jt.

The man holding you had one arm around your waist. The other held a kitchen knife beneath your jaw. It was almost insulting. Damian had interrupted arms deals with more sophisticated weaponry.

“Take another step,” the man warned, “and I swear to God—”

“You should not make promises to entities whose existence you cannot prove.”

There was a pause. Damian closed his eyes briefly behind the domino mask. He had been spending too much time with Drake.

“Robin,” you whispered.

He looked at you. And that—That was the first mistake.

Later, he would remember absurd details. The rain shining on your eyelashes. The expensive coat you wore over what appeared to be some designer outfit worth more than the entire building beside you. The way one of your shoes was missing.

Your expression. Not frightened. Not exactly. You looked at Damian as though you had been waiting for him.

The man tightened his grip.

“You people never listen.”

Damian moved. The knife clattered against pavement before the man understood that his wrist had been broken. An elbow to the sternum. A hooked ankle behind the knee. The stalker hit the ground hard enough to lose breath but not consciousness. Damian had grown. There had been a time when that distinction would have disappointed him.

He secured the man’s wrists.

Behind him, you said, very quietly, “Damian Wayne.”

Every muscle in his body locked. Damian turned. You stood beneath the rain with one bare foot on filthy concrete, mascara beginning to smudge beneath one eye, staring at him with an expression of wonder.

Not suspicion. Not triumph. Wonder.

“How,” Damian said.

Your eyes widened. Then you smiled. It was bright enough to be obnoxious. “Lucky guess?”

“No.”

“Facial structure?”

“No.”

“You have very distinctive eyebrows.”

“Tt.”

“Oh my God.” Your smile widened. “You actually do that.”

Damian rose slowly. Behind him, the unconscious stalker groaned. “You know my identity.”

“Apparently.”

“How?”

You tilted your head. There was something strange about your eyes. For one second, Damian thought he saw red.

Not bloodshot. Not reflected neon. Something else. A flicker of colour. Then you blinked, and it was gone.

“I’m psychic.”

Damian stared at you. You stared back. Rain fell between you. “No, you are not.”

“Well.” You shrugged. “Worth trying.”

The police arrived seven minutes later. Damian vanished before they could see him. You watched the rooftop where he disappeared until your neck began to ache.

Then a voice beside you said, “You are making that face again.”

You jumped. The officer attempting to wrap a blanket around your shoulders looked concerned. “You all right?”

“Yes!” you chirped.

Your shinigami stood directly behind him. The creature was hideous. You told him this often. In return, he told you that human standards of beauty were idiotic and then asked to borrow your phone so he could watch videos of people falling down stairs. His name was Sile. Sile had skin like pale bark stretched over too many bones, an angular mouth, and enormous featherless wings which folded around his body like the remains of a funeral shroud.

His round eyes drifted toward the roof. “You saw his lifespan.”

You ignored him. The officer asked, “You have somewhere safe you can stay tonight?”

“Yes. Very safe. Horrifically expensive security system.”

Your manager was going to kill you. Actually, considering what had happened, your manager was going to cry first, then kill you.

You looked down at the man who had been following you for three months. Sending letters. Photographs. Messages detailing exactly how he believed the two of you belonged together. The irony almost made you laugh.

You had never understood obsession before. Not properly. People called so many things obsession. Fans collecting every magazine cover you appeared on. Photographers monitoring your social media activity. Strangers memorising your coffee order from interviews. Those things were not obsession. Obsession was looking at someone and feeling your entire existence reorganise itself around the fact that they were alive.

Obsession was a name written above a beautiful face. Damian Wayne. And a river of numbers spelling out the exact moment that face would cease to exist.

You had looked into his eyes and known, with perfect terrible clarity, There you are.

Sile leaned down until his skull-like face was beside yours.

“Oh,” he said. You continued smiling at the police officer. “Oh, no.”

“Shut up.”

The officer blinked. “Sorry?”

“Not you!” You laughed.

The officer looked increasingly worried.

Sile made a noise suspiciously like a sigh. “You are going to become unbearable.”

You watched the empty roof.

“I think,” you whispered, “I’m in love.”

“You have known him for ten minutes.”

“Eight.”

“That is worse.”

You smiled dreamily.

Sile had known you long enough to understand that expression. He looked down at the unconscious stalker. Then at you. “You are not allowed to write the vigilante’s name.”

Your head snapped toward him. “Why would I write Damian’s name?”

“I am establishing boundaries early.”

“Oh.” You smiled. “Don’t worry. I’d kill myself first.”

Sile groaned. “Unbearable,” he repeated.

The next morning, the stalker suffered a fatal heart attack while being transported from Gotham General to Blackgate Penitentiary.

Damian read the report three times. Then a fourth.

There was nothing unusual in the medical records. The man had been thirty-seven. No documented cardiac conditions. No drugs in his system. No obvious poisoning. A heart attack. It happened. People died. Bodies failed. Gotham had made coincidence look guilty before.

Still, Damian stared at the photograph attached to the report. Then he thought of red eyes. And a voice saying his name beneath the rain.

“Who’s that?”

Damian closed the file. Grayson leaned over the kitchen counter, stealing fruit from a bowl Alfred had arranged that morning. “No one.”

“Ouch. Guy dies and immediately loses personhood.”

“You know what I meant.”

“I know you’re staring at a dead guy’s photograph at seven in the morning.” Damian glared. Grayson bit into an apple. “You met someone.”

Damian went still.

Dick’s grin was immediate. “I knew it.”

“You know nothing.”

“Bruce told me you came back from patrol weird.”

“Father considers any behaviour he cannot immediately interpret to be strange.”

“Bruce knows strange.” Damian stood. Dick followed him with his eyes. “You changed the subject.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

Damian began walking from the kitchen.

Dick called after him. “Are they cute?”

Damian stopped. He turned. Grayson’s smile became unbearable. “I hope you choke.”

“Super cute, then.”

You were on a billboard in the centre of Gotham. Damian discovered this three days later. He had stopped at an intersection while driving to Wayne Enterprises when he looked up and found your face thirty feet tall. You wore diamonds. Very little else. Your head was tilted, mouth parted, expression distant and dreamy beneath the slogan for a French luxury fragrance Damian had never heard of.

He nearly missed the light changing.

A car horn sounded behind him.

“Tt.” He drove on.

At Wayne Enterprises, your face appeared again. This time on a magazine left on a table in the executive lounge. GOTHAM’S GOLDEN DARLING: BEAUTY, BRAINS, AND BAD DECISIONS. Damian picked it up.

“You should read page forty-seven.”

He nearly threw the magazine.

Tim Drake stood behind him holding coffee.

Damian narrowed his eyes. “You deliberately approached silently.”

“Yeah.”

“You are a child.”

“Page forty-seven.”

“I have no interest in page forty-seven.”

“You’ve been holding the magazine upside down for thirty seconds.”

Damian looked down. The magazine was, in fact, upside down. He placed it carefully on the table.

Drake sipped his coffee. Damian hated every person he had ever known.

“What,” he said with tremendous dignity, “is on page forty-seven?”

Tim grinned.

The interview was ridiculous. You were asked about your skin-care routine. You told the interviewer it was mostly genetics and an unreasonable amount of water. You were asked what you wanted to do if you had not become a model. You said marine biology. Then theoretical mathematics. Then wedding planning. The interviewer had apparently laughed. You had not.

Halfway through the profile, however, the tone changed. The journalist mentioned that during a charity appearance six months earlier, you had noticed inconsistencies in the financial reports of the organisation hosting the event. You had reviewed publicly available tax documents, identified a network of shell corporations, and quietly handed your findings to federal investigators. Six arrests followed.

Damian read that section twice. At the bottom of the page was a photograph of you sitting on the floor backstage at a fashion show, surrounded by garment bags, apparently attempting to repair a broken heel with industrial glue. You had glitter on your cheek.

Damian closed the magazine.

Drake said, “So?”

“So what?”

“You’re curious.”

“No.”

“You read the article.”

“I read many articles.”

“You hate magazines.”

“I dislike poor journalism.”

“You smiled.”

Damian stood. “I am going to kill you.”

Tim took another sip of coffee. “Page fifty-two has their phone number.”

Damian froze.

Drake burst out laughing.

You met Damian Wayne officially at a charity gala six days after he saved your life. Officially. You had, of course, already known he would be there. You knew because Wayne Foundation sponsorship information was public, because his appearance schedule followed a discernible pattern despite the family’s efforts to appear spontaneous, and because two weeks of archived photographs had established that Damian attended approximately sixty-eight per cent of animal welfare events and only twenty-three per cent of arts fundraising events. You had charts.

Sile had called you deranged. You had called it research.

“You look ridiculous,” Sile said.

You smiled at your reflection. “You don’t understand fashion.”

“I watched you spend four hours selecting earrings.”

“Damian paints.” Sile stared at you. You adjusted one earring. “Artists are detail-oriented.”

“What does that have to do with—”

“He’ll notice.”

“You are frightening.”

“Thank you.”

The gala was raising money for a network of veterinary clinics in lower-income Gotham neighbourhoods.

Damian stood near the edge of the ballroom, looking as though he would personally fight the next person who attempted small talk. You adored him immediately.

Again. It was becoming a problem.

He was dressed in black, naturally. The cut of his suit made several people look at him when they believed he would not notice. Damian noticed everything. That was one of the first things you learned.

The second was that he disliked being touched unexpectedly. The third was that his resting expression suggested he had recently received disappointing news about the entire human species.

You loved that too.

You crossed the room. A waiter passed between you. Damian looked up. Saw you. And stopped listening to the elderly donor speaking to him.

It was only for a second. But you saw it. A lovely little hitch in his attention. You smiled.

Damian excused himself from the conversation. “You.”

You placed a hand over your chest. “Me.”

“You knew I would be here.”

“Yes.” He blinked. You smiled brightly. “I mean—no. Wow. What a crazy coincidence.”

“It is a publicly advertised Wayne Foundation event.”

“Right. So technically, anyone could know you would be here.”

“You donated two hundred thousand dollars yesterday.”

“That sounds like me.”

“To an organisation you had never previously supported.”

“I love animals.”

“You own no animals.”

“I have a sourdough starter.” Damian stared. “He’s very temperamental.”

“Bread is not a pet.”

“Tell that to Gerald.”

Damian’s mouth moved. Barely. It was not a smile. But it had considered becoming one.

Your heart nearly exploded.

“Would you like a drink?” you asked.

“No.”

“Dance?”

“No.”

“Marriage?”

His expression flattened. You laughed. Damian studied you. It was unnerving. Usually people saw exactly what you wanted them to see. The airy laugh. The pretty face. The expensive clothes. You liked beautiful things. You talked too quickly. You genuinely forgot where you left your phone at least six times a day. People took those truths and built an idiot out of them. It was useful. Damian Wayne looked at you like he was dismantling a bomb.

“I researched you,” he said.

Your smile broadened. “Aw.”

“That was not intended to charm you.”

“It did.”

“You discovered criminal financial activity through a charity’s public records.”

“Their accountant was terrible.”

“You speak four languages.”

“Five, sort of. My Italian pronunciation is tragic.”

“You completed university-level mathematics courses at sixteen.”

“I had insomnia.”

“You have cultivated an extensive public persona emphasising your supposed intellectual incompetence.”

Your smile slipped. Only slightly. Damian saw it.

You lowered your champagne. “You researched me a lot.”

“You knew my identity.”

That. Right. You glanced toward Sile. He was hanging upside down from a chandelier. Useless creature. You looked back at Damian. “Have you considered that you might just be really bad at having a secret identity?”

His face became thunderous. You laughed so loudly three people turned. Damian looked offended. Then, despite himself, amused.

You realised then that he was going to be difficult to love.

Not because he was cruel. Because he was careful. Careful with himself. Careful with others. Careful in the particular way of someone who had once confused violence with devotion and spent years separating the two. You saw it. And because you saw it, you knew immediately that you would have to be careful too. You wanted to cage every threat before it reached him. You wanted to stand between him and fate itself. You wanted to know every name that might someday cause him pain.

But you looked at Damian Wayne and understood, perhaps for the first time, that saving someone and possessing them were not the same thing. It was a disappointing revelation. 

“So,” you said, “do you actually like animals, or is that part of the billionaire branding?”

The first time Damian voluntarily called you, it was to accuse you of murder. Romance had always looked different for you.

You answered on the second ring. “Hi, gorgeous.”

“Where are you?”

“Paris.”

A pause. “You are in Paris.”

“Fashion Week.”

“You attended a gala in Gotham last night.”

“Private jet.”

“You are destroying the environment.”

“Do you need something, or did you call to flirt?”

“I am not flirting.”

“Not with that attitude.”

Across the hotel room, Sile slowly covered his face. Damian continued as though you had not spoken. “Do you know a man named Thomas Bell?”

You went still. Sile lowered his hands.

Thomas Bell. Human trafficker. Money launderer. Owner of three nightclubs. Responsible, indirectly, for the disappearance of at least eleven people. Damian had been investigating him for weeks. Two nights ago, Bell had authorised a hit on Robin. Yesterday morning, Thomas Bell died of cardiac arrest.

“No,” you said lightly. Damian was silent. You examined your nails. One had chipped. Tragic. “Should I?”

“He attended a party you hosted eight months ago.”

“There were four hundred people there.”

“You were photographed speaking to him.”

“I speak to lots of people.”

“He died yesterday.”

“That’s awful.”

“You do not sound upset.”

“I didn’t know him.”

“You said that already.”

“Because it remains true?”

Damian breathed out. You could hear street noise on his end of the call. He was outside. You pictured him on a rooftop. Wind in his hair. Cape moving behind him. Your chest hurt.

“I know you are hiding something,” he said.

You smiled faintly. “I know.”

“I will discover what it is.”

“I know.”

“That does not concern you?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Because you’re brilliant. Because there were few things more intoxicating than watching Damian Wayne’s mind work. Because some terrible part of you wanted him to find you out. You had spent years being underestimated. You had learned to hide every knife behind a smile. Damian saw the edges of you anyway.

“Maybe I like the attention.”

“This is serious.”

“So am I.” Another silence. Your smile faded. “Damian?”

“What?”

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

You closed your eyes.

You had seen his lifespan the night you met. You knew, mathematically, that he would survive today. The eyes did not tell you how much pain existed between now and the end. Only the distance. You hated them for that.

“Good,” you whispered.

His voice changed. Not much. You had learned his smallest variations. “Why would I be?”

You opened your eyes. “Because Thomas Bell wanted you dead.”

Sile stood. You realised your mistake too late.

Damian’s voice became very quiet. “How did you know that?”

You hung up on him. Sile stared. You stared at the phone.

“Oh,” you said. “I may have messed up.”

“You?” Silas sideeyed.

“Don’t be sarcastic.”

“The renowned genius?”

“Shut up.”

“Who can calculate international laundering networks from tax discrepancies?”

“I’m blocking you.”

“I do not own a telephone.”

“Then I’ll buy you one so I can block you.”

Sile looked toward the balcony. “You should leave.”

You looked at him. “What?”

“He will investigate.”

You smiled. “I know.”

“If he discovers the notebook—”

“He won’t.”

“You do not know that.” You did not answer. Sile crouched in front of you. For all his ugliness, he could occasionally look terribly ancient. “You care for him.”

You traced the edge of your phone. “Yes.”

“Then remember that humans fear death.”

“Everyone fears death.”

“No.” His huge eyes narrowed. “You fear losing him.” Your fingers stopped. Sile continued. “He fears becoming someone he used to be.”

You looked up. The words struck with surprising force. “You understand nothing about Damian.”

“I understand death. Better than you.” Sile’s wings shifted. “A weapon can look like salvation in the hands of someone you love.”

Damian came to your penthouse three nights later. Through the window. You were eating cereal. It was two in the morning. You looked up as Robin stepped silently into your living room.

“Damian!”

He removed his hood. “You should not be happy that I have broken into your home.”

“I gave security orders not to shoot you.”

His head snapped toward you. “You what?”

“Would you like cereal?”

“No.”

“I have leftover pasta.”

“I am not hungry.”

“You’re grumpy when you’re hungry.”

His expression was unbelievable. You adored him. Sile sat on top of the refrigerator, invisible to Damian.

“Do not be stupid,” he warned. You ignored him.

Damian approached the kitchen island. You wore silk pyjamas patterned with tiny cartoon strawberries. He looked at them. Then at you. You lifted one foot onto the stool. “Cute, right?”

“You know who I am. You know about Bell. You knew about the attempt on my life. And now Bell is dead.”

“Yes.”

Damian’s jaw tightened. 

Sile whispered your name.

Damian looked at you. There it was. The frightening intelligence he usually kept hidden behind arrogance and temper.

People misunderstood Damian, too. They saw violence first. The sword. The sharp tongue. The lineage. They forgot that he was the son of two of the most frightening strategic minds alive. They forgot he had been trained not only to fight, but to observe.

“You knew Bell was planning to kill me,” he said. “You had no documented interaction with him after the party eight months ago. Yet he died less than twenty-four hours after the contract was issued.”

“Coincidence.”

“You were attacked by a stalker.”

You went very still. “Damian.”

“He died in custody.”

“I know.”

“Heart attack.”

Your hand tightened around the spoon. “Stop.”

“A photographer who leaked images of you changing backstage died last year. Cardiac arrest.”

“Damian.”

“A producer accused of assaulting models—”

“He did assault them.”

“—collapsed during dinner.”

“Good.”

The word cracked between you. Damian stopped. Your smile was gone.

“So that’s what this is?” you asked. “You’re upset that bad people are dead?”

“I am concerned that you may be responsible.”

“And if I am?”

Sile descended from the refrigerator. “Careful.”

Damian’s expression did not change. “Then I would need to understand how.”

You laughed. There was no humour in it. “That’s very Batman of you.”

“I am not my father.”

“No. You’re not.” Something flashed across his face. You regretted it immediately. “Damian—”

“No. Explain.”

“I can’t.”

“Cannot or will not?”

“Both.”

He stepped closer. “You believe you are protecting me.” Your heart stumbled. Damian saw that too. Damn him. “You have formed an attachment to me.”

“Attachment?”

“Yes.”

“That is such an ugly word.”

“It is an accurate one.”

“I’m in love with you.”

Damian closed his eyes. Sile muttered something in the shinigami language that was probably obscene.

You set down your spoon. “You know.”

“I suspected.”

“I told you I wanted to marry you.”

“I assumed you were joking.”

“Why?”

“Because sane people do not propose six minutes into their first formal conversation.”

“I didn’t say I was sane.”

“No,” Damian said. “You certainly did not.” You smiled weakly. He looked at you. “Did you kill Thomas Bell?”

Sile moved between you. Pointless. Damian could not see him.

The notebook was hidden somewhere Damian would never think to look. Not here. Not beneath your bed. Not in a safe. You were not an amateur.

“No,” you said. It was technically true. The Death Note killed Bell. You had only written the name.

Damian’s eyes narrowed. He knew. Not the method. But he knew you had found a crack in the question and slipped through it. “Do not kill for me.”

You laughed softly. “Little late.”

His expression changed.

Your stomach dropped. You had done it again.

Damian whispered your name.

You stood. “Leave.”

“No.”

“I said leave.”

“And I said no.”

Your breath caught. The city glittered beyond the windows. Sile stood beside you. Damian removed his mask. The gesture shocked you more than anything else could have.

“You think I do not understand,” he said. His green eyes were viciously bright. “You think I cannot comprehend the impulse.”

“That’s not—”

“I was raised by assassins. I was taught that killing was justice. That removing a life could be an expression of love, loyalty, honour.”

“I know.”

“No. You know facts.” The words cut. “You read about my life. Researched me. Built models and probabilities and whatever other absurd systems you use to understand the world.”

You said nothing.

Damian’s voice softened. “You do not understand what it cost me to learn differently.”

Your eyes burned. “Damian.”

“I will not allow you to make me the reason you become a monster.”

A tear fell before you could stop it. His face changed instantly.

You wiped it away angrily. “You think I’m a monster?”

“No.”

“That’s what you said.”

“It is not.”

“You basically—”

“I said I refuse to let you become one.”

“And what’s the difference?”

Damian stared at you. “The difference,” he said, “is that I believe you have a choice.”

You stopped breathing. Sile looked away. The bastard. You hated when the dead thing became emotional.

“I don’t want anyone to hurt you,” you whispered. "You almost died.”

“I have almost died many times.”

“I hate that.”

“I know.”

“I can stop it.”

“No. You cannot.”

“I can.” Damian stepped closer. You shook your head. “You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

Because the notebook was power. Because it was corruption. Because if Damian touched it, he would see Sile. Because then he would know. Because then you would be vulnerable to him in a way you had never been vulnerable to anyone. Because he might look at you with horror. Because he might leave. The thought was unbearable.

Your voice broke. “What happens when you find out?”

Damian’s expression changed. “Find out what?”

“How bad I really am?” Silence. You laughed unsteadily. “There’s the genius model. There’s the stupid model. There’s the sweet one, the messy one, the annoying one. Everybody likes different versions.”

“You are speaking nonsense.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I kill people, Damian.” The sentence landed softly. A feather in a graveyard. Damian did not move. Neither did Sile. You continued because you had already ruined everything, and there was freedom in falling after the ledge disappeared. “I’ve killed a lot of people.”

Damian’s face emptied. “How?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“How many?”

“I don’t know.”

His nostrils flared. “You do not know?”

“I stopped counting.”

Damian turned away. That hurt more than anger would have. You clutched the kitchen island. “They were bad people.”

“That is irrelevant.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Did they receive trials?”

“Some of them.”

“Did you investigate each accusation?”

“I’m not stupid.”

“I know.”

“Then stop treating me like I am!”

Damian spun back. “I am not!” His voice cracked through the apartment. “You are one of the most intelligent people I have ever met, which makes this worse.”

You stared at him. Damian’s chest rose and fell.

“You knew,” he said. “You understood exactly how easily a person could be falsely accused. How evidence could be manipulated. How systems could be corrupted. You understood every flaw, and still you appointed yourself judge.”

Your mouth trembled. “I was good at it.”

His anger disappeared. “Oh,” he said. You hated that. Hated the softness. Hated being understood. “You were praised for being useful,” Damian continued.

“Stop.”

“You discovered you were good at something terrible, and it made you feel necessary.”

“Stop.”

“So you kept doing it.”

“Stop!”

You threw the cereal bowl. It shattered against the wall. Sile’s wings opened. Damian did not flinch.

You covered your face. “You don’t get to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Know me.”

His voice was quiet. “You know me.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Because I love you.”

Silence. Then Damian said, “You are an idiot.”

You lowered your hands. “What?”

He looked furious. “You are an absolute idiot.”

“That’s really rude.”

“You believe your love entitles you to know every component of me, yet my caring for you does not grant me the right to understand you?”

Your brain stopped. “Your what?”

Damian froze. You stared. Sile’s eyes widened.

“Your what?”

“Tt.”

“Damian.”

“No.”

“You care about me?”

“This conversation is over.”

He reached for his mask. You lunged across the island. He caught you automatically when your sock slipped against the marble. Suddenly, you were against his chest. His hands were at your waist. Your face was inches from his.

Sile turned around. “I refuse to watch this.”

“Damian,” you whispered.

“You are infuriating.”

“You like me.”

“You are reckless.”

“You like me.”

“You have demonstrated a concerning willingness to commit homicide. Your psychological stability is questionable.”

“You like me.” His jaw tightened. Your smile trembled into existence. “You like me.”

Damian stared into your eyes. “I am beginning to reconsider it.”

You kissed him. It was, in hindsight, perhaps not the most mature response.

Damian made a sound of surprise. Then his hand came up behind your neck. And he kissed you back.

That was the problem. Damian Wayne did nothing halfway. Not fighting. Not arguing. Not learning to become better than the world that had made him. And apparently not kissing.

Your fingers twisted in the front of his uniform. He pulled you closer. For one incandescent second, nothing existed except him.

Then Damian broke away.

You followed his mouth. He pressed two fingers to your lips. “No.”

You blinked. “What?”

“We are not distracting ourselves from the conversation.”

“You kissed me.”

“You kissed me.”

“You kissed back.”

“That was an error.”

“You used tongue.” Damian’s face turned red. You gasped. “Oh my God.”

“Silence.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I am going to leave.”

“Marry me.”

“No.”

“Boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Third date?”

“We have not had a first date.”

“Sure, we have.”

“When?”

“The gala.”

“That was not a date.”

“Paris phone call?”

“Not a date.”

“This?”

“You confessed to multiple murders.”

“So memorable.”

Damian looked toward the ceiling as though asking every deity for strength. You smiled. Then his expression sobered. “This changes nothing.” Your smile faded. “I need to know how you are doing this.”

“I can’t.”

“Then I will investigate.”

“I know.”

“And if you kill someone because of me again—”

“What?”

He looked at you. “Do not.”

You pulled away. “I can’t promise that.”

“You can.”

“What if they’re going to kill you?”

“I deal with people attempting to kill me weekly.”

“Exactly.”

“That is not reassuring, is it?”

“No!” His mouth twitched. You pointed accusingly at him. “This isn’t funny.”

“No. It is not.”

“You could die.”

“So could you.” Your hand fell. Damian’s expression became terribly gentle. “I know you have seen something.” You froze. “Your eyes changed the night we met.” Damn him. “You knew my name immediately.” You said nothing. “You are too intelligent to believe yourself invincible, yet you behave as though you possess knowledge other people do not.”

You swallowed. “Damian.”

“You know something about death.”

Sile whispered, “He is very clever.”

You almost told him to shut up.

Damian noticed your eyes shift.

His head turned. He saw nothing.

Then looked back at you. “There is something here.”

Your blood ran cold.

Damian’s gaze sharpened. “You just looked at it.”

You stepped away. “Leave.”

“What is in this room?”

“Damian.”

“Is it a person?”

Sile began laughing.

You glared at him. Damian followed your line of sight perfectly. Straight to the invisible creature.

Sile stopped laughing.

“Oh,” he said. Damian reached into his belt. “Oh, I like him.”

“Sile, shut up.”

Damian went still.

You closed your eyes. Fantastic. Wonderful. You had ruined everything.

“Who,” Damian said slowly, “is Sile?”

It took Damian three weeks to find the Death Note.

You were impressed. Annoyed, terrified. But impressed.

You had divided pages from the main notebook and stored them separately. One page was sewn into the lining of a couture handbag currently locked in a vault in Switzerland. Another was laminated beneath the floor of your childhood bedroom. A third existed in a bank deposit box beneath a false identity.

The notebook itself? Hidden inside a hollow compartment in the backing board of a framed print in your apartment.

Damian found it because the picture was crooked. By three millimetres. You came home to find him standing in your bedroom with the black notebook in his gloved hands.

Sile stood beside him.

“Oh,” you said.

Damian looked up. Sile waved.

You dropped your bag.

Damian glanced at the shinigami. Then at you. “You were not exaggerating.”

Sile looked offended. “About what?”

“You’re ugly.”

Sile screamed.

You burst out laughing.

Sile pointed a claw at Damian. “I changed my mind. Kill him.”

Damian’s expression did not change. “Can he harm me?”

You stopped laughing. Sile did too.

Damian noticed. “Interesting.”

“Don’t.”

“Can he?”

“Sile would never.”

“I absolutely would.”

You turned. “Sile.”

“What?”

“Not helping.”

Damian looked between you. “You said he would die to protect you.”

You froze.

That had been months ago. An offhand statement.

He remembered. Damian always remembered.

Sile folded his wings. “There are rules.”

Damian’s fingers tightened around the notebook.

You stepped forward. “Give it to me.”

“No.”

“Damian.”

“No.”

“You don’t understand what you’re holding.”

“I have read it.”

Your face drained. “What?”

“All of it.”

“There are names—”

“Thousands.”

You looked away.

Damian’s voice hardened. “Thousands.”

“Not all mine.”

“But many.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

You laughed bitterly. “You already know.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

“Because I could.” 

His expression tightened.

“Because I thought I was making things better.” You looked at him. “Because I thought bad people deserved to die and good people deserved to be safe.”

“You do not believe that now?”

You considered lying. Then decided he deserved better. “I don’t know.”

Damian glanced at the notebook. Then at Sile. “Can it be destroyed?”

“Yes,” Sile said.

“No,” you said simultaneously.

Damian raised an eyebrow.

You moved closer. “You can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s mine.”

“That is not sufficient.”

“It is to me.”

“You expect me to leave an object capable of mass murder in your possession?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Your eyes narrowed. “You don’t get to decide for me.”

“No,” he said. “I do not.”

Something about the easy agreement disarmed you.

Damian continued. “But I do decide whether I remain in your life.”

Your breath caught. “That’s manipulative.”

“It would be if I demanded you destroy it in exchange for my presence.”

“You are.”

“I am not.”

“What’s the difference?”

“I am telling you the truth. I do not know whether I can love someone actively using this.”

Silence.

There it was.

Not care. Not attachment.

Love.

Your eyes burned. “You love me?”

Damian looked furious at himself.

You took another step. “Damian.”

“We are discussing the notebook.”

“You love me?”

“You are impossible.”

“Oh my God.” You covered your mouth.

Sile groaned. “Humans.”

Damian placed the notebook on the dresser.

You stared at him. “Say it again.”

“No.”

“You said it.”

“Within a hypothetical structure.”

“You love me hypothetically?”

“Stop smiling.”

“Make me.”

His glare could have killed weaker people. Unfortunately for Damian, you were thriving.

Then he said, very quietly, “I do.”

Your smile vanished.

Damian stood in your bedroom. The notebook between you. A god of death beside him. And looked more frightened than he ever had in combat.

“I do love you.” Your heart broke open. “It has been,” he continued stiffly, “an extremely unpleasant realisation.”

You made a wounded noise. 

“You have no sensible survival instincts.”

“Rude.”

“You attempted to pet a hyena.”

“She looked friendly.”

“She was actively eating someone’s shoe.”

“He wasn’t using it anymore.”

“You leave clothing everywhere.”

“I’m creative.”

“You purchased an alpaca because you were sad.”

“Delilah helped.”

“You named your sourdough starter Gerald.”

“You remembered!”

“Of course I remembered.”

The room went quiet.

Damian looked at you. “I remember everything about you.”

Your throat tightened.

He continued more softly. “You are the brightest person I know.”

You blinked rapidly. “Bright?”

“Not intelligent.”

“Wow.”

“Do not interrupt.”

You mimed zipping your lips.

Damian exhaled. “You are intelligent, obviously. Disturbingly so.”

You smiled behind your hand.

“But I meant…” He struggled.

Damian hated verbal vulnerability.

You had learned not to rescue him from it. To let him search. To let him choose his own words.

“You enter a room,” he said, “and people look.”

“I’m a model.”

“That is not why.” You went quiet. “You are loud. Irritating. Excessive.”

“Are you sure this is a love confession?”

“And warm.”

Your smile faded.

Damian looked almost angry at the softness in his own voice. “You are warm in ways I did not know a person could be.”

Your eyes filled.

“You make strangers feel as though they have been invited somewhere.”

A tear fell.

Damian stepped closer. “You make me feel…”

His hand rose. Thumb brushing the tear from your cheek.

“…as though there might be parts of the world I have not yet learned to enjoy.”

You broke.

Completely.

You threw yourself at him.

Damian caught you. He always did.

You buried your face against his shoulder. “I love you.”

“I know.”

“I love you so much.”

“Yes.”

“I would kill everyone on Earth for you.”

He pushed you back by the shoulders. “No.”

You sniffed. “Bad timing?”

“Terrible.”

“Sorry.”

His eyes closed.

You smiled through tears. “Damian?”

“What?”

“I’m trying.”

He opened his eyes. “I know.”

“I don’t know how to be normal about you.”

“I have noticed.”

“I mean it.”

“So do I.”

You glanced at the Death Note. “I don’t know if I can destroy it.”

Damian’s face became unreadable.

“But,” you continued, “I can stop.”

Sile’s head tilted.

Damian did not speak.

You wiped your face. “I can try to stop using it.”

“Try?”

“I’m being honest.”

He stared. You stared back.

“Say something.”

“I am considering.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It should.”

“Are you going to arrest me?”

“I do not think there is a criminal statute addressing supernatural notebooks operated through written names and facial recognition.”

You brightened. “Legal loophole.”

“That was not enthusiasm.”

“Sorry.”

Damian picked up the notebook. Your body tensed.

He held it out.

You stared. “You’re giving it back?”

“I am.”

“Why?”

His jaw tightened. “Because you are correct. This is your choice.”

Slowly, you took it.

The moment the notebook left his hand, Sile vanished from his sight.

Damian looked toward the place the creature had been. Then at you.

“I hate that.”

“What?”

“Not seeing him.”

“He’s making faces at you.”

“I assumed.”

“He says your hair looks stupid.”

Damian narrowed his eyes at empty space.

Sile began laughing.

You hugged the notebook to your chest. “Do you trust me?”

“No.”

You gasped.

Damian continued before you could become properly offended. “But I believe you can become someone I trust with this.”

Your chest hurt.

He touched your face. “Do not make me regret believing in you.”

You leaned into his hand. “I’ll try.”

“I hate that answer.”

“I know.”

“It is honest.”

“I know.”

You smiled.

He kissed your forehead. “And you are not to kill anyone who irritates me.”

“That’s so broad.”

“No killing.”

“What about Joker?”

“Especially not—”

“Damian.”

“No.”

“Come on.”

“No.”

“He hit you with a crowbar last month.”

“And I dealt with it.”

“You had ten stitches.”

“No.”

“Fine.”

“Promise.”

You looked toward Sile. Sile shrugged.

You looked back at Damian. “I promise not to kill anyone solely because they irritate you.”

Damian stared. “That wording is suspicious.”

“You’re suspicious.”

“I know you.”

You smiled. “Yeah.”

His fingers threaded through yours.

“Yes,” Damian said. “I do.”

Falling in love did not make Damian less suspicious. It made him worse.

You had assumed dating a vigilante would involve dramatic rooftop kisses and mysterious disappearances. It did. But it also involved Damian inspecting your breakfast.

“Is that all you are eating?”

You looked down at the strawberry on your plate. “There are six almonds.”

“That is not breakfast.”

“I have a fitting.”

“You have organs.”

“Unfortunately.”

Damian placed a bowl of oats in front of you.

You stared. He stared back.

“You’re very controlling.”

“Eat.”

You smiled dreamily. “You’re so attractive.”

“Eat.”

Sile, sitting on top of the kitchen cabinets, gagged.

Your relationship grew in strange increments.

Damian began attending fashion shows. He pretended to hate them. You caught him criticising garment construction twice.

He brought you to the zoo after hours.

You spent forty minutes watching bats. He spent forty minutes watching you.

You did not tell him you noticed.

You met the family.

Dick hugged you immediately.

Jason eyed you across the dinner table and said, “You’ve got crazy eyes.”

You gasped. “Thank you.”

Jason stared. Then looked at Damian. “Oh, you’re screwed.”

Tim liked you until you solved one of his cold cases before dessert. After that, he alternated between intellectual respect and personal betrayal.

“You saw that in ten minutes?”

“The harbour records were wrong.”

“I checked the harbour records.”

“Poorly.”

Damian smiled into his tea.

Tim pointed. “Stop looking proud.”

“I did nothing.”

“You brought them here.”

“You are simply upset because my partner is smarter than you.”

“Partner?” you repeated dreamily.

Damian immediately looked uncomfortable.

Jason kicked you beneath the table. “Don’t scare him off.”

“I have never been scared in my life,” Damian said.

A crash sounded from the cave below.

Everyone around the table stood instantly.

Bruce sighed. “Stay here.”

They vanished.

You sat alone. Sile appeared beside Alfred.

“He can see me,” Sile said.

You almost choked.

Alfred looked directly at the shinigami. “I presume you take tea without milk.”

Sile stared. You stared.

Alfred raised an eyebrow. “Am I mistaken?”

That was the day you became convinced Alfred Pennyworth might be God. You never received confirmation.

You did stop killing. Mostly.

It was difficult. Not because you craved death. Because power was a habit. Knowing that cruelty could be erased with a pen stroke made restraint feel like complicity.

Damian understood this more than he wanted to. That was the strangest mercy between you. He never treated you as innocent. Never romanticised what you had done. Never called the victims meaningless simply because some had been terrible people.

But he understood.

There were nights when you woke beside him and found him staring at the ceiling. On those nights, you knew he was thinking about the version of himself who had once believed killing was simple too.

Neither of you apologised for existing.

You simply held his hand. He held yours back.

One night, after six months without using the notebook, someone discovered Damian’s identity.

You knew before he did.

The man was called Victor Raines.

Private military contractor. Mercenary. Fourteen confirmed kills. Many more suspected.

He had obtained evidence connecting Damian Wayne and Robin.

His plan was uncomplicated.

Kidnap you. Draw Damian into a controlled location. Kill him.

It was, frankly, insulting.

You sat in your dressing room while hair stylists and makeup artists moved around you.

Sile stood behind your chair.

“He dies in twelve years,” you whispered.

“What?”

“Raines.”

Sile’s gaze moved to the television. A photograph of the contractor filled the screen beneath a news report about security consulting. “You could wait.”

“He is going to hurt Damian tonight.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he sent me a location.”

Your phone sat on the table. One message.

COME ALONE OR ROBIN DIES.

Sile stared. “He does not have Robin.”

“Not yet.”

“You should call Damian.”

“He’ll stop me.”

“Yes.”

You reached for your handbag.

Sile’s voice sharpened. “No.”

You stopped.

The room around you remained busy.

No one noticed the death god standing behind you. No one saw the war inside your chest.

“Move.”

“You promised.”

“I promised to try.”

“You have tried.”

“Sile.”

“He loves you.”

“That’s why I have to.”

“No. That is why you do not.”

Your eyes burned red.

Sile crouched beside you. “He asked you not to make his life the justification for death.”

“He could die.”

“You have seen his lifespan.”

“Lifespans can change.”

The shinigami went silent.

You knew the rules.

Death Notes altered causality. Shinigami interference altered causality. 

Love altered nothing. And yet it made everything unbearable.

“I can’t lose him.”

Sile’s expression softened. “I know.”

Your hand shook. “Give me the notebook.”

“No.”

“Sile.”

“You are not its owner.”

“You gave it to me.”

“And now I regret it.”

You looked at him.

Sile had loved you before Damian.

Not romantically. Not in any human way.

But he had followed you for years. He had watched you sleep. Watched you laugh. Watched you become something brilliant and dangerous.

A shinigami who would die for you. Perhaps that was why he understood Damian better than you expected.

“You’d kill Damian if it saved me,” you whispered. Sile said nothing. “You would.”

“Yes.”

“Then how are you different?”

“I am not.”

The answer silenced you.

Sile’s great wings shifted. “That is why I am telling you not to become like me.”

Your eyes filled.

He smiled. It was hideous. You loved him.

“I hate when you’re wise.”

“So do I.”

You picked up your phone. Called Damian.

He answered immediately. “What happened?”

No greeting. Of course.

You laughed shakily. “Hi, handsome.”

“Tell me.”

“There’s a man.”

“Did someone touch you?”

The speed of it almost made you laugh again. “No.”

“Threaten you?”

“Sort of.”

“Name.”

You smiled through tears. “See, that’s exactly why I’m calling you.”

Damian arrived at the location twenty-two minutes later. Not alone.

You had not gone either. Growth was disgusting. You hated it. You remained in the Cave while the family took Raines down.

You paced.

Sile watched. “You will wear a hole into the floor.”

“I’m stressed.”

“Eat an apple.”

“Don’t talk to me.”

“Damian is fine.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I can see his lifespan.”

Your head snapped up. Sile smiled.

“You ass.”

“I learned from you.”

Two hours later, Damian returned. He still wore the Robin uniform. There was blood on his mouth.

Your heart stopped.

Then you ran.

Damian caught you hard enough to lift your feet from the floor.

You clung to him. “You’re okay.”

“Yes.”

“You’re okay.”

“I told you I would be.”

“You didn’t actually.”

“I thought it.”

“That doesn’t count.”

His hand pressed against the back of your head.

You breathed him in.

Leather. Rain. Blood. Home.

Damian pulled back. His green eyes searched yours. “You did not use it.”

“No.”

Pride moved across his face.

Quiet. Careful. More valuable than worship.

“No,” you repeated. “I called you.”

“You did.”

“I trusted you.”

He kissed you.

Slowly. Nothing desperate in it.

No fear. No death. Just Damian.

When he pulled away, you rested your forehead against his. “Are you proud of me?”

“Yes.”

You smiled. “Say it properly.”

His expression flattened. “Do not ruin this.”

“Damian.”

He sighed. Then touched your cheek.

“I am proud of you.”

Your smile became enormous. “I’m going to cry.”

“You cry frequently.”

“You’re so mean.”

“You adore me.”

“I do.”

His face softened. “I know.”

You hesitated. “Damian?”

“Yes?”

“I still have a page hidden somewhere you’ll never find.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why would you tell me that?”

“Honesty.”

“You are impossible.”

“I’m growing.”

“You are doing so in the most irritating manner imaginable.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck. “But I am growing.”

Damian looked at you.

The model. The murderer. The genius. The idiot. The person who had once looked at death and mistaken power for justice. The person who loved him far too much and, somehow, was learning that love sometimes meant putting down the weapon.

“Yes,” he said softly.

“You are.”

You kissed his cheek. “Still want to marry you.”

“No.”

“Next year?”

“No.”

“Five years?”

“Stop.”

“You know I’m going to ask every month.”

“I am aware.”

“Every week?”

“I will leave.”

“You’d miss me.”

“I would enjoy the silence.”

“Liar.”

Damian’s mouth curved.

A real smile.

Small. Rare. Yours.

You looked at it and felt the familiar terrible devotion rise in your chest. The desire to tear the world apart and rebuild it safely around him.

That part of you had not disappeared. Perhaps it never would.

Damian knew that. He loved you with his eyes open.

That was the terrible thing. That was the beautiful thing.

He had not saved you by making you harmless. You had not loved him by making him untouchable.

Instead, day by day, you learned the harder miracle: To choose. To be chosen. To have the power to destroy and reach for his hand instead.

Sile hovered behind Damian and pretended to gag.

You smiled.

Damian narrowed his eyes. “What is he doing?”

“Nothing.”

“He is mocking me.”

“He would never.”

“I know you are lying.”

“Pretty privilege.”

“That is not how lying works.”

“It’s worked so far.”

“Not on me.”

No. Never on him.

Your stalker made a wet, frightened sound. Red Hood hit him again. You stared. The alley was bright with rain. Gotham had been spitting it down for hours, turning the streetlights into bruised halos. Your knees were bleeding through silk. Your breath came too fast.

Above your stalker’s head, you could still see his name. You could still see the lifespan. Too long. Far too long. The page of the Death Note in your clutch felt suddenly unnecessary.

Red Hood dragged your attacker away from you and slammed him into the wall.

“I just wanted to talk to them,” the man choked out.

“Yeah?” Red Hood said. “Funny way to chat.”

“They made me—”

Red Hood went still. You knew that stillness. Not because you knew him. Because you knew rage. The deep kind. The kind that got very quiet right before it decided what shape to take. Your stalker seemed to realise too late that he had said something wrong.

“They made you what?”

The man’s eyes darted toward you. Red Hood followed the glance. “They made me love them.”

The next punch broke something. Maybe a tooth. Maybe a belief. You flinched. Red Hood froze.

Then his helmet turned toward you. For half a second, nobody moved. Your stalker was moaning on the ground. Your heart was trying to break out through your ribs. Red Hood released the man. He crossed the alley slowly. Not like he had approached your attacker. That difference mattered. Everything mattered, suddenly.

He stopped several feet away. “You hurt?”

You stared at the red helmet. The Shinigami eyes gave you nothing useful. Not because they had failed. Because you could not see his face. No face meant no name. No name meant no truth. It should have made him frightening. Instead, you felt something hotter and stranger uncurl in your chest.

Mystery. You had spent months seeing every person you met reduced to name and number. Every face came with an ending attached. Every handshake, every camera flash, every smile at a gala happened beneath a lifespan only you could see. Red Hood had none. He stood in front of you like a hole in the rules.

“You with me?” he asked.

You blinked. “Sorry?”

He tilted his head. You realised, distantly, that you had been staring.

Then he crouched. Not too close. He pulled off one glove with his teeth and extended his bare hand. There were scars over the knuckles. You looked at them. Then at him.

“You can grab on,” he said. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

Your hand shook when you placed it in his. His skin was warm.

That was the second thing you loved about Red Hood. He felt alive. Painfully, strangely alive. At that moment, all you knew was that he helped you stand and immediately looked away when the tear in your clothes pulled wider.

He shrugged out of his jacket and handed it to you. “Put that on.”

You clutched it around yourself. It was heavy. Warm. It smelled like gunpowder, rain, and something woody underneath.

His helmet turned toward the mouth of the alley, where sirens were approaching. “You got security?”

You laughed. It came out wrong. Too high. “Technically.”

Red Hood looked back at you. “Technically?”

“My security lost me.” His helmet remained very still. You could somehow feel the judgement radiating through it. “Yeah,” you said. “I know. Very professional. Ten out of ten. No notes.”

That got something. Not a laugh. A strange mechanical huff through the helmet.

You smiled. “Was that a laugh?”

“No.”

“It was.”

“You’re concussed.”

“I’m not.”

“Shock, then.”

“Are you always this rude after rescuing someone?”

“Usually, they’re too busy crying to review the customer service.”

Your smile widened before you could stop it. Red Hood looked at you for a long second. Then he glanced away first.

The police sirens came closer.

Red Hood stepped back. Panic struck you unexpectedly. “Wait.” He stopped. You tightened your hands in his jacket. “What’s your name?”

The white lenses of the helmet stared back at you. “Not how this works, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. Your entire nervous system lit up like a fire alarm.

“Oh,” you said.

Red Hood seemed to realise what he had done.

There was a tiny pause. Then, gruffer, “You’re gonna be okay.”

You looked at him. At the blank red mask. At the man whose ending you could not see.

You believed him. That was probably where the trouble started.

By morning, every paper in Gotham had your face on it.

FAMOUS MODEL SAVED BY RED HOOD AFTER STALKER ATTACK. GOTHAM’S GOLDEN DARLING BREAKS SILENCE. MODEL PRAISES MASKED VIGILANTE AFTER TERRIFYING NIGHT.

You hated all of them. Not enough to stop reading. You sat in your penthouse kitchen wearing an oversized hoodie and nothing else, scrolling through headlines while your Shinigami hung upside down over the island.

Rem was eating an apple. Rem was always eating an apple. Their real name could not be pronounced by a human mouth without making teeth hurt, so you had named them Rem six months ago. They hated it. You considered this enrichment.

“You’ve read the same article six times,” Rem said.

“I’m checking for inaccuracies.”

“You’re staring at the blurry picture of the red one.”

“It’s a compelling photograph.”

“It’s twelve pixels.”

“Art is subjective.”

Rem bit into the apple. “You’re obsessed.”

You zoomed in on the photograph again. It really was awful. Red Hood stood in profile, mostly obscured by rain and police lights. A smear of red helmet. Dark armour. Broad shoulders.

You remembered the warmth of his hand. Sweetheart. You pressed your lips together.

Rem groaned. “Oh, stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Romanticising.”

“I’m processing trauma.”

“You drew a heart around his helmet.”

You glanced down. At some point, without noticing, you had in fact traced a tiny heart on the screen with your fingertip. You locked the phone. “That proves nothing.”

Rem laughed.

A notification appeared. Your stalker had died. You opened the article. Cardiac arrest in police custody.

Your expression flattened.

Rem slowly lowered the apple. “You didn’t.”

“No.”

That was true. You had wanted to. God, you had wanted to. You had his name. His face. A strip of paper folded inside a lipstick tube on the vanity. But after the alley, you had not written it. You had gone home wrapped in Red Hood’s jacket and sat in the dark for hours with the paper in front of you.

You could not stop thinking about one thing. Red Hood had let him live. Barely, perhaps. With several missing teeth and a badly fractured wrist. But alive.

You had not known why that mattered. Still did not. So you had left the page blank.

Rem leaned closer to the screen. “Heart attack.”

“Yeah.”

“Convenient.”

You stared at the photograph attached to the article. Your stalker’s booking photo. His name. His now-useless lifespan. “I didn’t do it.”

“I believe you.” You looked up. Rem shrugged one shoulder. “I would know if you had.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“I’m a death god. Comfort is not really my lane.”

You closed the article.Somewhere under the unease, relief still came. You hated yourself for it.

Rem watched your face. “You wanted him dead.”

“Yes.”

“Do you regret that?”

“No.”

“Humans,” Rem sighed. “Always making simple things complicated.”

You looked toward the rain-streaked windows. Somewhere in Gotham, Red Hood was alive. Unknowable. Unseen.

You touched the sleeve of his jacket. You had not returned it. You told yourself it was evidence.

The second time you met Red Hood, you brought him coffee. Six coffees. You had spent three nights constructing the statistical likelihood of his patrol routes based on sighting reports, police scanner timing, gang activity shifts, violent crime clusters, and three blurry social media videos. Rem called it stalking. You called it data analysis.

“Stalking with spreadsheets,” Rem said.

“Shut up.”

“You colour-coded him.”

“I like organisation.”

“You have a tab called ‘Shoulders.’”

“That is separate research.”

So, on a cold Thursday night, you stood on a rooftop in Crime Alley wearing sunglasses at midnight and carrying a cardboard tray with six takeaway cups.

Red Hood landed behind you. “You have got to be kidding me.”

You smiled. “Hi.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Coffee.”

“At midnight.”

“You work nights.” You lifted the tray. “I didn’t know what you liked.”

“So you bought the shop?”

“Technically, no. I thought about it.”

His helmet tilted. You could feel the disbelief. Then he walked over and inspected the cups. “What are these?”

“Black coffee, latte, flat white, cappuccino, mocha, and one terrifying caramel thing the barista recommended after looking at me and making a character judgment.”

Red Hood stared at you.

You smiled. “Pick your fighter.”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Before coffee?”

“At all.”

“Rude.”

“You were attacked less than two weeks ago.”

“Exactly. What are the odds of it happening again?”

“High. This is Gotham.”

“Fair.”

He folded his arms. You looked at them. Then looked back up. Maybe a little too slowly.

“Stop that.”

You blinked. “Stop what?”

“Whatever that was.”

“I was listening.”

“With your eyes?”

“That’s how looking works.”

Even through the helmet, you somehow knew he was suffering. It was wonderful. Red Hood sighed. Then he reached for the black coffee.

You gasped. “Knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“You’re a black coffee person.”

“Half this city drinks black coffee.”

“Yes, but you do it emotionally.” He went still. You grinned. “Like, ‘life has betrayed me but caffeine remains.’”

Red Hood stared at you. Then, unexpectedly, his shoulders shook. Once. Twice.

You lit up. “You laughed.”

“No.”

“You did!”

“No evidence.”

“You’re so cute.”

He almost dropped the coffee. The helmet snapped toward you. “What?”

You smiled innocently. “Your helmet.”

“You called my helmet cute.”

“Sure.”

He seemed relieved. Poor thing. Adorable. Oblivious. You tucked that knowledge away carefully.

Red Hood pointed toward the fire escape. “Go home.”

“You didn’t drink the coffee yet.”

“I’ll drink it when you leave.”

“Promise?”

“Why would I lie about coffee?”

You considered this. “Good point.” You walked toward the fire escape, then turned. “Can I see you again?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

He paused.

You smiled brightly. “See you soon!”

“That is the opposite of what I just said.”

But you were already climbing down.

Rem floated beside you. “Smooth.”

“He likes me.”

“He thinks you’re insane.”

“Two things can be true.”

Above you, Red Hood watched until you reached the street. You knew because Rem checked.

You smiled all the way home.

Jason Todd did not know what to do with you. That was the problem. He knew what to do with criminals. He knew what to do with guns. He knew what to do with drug runners, pimps, traffickers, extortionists, and every other species of parasite that thought Crime Alley belonged to them. He did not know what to do with a high-fashion model who kept leaving snacks on rooftops. The snacks were good. That made it worse.

“You got a fan,” Roy said over comms one night.

Jason glared at the chocolate croissant sitting beside a gargoyle. “Shut up.”

“There’s a note.”

“I can see the note.”

“Read it.”

“No.”

“I’ll hack your helmet camera.”

“Do that, and I’ll shoot you.”

“Romantically?”

Jason disconnected. The note was written in ridiculous pink ink. You looked tired last time. Eat something. Also, the guy running weapons through the old printing warehouse is lying about his supplier. Check the shipping company registered under his sister’s maiden name. xoxo

Jason stared at it. Then at the croissant. Then at the city. “What the hell?”

He checked the shipping company. You were right.  Not slightly right. Not lucky. The records led to a distribution chain Jason had been trying to crack for four months.

He sat in one of his safehouses at three in the morning, surrounded by documents, and pulled up your public profile. You smiled out from the screen in a perfume campaign. Perfect skin. Glossy mouth. Vacant eyes.

Jason knew that expression. A mask.

“Okay,” he muttered.

He searched deeper. Public interviews first. You told one presenter you thought the stock market was “like astrology for men with Patagonia vests.” The audience laughed. Jason snorted despite himself. Then, thirty seconds later, the host mentioned a recent merger. You made one offhand comment about the acquiring company’s debt structure being unsustainable if interest rates changed. The host laughed. The finance journalist sitting beside you stopped laughing.

Jason replayed the clip. Then another. Then another. A fashion interview where you accidentally identified a counterfeit supply-chain issue. A charity panel where you pretended not to know what regulatory capture meant while describing it perfectly. A late-night show where you spent seven minutes behaving like you had forgotten what inflation was, then corrected the host’s statistic.

Jason leaned back. “Huh.”

He dug deeper. Old school records were mostly sealed. Scholarship offers. Competition results. Papers under aliases. A frightening understanding of networks, behavioural patterns, financial systems, criminal structure.

Jason stared at the screen. Then at the selfie you had recently posted wearing heart-shaped sunglasses and captioned: brain empty only sparkles today <3

He laughed. Actually laughed. Then he realised he was smiling at your picture and immediately closed the laptop. “Nope.”

The laptop stayed closed for nine seconds. Then he opened it again. For research. Obviously.

The third time you met Jason, neither of you knew it counted. At least, Jason did not. You did. You knew immediately. Because you saw his face.

It happened at a charity photography exhibition. A model friend of yours was raising money for survivors of stalking and coercive control, and the Wayne Foundation had sponsored half the event.

You were standing near a wall of black-and-white portraits when a man beside you said, “That one’s good.”

You turned and everything stopped.

His name appeared above his head. Jason Todd.

The numbers beneath it were wrong. Not absent. Not normal. Wrong. Broken. Interrupted. A lifespan cut once and then continuing in a pattern you had never seen before.

Your mouth went dry. Jason Todd. Bruce Wayne’s dead son. Bruce Wayne’s living son. The boy murdered by the Joker. The man standing beside you. Your saviour. Your Red Hood.

Jason glanced at you. “You okay?”

You stared. He was taller than you expected. Broad, dark-haired, with a white streak cutting through the front. There was a scar near his mouth. Another by his eyebrow. He wore a suit badly, not because it fit poorly but because he looked like he resented every button personally.

Alive. He was alive. He had died. And somehow, violently, impossibly, he had come back.

You felt something inside yourself lock into place. Of course. Of course it was him. Of course the man with no name in the alley had one written twice by death. You had a notebook that killed. A god of death who followed you like a shadow. Eyes that showed endings. And Jason Todd was the man who had already broken his. Destiny was a ridiculous concept. You had always thought so.

Jason shifted awkwardly. “Uh.”

You realised you were still staring. “Oh my god,” you breathed. He winced. Here it came, apparently. Recognition. The dead Wayne kid. The scandal. The resurrection headlines. The— “You’re beautiful.”

Jason stopped. “What?”

You covered your mouth. Not because you regretted it. Because his expression was incredible. “I’m sorry,” you said.

He looked alarmed. “No, you’re not.”

“No.”

“Right.”

You smiled. Jason looked around the gallery as if expecting someone to explain you. Nobody did.

“Do I know you?” he asked.

You nearly laughed. “Yes.”

He frowned.

You watched the pieces move. Famous face. Magazine covers. Gala headlines. Then recognition. “Oh. Shit. You’re—”

“Yes.”

“The alley.”

Your heart jumped. He froze. So did you.

There. A slip.  Small. Beautiful. Jason’s face changed as he realised.

“You heard about it,” you said softly.

“Yeah.”

“Red Hood saved me.”

“Yeah. Heard that.”

“Did you?”

“News travels.”

You stepped closer.

Jason did not move back, but he looked deeply uncomfortable. Poor baby. He was terrible at flirting.

You loved him already. Maybe you had before seeing his face. Maybe this only made the shape of it clearer.

“You remind me of him,” you said.

Jason nearly choked. “What?”

“Red Hood.”

“How?”

You looked him up and down.

Jason’s ears turned red.

Oh.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

“Build.”

“Lots of guys are built.”

“Voice.”

“You’ve heard me say, like, eight words.”

“Enough.” Jason’s eyes narrowed. You smiled sweetly. “Relax. I’m kidding.”

You were not.

He stared at you. Then his gaze moved past your shoulder. Rem stood there, invisible to him, smiling wider than you had seen in months.

“Interesting,” Rem murmured.

You ignored them.

Jason shoved his hands into his pockets. “So. You okay?”

The question was awkward. Blunt. Sincere.

Your smile softened. “Better.”

“Good.”

“Red Hood helped.”

His jaw shifted. “Yeah.”

“He was kind.”

Jason looked genuinely confused. “Was he?”

You laughed. Jason smiled despite himself.

The expression transformed him. Not into someone less scarred. Into someone softer around them.

You felt your obsession become something else. Deeper. More dangerous.

Because Red Hood had been a symbol. Jason Todd was a person. And people could be lost.

You looked above his head again. At the wrongness in the numbers. At the proof.

Maybe you were both supposed to have died. Maybe death had simply failed to understand that the two of you had not met yet.

Jason followed your gaze. “What are you looking at?”

You smiled. “Your hair.”

He touched the white streak automatically. “Oh.”

“It’s cute.”

“It’s not—”

“Very handsome.”

Jason looked away. You watched the tips of his ears go red again.

Rem leaned close to you. “He smells like a grave.”

You went still. “What?”

Jason looked back. “What?”

“Nothing.”

Rem circled him. Their eyes shone. “Death touched this one and let go.”

You stared at Jason.

He shifted. “Seriously. You good?”

You smiled slowly. “Yes.”

Better than good. Certain.

After that, you saw Jason everywhere.  Some meetings were engineered. Others were real accidents.

The problem was that Jason started enjoying them before he realised that was what was happening.

You ran into him at a bookstore in Crime Alley. He found you sitting on the floor in the classics section, sunglasses pushed into your hair, reading three books at once.

Jason stopped at the end of the aisle. “You lost?”

You looked up. Your entire face brightened. “Jason!”

He flinched at the volume. “Indoor voice.”

“Sorry.” You lowered your voice theatrically. “Jason.”

He rolled his eyes.

Then noticed the books. Dostoevsky. Baldwin. Euripides.

Jason looked at you. You looked back. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re doing the thing.”

“What thing?”

“The face.”

“What face?”

“The ‘I thought they were stupid’ face.”

Jason winced. “I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“A little.”

You gasped. “Monster.”

“Sorry.”

“You can make it up to me.”

He immediately looked suspicious. “How?”

“Coffee.”

“No.”

“Dinner?”

“No.”

“Marriage?”

“Absolutely not.”

You smiled. “So coffee.”

“That is not how negotiation works.”

“Isn’t it?”

Jason stared down at you. You patted the floor beside you. He did not sit.

You looked back at the book. “Did you know,” you said conversationally, “people mistake prettiness for simplicity because they want beauty to be passive?” Jason stayed still. You turned a page. “They like beautiful people better when they’re easy to understand. Easy to consume. They hate being reminded that the person they’re looking at is also looking back.”

Jason slowly sat beside you. Close enough. “That sounds exhausting.”

You looked at him. Not teasing this time. “Yes.”

He nodded.

You glanced at the book in his hand. Pride and Prejudice. Your eyebrows rose. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You thought it.”

“Mr Darcy?”

“I said shut up.”

You grinned.

Jason opened the book.

You leaned your shoulder against his. He went completely rigid. You pretended not to notice.

For nearly a minute, he stayed that way. Then, slowly, his shoulder relaxed beneath yours.

Rem watched from the top shelf.

“You’re both pathetic,” they said.

You smiled at the page.

Jason noticed.  “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You smiling at Greek tragedy?”

“I contain multitudes.”

“You contain problems.”

“Romantic.”

“That wasn’t flirting.”

“I know.”

The disappointment in your voice was mostly fake.

Jason glanced at you. Then quickly back at the book.

Oblivious, yes. Not completely. That was worse.

You started leaving information for Red Hood again. Better information now. More precise. No theatrics. Jason knew it was you. He did not know how you knew where to leave it. That bothered him.

The information kept being good. That bothered him more.

A trafficking route through Gotham docks. A laundering operation hidden under a talent agency. A list of corrupt photographers who supplied private parties with vulnerable young models.

Jason spent three weeks dismantling the network. Nobody died. Not by your hand.

When he found you on a rooftop afterwards, you were sitting on the ledge in a silver coat, legs swinging over the city.

He nearly had a heart attack. “What the hell are you doing?”

You looked over your shoulder. “Hi.”

“Get off the ledge.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re sitting on a twenty-storey drop.”

“I have balance.”

“You wear six-inch heels for a living. That is not the same thing as being immune to gravity.”

You laughed.

Red Hood crossed the roof and grabbed your upper arm. Protective. Instinctive.

You looked down at his hand. He immediately released you. “Sorry.”

That made something tender twist under your ribs.

You got off the ledge. “There. Happy?”

“No.”

“You’re cute when you’re stressed.”

“I’m never stressed.”

“You’re stressed right now.”

“I’m annoyed.”

“Same family.”

He folded his arms. “Where did you get the dock information?”

You smiled. “No.”

“Don’t play with me.”

“I flirted.”

“With who?” The question came too fast. You went very still. Red Hood did too. Then, suspiciously casual, “I mean, who gave you the information?”

You smiled wider. “Jealous?”

“No.”

“Sounded jealous.”

“It sounded investigative.”

“Romantically investigative.”

“Stop saying that.”

You laughed. Red Hood looked away. You could not see his face, but you knew him now. Jason Todd. Scar near the mouth. White streak. Ears that turned red when you complimented him. A dead boy who still bought books. A living man who saved people in alleys because nobody had saved him in time.

You wanted to tear the whole world apart for him.

Instead, you held out a flash drive. He took it.

“Everything is cross-referenced,” you said. “Shipping manifests, shell companies, payment records, private flights.”

Red Hood stared at the drive. “How long did this take you?”

“Three days.”

“That would take my team weeks.”

“I’m very smart.”

“You tell reporters you forget your own postcode.”

“It keeps expectations manageable.”

His helmet turned toward you. “You do that on purpose.”

“Obviously.”

“You act like an idiot on purpose.”

“I act harmless.”

The word sat between you.

Red Hood went quiet. You looked out at the city.

“Pretty people get watched,” you said. “Stupid people get ignored. I prefer being underestimated to being examined.”

“Doesn’t sound like they ignore you.”

“No.”

“Then why keep doing it?”

You smiled faintly. “Because sometimes men explain crimes to me.”

Jason laughed. A real laugh through the helmet. You loved the sound.

He shook his head. “You’re terrifying.”

You looked at him. The joke left your face. “Do you mean that?”

Jason paused. “Not in a bad way.”

“Aw.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“Too late.”

He sighed. Then his tone changed. “Seriously.” You waited. “You can’t keep doing this.”

“Helping?”

“Putting yourself near people like that.”

“I’m always near people like that.”

“That doesn’t mean you volunteer.”

“You do.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Because I can handle myself.”

Your expression cooled. “So can I.”

“You almost died in an alley.”

“And you didn’t?”

Red Hood froze. The city seemed to hold its breath. You had gone too far.

Not because he knew you knew.

Because he did not.

You softened your voice. “Everyone almost dies somewhere.” His helmet remained fixed on you. You smiled. “Some people just come back meaner.”

For a long time, he said nothing.

Then, quietly, “Go home.”

You did. This time, you did not tease him.

Jason learned about the first death connected to you two months after the alley. Not your stalker. The others.

He found patterns. Not like Bruce would have. Jason was not a detective because he liked puzzles. He was a detective because Gotham taught every child in Crime Alley to recognise when the world was lying.

Men who had hurt people in your orbit were dying. Not randomly. Not all at once.

Carefully.

A producer. A photographer. An agent. A financier. People Jason had no love for. People he might have killed once.

That was what made the discovery hurt.

He sat in his safehouse and read the files.

Cause of death. Heart attack. Accident. Suicide. Aneurysm.

His stomach turned. Not because he mourned them.

Because he understood. That was the worst part.

When Red Hood found you again, he did not bring coffee.

You knew immediately something was wrong.

He stood in your penthouse because, weeks ago, you had given him the balcony code. He had said that was reckless. You had said it was romantic. He had said it was neither. Now he stood dripping rainwater onto your expensive rug.

Rem looked up from the sofa. “Oh.”

You set down your glass of water. “Hi.”

Red Hood held up a file. Your smile faded. “Did you kill them?”

No greeting. No teasing.

You looked at the file. Then at him. “Yes.”

The answer cracked through the room.

Rem stood.

Red Hood’s helmet tilted slightly. Maybe he had expected denial. You had never wanted to lie to him. Not really. “How?”

You looked toward the vanity. Red Hood followed your gaze. Rem moved between you and the notebook.

“Don’t,” they said.

You ignored them. “Come here.”

Red Hood stayed where he was. “Why?”

“Because I want to show you.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“I know.”

You walked to the vanity and picked up the notebook. The plain black cover looked ridiculous in your manicured hands. You carried it back.

Red Hood stared. “What is that?”

“A Death Note.” He said nothing. You smiled faintly. “Yeah. I had the same reaction."

“You expect me to believe you have a magic murder notebook.”

“You believe in aliens.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because Superman does interviews.”

Rem laughed. You did too.

Jason did not.

You sobered. “Touch it.”

“No.”

“You’ll understand.”

“No.”

“Jason.”

Everything stopped.

Red Hood became absolutely motionless.

Rem whispered, “Oops.”

You held the notebook tighter.

His voice came low through the modulator. “What did you call me?”

You did not look away. “Jason.”

“How do you know that name?”

You swallowed. “The eyes.”

“What?”

“My eyes.”

He stepped forward. You had seen Red Hood angry. You had seen Jason awkward. You had never seen both at once.

It hurt.

“I can see names,” you said quickly. “And lifespans. Above people’s heads. I couldn’t see yours with the helmet, but then I saw Jason Todd at the gallery.”

“You knew.”

“Yes.”

“This whole time.”

“Yes.”

Jason ripped off the helmet. The face beneath it was furious. Beautiful. Wounded. “You knew it was me."

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t say anything.”

“No.”

“Why?”

Your voice broke. “Because you didn’t want me to know.”

That stopped him. Not fully. Jason breathed hard. Rain ran from his hair onto his forehead.

You looked above him. The broken numbers. The impossible continuation.

“I saw you,” you whispered.

Jason’s jaw clenched. “Don’t.”

“I saw your lifespan.”

“Don’t.”

“It’s wrong.” His face changed. “You died.”

“I know.”

“And you came back.”

“I know.”

The anger sharpened because you were touching a grave. You knew that. You could not stop. “Jason, I have spent months looking at death everywhere. Names. Numbers. Endings. I kill people by writing them down. A god of death follows me around like a roommate.”

“Hey,” Rem said.

You ignored them. “And then there’s you.” Jason stared at you. “You’re not supposed to be here,” you whispered.

His face closed. “That’s real sweet.”

“No, that’s not what I mean.”

“Sounds like it.”

“You broke it.”

Jason laughed once. Ugly. “What?”

“Death. You broke death.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes.”

“I died.”

“And came back.”

“You think that makes it beautiful?”

“No.” Tears burned your eyes. “I think it makes you mine.”

The second the words left your mouth, you knew.

Jason’s face changed. Not anger. Something worse.

Hurt.

“No,” he said.

Your chest hollowed. “Jason—”

“No.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You did.”

He stepped away.

You set the notebook down immediately. “Wait.”

“You don’t get to do that.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.” His voice rose. “You don’t get to look at everything that happened to me and turn it into fate.”

You flinched.

Rem took a step forward. You held up a hand.

No.

Jason paced once, hands opening and closing. “I didn’t break death. Death broke me.”

Your breath caught. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” His voice cracked. “I woke up in a coffin.” The room vanished. Not literally. It simply ceased to matter. Jason looked at you with the face of someone standing in an old grave. “I clawed my way out of the ground.”

Your eyes filled.

He laughed bitterly. “You think we’re destined because you’ve got a death god and I died once? That’s not romantic.”

“I know.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because I do.”

“No.”

His eyes were bright now. Angry. Alive. “You know facts. You know names. You know lifespans. You don’t know what it feels like to come back and realise the world kept moving.”

You could not breathe.

Jason looked away. “I saved you because you needed help,” he said. “Not because the universe sent me.”

Your tears spilled. “I know.”

His mouth twisted. “Then act like it.”

The cruel thing was that he was right. That was why it hurt.

You looked down at the notebook. “I killed them.” Jason went still again. You swallowed. “Not because of destiny. Not all of them. Some before you. Some after.”

“Why?”

You laughed wetly. “Because nobody stopped them.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

Rem moved closer to you.

You looked at Jason. “They hurt people. They kept hurting people. Everyone knew. Nobody did anything. So I did.”

Jason’s face became unreadable. That frightened you more than anger. “How many?”

“Eleven.”

Rem looked at you. You did not look back.

Jason closed his eyes. You waited for disgust. It never came.

When he opened them, he looked tired. So tired. “You wanted to kill your stalker, too.”

“Yes.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

Jason frowned. “Why?”

You looked at him. “Because you didn’t.” That silenced him. “I don’t understand,” you said. “You hurt people. You kill sometimes. You protect Crime Alley. You know what it’s like when monsters keep breathing.”

“Yeah.”

“So why are you looking at me like this?”

“Because I know what it costs.” The words were quiet. Jason looked at the notebook. Then back at you. “You think killing them made you safer?”

“No.”

“Better?”

“No.”

“Feel good?”

You wanted to lie. “Yes.”

He nodded. Not judging. Understanding.

You hated that.

Jason came closer.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s the problem.”

You covered your face. “I thought you’d understand.”

“I do.” Your hands lowered. Jason looked wrecked. “I understand too much.”

He did not leave. That surprised both of you.

Rem watched him with narrowed eyes. Jason watched Rem with even narrower ones after touching the notebook and seeing them for the first time.

Rem leaned in. “You smell dead.”

Jason’s face twisted. “Excuse me?”

“Interesting dead.”

“There are categories?”

“Many.”

“Great.” Rem circled him. Jason looked at you. “Tell your demon bird to back off.”

“They’re a Shinigami.”

“I don’t care.”

Rem grinned. “I like him.”

Jason pointed at them. “That’s worse.”

You laughed. It came out weak.

Jason glanced at you. His face softened for half a second. Then hardened again. “Sit down.”

You blinked. “Bossy.”

“Sit.”

You sat.

Jason sat across from you. The notebook lay between you on the coffee table. Rem perched on the back of the sofa.

Jason looked at the cover. “I’m not touching it again.”

“Okay.”

“I’m not using it.”

“I know.”

“And don’t ask.”

“I wouldn’t.”

Jason’s eyes lifted. “Wouldn’t you?”

The question hurt. You looked down. “No.”

He rubbed a hand over his face. “Jesus.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologising like that fixes shit.”

“I know.”

“And stop saying you know.”

You closed your mouth.

Jason sighed. “Okay.” You waited. He looked at the notebook. Then at you. “You can’t keep doing this.”

Your chest tightened. “I know—”

He gave you a look. You stopped.

Jason leaned forward. “You think I’m gonna tell you everyone deserves saving?”

“No.”

“Good, because I’m not Batman.”

“I know.” His eyes narrowed. You grimaced. “Sorry.”

He almost smiled. Then it was gone.

“I’ve killed people,” Jason said. “I’m not gonna stand here and pretend I’ve got clean hands. I’ve wanted monsters dead. Still do.”

You looked at him. “But?”

“But it changes you.” His voice dropped. “You tell yourself it’s one person. Then one kind of person. Then a list. Then a system. Then everyone starts looking like a problem you can solve.” You swallowed. Jason’s gaze moved to the notebook. “That thing makes it easy.”

“Yes.”

“Killing shouldn’t be easy.”

The sentence entered you slowly. You looked down at your hands. “I liked that it was.”

“I know.”

You looked up.

Jason’s expression was painful. No disgust. No superiority. Just recognition. That was almost unbearable.

“What happens now?” you whispered.

He leaned back. “I don’t know.”

“You’re Red Hood. Aren’t you supposed to have a dramatic speech?”

“I used it all on Batman.”

You laughed despite yourself.

Jason smiled. Small. Then he looked away. “You gotta stop.”

You stared at him. “Will you stop me?”

“If I have to.”

“And if I don’t?”

Jason was silent. Your heart hammered.

He looked at you again. “Then maybe I help.”

You forgot how to breathe. “Help?”

“Don’t make it weird.”

You smiled through the tears. “Too late.”

“Of course.”

Jason made rules. You hated them less than you expected.

No killing for jealousy.

You acted offended. “I have standards.”

Jason stared at you. “You followed me onto rooftops.”

“Romantically.”

“No.”

“Fine.”

No killing because someone insulted him.

“Even Batman?”

“Especially Batman.”

“What if he deserves it?”

“He always deserves it. Still no.”

No killing anyone in Crime Alley without telling him first.

You frowned. “Why only Crime Alley?”

“Because if you go after some senator in Washington, that’s Batman’s problem.”

“Jason.”

“Kidding. Mostly.”

No killing because he got hurt.

That one caused the first real fight because Jason got hurt constantly.

You saw him three weeks later at his apartment with stitches across his side and bruises blooming over his ribs.

Your whole body went cold. “Who?”

Jason looked up from the sofa. “No.”

“Jason.”

“No.”

“Tell me.”

He stood. “You’re doing the thing.”

“What thing?”

“The eyes.”

“I’m looking at you.”

“You’re looking through me for a name.” You went still. Jason’s face softened slightly. “Sit.”

“I don’t want to sit.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m angry.”

“Yeah. Sit anyway.”

You hated him. You loved him. You sat.

Jason lowered himself beside you with a grimace. You stared at the bandages. “Who did it?”

“They’re handled.”

“Dead?”

“No.” Your jaw clenched. Jason noticed. “Hey.”

You looked away.

He reached for your hand. Then hesitated.

You saw. That broke something open.

You took his hand instead.

Jason went quiet. His palm was warm. Scarred. Alive.

“You don’t get it,” you whispered.

“Then tell me.”

“I see numbers over your head.” Jason’s thumb moved once against your knuckles. You continued. “Everyone’s. Always. Lifespans. It used to be annoying. Then I met you.” His grip tightened. “Yours are wrong.”

“I know.”

“They scare me.”

Jason looked at you. “That’s why you keep checking.”

“Yes.”

“You think I’m gonna die again.”

“Yes.”

“I am.”

“Don’t.”

Jason’s face changed. “Sweetheart.”

The word nearly destroyed you. He had not called you that since the alley.

You stared at him.

Jason seemed to realise. His ears turned pink. Even now. Even while emotionally devastating you. Ridiculous man.

“You’re gonna die too,” he said.

You shook your head. “Not before you.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I can see my own lifespan in mirrors.”

Jason’s entire body went still. “You can what?”

“Not directly. Reflections are weird. But enough.”

His face hardened. “How long?”

You smiled faintly. “No.”

“Don’t do that.”

“You don’t get to lecture me about mortality and then demand mine.”

Jason looked furious. Then he laughed once. “Okay. Fair.”

You leaned closer. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“I know.”

“I could stop people before they hurt you. I could protect you.”

Jason looked down at your joined hands. Then back at you. “That’s not protection.”

“It feels like it.”

“Yeah.” His voice softened. “I know.”

You started crying. You hated it.

Jason looked horrified. “Oh, shit.”

You laughed through tears. “That’s your response?”

“I’m bad at this.”

“I noticed.”

“Okay. Okay, uh—”

He awkwardly opened one arm. You stared.

Jason looked offended. “What?”

“Are you offering a hug?”

“Don’t make me regret it.” You moved so fast he grunted when you hit his chest. “Ribs.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Sweetheart.”

“Don’t use that tone.”

“What tone?”

“The one that makes me want to kill people.”

Jason snorted.

His arm came around you. Warm. Careful. A little stiff.

You pressed your face into his shoulder. “You’re terrible at hugging.”

“I got murdered before the advanced class.”

You made a broken sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

Jason went still. “Too dark?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

You held him tighter. “Jason?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

His whole body froze.

You waited. One second. Two. Three.

Then Jason said, “You barely know me.”

You pulled back. He looked panicked. Not disgusted. Panicked.

You stared at him. “Jason.”

“Yeah?”

“I have been flirting with you for three months.”

He blinked. “What?”

You stared. He stared back. “Oh my god.”

“What?”

“You didn’t know?”

“I thought you were like that with everyone.”

“I asked you to marry me in a bookstore.”

“I thought it was a joke.”

“I brought you six coffees.”

“That was weird, but not necessarily romantic.”

“I told you your thighs were heroic.”

“I thought you were concussed.”

“That was two months after the alley!”

Jason looked genuinely distressed. You began laughing.

Jason’s ears went red. “Shut up.”

“You’re so stupid.”

“You pretend to be stupid professionally.”

“And you believed the act emotionally?”

“I’ve got trust issues!”

You laughed harder. Jason folded his arms. Then winced because of his ribs.

You immediately stopped. “Does it hurt?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I will be.”

You looked at him. Jason’s expression shifted. The humour faded.

“I don’t know what to do with that,” he admitted.

“With what?”

“You loving me.” Your heart hurt. Jason looked away. “Especially like this.”

You swallowed. “What does that mean?”

“It means you love like a loaded gun.” You stared at him. Jason sighed. “And I don’t know if I’m better.”

“You are.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Sweetheart.”

“You save people.”

“So do you, probably.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you.” The answer came quietly. You stopped breathing. Jason looked back at you. “You’re not just the notebook.” Your eyes filled again. “Don’t cry.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fair.”

“You can’t say things like that.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ll get worse.”

Jason smiled faintly. “No.” His thumb brushed beneath your eye. Very gently. “You’ll get honest.”

You leaned into the touch. “Is that supposed to be comforting?”

“No clue.”

“Terrible.”

“Yeah.”

“Can I kiss you?”

Jason froze. You waited.

His ears went red again. “Now?”

“No, next Tuesday.”

“Shut up.”

You smiled. “Can I?”

Jason looked at your mouth. Then your eyes. Then the notebook on the far shelf. Finally, back at you.

“Yeah,” he said.

You kissed him.

Jason was awkward for exactly half a second. Then his hand came up to your jaw and the kiss deepened with sudden, startling certainty.

You made a soft sound.

Jason pulled back immediately. “Too much?”

You stared at him. “No.”

“You sure?”

You grabbed the front of his shirt. “Jason.”

“Yeah?”

“Again.”

He laughed. Then kissed you again.

Rem appeared in the doorway. They gagged. Neither of you stopped.

The last real test came months later.

Not with jealousy. Not with a villain. With a child.

Jason brought you to Crime Alley more often once you stopped treating every rooftop meeting like a chance to climb him. You still tried occasionally. For morale.

He introduced you to the kids he looked after. Not formally. Jason did very few things formally. You simply started appearing with bags of food, warm coats, school supplies, and expensive skincare nobody had asked for but everyone secretly loved.

“You can’t give a twelve-year-old a three-hundred-dollar moisturiser,” Jason said.

“Why not?”

“Because they’re twelve.”

“Skin has no age.”

“That is definitely a slogan.”

“It should be.”

The kids adored you. Jason pretended this was annoying. You knew better.

Then one of them went missing.

Mara. Fourteen. Sharp mouth. Sharper eyes. Wanted to be a lawyer because, in her words, “Somebody’s gotta yell professionally.”

Jason found the men who took her. Alive.

You arrived too late to help. Early enough to see the aftermath.

Mara was safe. The men were not dead. Jason stood in the warehouse with blood on his knuckles.

You looked at the names above their heads.

Rem appeared beside you. “You know what to do.”

Your hand went to the inside pocket of your coat. A page. Small.

Jason’s head snapped toward you. He knew the movement. “No.”

“They took her.”

“I know.”

“They would have killed her.”

“I know.”

“They’ll do it again.”

Jason’s face twisted. “I know.” You pulled out the page. Jason stepped closer. “Don’t.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re angry.”

“I’m right.”

“Yeah.” That stopped you. Jason came closer. “You are.” 

Your hand shook. “They deserve it.”

“Probably.”

“Then why?”

Jason looked at the men on the floor. Then back at you. “Because I don’t want every bad day to turn you into a weapon.”

Tears burned behind your eyes. “Jason. She’s fourteen.”

“I know.”

“She trusted us.”

“I know.”

The page trembled in your hand. Jason held out his palm. Not demanding. Not grabbing. The same way Red Hood had once held out his hand in an alley.

“I hate you,” you whispered.

“Yeah.”

“I love you.”

“I know.”

“I could make sure they never hurt anyone again.”

“I know.”

“Do you want them dead?”

Jason closed his eyes. When he opened them, there was no lie. “Yes.”

You started crying.

His hand stayed extended.

“That’s why I need you,” you said.

Jason’s expression broke.

“No,” he said softly. “That’s why you need you.”

Your breath caught. “Don’t make me your excuse.”

The warehouse blurred. Jason stepped closer. “You wanna choose me? Fine. Choose me when I’m wrong, too. Choose me when I’m angry. Choose me when I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.” His hand remained open between you. “But don’t choose me instead of yourself.”

You stared at him. At the boy who died. At the man who came back. At the person who knew exactly how revenge could feel warm in the mouth.

Slowly, you placed the page in his hand. Jason closed his fingers around it. He exhaled. Then he pulled you into him.

You held on. Hard. He held on harder.

Behind you, Rem sighed. “Humans are exhausting.”

Jason looked over your shoulder. “Shut up.”

Rem grinned. “I still like him.”

“Still worse.”

You laughed into Jason’s chest.

Mara was safe. The men would face trial. Jason would make sure they did. Not because the system always worked. It did not. You both knew that too well. But because sometimes choosing not to kill had to mean choosing something else instead. Evidence. Witness protection. Pressure. Money. Fear. Jason knew plenty of ways to make monsters regret breathing without ending the breath itself.

So did you. You were learning. Slowly. Messily. With teeth.

The city thought Jason Todd was dating a beautiful idiot. Jason found this endlessly funny. He attended a Wayne gala with you six months after the alley, wearing a dark suit and the expression of a man being held hostage by formalwear.

You leaned close. “Smile.”

“No.”

“People will think you hate me.”

“I look at everyone like this.”

“That’s worse.”

Jason’s mouth twitched.

A reporter approached. You immediately brightened.

“Can you tell us how you and Jason met?”

You gasped theatrically. “Oh my gosh, it’s so embarrassing. I thought he was someone else.”

Jason choked on his drink.

The reporter laughed. “Really?”

“Mhm. Then I realised he was way cuter.”

Jason looked at you. You smiled sweetly.

Later, when the reporter left, he leaned down. “Someone else?”

You looked innocent. “Red Hood.”

Jason’s ears reddened. “Shut up.”

“You are cuter.”

“I’m literally him.”

“I know.”

“Then that sentence doesn’t make sense.”

“Emotionally, it does.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You love me.”

Jason went quiet.

You looked at him. He still did that sometimes. Froze when love was spoken too plainly.

Not because he did not feel it. Because he did. Too much.

You softened. “Sorry.”

“No.”

His hand found yours under the table. You looked down. Then back at him.

Jason looked straight ahead. “I do.”

Your heart stopped. “What?”

He glared. “Don’t make me say it again.”

You smiled slowly. “Jason.”

“No.”

“Jason.”

“I will leave.”

“You won’t.”

“I might.”

“You love me.”

He sighed. “Yes.”

You beamed.

Rem floated above the chandelier and threw an invisible apple core at him.

Everything, you thought, was ridiculous. Everything was dangerous. Everything was alive.

You looked at Jason. Above his head, the broken lifespan still glimmered. You had stopped checking it obsessively. Mostly. Sometimes you still woke at night and looked. Sometimes fear still climbed into bed with you. Sometimes Jason came home bleeding and you had to lock yourself in the bathroom until the urge to write names passed.

Sometimes Jason stood outside the door and talked. Not always about feelings. Usually about books. Food. Something Roy had done. A stupid argument with Dick. Anything to remind you that the world contained things other than death.

You still had the Shinigami eyes. Rem still watched over you. The Death Note remained locked away, though Jason knew where. You were not harmless. Neither was he. That was never the goal.

One night, long after the gala, the two of you stood on the same rooftop where you had once brought him six coffees.

Jason wore the Red Hood helmet. You held one cup. Black. Of course.

He took it from you. “You remembered.”

“Please. I remember everything about you.”

“That’s ominous.”

“Romantic.”

“Debatable.”

You leaned against his arm. Below, Crime Alley stretched out under rain and neon. “Jason?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think we were destined?”

He groaned. “Not this again.”

“I’m serious.”

He lifted the helmet enough to drink the coffee. You looked at his mouth.

He noticed. “Eyes up.”

“Bossy.”

“Answer’s no.”

You frowned. “No?”

“No destiny.”

“You’re so unromantic.”

“Listen.” Jason looked out over the city. “I don’t think death sent me to you.” Your smile faded. He continued. “I don’t think the universe planned the alley. I don’t think what happened to me was supposed to happen so I could meet you.”

Your throat tightened.

Jason turned. His green eyes were tired. Warm. Alive. “But I think I was there.” You swallowed. “And I think you were there.”

He reached for your hand. Bare fingers. Scarred knuckles. The same hand from the alley.

“And then we kept choosing to be.”

Your eyes burned. “That’s less dramatic than destiny.”

“Yeah.”

“Kind of boring.”

“Probably.”

You looked down at your joined hands. Then back at him. “I like it.”

Jason smiled. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Rem appeared behind you. “Disgusting.”

Jason sighed. “Go haunt someone else.”

You laughed.

Jason pulled the helmet off fully and kissed your temple.

Below, sirens started somewhere distant. A city calling for someone.

Jason reached for the helmet. You released his hand. That mattered too.

He paused. “You heading home?”

“Probably.”

“Don’t wait up.”

“I will.” He gave you a look. “I know,” you said. “My choices, your choices.”

“Good.”

“But I’m still waiting up.”

“Obviously.”

Jason put the helmet on.

Red Hood stood before you again. Your saviour. Your obsession. Your impossible dead man. He stepped onto the ledge.

You smiled. “Be careful.”

“Always.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Yeah.”

Then he jumped. The first time, you might have followed. The first time, you might have tracked every turn, every gunshot, every enemy. Tonight, you stood still.

Rem landed beside you. “You could kill everyone who wants him dead.”

“I know.”

“You could make him safe.”

“No.” Rem looked at you. You watched Red Hood disappear into the dark. “I could make the world emptier,” you said.

Rem smiled faintly. “And that would be different?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

You thought of Jason’s hand. Offered in an alley. Offered in a warehouse. Offered every day after, awkwardly and angrily and without promises he could not keep.

You smiled. “Because safe isn’t the same as empty.”

Rem made a disgusted face. “You’ve gotten sentimental.”

“Dating Jason Todd will do that.”

“Tragic.”

“Probably.”

You remained on the rooftop a little longer. Not watching his lifespan. Not searching for names. Just listening to the city.

Somewhere below, Red Hood laughed over comms. You smiled into the rain. Death had touched both of you. It had marked you differently. You carried it in your eyes. Jason carried it in his bones. For a while, you had thought that made you destined.

“You never answer me,” he said. His voice shook. Not with guilt. With outrage. That was always the worst part, you thought distantly. How men like him sounded wounded by the boundaries they broke themselves against.

Your back hit the wall. The brick was wet through your clothes.

You could see his name above his head. You could see the numbers too, the lifespan, thin and silver and horribly ordinary. A life long enough to do more damage. A life long enough to corner someone else in another alley someday and call it love.

Your fingers twitched toward your clutch. A page was folded inside the lining. Just a strip.

But his knife was already close to your throat, and the clutch had fallen somewhere near your feet, glittering stupidly in a puddle like a dead star.

“You made me this way,” he whispered.

You stared at him. For half a second, the persona almost came up out of habit. The wide eyes. The helpless mouth. The soft, breathy apology that made photographers forgive you for being late, stylists forgive you for being tired, men forgive you for not being what they imagined when they looked at you. But you were too angry to be pretty.

Then the darkness moved. It spilled from the rooftops without warning, a black shape dropping into the alley with impossible control. One moment, your stalker was leaning into your space, his breath hot and sour near your cheek.

The next, he was gone. His body hit the opposite wall hard enough that the sound cracked through the alley. The knife clattered across the concrete.

You gasped.

Batman stood between you and the man who had come to make a shrine out of your fear.

You had seen footage of him before. Everyone in Gotham had. Grainy videos. Rooftop photos. Blurry glimpses of a cape caught on traffic cameras. The city adored and feared him in equal measure, the way people loved storms from behind windows.

None of it was enough. In person, he was not a man. He was an interruption in the world. Armour black as a sealed coffin. Cape heavy with rain. The cowl turning his face into something carved, something mythic, something half-beast and half-saint. His gloved hand closed around your stalker’s wrist when the man tried to rise.

The sound of bone shifting wrong made your stomach twist.

Batman leaned close. “Stay down.”

The man stayed down. Your breath came out broken.

Batman turned. The white lenses of his cowl fixed on you, and for one wild second, you thought the Shinigami eyes would give you nothing. No name. No lifespan. No human truth.

But there they were. Above the cowl. Above the monster. Above the myth.

Bruce Wayne.

Your entire world narrowed down to those two words.

Bruce Wayne. Gotham’s golden son. Tragedy in a tailored suit. Billionaire prince. Orphan. Mask.

Batman. You nearly laughed. You nearly sobbed.

Batman crouched before you, lowering himself slowly, making his body smaller without making himself weak. That was the first thing that truly ruined you: not the violence, though that had been beautiful in its own brutal way. Not the rescue. Not even the name.

It was the care. He had just become terror itself for your sake, and now he approached you like your fear deserved gentleness.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

His hand extended, palm up. You stared at it. He did not grab. Did not demand. Did not touch without permission.

You put your shaking hand in his. His glove was cold from the rain.

“You’re safe now,” Batman said.

And that was the second thing that ruined you.

Because your whole life, safety had been sold to you as a service. Security guards. Contracts. Locked cars. Private elevators. NDAs. Lawyers. Publicists. Managers who promised to protect you as long as you stayed profitable. Agencies that smiled while handing your schedule to men with cameras and entitlement. Designers who called you precious while letting their friends put their hands where they did not belong.

But Batman said it once, in the wet black throat of a Gotham alley, and you believed him. Not because you were foolish. You had never been foolish. Because he meant it.

That was so much worse.

By morning, the papers had made you beautiful again. That was what they did best. They took your terror and cropped it. The photo of you leaving the GCPD went everywhere. Your hair damp and artfully messy. Mascara shadowing your eyes. A coat over your shoulders that did not belong to you. Someone online called you “tragically angelic.” Someone else said the whole thing had probably been staged for attention.

Your team told you not to read the comments. So naturally, you read all of them.

Your Shinigami hung upside down from the ceiling of your penthouse, chewing through a bag of apples like popcorn.

“You humans are obsessed with each other in deeply stupid ways,” Rue said.

Rue was not their real name. Their real name sounded like metal being dragged across a church bell and gave you a migraine the one time they said it aloud. So you called them Rue. Rue hated it, which made it perfect.

You sat cross-legged on your bed with a laptop open, wearing an oversized sweater over last night’s silk because changing fully had felt like admitting the night had ended. It had not. Not really. You could still feel the cold of Batman’s glove around your hand.

“You’re literally a death god,” you said. “You don’t get to judge obsession.”

“I judge everything. It’s my hobby.”

“You told a barista his aura looked expired.”

“It did.”

You scrolled past another article. BATMAN SAVES FAMED MODEL FROM ALLEY ATTACK. Your eyes lingered on the word saves.

Rue drifted closer. Their long, grey face split with a grin. “Oh no.”

“What?”

“You’re making that expression.”

“I’m traumatised.”

“No, no, you were traumatised earlier. This is different.” Rue narrowed their yellow eyes. “This is the expression humans make before they write poetry or start wars.”

You shut the laptop. “I’m not starting a war.”

“Mm.”

“I’m being grateful.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?”

You reached under your pillow and withdrew the strip of paper you had not been able to reach in the alley. Your stalker’s name sat above his mugshot on your phone. His lifespan glimmered above him, too. Too long. Far too long.

Rue watched, suddenly attentive. “You don’t have to,” they said, which was funny coming from a god of death.

Your hand was steady as you wrote. Name. Cause. Time. You chose a heart attack because you were angry, not theatrical. His death did not deserve artistry.

Forty seconds later, somewhere in police custody, the man who had said you made him love you clutched his chest and fell from the world. You waited to feel horror.

It came. So did relief. So did a bright, clean thing that felt like justice if you did not look at it too closely.

Bruce noticed the death before he noticed the pattern. That bothered him later. He should have seen it sooner.

The attacker died in police custody at 5:42 in the morning. Sudden cardiac arrest. No prior medical history. No trace of poison. No evidence of tampering beyond what Batman already knew he had done to the man’s wrist and shoulder. Bruce read the report in the cave with his cowl still on and a half-stitched cut pulling at his side.

He felt nothing kind. That was the problem. Not satisfaction. Not exactly. Bruce did not allow himself satisfaction over death, not even the deaths of men who had earned the hatred of everyone they hurt.

But there was a small, quiet absence where grief should have been. The city was no worse without him. Bruce hated that thought.

Alfred set tea beside the console. “Should I ask whether you intend to sleep, or would you prefer we both preserve the fiction that you are capable of sensible decisions?”

Bruce did not look away from the autopsy report. “This is wrong.”

“His death?”

“The timing.”

“Ah.”

Alfred looked at the screen. The man’s mugshot glared out at them. Pale face. Greasy hair. Eyes full of a kind of devotion Bruce had seen too many times before in abusers, cultists, fanatics, men who thought wanting something badly enough transformed it into theirs.

“He was in custody,” Bruce said.

“Yes.”

“He was going to trial.”

“One hopes.”

“He died less than twelve hours after the assault.”

Alfred’s expression became quieter. “Do you suspect police involvement?”

“No.”

“Then?”

Bruce pulled up another file.

The victim. You.

He had already reviewed your history before intercepting your attacker. The stalker reports. The patterns. The missed warnings. The way your agency had softened danger into inconvenience because inconvenience was cheaper to solve.

On the central monitor, your face appeared in three different forms.

Runway. Interview. Police station. Three masks, all of them technically true.

Bruce studied the GCPD photo. The too-wide eyes. The hand clenched in the coat collar. The blankness that came after terror.

Then he studied the interview clip beside it. You sat on a pastel talk show couch, laughing as the host asked whether you were “secretly a genius” because fans had found an old clip of you correcting a financial commentator during a livestream.

“Oh my gosh, no,” you said in the video, waving your hand. “I just say things sometimes and then smart people tell me if I’m right.”

The audience laughed. Bruce did not.

The way your gaze flicked once to the host’s cue cards, once to the producer, once to the watch on the host’s wrist, once to the camera feed.

Fast. Efficient. Hidden under glitter.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred said.

Bruce paused the video. “What?”

“You are looking at them as though they are a case.”

Bruce removed the cowl. His face stared back faintly in the reflection of the monitor, tired and pale beneath bruises.

“They are.”

Alfred’s gaze softened in that devastating way he had. “They are also a person you found in an alley less than a day ago.”

Bruce looked back at the screen. You were frozen mid-laugh, bright and vacant and carefully unreal.

“I know.”

But even then, he wondered which part of that sentence he meant.

You met Bruce Wayne at a charity gala six days after Batman saved your life. Officially, it was your first public appearance since the attack. Your team had begged you to wait longer, to seem fragile but not broken, strong but not unapproachable, grateful but not traumatised. Gotham loved survivors best when they were inspirational but not inconvenient.

So you wore white. Soft. Ethereal. Headlines bait.

Your stylist cried. Your publicist said you looked reborn. Rue said you looked like a haunted cupcake.

You told them to shut up.

The gala was for the Wayne Foundation’s victim advocacy program, which was either hilarious, suspicious, or fate having a flair for narrative symmetry. Maybe all three.

You entered with cameras flashing so violently the air seemed to break apart around you.

Smile. Tilt head. Left shoulder forward. Hand lifted in a tiny wave. Soft laugh.

Do not flinch. Do not look like prey.

There were names above every head. Names and numbers. A thousand little endings glittering over champagne glasses and silk lapels. It used to make you dizzy. Now it made you feel strangely calm. Everyone ended. Everyone could be ended.

Then you saw him.

Bruce Wayne stood near a marble column, speaking to an older donor with the expression of a man politely enduring weather. He wore black. Of course he did. Rich men loved black because they thought it made them look serious instead of mournful.

His name hovered above him. His lifespan shivered faintly under the chandelier light.

You did not look at the numbers for long. It felt intimate. Worse than nakedness.

Bruce turned before you reached him. For half a second, his public face was not fully in place, and you saw the man from the alley beneath it. Not the cowl. Not the bat. The attention. The carefulness.

Then his smile appeared.

Gotham’s prince. Charming. Useless. Beautifully false. You wanted to clap.

“You made it,” he said.

“Was I not supposed to?”

“I hoped you would.”

A camera flashed nearby. You shifted automatically into your better angle.

Bruce noticed. His eyes flicked to the camera, then back to you.

“Do you want to move somewhere quieter?” he asked.

Such a simple question. Such a dangerous one.

Most people asked because they wanted you alone. Bruce asked like he was offering you an exit.

You smiled brightly. “Oh, I’m fine! I love being temporarily blinded by strangers.”

His mouth twitched. “Occupational hazard?”

“Tragic, but glamorous.”

“And here I thought all glamour was painless.”

“That’s how you know you’re rich.”

“I’ll try to recover from the insight.”

You laughed. It was almost real.

Bruce offered his arm. You looked at it, then at him.

Rue drifted upside down behind his shoulder, visible only to you. “Bad idea. Very handsome. Terrible cheekbones. Detective aura. Avoid.”

You took Bruce’s arm. Rue groaned.

He guided you away from the main press cluster, not into isolation but toward the edge of the room where an arrangement of white roses partially blocked the camera angles. Clever. Considerate. Controlled.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry,” Bruce said.

“For what?”

“What happened to you.”

You blinked at him with practiced softness. “You didn’t do it.”

“No,” he said. “But Gotham has a way of making everyone complicit.”

The mask slipped before you could stop it. Only a little.

Enough. Bruce saw.

“You always talk like that at parties?” you asked.

“Only the fun ones.”

“Mm. Broody billionaire. Very retro. Very collectible.”

His smile sharpened. “And you always deflect with jokes?”

“Oh, constantly. It’s my best feature after bone structure.”

“I doubt that.”

You tilted your head. “Was that flirting?”

“That depends whether it worked.”

You looked at him through your lashes, all sweetness, all empty-headed sparkle. “Mr. Wayne, I barely survived a stalker attack and you’re flirting with me at a charity gala?”

His expression changed.

Not panic exactly. Concern. Immediate. Sincere. Restrained.

The guilt hit you like a thrown glass.

“I’m kidding,” you said quickly, letting the act fall for one second. “Sorry. Bad joke.”

Bruce studied you. “Was it?”

You opened your mouth.

The donor he had abandoned earlier approached, carrying two glasses of champagne and a grin so polished it might as well have been laminated.

“There you are, Bruce! And with Gotham’s favourite survivor.” The man turned to you. “You look exquisite. Brave of you to come out so soon.”

Your smile returned like a blade sliding into a sheath.

“Oh, thank you,” you said. “I figured if I stayed home, the creeps win, right?”

He laughed too loudly. “That’s the spirit.”

His name hovered above his head. So did his lifespan.

You knew him. Not personally. Not yet. But your private research had found his name in financial trails connected to shell charities and offshore accounts. A man who donated loudly and hurt quietly.

Your eyes dropped to his hand on your arm. Bruce’s gaze dropped too. The donor did not notice.

“You know,” you said brightly, “I read somewhere that charitable organisations are sometimes used to move money through consulting contracts. Isn’t that wild?”

The man’s hand froze. Bruce’s eyes cut to you.

You blinked.

“Sorry,” you added. “That was probably random. I watched a documentary at, like, three in the morning, and now my brain thinks it works at the FBI.”

The donor forced a laugh and excused himself. Bruce did not.

You looked at him. He looked back. There was no camera angle that could save either of you from the intelligence in the room.

“So,” Bruce said after a moment, “which documentary?”

You smiled. “Oh, I made that part up.”

His gaze did not leave your face.

For the first time since the alley, something inside you purred.

The meetings became accidental. Which meant, of course, that none of them were.

Bruce found you two weeks later at a Wayne Foundation hospital visit, surrounded by children and photographers. You were sitting on the floor in a couture suit that probably cost more than the playroom renovation, letting a seven-year-old in a Batman hoodie place glitter stickers across your cheekbones.

“More?” the child asked.

“So much more,” you said gravely. “I want to look like a disco ball.”

The child shrieked with laughter.

Bruce stopped in the doorway. The publicist beside you looked mildly horrified. The photographers looked delighted. The hospital staff looked relieved.

You looked, for once, unguarded.

Not empty. Not airheaded. Not performing stupidity. Performing joy, perhaps, but with such tenderness that Bruce did not know whether to distrust it.

A little girl with a shaved head tugged your sleeve. “Do you know Batman?”

Your smile softened. “I met him once.”

“What’s he like?”

Bruce waited, absurdly tense.

You leaned closer and whispered loudly, “Very dramatic.”

The children giggled.

“Is he nice?” the girl asked.

You paused.

The room seemed to quiet around that tiny question.

Then you said, “Yes. I think he tries very hard to be.”

Bruce looked away.

It was a simple answer. It should not have felt like being seen through glass.

After the visit, he found you in the hallway near the vending machines, trying to remove glitter stickers from your face with a compact mirror.

“You have one on your jaw,” he said.

You startled, then glared. “Bruce Wayne, you can’t just appear silently in hospitals. That’s horror movie behaviour.”

“I walked.”

“Quietly. Like a haunted butler.”

“I’ll apologise to Alfred on your behalf.”

You blinked. “Who’s Alfred?”

“My butler.”

“You have an actual butler?”

“Family guardian. Surrogate father. Occasional tyrant.”

“Hot.”

Bruce paused.

You stared back innocently.

Then he did something unexpected.

He laughed.

Not the public laugh. Not the smooth gala sound. A real one. Brief. Rusted from disuse.

You felt it like a hand around your throat.

Oh, you thought.

Oh no.

Bruce noticed your expression change. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You look surprised.”

“You laughed.”

“That does happen.”

“Rarely, I bet.”

His smile faded into something quieter. “More rarely than it should.”

There it was again. The ache under him.

You had thought Batman would be the obsession. The symbol. The cape. The saviour in the alley. 

But Bruce Wayne was worse. Bruce Wayne had hands that did not reach without asking. Bruce Wayne made tired jokes about his butler. Bruce Wayne stood outside hospital playrooms and looked at sick children like he was personally offended by the existence of suffering.

Batman was a saint. Bruce was a wound trying to become a man.

“So,” you said quickly, because your feelings were getting cringe and therefore dangerous, “do you lurk in hospitals often, or am I special?”

“You’re special.”

The answer came too easily. You both froze.

Bruce’s face closed first. Your smile opened second.

“Careful,” you said softly. “A person could get attached.”

His eyes held yours. “I think you already are.”

Your public laugh returned, bright enough to cut. “Oh my gosh, Mr. Wayne. That almost sounded like a warning.”

“It might be.”

You stepped closer and lifted your compact toward him. “Then help me get the glitter off.”

He looked at you. At the compact. At the tiny silver star sticker still clinging to your jaw. Then, with ridiculous caution, Bruce Wayne took a tissue, dampened it beneath the water fountain, and removed glitter from your skin like defusing a bomb.

He was close enough that you could see the faint bruise beneath his collar. Close enough that you could smell cedar, clean cotton, and something metallic underneath. Blood, perhaps.

You did not look at his lifespan. You did not.

His thumb brushed your jaw once through the tissue.

Your breath caught.

Bruce went still. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” you whispered.

His eyes searched yours.

The hallway hummed with fluorescent light.

A nurse walked past, saw the two of you, and immediately pretended not to.

Bruce stepped back. The cold left with him.

“There,” he said. “No glitter.”

You touched your jaw. “Heroic.”

His mouth curved faintly. “I try.”

You watched him walk away and thought, with sudden terrifying clarity, that you would kill anyone who put that bruise on him.

Rue appeared beside you, chewing an apple. “You’re doing the face again.”

You kept your eyes on Bruce until he disappeared around the corner. “I know.”

Batman began receiving gifts.

Not flowers. Not notes perfumed with obsession, though you considered it and decided subtlety had died but did not need to be buried wearing clown shoes.

Information.

A flash drive left on a rooftop near the Narrows with financial records tying a weapons distributor to three corrupt customs officials. A burner phone taped beneath a gargoyle, containing photos of a judge meeting with a Falcone associate. A list of modelling agencies operating as fronts for trafficking pipelines, cross-referenced with shell companies, travel records, and names. Always names.

Batman hated the gifts. You knew because he began intercepting you faster.

The first time, you were waiting on a rooftop in a faux-fur coat and boots entirely unsuited for crime-fighting or common sense. Rue hovered beside a gargoyle, bored.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Batman said behind you.

You smiled into the wind. “Hi to you too.”

“You left the drive.”

“Did I?”

“It’s dangerous.”

“That’s Gotham’s whole brand.”

“You’re not trained.”

You turned, offended. “I am absolutely trained.”

“In combat?”

“In runway walking. Do you know how much core strength it takes to look casual in heels while hungry and emotionally persecuted?”

Batman stared. Rue cackled.

You sighed. “Fine. No. Not in combat.”

“Then don’t stand on rooftops waiting for criminals.”

“I was waiting for you.”

“That’s worse.”

“It’s romantic.”

“It’s reckless.”

“Romance usually is.”

His cape shifted in the wind. “You think this is a game.”

“No,” you said, and the air changed.

Batman noticed. He always noticed.

You stepped closer, the rooftop gravel crunching beneath your boots. “Games have winners.”

“And what does this have?”

You looked at him, at the white lenses hiding Bruce Wayne’s eyes. “Consequences.”

For several seconds, neither of you moved.

Then Batman held up the flash drive. “Where did you get this?”

You brightened. “You’re welcome.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

“I flirted with a man who thinks encrypted means putting a password on a folder called ‘tax stuff.’”

“Who?”

“Jealous?”

“Concerned.”

The word hit wrong. Softly.

You looked away first.

Batman lowered his voice. “You shouldn’t put yourself at risk to get information.”

“I was at risk already.” You looked out over Gotham. “People like that recognise people like me. They invite me into rooms because they think I’m decorative. It would be wasteful not to listen.”

“You’re not decorative.”

Your heart did something embarrassing.

“Oh,” you said lightly. “You say that to all the models?”

“No.”

One word.

No flirtation. No smile. Your obsession, already full-grown and feral, curled around it like a cat around a warm body.

Batman stepped closer. “Next time, you bring information to Gordon. Or to Wayne Foundation legal channels. Somewhere safe.”

“Is this you giving me your number?”

“No.”

“Your email?”

“No.”

“Bat-signal but make it personal?”

“No.”

“You’re difficult.”

“I’m consistent.”

You grinned. “That’s what makes it fun.”

He looked at you for so long you thought he might say something human.

Then he turned toward the ledge. “You need to leave.”

“Will you take me home?”

“No.”

“Rude.”

“You have security downstairs.”

“You checked?” He paused. You smiled. “Romantic.”

“Surveillance.”

“Romantic surveillance.”

“Goodnight.”

Then he was gone, cape cutting into the dark.

Rue floated down beside you. “You know he’s investigating you.”

“Obviously.”

“You like it.”

“Obviously.”

“That’s not healthy.”

You gave Rue a look.

They held up both hands. “I know, I know. Death god. Glass houses. Et cetera.”

Below, Gotham breathed smoke and sirens.

You pressed one hand to your chest. “He said I’m not decorative.”

Rue rolled their eyes. “Truly, poetry is dead.”

Bruce learned you in fragments. That was how he learned everyone.

He learned the public version first: favourite designers, interview habits, recurring phrases, media training tells. You said “oh my gosh” when you wanted someone to underestimate you. You touched your earrings when you were irritated. You widened your eyes when men interrupted you because they mistook it for confusion and kept talking.

He learned the private version through absences. You never drank at events where powerful men were present. You memorised exits. You kept at least one wall behind you. You tipped service workers absurdly well and knew their names by the end of the night. You visited hospitals without press when you thought nobody would find out. You had an apartment full of expensive things and almost no photographs.

He learned the hidden version slowly, and it unsettled him most.

Your intelligence was not simply academic, though the sealed records Lucius found confirmed enough. Scholarships refused. Papers published under aliases. A predictive model for financial laundering networks that had been cited by three people who had no idea the author was now on perfume billboards.

But your true skill was human architecture. You knew how people built lies. You knew which compliment opened which door. Which silence made someone rush to fill it. Which kind of beauty disarmed, which kind threatened, which kind made people want to confess their sins just to see whether you were impressed.

Bruce had built Batman from fear. You had built yourself from being underestimated.

He understood that more than he wanted to.

The next meeting was a lunch.

Not a date. Bruce told himself that several times.

A Wayne Foundation strategy lunch, technically, after you publicly expressed interest in funding better legal support for stalking victims. The press called it philanthropic. Your publicist called it excellent optics.

Bruce called it a controlled environment.

Alfred called it “lunch” with a tone so dry it could have mummified fruit.

You arrived at the manor wearing pale yellow and sunglasses shaped like hearts.

Damian, who was home from patrol injuries he insisted were “minor,” took one look at you from the top of the staircase and said, “You look strategically frivolous.”

You removed your sunglasses. “Thank you. You look recreationally hostile.”

Damian blinked.

Bruce closed his eyes for half a second. Alfred, traitor that he was, looked delighted.

At lunch, you ate very little but moved food around enough to make it seem like you had. Bruce noticed. You noticed him noticing.

“Don’t,” you said quietly while Alfred refilled tea.

Bruce paused. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking loudly.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed from across the table. “You do that too?”

Bruce ignored him.

You turned to Damian. “Constantly. Very inconsiderate.”

Damian gave you a look of cool assessment. “You are more intelligent than your public persona suggests.”

“Oh, wow,” you said, clutching your chest. “The child assassin approves.”

The table went still.

Bruce’s hand tightened around his fork. Damian’s gaze sharpened to a blade.

You smiled sweetly. “I’m kidding.”

No, Bruce thought. You were not. You had seen something. Not the full truth, perhaps, but enough. Enough to know Damian was not normal. Enough to know the violence in his posture had roots.

Damian leaned back. “Hm.”

That was all.

But it sounded almost like respect.

After lunch, Bruce walked you through the gardens because the manor had too many ghosts indoors, and he did not yet know whether you would hear them.

“You shouldn’t provoke Damian,” he said.

“You’re protective.”

“He’s my son.”

Your smile softened. “I know.”

The words landed oddly.

Bruce looked at you. You looked away too quickly.

The garden was wet from morning rain. Roses hung heavy on their stems. Gotham’s summer light was thin and silver through the clouds.

“He loves you,” you said.

Bruce’s steps slowed.

You kept walking. “He acts like he doesn’t in case love turns into leverage, but he watches you when you aren’t looking. Like he’s checking whether you’re still there.”

Bruce said nothing. You stopped near a stone bench and touched the petal of a dark red rose.

“I used to do that with doors,” you added.

Bruce’s voice was careful. “Doors?”

“When I was younger. I’d watch doors at parties. Studios. Hotels. Anywhere. I liked knowing where they were. I liked knowing I could leave.”

“Could you?”

You smiled without looking at him. “Not always.”

The garden quieted.

Bruce wanted to ask who. Names, dates, details. Evidence. Targets. Batman wanted a case.

Bruce forced himself to stay still.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

You laughed lightly. “Everyone says that.”

“I mean it.”

“That’s worse.”

“Why?”

You finally looked at him. “Because then I have to decide what to do with it.”

Bruce stepped closer, slowly. “You don’t have to do anything.”

Your eyes searched his face.

No cowl. No lenses. No symbol.

Just Bruce. You seemed almost angry at him for it.

“You make that sound easy,” you said.

“It isn’t.”

“No.” Your smile trembled. “I guess you’d know.”

His grief moved between you like a third person.

You looked above his head. Bruce did not know what you saw. But he knew when someone was looking at something they had no right to touch.

“Do you always look at people like that?” he asked.

Your gaze snapped back to his. “Like what?”

“Like you’re reading an ending.”

Your face went very still.

Then the smile returned, bright and dumb and false. “Sorry. Model habit. We’re always looking for the light.”

Bruce did not believe you. You knew he did not. The dangerous thing was that neither of you walked away.

The pattern of deaths became impossible to ignore after the sixth.

A photographer who had once cornered a teenage model in a hotel bathroom fell from his balcony. A producer whose parties Bruce had been investigating for months died of a sudden aneurysm during dinner. A tabloid editor who had leaked your private address to “concerned fans” was struck by a delivery truck after stepping into an empty street. A former agency executive under three sealed lawsuits died peacefully in his sleep, which Bruce somehow found more horrifying than the others.

None of them were innocent. All of them had crossed your orbit.

Bruce did not need a confession to understand the shape of the thing.

He brought the files to Zatanna. He did not bring the notebook because he did not have it. He did not yet know about it.

But he brought the impossibilities.

Zatanna sat across from him in her dressing room after a show, removing one earring while scanning the files laid across the table.

“No poison. No spell residue. No demon contract signatures. No curse marks.” She frowned. “That’s annoying.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying this.”

“I didn’t say enjoying. I said annoying. Different emotional hat.” She lifted one report. “You think they’re doing it?”

“I think people who harm them keep dying.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

“It’s the one I have.”

Zatanna leaned back, expression sobering. “Bruce.”

He looked at her.

“If this is what I think it might be, you need to understand something. Some death magic doesn’t behave like a spell. It behaves like law. Old law. Written law.”

“Written.”

Her gaze sharpened. “Maybe.”

“Can it be reversed?”

“Death?”

His silence answered.

Zatanna sighed. “You know better.”

Yes. He did. That was the problem. Bruce knew better and still wanted another answer. He wanted some hidden door in the universe, some appeal process, some way to drag consequence back by the collar and force it to explain itself.

“Would you use something like that?” Zatanna asked.

Bruce’s eyes went cold. “No.”

“Even to test it?”

“No.”

“Even if the person was already dying?”

“No.”

Zatanna studied him, then nodded. “Good.”

He looked down at the files. “I need to stop them.”

“Maybe.” Zatanna’s voice gentled. “But be careful you don’t turn them into only the weapon. People cling harder when you try to rip away the thing that made them feel powerful.”

Bruce thought of you in the garden.

Not always.

He gathered the files.

“I know.”

Zatanna arched a brow. “Do you?”

Bruce did not answer. Which was, unfortunately, an answer.

You knew Batman was coming the night you left the seventh gift.

A ledger. Three names. A location. No deaths.

That was important. You wanted him to notice that.

Rue perched on the edge of your penthouse balcony, wings folded badly around their too-long body.

“You’re leaving breadcrumbs for a detective,” they said.

“I’m helping.”

“You’re courting.”

“I can multitask.”

“He’s going to try to take it from you.”

You looked at the black notebook lying on your vanity.

Plain cover. Ordinary. Ugly, almost. It had changed the axis of your life, and it looked like something bought during back-to-school season.

“He can try,” you said.

Rue grinned. “That’s my favourite tone.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. Let him try. I want to see what he does when he realises he can’t out-punch a notebook.”

“Don’t hurt him.”

Rue’s grin faded.

You turned. The air in the penthouse grew colder.

“I mean it,” you said.

Rue stared at you with eyes that had watched empires rot. “You are very attached to your little bat.”

“He saved me.”

“I would have saved you.”

“You weren’t there.”

“I am always there.”

You softened despite yourself. “Rue.”

They looked away. That was how you knew you had hurt them.

You crossed the room and touched their long, cold hand. Their skin felt like old paper and winter stone.

“You’re my friend,” you said.

“I’m a god of death.”

“People can have range.”

They snorted.

Batman landed on the balcony three minutes later.

Rue’s head turned slowly. “Speak of the little devil.”

You turned too.

Batman stood beyond the glass doors, cape stirring in the wind, a shadow cut out of the city. He did not enter immediately. Waiting for permission.

You opened the door. “Hi.”

His gaze flicked over you, over Rue—whom he could not yet see, though Rue leaned close and made a rude gesture near his cowl—then into the apartment. “Can I come in?”

You blinked.

That one hurt. Because he did not need to ask. Batman entered spaces all the time. Criminal warehouses. Locked offices. Hidden basements. He had already entered places far more protected than your penthouse.

But Bruce Wayne, even in the cowl, remembered doors.

You stepped back. “Yes.”

He came inside.

The city noise faded when the door closed. Rain glimmered on his shoulders.

“I found the ledger,” he said.

“You’re welcome.”

“Three arrests tonight.”

Your smile bloomed before you could stop it. 

Real. Radiant. Stupid. Batman looked at it as if it had struck him.

“No deaths,” you said.

“I noticed.”

“Good.”

“You wanted me to.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

You crossed your arms. “Maybe I enjoy praise.”

“That isn’t all.”

“No.”

Rue drifted across the ceiling, bored. “Tell him you want him to think you’re good. Humans love humiliating honesty.”

You ignored them.

Batman stepped farther into the room. “What do you want from me?”

The question should have been easy. You wanted his attention. His approval. His hands. His mouth saying your name without suspicion in it. His cape around your shoulders. His enemies gone. His life safe. His grief quiet. His city less hungry. His eyes on you, always, always, always.

You wanted to be the reason Batman came home.

That was not a safe thing to say. So you smiled.

“I want you to stop looking at me like a crime scene.”

His mouth tightened. “I’m trying.”

That was too honest. You looked away first.

On the vanity, the notebook waited.

Batman followed your glance. Every molecule in the room changed.

“What is that?”

You could lie. You were good at lying. You had made a career out of letting people believe the least threatening version of you. But you were tired suddenly. Tired of masks in a room with the only person whose mask had ever made you feel seen.

“A line,” you said.

Batman looked at you. You went to the vanity and picked up the notebook.

Rue stopped moving.

“Careful,” they said.

You held the notebook to your chest. “Any human whose name is written in this notebook dies.”

Silence.

Batman did not laugh. Did not dismiss. Did not move. His stillness was worse than disbelief.

You opened the notebook and turned it so he could see the pages.

Names. Dates. Methods. Some written with shaking rage. Some with cold precision. Some surrounded by notes, arrows, evidence, proof. You had not been careless. That was the horror of it. You had been thoughtful.

Batman stared at the pages. You watched him count.

Not the names. The choices.

“You killed them,” he said.

“Yes.”

The word felt like stepping off a ledge.

Rue drifted closer, their expression unreadable.

Batman’s gaze lifted. “How does it work?”

“I need a name and a face.”

His jaw clenched.

You smiled sadly. “Yes.”

He understood. “You know mine.”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“Since the alley.”

Batman closed his eyes.

It lasted less than a second. Still, you saw it.

Pain.

Not fear. Pain.

“You could have killed me anytime,” he said.

Your grip tightened around the notebook. “I would never.”

“That isn’t the comfort you think it is.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“No.” Your voice thinned. “Probably not.”

Rue whispered, “Don’t give it to him.”

Batman’s eyes shifted slightly. “Who said that?”

You went still.

Rue grinned. “Oh, fun.”

You looked at the notebook. Then at Batman.

“If you touch it,” you said carefully, “you’ll see them.”

Batman looked at your face, then the space beside you. “You’re not alone.”

“No.”

“Are they a threat?”

Rue gasped theatrically.

You smiled faintly. “To manners, yes.”

Batman extended his hand.

Rue hissed. You hesitated.

“Bruce,” you whispered.

The name landed between you like a match dropped into gasoline. His body went rigid.

“I’m not going to write in it,” he said.

“I know.”

“I will never write in it.”

“I know.”

“I mean that.”

Your throat tightened.

Of course he did. Of course this was the shape of him: handed absolute power over death and refusing to test it, refusing even the easy rationalisations. He would not write one condemned man’s name to prove a point. He would not trade one life for certainty. He would rather stand in ignorance than cross that line.

You loved him so violently in that moment it almost made you cruel.

“I know,” you said again, softer.

Then you placed the notebook in his hand.

Rue appeared. They unfolded into visibility like a nightmare discovering theatre. Too tall. Too thin. Mouth too wide. Eyes like burnt moons. Their long limbs bent in ways human bodies would reject. Their wings dragged shadows across the ceiling.

Batman looked at them.

Rue leaned down until their face was inches from his cowl. “Boo.”

Batman did not flinch.

Rue looked delighted. “Oh, I like this one.”

Batman’s voice was ice. “What are you?”

“Rue,” you said quickly, “don’t be annoying.”

“I’m always annoying. It’s called personality.”

Batman’s gaze stayed on Rue. “Shinigami.”

Rue’s grin sharpened. “Someone’s done homework.”

Batman looked back at you. There was horror in him now, controlled but present. Not at Rue. Not even at the notebook. At the fact that you had been living with both.

“How long?” he asked.

“Six months.”

“Before the alley.”

“Yes.”

The pieces rearranged behind his eyes. “You had the power to kill him yourself.”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t.”

“My clutch fell.”

“That’s the only reason?”

You looked down. “No.”

Rue grew quiet. Batman waited. You swallowed.

“I wanted someone to come,” you admitted. “Isn’t that pathetic?” His expression changed. “I had the page. I knew his name. I could have ended it if I reached it. But before that, before the knife got close, some stupid part of me kept waiting for the world to prove it cared.”

Your laugh sounded small and ugly. “Then you did.”

Batman’s hand tightened around the notebook.

He did not open it farther. Did not look for his own name. Did not test the rules. Did not ask what would happen if he wrote Joker.

You knew some part of him thought it. Of course it did. He was human under all that discipline. But thought was not action, and Bruce Wayne had built his whole bleeding life around that difference.

“You turned me into proof,” he said.

You flinched.

“Yes,” you whispered.

“That isn’t love.”

Your eyes filled before you could make them stop. “I know.”

Rue’s head snapped toward you. Batman’s silence shifted.

You wiped under one eye, furious with yourself. 

“I mean, I didn’t know. Not at first. At first it felt like love because it was warm and awful and bigger than me. I thought about you all the time. Batman. Bruce. The hand in the alley. The way you asked before touching me. The way you looked angry that someone had made me afraid.” You took a shaking breath. “And then people started dying and I told myself I was making the world safer for you. For me. For everyone. But really, I liked that I could make the fear stop.”

Batman’s voice lowered. “Did it?”

“No.” The answer broke something open. “No,” you repeated. “It just gave the fear a weapon.”

Rue looked away.

Batman closed the notebook.

Not gently. Not harshly.

Finally.

“This has to stop.”

Your laugh cracked. “I figured.”

“I need the notebook.”

Rue hissed, “Absolutely not.”

Batman ignored them.

You looked at the black cover in his hands. Every instinct in you rebelled. That notebook had made you untouchable. It had made your beauty dangerous instead of consumable. It had made powerful men temporary. It had made the world feel less like a locked room.

And Bruce was asking you to give it away.

No. Not asking. Standing there as the only person alive who could take it from you and still care whether you bled.

“I have pages hidden,” you said.

“I assumed.”

“Smart boy.”

“This isn’t a joke.”

“I know.” Your mouth trembled. “I’m trying not to fall apart, actually.”

His shoulders softened by a fraction.

The Batman softened. It was devastating.

“I can’t let you keep killing,” he said.

“I know.”

“I won’t hurt you.”

“I know that too.”

Rue made a disgusted noise. “Do you? Because I can hurt him.”

The temperature dropped.

Batman turned his head slowly.

You stepped in front of Rue. “No.”

Rue stared at you. “He is trying to take away the thing that protects you.”

“He is trying to stop me from becoming worse.”

“You think he can save you?”

Your voice was quiet. “He already did.”

Rue recoiled as if struck. You regretted it immediately.

But it was true.

Batman looked between you both, reading the fracture. Then, carefully, he placed the notebook on your vanity.

Not taking it.

A choice. A test. A mercy.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

“With a containment plan. With help.”

“Help?”

“Magic. Security. Legal pathways for the evidence you’ve gathered.”

“You’re leaving it here?”

“For tonight.”

Rue’s grin returned slowly. “Stupid little bat.”

Batman looked at you, not Rue. “I need to know if you can choose not to use it.”

There. Trust, but sharpened. Hope with teeth. Cruel, brilliant man.

You looked at the notebook. Then at him. “And if I fail?”

Batman’s voice was rougher. “Then I stop you.”

Your smile hurt. “Romantic.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” he said. “Real.”

You hated that too.

He left through the balcony. The notebook remained on the vanity.

Rue hovered beside it.

“Well,” they said. “That was dramatic.”

You stared at the black cover for a long time. All night, in fact. By dawn, there were four new names you wanted to write.

You wrote none of them.

After that, the relationship became harder.

Before the notebook, Bruce had been suspicious of you. After the notebook, he knew you. Not all of you. Not even close. But he knew enough that every meeting carried the weight of what sat unsaid between you.

You began seeing him in three separate shapes.

Bruce at galas, offering you his arm when cameras grew too aggressive. Batman on rooftops, taking your evidence and correcting your careless surveillance methods with gruff irritation. Bruce at the manor, sitting across from you in the library while you slowly, resentfully handed over hidden pages one by one.

It should have made your obsession worse.

It did. It also made it less simple.

That was the annoying part. Worship was easy when the object of it stayed distant. A symbol could not disappoint you by being tired. A mask could not sit across from you with tea going cold in his hands and admit, very quietly, that he did not know whether he was helping you correctly.

A saviour could be perfect. Bruce Wayne could not.

One evening, while rain turned the manor windows silver, you found him asleep in the library.

Not intentionally. Bruce Wayne did not nap like a normal person. He collapsed in stages, like a building too proud to admit structural failure. One hand still rested on an open file. His head had tipped slightly back against the chair. Dark lashes bruised the tops of his cheeks. There was a healing cut near his temple.

You stood in the doorway and stared.

Rue drifted above your shoulder. “Write down whoever did that to his face.”

“No.”

“You want to.”

“Yes.”

“Progress is boring.”

You walked closer.

Bruce did not wake. That alone told you how exhausted he was.

The file beneath his hand was about you. Not just the deaths. Not just the notebook.

You saw highlighted sections about trauma responses, coercive control, magical compulsion risk, victim support specialists, restorative justice frameworks, ethical containment options.

Your throat tightened.

“You’re a case,” Rue said.

“No,” you whispered.

Bruce stirred.

You froze.

His eyes opened. For one second, before he remembered the room, he looked young.

Then everything returned.

“Sorry,” he said, sitting up.

You crossed your arms. “Did you just apologise for sleeping?”

A pause.

“Yes.”

“That is so clinically you.”

His mouth twitched. “Clinically?”

“You need a medical journal and a nap.”

“I had a nap.”

“You lost consciousness in a chair. That is not a nap. That is your body staging a coup.”

He looked at you. Then, unexpectedly, he set the file aside. “Did you bring the page?”

You reached into your coat and withdrew a folded piece of paper. Just one.

It had taken you three days to give it up.

Bruce accepted it without touching your fingers.

Not because he feared you. Because he knew touch complicated you. That, naturally, complicated you more.

He placed the page into the containment box on the desk.

“How many left?” he asked.

You looked at the fire. “Two.”

He did not accuse you of lying. You almost wished he would.

Instead, he nodded. “What are they?”

“One in my penthouse.” You swallowed. “One on me.”

Bruce’s gaze sharpened. “Where?”

You smiled faintly. “Buy me dinner first.”

“This isn’t—”

“I know.” You sighed and reached to your necklace. Inside the locket, folded smaller than sense, was a strip of notebook paper.

Bruce went very still. “You wore it here.”

“I wear it everywhere.”

“As protection?”

“As control.”

His expression changed.

You unclasped the necklace and held it out.

He did not take it immediately. “Are you sure?”

You laughed softly. “No.”

“Then why?”

“Because you asked me to choose.”

The words sat between you, fragile as a bird bone.

Bruce took the necklace. His thumb brushed the locket.

“I’m proud of you,” he said.

You looked away fast. “Ew.”

He almost smiled. “Ew?”

“Positive reinforcement from emotionally unavailable men. Very embarrassing for my brand.”

“Your brand survived glitter stickers.”

“Barely.”

The fire cracked.

For a moment, it was almost peaceful.

Then you said, “Bruce?”

“Yes?”

“Do you hate me?”

“No.”

“You answered too fast.”

“I’ve thought about it.”

That made you look at him. He was watching the fire now.

“I hate what you’ve done,” he said. “I hate the notebook. I hate that part of you still wants to use it.”

You swallowed.

“But I don’t hate you.”

“Why not?”

The question came out smaller than intended.

Bruce looked back at you. “Because you’re trying.”

You laughed, but there were tears in it. “That’s such a low bar.”

“For some people, it’s everything.”

You stood there in the firelight, feeling seen in a way that did not flatter you.

That was the difference between being admired and being known.

Admiration let you stay beautiful. Being known made you responsible.

“Do you want me?” you asked.

Bruce did not move. The question had slipped out too naked. No sparkle. No teasing. No mask.

Rue, for once, said nothing.

Bruce’s face closed and opened by degrees, like doors unlocking in a house full of ghosts.

“Yes,” he said finally. Your breath caught. “But not like this.”

Pain sparked sharp beneath your ribs. “Like what?”

“Not if wanting me means needing to own me. Not if love means deciding who lives or dies around me. Not if you make me responsible for every choice you make.”

You looked down. “I know.”

“I’m not finished.”

You huffed weakly. “Of course not.”

That almost-smile again. Then gone.

“I want you,” Bruce said, and the second time was worse, deeper, brutally controlled. “Not the persona. Not the worship. Not the notebook. You.”

You blinked hard. “You say things like that and expect me not to become worse?”

“I expect you to become honest.”

“That’s mean.”

“Yes.”

“Effective, though.”

“I know.”

You laughed through the tears, and Bruce’s expression softened in a way that made the whole room dangerous.

He crossed the space slowly. Stopped before touching. Always.

Always asking without asking.

You stepped into him.

Bruce’s arms came around you.

Not tight. Not trapping.

Steady.

Your face pressed into his shirt, and for one horrible second, you wanted to crawl inside his ribs and live there. You wanted to write every enemy’s name. You wanted to make the world safe by removing half of it.

Then Bruce’s hand settled carefully between your shoulder blades.

Human. Warm. Mortal.

Not yours to own. Yours, perhaps, to hold. That distinction felt like learning a new language while bleeding.

You closed your eyes. Rue gagged loudly from the ceiling.

Neither of you moved away.

The final page nearly destroyed everything.

Not because of you.

Because of Rue.

It happened at a Wayne Foundation event three weeks later, in a ballroom full of soft music and predatory smiles.

You had been doing well. That was the phrase everyone used, like morality was a recovery program and you were earning stickers for not committing supernatural homicide.

You had handed over the notebook. All but one page. The last one was in your penthouse, inside a ceramic angel on your vanity. Bruce knew it existed. You had promised to bring it after the event.

Promised.

The word sat in your chest all night.

Bruce stayed near you more than usual, though never obviously. Gotham saw billionaire flirtation. You saw surveillance. Concern. Maybe want.

You were getting better at not needing the difference to collapse into one thing.

Then Marcus Crawley arrived. 

He was not on the guest list. You knew his name. You knew his lifespan. You knew what he had done.

Former executive at your first agency. Publicly charming. Privately vile. He had never touched you, but he had arranged rooms. Introductions. Contracts with clauses that turned young people into inventory. He had smiled at sixteen-year-olds like he was deciding resale value.

Bruce had an active case against him.

Not enough evidence yet. 

Not enough, not enough, not enough.

Crawley approached you with a glass in hand.

“You’ve grown up beautifully,” he said.

The room vanished. Your smile stayed. It deserved awards.

“Marcus,” you said. “I didn’t know fossils were invited.”

His smile tightened.

Bruce turned from across the room. You felt it.

Crawley stepped closer. “Still playing stupid, I see.”

“Still playing human?”

His hand closed around your wrist.

Not hard. Not enough for anyone else to notice.

Bruce moved. Rue moved faster.

The lights flickered. Your blood went cold. From somewhere high above, invisible to everyone but you, Rue smiled with every tooth.

“No,” you whispered.

Crawley frowned. “What?”

Bruce reached you and caught Crawley’s wrist, removing his hand with the kind of polite violence only billionaires and vigilantes mastered.

“Mr. Crawley,” Bruce said. “You’re leaving.”

Crawley laughed. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

Security approached.

Crawley looked between you and Bruce, and something ugly passed across his face. “Still need someone stronger to manage you, I see.”

The words were not loud. They did not have to be.

Rue vanished.

Your stomach dropped.

“Bruce,” you said.

Bruce looked at you.

He understood immediately. “Where?”

“My apartment.”

He did not ask another question.

The two of you left the gala so fast the press erupted behind you.

In the car, Bruce drove like the city personally owed him road space.

You called Rue again and again.

Nothing.

Your hands shook.

“I didn’t ask them to,” you said.

Bruce’s jaw was set. “I know.”

“I wanted to.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t.”

His voice softened without weakening. “I know.”

That almost broke you.

When you reached your penthouse, the balcony doors were open. Rain blew into the room. The ceramic angel on your vanity lay shattered.

The page was gone.

Rue stood near the windows, holding the strip of paper between two claws.

Crawley’s name was half-written.

Not complete.

Rue’s eyes flicked to Bruce. “He touched them.”

Bruce stepped forward.

You caught his arm. “Don’t.”

Rue’s mouth twisted. “He thinks rules make him noble. He thinks waiting makes people less dead.”

Bruce said nothing.

Rue looked at you. “You know what Crawley is.”

“Yes,” you whispered.

“You know what he’ll do if he walks away.”

“Yes.”

“You know your little bat may fail.”

Bruce flinched.

Barely. But you saw. Rue did too.

“Don’t call him that,” you said.

Rue laughed bitterly. “Of course. Saint Bruce. Saint Batman. Saint of the alley. He saves you once and suddenly death itself is too ugly for your hands?”

Your eyes burned. “He didn’t save me once.”

Rue went still. Bruce did too.

You stepped away from Bruce and toward Rue.

“He saved me the night in the alley,” you said. “And then he saved me when he looked at the worst thing I’d done and didn’t make it the only thing I was. He saved me when he refused to use the notebook, even to prove it worked. He saved me every time he made me choose instead of just taking the choice away.”

Rue’s hand tightened around the page. “That is not saving. That is making you weak.”

“No.” Your voice trembled. “That is making me responsible.”

The room shook with Rue’s rage.

Bruce moved closer, not in front of you this time. Beside you.

A choice of his own.

Your heart hurt.

“Give me the page,” you said.

Rue’s face twisted. “I protect you.”

“I know.”

“I would die for you.”

“I know.”

“He would not.”

Bruce’s voice entered the room, low and certain. “No.”

Rue smiled triumphantly.

You turned to him. Bruce looked at you, not Rue.

“I won’t die for your obsession,” he said. “I won’t prove love by destroying myself. I won’t make my life something you have to control to feel safe.” Your throat tightened. “But I will fight for you,” he said. “I will stand with you. I will help you build something that isn’t held together by fear.”

Silence.

Then, softer, “If you choose it.”

There it was again.

The hand in the alley. Offered. Not forced.

You looked back at Rue.

“Please,” you said. “Give me the page.”

Rue stared at you for a long, terrible moment.

Then they laughed.

Small. Heartbroken. Cruel because they did not know how to be anything else.

“Humans,” they whispered.

They placed the page in your hand.

Crawley’s name sat unfinished.

Marcus Cra—

Not enough. Not death.

You folded the page once. Then again. Your hands shook so badly Bruce stepped closer, but he still did not touch.

You looked at him. “Can you burn it?”

His expression changed. “Yes.”

You gave it to him.

Bruce took the page.

Not like evidence. Not like victory. Like a fragile, terrible thing.

He crossed to the fireplace, struck a match, and held the paper to the flame.

No ceremony. No speech. No name completed. No life taken.

The page curled black.

You watched until nothing remained but ash.

Rue disappeared before you could speak.

Maybe they were angry. Maybe they were grieving. Maybe both.

You sank onto the sofa. Bruce came to stand before you.

“I wanted him dead,” you said.

“I know.”

“I still do.”

“I know.”

“Does that make me awful?”

Bruce was quiet. Then he crouched in front of you, just as Batman had in the alley.

The memory hit so sharply you almost sobbed.

“No,” he said. “It makes you someone who was hurt by awful people.”

“That’s not the same as being good.”

“No.”

You laughed weakly. “You’re very bad at comfort.”

“I’ve heard.”

“But you’re honest.”

“I try.”

You looked at him. At Bruce Wayne. Batman. The saint of the alley, who refused to be a saint because saints were dead things painted gold and Bruce was alive, stubbornly alive, painfully alive.

“I don’t know how to love you normally,” you whispered.

Bruce’s gaze softened. “Then don’t start with love.”

Your face crumpled. “What?”

“Start with trust.”

“That sounds harder.”

“It is.”

A wet laugh escaped you.

Bruce’s hand lifted slowly, stopping short of your cheek. Waiting.

You leaned into it.

His palm touched your face, warm and careful. The contact was not ownership.

It did not fix you. It did not forgive the dead. It did not undo the names already written.

But it was real.

For now, real was enough.

The papers had a field day.

They called it a romance. They called it a scandal. They called it trauma bonding, publicity strategy, billionaire charity prince falls for wounded model, Gotham’s prettiest disaster, Wayne’s newest obsession.

They did not know anything. Not about the notebook locked beneath layers of magic and technology. Not about the Shinigami who still lurked near your ceiling, sulking and protective, slowly learning that love did not always need a body count. Not about the names you still saw above every head. Not about the way you sometimes had to leave rooms because the temptation was too loud.

Not about Bruce, who never once touched the Death Note again after giving it to Zatanna and Clark for containment. Who never wrote in it. Never tested it. Never asked to see what might happen if the world’s worst names met its pages.

You loved him for it. You hated him for it too, sometimes.

Healing was rude like that.

You kept meeting him.

Not accidentally anymore. Coffee in private rooms where no one could photograph the way your hands sometimes shook. Foundation meetings where you built legal protections into something sharp enough to matter. Rooftops where Batman took your intel and told you when your plans were brilliant and when they were reckless, which was often the same thing. Manor dinners where Damian insulted your sunglasses and you insulted his emotional constipation. Hospital visits where Bruce watched you let children put glitter on your face and looked away when it made him too soft.

One night, months after the alley, you stood with Batman on a rooftop overlooking the city. Gotham breathed below you, ugly and alive.

“You know,” you said, “when you saved me, I thought it meant something.”

Batman looked out over the skyline. “It did.”

You glanced at him. The wind caught his cape, turning him briefly into the same impossible shape from your memory.

“I thought it meant you belonged to me,” you admitted.

His silence was gentle. “And now?”

You considered lying. Then you smiled faintly. “Now I think it means I survived long enough to choose what I become.”

Batman looked at you.

Above his head, his name still glowed.

Bruce Wayne.

You did not look at the lifespan. You had not looked in weeks.

It felt like respect. Maybe even love.

“I’m proud of you,” he said.

You groaned. “You can’t keep saying devastating things on rooftops. Some of us are emotionally fragile and wearing designer boots.”

His mouth curved.

Small. Real. Yours to witness.

Not to own.

“Noted,” he said.

You stood beside him in the wind.

Below, sirens bloomed. Somewhere in the city, monsters still walked around with names above their heads.

Your hands stayed empty.

Batman glanced at you once. Then he stepped off the roof and vanished into the dark.

You did not follow. Not tonight. Instead, you stood under Gotham’s bruised sky and let the want burn through you without becoming action.

Rue appeared beside you after a while.

“That looked painful,” they said.

“It was.”

“You could still choose the easier way.”

You smiled sadly. “I know.”

“Will you?”

Below, Batman’s shadow moved across an alley, saving someone else from a story they did not deserve.

You touched the place on your wrist where your stalker had grabbed you. Then the place on your jaw where Bruce had once removed glitter with absurd tenderness.

“No,” you said.

Rue sighed. “Growth remains disgusting.”

You laughed.

It was quiet. It was real.