The morning is silent, broken only by the faint hum of the city below. Wayne Tower looms above Gotham like a fortress, its halls cavernous and cold, steeped in the quiet weight of memory and expectation. Bruce stands at the edge of his bedroom, staring out the massive windows at the foggy skyline. The sunlight barely filters through the smog, casting the room in muted tones of gray and gold. His reflection faintly peers back at him in the glass—an outline, a ghost.

His breath is slow, deliberate. Each inhale feels heavy, thick with the burden of what today signifies. A public appearance. The funeral of a man whose murder he has yet to make sense of. And perhaps, somewhere in the back of his mind, the knowledge that she will be there.

Bruce turns from the window and walks to his wardrobe, his footsteps soft against the polished wood floor. The vast room is lined with tailored suits, each one immaculate, arranged like soldiers awaiting orders. His hand hovers over a dark charcoal suit, the fabric rich and smooth under his fingertips. He pulls it from its hanger with precision, his movements measured, methodical.

The silence deepens as he begins to dress. He slips on the white dress shirt, the fabric cool against his skin, the faint scent of clean cotton and cedar enveloping him. Each button slides into its hole with a quiet click, his fingers steady despite the tension coiled in his chest. The cuffs are stiff as he fastens them, his thumb brushing the engraved monogram of his family crest.

Bruce reaches for his tie—a deep, somber black—and drapes it around his neck. He stares at the mirror as he knots it, his fingers moving with the ease of routine. The reflection is unkind, highlighting the hollow shadows under his eyes, the faint stubble he didn't bother shaving. His hair falls messily over his forehead, and for a brief moment, he considers smoothing it back. But the thought passes as quickly as it comes. He doesn't care how he looks, only that he is seen.

The jacket comes next, heavy and perfectly tailored. It molds to his shoulders as he shrugs it on, the fabric whispering against the crisp shirt beneath. He adjusts the lapels, his movements precise, mechanical. Every piece of clothing is armor, every detail a barrier between himself and the world he despises but must face.

He straightens, staring at himself in the mirror, his face unreadable. The man staring back is not Bruce Wayne. It's the mask he wears, the carefully constructed persona he's perfected over years of obligation. And yet, in the quiet recesses of his mind, he feels the pull—of her, of Dolores, a shadow that lingers no matter how much he tries to push it away.

For a moment, his hands rest on the edge of the dresser, gripping it tightly. His breath hitches, just slightly, before he straightens again, his mask firmly in place. He's ready.

The sound of a passing train rattles the walls of Dolores's apartment, the vibrations shaking the chipped glass on her nightstand. The early morning light filters through the industrial blinds, casting sharp, fragmented shadows across the sparse room. It smells faintly of rain-soaked concrete and the faint, ever-present tang of disinfectant she carries home from the morgue.

She sits on the edge of her bed, her hair tumbling loose over her shoulders, dark and untamed. Her fingers toy absentmindedly with the fabric of her dress, which lies draped across her lap—a simple black sheath, understated and elegant in its own way. It isn't new, and the faint wear along the seams tells its story. But it's all she has, and it will do.

Dolores's breath is steady but deep, as though she's bracing herself for something she can't quite name. The air is cold against her skin, and she shivers slightly as she stands, letting the dress fall from her hands. Her nightshirt slips off her shoulders, pooling at her feet, and for a brief moment, she catches a glimpse of herself in the cracked mirror across the room.

Her body is pale, slender, the sharp lines of her collarbones jutting out like shadows. There are faint scars on her skin, memories etched into flesh, though she doesn't linger on them. She moves to the small dresser, opening it with a creak that echoes in the stillness. The room smells faintly of lavender, the scent coming from a sachet she keeps tucked between her clothes.

She pulls on the dress, the fabric sliding over her skin like a second layer. It fits snugly, the hem brushing just above her knees. She reaches for the clasp of the hidden zipper at her side, her fingers fumbling for a moment before she tugs it upward. The cool metal presses against her ribs, grounding her.

Her shoes sit by the door, polished but plain black pumps, their slight heel worn from years of careful use. She carries them to the edge of the bed, sitting down to slip them on. Her hands are steady as she fastens the straps, but her mind is elsewhere, thinking about what awaits her. The funeral. The people. The whispers.

And him.

She doesn't let herself think about it too much, doesn't let herself linger on the possibility of seeing Batman again. But the thought lingers, unspoken, like the scent of smoke long after the flame has gone out.

She stands, crossing the room to the small vanity where her makeup sits scattered across the surface. She keeps it simple—dark eyeliner, a faint smudge of shadow, lips painted a muted berry. Her hands are quick, efficient, practiced, each motion deliberate as she applies the finishing touches.

When she's done, she stares at herself in the mirror, her reflection fractured by the small crack running diagonally across the glass. The woman staring back at her is both familiar and foreign, a polished version of the one who walked out of Carmine's office the night before. There's defiance in her eyes, but there's something else, too—something quieter, darker, that she refuses to name.

Two lives, two spaces.

Bruce stands in the cavernous luxury of Wayne Tower, the cold opulence of his surroundings a constant reminder of the weight he bears, the image he must maintain. Dolores stands in her minimalist apartment, the stark simplicity of her world a reflection of the life she's chosen, stripped of excess, grounded in survival.

Both are preparing for the same event, though their reasons are vastly different. Bruce readies himself as a symbol, a mask, a man balancing the fragile threads of duty and obsession. Dolores readies herself as a presence, a shadow, a woman walking the thin line between who she was and who she is now.

They each face their reflections, the weight of their respective roles pressing down on them like an invisible hand. Bruce adjusts his tie, his fingers steady but his gaze distant, his thoughts consumed by the memory of Dolores in the club, her eyes locking with his. Dolores smooths her dress, her movements precise, controlled, her mind flitting back to the moment she felt his gaze from across the room, a shadow she couldn't escape.

Two lives, parallel yet entwined, both haunted by the other in ways they refuse to acknowledge fully. Two mirrors, two fractured souls, preparing to meet again in a world where death and life are separated by the thinnest of veils.

City Hall looms ahead, its massive stone facade draped in heavy shadows despite the pale autumn sun filtering through the gray clouds. The streets are lined with press, their cameras clicking like restless insects as figures of Gotham's elite begin to arrive. The air is somber, tense, with an undercurrent of quiet chaos bubbling just beneath the surface. Even here, in death, Gotham's corruption lingers, a dark stain that refuses to be washed away.

The vintage Corvette purrs as it pulls up to the curb, its sleek black body glinting faintly in the muted light. Bruce sits behind the wheel, his jaw tight, his hands steady as he pulls to a stop. The engine cuts off with a low growl, and he steps out, his presence commanding despite the understated suit he wears. The valet approaches, eyes widening slightly at the car before glancing up at Bruce with a mix of awe and nervousness.

Bruce hands over the keys without a word, his focus already shifting to the crowd gathered near the steps of City Hall. The press swarm like vultures, their attention snapping to him, cameras flashing as he makes his way up the walkway. He ignores them, his face a carefully composed mask of indifference, his mind elsewhere. Somewhere in the back of his thoughts, her name lingers, unspoken but insistent.

And then he sees him.

Carmine Falcone steps out of a private town car just ahead, his movements deliberate, smooth, his cane clicking softly against the pavement as he surveys the scene with the air of a man who owns the city, accompanied in a woman wearing thigh high leather heels.

Bruce makes his way through the crowd-- to her-- but the moment he sees the face of the woman, he realizes his mistake. The press fades into background noise, their shouted questions and flashing bulbs falling away as the two men engage in a quiet, charged conversation. Falcone's words are smooth, practiced, his tone laced with a subtle edge. Bruce responds with calculated precision, his own voice low, firm, every syllable carrying the weight of his unspoken disdain.

The conversation is terse, unspoken battles fought beneath layers of pleasantries. Falcone's smirk doesn't falter, but Bruce sees the faint flicker of something darker beneath his eyes—a momentary crack in the facade.

And then she arrives.

The town car pulls up to the curb just behind Falcone's, its black body unassuming yet elegant, the kind of vehicle meant to blend into the background while carrying someone of quiet importance. The door opens, and Dolores steps out, her movements fluid, graceful, as though she's floating rather than walking. Her black dress clings to her frame, the fabric sleek, understated, yet commanding attention in its simplicity. A soft breeze catches the hem, lifting it slightly before she smooths it back down, her head held high, her gaze sharp and searching.

She spots Carmine first, her lips tightening for just a fraction of a second before her expression smooths into something unreadable. She steps onto the curb, her heels clicking softly against the pavement, each step deliberate as she moves toward him.

But before she reaches Falcone, her eyes flicker to Bruce, drawn by the tension radiating between the two men.

"Pardon me," Dolores says, her voice cutting through their conversation as she steps between them, her tone polite but pointed.

She doesn't wait for a response, her gaze fixed ahead as she brushes past them with an air of indifference that feels almost theatrical.

"Don't be rude, sweetheart," Carmine calls out after her, his voice low, dripping with possessive charm, "Say hello to Mr. Wayne."

Dolores stops mid-step, her posture stiffening for the briefest of moments before she turns slowly, her head tilting slightly as she glances over her shoulder. Her eyes narrow, her lips parting as though she's about to say something sharp, biting. But then her gaze locks onto Bruce's, and the words catch in her throat.

Bruce feels it instantly, the shift in her expression, the way her eyes soften, widen, then harden again, her sharp mind piecing together a puzzle she didn't know she was solving. He watches her, frozen, as recognition dawns in her gaze—not recognition of him as Bruce Wayne, but as someone else entirely.

Her smile is slow, deliberate, as though she's savoring the moment.

"Dolores Mortez," She says, holding out her hand, her voice smooth and practiced, with just a hint of something darker lurking beneath.

Bruce hesitates, his chest tightening as he takes her hand. Her fingers are cool, her grip firm, but it's the way she looks at him—like she's dissecting him, peeling back the layers of his carefully constructed facade—that sends a shiver down his spine.

"Bruce Wayne," He says quietly, his voice steady despite the tension thrumming through his body.

She smiles wider, her gaze unwavering as she releases his hand, her fingers brushing lightly against his palm as they part. He swallows hard, the subtle gesture sending a pulse of something he can't quite name through him.

Dolores turns her attention back to Carmine briefly, her smile fading into something colder, sharper.

"Shall we?" She says, her voice laced with faint sarcasm, though her words are directed at Bruce.

Bruce raises an eyebrow, caught off guard. She gestures toward the entrance of City Hall with a tilt of her head, her smile returning, faint but unmistakable.

"You should sit with me," She says, her tone light but deliberate, "I've heard so much about you. I'd love to find out who the man in the papers really is."

The double meaning isn't lost on him, and for a moment, he isn't sure whether to laugh or stiffen. Instead, he nods, falling into step beside her as they make their way toward the doors. He can feel Carmine's gaze burning into his back, but he doesn't look back.

Dolores doesn't either. Her expression is serene, composed, but her mind races, her thoughts a flurry of conclusions and calculations. She knows. She knows who he is, who he really is. But she doesn't say a word, her silence more powerful than any accusation.

As they step into the dimly lit hall, the tension between them is palpable, a thread stretched taut, threatening to snap at any moment. Bruce feels it in the way her shoulder brushes his, the faintest touch igniting a storm within him. He glances at her from the corner of his eye, her profile sharp and unreadable, and he wonders—not for the first time—what it is about her that holds him so tightly in her orbit.

Dolores feels his gaze but doesn't turn to meet it. Her lips curl into the faintest of smiles, her eyes scanning the crowd ahead, her every movement a carefully crafted performance. She knows the power she holds, and she intends to wield it.

Bruce swallows, his jaw tightening as he steels himself for what's to come. But as they take their seats, side by side in the front row, he can't shake the feeling that he's already lost whatever battle he thought he was fighting.

The weight of grief and expectation hangs in the air, oppressive and unyielding. The rows of pews are filled with Gotham's elite, their black attire blending into the somber decor, faces drawn tight with practiced solemnity. But for Bruce Wayne, all of it—the crowd, the funeral, the weight of the mayor's death—fades into insignificance the moment Dolores Mortez takes her seat beside him.

Her proximity is immediate and overwhelming. The soft rustle of her dress as she sits, the faint creak of the bench beneath her, the delicate scent of her perfume drifting toward him—it all presses in on him, wrapping around his senses like a fog. She never wore perfume in the morgue, and now the intoxicating aroma is impossible to ignore. It's subtle yet commanding, like everything about her, a blend of dark musk and something sweet, faintly floral, that sends his thoughts spiraling.

He stiffens, his hands gripping his thighs as he stares straight ahead, his jaw tight, his breath shallow. He's supposed to be paying attention, supposed to be vigilant. The funeral is important, a moment of reflection for the city and, more importantly, a chance to observe. But how can he focus on anything when she's so close, her presence a quiet storm unraveling his composure?

Dolores leans slightly, adjusting herself in her seat, and the soft brush of her shoulder against his sends a jolt through him. Her movements are casual, unassuming, but they're enough to shatter his focus entirely. He can feel the heat of her body radiating through the thin fabric of his suit, every point of contact between them amplified a thousandfold in his mind.

She crosses her legs, the motion fluid and deliberate, and the edge of her knee grazes his. The contact is fleeting, but it lingers, burning like a brand. He exhales sharply through his nose, trying to will himself into stillness, but his body betrays him, leaning just slightly into her orbit.

"Are you alright, Mr. Wayne?"

Her voice is soft, low, barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the muted noise of the room like a blade. There's a hint of amusement in her tone, the faintest edge of something teasing, and it drives him mad.

"I'm fine," He manages, his voice rough, tight, betraying the war raging inside him.

She hums faintly, her lips curling into a small, knowing smile as she shifts again, her foot brushing lightly against his shin. The touch is featherlight, almost accidental, but he knows better. She's testing him, pushing him to the edge, and he's powerless to stop it.

The scent of her perfume grows stronger as she leans slightly closer, her breath warm against his ear as she murmurs, "You seem tense."

His hands clench tighter against his thighs, his knuckles white beneath the fabric of his pants. His thoughts are a haze, his mind clouded with her scent, her voice, the phantom weight of her touch lingering on his skin.

The procession begins, or at least it tries to. The murmur spreads through the room, whispers of the missing DA rippling like a quiet wave. The delay is obvious, but Bruce can't focus on it. His world has narrowed to the woman beside him, to the unbearable proximity that has his heart pounding like a drum.

His head turns for only a second, his eyes clocking a figure standing up in the balcony.

She shifts again, her shoulder pressing more firmly against his, her leg brushing against his as she crosses her ankles, the movement deliberate, calculated. The fabric of her dress skims against his suit, the faint friction sending his pulse racing. His breath hitches, his chest tightening as he feels her foot slide gently against his shin, a motion so subtle it could almost be dismissed as nothing.

But it's not nothing. Not to him.

He turns his head slightly, his gaze finally daring to meet hers. Her eyes are dark, sharp, glinting with something unreadable but undeniably powerful. The moment their eyes lock, it's as if the room falls away, the noise, the crowd, the very weight of the funeral dissolving into nothingness. It's just them, suspended in a moment that feels both infinite and fleeting.

Her lips part slightly, the faintest trace of a smile curling at the edges, and it's enough to steal the air from his lungs. There's a heat in her gaze, a knowing, a challenge that dares him to bridge the distance between them. And he wants to—God, he wants to.

Bruce's heart pounds in his chest, loud and insistent, drowning out the world as he leans slightly closer, his face mere inches from hers. Her breath brushes against his cheek, warm and intoxicating, and his own breath mingles with hers as the space between them shrinks. It's wrong. It's dangerous. But it feels inevitable, as though the universe itself is conspiring to pull them together.

Her eyes flutter slightly, her lips parting further, inviting, daring, as he moves closer still. The tension between them is unbearable, every fiber of his being screaming to close the gap, to taste the forbidden poison that she offers so freely.

But then the moment shatters.

A deafening crash echoes through the hall as a car barrels through the entrance of City Hall, the crowd erupting in screams and chaos. The sound is jarring, a violent intrusion that yanks him back to reality. His instincts take over instantly.

Bruce grabs Dolores, pulling her to the floor with him. The impact is quick, his body covering hers protectively as the car screeches to a halt, its hood smoking, its doors flung open.

Dolores doesn't resist, her body pressed against his as he shields her from the debris, his arms wrapping around her tightly. The world is chaos, the echoes of the crash mingling with the panicked cries of the crowd, but for a moment, all Bruce can focus on is the woman beneath him.

Her breath is warm against his neck, her chest rising and falling rapidly against his own. He looks down, their faces mere inches apart, her eyes wide with shock but locked onto his with an intensity that sends a shiver down his spine.

The tension between them is still there, raw and electric, heightened now by the adrenaline pumping through their veins. For a moment, it's just them, the chaos of the funeral fading into the background as they lie tangled together on the floor.

The world feels like it's holding its breath in the surreal quiet that follows the crash. Time slows, the chaos suspended in an impossible, fragile stillness.

Bruce lifts his head slowly, his breath warm against her cheek before it pulls away entirely. His eyes are sharp and focused, scanning the room as reality begins to creep back in. The wreck of the SUV sits in the center of the hall like a grotesque centerpiece, its hood crumpled, its tires smoking faintly. Dolores follows his gaze as he looks up toward the second floor balcony.

The figure is gone.

The screams begin in earnest now, piercing and raw, as the crowd surges toward the exits in a panicked tide. Mothers clutch their children, men shove past each other, and the air fills with the heavy thud of footsteps and the sound of tears. The hall is alive with chaos, yet Bruce remains still, his mind racing, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the scene.

He stands, slowly pulling away from Dolores, though his hand lingers on her arm for a moment longer than necessary. She feels the absence of his presence immediately, the chill that replaces his warmth as he rises to his full height.

Near the wreck, a boy sprints toward his mother, who drops to her knees to catch him, her sobs echoing through the cavernous space. Bruce's gaze flickers toward the scene, then back to the SUV. Gordon and a group of officers move in, their guns drawn, forming a tense, protective semicircle around the vehicle. The words scrawled across the SUV's body are jagged and hurried, the chaotic handwriting repeating over and over:

D.A. -- D.O.A.?

Bruce takes a step forward, edging closer to the wreck as fleeing mourners rush past him in a blur of black and pale faces. The sound of chambering bullets cuts through the noise like a razor.

"Get out of the car!" Gordon's voice rings out, steady despite the tension in his tone, "Get out of the car and show your hands!"

The driver's side door creaks open, the sound agonizingly slow, reverberating in the silence that momentarily settles over the hall. Bruce doesn't blink, his eyes locked on the widening gap, his fists clenching at his sides.

"Get 'em up! Get out, show 'em!" Gordon's command comes again, sharper now.

From the shadows of the vehicle, a figure emerges, staggering into the light with trembling hands raised. The collective gasp of recognition ripples through the remaining bystanders.

"Christ, that's Colson," Gordon mutters, his voice low but audible in the thick silence.

The District Attorney stands there, his face streaked with blood, tape cruelly plastered over his mouth with the words NO MORE LIES scrawled in bold, uneven letters. The clamp around his neck gleams under the flickering lights, its metallic surface reflecting the horror etched on every face in the room. A cop cries out, his voice tinged with panic.

"There's a bomb around his neck!"

The tension snaps like a taut wire. A shrill beeping begins to ring out from the device, sharp and insistent, sending a fresh wave of screams through the crowd. People scatter in all directions, shielding their heads, scrambling for safety, their fear palpable. Dolores remains rooted in place, her body rigid, her eyes fixed on the scene unfolding before her.

Bruce, too, doesn't move. He stares at Colson, his gaze calculating, dissecting every detail. His jaw tightens as his eyes land on the cell phone taped to the D.A.'s palm, the source of the relentless beeping.

Colson raises his hand, sheepishly pointing to the device, and the room seems to freeze again. The absurdity of the gesture, the surreal contrast of terror and mundanity, lands like a blow.

"Let's clear this place out, now!" Gordon barks, his voice snapping the room back into motion.

The police spring into action, ushering people toward the exits, their voices loud and commanding over the din of panic. Bruce lingers for a moment, his attention drawn to the object taped to Colson's chest. A greeting card, small but deliberate, its pristine envelope almost glowing against the bloodied fabric of his shirt.

Bruce steps closer, his breath catching as he reads the words addressed on the envelope:

To The Batman.

Dolores notices it too. Her eyes narrow, her mind already working to piece together the significance of the card. Her gaze flickers to Bruce, and for a fraction of a second, their eyes meet. In that moment, Bruce sees it—she knows. She knows the card is meant for him. She knows who he is.

Bruce grabs Dolores by the arm, and she doesn't resist as he pulls her through the chaos, his hand firm and steady, guiding her through the surging crowd. The noise around them is deafening, the shouts and sobs blending into a cacophony of fear, but Bruce moves with purpose, his grip on her unyielding.

The cool air hits them as they step outside, the chaos of the hall spilling onto the streets where people continue to scatter. Dolores turns to face him, her breath coming in sharp bursts, her mind still reeling from everything she's just witnessed. She expects him to be there, to explain, to demand answers. But when she looks up, he's gone.

She scans the crowd, her eyes darting between the fleeing mourners, the officers shouting orders, the flashing lights of squad cars, but he's nowhere to be found. Her heart races, not with fear, but with the sharp, lingering sense of unfinished business.

Bruce Wayne—or perhaps more accurately, Batman—is gone, disappearing into the night like the specter he is.

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