Chapter Text
Outside, the world rushed past in streaks of colour. Fields stretched endlessly, golden with late summer wheat. Hedges, wild and overgrown, tangled together in thick knots with plastic bags catching on to them in the breeze eager to be set free. The occasional break reveals glimpses of rolling hills beyond. Emily took it all in and watched it go by. Anything to distract her from the heavy tone inside the car.
Now and then, a car overtook them, roaring past before disappearing around the next bend. Emily watched as the road signs flickered by, their words lost in the blur of motion. The tele-phone poles stood in an endless line, each one bending slightly as if bowing to the wind.
Inside the car, there was only silence. No conversation, no music from the radio—just the hum of the engine and the occasional whoosh of passing vehicles. Ever since her parents had started marriage counselling, tension had settled between them all. The sessions were sup-posed to help, but to Emily, they only seemed to make things worse.
The only real comfort Emily found was in her daydreams of Arkham Asylum. She imagined herself back within its crumbling walls, weaving through its dark corridors, and exploring the sprawling streets of Arkham City. Ever since her time in the asylum, she had wanted to be like Filly—not just fearless, but skilled. Strong. Capable. She had thrown herself into training, hir-ing a personal trainer, eating healthier, pushing her body to its limits. But deep down, she knew it wasn't just about physical fitness. There was something more—something deeper—she needed to unlock.
She spent every spare moment at the gym, practicing martial arts, swimming whenever she could. Her brother joked that at the rate she was going, she'd be an Olympic athlete in no time. But what started as a routine had become an obsession, one that didn't go unnoticed. Her parents had grown concerned, but their worry deepened when they discovered the truth—on certain nights, when the world was asleep, Emily would slip out of the house and lose herself in the rush of free running, leaping across rooftops, vaulting over fences, chasing a thrill that nothing else could match.
But her father had reassured her mother that it was just a phase—that eventually, things would return to "normal." In an attempt to distract her, he bought her Arkham City and a collec-tion of Batman merchandise, hoping it would steer her away from her relentless training. To some extent, it worked. She stopped going to the gym, though nothing could keep her from the water—swimming remained the one habit she refused to let go of.
Meanwhile, her comic book collection swelled, filling five cardboard boxes. Shelves once lined with novels were now crowded with meticulously arranged figurines of Gotham's finest and most feared. Even her chess set had undergone a transformation—no longer kings and queens, but a battlefield of Batman heroes and villains locked in eternal strategy.
Emily had completed Arkham City in its entirety several times now—every side mission conquered, every Riddler challenge hunted down, every trophy and riddle solved. After hours of meticulous searching, she had finally cracked them all. She had been looking forward to giving the Riddler a proper thrashing, but in the end, all he got was a single surprise takedown. It felt... anticlimactic.
She had very little criticism, the game had been near perfect. The gripping story, the depth of the side quests, the memorable characters, and the hidden easter eggs scattered through-out—it all made for an unforgettable experience. The powerful impact of the ending. If only it weren't for the occasional glitches that broke the immersion.
At least she could say that she had lived a dream, and it still had it's hooks in her. She'd do anything to return to the Gotham universe.
From the front seats, her parents' voices broke the silence, raising in yet another argument, but her music drowned them out. Their shouting matches had become routine over the past few months, and the cracks in their marriage only grew wider. Emily knew it was only a matter of time before one of them slammed divorce papers onto the table. Her brother, Thane, still held onto hope that they'd work things out, so she never voiced her own doubts.
Emily let out a slow sigh, tearing her gaze from the window to glance at her parents. They were at it again, voices rising and falling in sharp bursts, their frustration bouncing between them like a game neither wanted to lose. She could barely hear them over her music, but she didn't need to—she knew the script by now.
A gentle squeeze on her knee. Thane.
She glanced at her brother, who offered a small, knowing nod. It was their unspoken agreement: stay quiet, stay out of it, wait for the storm to pass.
Outside, the countryside blurred by in dark smudges of green and gold, the car's headlights carving through the deepening dusk. The road twisted ahead, empty and endless, swallowed by the trees on either side. Something about the stillness made her stomach clench—like the world was holding its breath.
Then, without warning, the shadows shifted.
A stag burst from the undergrowth, leaping onto the road in a single, graceful motion. It stood frozen in place, antlers towering, its eyes reflecting the oncoming lights like twin silver mirrors.
For a heartbeat, everything was still.
Then—
"Mum, watch out!" Emily screamed.
Her mother slammed the brakes, but the world had already tipped into chaos. The tires screeched, the car swerved violently, and before Emily could make sense of what was hap-pening, they were tumbling.
Glass shattered. Shards stung her face and eyelids. The force of the crash stole the air from her lungs as the car flipped, gravity shifting mercilessly. Everything outside blurred—green, brown, red—spinning in a sickening whirl.
Warmth trickled down the side of her face, dripping into her ear. Somewhere in the madness, over the crunch of metal and the deafening roar of impact, she heard them—Thane's screams, her mother's banshee-like wail, her father's ragged sobs of pain.
Then, silence.
The car had stopped.
Hanging upside down in her seat, disoriented and aching, Emily fumbled with her seatbelt. The buckle resisted at first, but then it gave way, and she collapsed onto the shattered wind-shield. Pain flared through her limbs as she dragged herself toward the broken window, her body sluggish and trembling.
Outside. Fresh air. Cold.
Somewhere nearby, a phone rang. Her phone.
Reaching for it with shaking hands, she barely recognized the device—its screen was cracked beyond repair, flickering weakly. She tried to answer, but the touch screen wouldn't respond.
Her breath hitched. Her hands curled around the useless phone.
And then—
She wasn't sure if it was the pain, the fear, or the sheer weight of everything crashing down on her, but the world tilted once more.
And this time, everything went dark.
Something sharp prodded her. A sudden rush of air burned down her dry, cracked throat, fill-ing her lungs with a sterile, almost antiseptic taste. It reminded her of hospitals.
That was fast… I'm not dead.
Mum. Dad. Thane. Are they okay?
Her thoughts tumbled over one another in a frantic spiral. Then came the pressure—the tight, unyielding restraint against her limbs.
Why am I strapped down so tightly?
Am I in an ambulance?
Emily's eyelids fluttered open, her vision swimming in a hazy blur. Dark shapes loomed over her, shifting in and out of focus. Above, harsh fluorescent lights flickered erratically, casting menacing shadows across the ceiling.
Figures in surgical masks stared down at her—not with concern, but with something colder, something almost… menacing. Their muffled voices reached her ears, speaking what should have been English, yet it sounded distant and unfamiliar, like a language she no longer under-stood.
Had she been hurt so badly that she needed immediate surgery?
Then she saw it—that look in the doctor's eyes. Not one of urgency or care, but something cruel. The gurney lurched forward, bursting through double doors as she was rushed down a series of grimy, dimly lit corridors.
Of course, it had to be Arkham Asylum. She couldn't have woken up somewhere safe, like Wayne Manor.
As she was rushed down the corridors, countless faces blurred past—doctors, guards, all avoiding her confused gaze. Beyond the reinforced glass of the cells, inmates stirred, watch-ing. Some had their heads wrapped in bandages, others sat hunched over, their backs turned. Her vision was still too hazy to pick out anyone familiar.
She half-expected the infamous villains to step up to the glass, one by one, playing their part in whatever nightmare this was. But no introductions came. No taunts. No eerie grins.
Instead, the double doors ahead burst open, and she was wheeled inside.
The room was almost completely shrouded in darkness, save for a single blinding spotlight that slammed down onto her. Her bed jerked upright, adjusted so she was level with the fig-ures moving around her. A stainless-steel tray was rolled into place—sharp surgical tools gleamed in perfect, sterile alignment.
Then, without a word, the doctors and nurses scattered like rats, leaving her alone in the silence.
A door groaned open, the sound dragging through the silence like a rusted hinge resisting movement. Footsteps followed—measured, lingering. The kind that sent a chill crawling up her spine.
Like a ringmaster stepping into the spotlight, a doctor emerged from the darkness. His pristine lab coat set him apart from the others, as did the surgical mask concealing his features. Emily had expected Hugo Strange at first, but something deep in her gut told her she was wrong.
He moved with calculated ease, each step deliberately slow, savouring the moment like a per-former drawing out a grand reveal. His gaze flicked toward the surgical tray; eyes gleaming with a boyish sort of delight as he plucked a pair of scissors from its neatly arranged instruments.
Then, at last, he turned to her.
Even with the mask obscuring most of his face, she could see it—the barely contained smile lurking just beneath. He took a measured step forward, positioning himself directly in front of her before reaching up and peeling the mask away.
And there he was.
Dr. Jeremiah Arkham.
Doctor Jeremiah Arkham chuckled, brushing a hand through his greasy black and grey-streaked hair, pushing the limp strands from his face. His deep brown eyes gleamed with something sinister—eager, hungry, like a child about to unwrap a long-anticipated present.
Emily's stomach twisted. There was something unsettling about him, a mixture of calculated intellect and pure obsession. He wasn't just another corrupt doctor—he was something worse.
This was the man who had tried to strip her of her gifts, the man who would have killed her without hesitation. She should have been thrashing against the restraints, screaming, fighting—but her body refused to obey. The weight of his presence alone felt suffocating, pinning her down just as effectively as the straps binding her wrists.
The thin, paper-like gown she wore could have been torn away with a single tug, but instead, Jeremiah took his time. With cruel, tender care, he lifted the hem, the cold air pricking at her skin. The gleam of the scissors caught in the dim light as he brought them to the fabric, pressing the blades together with a precise snip. Then another. And another.
Emily clenched her eyes shut, willing herself not to tremble. Each painstaking cut sent a nauseating ripple through her stomach, bile rising in her throat. The sound of metal slicing through fabric was deafening, drowning out the pounding of her pulse in her ears.
Her fingers curled into fists. She wouldn't cry. She wouldn't. But the dryness in her throat made it impossible to swallow, and the sick, twisting feeling in her gut only deepened as the gown fell open inch by inch.
"My, my, didn't you grow up fast."
His voice dripped with mockery, each syllable crawling under her skin like insects. Emily gagged, nausea clawing its way up her throat, but her body refused to obey the instinct to wretch. She couldn't move—couldn't even feel.
Jeremiah's fingers traced over her stomach, slow and delicate, as if soothing a child. But there was nothing. No sensation. No warmth. His hands drifted to her neck, her sides, her legs—searching, testing.
Panic screamed in her head, but her body remained still. Why can't I feel it?
Then he turned away, his fingers brushing over the metal tray beside him. The glint of some-thing larger, sharper, caught the light as he picked it up. A blade.
And with a steady, practiced hand, he began.
There was no pain.
Not when the knife pressed into her chest, not when it sliced through flesh with surgical precision. Not even when he peeled it away, exposing the fragile cage of bone beneath. She felt nothing as he carved deeper, methodically pulling her apart.
She should have felt it. The pressure, the tearing, the unbearable agony. But there was only numbness, a hollow absence where pain should have been.
Her breath remained steady. No ragged gasps, no screams. Even as Jeremiah reached inside her chest, carefully manoeuvring around the bones he had meticulously separated and cra-dled her heart in his hands—nothing.
Her eyes didn't waver, didn't flinch. She simply stared, her expression void of fear, of agony, of anything at all.
Then, lips barely parting, she spoke, her voice eerily steady.
"The Joker is going to string up your insides like a trophy above his fireplace."
Her warning was ignored. His blood-slicked fingers glided up her cheek, smearing crimson across her skin as though marking her as his own.
"Beautiful," Jeremiah murmured, his voice thick with twisted reverence. Then, with cruel deliberation, he raised her heart to his lips.
Emily watched in frozen horror as his teeth sank into the quivering muscle. A sickening squelch filled the air, followed by the wet, grotesque sound of flesh tearing. Warm blood drib-bled down his chin as he chewed, savouring the moment.
That was when the pain hit.
Agony unlike anything she had ever known—searing, mind-shattering, real. She hadn't felt the knife, hadn't felt the carving, but this? This was unbearable. Her body seized; her throat raw as an inhuman scream tore from her. It shattered the thick silence of the room, echoed off the cold, unfeeling walls.
But it didn't stop. It wouldn't stop. Not until he had devoured every piece.
By the time it was over, her chest heaved in shallow, broken gasps.
No relief came.
His hand tangled in her hair, yanking her head back with ruthless force. His face was suddenly too close, his breath warm against her blood-streaked skin. His dark eyes, alight with some-thing feverish, bore into hers as if peering into her very soul.
"You are mine," he whispered, and she felt it—like a brand, like a curse, like an inescapable truth.
Emily's scream ripped through the void—piercing, endless—until suddenly, it wasn't.
A gasp tore from her lips as she bolted upright. Gone was the suffocating darkness, the iron grip of restraints, the sharp scent of antiseptic and blood. Instead, there was warmth. Pillows. Soft sheets crumpled beneath her trembling hands.
Something small and familiar pressed against her side. A toy horse.
Her breath hitched, pulse hammering against her ribs as she frantically patted her chest, her arms, her stomach. Nothing. No torn flesh, no jagged wounds. Just smooth, unbroken skin.
It wasn't real.
She inhaled shakily, but the relief barely had time to settle before the memories of the crash came rushing back—spinning metal, glass exploding like shattered stars, her mother's frantic cries, her father's sobs and her brother's agony.
The nightmare still clung to her, Jeremiah's voice curling through her mind like smoke. The glint of his scissors, the cold precision of his hands. The gleeful hunger in his eyes.
Emily shuddered, dragging clammy hands over her face as if she could wipe away the linger-ing horror clinging to her skin.
Lying in an unfamiliar bed, she hesitantly peered beneath the covers—heat rising to her cheeks at the sight of her bare body. Panic flared as her fingers ghosted over her torso, searching for scars, stitches, any sign of violation.
Nothing. Just smooth skin.
A shaky, whimpering sigh of relief escaped her lips.
Slowly, she peeled back the sheets and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She needed to move, to ground herself, to prove she was really here.
But the instant her bare feet met the floor; one thought sank its claws deep into her mind.
What if the nightmare wasn't just a dream?
As Emily rose from the bed, she instinctively wrapped the blanket around herself. The cool air prickled against her skin, sending a shiver through her—not just from the chill, but from the creeping unease curling in her gut. Her fingers curled tighter around the fabric as she took in the room. Bright. White walls. A wardrobe. A large mirror reflecting her tense posture. A door leading into what appeared to be an en-suite bathroom.
It was clean. Nice, even. Too nice.
She stepped cautiously toward the bedroom door, peeking into the next room. A living space. A compact kitchen. A typical student apartment, but it didn't feel lived in. No mess, no clutter, no signs of her daily habits.
Whose apartment was this? Her grip on the blanket tightened.
A small pile of letters lay scattered near the door. Emily bent down, sifting through them with careful fingers. Junk mail. All addressed to her. It was her apartment. That much was clear.
Her gaze drifted toward the TV stand, where a framed photo of her and Cash sat beside it. They were grinning like old friends, frozen in a moment of effortless friendship.
Another picture drew her attention—her birthday. She was caught mid-breath, leaning forward to blow out the candles, their warm glow illuminating her face. Behind her, a handful of doctors stood smiling, their expressions filled with quiet joy.
At the far end, another photo, this one more candid. Her hair was a mess, as if she had just woken up, and the person beside her had an arm slung around her shoulders in a buddy hug, pulling a goofy face.
Moving on autopilot, she lowered herself onto the blue leather sofa, perching at the edge as if afraid it might reject her presence. Elbows resting on her knees, she pressed a hand to her temple, willing her pulse to slow.
Focus. Deep breaths.
She was here. She was awake. And Arkham City was out there.
How long had it been since she left the asylum? Judging by the letters, she guessed around six to eight months, though the apartment still carried that unmistakable new smell, like it had-n't quite settled into being lived in.
Her eyes landed on a small diary resting on the table. She picked it up, flipping through the pages. The handwriting was unmistakably hers, neat in some places, rushed in others. Week-end dates were marked with a single word: Lizzies.
It took her a moment before recognition clicked. A nightclub.
Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. Skimming back a few pages, she found an entry that made her stop.
"Interview for bouncer job."
Emily blinked. Then blinked again.
She let out a short, incredulous laugh. I'm a bouncer at a nightclub?
Out of all the possibilities, this was what she ended up doing?
A yellow post-it note was stuck to the fridge, its bold capital letters catching her eye.
BRUCE'S PARTY, 13TH JUNE, 7:30 PM.
Emily glanced over at the wall calendar, confirming what she already suspected—tonight was the night.
The time on the clock read five o'clock. That didn't leave much room to process everything. No time for a quick mental breakdown, then.
She grabbed her phone first, skimming through the latest headlines as she made her way to the shower. Articles about the Arkham Asylum takeover, its fallout, and the city's current state flashed across the screen, a chaotic puzzle she hadn't yet figured out how to piece together.
Setting the phone aside, she stepped under the warm spray, letting the water wash away the lingering unease still clinging to her skin. As she scrubbed away the remnants of sleep and the shadows of her nightmare, the fragmented news reports swirled in her mind, refusing to settle.
Her skin was still warm from the shower as she stepped into her room, towelling off her damp hair. The steam clung to the mirror, blurring her reflection, and for a moment, she didn't mind the distortion. It felt easier not to see herself too clearly.
She moved through the motions—moisturizer, a light layer of makeup, just enough to feel put together. A small ritual of normalcy, a routine that grounded her when everything else felt un-steady.
Her wardrobe stood open, the dark blue dress hanging inside a protective sheet. Elegant. So-phisticated. The perfect choice for a night like this. She unzipped the cover and let her fingers glide over the smooth fabric. At least she hadn't lost her sense of style.
The only real dilemma was footwear. The heels lined up in the wardrobe looked like they'd take her down before she even made it out the door. She briefly considered Converse—comfort over fashion, right? But in the end, she settled for a smaller, more manageable pair of black heels.
Standing in front of the mirror, she took herself in. The dress fit flawlessly; the makeup was subtle but polished. By all accounts, she looked ready.
And yet…
She sighed.
I look like a kid playing dress-up.
Her reflection stared back at her, the weight of unspoken expectations pressing against her chest.
Trying too hard to look older. Trying too hard to be something I'm not.
Emily sat on the edge of the bed, trying not to fiddle with the straps of her dress, turning her phone over in her hands. If she really had a life here, there had to be proof—messages, calls, something to anchor her to the identity she was supposed to have.
To distract herself from the bothering thoughts gnawing at the edges of her mind, she began scrolling.
The sheer number of messages hit her first. Notifications stacked up in long, unread chains—missed calls from Bruce Wayne, texts from Dick Grayson, even Alfred Pennyworth. Some contacts were just saved as initials, but a few group chat names made her stomach flip.
"Gotham's Dumbest Vigilantes"
That one had messages from Dick and Tim.
Dick: Is she ghosting us? She better not be ghosting us.
Tim: She's probably busy, or y'know, sleeping like a normal person.
Dick: She's not normal. She's one of us now. That means reckless behaviour and sleep deprivation are in the contract.
Tim: I dunno, I think there's a loophole where Alfred yells at you if you don't rest.
Dick: Yeah, but if she naps too much, that's suspicious. We might need to intervene.
Emily stared at the messages, her grip on the phone tightening. She was one of them?
Swiping out, she checked her call log. Bruce had called twice. Alfred once.
Then, buried beneath it all, an old text from Barbara Gordon.
Barbara: The offer still stands, Em. If you ever need out—really out—just say the word.
Emily frowned. What had she needed out of?
Another chat caught her attention, simply labelled "Wayne Bash" with Dick, Tim, Alfred, and—of course—Bruce.
Dick: Brian is gonna be at the party, just saying.
Tim: You've been trying to set them up for a year, let it go.
Dick: I WILL NEVER LET IT GO.
Bruce: If this conversation doesn't move on, I will let all of you go.
Alfred: Master Bruce, with all due respect, that was a dreadful attempt at humor.
Emily snorted.
So… she was close to them. Or at least, they were close to her.
As she fastened the last few touches to her outfit, a notification lit up her phone—the cab was waiting downstairs.
She hesitated, gripping her clutch a little tighter. Walking into a Wayne party alone, in a dress that made her feel like a kid playing dress-up, wasn't exactly her idea of a good time. But be-fore she could second-guess herself, her phone buzzed again.
Dick Grayson: Hope you're not backing out, Shortstack. I'm outside. Don't keep me waiting, I might start setting up blind dates for you just to keep myself entertained.
Emily snorted. Shortstack. No idea if that was an ongoing thing or if he had just decided to start calling her that today. Either way, she'd make sure to get payback later.
Shoving aside her lingering nerves, she made her way downstairs.
She barely had time to process everything she had skimmed through on her phone—the group chats, the teasing messages, the check-ins—before the cab rolled to a stop in front of the venue.
A line of sleek, high-end cars stretched down the street, their passengers stepping out in tai-lored suits and shimmering gowns—the very picture of Gotham's elite.
With a deep breath, she stepped out of the cab, smoothing her dress as she scanned the crowd. It didn't take long to spot him—leaning against one of the railings near the entrance, looking effortlessly cool in a perfectly fitted suit, hands in his pockets, dark hair swept back in that annoyingly charming way.
His blue eyes flicked up as soon as he spotted her, a smirk already tugging at his lips.
"Oh wow," he said, giving an exaggerated whistle. "You clean up nice. Are you sure you're Emily Rogers and not some fancy socialite imposter?"
Emily rolled her eyes. "Oh please, you act like I'm a cave goblin."
It took everything in her not to act surprised with how easy the banter came to her head.
Dick placed a hand on his heart. "I mean, I was gonna go with feral alley gremlin, but sure, cave goblin works too."
She huffed, swatting his arm as he laughed. "I almost appreciate you waiting for me. But if you keep up with the short jokes, I'm turning around and walking straight back to the taxi."
"You wouldn't dare." He grinned, then gestured toward the entrance. "Besides, I wouldn't let you. I'd just throw you over my shoulder and carry you in. You know, for dramatic effect."
Emily groaned. "God, I forgot you're that guy."
"Oh yeah, I'm absolutely that guy." He winked, then held out his arm for her to take. "Now c'mon. Let's get inside before Bruce gets stuck talking to another billionaire who wants to fund a totally legal new business venture."
Emily eyed his arm for a moment before looping hers through it, letting him lead her toward the entrance.
The ride up felt like it stretched on forever, each second dragging longer than the last. Emily shifted on her feet, resisting the urge to check her reflection again. The moment the soft ding echoed through the elevator, she took another deep breath, bracing herself.
As the doors slid open, a rush of laughter and chatter spilled in, the sounds of wealth and high society swirling around her. She hesitated for half a second before Dick gave her a reassuring squeeze and they both stepped forward.
With careful, measured steps, she eased into the crowded room, slipping between clusters of well-dressed guests like a ghost. The golden glow of chandeliers reflected off the crystal glasses, champagne bubbling at the lips of each flute. She sidestepped a passing waiter, nearly colliding with his silver tray, and exhaled quietly.
Just blend in. Keep to the edges. And let Dick do the talking.
She had to be here—at least, that's what the gossip sites claimed.
According to them, she was one of Bruce Wayne's newest "projects," a broken little stray he had plucked from the ruins of Arkham Asylum. After the chaos of the takeover, Wayne had made a very public commitment to restoring both the institution and its former patients, despite already being one of its top benefactors. The media had latched onto her story instantly, turn-ing her into a headline.
Of course, the speculation ran wild.
Some claimed she was nothing more than a pet charity case, a convenient poster child for Wayne's latest publicity stunt. Others spun more salacious theories—whispers that she was his secret love child, or worse, that she'd caught his eye in some other way. That one had made her laugh, albeit bitterly.
The truth, as always, was far less dramatic.
Wayne had simply decided that she—of all the broken souls in Arkham—was worth helping. And for better or worse, that meant the world was watching.
All around her, the party buzzed with the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses. The room was packed with Gotham's elite, many of whom she should have recognized. Some of them were undoubtedly figures from the comics and games she had once obsessed over, but standing here in the flesh, they were just faces in a crowd.
Still, a few names floated through the air that caught her attention—Minerva Matthews, the eccentric millionaire with a passion for music and rare instruments. Roland Daggett, a man whose name alone was enough to make people tense up; he had a habit of making problems for others while keeping his own hands clean. And Dana Blessing, Bruce's ever-efficient sec-retary, who was probably the only reason half the people in this room had made it here to-night.
The air inside felt thicker with every passing second. Between the press of bodies, the constant buzz of voices, and the artificial warmth of the chandeliers overhead, it was suffocating.
She needed air. Now.
"Hey, Dick, I need to step out for a moment," Emily said quietly.
He barely hesitated, though his attention flickered elsewhere for a second. "Of course," he re-plied, then gestured toward the far side of the room. "Balcony door's over there. I'll grab you something actually drinkable while you're gone—just a sec."
Slipping past a group casually debating stock markets, Emily followed his directions, weaving through the crowd. Out on the balcony, the air was crisp against Emily's skin, a welcome con-trast to the stuffy warmth of the ballroom. Gotham stretched out before her, a sea of glittering lights and towering skyscrapers, an illusion of elegance wrapped around the city's darker truths. She shivered, but not from the cold. She imagined that, once, Gotham's wind had been colder—harsher—back when the city had fewer heroes and more shadows lurking in its alleys.
A voice cut through her musings.
"Impressive, huh?"
She glanced to her side to see Brian Rogers leaning against the balcony railing, his deep brown skin catching the glow of the city lights, watching her with an easy smile.
"Gotham always is," she admitted.
Brian Rogers had been a rising football star, poised to go pro and use his success to support his family. He and Dick had been college roommates, and his big break had been set—scouts watching, a crucial game between Gotham State and State Tech.
But Gotham had other plans. The night before the game, Scarecrow tested a new strain of fear toxin on him. Under its influence, Brian saw the opposing team as monsters, breaking down in terror mid-play as the crowd watched in stunned confusion.
His dream should have ended there. But once the toxin was identified, he made a full recov-ery—at least physically. And against all odds, the Gotham Knights signed him the next day. A rare Gotham story with a happy ending.
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Rogers. You'll have to forgive me—I don't really know much about football," Emily admitted.
Brian let out a laugh. "Not to worry. We can save the sports talk for another time. Fancy par-ties like this? Strictly for business, right?"
"And gossip," Emily added, nodding toward a group of elegantly dressed women inside, their whispers and soft giggles passing between them like a secret currency. "Some things never change."
Brian chuckled, leaning in slightly as if sharing in the joke, the movement closing the space between them. A passing breeze carried the faint scent of his cologne—warm, distinct, and subtly reassuring.
"So," he continued, turning to face her, "Dick didn't tell me much, but I got the sense you're kind of a big deal. What's the story?"
Emily tilted her head. "I wouldn't say I'm a big deal. I just have… an unusual history with Ark-ham."
Brian smirked. "And yet, Bruce Wayne himself took you under his wing. Seems like a big deal to me."
She rolled her eyes. "I'm pretty sure he'd take in a stray raccoon if it looked sad enough."
"Yeah, but I don't think he'd dress a raccoon in fancy gowns and bring it to charity galas," Brian teased. "Unless it's a really impressive raccoon."
Emily snorted. "Well, I do bite."
"Noted." He held up his hands in surrender, laughing. "I'll keep my fingers away."
Before Emily could respond, a shift in the air caught her attention—more than just a change in the wind. Bruce Wayne had stepped onto the balcony, moving with a purposeful ease that made it clear he was here for her.
Brian straightened slightly, flashing him an easy grin. "Evening, Mr. Wayne. Hope you're not here to steal my date."
Bruce's smile was polite but brief. "Sorry to interrupt," he said smoothly, glancing between the two of them. "Mind if I borrow Emily for a moment?"
Brian gave a mock sigh. "Ah, and here I was thinking I had a shot."
"Maybe in another life." Emily shook her head with a smirk as Brian pressed a light kiss to her knuckles then dipped his head in farewell before stepping back inside, leaving her alone with Bruce.
"I see Dick is keeping his word" he commented, amusement lacing his voice.
She exhaled, glancing toward the glittering party inside. "Sorry, it's just... I don't think I'll ever get used to this. The fancy food, the expensive wine, and the gentlemanly company."
She studied him for a moment, the way the dim glow from the ballroom brushed against his face, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw. He looked comfortable in this setting, yet apart from it, like a shadow cast over polished marble.
Bruce's expression shifted, amusement giving way to something more measured. He lowered his voice just enough that no prying ears could overhear. "Your outfit is ready for testing in the Batcave," he said. "The equipment is still being finalized, but you'll have what you need soon."
A spark of excitement ran through her. "So, Shadowmare's about to become official?"
Bruce gave a slight nod. "We'll go over the details later, but you'll want to be prepared. It won't be-"
A flicker of movement from inside caught Bruce's eye, and his posture immediately changed. His smile faded, and a seriousness settled over his features, pulling his attention away from her and toward something unseen.
She turned to him. "What's up?"
Bruce didn't answer right away. His eyes flicked toward the grand hall, his stance just a little too rigid. She'd seen that look before, back when she was playing Arkham City. That wasn't 'billionaire philanthropist Bruce Wayne.' That was Batman.
Her stomach tightened. "Something's wrong, isn't it?"
Bruce exhaled slowly, tilting his head toward the party. "We need to get back inside."
The words had barely left his mouth before the doors to the ballroom floor burst open, and a flood of TYGER guards stormed in. The chatter turned to shrieks as guests scrambled away from the gunmen, hands raised in fear.
Emily felt her pulse spike. The world narrowed to a pinpoint as one of the guards stepped for-ward, his voice cutting through the chaos.
"Emily Rogers. You are under arrest."
Her breath hitched.
Bruce took half a step-in front of her, his entire posture shifting—subtle, but prepared. "Surely there's some mistake," he said smoothly.
One of the guards turned his rifle toward him. "Stay back, Mr. Wayne."
Emily barely registered the way the room was staring, how whispers rippled through the crowd. She only knew that her feet wouldn't move.
Three more demands for her to step forward. On the fourth, her body finally obeyed, numbly walking toward them, her head lowered.
A hand briefly brushed her arm—Bruce, still standing beside her. "Don't fight them," he mur-mured under his breath. "I'll handle it."
Before she could reply, the guards seized her, gripping her arms in a bruising hold. She was marched forward, barely hearing the murmurs of the guests or Bruce's voice rising behind her.
The elevator doors opened with a ding. The moment she was shoved inside, the doors slid shut, sealing her fate.
The silence was suffocating.
"Where are you taking me?" Her voice barely sounded like her own.
One of the guards chuckled. "I'm sure you know, sweetheart. A warm welcome waits for you in Arkham City."