The morgue still, cloaked in shadows that stretch and pool under the dim light. The soft hum of the ventilation system fills the silence, a low, steady noise that Dolores Mortez has grown accustomed to over the years. She's standing over a body, her gloved hands moving with practiced precision, her expression serene, almost reverent. Tonight's subject is a young man—late twenties, by her estimate—discovered in the Narrows with the telltale signs of Gotham's nightly chaos etched across his skin. She's seen dozens like him, another soul lost to the city's relentless appetite.

She moves in silence, gliding a scalpel down the chest, her touch featherlight. Her mind wanders as she works, thinking of the city and its hidden layers, the strange comfort she finds in these quiet hours. Here, death is manageable, understandable, predictable even. A small smile tugs at her lips, an indulgent reaction she knows is strange to anyone on the outside. But the dead are her world, her solace. They don't demand, they don't argue, they simply exist in their stillness.

A shadow shifts behind her, blending seamlessly with the darkened walls of the morgue. But she doesn't flinch; she knows he's there before he speaks. She lets the silence stretch, lets him stand there watching her in the dim light, the presence of the Batman filling the room like a tangible weight. Finally, she lets out a soft, barely audible sigh.

"If you're looking for the Lieutenant, I'm afraid you're too late," She says, her voice steady and unfazed, as if she's addressing an old friend.

There's a pause, and then he steps out of the shadows, his presence somehow darker than the darkness itself. He is a stark, imposing figure, the faint light casting his silhouette in sharp relief, but Dolores doesn't look up, her attention still on her work.

"I have questions," He says, his voice low, gravelly, cutting through the quiet.

She chuckles softly, the sound dry and low, "I'd be disappointed if you didn't."

She pauses, glancing up briefly, meeting his gaze with a look that borders on amusement.

Batman doesn't respond to her bait, his expression unreadable behind the mask. Instead, he watches her, his gaze intense, calculating, studying every movement she makes. Dolores feels it, the weight of his scrutiny, but she doesn't falter. She meets his eyes again, a subtle challenge flickering in her gaze, as if daring him to speak.

Finally, he steps closer, his focus shifting to the body on the table, "I need details about the recent victims. The ones found near the docks."

Dolores tilts her head, a spark of interest igniting in her eyes. She places the scalpel down with care, turning her full attention to him, her gloved hands folding neatly in front of her, "Ah, yes. I heard about those. They've been piling up a bit faster than usual, haven't they?"

Her tone is laced with a faint, dark humor, the kind that comes from too many years spent in close proximity to death.

Batman's jaw tightens, but he remains silent, waiting. Dolores allows herself a small smirk, taking her time as she considers her words.

"Most of them have similar injuries," She says finally, gesturing to the body in front of her, "Multiple stab wounds, bruising around the wrists and neck, consistent with some kind of struggle. Whoever did this has a precise hand—they knew exactly where to cut, where to apply pressure."

His gaze is unwavering, his attention fixed on her every word. Dolores feels a strange thrill, a rare sensation in her otherwise routine world. She knows he's sizing her up, trying to gauge the depths of her knowledge, her intentions. But she's not one to be intimidated. Instead, she raises an eyebrow, a hint of playfulness dancing in her eyes.

"You know, I don't often get visited by masked vigilantes," She says, letting her words linger in the air, "Usually, it's just me, the bodies, and the Lieutenant, bless his overworked heart. But you..."

She trails off, studying him with a curiosity she doesn't bother to mask, "You're something else entirely, aren't you?"

Batman says nothing, his gaze shifting between her and the body on the table. He is an enigma, a living contradiction—so full of life, of purpose, and yet surrounded by the same darkness that cloaks her world. Dolores senses his discomfort here, the way he holds himself, the slight tension in his stance, as though he's bracing himself against the weight of the room. But he doesn't look away, doesn't flinch, and she respects him for it.

"Does it bother you?" She asks, almost idly, as she picks up her tools again, "Being surrounded by the dead?"

There's a pause, a brief flicker of something unguarded in his expression before he schools it back into neutrality, "I'm used to it."

She chuckles again, a quiet, knowing sound, "I suppose you would be, wouldn't you? The Batman, Gotham's self-appointed guardian of life."

Her tone is light, almost teasing, but there's an edge to it, a subtle challenge she knows he can sense. She glances at him, a gleam in her eye, "Tell me, how do you manage it? Standing between life and death every night?"

Batman's gaze hardens, but he doesn't answer. Instead, he gestures to the body, redirecting the conversation back to his purpose here, "You said the injuries were precise. Do you think they're connected?"

Dolores sighs, the moment of levity slipping away as she considers the question, her tone growing serious, "It's possible. The patterns are too consistent to be a coincidence. Whoever is doing this knows anatomy well, knows how to make death last just long enough to be meaningful."

She says it with a kind of professional detachment, her words clinical, as though she's discussing the weather.

Batman's eyes narrow, a flash of something dark passing over his face, "And you're sure it's the same person?"

She shrugs, a slight smirk tugging at her lips, "As sure as I can be. But then again, Gotham's full of surprises. Who knows what kind of people lurk out there?"

She tilts her head, studying him with a glint of amusement, "I'm sure you'd know better than anyone."

He says nothing, but his gaze sharpens, his silence heavy with unspoken words. Dolores meets his stare, unflinching, a quiet defiance in her posture. She knows he's suspicious, that he's analyzing every word, every expression. She almost enjoys it, this strange game they're playing, the tension thickening between them like a fog.

For a long moment, they remain locked in that silent battle of wills, neither willing to look away. Dolores feels a flicker of satisfaction, a sense of victory, even as she knows that he's the one who holds all the power here. But in her domain, among the dead, she feels she has an edge, a control that even he cannot disrupt.

Eventually, he steps back, his gaze still lingering on her, "If you find anything else... anything unusual... you'll contact Gordon."

It's not a question, but an expectation, an unspoken command that brooks no argument. Dolores smiles, inclining her head slightly, her voice soft, almost mocking, "Of course. I'll be sure to pass along any insights to the Lieutenant."

She watches him carefully, the subtle arch of her brow betraying her amusement, "But if you ever feel inclined to stop by... I'll keep the lights dim for you."

There's a beat of silence, and then, without a word, he melts back into the shadows, his form disappearing as seamlessly as he had arrived. Dolores watches the spot where he vanished, a small, satisfied smile on her lips, a faint thrill lingering in her chest. She knows he'll be back, that their strange, silent dance is only beginning.

And as she turns back to her work, the cold steel of her tools in her hands, she feels a strange anticipation—a stirring of excitement in the midst of the morgue's stillness.

The hum of the morgue is the same as always—a low, constant vibration that settles in Dolores's bones, grounding her in the cold solitude of her work. The air here feels different, still and reverent, as if this place exists in a pocket outside the rest of the world. The stainless steel gleams in the dim lighting, every surface polished to perfection, reflecting her movements as she glides through her ritual, each gesture deliberate, patient, precise.

Tonight, she's preparing a body for a funeral. It's a young man, just barely into his twenties, his face pale and peaceful, with only a faint shadow of the violence that took him. She moves carefully, adjusting the sleeves of his suit, straightening the collar, her fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary, as if imparting a kind of silent blessing.

"There," She murmurs, her voice soft, barely louder than a whisper, "All dressed up, ready for the last journey. You'll find your peace now."

There's a tenderness in her tone, an odd affection for this silent companion who cannot respond, cannot judge, who simply exists in this final, quiet state.

A shift in the shadows draws her attention, but she doesn't turn. She knows he's there. She feels him before she sees him, the silent figure at the edge of the room, wrapped in darkness. A thrill runs through her—a sense of something rare, something strange and forbidden. She allows herself a small smile, but her gaze remains on the body before her.

"Back again, I see," She says, her tone carrying a hint of amusement, "I must admit, I'm almost flattered."

There's a pause, then the familiar low rasp of his voice fills the silence, "I have questions."

She finally turns to him, her gaze sweeping over his imposing figure, half-hidden in shadow. He stands there, silent, watchful, and she feels the weight of his scrutiny, his eyes fixed on her with an intensity that makes her spine tingle. She knows he's analyzing, dissecting her every movement, every word. And she relishes it, this silent, brooding presence in her otherwise predictable world.

"Questions," She echoes, her voice soft, almost indulgent, "You seem to have a lot of those."

He doesn't respond, just watches her with that same focused stare, a patience that feels more like a storm gathering just below the surface. She takes a small step back, letting her hands rest on the edge of the steel table, and meets his gaze, unflinching.

"There's always a certain poetry to death, don't you think?" She begins, her voice lilting, a hint of reverence in her tone, "We spend our lives running from it, fearing it, fighting it... and yet, here, in this quiet place, we finally find peace. All the noise, the chaos, the endless wanting—it all falls away. And what's left is... pure. Honest."

She turns back to the body, adjusting the lapels of the young man's suit, her fingers gliding over the fabric with a gentle, practiced touch.

"This young man," She continues, almost to herself, "he was someone's son, maybe someone's brother, someone's friend. To them, he was life itself. But to me... he is a final poem, a quiet song that echoes through the darkness."

Batman steps forward, closer, his silence stretching, heavy, thick. He watches her, his gaze unyielding, like he's peeling back every layer, trying to understand this strange woman who speaks to the dead as if they're old friends.

"You talk about death like it's a blessing," He says, his voice sharp, cutting through her musings like a blade.

There's a hint of accusation in his tone, a challenge, as if her reverence for death unsettles him.

She smiles, unfazed, "And you talk about life as if it's a right."

Her eyes flick up to meet his, glinting with that same amused defiance, "Perhaps we see the world differently."

He doesn't answer, but his silence speaks volumes. He's a figure of life, of fierce determination, of unbreakable will. She sees it in the set of his shoulders, the way he holds himself like a fortress, an embodiment of strength against the inevitable tide that she has accepted long ago. To her, his defiance is almost beautiful, a rare, fragile thing in a world that seems destined for darkness.

She lets her hands linger over the body, her movements graceful, almost reverent.

"People live their lives," She murmurs, "rushing, striving, fearing, all for what? In the end, they return to the earth, to the quiet. Here, they are no longer the villains or heroes they believed themselves to be. Here, they are simply... themselves. There's a beauty in that, don't you think?"

He watches her, his gaze dark, unyielding, and she feels the subtle shift in his stance, the tension coiling beneath the surface.

"You find beauty in their death," He says, his voice like a warning, low and severe.

"Yes," She replies, without hesitation, her voice soft but resolute, "Because death is honest. It is unafraid. In a city like Gotham, there's a certain purity in it—a final truth that no one can escape, not even you."

She tilts her head, studying him, a faint smile playing on her lips, "You're different from the others who come through here. You stand on the edge, constantly fighting to keep life from slipping away. But I wonder..."

She pauses, her eyes narrowing slightly, "Are you afraid of the darkness that waits?"

Batman stiffens, his jaw tightening, but he says nothing, his gaze hardening as he watches her with a wary intensity. Dolores feels a small thrill, sensing the tension, the way he seems caught between his instinct to resist her and his curiosity to understand. She knows he's trying to read her, to unravel the mystery she represents, but she also knows he will find nothing familiar here. Her world is one he can't control, can't tame.

Finally, he speaks, his tone sharp, clipped, "The victims. Have you found any connections?"

She sighs, almost disappointed to be drawn back into practicality, but she answers him all the same, "A few, perhaps. They all bear similar wounds, marks that suggest a knowledge of anatomy, of how to inflict pain precisely. It's methodical, deliberate."

Her eyes flick up to him, something dark glinting there, "You know the type, I'm sure. Those who kill with purpose, not passion."

He's silent, absorbing her words, his gaze unwavering. Dolores continues, her voice softening as she returns her attention to the body, her hands moving gently, like she's lulling the young man into an eternal sleep, "You see... death reveals things that life hides. Scars, bruises, the marks of past pain and regret... They can't be hidden here. They lay bare the truth."

Batman's eyes are on her, unwavering, intense, and she feels the weight of his stare like a physical touch. She doesn't shy away from it; instead, she holds his gaze, her expression serene, unflinching, as if daring him to understand her.

"This is a city of scars," She says, her voice barely a whisper, "Of broken people, of lives that end far too soon. You may fight to protect them, to preserve their fragile lives, but death is always waiting. I see it, every day, in every body that crosses my table. And I can tell you... no one escapes it. Not even you."

Her words linger, and for a moment, the silence between them is thick, charged with an unspoken tension that feels almost electric. She sees something flicker in his eyes, a brief, fleeting vulnerability that vanishes as quickly as it appears. But she's seen enough, sensed the depth of the burden he carries.

Without another word, he steps back, his form blending into the shadows once more, his presence fading. Dolores watches him go, a small smile tugging at her lips, a sense of satisfaction settling in her chest. She knows he'll return, drawn to her in spite of himself, to this strange, quiet place where life and death meet in silence.

Dolores moves through the sterile silence of the morgue, her gloved hands skimming over the polished steel table as she arranges her tools, preparing for another long, quiet night with the dead. She feels a comfort here, a stillness that matches the cadence of her heartbeat, her steady breaths filling the space around her like a mantra. She's alone, as always, but tonight there's a different sort of anticipation humming in her chest, a lingering sensation she's been unable to shake since her last encounter with Batman.

A presence presses against her senses, a familiar weight settling in the air, and a small smile creeps onto her lips. She can almost picture him standing there, wrapped in shadow, his silent vigil beginning the moment he steps into her domain. She closes her eyes for a moment, savoring the strange comfort his presence brings, the familiar intensity that has somehow become a part of her world.

But when she turns, her breath catches. It isn't Batman in the doorway, shrouded in darkness. It's Carmine Falcone.

Her chest tightens as her gaze locks onto him, her pulse quickening, a slow burn of dread curling into her stomach. He's standing there, calm, composed, his eyes glinting with an unsettling confidence, his gaze fixed on her with a casual ease that sends a chill down her spine. He smiles, a slow, measured expression that barely reaches his eyes, and steps forward, each stride controlled, assured, as though he's stepping into a room he owns.

"Dolores," He says, his voice smooth, almost warm, but there's a sharpness beneath it, a cold edge that cuts through the stillness of the morgue.

He stops a foot away from her, close enough that she can feel the faint warmth of his presence, the subtle scent of his cologne—a smell that brings with it a flood of memories she'd rather leave buried.

"Carmine." She forces his name out, her voice a controlled murmur, though her throat feels tight.

She wills herself to remain steady, to keep her breathing even, though her heart drums a relentless rhythm against her ribs. His gaze drags over her, taking her in with a practiced ease, as if appraising something he knows he already owns.

"You look... well," He murmurs, his eyes narrowing slightly, the faintest hint of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth, "Seems this job suits you, doesn't it?"

He glances around the room, as if acknowledging the cold bodies, the polished steel, the silence, "A woman of your... talents. How appropriate."

Her mouth feels dry, and she resists the urge to step back, to put space between them, but she holds her ground, meeting his gaze with a forced calm.

"I like the work," She says, her voice steady, though her pulse is racing, "And it's honest."

He chuckles, a low, dark sound, and she feels the room contract around them, the walls closing in as his gaze sharpens, scrutinizing her with an intensity that borders on predatory.

"Honest," He repeats, drawing the word out like it's something unfamiliar to him, "You always did appreciate the simple things, didn't you?"

He steps closer, so close that she can feel the warmth radiating from him, can see the faint scar near his temple, a mark from another time, another life. He reaches out, his fingers grazing her cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in a gesture that's far too intimate, far too familiar. Her breath hitches, a shiver running down her spine, and she fights the instinct to recoil, to pull away from his touch.

His hand lingers for a moment, his fingers brushing against her skin in a way that feels possessive, like a reminder of something unspoken, something she's tried to leave behind. He watches her, his gaze heavy, his eyes narrowing with a quiet satisfaction as he takes in her reaction, the way her breath catches, the faint tension in her posture.

"Don't look so surprised, Dolores," He murmurs, his voice a low whisper, almost a caress, "It's been a while, but you didn't think I'd forgotten, did you?"

Her chest tightens, memories stirring at the edge of her mind, fragments of conversations in darkened rooms, his voice in her ear, the cold thrill of fear and something darker that had once tethered her to him. She clenches her fists at her sides, forcing herself to remain composed, to keep her voice even.

"I thought you had other matters to attend to," She replies, her tone laced with a subtle defiance, a quiet challenge she hopes will go unnoticed.

But he catches it. His smile deepens, his hand dropping to his side as he takes a slow step back, his gaze never leaving her.

"Oh, I have plenty of matters to attend to," He says smoothly, his voice like velvet over steel, "But I thought I'd pay my respects to an old friend."

The word friend sits heavily in the air, laden with a twisted irony that makes her stomach clench. She knows better than to correct him, to push back, but she can't help the faint scowl that flickers across her features, a reaction he notices immediately.

"Dolores," He says softly, almost a mockery of tenderness, "I do miss our... partnership."

His eyes gleam with a dark amusement, his smile widening as he watches her reaction, as if savoring the discomfort that simmers just below her calm exterior.

She swallows, forcing herself to keep her composure.

"I've moved on," She says quietly, the words sounding weaker than she intended, her voice betraying the tension that coils in her chest.

"Oh, I can see that," He replies, his gaze drifting around the morgue, taking in the cold bodies, the sterile silence, "You've found yourself quite the little kingdom, haven't you? Ruling over the dead. Fitting, for someone who always felt more at home in the shadows."

He steps forward again, his hand brushing against hers, a subtle, calculated touch that feels like a warning, a reminder of the power he wields, of the past that binds them in ways she can't escape.

"But don't think I've forgotten," He murmurs, his voice soft, deadly, a whisper that makes her skin prickle, "I remember every promise. Every word."

She tenses, her fingers curling into fists at her sides, but she keeps her face neutral, her gaze unwavering, even as her mind races, memories flooding her senses. He watches her, his eyes glinting with satisfaction, with that same dark charm that had once held her captive.

"Don't look so nervous," He says softly, his voice taking on a mocking tone, "I'm just here to remind you of where you came from... and who still watches over you."

Her pulse quickens, the weight of his presence pressing down on her, suffocating, a reminder of a world she's fought to leave behind. But she steels herself, forcing herself to stand tall, her voice steady as she meets his gaze.

"I don't need your reminders," She says, her tone cool, controlled, "I know exactly where I came from."

His smile fades, his gaze hardening, and for a moment, she feels the full weight of his displeasure, a dark promise in his eyes. But then he smiles again, his expression shifting back to that infuriating, smooth composure.

He turns to leave, his footsteps echoing in the silence, each one a reminder of his presence, his power. Dolores watches him go, her chest tight, her hands shaking slightly, the memories clawing their way to the surface.

When he disappears into the shadows, she finally exhales, a shuddering breath that releases the tension coiled in her chest. She presses her hand to her forehead, trying to steady herself, to shake off the lingering weight of his visit. But his words echo in her mind, a dark warning that leaves her feeling vulnerable, exposed, like a wound that refuses to heal.

And in the quiet aftermath, she realizes with a sinking certainty that her past, the one she thought she'd escaped, is far from done with her.

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