry. But inside, her walls cracked.
“This…” It came out painfully, like a wound ripped open. “…is a feeling I’m supposed to hate.”
Bruce drew her closer; their breaths mingled, foreheads touching.
“Maybe,” Bruce said, “what you thought was hatred… was love from the beginning.”
Y/N didn’t answer. But the duel was over. And for the first time, Y/N’s heart… stopped fighting.
When the metallic clash of their swords echoed for the final time, Y/N’s breath caught in her chest; when Bruce pinned her to the wall and seized her wrists, it was no longer a combat move—
it was something far more dangerous, the physical form of a hunger they had both been suppressing for years.
Bruce’s forehead rested against hers; his sword had fallen into a forgotten shadow on the ground, yet in his eyes a dark, possessive light flickered.
“I didn’t want to hurt you… but you didn’t run from me either, Y/N,” he whispered.
His voice carried that exhausted guilt, laced with a darkness that felt like desire; that intense, unnamed thing that always smoldered between them had finally returned.
Y/N tried to pull her body back, but Bruce’s hand closed around the small of her back, drawing her even closer. Their disciplined sword training had slipped away, replaced by a body language trembling on the edge of uncontrollable surrender. When Bruce’s breath touched just beneath her ear, the cold of the wall crawled up her spine—while his heat struck her body like a destructive counterforce.
“I had to defeat you… my loyalty to Ra’s—”
Y/N’s voice was stone, but the tiny involuntary movement of her body leaning toward Bruce’s chest… betrayed her.
Bruce turned his head slightly and caught Y/N’s chin between his fingers.
“Is that why you’re trembling like this? To defeat me?”
At that moment, Y/N’s breathing faltered; a knot twisted in her stomach.
She didn’t know what this meant.
Was love something like this?
Something this sick?
The tension was no longer a battle feeling— It was the edge of losing control.
Instead of pushing Bruce away, Y/N clutched his chest even harder, as if she feared she’d fall—or even shatter if she let him go.
“Loving you… is considered a weakness. I had to use it.”
Bruce’s lips hovered dangerously close to Y/N’s neck; so close that her knees weakened for a moment, nearly giving out— Bruce steadied her, holding her upright.
“Then… go on. Use it.” His voice was deep, taunting, and threaded with fire. “Whatever you want to prove to Ra’s… take it from me.”
Y/N’s entire body moved toward Bruce with a sharp, instinctive hunger at that challenge; her breath now carried not the rhythm of combat, but of desire.
Bruce pressed a hand to her waist and pulled her even closer. They were no longer fighting— They had fallen into another kind of collision entirely— one postponed, feared, forbidden, unstoppable.
And then it happened: When Y/N cupped Bruce’s face in her hands and leaned toward his lips, the distance between them ceased to exist.
Their ragged breaths merged… Bodies pressed into the wall, the floor, into each other… And now, it wasn’t swords that moved— but their hands, around one another…
Y/N was pressed against the wall, but the compression felt less like bondage than like the intensity that had built up over the years between their bodies finally colliding. Bruce's chest rose and fell with her breathing, and this rhythm created a primal, dangerous, and intoxicating closeness that made neither of them want to return to war again.
Y/N's breath hit Bruce's neck and back; the warmth stirred the dark longing Bruce had kept bottled up in his eyes. It was as if two souls were emerging from a compartment they had been kept separate for years and returning to each other.
When Bruce gently pulled her away from the wall and into his body, the very movement spoke like a physical language; he didn't need to say "don't go," or "stay." Bruce's gaze lingered on Y/N's face. Her breathing had quickened, her chest rising and falling rapidly. His hands moved up Y/N's arms, fingers trailing across her smooth skin as if leaving traces. She couldn't resist Bruce's touch; every cell in her body had waited for this moment... As her eyes closed, the expression on her face was filled not with the fragility of war, but of surrender, acceptance, even a kind of longing.
When their lips finally touched, the contact was far more than a kiss; it was as if a door, closed for years, had been silently but irrevocably opened. Their kiss wasn't merely passionate—it was a collision of confession, pain, repressed desire, and souls who had thought they'd lost each other long ago, only to find each other again.
Bruce's hand slid to the back of her neck, burying itself in her hair. His other hand grasped her waist, pulling her body against his. Y/N didn't resist. Instead, she leaned against Bruce's chest, her fingers roaming his torso.
Their kiss was like an ancient fire burning in the moonlight. Silent yet devastating. As their lips parted, suppressed desires exploded. Bruce buried himself against her skin, a groaning inwardly, like a victory cry on a battlefield.
This night of lovemaking was unbecoming of the League of Shadows. But in that moment, neither Rha's al Ghul nor the League of Shadows remained. Only the castle... the stones... a touch even the darkness would envy.
Bruce looked into Y/N's eyes. "Do you trust me?" he asked, his voice a mix of challenge and invitation.
"Completely," Y/N replied, her voice resolute.
In an instant, Bruce grabbed Y/N's sash and began untying the knot of the thick fabric. As Bruce untied the knot, Y/N's body shook, rising on her tiptoes to maintain her balance. The scraping sound of the fabric rang in their ears, and neither Bruce nor Y/N took their eyes off each other. And when the sash met the stone floor, the door to her skin opened.
Bruce eased the long, navy blue tunic with its wide sleeves off her shoulders, slowly sliding down her body, sending shivers down her skin. Each piece of fabric was a step into the fire of their love.
And finally, Y/N's smooth body was revealed, her breasts slightly lifted, her stomach flat and firm. Every texture, every curve of her hips, was seductive, as if whispering the dawn of desire.
She seemed surprised by his move, but deep down, she longed for this moment.
She bent down to unbuckle Bruce's belt. Her hands moved carefully but urgently, as if untying the laces of a sacred chest long locked. When her fingers reached the leather sash around Bruce's waist, she could feel the warmth hidden behind the delicate knot. With the same deftness as a soldier undoing his uniform, but with a far more impatient passion, she undid the laces. The scraping sounds of the linen fabric unraveling beneath the tunic echoed like a mystery in her ears.
The fabric loosened, floating on the stones in that place where time stood still. Bruce's body was now yours alone. His muscular body glistened with sweat. When he pulled down his pants, Bruce's erect cock was released. Y/N memorized every detail of his body in her eyes, wanting to remember this moment.
And right there, he pushed Y/N off her chest and laid her down on the cold stone, feeling his body press against hers. His fingers traced her toned chest, feeling her breathing deepen with each touch. "When I'm with you, I forget everything," Y/N said, looking down at him. "It's just you and me."
Y/N wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer.
"When I'm with you, time stands still," he whispered in her ear.
Bruce leaned closer to Y/N, his breath leaving a warm trail on her neck. A moan rose from Y/N's body as he spread her legs. Bruce's fingers plunged into her warm pussy, making her body tremble as they continued to kiss. Their kiss was now more passionate. Y/N couldn't hold back her moans as Bruce expertly moved his fingers over her clit and the entrance to her vagina. She felt a tickling sensation on her nub, and with each stroke, she felt more and more aroused. He traced a path between her inner lips and the entrance to her vagina. Each touch sent a jolt of electricity through her spine, driving her even more eager.
"Be mine," Bruce whispered, his voice deep and demanding.
His lips were now buried in her neck, in the curve of her collarbone. Each kiss he left against her glistening skin was meticulous, slow, and determined...
He leaned in, his breath trembling with lust brushing over Y/N's breasts, his hands roaming her body like a soldier marching in triumph. His fingertips recognized the contours of her body, noticing the rhythm of her veins. As his touches continued, he moved deeper between her legs, grinding his cock against her. And every friction increased her sensitivity.
His erect penis pressed against her clitoris, stimulating the capillaries within her, and she began to blush. Every movement sent a pulse through her clit, sending a slick, colorless fluid coursing from her vagina. Bruce moved a moment later, sliding down. His tongue flicked out, his mouth returning to her breasts. The wetness he left as his tongue brushed across her breasts, the cool air licking her skin, made her shiver. Then, he closed his lips completely around nipples, caressing and sucking the nubs alternately. His touches melded with his lustful intent; his fingers traced Y/N's belly, her groin, each contact igniting a deep desire within her. His penis began to twitch, and he began to develop the anatomy that would stretch her vagina.
The more he touched her so passionately, the air between them grew heavy, their breaths quickened with the longing for skin on skin.
Bruce moved a little lower, his fingertips now brushing against her groin, almost feather-light. But then, his hands moved lower, to her thighs. It was as if every curve of her movements weren't designed to yield to his moans, but to further tempt him. The fluid flowing from her vagina glistened on her skin in the yellow light of the torch, creating an inviting presence for Bruce.
He tilted his head slightly, bringing his lips to her thigh. His breath was warm, leaving a mark wherever it touched her skin. As his lips neared her vagina, ready for penetration, Y/N's breathing quickened. This was different from before. Through Rha's al Ghul's training, she had learned that sex was merely the fulfillment of the body's desire, like the gratification of an animal's inner urges. A moment too primal to be combined with emotional weakness. But now, she felt something else entirely. Her love for Bruce, combined with her sexual urges, enveloped her heart in an indescribable web of lust. She wasn't a virgin, but this was the first time she'd experienced it.
Bruce lowered his head a little. His lips were now on her most sensitive spot, her clit. Swollen and red, it pulsed against his tongue. A quick sip, just to taste it… Y/N realized how warm it was, the wetness of Bruce's saliva against her clit. It was tempting.
But then…
He slowly pulled his head back. His eyes were still on her. A sly smile tugged at his lips as he whispered, "Not yet."
"Enough," she said in a low, gravelly voice. Her hand rested on Bruce's pecs, her nails digging into his flesh. "I want you. Now, Bruce."
Bruce raised his eyebrows, a gleam of desire simmering from within. "Do you want me inside you, Y/N?"
His eyes narrowed, his lips curling. He leaned down to ear level, his voice a command. "Do you really want your warm pussy bathed in my cum?"
"Yes," she moaned pleadingly. "I want you to have me now, to fuck me, Bruce, please."
Bruce climbed on top of Y/N again. He wrapped his fingers around her legs and roughly pushed them apart. Her pussy tensed as he ground his hips against her thighs. Her vagina was ready for Bruce's fully erect cock.
Then they connected. When Bruce slid his cock inside her slick, warm vagina, its thickness finally stretched her still-tight walls. The blood rushed through her body, and she sighed and squeezed her eyes shut. One hand gripped Bruce's muscular shoulder tightly, the other hitting the stone floor as if for support. A succession of deep breaths enveloped the castle.
Bruce was wild but never rough as he thrust into her. His movements were firm, his balls slapping against her hips as they collided with her flesh; they were jarring, but each one deliberate; they carried a command that guided and shaped.
The tremors in her body were no longer just pleasure, but a daze mixed with surrender. They were nose to nose. Even though their lips didn't meet, they felt his warmth. He leaned his forehead against hers, challenging her with every thrust.
Their breaths, their skin, their sweat mingled.
As she wrapped her arms tightly around Bruce's body, she momentarily forgot to breathe. It was his strength, his warmth, his hardness that resonated throughout her body.
Bruce was moving his waist much more flexibly now. Every time his penis pressed against her G-spot, her muscles tensed, her body rocking back and forth beneath Bruce's.
Y/N wrapped her arms around Bruce's neck, digging her nails into his back. "I didn't want to kill you, I wanted to love you," she whispered, her breath like a warm wind against Bruce's ear.
Bruce fucked Y/N even deeper, feeling his cock deep inside her tight pussy. “I’ve been waiting for this moment since I first saw you,” he said, his voice heavy and passionate.
Every cell in Y/N’s body danced to the rhythm of Bruce’s cock. She felt more and more pleasure with each thrust. As they both neared their climax, Bruce leaned into Y/N’s ear.
“I love you,” he whispered, his breath leaving a hot trail on her neck.
“I love you too,” she replied, her voice trembling as she tightened her grip on Bruce’s cock.
With the final thrust, Bruce came inside her. She had a convulsive orgasm, their bodies trembling against the stone floor. Both their breaths were heavy and ragged, as if they wanted to live this moment forever.
The stone floor shook with the intensity of their love. The end of the duel, the forbidden love and passion, came when Bruce and Y/N were united for the last time.
The stone floor, once mercilessly cold, seemed almost warm beneath the fading heat of their bodies; it was a temporary illusion, a fragile shelter carved out between two storms. Y/N lay against Bruce’s shoulder, her breath shallow, her fingers resting weakly on his chest as if afraid that letting go would shatter the moment into dust. Bruce’s hand moved through her hair in slow, reverent strokes—yet the serenity in that gesture carried the tremor of a man who sensed that dawn would demand a price neither of them was ready to pay.
Y/N’s eyes drifted shut with a rare, fleeting peace, the kind that only comes to those who have never known it. Years of violence, isolation, and conditioning loosened their claws for a single heartbeat. But the mountain’s silence was already sharpening its teeth. Ra’s would notice her absence. Ra’s always noticed.
And when he did, his verdict would not be spoken—it would be enacted.
Neither she nor Bruce would hear the footsteps that arrived like shadows detached from their owners. They would not feel the chill that seeped into the air a moment before rough hands seized her wrists. Y/N’s body would be torn from Bruce’s warmth, lifted and dragged across the stone, her quiet breath snatched away as if the mountain itself demanded she pay for daring to be human for a single night.
She would awaken naked in the old cell where every stone held screams from decades past, where metal remembered the taste of blood. Barbed wires would wind around her limbs like hungry vines, sinking into skin that had barely learned how it felt to be touched with gentleness. And those cruel thorns would not only pierce her flesh—they would carve through the fragile hope that had sparked inside her, the hope Bruce had unknowingly set ablaze.
When Bruce awoke to emptiness, the betrayal would strike him with a savagery Ra’s could never have taught. He would feel her absence first in his breath, then in his bones, then in the hollow ache beneath his ribs where something new had begun to grow. And in that hollow space—heavy, suffocating, consuming—he would finally see the truth: the League of Shadows was not salvation, nor justice, nor order. It was a machine built to grind souls into obedience.
Ra’s had not shaped him.
Ra’s had chained him.
And now Bruce would break those chains—not for honor, not for destiny, but for the woman Ra’s had decided was expendable. His rebellion would rise from the ruins of faith, a quiet, unstoppable oath forged in the cold breath of the mountain:
He would not let her disappear.
Not like this.
But fate remained silent.
In the frost-bitten corridors, with Y/N suspended in agony and Bruce preparing to tear through the darkness, the world held its secrets close. The mountain breathed around them—ancient, indifferent, waiting. The bond they had ignited, forbidden and violent and unbearably tender, pulsed like a wounded heartbeat beneath the stone.
Whether it would guide them back to each other or swallow them both whole remained unwritten. And in that unwritten space, even the shadows seemed to lean in and listen.
Chapter IV: Do you see the monster they made of me — or the man who loved you?
Summary: She remembers Bruce’s warmth, but it’s Crane’s voice that echoes in her dreams. One man broke her heart, the other rewired it. And in the end, she isn’t sure which one of them she’s become.
🔞Warnings: +18, MDNI, Taboo Love (Step-daddy Bruce Wayne), Dark Psychology, Heavy sexual tension, Dark romance, Obsession, Control, Guilt, Fear-love confusion, Emotional dependency, Slow-burning Love, Subliminal Therapy , Moral Decay. Dr. Jonathan Crane — jealousy, obsession disguised as therapy, subliminal control, unethical experiments. Bruce Wayne — jealousy, possesiveness, destructive love. Read with caution — this story walks the fine line between fear and desire. English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional.
Word Count: +9k
Dividers by @cafekitsune @strangergraphics-archive and banner by Me Photos by Pinterest
🕯️ A/N: This story is only the beginning — a fracture before the fall. What breaks here will shape the man who wears the mask. In the next chapter, a man must become the monster… for the woman he loves.
Wayne Manor was far too silent for that hour of the night. Only the hiss of the gas lamps outside, the wind’s low moan against the tall windows, and the soft creak of old wood rising from the library below could be heard.Bruce climbed the stairs with heavy steps, every movement tugging at the wounds beneath his armor. The metallic scent of blood mingled with the salt of his skin, leaving a bitter taste in his throat. He had taken down the metahuman, but the look in that creature’s eyes still echoed in his mind. Something that looked human, but had long since lost its humanity.
The medical world was well aware of Hugo Strange’s obsession with human genetics… but Bruce wasn’t sure anymore. The only thing he was certain of was that nothing in this city felt natural anymore.
The dim corridor light carried his shadow from wall to wall. When he reached the hallway where your room was, it felt as though something—some invisible pull—was dragging him toward your door. Not out of habit. Out of longing.e walked on silent feet; the texture of the carpet disappeared beneath his boots as his eyes lingered on the door ahead. His heart tightened for a brief second. His fingertips brushed the doorknob. He opened it quietly.You were lying in bed beneath the faint glow of the night lamp, half your face buried in the folds of the pillow. The blanket was pulled up to your chest like a child’s, your breathing almost rhythmic, peaceful, even.
Bruce took a step closer. Your hair had fallen across your face, a few strands resting on your forehead. He leaned down, brushing them gently aside with his palm. It had been so long since he had seen you this closely.our eyelids flickered within the dark depths of your dreams; your lips moved, barely perceptible. Bruce felt every repressed emotion inside him begin to echo through the silence. But then, something caught his eye.here, tucked against your chest, was a book. Black, hard covered, edges curled and worn.He leaned down. Carefully, he loosened your fingers and slid it from your grasp, making sure not to wake you. There was no title on the cover. The pages whispered faintly between his fingers as he closed it.n the back, written in ink, was a name: J. Crane.
He froze before opening it. You murmured something in your sleep, soft, fragmented words floating through the stillness. For a moment, he just listened.
“…touch… trust…”
Your voice faded into a fragile note.
Then:
“…shadow… doctor… Jonathan…Cra…”
Bruce’s eyelids twitched. Each word connected in his mind, forming a picture that had already been drawn once before. “Doctor.” Jonathan Crane. Arkham. Those moments in that lab. These murmurs weren’t like the ones from her nightmares, he knew that instantly, with a chill that told him something far more real was stirring beneath them. Crane had been the quiet current pulling you away from him all along, a subtle shift of gravity, the birth of a new, dangerous fascination. Bruce Wayne had wanted distance, and perhaps he had won it. Yet the ache it left behind felt nothing like victory.
After setting the book on your nightstand, he stepped closer again, like a ghost, or a man confessing to his own shadow. He sat on the edge of the bed, hesitated, then let his fingers brush through your hair. The strands were damp, clinging together from sleep and sweat. Bruce’s heart slowed for a moment. It was a silence he had been waiting for.
He hadn’t spoken to you in a while. You lived under the same roof, between the same walls, but the distance between you was measured not in miles, but in silence. Even Alfred had noticed. Once, mornings in the manor had been filled with the sound of laughter mingling with the smell of coffee. Now, only the faint clinking of silverware echoed across the breakfast table.
The further you drifted away, the deeper Bruce retreated into himself. Every departure from you reopened another wound before the last could even scar.
Your hand slipped from beneath the blanket, fingers brushing against his knee before coming to rest there—soft, unguarded, achingly intimate. You were still asleep, but the warmth of that touch felt deliberate, almost like a confession whispered through your skin. His breath caught; desire and restraint tangled in his chest, and suddenly, silence was no refuge anymore.
“You’ve always belonged to the light,” he whispered. “And I to the dark. But the light doesn’t forgive me anymore… does it?”
He couldn’t tear his gaze from you. Your lips moved again in your dream. “…shadow…”
Bruce bent closer, his lips brushing your forehead with a touch so light it barely existed—yet it lingered, burning. For a moment, he just breathed you in, the rise and fall of your chest calling to something long buried in him. Once, your breath had been his only calm. Now, it was a sound haunted by another man’s name.
A voice inside his head whispered, the same old guilt: “You couldn’t protect her. You couldn’t save her. Just like your father. Everyone leaves you, and so did she.”
You had once been a warm refuge in Bruce’s heart. Now that refuge was frozen over. To live under the same roof and not be able to touch you, for Bruce Wayne, it was a punishment.
A curse.
He wanted to touch your face, to trace the outline of it with his fingers, but he didn’t. He only whispered, a voice too fragile to admit even to himself: “I wish things had been different. I wish I could have loved you in a world without shadows.”
But then your breath hitched, you stirred. For a moment, it seemed like you might wake. Bruce straightened immediately, pulling his hand back. The moonlight fell across his face, illuminating the fresh cut along his cheekbone, a mark from tonight’s fight. He stood there for a moment longer, watching your uneasy sleep.
Even in rest, you looked as though you were running from something, or perhaps from him. Bruce’s final thought hung between a prayer and a curse: “You’re not coming back to me, are you?”
When the door closed, Wayne Manor fell into silence once more. But even that silence couldn’t quiet the storm inside Bruce Wayne.
---
🗞️ THE GOTHAM GAZETTE – FRONT PAGE HEADLINE
"Wayne Enterprises Accused of Funding Secret Human Experiments!"
A series of suicides inside Arkham Asylum has once again brought the institution’s chief psychiatrist, Dr. Hugo Strange, under public scrutiny. Internal reports reveal that all of the deceased patients were participants in so-called “experimental trauma therapy.”
Wayne Enterprises has long been regarded as Gotham’s savior — a beacon of hope and philanthropy. Yet the latest revelations are shattering that image.
An ongoing investigation has uncovered that the Wayne Enterprises Research Fund directly financed the controversial project. Company representatives claim they only provided “infrastructure support.” However, documents indicate that the chemicals used by Dr. Strange were produced at WayneTech Biochem Laboratories.
So who is really behind this project?
Dr. Hugo Strange, or Gotham’s “beloved benefactor,” Bruce Wayne?
---
You sat at the desk, filling the pages of the notebook in front of you with the sharp scent of black ink. The tip of your pen wandered across the paper like a finger moving unconsciously, shaping not words but shadows, not lines but faces. Inside your head, Edward Nygma’s voice still echoed; the things he had said in the therapy room minutes ago were still reverberating through your veins. “You live under the same roof and you still haven’t seen it? You’re clever, yes, but blind.”
Nygma’s laughter spun in your mind like a broken record. Batman. Bruce Wayne. To set the two names side by side was to stir up that suspicion that had been restless in you for years, yet never quite tangible. Alfred’s precision, Bruce’s lies, the walls of excuses and flawless alibis had all convinced you for so long. But today, staring into Nygma’s eyes, it was as if a curtain had briefly parted. You’d fallen into a void, into doubt, into a sense of betrayal.
Your fingers moved in rhythm with your thoughts. A few scribbles, a few shadows, and when you finally looked at what had taken shape in the middle of the page, your breath caught. It was his face, drawn without meaning to, without awareness: Jonathan Crane. His sharp brows, his furrowed gaze, the disordered strands of hair falling across his forehead… The drawing pulsed with a vividness, an intensity, as if you had been holding him in your mind for hours.
Your eyes widened, and your hand jerked back. The pen nearly slipped from your fingers. A wave of shock surged through you, laced with repulsion. You did not like this man, you despised him. He had mocked you, belittled you, then suddenly tried to play savior to your traumas. And yet your subconscious… That clash between conscious and unconscious, an inner war you couldn’t explain. You didn’t even realize it was one of his games.
Just then, the door swung open with a sharp creak, tearing through the silence of the office. A tall, looming silhouette stepped inside: Crane. The measured weight of his footsteps struck the floor. Panic jolted through you, and you snatched the page from the notebook, crumpling it into the trash. The tearing of paper felt like the confession of your crime.
Crane saw you. He saw, and though he feigned ignorance, he understood. His face betrayed nothing, but behind his eyes there was patience, quiet awareness. His gaze lingered on the crumpled ball in the trash, then returned to you. At the corner of his mouth flickered the faintest curve, like a hunter who had already caught his prey, but wanted to let the game run longer.
He leaned over the desk, his fingers pressing against its edge as he spoke in a low voice.
“How was your session with Mr. Nygma?” he asked. The tone was one of clinical curiosity, but beneath it pulsed something ritualistic, as though he were trying to unmask you.
You cleared your throat, eyes sliding away. “He’s deteriorating,” you said, hearing the slight tremor in your voice. “He’s losing the line between reality and delusion. His paranoia is consuming the framework of logic. He can no longer distinguish what’s real from what’s imagined.”
Crane tilted his head, studying you. “Belief… is the most dangerous pathology of the human mind,” he said. “Belief is the most innocent disguise for madness.” He took a step closer. “And yet, sometimes belief strips truth bare. Tell me, Y/N, what is it that Nygma believes?”
A knot rose in your throat. Your eyes dropped, your lips parted, but you could not speak. Bruce’s name, the shadow of Batman, flared in your mind like flint striking fire. You couldn’t betray him. You couldn’t. And yet Crane’s eyes pierced you as though he were already reading the sentences in your head.
His stare pinned you in place, suffocating. It wasn’t the detached scrutiny of a doctor anymore. There was something raw there. Naked. Burning. The most dangerous kind of desire: unashamed, unhidden, scorning the very idea of shame. His gaze seemed to say, “You’re mine now. Your mind belongs to me.” And though a shiver ran through you, you couldn’t look away.
His lips parted, ready to whisper something, your name, perhaps, or desire itself. Your heart pounded so violently it roared in your ears. You could almost feel his breath brushing your chin.
The air in the office grew heavier, suffocating. Crane braced his hands on the arms of your chair, closing the space until nothing separated you but breath. His shadow swallowed you whole. You wanted to look away, but couldn’t. His eyes were not those of a doctor anymore, but of a sorcerer binding his victim with no escape.
Finally, his voice cut through the silence. A low whisper, sharp as a blade.
“Tell me, Y/N… Do the puppets still trouble you? In Wesker’s sessions… don’t you still feel them watching you? Don’t you feel them almost reaching to touch you?”
It wasn’t a question. It was an enchantment, a spell pressing you to submit. Even the movement of your lips to answer made your chest shudder.
“Day by day, it gets better,” you said, your breath quickened. “I’m not as afraid anymore. Even when I’m with Wesker… I feel stronger.”
The words sounded alien, unbelievable, even to you. Because you knew the strength wasn’t your own, it was the mark his darkness had left in your mind. But you dropped your gaze, trying to steady your voice, though your heart raced under the weight of his eyes.
Crane’s lips hovered so close to yours that another second would have meant contact. You almost closed your eyes, suspended on the edge of forbidden desire. His breath grazed your chin, and then his voice slipped between your lips like a knife.
“Tell me… does Bruce Wayne know about any of this?”
The words stung sharper than a kiss. Your lips trembled. Panic tinged your voice.
“No… I did as you asked. I haven’t told him. I promised I’d keep it secret.”
Pleasure flickered across Crane’s face. He tilted his head, eyes locked on yours, and whispered:
“Good girl… Otherwise, it would have destroyed her stepfather to see that—despite all he’d done for her—she still couldn’t free herself from her traumas.”
The words brushed your skin like a touch. They reduced you, diminished your will, and yet sent a forbidden shiver through you all the same. You wanted to look away, but couldn’t. Your lips quivered, your hands clenched and opened in helpless rhythm. His eyes drank in your conflict with something far more dangerous than clinical curiosity.
Then, the door opened once more. The heavy steps of a new figure cut through the tension like a blade. Dr. Hugo Strange. From behind round spectacles, his eyes carried that unsettling wisdom that always saw too much. His hands were clasped behind his back, his expressionless smile offering counterfeit courtesy.
Crane drew back. You realized you had been holding your breath. And in the silence that followed, you felt both robbed and spared, rescued, yet marked.
Strange’s eyes fixed on you. “Y/N,” he said, his voice firm and commanding. “Leave us.”
You hesitated, glancing at Crane. In his calm expression you saw unfinished business, restrained hunger. Your gaze locked with his, and it was as though you had to carve that fleeting instant into your chest before leaving. Slowly, you gathered your things. When you rose, Crane’s eyes swept over you, wordless but invasive, like a brand on your throat, a shackle on your wrist, a burn on your skin.
You turned to the door, your pulse hammering with every step. Escape felt like salvation, but its price was tearing yourself away from his eyes. One last glance over your shoulder revealed a faint smile at his lips. It echoed in your mind: “This isn’t over.”
The door closed behind you, leaving the two men alone. Silence hung thick. Then Strange advanced toward the desk, his gaze hard.
“Jonathan,” he said, his voice edged with ice, “I see I was mistaken to trust your work.”
Crane reclined in his chair, a flicker of amusement in his eyes, that cold familiar smirk on his lips.
“Mistaken? I was under the impression our results were progressing flawlessly.”
Strange’s eyes narrowed.
“Flawlessly? Arkham’s reports say otherwise. Suicides are climbing. Subjects are breaking down before the full dose of your gas even touches them. Some throw themselves against the cell walls. This isn’t an experiment, it’s a disaster.”
Crane shrugged, lacing his fingers.
“Perhaps the fault isn’t mine, Hugo. Perhaps it lies in your parameters. Your checklists. Your authorizations. If the system collapses… maybe it’s because of your design.”
Strange’s face tightened. Rage glimmered beneath the ice.
“Don’t shift the blame, Jonathan. It’s your fear toxin. Your subliminal protocols. And now Jim Gordon himself is coming to inspect this place. His timing alone proves suspicions are rising. If he senses what’s happening in the basement labs… we’re all finished.”
Crane’s eyes gleamed. He leaned forward, voice dipping to a whisper.
“Maybe your fear isn’t about Gordon discovering the truth… but about Batman discovering it.”
Strange’s jaw clenched. His tone dropped, low and heavy.
“Jonathan… I know what’s clouding your judgment.”
Crane tilted his head, that unsettling light burning in his eyes.
“Do you?”
“Y/N.” Strange’s voice cut like glass. “Your twisted obsession with her. She’s why you’re slipping. She’s why your work is failing. Your sickness is putting us all at risk.”
Crane’s smirk widened, grotesque in its calmness. He leaned back, eyes never leaving Strange, the weight of his gaze enough to unnerve even him. It wasn’t the look of a colleague, it was the patience of a predator savoring its prey.
Strange recoiled, straightening his suit.
“This… perversion will be your undoing, Jonathan. One more misstep, and I’ll silence you myself.”
His footsteps struck the floor as he left, the door slamming shut behind him.
Alone, Crane rose slowly. His gaze fell on the crumpled paper in the trash. He retrieved it, smoothed the folds.
And there it was.
The portrait, your hand, your lines, your unconscious desire. His face. The fierce brows, the untamed hair, the cutting gaze. Even the strokes of ink screamed your hidden yearning.
A quiet laugh slipped from his lips. His fingers lingered on the page as he pressed it against his chest. He closed his eyes. A smile curved his mouth, serene as a madman who had slain his gods, yet dark as hell itself.
“Deny it all you want… but your subconscious has already surrendered, Y/N. In drawing my face, you confessed your desire. You were mine long before you knew it.”
The gray light of the afternoon streamed through Arkham’s barred windows, casting long shadows across the cold corridors. The echo of growing tabloid headlines still hung over Gotham like a sinister fog: “Inhumane Experiments at Arkham – The Truth Behind the Suicides?” The city’s restless heart seemed to beat inside these stone walls. And to inspect that heart, Gotham City’s most disciplined face, Commissioner James Gordon, led the way, with a few detectives and a health inspector at his side. Walking beside them, seemingly against his will yet commanding all attention, was Bruce Wayne, his impeccably tailored suit, unreadable expression, and the mask of a billionaire dragged here to save his public image.
The first figure to greet them was Dr. Hugo Strange, calm and unshaken as ever. Behind his round glasses, his eyes gleamed as if weighing each person before him. With a thin, glacial smile, he extended his hand:
“Commissioner Gordon. Mr. Wayne. The doors of Arkham Asylum are always open to public oversight. Transparency is our greatest principle.”
The words rang with rehearsed precision, like a line spoken too many times.
Behind him stood Dr. Jonathan Crane, tall and gaunt, his sharp features drawn taut. His tie was knotted with meticulous care, his eyes shadowed and calculating. He barely glanced at Gordon. Instead, for a fleeting but piercing moment, his gaze found you among the group. Clutching your internship notebook tightly to your chest, you tried to melt into the crowd. But his eyes had already chosen you.
Gordon opened his file, his voice firm and cutting:
“Dr. Strange, in the last three months, five patient suicides. The official reports list them as self-harm due to psychosis. But the families are telling the press a different story: experimental treatments, excessive medication, secret sessions. Are those allegations true?”
Strange adjusted his glasses with composed precision:
“Commissioner, many of our patients are violent offenders, pathological cases. Suicide, unfortunately, is an unpredictable risk. But I assure you, there are no unethical practices here.”
Bruce broke his silence. Sliding his hand into his pocket, he leaned forward slightly, speaking in a low but razor-sharp tone:
“Curious, then, that some of these deaths coincide with Wayne Enterprises’ funding of your pharmaceutical programs. To Gotham, this is not just a medical matter, it’s financial, and reputational. I have the right to know exactly where my money is going, Dr. Strange.”
Strange’s smile faltered, though he didn’t drop his guard.
“Mr. Wayne, rest assured, every dollar has been put to proper use. Without your contributions, this institution would be in far worse condition.”
Crane’s voice suddenly cut in, thin, cold, deliberate:
“Arkham’s primary mission is to protect Gotham. Our patients are among its greatest threats. Treatment must be severe. What you call cruelty, Commissioner, is simply necessity.”
Gordon’s brow furrowed.
“Try explaining necessity to the families of the dead, Dr. Crane.”
The silence that followed pressed down like a weight. You lowered your eyes to your notebook, wishing to vanish. But when you glanced up, you found Bruce Wayne’s gaze locked on yours. His hazel eyes silenced the room around you for a heartbeat, carrying something familiar, like the echo of a guardian, a confidant, perhaps even a truth you had long tried not to face.
Then Crane’s eyes found you again. This time, there was a flicker of jealousy in them, subtle, but sharp enough to cut. His lips tightened ever so slightly. To him, that fleeting moment between you and Bruce wasn’t just recognition; it was something dangerous, something intimate.
Bruce, meanwhile, wore the mask of the cold businessman. The faint curl of indifference at his lips disguised what only you could see, the hidden sting in his eyes. He had noticed Crane’s envy too, but said nothing.
Strange carried on, Gordon pressed for more reports, and the procedures rolled on as if everything were routine. But the true tension wasn’t in the paperwork. It pulsed in the silent triangle between you, Bruce, and Crane.
As the inspection moved deeper into Arkham’s dim corridors, the chill of the stone walls seemed to seep into bone. Behind rusted doors came the echoes of wails and deranged laughter, blending with the steady rhythm of footsteps into a sinister symphony. Gordon walked ahead, his eyes sharp, noting every detail. Bruce kept his mask of aloofness, though behind it his gaze swept every corner, alert, searching.
Crane, in his precise, clinical voice, recited his observations:
“Most of our patients exhibit paranoid schizophrenia, dissociative identity disorder, and obsessive-compulsive tendencies. The high suicide rate is not environmental, but intrapsychic. Isolation exacerbates ego fragmentation, which in turn destabilizes the self.”
The words were sterile, but his glances were not. Every statistic was delivered with his eyes grazing over you, as though only you carried the fractures of the psyche he described.
Then, from behind one heavy iron door, a laugh rose. The small window revealed Edward Nygma’s face, lit with the manic gleam of genius and a mocking smile. His voice spilled from the darkness like a taunting melody.
“Well, well… Bruce Wayne. Or should I call you something else? The Dark Knight? The Master of the Night?”
The corridor froze. Nygma tapped the bars in rhythm, his grin widening.
“You know, a billionaire playboy and a shadow that disappears each night have far too much in common. The midnight vanishings, the endless electricity bills at Wayne Manor, those dark circles under your eyes… Oh, Bruce, I’ve told no one, but I always know. I always know.”
Gordon’s eyes narrowed, flicking toward Bruce. A public insinuation like that—even from a lunatic—was dangerous. Yet Bruce’s composure never cracked. His lips curved into a lazy smile as he tilted his head.
“What can I say, Edward? To capture the attention of a mind like yours is an honor. But like your riddles, sometimes the answers are just too simple. Perhaps I just attend too many late-night galas.”
The flippancy unsettled everyone, yet you alone saw the unease flickering in his eyes. Edward’s words weren’t mere ravings; he was dancing dangerously close to the truth.
Nygma laughed, sharp and grating, his voice echoing down the hall.
“Of course, Bruce. Of course. Late-night galas, masks, secrets whispered in the dark. We all know. But I’ll be the one to tear off your mask. Sooner or later.”
Before the tension could deepen, you stepped forward, clutching your notebook tight, meeting Nygma’s gaze with defiance. In a voice laced with mockery—almost echoing Bruce’s own tone—you spoke:
“Please, Edward. If Bruce were really Batman, don’t you think I’d notice while living under the same roof? There isn’t a single night I don’t know where he is. At worst, he’s Gotham’s laziest billionaire.”
A ripple of laughter moved through the corridor. Even Bruce’s lips twitched with the faintest smirk. But Dr. Hugo Strange’s voice cut through like a blade:
“Humor is misplaced in an academic setting. This institution is not a stage, young lady. Focus on your notes instead of your jokes.”
His words struck you like a lash, leaving heat in your cheeks. Yet out of the corner of your eye, you caught Bruce watching you—a flicker of gratitude hidden beneath the mask.
Strange turned to Crane, his tone now clipped and commanding:
“Dr. Crane. The projects tied directly to Mr. Wayne’s funding, your experimental treatment files and pharmaceutical reports—fall under your responsibility. You will present them in your office now. Commissioner Gordon will continue his inspection on a separate route. Mr. Wayne should not waste time.”
A shadow of satisfaction passed over Crane’s face, subtle but unmistakable. He inclined his head.
“Of course, Dr. Strange. Mr. Wayne, if you’ll follow me. My intern will accompany us as well; she can assist with the technical details of the reports.”
And so Strange had arranged exactly what he wanted, Gordon and Bruce parted ways. While the Commissioner disappeared down another corridor, you, Crane, and Bruce walked in the same direction. The echo of your footsteps filled the narrow hall. You felt Crane’s eyes burning into your back. This was no longer just a matter of duty. It was the beginning of something far more dangerous.
When the heavy door of Dr. Crane’s office shut behind you, the air inside grew even denser. The metallic echo of footsteps from the corridors outside did not reach here; instead, the space was filled with the papery scent of files scattered across Crane’s desk, the dusty breath of old books, and the faint woodiness of the cabinet in the corner. Along the walls, shelves brimmed with patient reports, experimental notes, and folders whose labels had half-faded with time. As you, Bruce, and Crane stepped inside, the dim light of the office seemed to drape over you like a suffocating curtain.
Crane turned his sharp gaze on you, inclining his head toward the shelves.
“Mr. Wayne will want the files on the upper shelf, third section. Bring them down,” he said. His tone commanding, yet with the subtle undertone of testing you.
Bruce watched Crane’s casual authority, standing at ease before the desk with his hands tucked in his pockets. You moved toward the shelves, trying to smother the rush of excitement that came with being beside him. Your fingertips slid over the spines of files, your heartbeat drumming too fast in your chest.
“Mr. Wayne,” Crane continued, a hint of irony laced into his lips. “The press must have wearied you. Arkham’s burden on this city is no secret, especially to you. But rest assured—we employ only the most advanced methods for our patients. Suicides, deaths… all nothing but distortions by the media. And surely, you of all people understand how the media works.”
Bruce answered with a loose indifference, his calm so precise it seemed designed to unnerve:
“Yes, the press does exaggerate. But when it comes to humanity’s shared values, some things are not perception—they are fact. If blood is spilled in Arkham’s halls, journalists aren’t the ones to blame. You know that better than I do, Doctor.”
Crane’s eyes flashed. He deepened his voice, unwilling to let himself be diminished.
“Of course. That is why the documents are here. I deal in data, facts that speak for themselves.”
You felt the weight of the sparks leaping between them. As you tugged at one of the files, it slipped from your hands; the thick folder hit the floor with a heavy thud. For a brief moment, both men’s eyes turned toward you, only to lock back onto one another. Your pulse quickened as you bent to gather the file, breath catching tight in your throat.
Reaching for another folder, you realized one was missing. Carefully, you steadied your voice:
“Dr. Crane… the file on the 2003 medication protocols isn’t here.”
Crane’s gaze shifted to you. His tone was clipped, though his face still wore its mask of patience:
“It must be in the archive room. Go down and fetch it.”
You obeyed, slipping from the office and leaving Bruce alone with Crane. The moment the door shut, Crane’s professional mask melted into a thin smile. He leaned against the edge of his desk, hands clasped, eyes locked on Bruce.
“You’ve raised her remarkably well, Mr. Wayne. Her intelligence, her focus… her passion for psychology. Honestly, when I watch her, I see sharper analysis than in most of my colleagues.”
Bruce studied him with guarded eyes.
“What you’re describing is nothing more than discipline and education. Given the right resources, any child can realize their potential.”
Crane’s smile grew sharper.
“How old was she when you adopted her, Mr. Wayne? Sixteen, wasn’t it?”
For a fraction of a second, Bruce’s face tensed. His voice, however, remained steady.
“Yes. Sixteen.”
Crane’s words slid like hidden needles.
“Adopting a sixteen-year-old girl… that takes courage. You could have funded her studies, supported her from afar. But instead, you took a troubled adolescent with trauma into your home. One wonders… why?”
Bruce’s brow furrowed.
“I did it to protect her life. Nothing more.”
Crane delivered his next words under the guise of clinical curiosity, but the venom beneath them was unmistakable.
“Of course… and yet, one can’t help but be intrigued. Especially considering she was raised under her father’s puppetry. If I’m not mistaken, that phobia still lingers. Did you ever work to rid her of it?”
Bruce lowered his eyes for a moment before fixing them on Crane again.
“I tried. But I can’t say I succeeded.”
A flicker of dark delight crossed Crane’s face.
“And lately? Have you noticed any change in her trauma?”
Bruce hesitated. The truth was, he had noticed. Y/N had stopped waking from nightmares; at the opera or ballet, she no longer recoiled at grotesque stage sets but endured them with greater composure. At last, he admitted aloud:
“Yes… there’s been a change. She’s calmer. Stronger.”
Crane’s expression bloomed into a disturbing satisfaction.
“There it is, Mr. Wayne. Proof of progress. The therapies are working. And of course, I’ll be with her until they’re complete. You needn’t worry.”
Bruce’s eyes hardened. His brow knit sharply together.
“…Therapies?” His voice was low, blade-sharp.
“What did you just say?”
Crane feigned surprise, his head tilting theatrically.
“Why so startled, Mr. Wayne? My methods are potent. They’ve saved many lives already.”
His tone was silken, but the poison running beneath it was impossible to miss—like a rusted scalpel forgotten at the edge of the desk. His bright eyes studied Bruce with surgical precision, seeking the faintest twitch in his composure.
Bruce’s face tightened, jaw set in stone, a fine line of restrained fury etched at the corner of his mouth. His breathing thickened, though his control did not waver. His words cut the air with frost:
“I was not informed of any therapy. Y/N never mentioned it.”
The statement fell like iron nails into the room’s heavy air. His voice carried the tremor of a storm gathering from deep within.
Crane didn’t flinch. If anything, his smile deepened, feeding on Bruce’s anger. His voice dropped, threaded with venomous insinuation:
“How curious… Young people usually rush to share even the smallest progress with their families. Especially when their guardian is as powerful as you. And yet Y/N chose silence. One can’t help but wonder why.”
The air grew suffocating. The blinds were drawn tight, the dim fluorescent light above casting harsh shadows that sliced across their faces. One shadow slid over Crane’s smile like a predator’s mask, while another carved itself into the hard line of Bruce’s jaw. The silence between them was strung tight, like an invisible wire ready to snap and cut deep.
---
As evening fell, the cold corridors of Arkham Asylum looked even more oppressive under the flickering white glow of the fluorescent lights. The weight of the day’s official inspection clung to the walls and lingered on every face. Dr. Hugo Strange, with his round spectacles and ever-composed air, spoke in his usual measured cadence, each word deliberate and calculated. Jim Gordon stood steady and grave, the deep line between his brows betraying the thousand unspoken questions circling in his mind, despite his outward composure. Jonathan Crane remained silent, but his eyes spoke volumes, each glance carrying the shadow of ulterior intent.
And then there was Bruce Wayne, present in all his austere grandeur. His dark tailored suit was far more refined than the others, yet carried the same coldness. To the outside eye, he was merely a philanthropist satisfied with reports. But in the steel depths of his gaze there was suspicion, sharp precision—an edge honed by doubt.
Dr. Strange delivered his final remarks:
“The compilation of today’s inspection reports will take several days. But as you can see, Wayne Enterprises’ support has not been wasted. Conditions at Arkham have been steadily improving.”
Jim Gordon gave Bruce a short nod before turning back to Strange.
“On paper, everything looks as it should. I can only hope reality will confirm the reports.”
Jonathan Crane broke his silence, his voice calm yet edged like glass:
“Commissioner Gordon, rest assured the accuracy of these reports is beyond question. Our patients are observed with the utmost care. Some cases may have ended in tragedy, yes, but those are statistical anomalies. Arkham is no experimental facility. It is a place of rehabilitation.”
Bruce’s lips twitched almost imperceptibly. His tone was soft, nearly playful, but every syllable cut with an icy blade:
“Of course, Doctor. Statistical anomalies… how harmless they sound. I’m sure the public will find that explanation equally reassuring.”
For a moment, Crane’s gaze locked with Bruce’s. Beneath the polite surface, the unspoken weight between them settled into the room like a storm about to break.
Soon after, Gordon gathered his team and began leading them toward the exit. As they departed, Crane turned to you. His voice carried both authority and a false gentleness:
“Y/N, you may leave as well. You’ve done enough for today.”
You hesitated, adjusting the notes on the file in your hands. Your voice held a trace of forced diligence, as though you wished to appear eager to work:
“Professor, we still had tasks left. The patients’ files aren’t complete…”
Crane studied you, a faint smile touching the corner of his mouth. He inclined his head in mock concession.
“They can wait. You’ll have plenty of time to finish later. Go now.”
And then Bruce’s voice cut through the room. Outwardly courteous, yet the undertone in his words was so heavy it constricted your chest the moment you heard it:
“If Y/N is this eager to continue, I see no harm in letting her stay. Why stifle her enthusiasm? After all, one feels valued in the work to which one devotes themselves.”
The words sounded kind on the surface, but the look in his eyes undid you completely, cold, sharp, wounded, brimming with anger. To Crane, it may have seemed a friendly suggestion, but to you, each word landed like a veiled threat.
Your hands trembled as you shut the file. Your lips parted, but no words came. When you finally managed to speak, your voice was low, almost a whisper:
“With your permission… I’ll just gather my things and go.”
Bruce’s eyes lingered on you. His lips barely moved, but behind his silence lay a thousand unsaid words. Crane, meanwhile, said nothing, content to watch this invisible duel with an almost perverse delight.
You left quickly, your footsteps echoing against the cold stone of the corridor. As you headed toward the elevator, you still felt his gaze pressing into your back, heavy and unrelenting. You couldn’t make sense of this new side of Bruce.
When the elevator doors closed, your heart beat wildly, like a bird trapped in a cage. Only one thought pulsed through your mind: you must never forget that look in his eyes. Because it wasn’t just a look, it was a judgment, branded deep onto your very being.
When the office door shut behind him, only silence remained — yet even that silence echoed in Crane’s mind like a scream.
The files on his desk were still scattered; the metal clip resting atop the report Bruce Wayne had touched seemed to glint with betrayal. But that wasn’t what held his attention. The room still carried her scent. Faint, sweet, but laced with tension, as though it had seeped not from her skin, but from her fear itself. Crane took a few slow steps, pressing his fingertips against his forehead as he sat on the edge of his desk. Behind his eyes, the image replayed, Y/N walking out of the building without so much as a backward glance. The farther she went, the darker his thoughts became.
He remembered Bruce Wayne’s protective stance when he spoke to her. The image played again and again in his mind, poisoned by jealousy.
That look the two of you shared was it nothing more than a mentor’s concern for his intern, or was it the sign of something slipping away from Crane’s grasp?
To him, the answer was painfully clear:
You will tear her away from him, Crane.
She will belong only to you. She will breathe your air, inside your lab, under your mind.
His lips curled into a faint smile, as if responding to the voice within himself. The office grew heavier, quieter — until the shrill ring of the private line cut through the air like a blade.
The sound echoed through the concrete walls of Arkham, deep and metallic. Crane’s eyes fixed on the phone. Only one man had that number.
“Dr. Crane.”
The voice on the other end was cold as steel, every word deliberate, every syllable sharp as death.
“It’s been days since we last spoke, Crane. The Court still stands. Dr. Strange still breathes. Tell me — are you testing my patience?”
Ra’s al Ghul’s tone carried the weight of centuries. The hair on the back of Crane’s neck bristled, but he didn’t feel fear. On the contrary, the sound of that ancient authority only fueled the defiant pleasure that fed his ego.
“Everything is under control,” Crane replied, a sly grin forming on his lips. “And I see their failures every day. Their bodies twisted, minds shattered, breathing wrong, malformed creatures wandering these halls. Arkham has become their graveyard. Strange trusts his own intellect too much. I’m merely waiting… for the right moment.”
Ra’s fell silent for a beat before answering, his words laced with cruel amusement.
“Waiting… is a luxury nature doesn’t afford, Crane. A rotting branch doesn’t wait, it breaks. Your task is to break. The Court’s monstrosities, their corrupted order, all of it. And Batman, too. Bury him with them.”
Crane frowned slightly, though his expression remained unreadable.
“Batman…” he repeated quietly. “You want me to deal with him.”
Ra’s voice deepened, like thunder rolling from a distant mountain:
“His death is not yours to deliver. You are to frighten him, make him kneel, force him to taste helplessness, perhaps. But death belongs to nature’s design. Before he dies, Batman must confront his own shadow. He is a virus infecting Gotham’s natural order. The Court of Owls plays god, poisoning this city with false divinity. You, Crane, will restore nature’s fear. That is why I chose you. Because you cure humanity’s decay not with science… but with terror.”
Crane said nothing. Each word echoed through his skull like a sacred vow.
“Understood,” he finally murmured, voice low and deliberate. “I’m watching Strange. I’m tracing every line that leads back to the Court. I’ll cleanse their parasites with my own hands. And Batman…” He paused, a hint of sadistic delight in his tone. “I’ll make him face himself, in the mirror of my gas.”
“Yes,” Ra’s said simply, his tone cutting and final. “My men will answer to you. Use one of your patients as bait. Draw him in. Strip away his mask in the chaos. But remember this, nature demands balance, Crane. And I do not tolerate imbalance.”
Crane’s jaw tensed, but the spark in his eyes did not fade.
“My loyalty is born of fear,” he said quietly. “And fear, my lord, is your most faithful army.”
Ra’s drew a measured breath before speaking one last time.
“Indeed. Then do your work. Eradicate the Court. Control Bruce Wayne. And when the time comes, remove Strange. When I return, Gotham will belong to nature once more.”
The line went dead. The only sound left was a faint hum.
Crane didn’t move. In the darkness, his eyes gleamed faintly. Slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the small hairpin Y/N had left on his desk that morning. He turned it over in his hand, then placed it gently on the edge of the table.
“Nature will be reborn,” he whispered to himself. “And everyone will learn to speak the language of fear.”
His gaze lingered on the hairpin. His lips curved into a quiet, chilling smile.
“Especially you, little bird…”
Then, with a single click, the light went out, and the darkness swallowed the room whole.
---
On the way back to Wayne Manor, the city had grown quiet beneath the cold light of evening.
Outside the window, Gotham disappeared behind a veil of gray fog; even the neon signs seemed to have given up on glowing. The silence inside the car was thick enough to drown out the low hum of the engine. Bruce’s focus was on the road, yet his hands gripped the steering wheel too tightly. The leather creaked beneath the strain, his knuckles pale from pressure.
You had turned your head toward the window. In the glass, his reflection stared back at you... expressionless, yet tense like a sea before a storm.
At first, you hadn’t paid much attention to his silence. But after a few minutes, you could feel it — this wasn’t the kind of silence that came from work or fatigue. It was the silence of someone hiding something.
“Bruce…” you said carefully. “You haven’t said a word since Arkham.”
His eyes didn’t leave the road. It was as if he was driving not through Gotham’s dark streets, but through the maze of his own restrained emotions. His lips parted, but the words died somewhere at the edge of his tongue.
“I’m tired,” he finally said. Short, polite — emotionless. That was his usual defense. But you had learned to read that defense long ago.
“You’re not tired,” you said. “You’re angry.” Your eyes locked on his, searching the gold flecks in that shadowed hazel for an answer. “At what, Bruce? At me?”
His jaw tightened. He downshifted, his voice emerging like a growl from deep inside. “This isn’t the time to talk.”
“The right time?” you echoed with a bitter laugh. “There’s never a right time with you. You always shut things down. But this time… it’s different. What are you not telling me?”
His silence only fueled your frustration. As the car moved forward, the shadows along his profile sharpened. His cheekbones seemed carved in stone, his lips drawn taut — every breath looked like an effort to restrain something that wanted to break free. Finally, he spoke, without looking away:
“Lately… your behavior’s changed.”
“My behavior?” There was no anger in your voice now, only a kind of wounded disbelief. “What does that mean?”
Bruce ran a hand through his hair, his tone laced with something uneasy, the cold edge of jealousy.
“Since the internship,” he said flatly. That was all. But even that one word — internship — was enough to cut through the air like a blade.
A pause.
You swallowed. “The internship?” your voice trembled slightly. “You mean… my work? Is that what this is about?”
His gaze flickered toward you. Not a look of emotion, but of interrogation, though underneath it, something sharper burned. “For an intern, you spend a lot of time there.” The sentence was brief, controlled, but there was so much hidden inside it.
“Can’t they find anyone else to run those sessions? That man…” He stopped himself. To go on would mean revealing too much. So he didn’t.
You turned toward him, frowning. “I don’t owe you an explanation, Bruce.”
His hands tightened again on the wheel.
“I’m not asking for one,” he said, his voice firm. “I just want you to be careful. You’ve seen what the papers are saying, Wayne Enterprises trying to clear its name from Arkham’s filth. Crane’s close to Strange. The closer you get to him, the more vulnerable you become.”
“Like you?” you said, your voice cold, trembling with restrained sorrow. “Someone who hides behind the word protection just to control everything around him?”
Bruce’s jaw quivered slightly. Shadows carved his face deeper, darker. “I’m not trying to control you,” he said. “I just don’t want you trusting the wrong man.”
You met his eyes. “And who’s the wrong man, Bruce?” you whispered. “Crane… or you?”
Silence filled the car. Bruce’s breath grew heavier. Your words had landed like a knife straight to his chest.
He pulled the car over to the side. When the engine went quiet, only the sound of two uneven breaths remained. He turned his head toward you. In his eyes flickered something fragile... a reflection of all the feelings he had tried to bury.
“I…” He hesitated. “I’m not the wrong man. But I’m not claiming to be the right one, either.”
As he leaned closer, his breath brushed your skin. His scent — that familiar mix of soap and leather, both comforting and intoxicating — filled your lungs. His voice dropped, almost an admission now:
“I’m just… afraid of losing you.”
Your heart softened, if only for a moment, despite all the anger. But then your face hardened again. “I already lost you, Bruce,” you said, though your voice trembled. “Because every time I reach for you, you build another wall. You think you’re protecting me, but all you’re really doing is running away.”
This time, he didn’t look away. For a second, a crack appeared at the corner of his lips, as if all the words he’d never spoken were trapped right there.
Then he bowed his head slightly. Closed his eyes. “I ran to protect you,” he said quietly. “But if you knew… what I was protecting you from—”
The sentence died in the air. He didn’t continue. He only drew a deep breath and started the engine again.
As the car started moving again, the lights of Gotham flickered faintly in the distance. You stared out the window, carrying the echo of his voice somewhere deep within your chest. The cold glow of the streetlights flashed across the car’s glass, and with each passing beam, the light carved Bruce’s features sharper—his face set in stone, his hands white-knuckled on the wheel. At the corner of his mouth lingered that familiar tension—suppressed anger, guilt, and something fragile beneath it all. Bruce Wayne might have worn a billionaire’s mask before the world, but you could hear the cracks forming underneath.
Silence ruled the car for a long time. Even the hum of the engine couldn’t drown out the tension. Then his earlier words echoed in your mind, so short, yet so heavy they seemed to crush your heart:
“But if you knew what I was protecting you from…”
You turned your head, watching his reflection in the window for a moment—his hands fixed on the wheel, his jaw rigid, his eyes locked on the road. But you knew. This man wasn’t driving through Gotham. He was fighting a war inside his own head.
“What did you mean by that?” you asked softly, your voice cutting through the quiet like a blade.
Bruce didn’t look up. “Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” you said, your voice trembling slightly. “That sentence—it’s not something you just say. What is it you don’t want me to know?”
He stayed silent. He was a statue at the wheel, as if even breathing might cause his secrets to spill out.
At last, in a low, restrained voice, he spoke:
“Some things keep you alive by staying unknown.”
Your eyes gleamed in the dark.
“So that’s it? That’s your answer? More secrets, more walls, more control—always under the excuse of protection?”
He turned his head toward you, eyes narrowing. In the dim glow of the streetlights, his face looked carved in conflict, two men trapped in one: the man who loved you and feared losing you, and the man who refused to let emotion make him weak.
“My life is built on secrets. You knew that,” he said.
“I did,” you replied, a bitter smile tugging at your lips. “But your secrets don’t just protect you anymore, Bruce. They’re poisoning me too.”
Bruce clenched his teeth. He pulled one hand from the wheel and dragged it through his hair.
“You have no idea,” he said, his voice slow and cold as steel. “If you’d seen what I’ve seen, you’d fall apart overnight.”
Your heart thudded faster.
“You never gave me the chance to see.”
“Because I didn’t want to drag you into that darkness.”
“Maybe I’m already in it, Bruce.”
The air inside the car had become suffocating. Every word was another invisible blow between you.
“Maybe,” he said at last, his tone softening but dark, “maybe I made a mistake.”
It took you a second to understand, but when you did, the blow hit deep and stayed there.
“What?”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have let you get that close. Maybe… you should’ve stayed like the others. Just another child I helped.”
For a moment, there were no words. Only silence, darkness, and the icy void left where warmth used to be.
You turned your face away, your breath unsteady. But you didn’t cry. Because right then, you finally understood, no matter how much Bruce Wayne loved you, he would always keep you trapped inside his guilt.
All you’d ever wanted was to be loved, not out of guilt, not from the shadows, but in the light.
You turned back to the window. Your vision blurred, but you didn’t want him to see.
Bruce couldn’t bear the silence any longer.
“Y/N…” he said softly, his voice laced with regret. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
But it was too late for words.
You whispered, barely audible:
“Sometimes words are truer than intentions, Bruce.”
He knew it, too.
That night, something between you broke, something unseen but irreversible.
As Gotham’s lights kept fading in the distance, the silence inside the car was no longer just silence; it was the echo of a goodbye, and the sound of a regret neither of you could undo.
---
As the heavy oak door of Wayne Manor closed behind you, the echo that followed sounded like the beginning of a silence that would haunt the night. The scent of Gotham’s rain still clung to your hair. Without slowing your pace, you walked inside, the sound of your heels echoing against the marble floor. In the dim light of the hall, Alfred’s gentle but observant eyes met yours.
“Good evening, Miss Y/N,” he said in his usual soft tone, though his gaze held that careful kind of reading that always made you feel exposed.
You curved your lips into a faint smile, but the muscles in your face resisted. “Thank you, Alfred. I’ll just go to my room.”
Your voice was barely audible—not from exhaustion, but from the weight of something broken inside you.
As Alfred watched you turn toward the stairs, his eyes caught the tension in your shoulders. He felt it then,mthat silent storm that had been brewing in this house for far too long was finally about to break. At that moment, footsteps echoed from the other side of the door. Bruce Wayne stepped in, his coat heavy with rain. He placed his keys on the table and stood still for a moment, as if he too were listening to the pulse of the silence.
Alfred’s voice came low, but heavy with meaning.
“Sir, is Miss Y/N all right?”
Bruce’s face was unreadable, as always. But the slight twitch in his jaw, the shadow in his eyes, it said enough. He didn’t answer directly. “She needs rest,” he said shortly, and without another word, started up the stairs.
You quickened your steps; all you wanted was to close the door of your room and shut out the emotions that seemed to live in the very walls of this house. But Bruce’s footsteps followed right behind you.
“Y/N,” his voice came—low, commanding, rough-edged.
You didn’t answer, but the instant you hesitated, he closed the distance between you. “Don’t run from me.”
Just two words, but in his tone there was no command, only a plea.
When you stepped into your room and turned toward him, you didn’t really see him. You only felt the weight of him.
Bruce’s face was carved in the dim light, every line sharp, every shadow deep. The control, the cold pride that always defined him, it had cracked, revealing something almost human underneath.
“Y/N, what I said earlier—”
“Bruce,” you interrupted, your voice steady but tired. “You don’t have to apologize.”
“I do,” he said, taking another step closer. “Because I never wanted to hurt you. This is our home. I don’t want you to leave.”
For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of your breaths, mingling in the dark. When his hand finally touched your arm, a tremor ran down your shoulder. You lowered your head, your breath trembling.
“I’ve been thinking about all of this for a while now,” you murmured.
Bruce’s expression froze. It took him a moment to understand what you meant. “What?” he asked, his voice lower now, carrying a dangerous edge. “What are you saying?”
Your voice came firmer this time. “I’ve been thinking the same thing as you. That keeping me this close was a mistake.” Your eyes met his. “And… I don’t feel the same anymore.”
The words struck Bruce like a nail through the heart.
“What changed?” he asked, his voice cracking as it fell. “What happened, Y/N? What changed so much between us?”
You shook your head. “I don’t know.” But even as you said it, something flickered inside your mind—a spark behind your eyes. Suddenly, a sharp pressure bloomed in your skull, a siren screaming deep within your brain. You raised a hand to your temple. “I don’t know…” you said again, but your voice broke this time.
Bruce stepped closer, reaching out but hesitating to touch you. “Y/N, this doesn’t make sense. There has to be a reason. Tell me.”
Your pupils dilated; a vein pulsed visibly on your forehead. The pain wasn’t just physical—the subliminal gas Crane had used, the subconscious stimulation, had altered your limbic system, leaving microscopic lesions around your hippocampus and amygdala. It had twisted the neural pathways that connected your emotional memory, warping the bond between love, fear, and attachment. You couldn’t understand what was happening. You only felt the agony.
Clutching your head with both hands, you cried, “Please, stop, please…”
Bruce caught you, pulling you against him. “Y/N, it’s okay, I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice hoarse but soft. “It’ll pass.” But even he knew, it wouldn’t.
Your breaths tangled together in the dark. And in that darkness, only two trembling bodies remained, one shaking under the weight of love, the other under the chains of a manipulation yet to be undone.
For a while, there was silence.
As your trembling began to fade, Bruce was still holding you in his arms. The rhythm of your heartbeat thudded softly against his chest, a faint echo that seemed to belong only to him. Your breath came in shallow waves, your eyes were vacant; beads of sweat glistened on your forehead, yet your tears still refused to fall. It was as if crying meant surrender. And even in Bruce Wayne’s arms, you refused to surrender.
“Y/N…” Bruce said at last, his voice low but heavy. “Something happened to you. Don’t deny it.”
You lifted your head slightly. Your face still rested against his chest, but your gaze was cold. “Something did happen to me, yes. But I don’t expect you to understand it.”
Bruce’s hand lingered on your waist; he didn’t want to let go, yet each second he held you, he felt he was breaking you a little more.
“We need to forget what happened tonight.”
“Forget,” you said with a bitter smile. “That must be easy for you. You’ve always been good at burying everything, haven’t you?
Bruce stepped back, his eyes glinting for a fleeting moment in the dark.
“Y/N, what are you trying to say?”
You looked at him and spoke carefully, after a long silence.
“There was never any trust between us, Bruce. You’ve always hidden things—not just from me, but from yourself. And I… I don’t even know what to believe anymore.”
Bruce’s brow furrowed. “That’s unfair.”
“Unfair?” you snapped. “Then tell me—how many times have you lied to me?”
“I never lied.”
“Hiding things is just another form of lying.”
The words struck him like the trace of a blade carving through his chest. For a moment, the depth in his eyes pulled you in—dark, desolate, but full of pain.
“Then what did you hide from me?” he asked, almost in a whisper.
“Nothing.”
“Are you sure?”
“What difference does it make? None of this was ever supposed to mean anything to me, was it?”
Bruce tried to step closer, but the coldness in your eyes stopped him. That coldness was the frozen remnant of a love you’d kept buried for years.
“Y/N…” he said softly. “What I said in the car… you shouldn’t take it seriously.”
“I don’t take anyone seriously anymore,” you said. “Least of all you.”
At that, a muscle in Bruce’s jaw tightened. Something cracked inside his chest. Even breathing seemed to hurt now. But you went on, because keeping these words inside would’ve burned worse.
“Charlotte Rivers,” you said quietly. “Your very successful girlfriend.”
Bruce’s expression darkened.
“This has nothing to do with her.”
“Oh, it has everything to do with her,” you shot back. “Because every day in this mansion, I heard her voice. Every morning, I saw your pictures in the papers. I watched her push me out of this house. She called me ‘the little intern girl.’ Treated me like the charity case you took pity on. And you…” Your eyes glistened, but your voice didn’t break. “You said nothing.”
Bruce took a step forward, his voice deeper now. “She doesn’t know you.”
“She doesn’t have to,” you said. “Because I know you.”
You met his eyes, and added quietly, “And that woman… as much as she can’t stand me being near you, I can’t stand her being near you either.”
The confession electrified the air between you. The distance now measured itself in breaths.
Bruce’s fists clenched at his sides; his eyes flicked to your lips, then your eyes, then back again. That dark pull—that cursed tension—stole the air from both your lungs. But this time, you were the one who stepped back.
“I didn’t deserve this,” you said.
“Y/N—”
“Loving you felt like punishment.”
The crack in your voice echoed inside him.
“And I’m done serving that sentence.”
Bruce tried to speak, but you cut him off.
“I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“What?”
“I’m leaving this house tomorrow, you heard me.” Your voice trembled now. “She was right. What am I even doing here? Being near you was a mistake. You—” your voice caught, “—you have someone else. What am I waiting for? And I don’t want the Wayne name anymore.”
Bruce took a step forward on instinct, as if he could stop the words themselves.
“Y/N, don’t say that—”
But you already had.
“That name doesn’t belong to me anymore. I should’ve let it go the moment I saw you, wearing her scent on your jacket.” Your breath hitched. “It’s humiliating.” And with that, the air in the room shifted.
The rain outside grew louder.
When Bruce looked into your eyes, for the first time, he saw his own defeat—the truth that even a man like him couldn’t protect the heart of the woman he loved.
You turned your back to him, your footsteps echoing across the floor. And though Bruce would have given anything to stop you, he didn’t move. Because he knew. Stopping you now would mean losing you completely.
Rain seeped through the cracked windows; droplets striking rusted metal echoed through the building like whispers in a graveyard. Gotham’s night skyline hung outside like a dark painting, fog haloed the streetlights, each beam of light slowly suffocating in the haze.
Dr. Jonathan Crane stood before the window, cloaked in his own shadow. His back was straight, hands clasped behind him. His face wore an expression of patience that rivaled the silence of death itself. The air inside was as cold as his breath.
As time passed, something grew beneath the silence, the rhythm of waiting.
At last, the sound of footsteps from the far corridor shattered that rhythm. Sharp heels, hurried, yet deliberate. The corner of Crane’s mouth curved faintly, with a smile that carried both satisfaction and disdain. Without turning his head, he spoke, his voice slicing through the rain’s murmur like a blade.
“I didn’t expect you to be punctual. I’m impressed.”
The footsteps drew closer. A shadow slipped out of the darkness and came to stand beside the window. When the dim light finally caught her face, it revealed who she was: Charlotte Rivers. She slowly removed her gloves, each movement steeped in cold self-assurance. Her lips curved with a smile of practiced elegance.
“Punctuality only matters for the right person. For you? I doubt it.”
Crane finally turned toward her. In his eyes, the usual composure, thinly veiled contempt glimmered beneath it. He studied every word she spoke the way one observes a lab rat in motion.
“Yet you came,” he said dryly. “And you completed your task.”
Charlotte tilted her head, savoring the moment like a victory.
“Completed? No, Crane. I overdelivered.” Her voice carried both pride and a trace of threat.
Crane’s head inclined slightly. “Exactly as I intended,” he murmured. “A poisonous thought is the deepest wound of all. Once it’s inside, it feeds itself.”
Charlotte leaned against the window frame, gazing out. Her fingers combed through her hair, pushing it back. “I spread Arkham’s filth across the entire city. But it seems you still owe me.”
Crane tilted his head again, his eyes not fixed on her face but on the faint tremor in her shadow. A nearly imperceptible smile formed on his lips, the kind that could smell fear and ambition.
“A promise,” he said slowly, “is always kept at the right moment. And that moment has come.”
Charlotte raised an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth curling in scorn. “Your sense of timing is as rotten as this city.” She leaned closer, her tone sharpening. “Don’t forget that my lies protect you, Crane. Bruce Wayne is still standing, and that girl is still with him. You can’t fool me. You were supposed to fix that.”
Crane took a step forward. The space between them nearly vanished. The sound of rain mingled with the rhythm of their breathing.
“No,” he said, almost tenderly. “My timing sets this city’s rhythm.” His eyes roamed briefly over her face. “Tonight,” he continued, “everything changes. Wayne’s trust will crumble, with his girl alongside him. And you… you merely set the first stone in place.”
Charlotte’s mocking smile faded. “What do you mean? Is this another one of your games?”
Crane turned, stepping closer until he invaded her personal space completely. His gaze pinned her in place, his voice dropping to a whisper.
“Not a game, Miss Rivers. Balance.”
Her breath caught in her throat. There was something in Crane’s face, an undefinable darkness, a serenity that bordered on madness.
“I planted the doubt inside Bruce Wayne. I shaped Y/N’s subconscious. You only carried the infection to the headlines. But they…” He stepped back slightly, his eyes drifting toward the city beyond the rain.
“They no longer believe in each other. And belief, Charlotte… is far more fragile than fear.” He paused, his gaze cutting into hers.
“In my plans, no one remains innocent. Not the girl… and not you.”
Charlotte recoiled slightly, her confidence giving way to cautious coldness. “Is that a threat?”
Crane inclined his head faintly. “No. Merely a possibility.” There was a spark of madness gleaming deep in his eyes. “And I control the possibilities.”
The sound of the rain swelled. Charlotte stared at him for a few seconds longer for the first time, her disgust was joined by genuine fear. Then she turned and walked out of the building.
Crane faced the window again. A flash of lightning tore open the sky; for an instant, the white, blinding light slashed across the walls, illuminating his silhouette like a god carved in stormlight, before sinking back into shadow. In the mist over Gotham, he saw his own reflection.
The last words left his lips quieter than the storm, yet sharper than its thunder:
🥀Summary: In Arkham Asylum, love blossoms not with roses, but with blood, fear, and whispered lies.
She was his doctor, but in the dark she became his worshipper, craving every fracture of his mind. And when the night was broken by Batman’s shadow, she swore the world would never understand their sacred bond.
🩸Warnings: +18, Smut, MDNI, Non-Con, Masturbation (on male), Oral Sex (on male), Dark Psychology, Femdom, Power Play, Religious Themes, Psychological Abuse, NSFW, Dark Themes, Manipulation & Control, Mental Illness, Mature Content, English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional.
Word Count: +3k
Dividers by @firefly-graphics @cafekitsune Photos by Pinterest
🕸️ A/N: The human mind is capable of unimaginable things when it’s pushed to the brink of fear and obsession. I write these stories to understand the boundaries of that darkness and what lies beyond the point of no return.
ARKHAM ASYLUM - PATIENT FILE
Institution: Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane
Document Type: Psychiatric Patient Assessment and Monitoring File
File No: #11983
Patient Name: [Y/N Y/S/N]
Date of Birth: [05/06/1997] - author's birthday ^^
Gender: Female
Occupation: Psychiatrist (Staff Member – suspended from duty)
Marital Status: Single
I. GENERAL INFORMATION ABOUT THE PATIENT
Date of Admission: [13/08/20XX]
Admission Method: Following an internal audit, the staff member was reported to have displayed inappropriate behavior and paranoid erotomanic delusions. She was delivered to the Asylum’s security unit by James Gordon.
Preliminary Diagnosis:
• Erotomanic Type Delusional Disorder (DSM-5 Code: F22)
• Sadistic Personality Traits
• Psychotic Episodes (related to stress and emotional triggers)
II. CLINICAL ASSESSMENT
Observed Symptoms:
• Intense, reality-detached romantic obsession with Jonathan Crane (patient #447 – “Scarecrow”).
• Displaying sadistic tendencies within a romantic context: interpreting the suffering of the other as a “gesture of love.”
• Abuse of professional identity: secretly entering Crane’s cell outside of working hours, inappropriate rituals (candles, alcohol, physical contact attempts).
• Paranoid delusions: claiming that Batman is “jealous” of her relationship with Crane.
• Occasional body horror fantasies: defining herself and Crane as merging into the embodiment of fear.
Mental Status Examination:
• Appearance: Well-kept, makes an effort to appear as a professional staff member.
• Affect: Intense, labile; rapid shifts between romantic euphoria and anger.
• Thought Content: Erotomanic delusions, sadistic themes, “shared destiny” belief.
• Perception: Occasional visual/auditory illusions (hallucinatory experiences blending fear and romance).
• Insight: Severely limited; considers Crane’s “love” for her to be an absolute reality.
III. INCIDENT REPORT
Date: [15/08/20XX]
• Incident: During the night shift, the patient secretly entered Jonathan Crane’s cell, bringing alcohol and candles. She was observed staging a “romantic date” with him inside the cell.
• Intervention: Security systems were triggered, and Batman intervened, bringing the patient under control. During intervention, severe agitation and delusional outbursts were observed: “He is jealous of our love!”
• Outcome: Due to her breach of security protocols and delusional obsession, the patient was immediately stripped of staff status and reclassified as an inmate.
• Psychotherapy: Individual sessions – cognitive behavioral therapy focused on reality testing of erotomanic delusions.
• Restrictions: All direct or indirect contact with Crane is strictly prohibited.
• Recommendation: High-security single cell, weekly psychiatric board evaluations.
V. CONCLUSION
Patient [Y/N Y/S/N], while employed within Arkham Asylum, developed a delusional romantic obsession with inmate Jonathan Crane, losing professional boundaries and endangering the institution and its environment. Clinical findings demonstrate a pathological intertwining of romance and sadism. Long-term treatment and supervision are deemed necessary.
Signature:
Dr. Harleen Quinzel
Approval:
Arkham Asylum Ethics and Disciplinary Board
The corridor was one of Arkham Asylum’s blackest veins, its walls wept with damp, its air thick with the rust of iron and the faint decay of stone. Overhead, the fluorescent lights flickered with a dying pulse, casting tremulous shadows that slithered across the floor. Each echo of your heels against the flagstones multiplied in the silence, weaving into the gloom like a macabre symphony. Yet to you, this place was no longer dreadful. You had grown not only accustomed to its stench and its hush, but enamored of them, as though the very marrow of Arkham had become a perfume only you could savor.
In one hand, you held a candle, its flame trembling like a secret too tender to be spoken aloud; in the other, a fragile glass of wine, dark as spilled blood. Your lips curved into a smile you scarcely realized you wore a smile touched with both devotion and delirium. Under the theatrical gleam of your makeup, you were less a doctor, less a living woman, than the phantom bride of this haunted corridor, moving with spectral grace.
From behind the iron doors, the madness of Gotham stirred, harsh breaths, the gnash of teeth, the rattle of chains, laughter that split the dark like broken glass. They were fragments, refuse, the forgotten shards of men Batman had cast into this abyss. Pitiful, all of them. They held no meaning beside Crane. Not tonight. For tonight, you belonged to no one’s gaze but his. Tonight was your first rendezvous.
As you lifted the glass to your lips, a voice tore itself raw with laughter from a nearby cell:
“Ha! Off to a date, are we? The little doctor, setting out to seduce the master of fear!”
Your smile faltered. For an instant, your face hardened like porcelain cracking. The flame of the candle quivered with the violence of your breath. Slowly, with the poise of a dancer descending into slaughter, you turned toward the voice. When you spoke, your tone was velvet stretched over steel, each syllable carving through the silence like a scalpel:
“Listen… If you spoil this night, if you dare to cast a shadow on my first dance with him, I will take you into my therapy room tomorrow. And you know me. I do not break my toys. I take them apart slowly. I will peel your flesh like salt from the bone, drain your veins drop by drop. I will wring screams from you so piercing, the others will pray for your silence.”
The corridor froze. Breaths stilled, chains hushed. From somewhere deeper in the gloom came only a whisper, fragile and awed:
“She’s mad… mad, but beautiful…”
Then your smile returned, no longer tender, but cruelly sweet, a mask where longing and sadism danced hand in hand. You moved again, lighter now, as though the stone beneath your feet had transformed into crimson velvet. You did not walk, you glided, every step an offering, every rusted lock and crumbling wall reimagined as a ballroom awaiting its music. The jewels at your throat caught the candlelight, flashing like tiny, dangerous stars, and the thin chain around your neck —worn for him alone— felt suddenly like a leash, binding you not in captivity, but in worship.
And so you heard nothing else. The asylum’s madness receded. There was only the door. His door. A slab of iron and shadow, heavy with his breath on the other side. Your heart thundered so violently you thought it might tear through your ribs, each beat not merely a pulse but a promise: Tonight I am his. Tonight is our first night together.
Your hand, trembling yet devout, found the frozen metal. From within came a sound, his breath, low and deliberate, drawn as though from the depths of a cathedral’s crypt. And as you inhaled that same breath into your own lungs, you no longer felt like a visitor at a prisoner’s threshold, but a lover standing before the doorway of her beloved.
The heavy iron door groaned open beneath your hands, its hinges screaming as the candle’s trembling flame fractured the darkness inside. Even among Arkham’s sterile stone walls, this cell was different; it resembled the dark chapel of a church, its air steeped in the sour mixture of dampness and chemical residue. And in the middle of it, Jonathan Crane sat bound, his body imprisoned in a stark white straitjacket, leather straps crisscrossing from shoulders to chest, fastening him in place. Sweat and sleeplessness had plastered his hair against his brow, and the bruised hollows beneath his eyes made his bones jut out more sharply. Yet most disturbing of all was the sound spilling from his lips, a low, monotonous murmur, an endless hymn. Latin syllables clung to the walls, echoing like the cruel psalms his pious, tyrannical grandmother had once forced into his childhood prayers.
When you entered, he did not lift his head. He merely continued the chant, lips quivering, eyes absent—though the faint tremors in his body betrayed the chemicals still coursing through his veins. The signs of neurovegetative collapse were plain: cold sweat, tachycardia, spasms of the muscles. But this was exactly as you desired. Your therapy was meant to unmake him, to strip him, to leave him defenseless. And so it had. Jonathan Crane was no longer the master of his own mind, he was a slave to the terrors you had birthed within him.
When you set the candle and two delicate crystal glasses down by the door, Crane’s voice faltered into silence. Slowly, he raised his head, his gaze flickering between emptiness and your face. His lips trembled as though beholding a vision he recognized, yet that vision was nothing more than a grotesque hallucination conjured by his unraveling mind.
“…Angel…” he whispered, hoarse and broken, the word rising from his throat like a prayer, like a plea. “You’ve come to save me.”
As you stepped closer, the brilliance that once burned in his eyes had vanished, replaced now by the raw terror of a child. He was the so-called master of fear; yet before you, he had become nothing more than a boy again, the boy once forced by his grandmother to kneel in some dim chapel and confess sins he barely understood. The corner of your mouth curved upward into a cruel smile. Your fingers touched the ridge of his breastbone beneath the straitjacket, an almost tender caress, though in it lingered both possession and sadistic delight.
“To save you?” you whispered, your voice honeyed and poisonous at once. Your lips drifted toward his ear, your breath grazing his neck like a serpent’s tongue. “No, Jonathan… I haven’t come to save you. I’ve come to let you rot within these walls. Because you are a filthy man. Your sins run too deep for any hymn to cleanse. Your fears gnaw at you because you deserve them.”
His eyes widened, his lips parting in a shudder. He swallowed hard. “No… no… please… don’t punish me…” His voice cracked into a supplicant’s prayer. Closing his eyes, he bowed his head toward you. “I’ll do anything you want. Only… only don’t show me hell. You’re an angel… don’t damn me.”
Your smile deepened, stretching with merciless sweetness. Your hand rose to his chin, forcing his head upward, your fingers compelling his eyes to meet yours. His skin was clammy, damp, his veins faintly raised beneath the pallor of chemical torment. To you, it was not repulsive, it was exquisite. A living work of art.
“You pray to me, Jonathan.” Your tone was almost tender, yet sharpened with mockery. “Not to God. To me. Because God has abandoned you. But I won’t abandon you. I will break you, disgrace you, strip your sins one by one. And still you will look at me with gratitude. Because I am your angel, aren’t I?”
Crane’s breath quickened, his chest heaving beneath the straitjacket. On his face bloomed a grotesque mingling of terror and desire. His lips trembled as he whispered: “Yes… yes… my angel…”
Your fingers slid through his hair, tightening, wrenching his head back so his eyes were forced to meet yours. In them you saw a devotion born not of love, but of fear so pure it resembled worship. For you, this was the very essence of romance, the highest summit of sadism. For Jonathan Crane, master of fear, was afraid at last.
And the only thing he feared was you.
As you savored the poison of truth on your tongue like sweet wine, your movements were slow, deliberate, almost ceremonial. The flickering flame of the candle cast restless shadows across the walls, and though the stone cell was steeped in cold, a strange, almost sacred warmth radiated around your body. In Jonathan’s eyes you could still see the haze of hallucinations born of the chemicals, yet beneath that fog you felt the sharper edges of his mind returning. And you would be the one to fill that void.
Without haste, as though you had been waiting for this moment your entire life— you settled into his lap. His straitjacketed body leaned back beneath your weight, but he made no protest. His eyes clung to you, his breath spilling hot and uneven from trembling lips. As you leaned close, your hair brushing against him, he felt himself transported into something like a ritual. To him, the mocking smile at the corner of your mouth resembled a promise of absolution; the glide of your fingers across his chest seemed no less than the touch of a goddess.
“You have sins, Jonathan…” you murmured slowly, your voice dripping with both desire and venom. Your fingers trailed down from his chin to his throat, where you felt the frantic pulse beating beneath his skin. “And these sins cannot be cleansed by blood—only by fear. Tell me, Jonathan… remind me. When you were Arkham’s director, how did you look at me? How did you dismiss me? Cold, rigid, arrogant like a doctor too proud to see. But I know the truth. I know that beneath it all, you were in love with me. Every glance you gave me hid a hunger. But you… you denied it. And then that bat — that cursed Batman— came between us.”
Crane’s gaze locked with yours, and the haze began to lift from his eyes. The chemical fog was receding, leaving something sharper, clearer behind. He licked his lips, swallowed. “No…” His voice cracked, but this time it was not a plea, more like a true objection. “I never… felt anything for you. And Batman, he wasn’t even in Gotham then. You…” His breath caught, his eyelids lowered. “You’re seeing wrong.”
A bitter smile crossed your face, then, without hesitation, your hand whipped across his cheek. The slap snapped his head to the side, and a thin bead of blood gleamed at the corner of his mouth. Seizing his hair, you yanked his head back, forcing his eyes to meet yours.
“You’re lying!” you hissed, but your fury rang through the walls like a scream. “You cannot lie to me, Jonathan! I am inside your mind. I know every cell, every fear, every perversion. You love me. You always have!”
You seized a glass, lifted it slowly. In the candlelight, the dark red wine shimmered like blood. You did not bring it to your own lips, but to his. “Go on,” you whispered. “Drink. And remember your childhood. Remember the ritual your grandmother forced upon you… when she poured the blood of rats upon your white shirt. This is your penance.” Slowly, you tipped the glass, and the liquid streamed over his lips, down his chin, staining his throat.
At first Crane choked, sputtering, then he broke into a ragged laugh. It was not mocking, but fractured, perched on the edge of madness. He trembled, swallowing the wine with his tongue, letting it slip between his teeth.
“You… you’ve lost your mind,” he rasped, though there was reverence beneath the words. “And that… that makes you perfect. You’re breaking me, tearing me apart. Because of you, all my theories, all my insights collapse. And still… I can’t stop watching you. I used to belittle you. I was wrong. You… you feed me with the very essence of fear.”
In your eyes, this breaking of him was nothing short of a gift. To shatter him, to draw from him both fear and devotion at once, this was love in its purest form. And Jonathan Crane, the master of fear, now worshipped you like a victim kneeling before the altar.
Yet the sorrowful smile that lingered on your lips also marked a new uncertainty: who was the lamb, and who the wolf? The roles had begun to blur.
As you sat upon his lap, he was drowning in the darkness of your eyes, staring at you with both terror and a deep, consuming desire.
When you let the trembling candlelight fade into your shadow and began to grind your hips upon Jonathan Crane’s lap, the taut leather straps and the stiff white fabric of his straitjacket made his body feel all the sharper beneath you. His gaze both condemned you and clung to you, unable to escape. When your lips crashed against his, the kiss was less an act of tenderness than of assault, less a need than a rite. You drank his breath, tore at his lips with your teeth, drowned your tongue in his helplessness. The taste of Jonathan Crane’s mouth upon you was bitter and enthralling, like the blood of sin itself.
As your hips moved against him, the creak of the straps that bound his body echoed in your ears, each shift like the liberation of a chained beast. You felt the hardness beneath him, a dark river your touch commanded—violence awakened by your caress, overflowing at your decree. As you pressed and rolled against him, a muffled moan rose from Crane’s chest— not the sound of the Master of Fear, but of a man surrendered to you. He shivered with pleasure, his trembling breath pulling him closer, tighter against you.
Without lifting your face from his, you let your venomous words drip from the corner of your lips:
“How sinful you are, Jonathan… how vile, how filthy… You deserve punishment. And I will deliver it with my own hands. Because you belong to me.”
Your kiss flared violent again, his lips yielding beneath your assault, his ragged breaths goading you like some sacred torment. You bit and tore at his mouth, cruel enough to draw blood. Then, at his throat, your whisper sharpened like venom itself:
“Now tell me, Jonathan… Who am I to you? Tell me, who is your goddess?”
Madness flickered in Jonathan’s eyes. His head tossed weakly side to side, torn between defiance and breathless desire. His voice cracked, laughter and groan tangled together:
“You… no… just a chemistry, a trick of the mind…”
But you pressed your mouth harder upon his, threading your fingers through his hair and wrenching his head back by the roots. The cry of pain from his throat only intoxicated you further. You breathed with fury, your eyes alight with delirium:
“You lie! Do you want to return to therapy, Jonathan? Do you want to be trapped again in your hallucinations, left alone with the shrieks of the rats?”
His pupils widened, swallowed by the shadows of childhood terrors. His trembling voice broke at last, surrendering, the words spilling out as both fear and a perverse confession of desire:
“…You… you are my goddess…”
At that, your lips claimed his once more. But now the kiss was changed; Jonathan Crane was no longer merely a victim. He answered with hunger, an animal driven by need. He bit deeper into your lips, as if he longed for the metallic taste of blood, kissing you as though to devour you. His breath, the pressure of his teeth, the sharp bites at the hollow of your neck, each mark was a bloody signature of this dark love.
And in that moment, with your breaths echoing against the stone walls of the cell, all sense of who was wolf and who was lamb had vanished completely.
As your hips continued to slide back and forth on his lap, Crane’s body writhed beneath the straps of the straitjacket. The creak of leather mingled with the moans that echoed off the stone walls, transforming the chamber into a sanctum of ritual. Jonathan Crane’s head leaned against the wall behind him, his pale face caught in an expression that balanced both pain and pleasure. His lips parted, breath spilling in short, trembling bursts; his eyes fixed on you through the lingering haze of chemicals, yet within them flickered a growing clarity, an edge of returning intellect.
With every movement of your hips, he felt the press of his chained body against yours all the more keenly. For a moment, his voice broke out in a hoarse rasp directed toward you:
“If… if you release me from this straitjacket… I will be your true servant. A single, loyal devotee to his goddess… a slave without limit, living only to please you…”
In his words lay both submission and threat. The syllables left his lips like a prayer, yet the tone beneath them was as perilous as an oath. Whether what he promised was sacred devotion or a demonic snare was impossible to discern.
You gazed into his eyes, leaned close enough for your breath to ghost across his face. His eyelids fluttered, his lips parted with hunger for yours, but you pulled back. With a poisonous smile, you whispered:
“That is what you want me to believe, isn’t it, Jonathan? Yet I want more than words. I want proof.”
When you lifted yourself from his lap in a slow, deliberate motion, a spark of panic lit his eyes, only to be replaced by an obsessive focus. You bent down toward the coarse fabric and the straps that bound him below the waist. As you undid the heavy buckles, the scrape of metal rang through the cell. Crane’s eyes followed your fingers, narrowing with a lust-tinged gleam; his breath quickened, and short, jagged laughter slipped from his throat.
In that moment, the drug’s fog had thinned further. Within the mists of his mind, your face shone sharper than ever. He still saw you as a goddess, perhaps, but now with another hunger. He wanted to possess you, to drag you into the labyrinth of his own mind. You were far more than you believed yourself to be, not merely the visage of fear. With your intellect, your cruelty, you had broken him. And yet, he wanted to etch you into his psyche, to bind you within his darkness, to make you his alone.
As his gaze lingered on your fingers, his lips curved into a strained smile. The pallor of his skin, carved deeper by the dim light of the cell, sharpened the obsessive cast in his eyes. The dark circles beneath them, born of sleeplessness and madness, lent his stare a fevered intensity.
With each strap you loosened, a plan was threading itself together in Crane’s mind. He knew he was still entirely at your mercy, but he also sensed that your desire and mercilessness had blinded you. That blindness he could use. He could feign devotion to a goddess, while secretly weaving a trap to make you his sacrifice. To bring you to a point where you would bend to him.
He tilted his head toward you, his body straining against the straitjacket to draw closer. The voice that left him sounded both like a prayer and a threat:
“Unbind me… and I will be yours. Unbind me… and I will take you beyond fear itself. Unbind me… and you will never need another god. For I will hold you within my madness, forever.”
In that moment, though still bound, still restrained before you, the look in his eyes had already shattered the chains. Jonathan Crane was no longer merely your prisoner. He gazed upon you as one who both worshipped and exalted you, yet also as a wolf, hungering to claim you.
Your fingers slowly explored his bare skin, cautiously exploring his erect manhood. And in that moment, the key that would unlock all of Crane's sins shone in your eyes.
“We were made for each other,” you whispered, your lips so close to Crane's ear, your breath coiling like a snake across his skin. “There is no other way to describe my divine passion and your corrupted mind.” Your words descended upon him not with a lover's tenderness but with the command of an executioner. As your fingers caressed Crane's shaft, each touch burned like the mark of past sins committed upon him, a response somewhere between pain and pleasure, like atonement for a crime.
Crane's eyes were fixed on you; his pale, sleepless pupils quivered with both contempt and admiration. Hearing your dominance, the commanding tone in your voice, echoes of past therapies, past interrogations fill his mind, but this time, you're the patient, and you're the doctor. He leaned his head back with a shaky laugh. "You... you've turned me into your idol," he said, his voice hoarse and cracking with a sinister lust. "But I'm not your idol's victim, my goddess... perhaps I'm merely an altar for your blood's most sacred rite."
You ignored these words, for Crane's voice sounded less like a hymn and more like the growl of a demon seeking to justify itself.
As your hand slid down his glans and down the shaft of his penis, Crane's breathing quickened, the fine line between his will and his desire blurring further and further. He was striving to manipulate you, to turn your power to his own advantage, but with every caress of his glans, the precum leaking from his hole betrayed him, the fissure between his words and his soul growing ever more pronounced.
“Keep punishing me,” Crane said, his voice turning into a groan of pleasure and torture. “Because your obsession is stronger than my passion for fear.”
And as you heard his confession, your caresses deepened, your eyes took on an even wilder gleam.
One hand wrapped around the shaft of the penis, your free hand slanting from the head to the shaft, gently stroking in a circular motion. The motion was enough to drive him mad. His muscles trembled as his arms tensed beneath the leather strap, but he couldn’t escape. An involuntary tightening of his jaw, a shadowy twitch at the corner of his lips. Like a smile hesitant between anger and lust.
You continued to stroke him in a circular motion with one hand, but when he didn't expect it, you arched your body, squeezing his testicles between your lips and stimulating his balls with the tip of your tongue.
Every breath now became a deeper, darker growl, as if it were an animal's voice emerging from deep within his throat, not his lungs. The relentless tightness of the leather straps strained his shoulders, and his body convulsed like convulsions.
Your teeth deliberately scraped against the sensitive skin, hurting him. He leaned his head back, the veins on his jaw prominent; a strange mix of pleasure and pain mingled within his rigid body.
Then you lifted your head slightly, parted your lips, and took his glans between your lips. The movement was slow and deliberate, like a ceremonial oath. As your saliva spread over his veined cock, the damp wetness left a sound so vivid it could echo even in Crane's mind. You sucked his cock as if trying to empty it of the drink inside you. The moan that escaped his lips spread like a vibration, whether muffled prayer or curse unclear.
These moans, mixed with moist sounds, permeated the stone of the cell, making every shadow even more menacing in the dim light. This moment wasn't just physical contact; it was the echo rising against the silence of a dark ritual playing with chained power.
You pushed his cock closer to your throat, deeper into your mouth. Now, as you sucked, you simultaneously teased the areas you could reach with your tongue. You felt warmth on the roof of your mouth. His hot pre-cum dripped into your mouth like a seal of ritual. The squeezed drops made a trembling sound as he drew the liquid from the corners of his lips into himself. Hearing this made Crane's moans gradually turn into uncontrollable noise.
Jonathan Crane, in the rhythm of his breath, in the tense contractions and releases of his muscles, in the surrender of his body to the leather straps, was trembling on the edge of climax; the place your merciless lips had sanctified was to him both salvation and torture. Yet you pressed upon that fragile line, withdrawing at the most critical moment. You pulled back your lips and wiped them with the back of your hand, then delicately traced your fingertips across the corner of your mouth. The gesture was not the courtesy of a woman, but the cruelty of an executioner who abandons his victim halfway only to deepen the torment.
Jonathan’s body convulsed, and as the fire swelling beneath his veins was abruptly severed, his breath broke into a strangled moan. The lines of his face spewed both lust and hatred toward you. In his steel-blue eyes, the desire of a broken man mingled with the fury of a demon. He clenched his teeth, his voice echoing against the stone walls like a threat carved into the dark.
“You left me undone… You will pay for this. The moment I’m free, I’ll return these torments a thousandfold. I’ll choke you in my gas, rot you in your own fears. And then we shall see who is truly strong.”
But on your face bloomed a smile where his mark had been wiped away. Rising slowly, with the cold sovereignty of one who carries in her hand the memory of a body convulsed with pleasure, you leaned toward him. Your voice was a blade slicing through Crane’s mind:
“Ah, Jonathan… You always threaten. Always try to intimidate. But the truth is, the power is not yours. Your gases, your masks, your empire built upon fear… all of it rots in my hands. Even your climax rests on my mercy. And I did not grant you that reward.”
Jonathan’s chest heaved, the straps across his arms stifling the swelling fury of his muscles. Each word that left his lips trembled like a confession of pain and reverence.
“You underestimate me… But know this: it is unfinished ecstasy that drives men mad. You’ve given me my greatest weapon: obsession. After tonight, I will never again be able to purge you from my mind. Your scent, your voice, your merciless hands… they are etched into my brain. You wished me to believe you were a goddess, now I do. But even goddesses fall.”
You smiled, candlelight burning perversely in your eyes. You leaned closer, your face almost brushing his, your breath veiling the corner of his mouth like a heated shroud.
“To see me fall, you would first have to escape. And you know, Jonathan… You are bound here. I am free outside these walls. All your genius, all your schemes, wither inside this prison. But I can come here whenever I wish. Your punishment bends to my desire. You are my prisoner.”
Crane laughed, a fractured sound on the verge of madness. Within it was rage, but also the dangerous allure of a man who could not help but worship you.
“I may be your prisoner… But remember this, dearest doctor. Every prisoner dreams of killing the guard. And when that day comes, I will shatter not only your body, but your mind. Because your true weakness is how close you let me come.”
You tilted your head, your hair falling across your face as your fingers clamped onto his jaw, forcing his eyes into yours. Your voice, a murmur and a command, rang with divine resonance.
“My weakness is you, Jonathan. But you are also my greatest triumph. You will belong to me. Every breath, every fear, every desire of yours will be bound to me. And neither your gases, nor your masks, nor even Batman himself will change that.”
From Jonathan’s lips broke an involuntary moan; that sound, steeped in anger, lust, and fear, reverberated through the stone cell. In that moment, he had lost in your hands his most powerful weapon: his control. And you knew it, wearing upon your lips the poisonous smile of victory.
The moan that slipped from Jonathan’s lips was not merely a sign of weakness, but the sealed confession of your dominance.
Echoing against the stone walls of the cell, mingling with the cold clink of chains, it wove a ritualistic tension between the two of you.
The dark curve of your smile deepened, an expression of pleasure equal to that of a demon conducting its unholy rite.
When your hand struck his face with sudden force, the crack resounded with the breaking of both flesh and pride.
Crane’s head snapped to the side; a fine red line, like a drop of blood at the corner of his eye, became nothing more than an ornament for you, a reminder of his fragility.
As you leaned down and sank your teeth into the edge of his jaw, the metallic taste of his blood spread across your lips, cutting his breath into a pale, shuddering moan.
With every bite, you tore through his flesh, his will, and that damnable arrogant control he clung to. And he —despite all his fury— was forced to accept your supremacy in the trembling of his body bound by chains.
When you caught sight of the blood trailing from your lips, you licked your fingers slowly and wiped it away with deliberate calm; even this small gesture imposed an authority no words could rival.
“I’m not playing games with you, Jonathan,” you said, your voice sharpened with an icy finality.
“Even pleasure is valuable enough to be a reward for you. And I —only I— decide when you are given that reward. When I withhold it, all that remains for you… is pain.”
Crane writhed beneath the weight of his restraints, a muffled threat seeping from between lips curled in rage:
“You can keep me in chains, but one day... one day, when I’m free, I’ll make you pay this night back a thousandfold. Every insult carved by your tongue will be repaid with your flesh.”
You met his fury, his deepening helplessness, with a cruel curl of your lips.
Your hand lashed out again, the slap ringing through the cell like the toll of a cathedral bell.
“You will never have that day, Crane. I count your every breath. You were born into my hands, and in my hands you will rot.”
Then, as your teeth grazed the vein in his throat, feeling the frantic pulse just beneath his skin, Crane was forced to close his eyes.
For no matter how dangerous his mind might be, in your grasp he was nothing more than a creature, a beast compelled to kneel.
The stone walls of the cell still carried the echo of Crane’s moans; the marks of your slap and your teeth lingered on his neck like a vivid, crimson seal.
When you rose slowly from his lap, the warmth of your breath still clung to his skin.
With hands that never once trembled, you reached to cover him again; your fingers fastened the buckles of the straps with the precision of an executioner tightening the noose.
As you bound him, the brush of your fingertips against his groin drew another moan from him, he turned his head aside but never broke your gaze.
In his eyes flickered pain and desire, hatred and submission. And your smile was the smile of a hangman savoring the moment at the gallows for though you bound his body in chains, you had already sealed his soul as your own.
Then, your eyes drifted to the rusted iron bar at your side.
It would take but a moment’s courage to lift it and drive it into his throat.
Crane closed his eyes, tilting his neck slightly as though inviting death itself.
As if whispering to you: end it, no one else can kill me but you.
When you raised the bar, fire roared in your veins.
To kill him felt like killing yourself.
In the instant you imagined piercing his throat, you felt the same blow against your own chest. Your breath faltered, and in that moment you understood: you could not kill him. For Crane’s soul had already seeped into yours. To end him would be to end yourself.
When you hurled the bar to the floor, the poisonous smile of victory curved your lips. Leaning close to his ear, you whispered: “You were born in my hands, Crane… and in my hands you will rot.”
With that mad smile still staining your mouth, you rose, wiping your bloodied hands on your dress as you moved toward the door.
As you pushed open the iron door of the cell, Crane’s low laughter followed you, blurring the lines between a child’s sobs, a man’s groans, and a lover’s whispers. But before you could shut it, another presence emerged from the shadows.
The heavy door was forced back, and there before you stood Batman. His eyes burned with anger, but behind the mask was a steel-clad worry. Your hands were still wet with blood, your lips still carried Crane’s taste. When he moved to shield you from the cell, to close it off, the surge of fury within you nearly blinded you.
“Get out of my way!” you cried, your voice echoing off the stone like something trapped between a prayer and a curse.
Batman’s gloved hand caught your wrist, trying to pull you toward him. But you pressed your palms against his chest, locked your eyes to his, and with the same mad hunger you had shown Crane, you whispered:
“You’re jealous… Can’t you see? He’s mine. My creation, my masterpiece. Your so-called justice will never be as strong as my poison.”
Batman’s voice came low, almost trembling: “You can’t leave without destroying him. Or he’ll consume you, too.” But you smiled cruelly, tilting your head, wiping your bloody fingers across your lips as you murmured:
“He already has… and I welcome it.”
Behind you, Crane’s voice rang out once more from the depths of the cell. His laughter was like a prayer unraveling into a scream: “She is my goddess… She is my only true poison…"
As Batman gripped your shoulder to drag you away, you turned back toward the cell. Crane’s eyes were locked on you; chained, yet laughing in triumph. In that moment, the question of who truly held victory blurred: was he your captive, or were you his? And as the door closed, you still felt his breath on your skin. You might have chained him, but it was your soul that was bound to his.
Despite Batman’s jealous rage (according to you), despite Crane’s madness, you knew the truth now: this cycle would never end.
