[for the last time || в последний раз]
chapter warnings: disturbing/unsettling imagery at the end of the chapter.
01. | 02. | 03. | 04. | 05. | 06. | » you are here | ... |
From the eyes of [ Batman ]
Roughly 19 hours before the events of 01.
The darkness of the room was thick and restless. Shadows crept along the high ceilings, their tangled shapes swaying as the curtains trembled under the weak hum of the air conditioning. Bruce Wayne lay tangled in his sheets, the pressure of sleep bearing down on him like stone.
He’d managed three hours. Three whole hours of dreamless, shallow rest. It was something. Not enough, but something. His body ached from last night’s patrol—knees stiff, ribs sore, bruises blooming where punches had landed harder than expected. The fatigue was constant. Heavy. A permanent companion now. His bed felt less like a place of rest and more like a place of recovery—a battlefield in itself.
He hadn’t planned to wake up yet.
The knock on his door came first. A slow, deliberate knock, followed by the sound of hinges creaking open. Too heavy and measured to be Damian, too impatient to be Tim.
His protege’s voice broke the silence.
Bruce opened his eyes, staring at the darkened expanse of his bedroom ceiling. The dull throb behind his eyes intensified. It was an effort just to turn his head toward the door, but he managed.
“What is it, Dick?” His voice came out rough, barely more than a rasp, worn down from disuse.
Dick stepped inside, boots soft against the carpet. His hair was damp, skin slick with sweat. He looked like he’d just come from a run, or maybe he’d been pacing the halls for who knew how long. His expression was tight, the familiar cheerfulness replaced by something raw and simmering.
“It’s [****]. We think she's gone, B.”
Bruce blinked slowly. His shoulders shifted, not quite rising from the mattress. The muscles in his back protested, a dull cramp gnawing at his spine.
“Have you searched the manor?” he asked, voice dragging like gravel. “Checked her room? The grounds?”
Dick’s jaw tightened. “Yes, Bruce. Everyone has. Alfred’s been up since breakfast, checking every corner of the manor. Tim’s working through train surveillance. And Jason—” His lips twitched in frustration. “Jason’s actually helping and trying to track her down.”
Bruce made a sound in the back of his throat, something halfway between a grunt and a sigh. His limbs were leaden, every joint straining just to shift his weight. He wasn’t ready to drag himself from the bed. Not yet. Not when everything was so heavy.
“She’s probably with her friends.” He stared up at the ceiling, eyes unfocused. “Did you try reaching her phone?”
“Of course we did. Straight into voicemail.” Dick’s tone was clipped, brittle. “Bruce, she’s been missing since last night. No messages. No calls. And you’re just—”
Dick’s fists clenched at his sides. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to hit something, anything. And then the dam broke.
“If you’re not going to take this seriously, something might really happen to her. Maybe it already has—which, god I hope not.”
His words hit like punches. They didn’t just hurt. They tore. Because he wasn’t wrong.
There was a deep sigh before the door slammed behind him.
Bruce closed his eyes, the darkness behind his eyelids somehow clearer than the dim room around him. Dick’s anger was justified. Even now, Bruce could feel the jagged edges of it cutting through his own haze of fatigue.
But the urgency didn’t reach him. Couldn’t reach him. It was like trying to swim against a tide of exhaustion, his mind numbed to everything that didn’t demand immediate attention. Pain was real. Sleep was real. The rest was static.
A memory surfaced, slow and reluctant.
Alfred had told him last night that [****] wasn’t home yet. It had been a brief mention after a late dinner, the old man’s voice tinged with unease. Something Bruce had acknowledged with a nod before letting it drift to the back of his mind.
He’d let it drift. Because that’s what he did with her.
Because it was easier. Both for him, and for her.
[****] was… different. Not in the ways the boys were. Not in the ways Bruce could measure and train and prepare. She didn’t come from trauma. Not the kind he understood, anyway. She wasn’t broken in the way he could mend. She didn’t need a cape, a cowl, or a mission. She needed something simple…. a father.
And Bruce had no idea how to be one.
He’d buried anything [****]-related in the recesses of his thoughts. Kept her in the light. Away from the pool of red that came with crime fighting. He trusted her that she's capable enough on her own. That was how he protected her. That was what he told himself.
But she hadn’t come home last night. [****] always comes home, because Alfred always tells him so.
The weight in his chest tightened, twisting. His pulse thudded in his ears, the room’s chill seeping into his bones. [****] was missing. She could've been gone for hours. And he’d dismissed it like it was nothing.
He reached for the phone. Not urgently. Automatically. Like muscle memory kicking in long after instinct had failed. The glow of the screen felt blinding, his own name too bright and sterile against the dim of the cold room.
He scrolled through his messages. Dick’s texts were frantic, piling up with half baked theories, updates and demands for information. Tim’s were more focused, detailing surveillance footage he was pulling from the train stations. Jason’s messages were terse and precise, relaying possible areas where she might've been.
Bruce glanced past them, his focus on another thread entirely. His e-mail. He fired off a message to his secretary, fingers tapping with mechanical precision.
Body: Check all recent emails for anything related to ransom demands or potential kidnapping attempts. Also monitor [****] Wayne’s bank accounts for any activities. Notify me immediately if you find anything unusual and recent. Keep this under wraps. —BW
He didn’t elaborate. Couldn’t. This was a personal matter, but it was also something he needed to keep under wraps. The media would have a field day if they caught wind of this.
But deep down, he didn’t believe this was random.
He was aware that no one goes missing in Gotham without a reason.
Gotham is a city of intention. Every scream in the night has a motive. Every broken window, every body in an alleyway—it’s all part of something. Chaos, yes, but not without pattern. Not without teeth.
If [****] was missing, someone could've taken her.
Bruce’s thoughts spiraled. If [****] had been taken, it was because of his name. Because she was the biological child of Bruce Wayne. One of his likely heirs to his corporate empire. He’d kept her far from Batman’s world, made sure of that. That she’ll never be a target from the enemies he fought under the cowl.
But Bruce Wayne’s enemies were just as ruthless. Just as dangerous. He made the precautions that she won't be traced back to the man he was once the sun was down.
He dropped his phone onto the bed, staring blankly at the far wall. His breath came shallow and uneven, the air cold and brittle in his lungs. His hands trembled against the sheets.
[****] is missing because I didn’t act. Batman was too busy, and Bruce Wayne was around but never present.
He pushed himself upright, pain lancing through his shoulders and back. Everything felt heavy, every inch of his body protesting the movement. But he couldn’t stay in bed. Not now.
His feet hit the floor, and he forced himself to stand. The weight of the previous night’s injuries tugged at him, muscles strained and torn. But it didn’t matter. None of it mattered.
He needed to help look for her. Actually look for her.
He reached for his shirt, pulling it over his head with jerky, desperate motions. His gaze caught on his reflection in the darkened mirror, eyes hollow and sleepless.
He tried to picture her. [****].
Seventeen, no—eighteen now. Her birthday had passed recently. He remembered that PR had him arrange a gala for the girl. He remembered the taste of champagne, vaguely. He remembered she wore an elegant white gown that night. The faint sound of instruments playing vivaldi in the background. He hadn’t been there for it. Mentally, at least. Physically he was there for 15 minutes. He’d given her a gift. Something practical.
But her smile… what was her smile like? What was her voice like?
W̶̩̑͑̀̉̃͛͛͑h̷̡̗̘̜̄̄̈̊̈́̈́̇̊̀͗y̴̛͚̽̇̃͊̈̈ ̸̛̰̝̟̂̆̿̌͝c̸̩͉̰̰͈̗̼͉̙̃̍̒͆͑̒̏̓͊͠ͅṏ̸̭͍͕͈̝̭́u̴̧̫͈̜̭̳̰̍̆͊̔̆͊̄̎͒̊͜l̶̡̧̛̙̘͇̳͖̪͖̗̐̑̑̿͐̒̀̈́̕d̸̠͖̟̭̮͇̮͇̆̊̈́̄n̶͕̲͌’̵̧̨͖͓͔̋͜t̴͉͙̰̲̜͚̻̮̣́̈́̃ ̷̧͈̲̯̃ḫ̸̡̢̳̖̖͇̤̮̮̂̊̈̊̅ȩ̷̖͉͚͓͖̗͙̲͆̅̑̏͒̇̕͜͝͝ ̸̡̹̳̥͂ͅr̶̛̯̅ȩ̷̥̙̩̬͂͝m̶̢̢͕̖̹̗̦̬͂͐̋̔̀̑̉̄͘e̵̙̿̆̽̋͠ḿ̴̞͛̅̇̊̅̚̚b̸͎̣̐ę̶̛̤̙͂̒̄̌̎̍͋̇͜͝ȓ̷̫̲͎̪͔̩͒͗͊̽̀̚͝ͅ ̸̢͎̜̲̪͕̄̓͗͛̄͂̂͂͝͝w̸̥̝̻͈̪̭͒̀̉̆̍́̕̚͠ḥ̸̭̳̬̼̇̔̓͆͒̋a̸̻̩̽͋̓̚͠ͅt̴̙̊̏̍́̎͊̕͠ ̷̡̖̬̰͓̰̰̯̞̙̀̅̌̌̋̆̌ş̶̰͚̙͙̪̦̅́̌̃̃̓̃̍̾h̴̞͓̠͑͂̀́̋͗ḛ̵͓͇̺̃̕ ̵͖̼̙͚̮̮͑̀̇̈́̀l̵̛̙͛̽͐͗̔͌̏͐o̸͕̦̩͈͛̓̏͛̀̈́͌͠o̵̧̘͆̔̄̒́̏̊͝k̵̡̺͓̠̖͔̺͔̲̘͆̄̂̄́̀͆e̴̢̨͕̯͐͛̀̂͊̈́̋͗͘͠ͅd̴͓̽̇̊́̓͘ ̶̛̦͔͇̦̱̟̲͍̏̅͊́ľ̶̢͈̺̼̀ͅi̶͋̋̋̽͂͒̇̀͝ͅk̷̨̧̛̙̲̪͙͈̗͆̐̊ê̵̲̠͔̪̙̗̪͈̥͖̎̈́͒͊̒̒̏̏̕?̶̛̱̪̌̍̀
The guilt curled like acid in his gut. The numbness wasn’t armor anymore—it was rot. He had no excuses. No enemy to punch. No villain to blame.
He could feel Gotham breathing beyond the windows, its pulse thrumming like the city knew. Like it was watching him.
People didn’t just disappear in Gotham.
And always, always—there is a reason.
This city doesn’t allow coincidence. Only consequence.
And perhaps the consequence of being Bruce Wayne’s daughter,
Taglist: @kneelforloki @shycreatorreview @pearlyribbons @homeless-clown @daffy-the-duck @1abi @reeyy0-2 @ryuushou @nisarelle @cssammyyarts @bunniotomia @cxcillia @unrelatedlily @the-holy-pigeon @electricgg
A/N: Omggg finally, part one of ftlt is finished, and three more left lmfao. I just wanna say thanks a lot for all the notes and reblogs, they mean a lot to me as an author. Really keeps me motivated to write. From one of my recent posts, I've mentioned that'll be on short hiatus, so sad to say, chapter 8 would only be released in the next few months or so. I'll try to keep active, maybe post other related content for ftlt every now and then. My ask box will also remain open, so feel free to ask anything, whenever, whatever(although I might not be able to respond to them asap, lol). Y'all can also privately message me, if you just want to rant or vent about something even if you're a total stranger. I'll be here to listen. :)
(Although bots will be instantly blocked—so lol fuck off :D )
