#batman edit

The heavy iron door of the abandoned Wayne Industries building creaked with a muffled groan as Bruce pushed it open with his strong hands. As the sun slowly set, pale beams of light filtered through the broken windows, illuminating the greasy rust stains on the floor and the cracked concrete surfaces. The air inside was stale, but not suffocating; there was a familiar, industrial scent of aged steel, burnt rubber, and motor oil.

As you stepped inside, the massive ceiling cranes immediately caught your eye, now nothing more than rusted, lifeless skeletons.

You scanned the surroundings, not with unease, but curiosity. This place was… wilder than Bruce's quiet, orderly training area in the unused library. It had a primal, dangerous edge to it.

“I didn’t expect this,” you said softly, but your voice echoed. “After the silent, Victorian-style hall in the manor, this… it feels like a fight club.” There was a slight smile in your voice, but your eyes remained serious. “Interesting choice. Isn’t it a bit too dark to continue the training here?”

Without answering, Bruce set down his bag. He unzipped the thick straps of the black sports bag and opened it. Inside, neatly arranged were bandages, black training gloves, and elbow pads. Every movement was sharp, precise, and habitual... it was a ritual. Before laying out the gear, he checked the floor, pressing his foot down to ensure he was on solid ground. Then, he grabbed the wraps and handed them to you.

“This place is unsafe,” he said with a quick glance. “That’s exactly why it’s right. It teaches you balance, threats, awareness of space. If everything goes wrong one day—and it will—no matter where you are, you’ll need to stand your ground.”

You reached out and took the wraps. The white bandages had turned grey over time but were still sturdy. As you began to measure where to wrap, Bruce looked at you from the corner of his eye. Your movements were slow, still trying to figure things out.

“Okay,” you said with a faint smile. “I’m really going to ask. Why are you so insistent?” You wrapped your thumb, then moved to your wrist. “After all, I’m going to be a psychiatrist. Not someone who runs around at night wearing a mask and cape.” You raised your eyebrows slightly and looked at Bruce, your eyes sparking. “Well, if it involves kissing Batman in the end… then maybe the pain is worth it.”

Bruce didn’t furrow his brows, but his usual impassive expression settled on his face. He gave no smile, no reaction. But he studied you for a long time... without judgment, but as though weighing something. He set the gloves aside and knelt down, rummaging through his bag again.

“Arnold Wesker’s puppet nearly drove you to the edge, Y/N,” he said slowly. “Pushing your body… quiets your mind. Forcing your body to its limits… silences the noise in your soul.” He looked up, his eyes glinting in the dark. “And right now, there’s too much noise in your head, Y/N. Someone needs to shut up.”

You tightened the last end of the bandage. Your fingers were no longer trembling, but your hands were still cold.

“Then I guess I’ll have to bring up the idea of a fight training program for the Arkham inmates to Dr. Crane,” you said lightly. This time, Bruce’s eyes narrowed slightly. He tilted his head just a fraction that was his version of “I accept it.”

He then stood up and stepped into the ring. He paused, marking a scratch on the floor. His long shadow stretched across the dark room. Then, he motioned with his head, calling you to take your place.

You held your breath. Slowly, you stepped into position. With each step, your bones remembered. But your muscles… were hesitant.

You assumed the stance, turning your foot at a 45-degree angle, hands close to your chin but your wrists a little low. Your left knee was a bit too far back. Your shoulders were open in defense.

“We haven’t trained in almost a year, but it feels like ages,” you whispered. “I’ve probably forgotten everything.”

Bruce didn’t move. He only watched. “No,” he said, his voice low but certain. “Your body may try to forget. But your mind always remembers.”

Then he moved, closing the distance between you by half. He raised his hand, not to touch you, but to merely point at the air with his fingers.

“Close your left shoulder. Raise your right hand by an inch. Balance your knees. And most importantly… don’t hold your breath.”

When your gaze met his eyes, you felt a different warmth. These weren’t just the eyes of a trainer. There was suppressed, yet undeniable tension. At that moment, he neither raised his hand to touch you, nor changed his words. But his eyes said it all: He was watching you. Thinking of you. And battling with the chains inside him to say more.

“Now,” he said, his voice bouncing off the ceiling, “don’t think. Feel. Don’t stop when you breathe in, attack when you breathe out. Stop thinking with your body. Use your instincts.”

You nodded slightly, lowering your chin and getting into position. Your whole body was slightly leaning forward... your left foot slightly ahead, your right foot behind. But Bruce noticed.

“Don’t bend your knee too much. That’ll slow you down. Keep your balance centered.”

Then, suddenly, he moved. He closed in from the left, throwing a feint, an evasive punch. You ducked reflexively, but since your defense was open, his left elbow grazed your chest. The blow wasn’t strong, but it was humiliating because of how easily you felt it. And then, in a flash, he kicked out his leg and knocked you off balance, sending you crashing to the ground.

As you hit the floor, a soft “ah” escaped your lips.

Above you, Bruce’s shadow leaned over. He looked at you before offering his hand.

“What did I say?” he asked, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Don’t think. Feel.”

As you lay on the ground, you tried to steady your breathing. Your chest was rising and falling, sweat dripping down your forehead.

“I can’t do it,” you said, struggling to catch your breath. “I’m not cut out for this. I’m fragile. Weak. This type of fight isn’t for me.”

He stared into your eyes. For a moment, he didn’t speak. The silence was reassuring, but also dangerous.

Then, he reached out and grabbed your hand.

“No,” he said. “You’re not weak, Y/N. You’re just scared. But that fear will sharpen you. It will make you strong. Just… don’t choose to give up.”

He lifted you off the ground with a single move. His palm still held yours, but as his fingers slowly slipped away, each place where his skin touched yours seemed to warm just a little more.

When you regained your stance, there was defiance in your eyes. Your lips were pressed tight, your jaw set. You no longer hesitated.

Bruce moved again... this time faster. He came from the right, but before he tripped you, he tested your defense. He forced your elbow up, challenging your guard. But, instinctively, you deflected with your right elbow. You took a few steps back, then jabbed forward.

Your punch didn’t land, but the air between you shifted.

“Now that’s more like it,” Bruce said. “That’s what I’ve been waiting for, to see you move like this.”

His voice was soft, but there was an underlying note of admiration.

For a moment, you both circled each other, taking measured steps. He would feint a move, and you watched, waiting. Then, with a swift movement, he advanced. This time, it was a serious attack. He raised his knee, centered his body, and attempted a Muay Thai clinch. But you stepped back, pressing your palm against his elbow to push him off.

“Ooh,” he said with a mocking tone. “Someone’s learned some technique.”

You shrugged, your expression confident.

“What did you think? I’m not just a pretty face.”

Bruce didn’t laugh, but his eyes gleamed with amusement.

"If I ever make you fight someone, I'll remember this sentence. And I hope that person doesn't find you too attractive."

“Or will it distract them?” you asked, tilting your head slightly and giving him a challenging look. “Like your tactic, then.”

His smile widened, but only for a moment. Then, he moved again. His attack was more cunning this time. He made a slight turn and suddenly, with a reverse kick aimed at your waist, he tried to throw you off guard. You instinctively blocked it with your arm, but his swift pivot left you vulnerable, and he spun your body around, throwing you back to the ground.

When you met the floor a second time, you turned your head and looked up at him.

“So, is this what happens when you get too confident?”

Bruce bent down beside you. He kneeled, placing a hand on your shoulder to check your position.

“Confidence is good,” he said. “But arrogance blinds you. You don’t see the danger. And your enemies? They love arrogant people.”

“So, the Arkham inmates will love me,” you said with a dry smile. But then your eyes sparkled.

Before Bruce could understand what was happening, you made a move from below, unbalancing him. While he was still on the ground, you wrapped your left leg around his, and with all your strength, you tried to twist him and pull him on top of you.

In an instant, you felt Bruce lose his balance, his body falling on top of you. It was heavy, but controlled, as he gently landed on the ground. His breath hit your chest. And you... weren’t slipping away from under him anymore.

You pressed him down with your hands at shoulder level, climbed up, and sat on his pelvis, your knee pressing against his hip. Bruce's eyes were shining in yours.

“I guess this technically counts as a victory,” you said with a mocking smile.

“Not just technically,” Bruce said, his voice low but warm. “That was very clever. And dangerous.”

But now, there was no longer just sweat in the ring.

When your skin touched his, the boundaries between you, those invisible, sharp walls that had existed for so long, started to slowly melt. As your chest pressed against his, your breaths mixed; his rhythm matched yours, and with every inhale and exhale, your bodies moved together. There was barely a breath's distance between you now; that one breath's gap was a luxury that shouldn’t have existed. When your eyes met, you felt like you were falling into the pupils of Bruce, there was something complex there, a sharp clash between suppressed desire and the stubborn denial that had been maintained.

Your fingers were pressing against his shoulder, but not like a fighter... more like a lover. Your movements had transcended the learned techniques. This was no longer a fight...it was surrender. It was one of those vital, cursed moments where your soul called for him, but your words still stayed silent.

Bruce’s face was so close that you could clearly see the sunset-colored shadows on his chin, the vein pulsing just below his neck, and the drop of sweat on his forehead. The breath between his lips brushed against yours, pulling you into a dark whirlpool. He didn’t lift his hands. He didn’t push you away. But his stillness was a warning heavier than words.

Slowly, as though he had been thinking about it for eternity, he spoke:

“Y/N… This… this isn’t right.”

His voice was almost a whisper, but it carried a trembling reproach... a reproach toward himself, to you, to this city, even to life itself.

“You… I… Some boundaries, once crossed, can never be returned from.” He kept the words at the edge of his lips. “I swore to be your… protector. To keep you away from the dark…”

But his voice cracked, as though that darkness was no longer just outside but growing inside him too.

When you looked at him, there were no more filters in you. The defense mechanisms you knew so well, mockery, denial, attempts to stay distant, had all shattered.

You were tired.

You were tired of suppressing your feelings, of turning away with every glance, of waiting for him to treat you like “his daughter,” of seeing love never given a name, of keeping your heart silent.

“I’m tired now,” you said, your voice soft, but resonating with the weight inside you. “While you’re trying to protect me, you’re ignoring me. I was just a child… but I’m not anymore. I wasn’t the first to feel these emotions, Bruce. But you weren’t the first to deny them either.”

He looked at you. And in that moment, all the armor cracked.

With just a few words, a few touches, you had come to a point where everything could change. And Bruce was closer to making that move than ever before.

He tilted his head for a moment. His eyes dropped to your lips.

His fingers slid to the center of your back, feeling the tremble under the thin layer of your skin.

If his lips had touched yours, if he had waited one more moment... perhaps everything suppressed for years would have shattered.

The years of denial could burn away with one kiss.

And then...

The phone rang.

That high-pitched, metallic sound echoed beneath the ceiling, cutting through the air like a sacred chant being interrupted between you two.

Neither of you moved. But Bruce’s jaw tightened. He averted his gaze from yours.

His hand slowly withdrew from your back.

Only by a breath’s difference... it hadn’t happened. But in that moment -that forbidden, silenced, apocalyptic moment -it had happened once.

A sharp, sneaky, and harsh ringing. Like a knife, it slipped between your skin and Bruce’s.

At first, you didn’t move. But the shadow in Bruce’s eyes… that indecision… pushed you back into the “real world.”

The complex emotions inside you -anger, shame, longing, and defiance- gathered together, and a sharp mask of pride appeared on your face. As though nothing had happened, but everything had. You quickly pushed yourself off Bruce’s chest and stood up. With a cold smile, you reached for the phone that had fallen on the ground. The screen was still flickering.

“Dr. Jonathan Crane is calling.”

A strange shiver ran through you. Your fingers hovered over the screen for a moment. Your peripheral vision was still on Bruce—he was watching you too. But that dark gaze… it was different from the burning desire earlier. Now, it was pulling back, suppressing something. That irritated you.

As you answered the phone, there was a noticeable sarcasm at the corner of your lips.

“Dr. Crane?”

The voice on the other end, as usual, was slow, shrill, and oozed a venom that seeped under the skin.

“Y/N…” he said.

“Hearing your voice… strange. A bit too strange.”

His tone was measured with politeness, but underneath, there was something else: uncontrolled jealousy.

“After the Arnold Wesker incident, we hadn’t heard from you. We should’ve been keeping you under surveillance, but… you vanished. I was wondering. Are you alright?”

You swallowed.

Your gaze shifted back to Bruce. He was still on the ground but slowly rising. The shadows still hung over his face like a veil.

“I’m fine,” you said, in a short and cold tone.

“I’ll be back tomorrow. I didn’t want to keep you waiting any longer.”

The silence from the other end stretched. Crane’s tone changed. It seemed like he had furrowed his brow, his teeth clenched, and a tense energy laced his words.

“May I ask where you are? It’s quite late…”

He paused.

“Are you alone? I’m still concerned you might be going through one of those crises again.” This was a huge lie.

When he asked you that, the temperature in the room seemed to shift. The possessiveness under his voice both disgusted and excited you at the same time.

You smiled. This time, sharper, more theatrical, almost like a knife.

“I’m not alone,” you said, locking eyes with Bruce.

“I’m with Bruce.”

The silence on the phone this time… felt like a hum. And then Crane’s voice… was lower. More guttural.

“Bruce Wayne…” he said slowly.

“The place you thought you should be.” Then, in almost an inaudible whisper, he muttered: “Of course, he thinks you belong to him.”

“What did you say?”

You didn’t try to hide the anger in your voice. But he only smiled, you could feel it.

“Nothing,” he said. “I was just wondering about you.

I hope… you have a peaceful sleep tonight.”

But his last sentence ended like a threat.

“In your dreams, you can’t choose whose shadow will be there.”

Then, before the phone hung up, it cut off. There was a hum left behind. And a chill on your skin, as if a pair of eyes were still watching you from behind.

Bruce had gotten up. Even though you tried to distance yourself with your gaze, your eyes were still locked with his. But Bruce didn’t say anything. Maybe he had heard the change in tone. Maybe he had just sensed it. But in that moment, you both understood something:

Crane not only wanted to possess your mind, but he also wanted to possess you. And Bruce wouldn’t accept that.

Now, there were two things he needed to protect you from: A man’s obsession… and another man’s repressed love.

As the cold, gray light of the morning seeped through the iron-barred windows of Arkham, the dampness clinging to the old stone walls made the place feel like a living grave. This was the other side of Gotham, a building that couldn’t warm even when the sun rose. It was as though the very front yard of hell was here.

As you approached the entrance door with heavy steps, unease gnawed at you. After what happened with Bruce last night, you hadn’t been able to sleep, and your mind wouldn’t quiet down. There was an indefinable weight on your chest, stretching all the way down to the tips of your fingers. Your fingers were cold. The wind, as it passed through your hair, seemed to whisper in your ear: “This place will change you.”

The moment you stepped through the outer gate of Arkham… the sound came. At first, it seemed like an echo, but no, it wasn’t an echo. It was real.

“GOD IS MINE!”

“I AM GOD! I AM THE BURNING LIGHT! AND HUGO STRANGE, HE IS MY PROPHET!”

The shout was so intense that it felt like the walls would crack. Staff members immediately began rushing about. A woman’s shrill voice echoed over the radio:

“All units: Security breach! Immediate redirection to the attic! Unit 3! Code Red!”

And you... just froze, only meters from the main entrance. Instinctively, you lifted your head, and at the top of the building, someone appeared at the railing. His feet were bare, and his body was covered with something written in blood. The words scratched into his skin didn’t seem to have been done with a pen, but with nails: “Savior,” “God,” “Enlightenment.”

A cross was carved into his face with cuts. His lips were torn. His eyes, those eyes were staring directly into yours. But he wasn’t seeing you. They were somewhere else.

He walked to the edge of the roof. Unsteady. But certain.

All the staff were gathered below now. Even Harleen Quinzel was there, watching in terror from a corner, yet doing nothing.

A nurse whispered as if praying, “Please… don’t jump.”

But the person, as if speaking not to you but to his created follower, shouted:

“DON’T CLOSE YOUR EYES!”

You instinctively took a step back. Your knees were shaking.

“DON’T CLOSE THEM! YOU NEED TO SEE THIS! THERE’S A LIE IN YOUR EYES!”

And in that moment... He jumped.

You couldn’t close your eyes. Because truly… not being able to see was worse than imagining.

The sound of the fall... first cut through the wind. Then came the sound of a body crashing to the ground, with a weight so heavy that the bones couldn’t bear it.

Thud.

Then immediately after, that sharp sound...

Crack.

It was like the sound of a spine not being able to put itself back together.

Then, a higher-pitched, more gut-wrenching sound:

“CRACK.”

You immediately realized that was the sound of the skull hitting the ground. Because even though your mind didn’t want to accept it, your body knew.

A warm, metallic scent of blood filled your nostrils. Your stomach tingled. It felt empty.

The world seemed to fall out from under your legs. And then... you began to tremble.

Your hands shook, but you couldn’t stop it. Your teeth were chattering. This wasn’t from the cold.

It was the first time... you had heard someone die.

Seeing it with your eyes was different. But the sound... that sound shattered not just your eardrums, but your very soul.

There you were, in the stomach of Arkham, unable to do anything but stand still.

Only trembling.

Something was caught in your throat. Your eyes were full, but you couldn’t even cry.

Because crying wasn’t weakness right now.

Crying was proof that you were still human.

A staff member was trying to cover the body on the ground. Hugo Strange silently watched everything unfold, his glasses hiding any trace of emotion. But the man who had screamed his name “prophet” was him.

This opened another crack in your mind. And you... were still standing in the same place.

On your feet, but broken. With a single sentence echoing in your mind: “What if one day, I’m the one on that rooftop?”

And then, in that moment, a sudden touch... a hand. Cold but sharp. It grabbed your arm. And pulled you through the crowd, through a door filled with echoes.

When the door closed, the light didn’t go out, but the world stayed outside.

You were still trembling. Not just with your body... but with your mind.

But when you turned your eyes, you saw that look:

Jonathan Crane.

There was no panic in his eyes. No sorrow either. And for the first time, there was warmth in his coldness. The master of fear, in that moment, was just a man.

Looking at you. Seeing you.

“Y/N...” There was a strange softness in his voice. “The question of whether you’re okay would be silly. But... can you breathe?”

The words caught in your throat. But you nodded slightly. He accepted it as an answer.

He didn’t approach you right away.

He sat on a chair a few steps away. His coat was still on, but his tie was loosened. The bones of his wrist were visible under the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt; he noticed that you noticed them.

“What you just witnessed...” he said slowly, his voice blending with the dust particles in the room. “The primal form of trauma. A fragmentation. The moment when reality walks over your mind. And you... you’re familiar with this, aren’t you?”

You shivered. Just from that word: “Familiar.”

It was as if he had stripped you bare. It was as if he knew what was inside you. You swallowed.

“I… I’ve… I’ve been through it before…”

Your voice cracked.

The words didn’t want to leave your breath, like a guilty fugitive. But Jonathan Crane gently tilted his head. Not like a therapist. Like someone who hides a secret. And he whispered: “You don’t have to tell me. But if you give me the pieces... I can put them together.”

He reached out to you. His fingers lightly touched your wrist. Neither too strong nor too weak... A perfect movement of control. Not to touch. But to feel.

“This didn’t shake you for the first time, did it?” he said.

You tilted your head slightly. Your back was against the wall. You couldn’t keep your body upright anymore. And only your lips moved:

“My father…” And then you stopped. But he didn’t interrupt like a therapist. He waited. When your voice trembled, he simply listened. “My father... used to torture me with puppets. Before he took his life. He made them speak as if they were alive. If I didn’t do what they said, they’d hit me. If I didn’t respond... they’d speak. They... they always looked at me. I mean, before he committed suicide. But I'd never seen anyone commit suicide before."

Your voice cracked. Your eyes filled with tears. But this time, the tears didn’t fall. Because crying would require feeling safe.

And strangely... you felt safe while being beside Crane in that moment. Because he was the one who pulled you into his arms when you were triggered by Arnold Wesker's puppet. The one who pulled you away when you saw a man’s suicide.

Finally, when your body gave way and slumped, he didn’t get up and immediately come closer. You had fixed your eyes on a single point.

“Then Bruce took me in. And the puppets stopped speaking.”

And in that moment... there was almost an imperceptible pause in Jonathan Crane's breathing. But you felt it.

He acted as if he hadn’t. But you noticed his jaw tightening as you felt the tension in his shoulder.

You continued to speak, innocently:

“He gave me a real room. He let me choose my own bookshelf. For the first time... I could hear my own voice. Bruce never... yelled at me. Once, when I screamed in fear, he just held me. Without saying anything... he just held me. And in that moment... I realized for the first time, I wasn’t anyone’s puppet.”

Jonathan Crane’s jaw moved just a millimeter. But his expression was still calm. Cold-blooded. Only... his pupils had darkened slightly.

“Bruce Wayne... found you when you were broken, didn’t he? What a great favor. What a noble man. How... compassionate. How... unreachable.”

He smiled at you. But beneath that smile, there was something else. A kind of resentment. "Bruce loves you." Then, he looked directly into your eyes. This time, it was very close. And he asked that question:

“But did Bruce really save you from these nightmares, Y/N? Or do the puppets still watch you at night?”

The slowness in his voice was like hypnosis. He wasn’t selling you anything. He was offering you a truth, or making it seem like he was.

But his voice drew nearer:

“Y/N... your mind is still a battlefield. And the ammunition in that battle is sounds. Smells. Reflections. But that battle... it can end.”

You slowly tilted your head. Your fingers still trembled on your wrist. And then, at that moment, the moment you lost control, you wanted to hug him to take refuge.

For the first time, an embrace felt like it was there to heal you, not break you. When you let yourself fall into his chest, he didn’t immediately hold you. But within a few seconds... his hands met at your back. And there, listening to the beat of his heart, a whisper came to your ear. Almost like a spell:

“Do you want all of this to pass, Y/N? Do you want the puppets you see when you close your eyes at night... to stay silent forever?”

You held your breath. Because that question wasn’t aimed at you, but at the child inside you. But what really scared you... wasn’t the answer being yes.

It was the fact that the answer was yes, and that he already knew it. But then Jonathan tilted his head.

Your cheeks were so close. And almost like giving away a secret, he whispered near your ear:

“Then... I’ll make you an offer. But this... will be a secret just between us. Only between you and me. If you accept... from now on... every night... you’ll see me instead of them.”

Under the dark and grey Gotham sky, Wayne Manor stood tall as always.

When you got out of the taxi, your hands were still trembling. The moment you stepped onto the stone steps, you didn't seek warmth but only the silence of this place.

Without needing to ring the bell, the door opened. And that familiar voice added a touch of warmth to the cold evening air:

“Welcome, Miss Y/N. I was worried you were late.” Alfred. There was a deeper attention in his eyes tonight.

Your face... unusually pale. Your eyes still lingered on the figure on the edge of the roof. The echo of cracking bones was still in your ears, and the scream was stuck in your throat.

You clenched your jaw. And then, without thinking, you stepped forward. You rested your head on Alfred’s chest and hugged him.

"Someone... jumped in front of my eyes today." Your voice was nearly choked. “He really died. The sound of his bones... God, Alfred. I’ve never... seen anything like that.”

Alfred paused for a moment. Then, one hand on your shoulder, the other gently pressing on the back of your hair, he held you.

“I saw bodies in the midst of war in my youth. But you don’t get used to corpses, Miss Y/N. What you get used to... is how to carry the silence after them.”

You closed your eyes. At that moment... you just wanted to stay in the embrace. Pretend nothing had happened. And just then... a voice came from inside.

A woman’s voice. Mixed with the sound of high heels hitting the stone floor. And that voice... was familiar. “Bruce, I think I left that file in the car. If it’s still there, could you get it?”

Charlotte Rivers.

It felt like an needle piercing your chest. Suddenly, your face tensed. Slowly, you pulled away from Alfred’s chest. You lifted your chin slightly. But you weren’t thinking about the man who jumped anymore. “Is she here?” Your voice was cold. “Bruce. Charlotte Rivers. In the same house. In the same... atmosphere. Again?”

Alfred lowered his head. He made way for you to enter. “While waiting for your return, I suppose... he chose to keep himself busy.” Alfred’s voice was controlled, but his eyes didn’t leave you.

You stepped inside. Just behind the stone wall at the corner, a shadow moved. Charlotte’s silhouette briefly appeared. You turned to Alfred. Your inner voice was full of anger, but your lips curled into a sarcastic smile. “You know, Alfred... in such a big house... not needing to strain your ears to hear the ‘other woman’... really messes with your psychology.”

Alfred simply watched you. And then, he quietly closed the door. “If the other woman’s identity is unclear, Miss Wayne... then the problem is not with Master Bruce.”

You paused. You glanced at his face lightly. And then, despite yourself, you smiled. Like a child, you scrunched your face and sighed with fake joy.

“Sure, Alfred. Great advice. I’m definitely not jealous.” Then, you added sarcastically, pursing your lips: “Besides, Bruce is definitely not obsessed with Charlotte’s legs. Hah.”

You turned your head and began walking toward the stairs, your unease creaking like an old door on the left side of your chest.

The sound of silver forks clinking on the plate echoed through the vaulted ceiling of the stone hall. Wayne Manor’s dining room was just as it should be, grand, noble, but cold enough for only strangers to sit in. When you entered... the sound of your heels echoed like a ripple through the room.

All heads turned toward you. But only one pair of eyes... blinked in sync with yours: Bruce Wayne.

In those eyes, there was a fatherly concern, a teacher-like focus, but most of all, there was an uncontainable confession: “You’re here... I can breathe again.”

Under the weight of a father’s pride for his child, and a man’s dangerous desire for a woman, he was suffocating.

As he looked at you, a softening appeared at the corner of his lips. But it wasn’t a smile. It was a resignation, on the edge of the anger he held inside.

“Y/N,” he said, standing up. “You’re late. I was worried.”

In that moment, you stood still.

Bruce’s eyes enveloped you from head to toe. But this wasn’t desire, or at least, he was lying to himself. This was a secret he had nurtured...

You tilted your head slightly.

“A patient declared himself a god. Then... jumped from the roof. When he hit the ground... everything went silent. So did I. I just wanted to walk a bit after work and clear my head.”

Charlotte Rivers gracefully brought her wine glass to her lips. She was smiling. But the curve of her lips was tight, like that of a predator.

“God, you must have had such a terrible day! But look, you’re here. Safe. Now, you should pull yourself together with this lovely meal, right Bruce?”

Charlotte’s voice was too loud, too concerned. Her eyes were fake. As if she truly cared about you. But in her gaze, you saw only one thing: A woman watching you too closely in a world that wasn’t yours. You smiled coldly.

The dishes were unveiled.

Before you, in silver servers, there was lamb shank served on a bed of polenta, with blood-red wine on the side. You sat down at the table.

Bruce’s eyes never left you. For a moment, he thought: If you got up from this table and walked over to him, placed your hand under the table on his knee... he wouldn’t be able to stop you.

“Y/N...” His voice was heavy, calm. “I don’t want to see you like this again. Understand? This city... it eats some souls. You won’t be among them.”

You slightly turned your head. And just then, Charlotte placed her silver knife back on the table. “Bruce, don’t be so emotional. You are her... bodyguard, aren't you already?” The tone of that sentence didn’t only hurt you.

As you reached for your fork, you whispered softly, “I’m not under his protection. I’m here... not because of his decisions, but because of my own choices.”

Charlotte took another sip of wine. She furrowed her brows while watching you. And she slightly tilted her head.

“I like your courage. I hope... it doesn’t cost you too much.”

It wasn’t a threat. But a reminder. And you simply smiled. And now, as Charlotte took a sip from her wine, Bruce was only watching you.

“You know, Charlotte,” you said, slowly placing your knife next to the plate, “women like you… while trying to teach others manners, the only thing they actually do is serve their own insecurities on a silver platter.”

The threatening glint in Charlotte’s eyes didn’t fade for a moment, but it definitely became fixed. As she stared into your eyes, the fingers swirling the wine in her glass moved just a little faster.

But you continued. With a calm tone, almost as if you were enjoying it:

“If this... if my courage is going to cost me something, let’s first see who’s footing the bill. Everyone at this table stands to lose a lot. But some of us... never had anything to win.”

Bruce’s eyes were on you. The lines at the corners of his eyes were tense. Was it pride? Desire? Or that familiar, cursed feeling created by never having seen you like this before?

As for Charlotte... she smiled.

But this smile was in a different tone this time.

Cold.

Icy.

Poisonous.

“Were you like this when you were little, Y/N? Were you always so toxic at every dinner table?”

You leaned back in your chair, casually shrugging your shoulder as you turned your gaze toward Bruce.

Your eyes seemed to say, “Did I say something?” But your heart... Your heart was about to burst.

While the food on your plate was still steaming, you folded your cloth napkin and placed it silently at the edge of the table. The sharp squeak of your chair moving back sliced through the air, splitting the atmosphere of the room like a knife. Without saying anything, you stood up. You didn’t look at Charlotte. Not at Bruce either.

You simply walked away. From the dining room, to the dark hallways. From the hallways, to the back room where the cool stone walls echoed. And from there, out through the French double doors, into the drizzling night garden.

The moonlight was like a wound trembling in the sky. And you… were now alone with the most broken part of yourself. But that loneliness didn’t last long.

The sound of footsteps behind you, heavy, steady, rhythmic… was Bruce’s footsteps.

As soon as you heard them, you wrapped your arms around yourself. Not from the cold, but as if protecting yourself from yourself.

“Y/N...” His voice was deep, slow, and cautious. “The way you’re acting… is not appropriate.”

You just tilted your head slightly and said, “After what she said to me, Bruce, this was the only thing I could do.”

At that moment, he grabbed your arm. Slowly but firmly. Like a father… yes, that’s how it looked to outsiders. But when you felt his hands on your wrist, your skin trembled.

Bruce turned you around. And for the first time, the tone in his voice sharpened. “These childish behaviors… don’t suit you. Even if Charlotte tried to provoke you, I know there’s more to you than this. Walking away… isn’t a solution.”

And then, that moment. The moment your knees trembled from the inside. Your eyes slowly turned to Bruce’s eyes. And your lips, for the first time, spoke without holding back.

“What about you? Why are you still sitting at the same table with her, Bruce? When she comes home, I tell myself to prepare before facing her. At night, when I go up to my room, I sing to myself to drown out the sound of her footsteps. Just so I don’t hear it. Just so… I don’t think you still love her.”

Your breath was now uneven. It was like the quiet struggle before a child starts crying. “But it doesn’t work, Bruce. No matter what you do, no matter how much you stay away… I fall more in love with you every day, and it hurts. I beg you, stop living your love for her in front of my eyes.”

“I’ve memorized the sound of this house. The muffled sound of your fingers tapping on the tea cup at night… the morning scent left by the shaving cologne in the bathroom…”

And finally, you took a step. Slowly, but fearlessly. You leaned against his chest. Wrapped your arms around his waist, as if for the first time, like a child embracing.

“This love… is like a curse. But I... I’ve committed the greatest betrayal, Bruce. Because you took me in to protect me, like a child... But while you were trying to heal me, I... desired you. And now... I feel tainted by this love. I feel like I’ve stained you by loving you.”

He simply stayed silent. Bruce Wayne’s iron-willed silence was like a psychiatric wall, suppressing the decaying words inside. But in his mind, the words were screaming.

When he first saw you, he didn’t give you a home… he gave you himself. But back then, he didn’t understand. He only thought he wanted to protect you. He saw the emptiness inside you… and thought he could fill it. But that emptiness slowly took his place. And now… there’s something of yours in his eyes.

A secret. A sin. A longing.

Bruce Wayne’s inner voice: “Saying ‘I love you’ to you… will destroy me. But not saying it… is destroying you. Which sin should I choose, Y/N? Should I steal your youth, or should I steal you from me?”

Bruce didn’t let you go. But he didn’t embrace you either. He just waited. For the entire house... Gotham... the heart of it all... to change with a single sentence. But the storm inside you... still hadn’t calmed down.

Location: Arkham Asylum – Dr. Jonathan Crane’s Private Laboratory

Time: One day after the suicide incident, evening

The laboratory... was more like the temple of a disturbance than a clinic.

Located at the lowest level of Arkham, it could be reached after climbing those rusty spiral stairs that no one wanted to descend. This space, once used as a morgue, had been reborn in Crane's hands. But there was no life here, only the home of Crane's obsessive fixations.

The plaster on the walls had peeled, and the beams were exposed. The lights weren’t sterile fluorescents; they flickered in an ancient yellow. Paintings hung on the walls, but none were pictures; they were nightmare-like notes pinned to white cardboard, images of imagination... And in the center, instead of a bed, there was a metal "rest unit" that resembled an old dental chair. Surrounding it were soundproof speakers, a diffuser system, projectors with three different fields of effect, and subliminal alignment panels... Everything needed to destabilize a mind’s structure.

You, wearing the newly provided sterile white clothes, hesitated as you sat at the edge of this unit. You didn’t look stylish, but you were forcing yourself to come here not as someone undergoing an experiment, but as someone seeking healing. That rooftop incident earlier that morning had shown you the limit you could no longer endure.

The nightmares had shapeshifted. And if Crane’s "method" worked, yes, you wanted this.

Your feet touched the ground, but your head was still in the air. And just then, the door opened.

You recognized the footsteps.

Jonathan Crane.

---

Crane’s Mind (internal monologue):

His voice is still echoing in your mind, isn’t it, Y/N? The scream of that man at the edge of the rooftop. I chose him. To declare his divinity. A drugged, guided, triggered mind. And as you lived this... your body is still trembling.

This is a perfect ground. A void. Now I can replace the voice inside you... with my own. A few trigger words. Some frequencies. Breaking the enemy image. Decaying the hero image. And then... when night comes, I will find you. I will awaken inside you.

---

Crane came to the side of the chair. His tie was a little loose, and the collar of his shirt was folded. It seemed as though he had hurriedly prepared, but this was a calculated mess.

He looked into your eyes. This time, the lenses of his glasses didn’t reflect. There was only the darkness itself.

He smiled with professional warmth. “You look better,” he said. “There’s still fear in your eyes, but... that’s a good thing. It means your mind is still resisting.”

As he approached you, he knelt down and adjusted the metal ankle cuffs. He didn’t touch your skin with his hands, but he was so close that you could feel the heat of his fingers on your skin. And at that moment, his voice whispered in your ear like a shadow:

“I won’t hurt you, Y/N. I promise. I just want to pull you out of here, out of this puppet theater.”

You pulled back slightly. Your body language was showing that you didn’t fully like him.

At that moment... his eyes hardened for a brief second. But immediately, he put on a scientific smile.

“Or is there something else you are afraid of, other than the puppet?"

There was nothing in his voice. But everything was there.

You didn’t answer him. But your body’s tiny reactions were more than enough for him.

With something slyly stirring inside him, he stood up and moved closer.

“You trust me, don’t you?” he asked, like a hypnosis.

And you paused for a moment.

“I have no other option,” you said quietly. “The nightmares... they’re getting worse.”

He nodded. There seemed to be a gleam of victory in his eyes.

“That’s exactly why I can help you, Y/N. But first... you must let your mind talk to me. Not your eyes. Not your hands. The quietest place inside you... must open to me.”

Finally, you laid down. Dr. Crane bound your wrists and ankles with cuffs. Then, he touched the back of your neck. Cold, but careful.

He combed your hair back; the electrode headband was placed on either side of your head.

He purposely touched your neck, your shoulders. But his interest wasn’t just medical; it was possessive, because he was curious about your reactions.

You slightly tilted your head, showing your discomfort. And he noticed. But his smile didn’t waver by a millimeter. He... was expecting this. Because he knew the full interest hadn’t yet begun.

When he put the Diffuser mask on your mouth, a gas started to be released. Your knees were slightly bent, your head falling to the side. Your pale face was on the brink of a nightmare yet to fall.

Your mind may have been awake, but you were already starting to drift from consciousness, the neuro-muscular blocking drug kicking in. At that moment, with your head tilted back, you whispered softly:

“Bruce...”

Very quietly.

This word traveled as a burning jealousy through Crane’s veins. But he didn’t show it. He smiled. Slowly, he moved closer to you. And with his fingertips, he touched your cheek.

“Bruce...” he repeated. His voice was like ice. “When I’m done with you, you’ll never speak that name again, my little anomaly.”

---

He dimmed the room slightly. The diffuser started releasing gas from the mask at a nearly undetectable level. This new formula didn’t induce fear, but instead, it thinned the veil between consciousness and the subconscious. It contained substances that would gently stimulate dopamine receptors: Salsolinol, phenethylamine, and microdoses of hallucinogenic particles.

When he activated the headband, the lights in the lab dimmed to a faint glow. Extra soundproofing was activated.

Slowly, some frequencies were fed into your headphones. The subconscious gate... was opening.

“We’re not at the breaking point anymore,” he murmured to himself. “Now is the reshaping moment.”

Meanwhile, on his monitor, your heart rate, pupil dilation, and micro-muscular group activations were being recorded.

And Dr. Crane... watched you.

He watched the inside of your mind. Then, he whispered the first word.

“Touch.”

The tone of the waves changed.

“Shadow.”

Another vibration came.

“Trust.”

Immediately after.

“Crane.”

All these words were being placed to form connections that you might randomly encounter during the day, but would only associate with Crane.

He added a second serum to your intravenous line, a formula of his own creation. It didn’t have a name, at least not officially.

The drug acted directly on the hippocampus and amygdala areas of your brain. Not thoughts, but shaping emotional memory. Because falling in love with someone isn’t a matter of reason, but emotional imprinting.

Then he left the words behind. At that moment... he leaned in. He held your hair between his fingers and combed it back.

He softly repeated: “You’re not alone. The puppets that once watched you are gone. When you close your eyes, there’s a voice in the dark... And that voice... is Jonathan Crane. The only place you’re safe. Jonathan Crane. The only voice that won’t harm you. Jonathan Crane.”

He noticed your cheeks twitching.

A muscle twitched between your brows. Your lips barely moved. "... I don’t want this." Your reactions were millimetric. But he saw it, he understood you.

He couldn’t have applied the drug improperly. But at that moment, he realized: It wasn’t your body resisting, but your soul.

“You want it... but you’re still resisting. This... is so human,” he said, with a satisfied smile. Like victory. Then, he leaned in. He pressed his nose gently against your forehead. And whispered: “Day by day, you’ll want to embrace me. Because I... am the only one who will stitch the mouths of those puppets shut.”

But at that moment... he had entered your mind for the first time. Because for a moment, you thought that every time you heard his voice, you would feel safer.

---

When your mind first began to seep through the mist, you couldn't quite understand where you were. You realized you were being dragged along the thin line between dream and reality. The world you awoke to was wrapped in a silence that had fallen into darkness — the ceiling light had not been turned on; only the flickering blue glow from the machines in the corner vaguely revealed the room’s contours.

Your eyes were heavy, your head numb. Your mind was still chasing a dream, but your body had already begun to wake.

And then... you felt that hand.

It wasn’t warm. But it wasn’t exactly cold either. Strangely measured, unhesitant, confident. The fingertips moved along the edge of your cheek, just beneath your jaw. The touch was light, yet pressing. As if it wanted to reach not only beneath your skin, but deeper, much deeper.

Before your eyes could fully open, you heard a deep breath drawn very close to your ear.

You weren’t afraid. Not yet.

When your eyelids lifted, a blurry silhouette entered your field of vision. A raised collar. A dark-colored lab coat. And then, those familiar eyes. Dr. Jonathan Crane.

He was at your bedside. Very close. He watched you not like a patient, but like a secret. A hypothesis. A dream. A sin.

“You're awake,” he said in a low voice. As if he feared speaking louder would break some kind of spell. “Your pupils are responsive now. Pulse is stable. Breathing is normal.” He was speaking in statistics, but… that finger was still moving along your jaw. He didn’t need any medical instruments, he was measuring you himself.

When your eyes met his, you felt a flicker inside. For a moment… it felt warm. But before you could place what kind of warmth it was, an instinctive shiver ran down your spine. And in that moment, you became aware of the fingers touching your skin.

The hand that had slid down from your jaw was now at your neck. His thumb was making slow, circular motions just above your carotid artery. As if he wasn’t measuring your pulse — but your desire. As if… he wanted to claim you.

“The first session,” he murmured, “went better than I expected, Y/N.” He was like a god admiring you from within the universe of his own mind. You had already fallen into his world.

You turned your head slightly, trying to gather yourself. You averted your gaze. But that hand didn’t let go. It only changed position.

“Y/N…” he said again, slower this time, softer. “Tell me how you felt. Inside… what did you see?”

“I…” you began, your voice still echoing in your throat like a broken record. It hadn’t fully settled yet. “I don’t remember anything.”

You could now feel the places his body touched yours like a map etched into your skin.

You raised your hand and gently moved Crane’s hand away from your neck. Not forcefully, but with clear intent. Then you turned your head to the side, making a move to get up.

“Thank you,” you said, forcing the words from your lips. “For your… help.”

Your tone was controlled. But inside you, screams echoed. You were just beginning to fully return to yourself, but one thing was clear: His interest in you… was not the kind you were used to.

It wasn’t professional.

It wasn’t even human.

When you stood up, your head spun for a moment. But you recovered. You wanted to walk away without even glancing back at the bed.

Crane remained behind, but his eyes didn’t leave you.

The sentence that echoed silently inside him followed you:

“At night, you'll return to me in your dreams. You'll wake up with trembling, sweaty hands. And in the real world, no one will ever know you that well.”