Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rain came early to Gotham that morning—first as a whisper on the concrete, timid and almost gentle. But soon it grew heavier, fuller, more intent. Thin droplets became relentless blows, soaking the streets and washing over the city’s rot. A low, slate-gray sky pressed down on everything and everyone, as if the very atmosphere had grown tired of pretending. It was the kind of day that made the city seem like it wanted to drown itself.

Delilah Akhman stood there, caught among the hunched shoulders of black-clad elites, masked in mourning—people grieving more for inheritance than for the man himself. Around the open grave, everyone pretended to feel something. Perhaps she was pretending too. But at least her pretense came from a place that had once been real.

She didn’t cry. Didn’t blink. Didn’t move. She simply existed. Still, like another statue among the cemetery’s stone angels, slowly sinking into the mud. The words of the speaker—someone who had never truly known him—crumbled in the air, reaching her ears like muffled sounds heard underwater. Something about legacy, philanthropy, bravery. Words chosen with the careful precision of someone who intended to say nothing at all.

The rain didn’t bother her. She didn’t seek shelter, didn’t pull her coat tighter, didn’t lift a single finger to defend herself from the cold that came like skeletal hands, slipping beneath her skin, probing the joints where flesh folds into weakness. Her shoulders trembled, but not from any visible emotion—they trembled from exposure, laid bare, stripped of the comfort that denial once offered. Still, she remained. Steadfast. As if the sky itself had summoned her to be buried alongside the man now resting beneath that layer of wet earth—as if she wanted the weight of the world to press her down until nothing remained but silence.

Yes, the sky was gray. But the gray that clung to Delilah wasn’t the wet silver of clouds. It was a deeper shade, thick with old ash—remnants of fires long extinguished, promises burned away, griefs that had once blazed and then crumbled into dust. It was the color that lingers after mourning has devoured all that once held shape, leaving only the coldest substance behind: the remains of what was, and the haze of what will never be again.

Her mind—that, at least, was still moving. It raced, stumbled, scoured the corners she had long since locked away. And still, it couldn’t find what it wanted to feel.

Because the truth—the bare, cold, impertinent truth—was this: it wasn’t love that had dragged her there. No, it wasn’t some noble tribute to the man she once claimed to love. It was a fever. A burning impulse. A blind urge to see with her own eyes, to carve certainty into her flesh.

Because Bruce Wayne was dead.

And if that was true—if it was truly true—then something inside her had died as well. But unlike him, that part refused to be buried.

If he was really gone—gone for real, not just vanished like he so often did—then with him went the last flicker of something she had once almost believed in. The notion that maybe, just maybe, love could be enough. Not the kind from movies, with grand declarations and swelling music. But real love—the sick kind, the kind that survives long silences, unspoken words, flaws disguised as virtue. The kind of love that bleeds, but still beats.

That was the love she had with Bruce. Or almost had. She was never quite sure. Because he was like that too—almost. Almost present, almost honest, almost hers.

And even after the engagement fell apart—not with a fight, but with a slow, silent collapse no one dared stop—even after the months of silence, punishment disguised as protection, even after the hurt that had become her bedsheets, Delilah knew: she still loved him. The way one loves an old fire. You know it destroyed everything, but you can’t forget the light.

There was a part of her—stubborn, foolish—that still believed that maybe, one day, when the world finally stopped asking too much of them, they could try again. Be honest. Mean it. Say: I want you, even with everything that comes with you.

But now that day would never come.

There would never be reconciliation. Never a reckoning. No chance to reach for what had been broken and say: this could still be ours. Their love had become one of those objects too cracked to use but too beautiful to throw away. And now it was buried with him. Literally.

When the burial ended and people began to leave, in pairs or alone, their black umbrellas crawling through the cemetery like beetles, Delilah stayed behind. The only static point among the gravestones, like a woman abandoned by her own life. The rain still fell, colder now, harsher, sliding down her wet hair, her neck, her spine. And she didn’t move.

Until, suddenly, the rain stopped. Or rather, it stopped over her.

An umbrella appeared, raised beside her, a silent courtesy. She knew before she even looked. It was an old and familiar presence, and so she didn’t step away. The careful gesture, the absence of words, the kind of silence that carried genuine respect — everything in her recognized Alfred Pennyworth’s signature.

Delilah turned her gaze to him, still unmoving beneath the umbrella. Alfred didn’t look back. His eyes stayed fixed on the freshly turned earth, as if that was easier to face than her expression.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said, his voice softer than she remembered.

Delilah didn’t answer right away. Not because she didn’t know what to say, but because the words carried a taste of rust. She looked at the open wound in the ground, then back at him.

“I didn’t think it would make any difference,” she murmured.

Alfred nodded. A brief, resigned gesture, as if he had rehearsed it too.

“He would have…” he began, then stopped. He started over, firmer this time. “He would have liked knowing you came.”

Delilah let out a short, harsh laugh that didn’t belong in a place like this.

“No. He would’ve hated it. Bruce was always terrible with endings.”

Alfred nodded, as if he understood. Of course he understood. He always did. It had always been his job: to make sense of the wreckage Bruce Wayne left behind. And now, by extension, hers too.

“He spoke of you more than he let on,” Alfred said after a moment. “The kind of silence that speaks volumes. And not necessarily what one expects to hear.”

Delilah laughed, though it was a short, sharp sound—more spasm than joy.
“Let me guess. Guilty, regretful, and emotionally unavailable?”

Alfred arched a brow, that signature trace of well-measured British sarcasm on display. “In a way, Miss Akhman, he seemed… exceptionally available. To you.”

She frowned, looking at him like someone trying to solve a riddle.
“What do you mean?”

Alfred hesitated. Just for a second. But she caught it. It was rare to see Alfred hesitate. Rare enough to trigger an alarm.

“There are matters yet to be formalized,” he said, choosing each word with the same care he reserved for setting the temperature of tea. “Matters that will soon be made public.”

“Alfred. Say it.” Delilah crossed her arms, her voice sharper now.

He sighed, tired in a way that had nothing to do with age. “Part of what he left—well, most of it, actually—is in your name. Funds. Properties. Documents. Some not yet officially transferred. Others… already waiting for your signature.”

Delilah froze. The words didn’t register at first. They crashed against her mind like a glass wall—visible, yet too invisible to brace for.

“You’re telling me… he left everything to me?” Her voice wavered between disbelief and something darker, something that felt like anger with shame hiding underneath.

“I’m telling you that Bruce Wayne chose to trust you more than he trusted himself. Which, given his life, is no small thing,” Alfred replied, his eyes still fixed on the headstone.

“And no one thought that was strange?” Delilah laughed again, but this time it was bitter. “No one questioned why he’d leave everything to the ex-fiancée he hadn’t spoken to in months?”

Alfred finally looked at her. Not with judgment. But with sorrow.

“Master Bruce was many things. A good communicator was not one of them. But a coward? Never. This”— he gestured toward the grave “—was the crooked way he found to say he still loved you. That he trusted you to know what to do with what was left of him.”

Slowly, Alfred slipped his hand inside his dark jacket, as if about to pull out something that wasn’t meant to see the light of day. His movements were calm, deliberate, and when his hand reappeared, it was holding a white, rectangular envelope. Delilah said nothing, only watched. Her eyes followed the movement of his fingers, fixed on the paper the way one stares at an unloaded gun: knowing it can still do harm.

Alfred extended the envelope with the hand not holding the umbrella. The other remained steady, keeping the small bubble of shelter above them both, as if protecting her head was still part of that old contract he’d signed decades ago with the name Wayne on it.

“He asked me to give you this,” Alfred said, his voice so low it might have risen from the wet earth beneath their feet. A simple sentence, but spoken with the gravity of a verdict.

Delilah took the envelope between her fingers. The paper was damp, chilled. A few drops of rain, persistent enough to slip down the back edge of the umbrella, landed on the white surface, smearing the ink in the corner where the words “For Delilah” were written in Bruce’s familiar handwriting.

She felt the weight of its contents before she even measured it in her hands. Because it was never just the envelope. It was what it held — or worse, what it could unleash. A thin bundle of paper wrapped in layers of silence, guilt, and promises never kept. It was Bruce. Always Bruce.

Even in death, he still found a way to seep through the cracks of her life. Like a colorless gas, a poison that crept in unnoticed until breathing without it became impossible.

His presence was like mold: growing in the dark corners of the mind, spreading with time, taking over the walls.

She knew — with that uncomfortable clarity that only comes at funerals — there was no real escape. That even if she truly wanted to run — change countries, change names, shed her own skin — Bruce Wayne would still live somewhere folded inside her soul. It was a kind of prison she had helped build and now called memory.

“Read it when you’re home,” Alfred said, not as one offering advice but as one completing a final task. His voice carried that quiet gravity one doesn’t argue with — and Delilah recognized in it the same gentle authority that always surrounded her whenever Bruce was about to do something unforgivable.
“It was his last request.”

Of course it was. Bruce was the kind of man who planned his own ending the way one drafts a technical manual. Always five steps ahead. Always with a secret door out of his own death.

She slid the envelope into the pocket of her black overcoat. The paper met the fabric with a muffled sound. She drew in a deep breath, the kind that doesn’t bring relief, only postpones the inevitable. Her shoulders loosened out of instinct, not out of any real comfort. And so they stood there, she and Alfred, side by side, two figures drenched in silence, staring at the grave of the man who had shaped — and ruined — them both in his own way.

Delilah looked at the headstone with that mix of tenderness and resentment reserved for someone you love despite the damage. And then she understood: Bruce had always been ready to die. Like an arsonist, he lived as if he knew the fire would come. She just never imagined that, in the end, he’d leave her with the ashes.

Chapter Text

MONARCH THEATER — 4 YEARS AGO.

The grandeur of an opera could be measured not only by the sublime chords that filled the halls, but also by the restrained clinking of crystal glasses, the flutter of furs behind the curtains, the muffled laughter exchanged inside lavish boxes. It was, without a doubt, a spectacle both sonic and social—a display of wealth and taste, where old families gathered to reaffirm their standing among the elegant, under the solemn guise of culture and high art.

That night, the Monarch Theatre was filled to the very last seat. The great chandeliers gleamed faintly under the carefully dimmed light of the audience; the orchestra had already fallen silent, and on stage the singers surrendered themselves to the tragedy of the libretto with dramatic gestures and voices that soared to the furthest reaches of the domed ceiling. Yet, among the absorbed crowd, there was one man who did not share their devotion.

Seated in a half-lit box, Bruce Wayne maintained the impeccable poise of a gentleman of his standing, but his eyes—hidden in the shadow cast by the edge of the upper tier—did not follow the movements of the soprano. They were not fixed on the scene, nor attuned to the vibrato of the aria. Instead, they seemed to rest on some vague, invisible point in the darkness of the theater, as if waiting for something to emerge from the void. A restlessness moved through him in slow waves, like the muted creak of a door left ajar somewhere in the backstage of his mind. He was not there for the music—not truly.

He was a constant presence at operas, at galas, at the most prestigious theaters of the city—and the papers, ever enchanted by his enigmatic figure, delighted in reporting his punctual arrivals, his flawless tie, his polished smile. A true patron of the arts, they wrote. A cultured philanthropist, a modern dandy. That was what everyone saw—what everyone expected to see. And he, with the skill of a tragic actor, played the part with near inhuman precision. He would murmur compliments to the sopranos, offer shallow musings on baroque compositions, smile, make the occasional remark about set design or costume, drink the right champagne at the right time. And sometimes, only sometimes, he almost believed his own performance.

But not that night.

That night, the theater felt tighter. Darker. The elegance of the place rang hollow, as if the air itself was thick with ghosts only he could perceive. If he had a choice—if it were truly his—he would have preferred to be anywhere else, even buried in the solitary silence of the cave beneath the manor. He would not have been there that night. Nor on any other. For it was not mere silent boredom that kept him tied to that cushioned seat; it was the invisible weight of something far older, far more intimate.

The theater, with all its pomp and gold, its dark velvets and ornate mirrors, was to him a mausoleum disguised as halls. It was there, in a place much like this one, that the thread of his childhood had been brutally severed—and ever since, every performance, every lyrical note, every muffled laugh behind curtains had echoed like a funeral dirge in his memory.

Almost without realizing it, Bruce ran his damp palms over the linen of his black trousers, an automatic, restless gesture—far too human for a face carved in such impassivity. His eyes, distant until then, blinked a few times—and that small falter was enough to let the memory surface, sharp, vivid, merciless.

The dry crack of a gunshot still echoed in his mind, even after so many years. The memory imposed itself with brutal clarity—his mother’s hand clutching his, his father’s coat stained with blood, their smiles only moments before, illuminated by the stage of Mephistopheles.

He blinked again, firmly, as if to dispel the haze of remembrance, but it was useless. It was all still there. Too alive, too tangible. As if, somewhere within the shadows of the theater, the boy he had once been still waited for it all to end differently.

Bruce did not notice he had risen until his feet were already carrying him out of the box, his long, silent strides devouring the half-lit corridor like a man in flight. His hand, almost unconsciously, loosened the perfect knot of his tie, as if easing a rope around his neck. To his left, Sharon—the model who had agreed to accompany him that evening—called his name in a sweet, worried voice, but the sound died in the air before it truly reached him. He kept walking, without looking back, as if each step were the only way to maintain control.

He only stopped when he pushed open the heavy door of the men’s restroom. The silence there was different—muffled, almost comforting. Like a long pause between acts. And for the first time that night, Bruce felt as though he could breathe again. Not well. But enough.

He moved toward the sink, jaw still locked, turned the faucet, and let the water run. First over his hands. Then over his wrists. Mechanical, repetitive motions, as if he were performing some ancient ritual—as if it might be enough to cleanse him. As if the water could wash away the blood that his mind, stubborn and merciless, projected onto everything his eyes touched.

Breathless, he felt suffocated inside the tailored suit—not because of its cut, but because of the prison it represented. An elegant, shadowed, silent prison, built by his own hands and upheld by his own guilt.

He bent slightly over the sink, and in a hesitant gesture, splashed a handful of water across his face. Then he lifted his gaze. And what stared back at him was not just his reflection.

It was a man divided between two worlds, a prisoner of the past, a permanent visitor to a trauma that never faded. Behind his own eyes, there was still the boy. The boy in the alley. The boy and the blood. The boy and the echo of a gunshot.

And the theater—that damned theater—was nothing more than the stage where it all replayed.

He released a deep breath, too heavy for his chest to contain. A sigh that spoke of exhaustion, of too many memories, of nights that never ended the way they should. Then he turned away from the mirror, for he had already seen enough—of himself, and of what lay hidden behind the impeccable poise and the expensive suit.

With restrained, efficient gestures, he dried his hands and face with a cotton towel that felt far too soft for the hardness he carried inside. And when he believed he had gathered enough of himself to once again look like the man everyone expected to see—the billionaire, the philanthropist, the handsome escort to the equally beautiful woman—he left the restroom and returned to the red-carpeted corridor, where each muffled step felt like a measure from an old score he no longer knew how to rewrite.

That was when something made him stop.

In the opposite direction of the boxes, two figures caught his attention: a man and a woman. The man was dragging her by the arm, forceful and hurried. She tried to resist, her body tense, her legs stumbling to keep pace with his stride.

“Let me go,” she said—not pleading, but demanding.
“Shut up!” came the reply, sharp and cutting.

And in the blink of an eye, they both disappeared through a side exit.

Bruce froze for a moment, the muscles beneath his already suffocating suit tightening. That… was not just strange. It was wrong. The way she resisted. The tone in his voice. The haste. The direction.

It was not the kind of thing he could ignore.

The instinct—that old, unwelcome, persistent guest that had never left his soul—stirred suddenly, echoing through forgotten catacombs within him. It was a silent, almost tangible urgency coursing through his entire body; the need to act, to stop the inevitable before it could unfold. For the worst, Bruce knew better than anyone, required nothing more than a few seconds of silence to be born, to grow, to take hold. And Bruce, more than any other man, understood the mortal weight of that silence.

So instead of returning to the discreet comfort of his box, he let the unease guide him. He followed them—always a few paces behind, a shadow among shadows—and soon found himself in a silent pursuit leading to the rear exit of the Monarch. The door slammed shut with a dry thud, echoing down the narrow corridor.

The voices outside were muffled, distorted, but still audible. They argued. Words collided in disorder, heated, almost unrecognizable. And yet, a few syllables rose above the chaos, and Bruce, attentive as a confessor, caught two of them: money… and lack of respect.

With extreme caution, as though he might scare off an apparition, he pushed the door and peered outside. All he saw were silhouettes cast upon the ground, shadows shifting in a tense ballet. Suddenly, the man lunged at the woman with brutal force. That was the moment Bruce broke his hesitation—hurling himself forward, ready to defend her.

But then, the unexpected happened: swift, steady, merciless, she didn’t need him. With a precise kick to his groin, she made the attacker fold. Before he could catch his breath, her fist struck his face with devastating accuracy. The man crumpled, unconscious, collapsing to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

Bruce remained still for a moment, suspended between the shadow and the dim light of the night. It wasn’t the strength of the blow, nor the woman’s unexpected skill, that kept him frozen—it was the silent astonishment of witnessing something that defied his very nature. He, who had always thrown himself into danger as the lone shield against chaos, now found himself reduced to a mere spectator, a witness to a strength that was not his own.

The woman straightened, breathing steadily, and for a brief moment the moonlight brushed her face as she tucked a strand of hair behind her cheek. It wasn’t only beauty that held him—there was in her a quiet insolence, a flame that refused to bow to fear. Bruce felt, then, an inner tremor, as if the carefully built walls of his solitude had cracked with the same ease that the attacker had collapsed to the ground.

She turned toward him, eyes of emerald still burning from the fight, and regarded him without a word. It was as if time, fickle and mischievous, had decided to stretch that instant beyond reason, leaving them suspended in a silence that spoke louder than any voice. Bruce, still breathless from a battle he had not fought, found himself captive to that gaze.

He couldn’t tell how long the silence lasted. It might have been seconds, it might have been centuries. Only when she arched one eyebrow—a gesture of delicate, almost ironic impatience—did he come back to his senses.

“Are you going to stand there?” Her voice, firm and clear, cut through the space between them like a blade wrapped in silk. “Or did you just come to applaud?”

The irony, so unexpected, split his gravity like a spark. Bruce allowed a restrained, rare smile to surface—one that looked almost out of place on his face. He stepped forward once, careful not to close the distance entirely.

“I was just about to intervene,” he said in a low tone, almost conspiratorial. “But it seems you didn’t need me.”

She tilted her head, studying him carefully. A flicker of amusement played across her lips, painted a deep shade of red.

“Intervene?” she repeated, crossing her arms. “Looks like chivalry isn’t dead in Gotham… just a little slow.”

As if the man sprawled unconscious on the ground were nothing more than a negligible detail, and the moment itself no more than another fragment of the night, she opened the small purse hanging from her shoulder. With precise movements, she pulled out a pack of cigarettes and drew one out, placing it between her lips. From the purse came a metal lighter; she tried to spark it, casual in her concentration, though failing a few times.

The scene was strangely captivating: all the elegance and poise that seemed to radiate from her contrasted with the mundane, almost rebellious act of smoking there, in front of the man she had felled with a single punch. Bruce watched every detail, absorbing that image as if it were the first time the world had ever shown him something like it.

The black dress she wore fell in matte satin all the way to the floor, gliding like liquid shadow with every movement. A high side slit, suggestive without ever tipping into vulgarity, revealed her leg in contrast to the slender stilettos. Thin straps framed a plunging V neckline, balanced by subtle graphite embroidery that caught the ambient light like shards of glass. The partially open back offered a glimpse of skin—elegant without ostentation. Everything about her seemed like a perfect composition of strength and grace, and Bruce found himself quietly admiring every detail, hypnotized by the contrast between the danger she had just faced and the composure she still carried.

When she failed once more to light the cigarette, Bruce stepped forward—hands still in the pockets of his dark tailored trousers—closing the distance at an unhurried pace, careful not to intrude.

“If you don’t mind,” he said, his voice low and measured as he gently took the lighter from her hands, leaving room for her to refuse, “I could do that for you.”

She lifted her green eyes to him, curiosity and a trace of challenge glinting there. Without a word, she let him take it.

“Now tell me,” Bruce continued, his calm tone at odds with the tension still humming in the air, “why was that man trying to attack you?”

She gave a short laugh—a low sound, but one that spread through the space like a teasing spark. The cigarette finally caught when Bruce tilted the flame, and for an instant she savored the triumph of a slow drag, exhaling the smoke as though returning to the world only what she chose.

“You’re always this direct, Mister…?” She arched her brow again, but this time with a crooked smile, her mouth curving as if it held more secrets than she intended to share.

Bruce hesitated for a fraction of a second. He knew that, under normal circumstances, his name preceded his presence—it was spoken before he even entered a room. But here, standing beneath the dim light beside an unconscious man, that title meant nothing. Still, the answer slipped out in a low, steady tone:

“Wayne. Bruce Wayne.”

The way she looked at him then, eyes half-lidded with a mocking gleam, made it clear she wasn’t impressed. Not at all.

“Well. Gotham’s golden prince himself.” The irony in her voice was soft but delicious, like silk sheathing a blade. She blew the smoke upward, deliberately away from him, then tilted her body slightly, studying him as though he were a portrait that didn’t quite fit its frame. “And here I thought you only showed up in society pages and charity galas.”

Bruce held her gaze, his jaw tight enough to betray that he wasn’t used to being treated like a footnote in someone else’s story. And yet, the part of him that didn’t quite know whether to frown or smile at her audacity… leaned dangerously toward the smile.

“Maybe I’ve got more than one talent,” he countered, his tone clipped but not cold. A flicker of almost-amusement passed through his eyes. “Including being in the right place at the right time.”

She tilted her head, as if conceding half a point, before taking another lazy drag from the cigarette.

“‘Right place’ is a generous way to describe a filthy alley behind the Monarch, with an unconscious man at your feet.” She gestured toward the body sprawled on the ground, whose recovery so far had amounted to a questionable, wheezing snore. “But if it makes you feel better, we can pretend it was fate.”

Bruce studied her like a puzzle with too many layers—and the more he looked, the more aware he became of the contradiction she embodied: lethal strength wrapped in almost-sweet irony, polished beauty laced with precise brutality.

“Maybe it was,” he said at last, voice low, letting the word fate hang between them like smoke.

She laughed again—this time genuinely, the sound warm, unexpectedly intimate. Then she extended her free hand, like someone finally revealing a decisive card, having decided he’d earned it.

“Delilah.” The name slipped from her lips like a selective confession—short, calculated, but still offered. “And for the record, Bruce Wayne… I didn’t need you.”

“I noticed,” he replied without hesitation, taking the hand she offered. His grip was firm enough to be respectful, yet carried an uncommon delicacy for hands marked by calluses and scars. Her fingers, warm and soft, were adorned with slender, glinting rings that seemed made for her skin. Bruce noticed—and for an instant, let himself appreciate the stark contrast between his roughness and her grace. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t want to be around next time.”

Delilah measured him with sharp, clear eyes, weighing the weight of his words, as though Gotham’s night itself were a silent witness to a promise heavier than mere intent.

A final breath of smoke drifted from her lips, and with a subtle, challenging, almost indulgent curl of her mouth, she smiled.

“We’ll see.”

SAINT ROCH PENTHOUSE — PRESENT DAY.

 

Moonlight spilled through the window in timid waves, unwilling to illuminate the room in its entirety. It preferred to linger on chosen corners: the outline of the vanity, the curve of an armchair, the almost insolent gleam of the crystal vase on the bedside table. The rest remained in shadow, keeping its secrets. All the lamps were off, and the only sound came from the television across the room—too low to disturb, yet loud enough to remind her it was there. The atmosphere carried a solemn heaviness, as if the room itself were a shrine consecrated to the memories weighing on its inhabitants.

Delilah, wrapped in a red silk robe that glowed faintly under the lunar light, sat motionless on the bed. The sheets around her—white, stretched tight, immaculate—stood in stark contrast to the turmoil igniting her mind. Between her delicate hands, steady despite the tremor coursing within, lay a brown pamphlet. And upon that worn sheet of paper, her emerald eyes fixed with a feverish intensity, as if every word printed on it had the power to claim her entirely.

It was the same invitation. The very same that had appeared in her life four years earlier, announcing the opera at the Monarch Theater. Not a line altered, not a detail missing. As though time itself, in some cruel whim, had returned not only the paper but also the very shadow of the memories she had tried to bury ever since.

Six months. Six long months breathing the pure, clean air that promised her freedom, even if, deep down, she longed for the smoke that once wrapped around her. Bruce. Always Bruce. He still lived in her memory, an insistent echo no effort could silence. She had tried to forget him, to exorcise the memory of his gaze and his words, but there, that night, a single scrap of paper had once more torn open the fragile seams of her resolve. She had found it lying on the bed after her bath, as if someone—or something—had deliberately placed it there, trapping her again in the prison of her own recollections.

And, as if that weren’t enough, on the yellowed back there was a note in red ink, hurried letters slashing across the paper with brutal force:

"Not everyone who smiles at your side wants to see you alive and well. Be careful."

The chill that raced down her spine did not come from the night air. Delilah didn’t know who had written it. She didn’t know the reason, nor the reach of it. She only felt that those words were more than a warning—they were an omen. And at the same time, she couldn’t stop thinking about all the signs that had, for months, appeared like pieces of some cruel puzzle: the roses anonymously left on the window of her penthouse, the inexplicable little incidents beginning to ripple through her company, the faint, almost imperceptible sounds that fed the constant sensation of being watched. Until then, she had convinced herself it was only paranoia. But now… now the invitation seemed to mock her attempt at denial.

At that instant, as if the television itself conspired to give shape to her thoughts, a deep voice from the news broadcast cut through the silence. Delilah reached for the remote and raised the volume with a subtle movement of her fingers, the pale light of the screen casting itself across her tense features.

“Good evening. The controversy surrounding the alleged embezzlement of funds from Wayne Enterprises, which shook the local economy last week, has come to an end. In a public statement broadcast just moments ago, businessman Leonard Haffner admitted that his accusations were false, the result of a personal feud disguised as a denunciation. Haffner issued a formal apology to the company’s board and confessed that he had deliberately sought to damage the corporation’s image. The case is now closed, and Wayne Enterprises’ reputation has been restored. Current president, Delilah Akhman, has yet to make a statement…”

Her eyes, once locked on the pamphlet, now followed every word of the news anchor. The invitation rested in her lap like an unbearable weight, yet she didn’t dare move it away. It was as though she were trapped between two mirrors: on one side, the past that refused to stay buried; on the other, the present demanding every ounce of her strength not to collapse.

The front door opened slowly, releasing a sharp creak that echoed through the sleeping apartment. Delilah, however, remained motionless. She didn’t rise from the bed, didn’t turn her eyes from the wavering glow of the television, as if the figure soon to appear was nothing more than another shadow crossing the threshold of her restless night. The bedroom doorknob turned, and Harvey Dent appeared in the doorway, his expression marked by the usual brand of elegant impatience that distinguished him.

“Delilah… you’re not dressed yet?” he asked, striding into the room with steps that betrayed restrained urgency. He glanced at his watch with an automatic gesture before adding, in a tone balanced between affection and command: “We leave in fifteen minutes, darling.”

With a languid motion, Delilah set the remote down upon the immaculate sheets, but her piercing green eyes remained fixed on the screen. Her voice—serene, yet carrying an undercurrent of tension—broke the air before she even bothered to face him.

“Did you see that Leonard Haffner finally spoke about his past accusations?”

Harvey stopped mid-step, caught off guard by the turn in conversation. His gaze shifted to the television she was watching with such intensity, and the faintest crease appeared between his brows.

“Yes… I saw it earlier,” he answered, his tone one of measured certainty. “It seems he finally came to his senses and dropped those lies.”

“I wonder… why.” Delilah’s voice cut through the silence like a thin blade.

“Because he realized he had nothing to gain by trying to harm you,” Harvey replied swiftly.

At last, she turned her eyes from the screen to meet his. Her gaze, sharp and questioning, locked onto his.

“Don’t be naïve, Harvey. He had everything to gain… if he truly had the evidence he claimed.”

Harvey’s brown eyes held hers with calculated steadiness. A faint smile—whether scornful or patient—curved across his lips.

“You said it yourself: if he had. But he didn’t. And we both know that.”

Delilah rose in one deliberate movement. Her bare feet touched the cold floor as she stepped closer, her posture straight and controlled, though her voice carried the edge of defiance.

“Even so, doesn’t it seem suspicious? Twenty years in that company, Harvey.” Her tone wavered between logic and incredulity. “Twenty years, and he would simply risk everything on false accusations? I’ve only been leading Wayne Enterprises for a few months. If he had something truly solid, it wouldn’t make sense to drag my name into it… but don’t you think someone with that much time inside the company would know more than he’s letting on?”

Harvey sighed, stepping closer until his hands rested gently on her shoulders. The pressure was light, almost comforting, yet carried a firmness that felt more like restraint than affection.

“Delilah, you’re overthinking this.” His voice—low, deep—slipped into the tone of a man accustomed to being heard without contradiction, an expert who expected his word to settle the matter. “Some people just want to see you fall. They want to keep prodding the wound until it bleeds. It’s not about logic—it’s about envy.”

She turned her gaze aside for a moment, as if tempted to believe him, yet something within her remained unyielding.

“I know. But still…”

“Besides—” Harvey hurried to interject, leaning in to catch her eyes once more, “you yourself said Leonard was close to those board members who fought tooth and nail to block your presidency. The very ones who tried to turn their backs on Bruce’s final wish.”

Delilah was slow to respond, but at last she nodded. “Yes. He was.”

Harvey’s lips curved in satisfaction, as though closing a simple equation. “Exactly. That alone should be proof enough. He wasn’t trustworthy, Delilah. He never was.”

She stood unmoving before his words, as though the weight of his certainty wasn’t enough to dispel the shadows already rooted in her mind. His touch on her shoulders appeared firm, convincing at first glance, but beneath the surface it felt more like an attempt to impose a convenient truth than to soothe a legitimate doubt.

“Maybe…” she murmured, so softly it nearly dissolved into the faint hum of the television. Yet her gaze did not soften; it remained locked on his—green against brown, two wills silently testing their strength.

Harvey’s smile broke the gravity of the moment, gentle and serene, before his hands rose to frame her face. His touch was tender, free of hardness, as though the world had never demanded violence of his hands. No roughness, no scars—only warmth. In every way, Harvey seemed the opposite of Bruce. Where Bruce restrained himself in each gesture, measuring out delicacy with care, Harvey moved with ease. His gentleness was not calculated—it was inherent. And it was always there, constant, visible to her.

“Don’t waste your energy on this, my love,” he murmured, voice soft, soothing. “There’s nothing left to fear. Trust me. It’s just another matter closed.”

Delilah drew in a long breath, like one surrendering to the calm of a tide after days of storm. She nodded, even though some part of her still resisted. For now, she chose to believe him.

Satisfied, Harvey leaned down and kissed her. The kiss was slow, deliberate, crafted to strip each worry from her, as if his lips could persuade where words might fail. Her hands rose to rest against the firm plane of his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. One of his hands slid into her dark hair, curling at the nape of her neck, while the other found the curve of her waist—steady, protective.

And for a moment, that was all that remained: his warmth, his safety, the world reduced to two bodies unwilling to let go of each other.

When the kiss finally broke, Delilah kept her eyes closed, as if she could still prolong the calm flowing over her skin. The void left by the absence of Harvey’s lips was immediate—an unexpected chill that coursed through her body. He, however, seemed satisfied as he drew back, his features firm, duty always outweighing desire.

“Now, get dressed. Or we’ll be even later,” he said, his tone soft but laced with practicality.

Delilah let out a faint groan, leaning against his chest as though she might persuade him through touch, through warmth.

“Or,” she murmured, her eyes narrowing, a sly smile curving her lips, “we could just stay home and enjoy the night another way.”

Harvey arched a brow, amused and indulgent at once.

“Tempting, darling. But you know I have to be there. It’s important if I’m to run for mayor next year.”

And before she could protest, he stole a brief kiss from her lips—a restrained promise, a hurried farewell.

“Please, get dressed. I need you by my side.”

The sigh she released was heavy, dense, and yet Delilah managed to mask her discontent.

“Of course. I’ll get ready,” she replied, flatly.

“I’ll be waiting in the living room, my love,” Harvey said, leaning in once more to brush his lips against her temple. To any casual observer, the gesture would have seemed tender. To her, it felt almost rehearsed. “Don’t be long.”

Then he turned his back on her and crossed the doorway, the door closing with a sharp sound that left her plunged into the dim solitude of the bedroom. Alone now, accompanied only by the echo of her own thoughts, Delilah followed his every movement with her eyes until he was gone. And when there was nothing left to look at, her fingers moved of their own accord: her left hand slid toward the engagement ring on her right—a gift from Harvey, only two months earlier. She rolled it between her fingers, pensive, as if searching for an answer that refused to come.

And yet, her gaze fell once more on the abandoned pamphlet from the Monarch Theater. The red letters, harsh and impersonal, seemed to flicker in the silence. They pursued her. Called to her. And, somehow, inflicted a torment so deep that no word of comfort from Harvey could ever erase the marks already etched into her mind.

Chapter Text

WAYNE MANOR — 4 YEARS AGO

He was obsessed.

Not in that romantic, picturesque way you see in old movies—flowers, serenades, and happy endings. No. It was closer to a fever that never broke, a constant weight pressing down on his chest. Bruce tried to ignore it, the same way he did with every inconvenient emotion, but it always came back when night fell over Gotham. The city slept. He didn’t. And admitting to himself that he had no control over it… well, that gave him an almost physical discomfort.

Ever since that night at the Monarch Theatre, it was as if she had slipped into his peripheral vision and refused to leave. It didn’t matter where he was—at a charity gala, in a photograph buried in the social pages, or at the bottom of a donor list—there was her name. Delilah. At first, he thought it was coincidence. But coincidences didn’t usually make his heart race.

He began seeking her out, even if he refused to admit that’s what he was doing. He watched her from a distance, silent, the way he did with almost everything and everyone. He saw her in the marble halls of the elite, where people laughed too loudly and pretended not to see the city rotting outside. And he saw her in the dark alleys of Crime Alley, kneeling to tie a child’s bandage. Delilah moved through both worlds as if she belonged to them equally. As if she refused to choose between jewels and gutter filth.

And that fascinated him.

He learned she wasn’t wealthy, despite the flawless ease with which she carried herself at galas. That she spent her days at the hospital, her nights at Dr. Leslie Tompkins’ clinic, and did all of it without expecting anything in return. Gotham had her at both extremes: in splendor and in ruin. And somehow, she was whole in both.

And Bruce, caught deeper and deeper in her presence, found no flaw in her to justify his fixation. He dug into her life—as far as he felt ethically allowed—and found nothing but an honest, unremarkably clean routine. No crimes, no conspiracies, no hidden secrets. And that’s when he understood, with a mix of despair and reverence, that what drew him in wasn’t any threat she posed, but her very existence—the singularity of who she was.

No one else dared to hold his attention the way she did. Not even Harvey, with whom Bruce had shared countless confidences in the dim corners of political halls and whiskey-soaked nights, nor the women Harvey insisted on introducing him to—fleeting smiles, imported perfumes, lips always ready to please. Bruce accepted those companions almost like a form of penance: a convenient disguise, a carefully crafted illusion to keep anyone from suspecting the darkness that devoured him in the small hours of the night.

Since that fateful night, when words between them had abruptly ceased, there had only been chance encounters at receptions and charity balls, always varnished with civility. Their neutrality was only a façade; Bruce, hidden beneath the shadow of his own mask, had never stopped following her with his eyes, never stopped feeling that cold shiver climb his spine whenever she entered the same room.

The last time he saw her was at a gala held in the city museum, one of those nights when the diamonds around the socialites’ necks competed with the brilliance of crystal glasses. She had appeared with a lawyer—too young, too handsome, too insolently self-assured—and the sight of him made Bruce’s blood pulse faster. Bruce himself had brought along two models who meant absolutely nothing to him, and had seated himself at Harvey’s table—Harvey, who, with his irreverent wit, never missed a chance to tease him about his choices. There was a veiled intimacy in the glances exchanged between Bruce and Harvey, a tacit memory of old nights, perhaps more intimate than words would ever dare to confess.

But Bruce’s eyes that night were irreversibly fixed on her. He tracked her every move as though she were a conductor leading a silent symphony. And every time he saw her companion’s hand rest on her waist, a cold fury overtook him, so sharp that the delicate stem of his champagne glass nearly snapped in his hand. Her laugh—polite, calculated not to embarrass the man at her side—struck Bruce as a profaned melody, an outrage.

He knew. He knew that smile wasn’t genuine, that touch didn’t make her shiver with desire but with discomfort. And yet, the simple fact that another man dared to touch her was enough to incite in him a smoldering rage. Deep within, something roared: she shouldn’t be there, shouldn’t be touched, shouldn’t be exposed to eyes or hands that weren’t his.

If she were his—and Bruce felt it as an inevitable truth, a certainty etched into the marrow of the night—none of this would be happening.

These thoughts were his private ghosts. They haunted him night and day, pursued him like a melody that refused to die out. And, as always, she was the center of it all—the cause, the symptom, and the poisoned cure to his unrest.

In the study of the manor, a room steeped in shadows, the ancestral clock marked the hours with a near-solemn ticking. The low flame in the fireplace cast long shadows across the walls, as though each one were a whisper of his own guilt. Bruce sat hunched over the dark wooden desk, a glass of whiskey resting in his right hand like an anchor. The amber liquid caught the firelight like an unblinking eye, an eye that seemed to watch him, to accuse him. He remained motionless, eyes half-closed, lost in the void—but behind that distant stare, a storm burned.

It was only when the door creaked softly that he stirred. Alfred entered with his usual discretion, a familiar specter who seemed to know each of his master’s torments, though he never named them.

“Master Bruce, forgive the interruption,” he said, with that almost theatrical courtesy only Alfred possessed, “but there is a lady at the door who insists on speaking with you.”

Alfred’s voice cut through the haze of Bruce’s thoughts like a bell breaking the silence of a crypt. The Dark Knight lifted his eyes, his expression hardening slightly, intrigued.

“Do you know what she wants?” he asked, his voice low, controlled, but edged with restrained tension.

“No, sir,” Alfred replied, one eyebrow arching in the faintest gesture of curiosity. “But she gave her name as Delilah… and, it seems, she has no intention of leaving until she’s been heard.”

The name fell upon Bruce like the final note of a symphony composed of terror and desire. He straightened at once, the shadow of hesitation slipping from his shoulders. He set the glass down on the desk with deliberate precision, the crystal striking against the wood with a soft chime.

“Let me receive her.”

Alfred inclined his head, offering no further comment, though his eyes—wise and faintly ironic—made it clear he understood the weight of that decision. He withdrew with the same quiet elegance with which he had entered, leaving Bruce alone with the sudden unrest that had seized him.

Bruce drew a long breath, steeling himself. He knew every encounter with her was a plunge into deep, dangerous waters. But he was already on his feet, ready to face whatever came with the name that haunted him so.

When he left the study, it didn’t take long to find her. The relentless rain against the windows had prompted Alfred—ever attentive, ever watchful—to open the doors of the manor for the unexpected visitor. Delilah had been led to the drawing room, where the fire crackled in vivid embers, casting restless shadows across the walls—shadows that seemed suspicious of everything, even of her presence.

She was there, before the hearth, her figure carved by the dim light. Her chestnut hair, still damp, clung to her temples and fell in untamed waves over her shoulders, betraying the haste with which she had entered. She wore a dark wool coat, cinched at the waist with a simple belt, yet it gave the impression of being tailored to her form. Heavy fabric trousers traced the line of her legs, ending in leather boots that glimmered faintly in the firelight. Beneath the coat, a pale long-sleeved blouse softened the austerity of the ensemble—as though she had prepared to walk into either a palace or a cavern, and decided to gamble on both at once.

The moment Bruce crossed the threshold, Delilah raised her face. There was nothing timid or hesitant in the gesture. Her green eyes locked on his immediately, steady, almost defiant. Something inside him stalled for a breath—a hesitation as unwanted as it was inevitable—but he let it dissolve at once, reclaiming control with the ease of a man who wore discipline like armor.

“Miss Akhman,” he said, each syllable deep and restrained, as though even his voice wore cloak and mask.

She blinked slowly, the corner of her lips stirring in the ghost of a smile. Almost.

“Mr. Wayne.” The reply was polished, formal, yet beneath its layers there was a warmth—subtle, but present—the kind of warmth the fire itself seemed to conspire to reveal.

Bruce stepped forward, closing the distance between them without haste. With each step, he noticed the droplets of rain still clinging to her hair, as though she had carried a fragment of the night into the room.

“I didn’t expect to see you here on a night like this.” He hadn’t asked why. Bruce never asked easy questions.

Delilah tilted her head, her gaze fixed on him, as if daring the shadow of suspicion he carried on his shoulders.
“I don’t believe you expect to see me on any night. Or morning. Or afternoon.” She exhaled softly, her words lingering in the air like smoke. “But life has a way of serving inconvenient surprises.”

At the door, Alfred cleared his throat quietly, as if already sensing nothing good would come of this—at least not for the household’s order.

Bruce didn’t look away from her.
“Then tell me,” he said, his voice a straight line, without curve or softenings. “What surprise has brought you here?”

Delilah extended the envelope as though pushing a burden off her own lap. Simple as that. Only there was nothing simple about it. The paper was marked with rain, smudged with dark impressions where her fingers had pressed too hard. In the firelight, it seemed almost too dramatic for something as mundane as debt. But perhaps that was exactly it: a banal gesture that, coming from her, carried an entire weight.

Bruce studied the envelope with that controlled precision only he possessed—a surgeon’s exactness, a judge’s gravity. His brow furrowed, the shadows deepened across his face, and there it was: the man who could stop a heart with nothing more than a look. Delilah didn’t flinch.

“Here it is,” she said, without flourish. “Half of what I owe Mr. Maroni. The rest will come in a few months.”

The silence between them felt more solid than the envelope itself. Bruce didn’t rush to accept it, and in that hesitation the gesture became something larger than money. If he took it, he admitted the bargain. If he refused, he bound her to him in another way entirely.

“And why are you giving this to me, Delilah?” he asked, each word dragged out as if chosen with tweezers.

Her gaze never wavered. “Because I know it was you who paid my debt. And I won’t owe you anything.”

The fire cracked, as if trying to fill the pause. Bruce shifted slightly—shoulders, perhaps—but enough to betray discomfort.
“I didn’t pay so you’d owe me something.”

“That’s what you say now.” Her smile flashed quick, sharp, without a trace of warmth. “I’m not interested in waiting to see if your words survive time. I won’t be at your mercy.”

The word hung in the air like a bite. At the door, Alfred remained still, perhaps wondering if it was time to appear with a tray of tea to dilute the venom.

“I’m not that kind of man,” Bruce replied, curt. His tone carried the expectation of being believed on weight of voice alone.

“And what kind of man would you be, Mr. Wayne?” Delilah asked, lowering the hand with the envelope. The paper looked absurdly light, but the gesture of letting it fall to her side carried a gravity the room itself couldn’t disguise.

Bruce slipped his hands into his pockets. Of course he did. The movement seemed rehearsed to project calm and authority—and in a way, it worked—even if the silence between them betrayed otherwise. He tilted his head back slightly, his gaze bearing down on her with that intensity that could be blade or shield. And then, as if to complete the performance, the corner of his mouth lifted in a smile so discreet it felt more like a secret barely contained.

“Stay for dinner, and I’ll show you.”

Delilah let out a short, low laugh, as though unsure whether she was mocking his audacity or her own bad luck. She turned her face away, unwilling to treat the invitation as if it were anything ordinary.

“Really, Bruce? You’re using all of this as an excuse to convince me to have dinner with you?”

He shrugged. On him, even that seemed deliberate, calculated.

“If you prefer, think of it as payment for helping you with your debt.” His voice was steady, decisive. “Because I won’t take your money. I don’t need it.”

Delilah met his eyes again, her gaze burning with determination. “But you need me to stay.”

That was when he didn’t answer. Not a word. Just that look—too heavy to be comfortable, too full to ignore. A look that said yes, I do, even when his mouth refused to admit it.

In the silence that stretched between them, Delilah understood it clearly: the envelope had never really been the problem. His refusal wasn’t about money. It was about her. About presence. About not letting him win, but also not allowing him to lose.

And as much as she hated to admit it, part of her didn’t want to leave.

“All right, Mr. Wayne. I accept your invitation,” she said at last, her voice calm, but carrying something he instantly recognized as surrender.

The faintest trace of satisfaction crossed Bruce’s face, like the shadow of a smile.

“Excellent,” he said in a low, almost intimate tone. “I’ll ask Alfred to set another plate. Please, wait here.”

He walked to the door, exchanged a few brief words with the butler, and when he returned, he offered her his arm with the effortless authority of someone accustomed to owning the space around him.

“While he finishes dinner,” he said, as though sharing a secret meant only for the two of them, “allow me to show you the manor.”

The main corridor of Wayne Manor greeted them with its imposing silence. Their footsteps were swallowed by the Persian rug stretching out beneath them. The walls were lined with portraits of Wayne ancestors—stern and dignified, their painted eyes seeming to follow every movement.

Delilah, entranced, stopped before one of them—a portrait of Thomas and Martha Wayne, young, smiling, frozen in a moment that tragedy had turned eternal.

Bruce noticed her gaze, and for an instant his chest tightened. He stepped closer, his hands clasped behind his back like a guide, but his voice betrayed something more intimate.

“My parents,” he said softly, almost reverently. “This portrait was painted a year before…” His voice faltered, the word too heavy to release.

Delilah said nothing. She only inclined her head slightly, and he couldn’t tell if it was compassion or simply respect for someone else’s grief.

They moved on down the hall, and the family’s art gallery opened up before them like a private museum. There were soft-toned Italian landscapes, Flemish still lifes, English master portraits—a procession of centuries condensed on those walls. Bruce spoke sparingly, but each comment was precise, weighted with an almost intimate knowledge of the pieces, as if he had grown up beneath their gaze and they had become old confidants.

Delilah listened in silence, her eyes never leaving the paintings. There was something hypnotic about her—such absolute attention that it transformed every word Bruce spoke into something greater, heavier, as though he were confessing parts of himself through those works.

They stopped before a particularly somber canvas—a storm at sea, where a ship struggled against colossal waves.

“This was my father’s favorite,” Bruce murmured. “He used to say it reminded him of the way life tests us. That there’s beauty even in shipwreck—if we have the eyes to see it.”

Delilah smiled, a brief, almost melancholy curve of her lips.
“Seems fitting,” she said.

Bruce turned his gaze from the canvas to her, and there was something almost unsettling in the intensity of it.
“Do you really think so?” he asked.

Delilah shifted to face him, and for a moment it wasn’t clear if she meant to smile or to challenge him.
“Isn’t that what we all do?” she said at last. “Search for beauty in what’s left of us—even after everything falls apart.”

Bruce leaned in slightly, the shadow of a smile flickering across his face.
“You speak like someone who knows shipwreck well.”

“Perhaps I do.” Her eyes glinted—not with pain, but with something deeper, almost ironic. “And you? Do you know the sea?”

For a moment, silence settled between them, heavy and charged like the storm in the painting. Bruce held her gaze before answering, his voice low, nearly a whisper:
“I know the bottom.”

Delilah didn’t look away. If anything, she seemed to push further, as though daring him to give her something he wasn’t ready to surrender.
“Then, Mr. Wayne,” she said with a delicacy that sounded like defiance, “perhaps what’s left is to see if you can make it back to the surface.”

Bruce laughed—a sound low, almost imperceptible, but real.
“And you plan to teach me to swim?”

“Maybe.” She shrugged lightly. “Or maybe I just want to see if you can drown with elegance.”

He stepped closer, not in threat, but in acceptance of her challenge.
“Careful, Miss Akhman. When you stare too long into the abyss, sometimes it stares back.”

“Oh, but I don’t fear monsters,” she replied, smiling in a way impossible to decipher.

Bruce held her gaze for a long moment. That clever smile—audacity written across it—stirred in him a need he wasn’t accustomed to: the urge to reach for her, to feel her within his hands. But he stopped himself. He couldn’t move closer. He mustn’t. Still, the itch remained, restless in his palms.

The lamplight painted her features in gold, outlining the calm defiance she carried. For a fleeting second, he saw nothing of the painting, nothing of the walls around them—only her, standing so near he could catch the faint trace of her perfume.

“You always seem to… understand,” he said, the words slipping out almost unconsciously.

Delilah lifted her gaze to him. In her eyes, there was a disarming clarity—a serenity that didn’t lessen but rather sharpened the intensity between them. Bruce, so used to hiding behind masks, felt for an instant stripped bare, as though every layer of silence and shadow he wore had been torn away.

“I don’t know if I understand,” she answered softly, her voice like a secret meant only for that place, in the dim light of the gallery. “But I listen. Sometimes, that’s enough.”

Bruce hesitated. Not from fear, but from something closer to reverence. The silence between them wasn’t empty—it was woven with everything left unsaid, every restrained breath, every look that lingered one second too long. The gallery, once a place of memory, had become an intimate stage where time itself seemed suspended.

Delilah didn’t look away. There was a stillness in her that wasn’t passive, but expectant. As though she waited not for a word, but for a choice. Bruce felt the weight of that waiting. And, at the same time, the lightness of standing before someone who demanded nothing, yet offered everything.

He took a step forward. Small, almost imperceptible. But enough to make the space between them something tangible. Her perfume—subtle, floral, with a trace of something timeless—seemed to wrap around him now. And he wondered if that scent would linger after she left, like a memory refusing to fade.

“Sometimes,” he said, his voice low, meant only for her, “I think you see more than I’m able to show.”

“You’re not nearly as mysterious as you think, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce’s mouth curved into a brief, restrained smile—more shadow than warmth. His eyes never left hers, steady, searching every corner of the courage Delilah carried in silence.

“So, seeing me is easy?” he asked, his tone heavy, almost as if he were stating a fact instead of posing a question.

Delilah tilted her head, her gaze laced with irony and tenderness in equal measure, disarming him more effectively than any confrontation could.
“No,” she answered firmly, with an edge of steel. “It’s inevitable.”

Bruce looked at her as if afraid that any movement might shatter the moment. He stepped closer—just one step—but it felt irreversible. The golden light framed her in a quiet aura, and for the first time in a long while, he wished to remain perfectly still, caught in nothing more than her presence.

The silence between them wasn’t empty; it was thick, charged with a magnetism that required no words. Delilah lowered her gaze briefly, as though she needed to steady her breath, and when she lifted her eyes again, she found his still fixed on her—unyielding, almost commanding, yet with a vulnerability hidden beneath the surface.

Bruce raised his hand, hesitant, and for an instant it seemed he might abandon the gesture. But his fingers lifted, brushing aside a loose strand of her hair, only enough to move it from her face. It was a fleeting touch, yet it carried the weight of a confession.

Delilah didn’t flinch. On the contrary, she stood firm, as if she accepted—or perhaps even welcomed—that contact. Her breathing grew more visible, her chest rising in a steadier rhythm.

He leaned in, slowly, with the solemnity of someone crossing a threshold from which there is no return. Her perfume—subtle, fresh—filled the space between them, clouding his senses. Delilah’s eyes, locked on his, showed no refusal. There was a silent surrender there, an unspoken permission. And then, without haste, without urgency, their faces drew closer. The kiss wasn’t sudden—it was a gradual unfolding, like the rise of an old melody, familiar yet still astonishing.

When their lips finally met, there was no explosion, no rush of fire. There was silence. A full silence, like the hush of a room where the final note of a symphony still trembles in the air. And in that moment, Bruce understood it was not just a kiss—it was a revelation. Something that could never be said in words, but that, there among portraits and memories, had been understood.

And, for the first time in a long while, Bruce felt the weight of his shadows ease—if only slightly. A spark of warmth coursed through him, as unexpected as sunlight spilling into a dark room through its very first crack. For one moment, he felt whole. For one moment, he could breathe without the burden that had always clung to him.

WAYNE MANOR — PRESENT DAY

Delilah stopped before the painting as though she were standing in front of someone she knew all too well—someone who had hurt her, and, in some strange way, comforted her as well. From the very moment she had stepped through the doors of the mansion, pushed inside by the wind of the rainy afternoon as if the house itself were alive and impatient, she had known she would end up here.

The shipwreck painting was still there, stubborn, hanging in the same place as always. Around it, the corridor was almost unrecognizable. The other paintings had been taken down, leaving behind pale rectangles on the walls, like ghosts trapped in the outlines of what once covered them. But that one? That one refused to leave. And somehow, it seemed to look at her as if to say: You haven’t really left either.

Wayne Manor was colder than she remembered. Not just in temperature, but in silence. The sound of her own footsteps felt invasive, a cruel reminder that she was there alone. Everything in that place belonged to her now—everything except the courage to remain in it. For the past six months, she had avoided crossing those doors, as if the house might devour her whole if she did.

Perhaps she hadn’t been wrong. Every room was a trap. Every shadow, an invitation to drown in memories that neither forgave nor forgot.

And there she was, standing before the greatest trap of all.

It was right here that Bruce had kissed her for the first time.

If she closed her eyes, she could feel it all again: the warm, uncertain brush of his lips at first, then the shift into something hungrier, more desperate, as if they were both clinging to something they already knew wouldn’t last. His hands gripping her waist, too firmly, almost possessive. The taste of him, the smell of rain pouring into the corridor, the muffled thunder mingling with the frantic beat of her own heart.

The memory came back whole, vivid, devastating. And, as always, it dragged pain along with it.

Delilah drew in a deep breath, trying to steady herself. Only then did she realize her fists were clenched, her nails biting into her palms. She had come here to put an end to this hallway—to order the paintings taken down, packed up, sent to a museum, an auction, anywhere but here. Anywhere they wouldn’t be staring at her every time she crossed the hall.

And yet, her fingers lingered against the frame of the shipwreck.

She could send it away too, like the others. And maybe that would be the wiser choice. But a part of her—the same part that still felt Bruce’s kiss like a burn—wanted to keep it. Maybe it was an act of silent vengeance, or of love. Maybe it was nothing but cowardice.

Delilah sighed and stepped back.

Yes, she would order the removal of every other painting. But this one… this one would remain. Somehow, it felt only fair.

She was already on her way to the front door, ready to tell the movers that this particular painting would stay in the manor. That was all. Just a simple instruction, nothing more. But halfway down the corridor, something made her stop.

On the linoleum floor stretched a long, unmoving shadow, dense and deliberate, as if waiting for the exact moment to reveal itself.

Her heart stumbled, as if it had suddenly lost its rhythm. Of course she already knew who it would be. That kind of shadow left no room for doubt. Even so, every step toward the door demanded more courage than it should have. She pushed it open slowly, as though the groan of the hinges might betray the fear she was trying to conceal.

She already knew, from the shadow, who she would find there. And yet, when her eyes fell on him, standing in the darkness of the piano room, her chest faltered with an involuntary jolt. He stood utterly still, as though he had been waiting for her all along. The dark cape cloaked his body, hiding the armor beneath in heavy folds; and over his face, the cowl in the shape of a bat rendered him unreadable, forbidding any glimpse of expression.

Delilah’s voice broke the silence, low but charged with restrained awe:
“What are you doing here?”

He didn’t move. For a moment, the only reply was the wind slipping through the open window, stirring the curtain like a curious ghost. Delilah’s gaze faltered between the mask and the cape, searching for a breach, any human trace behind the figure watching her. But there was only that unreadable expression, that darkness staring back without a blink.

She stepped hesitantly inside, the floor groaning beneath her weight. Behind him, the curtain whipped harder, making his shadow ripple across the ground, alive, as though it had a will of its own.

“You didn’t answer,” she murmured, her voice coming out softer than she’d meant.

His breath came first—slow and heavy—before his voice followed.
“I could ask you the same thing.”

Delilah shivered. She wanted to look away, but couldn’t. He held her without even moving. There was something in the way he remained so still, as if he were simply an extension of the darkness—a darkness that had always known how to find her.

She wetted her lips, unconsciously.
“This house is mine now.” The words came out steadier than the dryness in her throat allowed. “I have every right to be here.”

He took a step forward. Almost imperceptible, yet enough for his shadow to stretch across the floor until it touched the tips of her shoes.
“And I… have every right to protect you. To make sure you’re safe.”

Delilah drew back slightly—not out of fear, but because the sudden nearness stole her breath. Her chest rose and fell too quickly, and she hated knowing he could see it.

“Protect me from what?” she whispered, her voice carrying more fragility than defiance.

Another step. Now the slant of moonlight through the window caught the edge of his mask, revealing only half his face—and yet it felt impossible not to see all of him.

“From everyone.” The reply was so simple it almost sounded absurd. And yet, in it, there was a dark devotion, weighted with something more.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. She knew she should step back, say something to end this. But instead she stayed. Hypnotized. Captive. Her eyes slipped downward, against her will, to his hand resting on the piano’s edge. Strong fingers, tense—until they brushed the wood lightly, pressing out a single deep, lonely note. As if even the instrument itself breathed his presence.

She parted her lips to say anything at all, but he was already closer. Close enough that the faint scent of night clung to him, mingled with the damp leather of his cape.

Her voice broke in a whisper, almost unbidden:
“You can’t… stay here.”

He leaned in just enough for his shadow to swallow hers whole.
“I never left.”

Delilah lifted her chin. A small gesture, but filled with every shred of courage she could muster—the kind that shook in her knees and burned in her eyes. Because no matter how hard she tried to feign control, her eyes always betrayed her. And now, shining too brightly in the soft light, they said everything: I’m trying to be strong. And I’m failing spectacularly.

His chin, his mouth, the cut of his jaw—every detail was at once beautiful, intense, and achingly familiar. Everything about him said, Stay away. And everything in her heard, Come closer.

“You never left…” The words slipped out in a breath. Unplanned. Escaping her lips more like surrender than recollection. As though she were finally admitting he still lived here—inside the house, in the air, between the keys of the piano, and in the most unwelcome space of all: her heart.

He leaned in. Just a little. But it was enough for the warmth of his breath to tangle with hers. Enough for the whole world to collapse into that single moment. No touch—and yet she felt as if she were being touched by something invisible, urgent, burning warm.

The silence between them wasn’t empty — it was full of possibilities. Heavy, like the sky before a storm, where a single spark could ignite something devastating.

His gloved hand was no longer on the piano. It rested on her waist. Surprisingly gentle, as if he wasn’t used to touching — and was learning, right there on her body, what it meant to hold without restraining. The other hand rose to her face. Slowly. With a care that contrasted with his presence, as though every inch of her skin were a secret he had to unravel with his fingertips. His thumb brushed her cheek, as if tracing a thought he didn’t dare speak aloud.

Delilah’s heart was beating so loud she was honestly surprised they weren’t both dancing to its rhythm. Suddenly, her skin felt too small to hold everything happening inside her. Heat. Cold. Desire. Fear. The urge to run. The urge to stay.

Her lips trembled — and she hated it. Hated how badly she wanted him to close that ridiculous space between them. Hated herself for wanting a kiss she knew she shouldn’t want. And most of all, hated knowing that if it happened, she would kiss him back.

And then he spoke. With that low, hoarse, impossible voice, as if he’d just walked out of a midnight rehearsal with the devil and an entire orchestra.

“You belong to this house… just as you belong to me. Even if you don’t know it yet.”

The world vanished.

Delilah closed her eyes. Not to escape, but to buy herself a second not to collapse. Her body — traitor that it was — leaned in, just slightly. A gesture so subtle it barely deserved the name. But she knew what it meant. She knew that in that moment, she would have accepted anything.

His breath was there. So close. His lips too. The space between them… minimal. Too minimal. A sigh, a decision, and it all would have happened.

But the universe, as always, had other plans.

A loud noise echoed down the corridor; footsteps, voices, the violent sound of reality rushing back to remind them it existed. She jumped back, the spell shattered in a fraction of a second. When she opened her eyes, he was gone. Nothing. No shadow. No sound. Only the echo of what almost was.

The piano remained silent. The room felt larger. And colder. The kind of emptiness that doesn’t come just from absence, but from interrupted desire. Delilah raised her hand to her lips without thinking. Her fingers trembled slightly. And when she realized what she was doing, heat rose fiercely to her cheeks. Not because he had touched her. But because she still wished he’d touched her more. She wanted it. And that… that was enough to make her furious with herself. And yet, surrendered.

Alone there, with the echo of an almost-memory, she understood what had happened: there was no turning back. Not after this. He was gone, or had evaporated, as if he’d never truly been there. But he had left something behind. Not silence. But absence.

He had left a new space inside her, shaped exactly like a broken promise. And the worst part: she already missed something she’d technically never had. It was like being locked inside a cell whose door she herself had closed; unknowingly, unwillingly, but with no real intention of leaving. And that feeling, for some absurd reason, felt familiar.