The morgue is unusually still tonight, the silence settling over Dolores like a heavy blanket as she cleans her instruments. Her hands move in steady, practiced rhythms, each motion precise, methodical. She does this every night, scrubbing each scalpel, each pair of tweezers, each probe by hand, her fingers deftly removing any remnants of the previous autopsies. The task is meditative, almost soothing—a ritual that allows her to end each shift with a sense of calm control, a way of reclaiming order after the often chaotic procession of bodies that pass through her hands.

Outside, the chill of Gotham's fall air seeps in through the narrow windows, casting a pale glow over the room. It's late, and the streets have likely emptied by now, leaving only the occasional distant siren or muffled footfall echoing through the building. Dolores doesn't mind the silence; it's a familiar companion, a balm after hours spent among the noise of the dead.

As she works, she lets her mind drift, her thoughts slowing to match the rhythm of her movements. The water in the sink runs clear, finally washing away the last traces of blood from her instruments, and she turns to grab a towel from the shelf behind her.

Her foot catches on something, a strange, slippery sensation spreading beneath her shoe. She stumbles, catching herself on the edge of the sink, her heart thumping in her chest. The calm she felt just moments ago dissipates, replaced by a faint, unsettling sense of unease.

She glances down, frowning as she takes in the sight of the floor beneath her.

Blood. A dark, wet pool spreading across the tiles, thick and viscous, its deep red hue stark against the sterile white of the floor. Her eyes follow the trail, her mind struggling to catch up with what she's seeing, a sickening realization slowly dawning as she traces the source of the blood to a body lying in the center of the room.

The man is sprawled out, limbs splayed at odd angles, his clothes soaked with blood that drips steadily from multiple wounds, pooling around him like an offering. Dolores's breath catches, her pulse pounding in her ears as she takes in the gruesome scene, her mind racing to make sense of it. The man's chest is bare, his shirt torn open to reveal a series of words carved into his skin, each letter meticulously etched in deep, jagged lines.

A riddle.

Dolores feels a chill creep down her spine, her gaze fixed on the words, each one a taunt, a whisper of something dark and knowing. She reads it slowly, her lips moving silently as she mouths the words:

When you look at me, you see yourself. But touch me, and I'll stain your soul. What am I?

The words are deliberate, each letter sharp and cruel, as though carved with a purpose, a message meant solely for her. Her chest tightens, her mind reeling as she processes the riddle, the implications it carries. Someone knows. Someone has left this here, in her morgue, on her floor, a message written in blood, a warning that her secrets are not as hidden as she once thought.

The answer comes to her in a sickening wave of clarity.

A mirror.

Her reflection, her other self—the one that moves in shadows, the one that isn't bound by the sterile, clinical confines of her day-to-day duties. The one that has done things, known things, things that make her hands as stained as the blood pooling on her floor.

Her heartbeat quickens, but she takes a slow, steadying breath, her mind shifting to action as she assesses the situation. Whoever left this here, whoever knows her well enough to leave this message, to carve it into flesh and leave it like an offering, wants her to panic. But she doesn't. She can't. She's survived too long, played her part too well, to let fear dictate her actions now.

She kneels beside the body, her expression hardening as she examines the wounds, noting the precision of each cut, each mark. This was deliberate, calculated, a message left by someone who understands her, who knows her work, her methods. The thought sends another shiver through her, a whisper of dread that she forces down, replacing it with the cool, detached focus she wears like armor.

Without another thought, she moves to the storage cabinet, grabbing a mop, disinfectant, and several rags. She knows exactly how to handle this, exactly how to erase every trace of the blood that stains the floor. This is her domain, her territory, and she knows it better than anyone. She works quickly, her hands steady, her mind locked in a focused rhythm as she scrubs the floor, watching the blood swirl and fade under the stream of water.

Once the floor is clean, she turns her attention to the body. It's heavier than she expected, but she's used to the weight, accustomed to the feel of cold flesh beneath her hands. She hoists the man's torso over her shoulder, careful to keep her movements controlled, precise, avoiding any unnecessary mess. With a practiced ease, she drags the body across the room, pulling it toward the incinerator tucked away in the corner of the morgue.

Her pulse remains steady, her breathing even, as she maneuvers the body inside, adjusting it to ensure a complete burn. The flames flicker to life, casting an eerie glow across her face as she watches the body disappear, the heat licking at her skin, a silent erasure of the evidence left behind.

When the flames die down, when the room is quiet once more, she stands back, wiping a stray fleck of blood from her cheek. Her gaze drifts to the spot on the floor where the body had been, the faintest stain remaining, a reminder of the message, the warning left for her.

As she moves to wash her hands, the last remnants of blood swirling down the drain, she lets out a slow breath, her heartbeat returning to its usual, steady rhythm. She is calm, composed, her mind already shifting back to her routine, her carefully crafted facade slipping back into place.

But as she glances at her reflection in the metal surface of the sink, a faint flicker of doubt stirs within her, a shadow that she can't quite shake. She stares at herself, at the calm, composed face she presents to the world, and wonders—just for a moment—if she can still hide the darkness within her, if she can still maintain the mask she's worn for so long.

The riddle lingers, a haunting echo, a reminder that someone, somewhere, is watching. And as she turns away, leaving the morgue in silence once more, she knows that this is only the beginning.

She feels the water washing over her fingers, her heartbeat a steady, grounding rhythm, but beneath the surface, unease coils, a quiet warning that she can't quite silence.

"Long night?"

The voice emerges from the shadows, smooth and calm, almost a whisper, yet it cuts through the silence with an edge that makes her pulse quicken. Her hands freeze, the water still running over her fingers, and for a moment, she can't bring herself to turn, can't bear to face the figure standing behind her.

But she knows who it is. She would know that voice anywhere.

"Carmine," She breathes, the name slipping from her lips before she can stop herself.

She forces herself to breathe, to ground herself, though she can feel her composure unraveling, slipping away in the presence of the man behind her. She turns slowly, her eyes finding his in the dim light, and it's as though the air has thickened, every breath she takes heavy, labored.

He stands just a few feet away, leaning against the wall with a casual ease that's as unnerving as it is familiar. His gaze is fixed on her, sharp, assessing, a faint smile curving his lips as he takes in her reaction, the faint tension in her posture, the way her hands tremble just slightly before she clenches them into fists at her sides.

He steps forward, and Dolores feels the space between them shrink, the air thickening with each measured step he takes. Her breath catches, and she finds herself unable to move, rooted in place as he closes the distance, his presence filling the room, suffocating, inescapable.

She wants to say something, to assert herself, to remind him that she's not the same young woman she was back then. But the words die in her throat, caught in the web he weaves around her with nothing more than his gaze, his silence, the faint, knowing smile that never quite reaches his eyes. He is calm, composed, every movement precise, controlled, a reminder of the power he holds, the power he's always held over her.

He stops just a breath away, his gaze drifting over her face, taking in every flicker of emotion, every crack in her composure. His hand reaches out, his fingers brushing against her cheek, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear with a possessive intimacy that makes her shiver, her pulse racing as she fights the instinct to pull away. His touch is gentle, almost tender, but there's a weight to it, a silent message that resonates in her bones, a reminder that he still has her under his thumb, that he's never truly let her go.

"You've been busy," He says, his voice a murmur, his hand lingering by her cheek, his fingers brushing against her skin in a way that sends a shiver down her spine.

She swallows, forcing herself to meet his gaze, though the effort feels monumental, her resolve crumbling beneath the weight of his presence.

"Like I said, I moved on," She manages, her voice barely more than a whisper, the words sounding weak, hollow, "I left that life behind."

He chuckles softly, the sound low, mocking, his fingers trailing down her cheek, grazing her jaw with a familiarity that feels as invasive as it is intimate.

"Did you, now?" He murmurs, his tone laced with amusement, as though her words are nothing more than a fleeting delusion, "You may have tried, but we both know you can't erase the past. Not when it's carved into you so deeply."

She bites the inside of her cheek, forcing herself to hold his gaze, though every instinct screams at her to look away, to retreat, to escape the tangled web he's spun around her. His words hit their mark, dredging up memories she's fought to bury, echoes of a time when she'd been young, impressionable, eager to prove herself, to belong.

But that was a lifetime ago. She isn't that woman anymore.

"I have my own life now," She says, her voice a little stronger, though the tremor beneath it betrays her, a flicker of the uncertainty she feels whenever she's near him, " I don't owe you anything."

His smile widens, a predatory glint in his eyes as he watches her, as though savoring the challenge, the defiance in her words. He steps closer, his hand moving to rest on her shoulder, his fingers pressing lightly against her skin, a possessive touch that sends a fresh wave of dread through her.

"Oh, Dolores," He murmurs, his voice soft, almost affectionate, but there's a hardness beneath it, a quiet threat that makes her heart pound, "You're still mine. You always have been. You always will be."

The words settle over her like a shroud, heavy, inescapable, and she feels herself slipping, falling back into the role she once played, the role she thought she'd left behind. His touch is gentle, but there's a force behind it, a reminder of his power, the control he still wields over her, even now, after all these years.

His hand moves to her neck, his fingers brushing against her skin in a way that feels both comforting and suffocating, a touch that speaks of ownership, of a bond that's never truly broken. She can feel her defenses crumbling, her resolve slipping as he leans in, his breath warm against her ear, his voice a whisper that makes her shiver.

"You can try to run," He says softly, his tone laced with dark amusement, "but you'll always find your way back to me."

Dolores feels the words sink into her, a cold certainty that settles in her bones, a reminder of the power he holds, the power he's always held. She tries to pull away, to break free of the hold he has over her, but his grip tightens, his fingers pressing against her neck, a silent warning that he won't let her go, not now, not ever.

Her mind races, memories flooding her senses, fragments of a time when she'd been young, naïve, eager to please, desperate to prove herself. She remembers the thrill of his attention, the way he'd looked at her, the promises he'd made, the way he'd drawn her into his world, his orbit, until she'd been lost, a puppet dancing to his tune.

But she isn't that woman anymore. She won't let him pull her back into the darkness she's fought so hard to escape.

With a surge of resolve, she lifts her gaze, meeting his eyes with a steely determination that surprises even herself.

"Not anymore," She says, her voice barely more than a whisper, but there's a strength behind it, a flicker of the woman she's become.

His expression shifts, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, but it vanishes as quickly as it appeared, replaced by that familiar, unsettling smile. He leans in, his lips brushing against her ear, his voice a low, mocking whisper that sends a chill down her spine.

"You sure about that?" He murmurs, his tone soft, almost soothing.

With that, he steps back, his gaze lingering on her for a moment, his smile fading as he takes in her expression, the faint defiance that lingers in her eyes. He nods, a quiet, knowing gesture, and turns, disappearing into the shadows as silently as he arrived, leaving her standing there, breathless, her heart pounding, the weight of his presence still lingering, a dark reminder of the past she thought she'd escaped.

As the silence settles around her once more, she presses a hand to her chest, her fingers trembling as she tries to steady her breathing, to calm the storm that rages within her. She knows he'll be back, knows that this isn't over, that he won't let her go, not truly. But as she stands there, alone in the dim light of the morgue, she feels a flicker of strength, a quiet resolve that refuses to be extinguished.

Because no matter what he says, no matter how deep his hold on her runs, she is her own person now. And she will fight to keep it that way.

The rain falls in cold, relentless sheets, soaking Dolores as she steps out of the morgue, her mind still spinning from Carmine's visit. She walks quickly, her heels clicking against the wet pavement, her thoughts racing, tangled in the web of old memories and the familiar, suffocating weight of his power. She shakes it off, or tries to, pulling her coat tighter around her shoulders as she rounds the corner, intent on making it home, on putting distance between herself and the morgue, the past, the twisted power Carmine holds over her.

But she doesn't make it far.

A shadow moves in her periphery, swift and silent, and before she can react, a strong hand grabs her arm, pulling her into the nearest alley. She stumbles, her back slamming against the cold, rough brick wall, the rain pelting her face, soaking through her clothes. The grip on her arm is unyielding, the figure looming over her unmistakable, even through the rain and darkness. Her breath catches as she realizes who it is, her pulse quickening as she stares into the masked face of Gotham's darkest vigilante.

She doesn't flinch, doesn't struggle, but her body tenses, every nerve on edge as he leans in, his face inches from hers, his presence overwhelming, suffocating.

"You're one of them," He growls, his voice low, rough, a barely restrained fury simmering beneath the surface.

Dolores's brow furrows, a mixture of confusion and defiance flashing in her eyes, "One of who?"

"The Falcones," He says, his voice like gravel, each word dripping with disdain, "You're dirty."

The accusation sends a jolt through her, a surge of anger that cuts through the fear, the shock. She narrows her eyes, her voice steady, cold, as she meets his gaze without flinching.

"I am not one of the Falcones," She spits, her tone laced with venom, "Don't you ever insult me like that again."

Batman's jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing as he studies her, searching her face for any hint of deception. But he doesn't let go, his grip on her arm firm, unyielding, his body blocking any chance of escape. He leans closer, his gaze piercing, relentless.

"Then tell me," He says, his voice a low, dangerous whisper, "Why was he with you? What business could someone like him possibly have in your morgue?"

Dolores feels a flicker of panic, but she pushes it down, her mind racing as she tries to think of a way out, a way to deflect, to misdirect, to keep him from digging deeper, from uncovering the truth of her past. She meets his gaze, her expression hardening, her voice steady as she lies, her tone so convincing that she almost believes it herself.

"I don't know," She says, her voice low, her tone laced with frustration, anger, "He was trying to bribe me, offering me money to show him a body. Some dead man he had dealings with, I don't know. I told him no, and that was that."

Batman's gaze doesn't waver, his eyes narrowing as he studies her, his face unreadable behind the mask. She feels the weight of his scrutiny, the intensity of his gaze pressing down on her, and she holds her breath, willing herself to remain calm, to keep her story straight, to convince him of her innocence. She knows he doesn't trust her, can feel his suspicion simmering beneath the surface, but she also knows he has no proof, nothing to go on but his instincts, his suspicions.

For a long moment, he says nothing, the tension between them thick, suffocating, the rain pouring down around them, each drop a steady, rhythmic beat that mirrors her racing heart. Finally, he breaks the silence, his voice low, measured, a quiet command that leaves no room for argument.

"Show me the body."

She hesitates, a flicker of unease crossing her face, but she knows she has no choice. If she refuses, it will only fuel his suspicions, make him dig deeper, search harder for whatever secrets she's hiding. She nods, her jaw tight, her gaze unwavering as she meets his stare.

She leads him back to the morgue, her mind racing as she tries to concoct a story, a backstory convincing enough to satisfy him, to divert his attention from the truth. She opens the door, stepping inside with a calm she doesn't feel, her footsteps echoing in the sterile silence as she crosses the room, pulling open one of the cold storage drawers and revealing a body she knows will work, someone whose story she can twist, embellish.

"This is him," She says, her voice steady, her gaze fixed on the body as she begins her carefully crafted lie, "Name was Samuels. A small-time thug with a reputation for double-crossing his own clients. He ended up dead in a ditch, gunshot to the head, signs of a struggle. Apparently, he owed the Falcone's money, more than he could repay."

Batman says nothing, but she feels his gaze on her, heavy, unrelenting, as though he's peeling back the layers of her story, searching for cracks, for anything that doesn't add up. She swallows, her pulse quickening as she continues, her voice calm, controlled, each word chosen with care.

"Carmine wanted the body to... send a message, I suppose. Maybe to make an example of him, let everyone know what happens to those who cross him. He offered me money to let him see it, to show him where the body was. I refused. I don't... I don't work for him. I'm not involved in his business."

She forces herself to look at Batman, to meet his gaze with a steady, defiant stare, her expression carefully blank, giving nothing away. He watches her in silence, his face unreadable, his eyes dark, calculating, and she feels a shiver run down her spine, a cold knot of tension settling in her stomach.

"I'm telling you the truth," She says, her voice barely more than a whisper, the words a quiet plea, a desperate attempt to convince him of her innocence, to keep him from looking too closely, from uncovering the tangled web of secrets she's buried so carefully.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, each second a test of her resolve, her ability to keep her story straight, to maintain the lie. She feels his gaze, the weight of his suspicion, the quiet, simmering intensity that makes her feel as though he can see right through her, as though he knows, somehow, that she's hiding something.

Finally, he speaks, his voice low, rough, a quiet warning that cuts through the silence like a blade.

"I don't trust you," He says, his words heavy, final.

She swallows, forcing herself to hold his gaze, to keep her expression steady, unflinching.

"I know," She says, her voice barely more than a whisper, the words a quiet surrender, an acknowledgment of the threat he represents, the danger that looms over her.

He stares at her for a moment longer, his gaze piercing, unyielding, before he steps back, his form retreating into the shadows, the darkness swallowing him whole. She watches him go, her breath hitching, her heart pounding as she feels the weight of his presence lingering, a quiet, relentless threat that she knows will never truly fade.

As the silence settles around her once more, she releases a shuddering breath, her composure slipping, the mask she wears crumbling as the reality of the situation sinks in. She's danced with shadows before, navigated the dark, twisted paths of Gotham's underbelly, but this—this feels different, dangerous in a way she can't ignore, a reminder that her past is never truly buried, that the ghosts she thought she'd left behind are still watching, waiting.

And somewhere in the darkness, she knows that Batman is watching, too.

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