"Don't argue with me," Naomi says with a sigh, the sound of fingers clicking against a keyboard rising in the background. She can't even bother to give me her full attention, and my jaw tightens so much I can feel my old fillings grinding together. "You've said your piece and, frankly, I don't care. You're there and you're going to do what you've been assigned."

My bruised hands curl into tight fists, and I shut my mouth before I say something stupid. Naomi doesn't deal with emotion, only pragmatic reasoning. Finding the tack with her has been like ripping out my own nails—and it didn't stop her from shoving me on a plane and it won't make her call me back to Chicago. Why I'm bothering is a mystery even to me, but not putting up every method of resistance seems like a greater insult than letting this lie.

"Naomi, you don't want me here, I don't know how many times I have to say it. I can't do—"

"Yes, you can. And you will," she interrupts, voice hard. She's heard all this before, and she's right—she doesn't care. I open my mouth but it's like she can sense it from over twelve-hundred kilometres away; her perception has, annoyingly enough, not dulled over the distance. "What was the point of all those sessions with Dr. Mano if you can't handle this, Kane?" she asks.

Because I never said anything. Because it was fucking useless and I never wanted to go. Because he was cold and just—

Blinking hard, I make myself breathe deeply. Thinking about those god awful meetings where we just stared at each other—him waiting for me to start and my mouth never opening, asking questions I never answered aloud. That never stopped him from trying, and it was never enough for me to start. I knew once I started, I wouldn't stop until there wasn't anything left in me. It's not until the phone clutched in my hand slides down from my ear that I notice my hands are going numb, my legs shaking.

Again.

It was like this when I got off the plane, too. When I sat in the bathroom for twenty minutes trying not to hyperventilate.

"It's been almost two years. Gotta get over it sometime, kid." She doesn't say it unkindly, but it's not with benign intentions, either. My mouth won't work because there's nothing I can say that will change her mind. She knows it. I know it. But this isn't the first time we've had this song and dance, and doing it now is a waste of both our time. That doesn't stop my eyes from burning. "You have the key, do you not?"

The pulsing muscle in my jaw makes it difficult to speak, but I grind out the answer as a scab over my knuckle splits open and a small line of bright red grows. Reluctantly, my hand opens and I stare at the set of keys that makes everything all too real. "Yes."

"Perfect." Naomi knew what the answer would be. She knows I can't say no. "The dossier is on the counter. You have three days to get your shit together—then we get to work."

"Naomi—" I start, but it's too late; she's hung up by the time it took me to draw the breath. "Fuck."

I want to throw my phone in the gutter—yell and curse her name and existence as I scream out my anger. The urge makes my heart race, imagining the action like I'm doing it already—circles of black closing around my eyes like a shutter as I try to breathe. Instead of crushing it against the stained concrete like it's a proxy for her skull, I press the warm glass and metal to my head to calm down.

Breathe.

There's no doubt I look like a fool—jacket that's too thick for the weather, small bundles of bags spilt at her feet, and the look of someone who hasn't slept in a few days clutching her phone to her damn head like she's synthesizing information through fucking osmosis or something. My fingers go to tug on my hair but come up short, looking for long curls that don't exist anymore.

Old habits die hard.

It's mid-afternoon, but the sun still isn't enough to warm me. I can't go back but don't want to move forward.

And you can't stand here forever.

Gotham's just as miserable as I remember it being, and the building in front of me is no exception. Tall and gray like the rest of the structures beside it, the apartment I'm supposed to live in resides in an area of Gotham I'm not familiar with. Not far from the East End and a good distance away from Wayne Enterprises, Grant Village Apartments doesn't look so different from the place I lived in in Chicago. It even has the same appearance—cold, probably has a moisture problem, and likely poorly maintained.

At the sound of voices, I whip around, hands tightening around my phone and re-aggravating the bruises and cuts. A small group of men walk up the sidewalk, heads bowed toward one another as they laugh at some shared joke. There isn't anything outwardly menacing about them, but the hair on my arms still rise and I'm slammed with the reminder of how vulnerable I am just standing on the sidewalk.

Screw the three days. Get started now and you can get out of here sooner.

Naomi didn't make that guarantee, but I hold onto it like it's a promise.

She wants the job done and then you can leave. There isn't any other reason to be here.

I keep telling myself that as I shoulder the heavy bags—the same ones I never totally unpacked when I left in the first place—and cross the street, not really caring if there are cars coming. Mechanically, one foot in front of the other, each motion becoming the result of deliberate thought, is how I manage to move through the fear. Hours of punching at faces that weren't there and being unwilling to stand in the wind like a useless piece of string have made me work through my anxiety—even when all I want to do is hide; turn into stone and wish myself out of existence.

But that doesn't work, you know that. Keep moving. Breathe.

Mumbling the same thought under my breath, I ignore the horns being honked at me as drops of rain hit my head. Struggling to get the front door open, my bags catching on the edge of the frame, I fumble with the keys until I get the right one in the slot and the buzzer sounds. It's not until I'm at the stairwell and up the first flight that I realize I don't even know what floor I'm supposed to go to.

Brilliant, Miri. Absolutely brilliant.

The tag on my keys says "801"—one of the top floors of the building. The bags hanging from my shoulders and digging into the crooks of my arms feel heavier as I look up the long, winding set of wooden stairs. Going back and finding an elevator crosses my mind.

Just move. Work out the thoughts.

Like before, I move one foot in front of the other and think about nothing.

That's how I've dealt with everything. Moving. Hitting things hard enough to break bone when I hit a target on a bad angle. The fight training I abandoned as a teen has been the only thing keeping me from breaking. I'm not weak anymore. That's a mistake I'll never make again. Adjusting the biting straps, I go up another flight, ignoring the strain in my thigh—a leftover from my last kickboxing session before I left Chicago.

Don't think about it.

He was right. I needed to work on my pain tolerance. Now it's high enough that I end up hurting myself in ways I couldn't before.

Despite all the work I've done, I'm still winded by the time I get to my floor. Chest sucking in air like I've made no damn progress at all, the sweat on the back of my bare neck goes cold and makes me shiver despite my rising body temperature. The thick sweater that hides everything I need it to makes the dense air feel like the steam from a hot sauna.

The hallway of the eighth floor is long and the carpet smells like mildew and urine, and there's shouting coming from the other side of a door, words indistinguishable but the anger palpable enough to feel like the argument was happening in front of me. I think of the untouched bottle of prescribed valium in one of the bags at my feet from Dr. Mano. He wrote me a prescription after I admitted to having panic attacks. I never swallowed a pill, but I still kept them with me for reasons I never examined closely, but now I'm considering how often I'll need to have them just to sleep as the shouting turns into screamed curses.

Here's hoping Naomi had the decency to at least make sure the place is clean.

Something tells me she doesn't care about that, either. The Department of Defense doesn't care about pulling out all the stops—not for someone like me.

Didn't take long to learn that.

Hoping at least there's a bed for me to crash on, I drop my bags in a heap and shake out my arms, trying to figure out which key opens the door. After trying all three, my frustration—at being back in Gotham, at Naomi for sending me here, at myself for being stupid enough to think leaving would solve my problems, all the exhaustion and boiling anger that never leaves—explodes out of me and I kick the door hard enough to leave a dent in the wood, cursing under my breath. When I get a key in and it sticks, not moving to either side, I draw back a fist—I don't even know why; I can't punch down the door, I'm being irrational—too impatient.

But I don't care.

"You should go to anger management for that."

Sucking in air like someone punched me in the gut, I spin around so fast I fall against the door I was just abusing, searching for the voice. Blood floods my ears, making them ring. The voice sounds familiar. Why is it familiar?

It's not him—it's not, he's locked up. Breathe, breathe—

It did and didn't sound like him—and I can't tell which. I can't see—the hall constricts and it's like I'm going blind, I can't—

"Hey, lady—you don't do drugs, do you?"

The world snaps back into focus. A small girl sits at the top of the next flight of stairs—the one leading up to the ninth floor—peeking between the wooden spokes of the bannister. She's staring at me, lips pouted out and head twisted to the side. Anger quickly replaces the panic that makes my heart hammer against my ribs.

"Don't you know it's rude to sneak up on people?" I snap. Too late I wince at my tone, leaning against the door and rubbing my neck, trying to stave off a building headache. The screaming behind the neighbouring wall stops and I'm grateful for the small mercies.

Small footsteps against creaking wood make me open my eyes only to find a bright set of gold closer than they were before. The girl is quiet and surprises me but, this time, I hold my ground.

It's just a kid. No reason to be afraid of a child.

I keep thinking that, and yet my pulse never slows.

"I wasn't sneaking. You're the one who was too blind to notice me," she says, eyeing me up.

Even though the only skin she can see is on my neck and hands, I still pull the sleeves further down and adjust the collar of the turtleneck higher until it touches my chin. I would've brought my hair forward to hide more, but it's still choppy and short, the jagged ends barely reaching my jaw. I settle for glaring instead.

"I am not—" My jaw clamps shut, almost biting my tongue.

Were you about to chew out a child? Get your head on straight. Breathe.

The girl's short—her head just barely level with my ribs, cheeks full and round, skin a light brown, her hair thick and wild with frizz, barely restrained with a bright pink scrunchie. She can't be any older than nine or ten, but I've always been terrible at guessing ages. My face goes hot when I realize I was going to say something rude. I want to blame it on the flight, on hauling forty-five pounds worth of bags up eight flights of stairs and dealing with more stress than is good for me—but I can't. Hostile was always my default setting before when I was scared.

Looks like that hasn't changed. All those old habits again.

"Whatever," is what I manage to say. It's petulant. Juvenile. I'm cringing but I turn around, resuming the struggle to get my key to fit in the godforsaken lock and get out from the scrutiny of this kid and into the dark pit I'm not going to leave unless absolutely necessary.

"Nice meeting you, too, lady," the kid huffs, her sneakers scuffing against the floor. She's making a lot of noise, but none of it sounds like she's looking to leave. "You living in there now?"

Giving up on getting the key in the lock—again—my head smacks against the chipped wooden door.

"No." I wince—the word sounded more like a bite than an answer. My fingers push against my eyes, trying to keep back the pressure building behind them. "No, I'm just… staying for a little while. It's not permanent." I'm glad that my voice at least sounds softer, that I managed to work off the sharper edges. She's standing too close, her big eyes open like an observant bird.

"Oh." Her voice is so quiet that, for a moment, I think I've succeeded in upsetting her. Just as I start to panic about how to deal with an offended preteen, her face brightens up with an eager smile I don't understand. "I guess you'll be my neighbour, then."

She's… persistent. I'll give her that.

"I… I guess so, yeah."

Her words make my head clue in—she's here because she's a tenant. The thought of running into her consistently already has me feeling tired. Maybe it's her enthusiasm—or maybe it's because I can't remember the last time I talked to someone willingly other than Naomi—but my guard slowly lowers, my muscles losing their high-strung tension.

"Which one's yours?" I ask, looking back down the length of the hallway like I'll find that I missed a set of parents, too.

The kid does a small jump in place, going up on her tiptoes as she spins. "803." My face goes hot when I see that's the door where the screams were coming from. "You're not crazy, are you?"

The question slaps me in the face. Black circles return around my sight; the strained muscle in my leg jumps. "U-Um, no?"

That sounded so convincing.

She's still moving around, dancing in a small circle but staring with a grin that shows a missing canine tooth. "That's good. The last guy was nuts. He'd wake Dad up all the time and then he'd be grumpy for work. It wasn't very fun."

The spinning dance stops, and her face falls. She's staring at her apartment door, seeming to forget I'm even standing here. Her fingers tug and pull at the strings of her white sweater, tightening up the hood of it until I worry it'll wring her neck. The eager desperation to be on the other side of the door with the bolt in place fades, and the words come up easier than they have in months.

"No, I guess it wouldn't be." It seems like such an obvious thing to say. Kids—I don't know how to deal with them. They see too much and their judgements were always a little too accurate for my liking. I don't know what she sees when she looks at me and I don't want to. "I won't wake your dad up. Don't worry."

Why are you still talking?

"Look, kid, I've got a lot of unpacking to do," no, I don't—I'll be living out of these bags just like before, "and I have some calls I need to make." That, at least, isn't entirely untrue. I just don't know how I'll be able to make them.

The girl's attention snaps back to me, getting close and crowding me against the door. I jump away from her, avoiding any physical contact. She eyes me up again with a raised brow.

"There's a trick to the lock, y'know. Gotta twist a bit to the left and then the right, dummy."

'Dummy'? Great. What wonderful neighbours I have.

Just as I silently curse Naomi's blighted existence, the door to apartment 801 swings open. What almost had me willing to break my foot over she had open in a few seconds. My mouth opens but no sound leaves.

"I'm Zareen. And you're welcome," she chides, showing off her missing tooth again.

"I'm Miriam."

Oh—fuck. Why did you say your name?

My fingers pull at my hair again. Stupid—I didn't want to use my first name in Gotham. It just… spilled out. I didn't have to watch the news to know what Gotham thought of me. Changing my hair and gaining some weight back might've changed how I look, but putting that name to my face could be dangerous.

But… she's just a kid. What will she know, right?

Kids can still watch the news and use Google.

Gotta be more careful, then.

"Miriam?" she says, her hand going to the knob of her apartment and snapping me back to attention. "That's a pretty name."

My cheeks feel warm again and, just for a moment, I forget why I'm here—why I don't want to be here. It's been a while since I've heard anyone else say it aloud. Naomi regularly calls me by my last name, and the only other person to use it was Alfred when he called two months ago.

"Thanks," I say. A smile starts until I realize who else was the last one to use my name and it fades, hiding back where it needs to be. She doesn't seem to notice, her wide grin still in place. "I guess I'll… see you around, Zareen."

She doesn't say anything else, only waves and disappears behind her apartment door with a small click as it closes. My hand raised, giving a half-finished wave to no one as I stare at where she stood, a familiar ache fills my chest and makes my eyes sting. Heat races up my spine, raising the skin and making my scalp tingle. Air won't get in my lungs and my hands shake.

Get inside and breathe. You're fine. He isn't here. No one knows you're here.

Say what you will about Naomi, but she's discreet. No one will know I'm here unless I want them to. No one will find me.

That's right. Breathe.

Whom I'm afraid of isn't important—they're dead or locked up. I know that and yet the feelings don't stop. They never go away. No matter how hard I try.

Breathe.

I don't remember moving the bags inside, just that I do. Fingers trembling, I slide the deadbolt home and struggle to put the chain in place. My head feels light, but I ignore it, picking up the thick manila envelope from the granite countertop and dumping out the papers, staring as the lines blur together. They go in and out of focus, but I make myself read. The sooner I work on this the better.

CASE REPORT

Case No. 4893-89-J

A. Cargo type: Heroin and small arms.
B. ETA: Intermittent shipments at least five times a month. Likely unloaded between 0100 and 0300.
C. Method of Transport: Shipping containers, Gotham Docks.
D. Method of Distribution: "FalseFaceMarket" via the Dark Web.
E. Country of Origin: Afghanistan. Likely routed through Pakistan.
F. Distributor: Unknown.
G. POI:

i. Theodore "Teddy" Donahay, Free Men.
ii. Jahan Shaddid, the Djinn.
iii. Alfrizi Esposito, the new head of the Maroni crime family.
iv. "Black Mask", unknown name and affiliations.
v. "Red Hood", unknown name and affiliations.

H. Known Information : The heroin shipped to Gotham has been found up and down the east coast. Several rival groups have been competing for control of the drug trade, resulting in a drawn-out gang-war. Police have attempted to trace the website with no results; see enclosed reports for—

Setting down the papers, I rub my eyes again, trying to ease the throbbing and nausea that makes the world tilt on its side. No matter how hard I try, I can't focus on what the words mean—it's like they're floating, jumbled up together and making my eyes hurt. Some click through—like my father's name. This isn't much different from the other jobs Naomi's had me on before: Digital surveillance, hacking foreign interests, intel gathering, and digital forensic investigations are all something I'm intimately familiar with now. This isn't any different, but it is.

Breathe. Slow down.

My chest burns. A painful arc goes up from the bottom of my ribs to just below my collarbone. I'm sweating, but I don't want to take off my sweater. The skin feels like it's tearing, even though I know it's smooth and tight. My fingers go to it again, feeling the raised ridges through the fabric. That was a mistake—touching it. I get to the sink just in time to heave.

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

It's not real. He's not here—don't be so weak. Breathe. Calm down.

This isn't uncommon either. It blends with everything else—the hatred. The constant reminders. The memories I can't shed. I grit my teeth to keep from screaming just like my neighbours were. If there was alcohol in here, I'd be downing half the bottle.

Get some later.

"Do you think I'll ever leave you?"

"Stop it, Miri. Stop it," I growl, pulling at my hair like the pain will make the voice go away. That familiar smell of sweat and blood comes back and my chest heaves again. "It—it's not real. It's not. Breathe."

It's like I'm manually restarting my own heart but, just like before, I make myself move, looking for somewhere to rest that isn't the dirty kitchen floor. Legs hitting sharp corners and elbows cracking against the walls, I find something that feels flat. Whether what I fall on face-first is a bed or couch doesn't matter. It's soft and it doesn't smell like the hallway did, and I grab at my chest like I can take the scar into my hand and rip it off.

But you can't.

God knows I've tried. The new scars are proof enough.

I'm still spinning—gray walls becoming swirls of rainwater that drown me. Trying to concentrate on my heart—on the erratic, thrumming beat—I close my eyes and imagine that I'm somewhere far away from here, like I'm someone else entirely.

Some habits never go away at all.


My new apartment is bathed in the street-lit night that pours through the naked windows. A small puddle of drool under my cheek and eyes heavy from sleep, I bolt upright, hissing when I pull a tendon in my neck. I don't remember when, but I managed to fall asleep at some point. For how much my muscles ache, it must've been deep.

Get up. You should eat something.

Ignoring the pooled shadows in the corners, I fumble around for a light switch. My new apartment is large for a studio suite, coming with a threadbare loveseat, a big bed that I managed to get to, and a high counter with two stools. Other than a heavy-looking wardrobe and a closet, there isn't anything else.

If they didn't completely set you up, that means that they really don't want you here long.

The thought gives me comfort, and it helps me drag myself off the duvet—slightly damp from the moisture coming from the rain pelting the windows and fogging up the glass close to the mattress. Searching through the cupboards in the small kitchen, I find nothing other than a small box of saltine crackers and a container of baking soda in the fridge.

Looking outside, the miserable weather makes me want to strip off, have a warm shower, and sleep more, but my stomach twists painfully. I haven't eaten since I was at the Chicago airport.

You need to eat.

That's a new habit I'm forcing on myself: Eating regularly. Going another twelve hours without eating will make me more tired and weaker than I already feel.

And you can't allow that.

Resting my head against the cool granite of the kitchen counter, dossier papers shoved away, I keep thinking about my breathing, on taking deep inhales and longer exhales. It doesn't matter how long I haven't moved, the only goal to detach from the physical symptoms that are paralyzing me. I can't be like this when I leave.

None of it matters. Breathe and find something to eat. That's what matters.

I have a goal, a mission. It makes the blurring of everything else easier. Bag on my shoulder and keys in my hand; grip on the railing as I go down the stairs and remembering the places the cab drove by on the way here, I focus on the objective. Meeting the determined points and moving on to the next. No room for thinking, no room for anything else.

It's not until my sweater gets cold and heavy with rain that I zip up my jacket. Anyone who passes me by doesn't have a face or a smell—they're just another patch of colour, swallowed by the noise of the downpour. The lights of the signs over my head doesn't mean anything until I see "Romano's Mini Mart"—a shop wedged in a small storefront of a large brick building spanning the rest of the block. The flashing "Open" sign is enough, and it isn't until I'm out of the rain that I start to shiver. Blinking away the water, I realize I don't remember how far I walked to get here.

You can't be an idiot here. Pay more attention.

Pushing what I can of my wet hair behind my ears, I scour the aisles, looking for anything that looks palatable, brushing past the other few customers in the narrow walkways. I'm almost to the processed-food-galore section but a tall man blocks the way. His broad shoulders and muscled arms make for an intimidating silhouette.

Doesn't matter.

Swallowing and clearing the lump in my throat, I say, "Excuse me—"

A small TV plays by the front register, the store clerk glued to it as a suited news anchor drones on and interrupts whatever I was going to say to get the guy to move. The voice is familiar—informative with ill-hidden condescension. Salt and pepper hair with thick-rimmed glasses. A smarmy look on his face and a self-assured smile.

Jack Ryder.

He was there in Wayne Enterprises when—

Don't think about it.

The back pocket of my jeans vibrates, making me jump before I can think about it. Abandoning the aisle altogether, I search for a private corner in the tiny store as the caller ID seems to glare at me in accusation.

Alfred, why are you calling me now?

I haven't picked up his calls in weeks, barely answering his emails once every fortnight. There's nowhere I can go without being overheard and going out in the rain isn't an option.

Just make it quick. Feed him something about work being busy.

It's my go-to excuse, and I hope it isn't too worn out as I slide my finger across the screen to accept the call. "Hey, Alfred," I say, clearing my throat. I sound too cheery, fake. He can always tell when I'm being fake. "Um, look, right now isn't great—"

"Miri, are you back in Gotham?" he asks.

My basket falls to the ground with a clatter, turning every eye in the store on me. Face burning, my shoulders hunch and I move along, picking up my basket and lowering my voice. "I—I really can't talk right now—"

"Miriam, please. Don't say you think me a fool." He sounds tired, worried. Finding a corner by the coolers, I try to ignore the sensation that people are still staring at me, pulling the hood of my jacket closer around my face. "Is it true?"

I sigh and rub my forehead. Lying is something I told myself I wouldn't do anymore and, for the most part, I haven't. Dodging questions and changing the subject doesn't count, but those aren't options here anymore, either. He knows the truth, anyway. My money's on Bruce—he'd have ways of knowing; he always does. I stare at my naked fingers, aching for what used to rest on them.

"Yeah, it's… it's true. Naomi has a job that I need to be here for."

"Why didn't you say anything? We have a room here that—"

Almost dropping the basket again, I pace, my vision warping the walls and making them close in on me. "No." I wince, sounding too close to how I snapped at Zareen. "No—I… I don't think I'm going to be here long."

Alfred takes a deep breath. I can't help but imagine what he looks like, how he's probably by himself and Bruce is out… being Bruce. Or, not Bruce. "Why won't you come home?"

The question hits me in the chest and my eyes water, threatening to spill over. I don't want to tell him. Not here, not ever. I don't want to explain how I couldn't bear him seeing how different I am, seeing how, in every way, I'm not the same person he remembers. He would know why, and I don't want to confront that either. I've spent eighteen months avoiding questions, judgement, pitying glances. I don't want Alfred to look at me like that. And I don't want to see Bruce, feel any of the memories he evokes.

His voice whispers in my ear, snaking back into my bones, "What kind of monster do ya think I am, Miri?"

My stomach rolls and I sweat despite being stuck in a soaked sweater. The smell of gunpowder—is it gunpowder?—fills my airway. It's hard to inhale and I need to leave. The voice in my ear transforms, taking on the accent I've known my whole life. Alfred's still talking, trying to convince me of something.

"I-I really have to go," I interrupt, grabbing a six-pack of beer from one of the coolers—not caring what brand it is—and a cheap bottle of wine before heading to the front counter.

"Miriam, please meet me for a coffee. There's a lovely place in the Fashion District—a new patisserie and café." I can hear him, but it's like his voice is coming from the end of a long tunnel.

"Alfred—"

"Please, dear, do this old man a kindness and meet me?" he asks.

I'm at the front of the line, dumping out my random assortment of food and alcohol onto the counter as the clerk scans them. Telling him "no" would be easier, but I know I can't avoid him forever.

"OK, Alfred—alright. Where is—"

My phone drops out of my hand and smacks against the floor. There's a new image on the TV screen, and it's not Jack Ryder. It's me—I'm on the TV.

"Let's begin, shall we?"

It's that old photo—the one they published another lifetime ago after the bank robbery. The one that's followed me around. I look so different now—some spark missing and gone. But it's not even my face, how my sternum is unmarked and so much skin shows—it's the dress I'm wearing in the picture. There are voices talking to me, I think—but all I can see now is the ribbon running along the bottom of the photo.

ACCOMPLICE OR VICTIM? NEW INSIGHTS INTO GOTHAM'S BONNIE AND CLYDE

'Bonnie and Clyde'? They… Do they think I wanted to do any of that? That I… we were—

My anger and outrage at the insinuation that he and I were—that I was there by choice—are shoved to the side when my picture goes up alongside another. One of a man with short, dirty blond hair, black, dilated pits for eyes, and an extended smirk as he stares into the camera. It's the Joker from his first day during his trial. After downing a few shots, I managed to watch parts of it on YouTube. I threw it all up afterward and called in sick for two days. It's like I'm frozen—like he's here with me again. That tilt of his head, the knowing look on his face—like he still has secrets to tell me. His breath on my shoulder, moving my hair.

"I don't like many people—at all. But you—you're fun."

When a hand lands on my shoulder, I don't think twice. I grab and twist, pirouetting around and hitting the bastard right in the jaw.

Not again—it won't happen again—no, no, no, you won't let it, you won't

I'm about to hit him again when I realize what I've done. Too late reality finds me. I couldn't have been hitting the Joker because he's in Arkham. No, the man whose forearm I'm gripping and face I just hit isn't Joker at all. Horror hits me like a blow to the stomach.

"Shit, didn't expect to get cold-cocked for giving a lady her phone back," the man says. It's the same one who was blocking the aisle. He's taller than me by at least three inches, a large red hoodie fails to hide his powerful build, and a gray backpack's slung across his shoulder. Amongst the mess of black hair is a small streak of white at his widow's peak.

Looking down, I see that he is holding my phone. Embarrassment and shame make my skin hot when my eyes find the reddening patch of skin where my fist connected with his jaw. He's grinning like I didn't hit him at all, leaning down to meet my eyes.

He's not the only one looking at me. The clerk—the other customers in the store—they're all staring at me with their mouths wide open. This might be Gotham but seeing someone punch a man who looks like that in the face unprovoked is certainly something new. Grabbing my phone and holding my bag tight, I back away.

"I-I'm sorry—I—I didn't mean to. I was—"

I was what? Scared because a man locked up miles away might've on some slim chance found me in a store in the middle of a city of ten million? That I'm so off my rocker that my first response is to hit first and think later?

They're still staring, brows furrowing as their expressions go from shocked to… something else.

Get out. Leave—now.

"I—I'm sorry," I say again before making a quick exit, all but breaking out into a sprint.

Wind and rain pelt into me, but I don't care. The streetlights aren't bright enough for me to tell where I'm going, but that doesn't matter either. Hands crawl along my stomach, touching my neck. I thought I at least banished these feelings after the last time, but they're coming back so hard it's like it's actually happening, the past becoming an afterimage that's transposing real life.

"What's the matter, love? Just lie back, you'll enjoy it soon enough."

I stop and lean against the brick, cradling my head in my hands. "It isn't real. You're OK. You're fine," I say, repeating it over and over. It doesn't do anything—doesn't take away the voices or the smells or the feeling that my body isn't mine. It's being reclaimed, torn away and becoming a familiar prison. It hasn't been like this in months. I was getting better. It didn't feel this bad, but now it's like I can't breathe—

"Hey, you don't look so good."

Barely muffling a shriek, I stagger away from the voice, trying to get into a defensive stance and falling against the wall instead.

Weak. You're still too weak.

"Leave me alone," I say, backing away from the dark shape, my eyes still not working out what's real and what isn't. "I-I'm fine. I'm fine."

I'm fumbling so bad I almost trip, but the shape throws up a pair of hands, moving into the light. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you," he says. When I see his face—sharp, square jaw, a nose that's probably been broken a few times, and a bright pair of blue eyes—I almost run again. It's the man I hit in the store. "I wanted—"

"I'm sorry I hit you, but fuck off," I snarl, finally finding my feet.

He's going to hurt you. Think, calm down.

The man is bigger than me, but if I get in a shot to his throat—

"Whoa there, darlin'. No need to be hostile." He doesn't move back but he doesn't come forward, either. When he holds up a plastic bag, I see it's full of the things I abandoned on the store counter. "I'm not here for anything other than to make sure you don't collapse in a fucking gutter somewhere. There's no hard feelings, scout's honour."

His hand goes over his heart, and a crooked grin pulls at his mouth. He sounds sincere; his face doesn't hold any malice despite how the skin around his jaw starts to swell. He's just standing here, body not positioned to retaliate. When he extends the bag toward me, I take it and stop myself from bolting.

"Don't call me that." Just because he looks nice doesn't mean he is. The pet name makes my skin ripple—memories come back up to kick at my knees. Even if it's empty, I hold onto the anger—my first line of defence.

"Call you what?" he asks, grin disappearing.

"'Darling'. Don't call me that," I say, looking up and down the street.

He might not be alone. There's an alley ten feet away and you don't know this neighbourhood—

"What would you like me to call you?" His voice interrupts my thoughts, and I pull back, looking to see if he started inching closer when my head was turned. Air comes in easier when I see he hasn't moved.

"Mi—" I clamp my mouth shut quick.

He would've seen the news playing just like you. You can't use your first name. Not in this city.

"Adina. My name is Adina," I say instead. It's my middle name, and thinking of an entirely new one on the spot is stupid—it makes me liable to forget or not answer to it. But I still hesitated, and I hope he doesn't question it.

"Nice to meet you, Adina," he says, his smile returning and widening a fraction. "Can I talk with you for a minute without worrying you're going to sucker punch me again?"

He's still smiling in good humour, but my face and neck go hot again, the shame hitting me like a slap. "N-No, I won't." My gaze falls to the sidewalk, staring at my soaked sneakers and pant legs. Peeling any of this off to shower won't be fun later. "I am sorry about that. I… wasn't thinking straight."

Understatement of the year.

He could have me charged with assault if he wanted. He should be angry with me.

Then why isn't he?

"What's bothering you then?"

Involuntarily my hand goes to my chest, giving the appearance of pulling my jacket closer but actually trying to stop the flare of burning that comes from the scar.

Don't think about it. You can't think about it here.

"Long day."

That's not a lie, and it's the simplest answer I can offer. His laugh surprises me. It's loud and deep, coming from his chest and managing to sound… almost self-deprecating. Like there's an inside joke I'm missing.

"Shit, I've had plenty of those and I don't go around punching random strangers."

He's right. What I did wasn't a normal response—it was extreme and unnecessary. Any other person would be furious, shouting at me and questioning my sanity.

Again, why isn't he doing that?

Leaving would be the smart option. My teeth chatter together, the cold finally seeping through far enough for my body to respond without me registering its cause completely. "Thank you… for grabbing this for me," I say, holding up the bag of groceries. "How much do I owe you?"

Nothing about him sets off alarm bells in my head. He's strong, that much is clear in the way he carries his weight, how he holds his shoulders back. It reminds me of Naomi—the rigid posture trained into her that she couldn't entirely hide.

He adjusts his hood, wiping away the small rivers of rain trailing down his face. "Don't worry about it," he says, waving a hand at me when I pull out my wallet. He stops when an idea seems to strike him. "Or, you can buy me some waffles. There's a good place two blocks back that'll blow your fuckin' mind. It'll get you out of the rain—"

"No." It's not something I have to second guess. Going anywhere is dangerous—an invitation for some nasty surprise, no matter how genuine he seems. Either he's hiding his anger or doesn't feel it right now, but pissing him off for real is a bad idea. My mind's racing, but I force my voice to stay even. "I really need to get back to my place. Just—how much do I owe you?" I ask again, pulling out two twenty-dollar bills from my wallet.

His eyebrows go up in surprise, but he raises his hands again in supplication. "You look like you're about to fall over, that's all. What's left of my conscience won't let you walk home alone at this time of night in the rain." Once again he seems sincere and I doubt myself. "It is Gotham we're talking about."

Yeah, and it's because it's Gotham that I'm not following you anywhere.

"I don't know you." Stating the obvious shouldn't be necessary. Who just invites a crazy person who just punched them for waffles? He doesn't seem to be trying to push me anywhere—all I see is concern, but I've learned that what I see doesn't always match up with what's really there.

Sighing, he pulls back his hood and runs his fingers through his hair, the white streak pushed back with the rest. "Fair enough," he admits, looking down the street. I follow his gaze, expecting to find someone else behind me, but we're the only ones here. "How 'bout this then—you buy me a hot dog from that vendor right over there—" he says, pointing a block down in the direction I came from, "and I walk you to your street? I don't even have to see what building's yours, I just want to make sure you get there, is all."

The light catches his eyes, making them brighter than they were before. I still don't find anything hidden—no underlying motive. The feeling of hands crawling up my sides dulls, the voice easing away.

It's… maybe it's not a bad idea to have some company.

Someone a lot worse could come along if that happens to me again. Walking with him is risky, but it'll also potentially save me the trouble of walking alone or taking the pains to find a decent cab.

He hasn't done anything yet… just keep your guard up.

"I guess I'm hungry, too," I say after a while, thinking of my empty stomach. "And just to my street." My voice is firm—not like it'll make a difference if it turns out he's crazier than I am—and I start walking, hugging my arms close as I head to the vendor he pointed out.

"You've got it," he says, catching up with me but maintaining a good two feet between us.

The rain eases up, slowing to a trickle, and I push my hood back, too. We don't say anything when we get to the vendor, only my voice breaking the silence when I order us both hot dogs and bitter coffee that I drink anyway because it's warm. He finishes before I even get halfway, and I give a sidelong glare when he laughs at the look of surprise on my face. It strikes a chord in my chest, deep and aching.

Parker would've done the same.

The thought is unwelcome; it isn't helpful here. I spent a long time grieving for Parker, finding occasional solace when I'd call Soo-ah to check-in, and I still catch myself thinking of things we would've done together—stupid jokes he would've made. For a second, it's like he's the one walking with me, like he never left.

"Hey—earth to Adina."

Jumping back at the hand waving in front of my face, I nearly drop my coffee all over myself. It's strange to hear that name out loud, but I nod along, calming my heart with willpower alone.

Breathe. Don't think about that. Just a while longer. Wait until you're back in that shithole and then you can cry.

"Lost in thought," I force out, shaking my head and walking ahead, arms cinching around my chest tighter.

He doesn't pry and I'm grateful, only grunting his understanding. Even with everything else hitting me, I don't feel afraid of him. That's strange, too. I've been on high alert with almost everyone ever since… then.

So what makes him different?

He draws in a breath like he's going to speak, but I don't want to hear his questions, so I come up with my own; one that should've been one of the first that I asked. "You didn't tell me your name."

His mouth closes and the wry grin returns, transforming into a smirk as he rubs at his jaw. "Jason."

The only response I give is a nod and it seems to be enough. We keep walking in silence, the rain stopping completely; replaced with the sounds of cars driving by and voices coming from the surrounding windows, the streets seem almost… peaceful. It's not an attribute I thought I would give Gotham but, right now, it fits.

Without my noticing, the distance between us closes until his arm is close to brushing against mine. Clearing my throat and drawing away, I clue in that we've come to—what I think is—my street.

"This is me," I say, coming to a stop and edging away from him.

"Then that's my cue." With a grin and a wink, he gives me a two-fingered salute, turning to leave. I'm about to walk in the opposite direction when he turns again, face alight with another idea. My stomach tightens.

Here it comes.

Any light expression on my face is gone, replaced with a wary stare. Jason comes up short of stopping in front of me, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Well, fuck. You're making me feel like a creep when you look at me like that, Adina."

"Are you one? A creep?" I ask, angling myself sideways. Something tells me he isn't, but I won't take any chances.

"Aw, fuck me. No—no, I'm not. Goddamnit, that doesn't sound very convincing right now—"

"No, it doesn't."

I still sound cold—good—and Jason seems to trip over his words, the easy smile turning into a grimace, deepening the dimples and accentuating the sharp lines of his cheekbones.

"Fucking—fuck," he says, looking skyward. "What the hell. At the risk of sounding like a total shitbag, I wanna know you made it home without falling down a set of stairs or something. Would you be willing to text me that you got in alright?"

The request strikes me mute for a moment. There's still… nothing but sincerity. But that can't be right—that just doesn't happen. Not anywhere, and definitely not in a place like Gotham.

"Why do you care?" I ask. Jason seems confused by the question, his eyebrows furrowing like I didn't just speak English. "I mean, I don't know you. I hit you in the face—"

"Because I know how it feels to have a bad day. And make a few fuckups at, er, inopportune times," he interjects. I didn't notice, but he's standing close to me—close enough that I can smell his aftershave mixed with the rain. "And because—correct me if I'm wrong, Adina—you were having a rough time."

He isn't wrong. And I hate that anyone could tell.

All of that work—learning how to fight, keeping everyone and everything at arm's length, doing what Naomi asked even though it made me question everything I've ever thought about my country, my home—it seems like it was for nothing. I'm still scared, still trying to hide, still wanting to run away.

None of it worked, did it?

It took so little to pull the tenuous constructs I built down. He's right and it makes me angry—but only with myself.

"Vulnerability means someone's out there looking to take advantage. You look like you've had enough of that, yeah?" he asks, voice going low. His eyes search mine, looking for something to prove him wrong. But he isn't. It… almost feels like I know him—

Don't be stupid, Miri. He doesn't know anything. Are you that desperate for a shoulder to cry on?

Pathetic.

Blinking hard, I back away until I can't smell him anymore. "But why do you care?" I ask again, avoiding his gaze even though I know he's staring at me. "You don't know anything about me. I'm just—I'm a stranger."

"Yeah. But why shouldn't I care?"

Once again, I can't find anything to say. He said it like it was a matter of fact, as if the notion of having to justify caring about the wellbeing of someone else is absurd. It makes me doubt why I questioned his intentions.

You know why. People aren't who they say they are.

"Are you willing to text me, Adina? You can say no—I won't push either way," he asks gently. It's only now that I admit to myself that I think he's good looking and it's likely clouding my judgement in ways it shouldn't. But I want to believe him; I want someone to prove me wrong.

Please don't make me regret this.

"OK," I say, managing to break eye contact and push the damp strands of hair from my face behind my ears. "I'll send you a text."

Jason smiles and it's different—unpretentious and big. He holds out his hand, allowing me to see his knuckles are more bruised than mine, and I pull out my phone, wincing when I see how bad the screen cracked. After I pull up the contacts app and he types in his name and number, he gives it back and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his cargo pants.

"Might be being too forward again," he says, taking on a maverick gleam, "but feel free to… call me. Or text. Whatever."

Is he… no. That's definitely… no, that's not right. He can't be hitting on the crazy woman.

"What do you mean?" I ask, skepticism returning.

He chuckles and shrugs his shoulders, looking cockier than he did before. "I mean, I'd like to see you again. If you want to, that is." My mouth opens and nothing comes out, looking down at my phone like it's a bomb that's about to go off. "You know how to get a hold of me now. I'd say 'don't be a stranger', but that's kinda the point, ain't it? So… let's try not being strangers."

He's looking at me expectantly, waiting for an answer. But I don't have one. Exhaustion saps the thoughts and words away. I want to tell him that he won't hear from me again, but… I'm undecided if I want that to be true.

"Goodnight, Jason," is all I say. Any thought of looking behind to make sure he didn't stop to see where I live leaves my head, and I just keep walking, ignoring the plastic digging into my arm, heavy from the bottle of wine and pack of beer.

It doesn't take me long to get to my floor, and somehow I remember the instructions Zareen gave me to get my lock open. It's with that same mechanical detachment as before that I peel off my jacket and jeans, shivering as I lock myself in the apartment bathroom. My phone's still in my hand, and when I open the screen, his contact icon stares at me.

Texting him is stupid. Right?

There's a lot that someone like me can do with just a phone number and a first name. It wouldn't be hard to find something if I really wanted. I know I need to call Alfred back, but that seems like more than I can take in one night.

Call him tomorrow.

My slow, numb fingers type out a message, hitting "send" before I can think too hard about it.

Thanks again. Made it in OK.

A reply comes within seconds and I feel… relief, almost.

Thx. Night, Adina.

It's an innocent reply. No pushy requests, no barrage of messages. Throwing my phone into the discarded pile of clothes, I pull off the sweater I've been wearing all day. Summer is coming soon, and I won't have thick clothes to hide behind anymore—not comfortably, anyway. I wanted to avoid looking at it, but it's like I can't help myself.

"C'mon now, we know you do deserve it, though, don't we?"

The slash of bright pink is all my eyes find. The rough arc that hooks under my right breast and goes up the middle of my ribs, dividing me in two. The scar he left isn't the only one. I made it worse—adding my own marks where I tried to alter what he'd done. Disguising it proved impossible. He cut so deep that whatever I was willing to do to myself wouldn't be enough. It looks like someone hacked at my chest—the scars thick and raised, angry and defiant—and they won't go anywhere.

The feelings that Jason brought with him are gone. Hands pull at my skin again, making my throat tight like someone's squeezing. It's like there are fingers in my hair, tugging on it and digging into the old scars on the back of my head. It makes me feel weak, pathetic—but I finally allow myself to sit on the floor, head in my hands, and cry.


Thank you again to Khaosprinz so much for reading this over, and I'll be back again in a couple of weeks!