Apollo @sl33paholics - Tumblr Blog

Jan 4

Vesper’s Lament Masterlist

Your story begins with light: a classroom emptied of students, Lucius Fox’s quiet affection, Bruce Wayne’s protective devotion. By day, you are teacher, daughter, fiancée. By night, you rehearse for a stage your mother once claimed. But the music turns dissonant. A box left on your desk. A letter that knows your name too well. Footsteps in the dark when no one should be near. And high above Gotham, brides are arranged on rooftops with rings forced onto broken fingers. The opera has begun, and you’ve already been cast.

WC: 5.6k

Content ⚠️: MDNI!! stalking, obsession, body horror, and murder. One scene includes some very unprofessional tension in Bruce Wayne’s office (👀 interrupted intimacy). Themes of anxiety, being watched, and psychological unease throughout.

A/N: Decided I’m leaning all the way into Halloween this year. Batman’s rogues are deliciously spooky and dripping with horror potential, so why not? 🎭🕯️ My plan for the next month is to stitch together different plus size WOC inserts into Gotham’s shadows.

Also? I’m having way too much fun shaping this fic to read like an opera play—curtains rising, preludes, interludes, finales. It’s spooky, dramatic, and yes… another entry in my ongoing career as a self-proclaimed Bruce Wayne writer 🖤

P.S, can you tell I love The Phantom of the Opera?

The dismissal bell rang through Gotham Academy like a starter pistol. Shoes squeaked down the hall, laughter echoing as students spilled into the late afternoon. In your classroom, though, no one moved until you raised your hand.

“Before you scatter—”

Twenty pairs of eyes stayed fixed on you. Your drama kids were a loyal little crew, half restless energy, half pure heart.

“I’m out the rest of the month,” you told them, voice soft but steady. “I’ll be back before Hell Week. Mr. Delaney will hold down the fort in the meantime.”

Groans filled the room.

“Mr. Delaney doesn’t even like theater,” someone whispered loudly.

You smiled, shaking your head. “You’ll survive. You’re tougher than you think.”

That’s when Jasmine darted from the wings, Miguel on her heels, lugging a bakery box. They dropped it on the desk with a flourish.

“Miss Fox,” Jasmine declared, “we got you something.”

The lid opened on a slab of chocolate cake iced in looping purple letters: Break a leg!

Your chest tightened. “You little gremlins.”

“It’s not fancy,” Miguel said, scratching his neck, “but we wanted to, you know, celebrate. Before you go be famous.”

The room erupted in applause, off-key singing, a few exaggerated bows. You laughed, hand pressed over your heart, letting the sweetness sink in.

Plates were passed. Forks clattered. For a while the black box theater was full of sugar and warmth, the kind of mundane chaos that grounded you more than any rehearsal ever could.

When the last crumbs were eaten and hugs exchanged, you shooed them toward the door. “Go on. Before your parents think I’ve kidnapped you.”

“Break a leg, Miss Fox!” they chorused, voices fading into the hall.

You gathered your things, tote, sub plans, half-empty coffee mug and crossed into your office. The click of your heels echoed.

The hallway was nearly silent now, lockers slamming shut here and there, the thud of sneakers fading toward the front doors. You liked this part of the day; the hush after the storm, the way the building exhaled once the kids were gone.

Your heels clicked against the linoleum as you made your way to the tiny office tucked behind the black box. A hum from the vending machine down the hall filled the quiet, steady and low. The overhead fluorescents buzzed faintly, casting the kind of light that flattened everything. Posters from old productions lined the walls, curling at the edges: Our Town, A Raisin in the Sun, Into the Woods. A framed photo of your mother mid-aria rested on your desk, her gown shimmering under stage lights, mouth open in pure, aching song. You brushed your thumb across the glass every time you walked in.

Your bag slipped from your shoulder onto the chair with a soft thud. You pulled open the top drawer for your keys then froze. Something was already on the desk. A box.

You lifted the lid, already bracing for glitter or confetti. Instead, a porcelain doll lay nestled in black tissue. Its cracked face stared up, painted lips caught between a smile and a sneer. The little gown was ivory satin, veil stiff with age, like it had been pulled from a forgotten attic trunk.

You blinked at it, then huffed out a laugh. “Oh, y’all are real funny.”

It had to be your students. Their way of punishing you for ditching them with Mr. Delaney as he could barely handle attendance, let alone improv. This was exactly the kind of dramatic stunt your drama kids would cook up.

Still, your fingers hesitated before tugging the veil aside. A slip of paper fluttered loose. The handwriting was sharp, slanted:

I take thee, singer, veiled in white,

To hold in shadow, guard in night.

If you refuse, then death shall be—

The vow you broke will bury thee

Your laugh died halfway in your throat. You stared at the words, waiting for them to twist into something sillier, like a punchline hidden in the rhyme. But there wasn’t one.

The doll’s glass eyes glimmered under the buzzing fluorescent light, the lace trembling faintly in the draft from the vent. You shoved the paper back under the veil and dropped the lid shut, forcing another laugh. “Kids. Over the top, as always.”

But when you grabbed your bag, the office suddenly felt too quiet. Too watched.

You rubbed your arms, gooseflesh prickling. Your gaze flicked back to your mother’s photo on the shelf. Her smile, frozen mid-aria, should have been reassuring. Instead, under the harsh fluorescent glare, it almost looked like she was watching. Warning.

You shook yourself. “Okay,” you whispered, voice steadier this time. “It’s fine. It’s nothing. Just a prank.” Still, when you finally left the office, locking the door behind you, you didn’t look back.

The car let you out at Wayne Enterprises just as the streetlights flickered awake. Gotham’s skyline loomed above you, glass and steel cut into jagged silhouettes against a bruised-purple sky. For half a second you thought about that box again; the veil, the doll’s cracked smile, but you shoved the memory down and walked through the revolving doors.

Inside, the lobby glowed with its usual polished grandeur: marble floors gleaming, brass fixtures shining, the Wayne crest set proudly into the tile. It smelled faintly of coffee and disinfectant, grounding in its mundanity.

On the 20th floor, your father’s office light was still on, a beacon at the end of a row of glass doors. You tapped lightly, and Lucius looked up, glasses sliding halfway down his nose before his face split into a grin.

“There‘s my leading lady,” he said warmly, rising to hug you. “Shouldn’t you be rehearsing instead of humoring your old man?”

You melted into his embrace, the familiar scent of cedarwood and machine oil clinging to his suit. “I wanted to see you first. Besides, rehearsals don’t start for another hour.”

“Mm-hm,” he said knowingly, ushering you inside. “You always were the kind who’d rather worry through the quiet before the big moments.”

You laughed, perching on the edge of his desk. “That obvious?”

“Only to me.” He slid a folder toward you; rehearsal schedules, contracts, notes he’d organized like the engineer he was. “Bruce said he’d be stopping by later, but I get dibs before the fiancé.”

The word still made your chest flutter, no matter how many times you heard it.

Lucius’s gaze softened, though his tone stayed firm. “You know your mother would’ve been proud. She’d have been in the front row, screaming louder than me.”

The mention of your mom tugged hard at something raw inside you. You nodded quickly, eyes falling to the edge of the folder so he wouldn’t see too much.

Lucius noticed anyway. “You alright?” he asked gently.

“I’m fine,” you lied with a practiced smile. “Just nerves.”

And though he didn’t push, you caught the flicker in his eyes, the same look he gave Bruce whenever he suspected there was more beneath the surface.

Lucius leaned back in his chair, studying you the way he used to study schematics, searching for any flaw in the design. Whatever he saw must’ve satisfied him, because he reached into a drawer and tugged out a slip of paper, waving it like a ticket.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “I’ve got to pick up the finest suit I ever had tailored. Navy, sharp lapels, shoes so polished they’ll blind the front row.”

You laughed. “Daddy—”

“I’m not joking,” he cut in, though his grin gave him away. “You’re about to step into the spotlight, and I intend to be the proudest man in the room. Don’t argue. Just make sure the photographer knows to get me at my good angle.”

You shook your head, warmth blooming in your chest. “So you just want evidence for your office wall.”

“And my wallet,” he added, softer now. “I want a lot of photos. Your mama would’ve demanded the same.”

Lucius pushed a stack of blueprints aside and gave you a long, measuring look. “You know, your mother’s the one who gave you that voice. Not me. She could hush a whole room without raising it above a whisper.”

You smiled faintly. “I know. I… miss hearing her.”

His eyes softened, lines around them deepening. “So do I. But you carry her with you. Every note you sing, I hear her. Clear as day.”

You bit down on the lump in your throat, then tried for levity. “Guess I should be grateful for the voice. Still wouldn’t have minded inheriting your brain, though. Would’ve made life easier.”

Lucius chuckled, shaking his head. “Don’t sell yourself short. You think I could’ve managed a classroom full of teenagers and still found the time to chase this dream? That’s its own genius. Besides,” his mouth quirked into a wry smile, “if you’d been an engineer, who would’ve kept me humble?”

That made you laugh, the heaviness loosening in your chest.

Lucius leaned back in his chair, hands folded over his stomach. “So,” he said, voice warm, “how’d your students take the news? You dropping the bomb you’ll be out for the month?”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “They surprised me… they brought cake. Purple frosting, way too sweet, and somehow everyone ended up with two slices.”

Lucius smiled, pride flickering in his eyes. “They love you. That says something.”

You tilted your head, remembering, and the smile wavered. “They also left a little prank in my office. A doll dressed up like a bride. Creepy as hell, honestly.” You laughed it off, waving a hand. “I guess that’s their revenge for me leaving them with Mr. Delaney. They thought it’d be funny.”

Lucius chuckled, shaking his head. “Kids.” Then, softer, “Still, you shouldn’t let them rattle you. They’d have to work a lot harder than that to spook a Fox.”

You laughed, but the image of cracked porcelain and unblinking glass eyes still itched at the back of your mind.

He reached for a file on his desk, then glanced back at you with the faintest smile. “Now, as much as I love having you to myself, I imagine your fiancé’s waiting his turn.

Wayne Tower was nearly empty by the time you reached the executive floor. The hum of the elevators and the distant echo of a cleaning crew’s cart were the only sounds, but his office still glowed against the dark.

Bruce was there, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, leaning over the desk with that familiar furrow between his brows. Numbers and contracts scattered before him like a second language only he spoke.

He looked up as soon as the door opened. And the crease in his forehead eased.

“There you are,” he said, voice low.

You smiled, slipping inside. “Were you waiting on me?”

“I always am.”

He came around the desk, crossing the room with that quiet determination that never failed to disarm you. His hand found yours first, then your waist, then you were pulled against him before you had the chance to put your bag down. He embraced you as though the hours and burdens scattered across his desk meant nothing once you stepped inside.

“I thought you’d be gone by now,” you murmured, slipping your bag onto the leather couch.

“I was waiting.” His voice was quiet, steady, like it always was when the world narrowed down to just the two of you. He tipped his head slightly, eyes moving over you in that way that always made your stomach flip, not an appraisal, not a study, but recognition.

Your hand brushed the side of his jaw, rough with the faintest shadow of stubble. “You work too much.”

“And you don’t rest enough.” The corner of his mouth tugged, almost a smile. “We balance each other.”

You laughed under your breath, leaning into him. He kissed you softly and kept his palm firm at the small of your back.

The city stretched out beyond the glass, neon and streetlamps flickering like stars that had fallen too low. But in here it was only his heartbeat, steady against your chest, his breath ghosting over your lips when he finally pulled back.

“This is the best part of my day,” he said simply.

You shook your head, fighting a smile. “You’re going to ruin your reputation if anyone hears you saying things like that.”

“Let them,” Bruce replied, brushing his thumb across your engagement ring as if to remind both of you it was real. “They don’t get to have this. I do.”

Bruce’s hand lingered at your waist, pulling you in until your hips brushed. The furrow between his brows was gone now, replaced with something softer, more intent.

“You’ve been rehearsing every night,” he said, his tone low, almost conversational. “And I’ve been…” His jaw flexed. He didn’t finish the thought, didn’t need to. You knew what his nights looked like.

You arched a brow. “Sounds like someone’s keeping score.”

“I’m keeping track,” he corrected, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And by my count, it’s been too long since we’ve had time for ourselves.”

Your lips curved, despite yourself. “For ourselves, hm?”

His eyes narrowed faintly, the way they did when he was amused but refusing to admit it. “You know exactly what I mean.”

You let your fingers toy with his tie, deliberately casual. “So you’re sulking because you haven't been properly spoiled?”

Bruce leaned down, mouth near your ear, voice roughened with honesty. “I’m saying I miss touching you.”

Your laugh was soft, sly. “Touching me, hm? You’ll have to be more specific, Mr. Wayne.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth, lingered, then dragged back up to your eyes. There was that pause, the one where you could practically hear him weighing the urge against his instinct for control.

“I miss your skin under my hands,” he said finally, voice low and deliberate. “I miss you in my bed, wearing nothing but that ring.”

Your laugh was wicked-soft. “Is that supposed to be subtle? You’ll have to try harder.”

His eyes narrowed, but instead of pulling back, he leaned in. His mouth ghosted yours without touching. “You think I’m subtle with you?”

The heat in his tone sent your stomach fluttering. You tried for composure, tracing the edge of his collar with your fingertip. “You try.”

Bruce’s hand slid down your spine, firm, claiming. “I don’t try. I want.”

Your breath hitched. “Oh? And what exactly do you want?”

His answer was low, deliberate, every syllable drawn out like a verdict. “You on this desk. Legs around me. That ring catching the light while I—”

Your gasp cut him off, fire rushing up your throat. “Bruce—”

“Still think I’m subtle?” His lips finally pressed to yours, hungry and deep, his tongue sweeping against yours with a force that stole your breath. His other hand gripped your thigh, hauling you closer until you felt the heat of him through the thin barrier of fabric.

You broke the kiss just long enough to whisper, breathless, “This office doesn’t lock.”

His smirk was dark, wolfish. “Then you’ll just have to be quiet.”

Bruce’s patience snapped first. He reached behind him, pressed a button, and with a low mechanical hum the blinds slid shut, swallowing the city lights until it was just the two of you and the dim glow of his office.

His mouth claimed yours before you could tease him again, rougher this time, his tongue sweeping deep until you whimpered against him. He caught the sound like a prize, pressing you flat against the cool wood of his desk as his hand slid higher, fingers spreading over your thigh.

Your ring scraped against his collar as you clutched at him, pulling him closer, closer. His teeth grazed your bottom lip before he sucked it into his mouth, a low groan vibrating from his chest.

“Bruce—” Your voice broke on his name, half a moan, half a plea.

He pulled back just far enough to smirk against your swollen mouth. “So much for quiet.”

Heat coiled through you, dizzying, until instinct had you shifting beneath him; arching, pressing closer, greedy for more. The small movement tilted your body just enough that your eyes strayed past his shoulder, toward the glass door.

A figure stood beyond the blinds. Tall, rigid, unmoving. Its outline fractured by the slats, but wrong in ways your brain tripped over; the shoulders pitched too high, the neck angled too stiff, like a puppet forced upright by invisible strings.

Every nerve in your body screamed. The warmth of Bruce’s mouth and hands evaporated, replaced by a cold dread that rooted you to the desk.

“Stop.” The word ripped out sharper than you meant. You shoved at his chest, panic sparking in your limbs.

He drew back instantly, eyes narrowing, following your gaze to the door. But by then the corridor was empty, washed in fluorescent hum.

Still, your skin crawled, because what you’d seen hadn’t been a trick of the light. It had been watching. It had been wrong.

Bruce drew away at once, hands lifted, eyes searching yours. The heat in his face cooled into worry. “Are you okay?” His voice was low, careful.

You tried to answer, but the words jammed in your throat. Your chest tightened instead, breath stuttering shallow and fast. The room tilted faintly, like the air had thinned.

“Hey. Easy.” He crouched in front of you, hand hovering before settling lightly against your knee, grounding. His other hand rose to cup your cheek, thumb brushing as he studied you with that steady, unshakable focus. “Breathe with me. Right here. Just you and me.”

You shook your head, trembling, the silence pressing heavier, your throat refusing to open.

“Look at me,” he coaxed, forehead dipping until his was almost against yours. “In,” he whispered, drawing a slow breath, waiting until you matched him. “Now out. That’s it.”

Little by little, the lock in your chest loosened, enough for you to stammer, “There—someone—at the door. Just… watching.”

The shift in him was immediate. The fiancé’s tenderness didn’t vanish, but something colder slid into his gaze, the calculation you knew too well. Batman, listening beneath the concern. He stood, spine taut, eyes flicking toward the blinds, then back to you. “Stay here,” he said softly. “I’ll check the cameras.”

Your hand shot out, clutching his wrist, your grip shaking but iron-strong. “Please don’t leave me. It’s just stress. Work, rehearsals… I’m stretched too thin. That’s all.”

His jaw ticked, doubt flickering plain in his eyes. Still, he sat back beside you, arm sliding around your shoulders, pulling you against him.

“Then we’ll sit here until you can breathe easy again,” he said, voice steady, final. “But I’m not leaving you alone.”

And even as warmth bled back into your body, the memory of that still, wrong silhouette clung cold to your skin.

The silence stretched, broken only by the hum of the city muted behind the blinds. Finally, Bruce pressed his lips to your hairline, voice quiet but firm. “Stay with me tonight.” The words landed heavy, more vow than request.

You closed your eyes, leaning into the warmth of him even as your chest pinched again. “I can’t.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, brows drawn.

“Rehearsals,” you said, throat tight. “Tomorrow’s the debut. I can’t miss a second now, not when everything depends on it.”

His jaw ticked. The shadow of Batman flickered over his face, the part of him that didn’t negotiate with danger. “Your safety comes first.”

“My career does too.” You tried for a smile, weak but stubborn. “This is what I’ve worked for. One more night. That’s all.”

Bruce didn’t argue. Not out loud. But his silence, the way his thumb stilled against your arm, told you he didn’t buy your calm, didn’t trust the reassurance. But he held you close a moment longer, the tension in his chest obvious in the steady thud under your cheek. Finally, he exhaled, the sound heavy, resigned. “Okay,” he said, brushing his lips across your head. “But you call me. Every chance you get. I want to hear your voice. I want to know you’re okay.”

You tilted your head back, meeting his eyes. The steel in them was hard to argue with, but beneath it was something like fear, threaded with love.

A faint smile curved your lips. “I’ll call. Between scenes, between breaks… you’ll get sick of me.”

“Not possible.” His thumb traced the line of your jaw, lingering at the corner of your mouth. “Humor me.”

“I always do,” you teased softly, though your voice shook at the edges.

His gaze lingered, searching, like he wanted to lock you in place with more than words. But instead he kissed your forehead, lingering there, and let it go. “Tomorrow,” he murmured, quiet and certain. “I’ll be watching.”

Bruce didn’t argue further when you insisted on rehearsal. He only drove you there himself, one hand firm around yours the whole ride, eyes on every shadow as if daring them to move. At the theater doors, you kissed his cheek, promised again you’d call. He lingered until you disappeared inside, shoulders squared against the night. Only then did he let the mask slip back into place because the city was waiting.

By the time he reached the Cave, Bruce Wayne was gone. Armor replaced cloth, Kevlar sealed over skin. The cowl came down, and with it the last trace of softness. He became what Gotham demanded.

The comm in his ear snapped alive as he vaulted into the Batmobile. Gordon’s voice carried through the static, ragged with smoke and fatigue.

“Batman. Another body.”

His gloved hands stilled over the controls. “Where?”

“Rooftop on Burnley. Same staging. Same cuts. That’s ten in two weeks.”

His jaw tightened beneath the cowl. Ten victims.

“Send me the coordinates,” he growled.

The Batmobile roared forward, wheels screaming against concrete, the Cave swallowed in darkness behind him.

The rooftop was quiet in that way Gotham only managed at night; too quiet, like the city holding its breath. Rain beaded along the tar, broken only by the harsh glow of police lamps and the pale sheet covering the victim.

Batman’s boots barely whispered as he crossed over. Gordon was already there, hunched in his trench coat, cigarette clinging to his lip. His face was carved in tired lines that the smoke didn’t soften.

He lifted the corner of the sheet. “Number ten.” His voice was low, gravel dragged over stone.

Batman’s jaw tightened, the sight clawing at him. She hadn’t simply been killed; she’d been prepared. A bridal veil lay over her face, lace clinging to the waxy sheen of cooling flesh. Crimson smeared her lips, too heavy, bleeding at the edges like a child’s attempt at beauty. Her hands were folded delicately over her stomach, but the left betrayed the truth. The ring gleamed, perfectly fitted, yet the finger beneath was ravaged; skin split, nail half torn away, the knuckle grotesquely swollen. She had fought. Fought until she couldn’t. And in the end, he’d forced the promise onto her hand, sealing her as his bride even in death.

Gordon let the sheet fall, the fabric whispering as it slid back down. “You see it too.”

Batman’s silence was answer enough.

“Same look on every one of ’em,” Gordon pressed. “Pretty clothes, the veil, the makeup. It’s like,” He cut himself off, thumb tapping restless against his lighter before he finally flicked it open. The flame bloomed, then guttered as he lit another cigarette. “It’s like he’s dressing them for a wedding. Ten bodies, two weeks. Tell me you’ve got some kind of correlation. Victimology, type, something.”

Batman crouched. The veil was hand-stitched, uneven in the corners, thread old. Not random. A pattern with purpose. He could see the faint bruising around the wrists but no struggle. Voluntary stillness, or fear so deep it rooted them in place.

“Female. Late twenties to early forties. Different backgrounds, no shared employment, no common addresses,” he said, his voice flat, clinical. But the words carried a weight. “The similarities are in the staging.”

Gordon exhaled smoke into the night. “So it’s not about who they were. It’s about what he wants them to be.”

Batman’s eyes narrowed. “A bride.”

The word hung between them like ash.

Gordon shook his head, muttering under his breath. “Monsters don’t crawl out from under the bed, they crawl out of this damn city. Gotham breeds the worst of ’em.” He glanced back at Batman, the brim of his glasses catching the lamp-light.

Gordon flicked ash into the gutter. He shook his head, disgust etched deep. “Every single one, like he’s trying to force them into a marriage that doesn’t exist.”

Batman’s gloved hand hovered over the veil, stopping just short of touching it. “He’s not satisfied. That’s why he keeps going. He’s practicing.”

Gordon exhaled smoke, bitter. “Practicing for what?”

The Dark Knight rose, cape dripping, a silhouette against the rotting neon skyline. His answer was gravel dragged over stone. “For when he finds the one that fits.”

Gordon muttered a curse under his breath, shoving his hands deeper into his coat pockets. “So until then, he keeps killing. That’s the headline.”

Batman turned away, gaze sweeping Gotham’s jagged horizon. “Until then, no woman in this city is safe.”

And the rain kept falling, harder now, like Gotham itself was mourning number ten.

Batman stood at the far edge of the roof, rain sluicing off his cape. Gordon’s voice carried behind him, gruff and steady as he ordered uniforms to bag the body. But Batman’s focus had narrowed to the glow of his gauntlet.

One dot pulsed on the map overlay. Your signal. Still at the Opera House. Still moving. Safe.

The tight coil in his chest loosened by a fraction until the phone buzzed against his hip, sharp and out of place here among the dead. He checked it without thinking.

You: Rehearsal’s over. Building’s so quiet it’s creepy. Come haunt me, Darkling?

For half a second, the rain, the body, Gotham itself, all of it fell away. Only the word burned in his vision. Darkling. Your name for him. Yours alone. It almost drew a sound out of him, something too close to a laugh, too close to warmth, but he swallowed it. He didn’t answer. Not here, not in the cowl. But he kept the screen open longer than he should have, thumb hovering over your name before the gauntlet snapped shut.

“Batman.” Gordon’s voice cracked the silence. He came up beside him, trench coat heavy with rain. “I need your call. Do we keep this under wraps, or release it? Ten women dead. Every one posed like a bride. The city’s already whispering. We make it official, every woman in Gotham goes home terrified.”

Batman closed the gauntlet, slow, deliberate. “Not yet.”

Gordon’s jaw worked. “So we wait until it’s eleven? Twelve? How long before panic is better than silence?”

“The killer wants attention,” Batman said flatly. “We give him the headlines, he escalates. Let me find him first.”

Gordon stared at him, cigarette burning low between his fingers. Rain hissed in the space between them. “Then for God’s sake, find him quick. Because he’s not slowing down.”

Batman turned away, cape dragging in the wind. But your words still echoed under the cowl, softer than thunder, sharper than Gordon’s warning.

Come haunt me, Darkling.

The Opera House was a cavern after hours. Without the other performers filling the wings with chatter, the place became something else entirely. Every shadow stretched longer. Every sound echoed too loud.

You sat at the edge of the stage, gown pooled around your legs, music sheets scattered at your side. The only light came from a single stage lamp overhead, turning the rest of the hall into black void. Your voice rose into it anyway. Low at first, then swelling with the confidence you’d built over weeks of rehearsal. Notes soared into the rafters, bounced back to you from velvet seats that waited empty.

It should’ve felt triumphant. It didn’t. Every pause between verses made your skin crawl, like silence pressing too close. Your eyes kept dragging toward the aisles, half-expecting to catch someone moving in the dark rows.

You tried again. One more run-through, just to hear it clean.

The last note faded into the cavernous dark. You were gathering your sheet music when something glinted at the far end of the aisle. Just a pinprick of light, like metal catching the stage lamp.

Your stomach tightened, but curiosity tugged you forward. Step by step, shoes whispering against the wood, you left the safety of the stage and descended into the velvet silence.

It was a ring. An old one; vintage platinum band, ornate setting, the kind of craftsmanship you only saw in antique shops. The diamond winked at you under the lone beam.

You crouched, lifting it carefully between your fingers. “Maybe one of the crew left it,” you murmured, voice thin in the emptiness. But the thought barely stuck. It was too beautiful, too deliberate.

On impulse, you slid your own engagement ring free, turning it carefully in your palm before trying the vintage band. It fit perfectly.

Your breath caught. You raised your hand, watching the way the light kissed over the gem, how it seemed made for you—A shadow twitched at the edge of your vision, not drifting but leaning closer. Your chest seized. The ring slipped from your hand and hit the floor with a sharp, echoing clatter that cracked the silence wide open. You stumbled back, heart jackhammering, lungs clawing for air. The hall stretched empty, stage wings yawning black, yet the dark pressed in, heavy, alive. A sour tang stung your nose, metallic, wrong. And beneath the hush of the theater, a scrape, a foot dragging, deliberate before it stopped. Too sudden. Too near. Watching. Waiting.

You bolted for the stage, nearly tripping as you grabbed your bag, fumbling until your fingers found the taser Bruce had given you. You shoved out through the side door and into the night air, lungs heaving, rooftop wind slicing against your skin.

“Stress,” you whispered to yourself, taser shaking in your grip. “It’s just stress.”

Then came the footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Each one deliberate, echoing off stone until your pulse climbed into your throat.You spun, taser crackling, ready to strike until a gloved hand shot out, catching your wrist before you could pull the trigger. Firm, but careful, the pressure steady enough to stop the shake.

“Hey,” his voice rumbled, low but softer than the storm. “It’s just me.” The cape swept into the light, swallowing the rooftop glow as the cowl tilted toward you. The taser still buzzed weakly in your grip, but his hand stayed wrapped around your wrist, grounding you, keeping you from unraveling. “You’re safe.”

Relief surged, sharp and shaky. You let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “Damn it, B. Scared me half to death. Guess that’s what I get for wandering around an empty theater at midnight.”

He didn’t let go right away, eyes narrowing under the mask. “And what happens if it isn’t me next time?”

You rolled your eyes, trying to play it off as you lowered the taser. “Then I light ’em up and call you after. Relax. It’s Gotham… you never know.”

His jaw stayed tight under the cowl, words clipped. “That’s not good enough.”

You slipped the taser into your bag, forcing a lighter tone. “So what, you want me bubble-wrapped until curtain call? Not practical.”

His silence pressed heavier than the night. He was quieter but no less fierce, “I want you safe. That’s all I want.”

“You’re acting like I’m helpless. I can take care of myself.”

His hand caught your arm again, harder this time, not enough to hurt but enough to stop you cold. “This isn’t about what you can do,” he snapped, voice low and cutting. Rain slicked down the cowl, but his eyes burned through it. “Ten women are dead. Ten.”

You froze, his grip hot through the armor.

“I won’t add you to that count,” he growled. “So until this maniac is caught or in a grave, you’re not walking out of empty buildings at midnight. You’re not staying alone. You’ll stay at the Manor where I know you’re safe.”

Your throat worked, anger rising to meet his. “So that’s it? Orders now?”

His jaw locked, nostrils flaring. “Call it whatever you want. But I’m not watching you end up on a rooftop slab because I didn’t draw the line.”

“You want to protect me? Fine. But don’t strip me down to helpless just because I don’t wear armor.”

The rooftop air stilled, sharp between you both. His silence was a wall, but you didn’t blink.

His jaw flexed. “I gave Gotham everything I had, and it still took more. But you…” He shook his head, meeting your gaze. “You’re the one thing I refuse to let it take. That’s what this is. Not control. Not anger. Fear. Because if I lose you, I don’t come back from that.” He leaned closer, the cowl hiding almost everything but the truth in his tone. “I love you. Fiercely. Unreasonably. More than this city, more than the mission. And because I do, I’m terrified.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you pulled his hand up, pressing your mouth to the scarred leather of his knuckles. A kiss without heat, just steady contact, lingering until his grip loosened enough to prove he was listening. When you finally lifted your head, your voice was calmer. “I hear you. I’ll stay.” Then you guided his hand to your chest, pressing it over the thrum of your heart. “Feel that?” you whispered, lips brushing his knuckles. “That’s yours. I’m yours. Always, my Vesper.”

The cowl dipped until his forehead rested against yours, the breath between you damp with rain. For a moment, the storm and the city faded, just the two of you tethered there.

🥀🕯️Act I is finished. Roses for the stage, blood for the floor. See you in Act II. 🥀🕯️

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