The Batmobile hums with barely restrained power as it streaks through Gotham's drenched streets, chasing the ghost of another crime scene, another body left in the Riddler's wake. The city is nothing but a blur of neon and darkness beyond the rain-streaked windows, but inside the car, the storm is far more suffocating.

Bruce's grip is tight on the wheel, his gauntleted fingers flexing against the leather, his jaw locked as he glances at the woman beside him.

Dolores.

She sits slouched in the passenger seat, her body swaying slightly with each sharp turn. The drugs are still thick in her system, weighing her down, keeping her limbs slow and heavy. Her head tilts against the window, eyes half-lidded, dark smudges of mascara clinging to her lashes.

She doesn't look at him.

She doesn't have to.

The tension between them is alive. It slithers through the car like something venomous, coiling in the air, filling every breath with something wrong.

Bruce should take her home.

He knows that.

He knows he should drop her off at her apartment, leave her to sleep off whatever she took, to recover, to get out of his sight.

But he doesn't.

He won't.

Because she's here now.

And right now, in this car, in this moment—she has to talk.

She has to tell him everything.

So he watches her.

Every small movement, every slight shift of her body. He watches the way she exhales, slow and ragged, the way her fingers twitch against her lap, as if her body is fighting the need to be still.

And then, his voice—low, rough, cutting through the suffocating quiet:

"Why did you run?"

Dolores's head rolls slightly, her glassy eyes flickering toward him in slow recognition.

"What?" Her voice is hoarse, dazed.

"From him."

He doesn't have to say who. She already knows.

A slow, breathless laugh escapes her lips, something bitter curling at the edges. She tilts her head against the seat, blinking sluggishly at the roof of the car.

"You're really not gonna let me sleep this off first?"

Bruce's grip on the wheel tightens.

"Why did you run?" He repeats, his voice sharp, insistent.

Dolores swallows. The neon lights from the city streak across her face, casting deep shadows in the hollows of her cheeks, her lips parting like she's about to say something—

But then, silence.

Bruce waits.

And when the words finally slip from her lips, they are real.

The kind of real he isn't prepared for.

"I thought he loved me," She murmurs, almost to herself.

Her voice is distant, pulled from somewhere buried, something deep and rotted inside her, "I thought we'd end up together. I thought I was his happiness, after she died."

Bruce's stomach knots hard.

The air in the car shifts, cracks.

Something dark and furious stirs beneath his ribs, curling tight around his lungs, making it difficult to breathe.

Carmine Falcone.

Carmine's hands on her.

Carmine's whispered lies in her ears.

Bruce's fingers twitch on the wheel.

Dolores exhales, eyes fluttering slightly.

"I remember her," She whispers, "His wife. Isabella."

Bruce doesn't want to ask.

But he has to.

"How?"

Dolores turns her head toward him, her lashes heavy, her lips parting as a ghost of something almost soft flickers in her expression.

And then—

Her answer.

"She was in my morgue."

Bruce's chest tightens, his breath turning shallow.

Dolores licks her lips, blinking slow, "That's how I met Carmine. Standing over her body."

Something thick and wrong creeps up Bruce's spine, something that makes his blood run hot, his fingers flex against the wheel, his mouth pressed into a tight line.

Carmine Falcone.

Standing over his dead wife's body.

And somehow, some way, he had used that to get his claws into Dolores.

Bruce's grip turns white-knuckled.

Dolores lets out a small, sharp exhale—half a laugh, half a broken thing.

"I did her autopsy," She mutters, rubbing a slow hand over her forehead, "I signed her goddamn death certificate."

Her fingers slide down her temple, across her cheek, the memories slurring together in the haze of her high.

And then—

"I did so much for him," She breathes, "So much."

Bruce swallows back the rage rising in his throat, in his lungs.

"Like what?"

Dolores exhales through her nose, her head tilting back against the seat. Her voice is thick, lazy, true.

"I covered up a lot of things," She says softly, "A lot of bodies. False reports. Missing people. Accidents that weren't accidents."

She closes her eyes for a moment, breath steadying, "For years, I thought I was just helping. I thought it wasn't that bad. I thought I was safe."

Her lips press into a thin line.

"I was so stupid."

Bruce watches her carefully, too carefully.

"But you ran."

Dolores nods, the movement slow, almost sleepy.

"Yeah," She murmurs, "Eventually."

A long silence stretches between them, the low hum of the Batmobile filling the void.

Bruce's chest is tight.

Everything she's saying, everything she is—it should make him sick.

He should be disgusted.

She's dirty.

She's corrupt.

Her name carries weight in Gotham's underbelly, a whisper of something dark and untouchable, something feared.

She is his enemy.

Or at least—she should be.

And yet—

He can't turn her in.

He won't.

Because despite everything—

Despite the blood on her hands, despite her past, despite the fact that she should be locked up in Blackgate with the rest of them—

He is intoxicated by her.

She is his disease.

And he doesn't want to be cured.

The thought of Carmine's hands on her makes his skin crawl, makes something twist and burn inside his chest.

But more than anything—

The thought of Dolores wanting him—wanting Carmine—

It makes him furious.

Bruce exhales sharply, fingers curling tight against the wheel.

"You're not safe," He says suddenly, voice low and hard.

Dolores lets out a quiet, breathy laugh, her head rolling slightly toward him.

"And you think I ever was?"

Her voice is soft.

Almost affectionate.

Bruce doesn't answer.

Because he doesn't have one.

Instead—

He presses harder on the gas.

And together, they barrel toward the orphanage.

Toward the next body.

Toward the next piece of the puzzle.

Toward whatever this is between them—

Something that is getting harder and harder to deny.

The Batmobile pulls up to the ruins of the Gotham Orphanage, its sleek black body a beast against the backdrop of decay. The once-grand structure looms ahead, skeletal and hollowed out by fire, the remnants of a failed promise crumbling under the weight of time. The rain continues its relentless assault, dripping from broken windows and seeping into the rotting wood of the abandoned structure.

Bruce turns off the engine, letting the silence settle between them like a shroud.

"Stay in the car."

His voice is rough, unyielding.

Dolores turns her head slowly, her cheek resting against the cool leather of the seat. Her pupils are blown wide, her breathing slow but steady. The drugs still have their claws in her, but she's aware. Her mind is trapped in a fog, but she can still think.

And she's not about to let Bruce out of her sight.

She exhales, the corners of her lips curling slightly, "Yeah, okay."

Bruce narrows his eyes.

He knows better.

He knows she won't listen.

But there's no time to argue.

He swings the door open, stepping out into the rain, cape billowing behind him. Gordon is already ahead, gun drawn, scanning the darkness. The remnants of an old sign hang above the shattered doorway, the words barely legible beneath the grime:

A Gotham Renewal Project - Investing in Our Future.

Bruce clenches his jaw.

A future that never came.

He follows Gordon up the crumbling steps, rain slicking the black soot-covered walls. The front doors groan loudly as they're forced open, the stench of rot and mildew seeping from the ruined interior.

And then—

A soft click behind them.

Bruce doesn't need to turn around to know she's there.

Dolores steps forward, her heels crunching against the damp debris, her hands sliding into the pockets of her coat as if she's merely out for an evening stroll.

Gordon's expression tightens, his suspicion barely masked as his gaze flickers over her.

"What the hell is she doing here?"

Dolores smirks lazily, shrugging, "Death never listens."

Bruce exhales sharply, his patience running thin.

"You're high."

Dolores tilts her head, a slow blink, "And yet, here I am. Moving. Talking. Being useful."

She gestures toward the building, "Shall we?"

Bruce hesitates.

He should drag her back to the car.

He should leave her behind.

But then her eyes meet his, and there's something beneath the drugged haze—something sharp. Something aware.

She knows something.

He doesn't know what, but he knows that look.

And he can't afford to ignore it.

He exhales, his voice a low growl, "Stay close."

Dolores smirks, stepping past him, walking directly into the orphanage, "Aren't I always?"

The darkness swallows them whole.

The walls are charred, the floors covered in soot and debris. Rain drips through the broken ceiling, forming shallow puddles that reflect the beams of Gordon's flashlight.

Bruce scans the walls, following the crude white arrows painted over the soot. The Riddler's markings. A path leading them deeper into the orphanage, into whatever twisted message he's left behind.

A soft, eerie giggle echoes from the shadows.

Gordon swings his gun up.

Bruce stills.

Dolores exhales, tilting her head toward the sound, "Dropheads."

They move cautiously, following the sound up a winding, broken staircase. The building groans beneath their weight, the wood warped and unstable.

More arrows lead them down a long, decayed hallway. The faint flicker of candlelight dances against the walls, illuminating a row of rusted door frames. The soft, haunting hum of a choir rises from somewhere deep within the building.

Then—

A shadow shifts.

A hunched figure stumbles out from one of the rooms, its face slack, eyes glazed, lips curled in an empty grin. The man freezes when he sees them, clutching a bottle in one hand, an eye-dropper in the other.

Gordon's gun rises instantly, "Hey! Hey!"

The man bolts.

Bruce moves first, his boots slamming against the wood as he lunges forward, but the figure is already scrambling into another room, slamming the door behind him.

Gordon throws a look at Dolores, "Stay back."

Dolores rolls her eyes but leans against the wall, watching as Gordon smashes the door open. Inside, the room is filled with the sickly-sweet scent of Drops, the floor littered with empty bottles. Half a dozen addicts sprawl across melted bed frames, their faces twisted in frozen grins, lost in the grip of the drug.

One of them giggles, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Bruce barely spares them a glance.

Because the music—the eerie, haunting hymn—is growing louder.

And then—

A voice.

"Thank you. Thank you so much, folks!"

Bruce stops cold.

The voice echoes from deeper within the orphanage, distorted through old speakers, a recording looped from another time.

Bruce steps forward, his breath tightening.

Gordon frowns, "What the hell is that?"

Dolores watches Bruce carefully, "You recognize it."

Bruce doesn't answer.

Because he does.

And he hates that he does.

He moves toward the end of the hall, toward the doorway where the sound is coming from.

Above it, painted in stark white letters:

WHERE IT ALL BEGAN.

Bruce stares, the words burning into him.

Gordon moves up beside him, his grip tightening around his gun.

The recording continues to play.

Bruce's fingers curl into fists.

The Riddler isn't just leaving messages anymore.

He's digging up ghosts.

Dolores exhales beside him, tilting her head, "Looks like someone really hates Thomas Wayne."

Bruce swallows the bitterness rising in his throat.

"Let's go."

He steps through the doorway, into the darkness, into whatever memory the Riddler has chosen to unearth next.

And Dolores follows.

Because of course she does.

The projector flickers, casting long, distorted shadows against the charred walls of the orphanage. Thomas Wayne's grainy image is frozen mid-speech, his voice looping over itself like a ghost caught in an endless confession. Renewal Is a Lie is painted in stark white against the ruins, bleeding down the walls like an accusation.

Dolores barely registers any of it.

She stands just outside the grand hall, her body heavy, her pulse an unsteady drum against her ribs. The drugs crawl through her veins like something alive, making her skin feel too tight, her limbs too slow. The world tilts slightly, edges blurred, but she fights to stay upright, to focus.

Bruce and Gordon are speaking, but their voices are distant, muffled, like sound carrying over water.

"Sins of the father..."

"Shall be visited upon the son."

Dolores exhales sharply.

She doesn't need to look to know Bruce is already gone.

She can feel it.

The weight of him, the force of his presence—just gone, like the air's been sucked out of the room.

Gordon mutters a curse under his breath before turning, barely sparing her a glance as he moves to follow. He doesn't trust her.

And he's right not to.

Because she doesn't trust herself.

Her fingers twitch at her sides, nails pressing into her palms. The drugs are wrong.

She's been high before—so high she's floated out of her own body, so high she's forgotten weeks of her life. But this—this is something else.

Her thoughts are foggy, slipping just out of reach.

Memories claw at the edges of her mind, fragmented and distorted.

Carmine's voice.

Smooth as velvet. Soft as a noose.

"You're my girl, aren't you?"

His fingers on her throat, just enough pressure to make her feel it.

"You don't need to worry about all that, sweetheart. You let me handle it."

His hands on her hips, his breath warm against her ear.

"Wayne's got his hands in every pocket in Gotham, you hear me? But they ain't clean. Nobody's hands are clean."

A sharp inhale shudders through her.

The memory won't stick.

It slips through her fingers like sand, drowning beneath the drug-laced haze.

She sways, catching herself against a broken pillar. Her heartbeat pounds against her skull, her breath sharp and uneven.

Bruce is in danger.

She knows it.

Not just because of the Riddler.

Not just because of whatever game is playing out in the ruins of this place.

But because Carmine is somewhere in the shadows of this story.

He's always in the shadows.

Dolores exhales, dragging a trembling hand down her face.

She knows Carmine is dirty. She knows he's done things. She's seen the bodies, signed the reports.

But now—standing here, in the ruins of Gotham's past—something isn't right.

She blinks hard, trying to pull the memory from the fog, trying to force herself to remember—

But the drugs are too thick.

Her limbs feel heavy.

Her head aches.

The room tilts slightly, the floor feeling further away than it should. The projector light flickers, the sound warping and bending in her ears, and suddenly she's not sure if she's standing still or if the walls are moving around her.

She presses her palm against her forehead, breathing slow, steadying herself.

Bruce is gone.

Gordon is gone.

And she—

She's alone.

The orphanage creaks under the weight of the storm outside, the wind slipping through broken beams and shattered windows, carrying the past with it.

A ghost of a city.

A ghost of herself.

She clenches her jaw, breath coming sharp through her nose.

She needs to get out of here.

She needs to think.

But the drugs have other plans.

The room shifts, dark edges creeping in, the memories slithering just out of reach—

And Dolores closes her eyes, swallowing hard.

Waiting for the storm inside her head to pass.

The orphanage twists around her, warping, shifting—breathing. The walls groan, the air too thick, the ground tilting beneath her feet. The light from the projector flickers, casting strange shadows, illuminating something that isn't there.

Or maybe it is.

Dolores is drowning in it.

The drugs claw through her veins, dragging her under, tearing open doors in her mind she swore had been locked forever.

And suddenly, the orphanage isn't the orphanage anymore.

The walls melt away—

And she's back in the morgue.

The air is sterile, thick with the scent of bleach and embalming fluid. The overhead lights buzz, casting a sickly glow over the steel table before her.

A woman's body lies cold beneath the fluorescence.

Dark hair. Pale skin. A bruised neck.

Isabella Falcone.

Dolores stares down at her, the clipboard in her trembling hands heavier than it should be.

She tilts her head.

Something is wrong.

The marks around Isabella's neck don't match a hanging.

They're too deep. Too precise.

A hanging would've left abrasions—friction burns from the rope, signs of struggle.

But this?

This is the work of hands.

Hands that wrapped around her throat and squeezed the life out of her.

Her stomach turns.

She should say something.

She should write the truth.

Instead—

She presses pen to paper.

Her fingers shake as she signs her name beneath the cause of death.

Suicide.

The ink stains her hands.

The morgue dissolves.

Soft candlelight replaces the harsh fluorescents. The scent of whiskey lingers, mixing with expensive cologne.

Carmine.

He sits across from her, sleeves rolled up, his gold rings catching the dim light as he swirls a glass of amber liquid.

His gaze is sharp, knowing.

"I knew you were smart, sweetheart."

His fingers trail along the edge of the table, slow and deliberate.

"That's why I like you. You see things. You understand things. But you also know when to keep your mouth shut."

Dolores exhales, blinking slowly.

She's been drinking.

She's been high.

She knows she shouldn't be here.

But Carmine is magnetic.

Carmine is powerful.

And she—

She is nothing but a girl who spent her life surrounded by death.

A girl who never realized how alive it felt to be wanted.

"You ever think about the future, Dolores?"

His voice is low, curling around her like smoke.

"You ever think about your future?"

His hand reaches across the table, his thumb brushing against her knuckles.

"Because I do."

And she lets him pull her in.

The scene shifts again.

Now—

She's standing over another body.

But this time, she's not in the morgue.

She's in a warehouse.

A gun is still hot in her hand.

Blood pools at her feet.

A man—a nobody, really—lies sprawled out before her, his eyes still wide in shock, his body twitching as life fades from it.

This time, she doesn't have to wait for the body to be brought to her.

Because she sent it there herself.

The first time she killed, it wasn't clean.

The second time was easier.

The third?

Effortless.

And soon, the name Dolores Mortez faded into something else.

She became The Mortician.

A whisper in the shadows.

A name that made grown men shudder.

Carmine's beautiful little grim reaper.

He never had to get his hands dirty, not when he had her.

She signed the reports. She cleaned up the evidence. She made the bodies disappear.

And when the time came—

She created them.

She was Death.

But in Gotham, death wasn't feared.

It was expected.

No—what Gotham feared was something far worse.

They feared her.

And that?

That was power.

The memories splinter, crack apart, and she's back in the orphanage.

She's falling.

Her knees give out, the world tilting violently as she collapses onto the cold, damp floor.

Her breath comes in sharp, ragged gasps.

Her vision swims.

The ceiling above her warps, twisting like it's breathing.

The projector light flickers, and suddenly she doesn't know if she's in the past or the present—if she's still that girl signing false reports in the morgue or if she's just a woman tripping over the edge of reality.

Her body is lead.

Her limbs refuse to move.

Her veins burn.

She's drowning in it, slipping beneath the surface.

The world flickers—

And then—

A shadow moves above her.

A figure.

A man in a mask.

She barely has the strength to react.

She barely has the strength to breathe.

Her heart pounds sluggishly in her chest, her body sluggish, her limbs useless.

And then—

A voice.

Soft. Calm. Deliberate.

"Isn't it funny? Death keeps such careful records of the fallen... yet she forgets to count herself among them."

✦
✦
✦
✦
✦
✦
✦
✦
✦
✦