Occasional Fanfics

You sigh and switch the dresses. “This one’s boring.”

Camille hums, considering. “You survived caves, cultists, and tax season. I think boring is allowed too.”

You glance at her, catching the corner of her smile. There’s mischief there now. Familiar. The kind that used to surface over spreadsheets, late-night takeout, and office gossip whispered too loudly.

“You’re enjoying this,” you accuse.

“Immensely,” she says. “It’s nice that I’m not the one being fussed over for once.”

You fold the dresses over your arm and lean against the doorframe. For a moment, you just watch her breathe. No counting this time. No dread attached to the rise and fall of her chest.

“It does feel weird,” you say with a light laugh. “Like I shouldn’t be leaving you yet.”

Camille nods slowly. “I’m better, though.”

She shifts, adjusting the blanket over her legs. “I know I lost time,” she says, matter-of-fact. “Weeks. There are gaps I can feel but can’t see. Like trying to remember a dream after you’re fully awake.”

You tense instinctively, but she reaches out and catches your wrist.

“Hey,” she says gently. “I don’t need the details.”

You swallow. “Some things were hard,” you say carefully. “Some things…we got through.”

She studies your face, then nods. “That’s enough.”

There’s no fear in her voice. Just acceptance. Just trust.

She glances toward the empty bassinet by the window and smiles to herself. “Brian took him for a walk. Said we deserved a little quiet.”

Your chest tightens, but in a good way. “How is he?”

“Perfect,” Camille says without hesitation. “Loud and hungry. And completely unimpressed by anything except being held.”

You smile at her, thinking of her chubby-cheeked boy. “Oliver is a good name.”

“I know,” she says with a toothy grin.

Her happiness fills the room like a warm blanket.

“He’s an anchor,” she continues softly. “Every time I start wondering about the missing pieces, I look at him and…I’m here again. Present.”

You nod. She’s changed. You’ve changed. But looking at her now with her content look, you realize that changed doesn’t mean broken.

Camille’s gaze sharpens on you, just slightly. “You’re stalling.”

You huff a bit. “Am not.”

“You are,” she insists. “And you’re not allowed to.”

You lift a brow. “Says who?”

“Says the woman you’ve put your life on pause for,” Camille replies lightly. Then, more seriously, “You saved. Showed up for me. Even if I can’t remember how. Don’t stop showing up for yourself now.”

You look down at the dresses, and it’s an easy choice to make.

Camille grins. “Told you.”

You pull the dress on properly this time, smoothing it down your sides, suddenly very aware of your reflection in the narrow mirror. You don’t look like the person who was dragged out of a cave, half-mad and shaking.

You look like someone with a bit of class.

“So,” Camille says, settling back into her pillows. “Am I allowed to know who it is, or is it a mysterious fresh-start situation?”

You hesitate just long enough to give yourself away.

She laughs. “Oh my God.”

“What?” you protest.

“Bruce,” she says, delighted. “It’s Bruce.”

Your face heats instantly. “Well, yes, but—”

“Nu-uh,” she interrupts. “You don’t have to qualify it. I knew the second you said ‘boring’ like it was a crime. You only do that when you care.”

You groan, dropping onto the edge of the bed. “It’s a little embarrassing.”

“There’s no reason to be,” Camille reaches out and squeezes your hand. “I’m happy for you. You deserve something good that doesn’t come with an emergency siren.”

You swallow a tight feeling in your throat. ‘She has no idea.’

“I’ve got to say, though, who knew my going-away dinner would turn into this.”

“That’s an understatement.”

Before you can say more, Camille flinches, a strike of pain flashing over her face.

“I can stay,” you offer quickly, but she waves you off.

With a soft smile, she says, “Go. I’ll be here. Brian will be here. Oliver will be here. I’ve got everything I need.”

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” you promise.

You lean in and press a kiss to her forehead, lingering just a second long.

“I love you,” you murmur.

“I know,” she says. “That’s why I’m alive.”

You gather your things and step into the hallway. You toss a look over your shoulder. Camille’s eyes are already closed, hand settling over her stomach out of habit.

The door closes softly behind you. Outside, the air is crisp, bright, and almost painfully normal. A black car waits at the curb, engine humming quietly.

You stop for a moment before getting in, turning back to look at the hospital. The building rises calm and unthreatening. No shadows or ghouls lurking waiting to claim your friend.

You let your shoulders fall. Tonight, you would be sage, you wouldn’t have to be on your guard…

You exhale long and steady and step into the car.

***

You should be feeling the tingle of excitement. The tinge of nervousness. The bite of heat on your cheeks.

Instead, you find yourself in a familiar situation with your eyes narrowed at a haughty maitre’d, whose dark brown eyes are slightly amused at your annoyance.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t see the name on the reservation.”

“Wayne? You’re telling me you don’t see Bruce Wayne’s name on the reservation?!” You hiss, feeling your haunches rise. You try your best to keep your voice from rising. The maitre’d’s smile flickers, just barely. Polite and professional.

Unmoved.

“I’m quite sure, ma’am,” he says smoothly. “If you’ll allow me to check again—”

A familiar, dry voice cuts in behind you.

“Don’t bother.”

You freeze.

Bruce Wayne steps up beside you as if he’s been there the entire time, hands tucked into the pockets of a dark coat that probably cost more than your rent used to. He looks…normal. No armor. No tension in his shoulders. Just a man on a date who is clearly very late.

“That one’s on me,” he adds to the maitre’d. “I told them, Wayne. They must have written something else. Happens more often than you’d think.”

The maitre’d’s expression shifts instantly. Recognition slides into mortification. “Of course, Mr. Wayne. My apologies.”

Bruce doesn’t look at him. His attention is entirely on you.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

You huff. “I was about five seconds away from committing a felony.”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “I appreciate your restraint.”

The maitre’d clears his throat. “Your table is ready. This way, please.”

As you follow him into the restaurant, the noise eases in warm and layered. Low conversation, the clink of glassware, the soft scrape of chairs being pulled back. It smells like wine, citrus, and bread just out of the oven.

Bruce’s hand brushes your lower back as the host leads you through the room. It’s brief, instinctive, but sends a small spark up your spine and fuels a welcome heat to your cheeks.

He pulls out your chair and waits until you sit before taking his own, the movement unhurried, deliberate. For a moment, you just look at each other across the table.

Each of you is reading the other as best as you can.

“You look beautiful,” he says quietly.

The compliment lands differently than it would have been weeks ago. It isn’t an appraisal. It’s recognition.

You smile. “Camille approved.”

A hint of warmth touches his eyes. “She has good taste.”

The waiter appears, pours water, and leaves again. Candlelight flickers between you, catching in the planes of Bruce’s face, softening him. He looks tired. He also looks…lighter.

“Why here?” you question, eyes darting around the room in an attempt not to awkwardly settle on him.

“This place has a soufflé I think you’ll like,” he says.

You blink. “You chose this place just for that?”

“I may have hoped you would be inspired to come over to the manor and make more of your desserts,” he says, eyes sparkling. “And I hoped it would make you smile.”

You laugh, the sound surprising you with how easy it comes. “That’s devious.”

“I try,” he says lightly. “I’ve been told food bribery is one of your weaknesses.”

“Only when it’s done well,” you reply. “Depending on how good it is, I’ll consider it a binding contract.”

His smile widens, slow and genuine. “Then I have to hope it’s exceptional.”

Menus arrive, but you barely glance at your own. Instead, you take a moment to really look at him. The familiar lines of his face are highlighted by candlelight, and the way his shoulders no longer seemed coiled for impact. It’s still Bruce, still complicated, with a secret that might lead him to bail on the dinner. But right now, he’s here. With you.

“You feel different,” he says after a quiet moment, as if he were thinking about you too. “Not in a bad way.”

You consider it. “I think I stopped waiting for the floor to drop out from under me.”

His gaze holds yours. “That’s not nothing.”

The waiter returns to take your order, and when he leaves again, the table feels like it belongs to the pair of you, weighed down by shared glances and half-smiles. Conversation flows more easily now. Nothing about the caves or about monsters or demons or what almost happened.

You talk about Camille’s baby. About the work, you might never go back to. About a place you saw once and meant to return to.

Outside, the city moves on, unaware of how close it came to losing you. Inside, you let yourself lean into the chair, into the warmth, into the simple miracle of being alive and choosing to be here.

***

“It’s late,” he says, looking at you with mirth in his eyes as you lean against the door of your apartment.

“You have a curfew?” You tease. You feel a little bolder, the taste of sumptuous red wine dancing on the back of your tongue. You’d only had a glass. Enough to relax away tension and apparently tease your date.

He smirks. He doesn’t respond right away, instead choosing to run a hand down your arm with light fingers from the top of your shoulder down to the palm of your hand. “Not a curfew, more like a few meetings that I can’t be late for.”

You chuckle.

“I’m not surprised.”

His hand lingers in yours, not hesitant. Not rushed. Just…there. The city hums softly behind him, traffic and distant voices bleeding together into something almost soothing.

“I had a good time tonight,” he says. There’s a lightness to the way he says it, no pressure weighing down on either of you.

“So did I,” you reply. Its ease fills you with a little bit of joy.

He studies you for a second, like he’s committing the moment to memory. The way the porch light catches your face, the relaxed set of your shoulders, the fact that you aren’t braced for anything.

“I don’t want to push,” he adds.  “I know things are still…settling.”

You nod. “They are.” Then, after a moment, you smile. “But I don’t want to pull away either.”

That earns you a soft breath of a laugh from him. “Good.”

He leans in then, not slow or domineering. Just close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the faint scent of cologne and night air. He presses a kiss to your cheek, gentle and lingering, as if asking permission even after everything.

“You should get inside,” he murmurs.

“Okay.”

He steps back, hand sliding reluctantly from yours. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Bruce.”

You watch him walk back to the waiting car, the door closing softly behind him. You turn your key in the lock and step inside. You hear the car drive off.

The apartment greets you with the familiar quiet. No alarms. No shadows. Just home.

You lean back against the door for a moment, letting the night catch up to you. Your phone seems to buzz almost immediately.

Camille: Home safe? Have fun?

You smile, thumbs hovering before you reply.

You: I am. I did.

You set the phone down, heart light. Tonight, you can finally let yourself believe that this gentle, ordinary happiness is something you’re allowed to keep.

Your other hand aches, not from being squeezed, but from the I.V. that is currently lodged underneath your skin. A reminder that you also are patient, albeit more temporary than your companion. A nurse had tried, first gently, then firmly, to convince you to rest in your own room. You’d promised you would. You lied.

Sleep feels dangerous now. Like if you close your eyes for too long, she’ll slip away again. So, you stay awake, distracting your tired mind by cataloging the details. The faint antiseptic smell, the scratchy hospital blanket tucked too high underneath Camille’s chin, the sound of her beeping pulse.

Guilt creeps in during the silence.

You should have gotten to her sooner, risked more to find where she was. It feels like you lingered too long. Like you didn’t make her safety a priority. It’s your heart talking. Taking the guilt and turning it into something that will eat you up from the inside. It conflicts with your mind. You know you couldn’t have done anything more; she’s here alive because of you. That alone should make the ordeal feel like a win.

But you still find yourself muttering, “I’m sorry I didn’t keep you safe.”

Camille doesn’t stir. You’re a bit happy about that. Part of you needs to feel these emotions, this…melancholy. Maybe you can work your way through it before she comes to.

The door opens with a soft click, and her doctor steps in, followed closely by the attending nurse. The nurse checks Camille’s vitals and monitors with an easy smile and mechanical efficiency. When they are done, they turn to confer with the doctor in hushed tones, careful not to disturb their patient.

The doctor directs his first non-private words to you. “She’s stable. Neurological readings are improving, but there was significant stress on multiple systems. We’re seeing signs of strain on multiple organs. Nothing acute right now, but it will take time.”

Time. You nod as if you understand and are okay with what that means.

“There are also some… irregularities,” he continues, choosing his words. “Readings, we don’t have a clear explanation for yet. We’ll keep monitoring. We expected her to wake, but recovery isn’t linear.”

All you can hear is that she won’t be waking up anytime soon. Your eyes trail to the rising and falling belly. “A-and the baby?” you ask, voice catching despite your effort to keep it steady. “She was—she went through so much. I need to know—”

The doctor’s expression softens. He steps closer to the bed and checks the monitor again. “The fetus is stable,” he says. “Heart rate is strong. No signs of distress. Frankly—” he pauses mulling over the proper words, “—it’s remarkable. Whatever happened didn’t seem to affect the pregnancy.”

Your breath tumbles out of you in a rush. You dip your head briefly, pressing Camille’s hand to your cheek.

“She protected the baby,” the doctor adds quietly.

You tighten your grip on Camille’s hand. “She’s strong.”

The doctor offers a small, careful smile. “That helps. You should rest too. You’ve been through a great deal.”

You don’t answer. He doesn’t press.

Minutes pass. Or hours. Time blurs around the edges.

The door opens again, quieter than this time.

Your eyes flash to the figure intent on letting them fuss over her without interference. You’re slightly surprised when your eyes meet with deep blue once again. It’s Bruce. No armor, no cape, just a man in a dark coat with tired eyes, and an arm full of flowers. White ones, lilies, you think.

His eyes soften when he sees your entwined hands.

“She looks like she’s holding on,” he says quietly.

“Yes, they say it’ll take time, but she’s recovering.” You watch as he comes in and places the vase of flowers on one of the unused side tables. “She’ll like those.”

He smiles as he arranges a few of the stems in an order that he finds presentable.

“And you? How are you doing?”

There is only concern in his voice, and you are glad that he’s not here to tell you that you need to be back in your room.

“I’ll be fine,” you say, watching as he seems to do a lap around the room. It’s the longest you’ve taken your eyes off Camille. “They want me to rest, but I—”

“But you can’t. You’re too on edge to rest. And you’re afraid that she won’t be there when you wake up,” he says smoothly.

Your eyebrows raise in slight surprise at how easily he read you. You take the moment to chastise yourself; you know better. He must know the feeling more than anyone.

“Still,” he continues. “You should try to rest. You’ll be no good to her if you can barely be awake yourself.”

You let out a quiet huff, a hint of a smile playing at your lips. “You sound like the nurse.”

He smirks, eyes slightly distant. “I’ve been told the same thing once or twice.”

He steps closer to the bed, careful not to crowd you, and looks down at Camille. For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. Just watches the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest and the beeping of the monitors.

“She fought,” he says finally. “Harder than anyone should have to.”

You nod. “She never stopped.”

He says nothing, but he pulls a chair close to you to sit for a while. Silence settles again, but this one is gentle, filled with understanding, an offer of companionship, and an acknowledgment of your need to be vigilant.

“It will get easier,” he says.

“What will?”

“Life. With luck, she won’t remember what happened. It’ll be just a bad dream. In time, a memory of a memory. She’ll have scars but won’t know why she has them. But she’ll be safe. And then she’ll be happy.”

You take in what he says. “But it won’t be the same for me, will it?”

“No.”

You sigh. It was the answer you expected. How could you expect yourself to go back to the life that you had before, now that you have seen the underbelly of the world?

Bruce leans back slightly in the chair, giving you space even as his presence remains steady. “It may not be easy. But you don’t have to deal with it alone, if you don’t want to.”

You glance at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that there are people who would stand by you, if you let them,” he says quietly, his gaze steady but gentle. “You don’t have to be alone in figuring this out.”

The words catch you slightly off guard. “Are you people?”

“I am.”

Your cheeks flush.

You look back down at Camille, at the slow, steady movement of her chest, the small, stubborn weight of her hand in yours. The ideal settles slowly, not overwhelming, not demanding. Just there.

“I don’t think I’d do well alone now,” you admit. “I don’t even know who I am outside of…all this.”

Bruce nods, his understanding implicit. “You don’t have to know right now. You just have to survive the part you’re in.”

You let that sit. It feels manageable. Smaller than the questions you’ve been turning over in your head for the past few hours.

“And when I need help?” you ask quietly.

“Then you ask,” he says. “And someone will answer.”

Camille shifts again, a faint sound escaping her throat. You lean forward, instinctively brushing the hair back from her face.

“Hey,” you whisper. “I’m here.”

Her brow furrows, and for a moment you think she might wake, but instead her grip tightens then slacks.

Bruce stands, moving to give you the moment. “I’ll check in later,” he says. “You won’t be alone tonight.”

When he leaves, the room doesn’t feel empty.

You settle back into the chair, exhaustion finally beginning to seep into your bones. You rest your head against the side of the bed, never letting go of Camille’s hand.

You won’t have all the answers for what life will look like now, but at least you know you won’t have to face it alone.

And that is the best feeling you’ve had since before all of this mess started.

***

She slams her head against the glass pod that she’s in. It’s the third time she’s done something like that. Her red hair is matted, tangled by a mixture of grim and blood. Her blouse is nearly black with dirt, and her skirt is torn from the fight that she put up a few days ago. Though she favors the rabid approach, her blue eyes are as alert and calculating as they had always been.

“What are you going to do with her?”

It’s Jason’s voice. That cuts through the air of the Batcave.

His question was apt. Batman wasn’t sure what to do with Kristen. The obvious answer would have been to throw her into Arkham with everyone else. But he hesitated. Depowered as she was, she wasn’t an immediate physical threat, but something in his gut told him that if he let her loose among the criminally insane of Gotham, she’d have run of the place before the end of her first night.

He could give her to Gordon, have the woman take her chance in the system, but he didn’t feel comfortable with that either. Regular prisoners would crumble under her manipulation, officers too.

So, Batman found himself in a dilemma. Though he couldn’t keep her here for much longer either.

“I don’t know,” Batman admits.

Kristen laughs.

It’s hoarse, scraped raw from screaming, but there’s something familiar about it. Amusement layered over calculation. She leans forward until her forehead rests against the reinforced glass of the pod, breath fogging it.

“Oh, Batman,” she croons. “You know exactly what to do with me. You’re just hoping you won’t have to.”

Batman says nothing. Jason’s head tilts with annoyance.

Before either of them can speak again, the lights flicker.

On off.

On off.

Then the air in the Batcave changes.

It doesn’t roar or crack or explode. It sags, like something heavy has settled into the space without asking permission. The scent hits next: cigarette smoke, sharp and unpleasant, completely out of place among the clean metal and stone.

“Christ,” Jason mutters. “What now?

A voice answers from behind them.

“Don’t all rush to greet me at once.”

Batman turns.

John Constantine stands at the edge of the cave, coat rumpled, tie half-undone, cigarette burning between his fingers. He looks like he stepped out of a back alley and into a bad dream he already knows too well.

Kristen’s smile vanishes.

Not fear recognition.

“Oh,” she breathes.

Constantine’s gaze flicks to the pod, sharp and measuring. “Yeah. That’s the one.” He takes a drag, exhales slowly. “You’ve been busy, love. Cavorting with things that don’t like being told no.”

Kristen snarls, slamming her palm against the glass. “You don’t get to judge me.”

“No,” Constantine agrees lightly. “I get to clean up after you.”

Batman steps forward. “She was working with something demonic. Possession, channeling—”

“—yeah, yeah, ritual adjacency, consent-basted summoning, all very trendy,” Constantine interrupts. He gets closer, squinting to eye the mark on Kristen’s shoulder, even now faintly visible beneath the distressed skin. His expression hardens. “You weren’t in control. And whatever you were trying to drag through, isn’t done knocking.”

Jason folds his arms. “So, what, you’re taking her?”

Constantine grins without humor. “Oh, I’m removing her. Somewhere, she can’t hurt anyone else. Somewhere whatever’s got its hooks in her can’t reach.”

Kristen laughs again, brittle. “You think you can stop him?”

Constatine flicks ash onto the cave floor. “No. But I can make him very, very annoyed. And right now, that’s enough.”

He steps closer to the pod and presses two fingers against the glass, murmuring something under his breath. Sigils around the containment field flare, then reconfigure into something older.

Kristen recoils instinctively.

“You don’t get to negotiate anymore,” Constatine says quietly. “You’ve burned that privilege.”

Batman watches as the seals seem to tighten, the magic settling like iron bars around her.

“Will she be contained?” He asks.

The smoker meets his gaze. “As much as anyone like her ever is.”

The pod begins to hum, light bending around it as space itself seems to fold.

Kristen locks eyes with Batman one last time, hatred reddening her eyes. “This isn’t over.”

Batman’s voice is steady. “No, it’s not. But you don’t get to decide how this goes anymore.”

With a sound like a match being struck underwater, the pod vanishes.

The Batcave is silent again.

Constantine stubs out his cigarette on the stone. “Right. I’ll send you a bill.”

Jason snorts. “Figures.”

Batman doesn’t smile.

Not loud. Not rushed. Certain.

The grip on your shoulders shifts, the hold on you becoming more delicate than gripping. The pressure on your form is anchoring to your new reality. You have an inkling of what is happening. Of who has come to save you. The touch is familiar enough. Then you are released, only for a moment.

A dark shape crosses your field of vision, and a Thin Man stumbles forward close to you for a moment. It swipes at you with long, clawed hands. Before you can gasp in surprise, the creature is hauled backward into the smoke with a violent, muffled impact. Bone, if the creature has any, meets stone. It sounds like the creature will not be returning to hound you.

You collapse against what feels like a wall, coughing hard, lungs burning as smoke tears at your throat. You are set down, and your rescuer takes a knee on the ground beside you.

“Breathe,” the voice says again. “In through your nose. Slow.”

You obey because your body recognizes authority before your mind catches up.

The smoke thins just enough for the shape in front of you to resolve.

Black armor. Cape pooled against the stone. White eyes cutting through the gloom, fixed on you with sharp, assessing focus.

Batman.

He’s already working: one hand braced near your shoulder, the other sweeping a small light over you in quick, efficient passes. The scan tallies all the injuries in seconds.

“No spinal damage,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “You’re concussed. Can you move your fingers?”

You stare at him, stunned. Then you nod, wiggling them to be sure.

“Good.”

Behind him, something explodes.

A roar, deep and furious, shakes the chamber as, out of the corner of your eye, you make out  Jason’s form slamming into the Buthcer with enough force to drive the massive body into a pillar. A crack lightnings up the pillar and dust rains down.  Jason doesn’t slow down; he can’t. You both know what can happen if he lets up his assault on the monster.

To your left, Dick moves like a ghost through the Thin Men, his strikes clean, disabling, and mercilessly efficient. Though as fast as he knocks them down, they sludge back up. Then there is a high-pitched whine that rings through the cavern. The sound of a blade cuts through the air, and you see Damian cutting at a wall, disturbing the now-glowing sigils embedded in the rock. Each one shattering with a sound like breaking glass. Every slice seems to make the Thin Men and the Butch move slower.

Kristen, who had been kicked off the dais, screams.

Not in pain.

In fury.

Batman’s head snaps up, tracking the sound, then back to you. “Where’s Camille?”

You swallow, forcing your voice to work. “The altar. S-she was hurting.”

“I know,” he says, and there’s no question in it. “You did what you needed to do. Stay here.”

He rises in one smooth motion and is gone, smoke swallowing him as if he were never there at all.

The fog clears, and you can see Camille half hanging off the altar. For now, she seems sedated. No more arching of her back and no more gritted teeth.

You let out a sigh; you were able to bring her some bit of peace.

***

“Keep disrupting the sigils, and you should break the bond between the cave and Camille,” Tim’s voice comms in as Bruce retreats into the darkness.

Batman’s eyes flash over to Damian, who is still cutting away at the sigils littered across the walls. There were many of them; it would take time before he was done. If they wanted to separate the woman from the magic, they would have to work together to disrupt the sigils.

And to do that, they would have to deal with the immediate threats.

Jason was still engaged, and so was Dick. Which left Kristen to him.

The woman had collapsed into a heap when he kicked her away from the accountant. She had recovered quickly and was now surveilling her troops.

The roar she let out earlier had been inhuman. It meant this fight would not be easy.

As if reading his mind, Kristen’s head snaps toward him.

The calm, collected woman he had met was gone.

What replaced her is raw, incandescent fury. Unfiltered now that the ritual has broken. The mark on her shoulder pulses erratically, veins of light spidering out across her collarbone as if something beneath her skin was clawing for control.

“You,” she hisses. “You ruined it.”

Batman doesn’t answer.

He moves.

A flash of black, he crosses the distance between them in three strides, striking low and hard. Kristen stumbles, catches herself, and retaliates with a shriek that rattles the stone. The air around her distorts, pressure blooming outward in a concussive wave.

Batman braces, boots skidding back inches across the slick floor.

“So fragile,” Kristen spits, advancing again. “All of you. You think this disruption is a victory? You think you’re going to win?”

Her gaze flicks past him, to the altar.

To Camille.

Batman pivots instantly, getting in between her and the altar as Kristen lashes out. The blow never lands. He catches her wrist, armor screaming as something inside her tries to tear through him with sheer force of will.

“No,” he says, voice iron. “You don’t get her.”

Behind him, the chamber groans. Another sigil shatters under Damian’s blade. The heartbeat beneath the stone stutters, lurching off rhythm.

Kristen laughs, high and manic. “You can’t stop me.” She raises her legs and kicks Batman man back. He hits the wall with a thud. He is up quickly, charging back at the woman with a swift punch of his own.

She catches his fist, and he catches the one thrown at him. He tightens his grip on her wrist and throws her back away from the dais. She crashes into the stone steps, rolling down to a stop in a spray of dust.

***

Her skin is a bit warmer than when you last touched it. Or maybe yours is a bit cooler. You pull Camille off the altar fully. You are able to cradle her to your chest. She’s lighter than you remember. The weeks she's been down here have done her no favors.

Your eyes cut over to Batman’s form as he punches back at the strong woman. You’d seen her eyes look over at the altar, something akin to want for Camille in her eyes. If you don’t at least move her now, there’s no telling what the woman would do.

You struggle to stand, unsteady from the added weight and the throbbing in your head. You hear all of the thrashing, the punches thrown, the cracking of stone all around you. But you keep moving, out of the light and into the protective shield of a dark alcove.

You stumble to a halt. Back smacking against rock as you slide down the wall with your friend cradled to your chest.

Camille opens one of her honey-colored eyes, and for a moment, a smile quirks at the corner of her lips.

“Are we going home?”

“Soon,” you whisper to her as a promise. “We’re going to get out of here soon.”

“I knew you’d save me.”

You break a little. “You’d do the same for me.”

The promise barely leaves your mouth before the chamber screams.

The heartbeat beneath the stone goes wild. No longer beating in a steady rhythm but in skipping hurried thumps. Thump. Thumpthump. Thump. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that the cave was nervous.

Across the chamber, Damian cuts at another sigil, and a groan seems to ripple through everything. Kristen, the Thin Men, and the Butcher. All seem to pause, and their attackers take advantage.

As the Thin Men Stagger, Dick charges. Finally, his blows start to stick. He takes them down one by one, fluid and relentless, collapsing joints, severing balance, and dropping bodies that no longer pull themselves back together. Without the same amount of sigils drawing power, they’re just shells. Dangerous, but finite.

The Buthcer falters, and Jason takes the opportunity to press his advantage.

The monster swings, slow but devastating. A fist the size of Jason’s head slams into the stone, pulverizing rock into shrapnel. Jason rolls, comes up on one knee, and fires point-blank into the creature’s chest. The rounds bite deep, tearing flesh and spilling black fluid, but the Butcher only bellows and charges again.

Jason meets it head-on.

He slams a boot into the monster’s knee. There’s a wet crack as the joint bends the wrong way, but the Butcher barely stumbles. It swings backhanded, clipping Jason across the ribs hard enough to lift him off his feet and send him skidding across the floor.

You grimace at the imagined pain, but the young man is quickly on his feet.

“Yeah,” he growls, pushing himself up. “That's all you got?”

The Butcher answers with another roar and barrels forward with tumbling steps, tackling Jason into a pillar. Stone explodes. Jason’s head snaps back against the rock. The monster tries to crush him, massive hands closing around his shoulders, thumbs digging with enough force to crack armor.

Jason jams a blade under the creature’s jaw.

Black fluid pours down his arm. The Butcher screams, but like his master, it is not due to pain but out of fury. It tightens its grip. Jason seems to flail for a moment. He kicks blindly, finds purchase against the wall, and drives both legs into the monster’s chest.

They separate hard.

Jason doesn’t let up for a second.

He lunges, emptying the rest of the magazine into the Butcher’s abdomen, then throws the gun aside and tackles it again, driving it backward step by step. Each movement is costing him something, the smear of blood under his feet telling, but the monster is slowing. Its swings grow sloppy. Its roar turns ragged.

“Stay. Down.”

Jason rips a charge from his belt and slams it into the creature’s sternum.

The explosion is contained but brutal. The shockwave ripples through the chamber, cracking stone and finally dropping the Butcher to its knees.

You nearly cover your eyes at what Jason does next.

He brings the butt of his helmet down on the monster’s skull again and again until the massive body collapses fully, twitching once, then going still.

The Butcher does not get back up. Instead, the body begins to swell, the belly expanding before it pops. Black liquid begins to spill from the opening. The liquid seems to begin to digest the being. An acrid smell fills your nose as the body of the Butcher begins to melt in a puddle of its own filth.

You aren’t the only one who sees that fall of the Butcher.

Kristen sees it happen.

For the first time, real fear cracks through her fury.

She moves to lunge at the boy, who is on his knees, recovering.

***

Batman intercepts her mid-step.

The impact is bone-jarring, a collision, not a tackle. Bruce slams into her shoulder-first, driving her sideways off balance. They hit the stone hard, rolling, the air knocked from both of them as the floor fractures beneath their weight.

Kristen shrieks, nails raking blindly, and catches his cape, yanking with sudden inhuman strength. Batman twists with the pull, using it to roll through, coming up on one knee as she scrambles back to her feet.

She moves fast now.

Not clean. Not controlled.

Explosive.

She slams her palm into the ground, and the stone buckles outward in a shockwave. Batman barely clears it, vaulting as the floor collapses where he’d be standing. His boots skid on loose rock when he lands.

“You don’t understand what you’ve broken!” She screams, voice splitting, layered with an unnatural deepness. The mark on her shoulder flares violently, light crawling under skin like fractured glass. “You don’t understand him!”

Bruce doesn’t answer.

He advances.

Kristen meets him head-on, driving a shoulder into his chest, and she knocks him into the air. They crash into a pillar. Stone explodes behind him. His vision whites out for half a second.

She doesn’t let up.

Her hands close around his armor, pulling him close. The pressure spikes, invisible and crushing, like something reaching through her, testing the seams of his suit and its limits.

Batman grunts and brings an elbow down across her collarbone.

The strike lands with a dull, wet crack.

Kristen only laughs.

“Harder,” she spits, breath ragged, eyes burning. She slashes across his chest, claws skittering against the armor in a scream of metal. Sparks scatter across the floor.

Bruce drops his center of gravity and drives a knee into her ribs. Once. Then twice. The third strike she blocks, catching his leg and wrenching hard.

He hits the ground, rolls, and comes up already throwing.

They trade blows at close range. His strikes are short, precise, and controlled. Hers are wild, brutal, fueled by whatever is burning under her skin. Each impact sends a ripple through the chamber. Each time she strikes, the mark flares brighter, pulsing erratically.

She slips past his guard and lands a blow to the side of his head.

The world seems to tilt.

He feels the trickle of liquid, then the taste of copper blooms over his tongue.

Bruce answers with a headbutt that snaps her chin back and finally knocks the breath from her.

She stumbles, just for a second.

That’s all he needs.

He presses forward, forcing her back step by step toward the dais. She slams a hand into the wall, tries to leverage another shockwave, but the power falters. The sigils are failing. Damian’s work is catching up.

“You can’t keep this up. I’ll kill you first.”

Batman pivots.

“I don’t think so.”

Kristen lunges.

He catches her wrist mid-strike. The force of it screams through his arm, armor protesting as she tries to tear herself free.

She thrashes, screaming as rage and pain tangle together, as the mark burns white-hot, crack spiderwebbing across it.

Batman grits his teeth.

He plants one knee. Locks the joint and forces her down the steps.

She fights him every inch, strength surging and failing in violent waves.

Brice rips a compact device from his belt.

A Batarang. Sharp.

He drives it directly into the mark.

Kristen howls.

Invisible pressure vanishes like a breath released. Whatever had been pushing through her suddenly recoils. No, it vanishes. The air feels suddenly empty, hollowed out where something vast had been pressing.

Kristen collapses, choking, clawing at her shoulder as smoke curls off burned skin. She tries to rise.

She fails.

Bruce cuffs her in one smooth motion.

“It’s over,” he says.

She laughs weakly, blood on her teeth, “No,” she gasps. “It’s just…postponed.”

Despite her warning, she passes out a second later.

Batman breathes deep.

Steps coming up behind him catch his attention.

Jason staggers a step, bracing one hand on his knee as his breathing finally catches up with him. His armor is cracked in three places, smeared dark with liquids that are both his and aren’t.

Batman’s gaze flicks to him immediately.

“You good?” he asks.

Jason snorts, rough and humorless. “Define good.”

Batman steps closer and grips Jason’s shoulder, firm and grounded.

“You didn’t hold back,” he says quietly.

Jason shrugs, then winces. “I wouldn’t have won if I did.”

“I know,” Batman says.

That acknowledgment is as tender as the moment gets.

Jason straightens, rolling his neck despite the pain. “She done?”

Batman looks back at Kristen, bound and shuddering on the stone. “For now.”

Jason exhales through his nose. “Figures.”

***

Once Batman has put Kristen down, you return your undivided attention to the huddled mass in your arms.

Camille is curled against your chest, her fingers twisted into the front of your shirt like she’s afraid the moment she lets go, everything will come apart again. She’s shuddering, small, violent tremors running through her body, but when you press your cheek to her hair, you feel warmth.

Real warmth.

Color has crept back into her skin, chasing away the sickly gray that haunted her moments ago. Not all the way. Not enough. But she looks alive.

Dick crouches in front of you, voice low and careful. “Hey. You with me?”

You nod, you don’t want to disturb her with your voice.

Damian is there too, already scanning Camille with a small handheld device, his expression sharp but intent. “Her vitals are stabilizing,” he says. “Irregular, but improving.”

Improving.

You aren’t sure how he’s made his way over so quietly, but you don’t question it when Batman is kneeling in front of you.

“She’s still holding on,” he says. “So are you.”

You instinctively tighten your arms around Camille.

“She didn’t give in,” you whisper. “She didn’t—”

“I know,” Batman says. The weight in his voice tells you he understands exactly what that cost.

Camille shifts weakly against you, her forehead pressing into your collarbone.

“Hey,” you murmur, brushing her hair back with shaking fingers. “I’ve got you. I’m not letting go.”

Her breathing stutters, then steadies.

Around you, the cave continues to groan and crack, but for the first time since you were taken, the danger feels gone.

Suddenly, you remember, “There are others in a cell back that way.”

You point down the way you remember coming in.

“Don’t worry, we’ll check,” Dick says as soothingly as possible.

Batman rises, already issuing orders, already planning the way out. But before he turns away, he looks back at you one last time.

“You did this,” he says simply.

Kristen takes a step back. Not far, just enough to make the space between you and Camille feel like an offering. A gift. No, a test.

“Go on,” she says lightly, as if you wouldn’t be condemning your best friend. “You wanted this.”

Your instinct is to scream Camille’s name. To run to her. To beg for some other choice. To bargain with her. You swallow the instinct down. You realize, painfully, that you would get nothing from your captor.

You take one step.

The inhuman servants do not move. They stand along the edges of the chamber like statues, heads bowed, hands folded. They are waiting for something, and it’s not you.

Their stillness is worse than attention.

No one is going to stop you from approaching. No one is rushing you along. They don’t need to. You’re already at their mercy.

You take another step closer.

Up close, the differences are impossible to ignore.

Camille’s skin is pale beneath the black drape, stretched tight over her collarbones. Her hair is damp with sweat, clinging to her temples in pale strands. The only thing healthy about her is her swollen belly, heavy with child.

“Camille?” You start.

Her eyes flutter slightly at the calling. Once, then twice, as if the sound has to fight its way through layers of something heavy.

“Hey,” you whisper, falling to your knees to be by her side. “It’s me.”

Her gaze struggles to focus. When her eyes finally focus on you, there is a spark, dim but alive.

“You’re late,” she murmurs. The words slur slightly, like she’s exhausted saying them. “I kept thinking…you’d come sooner.”

Your chest tightens. “I’m here now.”

Her eyes dart over your shoulder before they settle back on you. “Kristen doesn’t like me. I keep saying no.”

The heartbeat beneath the floor stutters, only for a second.

You freeze, then force yourself to keep your expression gentle, non-panicked. “You’ve been saying no? To who?”

“To it,” she tries to clarify. “It’s in my head, and it keeps asking me to let it in.”

You shudder as understanding settles heavily over you. She’s been tortured, you realize. Tortured to give her baby away to whatever monster is alive in these caves. How many times had she been asked? How many bargains were offered?

Camille’s fingers twitch against the stone. “It hurts less when I don’t answer,” she whispers. “But I can feel it waiting. It’s always waiting.”

You lean closer, careful not to touch. “Look at me,” you say. “Do you know who I am?”

Her eyes search your face, then soften. “Of course, you’re one of the reasons I didn’t give in.”

Oh…

It hurts.

Behind you, Kristen shifts her weight, amused by the affection.

“Careful,” she says. “You’ll tire her out.”

You don’t turn.

You couldn’t take your eyes off of Camille if you tried. She’s still in there, and that means there is something to fight for.

On instinct, you half pull Camille off the altar. You hear a click of annoyance from Kristen, but you ignore her as you settle the blonde woman against you in a half-hug. She feels small on top of you, frail, almost childlike.

She moans slightly, but it’s not a grunt of pain. She nuzzles into you, blissfully unaware that you have been sent to deliver her into the void.

Your eyes cut over to Kristen, who is looking at her wrist for the time, as if this were simply another chore for her to complete.

Your eyes drift to the Thin Men flanking you, and you know there is no escape. Even if you were alone. What was the way out of this mess? You cannot allow either one of you to give in.

You can feel your body tense. Something in you is begging you to fight, just enough to get out of here. Or more realistically, just enough to buy time.

“Tell me what you keep saying ‘no’ to.”

Camille smacks her lips, saliva thick in her mouth. “The voice in my head. He keeps telling me to let him in.”

“Do you know the voice?”

“At first, it pretended to be Brian, then my dad.”

How do you get her to keep fighting without arousing suspicion? You do not doubt that if Kristen gets a hint of you being anything less than helpful, a backhand across the face would be the least of your worries.

“Honey,” you coo. “I need you to be strong. Sometimes being strong means we have to do things that we don’t like.”

“Hmm?”

She’s out of it, ready to do anything you tell her.

This is the only moment you’ll have.

You force your breathing to stay slow, even, the way you used to during audit season when everything was on fire, and no one else could afford to see you panic. You tilt your head just enough that Kristen can see you’re being everything she wants: soft, earnest, and cooperative.

“You remember our first quarter close together?” you ask gently, pitching your voice so it carries just enough. “When you thought you’d completely ruined the numbers?”

Camille frowns, confusion knitting her brow. “I…I spilled coffee on the spreadsheet.”

Behind you, you hear Kristen give a small, amused hum. A personal story. Good. Harmless.

“You didn’t just spill coffee,” you continue, smiling faintly. “You ruined the formulas. The whole file was a mess. You were ready to walk out. You kept saying it would be easier to just let someone else fix it.”

Camille’s eyes drift, unfocused, but she nods.

“But you didn’t,” you say, voice. “You sat there with me until midnight. We rebuilt it cell by cell. Remember what I told you?”

Camille’s lips move silently, searching.

“Those numbers lie when you rush them,” you say softly. “That if something keeps telling you there’s only one answer, it’s probably wrong.”

Camille’s fingers curl weakly into your shirt. “He says it’ll stop hurting.”

You swallow. “I know. And sometimes things do stop hurting when you stop fighting. But they also stop being yours.”

Kristen’s tone cuts in, pleasant but edged. “Careful. Your metaphor is drifting.”

You glance back at her, letting your expression flicker with apology. “I’m helping her understand. She responds better when things feel familiar.”

Kristen studies you for a long time. Then she nods. “Continue.”

You turn back to Camille, lowering your voice. “Do you remember what happened after we fixed it?”

Camille breathes out slowly. “We found the error. It wasn’t mine.”

“That’s right,” you whisper. “The problem wasn’t you. It was the system.”

The thumping beneath the stone floor flutters.

Camille’s eyes focus on yours, clearer than they have been since you arrived. “So…I don’t say yes.”

Your heart lurches, but you keep your smile soft, reassuring, for Kristen’s benefit.

“Not yet,” you say gently. “You never rush a decision that big.”

Silence stretches.

Kristen does not smile.

But she doesn’t stop you either.

***

The GPS tracker he’d given her is useless. It would have been easier if the signal had become clearer the closer he got, but that luxury was not panning out. To make matters worse, the biomonitor’s signal is beginning to simplify.

Up until now, the biomonitor had been doing its job; he could see her pulse, oxygen, and cortisol levels ghosting through his HUD. The only thing that remained constant now was her pulse. She was alive. Moving around, or being moved, somewhere below. The cave system defeats triangulation; the stone is swallowing range and direction alike.

“Tim,” Batman says quietly, crouched at the mouth of a split passage where the tunnel fractures into three descending arms. “I still don’t have her location. Only vitals.”

“I know,” Tim answers from the Batcave, keys clacking in the background. “Something about the rock’s composition is interfering with positional data. But that’s not the only strange thing.”

Bruce looks down at the readout. Three tunnel mouths. Three directions. And all of them feel wrong.

“Explain.”

“For lack of a better word, there is another signal. Another pulse, running through the cavern. It’s…selective. Spiking, then stabilizing. Like it’s responding to external input. I think you have something that can track it.”

Batman’s gaze flicks between the tunnels, then downward towards his belt. His fingers find a small device on his belt—compact, angular. A sonic pulse emitter.

“Talk me through it.”

“If you can induce micro-resonance in the surrounding rock,” Tim says slowly, thinking it through as he speaks. “The chamber where the pulse is coming from should respond differently.”

“And that should be the main chamber.”

“Exactly.”

Bruce plants the emitter against the stone and triggers it.

A low-frequency wave ripples outward.

The caves answer.

The tunnel stays dead. The right trembles, then fades. The center passage thrums, deep, heavy, and unmistakable.

Batman exhales once.

“That’s it.”

He moves fast now, controlled but urgent, descending the central arm as the passage narrows and then opens abruptly upward. He fires a grapnel and swings silently, catching a natural ledge high above the cavern floor.

He kills his lights, and the chamber below reveals itself.

The scale of it hits him first: the height of the cavern, the carved stone dais, the altar at its center. He focuses and lets the details hit him all at once. Enemies surrounding a small group of people. There is a blond body, unconscious on the floor. Carlisle, he recognizes. Kristen is standing alone, composed, and utterly still. Watching the huddled mass in the center of the room.

There is a black drape covering two bodies. One form seems curled against the other, entwined, forming one being. The accountant holds Camille as if she were cradling the most precious thing in the world. As if she were Camille’s only remaining lifeline. He watches her speak softly, her mouth forming words that clearly mean something to the pair of them.

With each sentence, her pulse wavers, nerves on end.

Then he feels it. A shuddering through the cavern. Some sort of thumping.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Tim’s voice drops in. “That’s it. That’s the signal. It’s messing with the biomonitor and the GPS too.”

There’s another thump, one that shakes the stone. It happens again.

At the last pulse, Batman sees the accountant shake Camille a bit as if trying to rouse her from a deep sleep. Batman’s HUD comes up, and something tells him to scan the pair. The accountant’s heartbeat remains normal, in line with the biomonitor. But Camille’s…

“There’s some frequency exchange happening between Camille and the cave. I’m not seeing any wired connection.”

“I see what you’re talking about. Camille’s pulse and the thumping are almost in resonance. She’s connected somehow. Maybe through Kristen’s magic? But why would she…?”

Batman doesn’t answer right away.

He’s watching Kristen now. Watching the way her composure tightens, just barely, each time the rhythm beneath the stone falters. Watching the way her composure tightens, just barely, each time the rhythm beneath the stone falters. He knows a mask when he sees it.

A magic link between the hostage and the cave, and Kristen is allowing the accountant contact with Camille, something is not right here. Kristen must need something from Camille, and she sees the accountant as the only way to get it. He doubts his house guest would easily give in. Hurting Camille would be the last thing on her mind. Judging by the annoyed purse of her lips, whatever was being whispered was not in Kristen’s favor.

A deadlock, he realizes. He wonders if the accountant knows how much power she has at the moment.

“Some sort of negotiation is happening; we need to figure out what. I have a feeling interrupting without a plan won’t be to Camille’s benefit.”

Tim is quiet for a moment, then. “Can you zoom in on the dais? The altar specifically.”

Batman does as he’s told and waits as he hears the clacking of the keyboard.

“Oh no…”

“Speak.”

“The sigils on the altar. They are some kind of magic runes. It looks like a summoning circle…for a demon.”

Batman is quiet. While he had dealt with magic in the past, he wouldn’t say it was his forte. And disrupting demonic rituals wasn’t something he had hoped to spend his time doing.

“I need you to focus on finding some way to break the connection that Camille has to the cave. We won’t be able to rescue anyone if that doesn’t happen.”

He doesn’t wait for a response from Tim before he keys his comms. “I have visual. I’ve found the core of the cave. I’m sending you a marker now.”

Jason’s reply comes immediately. “You see her, she alive?”

“Yes,” Batman says. “And I have visual on Camille.”

A second of silence to soak in the fact that the goal was within reach.

“Take strategic positions when you get here. There are hostiles surrounding the targets, and we already know that Kristen has enhanced abilities.”

“What? You want to waste time talking over a plan when we should just get in there and—”

“We’ll kill the only advantage we have if we charge in. And for the moment, she’s buying us time.”

He gets a grunt in response.

Below him, the heartbeat stutters again. Batman settles deeper into the shadows, eyes never leaving the scene.

“Don’t rush her,” he murmurs to himself. It’s an order to himself.

***

Camille looks at you with a deliriously happy smile, small tears nipping at the corners of her eyes.

“I guess I won’t do it.”

“Hmm?”

“I won’t say yes.”

It isn’t loud. It isn’t defiant. Camille barely has the strength to shape it. But she says it anyway, the syllables tumbling their way out of her like a truth she’d been holding on to.

The heartbeat beneath the chamber falters for a moment. A contemplative thump.

Then the pulse lurches back into rhythm, harder than before.

You tighten your hold on her, pressing your forehead to hers, keeping your voice gentle and steady.

“That’s okay,” you murmur for her benefit. “You don’t have to choose the easy answer just because it’s offered. You take your time. You make sure it’s right.”

Camille nods weakly against you. “I don’t want the easy way,” she whispers. “It feels wrong.

The air shifts. You feel something itching between your shoulder blades. A stare as sharp as a knife.

You swallow, throat suddenly dry. You look up at the redhead woman, gaze rueful. You flinch when you meet icy depths.

Whatever patience the woman had snapped.

It’s subtle at first; the twitch of her shoulder, the way her jaw tightens. And then you see it, red veins like stretching fingers wrap themselves around her neck, from the junction of her shoulder and kiss the underside of her chin. She hisses, breath catching, one hand flying to her shoulder as if she’s been burned from the inside.

“Enough,” she says sharply.

The servants do not tense at the terseness in her voice, but you do. You cradle Camille closer.

Kristen strides forward, fury stripping the calm from her face. She grabs you by the hair and wrenches your head back, fingers digging into your scalp, squeezing hard enough that the skin around your eyes feels like it's beginning to rip.

“I am running out of patience,” she snarls, shaking you. “You think you’re here to tell stories and baby her? That stalling will save you?”

Camille cries out, trying to cling to you as Kristen’s grip tightens. “Don’t hurt her—please—"

Kristen laughs, sharp and ugly. “You misunderstand. I’m going to hurt both of you.”

Pressure builds behind your eyes as you feel hair begin to rip from your scalp. She shakes you, and your teeth rattle; you smell blood.

“I will kill her,” Kristen says calmly, as if torturing you was the release she needed. “And then I will start over with someone else. You are replaceable. She is replaceable.”

Involuntary tears cloud your vision. You blink to clear them away. When your vision clears, you notice something. A small movement out of the corner of your eye.

One of the Thin-Men standing idle only moments ago is yanked silently into the air, feet leaving the stone without a sound. There is no roar, no impact, just a brief strangled gasp before he is hauled upward into shadow.

Kristen’s hold on you loosens for a moment, her head turning at the sound of displacement.

You can’t make out what took him; you only feel the rushing air and hear the whisper of something fast-moving above. There is something here that doesn’t belong.

The mark on the red woman’s shoulder pulses again, red veins glowing freakishly under her skin.

You act on your instinct to grip Camille tighter. And you are glad you did.

Camille screams.

There is no grip on her, no reason for the noise, but she screams anyway.

Her back arches violently, breath tearing from her lungs as the heartbeat beneath the stone slams into resonance with her pulse. Suddenly, the altar is set ablaze with purple light, sigils carved into stone glowing. Camille’s veins glow faintly beneath her skin. It’s different than Kristen’s. Not as angry, somewhat subtle.

Kristen freezes as she looks down at the pair of you. For the first time, she looks afraid.

This demon she was trying to summon has found another way to make its presence known.

Kristen’s grip on you begins to ache, but in her distracted state, her hand loosens. You rip yourself away from the woman. You feel the strands of your hair rip from your scalp, followed by the raw pulsing of exposed flesh.

You cover Camille with your form, clutching her tightly to your chest as a rasping cry rips itself from her emaciated body.

“Master?” Kristen calls into the darkness, eyes looking around frantically. She begins to beg for clemency from her unseen patron. “I can do this myself. I will not fail you.”

Camille’s body is icy to the touch, sweat lying over her like a blanket. She arches higher, anymore, and you’re afraid she’ll break.

You look around for anything that can relieve you from your situation. Despite their master seemingly becoming frantic, the Thin Men and the Butcher stay reverently in place. Awaiting orders from the distressed woman.

“Honey, can you hear me? You have to keep fighting, if you don’t, this thing, this monster, it’s going to take you.”

You get a pitiful moan in return, and something tells you that words won’t be enough. You look around the room. The altar isn’t the only thing pulsing that faint purple light. There are sigils around the entire cave, throbbing in time with the heartbeat. And then there is Kristen, standing there glowing with energy, feeding the torture.

A realization, cold and daunting, falls on you. As long as Kristen is here, your friend won’t have a chance. Moments longer in this state, and she’ll die from the torture. Out of the corner of your eye, you register the woman’s back toward you.

Could you?

No…It’s stupid. Dangerous.

But before you realize it, your body is moving. Leaping up from your squatted position and charging toward Kristen. Your body crashes into hers before you can make it stop. You swoop down on the woman with an ‘oof’ as you both fall off the dais, thanks to the momentum of your charge.

Kristen lets out an indignant screech as the two of you roll away from the altar. You feel a blow to your face and blood blooming from your nose.

For the second time today, you feel yourself reaching back and punching someone. The pain that springs forth is like nothing you have ever felt. The woman’s face feels like stone under your knuckles. Still, as you roll, you arc another punch through the air and add in a kick for good measure. Your body rings like a hit bell, but all you can care about is screaming, “Let her go!”

The roll ends with the woman on top of you, knees and arms pinning you down at four points, breathing over you frantically. Her blue eyes are crazed as she looks down on you, hair falling around you like a blood-red curtain.

“Never!”

One of her hands releases your arm and begins to squeeze around your neck, choking the fight out of you.

‘Not yet.’ You think, flailing your free arm in an attempt to scratch the woman’s face.

In your haze, you barely register a slight clink. But you distinctly hear the hissing that comes next.

“Tim,” Bruce says, voice clipped. “I need spatial modeling. Now.”

The Batwing banks hard over Gotham’s industrial spine, skimming low enough that the city light smears into amber streaks beneath them. Below, sewer caps, service tunnels, and derelict subway access points light up one by one on Bruce’s display.

Tim’s reply comes fast, strained. “I can’t overlay this on city schematics. This isn’t infrastructure. It’s…natural. Or it was. Caverns. Old ones. They branch, then reconnect. Like arms feeding into a body.  To make matters worse, the signal is still being distorted, and I can’t track her position. But her biomonitor is still going strong.

Bruce’s jaw tightens.

Interference meant delay.

And delay meant danger for the accountant.

He drops further. The stone below Gotham changes, no concrete, no steel, just raw rock carved by water and time. The signal threads through the cave system, splitting down passages, then pulling itself back together, always guiding inward.

“Dick, Jason, Damian—hold at the perimeter,” Bruce orders. “Do not advance until I identify the meeting point.”

Tim feeds in three-dimensional scans built from sonar, thermal bleed, and the signal itself. The caves spiral and overlap, forming a vast subterranean network.

“The signal points look random,” Tim says. “But everything leads the same way. Toward a core.”

A core.

Bruce watches her heartbeat stabilize; it had been erratic for a few moments, as if she had been awakened from her suspended state. Then it calmed, and a steady, if nervous, pace followed.

“She’s alive,” he says more to himself than to anyone else. “But this place was never meant for escape.”

Thermal anomalies bloom ahead, heat signatures clustered within the rock, pulsing in slow ritual rhythm.

Bruce exhales through his nose, controlled, measured. This will not be fast. It will not be clean. Whatever waits below has had time. Patience. Practice.

Each of her signals sits in the heart of one of these centers. Surrounded by heat. Surrounded by bodies that no doubt would make her stay in their company as unpleasant as possible.

“Lock onto the strongest signal,” Bruce orders. “That’s the heart.”

He begins his trek through the tunnels, reading the tools at his command for the conflicts that await him.

***

The boys fell into the tunnel one after another; it hadn’t taken much to find an entrance…well, to make one. Once it was clear that they needed to go down, it was just a matter of figuring out how far down they needed to go.

That answer came quickly once they found the hollowed-out tunnel beneath their feet. Dick entered first, landing in the hole with a slight splash. There is a small trail of water running underneath his feet.

Jason fell behind him, then Damian.

“We should—”

“Dick, Jason, Damian—hold the perimeter.”

The boys look at each other only for a second. There’s nothing to contemplate; there was no waiting on the periphery tonight. Not when someone they swore to protect was in danger.

Jason ignores the order.

He always does.

The moment his boots hit the damp stone, the smell hits him. Coppery, damp, wrong. Not just blood. But old blood. Rot that’s been sitting long enough to forget what it used to be. The tunnel walls narrow ahead, the rock slick and uneven, carved by water and then reshaped by something with intention.

“Movement?” Dick murmurs, already scanning the shadows.

Jason doesn’t answer. He’s too busy staring down at the thing that his boot just kicked.

Not a thing, he realizes quickly, but a who.

A body.

Bloated and purple.

It’s human. Mostly.

The thing is slumped against the cave wall like it tried to sit down but gave up halfway. The face is wrong. Features smoothed and stretched too thin, like wet clay tugged too far. One eye is too high, the other half-formed, milky, and blind. Its chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven jerks.

“Jesus,” Jason mutters.

The body twitches.

Damian inhales sharply through his teeth. “It’s still alive.”

Jason’s fists clench. His jaw locks so tight it aches.

Part of him feels conflicted. It was a monster; he could tell from its putty-like features that it was at least related to the Thin Man that he fought before. But as the creature lay there struggling to take in breath, he wondered if it was right to give it the finality of an ending.

“We need to keep moving.”

He hears his voice speaking his decision before he can fully process it.

They move deeper.

There are more.

Some are piled together, discarded like trash. Arms bent at impossible angles. Skin sloughing away in sheets where it never finished knitting properly. One body has two mouths: a gritted grimace across one, and the other frozen open in a silent scream.

Dick swallows hard, forcing his voice steady. “These aren’t supposed to be monsters.”

Jason knows exactly what he means.

“They were supposed to be copies,” Dick continues. “But something went wrong.”

Damian crouches near a single being, no movement in its chest. “Test subjects.”

Jason looks around and finally understands where they are.

This isn’t the lab.

It’s where the waste is disposed of.

Where the rats were thrown after the experiment failed.

A grave.

He shudders at the thought. Judging by the number of bodies, it seemed like the process went wrong more than right. It had to have been, otherwise the streets would have been flooded with the redheaded woman’s copies by now.

But what did that mean for the brownie woman?

His comm crackles. Bruce’s voice cuts in sharply. “Status.”

Jason doesn’t soften it. “You need to move faster.”

A pause.

“Jason—”

“They’re making monsters down here, and they’re not very good at it.” Jason snaps. “Whatever you think this is, it’s worse.”

Silence.

Then Bruce: “Hold position. I’m closing in on the core.”

Jason stares down the tunnel, deeper into the darkness, where he knows more bodies are likely waiting for his little group. His fingers itch around his weapons.

“Then hurry,” he growls. “Because I find her before you do…I’m not waiting,”

***

Carlisle’s hands are free. He uses them to begin ripping the binding. It’s a relief for your lungs. Pressure subsides the moment you’re free.

“We won’t get in trouble for this?”

It’s the first thought that comes to your mind, slightly foolish, childish even.

Carlisle shakes his head, “None of us could hurt them if we tried. And the monsters don’t seem to care either way.”

You stretch your arms, numbness tingling away as you move.

“Has anyone tried? Fighting them, I mean.”

He looks down for a moment, a quiver to his lips.

“Jonathan did.”

Preston’s handsome face flashes in your mind. You remember the last time you saw him. The sweaty sheen to his skin and the grayness under his eyes. Had that been Preston? Or had that been a double, too?

The look on Carlisle’s face gives it away.

“He tried fighting. Punching and kicking when the big one came through to take one of us. It just laughed and picked him up. I could hear him screaming, angry at first. Then in pain. Then it went silent.”

Hopeless. The man looks hopeless, and if you had seen your dearest friend taken to certain doom, you would have felt the same.

The thought bites you slightly; you didn’t see yours taken, but you felt her loss the same.

“Did you see Camille?” At his blank face, you try again. “Blonde hair, pregnant, she’s worked for you as long as I have.”

“No one like that has been through here.”

You bite your lips as the words go down bitterly. You don’t want to think it, but the thought screams across your mind. You may have been too late. Too late to save your friend and too late to stop this.

The hope you didn’t realize you were holding on to collapses in on itself, sharp and sudden. You force yourself to keep breathing.

“Then why keep her?” You ask quietly. “Why take her at all?”

Carlisle hesitates. His eyes flick toward the dark mouth of the tunnel, as if the stone itself is listening.

“They don’t bring everyone through here,” he says at last. “This is…holding. Temporary. The ones they want for longer, they take deeper.”

Deeper?

Deeper where?

Your stomach tightens. “How do you know where they take them?”

Carlisle’s jaw works, his eyes flickering away from your face.

A scoff comes from the man further in the cell. “He wasn’t in here when we first got here, were you, rich boy?”

Carlisle shudders, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

“What was it supposed to be?” Your throat is tight as you ask, a shiver running down your back.

He looks at you guiltily. “It was silly at first. Kristen suggested it. It was a ritual, something to bless the firm. You know well wishes for the firm’s success.”

“A ritual?” You question confusion rolling over your features. “Like a religious ritual?”

“Saying that now makes it seem more innocent than it was.”

“What kind of ritual, Michael?” You don’t know when your voice has ever been this firm.

“It was demonic,” he admits. “We were supposed to be summoning something that guaranteed us success. But Kristen knew something that we didn’t. It was just supposed to be fun. I didn’t think anything of it.”

Demonic? What the hell is he talking about?

“Then we moved here, and business was great. I didn’t think about the ritual again. Then Kristen came to me one day and said we needed a sacrifice and that I had to pick.”

“…So, you picked?”

“I didn’t think she was serious. I just picked some guy off the street and didn’t think about it again. Until she brought me down here and showed me this place.”

“This place, what is it?” You can feel the fear welling up in your voice.

“It’s where she keeps and does the sacrifices.”

Your mouth runs dry, sand trickling down your throat.

“Sacrifices!” It’s not you who spits out the word incredulously. It’s the man whose teeth are grinding the words out.

“You pick the sacrifices?” you question, suddenly feeling empty.

“Sometimes me, sometimes Jonathan, sometimes Kristen.”

It surprises you when it comes, raw white-hot fury. You feel your first clenching and then hear Carlisle’s squeal of pain. Your handshakes with pain as you look at your balled fist. Even in the dim light, you can see the blood beginning to run down the man’s nose.

You’ve never punched anyone before, and you can feel your knuckles swelling up.

“You’re the reason she’s gone!” You yell. “You’re the reason any of us is in this mess in the first place!”

You are a fool for trusting this man and following him across the country. A fool for working for him. And a worse fool for getting Camille into this.

Hot, angry tears well up in your eyes. “We are going to die because of you.”

Carlisle holds a messy hand to his nose. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry—”

You don’t get to finish the sentence. There is slamming in the distance followed by the sound of heavy footsteps against the stone.

You blanch.

He’s coming, your jailer is coming back.

He appears quickly from the darkness, thundering steps, echoing through the cavern. It’s disturbing how fast he’s able to move. Without the sound of his steps, he would be on you in a flash.

The Butcher fills the tunnel mouth, shoulders scraping stone, breath coming out in wet, rhythmic pulls. The torchlight catches the sheen of his skin, too smooth in places, too puckered in others, like something patched together and kept alive through sheer stubbornness.

His gaze locks on you first.

Not Carlisle. Not the others.

You.

Something like satisfaction flashes across his face. He unlocks the cell and takes a step inside the small space. In a quick motion, he grabs Carlisle by the wrists, yanking him up and forward hard enough that the man stumbles.

“No,” you say instinctively, stepping between them before you can stop yourself.

Your jailer tilts his head, considering you, and lets out a low sound that might have been amusement. With one massive hand, he backhands you aside. You hit the stone wall hard enough to knock the air from your lungs, vision flashing white at the edges.

Carlisle cries out as the beast's hands grip tighter around his wrist, squeezing bone and flesh. The butcher hauls him up over his shoulder with brutal efficiency, then reaches down and snaps restraints around your wrists. Cold metal bites into your skin.

“Down,” the jailer grunts, voice thick and distorted. Free from the singsong tone that he’s used with you before.

He doesn’t wait for compliance.

The floor slopes sharply beyond the cell, dropping into a passage lit by flickering red-orange light. Heat rolls up from below in suffocating eaves. As you’re dragged forward, you hear a sound. Low, deep, and echoing.

A thumping.

A heartbeat. Rhythmic, dancing almost.

The patter of an excited being. It hums through the cavern as if the stone itself were alive.

The further you’re pulled, the more the cave changes. Rough stone gives way to smoothed walls carved with spirals and sigils. The air grows thick with incense and iron.

There are others. At least you think there are, from your position its hard to tell if they are alive or not. Bodies line the edges of the passage, pressed into alcoves, waiting silently as you are dragged past.

Carlisle calls for your attention from his position over the monster’s shoulder.

“This is as far as I’ve ever seen anyone go.”

Your heart pounds so fast and hard that it hurts. The biomoniter at your neck pulses erratically, sending faint vibrations through your skin.

The passage opens abruptly into a vast chamber. The heartbeat swells.

At the far end, elevated above the stone floor on a carved dais, stands Kristen. If you weren’t so frightened, you’d find the sight absurd. In front of her is an altar of some sort. Dark stone, sharp, curved edges, and a mass of being draped in black curled on the stand.

Kristen seems to be playing the role of a priest, but she stands there in her usual get-up. A blazer, blouse, and pencil skirt. Arms crossed tight over her frame. She’s muttering the same phrase over and over again. “For you, my lord, for you.”

There are beings surrounding here, servants more like. They all have the same look as the butcher: vacant, patchwork, non-human. They were thin, though, thin with inky black skin and rags for clothing.

Your jailor stops when he approaches the altar. He drops Carlisle first and then drags you by your restraints to the same position at the feet of your tormentor.

She stops her chanting and looks at you with a light in her eyes.

“Oh darling, it's good you’re here.”

Her voice is smooth, relaxed, and nearly happy as she addresses you. Not that crazed maniac you expected. But you should have known better; the woman is nothing if not composed.

You open your mouth to respond. To tell her to go to hell. To demand Camille’s location. To put up some sort of verbal fight. But your words are stifled by the heartbeat surging through the cave.

“You hear that?” She asks coyly. “That’s the sound of a womb ready to give birth,”

“Kristen, that’s enough! Stop this, it isn’t like you!”

The woman’s cool blue eyes cut from you to your CEO, who has sat up on his knees, a plea in his voice and his eyes. “Please just let everyone go home.”

“Oh, I am Michael. Home to my lord, where you condemned them for a bit of money.”

Something breaks on his face, a tear running down his eye, a sob hitching his breath.

“It was just supposed to be a game, Kristen. If I had known the truth, none of this would have happened.”

“That’s what I dislike most about you, Michael. You play too many games.”

She strikes him with an open palm, and his head flies back with a snap. A pitiful yelp leaves his lips. But you are in no position to judge the whimpering. When her icy orbs snap back to you, you feel the nipping of fear bite at your spine.

“I really do think your arrival here was a stroke of good fortune, though, my dear. I think you’re just what the doctor ordered.”

You stifle your question as she walks back toward the altar.

You focus on the mass on top of the severe thing. It's shuddering, you realize, taking breaths so panicked that you can see the thick curtain moving up and down.

“I think a reunion would bring just a little more…compliance.”

You are doused in dread, a freezing sensation that causes you to tense at the words. Your breaths start to come in shallow, excited pants as Kristen struts over to the being on the slab.

You know it. You feel it. The reveal hangs on the tip of your tongue just as she removes the covering from the body.

Bile rises to your throat as you take in her appearance. Gray. You’d never seen skin so gray. Sickly was not enough to depict the lack of color. She had lost all of her color. Even her hair, which had been a wheat blonde, had seemed to lose all the life it had. Her eyes are closed, so you cannot see the light in her golden eyes. Gasping breaths come from her form. Her arms, though weak due to atrophy, are wrapped protectively around her belly, a bulbous attachment on her thin form.

With the covering removed, you can hear a small voice chanting with the same fervency that Kristen had been earlier. “No. NO. No.”

Tears sting at the corner of your eyes.

“Camille,” you call, voice small. If she hears you, she does not respond with more than a shudder.

It is her. Your friend. Alive and possibly irreparably harmed.

“What did you do?!”

“Careful with that tone, I don’t need you enough to tolerate sass.”

Kristen still sounds amused. Like her destruction of your beloved was a trifling matter.

You cannot rein in your outrage. “What. Did. You DO?!”

“Not enough, apparently,” The redhead says somewhat dejectedly. “Otherwise, my lord would have his vessel already.”

Vessel?

The confusion on your face draws a chuckle.

“An untainted soul is the most appetizing.”

A tossed look at your friend’s swollen belly was enough to know what she meant. She meant to give whatever demon she had summoned a body.

“Soon, I’ll get to experience the joys of motherhood myself.”

Hands on her hips, she motions with her head to have you pulled over to the altar. “All I need from you is to make your little friend here say ‘yes.’” Kristen steps closer, lowering her voice as if sharing a confidence meant only for you. “You see, you’re lucky. I plan to let you live. All you have to do is fulfill your purpose.”

She gestures lazily between you and the altar. “You’re the light at the end of the tunnel. The proof that this can all end. The reason. The one thing she’ll still listen to.” Her smile sharpens. “You came all this way for her. You bled for her. You’d do anything for her.”

Kristen leans in, closer enough that you can smell her perfume, sweet and light. Wrong in a place like this. “So, you will convince her. You will tell her this mercy. You will tell her this ends the pain.”

Your heart hammers against your ribs, the biomonitor screaming silently against your skin. You look at Camille, reduced, restrained, still breathing. Still alive.

How surreal that to get her out of here, you’d have to deliver her into the hands of death.

No matter what the plan was, you were never bait.

You were leverage.

Kristen straightens, voice carrying through the chamber. “You’re free when she agrees.”

The heartbeat begins thumping in earnest, roused by Kristen’s words.

Her eyes never leave yours.

“House Yronwood will not move unless Dorne believes the Reach is already committed,” he said, voice low, measured. He is always measured. “We would need to secure Lord Tyrell’s support first—”

Your quill slipped from your fingers.

The faint clatter against the wood sounded louder than a dropped sword.

Baelor’s head lifted immediately.

Silence followed.

You tried to straighten. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I am quite awake.”

A lie. You’d been sapped of energy before he’d asked you to indulge him in this hypothetical.

He did not smile…not at first. There is something gentler in his gaze as he walks around the table.

“You are exhausted.”

“I am useful,” you countered softly.

He stopped only a step away.

The candlelight caught in his dark, two-toned eyes. Earnest, amused, and tired themselves.

“You have been at my side since dawn,” he said. “Eaten little and now you deny yourself rest to indulge my fantasies. And you remind me when I forget to rest.”

A pause.

“Yet you do not grant yourself the same mercy.”

You let out a quiet laugh, though it came out more breath than amusement. “If I show mercy, Your Grace, you will take the Stormlands by morning.”

That earned you an actual smile.

Not the small diplomatic curve he wore for courtiers. Not the restrained, princely one.

A boyish one.

“The Stormlands were lost the moment you abandoned the river crossings,” he replied, reaching past you to move one of the carved stags half an inch across the map. “You grew overconfident after taking the Reach.”

“You baited me into the Reach,” you shot back weakly. “You practically handed it over.”

“I sacrificed it.”

“For pride.”

“For position.”

Your eyes narrowed at him. “For vanity.”

His low chuckle warmed the chamber more than the candles ever could.

This had begun as a harmless indulgence, an attempt to distract him from the endless petitions and council debates. A fictional war. Two opposing crowns. You are commanding the combined forces of Dorne and the Reach; he, the Stormlands and the Crownlands. Tiny carved armies. Imagined betrayals. Invented sieges.

It has lasted three days.

And you have very nearly won.

“You are fading,” Baelor observed gently.

“I am calculating.”

“You are swaying.”

You opened your mouth to retort and instead blinked slowly as the candles doubled before your eyes.

He stepped closer. Close enough that the heat of him cut through your exhaustion.

“In this war,” he murmured, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “I would much prefer you alive.”

A soft snort escaped you. “How magnanimous of my enemy.”

“My most formidable enemy.”

There was no teasing in that.

Only admiration.

Your fingers drifted over the carved dragon that marked your command. “You realize,” you said quietly, “if I had not yielded the western fleet, you would be cornered at King’s Landing by now.”

He tilted his head, studying you rather than the map. “And yet you yielded.”

“Because you looked so pleased with yourself.”

His brows lifted. “You altered a campaign for my expression?”

“You are very easy to read when you are enjoying yourself.”

He seemed almost startled by that.

For a prince so practiced in composure, being known unsettled him more than losing territory ever could.

“You watch me that closely?” he asked.

You felt heat creep up your neck. “I must. You are my opponent.”

His gaze lingered on you a moment too long.

“Is that the only reason?”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, and the room suddenly seems to feel smaller than it was.

Dangerous, being alone with him was always dangerous for you. It was so easy to fall into him.

Your exhaustion finally betrayed you; your hand slipped from the edge of the table, and you swayed forward.

Baelor caught you instantly.

One hand at your waist. The other braced at your elbow.

The carved pieces rattle, a lion rolls on the table.

“Victory,” he murmured, steadying you, “is meaningless if it costs me my favorite adversary.”

Your heart hammers in your chest, stumbling harder than your footing had. You try to keep your speech cool.

“You admit I am your favorite?”

“There was never any competition.”

His fingers splay against your lower back at the movement, and your feet shuffle closer to him, close enough to press your hands to his chest, should you have been that bold.

A prince should never be this close to his pretend enemy.

“You should rest,” he said, though the timbre of his voice brought to mind things that had little to do with rest.

“And concede defeat?” You asked softly.

His thumb shifted almost absently against your back, as if only just realizing it rested there. He did not remove it.

“I offer a truce.”

“In my favor?”

“In ours.”

The word settles between you, heavier now. No longer playful.

Ours.

Your hands hover uncertainly before finally settling, carefully, against the front of his doublet. The fabric is warm, radiating his heat. He feels solid. Real. And far more distracting than any carved army.

“You move pieces even when the game is paused,” you murmur.

A flicker of confusion crosses his face. “Do I?”

You nodded at the table. “You placed my dragon beside your stag.”

His gaze sharpens, then softens with something almost shy. “I did.”

“That is not how wars are won.”

“No,” he agrees quietly. “It is not.”

Silence stretches. The silence is not awkward, but it is not comfortable either. An unspoken heat warming the pair of you.

“You are aware,” you start, voice barely above a whisper, “that if anyone were to see us standing like this, they would assume I have defected.”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “Have you?”

You swallow.

“I am considering my options.”

His breath leaves him in a slow exhale that ghosts across your hair. His forehead dips towards yours, pressing down gently.

“You play dangerously,” he says.

“So do you.”

“I am heir to the Iron Throne.”

“And yet you are losing a fictional war to a woman who has had no sleep.

That earns you a quiet laugh, but it fades quickly.

“You would have won by morning,” he admits. “You outmaneuvered me at the Blackwater. I did not see it until it was too late.”

Triumph sparks in your chest. “You rarely admit defeat.”

“I do not often lose.”

“I wonder then what spoils I could coax from you, Your Grace.”

Your pulse stutters as the bold statement leaves your lips, but it is too late to pull the words back now.

His gaze darkens, his two-toned eyes the same color of black as he pulls back to take you in.

“Careful,” he murmurs.

You hold his stare.

“For a strategist,” you say. “You are remarkably hesitant.”

“I am calculating.”

“Liar.”

The boyish smile returns, and there is something mischievous in those blown black pupils.

“What would you ask of me?”

Your tongue dries in your mouth, heart stuttering.

You should retreat.

You should laugh it off, bow, and restore the distance that propriety demands.

Instead, you tilt your chin up the slightest fraction.

“Honesty.”

He blinks at you, a flicker of curiosity about his face and surprise causing his brows to rise.

“About?”

You swallow; it’s your chance to be bold with the prince who, at the very least, considered you a dear friend.

“Why you place our pieces side by side,” you whisper. “Why you call me your favorite.”

His jaw flexes.

For a long moment, he says nothing. But you know him. There is a war raging inside, not one of carved wood and painted rivers, but of duty and want, restraint and impulse.

“You presume much,” he murmurs.

“I calculate,” you counter with an echo.

A breath that could be mistaken for a laugh escapes him, but it carries no mockery.

“You are relentless.”

“You taught me to be.”

It triggers something in him.

His hands slide, deliberately, from the small of your back to rest securely at your waist.

He can no longer pass off the touch as accidental.

“If I answer you honestly,” he says, voice low and stripped of polish. “You will not be able to pretend you do not know.”

“I do not wish to pretend.”

Your admission is quiet but certain.

The candles flicker, a small draft filling the room.

He leans in, breath brushing against the skin of your face, warm and steady despite the tension coiling between you.

“I placed them together,” Baelor says, “because I am tired of standing opposite you.”

Your heart stops.

“In war?” you ask faintly.

“In everything.”

The confession causes you to let out a breath, chest heaving with the weight of it.

“You meet me without fear,” he continues. “Challenge me without seeking advantage. When we sit across that table, I am not heir. I am not symbol.”

His thumbs press into your waist, grounding both him and you to the moment.

“I am simply a man trying to win your approval.”

It’s better than any flirtation.

“You have it,” you breathe.

His restraint seems to break then. Not wildly, the Prince of Dragonstone would not act recklessly. But it is enough.

His forehead presses fully to yours this time. Soft, deliberate contact, intimate in its stillness.

“If I surrender, I will not do so lightly,” he whispers.

“I am not asking for surrender. I ask merely to stand at your side.”

Silence.

Then, carefully, giving you time to retreat, his hand slides from your hips up your sides and over your arm to cradle your jaw in his palm.

“Tell me to stop.”

Your hands clench at the fabric of his doublet, pulling him closer instead.

The kiss, when it comes, is not fierce.

It is measured.

Tentative at first. The brushing of lips, an asking.

And when you answer by tightening more firmly around the cloth in your hands, and you rise onto your toes to press more firmly against him. Something with more passion ignites.

Bitten lips.

Open mouths.

And satisfied whimpers

When his tongue rubs against yours, you melt against him.

This is not a conquest.

Not a victory for you.

But an alliance.

His other hand slides from your waist to your back, drawing you closer with a quiet exhale that sounds almost like relief. The table at your side knocks softly as your hip brushes it, carved kingdoms forgotten.

You only break apart only when breath becomes scarce.

His eyes search for yours immediately, a restrained greed in his gaze.

“Did this offering satisfy your need for spoils?”

His voice is rougher now, threaded with something he no longer bothers to disguise.

You remain close enough that your breath mingles, your hands still fisted in his doublet as though letting go might undo what just happened.

“I did not realize that you intended to bargain so generously,” you murmur, still catching your breath.

A faint, incredulous huff leaves him. “Generously?”

“You surrendered first.”

“I did not surrender.”

You arch a brow.

His mouth curves despite himself. “I negotiated.”

“Poorly.”

That earns you another kiss. There is no hesitation this time. No tentative probing or stiff-necked restraint.

His hand tightens at your back, fingers spreading as though to memorize the shape of you beneath his palm. The movement shifts you both, pressing you lightly against the edge of the strategy table. A carved stage tumbles to the floor with a muted clack.

Neither of you bothers to separate to look down.

The kiss deepens, slower now, less startled by the abrupt change in the relationship between the pair of you. Less questioning. His thumb traces the line of your jaw before sliding into your hair. It’s careful, but possessive in a way that makes your knees weaken.

When he finally pulls back, it is only far enough to rest his forehead against your once more.

“This is madness,” he says softly.

“Because it is midnight?”

“Because I am heir.”

“And I am?” you prompt.

He exhales, eyes opening to meet yours fully. “The one person in this castle who makes me forget that.”

The confessions steals what little breath you regained.

Outside these walls, the Red Keep slumbers. The world has not shifted; the realm remains unchanged. And your positions remain the same.

And yet…

“If we continue,” he says carefully, as though outlining the terms of war once more. “It cannot remain a game.”

Your fingers loosen their grip on his clothing, though you do not retreat. Just listen.

“I do not want it to be a game,” you admit.

His gaze searches yours for hesitation, for room for doubt. He finds none.

Deliberately, he steps back from you, only to give you enough space to stand on your own, his hands never fully leave your form.

“Then understand,” Baelor continues, voice steadying into something princely again, though warmth laces the words. “That I do not offer a passing affection. I would not risk you for something fleeting.”

You study him, “What are you offering?”

He does not look away.

“A place at my side,” he says quietly.

Your heart pounds so loudly you are certain he can feel it where his hand still rests on your waist.

“What if I refuse?” You challenge, though your jest is soft.

A ghost of that boyish smile returns.

“Then I will have to win you properly.”

You cannot help the laugh that escapes you: breathless, giddy, and entirely undone.

“You are insufferable.”

The team scattered. Bruce kept his eyes locked on the monitor, the rhythmic pulse of a heartbeat anchoring him to the reality that she was alive. It was steady, too steady. Not the pulse of someone conscious and struggling. Just suspended.

He could still hear her screaming echoing through the comms, faint and warped. It looped once, glitching through the interference. Bruce’s stomach twisted.

***

The world is thick and slow when you wake.

It’s hard to tell what is real. The air is damp, heavy, and smells like salt and copper.

Your chest burns.

You try to breathe, but it’s like inhaling through a soaked cloth.

The sound of dripping water echoes above you.

You flex your legs and try to raise your arm. You can’t. Your limbs feel numb, tingling with the sensation of being asleep. Even so, you should be able to move them.

You try again.

You kick your leg. Or you try to anyway. The movement causes something to constrict. You feel it crush your body all at once. Something, some kind of binding maybe, tightens across your entire body. Panic flares, and you start to thrash weakly. The material coils around you tighter, ribs aching under the pressure.

You gasp for air, back arching off the ground. The pain makes your eyes roll back slightly, and for a moment, you are stuck, shuddering between wakefulness and blacking out.

Just as you are about to lose consciousness once more, the material relaxes, and you are free to breathe once more.

You moan in pain, limply lying there for moments that feel like hours.

When you can think again, you try to blink away the darkness. But it’s unnatural, you quickly realize. It presses down on you, just as much of a weight as the material binding you.

‘I’ve got to get out of here.’

As if responding to your thought, the binding tightens again, and you are left choking on what little air you have left in your lungs. You begin to black out again, a heavy, weightless feeling beckoning you to allow your mind to shut down. Then you see it, a small white hole opening in the darkness.

***

It’s always disgusting to see one of the monsters spit up a captive. But it’s a necessary evil, part of the package if you will. Kristen watches as the Big Boy puts his hands on his knees and begins to wretch.

Heaving.

The sound is wet, squelching. The Big Boy’s mouth opens wide, so wide that Kristen can see its uvula, and then it continues. Spreading wide, then wider until the skin around its jaw splits like old fabrics, tendons straining and snapping with moist pops.

The stench hits her next, a mixture of bile and rotting meat. His throat bulges grotesquely, pulsing as if something alive is crawling up from within him. He gags once, twice, and then his stomach convulses so hard that his entire torso folds inward.

A low, guttural noise pours out of him as the process begins in earnest. His abdomen swells, distending, then the skin from the center of his mouth down splits with a wet, meaty tear. Steam and black fluid spill out, coating the floor in a thick, syrupy film that smokes faintly in the dim light. The smell is unbearable, acrid, metallic, and horrifically sweet.

Kristen doesn’t flinch. She’s seen worse. Still, her throat tightens when the creature starts turning itself inside out, its ribs bending in ways bones should never move, its organs twisting like slick ropes. With each heave, more of the dark liquid gushes out, and beneath it, a shape begins to form.

First, a hand. Fingers limp, nails smeared with blood, emerge from the mass. Then a shoulder. Next, the curve of a face, matted hair clinging to the creature’s insides as it coughs her out like vomit.

The sound is obscene: a combination of tearing and retching as the Big Boy forces the rest of her body free. The accountant slides out of him in one long, slick motion, collapsing onto the floor amid a gush of bile and half-digested bowels. The creature’s stomach contracts violently, snapping shut with a wet clap.

The Big Boy wheezes, body shuddering as the wounds along his body begin to knot themselves closed, skin sealing like wax over a candle.

The woman on the floor, trembling and slick with the monster’s insides, gasps for breath. Her lungs hit, convulsing, as she coughs up the same dark fluid that coats her.

Kristen waits for a moment until the girl regains her bearings. It only takes her a moment for her to realize Kristen is right next to her.

Wide eyes, shot pupils, a gray cast to the skin. She looked terrified. Not that she should be anything else.

The woman opens her mouth, gaping a little at her surroundings. It’s a cavern, buried under the city itself. The air hums with the sound of distant machinery and dripping water.  The air hums with the sound of distant machinery and dripping water. The stone walls glisten under the flickering torchlight, and the scent of rot clings thickly to every breath.

Kristen crouches next to her, tilting her head with the slow grace of a predator. “It’s a strange thing, isn’t it?” she murmurs, voice silky and calm. “Being born twice. The second time always hurts more.”

The creature behind her groans, its massive frame trembling as it wipes its leaking maw. The floor around them ripples with a mixture of bile and blood, pooling near the girl’s legs. The steam from the mess makes her skin glisten, sticky and gray.

Kristen’s gaze lingers on her captive’s face and the small tremble in her jaw. She knows what’s coming next. They all do it.

“No need to scream,” Kristen whispers. “No one can hear you down here.”

She gestures lazily toward the creature. “Put her with the others. I’m sure a little reunion will lift our guests’ spirits.”

The Big Boy emits a low gurgle of compliance and lumbers forward. His hands, slick with his own filth, reach toward the woman. When its fingers touch her, the bile had begun to steam. Kristen could smell the scent of burned flesh mixing with rot.

The redhead turns away, expression distant. “It’s fitting, you know. You started in this place—crunching numbers, running reports, building dreams for men who never knew your name. Now you’ll end here. Rewritten into something more useful for me.”

The woman tries to crawl away, fingers slipping in steaming bile, but the Big Boy catches her by the ankle and drags her back. Her nails scrape across the floor, leaving red streaks.

Kristen watches, unblinking, as the monster holds her still.

“Don’t fight it,” she says softly. “It’s only beginning.”

***

He carries you into the darkness for what feels like an eternity. Silent save for the lumbering of his steps and heaviness of his breath. It is dark, so much so that you aren’t even able to see your palm, but still, this creature seemed to know where to go.

You shudder at the thought of him. You can feel his grip through the binding, so tight that there was no way for you to slip through his fingers. It’s a familiar grip. The same one that had terrorized you. The same monster that Jason had rescued from. The butcher.

You swallow back terrified bile that rises in your throat and allow yourself to take a deep breath. Kristen hadn’t ordered the creature to kill you, which you were grateful for. Small mercies in terrifying situations.

But where were you being taken? You can feel the monitoring patch on the nape of your neck and the tracker on your wrist. You hoped their function survived your trip through the bile. That you wouldn’t be in this situation alone for much longer.

Your breaths start to come fast. Huffing ragged things that leave you feeling hot and fluttering.

‘Calm down.’

Your body is panicking. You can feel the nausea building, tears forming in your eyes, goosebumps dimpling over your flesh.

You’re panicking. You know it. And part of you wants you to allow yourself to slip into it. To let the thoughts overwhelm you. To break down. It’s familiar. Comforting. Safe.

Then you see it, a crinkle of light in the darkness. A dim ember of a torch shining on dark metal cell bars.

“Were here~~.”

A chill runs down your spine, and your mind spins as the singsong of his voice rolls through your brain. You had known it was the same creature, but hearing his voice echoing off the cavernous walls causes you to stiffen in ways you didn’t know were possible.

Suddenly, his hands slide down your body, and you start to dip as you become weightless for a few moments. He drops you.

You slam into a hard surface, and you can feel your cheek cut against the rock of the ground. The Butcher takes a step over you.

“Little Lamb is lucky that I don’t get to play down here~.”

‘Down here?’

You hear the clink of metal and an unlocking sound that lets you know keys are being turned. You are hauled up by the back of your shirt and thrown. You roll against the ground, feeling more of your skin tear and cut against the stone. Your vision fuzzes as your head bounces off the stone floor.

Yelps meet your ears, followed by grunts and a hiss. All sounds, you realize quickly, that don’t come from your lips.

The lock is turned again, trapping you here in some. All seems quiet again, save for the lumbering steps down the hallway.

You aren’t alone, but the beings that made the noises earlier don’t seem keen on speaking first. You sit in silence for a moment, breath catching. You can hear the subtle cues of breathing in the dark, the sound of lips being smacked, a body adjusting against the rocks. It’s hard to see anything more than an outline of a form.

Your arms and legs are still bound, and it takes all of your strength to sit up. A groan tumbles from your lips when you do. It causes another hush to fall over the cell. Like your cellmates stopped breathing at the same time. Then the room relaxes, again breath sounds returning.

For a moment, you are content to sit in the silence. You need time to think, to feel your body, to know that you are okay. But then you feel liquid begin to slide down your face, it stings in your eye before it hits the tips of your nose, and then your lips. The iron taste of blood floods your senses. And based on the ache your body is beginning to feel, you aren’t just bleeding from your head.

You would need help to stop the bleeding.

Or at least the use of your hands so you can wipe the blood away.

“Hello?” You call out into the darkness.

The stillness descends again.

You see the movement of bodies, dark against the barely visible light puddles from the torch.

“Be quiet, he’ll come back and punish us if you don’t.”

You freeze. The voice is tired and rasping but familiar.

“Mr. Carlisle?”

The body that called to you seems to freeze.

Scuttling rings through the cell, the sound of crawling. It takes a moment before the figure reveals itself. A pale dirt-filled face appears out of the darkness once he is close enough in the torchlight. Purple bruises line the underside of his eyes, and his cheeks are gaunt, boyish fullness gone from his face.

“Do I know you?”  His eyes narrow as if he is trying to right your face in his mind.

“Y-yes. Maybe. I’m one of the accountants at the firm.”

“I see.”

You don’t blame him for not knowing you. Even in the darkness, you can see the swelling on the side of his head, puffy flesh red with anger. He looks beaten, tortured even. How long had he been down here?

“Days,” he says, reading your face. “Or weeks. It’s been so long I can’t remember.”

A breath shudders out of you. “How many… how many are there?”

Carlisle hesitates, then lifts a trembling hand and points deeper into the cell.

“There were four,” he says quietly. “Before you.”

You strain your eyes, letting them adjust. Shapes resolve out of the dark—two figures pressed against the far wall, curled inward like they’re trying to take up as little space as possible. One is a woman, her knees drawn up to her chest, her hair matted and hanging in her face. The other is a man, older, shoulders slumped, head lolling forward as if sleep is the only escape he has left.

“There were more,” Carlisle continues, “but they take them every so often.”

“Take them where?”

His lips roll into a straight line, “Can’t say, they never come back to tell us.”

A whimper spills from the woman, “We know what’s happening, don’t lie. They’re killing us!”

Hairs stand on end, and a shiver runs down your spine. You know that killing isn’t the end of it. The power that fuels Kristen enables her to create monsters and duplicates of people. And something told you that there was something sadistic waiting for you at the end of your time here. The only thing left for you to find out was how long your captor tended to toy with her victims.

You don’t know what you were thinking, why you volunteered for this. What happens when she comes for you? What if it’s not her but the butchers again? Would you even survive long enough to find Camille? And what if you did find her and she’s…

You nearly gag at the thought.

A knock breaks your thoughts.

“Come in,” you manage, though your voice is shaky, but you’ve kept the hopelessness from your tone, which is a victory.

Bruce steps in quietly, dressed in plain black, all purpose and focus. He carries a small metal case under one arm. He doesn’t say anything right away. Just studies you for a moment, eyes soft but unreadable. You try to calm yourself, not willing to look as out of sorts as you feel.

“You don’t have to pretend you’re fine,” he says finally.

You let out a slow breath. “It’s the only thing I can do, and I know I’m not doing it well.”

He hesitates for a moment, and you can see in his eyes that he’s rethinking this entire plan.

“I’ll be fine, I promise.” You start, hoping to cut off his thoughts. “I just need a moment.”

He nods, as if that’s the right answer. Then he opens the case and sets it on the bed next to you. Inside the case are two small devices, sleek, efficient, and cold against the velvet lining. One looks like a watch face, the other, a thin metallic disc. 

“This one’s the tracker,” Bruce says, holding up the larger device. “GPS, audio, panic signal. Jason and Tim will monitor it. You’ll be able to hear me through it if I activate the link.” He places it gently beside you, then lifts the smaller disc. “This is a bio monitor. It’ll track your vitals: heart rate, temperature, and stress. If anything spikes out of range, we’ll know immediately.”

You look up at him, and for a moment, all you can see is the added weight of your life on his shoulders. “So, I’m basically a walking lab report,” you say, trying to inject a little levity into the heavy air.

Bruce’s mouth twitches just slightly. “If something goes wrong, this could save your life.”

He peels the backing off the bio-monitor, the adhesive shimmering faintly in the low light. “May I?”

You nod. He steps closer and squats in front of you. A calloused hand comes up to the back of your neck, pressing the device just at the edge of your hairline. The proximity makes your skin tingle, a mixture of nerves and comfort. The contact is brief, but the warmth of his touch lingers. The sensor hums faintly, synching with your heartbeat.

“Good,” he murmurs. “It’s online.” He straightens and checks the readings on a small display mounted inside the case. “You're stable.”

You can’t help but laugh a little, the sound softer than you intend. “That’s debatable.”

He closes the case with a soft click and meets your gaze. “If anything feels wrong, if you feel unsafe for even a second, you signal, and we come running. No hesitation.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” His voice lowers. “Because I need you to promise me that.”

You nod once, slow but sure. “I promise.”

For a moment, neither of you moves. The quiet fills the room again, heavy but not suffocating. He studies you for a moment, and you wonder if it’s the same way he studies the city, memorizing every line and detail, in case it’s the last time he sees it.

Finally, Bruce exhales, breaking the stillness. Something harder settles over his eyes.

“Get ready. We leave soon.”

You watch him go, the faint hum of the bio-monitor echoing the rhythm of your heart. For the first time since you entered the room, the rhythm is steady.

***

Carlisle and Preston’s firm looks the same as it did the last time you were here. Unmoving and ever-present, the same way it had been in your life. It felt different from before; too polished, too quiet…too wrong. The mirrored glass doors reflect the city’s amber lights. It’s late in the afternoon, almost evening, an insane time to turn up, but the perfect time for the beginning of the plane.

Inside, the lobby hums faintly with fluorescent lighting and the low buzz of computers humming.

Reception is busy, getting ready to exit for the day. One receptionist looks up at you with a questioning look on his face, stopping your stride before you can make it to the elevator.

“Ma’am, we’re closing.”

“I, uh, work here.”

You mentally wince at the words coming out more stilted than you intended. The receptionist tilts his head, studying you like he’s trying to place your face. To be fair, you don’t recognize him either. The moment stretches uncomfortably.

“I just need to drop something off,” you add quickly, flashing the envelope in your hand. “It’s just a letter of resignation. I wanted to get it before the day ends.”

Do all people have to explain themselves like this? If you had just walked by with head held high, wouldn’t he have stayed quiet? You must look nervous, like you don’t belong, like—

A chuckle rings in your ears, and he waves you through. “Make it quick. Lights go out in fifteen.”

You smile too tightly and head toward the elevator. Each step echoes off the marble, your reflection flickering in the polished walls. You can almost see your fear traveling behind you like a second shadow.

The elevator doors slide shut, sealing you inside. Your hand trembles as you press the button for your floor. The hum of the motor fills the silence. You glance down at the tracker on your wrist and focus on it. Trying to calm your breath.

Bruce had mentioned that Tim and Jason would be monitoring, and you could imagine the older one making fun of you for nearly having a meltdown over talking to a regular person.

“You're doing great. All you have to do now is get to your office, give the envelope to Carlisle or Preston, walk around the floor, and then leave. If she’s going to take the bait, it shouldn’t take much.”

It’s Bruce’s voice that soothes your nerves and refocuses you. Before you left, he slipped a small earpiece onto you.

“Right,” you say, taking in a deep breath of air. You aren’t sure if he can hear you, but his incorporeal presence is enough to calm you.

The elevator dings softly, doors parting with an almost irritated groan. Even though the office is closing shortly, cubicles and offices are still filled with bodies. There is low chatter of busybodies playing through the air.

You step onto the floor, hoping to blend in with the assistants and interns running paper through the office.

You pass by your cubicle and stop short when a familiar voice calls your name.

“Ana?” You turn to find her standing a few desks down, a stack of papers clutched to her chest. Her short platinum blonde hair looks slightly unruly, a few strands reaching for the overhead lights. Her glasses are crooked, but match the smile she throws you as you acknowledge her.

“Hey, stranger!” she says, walking over quickly. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t be coming back. It’s been weeks!”

You force a small laugh, though your pulse jumps. “Yeah, it’s been…a lot. I had to take some time off.”

Ana nods sympathetically. “Makes sense, you missed a complete storm of chaos here. Half the staff’s been walking on eggshells. Neither Michael nor Jonathan has shown up in days. No one knows why. We’re just waiting for some kind of announcement.”

The mention of Carlisle and Preston has the hair on your neck standing on end. They had to have been taken, too. It doesn’t come as a surprise, but it adds more people to the list you need to look for when you get taken.

You blink, feigning mild surprise. “That’s strange. They are usually glued to their offices.”

“Right?” she says, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “But Kristen’s been running things from her desk like nothing’s wrong. Same straight face, same tone. It’s crazy how she can act like nothing is wrong.”

The mention of Kristen makes your stomach tighten. For a moment, your body goes rigid before you remember to nod casually.

“Kristen’s still here?” You ask, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Yeah,” Ana says. “She should be at her desk; she should be wrapping up by now. Dealing with end-of-day things, you know. You can’t miss her.”

You swallow hard, forcing a polite smile. “Great. I’ll just…drop this off and head out.” You lift the envelope in your hand as if to prove the point.

Ana squeezes your arm affectionately. “Good luck. Don’t let her rope you into a last-minute meeting. I’m heading out before she finds something else for me to do.”

You nod and watch as she’s off in a flash. You retreat to a small corner, the setting sun glaring in your eyes as you take a minute to calm your breathing. You don’t have to ask.

“Take your time.”

It’s all he says, in your ear. A part of you knows he wants to tell you to avoid the woman like the plague. But the plan comes first. Your heart wavers: you know she won’t kill you, not in the middle of the building. But how could you help but feel anything other than nervous, confronting the woman who has always intimidated you and who is now most likely a murderer?

You swallow, and Camille’s face flashes before your eyes. It’s not your life that you have to worry about right now. You have protection. The others don’t.

With your back straight and your resolve tightened, you make your way back to the elevator and ride it in stiff silence. It is only the *ding* of arrival that breaks your focus for a moment before you have to steel yourself again.

The top floor is different than the in every way than the work floor. It’s quiet, no bustling workers, no hum of chatter. The lights are dimmer here, the evening taking hold of the building from the top down, it seemed. The moment you step off the elevator carriage, you feel the nip of a chill bite at the back of your neck. You aren’t sure if it’s the anticipation or if it’s just colder here than downstairs.

Your steps echo off the linoleum, a light tapping sound that mirrors your heartbeat in your ears.

Down the long hall, you see the outline of her desk before you see her. The dark wood of her desk comes into view slowly as you approach. Kristen is seated exactly where you expected her to be, perfect posture, red pen in hand, eyes flicking across a set of reports that probably don’t matter. She looks normal. Nothing like the monster that you know her to be. Her red hair is tied back into a sleek knot, and the faint light from the lamp on her desk casts a golden sheen over her pale skin. When she hears the click of your shoes, she looks up. Her eyes meet yours, and a familiar tight smile works its way across her face. It’s the same smile that she gave the last time you were here: belittling, knowing, amused.

“Well,” she says, voice honey-smooth and controlled, “It’s been such a long time, I didn’t think you would bother showing up again. Did you need something?”

You stop just short of her desk, clutching the envelope a little too tightly. “I just came to drop this off. My letter of resignation.” You place the envelope down on the edge of her desk, careful not to get too close.

Kristen’s eyes flicker to it, then back to you.  “Resigning? That’s a shame, Carlisle would be disappointed. You’re one of the tag-a-longs, aren’t you? And you were so promising. A little mousy, maybe, but promising.” She leans back in her chair, a motion almost casual enough to make you forget that she’s a monster.

“I figured it was time,” you say, your voice steady but your palms slick with sweat. “A new direction, a new start.”

“Of course.” Her pen taps rhythmically against the desk. “And tell me, dear, does this new start have anything to do with what happened the night you were…attacked?”

Your throat tightens. You try not to let it show. “You…you know about that?”

Kristen’s smile widens. “I hear about everything that happens in my firm.” She rises from her seat, moving around the desk like a cat stretching after a nap. “Though I must say, you’re lucky. Most people don’t walk away from something like that.”

You swallow thick and slow, a feeling of nausea rising in your throat. “I got lucky, I guess. I don’t remember much of what happened.”

“Oh? You don’t remember. I suppose we all block out trauma to cope sometimes.”

Her voice is sing-songy. A lilt that makes you uncomfortable even breathing the same air as her.

Bruce’s voice murmurs in your ear, low and calm. “She’s testing you.”

You wet your lips, nodding just enough to look like a nervous tic. “The last thing I remember from that day was leaving here. Then my mind goes blank until I’m home again, so I guess you’re right.”

Kristen studies you carefully, a flicker of curiosity mixed with hunger behind her smile. She steps closer, her heel silent against the floor.

“Strange,” she says. “Most people in your position don’t come back to face the scene of their trauma. It’s almost like you’re looking for something.”

You force a shaky laugh. “Closure, maybe.”

Her head tilts, birdlike.

“Closure,” she repeats. “Such a fragile word for such dangerous intentions.”

She’s closer now, the scent of her perfume heavy and sweet, and the red of her lipstick vivid and mesmerizing.

Bruce’s voice, once steady in your ear, seems to fade with your panic, “She’s going to take you now.”

No sooner than he says it do fingers clamp around your shoulder. The fingers don’t belong to the woman in front of you. Kristen hasn’t made a move other than to let her grin spread Cheshire-like.

You find yourself too afraid to look over your shoulder and see who’s grabbed you. But you can feel the familiar pressure of the fingers. Big, meaty, claws of a hand that has you now by both shoulders.

“I don’t think she’s going to resist,” Kristen chuckles, amused at how small you were trying to make yourself.

You don’t hear the creature behind you respond; instead, you are pulled into an embrace. You feel the protrusion of a big belly, warm and soft against your back. The image of the butcher flashes in your mind, and your eyes close tight.

Then you feel it. The mass behind you begins to change, no longer the resistance of flesh but something softer. Sticky.

A part of you decides to fight, arms shooting out to swat at the figure wrapped around you like a vice. But your arm is sluggish, and you peek open your eyes only to be horrified by the sight. Lumps of stick cream colored stick to you, attached to the form behind you. You look at Kristen with horror in your eyes.

“What’s happening?!!” You shriek, though you know you won’t get an answer.

Your arms are suddenly snapped to your sides, and you are wrapped in a tight embrace. All around you, the sticky flesh consumes you. From the tips of your shoes to the hair on your head. You realize, to your horror and disgust, that you are being eaten. Swallowed up by one of her creatures. She would not let you get away from her this time.

Your sight is the first to go, gelatinous mold cooly sliding over your eyes and down your face, over your nose and mouth.

You barely have time to let out another “AHH!!!” Before your whole being is engulfed. Your body is bound. Hands and feet feeling like they’ve been tied with rope, a pressure atop your body that you could only describe as the weight of the world, preventing you from moving.

Then you feel it. The numbness. Darkness had already taken your sight, but now it would consume your very being. It only takes moments before you take one last deep breath.

Gosh, that can’t be good for healing. He would only get worse if he didn’t eat well enough. The thought of him being too injured to do either of his jobs because he didn’t get enough to eat sends a wave of misery down your spine.

Though whatever Alfred had been doing to keep the man alive surely had been working. You had seen the older gentleman multiple times, but for now, he seemed to subscribe to the notion that butlers were better off in the shadows rather than up for a friendly chit-chat.

You didn’t blame him; he was kind enough. But how many people had Bruce paraded through the manor? Whether for safety or…other recreational reasons. He probably thought it wasn’t worth getting invested for the moment.

‘Ugh,’

The thought leaves a nasty taste in your mouth and mind. You weren’t foolish enough to think you were the first he’d let in the manor. Reputation alone killed that idea before it had even hatched. But there can’t have been that many who knew him and the other him, right? And you were, at the very least, friends, weren’t you?

It’s the shiver of irritation at that thought that has you shaking your head in a vain attempt to try to clear the overactive mongrel.

It’s better to focus on brunch. Everybody needs brunch.

You hear a chuckle. It causes you to jump, the spoon you’re using to stir your cinnamon roll batter with, nearly dropping out of your hand because of it.

You don’t have to turn around to know it’s Bruce. You delay your reaction by a second, hoping to calm your nerves.

“How does it smell sweet in here but feel like dread?” He questions. His voice is deep, thick with sleep and achiness.

You whip around to see him, mouth slightly agape. “How did you know? I wasn’t even facing you.”

Bruce leans against the doorframe with a half-smile, still clearly sore but amused. “You narrate your anxiety out loud. Not always in words. The way you were attacking that batter like it personally offended you? Pretty telling.”

You stare at him, then down at the half-beaten bowl, cheeks flushing. “That’s…fair. In my defense, it deserved it.”

“I’m not going to question what dough did to deserve that kind of beating.” He lets out a low chuckle, dragging his hand over his face as he trudges to the counter. “For the record, I’m not a grapefruit guy.”

“Did I say that out loud!?” You gasp. “Thank goodness. I was hoping that I would have to stage an intervention if you were.”

“Over grapefruit? You’re strict.”

“Only with people I care about, how are you going to get any better if you don’t eat any protein?”

You reply without thinking. When you realize he’s not replying, you meet his gaze.

There is a bit of a dazed look in his eyes.

“Did I say something wrong?”

He smiles with a dazzling grin. “I care about you, too.”

Your stomach drops slightly, happiness and embarrassment fluttering together in your gut like two old friends.

‘Did I say that?’

His expression softens, his eyes gentle as he waits for you to respond. The moment hangs between you like steam from a fresh pot of coffee—fragile and warm.

Your heart thumps under his scrutiny, pumping against your ribs like it wishes to escape your body and launch itself at him. You can luckily curb such a reaction by turning back to your bowl of batter.

“Well, in that case, you’re having two cinnamon rolls. Non-negotiable.”

He laughs again. The third time already. You can’t help but notice. He seems lighter than he had been before he left. Better, despite being injured.

Though the laugh must be too much for him, he has to reach out to the counter and steady himself. You notice the wince in his jaw and rush to his side without thinking.

“Sit down before you fall,” you scold, looping an arm under his.

He doesn’t resist. As you help him to a stool near the island, he leans into your support, just enough to make your stomach do somersaults.

When he’s seated, he looks up at you with a crooked smile.

“You’re pretty good at this, you know.”

You arch a brow, bracing your hands on your hips. “Baking? Or babysitting a grown man with terrible balance?”

“Both,” he replies easily. “But mostly the second one.”

You scoff and turn away to grab a glass of water for him. “If you’re not careful, I’ll start charging hourly.”

He takes the glass with a nod of thanks, sipping slowly. “I think I could handle that. As long as it comes with brunch.”

You return to the counter to finish shaping the dough, but you feel Bruce’s eyes still on you. There is comfort in that weight — not heavy, not judgment, just…there. Present.

After a moment, he breaks the silence again.

“There’s a briefing in an hour. The others will be there.”

You glance over your shoulder. “A Batcave sort of briefing?”

He nods. “Kristen. The creature. Whatever she is, we need to regroup to figure out how to deal with her.”

“Should I come?”

Bruce tilts his head slightly. You can tell he wants to say no. That he wants to protect you and keep you far from whatever is coming. But maybe it’s the look in your eyes when you ask…

“Only if you want to,” he says carefully. “This is as much about you as it is any of us. And you have the right to know how this is going to end.”

The word ‘end’ feels so final. You wish that he said something like “resolve” or “work itself out”. Because “end” could mean anything. It could mean a happily ever after where you go back to life the way it was before, with a new friend, and in a few weeks, you’re celebrating the birth of Camille’s baby like nothing ever happened. Or.

Or…

You never see Camille again, and you have to deal with the fact that you’re partly the reason for it.

You look back down at the dough, hand kneading it automatically now.

“I want to be there,” you breathe. “I think I need to be there.”

Bruce doesn’t try to argue. Instead, he simply nods, like he expected that answer all along.

“We’ll start in an hour. Alfred will bring you down when you’re ready.”

You nod. “Thanks.”

He starts to move toward the door, but pauses. “And for what it’s worth…I don’t think any of this ends without you.”

It’s a comfort, though a small one. You wonder briefly if he can see the torment on your face, then you scoff. Of course he can. He could read you without even looking at you.

Before you can respond, he’s gone, his footsteps soft down the hallway.

You stare at the dough in your hands a moment longer, then shape it with purpose.

If you’re going to be part of the end, you may as well bring something sweet with you.

***

“Magic, definitely some kind of magic.”

It’s the first thing you hear when you step into the cool dark of the Batcave. Jason’s voice is the first one you hear as you step into view.

They acknowledged your presence with a few nods and a grunt. The grunt is from your favorite little hero as he looks at you with furrowed eyebrows. If he were even more childish, you were sure that Damian would have stuck his tongue out at you.

You carry a tray of warm, fresh pastries, still steaming, ready to be devoured. You don’t speak—more content with passing around the baked sugar than you were interrupting. Really, you just wanted to listen, to hear how all of this would end. Dick is the first to take one of your small offerings.

Kristen’s face is on the large monitor of the Batcomputer. It’s a still from the party, a close-up where she’s looking over her bare shoulder. Highlighted on the smaller monitors is a picture of that shoulder and the tattoo-like brand that’s pressed into her skin.

It’s a swirling pattern, a labyrinth of lines and dots. In the center, the only distinct mark is the formation of an “m.”

“It’s the only thing we have to go on. I tried plugging her powers into the database, and there’s no other explanation that makes sense.” It’s Tim who says this, and as he types on the machine, various glyphs from different cultures and religions flash upon the screen.

“I think it’s Enochian,” Dick offers. “Or at least partially. That central shape—it’s a control seal. Modified, but the structure’s there.”

“No,” Damian cuts in. “It’s older. There’s a structure under the symbol’s curve; this was made to bind something inside a body. Not summon it.”

‘A vessel,’ you think, picking at the skin between your thumb and forefinger.

Jason grunts. “Would explain the shape-shifting. She’s not changing her form, something inside her is.”

“What we need to determine is if we can stop her from transforming and stop her from making more creatures.” It’s Bruce’s voice that interjects. “Once we subdue her, we can determine where her powers are coming from.”

“We know that she bleeds,” Jason says, cracking his knuckles. “So that means she can be caged.”

“We just don’t have a device that can do that.”

There is silence for a moment, then Bruce speaks again. “When she transforms, it takes a moment. She distorts. Attacking her mid-transformation could halt her progress. If we can interrupt that process, she’ll be vulnerable.”

Tim looks thoughtful, fingers flying over the keyboard. “We could use something like a frequency disruptor calibrated to magical energy signatures. I can build one, maybe integrate it with the net.”

Dick glances at the data feed. “We don’t know how she’s channeling, but I bet we’ll want to provoke her. Make her angry. Anger destabilizes focus.”

Jason smirks. “I’m good at that.”

Bruce gives him a dry look but doesn’t argue. “Focus on containment first. If she’s distracted, fine, but the moment we have an opening, we strike hard and fast.”

They all seem good with that plan, an energy shift that lets you know that they all agree with it. But something nags at you, something that makes you speak up.

“And you’ll get her to tell you where Camille is, right?”

Your question seems to suck the air out of the room.

Eyes shift, avoiding your gaze, and you feel a shiver down your spine. You don’t think any of them have forgotten about her; they are superheroes. But why does it feel like they don’t expect to find her? Bruce is the first to answer, his tone level but heavy. “We’ll do everything we can. If she’s alive, we’ll bring her home.”

You study him, searching for something certain in the flicker of the monitors’ blue light on his face. There’s something there—guilt, maybe, or weariness—but not doubt. Not quite.

‘No’

Tim clears his throat. “If Kristen’s been replacing people, we might find traces of them in whatever energy she’s using. Once we capture her, we can trace the signal back to its origin.”

‘Might. They might find her.’

A part of you wants to scream that it’s not good enough. You feel it in your bones that they won’t find her if they capture Kristen first. You’ve never been close to the woman, but if you had to describe her, you’d say she is stubborn and hard. Getting beaten up and put in jail isn’t going to make her open her mouth about anything. You know that.

Besides…how are they going to find her?

Your eyes flash up, and you’re a little startled to find Dick staring at you with concern.

“Did you want to say something?”

Your throat dries at the sudden attention on you, but you speak, “You need me.”

“What?”

“Kristen isn’t just going to come out because you want her to. She’s smart, and she’ll fight hard if she needs to. But she’ll also hide if it’s to her advantage; that’s how she’s been secretly running the company. Let me go to her, and you’ll find where she’s been hiding.”

“And we know that she’s come after you already,” Jason says. “She’ll at least send one of her little minions out to come and collect you as they did before.”

“No.”

You aren’t sure what the right word for it was. A declaration? A proclamation? It’s hard to figure out what to call it, but Bruce’s voice is unwavering when he speaks.

“No, she’s not touching her again.” His voice cuts through the hum of the cave like a blade. The firmness in his tone leaves no room for argument.

Jason’s mouth twitches, like he wants to protest but knows better. Damian shifts where he sits, muttering under his breath about wasted opportunities. Time glances at Bruce and then at you, clearly torn between logic and the man giving orders.

“Bruce—” Dick starts, but Bruce raises a hand, silencing him.

“We’ve already seen what happens to at least some people who get captured by Kristen. Sending her out there as bait could end with her dead before we can get to her. I’m not willing to take that risk.”

You step forward. “But I am. There’s no other way to find out where she’s hiding, and there’s no other way to find out where Cami—her other victims, are. Without my getting taken, there’s no way to know how many people have been taken or where they are now.”

You feel as determined as you do scared. Every fiber of your being is telling you to back down from the moment, especially when you make eye contact with the man and his blank analytical gaze. He seemed like a completely different person from the one you were joking with earlier in the morning. Scarier, bigger, and unmovable.

It feels like there is no hope in your proposition until his eyes flash with something a little more human.

Finally, he exhales through his nose. “If we do this, we do it on my terms. You don’t step out of range, not for a second. And if anything goes wrong—anything—you pull back, and we end it.”

You nod once. “Deal.”

The cave goes silent again, the weight of the plan settling over everyone like a shroud. Somewhere above, water drips into the black depths below the platform, echoing like a countdown. You feel slightly lightheaded at first, but then a feeling of control rushes through you. You realize this is what resolve feels like: sharp, steady, and heavy all at once. You want to be brave not just for Camille, but for yourself, and for all the people with eyes on you, too.

Tim breaks the quiet. “Then we need to start building.”

You fix your eyes on the ceiling, a beige that is warmer now that it is more familiar. You hated it at first. Waking up in his bed and seeing that color meant being alone and feeling that you had to rush out of his place before you overstayed your welcome. You weren’t one to make things awkward, to stay where you weren’t wanted. But it was his reassurance that brought you to the point of comfort where you are now.

“You don’t have to rush out of here, you know? It’s kind of nice coming home, and you’re still here.” Dick said it with a bit of teasing in his voice. But his eyes had been so sincere that you nearly dropped your belongings and pounced on him.

Now you spend more time at his place than you did at your own.

‘Though my room is still better,’ you think, feeling smug about your decorating skills.

You rise when the light changes, moving from an early morning haze to a mid-morning brightness.

The cool of the apartments tingles on your skin, and while you aren’t bothered by it, the loss of his scent makes you sigh. You shuffled toward the chair draped with clothes and tug on the first soft thing your hand meets—his hoodie.

It’s navy, oversized, and smells like him. Like clean soap, leather, and the faint trace of cologne he doesn’t admit to wearing. You pull it over your head and let it swallow you whole.

You’re already floating a few inches off the ground before you realize it. Your toes dangle loosely in the air, the fabric of the hoodie grazing your thighs as you float aimlessly down the hallway and toward the kitchen.

Floating is a habit—an unconscious tick when your mind is at ease. Here is his home, in his clothes; it happens more often than not.

Things easily fall into rhythm when you reach your destination. The mug floats toward you as the kettle clicks off, your fingers wrapping around the handle without thought. The cabinet door shuts itself gently behind you.

You breathe in the scent of tea and cotton, weightless and warm, just as the front door creaks open behind you.

“I knew it,” Dick’s voice calls from the doorway, amused. “You have been wearing my clothes.”

You whirl around mid-air, nearly spilling your tea. Your feet drift a little higher, even as the embarrassment tingles down your spine, you are happy that he’s home after all.

He’s standing just inside the threshold, mask pulled back. There’s a cut on his cheek and a sparkle in his eye.

“I was cold,” you say defensively, floating ever slightly higher.

He steps forward, eyes drinking you in—bare legs, oversized hoodie, floating and flustered.

“You know,: he says, voice lower now, voice teasing and fond, “I think it looks better on you anyway.”

Your cheeks burn at his words. A part of you feels foolish for not being used to such simple remarks by now.

His grin gets bigger as he starts to approach you.

“You know, if you float any higher, you’re going to hit the ceiling.”

“Am not!”

You aren’t that high off the ground, are you? Are you that put at ease by just the sight of him?

He offers you his hands, both palms extending towards yours, and you take them gleefully as you come back down to his level.

Your fingers touch the floor with a featherlight thud, but the warmth that floods your chest is anything but subtle. You're still holding his hands, fingers tangled loosely.

"I knew some of my clothes were missing. You can't hide it anymore."

"I wasn't trying to hide it," you protest.

Dick tilts his head, smirking as he tugs gently on the sleeves bunched at your wrists. "Oh really? So you just happened to accidentally commit hoodie theft...multiple times?"

You avert your eyes from his and mumble.

"Hoodie thief says what?"

You glare at him, and he chuckles.

"It's just lonely when I go home."

The smile falls from his face for a quick second, and your heart beats loudly in your ears at the admission. You turn your head, but it is caught by his smooth, gloved hand, and you're forced to face him. He has a serious look about his face. His thumb traces a pattern on your cheekbone.

You fluster.

There is a thump behind you, the sound of one of the kitchen cabinet doors flinging open.

When he tries to hide the small smirk on his face, the fridge flings open.

"I'm afraid if I say what I was going to say, the spoons will rain down on us."

"Forks and knives too."

You press your palm gently to his chest, narrowing your eyes in mock warning. "Then maybe you shouldn’t say anything clever unless you’re wearing full armor."

He grins down at you, that familiar sparkle back in his eyes. "Noted. But I think I’ll risk it. I never could resist seeing you like this."

Ah... there goes the cutlery.

He doesn't comment on it: "Do you like being here?"

"It's nice," you admit, not stopping yourself even when the hint of embarrassment wells up in your chest. "It feels safe, even when you're not here."

His brows pull together just slightly, softening his expression into something deeper. "Good. I want it to be safe for you. Always. Even if I'm halfway across the city or halfway across the world."

His hands find your hips before you can rise, anchoring you to him.

"Sorry."

"No need to apologize, I just can't have you float away from me every time."

As your toes press against the linoleum, he presses his forehead against yours, and you sigh.

The kiss is soft and inviting, a reaffirmation of your safety. Your hands cling to his suit as you press against him. You don't float away from him this time, a need to feel every inch of him pressed against you, keeping your mind grounded.

He pulls away first.

"Though, if you get that lonely when you are back at your place, maybe you should just stay here at mine. Like permanently."

Your breath catches.

He watches you carefully, as if measuring every micro-expression on your face, but you only blink up at him.

"Are you asking me to move in, Grayson?"

"I'm asking you not to leave unless you want to."

You bite your bottom lip, your floating inches threatening to return, but he’s quick to pull you back in with a reassuring squeeze at your waist.

"Then I won’t," you murmur.

He beams.

Outside, the city is waking up. Inside, the cutlery finally settles, the mug rights itself on the table, and for the first time in a while, the world feels still.

***

A week later, you catch him red-handed.

The door to your shared bedroom had been cracked, just enough for you to hear him rummaging and just enough for you to peek your head inside.

Your lips purse when you see an unmistakable image: Dick Grayson, defender of Blüdhaven, crime-fighter extraordinaire…rifling through you sock drawer.

“You know,” you say, leaning against the frame, “If you stretch out another pair of my socks, I will stick you to the ceiling and leave you there.”

He freezes like a deer in headlights, fingers clutched around a pair a socks with a puppy dog pattern on them.

“In my defense,” he says, pausing to think of his defense. “You steal my clothes all the time.”

“Yeah, but yours are always returned to you in the same condition. You wear my socks with your giant feet, and suddenly they are so stretched out I can see through them.”

A week later, you catch him red-handed.

The door to your shared bedroom had been cracked, just enough for you to hear him rummaging and just enough for you to peek your head inside.

Your lips purse when you see an unmistakable image: Dick Grayson, defender of Blüdhaven, crime-fighter extraordinaire…rifling through your sock drawer.

“You know,” you say, leaning against the frame, “If you stretch out another pair of my socks, I will stick you to the ceiling and leave you there.”

He freezes like a deer in headlights, fingers clutched around a pair of socks with a puppy dog pattern on them.

“In my defense,” he says, pausing to think of his defense. “You steal my clothes all the time.”

“Yeah, but yours are always returned to you in the same condition. You wear my socks with your giant feet, and suddenly they are so stretched out I can see through them.”

He pouts. "But I don't have anything like these, they support the arch and everything!"

You narrow your eyes at him, crossing the room slowly. "Dick, those have corgis on them. Literal corgis. With party hats."

He glances down at the socks, then back up at you with zero shame. "Which is why they bring me joy. And support. Emotional and physical."

You reach out and pluck them from his hand. "You're impossible."

He wraps his arms around your waist from behind before you can walk away. "But you love me."

You sigh, pretending to resist, even as you melt into him. "I do. Against my better judgment."

He nuzzles your neck. "Let me wear the sloth ones next time?"

You float three inches off the floor in exasperation. "You are not touching the sloth ones."

You have to ask, because he stops walking the moment he sees you. He hides in the shadows, so dark it's hard for even you to make out even more than his outline. He waits there for a moment that feels like an eternity. He’s deciding.

He begins limping forward, and you swallow as the shadows peel back from around him. You can see it as he steps into the dim light of the cave. Your eyes drift to his feet, to the injured leg, but your gaze is taken by his cape. Dragging slowly behind him, smearing dark liquid all over the cave floor.

When he makes eye contact with you, his jaw clenches, annoyed.

“You’re not supposed to be here tonight.”

It’s hoarse, more so than usual, like he was barely able to speak to you.

You blink, “I needed you to look at—never mind.”

The moment he sways forward, the words die in your throat. He takes another step forward, hand flying to a wall behind him to hold up his weight.

You are in front of him in the blink of an eye.

“Bruce, you’re hurt.” Your voice is gentle. The kind you use when someone is going into shock or being loaded into the back of an ambulance.

“It’s nothing,” he says, breath tight.

You can’t help the scowl that comes over your face. “That’s your favorite lie.”

He tries to push past you, but even on his best day, he would barely get you to move an inch. Today, you only need the tips of your fingers on his chest to stop him from moving.

The moment you touch, you feel the slight stickiness of his chest plate.

“You’re bleeding, Bruce. Sit down before you fall.”

And he did. Not because he had to—but because this time, he didn’t want to argue.

You move with a calm efficiency. But something inside begins to twist. A worry.

Piece by piece, you begin to remove the complicated suit. If there is an easier way to remove it, he doesn’t tell you. His eyes roll closed the moment he sits.

The chest plate clicked loose beneath your fingers, revealing layers of torn mesh and blood soaked-fabric beneath. His jaw clenched, but he said nothing, blue eyes opening to watch you with tired eyes.

“You should’ve gone straight to Alfred, or had him meet you down here,” you mutter as you begin pulling off a shoulder guard and setting it aside. Your strength made it effortless, but she was careful, treating each piece like glass.

“Didn’t want to wake him,” he replied.

“You should’ve woken someone. This looks deep.”  You pull back another panel, your brow furrowing when you see the gash along his ribs. Deep purple, almost black bruising was already beginning to spread beneath the torn skin.

He gives you a quiet grunt but doesn’t flinch. You kneel in front of him, hand stilling briefly on his abdomen.

You pause, your throat tightening at how wide it is. How the blood is coming in a steady drip to the floor.

“You always forget I’m not like you,” he said, voice low.

Your head snaps to meet his gaze, an angry frown in place. “NO, Bruce. You forget I’m not like you. I heal by morning. You don’t.”

Your eyes lock. You see the slight fight in his gaze. The urge to fight against you. But when his lips parted, the words to deny you, but they didn’t come. You resume your work, pulling away the gloves, the gauntlets, the shredded undersuit.

“I didn’t mean to snap,” you murmur, irritation having left you. “I just… hate seeing you like this.”

“I know,” he said, softer than you expected. “That’s why I let you see it.”

You don’t respond. But your shoulders relax, and your fingers are softer on his skin.

You find first aid quickly, and needle and thread begin stitching as delicately as you can. It's hard for you, though. Never having done this before. 

He chuckles, a pained thing that makes his skin jump slightly. "Your face is so serious."

"This is serious."

You hear it in your voice, the slight pout.

"This is a bad Tuesday."

A shudder runs down your spine, and you feel your eyes getting bigger. But you swallow your condemnation. You don't tell him that he shouldn't be doing this, that he will only continue getting hurt. That he's killing himself. Because you're not sure that even if you were a regular human, you would be able to stop yourself from doing the same thing.

"You're more breakable than I remember," you say softly, half to yourself, after you finish with the stitch. 

You begin cleaning the rest of the wounds, your hands trailing over exposed skin as you look for more cuts, careful not to prod too much at the forming bruises.

Your heart pauses for a moment, white scars litter his skin, faded and newer. The tips of your fingers run over them, and his skin twitches slightly.

"Sorry," you say with a bit of a sigh, trying to ignore the slightly embarrassed flush heating your cheeks. "It's just you have so many scars."

"You don't?"

"One or two."

Childhood things from when your powers hadn't fully developed. Now, even in your worst fights, you heal flawlessly. Like your body knows how to return you to your most perfect state.

"I forget what pain feels like. Things sting for a moment, but my body never remembers. So, when I see you doing the things you do, I forget that you aren't like me."

“Do you think I can’t take it?” He asks, but there is no challenge in his tone. Just quiet curiosity, a hint of amusement curling at the edge of his mouth.

You shake your head slowly, gaze still on his bandages. “No. I know you can take it. You always do. That’s the problem.”

He goes still. The silence stretches between you, heavy and close.

“I forget that just because you can take the pain doesn’t mean you should have to,” you add, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re not made of steel, Bruce. You’re flesh. You break. And you bleed. And I—”

You stop yourself, the words too close to everything you’ve kept buried.

“I worry,” you finish instead. “Even if I don’t always understand what it’s like to live in a body that doesn’t heal overnight, I still… I worry about yours.”

The confession comes with another skip in your heartbeat. Different this time, it’s not simply embarrassment that is causing the heat to flood your cheeks.

It’s the way he’s looking at you, blue eyes hazy, a small smile crossing his face.

“You don’t have to worry about me. I’ve had worse. Besides, if I get to have you worrying over me, then it’s not that bad.”

Your hands stills over the gauze.

It’s not what he said—it’s how he said it. Not the gruff, sardonic sounds of a man in pain. There is a lightness to it. A teasing warmth that he rarely lets anyone hear.

Your throat tightens. “Don’t joke. Not about this.”

“I’m not,” he says, more serious now.  “You said you worry. I do too. About you.”

You glance up sharply, surprised. “Me?”

“You run into fire like it’s a breeze,” he murmurs. “You shrug off broken bones. You act like nothing can touch you. “But you’re not untouchable. Not where it counts.”

“Where am I vulnerable?” You wonder if you sound as confused as you are. There hasn’t been anything that you haven’t been able to shake off yet.

Bruce’s eyes don’t leave yours/ His voice is low and deliberate.

“Here,” he says, lifting a hand slowly, finger taps brushing—barely—against your chest, just above your heart. Then he shifts slightly, his gaze softer now. “And here.” His hand hovers, not quite touching your temple, like he’s afraid the contact might be too much. “You feel too much. You care too hard. That’s where it’ll hurt you.”

You swallow thickly. It’s strange, hearing your strengths called weaknesses—strangers still, how right it feels when he says it.

“I can’t stop caring,” you whisper.

“I know,” he replies. “That’s why I trust you.”

You want to peel your eyes away from his. To pull away from him for a moment. The beating of your heart spilling up into your throat.

“You say you trust me, but you never ask me to stay.”

His hand falls into his lap, surprised. His mouth opens and closes as he tries to find the right excuse to give you. Eyes wavering as he searches his thoughts.

“I didn’t think I had the right to.”

The right to?

You had made it obvious. Or at least you thought you did. What kind of person hangs out in a creepy cave if the person they like isn’t around…besides Bruce.

But if he thinks he needed the right, had he been thinking about asking? Had he been feeling the same way that you had? Waiting for you to give him the same signs you had been waiting for from him.

You finish wrapping his bandages. The side is fully stitched and cleaned. The rest of the wounds need time to mend.

Your fingers run over the edge of the largest one, just making sure it's secure.

“You’re gentler than Alfred.”

“For now. But if I have to bandage you together like this again, I’m going to throw you through a wall.”

You’re chuckling by the time you finish the threat, and he gives you a smile in return.

There is a tension that fills the room, not one of anger or trepidation, but something softer, warmer.

“I’m here—I can be here. Not just for the bruises and the blood. Or when you need help on a case. I can be here.

With you.

He reads you better than anyone else. And you are glad for it. If you had to say it out loud, you might have stumbled over them.

He looks rueful, slightly guarded, and unsure. But when he speaks, he’s much more forward than you are.

“I don’t know how to give all of myself to someone. To be honest, when they are here all of the time. “

“I’m not asking for everything all at once. Just the right to try.”

He smiles when you use his words. His hand finds yours and squeezes.

You both sit in silence. His breathing is normal for the first time that night. His body is already doing its best to heal him as much as it can. It would be a while before he was fully back in shape. But he wouldn’t stop, nor would you.

His sapphire glows in the moonlight as he approaches, his eye carries a light to it. “And what are you?”

“A fairy!”  you reply,  arms over your head, wind playing in your hair. If you had wings, they would have sprouted. But the moonlight on your skin is enough to convince him of your otherworldliness. There is only one hit at your deception, your skin pimples from the cold.

Perched on a rock at the edge of the lakeshore line, you are naked as the day you were born, toes dipping into the cool water beneath you. It’s a dark glass only disturbed by your lightest of movements. The image is enough to hide any evidence of your humanness.

"You must be," he replies, voice barely above a whisper. "And enchanting men, your specialty."

"Not just men."

A sly smile crosses your face.

It had taken much coaxing to get him to this state, where he could openly state his feelings.

It was hard for him during the day, tied down by obligation and combating his own feelings of resentment.

You were subdued as well. A playmate of his sister and a minor noble, you were restrained, confined, and pure.

Here, though, you were free, pure in another sense. Like the rain from a storm or fire from a dragon’s belly. A force of nature.

He stops a few feet away from where you perch, hands folded behind his back like a prince pretending not to be spellbound. But his voice betrays him.

“Do you do this often? Wait for me like a siren, bare beneath the moon.”

“Wait for you?” You start with a chuckle. “If I am a siren, then I long to be in the presence of those who birthed me. I wait for no man.”

“His smile sharpens, half-wicked, half-half reverent. “Then I must be the cursed fool who swims toward the rocks each night, knowing full well they’ll tear me open.”

And he does inch closer, but never enough to touch you, only enough to admire. He kneels by the water, the tips of his boots soaked, cloak pooling around him.

“A fool? Maybe not. More like a thief, though you take nothing.”

“If you would allow me, I would. Here in this place where all things are equal.”

“A temporary reprieve, my lord. The sun comes fast, and even a siren must obey the order of the day.”

He frowns and says nothing, but he offers you his hand and cloak.

You take it.

Tonight, the spell is broken.

And you meant to do it.

It is quiet on the walk back through the forest. He walks slowly so that your bare feet can keep up and so that the night won’t end so early.

He is by your side, your faithful companion. His fingers brushing against yours, warm where yours are freezing.

Any other night, you would have indulged. Laced your fingers with his, given him hope where there is none. But tonight, the ache in your heart has become too much, and you cannot anymore.

You pull away from him. “This isn’t real, Aemond. Eventually, your duty will compel you to leave me here. And you and I will, all we will have are memories of a pleasant dream.”

He stops walking, fist squeezing, shoulders tensing. “Even with nights like tonight, you are the only thing that feels real.

His fingers leave yours to come up and touch the delicate skin of your jaw.

You try and resist the urge to lean into the touch, but when his fingers run against your cheekbone, you close your eyes and give in.

“It’s real for you too,” He sounds innocent when he says it, happy.

It is enough to make you pull away from him, not want to have to hurt him more than is necessary.

“Do not make this harder for me, Aemond.”

His hand falls from your cheek, and the skin still burns.

You walk the remaining way in silence.

***

The sun breaks across the towers of the Red Keep with merciless clarity and judgment. There is no bathing softness to the light. No shadows for you to hide your shortcomings. It slips over stone and silk, chasing away every whisper of moonlight. The world you shared with him the night before no longer exists.

You wake alone. Not just in body, but in the hollowness of the space around you. The quiet of your chamber is deafening. Your skin still carries the weight of his touch, the scent of forest air, and his cloak. But it’s fading.

You rise. You wash. You dress as expected.

The gown is modest, high-collared. The color—an obedient shade of ivory—blurs you into the background where you belong. You braid your hair with fingers that tremble only slightly, weaving ribbons into it like a tether. You tie yourself down.

In the Queen’s solar, you pour tea and lace her bodice with fingers that know their role. You nod when spoken to. You smile without teeth. The ladies chatter around you, oblivious, laughing about courtships and embroidery.

But your thoughts are not here.

They are in the water.

With him.

You see him again in the great hall where courtiers gather in a flock. You stand in your place along the wall, still and silent.

A nervousness grips your heart.

Aemond enters beside the king. His stride was flawless. His posture is noble. His eye finds yours only for a flicker—and then it is gone.

When the King reaches the throne, he has his brother wait. Aemond is presented with a bride. A noble lady of higher rank than you.

She curtsies. The court watches.

And Aemond bows.

You feel your chest hollow, a pit forming where breath should live.

You leave before the ceremony ends.

When you reach your chamber, a single black glove rests on your pillow. Folded. Neat.

His.

***

Night comes again.

There is no bare skin exposed to the moonlight. Your heavy gown will not allow you to perch on your favorite seat. So, you wait for his anger and your devastation.

However, as the moon grows high in the sky, you wonder if the waiting is the punishment. Is the anger. It doesn’t take long for you to realize that he will not come tonight, nor any other night.

The ending of the fantasy may have been recoverable, laughed off, or dreamt away. But the duty of an engagement may have been too much for him to overcome.

You tell yourself it’s better this way.

That he made the right choice.

And that you would survive it.

The moon climbs higher, and the leaves in the grove, your chest aches. A siren’s fate, it would seem.

You would never ask him to choose between you and his duty; his devotion was one of the things you adored. But was it wrong to hope that he might choose you anyway?

And now, as you stand with your arms wrapped tightly around yourself in comfort, you let silence swallow you.

Tonight, you are not a siren.

You cannot cleanse away the hurt like a storm.

You cannot roar in fury like a dragon.

You are just a girl.

Alone.

And the moon, in her pale indifference, watches without blinking. But she does not let you go. You find yourself staring at her pale face, searching for answers she could not give.

Until you hear the squelching of wet grass. The familiar rustle of a cloak brushing low branches. You don’t turn when the noise stops. Not even when you feel the air shift, charge, and grow heavy, like the moment before a storm.

“You knew.”

His tone is not accusatory. Plain, indifferent to the answer that he already knows.

“I did.” You had heard more than simple whispers about the girls’ presentation to him.

His only comment is a “hmm.”

His voice is cold, a memory of how he was when your rendezvous first started.

When you finally speak, it is quiet, brittle.

“I thought you would not come.”

A breath. Not quite a sigh.

“I thought not to.”

You turn then, slowly, eyes meeting his. And though his face is still schooled in that royal calm, you see it—the disarray of his hair, the tension in his jaw, the fury behind his silence. Not at you. At everything.

But his eye is still tender when it is trained on you; he has still deigned to show you his sapphire.

“I refused her.”  There is a tinge of desperation in his tone.

“You refused her?”

Your heart thumps with anticipation and a strange sense of guilt.

"I gave her my silence and courtesy," he says, stepping forward. "But not my name. Not my future. That was never hers to claim."

Your eyes begin to sting with the sensation of tears, but you blink them away.

"You cannot give your heart, your name to a siren. You'll only drown."

When had he come so close?

Close enough for you to feel his breath on the apples of your cheeks. He eyes you for a moment before his gaze becomes trained on your hair.

You take the hint and are quick to undo the braid, to unbind yourself.

"Then let me drown," he says, softer now. "If it's in you, I'll go willingly."

You shake your head, lips trembling with the ghost of a smile. "You speak like a man who's never felt the weight of drowning."

His gaze does not falter. "I speak like a man who has found something worth sinking for."

The words sit between you, raw and unpolished. Not a declaration. Just the truth.

You reach out—not to hold him, not yet—but to brush your fingers lightly against his.

“I don’t want you ruined,” you whisper.

“I already am,” he replies, a breath catching at the contact. “But I’d rather be ruined with you than pristine without.”

And for a moment, you let your fingers stay there. Intertwined, uncertain, but no longer retreating.

He watches you like you’re the only star in a black sky, something both distant and vital. "Let them watch," he murmurs. "I’ll choose you again tomorrow."

It is not a promise made in shadows—it is daylight, spoken beneath the gaze of the moon, under a sky that keeps no secrets.

Your breath catches, but you don’t look away. Because now, you believe him.

When he steps closer, this time, you don’t pull away.

He chuckles.

He doesn’t doubt her.

But the lighthearted moment doesn’t last. Not when they get to the heart of the factory.

“I don’t understand. I don’t see anyone or anything?” She looks at him, confused. “Could he have run?”

“Unlikely. Scarecrow is a coward, but he wouldn’t—”

The lights go out.

There is a beat of silence.

Batman hears the hiss—gas being sprayed into the room. He doesn’t need the hairs standing on the back of his neck to know what’s happening. To realize he’s led her into an ambush.

“Cover your face!” he orders. His cowl is already doing its job. A translucent guard over his nose and mouth deploys instantly—a modification he made for this very scenario.

She screams.

Night vision comes online across the cowl, and he can see the gas is already dissipating.

But she’s already on the ground, writhing in pain, back arching, mouth foaming. It’s the scream that’s most terrifying—like nails on a chalkboard, like the wail of bending metal. Mournful and petrified. Even as he is—the Batman—he feels the ache in her cry. The anguish. And it’s made worse because of who she is. Incredibly strong and fast. Happy. A protector by nature. He’s never seen her falter—until now. If he is the dark, then she is the light.

He approaches as the lights return. Unsure how to help, unsure how to break her out of this curse. Fear toxin—he has no cure. Not with him.

Her eyes are glazed. Even as he calls her name, she doesn’t hear him. The only coherent response in the room is the low chuckle of his enemy over the speaker.

“Well,” the voice slithers from the walls, distorted and pleased, “Look what happens when you break the unbreakable.”

Bruce’s jaw clenches. He crouches low beside her, gently taking her thrashing wrists into his hands. “You didn’t break her,” he growls. “You just made a mistake.”

The speaker clicks off, but the toxin’s work continues. Her body trembles violently. Sweat beads across her forehead despite the cool air. Her breath comes in ragged gasps.

“Hey,” he says, low—voice meant only for her now. “It’s me. It’s Bruce. You’re safe.”

No response.

He pulls her into his arms, locking her flailing limbs gently against his chest. “Whatever you’re seeing—it’s not real. You hear me?”

But she doesn’t. Not yet. Her head thrashes once more, and her voice—barely recognizable through the rawness in her throat—chokes out a single word.

“No.”

He frowns. There’s only one option left.

Getting her back to the cave is a feat in itself. She’s strong—unnaturally so—and she fights him every step. Thrashing, bucking, punching. But he doesn’t give up. He can’t. Not when, in the brief moments of lucidity, she grabs his cape and whispers, “Bruce, help me.”

No. He can’t give up. Not even if he wanted to.

He doesn’t stop speaking to her—not once. Not even as the Batmobile roars through the city. His voice is a steady current in the storm: calm, low, unshaken. “You’re okay. You’re not alone. I’ve got you.” Over and over, like a mantra meant for both of them.

By the time they arrive, she’s not screaming anymore. But that’s somehow worse.

She’s gone quiet, trembling like something pulled too tight. He lifts her into his arms again—gently now, like she’s made of glass—and carries her into the Batcave.

Alfred approaches, startled, ready to assist. But Bruce just shakes his head. “I need to do this. She needs me.”

He doesn’t stop until they’re in their shared room. He lays her on the bed. The sedative he crafted is strong—strong enough to subdue someone even like her.

But the needle won’t pierce her skin. Her body rejects the intrusion.

He sighs, frustrated. An ache spreads through his chest. He can’t force her out of this. The only thing he can do is try to help her break the fever. To break the dream. Return to the real world. Return to him.

“Please,” he begs, voice barely above a whisper. “You have to let me help you. I can’t do this if you’re not here with me.”

***

How many times did you have to live through hell? Before tonight, you had just been glad to make it through once or twice. But today, tonight, it was something different. Visions plague your mind, images so real that it is impossible for you to tell where your mind ends and where the toxin begins.

You lie on the bed in a medical room. Light hazy, a sheet seemingly covering your eyes. You can hear the beep of the monitor, your pulse spiking in the background. But the monitor is just for show, an illusion of care. It is for your benefit, not for theirs. You may be their experiment, but you are expendable.

They come into view all at once, six scientists, madness reigns on their expressions, all surrounding your bedside. Some have needles, others have scalpels. Both will be used to make cuts and prod, all to make you perfect.

It’s precise. Clinical. Efficient. There is no emotion in their stabbing, in their cutting. But the process is painful, so so painful. You scream. But you are ignored. They only keep cutting, keep poking.

All until your very blood starts to boil in your veins. Until time seems to stop and you are trapped in a loop of pain and memory that doesn’t stop.

But you hear something. Something familiar, soothing, almost.

It’s not the voice of one of your torturers. You remember them like you remember the color of your eyes or the taste of your favorite fruit on your tongue.

“Hey, it’s me. It’s Bruce. You’re safe.”

You recognize it now, that voice. That soothing timber. It’s your Bruce. Your Bruce.

But you feel anything but safe. Anything but secure.

Because the moment you begin to think of him, the moment the vision changes.

You stand on the street, the moon high up above you. It’s not your usual haunt. You hunt during the day, but he hunts at night. And he is who you are waiting for.

You can feel it in the smile on your face, the slight thump in your chest, the longing in your restless fingers. All you want is another chance to see him. And you’ll get it tonight, for better or worse.

You hear the woosh of his cape against the night air, and your heartbeats triple. As he soars for a moment and it looks like he’s going to land, and then he’s ripped out of the air by some unseen force.

He plummets to the ground as if he’s been smacked there, punished for daring to soar so high.

You race over to his unmoving form, a heap of black on the dark asphalt. His body is broken, limbs contorted, and blood starting to seep from where skin has split.

The only light left is in his blue eyes that stare at you just as they start to dim. He lets out a gasp of air, and he’s gone.

You scream.

The scene resets over and over again.

He falls, his back breaks, he’s pierced through, his neck is broken, over and over again. There are so many ways for him to die. For one as fragile as him to die. For one as human as him to die.

You’ve thought about it before. What you would do if you couldn’t save him. How would you go on with your life.

But this. This is worse.

Because here, you know you can’t save him. Can’t help him as he dies painfully over and over again. And soon you are unable to move at all. Unable to cradle his body as he breathes his last. Unable to shepherd him into his last good night.

It's torture.

Malevolent cruelty.

“You have to let me help you. I can’t do this without you.”

There it is again; a voice like a balm. It’s soothing, comforting, and familiar. It’s Bruce. But it is not alone this time. You can feel him run rough fingers on your skin, delicately as he can be. Feel the hair pushed back from your face and the soft kiss that’s pressed to your cheek.

You try your best to look away from the scenes of his violent death. The scenes of your failure. But it is hard to draw your eyes from it, to close your mind to everything that is happening.

Then you feel warmth. The pads of your fingers are touching soft fabric, and the rhythmic pattern of his familiar heartbeat. He is not in your mind. He is not dying or dead. You know it.

“It’s not real. You’re stronger than this. Come back to me.”

It’s a plea. A hope. A prayer.

You try to force yourself awake. To give in to the sensation of going back to reality, but you feel trapped. The weight of these visions felt like an ocean of water sitting on your chest.

You cry out, “I can’t, it's too much.”

And indeed it is too much. Bruce’s corpses have started to pile up. One by one. A blood-trailing, broken-bodied horror show.

“Even if it is too much, you’ve done the impossible before. Do it again. Come back to me.”

There is so much belief in his voice that you start to believe it too, if only for a moment.

And it is enough. A crack rings through your world like the shattering of a glass pane.

But Bruce does not stop his assault.

His last attack is a death blow. “I’m scared, too, you know? Scared of losing you.”

The glass shatters completely, and your vision clears. It only takes seconds for you to realize where you are. To meet the blue eyes of your rescuer. And to surge into his arms, basking in his protection.

***

She feels so small in his arms, even as she squeezes the life out of him.

But he hangs on, holding her close as long as she will let him.

She sits in silence for what seems like days. Breathing, readjusting, relaxing. There is a tenseness to her. One that won’t be fixed with simple time. She will need to rest after tonight. After they finish taking down the man who has caused her so much pain.

“I didn’t know that I could be that scared anymore.”

She says it with almost a sense of wonder, as if she had seen magic done before her very eyes.

Her fingers pull him closer by his undershirt, head resting on his heartbeat, just so she can hear it, and not that he’s real.

“It felt so real.”

He pauses before he speaks.

“Fear is real,” he starts, smoothing his palm over her head. “But what you saw is not the truth.”

She looks up at him, eyes tired but open, a bit brighter, life returning to her.

“I kept seeing what happened to me before, with the doctors. And then you, I kept losing you. I don’t think I’ve ever been in that much pain. At least not all at once.”

It was wrong for him to feel. He felt guilty about. But he was grateful for her concern. Because losing her was one of his greatest fears, and he didn’t even know when that happened.

He pulls her closer.

“I can’t protect you from the pain you carry. I’m sorry about that. But I will do my best to make sure that you will never lose me. Not as long as I can help it.”

She hums, looking up at him with a slow, timid smile. Finally, she presses her forehead against his.

“Pull me back next time, too?”

It’s lighthearted, as is her way. But her fingers are still clenched in his shirt, weight still leaning on his body, touch still seeking to make sure that he is real and whole.

He closes his eyes and breathes in her scent as if he, too, has to make sure that she’s real.

Still, he lingers in your thoughts, tall, quiet, and devastating. A man grown. Handsome now, even if not conventionally. His voice lower, his eye sharper, his promises more dangerous.

You sigh, brushing your fingers against the fabric of your nightdress, trying to quiet your racing thoughts.

A knock interrupts them.

A young chambermaid enters—kind-looking but nervous. She dips into a curtsey and avoids your gaze.

"The Queen requests your presence for breakfast, princess," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "Prince Aemond will be in attendance."

Your fingers are still against the fabric. Of course, he will.

"And I—I have been sent to help you dress."

You nod, rising slowly from the edge of the bed. She moves quickly, perhaps too quickly, toward the wardrobe, nearly stumbling over the hem of her skirts. Her hands are nimble but unsteady as she lays out a pale gown embroidered with soft silver threading. It's beautiful—too formal for a simple breakfast, but you understand the game now. Every appearance is a performance.

As she gathers brushes and pins for your hair, you watch her reflection in the mirror. The way her eyes flick to you, then away again. The way her mouth twitches, as if she wants to say something but doesn’t dare.

“Has something happened?” you ask quietly, not turning from the mirror. "Have I frightened you?"

She stiffens.

"No, princess," she says quickly, too quickly. "Only... It’s not every day someone speaks kindly to me. Or asks."

Her voice is small, but the truth in it rings louder than expected.

You hold her gaze in the mirror for a moment longer, then look down at your hands.

"Then let today be different," you say. "Speak freely. I won’t tell a soul."

She hesitates and bites her pale lip, but her shoulders finally relax when she glances at you again, meeting your kind gaze.

"People saw you in the garden, with Prince Aemond."

You stiffen slightly, a breath catching in your chest. "Did they?"

"Yes, my lady. There are whispers."

"What do they say?”

She looks down, twisting a ring on her finger. “They say something happened in the godswood that he held your hand too long. That you stayed with him longer than a proper lady should. That he touched your face—softly.”

She peeks up at you then, cheeks flushed with the daring of repeating it. “Some say he kissed you. Others say you let him.”

You don’t reply right away. You meet her gaze in the mirror, eyes calm, voice even.

“And what do you say?”

She flushes slightly, red cheeks burning brightly against her pale skin. 

"There is naught for me to say, Princess."

Her fingers are nervous once more as she fingers the curls in your hair.

You let the silence stretch just long enough to let her squirm, then gently say, "I’m not angry. Only curious."

She exhales a shaky breath, clearly relieved.

“I think,” she says carefully, “that it is better for us if at least one of the princes is... occupied.”

You let out a soft breath, something between amusement and resignation. The chambermaid busies herself again, her touch steadier now as she places the final pins in your hair. When she’s finished, she steps back, eyes downcast.

“You look every bit a princess,” she murmurs. “Though I think they’ll be watching for more than your dress today.”

You nod once and thank her softly. Then you rise.

A pair of noble ladies fall silent as you approach, then burst into laughter behind your back. A knight nods stiffly but avoids eye contact. Even the guards at the stairwell avert their eyes, as though you carry some invisible shame.

You begin to understand the chambermaid’s nervousness.

There are rumors.

Whispers born of last night’s stolen moments beneath the Weirwood. Even if you had stood at arm’s length, even if no one had seen what passed between you, somehow, they know, or they believe they do.

Is this what Aemond meant to protect you from?

You make your way through the Keep, every footstep echoing louder than the last. At Dragonstone, the winds carried truth. Here, the marble carries lies.

And they are heavier than steel.

***

The breakfast table is small, modestly set. Queen Alicent sits at the head, serene in a soft green gown, her posture perfect, her hands wrapped around a delicate teacup. Aemond sits at her right. He does not look up as you enter.

The silence is oppressive. A polite smile is all Alicent offers as you curtsy.

“Good morning, princess,” she says.

“Good morning, Your Grace.”

She gestures for you to sit across from Aemond. He glances up once, briefly, then resumes pouring his tea—the eye patch gleams in the soft morning light. You cannot read his expression. Not yet.

The food is untouched.

“I have given the matter of your mother’s proposal considerable thought,” Alicent says calmly, after a long silence.

You lower your teacup; your hands suddenly feel cold.

“And I have decided to accept it.”

You blink.

She continues, “The realm needs symbols. Reconciliation. And your union with my son will serve both causes.”

You glance at Aemond. He does not move.

She looks to him, then back to you. “The betrothal will be announced at the end of the week. Until then, you are both to conduct yourselves with dignity. This court is not kind to indiscretions.”

The warning is clear, and it cuts.

“I understand,” you murmur.

Aemond’s voice comes a beat later. “So do I.”

There is no warmth in the words—only agreement.

Breakfast after is a quiet affair, filled with small sighs and the sipping of breakfast wines. And lingering.

Aemond would catch your gaze, and both of you seemed to freeze. His gaze on your skin makes you buzz with excitement. Despite what he had said in the godswood, he was clearly more comfortable in front of his mother than with the others.

That should not have been surprising. You can still remember him cradled to her chest, his blood spilling through her fingers. Even strained, there was a bond between them that neither could honestly deny.

You are so engrossed with his stare that you nearly jump out of your seat when a servant taps you on the shoulder. 

"The Queen would see you, princess," she says with a bow. "Privately."

You feel it then—that strange tightening behind your ribs. Not quite dread. Not quite curiosity. You rise, smooth your skirts, and let your feet carry you to Alicent Hightower’s private salon.

She is waiting by the window, pale green robes shimmering in the morning light.

“Come,” she says gently. “Sit with me. No guards, no council. Just two women.”

You sit.

She pours tea with steady hands.

“I thought you might enjoy something calming,” she says. “This blend comes from Oldtown. Very grounding.”

You thank her. You drink. It is warm, floral, and deceptively pleasant.

Then she looks at you, eyes sharp beneath the softness.

“You’re being watched, my dear,” she says. “You always will be now.”

You don’t respond. Not yet.

She continues: “There is no official betrothal. Not yet. But the realm already believes it. The people want a story. The nobles want a symbol. Your mother offered one. My son... did not reject it.”

You study her, weighing each word.

“Is this a warning?” you ask.

Her smile is sad. “No. It’s a truth. And one, you must learn to bend in your favor.”

She leans in, almost conspiratorial.

“The realm loves a tale, my dear. Make sure the one they tell about you is one you can live with.”

***

It shouldn't surprise you that he is standing outside your chambers when you return to them.  But your heart skips slightly when you find him leaning against the wall next to the door.

"You're here!" It comes out more excited, breathier than intended.

He doesn't hide his smirk at your excitement either. And you're glad for it, even as your cheeks warm. 

"Walk with me?"

You move to step forward, but you hesitate.

"The whispers," you start with a furrowed brow. "The servants are already gossiping. This morning--."

He cuts you off, a long finger pressed to his mouth. You quiet instantly and listen. 

*pit pat*

You hear them quickly, the footsteps of those listening. You ache to turn and confront them, but you doubt they would be there if you turned around. 

He stands up straight, a softer look on his face, and you quickly catch on to his suggestion. He hesitates, and you know why. 

He wants to offer you his arm. 

But he denies himself.

Instead, you follow his long strides, two or three paces behind him.

*** 

The library is as inviting as you remembered it being. The same place where you studied together as children. The same high windows. The same warm leather chairs. The same silence. 

The pair of you find yourself in a familiar alcove, a familiar window seat.

"I wanted to see you without anyone watching. I couldn't speak freely at breakfast."

"It seemed easier," you offer.

"A little."

"And I imagine that there will still be ease droppers here."

"Daorys bona jāhor shifang. (No one that will understand.)"

He slips into High Valyrian easily.

"Bona mazverdagon ao biare?(Does that make you happy?)"

He seems to shiver when you respond to him. His jaw sets and fingers flex. It's as if you've offered a man dying of thirst water.

"You still speak beautifully."

"Is this what you brought me here for?" You question. "To tell me how beautiful I speak?"

"No," he says, the word sharp but not unkind. His eye searches your face, as if the correct answer lies somewhere between your lips and the shadow of your doubt. "I brought you here because I needed to be away from them. From the ones who think they know how this should go."

"How should this go?"

He shifts closer, boots quiet on the thick rug. The sunlight shines, casting a golden light on the floor. You can smell the faint scent of old parchment, rose oil, and something distinctly his.

Something flickers in his eye. A possessiveness that you haven't seen since you were children. "The way you dreamed it should. But not yet."

Until after the announcement.

You breathe slowly, trying to temper the pull in your chest. "Then reach for me when no one's watching. Like now."

He hesitates only a moment.

Warm long fingers lace with your cold hands.

It's warm, steady—a silent promise.

You hold his gaze.

"This won't be easy," you murmur.

"Nothing worth anything ever is," he replies.

You don’t kiss. You don’t lean into each other. The moment doesn’t call for softness. It calls for steadiness.

So, you sit in silence. Two dragon children in a tower of stone, listening to the fire crackle and the weight of fate draw closer.