a nobody

“What made me interested—” And right in the middle of your interview with the hiring manager, the office door slammed open.

A woman that seemed to be in their late twenties or early thirties, long gorgeous blonde curls stumbled in, red-eyed and shaking, sobbing so hard her words broke apart as she begged you not to work here.

“THE CEO IS AN ABSOLUTE SHITHEAD—”

“Ma’am you need to lea—”

“Do not work with that sorry-excuse of a MAN!”

“Alright, that’s it—”

“Get your hands off of me NOW! I AM SAVING THAT POOR GIRL—” Security dragged her away while she kicked and cried, and the hiring manager cleared their throat like they were trying to swallow an entire cough drop.

“Anyway…” they awkwardly moved on.

Yikes didn’t even begin to cover it.

After the interview, you just went back to your life. You were cleaning your apartment, keeping your mind busy with chores the next few days, binge-watching a series, and applying to different jobs. Honestly, You kind of assumed that you weren’t going to get the job after that happened, I mean would you hire someone after that interruption? Yeah. After that incident, there was no way they were calling you back.

“I mean, that was the craziest thing I’ve ever experienced, and I just moved here!” You said loudly, half–talking over the sizzle of the pan as you stirred your dinner with one hand and kept an AirPod tucked in the other ear. “What do you expect, babe? You moved from Star City on the west coast all the way to the east coast.” Chelsea’s voice crackled lightly through your AirPod.

You glanced at your phone on the counter. The FaceTime screen showed your friend lounging on her couch in Metropolis, her hair tied up and a mug in her hand, looking far too comfortable compared to the chaos you had walked into this week. Her eyebrows were raised like she already knew you were regretting the relocation.

“You should’ve just come with me to Metropolis, I don’t know why you decided to end up in Gotham, New Jersey. For god sake's, have you seen the crime rate!?” You snort, rolling your eyes.

“I’d rather see dumbass people try to get into my nice apartment and not my whole ass apartment blown away by some creature from another planet—”

“Oh please! At least one of them erases the problem easily!” You frowned at that.

Okay. Maybe she got you there.

“Doesn’t Metropolis rip in half like every once a month—” Chelsea cut you a look through the screen, lifting her mug like she was preparing to smack you with it through FaceTime. Her expression said don’t even start, which you replied with your hands up in surrender, your spatula raised with it.

“Where’d you even apply, anyways?”

You shrugged and kept stirring your food. “I don’t even know. I applied to a bunch of companies, but I think the interview I actually went to was at Wayne Enterprises.”

Silence.

A dangerous, heavy silence.

“Are you dumb—!?”

“Chill! I have my AirPods in!” you shouted back, flinching from the raise of her voice. Chelsea let out a long, exhausted sigh that somehow felt like a lecture.

“Which position did you apply for?”

“…personal assistant?”

She immediately screamed your full government name, and you winced so hard your shoulders nearly hit your ears.

You decided to turn her volume down.

“Are you just going to keep screaming at me without actually telling me what’s wrong with applying there?” you snapped, waving your spatula like it could shield you from her judgment.

Chelsea grumbled, pure disappointment settling into every line of her face. “I cannot believe you live under a rock. Damian Wayne. One of the youngest, successful, and arguably the hottest CEO in the country— not my type, but his father is, he’s a standard DILF in my book and will always be in my heart. Ring any bells?”

You blinked.

Slowly.

Did she have to mention the fact her type is the CEO’s father?

“He is notorious for going through personal assistants,” she couldn’t believe your lack of knowledge while continuing. She gestures wildly with her mug with a click of her tongue. “Girl, they all leave within the first month, it’s all over Reddit! Constantly! And it’s not even because he fires them. They just cannot deal with him!”

“Not even the paycheck can make them stay in this economy?” Chelsea slapped her hand on the coffee table so hard her cat shot straight into the air and sprinted out of frame like it feared for its life.

“Not even the paycheck can make them stay in this economy!” She shouted, leaning so close to the camera you could see every stressed-out pore on her face.

“Well, it’s a good thing I won’t be hired then, right?” You begin to scoop your food into a bowl, turning the stove off while you listen to Chelsea relievingly sigh in approval, her shoulders relaxing when she recalls the story you’ve told her.

“Yeah, I doubt they’ll hire you since Goldilocks decided to save you from the trenches. You’re lucky you dodged a bullet.”

Chelsea was wrong.

The next day, you received an email from the poor hiring manager with stressed eye bags that showed straight through the concealer, informing you that you had been accepted for the job.

You stared at the screen.

You got the job.

You should reject it.

Yet, you’ve been rejected left and right.

And the salary was so good—

Chelsea’s vice echoes through your head, the warnings she has told you.

“They all leave within the first month!”

Well. If you’re expected to leave the first month, you might as well get your money and dip when it gets intolerable. I mean, like, fuck it, the worst you can do is ghost the job.

What’s the worst that can happen?

No one warned you.

Well, Chelsea technically warned you.

But, you knew he would be presentable, but not—

Not like this.

“Ah! There he is, this is your boss, Damian Wayne.”

He didn’t walk into the room so much as he cut through it like gravity pulled differently around him. Sharp posture, silent steps, and sharp narrowed eyes that hit you with the same force as a spotlight— green, but not soft. More like polished jade or a blade’s edge reflecting light. It spoke of calculation, assessing, and it felt so direct when it landed on you.

It felt like getting pinned to a corkboard.

His face was almost unfair.

They were clean, symmetrical, and sharp lines. He had a strong jaw that looked like it had been carved deliberately.

There was no boyish charm to him; he had the kind of beauty people hesitate to call beautiful because it sounds too delicate for someone who carries that much confidence. But handsome didn’t feel strong enough either. He was absolutely striking to look at, unattainable, and unforgettable. He had that kind of attractiveness that makes your brain lag for half a second while your mouth tries to remember how to say ‘hello.’

And his expression didn’t help.

He looked at you the way someone looks at a report they already expect to be disappointed by (it was awful), brows slightly drawn, and lips pressed flat in a line that made you painfully aware of just how nice his lips were, they were clearly well taken care of, moisturized and a hue of color on them.

His hair was annoyingly perfect too. Dark, thick, not a strand out of place, like it was styled by sheer discipline instead of product. The kind of hair you could imagine falling into his eyes if he let it grow even a little longer but he never would, of course.

Then there was the way he dressed: crisp, tailored, so flawlessly put-together that you suddenly felt underdressed in clothes you had ironed twice in your blouse and your slacks. He didn’t even have to try; he just existed and the room rearranged itself around him.

But the worst part?

He didn’t even seem aware of how attractive he was. Or maybe he was and just didn’t care.

He looked at you, held your gaze for a fraction too long, and said flat, cool, and without so much as a greeting.

“Um, it’s nice to meet you, I’m your—”

“Tt, I know who you are. You’re the new assistant. HR must be desperate nowadays. You look like someone they scraped off the bottom of the applicant pile.”

Your first impression of Damian Wayne?

You want to absolutely kill him.

Surely you misheard him. Right?

Surely no living person with a functioning sense of self-preservation would say that out loud. Right?

But no. Damian Wayne just stood there, expression carved from ice, like your existence itself was an inconvenience he was being forced to endure.

You inhaled slowly through your nose.

“I—” You forced your voice to stay even.

“I’m here to make your schedule easier, Mr. Wayne.”

“Good,” he plainly said with a monotone voice, already brushing past you like you were a piece of office furniture. “I don’t have expectations for you to stay here longer than a month, so don’t try too hard as a temporary assistant, they always do.”

Your eye twitched.

This aggravating piece of shit—

He stopped at his desk, not even glancing back before gesturing to a stack of folders that’s on his desk.

“Organize these by priority and competency.” He paused, glancing briefly at your figure.

“Assuming you’re capable of both.” You wore the most corporate expression you’ve ever worn in your life, a face that felt like you wanted to shatter yourself and slap the shit out of him. “Of course,” you said sweetly with the fakest smile you’ve ever worn on your life.

Venomously sweet.

“I’ll handle it.” You knew he could hear that sickening sweet fake voice.

“Good.” He simply stated, sighing before he shooed you away. “Try to keep up.”

You didn’t trust yourself to respond.

Not with words. Not with sounds.

You swallowed every snarky comment sitting on your tongue, because nothing in that office could legally be used against you in a workplace lawsuit. Instead, you scooped up the stack of folders he shoved into your arms and marched out before your own mouth created problems your paycheck could not fix.

God, you needed this job.

The salary alone was enough to chain you here for at least a few weeks, maybe even longer if your spite stayed strong. A traitorous part of you even considered turning this into a personal challenge. If you had to endure the daily torment of working for Damian Wayne, then fine. You would survive this place. You would outlast his attitude. You would make it to the one month mark just to prove a point.

And before you finally walked out of this corporate purgatory, you would leave a little surprise in his office, something truly unforgettable, something that would remind him that you had been here. The door shut behind you with a soft click that somehow felt like it saved your life.

The hiring manager trailed after you like a ghost fleeing the scene of a violent crime. Their footsteps were rushed, panicked, like they were afraid Damian might call them back inside if they didn’t move fast enough. They had been completely silent during the encounter, which— given what just happened— felt like its own form of apology.

Or guilt.

You didn’t speak at first.

You needed a second.

Your soul needed a second.

Your blood pressure needs at least 30 seconds.

Finally, once you’d made it a safe distance down the hall, far enough that Damian can’t hear the rattling cage of your heart that wanted to scream at him.

You exhaled.

“…Okay,” you muttered, gripping the folders so tightly they crinkled. You’re going to need to find different folders if they end up creased.

“So that happened.”

The hiring manager let out a strangled sound that might have been a laugh. It might’ve been a whimper. It was hard to tell. “That,” they said, “was… one of his better mornings.” You stared at them in stunned silence.

They avoided eye contact, shoulders tensed like someone with chronic fight-or-flight syndrome. “I hoped he’d be in a good mood today. He had coffee. And a board meeting went well. Usually that helps.”

“That was him in a good mood?”

They nodded, grimly. “Comparatively.”

You stared down the hallway toward Damian’s office door, half expecting it to burst open again just to finish you off.

Honestly? You kind of hoped he would. At least then you could be the first assistant in Wayne Enterprises history to get fired in under ten minutes.

But no.

You were still employed. And you wanted so badly to prove that dickhead wrong.

“Don’t take it personally,” the hiring manager mentions quickly, hands fluttering like they were trying to calm a spooked animal. “He’s usually like that! I mean, not worse, but not better either.” They winced at their own explanation. “Here, let me… let me just take you to your office.”

You followed with the folders clutched to your chest. Your inch-heels clicked softly against the sleek hallway floors, each step a quiet reminder that you were officially in too deep to turn back.

The office around you was alive in that overwhelming, corporate-machine kind of way. Murmurs drifted from half-open doors, printers whirred like they were running for their lives, phones rang nonstop, and people in tailored suits rushed past with urgent expressions and coffee cups that looked dangerously full.

It was the kind of place where everyone seemed to be moving toward something important.

Except you.

You were just trying not to drop the folders or spontaneously combust. You adjusted your grip, inhaled slowly, and forced yourself to match the hiring manager’s brisk pace.

Every passing face glanced at you, all of them were curious, sympathetic, or simply entertained by the existence of a new victim. The looks were so blatant you started to wonder if there was a running office bet on how long you’d last. If there was, you were absolutely putting your money on surviving a month.

A month and a day. And an extra minute just to spite all of them.

You were going to get through this.

You were going to make it through the first month, even if you hated your boss with the intensity of a thousand suns. If not out of ambition…

Then out of pure, unadulterated spite.

Within an hour, you’ve finally settled into your new office, which was far too large for any normal personal assistant, you began plotting. Every drawer, every neatly stacked folder, every perfectly lined pen became part of your mission to prove him wrong.

You were going to arrive early, organize everything to perfection, and carry yourself with the righteous fury of someone determined to weaponize competence.

You were going to be the best goddamn assistant he had for a month!

You’re going to look him in the eye, tell him to eat fuckin’ shit, and walk out of his office with your dignity intact and his pride dented.

Except.

This is going to be really awkward.

You have been his personal assistant for three months.

Chelsea sits across from you in a high-end Gotham café, the kind of place with marble tables, velvet chairs, and coffee so expensive it feels like a personal attack. It is a luxury you can finally afford thanks to the absurdly generous salary that comes with being Damian Wayne’s personal assistant.

“So what’s been up with you—”

Once she settles into her seat, you launch into the whole story, unpacking every chaotic detail of your first week under the city’s most insufferable, sharp-tongued, walking stress migraine of a boss while she gaped at you, even she choked on her coffee once you mentioned the fact you were originally going to plan to tell your boss to eat shit!

“You have been keeping this from me for months!?”

Chelsea nearly shrieks, her voice shooting up enough that you can practically picture her cat back home sprinting under the nearest piece of furniture in self-defense. She drags a hand through her hair with the kind of exasperation that suggests she is seconds away from either combusting or demanding financial reparations for emotional distress.

“I thought you worked at a different company! I thought you didn’t get the Wayne job!” You flinch and lean forward, shushing her as a few nearby patrons glance over with raised eyebrows.

“I’m sorry! Trust me, I am surprised too!” You exclaimed in a quieter voice, pinching the bridge of your nose before your nerves started leaking out of your mouth. “I thought you would have seen it on the news or Reddit. People keep making threads about Damian Wayne’s personal assistant. Me! I am the longest assistant he has ever had.”

Chelsea just stares.

It is the kind of stare reserved for witnessing small miracles, natural disasters, or an animal walking into a Walmart wearing a vest.

“He hasn’t fired you,” she says.

“He hasn’t fired me,” you repeat.

“Not yet.”

“Hopefully not.”

Chelsea sighs, not out of dialing but exaggeration. “At least it pays you well, right?”

“It does, it pays really well actually.” You point to your bracelet, displaying Tiffany and co., that you were surprised to even purchase with the first paycheck that came in, it could cover your rent, car insurance, and two months worth of groceries!

Chelsea hums.

“Well, it’s been a few months now, why haven’t you left your boss if you hate him, babe?”

Well. Things have changed.

You fiddled with your drink, turning the cup in slow circles before lifting it to your lips. The moment you glanced off to the side, pretending to admire the ridiculously pretentious light fixtures or the overpriced pastries behind the counter, you knew you were done for. Chelsea had known you for years.

She could read you like a billboard on a highway.

Her eyes narrowed. “That,” she said, pointing her straw at you like a weapon, “is your I am hiding something face.”

“I’m not hiding anything!”

“That’s your lying voice too.”

You groaned, slumping your shoulders. “I don’t wanna tell you.” You leaned against your arm on the table with a frown, looking at her with the most depressing gaze ever.

She sighs.

“Tell me, what’s wrong.” You mumbled incoherent words that she couldn’t catch.

“It can’t be that bad, but you gotta tell me clearly, babe.”

“I said I like him,” you folded your arms together against the table, slowly hiding your face while you looked at your friend.

Chelsea froze, processing your words slowly.

For a full three seconds, she did not blink, breathe, or otherwise behave like a living organism. Then she leaned forward, squinting at you like you had just confessed to worshipping a fantasy character.

“You what.”

You pulled your arms in tighter, sinking into yourself like you could physically escape the consequences of your own admission.

“I like him,” you repeated, quieter this time, feeling a burn on your neck and the tip of your ears, and your cheeks as well.

Was it getting hotter in this cafe?

Chelsea slapped both hands on the table so hard the silverware rattled. “You have got to be kidding me,” she hissed, keeping her voice just barely below a scream. “You like Damian Wayne?! THE Damian Wayne!? I thought you said you hated him not even five minutes ago!?”

You winced.

“I know.”

“He insulted you on sight!”

“I know.”

“He made three assistants cry before lunch in one week according to that Reddit post five months ago when I last went on there!”

“I know, I read that too.” You cringed.

She leaned in even closer, eyes wide with catastrophic disappointment.

“And you like him.”

You nodded, defeated.

Chelsea dropped her face into her hands.

“Oh my god,” she whispered into her palms. “There’s absolutely no way.” She dragged her fingers down her cheeks in slow, tortured disbelief, then lifted her head just enough to glare at you through the cracks.

“What happened to your standards!? He was rude, mean, a dickhead, a shit-head! And he said you wouldn’t last a month!”

You huffed, crossing your arms with a pout.

“It’s not my fault,” you muttered. “He’s… different when he’s not being… rude.” Chelsea scoffed loudly.

“Different how. Does he switch from dickhead to mildly tolerable asshat? Does he say please once every equinox?”

Chelsea shook her head, disbelief etched on her face.

“He basically insulted your existence before you even started!”

You glared at her, already feeling a creak of embarrassment from the reminder she’s given.

“He… holds doors sometimes.”

“Oh dear Jesus,” she groaned quietly, staring at you like you had personally disappointed the entire human race, shock was an understatement for her.

“Sometimes? Not all the time!? You are not just down bad. You are subterranean! You are in the Earth’s core and you are at the center of the planet melting!”

You were starting to feel like you were melting into a puddle.

“Holding doors? Are you kidding me!? I fear that’s the bare minimum!” She reiterated once more, shooting back with a cry.

You wilted a little.

“Babe! I literally held the door for you 30 minutes ago!”

She wasn’t wrong.

Chelsea sighed, long and heavy, like she was preparing herself for a friendship intervention. “Okay,” she finally came down from her thoughts, sitting upright again. “Start from the beginning. And tell me exactly how long you’ve had this tragic, misguided crush so I know how early the corruption began.” You glanced away, a small, knowing smile tugging at your lips.

You already knew where it began.

Damian Wayne didn’t just hold doors for you— sometimes, he could actually be kind.

Actually, erase that.

What the fuck are you talking about?

It started off when there was an office party at the end of your second week at the company.

The team decided it was best to celebrate after successfully completing a tough collaboration, and despite your reservations, you found yourself there, trying to blend in among Gotham’s elite.

The “party,” which was really just a glorified networking event, was held in a sleek, modern lounge with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering sprawl of Gotham. Soft jazz curled through the air, creating a warm atmosphere while coworkers clustered in small circles, murmuring over half-finished drinks. Glasses clinked. Ice chimed against the crystal. Someone laughed too loudly at a joke that probably wasn’t funny.

You lingered by the refreshment table, holding a champagne flute you had barely touched, watching the room from the safety of the sidelines. The dim lighting made everything feel softer, warmer, less like the corporate machine you worked in and more like a scene from a movie you didn’t belong in.

You were debating whether to grab a cheese cube or just take another sip of your second drink when you felt a shift in the atmosphere beside you. A quiet disturbance, like the air bracing itself.

Damian had appeared.

He stood a few feet away, dressed sharply as always, although the usual severity in his expression seemed dulled by the warm glow of the lounge lights. His posture was still rigid, but the sharp scowl you had come to mentally prepare for wasn’t as deep.

His gaze found yours immediately.

“Oh. It’s you. I wondered why all the birds stopped singing.”

Damian’s voice cut through the hum of conversation, quieter than usual but still carrying that cool edge that scraped your nerves raw.

You raised a brow and crossed your arms, turning to face him fully with a slight fire of irritation, faking a smile in his direction. “No one's forcing you to be around me? Pick another spot, or fire me. I don’t care.”

You were surprised he didn’t fire you right then and there.

It was only your second week.

His eyes flicked over you, assessing, unreadable, before he reached for a drink from the nearby table. “I highly doubt you want to be fired within two weeks.” You furrowed your brows, the anger rising quickly.

You cannot believe you work with this man.

Around the two of you, the soft buzz of the party carried on. Laughter drifted from a nearby table, someone popped open a bottle of sparkling water, and the jazz band eased into a slower melody. Yet despite the noise, the space between you and Damian felt strangely isolated, a small bubble of tension carved clean out of the room’s warm energy.

Please don’t stand next to me. Please don’t come stand next to me. Pleasenotnexttome!

But he shifted, stepping just slightly closer as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Of course, he stands next to you, but just far enough away that there’s an empty space between you.

“Do you really have to stand there?” you muttered, frowning at him.

“You don’t own the space,” he replied, rolling his eyes with that signature Damian Wayne disdain, the type that somehow felt personally designed to get under your skin.

Before you could bite back, the crowd shifted.

A girl you didn’t recognize wove through the party’s glittering mess of people, smiling so brightly it made your teeth ache. She slipped right between you and Damian, brushing your shoulder with a light, oblivious, “Oops, sorry!”

You step back, momentarily thrown off, while Damian’s eyes narrow slightly, but he says nothing.

Luckily, your drink wasn’t spilled.

Oh! Mr. Wayne,” she gushes, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in a move so practiced it should’ve come with choreography. “I didn’t expect to see you here. You look amazing tonight!”

Damian gives her a flat, polite look that is somehow more dismissive than if he’d ignored her entirely.

“Thank you.”

She steps a little closer, her shoulder nearly brushing his.

“I was just telling my friends I’d love to get to know more people in the industry. Maybe you could give me some tips?”

Damian’s expression doesn’t change.

“Tips,” he repeats, voice cool.

“I do not offer those.”

“Oh! Well, maybe you could show me instead?”

“Not interested.”

“Not even one minute of your time, sir?”

“I’m busy.”

“I could jus—”

“Are you deaf, woman?” you cut in before she can finish, smiling sharply when her head snaps toward you in offense.

Your tone is honeyed, your eyes absolutely not. You watch her expression, her mouth opening, outrage bubbling up.

“Excuse me?”

You tilt your head, taking a slow sip of your drink. Her jaw works soundlessly, cheeks flushing red, and she sputters a half-formed insult before managing,

“Who do you think you are?”

Before you can respond, Damian does.

“She’s my childhood best friend.”

You choke on your drink so violently you almost decorate the floor with it.

Childhood best—

The hell is this coming from?

The girl snaps her head toward Damian, frowning, irritation breaking through her forced sweetness.

“Really? She doesn’t look like it.”

You raise a brow so sharp it could cut glass.

What is that supposed to mean?

“Well, she used to be.”

She raised an infuriating brow at Damian with a twisted frown, clearly offended by your continued existence and a tad bit curiosity shining within them.

You mouthed seriously over her shoulder at your boss that completely ignored you.

You lean in slightly, lowering your voice in a conspiratorial tone that makes her perk up just enough.

“If you’re so curious,” you say, smiling with all the sincerity of a cat staring at a canary, “we’re not childhood friends for a reason.”

You lie through your teeth without hesitation.

And right beside the woman, Damian watches over you— quiet, unreadable, and unmistakably intrigued.

“Why is that?” she asks, hesitating, clearly torn between morbid curiosity.

You smile sweetly.

“When we were young, I went over to his house and watched him drink his own blood for breakfast, like it was some artisanal smoothie because he thought he was a vampire.” You shook your head. “His family had to send him to a mental hospital after he bit four of our classmates' necks, luckily he only killed two.”

There is a silence so thick you could scoop it with a spoon.

The girl’s eyes widened in absolute horror.

And beside her, Damian— Damian Wayne, Gotham’s coldest, most composed, most impossible-to-shake man stares at you over her shoulder, lips parted, expression stunned.

“Seriously?” She say, absolutely turning pale by the second with a hint of disbelief and skepticism in her tone, yet she’s starting to believe you.

You nodded solemnly, as if delivering a tragic, documented truth.

“One of the nurses put garlic in his sandwich and he absolutely freaked out. Therapists had to come in and talk him down while he kept yelling about curses, mortal treachery, and how garlic was the ‘bane of his eternal existence.’”

You shrugged.

“Thank god he’s on medication.”

Damian closes his eyes for one long, suffering second. When he opens them again, there’s a spark there.

A dangerous one.

“I’ll do you better,” he says, voice smooth and deadpan. “When she was younger, she used to crawl into the garbage at one in the morning because she was fully convinced she was a raccoon. She tried to square-up with the actual animal for dominance. She lost.”

Your smile freezes, peering over her shoulder. Raccoon? Are you serious? You mouthed. “She ate the wrappers in our garbage. Ate them. Like they were gourmet. A total nutcase. She walked on all fours so committedly she developed calluses. Hissed at anyone who got too close— neighbors, mailmen, and the mayor once. Animal control tried to trap her three separate times. A complete lost cause.”

The woman looks like she’s about to throw up, hand hovering near her mouth as if bracing for a second round of trauma.

Your jaw drops.

“She’s come a long way,” Damian adds, eyes glinting with quiet amusement, “but sometimes she relapses and we find her in a dumpster in the back of BatBurger.”

You stare at him, appalled.

You turn to her, lowering your voice like you are sharing the saddest, darkest secret of your generation.

“One time he didn’t take his meds and someone accidentally spilled water on him. He thought it was holy water,” you say gravely, watching her head swivel back to you. “So he started screaming about being burned alive like bread in a toaster. In public. Very loud. Very dramatic. He threw himself onto the floor and writhed like a dying Victorian child. People thought an exorcism was happening in aisle five.”

You sigh, shaking your head as if reliving the tragedy.

“He yelled that he was going to die. It took four security guards and his dad to calm him down.”

“She had to wear an ankle monitor that she bit off,” Damian cuts in, no longer staring at her, but at you.

What the absolute fuck.

“She sharpened her claws since she still thought she was a raccoon and gouged someone’s eyes out in a local church. She ate those eyeballs, but told the police that god took them. The victim is still alive. They’re blind and they no longer go to church.”

The woman swallows so hard you can hear it.

“You’re absolutely joking.”

Yes, he is,” you say sweetly, pinning the woman with a reassuring smile that is only a few degrees away from a threat.

“I’m not, he killed two of my cats and my other friend for one of his sacrificial rituals, trying to summon the damn devil to get immortality. At age ten. We had to get a priest, and the actual exorcist,” you continue, as if you’re giving her directions to the mall.

“We had to strap him to a bed. Full head spin. Latin chanting. He spoke in seven different voices— none of them his. One of them was an elderly Italian man who’s been dead since 1842.”

She looks absolutely sick to her stomach.

“Holy symbols were flying off the walls. The lights flickered, and the temperature dropped twenty degrees. At one point, he levitated. Horizontally. Like a possessed IKEA shelf.” You lift your glass, sipping unbothered.

“He nearly killed the priest, too. Launched him across the room with telekinetic rage. The priest survived only because we dumped an entire Costco-sized vat of holy water on him and force-fed him garlic cloves like he was a charcuterie board and faced him towards the sun.”

“You— both of you are absolutely insane!” The woman sways a little, looking between the two of you like she’s trying to decide whether to run, scream, or call the police.

“I thought this was a networking event. I’m not… I’m not spiritually prepared for whatever that was.” She makes a choked noise, turns on her heel, and speed-walks away like she expects one of you to start foaming at the mouth.

You watch her disappear into the crowd. Then you turn to Damian, giving him the flattest, most pointed look you can manage.

“Childhood friends? Seriously.”

He exhales through his nose, the closest he ever gets to an eye roll without actually doing it.

“A vampire. Are you kidding me?”

“I just wanted to tell someone that you drank blood for breakfast.”

After that incident, Damian had somewhat tolerated you.

You were going to make it— the first month, you’ve found yourself also tolerating Damian’s presence after that incident.

He stopped ignoring you like you were a ghost only he wished was dead.

You stopped fantasizing about strangling him with his own tie.

He stopped snapping at you every time you breathed within a three-foot radius.

You stopped wanting to shove him into the nearest supply closet (and lock it).

You started walking into his office without rehearsing three insults in your head first.

He started not sighing dramatically every time you would walk in, only because you told him to quit it.“What’re are you fuckin’ five years old? Get a grip.”

You were surprised you weren’t fired the minute you said that too.

There was honestly a lot of things that you’ve been lucky to get away with.

It was honestly nice.

He started becoming too nice.

He started holding doors for you.

Not in a showy, look-how-chivalrous-I-am way.

More like: he’d reach the door, pause, and wordlessly keep it open without looking at you. As if it was simply easier than watching you juggle your bag, tablet, water bottle, and your will to live all in one minute.

Then came the coffee.

Not just any coffee.

Your order.

Perfectly correct down to the amount of sweetener you never told him about.

It would appear on your desk at 8:07 every morning. The exact minute you usually sat down, being 23 minutes early as always with no explanation except a quiet, muttered:

“The barista on the first floor kept messing up my drink. They gave me this instead.”

He said it like it annoyed him.

He handed it to you like it didn’t.

And he walked away before you could question him about how the barista “accidentally” made your drink four days in a row.

Then there were the other things.

He’d push the elevator button for both of you without being asked.

He’d slow his stride by half a step so you could keep up with files in your arms to attend the next meeting with him, pretending it was unintentional.

If you were carrying too many folders, he’d take half without comment, eyes forward, as if he could pretend he wasn’t helping you.

Once, he even redirected a rude executive who barked at you in the hallway, stepping in with a clipped, cold:

“My personal assistant is busy. Speak to someone else.”

You almost dropped your tablet at that comment.

That was when your heart started racing. It was sharp, sudden, and betraying you before you even understood why.

It wasn’t the dramatic kind of fluttering people wrote about in books, nothing soft or romantic. It was a tight, startled thump in your chest, the kind that made your breath catch for half a second as heat crawled quietly up your neck.

It happened in the small moments, the ones you never expected to matter— when his hand brushed yours as he passed you a file, when his voice dropped lower than usual as he asked a question, when he stood just a little too close in the elevator and you could feel the faint warmth radiating from him.

Every quiet act of consideration, every glance that lingered a beat longer than it should have, stirred something unsteady beneath your ribs. It felt like your body realized something before your mind did, like your instincts were trying to tell you that Damian’s sudden gentleness wasn’t random at all.

And once you noticed it, once your heart reacted— you couldn’t un-notice it.

Each day it only beats a little faster.

Especially that one night, the night everything went sideways so violently it felt personal.

The office was unnervingly quiet after hours. Most of the overhead lights had already clicked off, leaving long stretches of the floor in a low, ambient glow. The only illumination near you came from your monitor, washing your desk in a cold, bluish light that made the scattered papers look like crime scene evidence.

Your shoulders ached from sitting too long.

Your eyes burned.

Your coffee had gone cold sometime around 7 p.m., and you kept drinking it anyway because the bitterness felt like fuel.

You had taken on too much work. You knew that. You felt it as soon as your fingers began to tremble over your keyboard.

The HVAC system hummed softly above you. Somewhere far down the hall, a printer woke up and made a lonely mechanical noise before going quiet again. Your own breath sounded too loud in the open, empty space.

You clicked into the project folder that was supposed to contain sixty-eight documents.

It had six.

Six documents blinking back at you like they were mocking you.

Your stomach dropped so fast it made you dizzy.

You refreshed the tab. Nothing changed. You tried again. Still six. The rest had vanished— scrambled somewhere across Wayne Enterprises’ ocean of internal servers.

You whispered, “No, no, no… oh, come on, not tonight.”

Your fingers flew, searching through subfolders, archives, misnamed files. You found some mislabeled under an entirely different project. Others were saved in outdated formats. A few looked corrupted, their icons taunting you with dull, broken symbols.

You spent the next hour piecing them back together, shuffling between windows, dragging things into place, the soft clicking of your mouse echoing in the cavernous silence.

When you finally rebuilt the folder and opened it again…

Half of it was still missing.

Gone.

Deleted.

Not even a ghost in the recycle bin.

Your pulse thundered in your ears.

The fluorescent light above your cubicle flickered once, dramatically, like it was judging your life choices.

The air felt too thin.

Your throat tightened.

All of this— every file, every signature, every revision— was due in two days.

You pushed both hands into your forehead and muttered, “This is it. This is where I die. Right here. In this stupid chair. They’ll find my corpse fossilized into this mesh ergonomic backing.”

You mumbled to yourself before glancing at the clock on your screen.

8:43 p.m.

The rest of the floor was a graveyard. Dark offices. Empty chairs. Silent conference rooms. Not even the janitorial staff had come by yet.

You forced yourself to sit down and get to work because no one else was going to fix this disaster, even if it wasn’t your fault. The responsibility still sat heavy on your shoulders if you didn’t do anything, almost like a physical weight pressing between your shoulder blades.

You had to track down every missing document, rebuild what was gone, and prepare the entire set before the deadline that glared at you from your calendar in a furious shade of red.

Your own workload sat beside it, equally demanding after you’ve redone the first five of the thirty documents.

Your email inbox kept chiming every few minutes, each notification a tiny reminder that you were behind.

The piles on your desk had grown uneven and tall enough to lean like stressed-out skyscrapers.

Half of Damian’s stack stared at you like it had been personally offended by your existence. Your shared calendar flickered on your monitor with overlapping meetings, last-minute adjustments, and bright color-coded tasks that all claimed to be the highest priority.

You glance at the time.

10:28 p.m.

Just as you’re about to dive back into the mountain of paperwork, the door to the office swings open. Damian steps in, his expression a mix of confusion and mild irritation.

“You’re still here?” His voice is calm but edged with disbelief.

You look up, blinking away the exhaustion.

“I have one more thing to finish.”

Multiple things actually.

He shakes his head slowly, eyes narrowing. “It’s late. Everyone else has gone home hours ago. Your light is the only one on.”

Oh.

You bite back the exhaustion creeping into your voice.

“I’m almost done.”

Damian’s gaze lingers on you for a moment, unreadable.

Then, without another word, he steps back toward the door, the quiet weight of the night settling once more around you.

You thought he had left, leaning against your chair to take at least a five minute nap without any interruption.

But moments later, he reappears, holding his jacket in one hand, his eyes fixed on you with that same sharp intensity.

“Let’s go.”

You blink in surprise.

“What—?” You shake your head, stubbornness flaring despite your exhaustion.

“I’ve got it under control. I just need a little more time.”

He cuts you off with a flat tone, hearing you yawn afterwards.

“It’s almost 11 p.m. I don’t trust you behind the wheel when you’re this close to falling asleep in your office chair.” You blink, caught off guard by his blunt concern, the tension in the room shifting just a little.

“I can just call an Uber?” you offer weakly, half out of stubbornness, half because you don’t know what else to do with the sudden warmth crawling up your neck.

What are you supposed to do in this situation?

“Don’t be stupid and waste your money on that…” he fiddles with his cuffs, “I’ll drive you home.” His tone snaps like a reprimand, firm and irritated, but underneath it is something unmistakably protective.

He clicks his tongue, already annoyed for you, at you, around you, like you were the one being unreasonable for… existing past 10 p.m. in a corporate building.

He gestures sharply at your desk with a small glare, the kind that isn’t really anger but more of a silent command.

Pack up. Now.

And despite yourself.

Despite how confusing this whole moment is, despite the way your face warms at the edges, you actually listen. Your hands move on instinct, gathering your things while your thoughts spiral in a confused, flustered whirl:

Why does he care?

Why is he doing this?

Why is he taking you home?

Is this normal? You thought.

It’s just work related, right?

Yeah. Work-related.

For a boss to take their personal assistant home?

The realization lands with a quiet, heavy thud— one that makes your fingertips fumble over the zipper of your bag, your breath catching for just a beat.

Did he do this to his other assistants?

You glance at the man and the calendar on your desk.

He shows up at your doorframe at almost eleven at night, jacket in hand, eyes lingering on you as he patiently waits for you to gather your things. And as you sling your bag over your shoulder, heart a little too light and a little too frantic, you can’t stop thinking:

Why is he still at Wayne Enterprise at 11 p.m. when his schedule was cleared after 6 p.m.?

You follow him out the door, steps quiet, falling just a half-pace behind him like your body hasn’t caught up to the situation yet. Confusion presses tightly across your face, your brows drawn together, lips thinned as you stare at the back of his head. His strides are steady, purposeful, like this is the most normal thing in the world.

Meanwhile, your thoughts are a mess, tumbling over each other as you trail him down the dim hallway lit only by recessed lights and the soft hum of overnight ventilation.

He doesn’t glance back once.

Of course he doesn’t.

Damian Wayne never does anything as obvious as checking if you’re following.

He just expects you to.

And you do.

You both get onto the elevator, pressing onto the garage floor button while you both stand awkwardly next to each other.

“I hope… you don’t mind me asking sir, but what were you doing here past 10 p.m…”

“Finishing reports,” he says simply. His tone is flat, businesslike, but not sharp. “Some of the board files were delayed, so I stayed to review them before tomorrow.”

You nod, knowing he can see it from the corner of his gaze.

The elevator hums around you, the soft whir of machinery filling the quiet. The two of you stand side by side, close enough that you can feel the faint heat radiating off his suit jacket but not close enough to touch. You could smell his cologne that lingers on him. It drifts toward you in soft waves: clean, subtle, and expensive in a way that doesn’t brag.

Something sharp at the start, like bergamot or cedar, softened by something warm underneath, like velvet.

The elevator quietly dings, the soft chime echoing through the empty garage as the doors slide open. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting long shadows across rows of empty parking spots. You trail after Damian, your footsteps sounding small in the cavernous space.

He walks with purposeful strides, not hurried but direct, straight past the reserved spaces, toward a sleek black car with two doors, a nice Porsche 911 that looks too polished for how late it is. He doesn’t check if you are keeping up, yet somehow you know he is fully aware of every step you take behind him.

You follow him through the quiet, cool air of the garage, watching the way his jacket shifts with each movement, the way he reaches into his pocket for his keys without slowing his pace.

He unlocks the car with a soft click.

He reaches the car and stops beside the passenger side, pulling the handle without hesitation. The door swings open smoothly, the interior lights blooming to life in a soft glow that spills onto the concrete floor.

He doesn’t look at you while he does it.

His gaze stays forward, jaw set, expression unreadable, as if this is purely routine and not an act of shockingly old-fashioned courtesy from a man who once told you “move faster” instead of “good morning.”

He steps back just slightly, giving you room. “Stop standing around and get in.” He says quietly.

You blink at him, unsure whether to be offended, flustered, or concerned that your notoriously rude boss is speaking to you like a person instead of a defective office appliance.

His hand still rests on the top edge of the door, waiting.

You feel more awake than ever.

You think you can drive home.

“Mr. Wayne, it’s fine, I can drive myself home—”

He gives you a look.

Just one sharply raised brow that communicates an entire paragraph:

You’re not driving. Get in the car.

Your protests die on your tongue.

You swallow once, pulse kicking up for reasons you refuse to examine, gather yourself, and finally slide into the seat. The leather is cool beneath you, the interior quiet, the door closing with a soft, final click that feels far too intimate for something so mundane.

He walks around the hood, steps measured, and unhurried.

Instead, he glances at you. Just once. Brief, unreadable, but with enough weight behind it to pin you to the seat.

“Seatbelt,” he says.

Two syllables. Low. Firm. Not unkind, which is worse somehow. Your fingers move before your brain catches up, tugging the belt into place with a soft click.

Dear god. Sitting this close to your boss, the one you’ve found attractive, annoying, tolerable, and infuriating in rotating intervals— has to be the worst experience of your entire life.

You stare firmly ahead, refusing to let your gaze drift even an inch in his direction, because if it does, you’re almost certain you’ll combust on the spot. Meanwhile, he shifts into gear, turning the notch of the volume of his music that slowly settles into the air with the same calm, controlled ease he applies to everything, as if your internal panic isn’t loud enough to fill the whole car.

You exhale once, quietly.

This is fine.

You’re fine.

You’re absolutely not fine.

“Your address.”

You blink, turning your head a fraction before you can stop yourself.

“What?”

Damian raised an amused brow, the expression subtle but unmistakable. “I can’t drive you home if I don’t know where you live. The address.”

You swallow, suddenly aware of how loud your pulse sounds in your ears. “Oh. Right. It’s—” you recite it, stumbling only once over the street name.

He inputs it into the GPS with the same calm efficiency he approaches everything with, one hand steady on the wheel, the other moving with practiced ease across the screen.

“You shouldn’t be working overtime without telling me.” You blink, taken aback.

“What? I didn’t— I mean, it wasn’t— that late.”

“It was past ten,” he counters, tone flat but unmistakably irritated, what’s with him and having that underlying tone of passive aggressiveness? This is why everyone’s scared of him.

“That qualifies as late.”

“It really isn’t that late,” you argue, crossing your arms even though it does absolutely nothing to make you feel less defensive.

Damian shifts his grip on the wheel, making a turn at an intersection, leading to the freeway. “For you, maybe,” he says.

“You look like you were five minutes away from face-planting into your keyboard.”

Your shoulders stiffen.

“I was fine.”

“You were drooling,” he adds without missing a beat. You snap your head toward him, scandalized.

“I was NOT—”

He doesn’t even look at you— just continues driving, voice maddeningly even.

“You were. A small puddle. Tragic, really.”

Your jaw drops.

“A puddle—?!”

“Don’t worry,” Damian says, completely unbothered. “Nobody saw, except I did.”

Unbelievable.

This man was lying to your face.

“I didn’t drool.”

“You did.”

“I did not.”

He exhales through his nose, like you’re the unreasonable one here.

“You were unconscious in your chair. Head tilted back. Mouth open. Classic drooling posture.”

YOU DIDN’T EVEN SLEEP?!?

“I wasn’t drooling,” you repeat, slower this time, because you know— you know— you weren’t.

“You’re lying.”

Damian’s lips twitch.

Not a smile.

Not quite.

But close enough that your stomach flips.

“I don’t lie,” he says coolly.

“You’re lying right now.”

Silence. A beat.

“…You were about to drool.”

Your jaw dropped.

“You—!”

“That’s worse,” he adds dryly.

You’re ready to launch into a full rebuttal, but he cuts in before you can speak: “You should thank me,” he says. “If you had actually started, I would’ve had to mop you off your desk.”

You’re actually going to kill him.

“Get me out of this car now.”

He doesn’t even flinch.

“If I stop on the freeway, we’ll both die.”

“That’s fine.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes. It is.”

He finally glances your way, one eyebrow raised with a spark within his eyes, you knew he was reveling in it.

“You’re being dramatic.”

“You literally invented dramatic.” His fingers drum lightly against the steering wheel, betraying a flicker of amusement he refuses to acknowledge.

“That’s rich coming from you,” he says, voice calm but edged with something warm.

“If anyone here has a flair for theatrics, it’s the person who nearly face-planted onto a stack of financial reports and told that woman that I’ve supposedly killed two kids and was possessed.” You glare at him.

“It was for a good reason and I did you a favor!”

Damian turns his head just slightly, enough that you can see the curve of disbelief at the corner of his mouth.

“A favor,” he repeats, tone dry enough to evaporate water. “Your solution,” he says slowly, “was to convince her I bit a classmate, splashed with holy water by accident, summoned the devil, and committed— what was it?—‘multiple cat sacrifices.’”

You lift your chin. “To be fair, you added the part about me gouging out a guy’s eyes in church. And face-planting into the reports? Are you serious?”

“It haunts me to this day.”

“You didn’t even see it happen!” You scoffed.

“I didn’t have to. I heard the thud from halfway across the floor.”

Your jaw drops.

“You liar!”

“Possibly,” he admits, gaze returning to the road, “but you can’t prove it.” You grip your bag tighter, fighting the urge to throw it at him.

He’s impossible! A douchebag! A liar!

Despicable. Insolent. Smug. Humorous.

And Handsome with the capital ‘H’ annoying.

A soft, almost amused exhale slips out of him and you hate that your heart notices.

Your apartment building edges into view through the windshield. The familiar, worn brick and warm lights in the windows, something easy curls in your stomach.

You glance at him, then at the building, then back at him. You should probably at least have the decency to thank him for dropping you off to your place.

“Thank—”

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow before work.”

Your mouth snaps shut, staring at him.

“…What?” you finally manage, voice embarrassingly thin.

He wants to pick you up.

He’s planning to pick you up.

Damian slows to a stop at the curb in front of your building, the streetlight casting soft gold across the sharp line of his jaw. His hands remain steady on the wheel, expression irritatingly unreadable.

“I said I’ll pick you up tomorrow,” he repeats, this time he’s looking at you with a tilt of his head, like he’s informing you of the weather. “You clearly can’t be trusted to get adequate sleep, and I’m not dealing with you hallucinating through spreadsheets.”

Your jaw drops.

“I do NOT hallucinate— you’re— ugh! Unbelievable.” For a second of silence, there was a look of gentleness settling in his eyes, softening the sharp green into something that lingers a little too long on you.

“Seven thirty,” he says, ignoring your previous comment.

“Don’t be late.”

You grip your bag, still stunned, still not sure you’re hearing him correctly. “You don’t have to do that,” you protest, even though your voice comes out softer than you’d like.

“I know,” he replies simply.

You step out of the car on unsteady legs, heart beating far too fast for reasons you refuse to examine yet… but you do look back. You shift your weight, gripping your bag strap until your knuckles ache.

You watch the passenger window slide down. “Mr. Wayne, seriously. You don’t have to—”

“Damian.”

You ignore that.

Your front steps are only a few feet away now, but you suddenly feel like you’re standing on the edge of something a lot higher.

“You’re confusing me, you’re not making any sense at all,” you murmur, even though your voice betrays you by going soft again.

A cold breeze skims across your cheeks, the kind that promises Gotham’s autumn is heading towards the colder month. You pull your coat a little tighter, but it does nothing for the strange warmth curling under your ribs.

“It makes perfect sense,” he counters. “You run yourself into the ground. You forget meals and you revise everyone’s work.”

“I—”

“Twice,” he says without hesitation. “You revise their work twice.” He continues, quieter now, “you need to take care of yourself.” You blink, stunned by the simplicity of it.

By sincerity.

By the fact that it sounds dangerously close to concern.

“And that concerns you?” you ask, trying to keep it light, teasing, anything but the vulnerable thing it threatens to be. His eyes flick to yours, a spark of truth breaking through his usual restraint.

“It should,” he murmurs. “Shouldn’t it?”

There’s a silence that feels unsteady, fragile in a way neither of you dare acknowledge. He watches the faint cloud of breath that escapes you in the cold Gotham air, the way your frown tries and fails to hide the shift in your expression.

His gaze flicks toward your apartment, then back to you.

“Go inside. Get some rest.”

And even though you want to argue… you don’t. You can’t with him. Not when he’s looking at you like that. Your fingers curl around your keys. “Seven thirty,” you echo, trying not to sound as flustered as you feel.

He gives the smallest nod, the kind that somehow manages to feel like both approval and silent victory.“Good,” he says, a smirk across his lips.

You hesitate for half a second, then turn toward the entrance. “Goodnight,” he adds, voice low, steady and almost gentle if you weren’t careful with how you interpreted it.

You start walking, each step slow enough that you hate yourself a little for it. The lobby lights spill warm against the pavement, and just before you reach the door, something makes you glance back.

He’s still there, watching you get in safely.

One hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely by the gearshift, posture composed— but his eyes remain fixed on you until the very moment you slip inside with a scan of your apartment’s key and disappear from his sight.

Only then does he finally look away.

“And then? Did he pick you up?”

Chelsea asks, her face squished between her palms, eyes wide and sparkling like she’s watching the season finale of her favorite drama.

You stare at her.

She stares back, vibrating.

As if she wasn’t hating your boss 30 minutes ago.“Chelsea,” you say slowly, “I don’t even know what that was.”

“Oh my god, stop—did he pick you up?” She demands again, shaking your arm like she’s trying to rattle the answer out of you.

You sigh, drop your forehead onto the table, and mumble into the wood, “Yes.”

Chelsea gasps so violently you’re pretty sure she inhaled half the air in the café.

“There’s no way—”

“Not only that!” you cut in, throwing your hands up. “He would do it multiple times! My poor car would be stuck here at my job forever!” Chelsea doesn’t even try to hide her disgusted wince.

“Honestly… that thing has seen better days.”

“It still works just fine!” you snap, offended on behalf of your dented, aging, slightly rattling Honda civic. She raises a brow. “It screams when you turn left.”

“It groans,” you correct. “And only in winter.” Chelsea leans in, looking way too delighted while you picked yourself up from the table to sit up straighter. “And winter is here, with that next paycheck you should really get a new car.” You sigh, shoulders sinking because— annoyingly— she’s right.

But you can’t help it.

You’re attached to that stupid car. It was your first big purchase after high school, the thing you saved for through every miserable minimum-wage shift, every extra hour you picked up, every time you resisted food to stash a few more dollars away.

“It’s sentimental,” you mutter, poking at your empty drink. “I practically raised that car.”

Chelsea stares at you.

“It’s dying, babe.”

“It has character.”

“It has medical issues.” You glare.

“You’re rude.”

“I picked it up from the best,” she says, giving you a slow, pointed once-over before winking. “Don’t act shocked, you taught me to be quick with it.” Okay, maybe it was about time to get a new car.

“So… what are you going to do about it?”

“I’ll buy a damn new car,” you grumble, dragging a hand down your face.

Chelsea snorts.

“No— I mean Damian.”

You freeze. Of course that’s what she meant. “What about him?” you ask, already regretting it. Chelsea lifts both brows like she’s about to deliver a divine revelation.

“Well, are you going to shoot your shot…?” You blink.

“What shot?” She just stares at you.

“Look, you’re not that dumb, but you can’t be THAT dumb.”

“There’s absolutely no way,” you insist, shaking your head.

Chelsea throws her hands up before pointing her pretty manicure finger at you. “Babes, you told me what he’s done. It sounded pretty obvious he didn’t like you at first— sure, but clearly there’s something now.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Chelsea—”

“No, don’t ‘Chelsea’ me. He’s clearly teasing you. He picks you up. He drops you off. He notices when you haven’t eaten. He scolds you for working late. That’s not normal boss behavior. That’s not even barely normal human behavior!”

You blink.

She leans closer, voice lowering conspiratorially.

“It’s playground logic,” she says. “Pulling pigtails to get the girl’s attention. That man is either in love with you… or putting a suspicious amount of effort into someone he claims is ‘just an employee.’”

You fold your arms, leaning toward her, unimpressed and curious all at once.

“Okay, if you’re right. What do you think I should do then?”

Chelsea’s grin spreads slow and wicked, like she’s been waiting for you to ask.

“Babe, I know I am right. What’s your dress-code policy lookin’ like?”

You narrow your eyes at her.

“Don’t say it like that.”

“Oh, I will say it like that,” she fires back immediately, kicking her heel against your chair. “Because if your boss is driving you home, picking you up, buying you coffee, acting all nonchalant like a storm cloud with feelings—”

“He doesn’t have feelings.”

“—then,” she continues loudly, ignoring you, “it is time to… gently nudge the situation.”

You stare. “Gently nudge?”

She lifts her brows.

“Keep up, dummy.” She rolls her eyes. “Wear something that’s not what you’re wearing now.” She gives a pointed look at your cute button-up blouse and slacks. “You need to remind him you’re not just his sleep-deprived assistant who alphabetizes spreadsheets for a living, ya’know.”

You narrow your eyes at her theatrics, but she just lifts her chin smugly.

“A theory?” you echo, suspicious.

She nods, all-knowing, all-smug, infuriatingly Chelsea.

“Mm-hmm. A very important, scientifically proven theory.”

“What theory?”

“That if you dress even slightly hotter than usual,” she says, leaning in like she’s sharing a state secret, “your boss will start to make advancements.”

Your face heats. “He is not—”

“He is,” she interrupts, unfazed. “And I want updates. Detailed ones. Because when I’m right—”

“When,” you repeat flatly.

“When,” she confirms with a decisive nod, “I expect a thank-you gift. Preferably edible. Or expensive.”

You groan into your hands.

She pats your shoulder.

“Don’t worry. It’s just step one.”

“Step one?” you muffle.

“Oh absolutely,” she says, already pulling out her phone. “I’m making a checklist.”

“Okay,” she announces, displaying the screen of a small list. “Step one: act normal, but slightly hotter and slightly busier. Men go insane if they don’t receive attention.”

“I’m literally his assistant. I can’t ‘act busy,’ I am busy.”

“Perfect,” she says brightly with a wide grin. “You’re already a natural!”

You drop your face back into your palms.

“Chelsea, this is a terrible idea.” She leans in until she’s a mere few inches away from your gaze, nose nearly touching your hands.

“But you’re going to do it anyway.”

Your silence betrays you.

Chelsea gasps scandalously.

Loudly. Dramatically. Offensively.

“Oh my god, you’re already thinking about what you’re going to wear!”

“I’m not—!”

“You are,” she sings, grabbing your wrist and shaking it like you’ve won a prize. “This is amazing. I love this for you. I love this for me!”

You yank your hand back, trying and failing to will down the heat in your cheeks.

“This is not a romance novel,” you mutter. “He’s my boss.”

“And he’s driving to your apartment at seven-thirty in the morning to pick you up from overworking,” Chelsea retorts. “Sweetheart, you already skipped half the tropes and went straight into the slow-burn danger zone.”

You stare at her, she’s grinning like she’s narrating your funeral. “Text me tomorrow,” she says, gathering her purse. “And remember: make his jaw drop!” She winks, watching your face twist into a frown.

“You’re welcome in advance.” And like the good friend you were… you listened to her.

The next morning, you woke earlier than usual, the soft glow of dawn just beginning to filter through your curtains. You began your daily routine that made you groan at the crack of dawn, except this time— you carefully sifted through your clothes, weighing options, second-guessing, and finally settling on the outfit that felt just right.

You stood in front of your mirror with your arms crossed, face scrunched up, judging your own reflection with the same intensity Damian reserved for quarterly reports.

After a full minute of squinting, stepping back, stepping forward again, and muttering to yourself like a deranged tailor, you finally picked an outfit that was technically within the dress code.

It wasn’t your usual safe, comfortable, neutral-choice outfit.

You wore an outfit with clean lines, sharp edges, the kind of put-together that didn’t just fit you, instead it looked like it had been waiting for you. The skirt hit exactly where it should, the stockings gave just enough edge to balance the professionalism, sexiness, and confidence without tipping into trying too hard.

Your skin had that annoying, unfair glow too— not the “I slept a full eight hours” kind, but the lived-in, effortless natural appearance. It kinda gave you that youthful look with a charming smile. It was professional but warm. It made you look like someone who knew exactly what they were doing with both their life and their wardrobe, even if you’d spent the last thirty minutes pacing and overthinking every choice.

You told yourself it had nothing to do with him.

You were lying to yourself and you knew it.

Especially this morning, when you found yourself running later than usual. You had spent too much time trying to look good, carefully applying a light layer of makeup and a nice lipstick color that felt almost weightless on your skin and blended perfectly. It wasn’t just about professionalism; it was about feeling confident in your own skin.

Then there was the traffic. Slow, frustrating, testing your patience at every turn. This was exactly why you usually came in early— to avoid moments like this.

Today is going to be different.

It already felt different.

You clutched your bag a little tighter as you walked through the halls, acutely aware of the way heads subtly turned your way. The usual hum of the office seemed to shift around you, as if your presence had suddenly carved out a new kind of attention— one you weren’t quite used to but didn’t entirely dislike.

A few compliments floated your way, especially from the friendly female coworkers you often chatted with, all emphasizing how great your outfit looked.

“You look amazing today! Who are you trying to impress?”You shook your head with a laugh that escaped.

“Date tonight? You’re glowing!”

“I’ve never seen you in a skirt before! You look good!” Clearly, you were doing something right.

Yet, beneath the surface, your mind was racing, waiting for Damian’s reaction. You told yourself to follow Chelsea’s advice— play it cool and don’t give him any obvious attention. That should be simple enough, right? But the anticipation buzzed quietly in your chest, making it hard to focus on anything else.

You made your way down the hallway toward your office, the soft morning light filtering through the windows and casting long shadows across the floor. Your heart fluttered just a bit faster with every step, the nerves mixing with the rush of the new day ahead. The usual hum of early activity filled the air. The quiet chatter, the clatter of keyboards waking up, and the faint hiss of the coffee machine from the break room.

“Alright, time to get to work,” you muttered under your breath, already mentally bracing yourself for the long day ahead.

Your fingers wrapped around the cool metal of the doorknob as you pushed the door open.

Only to freeze mid-motion when you spotted the figure inside.

Damian was there, leaning casually against the edge of the desk, a cup of coffee in one hand, his sharp eyes fixed on you with that familiar unreadable expression.

He didn’t bother to hide his surprise or disapproval as his gaze flicked to the clock on the wall behind him before snapping back to you.

“You’re late.”

The words hung in the air, low and deliberate, cutting through the quiet hum of the office as if he’d been waiting for this moment all along.

His gaze briefly flickers to your outfit before meeting your eyes again.

You frowned, glancing at the time on your phone.

“I’m not even late, I just came in a bit later than usual.”

He lets out a quiet, almost amused sigh, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smirk.

“Later than usual still counts as late,” he mumbled, but there was a subtle shift in his voice. Less of a reprimand, more of a teasing edge that made it clear he wasn’t really mad.

“Are you going to fire me over it?” You raised a brow.

“…No, but do you have the documents I asked you to review before my next meeting?” His tone was calm, laced with that usual professionalism.

You nodded slowly, pressing your lips together as a familiar ache settled in your chest. There was disappointment, and something deeper that’s unspoken.

That quiet hope you’d been nursing quietly unraveled, leaving behind a sting of frustration that simmered just beneath the surface.

You fought the urge to let it show, burying the mix of longing and irritation behind a controlled expression as the silence stretched between you.

“Uh, yeah, it’s in the drawers in my desk, let me hand it to you.” You replied, moving around your desk and quietly pulled out the documents that’s given to him immediately.

Damian took the stack without looking away, his grip firm but not unkind. The faint rustle of the papers felt loud in the stillness between you. For a moment, you both stood there. He focused on the documents while you watched the subtle lines around his mouth soften just a fraction. It was small, almost invisible, but it made your chest tighten in a way you could not quite explain.

“I’ll review these now,” he comments, voice low and steady. “Make sure nothing is overlooked.”

You nodded, suddenly feeling the weight of the morning settle on your shoulders, relief and that quiet, stubborn hope that maybe, just maybe, he noticed more than just the paperwork today.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked out of the office, the door closing softly behind him.

Well, okay… fuck you too, I guess.

You slump into your chair, crossing your arms tightly while you lean back against your chair.

Why does he act like he doesn’t notice, yet does all these little things that say otherwise?

Like the way he always somehow knows your coffee order, or the way he holds the door without a word, takes you home and picks you up from your apartment to arrive at work together before anyone else,

You bite your lip, frustrated and confused. You want to ignore him, to stop caring so much, but it’s like he’s woven into the edges of your day whether you like it or not.

Maybe that’s the worst part.

“Men go insane if they don’t receive attention.”

Chelsea’s voice rang out in your head.

Hmph. Okay.

If there’s one thing Damian knew, it was this.

You were filled with spite.

Spite that rivaled his own.

Damian walked into your office again, the quiet sound of his footsteps sharp enough that you knew it was him before you even looked.

Not that you did look.

He carried the documents he’d reviewed, the ones covered in his perfectly neat handwriting. Normally, you would have glanced up. Maybe rolled your eyes. Maybe muttered something under your breath. Anything.

But not today.

Today, your spite had a bit of purpose.

You kept your attention fixed on your monitor, staring at a screen full of the usual information. Your schedule. A few reports. His own schedule, and a spreadsheet you’d already finished hours ago. You weren’t even pretending to work well— just clicking occasionally, scrolling through nothing.

You didn’t look at him.

You didn’t greet him.

You didn’t acknowledge him.

“Just set them down,” you swat your hand in the air calmly, voice flat and professional. “I’ll look over them and send next week’s project to your email. And the financial reports.”

You didn’t turn.

You didn’t give him a single glance.

You just kept staring at the monitor like he was irrelevant.

You could feel him pause beside the desk, like he was expecting you to react.

You didn’t.

Good.

Let him feel it.

Let him choke on it.

You clicked your mouse once, the smallest little sound, but in the silence of your office it felt loud. Almost pointed.

He set the documents on your desk carefully, almost too carefully, as if waiting for you to turn your head.

You didn’t.

Your heart was pounding, but your face stayed neutral. Your posture stayed still. Your eyes stayed glued to the screen. The stubborn part of you reveled in the fact that Damian Wayne, of all people, was just… standing there, trying to figure you out.

“You will have them done by the end of the day?” he asked, his tone cool but edged with something else. Something you weren’t used to hearing from him.

Irritation?

Annoyance?

Confusion?

Good.

“Of course,” you said, still not looking at him. “That’s my job, isn’t it?”

You heard him inhale very quietly, the smallest break in his composure.

For the first time, you realized something.

He didn’t like being ignored.

Not by you.

You could feel him lingering in your peripheral vision, the way someone stands in a doorway when they aren’t done with a conversation. Except you weren’t giving him the satisfaction of acknowledging it. You clicked again, scrolling through a report you had already memorized.

You could almost picture his expression without looking.

Brows drawn just a touch.

Mouth pressed into a thin line.

That proud, composed, annoyingly perfect face trying to figure out what exactly you were doing.

Good.

Let him think.

You kept your posture straight and your breathing even, even though your heart thudded a little harder with every second he didn’t walk away. Normally, you would have caved by now— just a glance, just a look.

Something.

But Chelsea’s voice was louder.

Men go insane if they don’t receive attention.

He exhaled quietly. You could feel his patience wearing thin, like the air itself tightened.

“You usually provide updates when I walk in,” Damian said, tone smooth but laced with something sharper.

“Are you not doing that today?” You moved your mouse, opening another tab, to click into your email.

You did not even blink in his direction.

“My updates will be in your inbox once everything is finalized,” you said in the same neutral, pleasant tone used with distant coworkers. “You’ll have them before noon, Mr. Wayne.”

A beat of silence, he was absolutely staring at you.

You could feel it.

The weight of it warmed the side of your face, heavy and irritated and trying to cut through your indifference.

“You seem…” His voice paused for a split second, almost like he was choosing the word.

“Preoccupied.”

You nearly smirked.

Nearly.

Instead, you let out the smallest hum of acknowledgement and said, “Just focused on work.”Your silence after that was deliberate. It was something Damian had felt when you began working here, and now it was back.

It was clean and sharp enough to make something in him twitch. For a man who commanded rooms, who intimidated CEOs twice his age, who was used to precise attention at all times… Being dismissed by you hit differently.

You could practically feel it.

He shifted his weight.

You heard the faint rustle of his suit jacket as he straightened, something colder slipping into his composure.

“Fine,” he said quietly. “I will expect the email.” There it was— that clipped tone he only used when something actually annoyed him.

He walked toward the door.

The sound of his steps was sharper this time.

More pointed.

But right before he left, he hesitated.

Just for half a heartbeat.

As if waiting for you to turn.

You didn’t move.

The door opened.

Closed.

And you finally let yourself breathe, jaw tight with a mixture of triumph and nerves.

Okay.

So ignoring Damian Wayne actually worked.

And that little discovery warmed you with the most satisfying, petty spark of victory.

You really did have things to handle. Your inbox was already overflowing with messages from partner companies, potential investors, a few overeager rivals, and the usual crowd of people who suddenly decided they “urgently” needed a meeting with Damian Wayne. You sifted through each request, drafting replies, rerouting calls, flagging anything even remotely suspicious.

If nothing else, it kept your hands busy.

It kept your eyes on the monitor.

And most importantly, it kept your attention away from him.

Except.

You see Damian Wayne’s email sitting at the very top, stamped with a fresh timestamp that tells you he sent it less than a minute ago.

Of course he did.

The room feels a little too quiet all of a sudden. You hover your cursor over the subject line, debating with yourself like the fate of Gotham depends on whether or not you open a single email.

But your pulse betrays you anyway.

DAMIAN WAYNE

Subject: Regarding the Adjusted Projection Report

Your amended notes are missing from page 14. Correct this and send the updated file before noon. You also forgot to attach the preliminary figures for the Q4 meeting. Re-send.

YOU

Re: Regarding the Adjusted Projection Report

Mr. Wayne, I’ll have the updated file on your desk before noon. The missing attachment will be included.

DAMIAN WAYNE

Re: Regarding the Adjusted Projection Report

Have them by my office an hour from now.

Your stomach drops. Your irritation flares. And something traitorous inside you sparks to life. And being the petty person you are, you did exactly what you were supposed to do.

You compiled the missing files, fixed the notes on page 14, double-checked the preliminary figures, then triple-checked them, because if you were going to be petty, you were at least going to be professionally petty. You formatted everything in the crisp, immaculate style you knew Damian preferred: every header perfectly styled, every section labeled, every graph aligned down to the pixel because God forbid you accidentally offend his sense of order.

Fine. He wanted flawless? You’d give him flawless.

With nothing else left to tweak, you stacked the pages, tapped the spine against your desk to neaten the edges, and slid the packet into a folder. A neat folder. A purposely nicer folder than the one he usually gave you.

You grabbed your things and stepped out of your office, heels clicking down the hall in a steady, determined rhythm. The Wayne Enterprises floor was quiet at this hour— most people had gone for lunch, leaving only the echo of distant printers and the hum of central air vibrating through the walls.

You rounded the corner toward Damian’s office, folder in hand, ready to slam it onto his desk with the polite professionalism of someone who absolutely was being petty and absolutely refused to acknowledge it.

But something shifted in the corner of your vision.

A familiar figure stepped out of the stairwell, head bowed over a tablet, moving with the kind of restless focus that suggested he hadn’t slept in three days.

Tim- ‘F’ucking- Drake.

Sometimes you ran into him in the café on the first floor, where he’d already be two coffees deep and debating whether a third was “necessary or just responsible.” Other times, you’d cross paths when Damian sent you to drop something off for him, because— according to Damian, seeing Tim’s face could “derail the productivity of an entire day.”

Dramatic much? Yes.

Always. Every single time.

Tim, on the other hand, never seemed bothered. If anything, he’d take the file with a blink, a grateful nod, and then immediately forget to breathe while reading it. One time you were pretty sure he walked into an elevator door while scrolling through an email.

IT also adored him.

Half the departments relied on him. He had an office here but never seemed to actually use it. And today, based on the speed he was walking straight toward Damian’s area, he was clearly on some kind of mission.

You slowed just slightly.

His gaze flicked to you, then paused, brow lifting in mild surprise.

“Oh— hey,” he said, offering a small, apologetic smile. His eyes dipped once, taking in your outfit, and he actually registered it. “You look really nice today, the skirt looks good.” He chuckles, which you replied with a coy smile.

“Thank you, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you around, Tim!” You smiled brightly.

At least someone in this building had functioning eyeballs.

“Yeah, I’ve been busy lately.” He hums, “Damian around? I need to drop something off and—” he looks at the folder in your hands.

The universe practically handed you the moment on a silver platter. “Yeah, he’s in his office.” You replied, having a plan already forming within your head. “I’ve actually got some documents for him.”

Tim nodded, stepping closer. “Want me to take them? I’m going straight there and you’re his personal assistant, right? You probably have better things to do than babysitting that kid.”

You laughed, “you don’t say?”

He chuckled under his breath, the tired kind that said he understood exactly what you had to deal with. You didn’t hesitate to give him the folder.

Not even half a second.

You placed the folder into his hands with a soft, grateful smile, one that hid the mild, sparkling pettiness coiling in your chest.

“Thank you, Tim.” He accepted it with the solemn responsibility of someone who absolutely did not realize the chaos he was about to deliver.

“Of course, anytime!”

And somewhere, in his office, Damian Wayne was probably waiting, expecting your knock, anticipating your appearance, ready to critique your delivery or your timing or your skirt or your existence—

Only for his brother to walk in instead.

You remembered turning back to your office, going back to your daily tasks and answering a phone call.

“Wayne Enterprises, this is the office of Mr. Damian Wayne. How can I help you?” The caller launched into a pitch about a potential collaboration, some sleek new product they believed could be mutually beneficial. You took notes, asked the right questions, nodded along even though they couldn’t see you.

By the time you hung up, your head was already drifting back toward your inbox, another email from a vendor, a reminder for next week’s meeting, and three new calendar changes—

A soft knock hit your door.

It wasn’t Damian’s solid, impatient rhythm.

It wasn’t security.

You looked up just as Tim Drake slipped inside, easing the door shut behind him like he was afraid of startling you, or maybe afraid of being seen. He moved with that deliberate quietness he always had, but this time something in his posture was different. His shoulders were too tight.

His mouth twitched like he was holding back commentary.

His expression said he had something to say and definitely something you would want to hear. “Hey,” he greeted, stepping in a little further. His voice carried a strange mixture of sympathy and amusement, as if he had walked straight into a soap opera and was still processing the plot twist.

“So… I delivered your files.” You raised an eyebrow, leaning back ever so slightly in your chair.

“Yeah? And?” Tim inhaled sharply, the way someone does before delivering bad news wrapped in entertainment, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Then he started laughing.

Not loudly, it was just that soft, incredulous laugh of someone who’d just witnessed pure, distilled bullshit and needed a moment.

“He was not amused,” Tim said finally.

You blinked. “Define not amused.”

“Oh, you know.” He waved a hand in the air. “Classic Damian. He gave me the look.”

“The… look?”

“He was both offended and confused.” You felt heat prick the back of your neck.

“Well,” you said, turning back to your computer as if you were totally unfazed, “maybe he should’ve specified how he wanted the files delivered.”

Tim leaned against the wall, studying you with that annoying detective perceptiveness he was born with.“No wonder why you’ve given me your files, for someone trying very hard not to care,” he said, rocking back and forth at the heel of his dress shoes.

“You are enjoying this a little too much.” You scoffed at Tim. “I’m not enjoying anything. I’m working.” He snorted at your response. “Sure. And I didn’t watch Damian stare at that folder like it personally betrayed him.” Your heart thudded but you kept your expression flat.

Tim shook his head, still amused.

“Whatever’s going on between you two… I don’t want to know,” he said with a little grimace. “But I do feel obligated to tell you that he told me— very coldly, very dramatically— to ‘inform his assistant she is expected to deliver important documents directly.’”

“Oh, he said that?”

“Word for word.” You let out a slow breath, releasing a very slow, very smug breath.

“Huh,” you murmured, eyes returning to your screen.

“Sounds like a him problem.”

Tim chuckled under his breath as he pushed off the wall.“For a personal assistant I’m surprised you’ve lasted this long, you’re driving him insane,” he laughs, heading for the door while you didn’t bother to look up, but you smiled when the door shuts.

DAMIAN WAYNE

Subject: Incompetence

You forwarded the documents through Timothy. Why? If you are capable of delivering them yourself, then do so. If you are not, inform me so I can make the appropriate adjustments to your workflow.

Confirm you received this.

You stared at the screen for a moment, feeling your pulse flicker between irritation and… something far less dignified. The man had the emotional intelligence of a cinder block, yet here he was, typing sentences that made you feel like you were being called into the principal’s office and dragged behind the bleachers at the same time.

Chelsea would call it a toxic cocktail.

You called it Tuesday.

Your fingers hovered above the keyboard before you slowly began to type your response.

YOU

Re: Incompetence

Received. Sent the files through Timothy because he was already going to your office. It was efficient for the both of us. Let me know if you have any other concerns regarding the workflow.

DAMIAN WAYNE

Re: Incompetence

Your definition of efficiency is questionable. Next time, deliver the documents yourself. I expect accuracy and consistency, not shortcuts. Report to my office in ten minutes. We need to review the adjustments together.

YOU

Re: Incompetence

You have a meeting in ten minutes. I’m busy, my schedule is booked out the entire week.

DAMIAN WAYNE

Subject: That Was Not a Request

You will make time. You have 5 minutes to get here.

The cursor blinked at the bottom of the screen, taunting you. Five minutes. Not ten. Not politely asking. A downgrade. A summons. You could practically hear the clipped irritation in every word.“Unbelievable,” you muttered, grabbing your tablet. “Now he wants to act like I’m late twice in one morning.”

You stood, smoothing down your skirt, steadying your breath, choosing professionalism over the urge to slam your forehead into the desk repeatedly.“Fine,” you said to the empty room. “If he wants a meeting, he’s going to get the most unbothered, least impressed version of me alive.”

And with that, you stepped out of your office, spine straight, chin high, fully prepared to make Damian Wayne question every life choice that led him to ordering you around in five-minute intervals. You walked down the hall with purpose, your heels clicking firmly against the polished floor, each step echoing your determination. The usual flutter of nerves twisted in your chest, but you shoved it aside.

Damian wanted your attention? He was going to get it on your terms.

As you approached his office, the door stood slightly ajar, the faint aroma of leather and coffee drifting out. You paused for a brief second, smoothing your blouse, making sure you looked every bit the professional, confident, composed, and untouchable. You stepped inside without knocking. Damian looked up from the sleek glass desk, his sharp eyes briefly scanning you before narrowing ever so slightly, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Five minutes,” he said, voice low but steady. No anger, no impatience, just that razor-sharp control you both knew too well. You nodded once, crossing your arms. “I’m here. What’s the emergency?”

His gaze flickered to the screen, then back to you. “Your revisions on the Q4 projection report. There are discrepancies in the sales figures for three key markets.” You raised a brow, already prepared with a mental list of where things might have gone sideways. “I triple-checked those. Unless you want to explain what you found, I don’t see the problem.”

Damian smirked, the faintest lift of his lips betraying his amusement. “I’m not here to argue. I’m here to make sure you’re not missing something.”

Something about the way he said it. It was calm, controlled, but not dismissive. It softened the edge of your frustration. You almost wanted to remind yourself to stop overthinking it.

Almost.

Instead, you pulled up the file on your tablet, ready to dive back into the numbers, ignoring the quiet thrum of something unspoken hanging between you. You tapped through the pages, fingers steady despite the fluttering in your chest. Damian watched you closely, leaning back in his chair with that same unreadable expression, as if waiting to catch you slipping.

“Here,” you said, pointing to the figures that didn’t line up. “This market’s revenue was recorded late, which threw off the totals. I flagged it in the notes, but it looks like your version missed that.”

He leaned forward, scanning your screen carefully.

“I see. Good catch.” The brief praise caught you off guard. He can compliment your work but not your fucking outfit—

“Is that it?” You said in the most infuriating tone ever, a leak of poison lying underneath it.

Damian quirked a brow.

“Is there something else you want to say?”

Oh, this infuriating man.

“No, sir,” you say firmly, trying to keep your irritation in check. Without a word, Damian rises and crosses the room with purposeful strides. He stops just in front of you, leaning casually against his desk with his arms folded, his eyes locked on yours.

“No, really,” he insists, voice low but laced with that unmistakable challenge. “Say it. I’m waiting.” You glare up at him, the frustration bubbling just beneath your skin.

You think back to all the little things he’s done. All those moments you tried to dismiss as nothing more than duty or habit, yet they added up— small cracks in the fortress he built around himself.

Say it? Say what? How maddening he is? How crazy does he makes you feel?

How every little thing he’s done, every unexpected coffee, every silent check-in, every begrudging act of care has tangled up your thoughts and emotions into a frustrating knot you can’t quite unravel. You want to blow up at him for making you feel like you’re under a microscope one moment, and the next, like you’re the only person who matters in his whole damn world.

You want to shout at him for how his sharp gaze can cut through your defenses, leaving you exposed and scrambling to catch your breath, yet somehow, it also holds a softness that drives you crazy because it’s so rare, so fleeting. You want to scream at him for the way he invades your thoughts when you least expect it, like the memory of a red scarf he wrapped around your neck, so unexpectedly gentle it made your skin burn with warmth, or the mysterious lunches that somehow felt like silent apologies or unspoken promises.

You want to tell him how unfair it is that he can act so cold and detached while making your heart race like you’re the most important person in the room. How annoying it is that despite every sharp word, every sarcastic barb, you find yourself wanting him to notice, to care, to see beyond the suit and the stoic facade.

“It’s—”

But most of all, you want to tell him that he’s become this impossible puzzle you can’t stop trying to solve, even if it’s driving you mad.

“Say it.”

And you’re absolutely sick of it.

You are sick of the way he pushes, prodding at you like a stubborn wound that won’t heal. The tension is thick in the air, every word a battle you don’t want to fight but somehow can’t avoid.

“You are—” you start, voice tight with frustration. He cuts you off with a slow, deliberate sigh that feels like it’s dragging the weight of the entire world. “Say it, right now.” He demands, eyes sharp and unblinking, daring you to defy him.

Fine.

You grit your teeth, trying to keep your voice steady, though it trembles with the effort it takes to keep everything inside from spilling out.

“I am trying to best to say it! Mr. Wayne, please, you’re so—” He raises a hand, silencing you without a word.

“No, that’s wrong, I’m not going to listen if you don’t say it.”

Say what?!?!! You’re absolutely done with Damian Wayne, the way he gets under your skin.

“Mr. Wa—”

“Wrong.”

Done with his cold, infuriating way of twisting your feelings into knots, like some cruel game only he knew the rules to.

“Fucking— eat shit, Damian!”

The words ripped out of your mouth, raw and unapologetic, carrying every ounce of frustration and anger you had held inside for far too long. They lingered between you, heavy and electric, like a spark igniting a fire that had been smoldering beneath the surface. It was a release, a challenge, and maybe the first honest thing you had said aloud in weeks.

You whipped around, determined to leave before your emotions could spiral into something even more reckless. Your chest felt tight, burning with a mixture of disappointment and hurt that you hadn’t allowed yourself to fully acknowledge. But before you could put space between you, his hand shot out and closed firmly around your wrist.

He pulled you back with quiet, steady strength. It was enough to stop you but never enough to cause pain. Slowly, deliberately, he turned you to face him.

His grip was warm and unyielding, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your skin prickle. Usually, his gaze was sharp and distant, but now it was something different—focused, unreadable, and strangely alive. The cold, controlled expression you expected softened just enough to reveal a small, almost smug smirk. It was the kind of smirk that said he was both amused and pleased by your outburst.

“Took you long enough to say my name,” he murmured, his voice low and edged with something like satisfaction, as if your words were exactly what he’d been waiting for all along.

Your breath caught. Excuse me?

“You wanted me to say your name?” you snap, incredulous, heat rising under your skin. “That’s what this was about?” You try to yank your hand back, fueled by a spark of irritation beneath the haze of desire, but he doesn’t let go.

His grip tightens just enough to stop you, not enough to trap you, his thumb brushing the inside of your wrist in slow, steady circles that make your anger stutter. “Don’t twist my words,” he says, gaze steady, unflinching. “But yes.” His voice softens, becomes something quieter, more dangerous. “Hearing you say my name like that…” His eyes hold yours, burning.

“I’ve wanted that for a long time.” Your heart skips, the fight in you wavering. “You’re unbelievable,” you whisper, torn between shoving him away and pulling him back in.

“You unravel me,” he cuts the tension, his fingers ghosting over your clenched hand, gentle but insistent. His touch was slow, like he was afraid to break something fragile, yet impossible to pull away from. Carefully, he eased your fingers open, one by one, before weaving his own through yours. His grip was quiet but absolute, as if claiming you wordlessly, without need for permission.

“Every time I told you to drop the titles, to leave the distance between us, you never did.” His voice was softer now, threading through the space between you like a secret. “You didn’t even realize… how long I’ve been waiting for this. Want you.”

You tried to pull away, heart suddenly thundering in your chest, mind spinning too fast to catch a single thought. But his hand stayed firm around yours, steady and warm, holding you not to restrain you, but to keep you from slipping out of the moment.

“Wait,” he breathed, and the word washed over you like a shiver. His grip wasn’t demanding, just certain. Certain in a way that made your pulse jump.

“Do you know you make me insane?” The words left him low, almost ragged, like he’d been holding them back for far too long. His gaze pinned you in place, sharp enough to cut through every layer you tried to hide behind. And the way he stood so close, his cologne wrapping around you in a rich, intoxicating warmth, made it impossible to pretend you weren’t affected.

You glared at him, a rush of heat blooming in your chest, a mixture of anger and something more tangled.

“Well, good,” you snapped, voice trembling despite yourself. “Maybe now you understand how it feels.”He didn’t let go. “No,” he murmured, low and rough, “I know exactly how it feels.” His eyes darkened, shadowed with something deeper than frustration or desire— something raw and aching.

“You walk into a room, and everything shifts. The air tightens around me, like a storm rolling in, and I can’t catch my breath.” He exhaled softly, as if confessing a truth too dangerous to hold inside any longer. “You wear your confidence like a second skin, like it’s as natural as breathing.” His gaze dropped for a moment down to your lips, then snapped back, sharp and consuming.

“And you think… you think I don’t notice?”

You face in a different direction, overwhelmed by the intensity burning in his gaze. But he leaned closer— just enough so that his breath warmed your cheek, sending a shiver down your spine. “You think I don’t notice the way your skirts sway when you walk, just enough to unbalance me. The stockings that catch the light, like they were made to break me. The way you move, commanding every eye without even trying.” His thumb traced a slow, deliberate path along your knuckles— tender and sure.

“You undo me.” he whispered, voice thick with something almost vulnerable. You tried again to pull your hand free, desperation flickering in your movements, but his fingers tightened around yours, firm, steady, and grounding. “With every step you take, every glance you try to hide, and every breath you draw like it’s meant for someone else. You think you slip by unnoticed—” He swallowed hard, eyes locking with yours, raw and unguarded.

“But you don’t.” His voice was a breath, a confession hanging in the space between you.

“You make a liar of everything I thought I knew about myself.”

You stand there, heart hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it, breath catching and unsteady. The room feels impossibly small now, like the space between you has been carved down to this one fragile moment.

His eyes flicker down, tracing the curve of your lips, hesitant but drawn.

The air thickens between you.

“Would you allow me to kiss you?” he breathes, barely more than a question, but charged with everything he’s held back until now.

Your eyes flicker downward for a brief moment, then back up, meeting him again.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, you give the faintest nod, a silent surrender that speaks volumes.

His fingers tighten around yours with a gentle yet possessive grip, grounding you. With his other hand, he reaches up, fingers brushing along your cheek before cradling your jaw with careful reverence, thumb tracing small circles that send a shiver through you. The warmth of his touch contrasts with the cool air around you, anchoring you to the moment.

Then, with deliberate, breathtaking slowness, he leans in. His lips hover just over yours for a heartbeat longer. It was soft, tentative, and reverent— before they finally meet yours in a brush of warmth and promise. The kiss is gentle but shattering, breaking down every wall you built, every doubt you held, leaving only the raw, undeniable truth between you both.

Then, his hand tightens on your jaw, tilting your face just so, as if commanding you to surrender, to feel everything he’s held inside. The intensity builds gradually, like a rising tide, each breath mingling, each movement deliberate and fierce.

Your heart hammers, your breath hitches, and his touch sends a shiver that steals what little air you have left. It’s a kiss that is deep, urgent, impossible to ignore, like he’s pouring every ounce of longing, frustration, and desire into this one perfect moment.

“Damian—” you gasp, barely able to get the word out as your breath catches in your throat. You try to pull away, desperate for air, but he’s faster, more urgent.

His hand slips from your fingers and moves with a firm, confident grip to your waist. Before you can steady yourself, he shifts you effortlessly, pressing you back against the desk that a few pens slip from his desk, laying on important papers that Damian didn’t care about at this moment. The sudden motion makes your knees wobble, a rush of dizziness swirling through you, but there’s no room for doubt or hesitation in this moment— only the overwhelming euphoria of his lips claiming yours again.

Your back arches slightly against the cool surface of the desk, every nerve igniting with electricity. Each breath is stolen and returned, shared between you as his kiss deepens, becoming more urgent, more intense. The world tilts and spins around you, overwhelmed by the raw heat of his touch.

His hands move with purpose, sliding up from your waist to hold you closer, anchoring you as if you might float away. Your fingers tangle in the soft strands of his hair, pulling him nearer, matching the hunger in his kiss.

You don’t remember the exact moment the kiss ended, only that when it did, you were left utterly breathless.

Your chest heaved, every inhale shallow and desperate, and you were certain you looked wild, your lips flushed and trembling from the way he kept chasing for them.

But Damian— he looked even more undone.

Damian looked worse off than you. His usual composed mask was shattered, replaced by a raw, almost vulnerable expression. His dark eyes were half-lidded, glazed with an unspoken hunger and something softer, maybe wonder, and maybe relief. His breathing was heavy, each breath a sharp intake that seemed to shake his entire frame.

Your lipstick was smeared across his mouth, a vivid stain that made his usual cold demeanor melt away. A few strands of his hair hung over his forehead, disheveled and rebellious, like the moment had stolen every last piece of control from him.

His fingers traced a slow line down your arm, thumb brushing lightly.

“I was beginning to think your spite would never stop pretending you didn’t want this.”

You met his gaze, fierce and honest.

“Maybe I was just waiting for you to admit it first, Mr. Wayne.”

Your tone was teasing, light, deliberately provoking. And it worked. His brows pulled together immediately, a sharp, irritated frown that would’ve been funny if your heart wasn’t pounding.

“Do not say that.”

The words weren’t raised, but they carried heat.

They carried want.

“Then what do you prefer?”

You tilted your head, pretending innocence, even though you both knew exactly what you were doing.

His glare deepened, steady and pointed, the kind meant to pin you in place. Not angry— not even close. Just frustrated that you were still playing when he was already past pretending.

He held your gaze for a long, heavy moment, eyes dark with meaning.

And in that silence, it was so clear:

He wanted to hear his name from your mouth.

Not the title.

Not the formality.

Him.

Only him.

He leaned in again, voice just above a whisper.

“You know patience was never my strong suit.”

“I know,” you mumbled, your thumb smudging the lipstick smear a little further with a small smile.

“You look good in this color, Damian.”

His eyes flickered over your face, lingering on your mouth, then dropping briefly to your hand still resting against his jaw.

Your name left his lips like a warning and a plea all at once.

“Do not say things like that unless you intend to finish what you started.”

━━━━┅━━━┅━━━━━━━┅━━━┅━━━

𝖥𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖦𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗆, 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗋. 𝖥𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖾, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖿 𝗍𝗈 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌. 𝖥𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝖾𝗋.

𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖽𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗄𝖾𝗒𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗉 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖽𝗀𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗂𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗎𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾. 𝖨𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝗆𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍, 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗎𝗆 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖺𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗈𝗋, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗓𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒, 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗇𝖺𝗉𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝗈𝖻𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗎𝗆𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁.

𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗄-𝖼𝗅𝖺𝖽 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾. 𝖧𝖾’𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿-𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗄𝖾, 𝖺 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖻𝖺𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁, 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍-𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍.

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝗉 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾’𝗌 𝖺 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗁 𝖼𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾, 𝗋𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝖻𝖽𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇. 𝖧𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾.

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝗒 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌. 𝖨𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇’𝗌 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗅𝗒, 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉.

“𝖧𝖾𝗒, 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗀𝗀𝗒. “𝖧𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄?”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗍𝗈.

𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗎𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆—𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖧𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗍𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝘔𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘥 𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗀𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽.

𝖫𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝖽.

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗌. 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇’𝗌 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗌, 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗆𝗌. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐, 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗒.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝖺 𝗁𝗈𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖨 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍?” 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗍𝗌, 𝖺 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌.

𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺 𝗌𝖺𝗋𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍. 𝖡𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗅𝗒, 𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗇𝗈 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖺 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗍.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄. 𝖦𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝖨𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗈𝖼𝖼𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾.

𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗇.

“𝖲𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍.” 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗄𝖾, 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍, 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌, 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗐. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍, 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗌, 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗏𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗌. 𝘈𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾.

“𝖨 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍. “𝖨 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍—𝖨 𝖽𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖨—“

“𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇 ‘𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋,’” 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌, 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝖺.

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝖾 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾, 𝗈𝖻𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗐𝗇 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗌𝗉𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗉𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗌?”

“𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇—“

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗆𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍,” 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝗌, 𝖺 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌.

“𝖶𝖾𝗅𝗅, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝗌𝗈 𝖨 𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗐𝖾’𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇.”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝗎𝖿𝖿, 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗎𝗆𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝖺 𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌, 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗇 𝖾𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾. 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝗇𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗄𝗋𝗒𝗉𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗍𝖾. 𝖡𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗁 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌.

“𝖸𝖾𝖺𝗁, 𝗈𝗄𝖺𝗒. 𝖨 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍,” 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁, 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗎𝗅𝗍; 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗉 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗇, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆. 𝖧𝖾𝗅𝗅, 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾.

𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝖻𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗆𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗄, 𝗌𝗇𝗂𝖿𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗇𝖺 𝗀𝗈,” 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝗌, 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗎𝗉, 𝗎𝗇𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋.

“𝖳𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗒,” 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖾𝗌, 𝗇𝗈𝖽𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗌. “𝖨𝖿 𝗂𝗍’𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉.”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐, 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗂𝗉𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗒. 𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇, 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖿, 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝗍𝗋𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝗀𝗀𝖺𝗀𝖾. 𝖭𝗈𝗐, 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝖺 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗀𝗈, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽.

𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖧𝖾 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌. 𝖡𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝖽𝗌 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗋𝗎𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽. 𝖫𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗉𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗌, 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗎𝗉 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝖺. 𝖧𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗋, 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝖾 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍. “𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝖨 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗂𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝖾𝗋.”

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍, 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍—𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝗂𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗏𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽. 𝖦𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝖽𝖺𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗄. 𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾. 𝖤𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗇𝗈 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾.

𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗇𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗒 𝖻𝖾.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒 𝗇𝗈𝖽. “𝖨 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗈.”

“𝖮𝗄𝖺𝗒, 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗁.” 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍. “𝖨’𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎.”

𝖦𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗆 𝖢𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇𝗈𝗈𝗇𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗇𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇, 𝖼𝗈𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾.

𝘑𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘗𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘛𝘰𝘥𝘥. 𝘉𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘚𝘰𝘯.

𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗏𝖾, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝖠𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗆𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌.

𝖲𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗌, 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗍𝖾. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝖺 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗏𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖨𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗍 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇, 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍𝗌, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖿𝖿 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗐 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝖿 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈, 𝖺 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖾.

𝖲𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒, 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍, 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗂𝗅𝖾. 𝖧𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝖿𝗈𝖼𝗎𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗌 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

“𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒’𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖾,” 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗌.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗌.”

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍?” 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾.

“𝖮𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝖨 𝖽𝗂𝖽,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗒, 𝗇𝗎𝖽𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋. “𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖬𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗁𝖺 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗆𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝖺𝗓𝖾𝖻𝗈, 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝗎𝖽𝗌 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗇𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾.”

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗌,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗌, 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎.

𝖠 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾, 𝗋𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾.

“𝖨 𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗍, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝖽𝖺𝗒. 𝖨’𝖽 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾, 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖨 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗎𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎.”

𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗌. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖾 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗁𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖻𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍.

𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗎𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝖿𝖿𝗂𝗇, 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗂𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖺 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝖻𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗋. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗊𝗎𝖾𝖾𝗓𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝖺𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖾, 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖼 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈.

𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗈𝖼𝖼𝗎𝗉𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗅 𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗈, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾. 𝖨𝗍 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗍 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗌.

“𝖨’𝖽 𝖿𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖬𝖾𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝖽𝖺𝗒,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖾. “𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖨 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗀𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖨 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝗒 𝗃𝗈𝖻 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖦𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗆 𝖦𝖺𝗓𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾. 𝖨–𝖨 𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖨 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗆𝖾, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝖿 𝖨 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾.”

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇’𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖬𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝖤𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇, 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌.

𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝗈𝖻𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗍𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗒, 𝗍𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝗇 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖿.

𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍.

“𝖨 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍,” 𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗆𝗎𝗋𝗌.

“𝖨 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾.” 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗑𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖾, 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝗌𝗁𝗋𝗎𝗀.

𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝖽𝗋𝗒 𝖼𝗁𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗎𝗉 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍. “𝖦𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖨’𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾.”

“𝖭𝗈, 𝖨 𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝗈𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾. “𝖦𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝘶𝘴𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗇𝗍.”

𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍, 𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝖨𝗍 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗂𝗅𝖾.

“𝘜𝘴𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺.” 𝖧𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗋𝗄, 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎. “𝖣𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝖾.”

“𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖿𝗎𝗇𝗇𝗒, 𝖩𝖺𝗒,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖽, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍.

𝖧𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽, 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌. 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗆𝖾. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗇𝖺 𝗀𝗈 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾, 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍,” 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌, 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗇𝗈𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒. “𝖸𝖾𝖺𝗁.”

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗐𝗋𝖺𝗉 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗎𝗉 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌. 𝖧𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗎𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍.

“𝖢𝖺𝗇 𝖨 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗌,” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗌𝗄 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆.

“𝖸𝖾𝖺𝗁, 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍,” 𝖩𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾. “𝖠𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍.”

·.·´¯`·.·★·.·´¯`·.·

His grip is tight, as if you might float away, and that feels stupid because you’ve never felt so heavy. Every bone in your body is an anchor tethering you to the bed. Even though it hurts a little, you don’t want him to let go. He hasn’t held you like this before, like you meant something. 

You think about saying something smart like ‘well I’m already sat down’ or, ‘it’s not like i can go anywhere else’ but your throat is too sore. It’s a strange feeling, not scratchy like a cough, more like graze. It feels like a scrapped knee. Inside you. 

Tim’s eyes dart from Jason, to you, to Bruce. He’s searching for something. You know his tells. The same way he knows yours. Sometimes better than you do. Does Tim know this guy too?

Dick shatters the silence. 

“This is Jason-”

“She knows his name.” Damian is the second to break it. His posture is similar to a cat moments before jumping off a ledge. Poised but hesitant. “She just said it, Grayson.” He’s never defended you like this before, if that's what you could call this.

“Both of you shut up.” Jason groans. He exhales, his shoulders tightening up, and then he begins. “I’m Jason.” He says it like it’s supposed to mean something. When you don’t get the hint, he continues. “Todd.” It rings a bell but it doesn’t connect any dots yet. Trying to remember anything feels like flying a kite. You’ll get a running start, and it’ll take off, but then the wind disappears and the kite falls. 

All eyes are on you. Again. This whole thing starts to feel like a monkey's paw. You used to be afraid of that story when you read it in the Manor’s library. It went something like this- A married couple are gifted a mummified monkey’s paw. They are told that each finger of the Monkey’s paw can grant a wish, but it will have disastrous consequences. The husband wishes for money. The next day, his son dies at work, but he gets bereavement pay from his son’s employer. 

When you think about the story, you remember the tiny note written at the bottom of the first blank page. Property of Jason Todd. Return if found. No. That doesn’t make any sense. 

“What?” That's all you can say. You don’t have time to think of a smarter question. 

“Just listen to him.” Tim urges with a tone that borders on patronising. 

“I used to- shit this is hard to explain. Okay. My name is Jason. When I was a kid I lived ‘round Crime alley. Bruce took me in. But I… I ran away, and didn’t come home. But I’m back now.” 

Even under the influence of the medicine, you can smell that bullshit from a mile away. “But you died. Right?” You turn to Alfred in hopes he would back you up, but instead he just gives Bruce a look, a silent message, and says nothing. 

“Jason died. You told me he died. And that doesn’t-” You cut yourself off with a violent cough, one that rattles through you like sharp wind in tunnel. It reverberates loudly thanks to the oxygen mask on your face, making it sound worse than it was. Everyone lurches at once. Like that would do anything. You want to swat them away, but a tiny part of you tells you that if you push them away now, they’ll never come back. You wanted this right? 

You rip the mask off your face and let it dangle around your neck. The first hit of fresh air is magical. Not perfectly fresh, it tastes stale, but it’s a welcome change.

“That doesn’t explain Damian.” you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand when your coughing fit stops. You feel gross. This isn’t the first time you’ve woken up and felt disgusting. Some days you wake up with smeared makeup and new bruises. Sometimes it's in someone else’s bed. But there’s always a cloud of shame. Over time it’s become something akin to a friend in the sense that it’s familiar, and you know it will always be there.

“Why did you tell me he died?” This time your eyes are on Bruce. Something shifts behind his eyes. Not pity or disappointment. Something else you can’t point. “At the time, we thought he did.” He moves his hand from your shoulder and adjusts the neck of the hospital gown. When you took it off, the cord of the oxygen mask had caught on the edge of the neckline. 

He noticed. His movements are slow and tactile, painfully comforting. You could’ve had this before. There could’ve been a world where he held you with that same gentleness, but you weren’t in that world. 

“We didn’t know how to explain it to you.” He concludes. “I thought that, given your past, you’d find it overwhelming.” You want to cry. Or scream. Or hit someone, maybe even yourself. Why does everyone treat you like you’re stupid? 

“How does Damian know him then? Didn’t you think he’d find it ‘overwhelming’?” 

Damian’s posture straightens like he was anticipating a move. “I asked.” He says simply. 

“Oh so it’s my fault for not knowing? Sorry, let me understand this- I was supposed to go up to Bruce and ask ‘hey is Jason still dead or did he crawl out of the grave and come home?’ Is that what you’re telling me?” The room goes uncomfortably quiet. 

Oh no. No no no. It’s going to happen. They’re going to leave you. You pissed them off. That’s why they’ve shut up. The Monkey’s paw. Behind you, the heart monitor starts to escalate. Your chest feels breathless. But you can’t move. 

Alfred clears his throat. He breaks from the crowd around you and ushers Bruce out of his spot without a word. Bruce complies. When Alfred sits, he picks the mask you tore off and holds it to you. Not an order. But you both know it’s not a question. Your fingers shake when you try and put it back on so he has to help. 

“I think it would be best if everyone gave you some space. For a minute” 

The men, and Damian, take the hint. One by one, they slowly filter out. Dick offers a small smile before he goes. Damian straightens out your blanket but doesn’t look at you. Tim delivers an awkward side hug, careful not to touch the equipment around you. Jason does a slight nod, the kind you give a stranger when you hold the door open for them. Bruce is the last to go. He squeezes your hand and stands up. Hesitates. Then his hand holds the side of your face and he plants the smallest kiss on the top of your head. 

You freeze. This has never happened before. Not with him. Ever. Burning tears start to bloom in the corners of your eyes. He leaves before they grow. 

Alfred starts to stand but your hand darts out and holds onto his sleeve. “Don’t go.” He sits back down and gives Bruce a nod. Then the door closes. 

“Good save.” Dick’s sarcasm is laced with anxiety. No one could’ve planned what just happened. Unfortunately for you, you live with detectives who live double lives 24/7. They created that story on the spot. This wasn’t the first time they’d run with a fake story. Undercover work wasn’t anything new, but this was different. “Ran away? Really Jason?”

“What else was I supposed to say?” Jason chides. He tries not to let his face show it, but he’s scrambling. He’d only ever seen you under the influence, so he hadn’t expected you to be so sharp when sober. This was the first time he’s seen you string together coherent sentences without slurring or stammering. 

A lot of things were clicking into place. You had told him about your brothers, now he could put a face, or faces, to the names. The Oolder brother who doesn’t really like you’ was Dick. He pins Tim as the ‘Only nice one’, and all signs for ‘The one who is embarrassed of you’ point to Damian. You never named them, he reasoned you didn’t want to give all your personal life to the big bad Red Hood. Maybe if he pressed you would’ve spilled, but then what good would that have done? 

“You think she’d be completely fine with the pit? That wouldn’t raise any questions at all.” He mirrors Dick’s sarcasm but the nervous edge Dick flavoured it with is gone, instead Jason peppers his bite with venom. 

Bruce clears his throat and all eyes go to him. Jason feels his shoulders rising, squaring up against a potential threat from Bruce. Like a junkyard dog moments before being thrown into a fighting ring. Bite or get bit. Though they were mostly cordial now, not like how it used to be, there was always a part of him that told him he had to always be ready for anything. To get ready to kick and bite. Sometimes that part felt so big that he wondered if it was a part of him, or if this was him. 

“We’re going with Jason’s story.” He decides. And then it’s law. “Jason left, and now he’s back.” It isn’t a perfect story, but he thinks it will pacify you for now. 

He did love you, he does love you even, but in a broken way. When hasn’t Bruce loved someone in a broken way? Instead of holding you and telling you every day that you were enough, he left you to your own devices. He wants to lie and say it was out of nobility, that he believed it was the most ethical choice, but it wasn’t. Every time he smelt the alcohol on your breath, or saw the bruises on your legs and arms, when he caught your eye and saw how spaced out your pupils were, it reminded him of everything he was. 

Self destruction. Trying to escape yourself. Filling an endless void with material goods, with drinks and drugs, just for the hole to deepen. Being surrounded by people but feeling like you're alone in a lifeboat in a cold and uncaring sea. The eyes that dissect your every move. Chasing pleasure from people you won’t remember thinking that’ll change something, and when it doesn’t, you just find someone else and try again. 

You were both in that lifeboat. In the vast unfeeling ocean, and you were clinging to him, begging him to pull you up. There’s a boat in the distance, a ship, salvation. He flags it over. When the boat comes, he climbs the rope ladder. You reach to be pulled up. If he takes your hand, you could lose your balance and fall in. So he leaves you. From the deck, he looks down on your lifeboat. You’re alone. If he lowers the rope back down, it means he’ll have to get back into the boat. He leaves the ladder dangling from the side, an open invitation to a party, but there is no one to escort you there. 

Every time he took someone under his wing, they broke. But, at least they could break together. He left you to fall apart all by yourself. If you were going to drown in that sea, he should’ve held your hand and sunken with you. 

But you were sinking. Every night you were drowning yourself in a bottle. You had called for help, leaving your proverbial SOS in the sky. Leaving empty bottles in plain sight. Cigarette butts on your windowsill. Eating breakfast in front of him with dark eyebags. 

You were shot in front of him. 

Even though you cried and begged not to die, he knew that look. Relief. Maybe your conscious brain couldn’t register it, but he’s certain that subconsciously you knew you’d die if you ran down that alley.

He’ll drop the ship’s anchor. He’ll climb down the rope ladder and pull you up, out of that darkness. He’ll pull you onto the ship’s deck and hoist the ladder back up, so you’ll never go down again. The storm will calm, and the waters will still. 

Bruce exhales, freeing himself from the image. Today, it will change. 

Alfred keeps fretting with the cord of the mask, adjusting it over and over again so it fits snugly without digging into your skin. You want to enjoy the attention, but you can’t focus on anything. Since you woke up, there’s been this… itch. If you can call it that. Like fingernails scratching at your chest from the inside. Everytime you think about the alley, it comes back. When you think about anything but the present, the scratching starts. You’ve felt anxiety before, you’ve had a handful of acid induced panic attacks before, but this feels so much worse. Like the breath in your lungs is slowly being siphoned off by invisible claws. 

Neither of you speak, just enjoying the silence. Well, you aren’t enjoying it, but it’s easier than talking. Everything takes effort, breathing, blinking, thinking. You wonder if you’ve actually woken up, or if you’re still dreaming. 

“You know you’re lucky, don’t you?” Alfred cracks the silence. There’s a tone in his voice. It makes you want to cry immediately. Normally you’re better at hiding that. But when doing literally anything takes effort, it’s easier for the dam to burst. The tears roll down and trickle around the mask, not breaking the seal. Alfred looks taken aback, instead of continuing his lecture, he just thumbs away the tears. 

The anger you felt at your family, for hiding such a big lie, is still hot, but not like fire, like boiling water. It bubbles and rages inside you, but it isn’t quick hot anger, it's a slow, wet kind. The kind that makes you upset for feeling angry. Like a child regretting their temper tantrum after they’ve been put in timeout. 

You lift your head when the door opens again, thinking it’ll be the gaggle of men and boys, but instead a single doctor comes in. His clipboard is snug against his chest and he walks like he’s being watched. That’s when you see a shorter doctor behind him, she carries herself with grace and controlled confidence. 

They greet you but it feels stiff. Something’s wrong. The scratching gets worse. “Good morning Miss Wayne.” the taller one greets, his voice a little shaky. He looks like he’s five minutes from imploding under stress. “How’re you feeling?” 

It takes you a moment to find the words. “Fine. My throat hurts.” You’ve never liked going to the doctors. “My stomach hurts too. But I mean I was shot, so.” Trying to find the humour in the situation backfires because Alfred tuts. That signature, ‘you’re better than this’ tut. 

“Considering..?” Alfred pries. 

The doctor seems to find it funny at least. The taller one gives a small smile and checks the clipboard again before looking back up to meet your eyes. “Well your charts look… surprisingly good. Considering everything else.” 

“Her, uh, condition on intake. Although we can’t trust these charts 100%, there could still be some floating in her system. But all things considered, you’re looking well. But uh, we’ve- uh”’

“I’ll say it.” The short one pipes up, clearly irritated by his stuttering. She takes the board from it and clasps her hands together in front of her. “Miss Wayne, we want to keep you under observation for another seventy-two hours after you’ve healed from your surgery."

“What? You said I was fine-” Alfred takes your hand in his, a silent grounder. The scratching ramps up. “I’m not sick, I didn’t break anything. You already did surgery on me, right? Look, I just want to go home.” 

“This isn’t about the surgery.” Her voice is clipped but there’s a softer ring to it. She’s exercising restraint. “We’re concerned about your substance intake. If you drink, or take recreational substances while on the medication we’ve prescribed for you, I’m not going to beat around the bush, it could turn lethal. Do you understand that? If you continue to abuse your body, you’ll die. We want to keep you under observation to make sure you put yourself in danger.”

Humiliation burns through your core. This is rock bottom. You feel like you’re back in school, getting told off for not doing your homework in front of the whole class. You wish you didn’t ask Alfred to stay. Having him hear this makes everything feel so much worse. 

You really are the worst daughter ever. No wonder they don’t want you. God if Mother could see you now she wouldn’t recognise you. She’d leave you too. If she wasn’t dead, she’d have left you. 

“How long do I have to stay?” Your voice is shaky and embarrassing. 

“Depends on how quick your stitches take to heal up. After that, we’ll keep you on some antibiotics, and once you’ve finished the course, you’ll be okay to go home.” The taller one pipes up. 

When you don’t reply, but instead just nod, they take their leave. “Someone will come by later and ask you some questions. Don’t think too deeply, just answer them honestly.” The shorter one finishes. “I hope you’ll feel better soon.” And you believe she means it. 

The group is divided. Jason and Damian come in just after the Doctors leave. Jason still looks uncomfortable. You wish you could’ve met under different circumstances. It would be nice to be alone. Or make a better first impression. He stands in the back of the room, not making any first moves, so you end up being the first to try and break the ice. 

“I’m not normally like this.” You broach weakly. “I mean, I don’t dress like this normally.” Sheepishly gesturing to the hospital gown and mask. “I’m Y/N.” 

Jason bites back a quick ‘I know’ and instead just dips his head. “Yeah, well, weird circumstances.” he summarises. You notice the scuff marks on his jacket. His clothes don’t look new and pristine like everyone else’s. They’re clearly lived in. The leather is old and worn, with discoloured patches on the elbows. He must work with his hands. 

“I like your jacket.” You try. A tiny, almost invisible, smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. 

“Nah, this thing? It’s ancient. Bet it’s older than Damian.”

Damian’s always envied how easily you connect with people. Something so simple as a trivial compliment, and you’ve already started hacking away at Jason’s icy walls. You had a charm that he lacked, and that drove him mad. How are you able to be so likable, even now when you’re practically strapped down to a bed, unwashed and dressed in thin, flatout ugly attire? 

“How come you two know each other? I know I asked but you didn’t really answer.” You try again. 

“His Mom knew mine. I left home to find her but, well it’s done now.” He puts his hands in his pockets. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be, you didn’t do anything.” He scoffs. 

“Where are the others?” Alfred asks, finally standing up and stretching his legs. You wonder how long he waited for you to wake up. How many hours had he been by your side?

“Outside getting air.” Damian clips. He’s sat back on the same chair he was before he left, right by the bed. 

“Tim’s vaping, isn’t he?” You muse, a tiny laugh fighting it’s way out. God you’d kill for a vape right now. You normally hate it, and tease Tim for 'not committing to real tobacco', but you’d do anything for a hit. Something to damp down the scratching anxiety. 

“Yeah.” Jason makes a noise, something like a laugh but more subtle, like he’s surprised you can still joke in this situation. 

“I’m going to join Master Bruce. Some fresh air will do me good.” Alfred lets go of your hand and you miss the warmth when it slips away. You feel so cold. “I’ll be back soon.” he promises, then closes the door behind him. 

Great. Now you’re stuck with Jason and Damian. You had turned Jason, or rather the vague concept of Jason, into an imaginary friend for years and vented to the fictitious friend about anything and everything. Now he was real, and old, and breathing. Old was a stretch, older is the right word. Part of you felt guilty for warping him into something he wasn’t. He wasn’t yours, it was wrong to impose an identity onto him when he wasn’t there. But it was nice to have a friend that couldn’t leave, or hurt you. 

When the door closes, the shift in the air causes the book peeking out of Tim’s backpack to fall out and hit the ground. You didn’t realise he left it there. Then you recognise the cover, it was the same book you were struggling to get through the other day. The one you were trying to read to pass the time before you went to Roy’s. 

Jason bent down to put it back, but when he saw the cover he paused. He turned it over in his hands, checking the back, then looked up at you. “This yours?” 

“Yeah.” you admitted with a twinge of embarrassment. It was below your reading level. You found it in the library one day and held on to it. It was a little older than what you were used to, to the prose and language was harder to understand. 

“No way. I used to love this one.” He handed it to you with care, like the pages would fly out. During your walks with Red Hood, you never mentioned reading. 

“Really?” He swore he could see something in your posture shift, like you were getting less afraid of him by the minute. “I haven’t gotten super into it yet. Is it good?” 

He starts a small rant about it. Jason doesn’t get to talk about his interests much. There’s a light in his voice, strong but not overpowering and loud, just passionate in a confident way. He knows what he’s talking about, he doesn’t overexplain anything.

To be honest, you aren’t really listening. A lot of it goes over your head. He talks about the themes and the character dynamics, how the time period influences their choices and actions, but a lot of it gets drowned out. You’re just grateful to have something else to focus on. Something other than the beeping of the monitors, the cords rubbing against you, the way the gown feels against your skin. 

Damian doesn’t interject, but you can tell he wants to say something. You won’t force him to. If he feels like it, he’ll talk. It’s still painful to be around him. Everytime you see him in your peripheral vision, you see yourself pushing him. You feel like a monster. A beast. 

Before he can finish, the door knocks. It’s a different doctor this time, one you haven’t seen before. She isn’t dressed like the other ones. She’s not in a lab coat, but instead just wearing a simple button up and a cardigan. She looks more like a teacher than a doctor. 

“Sorry to interrupt, I’m Dr Wyatt, I’m here to ask you some questions.” Her voice is soft and direct. Jason and Damian exchange a look and reluctantly leave the room. 

“You guys are coming back right?” Your hand grips the edge of the thin blanket tightly. 

Damian nods. Then they leave. And it’s just you and the Doctor alone. You haven’t had a single minute to yourself yet and it’s starting to drive you crazy. 

You sit up in the bed when Dr Wyatt sits down in the chair Damian was in. You’re assuming the questions will just be ‘how are your stitches’ or asking if you want anything to eat, but instead she pulls out a thick stack of papers from her bag. They’re stapled together and frighteningly official looking. You decide to take the oxygen mask off if you're going to be talking for a while.

“Now Y/N, I’m going to ask you some questions, and there is no right or wrong answer, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay, good. Now, when I ask you a question, you can answer it with ‘Never’, ‘Sometimes’, ‘Most of the time’, or ‘Everyday’. You understand? And again, there are no right or wrong answers. Or judgement. This is only for me and the Doctors to see.”

“Okay.” your voice quivers a little. 

“Alright, I’m going to start now. Over the last two weeks, how often would you say you’ve been feeling anxious, or on edge?” 

Oh. It’s those questions. When Mother died, you remember a lady at the social services building asking you similar stuff. You don’t think it went anywhere though. Maybe it’s the near death experience talking, but you don’t feel shame when you say “Sometimes.” Normally, you placate yourself, you water down your feelings, you make them smaller to avoid bothering anyone. But now you don’t want to be small. You want to be seen.

“Okay, and do you have any trouble relaxing?”

The question makes you snort. That catches her attention. You can already see her scribbling something down. “Something funny?” her tone isn’t accusatory. 

“No,no, it’s just- I’m really good at relaxing. I don’t do anything. I’m not in school. I don’t have a job. Or hobbies, or friends, or anything a normal person does. So I don’t do anything. I lie in bed. Or on the floor. I sleep through the day. I doomscroll. I drink.”

You’ve never said that part outloud. 

“Or I smoke. To pass the time. Then I go out, and I party. It relaxes me I guess. Then I go home and sleep for ages. That’s pretty relaxing.”

She writes something down quickly and looks back up at you. “And do you find yourself becoming easily irritable or annoyed?”

“Back off!” You fight back your growing frustration. It burns in your throat with a flaming chokehold. Your lip quivers under the heat. It’s wet and raw, warm like blood. “I’ve had a shit day and I don’t want to spend another minute here.”

“Sometimes. Yes.” It’s clipped and avoidant. 

“Have you felt little interest or pleasure in things you normally enjoy?”

You have to think for a moment on how to word your answer. “Sometimes. I used to really enjoy partying. But, I uh, I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like I have to do it. Like, if I want to drink, I have to go to a party. I don’t just want to drink at home. If I’m outside, and I’m with people, then it feels less… weird.” 

“And can I ask who these people are? In your own words you ‘don’t have friends.’ So who are you partying with?” 

“I don’t know. Just people. I meet them randomly. I don’t know them. I just talk to them and then we drink.”

“Do you feel down or hopeless?”

“.. Yes. Most of the time”

“Do you feel that you’ve let someone down? That you’ve failed.” 

You think about your college friends' graduation pictures. Of the life you could’ve lived. You think about school. How your grades were only ever fine. Average, bordering on underachieving. “Yes. All the time.”

“Do you have trouble connecting with something, like reading a newspaper or watching TV?

“When I try to read I can’t think about the words. It’s like autopilot. Most of the time. I watch TV but I'm not really taking it in, it just passes over me”

Doctor Wyatt pauses before asking the next question. “Do you have thoughts about dying? That you’d be better off dead, or hurt?” Her eyes are soft as the press. 

“Yes.” it shocks you to admit it. “When… When I got shot, I think I didn’t want to wake up. I didn’t want to die, but I didn’t want to wake up. Does that make sense? It’s stupid. And pathetic. But I just, I don’t know anymore. I think I’m tired of trying, but then I haven’t done anything. I’ve never really tried to be anything. So what's there to be tired of? It’s disgusting.”

“You aren’t disgusting Y/N.” 

You needed that more than you knew. You break into tears immediately. Again. Wyatt hands out a tissue for you and you wipe away the rolling tear drops. One strays against your lip and you taste the salty sweet residue. 

“Do you have repeating memories of a traumatic event? Recent or Old.” 

“Sometimes I see my Mother. And I see her yelling at me. And I see her body at the morgue. I was the only one that could identify her. She didn’t have friends. Or family. She died- killed- when I was thirteen. I used to get nightmares. But, when I drink, or get high, or whatever to distract myself, she’s not there anymore. And then I get sad that she isn’t there. So I go home.” 

“Where’s home?”

“I live with my Father, but my Mother’s home was on Birch street. So I just wait outside the apartment building for her to come out. But she doesn’t.”

“Do you find yourself bothered by strong negative beliefs?”

“What does that mean?”

“Thoughts like, ‘something’s wrong with me’, or ‘the world is out to get me’.”

“Yeah, sometimes. I mean, I know there’s something wrong with me, I know I’m bad, but I think the world is just the world. I think life just sucks for everyone, I think some people are just better at managing it.”

“How many times a week do you consume alcohol?”

“Pretty much every day.”

“When you start drinking do you find yourself unable to stop?”

“Yeah. I just, I don’t want to be sober. I want to stay drunk. Everything feels easier. I feel normal.”

You don’t have an answer. Dr Wyatt continues. “Has a Doctor or a relative expressed concerns, or asked you to cut down?”

“How can you tell when you’re drunk if you’re never sober?”

“Sort of. I mean, my brother does sometimes. But he doesn’t stop me.”

She writes on her notepad and you watch her face twitch. Her eyebrows knit together and droop at the end. When she stops, she gathers the papers together and looks back up at you as she stands up. “Thank you for your time Y/N.”

“It was nice to meet you.” You try a smile but you doubt she bought it. You’ve never been that open with anyone. Not even imaginary Jason. There was something freeing about deciding not to care anymore. “Do you think I can take these things off? I need the bathroom?” 

At Dr Wyatt’s request, someone comes in to take off the mask and the monitor attachments, freeing you from the bed. Your feet feel like mud when you put weight on them. For a second you nearly stumble, but you catch yourself. There’s a tall window in the room, so you prop it open to get some air in. Then you head to the bathroom. 

One day, those feelings will end, right? They have to, because there must be more to life than this. Chasing something that’ll never come. When you look in the mirror, you see her. The thirteen year old you whose life stopped because one man couldn’t take no for an answer. She’s afraid of you. Of course she is. You look awful. Her eyes are still bright. When did that light go out? 

You want to hold her close and never let go. To melt into her and try again. Go back and make better choices. Beg Mother to stay. You’d never fight with her again, you’d be her good girl. You’d let her shout and belittle you without protest if it meant she’d stay. Try school again, make friends that wouldn’t leave you. Become a better person. Be kinder. Less selfish. Choose a normal, uninspiring life. Work a job you feel ambivalent toward. Take home a paycheck that keeps the lights and fridge on. Live in an apartment that feels like it’s actually yours, not just a guest room in a hotel. 

In the blink of an eye, she’s gone, and it’s just you and staring at yourself. The last person you want to see right now. 

WE’RE HERE TEAM WE DID IT. 

GOD LIFE GOT WEIRD AFTER CHP 10. Okay so- I got my apartment keys, only for my landlord to give me the wrong ones, so I had to sort that out. And then when I started to finish packing, i got a tooth abscess which WAS THE MOST PAINFUL THING EVER OMFGG. I literally couldn’t do anything but lie in bed, even sitting up hurt. I was on strong painkillers so I couldn’t focus on anything- ended up just watching Malcolm in the Middle while trying not to move too much. 

I finished my assignments and the universe immediately struck me down. We ball. The sun is shining and I’m moving soon. Life will be good.

LMK what u think, inbox is always open <3

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You were mature and quiet, and you knew how busy they were. You had to! You were still young, and you had your siblings and Alfred around. All of Bruce’s kids were pretty close, so you’d never have a problem fitting in! 

The city was dangerous. With the Joker at large, arsonists and killers lurking in the alleyways, it wasn’t time for Bruce to focus on anything other than saving the city!

Once he was able to make it a better place, he’d play all day with you! Bruce would make sure Gotham was a safe and peaceful place before focusing on you. You’d understand. You always did. 

That was how Bruce Wayne felt, for years after you moved in, always rescheduling his bonding time to another day. 

Alfred watched. Silently at first, and then started to suggest ideas to Bruce and you. Trying to make him interact. Unfortunately for you, Bruce kept pushing it away. More paperwork, more villains, more danger. 

You slowly withered away. Pulled back. You stopped going to Bruce for advice and instead went to Alfred to rant about boy trouble. You didn’t try to catch Bruce in the hallway to ask him to come with you to the mall. It was a risk, after all.

He was quite popular; he couldn’t be spotted by the paparazzi with another child. Even if you knew him longer than other children in the Batfamily. 

Slowly, you stopped interacting with Bruce. Bruce was okay with that. He didn’t need a distraction, he had too many papers to sign. Too much trouble with Damian. Bruce pushed away any other feelings he had about it, after all, you still had your other siblings!

Despite Bruce believing that was true, you couldn’t believe the same. 

First was Dick, the eldest, who would be around really often, despite not living at the manor. He was the bright smile of the family. The golden boy. Dick was the one who kept the family together, kept relationships between the family strong. He was nice to everyone!

It’s too bad that his real smiles were reserved for the others, especially Damian. When you first came to the manor, he was the one who greeted you. He smiled brightly, walking you up the stairs to your room. After you found your room, he left shortly after. 

All other interactions with him were mostly one-sided, with him giving a polite smile and a “Later, baby bird. I gotta take Damian out to training. Next time, yeah?”. You never really got a chance to talk to him after that.

The second oldest was Jason. You first met him when he was a happy person, with a cheerful aura. He was tolerable, and you could talk to him freely about school and your hobbies. When he died, you were heartbroken. Your only friend died, only shortly after you met him! You cried for him months afterwards. Once he came back, you tried to reconnect, explain how much you missed him, and show him how you’ve changed too - but he shot down those attempts, putting a wall between you both. 

After many more tries at climbing and breaking down his fear and anger, you gave up. He wasn’t the well-mannered, happy person as before. All of his happiness was replaced with anger and coldness.

Following Jason, we have Tim. He was intelligent, using his detective skills to quickly solve cases with Bruce. When he first came, you tried to learn more about him, though he wasn’t really interested in you. He always had another case, like Bruce. More leads, more information - it was never-ending. He ran on coffee and cereal. You quickly realized he wouldn’t pay attention after you tried to talk to him about a movie you watched with Alfred.

Steph and Cass mostly ignored you. They had no real reason to interact with you. Steph was constantly caught up with her relationships with the other members of the Batfam, so she never had the time or thought to check in on you. Cass would only give a simple shake of the head, or, on bad days, she’d just walk past. You didn’t really know how Cass felt about you.

Finally, there was Damian, the youngest and the other blood child. When you went to greet him after learning he was another biological child, you were excited. You had something to connect with him! You quickly learned he wasn’t so happy about it when he pulled his sword out, aiming it toward you. 

Damian considered you a rival, another opponent to being the strongest.

After he decided you were no real threat and really just a nuisance, he resorted to using Titus or his sword to scare you away, and if he couldn’t do that? He’d instead make comments under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear. You didn’t want to interact with him after that, instead avoiding him like the plague.

You tried to be cool, perfecting skills that you’d later give up on - you first tried singing and theatre, performing in plays and musicals in front of large audiences, and then there was painting! You learned to paint, joining competitions and contests before burning out. The final thing you tried was sports. You figured they would catch more attention, because it was something physical - but that belief was crushed after no one but Alfred came to your games.

Alfred was always there. You appreciated him. He saw you for who you were, not only your achievements and accomplishments. He was like a grandfather to you. He baked with you, asked you about school, and even sat and read with you when he finished cleaning. Alfred was always there. He always understood. 

So when Alfred got sick of seeing how everyone ignored such a treasure, he decided he’d take it into his own hands to get you the love you need - even if you didn't know you deserved it.

Dick was having a pretty good day. He had a good patrol last night, with little to no problems at all! Some drunks were walking the streets last night, which was causing a bit of a nuisance, but they were easy to sort out.

And to make it better, after he finished patrol, he was able to grab a quick bite to eat from a fast food restaurant before going home and getting a good night's rest.

Despite all of this, and his wonderful day, he still felt... weirdly hollow. Like he was waiting for something. Dick wasn't quite sure what he was missing.

Today, he decided to swing by the Wayne Manor - which he did a lot - to see his family!

But, when he got inside, he felt... disappointed? Dick was confused. He had no reason to be - after all, he had dropped in on Tim and Bruce, said hi to Steph in the hallway, and even gave Cass a wave! It couldn't be Jason; he was still out on a mission for Tim. Dick sat at the long table in the dining room.

"Master Dick?" Alfred's voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

"Is something wrong?" He continued.

Dick gave a dismissive grin, waving his hand in a playful shooing manner. "No, not at all. It was just... I feel like I'm forgetting something."

Alfred let out a humm, continuing to wash some dishes. "Well, Master Dick, I do have something that may connect to that."

Oh?

Dick leaned in, interested. "And that is?"

"It was the young master's birthday yesterday!" Alfred replied, gesturing to a nearby calendar.

"Who, Damian? Damian's birthday passed a while back-" Dick furrowed his brows, leaning back again.

Alfred shook his head, sighing. Alfred then spoke, simply saying your name.

Oh! Dick smiled in delight. A face had popped into his head, of his baby bird, you! He could still picture your cute young face and how, when you'd smile, you'd been missing teeth. (So what, if the picture in his head was blurry and dated?)

Dick gasped, a smile spreading across his once puzzled face.

"Oh, right! I knew that." He sprang up, going to search for you.

Dick most definitely did not know that. He hadn't even brought a present! But, luckily for him, he would just bring you out somewhere. You had once asked him to go with you to some Chinese restaurant, but he didn't have time - he was helping Damian! That's okay, he could repay you now.

After a while of wandering through the long halls, he decided to check upstairs, passing Damian.

Though Damian does say something to him, Dick is far too focused on his current task to listen. He runs up the stairs and continues to look in the rooms.

When you guys finally start talking again, he'll remember your room every single time, he promises! You are his baby bird after all.

Finally, he comes across a room that he doesn't recognise. This must be it!

Your room was big, but not as big as the others' rooms. You had every inch of it decorated, like you were trying to make it seem more lively. Most walls were covered in posters and drawings, or there were awards and trophies on the shelves. Each award had different things engraved on it. Singing, dancing, performing, you even did some art!

Oh, baby bird, you're so talented! Dick's eyes get wider each time he reads another trophy.

But you weren't inside! That's too bad. Maybe you went out since you weren't in any other room.

Dick looked closer at the walls, noticing photos taped messily above your bed.

And even though he scanned them, searching for all his might -

Those who truly knew him were deeply aware of this information, aware of how he would never truly be present emotionally in any sort of relationship. This included his own horde of children, who, throughout the years, had learned to live with that weighting absence.

Still, in your childhood, you attempted to cling onto the idea of a fatherly figure with an iron grip that even his coldest silences couldn’t break.

Your arrival was a change in the manor, a breeze in a dry desert, the warm sun in a frigid winter. Young, unmarred by the horrors of Gotham city, your new family felt wary to be the ones to taint your innocence. So, as one does when uncomfortable, they spent time elsewhere.

It wasn’t a collective, malevolent decision. It simply arrived like something unavoidable. They still ate with you at dinner, still asked you about your day occasionally, about school drama, or hobbies, but the conversations never went much further. Your relationship didn’t evolve into something closer to family. Instead, it stagnated at polite acquaintances that happened to be roommates and legally related. Nothing more, nothing less.

In a perhaps cynical way, you had expected not to fit in with your siblings. You arrived in a moment where Dick was elsewhere physically, Tim elsewhere mentally, and Steph often appearing and disappearing at the manor at will. Not to mention Jason, since the topic was taboo around anyone, like a ghost story, a warning.

However, childishly, you at least hoped your father – whom you shared blood with, took you in after tragedy inevitably struck as it does in this godforsaken city – would attempt to create a bond with you.  You were realistic bordering pessimistic, yes, but you had naively expected him to try. Not even succeed, just put in some effort.

But that small spark of hope quickly died out when you met and began to understand the man in his essence.

The process was short; you’d recall later on. You remembered arriving at the manor, terrifyingly beautiful, haunted by years of history and secrets. It almost felt like one of those mystery slash romance books your mother would read privately in the safety of your home. And this was your home now.

You were greeted at the door by a man with clever eyes and a polite smile and bow, a relaxing accent you had only ever heard in movies introducing him to you, introducing the manor to you. The police officer – whose name you forgot over the years, who had tried cheering you up in the car – bid you farewell, and that was that. A new beginning. New family, new house, new life. Your mother was dead; you had confirmed it yourself. Nothing would ever go back to how it was. But maybe this change would be good for you.

These thoughts lasted four months.

The first person you met was one of your new brothers, Timothy (“Tim” he insisted you call him, as if he stuck around enough for you to call him anything). He was a few years older than you, and according to Alfred, a genius. To you, he kind of looked like he needed a hug and a good nap less he crashes and burn out, but you kept those thoughts to yourself – like you did most of your thoughts.

You met Dick Grayson, Golden Boy with a bright smile, eyebags, and a distracted gaze. He had things to do, a job in a different city, responsibilities as an adult. You understood, let him rush around with no hard feelings, knowing his energy meter would empty eventually. Maybe you could talk to him then. (Who wanted to talk to some random kid your adopted dad took in anyways? You probably would’ve done the same in his place).

Steph was a pleasant addition to your routine, and probably your favorite (after Alfred, of course) of the manor’s inhabitants, even If she didn’t truly live there. She hung around a lot, livening the gloomy atmosphere of the manor while providing feminine energy; something you discovered to be unfortunately rare in you new place. Nonetheless, she had this look in her eye that sometime stole your breath. A look that sometimes haunted you, as if she was searching and searching for something. After a while, she stopped coming around as much, Alfred explaining that with the age, she had new responsibilities. You felt disappointed and a bit bitter, but who were you to complain? She wasn’t your real sister. You both knew that.

A month passed, you talked to your biological father for the first and probably last time. He was quiet – you noticed silently – but attentive. Bruce Wayne never spoke unless necessary, you had heard, but with you, he was soft words and awkward smiles. You felt endeared by his behavior, despite being only eleven years old, and satisfied by his attention. It was like a flower being watered after weeks of neglect, like finally being fed a warm meal after weeks of starvation. The feeling was euphoric, and you brightened when he offered to go on a father-child date to get to know his new kid better.

And like any drug, the crash was abrupt and harsh. He disappeared into the shadows of the manor once more, and the next time you saw him his eyebags were darker and the lines in his forehead deeper. You couldn’t bear to be the one responsible for adding more onto his already seemingly overflowing plate. So, like your father, you let yourself melt into the shadows.

Throughout the years, your father took in more children with varying personalities. Although the manor was fuller, it still held that characteristic darkness to It, like it was destined to be lonely no matter how many people you put in it. You moved on, how could you not? It does you no good to dwell on what could’ve been had you integrated yourself into their circle. The curiosity and hurt would kill you (Though in the dark of the night, sometimes, you let yourself wonder).

You found out about their identities after two years of living with them. A long time? A bit, but how were you supposed to notice signs when they were never there, and this was the first time you were living and actually interacting (as limited as the interactions were) with rich people. At first you thought all rich people were quirky, but when their conversations went on, unaware of your hidden presence, you began realizing that maybe this wasn’t normal.

Resentment was the first feeling on your mind, though it quickly made way for resignation. The discovery reassured you, albeit disappointingly, because it showed you that no matter what you did, you would’ve never been apart of their world. You mourned a bit, yearning for a family; siblings who hung out with you, teased you, protected you, a dad who cherished you, showed you off. Then you moved on.

In fact, it pushed you to do better. Because if your sort-of family could go out to fight crime at night altruistically, you could do your best to help as well.

You began working harder towards your goal, becoming a doctor. Not to impress anyone, but because you wanted to make a difference in this city. You studied hard, pouring your life and soul into schoolwork, barely taking breaks.

Alfred grew worried, but you were as hardheaded and determined as your father, so his attempts to get through to you and push you to rest were all in vain. He even tried going through your siblings or Bruce, but it all fell through.

Silently, bitterly, during another all nighter, you’d sometimes liken yourself to the distant shadow of Tim in your memories. You wondered if this was why he did it, pushed himself to the brink for something. If this feeling was something he also eventually began clinging onto. But you had no time for such thoughts, so you pushed them away.

It was impressive how long you went on without breaking down and burning out. Yet you were a force of nature, a tree that let the weather mistreat it without letting it interrupt it from growing, water that kept flowing.

When you were fifteen, you told your family you wanted to be a doctor over dinner. It had been during an uncharacteristic lull in conversation, and you took the occasion to reveal it casually, like another piece of information, like it wasn’t your motivation and dream.

“And you think you’ll make it as a doctor?”

Your youngest brother and newest addition to the family sneered, an expression that felt wrong on a face so young. You didn’t rise to the bait.

“I’ve been studying a lot for a couple of years. I was just letting you know” you said, though your gaze remained on Bruce.

And since they were still quiet, you chose to drop the bomb.

“Can I practice by patching you guys up after patrol?”

Your question was polite in an almost indifferent way, though your indifference couldn’t hide your curiosity and eagerness for firsthand experience. A cup fell.

“What do you mean?” Dick asked awkwardly with a tense smile “What patrols?”

You deadpanned, rolling your eyes.

“Do you think I’m dumb? I’ve been living with you guys for four years. I’d have to be stupid not to know your secret identities by now”

Damian seemed satisfied with that answer, crossing his arms proudly and mumbling something about ‘superior Wayne genetics’, while the rest of your family had varied reactions. Dick gaped at you, as if your knowing of their identities was unthinkable, Steph seemed somewhat conflicted but amused, Cass… well, she didn’t seem angry (or anything for that matter?), in fact, she seemed proud, and Jason was cajoling loudly.

Nevertheless, the reaction you were looking at was your father’s. Bruce looked at you with an indecipherable expression. As did Tim. But you didn’t break eye contact, you wouldn’t back down – you wouldn’t be worthy of the Wayne name if you let them intimidate you. A deep, tired sigh.

“I had my doubts,” lies, you haven’t seen him in four months, but you’ll let him have it “but the idea isn’t bad”

The shocked reactions broke into disapproval

“They’re a civilian!” “B, they have zero experience, are you insane?-” “I don’t think that is the best idea, father” “That is the funniest thing you’ve said today, old man-” a guffaw.

“Enough” he interrupted. His voice oozed authority, enough to not need to shout for them to all fall silent again.  Your father looked in your eyes, deeply, as if seeing something he hadn’t seen or noticed before, something hiding in plain sight.

A sigh “I agree to let you shadow the med area in the cave-” a chorus of complaints and disagreements suddenly interrupted him, but with a glare, they quieted down again “On one condition” he began ominously.

You raised an unimpressed brow. Did he have to be so dramatic about it? A sigh of your own, perhaps it was contagious “Sure. A condition” you repeated flatly. Your first real impression of your family wasn’t turning out to be exactly positive. The urge to retreat into the safety of your room and focus on your studies once more was heavily tempting.

“You’ll obviously need supervision, ideally from Alfred. You have no prior experience” You hummed in agreement. No, duh, you were fifteen, of course you had zero medical experience “You’ll also be required to shadow Dr Thompkins on the weekends to better your knowledge. If you want to help, you’ll help fully”

Perhaps you were more like your father than you thought, because in that moment, you felt like you were seeing him for the first time as well. A bitter taste coated your tongue as you gave an affirmative answer, then returned to your room, doing your best to ignore the argument that exploded at the dinner table after you left. Some things never changed, it seems. They always say what they truly feel and think when you’re not around.

Either way, you were satisfied with the outcome of the conversation, even though your dad’s utilitarian reasoning left a heavy feeling in your chest and a pain you couldn’t explain in your heart.