Bruce Wayne himself handed me my water glass while I choked on a fry, thoroughly embarrassing myself. He wore the expression I expected: one perfectly arched brow (there it is) and an arrogant smirk he probably practiced in the mirror every morning. At least he had the decency to wait until I caught my breath before speaking.

"Good afternoon. My companion had an unfortunate incident with her beverage and stormed off, leaving me to the indignity of dining alone. It made me wonder if you might indulge me by letting me join you? I promise I'm better company than an empty chair."

All of it delivered with a wide grin that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Despite the polite phrasing, his tone made it clear this wasn't really a question.

I let him stand there for the standard four seconds required to communicate deep reluctance.

And another four, just to make it personal.

When he still didn't budge, I let out a sigh that hovered just below a growl.

I leaned back in my seat and crossed my arms over my rather generous chest—a universal signal of discomfort, rejection, and defensiveness. Bruce would have to be brain-dead to miss it.

Honestly, after all the research I'd done on Bruce Wayne and Batman, I found myself… unimpressed.

For someone so well-educated, so worldly, you'd think he'd have grasped the importance of mental and emotional health by now.

Losing Jason should have been a wake-up call. Instead, he hit snooze and doubled down—driving Dick away, barely trying with Tim.

I could admit I had a bias. And in this case, I felt no shame about it.

"I'm having a private lunch. I'm sure you can find a willing 'replacement' at another table," I said, my tone dry and clipped.

Bruce pulled out the other chair and sat anyway.

I swear to God—I hate egotistical men who refuse to take a fucking hint.

I seethed and held my tongue. Barely.

It took more self-control than I wanted to admit not to roll my eyes like a teenager.

So far from how I imagined my first hero contact would go… and, of course, it had to be him.

Bruce didn't seem to notice—or maybe he just didn't care about the tension radiating off me like pulled out the other chair and sat anyway.

I swear to God—I hate egotistical men who refuse to take a fucking hint.

I seethed and held my tongue.

It took more self-control than I cared to admit to keep from rolling my eyes like a teenager.

This was so far from how I wanted my first hero contact to go. Of course it was ironic.

Bruce leaned back slightly, draping one arm along the back of his chair like he owned the whole damn restaurant.

"I was sure I had found another lonely soul who might appreciate some engaging conversation over lunch," he said, voice low and warm, with just a touch of teasing.

His smirk was maddeningly perfect—polished, deliberate, and entirely too pleased with itself.

"I hope you'll give me the chance to change your mind."

Does forcing fake smiles hurt after a few hours?

That might explain why he never smiles as Batman.

The thought came unbidden. I shoved it aside. Not the time.

Instead, I met his gaze head-on, biting back the scathing reply perched on my tongue.

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly, curiosity clearly piqued.

"I know everyone in Gotham," he said, letting the line hang like bait. His piercing blue eyes studied me with the sharpness of someone used to getting answers.

"But I don't know you."

He leaned in just enough to make it intimate. "Would you be so kind as to share your name, Miss…?"

He let the last word trail off, his voice expectant and inviting—utterly confident I'd oblige.

His faint smile deepened, just enough to reveal the subtle challenge hiding in the curve of his lips.

"I believe good manners would dictate that you introduce yourself first, sir, since you're the one who invited yourself to my table."

My tone was calm. Deliberate. Laced with just enough steel to make my point clear.

I wasn't going to play his game — or cater to his ego. Either of them.

Bruce's eyebrows lifted slightly, and for a brief second, I caught a flicker of genuine surprise.

Curiosity. Amusement. Something else I couldn't quite name passed across his face—then vanished, swallowed by the polished playboy mask he wore like armor.

Huh. Keeping him guessing cracks the mask. Interesting.

Then — to my surprise—he chuckled.

A low, genuine sound. It caught me off guard.

"I guess this is one of those rare moments when my reputation doesn't precede me."

He leaned forward just enough to blur the line between charm and confidence, offering his hand with easy grace.

"Bruce Wayne. And may I say—it's a pleasure to meet such a striking lunch companion."

I didn't take his hand. Instead, I folded mine neatly in my lap and gave him the smallest of nods.

All I wanted — was for him to leave.

I wasn't ready for Batman—not today. Not when I hadn't even finished mapping out my plan for navigating Gotham.

Of course, on my first real outing, I'd run right into him.

Of course I did.

The bitter thought soured my mood further.

My internal voice had developed quite the snarky streak lately. With no meaningful interaction to be had in this world, who could blame me for talking to myself?

So long as I kept it in my head, I wasn't worried.

Now, I could simper and play the fool, like he probably expects—but that felt like too much effort. And a move that might backfire later.

No. This wasn't so bad. He didn't have the faintest clue who I was or what I wanted. But I knew plenty about him.

That gave me the advantage.

If I could figure out how to use it.

Decision made, I pasted on a polite smile—one that didn't reach my eyes.

"It's… nice… to meet you, Mr. Wayne." My tone made it clear it was anything but.

"But I was being honest earlier. I'm not looking for conversation, no matter the… quality of company it comes from."

I furrowed my brows slightly, feigning sympathy. "I'm sorry about your date, though. She seemed… lovely."

I fought to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

Really. I tried.

Bruce's smirk widened, just a fraction.

His eyes sharpened—zeroed in on me like I'd just become a puzzle he had to solve.

"She'll recover," he said smoothly, amused. "Though I think I've found better company."

"I hope you can keep a secret," Bruce said, leaning back in his chair with a casual shrug that somehow still radiated confidence. "I only met her today. Aspiring actress. I needed someone to fill in as my plus one for a few upcoming events."

His tone was light—careless. As if her dramatic exit mattered as little to him as a penny on the sidewalk.

"Needed? Past tense, Mr. Wayne?" I arched a brow, tone carefully neutral.

I'd refused to meet most of his expectations so far. I could afford to throw him a bone.

His features softened, just slightly, like he believed we'd reached some kind of understanding.

"Well," he said, that smirk sliding back into place, "I don't think Tiffani-with-an-i is interested anymore, judging by the angry voicemail she just left me from the restroom."

I bit back a laugh. Barely.

His gaze flicked my way—brief, assessing.

I knew the odds of him being genuinely interested in me were practically non-existent. I wasn't a femme fatale cat burglar or a flawlessly competent assassin.

No, I was something else entirely.

Still, I wondered what he saw when he looked at me.

I'd spent years hating my body—my generous curves, my height, my softness. Cruel remarks from both children and adults had carved deep, quiet scars across my self-worth.

But age and experience had done their work. Slowly, I was learning to reclaim my confidence. More easily done in my younger body.

Hence the pantsuit and heels today.

Bold choices for a woman who used to shrink from attention like it might burn her.

"As for the problem of my plus one," Bruce continued, his tone warming into something almost… inviting, "I was hoping to offer you an invitation."

He paused—just long enough to make it sound like more than a favor.

"The first gala's in two weeks. Charity event. One of the chaps I went to Gotham Academy with is hosting. If you're new to the city, I wouldn't mind showing you around. Introducing you to a few people."

He delivered the last line with a smile that was undeniably charming—his most polished, practiced expression. The kind designed to make people say yes before they realized they were agreeing.

"Consider it my good deed of the day," he added, eyes glinting with that lazy amusement. "My company has a strong public service policy. It's only fair I follow it… occasionally."

I gave him a look that could only be described as incredulous—like he was some previously undiscovered species of smug billionaire.

Even if I hadn't known his extracurricular activities, I still wouldn't have bought this act.

Setting down my napkin, I took a long, final sip of my milkshake. My eyes flicked back to him.

Bruce was waiting.

Patiently.

Too patiently.

He must really want a date.

But why?

"Does that work for you often?" I asked, voice neutral, eyes narrowing just slightly as I studied him.

I wanted to see what he'd do if pushed—just a little.

Bruce tilted his head, feigning confusion with the ease of someone who'd spent decades perfecting the look.

"Does what work for me?" he asked lightly, all playful charm.

The faux-innocence grated on my nerves.

I made a small, disappointed sound and let it linger between us for a beat too long.

"Mr. Wayne," I said, tone even but pointed, "while I'm flattered you chose me—out of all the women in this room—to grace with an invitation to your parties, I can't help but be surprised by your… tenacity."

I chose the word carefully, hoping my meaning was clear: you're not respecting my autonomy.

I watched his face closely, searching for the flicker—any flicker—of acknowledgment.

But he held his polished composure, perfectly intact.

"I wouldn't be good company today," I continued, my voice firmer now. "And I won't be lining up with your countless admirers."

I leaned forward slightly. "To be frank, I don't understand why you're still here. I've given you three polite rebuffs—and yet, here you are. I find myself… at a loss."

My brows drew together, confusion and frustration now plain in my tone.

And for just a moment, his mask slipped.

Only slightly—but I saw it. A flicker of something unguarded. Genuine.

Then the smile returned. Smooth. Perfect. Maddening.

Got him again, I thought, quietly pleased.

I'd been careful—playing a more refined version of myself, wielding vocabulary like a blade.

It was working. For now.

But I knew the risk.

My internal smirk didn't match the expression of displeasure I wore like armor as I debated my next move.

Playing a part now will only make it harder to gain his trust later.

Maybe a little honesty would bridge the gap.

Before I could decide, the waiter appeared—perfect timing, or a minor miracle.

Bruce glanced at the menu, then handed it back with a charming grin.

"I'll have what she's having," he said. "Haven't had a good cheeseburger in forever."

He added a boisterous laugh for effect, voice raised just enough to draw attention.

Definitely playing to the room.

As the server walked away, I seized the moment to pivot.

"I wasn't born rich, Mr. Wayne. It's a fairly recent development. As such, I value honesty… and abhor deceit."

My voice was steady, even as the words pressed down heavier than I let on.

Bruce waved it off with practiced grace. "Not at all. I completely understand. And I appreciate your candor."

Then, smoothly: "May I ask what your business is? Tech? Media? Manufacturing…?"

My headache pulsed behind my eyes. I took a steadying breath.

"I lost my husband recently, Mr. Wayne. I'm in a new city, far from home. My wedding ring is clearly visible."

My tone remained light—measured. I wasn't about to create a scene in the middle of a luxury restaurant. But across the table, Bruce's expression faltered.

His confidence cracked—just slightly.

"And my patience," I added evenly, "has now worn thin."

"This playboy persona is going to get you exactly nowhere with me. Frankly, I'm insulted on behalf of every woman you've ever used it on that you still think it works."

I stood.

Placed a generous tip on the table.

Collected my purse.

"I hope we're clear, Mr. Wayne—you approached me."

And with that, I turned on my heel and strode for the exit, my heart pounding in my chest. I felt his eyes follow me all the way to the door.

Then—to my shock—he caught up with me in seconds.

His hand wrapped around my upper arm—firm, not painful—as he spun me to face him.

I froze.

Startled by his speed. Startled by the heat in his gaze.

Then he let go.

As if my skin had burned him.

He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it tousled and soft-looking—an oddly human gesture. Almost sheepish.

"I'm so sorry," he said quietly, sincerely. "I had no idea. I never meant to cause you pain."

A pause. His gaze searching. "Can I… can I have your name? So I can apologize properly?"

A beat.

"Please?"

His voice was careful.

His tone was true.

I didn't believe Bruce Wayne to be deliberately cruel.

He probably meant it.

"Thank you for your apology, Mr. Wayne," I said, voice quiet but steady.

"I don't think you're a cruel man. But loss…" I hesitated, just a beat. "Loss leaves slow-healing wounds. And I can tell—yours runs deep."

For a moment, his face went blank.

Eerily so.

It was like someone had flipped a switch. One moment emotion, the next—nothing.

I studied him. Equal parts intrigued and saddened.

Scary how easily he could wipe it all away.

Sad, too.

"As for my name…" I took a small step back, a flicker of amusement in my tone. "You'll have to wait a little longer."

"I promise I'll tell you next time—but only if you say 'please.' Can I have your word on that?"

Bruce blinked, caught off guard.

"Yes, of course. Why wouldn't I ask politely?"

I bit back a grin.

Oh, this is going to be hilarious later.

"Promise you'll ask politely. Don't forget that you approached me. And—very important—you won't cheat by flirting with hotel staff to get my name. Go on."

Bruce's lips twitched into a grin as he offered a slight, formal bow.

"I am a man of my word, Miss," he said smoothly. "I promise not to forget our first meeting… not to 'cheat,' as you so eloquently put it… and to remember my manners the next time I'm lucky enough to see your face."

Oh my God. I've either made the worst mistake of my life… or the best.

And I won't even know until it's too late.

I inclined my head with calm I did not feel. "Then my work here's done for now. Good luck finding a suitable date, Mr. Wayne."

And with that, I turned and walked—briskly—to the elevator.

I willed myself not to run.

My legs were shaking by the time I hit the button for my floor. I leaned against the wall and finally let out the breath I'd been holding.

"What the fuck? What? The? Fuck? What did I just do?!"

The whisper tore out of me, shaky and wild. "I'm such an idiot. What was I thinking? Was I even thinking? Or was I just distracted by the gorgeous superhero?"

A beat. My voice dropped.

"…Do I really want to answer that question?"

My head thunked against the mirrored wall with a soft, dull clunk. My heart was still racing. I let out a long, ragged breath.

"God, John… what should I do?" I whispered again, voice breaking.

"You would know what to do. You always did."

I swallowed hard, my throat tightening, eyes blurring with tears I didn't have time to blink away.

"Did I really need another reason it should've been me…?"

The next word came out in a shattered rasp.

"Fuck."

It fell from my lips, soft and broken—meant more for the shadow of my husband than for myself.

My throat started to close.

The familiar clawing panic crept in, cold and fast.

An anxiety attack. Not now. Not now.

I counted down in my head, clinging to the rhythm like a lifeline.

Almost there. Just hold on a little longer.

Three. Two. One—ding.

The elevator doors opened and I bolted.

My keycard was already in my hand—I didn't even remember grabbing it, but there it was, trembling between my fingers.

"Fuck," I muttered again, breath hitching, panic swelling.

Just get to the room. Another attack. You know what this is. You've survived worse. Get. To. The. Room.

I stumbled into the suite just in time, the door slamming shut behind me with a desperate kick of my heel.

My legs gave out.

I crumpled onto the thick carpet, gasping for air.

For a moment, I just lay there, frozen—shaking—trying to breathe.

Then I dragged myself up, stumbled forward. The bed being my only destination.

I collapsed onto the mattress, burying my face in the pillows, one heel still awkwardly clinging to my foot. The other was lost somewhere in the blankets as I curled into a ball, shaking from the force of my sobs.

It felt like the world was ending.

Again.

And maybe, for me, it kind of was.

All I had left of John—the life we'd built—were memories.

A few photos. Some old videos. Our wedding rings.

And nothing else.

Our home was gone.

Our life was gone.

He was gone.

And I was here. Trapped in a reality where everything I loved had been ripped away.

The heartbreak crushed me.

I was so tired of this.

So tired of losing. So fucking tired of being left behind.

The grief was suffocating—a heavy blanket I couldn't claw my way out from under.

But then… beneath the weight of it all… something else stirred.

Not comfort. Not peace.

Anger.

Power.

It shimmered at first—barely there—a flicker of heat beneath the cold press of despair.

I tried to ignore it. Refused to feed it as I had countless times before.

But this time… it didn't fade.

It grew.

A slow burn igniting in my chest. Pulsing through my veins like an ember catching flame.

And it didn't feel wrong.

It felt… powerful.

Desperate to feel anything but this endless ache, I latched onto that rising anger like a lifeline.

And suddenly—I could breathe.

The crushing weight lifted from my chest, and for the first time in what felt like years, my lungs filled completely.

I lay there for several long minutes, unmoving, the slow rise and fall of my chest the only proof I was still alive. The tears had stopped, though dampness still clung to my cheeks.

The rage hadn't vanished.

It simmered now—beneath the surface—humming like electricity under my skin.

It didn't burn. It anchored.

I didn't scream when I opened my eyes.

Not because I was some kind of badass—that would've been a lie.

No, my brain had simply short-circuited.

By the time my thoughts stopped floating in the void and came back online, I'd already processed the situation enough to stop myself from panicking out loud.

Shadowy tentacles were rising from the floor.

Slithering up the walls.

Dark tendrils rippling like they were caught in an unseen breeze.

And they were coming from me.

Oh fuck me. Oh fuck me. Oh fuck me.

The phrase looped in my head, a desperate mantra on repeat as my anxiety attack slammed back into place like a tidal wave.

For several long minutes, I stayed frozen—breathing shallow—waiting for the inevitable.

An attack.

A twist of pain.

Some malicious intent from the shadows now writhing around me.

But… nothing happened.

The tentacles wavered.

They didn't lash out.

They didn't seem violent.

They… didn't seem to have a purpose at all.

I swallowed hard and forced myself to sit up slowly.

The shadows stirred with the movement—shifting, wavering—like they were reacting to me. But they didn't move closer. They didn't strike. They just… hovered.

I stared at them, willing myself to stay calm.

Don't panic. Don't panic. Just breathe.

"Okay," I whispered, my voice trembling. "Okay. So this is… this is a power, right? Like metas? That's what they're called, right? Metas. People born with weird powers… or who got them later. Somehow."

Saying it out loud made it a little less terrifying. Not much. But enough.

I studied the nearest shadow. An idea began to form.

Tentatively, I raised my hand and gestured toward it.

The tendril responded immediately—snaking toward my outstretched fingers.

It paused just before touching my palm… and then, cautiously, it wrapped itself around my hand.

The sensation was… bizarre.

It felt like one of those static electricity balls at a science museum.

Tiny pinpricks of pain danced across my skin—sharp, but not unbearable.

Unpleasant… but familiar in a strange way.

Like getting a tattoo.

I swallowed again, harder this time.

Despite the powers, despite the surreal shadows, I knew the signs.

I was still mid-anxiety attack.

It was climbing up my throat, wrapping around my lungs, whispering you're not safe, you're not okay, this is too much.

I needed help.

I needed it to stop.

Because right now, it felt like I was dying.

The moment I thought it, the shadows responded.

They melted away—dissolving into nothingness—replaced by a soft, glowing tendril of light.

It moved like the shadows had, curling gently up my arm, tracing the same path as before… but the sensation was entirely different.

Soothing.

Warm.

It didn't burn or sting—it mended. Like it was repairing the slight discomfort the shadows had left behind.

My body relaxed instinctively.

A shaky breath escaped me—one I hadn't realized I'd been holding.

The glowing strand reached my chest, hovering for a heartbeat… then pressed directly into my sternum.

The pain was sharp—searing.

I gasped, clutching at the sheets—

Then it eased.

A wave of warmth flooded through me, sinking deep.

The pins and needles faded from my limbs.

The black spots in my vision vanished.

I blinked.

My mind cleared.

The tendril of light pulsed once—gently, almost like it was reassuring me—and then, with a quiet hum, it dissolved.

Gone between one breath and the next.

I lay in stunned silence, one hand pressed over my heart where the light had been.

"Well… this complicates things," I muttered, voice weak but steady.

The next morning found me sitting cross-legged in the middle of the suite's sitting room, surrounded by absolute chaos.

Every piece of furniture had been shoved to the edges of the space, creating a wide-open area for… whatever this was. Training? Containment? Controlled meltdown?

The night—and most of the early morning—had been spent trying to figure out how to trigger the shadows again.

It was maddening.

Trial. Error. More frustration than I cared to admit.

At one point, my emotions got the better of me. I flung out a hand in frustration—

And a sharp, spear-like tendril of shadow shot across the room, impaling a small table and splintering it into pieces.

I stared at the wreckage for a long moment.

"…Great. Guess I'm paying for that now."

By mid-afternoon, some progress had been made.

I could manifest the shadows at will, though it took a concerning amount of concentration.

They seemed to feed on strong emotion—rage, fear, frustration—but not exclusively.

That gave me a bit of relief. I didn't relish the idea of getting pissed off every time I needed to defend myself.

Testing my limits, I spent hours experimenting.

I directed the shadows to coil, strike, twist into intricate patterns.

At most, I could control three tendrils at once, maintaining them for about twenty minutes before the fatigue set in.

The toll wasn't debilitating… but it was definitely noticeable.

The healing shadow, though?

A different beast entirely.

I tried to summon it again—over and over—but no matter what I did, it refused to appear.

Maybe there has to be something to heal… I thought, glancing down at my hand.

The idea of testing it on myself made my stomach turn.

I could barely pierce my ears back in my own universe.

There was no way I was about to stab myself with a steak knife.

(Yes, I'd kept one from dinner the night before. No, I'm not proud of that.)

Besides… this was Gotham.

Someone was bound to need help eventually.

Worn out in every way that mattered, my thoughts drifted to John.

He would've had so much to say about this.

He probably would've yelled at me for not going straight to Bruce Wayne and asking for help.

The familiar ache bloomed in my chest—grief tightening like a fist around my heart.

I swallowed hard.

Then stood up abruptly, shaking off the thoughts.

Being cooped up in this hotel room wasn't helping.

I needed fresh air.

Or… Gotham's version of it, anyway.

After a late lunch alone, I finally made up my mind to venture out.

There was a park nearby. It seemed safe enough.

And the idea of being surrounded by even Gotham's patchy excuse for greenery felt more appealing than staring at the walls another minute.

"Gotham's parks aren't exactly Central Park," I muttered, slipping on my coat and heading out, "but they'll do."

The walk was short—just five minutes down a straight path—but I paused at the entrance, hesitation rooting me in place.

The park wasn't bad, all things considered.

The grass was mostly green. The trees swayed gently in the breeze.

Children's laughter echoed from the playground nearby, shrill and bright.

Even here, Gotham's gloom lingered—like a faint shadow stretched across the light. But it hadn't won. Not completely.

I found myself wondering who I might meet next.

I refused to go out at night—so the other two Bats were off the table.

But a villain? Entirely possible.

Daylight didn't keep most of Gotham's lunatics from clocking in early.

Shaking the thought away, I stepped inside and kept moving.

The laughter helped.

Parents sat on benches, chatting as their kids played tag or swung from the monkey bars.

My steps slowed as I took it all in.

And for the first time in what felt like weeks… the weight on my chest eased. Just a little.

John would have loved this.

A bittersweet smile tugged at my lips.

He always used to say parks were "the only place in a city where you could actually feel alive."

...Or die.

Because Poison Ivy was real, and those kids were trampling the grass.

Time passed unnoticed as I wandered the paths, watching families move through their simple rituals—laughter, scolding, the endless loop of tag.

Eventually, parents began calling their children in.

The kids dragged their feet, grumbling about leaving, negotiating for "just five more minutes."

I smiled faintly at their reluctance.

A flicker of amusement breaking through the haze of my mood.

Realizing it was time to head back, I gathered my coat from the bench I'd claimed and turned toward the hotel.

The shadows had stretched longer now, darker—more oppressive as evening crept in.

Maybe I can do this, I thought as I walked.

I might look twenty-three… but I had fifteen extra years crammed into this body.

Hard-earned years.

My lips quirked into a quiet smile.

Few people get a second chance.

I just needed to figure out what to do with mine.

That night, I went to bed feeling… not great, but better.

Slightly more grounded.

Like maybe—just maybe—I could find my footing again.

One step at a time.

Don't get overwhelmed. Break it down.

I thought of John—how he used to ground me during anxiety attacks.

How he'd help me shift gears into logic, reason, structure.

And goals.