AN: First of all - I am SO sorry that this is so late everyone. This quarantine has been... well, I can't lie - I'm really struggling. My depression is usually bad during 'normal' times, and this has been a level of weird that I'm having a hard time adjusting to. Writing is usually my escape and way to process everything, but that seems to be hitting a roadblock, and I'm trying my best to get through it. Second, thank you so, so much to everyone who left a comment on the last chapter. I will reply soon and they mean so much to me, please never doubt that! I have a lot of doubts that this chapter is any good, but I hope you can enjoy it and I'll try to have the next one out on time.

I couldn't do this without you guys, and you all mean the world to me. Please stay safe out there, and I hope you're all doing well in the midst of all this craziness. đź’–

Parker always thought Wayne Manor was haunted. We'd spent entire summers indulging that adventure, searching for what I hoped we'd never find, but I can't help but wonder what he would think of it now if he was still with me, if he hadn't died—do ghosts stay with the building, root themselves in the foundation, attach to the familiar and all that they knew, and evaporate when it all returns to the earth, rendered to dust? Or is it the inhabitants, an eternal search for those they lost, the people they crave that keeps them close?

Why does it matter? It's not like you believe in them anyway.

Still, it's something I can't help but think about in this place that is and isn't home. It looks like the place where I spent so many summers, all those long weekends as a kid, and it feels just as lonely now as it did when I was a teenager—like it's missing some essential ingredient that'll make it feel alive.

Maybe that's your proof. It's the living that makes a home, not its remnants.

It's hard being here—feeling like I'm trapped in a room that is and isn't mine, surrounded by lookalike furniture and wallpaper but missing all I had before the fire took it away, while I avoid seeing Bruce and Alfred. I've been stuck at the Manor for four days, both because Bruce is an unreasonable blockhead and because, once again, my life has found a new way to come undone.

Should've broken Ryder's goddamn arm when you had the chance.

His slimy grin and the sound of him breathing on the news is enough to make my vision go red, for my mind to linger on all the ways it would've felt good to make him screech and eat all the lies he ever professed to be truthful. It's like that with Strange, too—another man I can't stop thinking about irreparably hurting. I tell myself that they'd deserve it, that they'd have it coming.

You really are no better, are you?

I thought I gave up the moral high ground a long time ago, but maybe that isn't true; maybe I'm still deluding myself that I'm somehow different from the people I hate. Violence is my first impulse—always on the defensive, willing to dole out retribution like it's my birthright.

That's what happened at the asylum. I wanted to run out of there, never look back, rack my brain about how I could say something so monumentally stupid to the one person who hurt me the most and regret my choices on an entirely new level, but Strange had other ideas. He auto-locked the door when I tried to leave, had those guards flank me as he just kept talking—pressing on with questions about why I was upset, wanting to go through the answers I gave to Joker, critique my word choice—kept going like his words were splinters he wanted to drive under my nails.

And you let him.

What the Joker said was running through my head—is still echoing in my ear, like he's near enough to whisper it on a permanent loop—and it's… it was like my vision went red. I needed it to stop—I needed to ground myself, to remember that he couldn't hurt me anymore, pull myself out of that downward spiral and Strange wanted to keep pushing me down.

'Awww, Miri… Did I hurt your, ah… feelings?'

And I snapped.

When I told Strange where he could shove it, the guards were on me, getting me away from the door as he talked in low tones about the precarious nature of sanity like I didn't already know. The rest is… blurry, out of focus. I don't remember how I got Bruce's device out of my shoe, only that I did, and I don't remember how my knife fell out of my sleeve, how I wound up with someone else's blood on me, why my knuckles were sore, only recalling how the needle was shoved into my arm as Strange kept talking like what he was doing was normal, how it was for my own good. It was too much like when Zsasz hit Alfred's car and dragged me out, how Lewis pumped me full of ketamine and left me with the Joker.

Something tells me Strange didn't have anything better in mind.

Thinking about what would've happened if I was committed, even for a few days, is a new level of fear I've never felt before. The Joker looked terrible. Like someone tried on more than one occasion to suck out the remnants of his blackened soul. There weren't any other patients that I could see—and it's the most likely case that those people being murdered with chips in their necks are Arkham patients. Is that what would've happened to me—would I have been locked in a room, strapped down and eventually driven insane?

Then how come it hasn't happened to him yet? He's still alive—even if he is… different.

Groaning, I pull the duvet over my head. Despite it being well past noon, I haven't summoned the energy to go find Alfred and Bruce. They made me stay for the first day, and I wasn't coherent enough to argue. Being drugged—besides the medical effects of losing control of my limbs, head going foggy as I drifted in and out of consciousness—brought back a whole other host of problems, nightmares that lied in wait. What I wanted to avoid at all costs was thrown out the fucking window—there were people around to hear my night terrors who cared, who were worried when I woke up screaming, who tried to calm me down as I sobbed into my pillow. Worse than knowing that they could see all that is grappling with how I could feel so… different around the Joker. Most days, it's like my dreams eclipse reality, my memories resonating at a frequency that will crack my bones, only to forget, for it all to ease away like it never happened in the first place.

What is wrong with you, Miri?

There isn't anything to drink here, nothing to bury the thoughts. Or, nothing I can access. Bruce made sure of that when I was passed out. I almost resent him for it, that he's taken away one of my only means of controlling what's otherwise tearing me apart. I tried leaving two days ago, to avoid having Alfred looking after me like I was seventeen and broken again, for Bruce to take all of this as confirmation that he needed to play over-protective parent, but that didn't work out so well either—Alfred's better at marrying reason and guilt than I remembered.

So, I stayed.

Alfred had almost an entire closet stocked and ready to go for me when I got here. When I was coherent again, I didn't know whether I should roll my eyes or be impressed. They're more cheery than I like—much of it a similar aesthetic that I would've worn back in high school—but the thoughtfulness of it, and the blatant hope that Alfred believed that I'd come back and stay, hurts more than any of the Joker's knives ever did.

How sad is that?

Slipping on something that doesn't look like Forever21 threw up all over me, I summon up the courage to face Alfred and Bruce sober. Hiding in my room sulking isn't helping my case to leave.

But you're always one for avoidance, aren't you?

As much as I don't want to be here, walking down the Manor halls with its too-perfect mouldings, new and immaculate paint and flawless marble, I can't help but relax at seeing it, remembering what it was like to run up and down them with Bruce more than a decade ago. But it's quieter now than it was then, so quiet that it makes it easy to home in on the faint sounds of life—the low, deep voices and china and ceramic clinking together.

Kitchen.

I try to swallow my bad mood, pushing my hair behind my ears and mentally suppressing the misplaced irritability. Something tells me I'd feel a hell of a lot better if I could go punch something guilt-free, but Bruce wants me to stay because it's easier to keep out the reporters, for him to make sure that I'm making good choices, and because it's easier for him to have Alfred with me so that I don't run off and 'commit murder', as he all but said after I asked them to take me home.

Don't exaggerate—he's not even here and you're being hostile. You're not fourteen anymore, Miri.

But that sense of helpless anger never left, only growing and mutating until it embedded itself in my DNA. Extracting it is like asking my hair to turn blonde, for my curls to straighten. And, no matter how much I'd love to visit all the bastards who seem to be so fucking determined to throw another figurative wrench at me, how I'd enjoy sticking some large needles in some choice places, it wouldn't help. It'd just prove them right, wouldn't it?

MIRIAM KANE—ALLEGED CO-CONSPIRATOR REMAINS UNPROSECUTED

It's a headline that I can't get out of my head, and I'm glad it's not one of the worse ones that I've read. They throw the alleged in there, but they talk like I'm guilty, that I had an equal enthusiasm for everything that the Joker did—that I'm a threat of the highest order in need of being locked up in Blackgate.

I'm having a hard time convincing myself that they're entirely wrong.

A headache pounds behind my eyes, and I nearly trip on the hallway carpet when my phone vibrates. It's from Jason—as were the last six messages I received. They started casual enough, but I can read the concern in them

Hey sunshine. Call me sometime?

There's a new Thai place six blocks from the diner. Wanna check it out w me?

Adina - everything OK?

It's been almost a week since I last saw him, and… I miss him. Something tells me I'm stupid for thinking it, but I really do. I'm still surprised at just how willing I am to have him around, how good it feels just to… to be close to him. My face still gets hot when I think about how I embarrassed myself, was so damn close to ruining the one thing that's separate from my life—my real, punishing existence—by inviting him to my apartment, and I was too much of a selfish coward to call and break things off afterward.

And what will he think of you now?

It's only a matter of time until one of these messages says Why did you lie to me? and I won't have an answer, not one that he'll understand.

It won't be long until he hates you, too.

Voices emanate from the kitchen—not quite raised but loud enough that I can tell they're arguing. Stopping just around the corner, I'm slapped with déjà vu, like I've heard this same conversation before.

"—No, we're not going—"

That's Bruce—and he sounds like he did when he was younger and was being stubborn about something innocuous. It was usually followed by him sighing and rolling his eyes.

"It's just a party, Master Bruce, little harm can be done there," Alfred tuts. I can almost see the pragmatic expression he has when he's trying to reason with someone—and I was right, Bruce sighs.

"And hell is just a sauna."

Alfred's laughing, and my irritation drains as I smile, déjà vu turning into nostalgia. I'm sure Bruce is rolling his eyes now, too. "I think it would help appearances, assuage the public's curiosity—"

"I don't give a damn about public curiosity, Alfred. We're not going to some sycophantic, vanity party where they can have their fill of public shaming—"

My smile disappears, stomach dropping low in my belly. I want to hide upstairs again, crawl under the warm duvet, live in that small little world where there's nothing beyond it.

They're talking about you.

Typical—no wonder it feels so familiar; it's a replay of a decade-long strategy they've both used—talk about the important things when I'm not around and then act surprised when it blows up in their face.

"Where are we not going?" I ask, walking into view and leaning against the door frame, my arms crossed.

Alfred looks nonplussed, like he expected nothing else than for me to eavesdrop—which makes me question as to how stealthy I'd actually been as a kid—and Bruce seems like he's developing a headache.

"I thought you might have still been resting, my dear," Alfred says, bringing over a plate of food from the counter and smiling, inviting me to join them.

"What are you talking about?" I ask, ignoring his invitation to eat what looks like fresh biscuits and cheese.

Bribing me with food to change the subject. They really must think I'm twelve or something.

Bruce sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It doesn't matter—"

"Don't bullshit me," I interrupt. My anger isn't burning in me like I thought it would, not even irritation, and I release a pent-up breath. "Be honest. Please."

I stare between them, waiting. Bruce's lips tighten into a thin line, dropping that impenetrable wall in his eyes where he won't allow himself to feel, where I won't cloud his better judgment. Because that's all I seem to be good for—stressing him out. Alfred's a better bet—he wants Bruce to start, too. When he doesn't, Alfred walks forward to put an arm around my shoulders, sitting me down in one of the tall stools as he places the plate of biscuits and a small dish of butter in front of me, giving a pointed look to Bruce.

"Roman Sionis is throwing a charity gala at his hotel tomorrow night," Alfred says when it's clear Bruce won't say anything, ignoring the side-eye he gets for it to focus on me. "It's meant to be a more 'casual' affair, as he phrased it, and very last minute, but he extended an invitation to the both of you."

"We're not going," Bruce reaffirms before I even open my mouth, seeing the way I sit up straighter.

He's gotta be kidding.

"Don't speak for me." The bite's back, that edge of hostility, and I tear into a biscuit to keep myself from grimacing, staring at the golden crumbs littering the plate. "Is it because we were on the news?"

Bruce's shoulders drop and he rubs his forehead. "Miri, you don't know these people like I do. This is meant to stroke some egos and invite the first-class pariahs for a laugh. You don't need to be there."

He sounds angry, frustrated, but I realize it's not directed at me. He is being overprotective, and I can't be mad at him for that, for wanting what's best.

But it doesn't mean he's always right.

"If there's a chance that this guy's a criminal kingpin, wouldn't it be beneficial to at least—"

"No."

Bruce is digging in his heels, arms crossed and biceps tensing. It's a concerted effort to not roll my eyes and groan. "Gathering information is what I'm being paid to do, I don't need your permission for that. Part of Homeland's deal, remember?" Bruce's jaw works back and forth, eyes hardening. "The goal is to find out who's behind all this, not for me to personally arrest the guy—"

"No. Not after Arkham," he snaps, his word is final as he turns to leave.

"You're the one who asked me to help." I jump up from the stool, beating Bruce to the door and standing in front of him, matching his glare with one of my own.

"Help with looking into a chip. Which you can do from here," he says, struggling to keep his tone even. I'm sure by now that he's glad he missed my teenage years. "You can't bring a knife to this to try and solve your problems, Miri."

Bruce looks like he regrets the words as soon as they're out of his mouth, and I struggle to maintain eye contact. It's like when we were in his stupid sportscar and we left the asylum, when he threw my drinking in my face. He only needed to see those few bottles and cans in the apartment and look at me to have me pegged. I always thought there was so much about us that was the same, and maybe he did too. Maybe he's disappointed because I proved him wrong.

"So, that's what this is about?" Searching his eyes for answers, I'm unable to read them, to see beyond his frustration and impatience. All I can see is that he doesn't want to be here, doesn't want to argue. "You're mad at me," I murmur, posture wilting at the realization.

'You're alone right now, aren't you?'

My chest aches, skin twisting as my cheeks get hot. Why do I have to remember that voice, that night?

'Yes.'

Hands shaking, I push my hair back, tugging on it to distract me from the scars scorching my bones and my back covering in a cold sweat. The room gets dark, light only flickering along my periphery, warm and soft as something sharp buries itself into my skin. It's like my lips are torn and bitten, my arms cut open and weeping blood, laying on the floor and wishing that I'd finally paid enough to feel whole.

'All alone.'

I jump and pull away when an arm goes around my shoulders, grabbing the wrist and twisting it as my chest heaves. They break my grip easily—and I nearly pull back my fist until the darkness ebbs and Bruce's face is in front of mine, hands hesitating before he puts them on my shoulders, wincing when I flinch at the contact.

"I'm not… I'm not mad. It's—Gotham isn't a safe place for you. Not after what happened."

His voice is softer now, eyes open and unguarded, but the anger that's become my only means of dealing with just how—how fucking helpless I am rises in my throat.

"You don't get to decide that."

My breathing's uncontrolled and everything's moving too fast—I need to go, to find somewhere quiet, where my head isn't trying to rip itself apart. I think of the pinky promise we made, how he seemed to mean it, how he wants me here only so he can control what I do.

'How many people… understand?'

It's like he's here with me, the heat of him pressing against my back, Bruce's hands becoming his.

'I think… that you won't find, well, anyone who understands you like I do.'

Why does he have to be right about that, too?

"Good to know you're full of it, Bruce. That your promises aren't worth shit," I bite, pulling away, but Bruce keeps me in place, grip firm but careful not to bruise.

"What happened to you stopping when I asked? When things got too dangerous?"

Alfred looks between us, fretting about how he's going to smooth this over. He's happy I'm here, I know he is, and I remember again why I'm not—I never make things easy, never the one to make things right. And it's always Alfred who's left patching up what Bruce and I are too stubborn to reconcile.

'Didn't we see into each other's souls, Miriam? See what's so ugly? And now… we're stuck with each other, aren't we?'

I need to get him out of my head—be somewhere else before Bruce and Alfred can keep proving him right, before I can prove him right.

But Bruce is blocking me from leaving this time. "Miriam, I'm just trying to do what's best."

I want to scoff at him, point out how him trying to do what's best didn't work so well before, that it never stopped people from getting hurt, that's it's never enough, that being gone for nearly a decade and then coming back and expecting that nothing would change when everything had was a level of foolishness that beat mine.

But what would that do, Miri?

Taking a deep breath, I swallow my spite. If I'm being honest, it's not really him that I'm so angry with, and finding ways to make this worse fixes nothing at all.

"Strange was looking for any excuse to have me locked in there, even if I didn't have that knife, Bruce," I sigh, fists uncurling.

For whatever reason, it wasn't just sadistic satisfaction that he set up that meeting with the Joker, that he made sure to emphasize that I'd have to come back. Bruce takes his hands away, running one through his hair as he stares at the floor in thought, eyebrows pinched together.

"Were there not cameras at that warehouse—the ones you meant to disable before those men came?" Alfred pipes in, face alight with realization.

"Yeah, one camera definitely was on me that I could tell."

"That means they could, theoretically, know you were there before it was set on fire," Bruce says as he pushes away from the door. I narrow my eyes as I follow his line of thought. "If STAGG Enterprises is supplying medical supplies to Arkham, and if the victims are coming from the asylum…"

"Then Strange is… what, trying to have me committed because he knew I was there?" I ask, trying to envision how that would've helped Strange at all. Surely he would've known it wouldn't have worked, right? Not for long, anyway.

"I think he's trying to make you go away, Miriam."

That makes my blood run cold—thinking about it concretely and not in the context of it being an outlandish nightmare. Is that why he wanted me to see the Joker? To provoke me into doing something?

You definitely didn't disappoint, did you?

My throat gets tight, my vision of being strapped down in a cold room and being more helpless than ever is too close to becoming real. "And it's… it's not like I can't go back. He—he said as much. Naomi said that's where I had to go, and if—if I tell her about any of this—"

"No, you can't do that," Bruce interrupts before the panic completely takes over, shaking his head. I'm glad he agrees, because I'm pretty sure Naomi would kill me if I told her I was doing a side investigation. Eyes heavy, my mind's tired from trying to figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do about all this, and just how I managed to get into this mess.

Don't forget—it was by talking to the wrong person, making a 'friend' who doesn't want to let you go, giving up everything without knowing the cost.

"You're going to be the death of me, you know that?"

My head snaps up, expecting to see Bruce looking grim and expression full of blame, but he's grinning wryly, eyes lighter than they were before.

"I thought moonlighting as a furry with shurikens would do it first," I mutter under my breath, just loud enough for him to hear, and give him a sanguine grin in return.

Bruce chokes when he takes a swig of water and Alfred looks at us both in confusion, and I'm laughing—genuinely laughing with them for the first time in what feels like years. I let my thoughts about ghosts drift, accepting that maybe our old lives died with the first house, taking all the hurt and memories with it, and that there might be a chance at building beyond what we had broken—that it's here, waiting for us, that we just have to stretch out and try.

"Shall I start pressing your suit jackets then, sir?"

Bruce sighs and rubs the back of his neck, grumbling in agreement, and, somehow, I've won—tenuous and fragile though it may be.

What is it with rich people buying hotels?

La Castillo Santa Prisca is a looming behemoth, towering over our heads and glowing with large spotlights illuminating sixty storeys worth of windows and gothic revival carvings. I remember when they built it, when Midtown extended out, gentrifying poorer neighbourhoods with expensive condos, skyscrapers with law firms, and more immaculate hotels that very few can afford. It's a lot, even for Gotham, with its elaborate gardens and large fountain at the front and valet staff waiting on the arriving guests. The Sionis family bought it a few years ago and renovated the place to be one of the best in the city, and they saved the top three floors for themselves to make the most expensive condo in Gotham. Unlike my aunt and uncle, they didn't do a lot to bridge the wealth gap.

But the Sionis' are dead now—Roman's the only one left.

Reporters and paparazzi with nothing better to do line the entryway, and arriving guests make sure to stop long enough to smile big and pose, women with their backs arched and necks craned at painful angles and the men trying to look suave like they're Lex Luthor or something. For something meant to be 'casual', as the invitation put it, everyone's dressed up in fancy dresses and souped-up suits, hair twisted in elaborate knots and tousled to look like they don't care but probably spent hours on it, their heels impossibly tall and dress shoes polished to a shine. It's so much effort just looking at them, nevermind having to actually think about putting in that kind of time.

Tryhards.

Mom's attitude about money always seems more valid whenever I'm at things like this—she hated her parent's wealth, hated having to rely on it. She made sure we were comfortable—and I certainly always had substantially more than most—but Mom made sure I never coveted it. But I also never learned how to live without it. There was never any danger of me going hungry, being homeless, if I could pay my bills on time and get what I needed. It's only when I read the news or watch some asinine video online that I remember, and feel profoundly embarrassed, that I'm related to the richest man in the country, a guy who blows his money left and right. It might be funny if it wasn't also absolutely infuriating.

Perhaps that doesn't make me any better than them, either.

"You sure that thing's gonna work?" I ask Bruce, hands fidgeting with the seams of my dress as he pulls into the valet lane.

"One way to find out," he says, his eased and relaxed posture only belied by his wandering gaze, hard and scrutinizing, analyzing the faces swarming the cars and lining the path ahead. For something that was supposedly last minute, it looks like it took a month to pull together.

Guess that's what happens when you have enough money.

Like Bruce, I'm also scanning the faces in the crowd, my stomach twisting at how many there are, how they all have cameras in their hands. I don't know how long I can keep my act together without drinking, without having something to calm my racing heart, but I can't have my mind be clouded here. Not just because I promised Bruce, but I need to be sharp. Naomi's text is still fresh in my head—she's glad I have a lead, but I don't want to let her down—to screw up and have this whole thing go sideways.

Take nothing, but find a legal avenue for investigation. Meet me at City Hall for debriefing tomorrow. 1500.

And don't do anything I wouldn't.

I still don't know exactly what that last part is supposed to mean; she's done a lot of shady work before—hell, she's even had me do a good chunk of it, so what's the limit of 'unacceptable'?

Guess that leaves room to improvise.

"Ready?" Bruce asks when he puts his Lamborghini in park after it's our turn to pull up to the front entryway.

I'm already sweating, fabric sticking to my skin and scalp itching under the would-be penetrative gaze of the people clamouring to see who we are on the other side of the tinted glass. Alfred had the dress in the closet at the Manor—a full-length, soft pink satin with a twist at the front, the sleeves loose and long, only showing my skin at the slit going up the right side of my thigh and above my collarbone. It was by surprise that I noticed almost all the clothes Alfred bought were like that—even though the patterns themselves weren't my style anymore, it was made up of loose-fitting tops, long sleeves and hardly anything that showed skin. It hurt that Alfred noticed, that he went out of his way to get it all for me anyway, and that all my efforts to hide only made me more visible. And, despite all of his careful effort and consideration, I still feel self-conscious, like the fabric is sheer enough that they'll all be able to see what's underneath.

"Yeah," I croak, wincing as I clear my throat, "Yeah, let's get this over with. Sooner we find something, the better."

But Bruce doesn't unlock the doors, only turning to stare at me insistently as I avoid eye contact.

"We don't have to do this, Miri." He's trying one last time to change my mind, but I can't go back and leave this, even if it's like being dragged through broken glass.

"Yes, we do." I smile weakly, still avoiding his gaze as I double-check my small clutch to make sure I have everything. I don't want to see him slip his other mask on, the one where I hardly recognize him. "C'mon. Don't let me down with that thing," I say, pointing to the small device in his hand that looks almost like a laser pointer. But I know better.

He sighs and nods, popping his door open for the pandemonium to begin.

"Mr. Wayne, Mr. Wayne!" people shout as soon as his head appears outside the car, the paparazzi clamouring over one another for a better shot. "Is it true you met with the Joker?" they shout at me when I get out, too, swarming us with their cameras until they're less than a foot away. The rapid flashing and shouts disorient me, footing uncertain as I block my face with one hand. My head swims, unable to tell which way is up, blood rushing in my ears, stomach lurching as vertigo tries to take me out at the knees.

"Hey, what the hell?" someone says, and a chorus of expletives and disgruntled sentiments echo them as a hand goes to my elbow. I flinch back, white flashes still bursting across my vision as the dizziness makes my head feel too light.

"Come on, Miri."

I'm relieved that it's Bruce's voice in my ear, and I let him lead me forward as my vision clears and I get my footing back. The people with the cameras aren't aiming them for photos anymore—they're shaking them, pressing various buttons to get them to turn on. Despite the resonating headache, I smirk.

"Looks like your little emitter worked," I say, shaking my head as the halos around the lights disappear and it doesn't feel like I'm going to fall over. Lucius is still doing good work for Bruce, and the lead-lined clutch is the only reason my phone and the rest of my gear isn't completely fried.

Well… it's technically also Lucius'.

"How long have you been experiencing symptoms like that?" he asks, false-smile firmly in place when we get to the security checkpoint.

"Names?" the head valet asks before I can open my mouth. Hair gelled back, black vest and dress shirt bordering on silver, he's not even looking at us. His head is bent down, checking the long guest list with a pen in his hand. Bruce chuckles under his breath.

"Should be under Wayne."

He sounds so smug that I want to smack him, but the way the head valet freezes and looks up slowly in surprise almost makes me see why Bruce enjoys acting like an ass in public.

His mouth open like a fish out of water, he stammers, "P-Pardon me, Mr. Wayne. Mr. Sionis has you on the VIP list. And you are Miriam Kane?" he asks me, his eyes carefully fixed on my face.

You already know the answer to that, buddy.

I nod, hands clenched into fists and desperate to get inside and escape the people behind us. The sooner we can leave, the better.

"Who knew Roman thought so highly of us, Miri," Bruce says, laughing. Nodding at the man, he slips him a hundred-dollar bill along with his car keys like it's normal to have a wad of those in your coat pocket. Taking his ticket and nudging me forward, the valet's eyes follow us all the while.

"What do you mean by 'symptoms'?" I ask when we're out of earshot, taking in the elaborate tile pillars in the lobby, the too-bright white marble reflecting all of the light in the room to blind us as we follow the stanchions to the ballroom.

"From the concussion," Bruce says. He's eyeing the place up like I am, but he's looking at exits and security guards, his head turning every once in a while to look over our shoulders. "Does it always get like that?"

Only when I get too drunk, usually.

"Oh. That. Not always—just with bright flashes and loud noises… that sort of thing," I say instead—there's no need to fan his burning need to mother me.

The concussion I got eighteen months ago was bad enough that I still feel the effects—mostly in the mornings before I get my bearings, when there's unexpected sounds or too-bright lights—and the disorientation and headaches are enough to keep me in bed for an entire day when it gets bad enough. The look Bruce gives me says you should see a doctor about that, and I ignore it, pulling ahead and shrugging past the other milling guests and security standing at the exits with their coats barely covering their holstered Glocks.

"So… what are you supposed to do at these things?" I ask under my breath as we get further into the hotel, walking down the long, white hall lined with macabre paintings acting as the only decoration, making mental note of where the main elevators and stairs are, which of the locked doors require security badges or keys.

Bruce huffs out a laugh, chagrin as he rolls his eyes. "It usually involves a lot of… what do you like calling it—schmoozing? That, and sussing out who has the bigger yacht and discussing all the original ways they think of spending their money."

"So, you're part of that category then?" I mutter.

Bruce doesn't answer, and any other snarky comment I have leaves my mind when we finally get to the ballroom.

It's a sensory overload in comparison to the rest of the stark interior, and it reminds me of the hotel Bruce bought a few months after he came back, but this is decidedly more ostentatious and gaudy. With all the style of the American brand of nouveau riche—the interior doesn't match the gothic fixtures outside; instead, the large ballroom is decked out with bright metallic accents, the modern furniture warped and leather-clad, floors black marble with golden veins, and the walls are crimson and covered in an eclectic and colourful mix of Venetian masks—larva, moretta, and even a few medico della peste make up the decor between Renaissance paintings of the Italian Carnival. Something like classical music comes from a quartet in the far corner next to a large fountain, but it's off—almost like it's two different pieces playing at once, creating a discordant harmony that hurts my ears. Waiters roam with trays topped with small appetizers and champagne but, unlike the valets, they're wearing masks.

The guy knows how to stick with an aesthetic, I guess.

"We don't want to be here long," Bruce says, leaning in close as other guests pass us and unabashedly stare. "I'm going to find a way upstairs, and you're going to—"

"Stay in a corner?" I hiss between my teeth, crossing my arms. "That's not what we talked about—"

"Ah, the Waynes!"

I swallow my retorts, back going stiff at the sound of the voice. I've never heard it before, but it's overly jovial, and it reminds me of something the Joker said to me once.

'The Almost-Wayne—little Miriam Adina Kane.'

Bruce is better at keeping up the facade. Smile in place, he greets the man behind us. "Roman. Nice to see you after, oh, what has it been, a year?"

He's tall—hair brown, enough stubble on his jaw to look handsomely rugged while simultaneously communicating that he's never done a hard day's work in his life. His gray eyes are cold and hard, smile thin-lipped and insincere despite its width. I'm reminded of when I saw him on TV in the diner—how he's objectively handsome, and the same still holds true, but it's infinitely more hollow, like he's imitating human emotion rather than feeling it. I was wrong before—even when Bruce is pretending, he never looks like this.

"We had a board meeting three months ago about creating a joint product line," Roman says, face getting tight with the effort it's taking to remain pleasant. "Can't expect someone as busy as you to remember everything I suppose, can we?" I don't miss the bite in there, the way his tongue flicks behind his closed teeth, just visible through the small gaps. When he finally turns his attention to me, my stomach drops.

Why does he remind me of Zsasz?

"And this is…?" His eyes slide down my body, lingering on my skin. From the way he's staring, he knows who I am, too.

They all do.

Something like contempt makes his smile twist into a sneer, and he snaps a finger when a waiter with champagne gets close. Air can't fill my lungs and the room shrinks.

"Roman Sionis, this is Miriam Kane, my cousin." Bruce's voice is hard in kind, body coiled and tense.

Roman doesn't move to extend his hand, and I don't either, and he takes a flute for himself and nods for Bruce and me to do the same. He chuckles when Bruce takes one and I don't. "Huh." He looks at me again, and I don't miss the way his eyes find a way back to my skin, how the corner of his mouth twitches, his gaze lowering to my chest. "I would've never guessed."

Something I recognize finally surfaces in his expression, and it makes my skin crawl as the party falls away as the world gets dark, air turning frigid cold and heavy with the smell of rust; hands ghost along my stomach, pushing my skirt past my thighs, starting soft only to press hard enough to bruise.

That's not real—it's not real—

"I was expecting the Joker's, heh, little helper to have more meat on her bones," he says, like it's a casual comment he's making and not a pointed barb. Bruce stiffens, and I grab his arm before he does anything I'm already thinking about. The image of the ship falls away and all I can think about is what it would be like to break that champagne glass against his face. "If you'll excuse me, I'll see you both again shortly, I'm sure. Charmed to meet you, Miriam," he says before I find it in me to say something smart, fuming at how he said my name.

What is it with the amount of sociopathic bastards in this town, and why do I have to meet so many of them?

"Oh, and Bruce," Roman calls over his shoulder after downing his flute, smiling genuinely for the first time and making my cold blood burn, "try not to set anything on fire, will you?"

Bruce raises his glass and for once I'm proud of his ability to say fuck you with just a grin. "No promises. I have a name to live up to."

Roman's grin disappears when Bruce winks, and I all but cackle.

"What a fucking douche," I say, not bothering to be quiet and ignoring the way the woman two feet away gasps like I personally called her grandmother a harpy. "It's true!" I giggle when Bruce chokes on his champagne, descending into a fit of laughter that I have to hide behind my hand as he chokes. "I should've tripped him or something. Asshole."

He snorts again and raises a brow, glancing around before his eyes follow Roman as he moves deeper into the room, laughing loudly as he greets the others. Bruce is serious now—his eyes intense as his posture straightens.

"What?" I ask when he doesn't say anything and places his half-full glass on a passing tray. Turning to see what's caught his attention, panic hits me for a whole other reason. "Bruce, you didn't tell me Lucius would be here."

He's standing further back in the ballroom, speaking with a short, older man with a head of silver hair, grinning until he catches a glance of us. Smile disappearing, he gives a small wave before returning to his conversation. My relief is only matched by my incredulous anger.

"I wasn't sure if he'd come," he says, walking in front of me to block my view of the rest of the ballroom. My arms shake with pent-up energy, the desire to hit something—or someone—more powerful than ever, and my skin feels like it's been dipped in bleach, itching under the weight of everyone's gaze. "You need to stay calm, Miri—"

"Don't be condescending, Bruce," I snap, wincing when it leaves my mouth. My dress feels too tight, my chest too heavy.

He's right. Take a breath.

"I'll be fine." His gaze is steady, considering me as he makes the room feel smaller, like it's just us. "You know these idiots better than I do, and… Please, let me do this. It's less suspicious if a girl gets lost than a dude just wandering around—"

"'Dude'?"

"—and you're better at distractions anyway, right? Isn't what all that ninja training was for, or something?" I finish, dizziness returning as Bruce gives me a look that I haven't seen in a long time—but I can't tell if it's because he's impressed or surprised.

"...Not quite."

It's only because he's smiling that I let him lead me to the far side of the room, wading through the small packs of people huddled around the tall tables, already drunk despite it being just past nine.

"You still have that device I gave you?" He doesn't look like a Wayne anymore. Bruce looks like he did when we were on the ship before it sunk, when he asked me to trust him.

"Yeah."

He nods. "You press—"

"—Press it if I'm in trouble, I know. There's no one waving needles and M16s around here, I think we should be fine." I try to smile, but he's still being serious, still trying to decide how far he'll let this go. "Do you trust me?"

He doesn't say anything for a moment, and I'm expecting him to say no, that I've done enough.

Haven't you, Miri?

"Twenty minutes." I lift my head, half-thinking that I heard him wrong, but he's looking at his watch, winding a knob on the side as a muscle in his jaw jumps. "If you're not back twenty minutes from now and you haven't pressed that," he points to my clutch, where I put the device he gave me before I went to Arkham, "then I'm pulling the fire alarm and we're getting out."

I want to hug him like I used to before he left, wanting to bask in that feeling of camaraderie like this is a lighthearted scheme that he'd come up with when I was young, creating a new adventure that won't go wrong.

But I don't, only giving his arm an awkward squeeze and nodding as I leave the ballroom behind, racking my brain to think of something to get myself upstairs. Roman lives in the penthouse, much like we did, and that means he probably has a laptop—one that should be hooked up to his company network. Even if it isn't, it'll have enough passwords and cached information that I'll be able to get into it from my terminal.

Think, think, think...

Bruce and I had talked about distracting security and sneaking past to the access elevator. I have all the tech in my bag to do the rest.

When I'm clear of the ballroom, the loud music and indecipherable conversations muddled with giddy laughter behind me, I go the opposite way from where we came. I was right—it'll be easier to for me to feign ignorance than it would've been for him, but the key to that is being convincing, and doing it on the phone is one thing, in person is another.

A door opens behind me. I look over my shoulder but keep moving forward, quickening my pace, only to run into something warm and solid. Something grips my arms and pulls me up, keeping me from falling when I trip. Reacting on instinct, I drive my heel into their foot, twist my arms out of their grip as I draw back my arm—it's only Zsasz' face I see—his and everyone else who hurt me. But they won't. They won't.

"Jesus fucking Christ—"

I hesitate long enough for the man to jerk himself away, his breathing heavy as he straightens his glasses.

Jack Ryder.

"What are you doing?" I hiss, hand still drawn back like I'm ready to punch him in the face.

"You're a danger to society, you goddamn Amazon," he says, straightening his tie and shaking out the hand that I twisted. "And I could ask you the same. What are you up to now? Did your boyfriend put you up to this?"

For a moment, I think he's making a sick insinuation about Bruce, but then it hits me.

Bonnie and fucking Clyde.

"Boyfriend," I repeat, voice turning dark. He swallows and takes a step back. "You—you're talking about the man who nearly killed me, who let another almost rape me, who murdered my best friend, and you—you're calling him my boyfriend."

I laugh and it sounds mad, like I'm on the edge of really losing it. Any grasp I had on certainties and keeping my shit together flies out the window, and all the fucked up fantasies I've had over the last week about caving his head in come to life before my eyes. It's like he can sense it. He takes a step back.

"Is that what you're saying happened?" He forces out a laugh and I bare my teeth like a rabid dog. "One would think you'd be more willing to testify then, huh? But no, you've been hiding." I freeze, and he takes it as permission—like he's found a soft spot he can dig his teeth into. He laughs again, giving it more bite. "Hell, you've even been visiting the man! How long has that been going on, Miriam? They allowing conjugal visits for you two?—"

I really snap this time, and I don't bother holding back.

Bringing one knee up, I hit him in the balls. The air leaves his lungs in a whoosh, dropping to his knees as he cradles himself, tears springing to his eyes. He's trying to wheeze out an insult, but I clock him as hard as I can, hitting him square in the jaw as his head cracks to the side and he falls over, knocked out cold.

"I warned you, didn't I, Jack?" I say, towering over him and shoving aside the memories of what it was like to be in his position, revelling in how he's on the floor and I'm not. "Too bad you didn't learn."

"Miss?"

Oh, fucking hell—

I blew it. God-fucking-damnit, I blew it.

"Are you alright?"

Fuck, what am I going to do?

It's a security guard jogging up to stand beside me, looking between my face and Ryder sprawled out on the floor groaning. He's a bigger man, at least a foot taller, broad-shouldered and dressed in a suit. "Miss, you mind telling me what's going on?"

Before I can open my mouth, an unexpected burst of tears shakes me. I don't know where it came from or why I can't seem to stop, but I bury my face in my hands and lean into it.

"Did—did he try to hurt you?" he asks, resting a tentative hand on my shoulder.

Not trusting myself to look at him without bursting into a fit of unhinged laughter, I nod and try my best to sound convincing. "I—I was try—trying to find the bathroom, and he followed me out and—"

A laugh almost breaks through and I make myself shut up and hoping it sounds closer to a sob, thanking whatever cruel deity that's out there that Ryder is too incoherent to say anything. The guard's hand drops from the gun at his hip and pulls out a radio instead.

"I have a Code Yellow in the far east hallway outside the ballroom. You copy, Paulie?"

The radio crackles for a moment before a tinny voice comes through the static. "Yeah, I copy. Just finishing something then I'm headed your way."

"Meet me in the office, I'll bring 'em both there." The guard sighs, rubbing his head before kneeling down and rolling Jack over to put his hands into a pair of zip ties that he pulls from his pockets. "I'll need you to come back with me, Miss, just until we get some of this sorted out."

Brilliant. What now, Miri?

I need a copy of one of their badges anyway. My cellphone is hooked up to an RFID scanner, I just need to turn it on. It'll clone it and then all I'll need to do is tap it against the card-readers, and if they take me to the security office, that kills two birds with one stone. I won't need to loop the feeds through my phone when I can do it there directly.

A lot riding on you not fucking this up.

"It won't take long will it?" I sniffle, playing up the hiccups and hoping it's not completely transparent. But the guy seems to lap it up and eager to prove me right—there's a lot about this that's easier because I'm a woman. "My—my friends are waiting for me and I still need to... you know..." I trail off, dabbing at my eyes like I'm worried about my makeup and hoping I look delicate or whatever it is concerned men look for in these situations.

"Oh, right—yes, of course, Miss," he says, hooking his hands under a dazed Ryder's armpits, hauling him up to drag him with us. "We'll just make sure you're alright and get some minor details. Won't take longer than a few minutes. Promise."

He smiles and I give a hesitant one in return, following at a distance as we go further down the direction I was originally heading. Before we round a corner, he scans his card on a reader to our left, opening a door and grunting as he drags Ryder in after him. Looking in the room before entering, I see I was right—he did take me to the security room. Or, at least, a small off-shoot from it. There's a chair in front of two large monitors showing twelve camera feeds at a time before rotating to the next set and, left unguarded, is the computer tower.

The man nods to a plastic chair, grunting as he props the barely conscious Ryder against the wall. Reaching into my clutch, I turn on the scanner. All that's left is to get into range.

Think fast, Miri—they can't be here if you're going to get on that computer.

"You're….you're not going to make me wait with him, are you?" I ask, making my eyes big as I stand beside the guard, making sure it's on the side where his badge is hanging from. I hold my bag low, hoping it's enough.

"Oh, no—of course not, Miss." The guy seems to forget that I was the one who laid out Ryder in the first place, but he blanches, almost dropping Ryder as he straightens, his face flushed. He mistakes my panic for fear as Ryder starts to groan, eyes fluttering as he comes to. "Nothing to worry about. You just, um… wait here and I won't be any longer than a few minutes."

That means you have less than five. Jesus, you have the worst luck.

"Thank you, I really appreciate it," I say, making my smile a little wider as I sit where he motioned to earlier, hands clasped in my lap as I try to look small and desperately hoping it works.

He smiles and takes Ryder to an adjoining room, grunting with the effort of hauling him, and as soon as the door's closed I'm out of the chair. Pulling the same USB out of my clutch that I need to use at Arkham out of my bag, I plug it into the terminal, listening hard for any sounds of movement coming my way as the program downloads. Once it's at sixty-percent, I check my phone, looking through the hexadecimal codes and seeing the line I need. When I look up, the program's only at seventy.

C'mon, c'mon, c'mon…

The program is a version of a prototype that I developed with Lucius—it's a worm that infiltrates a host's system, embedding itself in its root access functions and giving me control. It means I can install a keylogger so that I know all their passwords, allow me to harvest files and manipulate their programs—and a lot of those things I can do from my phone.

"No—what are you talking about?!"

That's Ryder's voice—he's awake.

Hurry up, Miri—

"That bitch is nuts—"

Ryder's voice rises with the security guard's, and my stomach twists and heart pounds. I'm running out of time.

Ninety-four, ninety-five…

As soon as the bar reaches one hundred, I hit 'finish' and all but sprint from the room, tucking the USB back in my bag as I round the corner. Shutting down the entire security grid with my phone, I see the lone elevator by what looks like a service door entrance. This one requires a security card, and I pull out my phone, bringing up the program that should get me inside.

You're screwed if this doesn't work.

Holding my breath, I hold it to the card reader. When it goes green, I all but yell in excitement.

"Top floor, gotta head to the top floor," I mutter under my breath, hitting the penthouse button and scanning my phone again. The adrenaline makes my skin clammy, dress sticking to my back as I push away the loose strands of my hair, wiping away the sweat on my brow. "You can do this, Miri."

It feels like a long ride to the top, but it can't be longer than a minute. I don't have a plan for this far, only having the consolation that at least everyone will be downstairs.

Find his laptop, download the program, and take the stairs down. That's all you've got to do. You can do it, just breathe… keep breathing.

When the doors open, it eerily reminds me of the penthouse Bruce, Alfred, and I lived in after the Manor burned down. It has the same stretch of hallway leading to the front door, but the decor is different. More black marble with the gold veins like in the ballroom contrast with white walls, and there are more masks up here, but they aren't Venetian. These ones are tribal—collections from various indigenous tribes and put on display. There are no paintings up here, the wall of empty eyes and cut wood and painted stone following me as I walk forward, my footsteps loud as I creep forward. It's not the masks themselves that are unsettling, but how they're arranged—how so many of them don't have any mouths, their gazes unseeing and aimed right at eye level.

If he really is Black Mask, he's really making the dots big and close together, isn't he?

The door leading into the penthouse isn't locked, and the hair rises on my arms when I go inside. It's pitch black, only a few lowlights from far corners of the room and the Gotham skyline give shape to the furniture. Everything in me is screaming to leave, but I keep taking deep breaths, closing my eyes for a moment to adjust to the darkness.

Breathe—just keep breathing.

My pulse is jumping against my skin, feet heavy and lungs burning when I breathe too deeply, I make myself move forward. The sooner I do this, the better.

You don't have much time left—keep moving.

Going right on instinct, it takes me down a short hall flanked with wide doorways. Wandering around in the dark is too much like my time in the Mayor's house, but I shove the memories aside. Joker isn't waiting for me here. There won't be a TV showing my worst nightmares come to life. My head is clear and my body is mine and I can do this.

That's right—keep thinking that. Stay positive…

I still almost scream when I see the outline of a person in the dark, stationary and all spidery limbs stretched out unnaturally from its body. I feel like a rabbit trapped in a cage with a fox, my heart beating so fast that I'm sure it's going to stop.

Breathe, breathe—

But it doesn't move and I don't make a sound. Keeping back a whimper, I move closer, seeing that it's a statue fixed in front of the windows of the master bedroom. Grotesquely misshapen, it's in the form of a naked woman, her limbs twisted and neck looped around on themselves until it looks like a tightly coiled spring, stomach shrunken in and her thighs wide and shapely. She's cut out of what looks like marble, only her pupils and nipples painted black. Her eyes are wide, almost terror-stricken, but she's wearing an obsidian moretta mask. It's… like she's screaming, the mask silencing her permanently.

Who keeps one of these in their bedroom?

Tearing my eyes away from the statue, bile burning the back of my throat, I find what I'm looking for: On a small desk lies a laptop, a small blue light blinking on its side. There's no one in the bed, and I still don't hear anything besides the distant hiss of an air conditioner. Hands shaking, I pull out the USB again, plugging it in as I open the lid.

"Please, go fast, go fast…" The worm works quickly, bypassing the login to the home screen, but it's slower than it was downstairs, and I keep back a panicked whimper. The sense of urgency is greater here, the dread stifling.

Just breathe, you still have a few minutes, just keep breathing…

It's like the universe keeps setting up jokes at my expense. Once the worm finishes installing, a groan echoes through the penthouse. It's quiet at first, the creaking. Weight shifts, shoes tap against cold stone, crisp and sharp. The air shifts as it carries voices from the entryway.

"Set up a meeting with him—I wanna see that quack by the end of the week."

There's no time—pulling out the USB and searching the room, there are no closets to hide in. Only the statue might provide some shelter, but it's right by the doorway.

A light turns on, and I hear a second voice—a woman's. "Roman, no, that's not a—"

The only place I can try is the bed.

"I didn't ask if you fucking thought it was a good idea or not, Brenda."

Pulling my legs under just in time, they walk into the bedroom, his footsteps heavy as the woman—Brenda?—follows behind. I throw a hand over my mouth, both to keep myself quiet and to control my breathing.

Glass clinking together and liquid pours, and Roman snarls, sounding more like an animal than a man. "When I tell you to do something, you do it. Or are you that wet for me to teach you somethin' else?"

The woman stills, her shadow stopping at the edge of the bed. His words make my stomach hurt—it's too close to something Zsasz would have said. A bloody vision of my body ending up like the statue's—twisted and mangled and no one able to hear me—racks me and I struggle to think, to stay calm.

"That's what I thought," he says when the woman says nothing. I press my hand against my mouth harder when he sits on the mattress, making it sink and press into my stomach. It's hard to breathe—the pressure directly over my ribs as he shifts, and I bite my tongue hard enough to make it bleed. "Call that fucking shrink and arrange something. Strange owes us, and he'd better be ready to deliver. Soon."

Wait—wait. Did… did he say 'Strange'?

Why the hell would Strange owe him anything? What the hell kind of use would a man like Roman have of Arkham unless—

"Were you on my laptop?" he asks, rising and letting me breathe again.

"No, I don't touch your shit, Roman."

Oh no… oh no—

"Huh." I hear him click it closed, the shadow of his feet staying at the foot of the bed. "Are Wayne and that dumb cunt still downstairs?"

My face burns, terror sitting on my chest like Roman never got off the bed.

"Last time I checked."

"Call Paulie and make sure. Confirm that their car's all… haha." He breaks off laughing. It's crueller, more malignant than I ever heard come from the Joker, heavy and spiteful. "That it's all fixed up. Wouldn't want them getting home in one piece, would we?"

My body shakes, and it's with every ounce of willpower I have that I keep myself still.

"No," the woman says, sounding bored, "I guess we wouldn't."

"Find me when it's done. There's a few more bitches that need to kiss the ring."

When they turn off the lights and I hear the door click, I wait another five minutes before I think about moving. My body's stiff and dress covered in dust, but I make sure I have everything before making a run for it.

You need to call Bruce—find the stairs.

Nearly tripping on one of his rugs, I make it to the door and barely have the space of mind to close it behind me. The stairs are to the right of the elevator, and I take them two at a time, hiking up my dress to my knees and all but sprinting down as I speed dial Bruce.

"Pick up, pick up—"

But it goes to voicemail.

Cursing, I go faster, glad for all that time spent at the gym. It's dizzying going 'round and 'round, but I keep going until it feels like my knees will give out, my muscles shaking and weak, and I push beyond my body's limits, ignoring how they scream at me.

Faster, Miri—

Chest heaving when I reach the bottom, I barely give myself time to catch my breath before I run out into the hallway. I have to find Bruce before he comes looking for me, or before he gets into his car. I'm rounding the corner, but my legs finally betray me and I trip, my dress ripping as I barely catch myself and lean against a wall.

"No, no—c'mon, you can't stop—c'mon, Miri—"

Gritting my teeth, I right myself only to come face-to-face with one of the ghastly paintings Roman chose to line the hallway with. Almost falling back down, I make my feet steady themselves, blinking away the vertigo that makes my head light. Unlike the other art and the statue upstairs, I recognize this one.

It's a supine woman in a white dress, the background dark, hiding the shape of a blank-eyed horse, the edges of its head and muzzle barely visible, and, sitting on the woman's chest, is a demon. Eyes boring into mine, it's an image that's not just familiar because I know a little bit about art history.

You need to find Bruce... think about it later, you need to find him.

Backing away slowly like it might spring at me, my spine presses against something warm.

"See something you like?"

A hand slaps over my mouth before I can scream, holding me in place before I can twist away—but I can see who it is.

Roman.

AN: Thank you all again for being so patient, and please know that I appreciate all of you and the time you take to read and leave comments. It really helps keep me going and I hope I'm not letting you down... but (hopefully) I'll be back again in a couple of weeks :') đź’–

A few notes - yes, I know that Santa Prisca is the prison where Bane became the supercriminal that he is in the comics. But, since I'm not going with that origin since this is the Nolanverse, I thought it would be a nice easter egg to incorporate since Santa Prisca is a hotbed of corruption, brutality, and villainy - what better place than that for Roman to live, no? And, yes, I mention Lex Luthor! He's not making an appearance in this story, but I'm branching out a little to the larger DCU. At least, the parts that can be included and remain grounded in Nolan's clear boundaries of "realism" as opposed to the fantastical. So you might be seeing more references here and there :).

And the painting Miri is looking at here at the end is Henry Fuseli's "The Nightmare," painted in 1781. I thought it seemed fitting, since nightmares and fear are a central focus in the story. :')

Keep staying safe, everyone. You're all in my thoughts!