This is probably really stupid. No, you know it is.

Another sigh, one of dozens in the last thirteen hours, is the only sound in the flat apart from the quiet hum of my laptop. Eyes feeling heavy and the world taking on a fuzzy gleam, I twist the small chip back and forth between my fingers. Who knew something so small could give me such a challenge.

But you did it, though.

Oh, yes I did. Bruce couldn't crack this and I'm guessing Lucius had it before he did, but I did it. Well, partly.

Still, that's a win if I've ever heard one.

Despite my exhaustion and the certainty that I could sleep soundly for the next twelve to fourteen hours, I smile. It's not really happy, just… vindicated. Proving something to no one, but it's still something. And I succeeded—kept my brain away from dangerous places.

You won't always have things like this to distract yourself with.

Ignoring that thought, I go back to my laptop, setting the chip back on its spot on my coffee table. Different cables and server components surround me like warm sentinels, my laptop hot on my lap despite the liquid cooling system. I've been asking a lot out of it, but it paid off. I have no idea what exactly I have here means, but it's something.

While I was waiting for some software to do some of the heavy lifting for me, I looked into the case Bruce mentioned. The Gotham Times posted photos they certainly shouldn't have, blocking out only parts of the victim's face and not much else on their website, and it was enough to make my stomach hurt: people gouging out their own eyes, their skin morphed and burned, the obvious signs of mistreatment—Bruce was right. I do want to help, to make sure this doesn't happen to someone else.

Too bad you're both too stubborn for your own good.

Much of the data was corrupted, the chip itself damaged where the silicon casing around it thinned. Bruce didn't say it, but I think this was found in someone. Nothing in the media or police statements mention it, but that's the only real reason for it. Thankfully, it wasn't in… whoever it was, long. Its initial purpose—which the original program would've told me—was reduced down to a few lines of code that don't make sense. Neither do the commands.

BELAY. CAPTIVATE. DESOLATE. DRACO. IMMOLATE. JEST. MARSHALL. OGRE. PROTOCOL. SUBJUGATE. VITIATE.

After the words comes a list of numbers of one through ten. None of the words would suggest a sort of verbal command system—why tell something to "draco" or "jest"? The small fibres seem as if they were meant to connect to the spinal cord, and—what, control someone's nervous system? How the hell that would work is beyond me, but if the people are dying with these in them, then…

Then what? You're not a biotech engineer. Lucius would be better at that part than you.

Another person I need to apologize to. Rubbing my forehead, trying to keep back the exhaustion, I stare at the lines of code again. It seems like there was more, but I can't tell what they might've been. The words could be a reference to something outside the program the chip is using with meanings known to the people utilizing them—some sort of cypher, maybe—but with only this to go off of, it makes no damn sense.

But there is one line I found in the code that survived: The signature of its maker, something deeply embedded in any piece of tech made. It's like we can't help ourselves—we want our names broadcasted to the world even if they don't know what they're looking at. It's something I'm not immune from, and thankfully they aren't either.

STAGG ENTERPRISES

Second only to Wayne Enterprises when it comes to biomedical software, tech, and research, they've been on the cutting edge, coming out with new prosthetics and surgical tools that have accounted for most of their profits in the last decade. They supply hospitals and make pharmaceutical drugs, and if they made this, it's unlikely they implanted it themselves. They just sold it to someone who did.

And how are you supposed to find that out?

There are a few options available, all of them are borderline or straight-up illegal. The most expedient would be getting a master shipping manifest for this particular product number—SE-37-MEMS. How to do that comes with my least favourite part of hacking.

"Why do you do this to yourself?"

Of course, I don't get an answer from anything in my empty apartment, and I can't seem to muster my own, either.


"Good afternoon, STAGG Enterprises, Maddie speaking."

Showtime, isn't it?

Wincing at myself already, I adopt the New Jersey accent I practiced by watching three goddamn hours of how-to's on YouTube after managing to sleep for a while. "Oh, hello?" The nasal pitch seems over the top, and I hope she can't tell it's fake. Correcting the pitch slightly, I continue, "Jeez, you have no idea how happy I am that you're still open!"

"Do you have a specific inquiry—"

First rule of a phishing call is making sure they don't do all the talking—that they only listen and feel the pull of social convention.

"I do, I do! I'm sorry, Maddie, I'm just blatherin'. I'm Wanda, by the way. So sorry, you must have a lot going on—"

Strategic pauses are still necessary, giving an opportunity for the niceties to be filled in where required. And, almost every time, nobody disappoints.

"No, no, it's fine. What do you need help with?"

The magic words.

"Oh honey, I messed up big time. I work for FutureGen—y'know, the medical software company?—and we were supposed to get a shipment of those SE-37-MEMS thingies today, and when we didn't I realized I completely messed up the purchase order." For good measure, I add a break in my voice, a show of clearing my throat. "It's been so busy here and because my boss has been away and he's back tomorrow, expecting those to be here and it totally slipped—"

"I'm sorry, but we don't do last-minute deliveries this close to the end of the day."

Goddamnit.

Time to recalibrate.

Everyone feels sympathetic to new mothers, don't they?

"I get it—totally understand. It's my own fault, really—ever since I had my son four months ago, it's like I can't keep anything in my brain." It's a gamble as to whether she has any and can empathize, but it's hard to go wrong playing the part. "I know there's rules and all that—I have so many here it's a wonder how I keep them straight, haha."

Moment of truth.

If this doesn't take, the alternatives will be more difficult; I'd need another day—or three—but I'll get it done. A beat passes and I find myself starting to break out into a sweat.

"Yeah, I understand that all too well. Had the same problem when my daughter was born."

There's a laugh in there, an exhale of understanding.

Jackpot.

I try not to make my sigh of relief too loud. "I'm glad someone does! It's the sleep deprivation, I swear." The damn thing comes out with a cringe but still sounds like an excited squawk. I'm glad my face isn't visible to ruin this. "Oh, I'm just thinkin'… if you can't deliver, could I come pick it up in my van? I don't think the order was very large, and you'd be a total lifesaver!"

Maddie chuckles, and I hear jostling on the other end of the line. "Let me see what I can do. Just hold on for a second, Wanda."

Answering with an excited squeal, Maddie puts me on hold. Keeping my nerve and seeing this through to the end is supposed to be the easy part. If she wasn't convinced by anything I said before this, then nothing I say now would do much to change it. This is the part of investigative work that I'm the worst at—trying to lie and be convincing.

"Wanda?"

Sitting up straighter on the loveseat, I squeak, "Here!"

She laughs a little again in a way that I hope means she thinks I'm endearing rather than annoying. "FutureGen has a substantial account with us, so we can do this for you today. But it can't be a regular thing, OK?" she says, trying to sound professional again.

"Oh, you're so right, of course! It won't happen again, promise." My face probably matches the bubbly tone of my voice; the fact that this is going so well is a much-appreciated break.

Maddie laughs on the other end of the line. "Glad to hear it. Here's the address," she says, giving me directions to some building in the warehouse district, just on the edge of the Burnley district. Scrambling to write it down on a stray receipt before I forget, she keeps speaking, "Our building manager, Steven, should be there to meet you."

That'll be the next step I need to prepare for, bullshitting my way through all that. I'll need an excuse as to why I don't have company credentials and make sure they don't call FutureGen to follow up. The Kwans sold the company shortly after I left and moved to New York to be with Jun, so at least I don't have to worry about dragging them into anything. Thinking about Soo-ah hurts—I haven't called her in months—and it takes away from the enthusiasm I'm already struggling to maintain.

"You're amazing! Honestly, thank you so much."

Chuckling under her breath, she says, "Of course. Thank you for your continued patronage with STAGG Enterprises."

Saying the obligatory goodbye and keeping that sweet, nasal tone, the urge to sleep for another nine hours is overwhelming when I hang up.

Jesus Christ.

If I never have to sound like I'm straight off some goddamn Desperate Housewives reality show ever again, it'll be too fucking soon. Going back to sleep would just be wasting time and inviting the dreams to come back. I avoided them when I finally fell asleep after five in the morning, and the point of doing this was to mitigate the danger of having them again—at least, not having them for a little while longer. Holding up the receipt, something familiar about all of this nags at me.

That's probably because you're going to do something stupid.

Well, that's one logical way of explaining it. But staying here in the apartment without a goal is dangerous. The pills are still in the bathroom. A liquor store is only a few minute's drive away.

You could call Jason back…

He tried calling me earlier, and I let it go to voicemail. The notification is still on my phone, but I'm too much of a coward to check it. I don't even know if I could do it sober, face up to a mistake that humiliating.

Is that what you're going to do, avoid it?

Shaking my head, I don't think about it. I have something to do—something to keep everything else back. Changing into something that passes for office wear with leggings and a sweater dress—at some point I will have to get some variety in there—and trying to do something with the short, uneven curls that won't calm down into a manageable style, I leave the apartment and head to the address Maddie gave me.

You're definitely being stupid.

But that doesn't really matter right now. It's a lead, something I might be able to rub into Bruce's face later. Or an anonymous tip I can leave with Gordon's unit. Either way, it's better than suffocating in that apartment, drowning in my own inadequacies.

It's raining again, and I can only hope I don't have to be outside for long. Fat drops hit the windshield, blurring the world as I go a bit too fast. It would be easy to lose track of what I'm doing, stare off and watch the patterns of water splitting apart and crawling up the glass.

Why are you really doing this, Miri?

A horn blaring to my left tells me I was losing track, and I correct the car, getting back into my lane and pinching my leg hard. Apparently thinking and driving is too much to ask of my brain and I shake my head hard.

Focus. Don't need to pancake yourself into another car. Focus.

Alternating between digging my nails into my leg and checking which direction I need to go in, I find the warehouse district after almost twenty-five minutes. Gotham seems so much more massive trying to navigate it by myself, and the closer I get the more I feel like maybe this is a really bad idea.

That's because it is.

The buildings are old, acid rain leaching the colour from the brick and rusting the metal roofs. Some of the signs are half torn down, brick walls covered completely in graffiti, and the cement pads in front of the warehouses are cracked and filled with piles of scrap. It's worse the further I go, and I pass a few lots that have been levelled entirely. If it wasn't for the instructions coming from my phone, I wouldn't know where the hell I was going at all.

It's like this for almost another ten minutes, and I consider going back until I find the warehouse I'm looking for. There's no sign to designate it as belonging to STAGG Enterprises, but it's the first place I've driven by that has lights on. A delivery truck is parked down the lane and a small Mazda sits in front of it. The lot also looks like it's been used more—all the entryways are clear and there's a door half-cracked open, the light from within shining bright against the dark gray descending on the early evening sky.

Doesn't look ominous at all, does it?

Stopping across the street, my immediate instinct is to leave, give the information to Bruce, and let him do whatever it is he does best. But then that would mean going back, being left alone with my thoughts and agonizing about how to deal with all the problems that I just keep accumulating.

No—if you don't want to keep fucking up, then you need to do something.

Swallowing the bad feeling in my throat, I dig around in my bag. I don't always have it on my keyring, but I take it out now and grip it hard. It looks normal enough—like a thick pen from a distance, but when I press down a three-inch blade comes out. Carrying a gun isn't something I want to do again unless I have to, even if Naomi did make me take a firearms training course, but I won't be helpless either. Carrying a kubotan with a hidden blade inside seemed like the best middle ground.

"Just when you thought the fun was ending, eh?"

A hand's on my shoulder, touching my neck, ghosting along and scratching my skin. The smell of burned rubber and smoke fills my nose like it's happening again.

But you know it's not. It's not.

That's right—it's raining outside. There's no car wreck—Alfred isn't here. My stomach still twists, sweat builds on the back of my neck.

"C'mon, love. Don't look so surprised."

"Stop it, Miri. It's not happening. You're OK."

I need my voice to cover the ones I remember, the ones that aren't real even if they feel like it. I hold the kubotan harder, breathing deep and clearing the thoughts away.

If anything looks out of the ordinary—or the bad feeling doesn't go away, just get out of there. You'll be fine.

The reassurances don't feel like quite enough, but my options are few. I know Alfred hasn't changed his cell number—typing in a message, I set a timed schedule on it. If I don't delete it in the next forty-five minutes, then Alfred will know where I am, at least.

You're still not being smart.

I decide that it doesn't really matter.

Getting out of the car, I pull up the collar of my jacket higher as I cross the road. I only passed two cars on the way here, and the streets are still deserted. The rain comes down hard, soaking my hair and making the water drip down past my jacket to drench my sweater and skin. Before going to the door I saw earlier, I look for other obvious entrances. Each one I find is either rusted shut or padlocked. The warehouse itself is massive, and the cold makes me shiver hard. As far as I can see, there's only one way in and one way out.

Just get it over with, I guess.

Doubling back, I see that the door and cars have stayed in the same place. I haven't even heard any noises from inside—not that that says much, with the rain hitting the metal roofs all around me. Other memories—ones of Amusement Mile—creep in, overshadowing the present. Blinking them away, I peek through the door without totally opening it. All I see are wooden crates, a long, bare hallway leading to what looks like offices, and high metal shelves. Construction equipment and materials litter different corners, but there doesn't seem to be any obvious pattern to show when it might've been used last.

No sign of people, though.

The bad feeling doesn't go away, and I grip my kubotan harder.

Too late to go back now.

No, it's not, but I tell myself that anyway.

"Here goes nothing."

Famous last words.

Pushing open the door, I listen for anything beyond the creaking and groaning of old metal grinding against its frame.

"Hello? Steven?" I call out. My voice echoes, but I don't hear anything else. Dropping the New Jersey accent is just smart—no way I'd be able to keep a straight face if anyone was actually looking at me when I tried talking. "I'm here to pick up a shipment for FutureGen?"

Still nothing.

A long drip of rainwater goes down the back of my jacket and I hurry inside, closing the door until it's just how I found it. I hold onto my kubotan like I would a knife, blade facing down as I walk into the warehouse. To the left is an open expanse, filled with high shelves packed with crates and pallets covered in cellophane. But, when I look closer, there's a layer of dust on the floor that's largely undisturbed. Two or three sets of boot prints wander around and lead further in, but not enough to say it's been in regular use. Whatever this place is, it's not a warehouse for STAGG Enterprises.

"Shit."

You're a real goddamn idiot, aren't you, Miri?

Turning to leave before something happens and I can't, I see something I should've checked for first right above the door. It's a CCTV camera, and a small light blinking red shows it's active.

"Well, fuck."

Resisting the urge to give a mock salute and bolt, I consider my options. They've seen my face, and it's not out of the question that they might have a camera on the street—they could've seen what kind of car I'm driving. It wouldn't be hard to track me down, and that's even if they don't recognize me right away.

Then you need to take care of the camera. Naomi will have your hide if you've been compromised.

That leaves the problem of how to deal with it. Either it's being supplied to a feed offsite, or it could be on a server here first. If it's the latter, I can deal with it now—maybe find out who the server belongs to. If it's the former…

You're already screwed.

Only one way to find out.

Taking a big breath of dusty air, I turn to face the long hallway. Memories of 'Vincent's House of Fun'—and its demented moniker—push down on my lungs, make my vision constrict. Knees shaking, I swallow them down.

"Breathe," I whisper to myself. "Just breathe."

Pulling out a small flashlight from my bag, I shine it where the dim light doesn't reach. All the doors along the hall—unlike those in Vincent's—are open, allowing me to see rooms stacked with boxes, empty ones, old meeting spaces, a break area, and a defunct bathroom. The further I go, the worse the shaking gets—and the air gets thicker with must and visible particles of dust as it flitters past the light shining around the halls in unsteady gestures.

You're fine. You're strong—just keep breathing.

The familiar feelings of terror are smothering, but I keep the panic down. Parker isn't here to save and there's no boogeyman waiting for me—which is heartbreaking for the former and relieving for the latter—but that doesn't mean I shouldn't be cautious. Someone working at STAGG—or Maddie herself—gave me the wrong address, probably for a reason.

Well, if this was just to fuck with you, then some serious payback is in order.

Just as I'm struck with the sudden, irrational urge to hum, I find something resembling what I'm looking for. There's lots of dust in here, just like everywhere else, but there's also a computer and what looks like a small server tower. Albeit, they're both outdated by at least a decade.

"Bingo."

Checking the room to make sure there's nothing here to surprise me, I start tapping keys, seeing if the computer will respond. Though everything else looks almost totally untouched, the keyboard and monitor are the only clean things in here.

Probably a bad sign.

"Work fast, then," I mutter to myself.

The computer boots up surprisingly quick, and even though the hardware is old, the OS isn't—at least, not as old as I thought it'd be.

"What the hell?"

The tech's too old to support something like this. Looking behind the monitor and into the computer tower, there's updated hardware—meaning someone's been maintaining this enough to be able to use it for… whatever it's meant for.

All the more reason to access it.

A dialogue screen asking for a password is the only thing that appears, and no matter what I type or try to engage to bring up the code behind it, nothing works. If I had my terminal, then I could maybe get somewhere, but it's back at the apartment.

You don't need to get into the system itself to find out something useful.

But that means I'm screwed about the camera.

One problem at a time.

Lifting up the keyboard, checking under the desk, by the server—looking for anything written down that could be the password—I see absolutely nothing. Just a couple of spiders and enough floating dirt to make me cough.

"Wait…"

I go back to the monitor, exiting out of the password prompt. On the screen is the default silhouette for where a profile picture would go and a username.

AA

"AA?" I murmur.

What does that stand for?

That is, if it's an acronym at all and not just a lazy fill-in for 'administrator'.

There's a shift behind me. A quiet exhale. The unmistakable sounds of someone moving and trying to be silent. But it wasn't enough—if I listen hard, I can hear their shoes brushing against the concrete. I don't move—doing so now would give them the advantage; I can't see where they are. Panic nearly makes me heave.

Breathe, keep your shoulders down. Think.

Letting out a breath, I stare down at the monitor and see a reflected shape that both reaffirms my worst fears and gives me a fighting chance—there is someone behind me. Someone big. The kubotan is next to my hand, by the keyboard. Moving slowly, I grip it tight—waiting until they're right behind me. My body vibrates so hard my teeth chatter—but I push on the top, releasing the three-inch blade.

When his hand reaches for me, I spin, bringing it down hard into his shoulder. The man—someone tall and broad, hair covered in a baseball cap and face pock-marked—drops to a knee, yelling before he even has a chance of touching me. Ripping it out, I kick at the only knee holding him up hard enough that he collapses. He's shouting for someone, but I barely hear him.

Running, I sprint down where I came from—the only thing that matters is getting out. Fear and adrenaline narrow my focus, making the world turn on its side.

Think, Miri—keep breathing. Run, but don't be blind—

This is what I did all that training for, to be able to make sure I wouldn't be helpless. I know what the cost of that is, and I'm not letting it happen again.

Run—keep running—

I'm almost clear of the hall when I'm pulled back so hard my jacket momentarily blocks my windpipe. Losing my footing and falling, I'm suspended just enough that I don't smack my head against the floor. I swing the kubotan back, aiming to hit anything, and manage to sink it into his thigh.

"Fucking hell!—"

The hand lets go and I scramble forward, wheezing as I catch my breath, but I fall to my stomach when my leg's pulled out from under me. Bringing my elbow back, I connect with something—maybe a jaw—and twist to kick out at the man's arms—only to see that this is a different one from before.

Shit! You need to get to the car—

"Get off!" I manage to kick him in the chest, but he grabs both of my legs, holding them together and taking my leverage.

"Quit wriggling around—" he grunts as he tries to keep me still.

Something I haven't felt in a long time—not like this—rises. It's energy I didn't think I could summon, a complete suppression of the pain that would hold me back, a rush that kills paralyzation. This is do or die—and I won't die here.

The man pulls me closer, trying to get at my arms—and I sink the kubotan into his forearm, hard enough that it goes through to the hilt. I try to pull it away, but it's stuck—catching on bone—and the man howls in pain.

Shit, shit, shit—

Kicking him again but without the power I need, I'm forced to crawl out from under him as his weight almost pins my legs to the ground. He's still screaming, trying to get the knife out of his arm, and I don't have much time.

Find something, anything—

I'm surrounded by nothing useful—only old drywall from unfinished construction projects and pieces of dust-covered trash.

C'mon, c'mon—

Half-hidden behind a loose board is a pipe, but it's haphazardly attached to the wall. I reach for it just as the man pulls on my arm, twisting it back.

"You fucking cunt, stop moving—"

Rolling and bringing my knee up, I manage to get him in the groin—it's not a full-contact hit, but it's enough to distract him. I bite into the hand closest to my face until I taste blood. He screams again and hits me in the face, trying to break my jaw's hold; I bite harder and he shrieks.

"JESUS—"

Releasing him and spitting out the blood and bits of skin between my teeth, I reach for the pipe again, grabbing it and pulling as hard as I can. It shakes but doesn't come loose. I sob and try again—the energy is quickly leaving me; I need to finish this before they do.

Something heavy lands on my back, crushing the air from my lungs. I gasp, but it drives out more from my chest, flattening it against the concrete. The more I move, the harder it presses.

"Fucking hell, Mike—you can't handle a bitch that's a hundred-twenty pounds soaking wet?"

The pressure increases until it feels like my eyes are bulging, my face going blue. I stop moving, my brain desperate for oxygen, and try to keep myself from groaning. Just when I feel the world spinning so fast it's going dark, the pressure lifts and I suck in a greedy gulp of air.

Managing to roll over, I see two men—the one I bit and the man wearing the hat. I'm choking and wheezing, but the boot goes back to my ribs. The one I bit pulls out the kubotan with a grunt; blood spills from the wound in small streams that drip down his fingers.

"Says you," the other man growls, pointing to where I stabbed him in the shoulder. He presses harder when I try rising. "Fucking shit, man—we don't get paid enough for this kind of fuckery. Boss didn't say anything about it being a chick."

They're both staring down at me in a way that makes my skin crawl, and the pressure increases as they glare, quietly chuckling when I groan.

"Bitch got the jump on me. It's fine, went into the muscle. Need fuckin' stitches, though." He presses harder when he rolls his shoulder, wincing. I have to use all my strength to lift his foot to keep my ribs from cracking.

Can't—can't breathe—

"Where's the zip ties?"

"Think I dropped them back there. C'mon, might have time for a couple rounds before we—wait." The capped man stops. Staring hard, he leans down, increasing the weight until every attempt at inhaling is agony. "I recognize her."

Oh no—no, no, no—get them off or you're going to die. Move, Miri—

"The fuck you talkin' about? When would you have seen someone like that," he says, gesturing to me. "Doesn't look like any whore I've seen."

Taking my hands away means the weight on my ribs is worse, but I'm not strong enough to lift him off me. Using what energy I have left, even as I feel myself get closer to blacking out—I reach for the pipe again. I keep looking at them as I tug, working as best I can as black spots dance across my eyes, and the terror steals what's left of the air in me.

"Nah, nah—not like that. I've seen her somewhere."

The boot goes away again and expanding my chest hurts, but I need air. Leaning down, the man's face is less than two feet from mine. He grabs my jaw and squeezes tight, twisting my face from side to side as he searches my features.

Work harder, c'mon—

"Yeah, the news. I've seen this bitch on the news." They're staring too intently at my face to notice, so I pull a little harder. It's close, I know it is. "She's Joker's squeeze—the cunt with the drones."

The pipe gives a little, and I keep working it back and forth. They're smiling and something close to mania sets my skin on fire.

"Joker?" the other man huffs, grin spreading. "Good thing he's in Arkham then, eh? Don't need that fucking clown around while we have some fun—"

Rage floods my body in a tsunami. Ripping the pipe from the wall with one last jerk, it comes free and I bring it up and hit the capped man leaning over me in the temple. He falls to the side and the other man jumps back and yelps. But I'm not done. I get on top of the fallen man and wail on him—using the metal pipe like a hammer and hitting his head hard enough for a bright burst of red to blossom and arc as I swing.

And I don't stop.

I don't know what I'm screaming at—in fear, desperation, anger, or hatred—but time ceases to exist and I still don't stop. I can't.

Arms go under mine and meet behind my neck, pressing down and putting me in a headlock, he drags me off the man. Struggling and screaming, I drop the pipe. He's grunting with the effort of holding me, and I drive my heel into his foot. Yelling insults, he holds me harder and I squirm.

"Fuck!—"

He brings us close to the wall, struggling to keep us upright. Bringing my feet up, I push against it and shove us backward. The man loses his balance, cursing as we both drop. His head smacks against the concrete and I ignore the pain shooting through me.

C'mon, c'mon, c'mon—

Wheezing with the effort—my body close to giving out—I go for the pipe again when a loud shot nearly deafens me. I'm frozen, knees sending stabs of pain up my legs and heart hammering against my aching ribs. There's shrieking, too much of it, that works it's way past the ringing in my ears—but it's not until my hand goes to my closed mouth that I realize it isn't me.

What the hell is happening?

"I'm gettin' sick of saying this, but you dipshits don't seem to learn."

My head snaps up, barely taking in the bleeding man I beat with the pipe on the ground to see the one standing in front of me. The handgun in his grip is all I need to scramble back. My hand lands in something wet and warm. I barely swallow a scream when I see it's a growing pool of blood. The man—the one I bit—has a hole where his kneecap should be, and he's shrieking in agony. Memories of the before come up and choke me, and I'm struggling to shove them down, keep them from transposing over reality.

"This is my territory. Any business goes through me, and you piss stains aren't on the list."

The man doesn't sound human—his voice is a deep, artificial growl that's hidden by some sort of modifier. I'm staring at him but can barely take anything in, only that his face is covered and he's big—bigger than Bruce—and he's wearing a red hood.

Oh no, no—you're going to die, or worse—

If even half of what David and the dossier said was true, I'm totally screwed. I'm going to die here.

Try to breathe—think of a way out of this.

But there is no way out. I'm not the one with a gun—he could shoot me in the head and that would be it. The thought is both oddly calming and terrifying.

Did it to yourself, didn't you?

The tears don't come, and I don't scream either when Red Hood walks forward, gun still drawn and hanging loose in his grip. I brace myself, taking the pipe and pushing myself against the wall, waiting for him to do the same to me.

But he walks right past like I'm not even here, instead looming over the men on the ground. The man he already shot is holding his leg, whimpering and shaking as he goes into shock. Red Hood ignores him to focus on the man I beat with the pipe. He's half sitting up, pressing a hand against the gash at his temple that I made. I wince at the long line of red, how it trails down his face and soaks his neck. My stomach twists and I feel sick.

"We—we're followin' orders, just doin' what our boss—"

"Did you miss the memo? I don't give a fuck why you're here. The rules were pretty clear—thought I made that point already," Red Hood says, cutting the man off in a low snarl. "How about you? Got the same excuse?"

What the hell have you stepped into, Miri?

It takes a moment to realize he's talking to me, his head cocked to the side as he plants a foot on the man's chest, flattening him like I was just a few minutes ago. Air gets caught in my throat, choking me.

"N-No—no, I was—" My heart's beating too fast, hammering like it's trying to escape. Taking a deep breath, I try to stay calm even as my hands shake. "I—I was given the wrong address. I didn't know—"

Red Hood pulls his gun up to eye level, inspecting it like he's found some flaw or stain he wants to examine up close. "That sounds an awful lot like an excuse to me."

I struggle to open my mouth, to control the adrenaline that makes my body hum, and the man on the floor scoffs.

"Yeah right, you lying bitch—"

"You say somethin'?" Red Hood interrupts, turning his head back to the man and pushing harder until he groans in pain. "Don't think I was asking you, was I?"

His voice is still low and deadly calm, but I keep hearing gunshots replay in my head—the screams of people dying, what bodies dropping to the ground sounds like. This is too similar, the fear too immediate. I can't see his eyes, they're covered by the mask on his face and the hood pulled down low, but I try to look where they should be.

Tell the truth. Or, as close to it as possible. Don't lie.

The man under Red Hood's boot is wheezing, chest bending in the middle. I wince but try to keep back the terror. "I… I'm not sure what to tell you. I was just told to pick something up here—I… I don't know what's going on."

That is the truth, even if I'm not divulging the story behind all that. Red Hood stays static, considering me.

"I swear, I didn't know." It comes out as a whisper and I hate how goddamn weak I sound.

Please be enough, please—

Holding my gaze for a minute longer, he steps off the capped man. The one who got shot is passed out on the floor, his leg drenched in red. Seeing that he can move now, the capped man tries to get upright and crawl, but Red Hood has other ideas.

As soon as the man's head's just at knee level, Red Hood draws his arm back and pistol-whips him so hard a tooth flies out of his mouth. The sound of the metal connecting with bone makes me have a full-body flinch. Falling to the ground, he's knocked out cold and small lines of blood spill from his mouth.

Holy shit—

"I believe you," is all he says, stooping down to wipe the blood on his gun against the downed man's shirt. Holstering it, he starts going through the men's pockets, avoiding stepping in the small pools of blood.

"Y-You're Red Hood, right?" I almost slap my hand over my mouth at the question, admonishing myself. It's like I want to get shot.

Part of you probably does.

Something akin to a chuckle emanates from his mask. "One and only," he says, sweeping an arm out in a mock-bow.

I'm trying to remember if the dossier said anything about civilian casualties, but I can't even think straight—not with him in front of me. Aside from the titular hood that's part of a sweater with the arms ripped off, he's wearing a black long-sleeve tactical shirt underneath, dark gray cargo pants, and combat boots. There's a long dagger strapped to his thigh, and handguns rest in holsters at his sides. His hands are gloved, and when I look closer I see thick studs that line up with his knuckles.

"What, disappointed?" he asks, snapping my gaze up. He's caught me staring, and my face flushes hot. "Hoping to get saved by the Bat first, Miriam?"

The blood drains from my face; my muscles twist in on themselves.

Oh no—if he knows… is that a good or bad thing?

It takes a few times to get my mouth to work, and he straightens, shoving something in one of his many pants pockets. He stops right in front of me, staring down with half his face still hidden in shadow as I grip the pipe harder.

"H-How do you—"

"News. Should try watching it sometime."

Straightening, my stubborn streak flares.

You really want to get shot.

Well, it would end more than a few problems if I did.

"I wasn't waiting for anyone. I was… handling it."

He laughs again, but it doesn't sound like he finds any of this funny. I lose my voice again try to keep my knees from knocking together, from breathing in the smell of rust, dirt, and fear too deeply.

"Are you planning on smacking me with that thing?" he asks, gesturing to the pipe in my hands with a jerk of his head.

I look down at it, how I really couldn't do much of anything, even if I wanted to. He's twice my size, and I'm already exhausted, struggling to catch my breath.

Nothing much he could do that hasn't been done to you already anyway.

"Depends," I say, keeping my chin up and willing the shaking to stop. The latter doesn't work as well as I'd like. "Are you… are you going to shoot me?"

Laughing, the sound unnatural and unsettling with the modifier, he leans over me until he almost entirely eclipses what's left of the light. Holding the pipe in one hand, trying to think about exactly how I'd go about getting away when it feels like my body's shutting down, Red Hood extends a hand, and I stare at it skeptically.

"You didn't answer the question," I say quietly.

My sense of calm despite all of this is surprising, honestly, and it's not much of a serious question—just one I need an answer for. He didn't kill the men on the ground, even if they are seriously wounded.

You need to call an ambulance. They might not be dead, but they will be soon.

And he can still inflict a lot of damage without killing me, too.

Don't think about that.

"Do you want me to?"

"What kind of idiot says 'yes' to that?" I say and immediately regret, cringing and expecting to get hit—whether it's his fist or gun won't make much difference if he's half as powerful as he looks.

But Red Hood laughs for real this time—at least I think he is, it's hard to tell—and almost doubles over, clutching his side. My mouth falls open and he takes my hand, grip firm but not crushing, and pulls me up so fast I get a headrush. "You'd be surprised."

Even though I'm on my feet, I'm still close to the wall, now trapped between it and him. Before I can blink, he's taken the pipe out of my hand and throws it further down the hall, the loud clanging making me wince. He takes a half-step closer and I muffle a yelp, drawing back as far as I can. The panic comes back hard enough to wind me.

"Whose blood is that?" he asks.

It takes a moment to understand that he's pointing at my face. Touching my lips and lower jaw, I feel the painful swelling on the left side where the man hit me and the dried blood from when I earned it biting him. I look away from the angry, indifferent mask covering his face and rub at the blood with my sleeve.

"It's not mine," I say eventually, the taste of iron still on my tongue. "When he—they… I bit the—the one you shot." The lump in my throat grows as I stare at the man on the ground, how he's still bleeding.

You should do a tourniquet. He's going to bleed out.

When I'm about to step around him, Red Hood grabs my arm. Holding it by the wrist with one hand, he pulls down my sleeve past my elbow with the other. I yelp and pull back, but his grip doesn't waver. A scream rises in my throat.

"Cool your jets for a second," he says, twisting my arm around.

It doesn't hurt, but I want to pull the sleeve back up, hide the thick scars that mark it—keep him from touching me. They're all collateral damage my body had to pay after what it went through and, just like the ones on my chest, nothing I did made them go away.

It's impossible not to feel how close he is, how his chest isn't far from mine—how I can smell the leather, rain, and sweat coming from him. Debilitating panic makes me pull back hard, but I only succeed in falling against the wall and tugging him closer until he's almost on top of me. I remember the kind of pain men half his size could inflict, and I don't want to find out what kind of damage he can do.

"L-Let go of me—" My voice has lost all semblance of calm, but he doesn't move. He's not doing what the others were, but he could—and I wouldn't be able to do much of anything. Tears come up and I can't blink them away. "P-Please, let go—"

This is too much—too goddamn much—

I'm remembering other things—being pinned to the wall and watching men bleed out on the floor and knives cutting into me and the sound of laughing—him laughing—the taunting and the guilt, the pain that's still tearing me apart, watching Parker die—

I can't—I can't—

The adrenaline is gone and it's all going to happen again.

It will it will it will—

"Woah, there."

My arm's released and I hold it close, struggling to breathe, and I'm mortified to hear myself begging incoherently.

Nothing's changed at all, has it?

"I won't hurt you," he says. Carefully, he pushes away from me and, this time, he gives me space, not coming too close. I'm still breathing hard, my head going light; the wall I lean on is the only thing from keeping my legs from giving out. "People like you don't need to be afraid of me."

Struggling to hold back sobs—the shock wearing off and leaving me crumbling—I look at his face, hoping I'll see something that will tell me he isn't lying.

"You cut your arm. It's bleeding."

Looking down, I see he's right. Dripping down to my fingers, my arm's coated in it, I just didn't feel the sting until he pointed it out. I nod, glad that he still doesn't move toward me. Pressing on the cut, I turn my attention back to the men on the ground.

You need to do something.

Edging around Red Hood, hoping he means what he says, I drop down and start tugging the belt off the man who got shot, struggling to get it out from under his weight.

Red Hood comes up beside me, watching as I succeed in freeing the belt and wrap it around the bleeding leg of the unconscious man, just above his shattered kneecap, and cinch it tight. Blood runs through my fingers from where it's soaked through his jeans, and the smell of iron, urine, and sweat chokes me—but worse than that is the feeling of Red Hood staring at me, the pressure of it sending a shiver up my spine.

"Hope you know that's pointless," he says, his voice cold and rough. But he still doesn't move to touch me—or really do anything else I would've expected.

Why isn't he doing any of that?

I'm not as terrified of him, not as convinced that he's in the same category of depraved that belongs to people like Zsasz and Ivan. It would be foolish to not see he's a predator through and through—I'm just not the prey he's after. I don't even have much to convince me of that—David said he preferred 'total elimination,' didn't he?

Then what is it that makes him different?

The absence of total fear makes my tongue loose, less restrained and passive. I know it's foolish—this man's not a saint, he's part of a brutal gang war where he's killed God knows how many people—but the feeling of self-preservation in the form of compliance falls to the wayside.

"Why?" I snap, standing and wiping the blood on my hands across my jeans. "If I stop the bleeding and they get to a hospital, they should—"

"Not what I meant," he interrupts.

He's not talking about me—just the men on the ground. It's impossible to tell if his expression changed, but something in his energy certainly has—it's darker, and it makes the hairs on my arm stand up.

"What… what did you mean then?" I ask.

A different sort of fear finds me again. The fear of witnessing people die and doing nothing—being able to do nothing—no matter how deserving. He might not kill me, but that doesn't mean murder isn't on his agenda for the night.

"Don't be naïve." Seeming to grow another few inches, he towers over me, coming closer in an attempt to make me back up. But my feet stay rooted, even when my hands shake again. "You should run along, Miriam. Get back in your car, slap a bandaid on that, and drop whatever dumbass idea it was that brought you here," he says, motioning to my arm.

Not stopping until his chest is almost touching mine, I have to look up into the shadow of his hood, at the fleeting glare of light that gives shape to his mask. Swallowing becomes difficult, so is the ability to stay where I am. I want to listen to him, to take his offer to run from this, but I can't.

I won't.

His muscles twitch and jerk, like he's struggling to contain himself. I'm not sure what it's for, why he's exercising restraint and why he won't use that violence on me.

"The Siege wasn't enough—you didn't learn to stay away from shit that'll get you killed?" he asks, head tilting to the side as his voice distorts further, making it a guttural growl. The shaking spreads until every part of me is rocked with it, but I still don't move. "Go home. Let this be your one fuck-up—fucking Christ knows you won't get another—and be grateful it was me who saved your ass."

Grateful? Grateful.

If there's one thing I won't feel—it's gratitude to violent men. Not anymore. Not when I have so much of that violence in me already, have so many permanent reminders of where gratitude for being allowed to live when it shouldn't be their choice to begin with gets you. And certainly not when I know where that violence will lead all of us.

The shaking stops, my jaw sets and teeth grind together. Glaring, my words are firm. "Make me."

There is no reason for it, none—it's like when I asked him to put Zsasz out of his misery—but it doesn't matter what the men on the ground did—what they tried to do. Leaving them to get shot is something I won't be third-party to. I'm the only thing between him and them and I won't move. He'd have to prove me wrong, that he doesn't give a shit—that the act of being some sort of 'protector' is a guise.

Paling when he starts to laugh—so totally cold and inhuman despite the heat coming from his body—my resolve wavers. The sound of it, totally distorted by the modifier, builds a heavy weight of dread in my chest. His fingers take one of my short curls between them, twisting it once before pushing it behind my ear. Thoughts of him doing the same almost makes me crumble.

"You know what they were gonna do to you, right?"

Breathe. Don't panic.

I tell that to myself over and over again, but his fingers pull at the collar of my sweater, adjusting it so it covers the bare skin of my shoulder. It was half pulled-off along with my jacket from the struggle, and he keeps straightening my clothes, careful not to let his hands linger anywhere for long. Air stutters in my chest and I try not to choke when he keeps talking, that low rumble echoing down the empty hall and surrounding me.

"Drag you off, probably somewhere worse than here." Something closer to indignation comes rather than fear. He might know my name, but he doesn't know anything about me. "If they didn't kill you and dump your body in the river first, they'd—"

"Don't talk to me like I'm stupid." He freezes, caught off guard for a moment, and I hold onto the familiar rush of wrath. "How would it have been any different than what I've lived through already—what's left to surprise me, that I haven't seen?" I bite, cutting him off and glaring.

How goddamn presumptuous is he—talking like I don't know what nightmares men like him can dream up? There isn't much of anything left for me to live through—I've already been to hell and have my soul tied to one of its devils; a djinn whose essence is fused with mine, no matter how much I don't want it to be. He made sure of that with brutal effectiveness, and I slammed the last nail in my own coffin when I didn't kill him.

"You don't wanna know the answer to that," he says, but I don't want to hear him.

"If you knew half—" I cut myself off. He doesn't deserve to know—I don't need to explain myself to him. My calm belies the simmering rage—at Red Hood, at him, at being stupid enough to come, and at Bruce for no other reason than I listened to him. "I'm not leaving so you can just murder them—"

"You can and you will," he interrupts.

It's a warning, but I don't care. At this point, I don't know if I'm acting on a death wish or stubbornness.

Probably both.

I don't have to see his glower to feel it, and I keep levelling my own. "No."

He laughs again, but all traces of humour have vanished. "Listen, darlin', just because I don't hurt people like you doesn't mean I let 'em get in my way."

"What does that mean?"

I sound more panicked than I mean to, finally backing up when he moves, nearly tripping on the men's legs below me. If he won't listen, I need to come up with something—anything—to turn this around, get out without knowing someone died because of me again. I couldn't take it, my heart can't.

"D-Didn't you see the cameras? They'll—they will know you were here, the p-police will—"

"No, they won't." He sounds smug now—completely certain. I can almost imagine the smile on his face behind the mask. "Don't worry about it."

"What—"

His head tilted down and striding with purpose, I keep going backward until my spine smacks into the opposite wall. I don't even have time to look down for an exit, try to run again; he closes the distance between us, clamping a hand on my shoulder and spinning me around, pinching the muscles hard.

"Enjoy the nap and get that cut checked out," he says in my ear.

"W-Wait—"

There's no time to react—there's only sharp pain as something hits the back of my neck. My knees buckle and I drop, the world smothering me like there's a heavy quilt wrapped around my head.

"Sorry, su—"

The sound fades away, and I only register the feeling of floating, of being against something warm, before getting the wish I always wanted—I don't feel anything at all.


Thank you all again for reading and being so supportive, y'all are the best and I couldn't do this without you! I'm so lucky to have the best readers out there!

Things are getting pretty crazy with school, but I'm still planning on having chapter 8 out in two weeks. And, just as a fun spoiler for y'all, we're finally gonna see Joker in the next chapter and see everything he's been up to. I hope you enjoy the chapter and look forward to the next! ❤