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Chapter Text

Seven, frail and small, and already Selina was quicker than most. 

Though her legs were thin, more bone than meat, they carried her forward as necessary. As her hand slipped into the pockets, searching for scraps and coin, her waning muscles already began to stir. Hesitance would lead only to her death. Enough blood spilled in the streets every day. There wasn’t any use in letting hers spread and join the rest, pooling in a puddle like rain after a night of storms. 

Although she was quick, her fingers were clumsy. A hand often caught onto her small wrists, inclined to snap the brittle bone or peel her skin away. Her age was no contender for mercy. Strangers wouldn’t balk because she was young. Sonny Gilzean and the Pike brothers didn’t either, despite claiming to be a dear friend.

Friend, they called her, despite leaving her bruised and half-starved. If she looked their way for too long, they’d push her to the ground and steal the moldy bread from her hands. When tears welled in her eyes, they’d laugh and laugh.

Friendship was a transaction, she’d come to understand. They’d taunt her in exchange for her leftover food. A blade would be tucked under her skin and in return, she’d earn splotches of blue and black up her arms. A transaction on her part, it seemed. They always took and took. She gave and gave. What other choice did she have? They could kill her so easily. 

Selina clutched her arms to her chest in the dark alley, breath quickening. There was a body only a few feet away but she didn’t pay it any attention. Bodies littered every corner of the Narrows, abandoned by the remainder of the city. It was the reason for so much blood and muck and bones in the streets: the Narrows bred death. 

Enough shadows shrouded the Narrows to hide the ill, the half-starved, the dying or already-dead. Those elsewhere, with money and family, had no use for the sector of Gotham so terribly embedded with crime and decay. 

Selina turned her chin sideways and did her best to ignore the corpse beside her.

The man was half-rotted, nameless and smelling of piss. Selina tried not to think that, eventually, she would be dead in an alley. Alone and splattered in her own blood. With no one to remember her own name or search for the remains of her. 

With eyes hot, she blinked and held herself tighter. Her mother might search. Her mother, warm and gentle, with her soft voice and sweet hands. Selina slept close to her, tucked up against her chest in their little bed, searching for heat in the dead of winter when it was to be found nowhere else. Her mother had kissed her forehead just that morning, called her sweet girl, wished her a good day with her thin smile and tired eyes. 

And—that man that had been there. Outside their door, when Selina had left to search for crumbs as she always did in the mornings, gone till the sun set because there was nothing to do in the Narrows but evade death. 

That man, who watched Selina now from across the street. Eyes unblinking, hands unmoving. Suit clean and shoulders stiff. 

A man lay behind him on the pavement, alive but ill. Coughing, curled over at the stomach, and likely begging for medicine. His hand lifted, just grazing the ankle of the man. 

The man sneered, turning to kick him away, back to the corner to die alone. But—another. Appearing from the shadows, larger, taller, and the first withered under his gaze. 

His eyes lifted across the street and met hers. She wilted, knees tucking up against her chest.

Quick as Selina was, her muscles didn’t stir as they approached. She didn’t flee even as the second knelt in front of her, his knees turning dirty from the mud on the pavement. Once clean, now stained. 

“Do you recognize me?” he asked, steady and clear. 

Selina lifted her head and tried to pretend she was braver than she felt. “You’re from out there.”

“Out there?” 

Sharp, green eyes lowered to his suit. Only his knees looked brown and copper. The rest of his clothes didn’t have so much as a wrinkle. “You’re not from the Narrows. You’re not from here.”

No one ever left the Narrows. Those who lived within the grisly, crimson neighborhood of Gotham were streaked with dirt. Starvation ate away at their muscles, disease devoured their organs, and death lived beneath their skin. They were abandoned from birth. Damaged goods. The nameless, undeserving, scraps of the city. 

This man was from the city, maybe, but not the Narrows. Her mother had always told her that the rest of Gotham was wealthy. Perhaps with enough crime to keep them busy, but nothing close to here. Blood didn’t run down the streets of Little Italy. The dead didn’t lie discarded in Bristol. 

Only in the Narrows, did such depravity reside, as if all the destruction of the city were swallowed up by the neighborhood. 

“Neither are you, tesoro mio,” he said. My darling.

It was hers, he whispered in the shadows. An empire of blood, bone, and honor for her to serve. A family name to be adopted in exchange for the shedding of a layer of her skin. A life of fidelity soaked not in blood but integrity, if only she were to forget the years lived within the Narrow. 

A transaction. A simple trade. 

Whisked away, the sweet girl of the Narrows, with gaping wounds and blood-stained hands, forgot herself in favor of the pretty name Falcone.

The stench of the Narrows, sickly sweet like an overripe apple, stuck to her skin for years to come.

—

Her sister didn’t like her.

Half-sister, Selina corrected herself, as Sofia did so often.

“Miss?” 

Selina turned her eyes back to her tutor. Anna, young and sweet, kept her gaze low in her lap. Despite Selina’s age, Anna called her Miss, just as she did Sofia. 

“Sorry,” Selina murmured, eyes lowering to the pages in front of her. To her left, a snicker. Even as her cheeks went pink, she kept her eyes forward. 

Sofia’s barbs were shallow. Her taunts cut, but not to the bone. Still, every misstep was a pleasure for her half-sister to witness and brought about a laugh or sneer. A constant reminder that while Sofia knew every word to speak at which time, every step to take in which direction, Selina floundered. Unsteady, unsure. 

Anna’s gentle voice spoke clearly, but with Sofia’s narrow eyes trained her way, Selina could hardly think. It was like a blade placed beneath her skin, slicing her loose. Severing her mind from herself until all she could think of was how incomplete she was in comparison to her half-sister. 

“Lei è una vecchia amica,” Selina said slowly, tongue clumsy. She's an old friend.

Anna bit the inside of her cheek. 

Beside them, a sigh. 

“Lei è una vecchia amica,” Sofia repeated, quicker and smooth. “How long have we been at it and you still can’t pronounce the simplest of words?”

Selina withered. “I only just started.”

The lessons, long and tiresome, had only begun a few short months before. History, literature, math. Economics and statistics, politics both international and domestic. French, German, Mandarin, now Italian as well. 

None of it was dull. There wasn’t a moment or exercise she considered worthless, even if her hands ached and her eyes felt stale with sleep. It was a proper education, just as her half-siblings had been afforded. Selina was grateful that her Father considered her worthy of the same. 

Even if Sofia disagreed, loudly and without shame.

“Is that supposed to be a justification or an apology?” Sofia did not lower herself to meet Selina’s eyes but instead stood straight and still at the front of the room as she had all morning. 

Selina wasn’t sure which answer her half-sister preferred. Rather than speak, she bit hard into the muscle of her cheek. 

Sofia’s eyes lifted and she turned, waving away a bit of dust as she went. Beneath her breath, a mumble, something incoherent but likely seeped with repulsion.

This corner of the Manor was not one Sofia frequented often, the edges of the room shrouded in dust and grime.

It was the reason Selina was allowed her lessons. This corner of their home was silent, without interruption or attention. 

Selina wasn’t meant to be known to the others who wandered the halls of the Falcone Manor. Young, fidgeting, unaware of the customs of her family. A shameful secret that her Father wished to be kept away, not just during her long hours with Anna but during meals and sleep as well. Should she need the bathroom or a drink of water or to retire to her room, she was instructed by her Father to keep close to the shadows. Like a cat, to position herself against the walls, avoid the sunlight of the great windows that lined all of the halls, speak to no one and touch nothing. 

Do not leave a trace of herself within her own home. Do not admit to her own name.

It was a challenge not to drift about the many halls and rooms of the Manor. Voices could be heard from the floor below, never-ceasing chatter of the men her Father referred to as family with such an amiable grin. The heads that made up an empire soaked in crimson.

Chess pieces, Sofia would say. Loyal dogs begging for scraps. 

Sofia liked to pretend she was less of a dog than the rest. As if she didn’t live on her knees in front of Carmine Falcone, desperate for an ounce of all the power and attention he always decided was better suited elsewhere. 

Selina didn’t like to play pretend. In the Narrows, she’d watched men run in circles around one another, stealing coins and food off of each other’s backs. They’d all acted as if a bit of moldy bread or spare change was enough to survive one more day. Then, as the sun rose, they’d do it all again. 

Like at some point, something would tug and bend and give, and they’d be offered a sort of salvation that hadn’t been found up yet. 

It was a bluff, she thought, and an unkind one. Either way, death ate away at muscle and bone. It was an inevitability of the Narrows; whether death came at five or ten or sixty, it would come. Eventually, it would eat away at her too, till her bones lay abandoned in the streets like the rest.

Selina thought it was better to admit to it now than play a life-long game of pretend. 

Still, she knew that she was luckier than anyone in the Narrows. Now, she lived in Little Italy. Every night, she slept in a bed with warm, thick sheets, rather than with her bones crumbling beneath her skin. Meals were served systematically, and although she ate alone and in the darkness, she still ate. That was a privilege. 

“It’s about time we start history, Miss,” Anna said. Selina was grateful for the change, because she was better equipped for the minute details of history. In truth, she could remember Italian well, just as she could the other languages taught to her. 

The structure and words themselves were easily memorized. But as she spoke them aloud, her pronunciation was always clunky and strange. It made her half-sister and Father wince. 

Sofia lifted her chin, signifying her blessing. This was only one of many occasions she’d sat in on Selina’s exercises, whether out of boredom or an order from their Father, she was unsure. Perhaps she knew Selina faltered unreasonably beneath her gaze. 

Anna lifted herself out of her chair, moving to the back of the room to search for the history books. Without her, Selina felt much smaller. Closer to a bug than a girl beneath Sofia’s frown.

“Was Italian always your favorite to learn?” Selina asked, quiet and careful. 

“As opposed to what?” Sofia didn’t blink or waver. It wasn’t a habit of hers. 

Selina lifted a shoulder, lowering her gaze away. In her lap, she tugged on her fingers, nails digging into the skin of her knuckles.

“Don’t do that,” Sofia hissed. “You’ll bloody your hands again.”

The skin around her nails was red and raw. Her knuckles, pink. A few scars sat near her palms from where she had scraped away at herself before.

“Sorry.” Selina lifted her hands onto the desk, meaning to show they were separated. Sofia winced at the sight of her skin, awful and red and raw. As ugly as the rest of her. Imperfect and incomplete. 

“I don’t want to see that,” Sofia said, sounding truly sick. “Don’t be indecent.”

She lowered her hands back to her lap. Despite wishing to, she did not twist them together. 

Sofia was so complete. Proper, perfect, lovely Sofia. Diamonds sat across her neck, shining and glittering like the rest of her. Without instruction, she knew exactly how to hold herself: to smile pretty. laugh correctly, talk without tripping over her own tongue and walk without looking this way and that. 

Pure and beautiful and everything Selina failed to be. Jealousy turned her insides sour, but in comparison, she was so rotten. Like a piece of abandoned, molded meat. The way she stood looked awkward and crooked. The way she spoke, Italian or otherwise, was clunky and grating. The skin of her hands were pink and scarred and she was uglier than even imaginable. 

It was only when their Father was near that she could even stop her fidgeting and shifting. 

Tranquillo, tesoro, he’d say, his mouth close to her ear with a hand clasped over her shoulder. Steady, darling.

With his fingers clutched tight around her, she’d tremble and blink furiously, but her feet were always planted. Like a rabbit in a trap. Caught beneath the eye of the wolf. Prey in the mouth of the predator.

It made her feel like she’d never left the Narrows at all, like she had to still run from all those who meant to trap her to the ground. Rather than bruises and bloody wounds, he made her feel raw. Stripped bare to the bone, because being touched by him felt like he’d placed a knife beneath her and peeled back her skin.

Selina twisted her fingers together harder.

Being touched by him was a gift, she corrected herself. No matter how strange or unnatural it felt. Even if it made her twitch and wince, because he was never kind as he clasped a hand over her shoulder. When he grabbed at her neck or wrists, it wasn’t because he wanted her close, but because her attention had drifted and he had to catch it again.

It was only to fix her poor behavior. 

And as much as it hurt—his hands were too big and too cold and too tight—she always missed the touch as soon as it had left. Now, at the Falcone Manor, he was the only one to so much as graze a finger over her elbow. 

In the Narrows, her mother liked to keep a hand on her: smoothing down her curls or rubbing across her back. They’d slept in the same bed, searching for warmth against one another when it couldn’t otherwise be found in the hard winters. During meals, she’d sit in her mothers lap and clutch at her hands and tug on her clothes. She was always begging for her touch and attention. 

Selina bit into her cheek till she tasted blood. Shame curdled her stomach. Regret made her cheeks go pale. 

Her Father had told her to never speak about her mother, nor the years spent in the Narrows. It was an improper reminder of her dirty upbringing. 

Don’t even think of it, he’d said. During those first days that she’d come to the Manor, she’d always tugged on his clothes and cried and reached for him. Stupidly, she’d hoped that he’d reach back, like her mother used to. 

But he only pushed her aside. And that was what she was meant to do to the memories of her past. If she wished to be known as Selina Falcone, she had to surrender every thought she had of the Narrows, of starvation and corpses and any sort of scraps she found in between.

Her mouth flooded with red as she bit harder. Swallowed, bit, and repeated. 

“Miss?”

Selina froze, eyes darting up to find both her tutor and half-sister watching her. Anna’s gaze was low. Selina couldn’t make sense of it, but her tutor never met her eye. 

Except, Sofia watched Selina’s lap as well.

Selina looked down and found her hands red and wet. The skin over her knuckles was raw, dripping with blood. It had spilled across her knees, too, just a few drops that pooled over her dark pants.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, clutching her hands together. Wet, red blood smeared over the back of her hands. The smell of salt filled up her nose. “I’ll clean them. I’m sorry.”

Now that she’d noticed the cuts, her skin stung. 

When her head slipped away and she thought about things that were improper, this was the consequence. Like the Narrows, or her mother. Ripping up her knuckles or fingers was an appropriate punishment for her daydreaming. Blood and discomfort was a suitable discipline. 

In her mouth, copper ran between the backs of her teeth. The inside of her cheek, tender and sore, was another punishment. At least when she bit into the muscle of her cheek, Sofia would not be able to see the blood. That, she could swallow away. 

“Go,” Sofia said, sharp and biting. “Clean yourself up.”

Selina stood in silence, hands clutched to her chest. Droplets of blood slid down to her wrists. 

Without a hand on her shoulder, she felt unsteady and frail. Her heartbeat ticked faster as Sofia’s eyes remained on her retreating figure. It was shameful to be so fragile without another’s guidance. 

Selina imagined herself heavier than she was, weighed down by a tight hand on her shoulder. Tugging her down the hall. 

Maybe she was a rabbit with a foot stuck in a trap, prey between the teeth of a predator, but at least she was alive.

—

Selina didn’t leave the Manor often. It wasn’t a reward offered to her by her Father. 

Instead, he’d begun to offer her other sorts of gifts, like little treats in the form of sweet fruit and pastries. Sometimes, he’d give her history books, and they were the only possession that truly filled up her dark little bedroom. They were things that she hadn’t even known existed before she’d come to Little Italy. 

Her Father was always pleased by her easy, eager acceptance. Especially when he’d give her knives, silver around the handles and gleaming around the blade. It was only then, when she took them with her palms outstretched, that he’d smile. A glint of something she didn’t truly understand always crossed his eyes: something that scared her. Something that made her skin itch. 

The gifts were generous and lavish. Each one was evidence of the wealth that her blood-family drowned in: more than could be spent in a hundred lifetimes. It left her only marginally ill to think of the discrepancies of the city: the wealth that so many families like hers and the Wayne’s and others had compared to those in the Narrows.

It was better not to think of it at all. Better, instead, to be grateful for what she had been given. Those people in the Narrows were not her blood and flesh, not like Sofia and Mario. The neighborhood was not her home. The maiden name that she used to use no longer belonged to her, not like Falcone did now. 

Selina was grateful for what she had. The gifts, the name, and the empire that her Father wished for her to serve. And, more than anything, she was grateful to have been offered salvation.

Such a gift was a debt impossible to repay, even if she were to live a thousand lifetimes. It couldn’t be compensated for in simple coin. It required devotion paid for in blood and bone and marrow, every piece of her peeled away. The entirety of her being, carved up and placed at her Father’s feet for judgment. 

Selina would reward her Father’s investment and prove that she was worthy of the liberation offered to her. 

Except. It would be so much easier without the sweet, grating voice of her half-sister in the back of her skull. 

Anders Preparatory Academy was beautiful, just as Sofia promised. Massive, with large columns and more windows than Selina could count. 

It was a risk to visit the school, even if she were hidden in the shadows far from any visible eye. During the first days at the Manor, her Father had asked her to make a promise: live in the shadows. Haunt the halls, speak to no one unless first spoken to, receive permission if she wished to step outside and into the gardens. Like a fly on the wall. Nameless, unknown. 

Should her Father discover her here—in the sunlight—she would pay the price in blood. A strike to the nose most likely, blood running down to her mouth. Maybe a broken finger, knuckles turned blue and purple. A well-aimed blow to correct her disobedience. 

Selina’s good, loyal father was not present to amend her wrong-doings, and so she punished herself on his behalf. 

Teeth bearing down on the inside of her cheek, she bit till blood flooded the back of her mouth. It would taste of copper as she walked home. The skin would sting and turn her stomach this way and that with shame, and she considered herself properly penalized.

This school had once been home to both Mario and Sofia. Neither of her half-siblings had been required to spend their education at the Manor, in a dusty corner with only a single tutor to keep them company. 

They had been permitted life within the sunlight. Only Selina was tasked with the shadows and dust of the Manor.

Children began to swarm outside, down the front steps of the school and onto the pavement.

All her age, Selina thought. Her age. And yet, they were not her peers or her friends. These children did not belong to her. Their names and company were not hers to have. But she could not help but wonder, with a twitch of aching hurt, if they’d have wanted to share in her presence. If she’d have attended this gaudy, rich school, would they have sat with her at lunch? If given the chance, which girl would she prefer to giggle with, which boy would she prefer to smile at?

They stood packed together in groups, laughing and pressed close. They were all individually aware of their status: who belonged and who did not. Who operated as the rabbit and who the wolf. Which individual belonged within the teeth of the other. 

Sofia called her own class of peers useless. Doglike, she’d said. Drooling and desperate and no different from their Father’s playthings. 

Selina twisted her sore fingers together and tried not to frown too visibly. 

Sofia was always eager to whine and complain about her time spent at this school: about the girls who’d followed after and the boys who had hungered for her. Sofia liked to dangle those stories over her head, because she knew that Selina wanted it more than anything. 

It wasn’t fair, she thought. Sofia had hated everyone at Anders Prep. Sofia called them useless, stupid, and boring. Desperate and hungry. Unworthy of her time. And yet, they had belonged to her in a way that no one would belong to Selina. 

Sofia had been allowed to know them. Have them. Use and discard them. 

Selina wanted that. Maybe she didn’t want playthings, or to be a bully like her half-sister, but she wanted someone to know. Someone to sit with, laugh with, talk to. Someone to know her name. Someone to have as her own, like Sofia had. 

These boys and girls were meant to be hers. But she knew nothing of them and they knew nothing of her. Such deep, bruising loneliness felt like acid poured down the crevice of her ribcage. It shriveled up the soft tissue of her stomach and dissolved the divots of her spine. 

Selina inhaled sharply and kept her chin forward. 

If she could not have them, she could at the very least watch them. Try to know them from afar. Their names didn't need to be known for her to understand their behavior. 

A group at the front caught her eye. The four of them were radiant and perfect. They stood together each and every time that she had come. It was expected, the way they cooperated with one another. Like a well-rehearsed performance rather than classmates speaking in conversation. 

They gravitated together like planets around the sun. Their own solar system. Other students parted on the stairs to make way, gazes lifting to watch them descend.

At the front of the group stood a girl with silver-blonde hair, leading the pack. Without turning her chin backwards, her mouth moved and her fingers wiggled. As she spoke, the other three students watched her, attention sapped to her body, and she likely knew it without having to look. 

It was a blameless action on her part: she was beautiful and as bright as the sun. Beneath the afternoon light, her hair was white and golden. A diamond, small but sparkling, sat straight and pretty across her neck. 

Selina, just like the others, watched her, transfixed. 

The other girl, dark haired and with softer features, was just as beautiful. But beside the silver-blonde, she looked small. Plain. Nearly boring. 

The two boys of the group operated similarly. 

The first was tall and rowdy. Dark-haired, hands constantly moving, feet always shuffling. Unable to stand in place, too busy searching for attention that was always sapped elsewhere.

And—the other. Quiet, restless. His hands always trembled and his eyes darted left to right rather than meet the gaze of the others. 

It was him, not the silver-blonde, that Selina thought fascinating. The girl was expected; a sharp smile, pretty face, and perfect gait. Demeanor perfect and poised, even if something cruel lingered behind her teeth. 

But the boy was something else entirely. A flinch wracked his body if an elbow or knee grazed him. When the others tried to draw him closer, he fell back. His hands were carefully covered in leather gloves, the skin of his neck buried beneath the high collar of his clothes, and every fragmented piece of him visible appeared tightly-strung. 

It was evident in his thin smile how skewed he’d made himself. Like he didn’t quite fit in with these peers and had bent himself out of shape just to try and belong. Coiled and warped out of place, unable to bend or bow further than he’d already constricted himself. 

It must be exhausting to damage the body in such a way: to tilt, bend, turn, and twist every limb, and still endure. To be so inadequate and required to distort oneself further. 

Selina bit hard into the inside of her cheek. 

It was nearly time to return home.

The silver-blonde put a careful hand on the boy’s shoulder, even as he winced and drew himself back. It was a game the two played: the girl always the winner, the boy the loser. She tested the limits of how close she could come before he would fall away. Polite as he seemed, he never spit or shoved, only offered a thin smile. His hand, covered in thick black leather, lifted up to his shoulder as rubbed a circle, as if her touch had burned through the fabric of his uniform.

The girl smiled, cat-like and quick. 

Selina stepped back and disappeared into the shadows of the trees. Their games were not hers to play.

—

Mercy was a rare gift, scarce and often unthinkable. 

A wrongdoing must be paid sufficiently in blood. Absolution could only be achieved through equal measures of repayment. Otherwise, the debt of offense would never truly be met. There would be a stain, like wine spilled on linens. 

The man was blue in the face, eyes swollen shut and bleeding from the mouth, but—the debt was not yet sufficiently paid.

Selina’s knuckles ached. Only an hour before, she’d worked open an old cut and the skin continued to sting. Luckily, she knew now how to dig her nails into herself just enough to hurt, but not enough to draw blood. 

There was enough of that already.

At the front of the room, blood pooled and dripped by the turncoat: Leo Gallo. A soldier. Most often delivering packages and distributing checks to the GCPD on behalf of her Father. Low in rank, young in age, often unassuming. 

Now, a spectacle.

Selina swallowed the temptation to bite her cheek, or dig open the cut at her knuckles, or even shut her eyes. Movement of any sort wasn’t allowed. Every man in the room stood still, carefully watching as her Father described his crime.

Beside him, Sofia stood straight. The skin around her eyes was pink and it was the only real proof that a disturbance had occurred. Her shoulders were drawn low as always, hands carefully held behind her back, mouth straight and polite. 

Beneath the fabric of her suit, there would be a mark. Small, pale, but evident. Fingerprints around her wrist, pink soon to turn blue, discovered and halted before anything else could occur. 

Gallo clutched at his stomach, stumbled to the left with a gasp when her Father stepped forward. Beneath his shoes, blood splattered with each step. It would stain, but her Father would only toss them and purchase another pair.

Under his breath, Gallo murmured incoherent thoughts. Senseless pleads in Italian too quiet for her Father to hear. Begging for mercy would result in only a more bloody sentence. 

Her Father spoke of family, of an empire made up of faith rather than blood. He met the eye of every man in front of him, every man who would kneel by his feet or offer up a limb without delay. The men that split blood for him, broke bone for him, buried the dead that he couldn’t even remember the names of. 

In the corner, Zsas beamed and bounced on his feet. The butcher’s blade in his hands shone. Clean, silver. 

Selina’s heart quickened. It wasn’t the first time that she had witnessed this. Her being summoned was not just a privilege or a test to be seen in front of the masses. It was a reminder that she was not exempt from compensation. And the debt required of her was larger than most. 

Gallo’s knees shook but he did not kneel. Little noises escaped him, like a child whimpering for comfort. Something battered and ugly. The blade spun between Zsas’ fingers. 

Her Father took the knife with clean, bare hands. It was his duty to exact punishment. 

“Blood demands blood,” he said. Sofia’s eyes lifted a fraction. A barely-there gleam of delight twisted her mouth, so minuscule it had passed in a blink. Its visibility wasn’t necessary. Selina knew Sofia’s heart was likely hammering, maybe with fear an hour prior but now with pleasure. 

This was a demonstration of her standing. Their Father demanded blood only when his children were the casualty. Compensation would still otherwise occur, properly and fully, but not like this. Not with a butcher’s knife and a crowd. 

Without instruction, Gallo stretched out his hand for prosecution. 

The knife lifted and stood still. Selina looked to her Father and found him already watching her. This was not just a necessary discipline, but a reminder for each spectator. To never touch Falcone’s own. 

The first time that she had ever been called to the Great Hall, she had nearly fled. The man in need of punishment had lost his eyes, the blade sinking only deep enough into his skull to blind him. Blood had splattered. Selina’s own knuckles turned red under her nails, her heart ticking and stomach twisting up and around. 

Since then, she had become better at remaining still, just as her Father desired of her. A lost finger or shattered knee made her wince. Beatings and pools of blood left her ill. Torn skin, split bones, tainted bodies. They were all lessons. Even if they left her biting down on her cheek and wishing to clamp down on her ears, to shut out the screams of the offender and sight of crimson staining the floor, she remained still. 

Well behaved, polite, good.

The blade lowered. Blood sprayed. Selina refused to wince or blink.

Later, her stomach would turn. Later, she would heave and puke in the corner of her room, thinking only of the blood in the streets of her once home. The stench of it that continued to permeate her skin, no matter how she scrubbed within the shower till she turned pink. 

She could try all she liked to shed her skin, layer by layer, split herself open and extract her organs one by one. Replace each of her bones and give herself a new name. Forget who she was, turn herself into something shiny and new. She would smell of it still, dirty, unclean. Blood would stain her hands till she’s been claimed by death, and even then she’ll be buried with it pooled in her throat.

Selina met the incessant gaze of her Father and swallowed copper. 

—

Commissioner Gordon spoke of peace as if it were a commodity. Easily bought, easily sold. Something to distribute throughout the city and never once would it be disrupted again.

The late Commissioner Loeb thought it was best to leave matters of such consequence to Carmine Falcone. Jim Gordon couldn’t quite conceive that his department held less influence over Gotham than a rat in the Narrows. 

“He considers the Narrows neutral territory.” Her Father slid a photo of the Commissioner across the table. She took it with gentle fingers even if she already knew his face. Beside him stood his pretty wife, blonde and smiling with her teeth. “Neutral.”

“Like you haven’t spent so much time perfecting the neighborhood,” she said. Something sharp and tight bit at her ribs. It stung to speak of the Narrows as if she had never stepped foot in the streets. Nothing but a ghost with its memory to haunt her. 

Her Father’s mouth twitched, pleased. Like they were passing a joke back and forth.

Nothing regarding the Narrows could ever be considered neutral. The Commissioner was either thick in the skull or edging toward suicidal. Every inch of the territory lived beneath Falcone fingertips. Under the cover of dark, drugs passed between fingers. Assault occurred within the shadows, wrongdoings made right with blood. The dead were disposed of in the streets, corpses abandoned and never thought of again. 

Every rat and bug, every crumb and coin, every corpse. All the living and dead. It was his. Where the sunlight touched pavement and the rain pooled in potholes. Where the shadows hid the crimes of his men and grass grew only to rot. It belonged to Carmine Falcone. 

“He wants to pour money into the neighborhood,” her Father said, careful and quiet. “Thinks that a few ten thousand will cure the spikes of illness and constant starvation.”

Selina lowered the photo. “That’s never been a problem before.”

“Yes,” her Father agreed. “But Leob was good about following my instructions.”

Meaning, rather than direct the money toward the shelters in the Narrows, allow it to disappear. Let it run through the drug lines rather than as a method of aid. Commissioner Leob was reliable when it came to money, always letting it slip from his hands so long as a portion happened to slip into his pockets. 

“And Commissioner Gordon?”

Another photo slid her way. Commissioner Gordon peering over a body, one that had been dumped in the Narrows. A body meant to remain nameless and forgotten. Behind him, tape surrounded the area, others from his department standing in groups. Bringing attention to the bodies of the Narrows meant attention to all the crimes her Father wished to remain buried.

“Gotham is in ruins, Selina,” her Father said. “Gordon can’t see it’s just the right sort of ruin.”

The Falcone Empire was an unidentifiable cloud over Gotham. All the crime and death had to come from somewhere, but nobody, none of the cops or press or everyday citizens, could really understand where it began. They knew a crowd of dogs and killers made up the masses of an empire too substantial to stop. But at the head sat unspecified, unnamed King pulling the strings and bathing in blood. 

The Commissioner was lost, Selina thought, to what truly occurred in the shadows, despite much of it occurring as a consequence of his own men’s incompetence. Half the men of the department disregarded the crimes of their family when it meant receiving an anonymous bonus in return. 

Selina lifted her eyes from the photo in her fingers. Looked back to the photo of Jim Gordon. 

Commissioner Leob had died quickly, the tires of his car slipping on wet pavement, his head slamming against the wheel. Dead on impact. 

An order to things usually came to follow. Checks and balances, trials in the shadows, insurances in places to make sure within the department were men that Carmine Falcone trusted. Jim Gordon had slipped through the cracks. 

If her Father was meeting with her now, Commissioner Gordon’s death had already been fixed. Circled in red ink on the calendar. 

“Do you mean to…” she started, tongue fuzzy. “Will it be like Gallo, then?”

A public show of power. Blood spilled and mercy absent. 

Her Father’s face didn’t so much as twitch. 

“Do you already have someone else in mind?” she said. If she was meant to sit in the back of the room, watch Jim Gordon’s throat be cut, she would sit still and quiet. There was no need to remind her of the importance of her character. Attending those punishments and tests of loyalty were a privilege. She wouldn’t dishonor her Father by attracting attention. 

“I’m not going to kill him.” 

Selina tried not to wrinkle her mouth. The economics of her family’s business wasn’t hers to understand. She kept to her books, studying history and languages, learning what little scraps were afforded to her. Only what her Father asked her to know.

The secrets slipped between her textbooks pages were curious. Irregularities that she didn’t question. The first, a newspaper clipping detailing the death of Martha and Thomas Wayne, their blood spilled across an alleyway. The face of the boy she’d so regularly seen at Anders Academy was plastered across the front: his face wet with tears, shoulders drawn low. The paper was years old now, but he was no less small. 

More followed. Details about the drugs that passed through the Narrows. Files about the spies planted within Wayne industries, men planted long before the death of Thomas Wayne. Those within Arkham Asylum, dissecting which of the incarcerated were sick and which could be used to further spike crime if only the gates suspiciously opened. 

Selina knew, now, of the death of Commissioner Leob. Of Bruce Wayne tugging on strings he shouldn’t be, the very same as Jim Gordon. Searching for the cause of so many missing persons in Gotham, the reason for so much money missing in Wayne Industries and others. Why so much blood stained the streets. 

The cause of so much chaos was all the same. He sat in front of her, his suit clean and shoulders straight. 

Her Father crossed his fingers over one another. “Why do you think I’ve given Anna to you, tesoro?” Darling.

Her shoulders lifted at the sweet nickname, something warm poking at her stomach. He didn’t often speak to her so gently, especially when it was clear she couldn’t understand what he wished for her to.

“All those lessons.” He tilted his head. “Did you think it was all for fun?”

“No,” she said. Fun wasn’t sitting in a dusty corner with only Anna to keep her company. Sofia, mocking her poor accent when she couldn’t keep up with Italian. “I’m here to help you, aren’t I? That’s what you told me that day.”

Selina didn’t address the Narrows. It wouldn’t benefit her to anger him by acknowledging her time spent there.

Her Father sat back in his chair. “And do you feel like you’ve done your part?”

Atop the table, his knuckles sat lax and clean. His tone was quiet and curious. Her Father wasn't searching for a fight. 

Regardless, her ribs felt tight, like a needle had been inserted between the grooves. 

When she was five, Sonny Gilzean had called on her. Asked if she was hungry, and when she’d said no, that she’d found scraps that morning, he’d sat on his heels and smiled. The bread she’d stolen that morning had been his, he’d told her, the coin she’d nabbed from an unsuspecting pocket his. Meaning a debt was owed, and if she couldn’t return what she’d taken, she’d pay in blood.

It’d taken weeks for her ribs to heal. They ached, now, like a sharp hit had been delivered till they snapped in two.

Rather than twist her fingers or bite at her cheek, Selina smiled. With sugar coating her tongue, she said, “Whenever you need me, I’m here. I’d like to honor the Falcone name however necessary.”

Her Father smiled. 

It made her heart skip, twist, and fall to the floor.

The sight of his mouth quirked and bright was no relief. Sometimes, he smiled down at those he was punishing, as they screamed and writhed below him. Others, he’d clasp a hand over Sofia’s shoulder and grin with all of his teeth showing. 

This smile was all wrong. Gnarled and predatory. Hungry and bent out of shape.

“Good,” he said, teeth white like bone. “Very good.”

Selina abandoned the photo of the Commissioner. Her Father shifted forward, leaning toward her across the table.

“Did all that business with Gallo scare you?” he asked. 

“No,” she lied. What use was there to admit her unease over such incidents? That it turned her stomach till she was ill, picked at her skin like bugs crawled over her. 

“I remember how you used to cry, after.” 

Something sour and sharp jabbed at her chest, slid between the notches of her ribs. There was no smile on her Father’s face, now, only impatience. Displeased to have such a shame of a daughter. 

A thin smile turned at her mouth. “I’m sorry I disappointed you.”

“Don’t apologize,” he bit. His eyes fell to where her knuckles were hidden beneath the table. Guilt churned her stomach. “What good are your tears if you’re just going to do it again?”

It wasn’t an unfair allegation. Long before Gallo, before she had learned to restrain her poor attitude, her hands were always the source of her attention. They split open beneath her own nails, dripping red and making a mess of things. 

At dinner, in the Great Hall, during lessons. It wasn’t an appropriate time to open herself up, and yet the night often ended with her knuckles red and wet. A puddle on the floor. Shame curdling her stomach like milk in the back of the fridge. 

It was only meant to be a distraction or punishment for her wrong doings, but it seemed even in that regard, she was insufficient. The white, thin lines across her hands would always be a cause for disappointment. Selina could revoke the humiliation she brought him with such ugly, exposed damage. 

It had taken her some years to substitute tearing open her knuckles for more private affairs. The skin inside of her mouth was scarred and irregular, always sore and always red, but hidden from her Father’s view. 

“Try to be better,” he said.

Selina nodded and murmured an affirmative.

It tore up her insides to know that he thought she wasn’t trying. Ever since arriving at the Manor, all she’d done was try. It had taken years of watching, copying, practicing. Replacing herself with a shinier, sharper model. 

She’d gutted herself from the inside out: dipped all of her organs in bleach so that they would be fresh and clean. Bled herself dry and split her skin from her body. Every bone and ligament was newly washed, unsullied and ready to use. 

There was always something to be perfected. Always something to be remolded, bent into a new shape, made even more perfect. Always an old, rusted piece of her to discard and peel and pluck and replace with something better. 

The tone with which she spoke. Her accent, when she spoke in Italian or German or one of the others her Father had asked her to learn. Her walk, quiet and quick. Exchanging the gashes in her knuckles for her torn-up cheeks. 

Selina was better, now. All because she’d made herself better.

Her Father had awarded her for it. Replaced her literature lessons for something more physical, time spent learning to take a hit and give one back. Learning to flip a blade and hold a gun steady. Hours outside rather than in the dust, running laps and soaking in sunlight she never before had been afforded.

Selina’s commitment was being rewarded. Her ability to be good was being seen. 

How could he still think she wasn’t trying?

Her teeth nearly sunk into her cheek, still aching and sore. Her Father shifted and she paused, teeth clenching.

“There’s something I want you to do for me,” he said.

“Yes?” She straightened too quickly, chin lifting, and he smiled. 

“You’re eager now. That’s good,” he sighed, beginning to collect the abandoned photos of the Commissioner. “When you understand what I’m asking, you might not be.”

Her face twisted.

“That day, with Gallo,” he started, and her knuckles clenched over her knees. “What did you think?”

“What did I,” she paused, let her tongue turn sweet rather than fuzzy, “think?”

“Who was I, that day?” He sat straight, photos resting in his hand. Though his skin was clean, for a moment she saw only red, staining his knuckles and palms. Heard only the scream of Gallo as the butcher’s knife swung. He’d healed well, she’d heard. There was no infection, just a sore lump where his hand had been.

There were a thousand ways she could answer, fill the gaps of what her Father was searching for. The day, the blood, the screams, the punishment. A monster, a king, a hunter. Her Father.

Rather than say anything like that, she swallowed and lifted her hands out of her lap. As she crossed them above the table, the white scars over her skin gleamed. 

“An executioner,” she answered. 

Her Father tilted his head, gaze stuck to hers. “Executioner.”

It was not the answer he was expecting, she thought, as he settled backwards. It was appropriate nonetheless, and his eyes shone as he watched her. Something gleamed, pride and delight so bright it turned her dizzy.

Better, she thought. And she’d be better still.

—

It was quiet in the hall. Shadows lined every crack and corner, dusk swallowing up every speck of light that remained. It was late and Selina was meant to be in bed, asleep and tucked away from the halls of the Manor, but nightmares turned her restless. Memories of broken ribs courtesy of Sonny Gilzean and bruises at the hands of the Pike brothers. 

All she’d wanted was a moment to quiet her nerves. Maybe a minute in the gardens, amongst the roses and peonies. 

There wasn’t meant to be anyone in the shadows. Just her.

A creak of the floorboards made her turn. Along the wall, a shadow shifted. A fuzziness took over her head, unease chipping away at her weary head. 

The shadows parted, making way for a man. Wilson. A soldier. His face was recognizable, but the late hour gave her pause. The hand, rising and clasping onto her shoulder, turned her stomach. Panic, sharp and sour, nipped at her ribs, like she’d swallowed acid. It twisted her throat and her teeth dug into her tongue till blood flooded her mouth.

The hand tightened, drawing her close to his body. Wilson was tall, his shoulders broad and his smile gleaming.

A touch from her Father often made her go still, turned her quiet. This felt like a snare over her ankle. Wire biting down till her bone showed, white and pearly. 

Beneath her own clothes, tucked close to her hip, sat her own blade. Her fingers fell, trembling. Searching.

“Selina,” he murmured, soft and sweet. 

A wet gasp escaped her bloody mouth. Inside her aching, briny chest, her heart ticked and beat. This way and that, so loud it could be heard in her ears. Pulsating and twisting out of shape. So quick her head swum, like time she’d run a mile without eating beforehand. Sweat made her palms feel wet and tacky. 

Silver glinted in the hand by his side. A blade, small and clean. It lifted, aimed low toward her stomach.

The abstract snare curled tighter, coiling like a snake up her legs. Barbed wire cut into her chest, gutted her clean. 

“Please,” she gasped, fingers clutching her own blade. “Don’t.”

Wilson only smiled, wolfish and white. The fingers that held tight over her shoulder dug in further, clutching at bone and muscle. It hurt and she winced, eyes wide and chest heaving with breath. 

“Please,” she said again, even as he pulled his arm back to strike.

For a long breath, she thought about her mother. The hold over her arm wasn’t anything like her mother, because that sort of touch has always been gentle: soft fingers against her scalp, pulling back her curls to press a kiss to her forehead. Warm palms against her back, rubbing circles into her skin when she couldn’t sleep. Arms tucked over her chest. Hands held over her own. 

A weak heave of a sob climbed up her ribs. Eyes hot, cheeks red. Stomach turning and ribs aching. It was like she’d never left the Narrows at all. 

Selina shoved herself backwards. Her stomach rolled, turning inside out as sickness rose within her throat. Wilson’s arm fell forward and she lifted up her own, meaning to push him away, gripping tight at the handle of her blade. 

Hard and fast, she struck. It forced her back an inch and her spine collided with the wall. A sharp ache of pain flared up her muscles and skin at the impact and she hissed, wet and quiet. 

A cry echoed through the hall and she lifted her gaze. The blade, the one she’d found within her pocket, the one her Father had gifted to her. Rather than clutched between trembling fingers, held against her sweaty palm, it had slid within Wilson’s eye. 

His shoulders shook, a hand rising to clutch at his face. Blood poured from his eye and covered his skin. His nose, his mouth, down his chin. Red was all she could see. 

Selina pulled the blade away. Rather than listen to his shout of pain, she lifted her hand again, struck hard and quick. It slipped into his neck. A wet, sputtering cry came from Wilson. Something awful and entirely human. Something made only in the depths of pain. 

There was only red in front of her. Wet, sticky blood. Down his neck and coating her blade. On her hands. The smell of it made her gag and she put a hand to her mouth a moment too late, smearing it over her skin as she cried. 

His body heaved, staggering backwards and trembling as he fell to the ground. His chest moved, slow and terrible, searching for breath that couldn’t be found amongst the blood. 

“Oh,” she breathed, horrified and brimming with terror. Disgust, too, but not toward the mess of squelching, squishy skin: toward herself. She had done that. She’d hurt him. “Oh no. Oh, god.”

Around the corner, another sound. Another shadow, turning. 

Selina turned, blade brandished, chest heaving. Eyes wet and hands red. 

Except. Her Father came, stunned and delighted, eyes searching between the body and her. There was no difference, she thought, frantic alarm gnawing away at her heart. The body was hers. A blade to the eye and split-open neck, her trembling hands at fault. Blood on the wall and floor, spilled by her. Corpse on the ground, hers to claim. The body was hers. Hers, killed. Hers, claimed. Her wretched burden.

“It was a mistake,” she said, trembling and weak. Her tongue tripped over itself. “An accident.”

“No, Selina,” he said, gentle and proud. “It wasn’t.”

Her Father came near, even with her blade still raised, still dripping. 

“I didn’t want to,” she murmured. All she’d wanted was his hands off of her body.

“You did, my sweet girl,” he said. “My executioner.”

Selina’s stomach swooped. Her mouth went dry. That wasn’t—that wasn’t what she’d said. Wasn’t what she’d meant. This wasn’t her burden or duty to carry. 

A hand brushed over her curls, sticky with sweat. 

“You knew,” she whispered, eyes landing on Wilson’s prone figure. He no longer searched for breath. “You—you did this. You wanted him to hurt me. You wanted this.”

“No, tesoro mio,” he corrected, “you wanted this. Just like I knew you did.” My darling.

Selina thought herself to be a bug beneath a scalpel. Skin peeled away. Organs pulled out one by one. Blood drained and dried up. 

Over her neck, his hand tightened, lifting her head till she met his eyes. “This is duty, Selina. Blood demands blood.”

This was what was demanded of her. All her lessons. All the hours spent in the shadows. For this, a blade in her hand and blood on her palms. A corpse on the ground. Duty and honor.

This was what her Father had taken her for from the Narrows. 

This was salvation.

Selina swallowed copper. Met his gaze with wet, burning eyes. “Then blood shall have blood.”

Chapter Text

Decomposition was no brisk task. Several stages of disintegration and decay overtook the body before it could entirely be considered rotted. Enzymes ate away at cells from the inside out. Skin loosened. Fluids released, organs and muscles dissolved. Skin and cartilage gave way to death as bones and blood decayed. 

Even then, as body turned corpse, as muscle and blood gave way to the bone beneath, identity lingered. Within the skeleton, remnants of personhood stuck like gum on a shoe. Age, sex, trauma. 

Selina knew there was no need for tissue or brain or blood. The bones remembered. 

Death failed to erase life completely. The body clutched onto fragments of an individual, no matter how small, holding tight and burying those memories within the skeleton. 

The lives taken by her own hands remained in one way or another. Fragments, clutched close within their bones, or the memory, held unwillingly by Selina’s stubborn brain. Every moment lived in the back of her skull: the spray of blood over her clothes, the easy sink of her blade into skin, the split of muscles separating from tendons. All those horrid, rotten memories stuck. 

If she were in better command of her own body’s function, recalling her killing of others would be easier. It wouldn’t force up a gag, sicken her stomach, wet her eyes. It would only be a source of pride to know she had done such a service for her Father: split skin, spilled blood, and turned the living into corpses. 

Selina sighed and pushed back her plate. 

The meat made for dinner was undercooked, red and wet. Blood ran off the side when she pressed her fork into the corner of the cut. 

It was a wonder what horrors could be found within the body. Flesh was just a slab of meat to be cut and divided. Tossed and abandoned. Made rotten and buried. 

She pressed her fork further into the steak, face twisting when juice and blood leaked. 

It shouldn’t be such a cause for revulsion, she reminded herself. It was just some blood. Just a bit of meat. 

Down the hall, a steady tap of heels came near. 

Irritation, hot and sour, pricked her brain like a casing of needles sliding deep.

Around the corner, the source of her burgeoning migraine appeared, pretty and perfect. Diamonds shone across her neck and her red mouth curled up into a smile. 

“Should you really be playing with your food?” Sofia asked. “So wasteful.”

It was the first that she had seen of her half-sister in weeks. Sofia preferred to spend her time far from the Manor, playing the same game of pretend she always did. Acting like she wasn’t just as desperate for their Father’s approval and power as she’d been years ago. The days that she did spend in the Manor, she spent trailing behind him. Dressed in the family jewels, smile polite and pleasant, like their Father knew her to be anything but spoiled and selfish.

“You can have it, if you like,” Selina offered, leaning back in her seat. Her gaze fell to Sofia’s figure, face contorting into something full of sorrow. “Are you eating well? You’re looking sickly.”

It was a lie, bright and bold. As intended, it poked a bruise black and blue and profound.

Sofia scowled, fingers tightening over her own arms. “Don’t be cruel just because you’re jealous.”

“Just worried, cara,” she said. After so many years of practice, her Italian was spoken without a single stutter. The twist of her tongue and emphasized vowels was purposeful, just because she wanted to watch the glower twist deeper into Sofia’s face. My dear.

It was only a consequence of Sofia’s cruelty that Selina was as competent in Italian as she was now. At the start, the language had felt clunky and strange as she spoke it. The taunts of her half-sister were the reason she’d studied late into the night for years, perfected every word, memorized every translation. The same could be said for her other lessons. 

The accent she spoke in around Sofia was only an intentional butchering of the language. A needle slipped between her half-sister's ribs, twisted and prodded with each poorly spoken word.

“I’d prefer you didn’t refer to me in a language you can barely understand,” Sofia said.

When Selina was eleven, Sofia had whispered bastard in her ear, called her a disgrace to the family. The word was unfamiliar, a bizarre insult when Sofia typically called her a bitch, or reminded her of how useless she was, or begged their Father to drop her back in the streets. 

Selina understood, now, the weight of the word. Not just to her Father, but what it meant to Sofia: shame. Deep, bruising shame that flared and ached when Selina spoke in Italian, the language of her family. Disgust, when Selina was awarded a warm bed and seat at their table despite having spent her first seven years nameless and worthless. The utter, indisposable rage, blood-hot and bone-deep, when their Father allowed Selina to serve the Falcone name time after time.

Sofia’s aggression couldn’t be blamed. It wasn’t unreasonable that within the last few years, her half-sister liked to play a new game of pretend. This time, not with their Father, but with Selina herself: pretending she was nothing but a speck of dust, a bug to be crushed, a corpse already buried. 

Years before, when they were both younger, Sofia used to like to taunt and tease and push. Scratch at Selina till they were both cut and bleeding, till Selina had tears in her eyes and Sofia could be counted the victor. It was easy to win when Selina was small and frail, body and mind never quite recovered from her time in the Narrows.

Now, she preferred to pass by Selina without a second glance. Didn’t look her in the eyes, didn’t shove her to the ground. No longer did Sofia pour wine into her lap or rip up the flowers Selina picked from the garden. Steal away her bedsheets so she’d sleep on a bare mattress or toss her clothes into the backyard to tempt Selina to return to the Narrows. Toss out the stray, Otto, that liked to rub up against Selina’s legs. Spit and call her names and tell her she was better off dead.

It was almost disappointing to only receive a glare or sneer, now. 

At least the fights and screaming had been interesting. They had allowed her an excuse to spit and scratch back. 

Still, Sofia could sometimes be convinced to return to old habits, if only given a shove. 

“How would you like me to speak to you, then?” Selina asked, sweet and sugary. 

Sofia offered a thin smile. “Preferably, not at all.”

“It’s seven, Sofia,” Selina reminded her. This was the same time every day that she took her meals in the servant’s kitchen. Nothing was ever coincidental with any member of her family, not a single word spoken or step taken without a thousand considerations first made regarding its consequences. 

This, especially, was purposeful. The schedule given to Selina was careful and routine. All three meals were taken at the same hour every day. Breakfast at six, lunch at midday, dinner at seven. The hours in between were spent the same as well: exercising, at the shooting range, learning to use her blade better. Lessons on anatomy and history and whatever else her Father believed was required of her. At eight, after her hour of dinner ended, she was allowed to return to her room, given the privilege to read or sit or stare at the wall if she so desired. 

It was routine. It was expected. It was a kind gesture from her Father to allow her access to such privilege; his weapons, his food, his house. History lessons, even: a request on her behalf that he had granted. 

Only when her Father desired it was her schedule interrupted. When she was required to spend her nights not in bed but far from the Manor, splitting open the necks of whoever was meant to die on behalf of the Falcone name. 

Duty in the design of exposed bone, skin turned inside out, blood staining her hands. It was her only reason for her schedule and routine to even exist in the first place. The cause of so-called interruption. 

That, and her bitch of a sister.

“I’m aware of the time,” Sofia said, irritated. “Do you think I’m here because I’m bored?”

“Why are you?” Selina snapped. It was never pleasant to receive a surprise visit from Sofia, but there was always a purpose. Always something calculated in her half-sister's step. Never a hair out of place or diamond crooked.

Sofia’s presence was only ever a gesture of foreboding terror. A black cat crossing the street. A single crow landing. 

A slow, vicious smile twisted Sofia’s pretty face. Something akin to dread spread up Selina’s spine, tapping at her ribs and poking at her lungs. Agitation turned her palms wet and sent her knuckles twitching. 

“Fuck,” Selina murmured, all sorts of troubled. Just to halt the shake in her hands, she grabbed at her abandoned fork, stabbing at the forgotten steak in front of her. Juice and blood splattered against the edge of the plate. The table wobbled, just a bit, before it settled. “What is it now?”

For as cruel as her half-sister was, she was equally exceptional in her trade of secrets. Clever, pretty Sofia. Diamonds across her neck, lips red like wine, shoulders straight and proud. Lovely and shining and perfect.

Everything that Selina could never be, no matter how hard she tried to better herself.

“I heard a rumor,” Sofia said, sugar dripping off every word, “that you’ll be on the hunt soon.”

Selina shut her eyes. Tried not to gag and vomit and shriek. Bit back a weak choke of a sob and swallowed back tears that had refused to line her eyes for many years. Opened her eyes, lifted her chin, and smiled till her teeth shone, white like pearly bone.

“And who, sweet sister, am I hunting?”

Sofia looked back, sweet and pretty, and said nothing.

Selina’s smile twisted into something sharp, wolfish and ugly. “You’ve come all this way and you don’t wanna tell me?”

“You’ll find out soon,” Sofia said. Over her arms, her fingers were clenched at the fabric of her jacket. Her smile dripped with delight, ego bursting and erupting at knowing this secret before Selina. Above all came Sofia’s pride.

It was difficult to imagine her half-sister truly being jealous at her position. Sofia had no desire to sneak away into the night and kill those that their Father wished dead. To split open necks, slip blades between ribs, shove knives into eyes and thighs. 

Nothing within Sofia wished to be stained in blood and muck, to travel to the Narrows and discard of bodies, to dirty herself and sit and wait for their Father to call: to be referred to as executioner and killer.

The reason for her jealousy was that Selina had any position at all. Assassin was an ugly title, soaked in red and rotten with shame, but it had been awarded to her. A privilege and honor. 

Sofia was handed only scraps. Little details that others knew before her, secrets that were common knowledge by the time they reached her ears. A place at her Father’s table, maybe, but not the respect deserving of her name. 

It was the reason that she so carefully calculated every step. Crafted herself into a serpent, soaking up secrets and turning her charm into something as sharp as the blades Selina carried. 

Selina would pity her lack of importance if she had any to spare. 

Rather, her body was full, stuffed to the brim with sorrow and rot. Even if the assignments were a privilege, a source of celebration, her body betrayed her. The mere thought of slaughter turned her stomach. At night, nightmares stole away her sleep. It was impossible to forget death, that which she had caused and that which clung to her skin.

Sofia wouldn’t envy her if their Father made her kill, even just once.

The only sound to be heard was Selina’s fork tapping against the rim of the plate. Sofia failed to offer a name, only stood in silence. 

After a moment, Selina tilted her chin. “You don’t know who it is.”

Sofia pouted, false and exaggerated. Perhaps to hide a wince. Maybe honest and unkind. 

“Careful, Selina,” she warned, “this one’s unlike the other’s.”

The assignments given to her were often nameless and of no consequence. Men and women that their Father wished to never hear from again. Figures meant to disappear in the shadows without a second thought, their bodies left abandoned in the Narrows like so many before them. Thieves, traitors, liars. Individuals in need of punishment larger than a lost hand or blade to the eyes.

“I’m not sure you can handle this one.” 

Selina swallowed a sneer. The limits of what she could handle weren’t for Sofia to decide. They were barely for Selina too, either. Her Father understood her boundaries, drew them in chalk and red ink. Helped her understand what she was capable of. 

Sofia tapped her figure over her chest, above where her heart beat. 

“You’re soft in the chest,” she whispered, turning and disappearing around the corner.

Behind her ribs, tucked up close to her heart, Selina thought her innards to be spongy. Rotten with mold, guts all curdled. Nothing about her body was right anymore, nothing natural or pretty or ordinary. Just soft, sour tissue. 

Selina felt as dead as the bodies abandoned in the Narrows. 

—

Even this late into autumn, the rose bushes continued to bloom. They commanded the entire garden, suffocating the yard in red. It was impossible to ignore them, regardless of where Selina stood. Difficult to see anything but the bright splotches of red and pink, the thorny stems. 

Other little clumps of flowers grew in the shadows of the bushes, drooping bluebells and weeping asters. Without proper care, they’d begun to wither. The roses swallowed all possible sunlight and left every other plant desperate for life. 

Selina knelt beside a jumble of neglected bluebells. Purple and drooping, they were no less worthy of attention than the roses. Just a bit smaller, tucked into the corner of the gardens, compared to the bushes lining every inch. 

Roses had always been Sofia’s favorites. Their Father considered gifts easier than continual affection and had awarded Sofia the entire gardens to fill with her preferred flower. Nearly every room of the Manor could be found with a vase stuffed full of the red plant, tall and bright and sharp pricks still in. 

Sofia had always been given soft, pretty things. Flowers, diamonds, perfume. Vain as she was, Selina had always wondered if her half-sister would’ve preferred a sharper, louder gift. Maybe a seat at their Father’s table, permission to raise her voice, assurance she would truly be handed the Falcone empire when it was time. Not a vase of roses, wrapped in a satin bow. Pretty and red, yes, but always wilted in the corner eventually. The perfume, run dry with time. 

Their Father didn’t seem to know either of them all too well.

Selina was grateful for the strange abundances of gifts handed to her. Blades and lessons and assignments to kill whomever their Father wished dead. 

It wasn’t often that he called on her. There were many he preferred to use less shamefully. Zsas made himself a spectacle even in the shadows. Nelson, strong and large and able to slip through any crack needed of her. Rossi, Mann, and Cam; all older and quicker. 

All better than her. 

It was only occasionally that her Father asked for a favor. Those nights, she’d slip away to the Narrows. Come home with bile in her throat, blood spilled in the streets, heart feeling funny and soft. 

Sometimes, on those late nights that she spent scrubbing herself raw, removing blood from the lines of her palms, heaving and crying until she was empty, she remembered when her Father used to give her soft, pretty things. Just like he still did Sofia. All those little pastries she’d never tried, books she’d never read, the first glimmering blade she hadn’t yet been asked to use. 

Selina had no need for stupid, sweet little things. It was good they had been replaced with sharp, dangerous tools. It was only a shame that her Father could see her just as Sofia did; small and hopeless. Only good enough to utilize periodically, but never the first choice in comparison to the other assassins. 

It only meant she would have to better herself again, as she had after first arriving. The others did not choke and spit after splitting open the skin of another. Didn’t heave and wail into their palms. Their stomachs didn’t turn at the memory of many lives ended at their hands. 

A bee landed gently on the bluebell by her hand. Worms sprouted and wiggled in the mud by her knees, soaking in the remnants of last night’s rain. So much raw life filled the gardens, so much color in every flower and speck of dirt and small, writhing bug. 

The rumor that Sofia had spoken of soured Selina’s stomach. It would be soon, likely, that their Father called upon her. Another life ended in the shadows. More blood on her hands. 

Selina tried not to think of it, for as greatly death stained her hands red, life continued to bloom and flourish elsewhere. In the gardens, the flowers would continue to blossom even through winter, when color retreated beneath the snow. When spring returned, as would the colors, the shining sun, the little bugs that lived in the dirt.

A ladybug crawled closer to her knee. Searching for warmth, likely. Soon enough, there wouldn’t be much to be found. 

Selina twitched closer and allowed it to climb up the fabric of her pants. 

The ladybugs always sought warmth in the Manor when fall turned to winter. They crawled through the cracks and clung to life within the dark, grey halls of her home.

During her second winter at the Manor, she hadn’t yet known much about hibernation. An endless sleep sounded too similar to death, and the thought of burying oneself in the cold and waiting for warmth to return was too great a risk. 

Anna, always just a few feet away, both tutor and caretaker to Selina, had told her not to worry herself over the little bugs. Her Father thought her too young to be left alone and too bothersome to keep an eye on himself, and Anna was instead made to follow Selina around. It was only with her that Selina was allowed to leave her room, to drift about to the kitchen and tucked-away ballroom and lavish gardens.

The older girl was always just behind Selina, polite and kind, eyes low so as to avoid Selina’s. Calling her Miss instead of her given name. 

Only a year had passed since Anna had been given leave from her job of tutoring Selina. The deep, unforgiving bruise in Selina’s chest that once ached at the thought of Anna had healed over now. Once, she had thought of Anna as a sister, more dear and kind than Sofia. The late tutor was only a few years older than Sofia, sweet and gentle, patient even when Selina grew tired and agitated easily. Forgiving and pleasant, as was required by the position. 

Selina understood, now, that it was only a means of employment for Anna. At eight and ten and twelve, the truth hadn’t been so easily swallowed. Selina hadn’t always thought Anna to be a caregiver, a paid nanny of sorts, hovering close only because her Father asked it of Anna. 

It was foolish and pathetic to call Anna a friend, to consider her more familiar than Sofia. Her half-sister was of Selina’s blood, even if unkind occasionally. 

Anna was gone, now, and thinking of her so kindly wouldn’t change such a fact. It wouldn’t alter the money that she’d received as reward for watching Selina, teaching her, sitting by her in the gardens. 

Selina brushed away the thought. By her knee, the ladybug crawled upwards, over the fabric of her dirt-stained pants. 

That winter, when she was only ten and Anna still followed her for a check, Selina had gathered up the ladybugs in her palms. The handful of them had crawled over her hands and tickled her wrists, little blurs of black and red. Living creatures held close, no matter how small and seemingly insignificant. 

Anna had told her to return them to the dirt, but Selina had wanted to keep them warm. It was nearing the cusp of winter and hibernation would take them soon. 

Selina had only wanted to keep them safe. Even as Sofia had cringed and recoiled at the sight of them, as Anna sighed and lowered her eyes. 

Her Father had taken her out to the yard, the ladybugs clutched gently in her palms. Made her watch as he brushed them away from her skin, stepped on them and told her not to pout. 

“Little pests aren’t something for us to worry about, Selina,” he’d said. Insignificant little bugs shouldn’t be a concern of hers. 

Selina had stood there till her fingers went numb from the cold. Eyes wet, trained on their little dead bodies, tiny and flattened. Red and black blurs of life snuffed out beneath a clean shoe. 

Against her leg, the ladybug shifted and flew upwards. A smudge of dark colors fluttering by, body slight and lifespan limited. Within a few weeks, it would enter diapause like the rest of the ladybugs. The bug was lucky, she thought, to live and die beneath the sunlight. Luckier, even, to not have been buried beneath the cold or trampled under a shoe just yet. 

A pest so small could die so easily. 

—

The folder handed to her was thick, stuffed to the brim with papers and photos. Larger than most given to her in the past. Typically, her Father would give her a name, a thin stack of documents, and a date. Usually, only a few days were needed to prepare and find her target. Slipping into the Narrows wasn’t difficult. There weren’t any measures of security and she remembered the dark, haunted streets well from each visit taken for her assignments. Her time as a child had prepared her well, allowing her to recall hidden alleys and shadowed corners she might not otherwise know. 

Even if the assignments left her sick, they were simple. 

Sofia had warned her that this one would be different from the rest, too tricky for her soft, tender heart to swallow. 

Selina hadn’t given it much thought in the days following her sister’s visit. Her Father would give her only what he deemed her worthy of, those that he considered her capable of killing. 

There was a reason her last kill hadn’t been for some time now; there were others more efficient, and often the assignment called for such shiny skills. Selina was younger and less suited for some of the more ambitious tasks that her Father crafted. Even if it stung, she could admit it. She knew there was more to her body in need of improvement, more to fix and change and better about herself. 

But this. This one would require something greater than her. 

“Do you understand what I’m asking of you?” Her Father said. His knuckles brushed over the back of her shoulder, light and barely-there. The muscles in her shoulders grew tight, like a coil about to spring and snap. “Do you understand what is needed?”

Selina folded her hands in her lap. Rather than scratch and open her skin, she twisted her fingers together, the skin of her knuckles turning pale and white. 

The folder that sat in front of her, the assignment and person meant for her to kill, was anything but mundane. 

It was a wonder her Father had called upon her rather than Zsas, or Cam, or any of the countless others with decades of experience more than her. Pride struck her spine, sharp and quick, and the thought of such considerable trust being placed in her. 

Selina’s teeth ground against each other. Into her cheek, she bit gently, not enough to draw blood but so she could feel a sting. Pride couldn’t maintain skill. More than a warm, pulsing ego was needed for this. 

Pride carried Sofia’s shoulders tall and Mario’s head high. The Falcone empire was tied together through honor and dignity. But arrogance would not allow her to slit the throat of a boy her age and it had not been the tool used to kill so many others. 

Selina’s hands were stained red with blood and death and it would do her well to remember what was truly necessary to fulfill these assignments. 

Her Father’s hand brushed against her neck. The small, light tough gave her pause and her eyes lifted a centimeter.

“Selina?”

“Yes,” she said, chin lifting and turning back to meet his gaze. “I understand.”

It would be another night spent sick and dizzy. Hands, stained red and wet. Mouth tasting like bile and fingers trembling as she gasped and cried. Heaving over the toilet until she was sick, scrubbing herself pink and raw in the shower, tucking herself into bed and clamping her hands over her ears to try and forget the cries of whoevers neck she had split.

It was to be another night of clutching at her stomach and wishing herself buried beneath the ground like the bugs gone for hibernation. Thinking herself better off if she’d never left the Narrows, if she were now just an abandoned body in the streets. 

Any delight she felt at being chosen was nearly always outweighed by her body’s betrayal. Even if she could convince her mind that this was what was needed, that it was a privilege, her stomach would still turn and tears would still leak from her eyes.

It was a privilege. Selina knew that. Killing a stranger and leaving their corpse in the streets, wetting her hands with their blood, would still make her weep and heave. It would always leave her sick no matter how much of an honor it was for her Father to choose her. 

“Good,” her Father said. His hand lifted away from her, moving to cross over his other behind his back. With an upward tilt of his chin, he gestured toward the thick stack of papers laid out on the table.

Selina turned back at his indication. 

Across the table, newspaper clippings and photos were spread. More information than she truly needed had been compiled and now neatly stacked in front of her.

“Careful,” her Father warned. “This one’s trickier than the others.”

The young face of a boy, small and quiet, stared up at her from the nearest tabloid. A familiar, scandalous story of an alleyway murder and the surviving child sat in bold at the top. 

Bruce Wayne’s photo crinkled beneath her fingers.

Wayne. Every living soul in Gotham knew his name. The dead, too, could likely remember it. The stench of his blue blood could be smelt from across the city. The legacy disposed onto his shoulders was massive, too monumental for such a small, sad boy.

Selina remembered him. All those times that she’d seen him at his school, surrounded by his friends, quiet and different. Despite the sorrow that dripped off of him like rain, he’d presented himself as clean and tidy as he could. Bruce Wayne knew himself to be a figure under scrutiny and wore it well.

In the photos and in her memory, his school uniform sat fitted and clean over his body. The leather gloves over his hands were a familiar sight from her time watching him, as were the high-collared sweaters. The photos from years ago as well as those from only a few weeks prior showed him in similar attire. It seemed regardless of age, his desire to shield himself from contact hadn’t changed. 

Wayne was a small, sad boy. Strange and unlike his friends. Despite his polite smile’s and straight shoulders, she remembered just as well how somber he appeared. The silver-blonde never managed to lay a hand on him, because Wayne shied away with a wince. The other two, the dark-haired girl and tall boy, could never seem to pull a genuine laugh from Wayne’s chest. 

Maybe grief, the loss of his parent’s, had twisted and bent him out of shape. Perhaps Bruce Wayne was born a sad, sorrowful boy. 

Either way, she couldn’t pity him. Once, when she was fifteen and thought him to be in need of a gentle hand or soft smile, she might’ve. But she now knew his name and how thick his wallet sat in his pocket. The legacy on his shoulders, massive and likely daunting, was a privilege only for him to be rewarded. 

Bruce Wayne was a lucky, lucky boy. 

Selina looked across the nearest photos of him. One, of him and the silver-blonde outside his school. Another, him and his parents when he was years younger. Dozens and dozens of more could be found within the folder. Photographs of him seated beside his butler; the police escorting him home the night of his parent’s death; with his friends; at gala’s; at his school; at cafe’s. Grainy shots of him through the window of a restaurant, blurry pictures from behind of him walking home, at parties and parks and home.

Sometimes, he met the camera head on and offered a smile, hand lifted in an awkward half-wave. In others, he stood unaware, his body only halfway in the camera’s focus.

Bruce Wayne was Gotham’s prince. The entirety of the city knew his name and face. 

“This won’t be as easy as the rest,” Selina said carefully. Wayne wasn’t a nameless body that could be abandoned in the Narrows.

Her Father made a noise in his throat, something agreeing even if disapproving. “Are you declining?”

Her eyes lifted, fingers clenching over the photograph in hand. Even if truly offered the choice, Selina wouldn’t decline her Father’s assignments. This was what he’d taken her for, trained her for, asked of her. Age, sex, occupation—none of it mattered in the face of her Father’s aspirations. A boy, sheltered by wealth and entitlement, was no cause of concern. 

“No,” she said, chin turning back an inch. Just to see her Father’s shoulder shift, his chest rise. “Never.”

“Good,” he said. From the corner of her eye, she watched as a slow smile lifted his mouth.

Wayne looked young in most photos. If she were to guess, most were taken after the death of his parents, when a swarm of paparazzi would follow him every step. Dark circles sat beneath his eyes and his arms were clutched close to his chest in nearly all of them. 

“Bruce Wayne won’t be easy,” her Father agreed. It was the closest he would get to truly saying she’d been right to worry. He leaned down to point to a photo a few inches away, a grainy shot of the boy beside an elderly man in a suit. Alfred Pennyworth. 

A finger tapped twice against Wayne’s photographed cheek. 

“What good is easy?” her Father asked, his voice dropping low. “At least he’ll be fun.”

Selina’s face twitched. 

Violence and death were always considered amusing to the rest of her family, perhaps because their hands stayed clean. 

Sofia had a particular inclination for brutality so long as it suited her needs. If it granted her greater power, she’d bathe in the blood of the whole city. But it wasn’t her hands that would wield the blade, not her skin that would be stained in red. It would be another who’d be forced to complete such a task, as was customary. 

Her Father thought the same. A corpse was equivalent to a speck of dust, brushed away and forgotten. If death resulted in him staying at the top of the food chain, he’d kill anyone who crossed his path.

Neither of them would know the terror of death that Selina did. The shame sitting in her stomach like curdled milk on the nights that she returned home from killing on behalf of her Father. The feeling of hunger eating away at her ribs and muscles when she still searched for crumbs to eat each day. The awful, terrible awareness that death was a permanent stain. 

“Bruce Wayne turns eighteen and the world splits open,” her Father warned. “Gotham will fall.”

Before his death, Thomas Wayne had understood the strings being pulled by Carmine Falcone. It was a shadowed secret that every inch of the city lived beneath Falcone fingertips: the police, Arkham, the Narrows. Crime spiked when her Father wished it to. Drug trades grew larger the longer he sat in power. In Wayne’s own company, little spies stole information and money when Thomas’ back turned. 

Thomas Wayne had poked and prodded and pulled strings that were meant to be left alone. In recent years, his son had begun to do the same. 

“Our city will burn with him in charge.” Her Father clasped a hand over the back of her neck, squeezing hard enough for her to swallow a wince. “You know that, don’t you, cara?” My dear.

Despite herself, her pulse ticked upward. The endearing term successfully picked at scabs barely healed. It was a sweet, sentimental nickname meant to poke at blue bruises and old wounds. Her Father only spoke to her so sweetly when he wanted her attention. 

“That boy likes to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong,” he said. 

Wayne was as much of a menace as his late father. Even at seventeen, he’d begun to tug at some of the same strings his father once had. Should they unravel, chaos would spread. 

On most occasions, her Father had no need to even cover his tracks. The GCPD never thought to look any further than what was right in front of them. Raids and arrests, murders and corruption. All pointed right back to her Father and his empire, but Gordon and his rats could only see what lived under their noses and in front of their feet.

“He likes to play hero,” Selina sighed. Her Father’s fingers tightened over her neck. Come morning, there’d be bruises in the shape of his fingers. 

“I don’t think him very heroic,” her Father said slowly. “He helped Commissioner Gordon arrest Crowley. Do you think that’s what a hero would do?”

Her stomach tightened. It felt like the first time she’d ever drunk wine on an empty stomach; her gut twisting, a sour taste in her mouth. Dread turning her palms wet. 

Selina didn’t bother noting that Brian Crowley was a poor, pathetic investigator. A spy planted within Wayne Enterprises after the death of Thomas Wayne, meant to collect secrets and information from his position high in the company. 

Crowley was only one of many. Selina didn’t know the name or faces of the others. All she knew was that Crowley was clumsy enough to get caught. Had he succeeded, there’d be no need for Bruce Wayne to die. Rather, any trace of Falcone’s influence in Wayne Enterprises would’ve been wiped clean. 

Except, Bruce Wayne caught Crowley tripping about. It was lucky that he thought Crowley to be a clumsy thief rather than a planted rat. At least Crowley was a decent actor and played the part till the very end. 

Selina swallowed and wet her lips. “I think that he considers this all a game. Pretending that he’s far more capable than he really is,” she tried, slow and cautious.

“But this isn’t a game,” her Father said. 

“No,” she agreed. “But sometimes children can’t make sense of what’s real and what’s part of their make-believe fantasies.”

Wayne was only a year or so younger than her. The date of his birthday was plastered across one of the papers on the table. In only a few months, he’d turn eighteen. As a legal adult, he’d gain access to every inch of Wayne Enterprises: all the files and secrets buried until he’d turned of age. All the little scraps of information that his late father had managed to pile together before his passing. 

It wasn’t limitless power, but it was far more than he had now, and already Bruce Wayne was one of the greatest players on the board. Her Father couldn’t accept that; there couldn’t be any players but him, no one to move the chess pieces around except for his clean hands. He was meant to be the only one capable of wielding such power. 

Bruce Wayne, seventeen and richer than even Carmine Falcone could imagine, would always have a position on the chess board of Gotham so long as he breathed. 

Over her neck, her Father’s hand relaxed. 

“He is quite the pest,” her Father agreed. “You know how I hate those.”

She nodded slowly and tried not to think about a handful of ladybugs crushed beneath his feet. Wayne wasn’t the only nuisance in Gotham, and by far not the worst.

“Do you regret allowing the Commissioner to live?” It was a stupidly brave thing to ask, but she’d thought about it more than once. If her Father wished, Gordon could’ve been buried the same day he assumed the position. 

Her Father hummed. “Well he’s certainly more trouble than he’s worth.” 

Selina nodded slowly and buried away any inkling of confusion she housed. With all the trouble he caused, there wasn’t any logic in keeping the Commissioner. It wasn’t her decision to keep or kill him and she said nothing. 

“But he’s fun, isn’t he?” he considered. “Barbara being butchered really spun him around.”

Selina went stiff. 

Years had passed but Selina could still remember every detail of the report. It wasn’t often that bodies were left abandoned in the daylight. Less often even that the body belonged to the Commissioner.

“It’s been almost three years,” Selina said delicately.

“Almost,” he agreed, “but it’s not quite time to celebrate yet. Not while Gordon is still kicking.”

Celebrate wasn’t the word she’d have chosen. Cringe, maybe, at the grin he’d decided to accompany his words with. But, her Father thought death was a victory so long as it benefited him. 

And the death of Barbara Kean was nothing short of a triumph. 

It haunted the city still. In life, Barbara was less than influential. Spirited, beautiful, but common. Only after her death did her name make the front page. 

Selina wondered, sometimes, if Barbara had expected her passing to be so volatile. Citizens like Thomas and Martha Wayne surely did, considering their reputation and fame both inside and out of the city walls. But Barbara had been ordinary in all the practices that mattered. Ordinary women didn’t make the headlines. Average citizens didn’t alter the future of a city.

But—Barbara Kean had.

It was a tired cliche, but Romeo and Juliet had always been one of her favorites. Love couldn’t live without violence. Violence bred love. Life and death were interwoven, far more intimate than most believed. 

But she’d never quite bought the final act. Romeo and Juliet, poisoned and bled dry, were simply that; dead. Sometimes death was just death. Sometimes the sun would rise and set regardless, and love was not enough. 

She’d never thought love could change much of anything.

But Barbara Kean died on a pale Friday morning, and Gotham burst and collapsed on behalf of Jim Gordon's utter devotion.

The Commissioner had erupted into a furious eradication of crime and hadn’t let up for a single moment since. Every Arkham inmate and Blackgate prisoner were interrogated twice over, every unsolved murder reconsidered. A spotlight shone into every crevice and weak spot of the city, searching for the source of it all. The looming root of destruction had to lie somewhere. It had to all tie back to one foundational puzzle piece and Gordon wanted to disassemble the body of corruption. 

From the bottom of the pile, she lifted up a photo of Wayne standing beside the Commissioner. Old friends, maybe. Two fools playing pretend within a city of blood and bone. 

“You’re the only one who can do this, Selina,” he murmured. Empty promises fell from his lips so easily. Useless praise and sweet nicknames meant only to provoke her. The most pathetic part was that it worked, each and every time. A hand to her shoulder warmed her chest. A term of endearment, spoken in English or Italian, left her sunny and smiling. It wasn’t a puffed-up ego, a pulsing pride that did it, just the reminder that her Father truly cared. It was pathetic and awful and yet it worked, even after years of the same tricks. 

“Kill him,” he said, “on behalf of the name you were born to have. Show me the blood in your veins is the same as mine.”

Selina’s eyes slipped shut. A pit of disappointment opened up in her stomach.

“I will,” she swore, despite feeling as if a thousand hands pushed down against her shoulders. Like her skin was made of peach skin, soft and bruised, and she was fit to fold in on her own body.

This was just another test. Perhaps, she considered, the final examination of her personhood. The sore, aching pit in her stomach twisted. The death of Bruce Wayne couldn’t be ignored. It would mean a chess piece toppled, a player removed. Killing him meant truly proving herself worthy of the Falcone name. 

“I will,” she repeated, more of a murmur than before. “I’ve done it before, haven’t I?”

Her Father grasped at the hair at her nape and pulled. She exhaled a sharp gasp as her head fell back. 

The string was a bearable pain. The contempt in her Father’s tight grip wasn’t.

“Careful,” he muttered. His thumb pressed against her pulse point. “You haven’t succeeded yet. You might disappoint me like Crowley did, clumsy little pest that he was, and I don’t much appreciate arrogance.”

Selina bit into the muscle of her cheek. Swallowed. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t my place.”

He dropped his hand and she straightened. “No, it wasn’t. Be careful with your words.”

“Yes.” She wet her mouth. “I will.”

“Good.” Her Father rounded the table to look her in the eyes. “Make me proud, darling.”

Her heart skipped. “Yes, Father.”

Wayne’s throat should’ve been cut years before. It was a wonder her Father was calling for his death only now. Loose ends had to be tied.

Selina lifted a nearby photo of the boy. It would be foolish to pretend that his death would pass easily through the city. Even after his body had rotted to bone, the memory of his name would persevere. Killing Wayne wouldn’t result in death, not really, because his entire family was so deeply integrated within Gotham’s history. 

Even now, people spoke of Thomas and Martha. Not because their son continued to breathe but because their reputation was too sizable to be forgotten. They’d created too large a dent in the city. 

The photo in her hand was from only a few months prior. The boy looked thin and tired, body hidden beneath several layers of thick clothing despite it having been summer at the time. Over his hands, familiar leather gloves sat. A tall sweater, thick and heavy, hid the skin of his neck.

Selina made a noise in her throat. “Funny,” she murmured.

Funny was only the polite way to describe him. Strange was closer to the mark. Photographed beside him was the silver-blonde that Selina remembered well. The girl was dressed far more appropriately for the season: a short skirt riding up her legs, the sleeves of her top small and thin. 

Only Wayne was dressed as if snow was about to fall on his head. It was the same in all the photographs that Selina could see: every inch of him was always hidden. A heavy coat sat over his shoulders, dark and long, while he stuffed his hands in his pockets or behind his back. 

It was a talent of his, it seemed. Concealing his skin, burying his body beneath fabric. 

Selina didn’t think that she could entirely blame the carefully chosen attire. If the press followed her every move, to school and restaurant’s and even home, she might hide herself away as well. 

But it wasn’t just through clothing that Bruce Wayne hid. Selina had thought a boy of such wealth and reputation would find himself in the thralls of scandal. The boy didn’t seem to understand his own age; while his peers were plastered across the front of newspaper clippings for some stain of honor or another, Wayne never did. 

Selina flipped through the papers, searching for something of value. Looking for a scrap of information to make sense of the puzzle-piece of a boy she was meant to kill. There wasn’t a single story dedicated to drunken nights out partying, skipping school and failing classes, kissing girls or boys or anything in between. 

It was disappointing. The press told stories only of Bruce Wayne’s heroic endeavors: events hosted for charity, culprits discovered and arrested, donations and good-deeds that only made Selina raise her brows and swallow a sour taste from her mouth.

It would be harder to hate him if he weren’t so adamant on this game of pretend. Bruce Wayne bought easily into the title of Gotham’s Prince, acting like the city’s golden boy, playing hero despite his young age.

Were he to act like an ordinary teenager, drinking and kissing strangers and having all sorts of fun, she wouldn’t be so angry. Rather than spend his days as he should, he chose to invest himself in a game he was sure to lose.

It reminded her of Sofia, but at least she had never been shy in regards to displaying her wealth. Diamonds always sat across her neck and on her fingers. The corners of her red were always lifted, eyes bright and sparkling, because she knew exactly who she was. Pride held her tall. 

Wayne couldn’t admit to it. An infinite, immeasurable quantity of money resided in his pockets. Rather than spend it appropriately, getting coked up and fucking pretty girls and behaving as the child he was, it was wasted foolishly. 

Selina reached for another picture. 

Wayne stood alone outside Wayne Enterprises, dressed in a suit and looking worn down to the bone. The work was tiresome, she was sure. It was difficult to imagine managing an entire company at the age of seventeen. It wasn’t the boy’s only option, however, and it left her angrier than she would’ve expected. 

If he wished, he could drive out of the city in one of his many cars and never return. Take a plane and visit whichever city he’d like for an hour or weekend or year. Despite having such autonomy, Wayne refused to use it and it soured Selina’s stomach. 

At the very least, her spoiled half-siblings took advantage of the freedoms they’d been afforded. Mario was across the country and likely spent every weekend in a new city. Sofia had spent weekends in Spain, London, France, returning after only a few days all because she could. The both of them had drank wine on the beach and eaten sweets across Europe. 

Wayne only wasted his freedom, living as a ghost among the haunted halls of his home. 

At the very least, he appeared thin beneath the heavy layers of clothing he wore. Haggard and tired. Rich, entitled boys like him had no need to learn how to take a hit and give one back. Especially not when butlers and bodyguards followed their every move. 

Selina compiled the papers, the photos, every scrap of information given to her about Bruce Wayne into a single neat pile. It was November now, three months before the boy’s birthday. Wayne wouldn’t have the chance to blow out eighteen pretty, flickering candles. There would be no cake waiting for him. Just a blade and split neck. 

For now, Wayne’s blood ran hot, his skin pink and flushed. Eyes dilated, heart pumping. The breath in his lungs was limited. Death had already claimed him and soon, Selina’s hands would be stained red and wet. 

Wayne was just another body to be buried. Prey to be consumed and a pawn to be struck down. 

Bruce Wayne was a corpse walking.

Chapter Text

The first time Selina had drunk wine, half of the cup had ended in her lap. 

Sofia had offered the drink with a small, pretty smile. Only fourteen, Selina had grasped at the offer with trembling fingers. Her half-sister already thought her useless and juvenile; refusing would only further sour whatever Sofia thought of her. 

Unless to taunt or tease, Sofia didn’t look her way. Wine was a polite gesture. 

Behind their Father’s back, Sofia had poured her a tall glass, red and sour. The first several sips had turned Selina’s head fuzzy, like when the sun beat down on her skin for too long. She’d meant to refuse another glass, stomach feeling funny, but Sofia had smiled. Never had her half-sister looked at her with a gentle, pretty smile, and so Selina accepted the second glass. 

Then a third, then a fourth. 

It didn't taste pleasant. It was a tart liquid more akin to bleach than juice, sitting heavy on her tongue and in her throat, but it wasn’t her right to refuse.

The final cup, poured by Sofia’s careful hands, had fallen between Selina’s trembling fingers. Sticky, red liquid had spilled onto the white linens, across Selina’s lap, and over the tiles in a growing puddle. 

The glass shattered into pieces across the floor. The once unblemished linens over the table stained red as the wine spread outward. The liquid soaked into her clothes while tears bit at her eyes. 

The discomfort of a wet lap and tacky hands wasn’t anything in comparison to the shame felt when Sofia laughed, quick and sharp. In her steady, clean hands, Sofia was nursing her own cup of wine. Not a drop had spilled, even as Selina had slipped and jostled against her. 

Worse, even, was her Father’s face when he caught sight of the mess she’d made. She remembered it still, years later; not just the furious scowl, but how sharply he’d spoken to her in the hall. Clumsy, he’d called her. Childish and improper. 

The bruises across her cheek, a gift from his tightly clenched fist, faded from blue to yellow within a week. Eventually, the aching in her face disappeared and she could open her jaw without any wince of pain. 

Selina no longer touched wine at the dinner table. Not when Sofia offered it or otherwise. Sometimes, a cup of liquor was already waiting for her with the rest of her meal. With a steady hand, she poured the liquid down the sink, each and every time, watching as wine pooled across the dark steel. 

Now, a cup of soda sat in her hands, sweet like the pastries she used to eat. Sugar sat on her teeth, likely eating away at her gums.

At least the drink wouldn’t turn her incoherent like the surrounding crowd. 

Outside of Anders Prep, all of those years ago, the students had stood in huddles. One large crowd of peers, familiar to one another even as they separated into small flocks of friends, heads pressing together and shoulders knocking. Girls had stood with their arms clasped and hands held tightly while boys brushed elbows.

Each student was a daughter or son of Gotham’s best, finest, richest. As they aged, each would eventually inherit a sizable legacy, whether it be an estate or simply a name. 

Selina remembered well the way they carried themselves. An insatiable ego held their chins high and kept their spines straight. These children were the product of wealth and honor, praise and pride, and once they were old enough, they’d carry it onto their shoulders. 

None of them knew of blood and bone, terror or hunger. Only bliss. They knew only of clean uniforms already folded and waiting for them at the ends of their bed. A feast to fill their bellies, scraps tossed in the trash. More money than could ever be counted, more security than could ever be imagined. 

While the children of the Narrows died of hunger and disease each day, the children of Gotham were given everything they could ever desire. Entertainment and pleasure were served on platters at the simple request of these students. 

Selina pressed the lip of her cup against her mouth. It didn’t seem fair that a form of recreation for the students of Anders Prep was to dine until they were sick. Even if it was drinking rather than eating. 

In the daylight, they had stood as mirrors to one another. Polite and proper, picture-perfect. Uniforms crisp without a speck of dirt present on their white collars or blue ties. Every inch of every girl and boy was exceptional. 

But in the darkness, they shed their proprietary and crowded together like hungry animals. They sat in comfortable huddles, nearly identical to the clusters they stood in on the steps of their school. In dirty booths and by the bar, some mere shadowed bodies against the wall and in the hallway, they made up a crowd. 

Selina couldn’t quite tell where some bodies began and others ended. Girls giggled into their hands, high-pitched and wobbly, boys swaying side to side as balance trembled. Heads turned fuzzy and tongues loose as friends stumbled into one another. 

It was hard not to wince at the show. She knew it was all a means of pleasure; recreation at the end of a long week of classes, clubs, dinner parties, and spending their riches. Forgetting themselves for a few hours through drink and drugs.

It would sound inviting, nearly, to neglect her responsibilities and forget her own name as these children did, except come morning they’d be filled with regret. Vodka and sugary cocktails would make for a lethal headache and a morning spent bent over the toilet. Weed would turn memories of the night before foggy. 

Losing her memory to a few drinks sounded equal to a nightmare. The nausea and migraine would be manageable, but the idea of forgetting which classmate she’d swapped spit with made her wince.

In the corners, where couples assumed the dim lights and wandering eyes couldn’t reach them, bodies fell into one another. Hands wandered and mouths met. The fabric of sweat-stained, perfume-drenched clothes shifted side to side. Skirts rode high up legs and buttons unfastened beneath slow, clumsy hands. 

Selina cringed into her soda. Nothing truly obscene caught her eye, only a few bare shoulders and quiet sighs of pleasure. The worst of it was hidden in the hallways and bathrooms, where drugs worse than a few sugary edibles passed between hands. There, fabric fell away entirely and boys and girls fucked in the privacy of dirty bathroom stalls. 

To her left, a groan of delight passed by her ears. It was her own fault for standing so close to the corner, where the shadows fell over her body and the booths emptied. 

Selina ignored the couple in the shadows. They weren’t the reason she stood in a loud, sweat-stained club, sipping on sugar and dressed in a skirt too short for her liking. 

The reason, glassy-eyed and clutching onto a half-empty glass, sat halfway across the club. 

As intoxicated and dense as his peers, Bruce Wayne was halfway curled-up in the lap of Thomas Elliot. Empty glasses and bottles littered the table. A mess of spilled liquid nearly fell into their laps, stopped only by a heap of tattered napkins. 

Both of them had drunk more than she had realized the human body was capable of: a half-dozen shots each, glittery cocktails, and even full bottles of champagne. Red wine, pale green mojitos, and amber-gold whiskey. Drink after drink, and yet still they desired more. 

Selina would think them greedy if she weren’t so busy being stunned that they weren’t sick. 

Neither of them had tried to leave yet, though. If they stood, their knees would surely buckle as their stomachs emptied. Remaining still was their best bet to continue drinking. 

Thomas Elliot, however, wasn’t adept in the matter. He spoke more with his hands than tongue. Perhaps a consequence of the many, many drinks, but a topic of his person as well. Selina could remember his manner outside the steps: shifting this way and that, trying to grasp the attention of anyone who’d look his way. Grin big and white and his hands always moving as he spoke. Sort of like a big dog; desperate for someone to play fetch with. Mild and playful, but capable of a sharp bite. 

As he spoke, Elliot’s shoulders shook. Beside him, Wayne barely reacted to all the jostling, even when an elbow pressed into his side or a hand nearly tipped over his drink.

Wayne had more pressing concerns; staring down at his glass of bubbling, pale-amber champagne. With glassy-eyes, the boy watched each bubble of carbonation rise to the surface and pop, entranced. 

Selina blinked slowly. Moronic little idiot. 

Truthfully, she’d never been drunk. The wine offered by Sofia had been the first and last time she’d touched liquor. Were she to desire a half-dozen cocktails and twice as many shots of vodka, she surely wouldn’t drink them in the middle of a dirty club. Not where anyone could see her fumble about, trembling and unsure, thinking bubbles in her glass to be a newfound-discovery. 

Though he usually held himself well, the Wayne that she saw in front of her was anything but elegant. His jacket, likely worth a few thousand grand, lay abandoned on the seat beside him. The button-up still on his chest likely smelled of alcohol and weed, sweat and perfume. Any gel that had once held together his hair had fallen away and into his current mess of curls.

Dazed and bewildered. Dizzy and foggy-eyed. Champagne enchanted him more than his own friends and he looked fit to collapse if he had another sip of liquor.

Wayne looked like a proper teenager. 

Selina pursed her lips and cocked her head. Finally, the boy was behaving as expected. 

It was nothing like she’d seen in the photographs. There, he’d looked upset on the best of days, withdrawn and hidden away from even himself. His skin buried beneath layers of clothing and eyes averted from anyone near. 

All this was what she’d expected to see of Wayne; intoxication, stupidity, juvenile fun. 

Selina moved closer. Wayne was too drunk to notice even the boy sitting beside him and Elliot was busy trying to flirt with anything that met his eyes. It made something remarkably close to satisfaction bubble up in her chest, like a can of soda shaken and opened, spilling over the sides. 

There was no reason to be pleased, and yet Wayne proved himself to be worthy of her frustration. Whether it be his little game of hiding or drinking, Wayne entertained a name he was unsuited for. A legacy atop his lithe, trembling shoulders, fit to crumble if a gust of wind blew too hard. 

Wayne took a heavy gulp of his drink, hand tight over the stem of his glass. With bare, pale fingers, he lowered the cup back to his lap.

Selina paused, watching his hand as it fell away. The skin of his knuckles was clean, not a single blemish or bruise visible from where she stood. Never, not in a single photo or once ever outside his school, had she seen his hands bare. 

Carefully, she searched the booth, but his gloves weren’t atop his abandoned jacket either. Maybe they were somewhere she couldn’t see, like stuffed into his pocket or beneath the table. Maybe this was what she’d been missing for so long: for his limbs to loosen and tongue to turn fuzzy all because of alcohol. 

The press had never followed him inside clubs such as this one. Nor his home. It was far easier to shed that outer layer of clothes and reveal the skin beneath the cover of dark. Perhaps now, with his pale knuckles exposed, Selina would see this boy as she truly was. 

The silver-blonde fell into the booth, pretty and elegant even as alcohol turned her cheeks pink. Her knees didn’t wobble as she slid closer to Wayne and the flush in her face only made her look sweet and doe-eyed.

Were he another boy, Elliot or otherwise, Wayne likely would’ve pulled her close, kissed her and taken her into the shadows. As it were, the press of her skin into his made him flinch. His chin lifted, any sense of bliss falling away into a flash of fright, body going tense at the feeling of another so close. 

St. Cloud drew her head close to his, whispering something quiet into his ear. Blonde hair fell against his shoulder, tickling the bare skin of his neck. Rather than smile or wrap a flirtatious finger into a lock, he winced and drew himself farther away. 

Had they been classmates, friends even, Selina might’ve stepped closer. Listened in to what St. Cloud said and watched as Wayne flinched and cowered. Were she a student of the academy, Selina might already understand their tricky web of a relation; the reason for Wayne’s sudden dread, the cause of St. Cloud’s coy smile.

Selina could make out the bits and sew together the fragments. St. Cloud’s sharp smile, even after a half-dozen drinks, bared more than Selina truly needed. The girl was tricky, a spider building a web, but Wayne was stubborn and thought himself more man than boy, even if the brush of skin against his sent him into a panic. 

If Selina had been a classmate, friend or peer, more or less, would she have sat with them tonight? Shared their drinks, brushed arms with St. Cloud and Blomdhal, smiled at Wayne and Elliot?

It was foolish to think of the endless potentials of circumstance. Still, Selina was aware that these were her would-be peers, her should’ve been classmates. Some might have known her favorite pastry to be raspberry danish, her dislike of sweet wine. Selina might have known their preferred class and after-school club, which drink they preferred at clubs like this. 

These boys and girls might’ve known her. Selina might’ve known them. 

The scraps of expression and gestures could be understood from just watching. Selina could see them smile, flinch, knock shoulders, flirt and wince and pull away. Watching from the shadows would never compare to the would-be of her other life, had she been sent to school with them. It wasn’t the same as sitting with them at lunch, taking class alongside them, walking through the halls and recognizing their names and faces. 

But circumstances didn’t play out in such a way. Now, Selina was a fly on the wall and Wayne a rabbit with its ankle caught in her trap. 

Considering otherwise was a strange game of make-believe. Selina tried to let the thoughts pass, but a hot wave of shame boiled up in her stomach. To try and swallow back the molten embarrassment, she took a heavy sip of her drink. 

In his seat, Wayne raised his cup, busying himself with his cocktail while St. Cloud tried to keep his attention. Wayne offered a little laugh when she spoke again, genuine but small, cheeks red from the liquor. 

St. Cloud pressed closer. Wayne, blinking and unsure, shifted away. 

Rather than slide away entirely, Wayne pressed close to Elliot, their shoulders bumping. The glass in Wayne’s hand trembled at the movement. Wayne offered a hurried jumble of words, likely an apology of sorts as the liquid nearly spilled into the other boy’s lap, but Elliot only shrugged. 

Wayne seemed to notice, then, that the bodies on either side weren’t moving. Neither stood or shifted away. The boy’s face trembled, something like panic turning his mouth wobbly. 

Despite herself, Selina felt a little twinge of—something. Something undeserving of being specified, dissected, felt. 

That feeling of being small. Caught between bodies. An ankle wrapped up in a foxtrap. 

Selina knew that feeling. Time and time again, she knew it. 

The tissue of her inner cheeks was rough and scarred from the many times she had felt small, helpless, caught. Perhaps Wayne did the same with his hands. Selina looked at them, but from so far away she couldn’t see much but pale skin. Maybe it was the reason he wore gloves so incessantly, that it was his reprieve from feeling caught.

Wayne very likely could have torn open the skin of his palms, ripped up his knuckles, made himself something ugly and ruined. Shredded and split himself into a bloody little monster like Selina had so frequently. Even while the rest of him remained so pretty. Soft and delicate, a swan freshly hatched. Wobbly knees and a legacy larger than life weighing down his slender shoulders. 

Just his hands, red and torn-up and gnarled, worked open to the bone, were made to be ugly. 

Selina shifted closer, hidden still by the shadows, heart thumping in her throat. From her place, she couldn’t make out the details of his hands. She wanted to see the skin. To make out with her own eyes if there were knicks and scars.

Had his hands been bloodied, once, red and wet? Had he been made to clean himself up, eyes hot and chest burning?

Selina wanted to see, just this once. To understand if this boy understood shame. If he knew terror and dread, head dizzy and heart pounding. One foot in the trap and one hand on the blade. Chest sunken in, hunger eating away at the muscle, skin split and blood dripping.

If there were scars, she might know that he was human. That his heart beat and blood pumped. If they sat over his palms and knuckles and fingers, white and faded, pink and fresh, then she would understand that this boy was more animal than person. More prey than predator, a chess piece to be toppled, a rabbit to sink her teeth into. 

Selina had to see and touch and know if his hands were like the inside of her cheek, raw and ruined and gaping. If he was like her.

A boy stumbled behind her, knee knocking into hers. Her soda tipped, just enough for a splash to fall over her hand. Though she wore gloves, thin and black like Wayne so often wore, the liquid dripped down to her bare wrist where the fabric stopped. It was a sticky, necessary caution. 

Selina halted. Fell into the shadows as the boy mumbled a drunken, slurred apology, shuffling the other way without looking in her direction. In the booth, Wayne continued to hold tight to his glass, bare hands falling away into his lap.

Her heart felt sickly, pounding and thumping. 

This boy was not like her. This boy had not been asked to split open necks or live in the shadows. Wayne drank as much as he liked, ate whatever he wanted, made friends with whomever he desired worthy of his time. The would-be scars on his hands, white and faded or pink and fresh, were of no relevance to either of their characters. She had no use or care for his shame or humanity. 

Wayne’s eyes lifted, for just a moment, and fell onto the shadow where she stood. Selina remained still, aware that she couldn’t be seen under the dim lights. Even if so, Wayne was drunk and closer to sleep than awake. 

As St. Cloud moved closer, her entire body tilted toward Wayne, he looked up toward the wall again. St. Cloud put a hand on his shoulder and he twisted away, face falling into a sad little pout. 

Selina stepped backward, again and again until she was halfway across the room. She felt ill, like she’d just drank those four cups of wine and spilled half into her lap. Like the first time she’d spilled blood onto her Father’s floors, stomach turning and eyes all wet with filthy horror. 

The lights continued to flicker, the music continued to play. Boys kept drinking and girls kept laughing. Elliot took another shot. St. Cloud laughed into her hand, coy and high-pitched. 

Selina felt like she’d just woken in the dead of summer, hot and sticky with sweat, clothes stuck to her skin and throat dry. It was like walking through the gardens and letting ladybugs crawl up her legs before her Father crushed them beneath his clean, leather shoe.

Wayne lifted his cup. St. Cloud tossed back her hair. Blomdhal sat down beside Elliot, finally having returned from the bathroom. 

The world kept spinning. On Monday, classes would resume, and the students would sit beside each other as they always did, week after week. Year after year. They’d sit in their assigned seats, giggle into their hands, eat lunch beside one another, descend the steps. 

Eventually, Wayne would not be present. In due time, he would be nothing but a memory. A ghost haunting their halls rather than a classmate to laugh and drink and sit with. Not a boy to kiss or touch, but a body buried, a grave to visit. A half-rotten husk of meat, reduced to food for the earth. 

That was the way of things. It was the natural order, and death would take everyone soon enough. Wayne’s time was just a bit shorter than the rest of his class, was all. There was nothing to be done about it and no one to stop death from taking him.

—

Sisters were rumored to be mirrors of one another. Identical reflections. 

Selina thought it was cruel to compare herself to her elder. It was a sure failure regardless of the angle from which she looked at Sofia. Though the both of them shared features with their Father, blood and looks alike, their commonalities ended with him. When stood side by side, she and Sofia were varying depictions of his bloodline. 

The differences in physicalities were clear. Selina was a few inches too short, and her fingers weren’t quite as long or narrow as her elder sister. Her nose sat differently above her mouth, less freckles adorning her cheeks when the summer sun turned the tops of her hair lighter than should be. Every piece of her was figured incorrectly, stitched together to form something incomplete and unlike the remainder of her family.

At the end of the table, Sofia seemed to glimmer like a polished diamond. Across from her, Selina was only a rusted blade. 

“The Commissioner arrested Davis just yesterday,” her Father murmured. Sofia sat quiet, though the arrest was hardly a surprise to anyone. Davis was a clumsy nut, better suited to snoop in Arkham than the police department. “Browne, too, this morning.”

Selina bit back a face. With each day, more and more men were being dug up from the shadows; planted spies in the GCPD, Wayne Enterprises, coffee shops even. Every inch of the city belonged to her Father, rightfully so, and such could be seen in the amount of little rats employed under his name. 

There were few and fewer each day that belonged to the Commissioner. More and more that were Falcone dogs; family, as her Father would correct, but Selina would never call them so. Loyalty and family weren’t the same. Those men had all been bought, or considered her family heroes of the future Gotham, but they weren’t family. Selina had never shared a meal beside them or learned a lesson while they stood at the front of the room. Cruel as she might be, Sofia was family. Distant and removed from the name, Mario was family still. 

The dogs begging for scraps were just that; dogs, with leashes around their necks and drool down their chins. Desperate for guidance. Carmine Falcone would provide that guidance in flesh and blood. If a few loyal dogs had to starve to get there, well, that was just business. 

“The department isn’t real trouble,” Sofia said. 

Selina lifted a brow and wrinkled her nose. 

Trouble wasn’t the word she’d use to describe Jim Gordon and his rabid dogs. It was more so a constant fire lit under their asses that their Father liked to pour oil directly onto. 

Barbara Kean, especially, had ignited a spark that grew into a larger flame with every year her killer remained free. Rather than douse it with water, her Father liked to sprinkle grease and let the flame rage. 

“And why’s that?” 

Selina continued to work at the end of the table, flipping her blade. Beneath her lashes she peered up at her half-sister. The diamond around her neck shone like the sun. It drew all eyes and attention in her direction without any effort. 

“The GCPD doesn’t house all of our rats,” Sofia said, like she held the keys to the city. Our, like she’d chosen each man and placed them accordingly. Had Selina said such words, claiming herself to have even an ounce of influence over the city, her Father would bruise her cheek. 

But rather than punish, their Father only smiled. 

A strike of sour anger hit Selina hard in the stomach. Try as she might to swallow it back, she felt nauseous and more upset than she’d like. Sofia never needed to fear a fist to the gut. Never had their Father placed the barrel of his gun up to her skin, not to shoot, but so he could watch her eyes grow hot and wet. 

“What about the Commissioner's wife?” Selina interrupted.

Her Father studied her in silence. Sofia’s jaw looked tight, like she was about to grind her teeth to the gums.

“The Gotham Gazette calls her a ghost,” she continued, careful not to speak Barbara Kean’s name. It always angered her Father, though she couldn’t understand why. He’d told her to always take pride in her killings, to remember them as an act of duty and honor. “James Gordon does everything for her.”

“That’s a bit dramatic.” Sofia avoided her gaze, eyes lifted toward the ceiling as she licked at her lips and drummed her fingers over the table.

Irritation simmered low in Selina’s stomach and she shifted forward, bending till she could stare closer at her sister. “The papers say he couldn’t even recognize her when he found her that day—his own wife—because her head was too misshapen. Whatever was used cracked her skull open in six different places.”

“Do gossip channels have greater power than Father, then?” Sofia spit, turning a red-hot glare her way. The ends of her fingers curled, her tapping halting momentarily as her knuckles curled into a fist. “Does the Gotham Gazette mean more than our word?”

“James Gordon only does this for her,” she repeated, eyes darting to the side as her Father grunted. “Maybe if she hadn’t been bludgeoned in his home—”

“You blame the Butcher, then?” Sofia’s weight shifted in her chair, tilting forward to better sneer at her. 

Selina bit her tongue and quieted. The blade went still between her fingers. “I blame the Commissioner. But it’ll be three years in a week, and—”

“And that’s a reason to celebrate,” their Father said. Selina fell silent in an instant, mouth dry and stomach feeling all sorts of uneasy. “Don’t you both agree?”

Sofia gave a polite nod, gazing closer to his shoulder than his eyes.

“Yes,” Selina murmured.

“We have big plans this year,” he said, three fingers lifting in the air. Sofia nodded knowingly and grinned. “We’ll be having fun this time. Even the Mayor will be attending the service. That sort of opportunity can’t be passed by.”

Selina tried not to recoil. Last year, her Father had sent a bloodied brick to Gordon’s door, wrapped in a silk bow equally stained red. A mimic of the Butcher, although the weapon had never been confirmed by the press. Testing revealed the blood to be pigs. 

If her Father attempted any more fun, Gordon might have an aneurism. 

“Arkham,” Sofia continued with an awkward sniff, lifting her long fingers to play with the diamond strung across her neck, “will likely be inspected next. The station is only the first step; the Commissioner knows we wouldn’t stop there.”

“And we have quite a few friends in Arkham,” their Father agreed. The institution was overrun with old lapdogs of her Father. Once-loyal men that turned soft spent their years in cells rather than graves; a mercy rewarded if only they could prove to be useful in due time. 

In truth, Arkham seemed to be a fate far more excruciating than death. A lifetime sentence entailed constant supervision, cold meals, a bare bed, words exchanged many once or twice a week if lucky. Months and years spent waiting for the day Carmine Falcone chose whom to pluck up during the occasional breakouts. 

Selina couldn’t imagine rotting in a cell till she turned triple digits. It made her wince, just thinking about staring at the wall while her teeth rotted out of her gums. Worse, even, was the thought of being infinitely shackled to Carmine Falcone; those men in Arkham waited on their hands and knees, pathetic and stupid, hoping he’d take pity one day. 

A gun to the temple seemed far kinder. 

“Jamie Cowl’s been itching to step back into the sunlight,” Sofia said, twisting the necklace in her fingers. “There hasn’t been a breakout in months. Why not now?”

“And I’m sure the Commissioner wouldn’t find that strangely convenient,” Selina muttered. 

Sofia turned her chin slowly, jaw tight and mouth straight. Over the small diamond, her fingers turned white as she applied pressure. 

Selina offered a tight smile and said, “I thought the point was to keep his attention away from Arkham, not shine a flashlight toward it.”

Sofia looked at her like she was being rather stupid. “The point is to use everything we have. Arkham’s best haven’t been touched in months.” Selina snorted, just a bit, even as her Father turned to look at her neatly. “And there are dozens eager to prove themselves.”

Arkham didn’t have a best or worst inmate. Every man or woman taking up a cell, clinically insane or one of her Father’s men was nearly equally awful. Bloodthirsty and mad. Every one of them would lick her Father’s shoes if it meant leaving the asylum. 

“The last time Cowl was here, you called her an uptight cunt.”

Sofia flushed pink, eyes flickering toward their Father. 

The meltdown had been typical: Sofia had spit insults and stomped her foot behind their Father’s back. When she didn’t get what she wanted, she turned childish. And when their Father paid far more attention to a dog than his own daughter, she turned cruel. 

Sending Cowl to Arkham seemed unnecessary to Selina, but Sofia thought it to be proper compensation for her jealousy.

“It’s not about personal opinion, Selina,” their Father said. “Cowl is good help.”

The flush in Sofia’s cheek turned brighter at the praise, her thin smile turning to an arrogant grin. Selina tried not to grit her teeth. Or shriek. It wasn’t very becoming of a girl her age, even if it would be rather satisfying to yank on her half-sister’s hair and call her names. 

“That’s true,” Selina grit out. Their Father tilted his gaze. Her eyes slid to her half-sister, who smiled sweetly. Selina cleared her throat of bile and sand, and said, “I’m sorry, Sofia. I misspoke.”

Sofia’s eyes shined. 

“I’ve forgotten it already,” she said, voice sugary and tacky. It scraped at Selina’s gums like a toothache. “I can’t blame you for having a short temper. Bruce Wayne is a handful, I hear.”

Sofia and their Father shared a small glance, smiles tight but present, as if a confidential joke was being shared above Selina’s head. 

“Wayne’s a headache,” Selina agreed tightly. “Just a pest, though.”

Small and insignificant, compared to all else. Selina knew worse men than him. Louder, taller, men, with sharper tongues and quicker fists. Men who thought she was a toy with which to play or shove around. Older, lesser men, who thought the world was theirs to exploit. 

Wayne, although irritating and a bother, was just that—a bother. Nothing more, nothing less. He was just a headache that she was glad to rid herself of soon. 

“Careful not to bite more than you can chew,” Sofia said. It wasn’t a warning made from good faith. 

Selina kept quiet rather than return the taunt. With their Father watching, she’d likely only receive his scolding. The blade in her hands took her attention once more and she allowed the sounds of quiet conversation to lull in her ears. Talk of Commissioner Gordon and Arkham and all else wasn’t of her concern regardless. While he still breathed, Wayne was her sole concentration. Nothing but the breath in his lungs mattered. 

It was early into December and a comfortable distance remained until his birthday. But all Selina could think of was the crisp, constant flow of air within his body. The blood that ran hot and wet. His heart, beating and pumping, ceaseless. 

There was no pleasure in imagining him injured. Selina didn’t have any sick fantasies about spilling his blood or breaking his bones—unlike Zsas, who enjoyed playing with his marks before putting a bullet in their skulls. 

Selina had no desire or intent to hurt the boy, even if she meant to kill him. It would be quick, a steady sliding of the blade against his throat. An easy journey into death.

Bruce Wayne was a heavy weight on her shoulders. The boy’s life felt like a guillotine lurching toward her neck, poison slipped into her drink, a dagger held to her heart. Only with his death would her own be spared. 

Selina twisted the knife in her fingers. Dread ate away at her muscles. As February 19 grew closer, so did the guillotine’s blade. If she weren’t careful enough it would topple entirely. 

“We’ll find Cowl by the end of the week,” her Father murmured at the end of the table. 

“Taylor, too, if you’d still like forensics covered.”

Selina kept her eyes on her lap. 

“Smart idea, cara.” My dear.

The blade in Selina’s fingers stuttered before resuming. 

It wasn’t the first time she’d heard Sofia be called such a name. On the occasional Tuesday or over breakfast or in the halls, he would clap a hand over Sofia’s shoulder. Sometimes he’d kiss her cheek or pull her into an embrace. 

Sofia cared for praise just as Selina did. Gifts and attention were important to the both of them and it was irrational to pretend Sofia gained nothing from receiving them. It was just never a pleasure to remember how easily Sofia earned it. Selina clawed and begged for the scraps of their Father’s love but he handed it to Sofia without hesitation, and she couldn’t understand why. 

Later, Selina pulled up a dusty trunk from beneath the loose floorboards of her bedroom. Though the box was small, hidden inside was a collection of relics she wouldn’t dare toss away. Expensive gifts, swiped souvenirs, and abandoned goods alike stared up at her from within. 

She picked through without aim, searching for nothing in particular and yet curious nonetheless. In one corner sat the well-loved awards from her Father. Blades embedded with silver at the handle were carefully placed beside books tattering at the spines. Both had been replaced over the years by newer blades and advanced literature. 

Tucked beside the gifts were her shinier prizes. Though they weren't hers in name, she cherished them all the same. Half-empty perfume bottles that smelled of roses and rings made up of dozens of tiny diamonds shined in the dying afternoon light. An emerald pendant, green and glittering, sat tucked in the corner. Her Father would never give her anything so uselessly pretty. But Sofia never noticed a few gems missing from her vanity, and if she did, they were always quickly replaced twofold. 

Selina could remember clasping decorated bracelets over her wrists and dusting vanilla perfume over her neck. It was always a way to trick herself into thinking that she could be as beautiful as Sofia, if only she had the means. With jewelry and cosmetics, she could be half as alluring. 

It made her wince, now, to remember the games she’d played as a child. To think that in her spare time, she’d watched colorful gems sparkle in the sunlight and compare herself to her elder. All that time wasted, performing for no one but herself.

She pushed aside the perfume bottles. The glasses clinked together and the pale pink liquid within sloshed. Other pointless toys were mixed between Sofia’s former things and the thick books. Selina poked through each item carefully, letting her eyes slide over every item. Her fingers caught on the thin edges of an identification card, dropped by a student of Anders Prep and swept up into her hands. Behind it, loose cash she had no need for was tucked into the pages of Frankenstein. Bracelets sewn with rubies and emeralds and pearls jingled. A split bottle of wine she’d always contemplated drinking and ultimately buried behind Dracula and The Prince sat untouched and unopened. 

It was a box of stupid, useless things. An entire array of artifacts collected that now remained hidden and buried beneath the floorboards. Selina knew each item like the lines of her palm. Every knife and book and ring. Each little thing that she had no use for but kept regardless. 

And Selina knew, as intimately as she knew the grooves of her knuckles, that a locket sat at the very bottom. Tucked beneath books, jewelry, and all else, it lay untouched. The photo that once sat inside the heart-shaped center has long been removed, crumpled and tossed away by her Father’s hand. She couldn’t remember her mother’s warm face and she had no need for a photograph. Still, the silver locket lay buried. It was a shameful thing to keep, but she couldn’t bring herself to toss it. 

With a sigh, she slid the box back an inch. It was easy to imagine what Sofia’s own box of knick-knacks would look like, if she had one hidden beneath her bed. Empty perfume bottles, miscellaneous cosmetics from her youth, jewels she no longer wore but wished to keep. There would likely be quite a few stone’s that once belonged to her late mother, Louisa. 

Selina had never seen Louisa’s collection, but knew the woman to have had a preference for diamonds above all else. Sofia liked the red shine of rubies, a compliment against the dark red of her lipstick-stained mouth, but preferred to wear the diamonds handed down. 

If asked, Selina might argue that there was something exceptionally curious about pearls. The smooth gems were the only to be found within a living creature. No other stone could be awarded such a title. Emeralds had a pretty green shine to them and diamonds were classically beautiful, but only pearls gave her pause. 

With a vicious shove, the box slid across the floor and to the corner of her room. Pearls were uselessly pretty. Rare, yes, but equally as pointless. What she did have was good. The gifts from her Father were treasures, even if they weren’t shining and glimmering. 

A few loose papers fluttered to the ground. Selina lifted her gaze slowly, though she already knew what it was sliding across the floor. The box had collided directly with her stack of information on Wayne, newspapers and photos all shoved into one heap. The assortment of papers was tipping dangerously to the side, a mess of crumpled evidence she didn’t see any point in trying to organize. New scraps were added nearly every day and she’d just have to do it all over again. 

Selina picked up the nearest fallen photos, doing her best to order them accordingly. She moved to shove them back into the sloppy pile in the corner, but the photo at the very top made her pause. 

Wayne was mid drink, his cocktail bright pink. Empty glasses littered the table in front of him. The memory of the club’s stench, sweat and booze and puke combined, curled up her nose even now.

“Ew,” she muttered, dropping the image. 

The next showed Wayne and his butler sitting together in a cafe midmorning, a pastry in his hands and a faraway look in his eyes. She’d taken that photo only last week. 

Something uneasy settled over her and she dropped the photo to the ground beside the first. 

In another, he stood beside his friends, smiling and clutching a takeaway box. Across the back of the print was the date, written in black pen by her own hand early that week. 

Other photos joined the rest on the floor. Wayne standing outside school, a few mornings ago. A day later, Wayne and Elliot standing outside of their club of choice. Wayne walking to his company, or towards a cafe, or across the grounds of his home. 

With each flip and drop of the photographs, Selina’s stomach only turned another rotation. It was the sense of wrong usually tied to an identifiable panic attack, a strange anxiety she’d likely have to wait out. There was no rhyme or reason.

Except, the final photo in her hands made her still. 

The image was blurry with rain and grey from the sky. She’d taken it herself in the late afternoon as classes had ended and students trickled out onto the steps of Anders Prep. Wayne stood beside St. Cloud, an umbrella lifted over their heads in an attempt to shield themselves from the rainfall, the both of them cheerful despite the weather. 

Wayne looked dry enough in his heavy layer of clothing and St. Cloud’s uniform was damp only by the feet, her socks turning dark from being splashed by a puddle. The both of them were clean as could be. Neither were too bothered by a bit of cold rain on their shoes, even if Selina could remember St. Cloud turning her nose up at the puddles. 

Selina, however, had hurried home. Rather than make the wet, muddy trek to Wayne’s home, she’d fled soon after the first sounds of thunder had clapped overhead. 

Wayne had jumped at the sound, then laughed something sheepish as St. Cloud teased him. They’d been standing close together, hiding beneath the thick umbrella, mocking one another with playful delight. 

A bit of loud noise was no reason to panic, not at their old age, but Selina had anyway. As she’d turned and ran, her last sight of the two students had blurred beneath the cover of rain. Rather than two bodies standing beside one another, they’d appeared as one dark figure. St. Cloud’s blonde hair had flashed like the sun, golden and striking, all Selina could truly distinguish before disappearing the way she came. 

The thunder had struck late into the night and stolen away her sleep, too sudden and too deafening to allow her even a moment’s reprieve. It was a sound she’d always hated. In the Narrows, there was no safety from a heavy downpour. She’d had no umbrellas to share with a friend or laughter to chase away the dark sky. 

Selina crumpled up the photo in her hands. The twisting agitation in her stomach unraveled like yarn. 

Across the back read the date in bold, black ink. She didn’t have to look to see it and know what it said. She’d written it herself only last night, thunder overhead. There were others, too, in the stack of data. Images of Wayne first leaving classes, lifting the umbrella, turning as St. Cloud called his name. A dozen portraits of Wayne upright, intact, alive. 

Selina squeezed her fist till the skin of her knuckles went white. In her hand, crushed and tearing, was blurry, pure proof of her failure.

All through the night, when she’d pressed her ear into her pillow and thought of the Narrows, she could’ve been with him. For a moment, just a quick second of childlike wonder, she dared to imagine it. Even in all of its absurdity. 

Wayne’s throat cut. His name and face plastered across the morning paper. All of this, over and done with. 

A familiar serenity replaced the remaining scraps of jitters in her body. It was a euphoric feeling. Her body often fought her, made her sick at inconvenient hours and attempted to bring tears to her eyes if she thought too long about all the things she’d done; horrific, awful things. Honorable, wonderful things. All the kills made on behalf of her Father. All the blood she’d spilled and that stained her hands still. 

On rare occasions, her body cooperated. Like the final puzzle piece tumbling into place, her head and heart and stomach worked together. In times like these, in the final hours before a kill, everything just felt right. A welcome hunger settled into her gums and made her teeth tingle. Like a rattlesnake coiled up, her hackles raised and teeth bared, Selina prepared to strike. Hard and fast, sharp and mean. 

And, as her Father always did, without mercy.

—

At a glance, Wayne’s body was carved of marble, a Roman sculpture made lean and pretty. Beneath his clothing, his muscles looked tightly wound. Leant over his desk, his back arched like a bow. 

Although she’d never admit it, he was a pretty thing. Small, too: lucky for her. 

Selina paused as she stared down at his hands. The skin there was clean and only a few scars across his knuckles and palms disturbed the otherwise smooth surface. 

Wayne made a small noise to himself and she looked upward. Another mumble left his lip, nothing coherent or worthwhile. His eyes darted across the papers spread over his desk, some having slipped to the ground over the course of the night. A few sat beneath his feet, wrinkled under the weight of his body. In his hands were more papers, nearly torn around the sides from how tight he gripped at them. 

She tried not to sigh—or laugh. It was always the same dull routine with him. The source of his frantic frustration remained unchanging: the Falcone Empire. 

Wayne just wasn’t quite able to pinpoint it as so. The scraps of evidence laid out before him always had too many missing pieces for him to understand that her family’s empire was the greatest source of corruption within Gotham. All of the murders without leads and companies bled dry, the countless breakouts from Arhkam and Blackgate; it all led back to Carmine Falcone.

The Falcone Empire was one enormous, vile sponge speaking up blood and ruin and fame and fortune. All the puzzle pieces were carefully buried and disguised so that Commissioner Gordon and Bruce Wayne and all the others desperate to prevent any further turmoil found themselves lost. 

Wayne ran circles around himself every night. It was hard to watch, really.

At his desk, Wayne crammed the papers into one pile. It resembled something close to her own stack at home: a mess tipping to one side. With a yawn, he stood and stepped away from the desk. He looked pale, the skin beneath his eyes dark and his entire body sagging. 

Selina remained still. Crouched on the balcony, she rocked on her heels, careful to keep herself away from the open doors. There’d only be one shot at this. She couldn’t miss. 

Wayne lifted his arms up, shoulders popping as he stretched. Exhaustion tugged at his figure. His eyes drifted shut, like he was trying not to nod off right there. He tipped back his chin, body pivoting to the side as he twisted. 

His spine, straight as an arrow, turned to face the balcony.

Selina kicked hard against the back of his knee.

Wayne’s legs buckled beneath the abrupt weight. He yelped, a pathetic little noise of shock, and collapsed with a wobble. Both of his knees slapped against the hardwood, a bruising sound even to her ears. One arm lifted, flailing for balance, searching for the edge of his desk or solid ground, some sort of stability in the uncertainty of the fall. 

Her fingers found their ways into his hair, latching onto thick curls and pulling. The rest of his body had no choice but to follow. His torso tipped back, chin lifting. His arm, still flailing for purchase, found its target: her. 

Over her wrist, he clamped down. Likely instinct before anything else. Her feet were planted solid and she was the only steady thing around, but it made her teeth gnash regardless. The last person to touch her had been her Father, his heavy hand on her shoulder, and this boy had no right to taint her body. 

“Wait,” he gasped. Static sounded in her ears, loud enough that his voice was an indistinct murmur. More of a whine than a plea. It was only routine; a grinding buzz emerged during, and only once the body was motionless at her feet would it fade. “Wait, wait.”

Selina’s knee came up and found the base of his spine. The remainder of his plea drowned beneath his grunt, a sharp noise that whistled through his teeth.

Still, his hand was hot iron over her arm. 

Wayne thrashed and fell. With only her hand in his hair, he slipped out of her tight grip with a jerk. Selina hissed as his legs swung wildly, side-stepping to avoid tripping over him. She rushed sideways, her shoulder slamming into the wall with a dull thud.

Pain flared across her arm, but Wayne was lifting himself up to his wrists; the ache melted away, forgotten. 

Selina shoved herself from the wall, rushing forward—and met Wayne’s solid head.

It tore the air from her lungs. The thud of impact against her ribcage was nothing to cry about, but still she yelped, shouting again as the both of them toppled. Her knees buckled and ankles twisted awkwardly, and the quick attempt she made to scramble away wasn’t quite quick enough. 

Nor was it able to compensate for Wayne’s body falling over her.

Her chest flooded with heat; sour and tight, like swallowing liquid too quick. She swallowed the taste of terror blooming on her tongue and aimed her knee for his nose. It missed by barely inches, colliding with his chin instead. He jerked to the side, head and torso and legs twisting away. 

The inch of space was all that Selina needed to rush away. One hand lowered to the knife in her pocket as she hurried backward.

Wayne cupped his face with one hand, panting for breath on his hands and knees. His eyes remained low rather than searching for her. 

Something small and sharp scraped against her elbow and she hissed, quiet but sharp. When she looked down, broken glass littered the floor around her, a shattered picture frame sitting a foot away. 

Wayne’s chin lifted. 

Something wild and angry made Selina’s heart pound. Even if he’d be dead by morning, remaining unseen was the singular rule drilled into her bones and anchored to her heartstrings. Just the thought of his eyes meeting hers made her muscles twitch. 

Her elbow, stinging and sore, connected with his jaw. 

Wayne’s chin snapped backwards. The cry that ripped from his mouth was the loudest yet, a raw sort of wail. His body lurched. Were the heavy desk only a few inches to the left, he’d have met the sharp corner straight on. It was a pity; it’d have smashed in his already crooked nose. 

Selina scrambled for him, blade lifting. His legs were closest, sprawled out beneath his torso. Tucked into his thigh was the femoral artery: it would bleed like hell if she aimed right. It wouldn’t be the cleanest cut, but all the flailing was making her irritated. Wayne should be bloody and torn apart by now. 

The blade came up, down, and missed. 

Wayne, cowering beside the desk, yelped. Selina made a nasty noise, angry and irate at having caught air instead of flesh. It wasn’t in vain; he sprung upwards, knees shaking and whimpering something pathetic, as she slashed upward. 

In the split-second it took to lift his arm, his wet gaze dropped down. 

For a heartbeat, a swift thump of his and steady twist of hers, their gazes locked. And, terribly, a puzzle piece slotted behind his eyes. Some impression of recognition, brief and horrible, before his arm collided with the edge of her blade. Fabric split, the blade biting into skin and flesh till it separated. A strangled cry left Wayne, ripped from his throat like a gag.

A thin spurt of blood sprayed her from chin to nose, sticky and red. When she wet her mouth, copper tickled her tongue. It wasn’t a taste she enjoyed nor one she would soon forget. 

Rather than consider the red stain on her teeth, she pivoted. The mess would be cleaned eventually, the blood scrubbed away and memories buried, but first the blade had to be buried in Wayne’s flesh.

Wonderfully, to her giddy fascination, his back turned. His concentration fixed itself low, eyes stuck like glue to the few droplets of blood sliding down his arm. One hand cupped over his elbow, twisting the arm to and fro and hissing when the gash pulled. 

Selina cocked her head. The blade twitched in her hand.

Behind him, only a foot away, she stood, wielding a blade and baring her teeth. His rabbit foot was caught in the trap, and yet he worried only about a paper cut, staring down at it as if she’d tried to sever the entire limb off. As if there wasn’t more blood to be spilled and skin to be severed.

Her tongue ran over her front teeth. It tasted of copper and salt. The buzzing in her ears grew tenfold. 

Selina laughed, high-pitched and with her teeth shining red. 

“Blue blood boys,” she murmured. A bloody, wolfish grin overtook her. Stupid, vain narcissists. 

The muscles in Wayne’s back went tense and tight; a rabbit having caught sight of the fox in the bushes. 

Before he could so much as flinch away, she lifted her foot and kicked hard at the backs of his knees. He fell easily, his kneecaps slapping against the hardwood with a crunch.

Selina slipped her blade beneath his chin, the other hand finding a way into his hair to steady him. The blade dug in: severing without a falter.

“Please,” Wayne gasped, tears turning his plea garbled. “Don’t do this.”

The buzzing in her ears only worsened, suffocating his whines. Her palms felt hot. Maybe she was feverish, ill from the pinch of blue blood that had fallen into her mouth. 

For a split-second, she was no longer with Wayne, but with Wilson; that first kill, her first ever pledge of loyalty. Rather than Wayne on his knees, it was him, bleeding all over her hands as her knife poked out from his eye socket. 

Selina’s head always played funny tricks on her during these nights. She might not like games, but her pink, dirty brain did. It made her think she was in all sorts of places that she wasn’t, hearing the cries of a man long dead, smelling blood that had washed off long ago. 

Only her body remained steadfast. It split from her head, fulfilling the necessary tasks that she might not execute if she stepped back and took in all the blood. If she swallowed again and tasted Wayne’s blood, she might vomit rather than applaud. That was the sort of problem with her head being in command; it liked to interfere.

Luckily, her hands remained firm over the blade. Luckily, her heart and brain were split, disconnected rather than coordinated organs.

Blood seeped from the burgeoning gash, red liquid dribbling to his clothes, over his clawing hands, down to the floor. It dripped to a puddle in front of their figures, sticky and endless.

Selina imagined herself to be a snake wrapping around prey. Waiting out that last, precious breath; feeling the mouse’s ribs clutch and snap beneath pressure, fighting and clawing but inevitably giving way. Soon it would be time to peel back her gums and eat. Soon it would be over.

“It’s you.”

Selina stiffened. 

Her heart and brain pulsed, shook, and collided. Her hands, trembling, went slack. 

The blade clattered to the floor. 

A heavy weight shoved into her. Selina stumbled back without struggle. That hot feeling was back in her chest. Like she’d drank wine with Sofia, or clawed at her skin till she bled. Hot like she’d have to scrape and scratch at her throat till she vomited, and even then, it likely wouldn’t end. Maybe Wayne’s blood truly had made her ill. 

The balcony’s door frame cushioned her fall with needle-like pain. A pounding throb erupted at the back of her skull as it smacked back into the peeling frame. Her shoulder, already aching, knocked against it even harder. She bit her tongue to avoid a cry. 

Tears filled her eyes, wet and shameful. She’d managed all sorts of worse sprains and scars. But there were needles beneath her shoulder and fuzzy terror in her chest. 

Without thinking, she threw the weight of her body forward. It was instinct. It hurt her head. Stepping forward as quickly as she did made her stomach lurch and she gagged, an ugly little noise that ripped out of her throat. 

But Wayne already loomed over her, expectant. 

Selina inhaled through her teeth, looking up and, and, and he was looking at her, watching her, wide and wet blue meeting hers and daring her to so much as blink. 

Bile rose in her throat. She swallowed back a nasty little retching noise. Vomit was trace evidence. Blood, too. That sudden recollection turned her stomach even further. All she wanted was to heave or spit up the blood in her mouth, his and hers alike. All that disgusting mess under her tongue and staining her teeth. She wanted to purge it from her mouth and scrub it from her skin. 

It was sullying her. It was a part of her now.

Her blade was behind his foot. It was meant to be in her hand, in his neck, splitting him open to the bone. Why wasn’t she holding it? It was hers. It was meant to be held, firm and steady, in her hand or tucked in her pocket. When had she dropped it?

Wayne’s body twitched, because he was alive and watching her. 

Selina took half a step backwards. Scissors sat atop his desk, rusted but large. There were textbooks abandoned on the couch behind him from his studies. It would be messy, but she had little options. 

Still, she recoiled, because she didn’t want to bash his head in with a physics textbook. It would be ugly. It would cave in his skull like a smashed-up bug, like those ladybugs her Father crushed beneath his foot. It would hurt and she’d always told herself she wouldn’t make it hurt. Digging scissors between his ribs would take time, require blood and torn flesh, and she’d sworn to herself death would always take her marks without any pain. 

Wayne was supposed to yield and die easy. 

Why didn’t he want to die easy?

“I know you,” he said. Fear turned his voice into a tremble. Selina didn’t dare move, but blood flooded her mouth. Her cheek stung. Some protest might’ve left her mouth, because he urged, “I do, I know you.”

Wayne stepped closer; she stepped back. 

“How do I know you?”

Something split wide open in her chest. A fissure of terror, leaking out from her heart and flooding her stomach, her lungs, her blood. It rose up in her throat and did not halt no matter how hard she swallowed. 

He didn’t know her. He couldn’t know her. 

“This is just some stupid game, isn’t it?” she whispered. It was too close to a plea to be comprehensible. “You’re playing a trick on me.”

Wayne made a sort of mumble, face screwing up as he tried to make out her muted tone. 

Selina bit the inside of her cheek. The flare of pain was a distant thing, a foggy sort of ache she couldn’t really feel. Even the taste of blood was muted, salty but scarce. 

“You’re lying,” she hissed. A gust of wind could’ve covered up the words, quiet as they were. “This is a trick.”

Heat bit at her eyes. A strangled little gasp, nasty and pathetic, worked its way through her teeth. 

Wayne faltered. The fright pinching up his face went soft, like he was more so curious than scared. His hand lifted, reaching up and for her. Unblinking and all-seeing, to touch her, to feel her, and she fled.

Chapter Text

Her cheeks stung. Raw and sore, it was the first thing Selina felt when she woke. The taste of copper between her teeth came next, salty and stale, and she swallowed hard. 

Sour nausea rose in her stomach and she flung herself out of bed and to her knees. A gag worked its way up her mouth, not quite vomit but something close. Every muscle burned and her skin felt tight, like a fever had struck her overnight. 

For a moment, she sat kneeling, unsure. For a second of bliss, there was only nausea and discomfort, and then—

Then she remembered. And she could not forget.

A small cry escaped her clenched teeth. She clapped a hand over her mouth, falling back from her knees to clutch at herself. Wayne had seen her. Wayne knew her. Breath remained in his lungs because rather than cut him open, she’d left. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered to no one at all, because her Father did not care to listen to her apologies even when he was around to hear them. “Fuck, I’m sorry.” 

Shame wormed its way up her spine. If her Father knew that she was curled up on the ground weeping, he’d bruise her ribs till she stood tall and proud. Tears wouldn’t fix this problem and self-pity wouldn’t put Wayne in the grave. 

Her eyes lifted. The hall was quiet and the shadows beneath her door were still. It was only a matter of time until Wayne broadcasted the attack and her Father came for her. He’d drag her out by the hall and make an example of her like so many others. When the time came, she wouldn’t beg for mercy beneath the scalpel. She wasn’t deserving of his forgiveness, not after this. Not when she’d sworn him blood and honor. 

“Oh god,” she said quietly, lashes fluttering against her cheeks. 

Tears bit at her eyes. Ice bathed every limb until she was entirely immobile. It hurt like a physical ache in her body.

A fuss of noise made her lift her head. Her heart pounded. It sounded like footsteps, nowhere close to her room but heavy and direct. Chatter and slamming doors came next, then Sofia’s voice, pitched high in the way it did only when she was whining. 

An uneven breath left Selina. It wasn’t her Father, come to peel apart her skin.

Mario must’ve finally arrived. 

Selina stretched out her legs, inhaling thinly. Today was not hers to weep over. It was Louisa's, the late mother of Mario and Sofia. This, her birthday, was the only occasion for which her family showed up without fail. It was the only reason Mario returned to Gotham and he’d only ever missed the day once. 

A week of preparation had busied the Manor. For staff, every detail of the day was intentional. Every fork had to be in place, every rose blooming. Perfection was required, not optional. 

For Selina, the day was a headache in waiting. It was the most that she ever spent with Mario or Sofia, not to mention the both of them simultaneously. Usually, her interactions with Sofia were brief and hostile, and even a few moments in passing left Selina glowering. Just the thought of an entire afternoon threatened a migraine.

Mario, while passively boring, sparked more friction than he was worth. It was the same teeth grinding routine every year. Their Father devoted his attention towards Mario rather than Sofia, and the latter threw a fit in order to receive even a glare. 

Selina eyed the floorboards. Hidden beneath were her old blades. Maybe she could jam one into her eye socket and skip lunch entirely. 

Another burst of noise flooded the hall, further away but still coherent. Sofia’s shriek of a complaint came first, then Mario’s grumble. A door slammed and a jumble of illegible bickering grew closer. 

Selina pressed both hands over her ears, briefly. If she remained still, they might forget that she existed entirely. She could slide into the shadows and spend her day asleep on the floor, forgetting the night prior. But, then she would wake again, and her cheek would still be sore. And Wayne would still have seen her.

She allowed herself half a moment before rising. It wouldn’t take very long to make herself presentable. Regardless of how much time she spent or if she had every tool at her disposal, in the end she still wouldn’t quite fit. Both of her siblings were mirrors of Louisa but Selina had nothing of the woman. 

Only after she’d dressed did she dare to peer at herself in the mirror. In the reflection she found a pale imitation of Sofia. Her hair was far too light and her curls would never compare to Sofia’s own hair. Her nose was smaller, but so was her mouth. 

Even the dress she wore was borrowed from her half-sister, because she had none of her own. She looked like a child playing dress up; a little girl dressing dolls because she wasn’t old enough to dress herself. 

It was nothing to weep over. It was only a familiar sort of embarrassment to recall that she had merely a crumb of Sofia’s beauty. 

Selina sighed and turned away from her reflection.

—

Rather than eat, Selina prodded at her food. Nerves ate away at her stomach. If she tried to chew and swallow, she might vomit on the floor. At least then she’d be excused from the table, albeit with a few bruises from her Father from the interruption, but excused nonetheless.

“I prefer a square knot,” Mario said, sipping at his wine. “Much sturdier.” 

“And they’re quicker, aren’t they?” Her Father nodded along. “Fascinating.”

An hour had passed and neither of them had taken more than two bites. Discussing suture methods took precedent, apparently. 

Selina would rather be receiving sutures than listen to the conversation for another minute. 

This was the one day a year that Mario visited Gotham. Years ago, he’d have stayed the entire week, but now, he arrived at sunrise and left at sundown. Selina nearly felt a strike of jealousy; she’d never even left Gotham and yet Mario came and went as he pleased. 

“It is, isn’t it?” Mario agreed. Lifting his wine glass to his lips, his clumsy elbow knocked into his silverware and sent it clattering to the floor. Rather than reach for it, he looked down mildly with a hum. “Oh, how unfortunate.”

Selina shut her eyes for a long moment. Never would she understand their Father’s obsession with him. It was an unsolvable riddle. The surgical table was perfect for Mario; bland and precise. Gotham required disorder. 

Stitching up wounds couldn’t be more different from doling out the punishment. Hands turned bloody from the stain of a kill was unlike anything else. Then again, Selina couldn’t quite reconcile the responsibility of healing such damage. Taking a broken, damaged body and mending rather than tearing. Sometimes it was easier to hurt. 

“And yours?” 

Selina looked upwards. Mario stared at her expectantly. 

“My what?” she asked. 

Beside her, Sofia hid a smile behind her wine glass. Selina resisted kicking her in the ankle.

Mario frowned. “Your favorite knot, obviously.”

Selina squinted. It was nearly impossible not to fling her plate at him. “Oh, yes,” she said. “Obviously.”

Sofia pursed her lips. “I prefer the running knot, truthfully.”

“It’s not very sturdy,” Mario argued, smiling thinly. “It breaks frequently.”

Selina tried not to melt into her chair.

Did Sofia have this knowledge on standby, just to infuriate her? It wasn’t unthinkable. Once, Sofia had entertained a two-hour long discussion with Mario about gardening. Later, Selina had discovered that Sofia was hiding a catalog beneath the table to maintain the conversation. Everytime Selina had attempted to change it, Sofia had interjected with another trivial fact about daffodils or marigolds. 

Sofia tipped her wine glass toward him. “But they’re quick to tie, aren’t they?”

“Correct,” he sighed. Sofia’s lips curved up. He turned back to Selina.

“Arbor,” she lied. It was the only name she could remember, even if she’d never gone fishing. 

Mario’s mouth screwed up like he’d eaten a lemon. “Those aren’t used in surgery, Selina.”

“And I’m not a surgeon. Well spotted,” she spit. For a brief moment, she considered drinking the glass of wine at her seat in one gulp. It was always served to her, a cruel reminder of every time it had been tipped into her lap, even if she never touched the cup. Her Father didn’t care that she wasn’t of legal age, only that she handled herself with class. 

Sofia had been served wine since she was sixteen under the impression that she’d supervise herself. For the most part, she did. Occasionally, Sofia turned hostile and cruel, but that wasn’t a consequence of liquor. Sofia was just a cunt. 

“Play nice, Selina,” her Father scolded. Selina tipped her chin down, cheeks pink. The weight of his gaze made her head spin, like she really had drank the glass of wine. She’d forgotten herself. She’d forgotten the shame of last night. 

Mario sniffed and lifted his empty cup, beckoning forward a waitress. 

Selina watched carefully as the girl tipped the bottle forward, clean and precise. Red liquid spilled into the cup. When today was done, the girl would be killed. So would the young waiter standing against the far wall. 

It was a necessary evil. All the money in the world couldn’t guarantee that they would remain quiet. Her face had been seen. Mario and Sofia had bickered over the crown, even if for just a moment. Though it was an unfortunate burden, it was equally unavoidable. 

Their Father protected them; not just her, but all three of his children. As hidden as Selina’s very existence was, Sofia and Mario’s identities had to be safeguarded. 

Gotham knew that Carmine Falcone had two children; one son and one daughter. Both were accepted as ordinary citizens, former students of Anders Prep and the traditional children of a wealthy investor. Gotham knew nothing of their crimes or of the empire that lived in the shadows. 

The girl stepped back, hands clutched at the jug. The boy smiled politely when she met his gaze. Neither knew today was their last. It would be clean, at least. Selina was sure it would be quick. They’d done nothing but the task assigned of them; tend to the family. 

Selina turned away. 

“Skipping the wine, today?” Sofia chirped. Her fingers were tight around her own glass and red stained her mouth, lipstick and wine alike. Though she’d been drinking since the meal had started, her voice didn’t waver. 

Selina sent a withering glare her way. “You’re drinking enough for the both of us.”

Sofia’s smirk shriveled around the edges. Her cup tipped to the side, like she wanted to spill it into Selina’s lap. “Careful. I’m feeling clumsy.”

Normally, she’d have snapped and snarled. But the quip was so familiar that she had to swallow down a smile. It broke apart some of the nerves in her stomach and she exhaled.

“It’s your dress you’ll be staining,” she muttered. Sofia returned to her wine with a shrug. The dress hadn’t fit Sofia in some time. It was the only reason Selina had been allowed to wear it.

Mario’s voice rose an octave across the table. Selina idly peered over. Sofia, too, glanced at the approaching dispute. Hopefully it would be even a fraction more interesting than knots and sutures. 

“We both know I’m not suited for Gotham,” Mario said. Irritation turned his voice brittle.

“I’m sure you underestimate yourself.”

“It’s been years, now,” he bit, “and I’m perfectly happy everywhere but here.”

Their Father’s spine straightened. “Everywhere but?”

Mario withered instinctually before rising up as well. “Yes, everywhere but. Haven’t I made that clear?”

Their Father’s responding retort went unheard. Selina slumped back in her seat, lifting up her fork and toying with the prongs. “Same as usual, then,” she muttered.

The argument was nearly as dull as it was lifeless. They ran circles around one another and spent hours battling for the last word. In the end, neither won and Mario fled to the other side of the country. The following year, they’d argue the exact same. 

“Did you expect any different?”

Selina peered over at Sofia. This far into the day and this many glasses of wine into the meal, Sofia usually liked to pretend Selina was a bug on the wall. Almost never did she engage in actual conversation with her, and entirely never was it without insult.

For a moment, Selina debated turning away. Sofia was veering on tipsy even if she held herself well and it was the first occasion in months that they’d spoken in a manner considered even close to civil.

Sofia met her eyes. It was the first she’d done so in weeks without being prompted. 

“I was hoping they’d at least skip the medical gossip,” Selina admitted. “I’d rather watch paint peel.”

Remarkably, Sofia’s mouth twitched. “Careful. Next year that might be his topic of choice.”

A smile poked at Selina’s mouth. All of the liquor drunk had turned her half-sister's voice soft. Maybe a bit slurred as well, but gentle and quiet. For once, Selina didn’t imagine ripping her hair out of her skull.

Mario whined something incoherent. Their Father countered and the cycle kept spinning. 

“Would either of them notice if we stood and ran?” Selina asked, only half serious. 

“Mario wouldn’t.” She tilted her chin toward Selina, voice dropping low and teasing, “but Father would drag us both back kicking and screaming.”

Selina made a face and Sofia laughed, quiet but genuine. 

They both quieted as the argument continued across the table. There was no halting the altercation, only waiting it out. Still, Selina caught Sofia’s eyes dropping toward her steak knife, like she’d be perfectly happy to put it through Mario’s hand. 

A laugh bubbled up in Selina’s throat and she swallowed heavily to clear it away. 

Sofia was nasty and cruel, but never had she been violent. If killing were the only way to earn their Father’s respect, then she would without hesitation. But it wasn’t in her nature to hurt without aim. She could make the call as their Father did, but Selina wasn’t certain that Sofia could wield the knife or point the gun. 

Selina returned to her plate, pushing around the steak with her fork. Later, she’d be hungry but for now she could think only of the block of cement in her stomach. It was a thick wad of anxiety, ruffled by Sofia’s taunt but having returned full force now that there was nothing to distract her. 

Wayne could very well be sitting with Commissioner Gordon at this very second. The gash over his neck might need stitches and his butler wouldn’t let the puddle of blood go unnoticed. There’d been broken glass. Wayne’s sweater had split around the arm. 

Selina took a slow bite. The steak knife felt far too heavy in her hand with how sore her shoulder felt. It ached, still, from when she’d hit it twice. The pain would fade within a few days, but she’d have to be careful. 

It was a surprise that the news wasn’t today’s headline; Gotham’s Golden Boy having survived an unprecedented attack. Every citizen would want her head for splitting his skin open. 

Selina’s knife slipped from her hand.

Her knife. Not only had she dropped it, she’d left it behind Wayne’s foot. 

The breath in her lungs fell away. Her heart pounded in her ears. It beat loud enough to drown out the sounds of muted conversation around her. Her skin felt hot enough to burn. 

Without looking, she could feel eyes turn her way. Once again, she’d made a mess and brought shame to the table. When she lifted her gaze, the edges of her vision were dim. The figure sitting in front of her was fuzzy, but its eyes bore into her. Eyes, everywhere, across every surface, watched her. Seeing her; inspecting her every mistake and regarding all her shame.

“I’m sorry,” she said carefully. “It just slipped.”

Selina lifted the steak knife back up with firm, steady fingers. A circle of red juice sat beneath it, staining the white linens red. A wet, choked-up sound rose in her throat but she swallowed it away. Today was not hers to weep over. 

Beside her, Sofia made a noise of disappointment. Their Father peered down at her over the rim of his glass, curious and weary. Mario resumed his discussion of knots and whatever else he found interesting. 

Their eyes did not disappear. Selina blinked, but still, she was being seen and followed. Everyone knew, she thought, of what she’d done. Of what she’d attempted and failed. 

Selina glared down at her plate. The food was barely touched. She stabbed at her potatoes just to prove she could. 

“You’re quiet, Selina.”

The notches of her spine straightened. As her chin lifted, so did the corners of her mouth, forming a polite smile. Her Father’s attention wasn’t to be ignored or misused. 

“Just enjoying the food,” she said. “And company.”

Her Father chose not to counter her lie.

“What about your work?” He crossed one hand over another and nodded to his left. “I’m sure Mario would like to hear.”

Mario took a heavy swig of wine and avoided her gaze. 

“I don’t think it’s,” she glanced down at her steak, red and dripping protein around the edges of the plate, “dinner appropriate.”

The last any of them wanted to hear was Selina cutting open whichever moron of the month her Father wanted gone. It’d likely only end in Sofia trying to throttle her—or puking up all her liquor. 

Her Father’s face pinched into a frown. “Don’t you think it’s polite to appreciate what’s been given to you?”

Selina paled. “I do. I just wanted—”

“You act as if this is meaningless,” he continued, sharp like she’d never spoken, “like Bruce Wayne is common.”

Mario’s head swiveled. “Bruce Wayne? That’s your pick of the litter?”

Selina’s teeth ground down. It wasn’t like she’d chosen him or thought him a convenient kill. If asked, her Father would call Wayne an extraordinary gift. She thought he was too irritating to be considered anything close. 

“It’s not like she’s done much with him yet,” Sofia interjected. The brief, unfamiliar moment of harmony between them always returned to this; shame and shame and shame. It would never end. “Isn’t he eighteen next week?”

“It’s not even January,” Selina spit. Two months remained till his birthday, but the reminder made her heart pick up. “Shouldn’t you focus on getting wasted? You’ve almost emptied out the wine cellar and it’s barely noon.”

“Girls,” their Father sighed, anger extinguished and replaced with tired frustration. This was as habitual as his fight with Mario, but it lacked their civility. 

Sofia’s cheeks flamed. “I had two glasses.”

Selina snorted. 

“Two,” she repeated, lifting up the corresponding amount of fingers. They wavered slightly in the air. “Does it bother you that you can’t even look at wine without crying?”

Selina made an irritated noise, sucking at her front teeth. The steak knife beside her plate gleamed, mocking her. It’d be so easy to stick it into the skin of her half-sister's hand, and it might even manage to quiet her for a single moment. 

“Doesn’t it make you feel like some sort of freak?” Sofia’s voice dropped low. So did Selina’s heart, all the way down to her stomach where she could feel it twisting and turning. “You can’t drink. Can’t talk. Can’t even speak your own name unless Father lets you.”

“Sofia,” he warned. 

She ignored him. “You’re barely human.”

If her heart did tear and fall, maybe Sofia would be right. If it rolled to a stop in front of their feet, they’d all see it for what it was; spoiled. Pink around the edges, sour down the middle. Wet with pus and shame. She’d bet anything there was mold in the middle, that her thumb would sink right to the middle if she tried to hold it, that it was soft and disfigured.

“You play the part well.” Sofia finished the remainder of her cup. It stained the corners of her mouth, a pretty ring of red around her lips. “But when the game’s up, win or lose, you’ll be the same: still you. And you’ll still have been picked up and out of the gutters to be a butcher. You’ll still be a freak who cries over spilled wine and can’t look Father in the eye.”

A hand smacked against the table. Silverware clattered together. Selina’s wine spilled over the edge, droplets of red splattering against white linen. It would stain and her shoulders shriveled at the thought. There’d be no removal of her presence from the once clean, once perfect fabric. 

“Enough.” It was a strike of thunder against a cloudless sky.

Needles bit at Selina’s eyes. Hot, sharp tears that she couldn’t blink away filled up her eyes. It was true enough that she was misshapen and wrong, unbefitting of the title human. But she was a good butcher. With a knife in her hand, she could be good. 

The stain of wine spread and settled. A permanent smudge of red at her seat stared up at her. 

Sofia shook her head. “She’s not yours.”

Selina’s name wouldn’t even cross her lips. 

“She is,” their Father said, furious and tired. 

It was an argument fought dozens of times already. In the first year she’d been brought home, Sofia used to claim that she just wanted a warm meal and a bed. The resemblance was too slight, the opportunity too considerable. 

“She’s not Mothers,” Sofia hissed. Silence wavered across the table. The horrifying truth was a dark, dirty reminder. “How can she be yours?”

Red spotted Selina’s vision: the stain of wine, the blood of her scarred nail beds, the shame of tears blurring her vision. She rubbed a thumb over the damp splotches of wine to no avail.

Some stains couldn’t be purged. 

—

Mercy bred fault.

The fault began with Selina, but the headache of it all was that fault never lingered. It liked to spread. Like a common cold, it jumped to and fro, latching onto the others in her family, trickling down to the rest of the empire. 

Disease, weakness that it was, must be cleansed. Fault had to be purged at the source, bled clean from the body and obliterated from the bones. 

Oblivious and guilty, the fault sat mere feet from her. Hunched over his textbooks, mumbling to himself, exhausted and awful and alive. 

Wayne. 

Mercy was a parasite in her lungs, gripping tight and hard at tissue, and it wouldn’t loosen until Bruce Wayne lay dead on the floor. Until she’d buried him in the earth, it would remain, eating away at her ribs and up to her heart. It had been her unsure, misguided weakness that allowed him to live, after all. Now, she had to atone. 

Wayne hissed as a dribble of coffee spilled over the lip of his mug. Brown liquid splattered onto his hand and homework. The pages turned wet around the edges. Although he was so often taut with apprehension, he now looked to be on the verge of utter collapse. Exhaustion turned him clumsy and slack, it seemed. 

Selina took the split-second of distraction for what it was: an opportunity. 

Before he could step away, she fell into place behind him. The edge of her blade pinched up against his jugular. For a moment, the memory of last night flooded her marrow like ice water. The weight of his body, lean but heavy, crowded her before she could twist away.

Selina forced her blade closer to his skin.

Wayne stilled. Still sticky with coffee, his hands halted midair. His pulse jumped. She saw it in his throat, the sudden rise of heartbeat. 

“You’ve come back,” he said. The sound of his voice ground her teeth together.

Selina lifted her gaze skywards. Little point remained in biting her tongue considering he’d seen her face. Still, it was routine. The words she’d like to spit instead caught between the grooves of her teeth like cavities. 

What could be said? It wasn’t as if she could split open his throat, desirable as it sounded, because there was no telling what he’d said or done since she’d run. Twenty four hours was more than enough time to alert the press, his butler, and the cops.

Wayne shifted and she tightened her grip. The blade caught on the fabric of his sweater, pressing deep into the fabric.

“I just,” he swallowed and choked, “want to clean my hands.”

An irate noise escaped her. The sharp edge of a blade sat nestled up against his neck, and yet, he worried only about his uncovered hands.

She hadn’t looked closely last night. Maybe they were horribly scarred. Perhaps they’ve been ripped apart by his own terror and shame, turned pink with blood and guilt alike. It was a curiosity she’d never been able to completely escape.

She dared a peek over his shoulder. It only fed her confusion. 

Damp, likely sticky, but otherwise bare of deformities, his hands looked graceful. His skin was pale and pretty. Thin veins crowded his third knuckles down to the wrist, where they disappeared beneath fabric. If he were to turn them over, his palms would be broad, larger than hers by a handful. 

Selina’s brows twisted. When she went to wet her lips, she found her mouth dry. 

“I just need a minute, really,” Wayne continued. It made her twitch. Only reckless stupidity could possibly make him think that he had more than a crumb of control compared to her. “It’s sticky.”

She yanked him to his feet by the collar. Though she’d felt him atop her, crowding over her and caging her in, his body was heavier than met than eye. She doubted any sort of heavy muscle hid beneath the fabric of his clothes. 

Wayne’s spine hit the counter as she twisted him around to face her. The blade returned to his jugular like it had never left, slotting home up against his high collar. A heavy swallow made his throat bob. 

Something thick and heavy coated her stomach. Now standing, he was far taller than her. The weight of him, the sudden wavering of her advantage, made her teeth click together. Still, she held the blade. It wasn’t pressed to her throat. It wasn’t her blood that had spilled the night before, only his. 

Their eyes met and on impulse she glared, teeth gritting together and fists clenching. An ache began to form in her jaw from how tightly she ground her molars. It shouldn’t be possible for him to be so at ease. The blade at his neck should make him wither and weep and—and the cut was covered up, she finally noticed. 

Selina tilted her head, slow like a cat. 

“You’re covering it,” she said. The thick fabric of his sweater ended right below his chin, shielding the entirety of his neck. Only his face remained exposed and she eyed the pink bruises over his jaw and cheek. 

Wayne blinked, owl-eyes drifting low before snapping up. “Yes.”

The sleeves of his sweater, too, remained low on his wrist. The skin was pink and sore beneath, she was sure of it, but he’d rather hide himself away than bare his horrid scars to the world. 

“Ugly,” she murmured, a sugary smile dripping off her lips, “isn’t it?”

A multitude of bruises, cuts, and scars covered her own body. Most were white and healed. They were still ugly to look at and shameful to think about. Pain was a momentary discomfort, whether it be fever or a knife in the skin, but the scars were lasting. And she had enough defects across the body; one more blemish shouldn't upset her, but she doubted Sofia had white lines across her nail beds or still-pink patches on her torso.

Wayne narrowed his eyes. “Next time I’ll brag about them first.”

“Next time?” The blade’s tip nudged at the collar of his sweater, prodding till he flinched. “Don’t you have enough trophies?” she jeered. 

“Well, what’s one more?” he bit, shoulders going tight. “Maybe you’ll even let me return the favor.”

Selina wet her lips, eyes gleaming and blood singing. It was near impossible to imagine this lanky, delicate boy digging a knife into her throat. Roughing her up likely entailed a sneer and shove. Anything worse and she might assume he’d been raised in the East Side. 

“Fine,” she challenged, “give it your all.”

Wayne’s all was decidedly disappointing. Even as she lowered her blade to his stomach, freeing his mobility to the point of a mean shove if he so wished, he withered. 

It wasn’t exactly surprising. He’d been born and raised in Bristol County, a perfect gentleman of the upper class. The Prince of Gotham. He knew nothing of terror or pain or blood. Even without the threat of real reciprocation, he knew nothing of how to hurt her, though he had every reason to desire it. 

“Right.” 

With a titter, the blade dug into his abdomen. Not enough to split fabric or tear skin, just to remind him that it remained pressed up against his flesh.

“Are you going to kill me this time?” he asked. Curiosity coated his tongue rather than fear. Maybe he was more of a freak than she’d originally thought.

“You don’t seem all that bothered,” she said, eyes narrowing. She clutched tighter at the handle of her knife. 

Wayne’s face tilted as he considered the accusation. A hum left his throat, quiet and warm.

“It was a bother,” he said and she frowned. A knife to the throat was a bother of all things? “You didn’t exactly offer to clean up after yourself.”

Selina recoiled, mouth wrinkling like he’d offered up a plate of lemons to eat. Irritation, sour and familiar, twisted around the bones in her ribcage. 

“You’re mad because I didn’t clean?” she asked slowly. It hurt her teeth to say the words, to ask something so senselessly petty.

“There was some blood,” he answered, nodding along like she actually gave a shit about the state of his multi-million-dollar home. Like blood spilled kept her up at night. “And glass. My parent’s picture broke.”

Selina ran her tongue over her teeth. A burst of fury crawled up her chest, so hot she felt near feverish. This couldn’t possibly be the conversation he wished to have with his tried killer. Cleaning up a mess of blood and glass couldn’t be what this rich, awful boy had worried about all day. Not when she’d heaved and wept over leaving him alive. 

She gasped a laugh, tight and mean. “I’m sorry you had to dirty your hands, princess.”

“Blood’s hard to clean.” He frowned, all sorts of insulted that she couldn’t understand his troubles. 

“I know,” she hissed, rising to her toes and baring her teeth. The skin over his cheeks turned the color of a rose. Centimeters separated them. She could feel his sharp breath better than she could hear it. It fell over her mouth like a warm puff of air when he exhaled.

The skin of his cheeks went pink to white in an instant. It was nearly impressive how quickly his owl-eyes fell to a glare, his quivering mouth thinning as he processed her words. 

“You do this often, then?” His voice trembled with fury and fright alike. “Spilling blood and cleaning it’s just a day’s work for you?”

It seemed the closest he could manage to her title; assassin. Butcher. Killer. 

“What do you know about blood?” A wry smile twisted her mouth into something ugly. “What do you know about death?”

Selina couldn’t keep track of how many times she had split skin, whether it belonged to her own body or another. She’d scrubbed blood from tiles, glass, and from beneath her nails. From between her teeth and the stubborn ringlets of her curls. She’s smelled it, tasted it, puked it up. Blood was the reason she’d earned a place in her family and it was the reason she’d been born. 

Wayne’s face fell. It didn’t feel like a victory, but she dropped to her heels and sneered regardless. 

“Well I’m not dead yet, are I?” he said, face pale and shoulders trembling. It was spoken like truth, she thought, like he’d never once considered himself to even approach the blurry boundary between life and death. Death haunted the rest of Gotham, but not this boy. 

“No,” she agreed, a touch softer than intended. “Not yet.”

Wayne’s shoulders tightened and he lifted his chin. It made him appear every bit the arrogant, bratty child of Thomas Wayne that she’d been expecting to encounter.

“I’m not sure you can,” he sniffed. 

Selina managed an impressively passive expression. Her grip tightened ever so slightly, nudging the blade forward just a hint. She wouldn’t hurt him, not really, but could she truly be blamed for wanting to rip apart this spoiled child?

“You left something here last night.”

It tore the breath from her lungs. Her heart, sickly and pink and weak, fell to the floor through her stomach. 

“I know you did,” Wayne continued, a touch gentler, “and so do you.”

Horror turned her rigid. Every limb refused to move and if she attempted to step away, her knees might just buckle. 

“You’re not going to beg for it back,” he said, and even the mere thought made her teeth grind. “You also won’t find it without me.”

Selina pulled the blade away, just by the hint of a millimeter. 

An entire day had passed. Twenty four hours in which Wayne very well could’ve buried the blade across the city, given it to the police, shipped it to one of his many vacation homes. It could be anywhere. It could be right under her nose. It was a clear-cut advantage, strong enough for her to wither and snarl simultaneously. 

“I think I could,” she argued. A lie, but lies had more sense than truth. “I wouldn’t even need to kill you. That’s so easy. We could have so much fun instead. Just you, me, and a blade.”

Wayne twitched and frowned.

“How many fingers do you think you could lose before you start crying?” she wondered aloud. “How much blood before you’re begging me to stop?”

A shadow of horror fell across his face and he recoiled. 

Good, she thought viciously. Good that he remembered his place as prey with one foot in the trap. He knew nothing of her or what she could do if she became desperate enough. There were bodies buried in the Narrows because of her, corpses dead at her hand. The gush on his throat was just a papercut compared to what could be done. 

“I still wouldn’t tell you,” he promised. It was a bold, daring claim that she nearly found impressive. 

Selina rose up on her toes, leaning close until she could feel every breath he took over her mouth. “That sounds like a challenge. Should we find out?”

“Stop it,” he murmured, quiet but sharp. Instead of overwhelming terror, he sounded frustrated more than anything. 

“Stop what?” she bit back. “I’m only being honest. You should be grateful you aren’t already dead.”

Wayne paled, mouth turning thin, and it was the only confirmation needed.

Still, she continued, “How many times has someone hit you and meant it, Wayne?”

Every bone and muscle in her body had strained at one time or another. Fractured ribs, broken noses, bruised skin; all necessary and temporary. Pain only forced her further and made her better. Whether or not her knees shook and her stomach turned, she had to stand and lift her chin. Even if blood coated her teeth, they’d be bared, because a butcher had no appetite if not for meat. 

Wayne grimaced. A strangled sort of hum caught in his throat, like he wasn’t sure whether to choke or whine.

“I’ve broken my nose.” 

A laugh fell from her throat. Of course, he’d argue rather than wither. Of course, he thought a singular break compared to a beating or bones broken twice over.

“Yeah,” she drawled, gazing up at his crooked nose. “I can tell.”

At least it was a claim that she could believe. It sat bent and curved above his pink mouth. Likely the result of a drunken brawl after a night at the bar, or, worse, some school-boy competition over a girl. 

“That’s not very nice,” he muttered. Offense colored his tone and cheeks. A singular finger lifted to his face, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, and she swallowed back another laugh. He winced down at his hand, the once-wet coffee now sticky atop his skin. “I really would like to clean this off.”

Selina squinted, irate and only a little intrigued by his insistence. 

Hands lifting, palms facing her, he attempted to side-step around her, spine still pressed close to the counter. 

Hissing, she pressed herself flush to his chest and shoved him backwards by an inch. This close, she had to crane her neck to still meet his eyes. It flipped her stomach to and fro, like a soda can being shaken and opened. Nerves, she decided after a short moment, just like the night before.

“It’ll just take a second,” he hurried to say, though he remained still this time around. A flush rose in his cheeks, brighter than before, climbing nearly all the way to his ears. Close proximity always made him itch. Even St. Cloud standing within a foot gave him reason to recoil. “You can lead.”

“Careful,” she warned, more of a hiss than a real sound. “I’ll bend your nose even further if you try anything.”

Wayne made a noise in his throat.

“Maybe I’ll even straighten it,” she mused, eyeing the curve of his nose once more.

“It’s not that crooked,” he murmured with a pout and turned, as slow as a snail.

At the sink, with her blade kissing his spine, the pestering resumed. 

“Are you hungry?” he asked. A tip of his chin pointed out the rather impressive display of sweets on the counter. Brown, flaky pastries sat nearby. A few were recognizable only because her Father had gifted them; raspberry danish’s dripping jam, croissants dipped in chocolate, crumb cakes and muffins toppling over. It seemed an excessive amount. A spike of envy nipped at her stomach. “There’s all sorts of things. Whatever you like, really.”

It had been years since her Father had offered her a pastry. She could remember the taste of it still, red jam in her teeth and sugar on her tongue. It was unlike anything else. The plates made up for her at dinner usually had chicken, vegetables, and sometimes watered-down juice. Nothing ever as sweet as a danish or croissant. 

Her eyes darted to the side. The plate on the counter sat untouched. Planted, more like. Dripping with jam and knock-out drugs. Anger colored her cheeks and buried any shred of hunger biting at her stomach. It was a trick, a design to catch her into a sticky spider web. Like some sugar could catch her attention and render her useless. 

Selina resisted kicking the backs of his ankles, just barely. “Are you almost done?”

“Almost,” he murmured. “I should clean the mug, too.”

“Doesn’t the help clean it for you?” Her nose wrinkled. It was quite the impressive performance that he stuck to; first offering food, now pretending he’d ever cleaned before. 

The lines of his shoulders went stiff. “Alfred’s plenty busy,” he bit. “I can wash a cup.”

“Right,” she muttered. The water shut off and Wayne bent at the waist, reaching out for a towel. The front of her hips grazed the backs of his thighs and she scowled. She nearly wished she wore a pair of Sofia’s shoes, tall and loud, just so she wouldn’t have to peer up at him. Maybe she could knock out his kneecaps.

Wayne bumped into her front with a squeak and she hissed.

“May I turn, please?” It was a polite sort of question, strangely enough. She narrowed her eyes. Wayne couldn’t fool her with civil pleasantries. “I can just impale myself, if you prefer.”

Selina took a half-step backwards, scoffing. Wayne pivoted slowly, palms out and open. His throat, covered, appeared in her sightline. 

“Well we wouldn’t want that,” she muttered, “that would just be too convenient.”

Suicide wouldn’t fix this mess. It had to be her. If he tripped down the stairs or tied himself a noose, her Father would only question how Wayne managed to beat her to it. Her blade at his throat was the only way to prove herself as capable. If not at her hands, his death would be meaningless. 

Selina wet her mouth and imagined the taste of copper from last night. It served a reminder of blood spilled but not won. Wayne’s heart still pumped blood. 

“Perfectly timed,” he agreed lightly, a tight-lipped nod warning his attempt at humor. “I’d be stealing your spotlight.” 

Strange, she thought, for him to joke so easily about suicide. Those of his stature usually thought themselves immortal. Wayne just shrugged and offered a mellow smile, like they discussed weather and not his imminent death. 

“The papers love you under a spotlight,” she said. It sent goosebumps up her arms to even consider the thought; Bruce Wayne found dead. Whether by suicide or murder, riots would spark across the city after he’d fallen. Just like his parents, death could only crystallize his glory. “Just think; the Prince of Gotham loses his crown—and his guts.”

Wayne cringed, crooked nose scrunching up while his lips wobbled upwards. “That’s awful. The Gotham Gazette probably has it queued already.”

Selina inhaled a tight noise. Her chin tipped up, nodding toward his bruised face. “How ‘bout those? You gonna say you tripped?”

It slipped before she could truly halt her tongue. An odd flush of heat filled her cheeks and she lifted her chin, sobering. The reason for her pink cheeks or loose tongue wasn’t clear and a surge of discomfort flipped her stomach. She didn’t like feeling helpless to her body. 

Wayne turned sheepish, eyes lowering and fingers twitching. “I did.”

“What?”

“Alfred asked,” he said, shy like the coming excuse would make her laugh, “so I said I fell while drinking with Tommy.”

Selina could only stare. This boy was rather odd. 

“My friend,” he clarified after a moment. 

Little point resided in mentioning that the clarification was unnecessary. The last several weeks made sure of that. Selina knew Thomas Elliot as well as the rest of his spoiled, awful friends. 

And she knew which of his classmates he preferred to drink with, which of his friends he allowed to grow near before flinching. His drink order at the bar, the route he took home, his preferred way to spend the weekends. 

On Tuesdays, he and St. Cloud spent an extra hour in the chess club. Thursdays, Elliot joined him in the physics club. It was all necessary information.

She hummed low in her throat. “And did he believe you?”

Does he know? she wondered. Did you confess the moment you were alone?

Wayne stilled. His fingers twitched by his side. She wondered if he’d remembered, finally, exactly who stood in front of him.

“Alfred knows I’m capable of handling myself,” he warned.

Selina smiled, teeth bare and sharp. “Can you?”

Blood had spilled. Beneath his clothing, a thick cut proved her correct. Wayne might not want to admit his own vulnerability, but death kissed him. It was only her own faltering weakness that left him alive for now.

“Yes,” he bit, stepping forward until they stood toe to toe. “And you returned for a reason, didn’t you?”

“I came to give you another trophy or two,” she countered, lifting a finger and peeling the collar of his sweater back an inch. Wayne withered and she released. “Since you’re so proud of the first.”

His fingers flexed, knuckles curling into half-fists, and what she wouldn’t give to see him hit and hurt in return. With enough buttons pushed, he might just bend beneath the pressure.

“You can’t,” he said, “not until I let you.”

“Let me?”

“Yes, let you,” he repeated, equally as irate as her. 

“I can’t slit your throat,” she spit. Agreeing burned like she’d sat in the sun till her skin blistered and peeled. It was true enough, though, and both knew it. “But I can hurt you plenty.”

Wayne flushed red rather than white this time around, fury and repulsion crinkling up his face. 

“Or you could lie down and take it,” she said. She could feel his breath over her skin. She could count every minuscule inhale and exhale. The sound of his pulse echoed in her ears. “Just give it back and I’ll go.”

“You’ll kill me,” he corrected and she grinned, feral and bright. His face fell slowly, the angry flush fading to pale pink as he repeated, “You’ll kill me.”

“You’re finally getting it,” she murmured and dropped back to her heels. 

Wayne’s shoulders straightened and he tilted forward, till she had to crane her neck to meet his eyes. “I need something first. Before I can give you back that knife.”

Selina breathed a laugh. It didn’t sound kind. 

Hot, sour displeasure frothed up against the back of her ribcage. As if this was a negotiation. Like she couldn’t stick a blade in his skull and be done with him any time that she wanted. 

“You could buy Gotham twice over,” she chided, teeth clicking as she ground them together. “What could you possibly want?”

Bruce Wayne had found something out of reach and decided it belonged to him. Typical.

“I want to know who killed Barbara Kean.”

Selina stilled entirely. 

“And why’s that?” she asked carefully. Frothy panic rose up her chest, incapable of being ignored or swallowed away. Every crevice of her body felt cold and queasy. 

“Years have passed,” Wayne replied. A pitiful pout formed on his face. “And nothing.”

Nothing but bloodshed and terror. Nothing but Gotham overturned, every crevice and crack inspected, every citizen interrogated. Nothing but everything.

“It’ll be three years next week,” he continued. Selina bit her tongue and thought briefly of pigs blood and a satin-wrapped brick. “The service is on Sunday.”

“I know,” she admitted. Everyone in the city knew.

Barbara Kean changed the conditions. Just as she had three years prior, Barbara Kean’s death fashioned itself as a catalyst, an explosion hidden just behind the veil. Like a ghost, she haunted every corner of Gotham.

But Barbara Kean wasn’t Selina’s to tell. 

Wayne shut his eyes. “Her face is on the front of every newspaper. They didn’t even know her. It’s all an advertising trick.”

She studied his face, considering the miserable furrow to his brows. “Did you know her well?”

“What?”

“You wouldn’t ask for this as a favor, not unless you knew her. Not unless you cared.”

“Of course I care,” he defended. “She’s dead. Why shouldn’t I care?”

Selina doubted that he cared about the countless killed in the Narrows, not unless it looked good for business. Dozens died every day—of illness or starvation, and yet, he’d never once seem concerned for their wellbeing. Only for this wealthy, dull blonde that was three years dead. 

“Why her?” she asked. It wasn’t the first murder gone unsolved in the city. Dozens and dozens, bloodier and more recent, covered the pages of the Gotham Gazette. 

Wayne’s jaw clenched. For a moment, he said nothing, and then, “Call it a favor for a friend.”

Selina narrowed her eyes. This was for Jim Gordon, then. Wayne intended to play her like a chess piece, to further the Commissioner's effort against her very own. To take and pin her against her family.

But Wayne wasn’t the only player on the board. 

“Okay, Wayne,” she agreed, smiling pretty and polite like a pale imitation of her half-sister. The perfect eager accomplice to his tricks. “A name for a blade.”

Wayne studied her figure. Although hesitant, a shred of simple faith passed over his eyes. If she promised a name, what reason was there not to believe in her better nature? It was all Wayne knew. It was what killed his parents; utter faith in morality. The exhaustive desire for good. 

That morality complex would kill Wayne soon enough. 

“Just a name,” he repeated, slow and sure.

Selina held out a hand in false declaration, teeth still bared in a fox-like smile. Wayne, wide-eyed and filled to the brim with hope, took her hand in his own. The contact felt like friction in her palms, a bright spark of heat that faded the harder she thought about it. 

“Deal’s a deal,” she promised. “Your heart’s as good as Barbara Kean’s.”

Wayne shuddered and swallowed heavily. It sounded almost close to a compliment and her smile turned wry as he turned away. The snare snapped shut over his leg and bit deep. 

A name for a blade. Retribution of a three-year corpse in exchange for a life. Barbara Kean for Bruce Wayne.

Chapter Text

Selina found Sofia with one foot out the front door and a hand clutching the golden chain across her neck.

“You’re not very quiet in those shoes.”

Sofia startled, pivoting and plastering on a pretty smile. The charming expression fell when she saw it was only Selina. 

“Oh, it’s you,” Sofia sniffed. Disappointment turned her mouth into a frown. 

“It’s me,” Selina agreed, descending the front steps till they stood eye to eye. Eye to chin, more like. On level ground, Sofia’s heels gave her an impressive advantage. “Losing the shoes till you’re out the front door might help, next time.”

Sofia clicked her heels together, inches tall and dark red. A mimic of a pout pulled her lips down and she said, “And yet, this is the first time you’ve caught me. Next time, you might not be so lucky.”

Except, it wasn’t nearly the first. Sofia never stepped quite as silently as she believed she could, noisy with arrogance and inexperience. Just last weekend, she’d come home long after midnight, looking rumpled but pleased. A charming smile had graced her lips even with no one around to see it. 

Selina swallowed back the secret. Tattling served no purpose other than to drive her half-sister up a wall. Another time, she’d eagerly agitate her. Today, Selina refused to wither.

“It’s Sunday, Sofia,” she accused. “You know that.”

Sunday. December 12. Three years since the Butcher of Barbara Kean. All one and the same.

Sofia clasped her hands behind her back and smiled neatly. “How could I forget?”

“You couldn’t,” she agreed with a bite. It sounded more like a snarl, with her eyes narrowed to slits and her teeth grinding till they ached. 

Gotham mourned on this day. In the center of town, crowds formed to host gatherings, prayers, and respectful observation of her death. A celebration of her life came by evening, the sorrowful grief making way for festivities. The entirety of the city gathered for her. None of them knew her and yet, Barbara Kean had become a figure of grief and hope alike. For her, the Commissioner hunted crime. For her, bloodshed would be repaid in kind.

“Deep breaths, Selina,” she advised sweetly, lifting a hand to fiddle the diamond at her throat. Selina tried not to gnash her teeth. “We’re on a tight schedule today and the morning’s barely began.”

Selina narrowed her eyes. Nothing about a tight schedule had been explained to her, only that Wayne needed a close eye today. Closer than normal. “You’re supposed to be home. Father always keeps us home.”

“I’m wherever he asks me to be,” Sofia corrected with a sharp smile. “You won’t be home this year, why should I stay in my room?”

“Well, usually I’m not playing bodyguard to the Prince of Gotham,” she bit. Her Father had told her to be careful, watch closely, and most importantly; have fun. It knotted up the nerves in her stomach to think about, and so she tried not too. Fun meant bloodshed and terror. It meant that today, her Father would do something to piss off Jim Gordon, because he did every year. 

“No,” Sofia agreed with a sneer, her mouth painted red like wine, “usually you’re off slaughtering someone.”

Selina’s jaw snapped shut so hard that her teeth rattled. 

“Would you rather that?” Sofia asked, chin tilting and voice turning pretty and sweet. “You’d prefer to be off in the Narrows, cutting off the fingers of some girl or bashing in the head of some little rat?”

“I’ve never…”

“Never what?” One brow raised. The expectant, ensuing silence was heavy and thick. 

Selina swallowed heavily. Quietly, with a shame she couldn’t place or explain, she said, “I only do what Father asks me too.”

Sofia laughed, low and full of pity. “Right,” she agreed. “You do. You kill every little rat and unleashed dog that Father tells you too. Congratulations: you’re a man-made butcher.”

The title turned her stomach a degree.

Butcher invoked slaughtering. It required bodies to be seen as meat, not flesh and blood. It meant pain and terror. Selina knew herself to be a killer, an executioner, but not a butcher. Not as a monster capable only of carving up flesh. 

When she’d started this business—treating death like a profession—she’d sworn up and down that it would always be quick and easy. It would always be clean. She didn’t want to torment or torture anyone, not like a butcher would to a cut of meat.

“Father chose me,” Selina insisted, her voice brittle and wavering. Every bone felt weak and tender to the touch. All of her nerves felt fried up and roasted. “Just because you’re Lousia’s blood doesn’t make you pure.”

Sofia’s eyes flashed. Every muscle went stiff, disgust mutating into sharp fury, and she stepped forward till only inches of space remained between them. “Don’t ever speak about my mother. Don’t ever say her name.”

“You’re a coward.” 

“You’re a killer,” Sofia barked, as if it mattered. As if Selina didn’t know. Like blood didn’t stain the skin beneath her nails and the grooves between her teeth. The memory of every dead rat and unleashed dog haunted Selina and would until she became the corpse.

“You’re a coward,” she repeated, louder and sharper. “You’ve never done anything but whine about wanting to be heard. I’ve killed because Father asked me to. If given the same chance as me, you’d only cry louder.”

“Do you think slitting people's throats is the only way to honor our Father?” Sofia’s voice turned frigid. “Butchering dogs doesn’t make you worthy, Selina. It just makes you a killer.”

Sofia had never wielded the blade. Sofia had never been made to kill. Their Father hadn’t fashioned her as a tool, a weapon to use and discard. All Selina knew how to do was skin bodies and spill blood. If not an executioner, she was nothing at all.

A sudden heat rose in her chest. Tight, rigid pain squeezed her ribcage till it hurt to even breathe.

“For you, Sofia,” she said. It fell from her tongue far softer than intended. “It’s always been for us.”

“Don’t,” Sofia hissed. She lifted a single finger, pointed and accusing. “Don’t ever claim that it was for me. You aren’t my blood. Don’t make me an accomplice to your carnage.”

Sharp heat bit at Selina’s eyes. When she inhaled, it sounded like a sniffle, a pathetic little whimper of a noise, and shame filled up her lungs.

“All that blood stains your hands.” Sofia shoved her in the chest, hard, then again till she stumbled back. “Not mine. I’m clean of it. I’m clean of you.”

“Are you?” Selina swallowed heavily. Meeting Sofia’s eyes ached, like applying pressure to a deep wound in her chest. “Are you clean?”

A nerve seemed to twitch and spasm in Sofia. 

“What does that mean?” 

Selina offered a wry, mean smile. Every wet tear forming in her eyes dried up in an instant. “I butcher dogs, but you butcher pigs.”

The shove came to her chest within an instant. Selina remained still, having expected a hit, but the sharp slap twisted her chin to the side. The sound of it rang in the air for only a moment before Sofia shoved at her chest again. 

Selina laughed, short and mean, because Sofia had already proven her right. 

“Fuck you,” Sofia hissed, sharp and shrill. “I didn’t kill that fucking pig.”

“It was your idea,” Selina seethed, twisting back to look her in the eye. Sofia glared down at her already, vicious and beautiful, mouth red and teeth bared. “It was yours. Maybe you didn’t cut open its throat, but it was your idea.”

“I am clean,” she said. It sounded like a plea, almost an assurance to herself. Both hands lifted into the air, palms up and open. “There isn’t any blood on my hands.”

“It was your idea,” Selina repeated. Sofia didn’t argue, just continued to hold up her bare palms, and she sighed. “What about this year? Will you send another brick to the Commissioner?”

“I’m no butcher.” Sofia shut her eyes and shook her head, furious. “You are the one that’s dirty.”

“Maybe.”

Sofia lifted her chin and squinted. It wasn’t like Selina to concede too easily, and though it hurt to admit herself as dirty, she would anyway. If Sofia was dirty, she was tenfold. Blood stained all of their hands and not a single one of them were clean or pure. 

A sigh laced with pity escaped her. Selina tilted forward and lowered her voice, speaking gently in the way she always wished others would, “Just because there isn’t any blood under your fingers doesn't make you clean.”

It was a truth directed to herself as much as Sofia.

Turning, she left Sofia standing alone, palms open, raised, and spotless.

—

Selina hadn’t known that it was possible to brood as much as Bruce Wayne did.

His friends stood in a tight circle, chattering so loud she could hear it from several feet away. Laughter echoed every few moments, wobbly and uneven thanks to the wine each of them clutched at. St. Cloud and Blomdhal took delicate sips every few moments. Elliot, meanwhile, hadn’t stopped chugging long enough to properly breathe. 

Selina tried not to wince. A red flush coated their cheeks and the stagger in their steps betrayed them. At least they weren’t alone in their fun. Nearly every student on the block had drunk their fill twice over.

The elite filled up the streets. Students and socialites alike milled about, drinking and laughing and pretending like this was a celebration on their behalf. Every year, they liked to pretend that Barbara Kean was just a gateway into their happy endings, a reason for Jim Gordon to protect them. Never had they assumed that the Commissioner solely wished to purge the city of crime on her behalf; to avenge her name. 

Selina knew the truth. That today marked three years of horror and chaos impossible to control or dispose of, not unless Gordon cut off the head. 

Wayne seemed to understand, at least, that the last few years of terror couldn’t be forgotten. He stood alone at the cusp of the circle, looking like a beacon of pitiful sorrow. A gloomy pout pulled his face down and rather than meet his friends eyes, he stared at his shoes. 

“Just one more,” St. Cloud said, offering up her cup of wine to Elliot. “And it’s only half a cup.”

“Last one,” Blomdhal agreed with a sweet laugh. The both of them crowded around Elliot, pushing at his shoulder and poking his chest till he conceded. 

Selina wrinkled her nose. It seemed unlikely that Elliot needed yet another drink. Sweat beaded his hairline and a red flush covered his face from chin to cheek. 

“It’s not even noon,” she muttered, even if no one but her would hear it. 

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it.” Elliot grabbed the cup with shaking hands and took a heavy sip. Blomdhal cheered, clapping and bouncing on her toes. St. Cloud offered a polite clap and sharp smile. It only took a moment before he’d finished the drink and lifted a fist in mock-cheer, hooting. 

It was absurdly normal; teenagers drinking and laughing, crowding around one another. 

It made her teeth itch. A little spike of desperate, sour jealousy crawled up her stomach. 

The sharp noise from Elliot turned Wayne’s head to the side, his eyes going owl-wide. A hand lifted before dropping just as fast, like he’d meant to cover his ears and had to stop himself. Pink lit up his cheeks, embarrassment and shame stitching up his mouth, and he shuffled a step away. Selina followed, eyes lingering between his blush and twitching hands. 

That was new. 

Or, maybe, quite old and just the first time he hadn’t stifled the urge to block his ears in time. Maybe he despised every one of his senses: first, a simple finger grazing against his elbow made him flinch. Now, sharp shouts and loud laughter made him recoil. Perhaps smell was next and she’d see him wrinkle his nose at a nearby stench. 

Another round of noise rose up behind him, laughter and clapping and whooping, and Wayne’s whole body twitched. He hurried away quicker from the crowd, and Selina began to chase.

Her Father had said keep a close eye. What better way than to keep him under her nose and in the crook of her arm?

Wayne slipped through the crowd, twisting around booths and huddles of people. A few called out to him, waving hello and offering their company, and he paused long enough only to be considered civil. 

Selina allowed herself to drift through the crowd. At the booth to her right, a balloon popped and cheers followed. A quick peak proved the game to be darts. At the edges of the booth sat stuffed prizes. A burst of noise signaled a win and her hand lifted, gripping a ball of plush before carrying on. 

Wayne slipped into an alley, shrouded in shadows and barely hidden from the noise of the streets. It seemed all the reprieve needed, because he exhaled a gasping sound, nearly a cry. For just a moment, she stood and watched the harsh lines of his shoulders lift and drop with each heavy breath he took. Every inhale and exhale could be heard from feet away. 

“You forgot something.”

Wayne startled and turned. A polite smile already twisted at his mouth, but it faltered as he took in her figure. While she wouldn’t bother him for a photograph like the press, she might very well stick a knife in his back. The latter sounded preferable to her, truthfully. 

“Did I?” he asked. A wary frown crossed his face: she stood at the very front of the alley, blocking any chance of escape. If he wanted to leave, he’d have to walk around her. If he screamed, he’d surely attract attention, but by then his blood might be staining the streets. By then, he could be gasping for breath and split open.

“Don’t worry, I’m not here for an autograph,” she taunted. Rather than a blade, she brandished her prize from the booth: a small stuffed rabbit. Grey and wide-eyed, it looked a bit like him. Not quite as gloomy, but close.

“Oh.” Wayne’s shoulders fell an inch. A soft exhale left his mouth and he said, “That’s sweet.”

“Did you think I’d try to kill you right here?” She narrowed her eyes like the thought hadn’t crossed her mind just a minute before. 

“Well, you do have a history,” he said. It fell from his mouth like an intimate joke and rather than make her bristle, she bit back a smile. Briefly, she wondered whether he was passively suicidal or just insane. 

Selina wiggled the rabbit side to side till Wayne exhaled a laugh, polite and quiet, and took it in one gloved hand. Their knuckles grazed as he did, leather to leather. A barrier separated them both, but still, she paused where she stood. The nerves in her hands felt bitten and raw, like he’d grasped her tight and close rather than just nudged up against her. 

Wayne peered down at her, shy and wary, and glanced away just as quick. A pink flush crawled up the skin of his cheeks and Selina tried not to gnaw at her own. Touch made him recoil and she knew that. It made him nervous and uneasy, and even if she didn’t know why, the pink across his cheeks likely spelled agitation. 

A gust of tight discomfort forced her to shuffle backward a step. The last she’d been touched, it’d been by Sofia, sharp and quick. It had hurt, just like always. Sofia didn’t touch her with a gentle hand. Neither did her Father, really, because his hand over her shoulder always tightened till her bones ground together. 

That simple scrape of leather, though, hadn’t hurt. Even if raw and exposed, her nerves didn’t feel battered. Just open and touched. 

“Did you win this?” A cautious smile softened his face. It was just a stupid toy, but he looked at it the way Sofia looked at a case of diamonds. It meant nothing, and yet he rubbed his thumb over the rabbits pink-nose like it were made of glass. 

Selina cleared her throat and swallowed down thoughts of leather-bound fingers. “What? No.”

Wayne frowned and lifted his chin.

“I stole it,” she said simply. Horror flashed across his face and she snorted. “Relax, Wayne, it’s not worth anything.”

“I suppose,” he admitted slowly. “You still took it.”

Wayne’s moral compass pointed north and true. 

“Are you gonna tattle?” she asked. It didn’t seem likely for him to bite, but at the very least it raised his hackles and made his mouth go thin.

“No,” he sighed. “But next time I might. If you’d taken something of worth, I would.”

Selina imagined the bloody streets of the Narrows and glowered. Just across town, hunger and death lined the streets. Most went days without eating. Stealing signaled only desperation and desire to survive, not a twisted moral standard. 

“Most people don’t steal for fun, where I’m from.” she challenged. “Usually it’s to avoid death.”

At that, his mouth opened and then shut, like he wanted to argue but thought better of it after consideration. In silence, he frowned and shifted on his feet. Without his bickering to distract her, she drove her teeth hard into the muscle of her cheek. 

Where I’m from, she’d said. A slip of the tongue. An accident that would cost her a broken rib if her Father heard. 

“Whatever,” she muttered, hoping he’d take the hint and turn the conversation on its head. She nodded toward the stuffed toy. “It was just supposed to be fun.”

Speaking about the Narrows made her itch. Even thinking about it felt like bugs crawling up her skin. It had been her home for seven years. The mud and blood that lined the streets used to cake her skin. The sunken-in stomach used to be hers. Maybe she’d been bred for butchering, but she’d been born in the Narrows, and now the neighborhood held nothing but cruel memories for her. 

“I wouldn’t think this,” he tipped his head up toward the entrance of the alley, “would be fun for you.”

Though he was right, she bristled inside. Her Father had never allowed her at events like this, even the ones he hosted. Zsas and Nelson and all the other hitmen could, but she was a special sort of monster. Barely human, like Sofia had said, incapable of fraternizing for even mere minutes. 

Now, the noise and crowds set her teeth on end. Mingling was dull and draining. Speaking to most for more than a few minutes made her want to rip her own hair out or sleep for several hours. Playing nice and performing civility was impossible. Eventually the lights would come up and the music would end, and the pretending would have to stop. The party would come to a close and she would still just be a blade with a beating heart, regardless of how well she held a conversation or faked a laugh. 

It hurt most of all, though, to think that Wayne had seen it. Barely five minutes they’d known each other, and yet already he could see that playing human was impossible for her. He knew she was better equipped for hurt and torment. 

“Why, because there isn’t enough blood involved?” she spit, sharper than necessary. Sofia’s earlier words rang in her ears, cruel but true. Carnage went where she did. Blood spilled where she wanted it too. 

Wayne blinked but stayed quiet. Rather than take offense, he studied the sudden scowl on her face. 

Selina narrowed her eyes and tried not to deflate under his scrutiny. It felt strange to have his eyes on her. To have him watch and examine her. Sofia always bit back within seconds and her Father considered anything other than complete civility to be improper. 

Wayne, however, considered every word and movement before reacting. It seemed exhausting. It agitated her far more than she liked. No one had ever bristled her nerves like Bruce Wayne. That sort of influence made her want to beat her own body till it agreed to listen. 

“I don’t know,” he said gently. “I don’t know you very well. It’s only a pattern, I guess. You’ve threatened my life each time we’ve met.”

Selina huffed and shifted on her feet. “I didn’t today, did I?”

It slipped from her mouth before she could bite her tongue. Arguing made no sense. Neither did lying, because just minutes before she’d pictured him dead in the alley. 

“Maybe third time’s the charm,” she muttered and glanced down at the rabbit still clutched in his hands. Its dark eyes bore up at her and she narrowed her own. 

Wayne bit back a smile and warned, “Careful, we’ve got an audience today.”

Selina grit her teeth and offered a wry smile. It served as a reminder for what waited outside. Detectives swarmed every inch of the square. Nearly half the town and almost every elite stood just feet away, and after last year's pretty package, Jim Gordon was probably prepared for the worst. Selina didn’t blame him. The worst likely still couldn’t encapsulate her Father’s concept of fun. 

It put her on edge to think about, too. Her Father could plan to shoot the Commissioner in the skull today. Buckets of blood might be poured over every citizen, or maybe another weapon would be sent, or maybe nothing would happen at all. Selina couldn’t guess or tell because her Father never told her much.

A series of claps and whoops came from behind her and Wayne winced, hands going tense.

“Is this your idea of fun, then?” she asked. 

He grimaced and shook his head. “I have nothing to celebrate.”

“No one does,” she said. “Barbara Kean is still dead. The Butcher is still alive. No one’s won this fight in three years.”

Even if her Father killed the Commissioner, someone else would just take his place. Others like him or Bruce Wayne would always seek justice. Chaos and control could never fully be had. 

The same could be said for the Commissioner. Whether or not he caught Barbara’s killer, she’d still be dead. Crime in Gotham would never cease, even if her Father were in his grave. Death couldn’t be put on a leash and with time, it would claim Jim Gordon, too. 

“Maybe there aren’t winners and losers,” Wayne thought aloud. “Just the living and dead. That’s all that separates Gotham, not winners and losers.”

It was instinct to gnash her teeth and snap. To say that he had won, because he had capabilities others never would. Money that allowed him to eat his fill and sleep in a bed of warmth. Others didn’t, she wanted to say. Starvation ate away at children across town, she wanted to but didn’t say, because it wouldn’t change anything.

Wayne would still have pockets stuffed with cash. Those in the Narrows would still be starving and half-dead. Nothing would change just because she knew how to scratch and bite. 

In his hands, the rabbit stared up at her with owl-eyes.

Prey, she thought. Prey to her predator. 

“Sometimes there are.” Selina tapped the rabbit's head twice and said, “Just depends on how you define winning.”

Wayne looked down at her in silence. It made her tense, just a bit. Undivided attention only came from her Father when he waited for an apology or a correction to her mistakes. Wayne, however, seemed keen to just listen and learn. It was an odd, unusual thing.

“Sometimes living makes you the loser,” she continued with a shrug. Sometimes living meant nothing but terror and hunger. Sometimes living and dying came in a binary; living the steep price, dying the reward. A brittle smile turned up her mouth. “And death is the prize.”

Wayne looked between her and the rabbit once, twice. For a split moment, he saw what she saw, she was certain of it. Prey and predator. The rabbit, a body made only to be caught and skinned and eaten. It was inherent and uncontrollable. It was his fate, impossible to tamper with. 

“Tommy would say winning can be bought,” Wayne said slowly. “Silver would say it can be cheated.”

Selina imagined the tall boy and the silver-blonde. Elliot liked games and challenges, so long as he remained the center of attention. For every unnecessary drink he took, his friends clapped and kept their eyes on him. Maybe that meant winning; bought obsession. Undivided concentration.

“My parents used to say winning never mattered, as long as you’re happy,” he said. Sorrow turned his eyes grey and he shut them. Then, again, “As long as you’re happy.”

Selina said nothing. 

Happiness was performed, not felt. It could be bought and cheated because it wasn’t real. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d called herself happy of all things. Pride and honor relied on worth, not joy.

Killing made her retch and cry and proud. It led to her Father clasping his hand over her shoulder and calling her good and thinking her worth something. Did it matter whether she felt sick after, each and every time without fail, if she won?

“And you?” she managed. It sounded like a croak, like she had to fight her own throat to allow the words out. Every tooth ached in the aftermath. 

“Me?”

Selina gestured to his hands gripping tight at the rabbit. “Winning, losing. What do you think?”

Weeks ago, she could’ve guessed his answer. She would’ve bet anything in the world that Bruce Wayne would think money and trophies and all else signified having won. That he’d brag and boast and turn his nose up at the many, many citizens in Gotham who’d never won a day in their lives.

Now, she couldn’t quite guess what he’d say.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I have more trophies and awards than I need. After my parents passed, I inherited their estate and in a few months I’ll have their company. Most would call that winning. Or at least a success, of some sort.”

“But you don’t?”

“I know how lucky I am,” he said, brows crinkling. “But my so-called success only came with my parent’s death. I’m not so sure that’s a victory. I’m alone, either way.”

Selina blinked. 

Wayne swallowed the remainder of his words and sighed. “It doesn’t seem to matter much anyways. Today’s for Barbara, not me.”

Everyone outside of the alley thought differently. Even his friends drank because they wanted to, not because they wanted to celebrate the short-lived life of Barbara Kean. But correcting him felt cruel, somehow, and so she smiled thinly instead.

“Well,” she said, “have fun drinking in her honor.”

Selina stepped backward, meaning to disappear back into the crowd, but Wayne followed. A small noise fell from his mouth and he lowered his hands, slipping the rabbit into his pocket and shoving up his shoulders. It made him look small. 

“What about a game instead?” he suggested stiffly. It was an awkward, awful invitation. Maybe the real reason the press had never caught him amidst a scandal was because he was just far too clumsy. If this was the best he could do in terms of solicitation, it was a miracle that girls like Silver St. Cloud stuck around—not to mention the way that she hung off of his every word. 

Selina lifted both brows and thought to the booths lining the streets. Most were for kids or bored teenagers looking to impress a date. The prizes were cheap and worthless, just like the one she’d nicked for him. 

“I’m not really interested in playing ring toss with you,” she warned slowly. For a second, she considered saying yes. Wayne didn’t have an ounce of coordination in his lanky body and she’d surely win against him. Beating the Prince of Gotham, even in a childish game of ring toss, would stroke her ego for weeks to come.

“Not those.” Wayne cringed and shook his head. “Just a game of truth. Five questions each.”

A trap, then. A way for him to collect evidence against her. With a sneer, she said, “That doesn’t sound like much fun.”

“Most games aren’t,” he said simply. 

Selina fixed her gaze on him. Games required rules and boundaries, winners and losers, and usually she wasn’t told how to play.

“Why would I want to spend the day with you?” she asked, wondering the exact same about him. 

Wayne shrugged. “Misery breeds company.”

Time with him was a risk, even more so considering they’d have to stand in daylight. There wasn’t any real need to entertain his games, and yet, she narrowed her eyes and pouted. Five questions meant five brief opportunities to find out what he knew about Barbara Kean. And what he’d done after that night in the Manor. If need be, she could always lie in response to his own five opportunities. 

“Truth,” she considered out loud. “No dares?”

No chance he’d let her have too much fun. Wayne was too big a coward for a challenge and too dull for real entertainment.

“I’m not interested in being asked to drink my body weight,” he said, mouth wrinkling like recalling a memory.

“Wimp,” she muttered, though she had no intention of daring him to drink. Maybe his tongue would turn loose, but so would his limbs. Sticking a knife into her eye sounded more fun than babysitting Bruce Wayne.

“We can both win,” he reasoned, shoving his hands into his pockets again. “I know there are things I’d like to ask you. Isn’t there anything you’re curious about?”

Both, he’d said. Not one winner but two. With hesitance, she allowed herself to enjoy the sentiment. Willingly putting himself on equal ground with her wasn’t necessary, and yet he offered it up with ease. 

“Fine,” she agreed slowly, “Five questions each. But you can’t ask for the name, and I can’t ask where the blade is.”

“That’s fair,” he said and stepped around her. On his way, he tilted his chin her way and murmured, “Spoils all the fun, though.”

Selina went to snap her teeth but he’d already shrugged his way around her. 

“Come on then,” he said with a smile, “I want to play detective.”

“Yeah,” she snorted. “I’m sure.”

Still, she settled beside him at the front of the alley. On the street, crowds filled every inch and corner. It’d be a miracle to avoid bumping into and brushing against anyone. She swallowed hard. If someone did touch her, it’d be accidental. She had to remember that. 

Wayne’s elbow brushed up against her and she glared. Then, immediately, stopped and settled. 

Just like the others, his touch was accidental. Neither had a desire to touch each other, not when touch was as good a weapon as a sharp blade. 

Selina heard him inhale heavily at the crowds, bracing himself as much as her, and together they stepped out and onto the street.

“Silver and the others are back that way,” he said low into her ear, tilting his head to the right. They pivoted left without much thought. 

In the silence, she kept her eyes forward. 

The students around them laughed in unison, stumbling and leaning onto each other. Most clutched onto cups of red and white wine. All were out of their usual school uniforms, but they still looked to be carbon copies. All the girls wore mini skirts, tall boots, blouses and blazers. Across their necks, necklaces of diamonds or rubies shined under the sun, and matching earrings adorned their ears. 

Every single one looked beautiful, lovely, and perfect. It made her nose wrinkle. They looked a bit too much like Sofia for her taste. 

Wayne’s gaze, obvious and piercing, fell to her face and refused to shift.

“How long are you going to stare?” she sighed. 

Even caught, he refused to be shamed and continued to look her way. “If you won’t tell me the name of the Butcher, can I at least have yours?”

A sharp smile bit at her mouth. “Why should I give it to you?”

Name’s were weapons. A name wasn’t just a given address; it could be altered into a tool to be used. Selina Falcone wasn’t to be spoken aloud, especially not in the busy streets to Bruce Wayne. 

“Because I’d like to know,” he said simply. “You know mine.”

“Everyone knows yours.” 

All of Gotham knew him, whether he liked it or not. They knew his birthday, his school, his hobbies. Gotham Gazette released a new Wayne feature every Sunday morning, even if only his coffee order was written about. 

The name Wayne was a legacy and couldn’t be forgotten or neglected. Hers was a ghost story. 

Wayne sighed quietly. “What should I call you then?”

A few feet away, a crowd formed around the soda toss booth. Mostly teenagers clutching at drinks and giggling to one another, but tucked behind the booth stood Collins and Ruiz, looking side to side. Detectives. New to the GCPD, but not new enough that they didn’t know what today signified.

Selina looked forward and kept walking.

“You’ll have to earn it,” she said. It wasn’t much of a truth, but there was no telling what he’d once her name had been given. Earning it would be more than impossible. 

“That sounds a bit like cheating,” he muttered, but didn’t press the issue further.

Despite herself, she smiled at the amount of displeasure in his voice. If she’d had to guess, she wouldn’t imagine her name to be of any importance to him besides data; a clear confirmation of her identity.

Their eyes met. For a moment, she said nothing and just took him in. Her eyes flickered from chin to forehead, from the pink of his mouth to the crooked bridge of his nose, from the flush of his cheeks to his sad, downcast eyes. Even beneath the midmorning sun, they glimmered blue and pale and somber. 

Wayne watched her too. It still made her stomach turn a bit, to have him see her, but it couldn’t be helped. It’d take time to adjust to his eyes on her figure, but she very well couldn’t forbid him from looking her way. If anything, he’d probably only stare for twice as long to irritate her.

“How did you recognize me that night?” she asked quietly. A knife twisted deep in her gut. Every time she remembered how the night had ended, a gag attempted to work its way out of her mouth, like her shame wanted to escape her.

“I didn’t really know you, if that’s what you mean,” he said slowly. “I couldn’t have picked you out of a crowd.”

Anyone else would’ve withered at being called forgettable. Selina just narrowed her eyes and waited. 

“And it’s not like I even know your name,” he continued, “but I saw a shadow of you once.”

“A shadow,” she repeated slowly.

Wayne shook his head, aware of how it came across; less a material truth and more a wisp of a dream. “I was out drinking with Tommy and the others. I can’t even really remember when.”

Selina’s stomach felt heavy. The remainder of the story was barely necessary because she knew exactly which night he referenced. 

“Everything was too quick and too loud,” he said, unaware of the horrific dread creeping up her chest. “That’s always what happens when I drink. I barely remember anything besides how sick I felt, but behind Silver, there was someone.”

That stupid night she’d drank soda and watched him across the club, when she’d stepped too close all because of his bare hands. Fuck her. 

Wayne slowed down for a second to lift his chin, eyes boring into hers. “I remembered how green your eyes are.”

On instinct, she squinted, shielding her eyes half-way. A sweet smile grew on his mouth and he averted his gaze. 

To their left, a booth sat bathed in green. The tablecloth and sign were the color of mint leaves, while the ornaments atop the table shone dark gold and green. At a closer peak, she realized it to be a table of necklaces, the chain golden and pendant emerald. 

Wayne tipped his head in the direction of the booth. “Emerald. Just like your eyes.”

Selina frowned and rolled her eyes. It wasn’t much of a compliment, more an awkward attempt—and failure—at flattery, but it seemed better to ignore it. Praise and pretty sentiments wouldn’t catch her off guard, as he likely hoped. He’d have to try much harder for that.

Atop the table, a photo made her pause. Barbara Kean, wearing the exact necklace as the replica being sold, smiled up at her.

“It’s the same.” Wayne leaned over her shoulder and picked one up between his fingers, angling the pendant from left to right. 

“And it sells?” she asked. Purchasing the twin jewelry of Barbara Kean seemed eccentric, if not outright obsessive.

“Every year,” he bit. “A girl in my biology class used to wear one.”

It took a special sort of greed to turn a murder into a chance at profit, but Gotham’s richest sure did love their gems and jewels. It was no surprise that she and Wayne were the only ones to second guess the sale while every other elite indulged without second thought.

“Seriously?” Selina poked at the necklace in his hand. The emerald caught light as it swung in a circle. “That’s obsessive.”

“Barbara’s a relic,” Wayne said, dropping the necklace back to the table. “It’s an easy ghost story to sell.”

As they left, she glanced back toward the pendants. Several girls younger than her stepped up around the table, picking through the identical necklaces. 

“Creepy,” one whispered with a grin, nudging her shoulder into her friend. “We can all have matching dead girl necklaces. Maybe she’ll haunt us.”

Selina frowned and turned her chin forward.

“If I hadn’t recognized you,” Wayne started, “would you have stopped?”

When she lifted her gaze, his was already pointed elsewhere. Her pace slowed as she digested the little frown on his face and tight draw of his shoulders. 

Her eyes lowered to the high collar of his sweater. 

The blade had split his neck, even if only a few millimeters long and deep. There’d been no intention on her end to halt or hesitate. It had all been ingrained movements.

“No,” she said shortly. “I wouldn’t have stopped.”

In the days after, she’d likely have been sick to her stomach. Nightmares and nausea were routine in the aftermath, but even knowing so, she wouldn’t have hesitated. An upset stomach wasn’t comparable to what his death would’ve signified. 

Wayne nodded once and quietly said, “Okay.”

A strange sort of resignation lifted the tight pull of his muscles. Where he should cry and vomit, he just sighed. Like the alternative of his death was only worthy of contemplating, nothing more or less. 

Selina inhaled slow and deep. It hurt her ribs, just a bit, though they weren’t bruised or broken. 

For a moment, she wanted to ask if he was disgusted with her. Or if he thought that she was a monster, less than human, if she was worthy. 

Of what? he’d ask, because what could butchering possibly make her worthy of? 

She’d have no choice but to respond in truth; I don’t know. Of anything. Of pride. Of breath. Of death. 

The daydream of Wayne stared blankly, unsure whether to lie or admit the awful truth, because he was just a figment of her sickly imagination—and he had as little answer to her questions as she did.

“I don't know why you’re surprised,” she snapped, only a tad more aggressive than intended. “You know what I am.”

A killer for hire and a monster hidden behind human skin.

“I don’t, really,” he said politely. More politely than she deserved, truly, considering the glare she fashioned him with.

“What, no one’s ever tried to kill you?”

“Someone has, actually.” 

Selina lifted her eyes, stunned, but he just shrugged and tucked his hands into his pockets. 

“Don’t you read the papers?” he asked, sounding only a little troubled. More tired than anything, like this was a story he’d told time and time again. “My parents took up every headline for months.”

Shame pricked at her skin. Of course, he meant his parents. Every detail of that night in the alley was well-known, including that the gun had pointed his way for quite a while. Right at his temple, she thought, until the killer had turned and decided the life of a kid just wasn’t worth the time.

“Right,” she muttered. “In the alley.”

“I’m sure you feel less than special now,” he said. It’d sound like a joke if his shoulders didn’t immediately droop. “First my parents, now me. I’ve never understood why they were killed. They were good people.”

“Does it matter?” she asked. “Sometimes there isn’t any logic or sense. You’re a Wayne, maybe that’s reason enough.”

Wayne turned in her direction and stared. “Is that reason enough? I should sleep better at night knowing I watched them die because we shared a less than common name, then.”

“No,” she sputtered, and then went quiet. If she weren’t careful, too many strings would be tied between their deaths and Wayne’s almost. She sighed and tried again, “I don’t know, Wayne. I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Maybe if Thomas had never dug where he shouldn’t have brought a shovel, he and Martha wouldn’t have died. Maybe they’d have died a day later, or a week before, or stumbled down the stairs while drunk. As it were, the logic to their deaths was a cruel, unnecessary truth that Bruce Wayne didn’t need to hear from her.

“I want you to tell me why,” he pressed, stepping forward. The distance between their bodies felt smaller by the second. “Not that night in the alley. When it was just you and me. Someone hired you, or you hired yourself. Why?”

Wayne toed a dangerous line. It took every bit of restraint not to pivot and walk away or slap a hand over his mouth.

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

Even if unaware, he wanted to unravel every secret of Gotham at once. With a quick tug, he’d find one too many buried secrets.

Selina exhaled slowly and gave a wry smile. “You’re running out of questions, you know. Ask carefully.”

It was a poor deflection tactic. Wayne glared and shook his head, more bitter than he had a right to be; he couldn’t possibly expect her to unveil her reason for hire. 

“Would you do it again?” he asked, stubborn and blunt. Though his shoulders were still tight, he refused to flinch or waver. “If you had another chance?”

Selina blinked. 

It wasn’t what she’d expected; a question of choice, of her own judgment. Gut-punch instinct said yes, with eager delight she’d split him open. The blade in her pocket felt hot, all of a sudden, like she should pull it out and point it toward him. Just to show him that she would use it if he blinked for a second too long. 

But. This wasn’t something she’d ever been asked. It was only ever assumed. Even Sofia, who thought killing made her into something monstrous, hadn’t ever questioned her position. It was expected, rather, that such an inhumane and bloody responsibility was befit Selina.

“Didn’t I already try?” she asked quietly. Without a lick of humor, she laughed, trying to pretend the noise didn’t scratch at her throat like barbed wire. “Twice?”

“If you had to try again, would you like it?” he pushed. Something like gentle pity softened his face. “Third time’s the charm.” 

Do you want that chance? Went unsaid. Still, she heard it, loud and awful. 

Again, her stomach and hands twitched, whispering yes, begging her to speak the word aloud. Her mouth refused to cooperate.

“No,” she said truthfully, and nothing else. 

Wayne nodded once. Maybe that was all that truly mattered to him; not innocence, because her hands had been stained red for years now, but shame. Utter, bone-deep remorse. Nothing could change her having been born guilty. It was a condition of being born in the Narrows—of being born a Falcone. She was spoiled by design, half-rotten and growing worse by the day, but at least she knew shame.

“Why do you care?” It hurt to ask. It felt like dependence, like relying on his truth and moral compass to believe her worth. 

“When I saw you that night,” he said, eyes lowering to his hands, “you looked afraid.”

Afraid?

Selina went quiet for only a moment before her stomach flipped and hot, frothy anger hit her hard in the chest. 

“Careful,” she said, sharp and low. 

Wayne ignored the warning and continued, “I saw you. I know that look.”

“I am not afraid of you,” she hissed. “Why would you scare me?”

Wayne wasn’t the worst she’d faced. Some were taller, heavier, harder to tackle. It was lucky, even, that he was so close to her in age. Wilson had been much older than her when he’d touched her shoulder and received a blade to the eye.

The claim was absurd. Nearly comical, but she wasn’t in the mood to laugh. 

“I didn’t mean you’re scared of me.” Selina’s brows furrowed. Gently, he said, “You looked scared of—of yourself, a bit.”

The simmering anger went quiet for a moment. She was far too stunned to even bite back. It wasn’t an assertion she’d ever heard before, even from Sofia. 

“You kept looking at the blood on the floor. There wasn’t much, but you just kept staring,” he said. A little shiver worked up his body. The memory of his own spilled blood likely wasn’t a warm one. 

Selina didn’t remember much about the blood. It had piled on the floor by his feet, she thought, but mostly she’d looked at his face. His eyes, really, because they’d been looking right at her and she’d had no choice but to look back.

That wasn’t fear. That was holding fast and firm, hackles raised and teeth bared. 

Wayne gave her a gentle look. “Fear doesn’t make you weak. It just means you’re rather human.”

In stunned, horrid silence, she bit the inside of her cheek and said nothing. 

“Come on,” he murmured and twisted around her. “There’s still more to see.”

It was kind, she thought, for him to offer her a moment of solitude, even amidst such a busy street. When she caught up with his unhurried pace, his eyes remained forward, and she found herself strangely pleased. More pleased than she should be, considering his accusations. 

They stopped beside a table of pastries and bread. Each and every looked fresh, some sticky with jam or sugar and others dry like biscuits. A few loaves of bread sat by the corner, brown and golden. Beside them, syrup dripped from pastries adorned with fruits. It was a collection of pretty, candied treats she had no business even looking in the direction of.

“What would you like?” Wayne lifted his hands from his pockets, already beginning to open his wallet though she hadn’t yet said anything. “And no, that isn’t one of my five questions.”

Selina rolled her eyes. “I don’t want anything. Bribing me with sugar won’t make me like you.”

A truly insulted pout came over his face. “Not even a croissant?”

“Not even a croissant,” she confirmed with a sniff. “I don’t really eat sugar. It rots your teeth, Wayne.”

It was more of a half-truth than anything. If given the choice, she’d likely eat a pastry with every meal. There were dozens she’d never tried, even more she barely knew the names of, but her Father gave them to her so rarely. It seemed immoral, in a way, to have something sweet when it hadn’t been handed to her by her superior. 

Wayne wrinkled up his mouth like he might burst into tears. “We could split one,” he began. She groaned and took a step backwards. “Just one! Any that you’d like. Or more, if any others interest you.”

Selina eyed his wallet with distaste. “Fine. Whichever’s the biggest.” 

At least she could attempt to drain his bank account. It’d take quite some time, but it’d be more fun than standing around and listening to him nag.

Wayne lit up, every ounce of petulance fading in an instance as he pivoted. With his back turned, it’d be easy to rush away. By the time he’d turned back around, she’d be long gone and able to avoid his pestering. But, just a few feet away, a booth of shimmering prizes caught her eye.

Necklaces of nearly every precious stone littered the tabletop. Diamonds and pearls clasped onto silver chains sat in one corner, while rubies and sapphires sat behind them. To the far right, the very same stones were enclosed around gold. Each of the necklaces were tucked away into glass cases that weren’t quite as secure as the vendor would assume. With a few tricky fingers, the latch would slip so easily. 

Selina resisted, if only because the unlikely chance of being caught here of all places would spell her death sentence. If her Father knew Bruce Wayne was looking at pastries for them to share at the moment, he’d break both her kneecaps. 

A little shuffle behind her made her eyes twitch. 

“Do you like them?” 

“No, Wayne,” she lied. “But at least these aren’t lookalikes of Barbara’s.”

Maybe she should say yes, just to watch him fumble and offer up his money yet again. But she wasn’t Sofia or Silver St. Cloud. Pastries and a necklace of pearls weren’t the same, and stringing diamonds across her neck wouldn’t make her any prettier.

Turning on her heels, she nearly bumped into his broad chest. He murmured an apology and took a half-step back, eyes drifting behind her, but she shrugged him away. 

“So, what’d you get?”

In his hands sat a lump protected by brown paper. He peeled back the paper to show her a square pastry covered in red fruit, then wiggled it side to side like she’d done with the stuffed rabbit. It made her want to smile, just a bit, but instead she squinted.

“Raspberry danish,” he said. “It looked big, and sweet, even if you do hate sugar.”

There wasn’t any way he’d have known it was her favorite, and yet she paused and tilted her head down at his hands. It was a strange coincidence, but not one she minded. 

“I don’t hate it,” she corrected slowly, though her mouth felt rather dry. “I just don’t eat it very much, that's all.”

 “Well,” he murmured, beginning to break apart the pastry with careful fingers, “we can certainly change that.”

Selina bit at her lip to ward off a growing smile. A flutter of cautious affection grew in her stomach, unfamiliar but not undesirable, and she looked up at him from beneath her lashes. 

Once broken, he offered up half—the larger of the two, she noticed—to her. As she took it, their fingers passed one another. Even covered in dark leather, it felt like boiling water poured onto her skin. Like a soda shaken and opened, liquid heat fizzing up and over her hands. 

She nodded toward his hands to escape the feeling of heat rising to her face. “How come you always wear gloves?”

Wayne shrunk, just a bit. Though she frowned, she didn’t apologize. It had eaten at her for weeks now, a curiosity that she couldn’t shake no matter how hard she’d tried. Though she’d told herself again and again, gloves and concealment and his hands weren’t of any importance, she just couldn’t find it in herself to let it go. Each and every time their paths crossed, the thought eventually sprung to mind and her eyes eventually lowered to his hands yet again.

Carefully, slowly, he said, “Sometimes being touched makes me feel—dirty, in a way. Overwhelming. It can… hurt, if I’m touched a certain way or too suddenly.”

Selina blinked and stared hard at the line of his jaw. It sounded like uncomfortable agony to just exist within his body everyday. No wonder he flinched away from a simple finger at his elbow or a hand reaching for his shoulder. There wasn’t anything quite as horrible as feeling dirty, as that shame that lingered right beneath that surface of the skin. 

“Gloves are easy,” he said, turning over his free hand to stare down at his palm. “At least then, no one can touch my skin.”

“It’s predictable,” she noted quietly, thinking of a familiar hand clasped over her shoulder: the same weight and tight hold every time. 

Wayne nodded shortly. “I know it’s noticeable,” he said, chin ducking low. Every word came out like he was preparing himself for her to point and laugh. “I even wear them in the summer. I wore them once to the beach, and Silver laughed. It’s just easier with them on.”

Selina looked at his shoulder rather than his eyes.

“My parent’s used to be careful about it.” A somber sort of distance entered his voice. “They’d ask before everything, even before standing too close. My mom used to knit me gloves on my birthday and my dad would give me thick socks.”

“That’s good,” she said. It came out as a sort of murmur, barely comprehensible beneath the sound of the surrounding crowd. 

“I always thought it was normal,” he continued like he hadn’t even heard her speak. A little shrug and sniffle made it clear that in the years past, he’d realized differently. “My parents were so good about it. I thought everyone else would be, too.”

In the years since their death, he’d likely outgrown the old gloves and socks. No one was around, now, to gift him such a thing in times of need. 

“You should learn to shed,” she said in lieu of the comfort she wanted to provide. It would only come out clunky and misspoken. Kindness had never been her strong suit.

Wayne’s chin lifted ever so slowly, his gloomy eyes rising to meet hers. “Like a snake?”

“Sure,” she agreed with a one-shouldered shrug. “You can shed a layer whenever someone touches you. You’ll be clean. No gloves required.”

A little spark of amusement flashed in his eyes. Quietly, he said, “That’d be nice.”

If she could, she’d shed her skin too. It wouldn’t rid her of all her rotten insides, or her spoiled heart, but the outside would be clean, at least. All that blood still staining her skin would be gone. In time, a fresh set of red would dirty her once again, but that couldn’t be helped. 

“But,” she said, forcing her voice into something bright, “gloves are good enough for now, I guess.”

Wayne gave a weak laugh. 

A few hundred feet away, the crowds had compiled around a small stage. Standing on top, Mayor James stood beside his wife, speaking into a tiny microphone. Behind them, the Commissioner stood, spine straight and one hand resting by his side. 

Selina glared, briefly, before lowering her eyes. The pastry in her hand, sticky with sugar and red with berries, deserved her attention far more than Jim Gordon. 

“Do you like it?” Wayne asked with a shy sort of smile. Mid-chew, the sugar had already started to seep between her teeth, a perfect cavity. 

Except. A sort of hitch in her heart made her pause.

Selina pivoted on her heels, facing the stage once again. It looked the same as before. Still, fuzzy agitation fell over her. 

Beside her, Wayne said something low, tilting toward her and looking down at her hands. It barely registered. It sounded like a harsh buzz, like a bee flying too close to her ear when she used to sit in the mud behind the Manor.

“Quiet,” she murmured. It came out like a command, far more rigid than she’d meant. 

Her Father had mentioned the Mayor, hadn’t he?

That sort of opportunity can’t be passed by, he’d said.

Nothing entirely strange. Still, it made her a little sick anyhow. Everything about this stupid, awful day made her a little sick. 

The stage couldn’t be seen very well from where she stood. Just recognizable, albeit blurry, figures. What she could see, better than anything, was the bright shock of blonde beside the Mayor. 

Sarah, she thought to herself. Sarah James, the Mayor’s wife of several years. 

Icy dread was filling up her limbs. Every nerve felt pinched. 

“You alright?” someone said beside her. Logically, it had to be Wayne; she knew the soft timbre of his voice by now, and the dark shadow of his clothes looked recognizable when she turned her chin. 

Selina forced out a haughty little huff. “Don’t worry about me, princess. I’m just—”

Hundreds of feet away, a singular shot rang out. 

The crowds began to scream. Wayne recoiled, hands springing upward. The pastry in his hand slipped toward the ground. Selina remained still and silent.

Atop the stage, blood spilled into a puddle. 

Polite, quiet, bleach-blonde Sarah James fell to the floor, dead. 

Chapter Text

Once, Bruce would’ve said that a bullet sounded just like fireworks.

In that dreadful alley, the one that still haunted his dreams, it sounded like the pop of a soda can. Instant, volatile, and ear-splitting. 

Now, even hundreds of feet away, the sound was enough for him to freeze entirely. Though it wasn’t aimed toward him or a companion or even a parent, it stole every ounce of breath from his chest. 

Everyone else scrambled. It seemed the smarter move, really, to run rather than stay. Unfortunate that his brain liked to choose the foolish option, thinking it an act of self-preservation. 

Classmates and family-friends began to shriek and wail, almost as piercing as the bullet itself. It was a never-ending, awful sound of panic. It sunk into his eardrums and refused to shake itself away even when the noise died down. Instead, it settled, turning his body rather dull. Cold, like he’d been submerged into a frozen lake in the middle of winter. Now, every limb felt too lifeless to move. Now, every thought slowed and every second felt endless.

Small, deft hands wrapped around his upper arms. They pushed and he followed. The body beneath him blinked up when he stepped away, green eyes slitted like a cats. It seemed he’d wrapped himself around her without even thinking. That was strange. Usually, it was someone else’s job to initiate contact. It wasn’t typically a forethought of his.

A snarling glare was sent his way. Bruce didn’t blame her; if someone grabbed at him like that, he'd kick and scream. As it were, he didn’t let go, just wrapped tighter like a python. 

It must’ve read across his face and in the frozen set of his muscles that this wasn’t by choice. The sound of the bullet, quick and loud and all-consuming, seemed to echo in his head. Every scream and cry vibrated in his skull, more shrill and more awful with each passing second.

“Shit,” she hissed, looking between him and the splitting crowd. “Come on, Wayne, don’t just stand there. You’re fine.”

Though it came out sharp, it sounded affectionate, if only around the edges. Likely, she meant to comfort him, to remind him that the bullet hadn’t aimed anywhere near their way. But she’d proven comfort to be anything but her strong suit. It was a bit endearing, even if odd.

The girl—Cat, he’d begun to call her in his head, because her eyes reminded him of the tabby he used to feed before Alfred sent it away—yanked on his arm.

“Wayne,” she said, quick and without any of before’s brimming fondness. “Wake up. Let’s go.”

Another shove, this time to his shoulder, and he had no choice but to follow.

The alley was both a reprieve and a new set of horrors. 

Inside, a layer of shadows overtook every corner, and Bruce gladly hid beneath them. The noise of the crowds seemed to fade just a bit as well, and he shut his eyes with a gasping sort of sigh. In the darkness of his own thoughts, however, the screaming and cobblestone reminded him only of that night from years past. All at once, he was twelve again, hands bathed in the blood of his parents, pearls slippery beneath his shoes. 

Bruce opened his eyes with a sharp breath, swallowing back a quiet cry. Wet heat bit at his eyes, sharp and quick, small but shameful. Both hands wrapped around himself, trying to make himself small, trying to shield himself from every possible external element.

Cat fell to her knees beside him. It sounded like it hurt, a sharp slap of bone against pavement, but she didn’t flinch. A bruise didn’t seem like something to deter her. It seemed more likely something she’d sneer at, or poke till it stopped hurting beneath her own rough fingers.

“You alright?” she muttered, close enough to his ear that he had to bite back recoiling. Instead, his teeth sunk into tongue, just a quick little pinch of pain to remind him that he was here, awake and alive, not there—not with his parents. Not bloody and wishing he were dead. 

A half-second too late, he remembered that she’d actually asked him something. He went to answer, mouth opening a half-centimeter, but his tongue refused to comply. Every bit of him felt weary, suddenly, in need of several hours of rest or quiet or something. Something to not feel like this; panicked and bone-tired.

Rather than speak, he hummed a little confirmation, and she nodded once. 

It was rather polite of her, he thought. More polite than he usually expected. Most often, Silver would give him a strange little look when he turned into this: a puddle of humming and mumbling rather than speaking. But Cat said nothing and her eyes fell to the rest of his body rather than linger on his stubborn mouth.

Another round of shouting sounded outside. Cat glanced sharply to the mouth of the alley while he flinched, eyes fluttering shut, stomach feeling only a little unwell. 

Another scream, louder and closer, and his hands twitched. They both lifted half an inch before he dropped them back to his chest, clasping them together to keep them in place. It’d help, he knew, to cover up his ears and block out all that awful noise, but Cat’s eyes had returned his way and he couldn’t help the sudden rise of shame in his blood. It felt like a hot flush to his skin, like bugs crawling over him. 

The first time he’d ever gone clubbing with Silver and Tommy, the noise had been deafening. Maybe he should’ve expected it, but he hadn’t known it would vibrate across the walls and through every body. It had felt like his skull was splitting in two and he’d put careful fingers over his ears, meaning to quiet it just a little.

Neither Silver or Tommy had laughed, but it might’ve been better if they had. Instead, they’d given him that horrid look of confusion, aversion brimming around the edges, because it was so clear in that moment how strange Bruce was. 

Since then, he’d kept his hands in his pockets. It didn’t help much that he always wore gloves, always covered up his skin in whatever fabric he could, that he spoke in that flat tone of his, that he ate the same foods over and over. It couldn’t be helped that in every one of his habits and attributes, he was always all wrong.

A hand brushed over his ear, gentle but direct. 

Bruce startled, chin lifting to find Cat leaned over him. Still on her knees, she’d leant toward him, one hand over his ear and the other tucked close to herself. It made something bloom in his chest to know she’d come so close to him, a hesitant little bud of lilac twisting up his ribcage. Every time he’d tried to brush up against her, even by accident, she’d flinched like acid had been poured over her. Now, her palm was firm over the side of his head, her body twisted near to his, and it felt hard to breathe in such close proximity.

“What happened?” he managed to croak. It sounded like he’d been crying for hours. 

Cat shook her head. It sent a few of her curls bouncing around and for a moment, he imagined twisting one around his fingers. “I think they killed the Mayor’s wife,” she said, slowly, each word crawling off of her tongue. 

A terrible dread fell over him. It pulled at his shoulders, pinching them down till he was folded in on himself.

“Why would they aim for her?” he asked. The Mayor had been standing just a few feet beside her, Jim Gordon just behind. Detectives filled the streets, and yet, they proved themselves useless again and again. It shouldn’t be possible for the Mayor’s wife to be killed in broad daylight. 

A blank sort of stare overtook her and she gave an empty shrug. “Maybe they didn’t.”

Bruce frowned. A strange distance had filled her voice, that same faraway agitation she’d spoken with earlier in the day. Like she was forcing each and every word out of her mouth. 

Cat turned back his way. Facing him, he could see the little shine of twitching panic in her eyes. It was the very same fear that fell over her again and again, even if she didn’t like to admit it. Even if she couldn’t dissect her own thoughts and apprehension, he knew it. It was right there, a dark little shadow in the corners of her eyes, a little twist pulling her full mouth downwards.

“We need to go,” she whispered, though she could’ve shouted and likely he’d be the only person to listen. Outside, the noise had lowered, but all were focused on the Mayor; on the stage, and the blood, and the bullet. Nothing else mattered, now, but the mess of the aftermath.

The hand over his ear lowered to his arm and a little frown covered her mouth. It looked like she knew nothing about how to touch someone, like she’d only ever been touched. And maybe, not even then. Every time he’d grown close to her, stepped up beside her or brushed against her, she’d gone still and then vicious all at once. When was the last time someone had put a hand on her shoulder?

“We found her,” someone shouted outside the alley. The voice echoed across the alley walls. Bruce’s chin lifted just as Cat’s shot to the side, and both made their way to the mouth of the alley. Cold confusion filled up his stomach. It felt odd, like he needed to lean over and heave, or lie down and press himself into a corner. 

Across the street, close to the stage, a detective was dragging a middle-aged woman. Dark-haired, dark-clothed, and perfectly ordinary. 

It made him blink, just a bit. The woman, the culprit, looked entirely human. Not the bloody monster he’d always imagined of his own parent’s killer. 

Just a woman, just human.

When he’d first seen Cat, he hadn’t quite understood her. Really, he still didn’t, and doubted he’d ever grow close. How could a girl his age stand there, a blade held to his neck, and be so certain that it was all she was meant for? In the dark of the study, he hadn’t seen much, but he’d made out enough of her to know that she was small, quick and lean, and entirely ordinary. 

Ordinary not in the way of her beauty, because it wouldn’t be true in the slightest—her curls were dark and beautiful, her eyes greener than emeralds, and he’d never seen anyone hold herself as straight and tall as she did herself. But. She was so human. 

Bruce’s eyes slid to the side, lowering to the girl nudged up beside him. Their shoulders nudged against one another, ankles brushing, and if he were to lean down just a few inches, he’d be able to touch her nose with his own. For the first time, it seemed she hadn’t noticed their contact. The display in front of them took precedence.

She looked ready to strike, if need be. Her fingers twitched, just a bit, and her eyes went small like a cat’s. For a moment, she looked close to how she had that night in the study: predatory. 

“Do you know who that is?” he asked in a whisper. If her attention weren’t so caught on the spectacle, she’d likely glare and wither. It was a brave, forward question that meant to dig into her insight. This woman could be a friend of Cat’s, a sister, a stranger. Bruce had no possible awareness of it and it tore at his stomach.

For all the hours of research he’s done, he still knew little to nothing. Hours spent looking at Arkham and Blackgate, unsolved murders and solved ones alike, searching for patterns and sources. He came up blank each time. There weren’t any conceivable connected strings, and each time he thought he might be close, he tripped over himself and had to start all over again.

“No,” she said, flat and short. 

Most had left the area surrounding the stage. Only a few nosy spectators remained and Bruce could recognize a few members of the Gotham Gazette attempting to get near to the mess on the stage. It was awful enough to make Barbara a commodity, but now the press wanted to do it to a death not even a full day old. 

Commissioner Gordon yanked at the woman, pulling her up and out from the arms of the detective. Rather than resist, she followed willingly, limbs a bit limp. 

Bruce winced. If it were Cat, she’d likely be scowling and spitting, shoving and scratching. Maybe it wasn’t required of the profession to bite the way she did. It was only a uniquely her trait. 

It shouldn't be endearing. Her affinity to bite and snap was less of a quirk and more a warning label to watch out for. Except, loathe as he was to admit, he sort of liked it. 

Bruce tried to shuffle on his feet and let his shoulders fall, but every muscle remained encased in ice. This didn’t feel right. All of the noise of the streets sounded too dim, a sort of static having taken over. It was the moments in waiting after thunder, peering out and watching for a quick strike of lightning. 

The Commissioner pushed the woman to her knees and Bruce, briefly, expected routine. For him to arrest her, distribute justice, diminish the chaos of the scene. 

Except. 

The Commissioner leant over her, hands on his utility belt, and began cursing at her.

“Who sent you?” Gordon asked. It was more a snarl than a scream. “Why’d you do this? Why her? ”

The woman remained silent. It only angered the Commissioner further. His screaming grew louder. His hands, once still, began to wave about, pointing back toward the stage and then toward her. The Mayor’s wife, motionless atop the stage, shone yellow and red, blonde and bloody.

“What’s he doing?” Cat whispered. Bruce said nothing. There didn’t seem to be any answer. It seemed this was rage. An uncontrolled frenzy. A worsening of the chaos. 

The Commissioner moved closer to the woman, screaming still, pointing and snarling without pause. Silent and curled up on the ground, the woman continued to look remarkably human. Nothing monstrous or awfully grotesque set her apart from anyone in the area. 

Commissioner Gordon lifted his hand from his pocket. Silver glinted beneath the sunlight. Beside him, detectives called out and the remaining bystanders began to shriek yet again.

The shot rang out like an opened soda can; a pop, a hiss, and then it was over. Quick as it began.

Cat stuttered, a hand lifting to her mouth as she forced herself back an inch. Inadvertently, she shoved herself closer, back into his chest. Bruce didn’t notice or mind much.

The woman slumped over, dead as Sarah James. Even from where he stood, the burgeoning puddle of blood was visible, bright and red and awful.

A hand shoved into his chest, pushing hard. Hands shaking, breath coming quick and fast, Bruce stumbled back. His eyes remained stuck on the mess of red. It was horribly hypnotizing. 

“Move, Wayne,” Cat hissed. It seemed she had no trouble with touch when it came to touching him. Her small hands landed on his chest and refused to leave, pushing till he nearly fell. “Move, move, yes, now would be great.”

Every few seconds, her chin snapped back toward the street. Toward the mess of red. It was so quick that he was stunned she didn’t crack a muscle. 

“What are we supposed to do?” Bruce murmured. 

“We?” she bit. A short, quick laugh made him wince. It sounded mean. “We aren’t going to do anything. You are supposed to go home and pretend none of this ever happened.”

By the end of the week, today would be forgotten. Silver, Grace, all the others in his school would fail to remember Barbara Kean, the twin murders, all of it. For a few days, it would be passed around like a ghost story, and then quick enough something more interesting would occur and it would be put to rest. The papers would say much of the same; the attack was horrid and tragic, but never to be repeated. 

Nevermind that it had happened before, again and again, over and over. Barbara Kean, his parents, countless others left unsolved and unburied. It would be swept under the rug because it was all too ugly to look in the face. 

Every murder was hailed as accidental, and how matter how gruesome, forgettable above all else. Peace had to be kept. Peace couldn’t be kept if chaos survived, and so blissful ignorance reigned supreme. 

“What about you?” Bruce asked. 

Cat shook her head, eyes wide. A tremor had taken over her body. When he peered downward, her hands were shaking despite being clenched in tight fists.

Though she liked to hold it over him, death was likely not quite as casual as she pretended it to be. It couldn’t possibly be, when she was so very young and so very afriad. 

“What about me?”

Bruce tilted his head, gentle and slow. “What will you do?”

A sort of wild confusion crossed her eyes, as if the thought had never even crossed her mind. 

“Does it matter?” she asked, not unkindly. A hollow type of sadness echoed through her voice. “Right now, we need to go.”

“Now?” he asked, rather dumbly. Outside, the noise had slowed and quieted. The messes had to be cleaned. Routine cleanup. Step one of forgetting was to scrub away the blood before it stained. 

Cat’s eye twitched a bit. “The Commissioner just shot her in the middle of the street—with cameras out. They’re broadcasting this shit live and he killed her,” she said, short and tight. “You can stay as long as you’d like. I’m leaving. Now.”

If Jim Gordon knew… if he knew what Cat was, that she was here—Bruce couldn’t conceive what he’d do to her, knowing a bullet rested in the head of the last assassin. Consequences clearly weren’t a concern of his currently. 

“Okay,” he said, “let’s go.”

Spurred on by horror and all sorts of other things he didn’t yet have time to decipher, he lifted a hand to her lower back. He had to know she was still there. He had to feel her, just the brush of her against his hand. 

Her chin lifted to meet his eyes, but she didn’t step away. Rather, she looked a bit wide-eyed. 

“Come on,” he said, low and gentle. “Let’s go.”

Without glancing backwards, they left the mess behind them.

—

Come morning, Bruce had thought the death would be nearly forgotten. Old news, in the wake of a new, fresher scandal. By the following weekend, it had been made clear that no one in the city would be resting easy anytime soon.

The television in the corner of his room crackled. Bruce had to resist turning it off entirely.

“This is the third killing just this week,” the reporter said. “Not counting the Mayor’s wife, of course.”

Bruce tried not to flinch. Four in total, all women, all blonde. Each of different ages and occupations. Every single one had a bright shock of yellow hair. It seemed to be the trend. 

“Five,” he murmured to himself, “counting Barbara Kean.”

Most liked to forget, but she’d been blonde as well. If looking for a pattern, it seemed best to start there. Barbara Kean had triggered Commissioner Gordon’s frantic purge of crime, and for three years since, he’d refused to let up. 

“Just this afternoon, detectives received a call about the newest victim of the Blonde Butchering: Maria Palmers. Reports say this killing is the worst yet, if you can believe,” the report continued. The television crackled and while the voice droned on, Bruce tried not to wince too horribly. Awful as the information was, it was equally crucial. 

With each death, the killing turned more violent. More blood, more extravagance, more of a spotlight. It had taken hours to clean Maria Palmer’s apartment because her head had split so badly open. The walls had been painted red. 

“Will you turn that grimy show off?”

Bruce startled and turned back his chin.

“You’ve seen it a dozen times already, haven’t you?” Alfred sniffed, dropping down a tray to his desk. Bruce looked briefly at the tea and crackers before glancing forward again. He’d eat later, maybe. Dinner was soon, and even if he hadn’t eaten yet today, the news turned his stomach into knots.

“Turning it off won’t make it disappear,” Bruce said. A week had passed, and four were dead already. All of whom’s killers went unknown, without leads. It had to be driving Commissioner Gordon up the wall. 

“No, but you might be able to focus on cleaning up, won’t you?”

Bruce sighed. “We don’t leave till tomorrow.”

They went to the chalet every year for the holidays, but this year Alfred was rushing them out the door. As if Bruce was the target of this attack. He couldn’t blame Alfred, really, with all that was happening around them. But, in the Alps, he couldn’t do much of anything. Thousands of miles away, he’d make no difference at all. 

Alfred pointed a finger at him. “It’ll be tonight if you aren’t careful.”

Bruce turned to glare, but Alfred had already disappeared. Huffing, he turned to his bed, half-heartedly folding up a sweater. The suitcase on the floor was already half full with turtlenecks and dark slacks. It wouldn’t take much longer to pack and the news was far more important than folding up his socks and shirts. 

“Commissioner James Gordon refused to comment,” the reporter said with a sniff. “Detective Collins claimed the GCPD is focusing its efforts on known criminals, however. Inmates of Blackgate and Arkham are under a hot spotlight, believed to be conspirators if not the culprits.”

Bruce frowned. Those in Arkham and Blackgate had already been caught. Petty thieves, unstable crooks, sloppy murders. Monsters like Barbara Kean’s killer roamed free. The Butcher didn’t sit in a cell. He walked the streets of Gotham.

“If found guilty, Commissioner James Gordon has called for the culprits’ execution.”

It was ice over his veins. The Commissioner would likely say it was a punishment fitting the crime, four times over really, but it wasn’t the way of things. The shooting in the streets wasn’t the way of things. 

“How gruesome.”

Bruce pivoted toward the television, eyes wide and heart thumping, and found Cat standing by the window.

“You seem nervous,” she said, offhanded like she hadn’t slipped into his house. “Are you scared of ghosts?”

A short laugh escaped him and he nodded toward the news. “Just serial killers.”

“I think you’re safe,” she said. Her eyes drifted up past his nose. “Unless you were thinking about bleaching your hair.”

It took every ounce of willpower not to lift a hand up to his curls and pat them down. It was late and they were likely a mess.

“No,” he said quietly. “No, I guess I’m safe.”

Others, however, weren’t. Across town, dozens and dozens of light-haired girls were wondering if they would paint the streets red next. In the halls and at lunch, he’d heard some whispering to one another, clutching at each other’s arms, even those that weren’t blonde. Fear had struck the city and seemed unlikely to fade anytime soon.

After a moment’s thought, he looked at her lax shoulders, the lack of tightness in her hands. Usually, she stood tall and straight, ready to bite and snarl. Today, she stood with her hands behind her back, cheeks pink and warm.

“What about you? Aren’t you here to threaten me?” he wondered aloud. Am I safe from you, too?

“Not today. I’m just here to say goodbye.” 

Bruce frowned, but she only nodded toward the suitcase behind him. Atop his bed, a pile of clothes sat waiting to be folded. In dawning horror, he took a step to the side, hoping to conceal the mess of his half-packed sweaters and slacks. It likely looked like terrible clutter. 

“Aren’t you leaving for France or Italy or something?” she asked, squinting. The wrinkle between her brows made him smile. “Somewhere fancy and awful, I’m sure.”

“Switzerland,” he corrected without a bite. Then, quietly, wondered how she’d known that he was leaving at all. “Our chalet is in the Alps.”

“Your what?”

Bruce smiled so large it wrinkled his nose. “Nothing.”

“Sounds stupid,” she muttered, beginning to drift about. Every step was silent. He’d noticed it before, back in the kitchen, but even here she was quiet. Where every floorboard creaked and croaked beneath his feet, her steps remained mute. 

“I’ll only be gone for a few weeks,” he said. Behind him, the television crackled and the reporter’s voice continued. Outside, the dark sky shifted, like it might start raining at any minute. “Will you be here, or do you travel for the holidays?”

Cat frowned. It looked accusatory, almost, like he’d said something wrong. Like he’d poked on a bruise black and blue. 

“I don’t really celebrate,” she said eventually. Discomfort pinched at her shoulders. It made her seem small. Usually, she stood tall and straight, rising to her toes when she wanted to throw herself in his face. 

Though he knew so little about her, it seemed strange. This, of all things, shouldn’t make her so small. 

The television sputtered and both turned. 

“I’m guessing you’ve heard,” Bruce said quietly. It’d be hard not to, even if a few wished not to discuss it, even if some chose to pretend it wasn’t happening at all. At school, half the crowd feared for their lives, and the other acted like nothing was amiss. The same could be said for the entire city. “Another was found this afternoon.”

A slow nod was the only signal that she’d heard him. Otherwise, her eyes remained stuck to the screen. It reminded him of a cat finding a spot of light and being unable to let go. 

“They’re all blonde,” he continued, shuffling closer. 

She hummed. “Sure are.”

Silence followed. Bruce tried not to groan aloud. 

It wasn’t as if she knew anything more than him. But she was the only one with which he could even think of discussing this. Alfred would rather whisk him away to Switzerland and his classmates would rather pretend the whole thing was a joke to mask their fear. Silver had teased just yesterday that it was a good excuse to dye her hair dark, just to take the spotlight off of her. 

No one possibly understood the magnitude of it all—no one except, just maybe, the girl standing beside him.

“Did you know Barbara Kean was blonde?” he asked carefully. It was as subtle as lightning striking the sky, but it worked wonders. 

Cat turned on her heels, eyes rolling upward. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

“I’m trying to understand the pattern,” he said. “Aren’t you curious about it all?”

“What’s there to think about?” 

Bruce lifted a shoulder and tucked his hands into his pockets. “Why the Mayor’s wife?”

“How should I know?” she asked. Her voice dropped low, a sort of irked edge making it sound sharp. “I’m not the one who shot her.”

For a moment, he tried to dissect the logic of it. Through it all, from the first bullet to the second, she’d stood beside him. The culprit had been caught in front of their eyes. 

And yet. This past week, he hadn’t seen her. If she’d been around, she’d been careful to remain unseen. All those other girls, those three others, could very well be her handiwork. It had been her who’d cut his neck and threatened to do worse if tested. 

Bruce didn’t like to think about it. Calling her a killer, even if just in the back of his skull, felt all sorts of incorrect. Like an incomplete puzzle missing several distorted pieces. More to the story needed to be known. More to her story.

“What’s your best logical guess, then?” he tried. 

She sighed, quiet and only slightly annoyed. “It got everyone’s attention, didn’t it? Every other murder in this city goes ignored, but the Mayor’s wife shot in daylight is quite the headline.”

It was an absurd way to think about death; nothing but a spotlight under which attention could be grabbed. Except, it rang true enough, and that was what was so horrid about it. 

“This isn’t Gotham’s first serial killer,” she mimicked his earlier words, brows raised and mouth nearly lifting. Bruce wouldn’t have guessed it to be funny, but he was beginning to realize he was far more clueless than he realized. “It’s not even our hundredth, I don’t think.”

A frown tugged down his face. Death and strife plagued the city, but serial killings? And multiple, at that?

Cat gave him a grim sort of smile, having seen the miffed expression across his face. “That’s just what I mean, Wayne. You won’t know about them. People disappear everyday and no one cares. No one notices.”

“How is that possible?” he murmured. It seemed impractical. Murders went unsolved, but not an unseemly amount. Those that went missing were known, given a headline, given attention and proper care. 

“Because,” she laughed, an awful sound filled to the brim with acid, “that’s how Gotham works. These girls matter. Most don’t and they’ll die without ever being buried.”

Bruce turned to face the television. Across it, in stark bold read the name Maria Palmer. Beneath hers read Taylor Adams, Katie Moore, Sarah James. Their faces had all been displayed, each of them given a spotlight and individual report. Each one mattered.

Had it been him, dead on the floor, blood pooling, it would likely be the same. Had she succeeded that night, her blade splitting him open, the Gotham Gazette would feature his name for weeks. Maybe months. All because he mattered, while others didn’t.

If she died, who would know besides himself?

The papers wouldn’t cover it. None of his friends knew she existed. There’d be no one to even mention her too, not a grave to let flowers rot over or a picture to weep into. Nothing but the thought of her face and voice seared into the crevices of his name. Not even her name would survive, because he didn’t really know it. 

Bruce would remember, at least. The way she walked, the cadence of her voice, the scrunch of her nose. It would all stay with him, so that even if she were gone, the memory would remain.

On the television, images of Arkham and Blackgate filled the screen. 

“It won’t solve anything.”

Bruce turned her way and found her already watching him. On the television, pictures of inmates flooded the screen. Their crimes, their faces, their names. All were being interrogated by detectives daily, thought to be guilty till proven otherwise. If they’d been caught for crime before, they very well could be caught again.

“What?” he asked, frowning.

“This won’t fix anything,” she said, with the same sturdy tone as before. 

Though he thought much of the same, he shook his head. There weren’t any leads, any ideas, anything at all. Nothing but the known and caught criminals. 

“It has to start somewhere,” he said, gesturing to the side. The excuse rang empty and he knew it. So did Cat, because she gave him a sidelong look. “The Commissioner has no leads and hasn’t since Barbara first died.”

“And someone has to be blamed,” she agreed, a mocking bite to each word. “Three years and nothing to show for it.”

It came out easy and quick, but Bruce paused. Though seemingly small, it proved all the confirmation he needed; this wasn’t isolated. This was about Barbara Kean and always had been. 

It took strength to bite his tongue and swallow back any other questions. If she knew she’d slipped, even in such a limited way, she’d grow small yet again. 

“Nothing’s come up with any of these men,” he said, “and nothing likely will.”

“No,” she agreed with a hum. “It’s all a game. Just a big show of pretend. Really, the Commissioner knows as much as we do.”

Carefully, he looked her way. If poked and prodded, she might very well give way. If pushed too far, she would run. But there had to be something she hid beneath her tongue, something covered up and concealed that he could find if he looked hard enough. 

“Blonde and female,” he said. “Poor mimics of Barbara Kean.”

A pout formed over her mouth, a sort of teasing wrinkle. “Pretty good mimics, actually. It’s not like it takes much to rile up James Gordon. A pretty blonde is all that’s needed, and most aren’t even natural.”

Bruce frowned. It sounded knowing, like bothering the Commissioner came as a habit. Or a nasty pastime. He stepped closer, meaning to ask, trying to form the questions he so desperately needed answered. Except, her eyes lifted and her hands when still. Within a blink, she’d slid back and into the shadows, flat against the far wall of his bedroom. If he tried hard enough, the blurry figure of her became clear. 

A knock at the door made him pause midstep.

“Come down for dinner,” Alfred called. “Our guest will be here in a few hours and I won’t let you forget to eat before again.”

Bruce glanced from the wood to the shadows. “I’ll be down soon. Give me a moment.”

The footsteps retreated, floorboards squeaking as he went. 

“He’s quiet,” Cat murmured, stepping forward only once. Half of her remained obscured by the dark. Lines of shadow covered her pretty face. “But the house is loud.”

“It’s old,” he said, equally as quiet, just as soft. A smile prodded at his mouth till he was certain his cheeks burned pink. It felt impossible to find her anything but entirely endearing. She knew every creak and shuffle three seconds before it even happened. She was a marvel.

A shy smile turned her face ruddy and she stepped forward, closer till he could make out the green of her eyes and the mess of her curls. With a quiet sort of laugh, she said, “I should go. You’re having guests.”

The simmering butterflies in his stomach fell flat, the pink in his cheeks going dim. There wasn’t any telling when he’d see her again. He never knew when she’d come by or when she was even around. Sometimes, she stuck to the shadows and refused to make herself known. 

“Just one,” he corrected quietly. “Just after dinner.”

It would be hours till then, anyways. Hours spent alone in his room with nothing but his thoughts for company. 

“Have fun in Italy,” she said like she hadn’t even heard him, cutting the word into two distinct syllables. It-ally. It sounded like a teasing sort of thing, but he’d never heard anyone say it like that. Maybe an internal joke he couldn’t quite keep up with. “Arrivederci.” Until we meet again.

Bruce blinked, surprise turning his cheeks red once more. He’d never heard her speak Italian. 

“Switzerland,” he corrected half-heartedly, more on instinct than anything else. She only waved him off with a scoff, stepping toward the window, but he stuttered as she reached for the windowsill. “Wait.”

Straightening, she peered over with sharp eyes. If he moved too quickly, she’d bolt. 

“Wait, just wait,” he repeated, softer than before. By his bed, the little table had only one box atop it, and he picked it up with both hands. Beside it was the stuffed rabbit she’d given him, grey and sad around the eyes, and he gave it a long look before he pivoted. 

Turning, he lifted both palms, face up, and presented himself to her. Slowly, he lifted the lid, allowing her to watch each finger move, giving her time to assess his movements. 

Beneath the lid, a silver chain sat on a bed of cotton. At the base, a singular pearl sat surrounded by shimmering diamonds. 

Pink rose in her cheeks. It made him smile, to know that he could bring about such color in her face, even as her teeth dug into her cheek so hard he could see the indent. Her brows furrowed and she blinked, once and then twice again.

“I saw you looking,” he said, nearly a whisper. Quiet, so as to not scare her away. “It’s from that day at the service. I thought maybe you’d like it.”

She tilted her head down at the necklace, curious and careful like a twitching fox sniffing out a meal. Her fingers brushed over the clasp and gems, leather feeling over the bumpy surface. 

“Why would you get this for me?” she asked. Her eyes remained low even when he ducked his chin down, hoping to see a flash of green. 

Bruce shrugged once, a shy sort of smile on his face. “I saw you looking.”

It was enough of a reason for him. Her eyes had been glued when he’d come over, even if she’d tried to shy away the moment she’d known that she was caught in the act. Maybe gems and jewels weren’t her usual forte, but the necklace would look pretty clasped around her neck. She’d looked and liked it. That was reason enough.

“I don’t have anything for you,” she said, even as she lifted the necklace up and out of the box. Between her fingers, the chain spun round and round, light catching on the little diamonds and making them shine. One curious finger lifted and tapped at the pearl in the center. 

“You aren’t supposed to,” he hurried to say. Then, after careful consideration, “How about a name?”

It fell off his tongue as a joke, light-hearted and quick. Still, she seemed to shudder, every nerve going frozen before her body righted itself. 

“How about mine?”

Every tendon halted, bones clattering together as his body clamped up. The words froze him solid, dunked him in boiling water, colored his cheeks and dropped his jaw. The question shook his knees and wobbled his hands. It dropped his stomach clean to the floor then twisted it back up again, butterflies fluttering so quickly it nearly felt like nausea. 

It seemed to stun her nearly as equally, if not more. She shut her mouth so hard her teeth clacked together. Even as her face turned a pretty pink, her eyes stayed firm on his, daring him to challenge her. 

“Will that do?” she asked, voice steady as always.

Bruce studied her face. “Why would you give that to me?”

Between her fingers, the necklace finally stopped spinning. The gems continued to glimmer beneath the warm light of his room. 

“You noticed me looking,” she murmured. “You saw me.”

Another day, another time, it would sound insignificant. Small and inconsequential. In the darkness of his room, beneath the shadows and glinting reflection of jewels, it was a declaration far greater than he could even comprehend. 

The silence of the room stretched and unfolded. 

Then, with a soft whisper, “Selina.”

Selina. 

A compulsive smile bit at his mouth, so big it hurt his cheeks. Selina, Selina, Selina. Bruce let it fall off his tongue like honey, seep into his teeth like a cavity, melt into the crevices of his skull so it would be impossible to pry away. 

“Selina,” he said again, just because he could. Simply because he knew it. 

She—Selina—smiled, a nervous sort of thing. Her eyes darted away and then back, like the sound of her own name was an invocation of something sinister. As if she had to check the shadows to make sure nothing lurked behind. When he said her name again, she did it again, peering off into the shadows and toward the window, like she thought herself Bloody Mary—a monster in the night.

“I really do have to go, Wayne,” she said finally. In a flash, she stood by the window, necklace in her pocket and hands reaching out for the sill to lift up. 

“You know, it wouldn’t hurt to use mine as well,” he offered. Selina turned back his way, squinting. “Bruce. It’s what my friends call me.”

It seemed like a poor, awkward joke. Still, she pitied him with an amused snort and turned to face him, hands folding behind her back. In the dark night, she looked more like a cat than a girl, her eyes sharp and her limbs folded around each other.

“Is that we are, Wayne?” she asked slowly, drawing out the sound of his name. “Friends?”

“I know your name,” he said. Selina remained still, considering the implications. “I’d say we are.”

For a moment, she only hummed, glancing to the side with her lips pressed together. It did a poor job of concealing the pink crawling up her cheeks. It likely meant nothing, he thought. Just a flush against the winter air.

“Alright, Bruce,” she said. “I’ll give you that.”

The television gave a quiet sputter of noise once more and he pivoted. Across the screen, a list of Blackgate inmates and suspects alike were shown in bold font. It would solve nothing, she’d said, other than to take part in a game of pretend.

Bruce turned his chin to the side, but Selina had already disappeared. 

Down in the kitchen, a fresh pot of tea already sat by the sink, scones and cakes beside the saucers. It was late, now, far later than Bruce would’ve expected. One look at the old clock showed the time to be near midnight. 

The figure by the counter had his back turned to the door, his spine straight and tight, and Bruce frowned. 

“Careful,” Alfred murmured as he passed by, too quiet for their guest to make out. “He seems troubled tonight. Wouldn’t even take any tea.”

Bruce carried forward, careful and pointed, and made his way to the other side of the counter.

“Commissioner Gordon,” he said, without an ounce of surprise. In the past several weeks, the visits had become far and few between, but he’d known to expect the Commissioner eventually. 

A beat passed, and his heart ticked upward. Selina had been upstairs just hours ago. Had Alfred come into his room, had Gordon, she’d have been caught. 

Bruce turned to face the sink, reaching for a saucer to avoid the heavy stare of the Commissioner. 

“I didn’t expect you this late,” he said, trying for polite. “It’s busy these days, I’d guess.”

The Commissioner exhaled a laugh. It didn’t sound very nice. “Sure. Busy.”

“Well,” Alfred started, “there have been quite a few bodies this week.”

It sounded tight and prim. Alfred wouldn’t argue with the Commissioner outright, at least not while Bruce was in the room, but all three of them knew the implication; the GCPD was failing. Bodies piled up more every day because the Commissioner let it happen. If another blonde dropped dead come morning, Alfred—nor Bruce—wouldn’t blink, because there wasn’t a single lead or clue. 

By the sink, Bruce added another spoonful of sugar to his saucer. The skin around his knuckles felt raw and he blinked down at his bare hands. With Selina around, he hadn’t thought to slip on his gloves; there’d been other things keeping him occupied, like her voice and eyes and name. 

Now, standing alone by the pot of tea, all he could think was that his hands were dreadfully bare. The skin looked pale and clean, but open and exposed. Fresh for the taking. It made him feel more sore than he liked. 

“There are bodies on both sides now, at least,” Gordon muttered. “Gotham Gazette only likes to highlight my failures.”

At that, Bruce finally turned. Even Alfred paused, a sour expression wrinkling up his face. A beat of tense silence passed, long enough for Bruce to consider each and every implication of the words. More bodies caught, more bodies dead. For the Commissioner, it rang as a victory, proof of an even battle. To Bruce it only sounded like more needless death. 

Under their scrutiny, Gordon sighed. “Why do you think I’m here? We found her.”

When Bruce lifted his eyes, the Commissioner was already staring his way. 

“Oh.” It came out as a whisper, so quiet that it made the Commissioner squint. There wasn’t much to be said. It wasn’t a celebration or victory in his mind, not really. Even if he knew it should be.

“Have you?” Alfred asked, leaning forward against the counter. “How’d you manage that?”

Gordon rubbed a hand down his face. “This afternoon, we got the call about Maria Palmer. I’m sure you’ve seen her on the news. The girl—she was quick, but. We’re quicker.”

Bruce doubted it. He’d seen how quickly Selina could slip into the shadows and back, all within a blink or breath. The rest likely moved the same, if not marginally better. 

“Did you catch her name?” Alfred wondered. 

“Does it matter?” Gordon argued. For a moment, Bruce thought only about everything that Selina had said about value. Those girls dead on the television mattered, and so their names were plastered across the city for all to see and remember. The culprits didn’t matter. Their names became lost as a result. “We didn’t stop to ask. What’s important is that we found her at all.”

Alfred made a noise in his throat, half affirmative and half accusing. 

A sort of dizzy nausea was settling low in his stomach. When he stepped forwards, a heavy hand on the counter, the room spun just a bit. 

“Is she dead?” Bruce murmured. It came out quiet. More quiet than he’d like in front of James Gordon.

The Commissioner gave a half-hearted shrug, like death meant nothing. As if the answer wouldn’t matter regardless. “Bruce, she’s a killer. First, Maria Palmer, but maybe those other girls too.”

“Did you kill her?” he pressed, voice turning sharp. With a gun, most likely, a bullet to her head while she sat on her knees. Guilty, but human.

“I did what I had to,” Gordon said, frowning. The confusion in his face was rather disorienting. Maybe he’d thought that Bruce would cheer at the news, or thank him without hesitation. “The girl was covered in blood. She was trying to stash the weapon a few streets over.”

The horrible feeling in his stomach grew more solid. A buzzing took over his ears. 

“Bruce,” Gordon said slowly, leaning forward across the counter to try and meet his eyes. “The girl killed someone. She tried to kill you.”

“Yes,” he said, “my almost-killer.”

Bruce hadn’t meant for it to turn out like this. Really, he hadn’t. 

That first night in the study, with blood still dripping down his neck and a pit of sorrow in his stomach, he’d wanted to sleep the day away. Wake up and forget it had happened at all. If given the chance, he’d have cleaned the glass and blood himself, stitched up his own cut and chosen to forget.

Alfred hadn’t allowed him to do so. There hadn’t been time to hide it all—the broken glass and spilled blood and still bleeding cut—and what, really, could Bruce have said except for the truth?

Against the counter, Bruce clutched at the counter with his bare fingers. The skin of his knuckles turned white and he tried to breathe as steady as he could. It hurt his throat to inhale. It hurt his ribs to exhale. Everything felt sore and awful and he wanted to sleep this day away, too.

“I’d think your detectives would want to celebrate,” Alfred said offhandedly, stepping around Bruce to grab a clean saucer. The tea would be lukewarm by now. “The Gotham Gazette didn’t say anything about a dead assassin.”

Gordon’s face wrinkled just a bit. “You’re the one who asked me to keep this quiet. I did what you asked; we’re the only ones who even know she came after Bruce. I’ll have to say something eventually, but the other detectives only think she killed Maria Palmer.”

Behind him, the tableware clinked together. It made Bruce feel like his skin was itching. It took great strength not to lift a hand to his covered-up neck and feel for the healing scar.

That night, it had come out in stuttered fragments, awful little hiccups of confession.

The girl, he’d said, the girl had tried to—well. The blood was evidence enough. The glass, too, and the gaping cut. Much more didn’t need to be said. 

“The city doesn’t need to know Bruce Wayne is being hunted,” Gordon muttered. 

“Was,” Alfred corrected. The clinking behind Bruce finally stopped as Alfred placed a cup of tea in front of Gordon.

Bruce tried to swallow away any lingering nausea. Just hours before, she’d given him her name. Used his in return. Called him a friend and clasped the necklace around his neck.

Now, James Gordon sat in his kitchen, victorious. 

Bruce, and nobody but, had caused this. Without hesitation or thought, he’d signed her death warrant and now her blood stained the streets. He was the blade above her head, the poison in her wine.

“You know,” Gordon said, “I wouldn’t have expected her to be blonde, too.”

In a blink, the noise in his ears popped like an opened soda can. Horrid, hesitant hope washed over him and he forced his mouth to flatten and his spine to straighten.

“Blonde?” he asked. It took every weary nerve and exhausted bone to remain steady. Every ounce of self-restraint not to clutch at the Commissioner and shake him.

Gordon hummed. When he spoke, a strange distance crept into his voice. “Yeah, blonde. Probably nothing, but I thought she’d look different. Darker haired, I guess.”

A shaking, trembling exhale left his body. It hadn’t been her. Not Selina. It was meant to be, he knew; her blood splattered, a bullet in her skull, but it hadn’t been. Rather, she’d been elsewhere, safe. Not the killer of Maria Palmers, even if the almost-killer of him. 

“Strange,” he agreed offhandedly, and turned back to the sink to cover up his quivering mouth. Every heavy, awful weight in the world lifted off of his shoulders. Breathing felt easy and clean. 

Bruce looked down at his hands. In the dark, warm light of the kitchen, they looked nearly red. Tinged and stained with the colored lights hanging above, really, but it gave him pause. Maybe it hadn’t been him holding the gun, putting a bullet in her skull, but it had been him passing forth the information needed. With his red hands, he thought himself an almost-killer, an executioner by proxy. It was him that was Selina’s executioner just as much as she was his. 

Chapter Text

The carnage of the city was near impossible to avoid. Everywhere Selina turned, another body fell. With every blonde split open by her Father’s men, another Falcone dog earned a bullet to the head. The killing never ceased. It just went round and round.

So long as her Father lived, with James Gordon across town, it would never end. 

The club was stupid, and she knew it, but it gave her a necessary distraction. The students in the booths, drunk and clumsy, had little to no awareness of the bloodshed that occurred every day. If they did, they chose to turn their head. All were blissfully ignorant and she wanted a taste of it, just for a night. Just a moment’s pause before the carnage resumed and blood splattered once more.

Across the room, Bruce looked barely tipsy. The cup in his hands was full with amber liquid, likely bourbon or something else sour and awful. For the past half hour, he’d nursed the same drink, sipping at it only when someone shuffled too close and brushed up against him.

Beside him, St. Cloud and Blomdhal laughed like usual. Elliot sat across from them, as drunk as he always became on these nights. 

Only Bruce looked uneasy, his eyes fluttering side to side with each beat of the music. It made her a bit fond, only moderately, to know that he remained aware. Through it all, he stayed cognizant, even with liquor in his system and music pounding in his ears. Stability seemed his speciality.

As the music rose and his friends laughed harder, Bruce stood. 

Selina pressed her lips together and watched him grow near to the shadows under which she stood. If he was careful, he might just notice her. But, then, he stumbled, knees all wobbly, and she sighed. Maybe he was further into his cups than she’d thought. 

“Do you need some help?” she asked, settling close to his side. It took him only a moment to peer her way, and when his eyes settled on her figure, he jumped. Big and wide, his eyes flit over her from top to toe. “I wouldn’t want you to trip and embarrass yourself.”

“Selina,” he murmured, soft and reverent. Then, again, so gentle that a pink flush bit at her cheeks. “You’re here.”

“I’m here,” she agreed, tipping her own glass his way. The soda sat untouched. She had no need for sugar or liquor, not here, not now. Bruce continued to stare, blinking so quickly that it hurt her eyes. When his mouth opened, she expected her name to fall from his tongue again, except he said nothing. “Come on. Let’s go somewhere else.”

The shadows allowed for her breath to come more easily, even if they’d only stepped a few feet to the side. In the dim light, it felt less like a crowd surrounded them and more like they stood alone. Just them, brushing up against one another, eyes meeting and cheeks equally pink.

If she focused hard enough, she’d hear the sounds of others behind them; sighs and moans. Sounds of those that only stepped into the dark to kiss and flirt. Rather, she lifted her chin and set her eyes on him, awaiting his sturdy voice. The tall heel of her shoes allowed her a considerable advantage compared to usual. Rather than crane her neck to meet his gaze, she only had to tilt her chin up an inch. 

“I didn’t,” he paused and made a small humming noise, like he needed to right himself through the sound, “I didn’t think I’d see you so soon.”

Selina shrugged one shoulder. “Well, I happened to be in the neighborhood. I thought I’d make your night more interesting. You seemed bored without me.”

A lie seemed more kind than the truth—at home, disorder reigned. Their men dropped like flies every day, and those remaining assumed they’d be next. Everyone had turned vicious in the weeks past, their teeth bared and hackles raised. All those docile, loyal dogs had turned into savage beasts, prepared to tear apart anyone that came too close.

The blissful blindness of the club was easier to comprehend. All the drunken teenagers surrounding them knew nothing about blood in the streets or bullets in skulls. 

“You’re certainly more fun,” he said, shy but genuine. His teeth dug into his bottom lip, like he had to starve away a beaming smile. It made her stomach flip side to side. “I’ve never seen you drink, or dance. I wouldn’t assume this to be your scene.”

Were she less tired, her bones less weary and her nerves less fried, she’d argue the very same of him. It wouldn’t be a lie to claim that every time she’d seen him in a club, he’d looked nearly miserable; the music too loud, the company too close, the drinks too strong. Everything about this setting irritated the both of them.

As it were, there wasn’t enough sharp energy in her body to snarl or bite. That had to be saved for those worthy of her sharp teeth. Those like James Gordon, who’d very well hold a gun to her head and put a bullet in her skull.

“Are you worried about me?” she asked, only a little teasing. 

The color in his cheeks went red and then white. A subdued, distracted sort of fear flashed in his eyes and then settled. “Maybe a little,” he said carefully.

“Don’t,” she said. It fell off of her tongue as a gentle command. With anyone else, she’d bark, and it was awfully strange to know that softness had become routine with him. “I can take care of myself, Bruce.”

And she did. At home, with her furious, screaming Father. With Sofia, who snapped and bit but barely even showed face at the Manor anymore. With all those detectives that would kill her in an instant if they knew she even existed. 

All she’d ever done was care for herself, watch her own back, remain sharp and quick because it was the only option for remaining alive. Anything else meant suicide. Growing soft and gentle would get her killed. Filing down her teeth or lowering her hackles wasn’t an option, especially not now.

“I believe you,” he murmured. The music nearly drowned out his soft voice and she had to watch his mouth to make out each syllable. “I believe you. But, you don’t have to.”

Selina jolted, just a bit. “What?”

Warm, careful fingers grazed her neck and she jerked back. It took only a blink to realize that Bruce had lifted up his bare fingers to the hollow of her neck, reaching for the little pearl surrounded by diamonds.

“You’re wearing it,” he murmured, his previous words forgotten. It was likely he’d drank far more than she knew; it explained the pink flush to his cheeks, the fondness in his eyes, the stammer to his words. It couldn’t be anything else. 

She ducked her chin and looked down at the necklace. His fingers were clasped around the gems, rubbing a slow circle over the pearl, transfixed.

This was the only place she even could wear it. At home, Sofia would see and question her—if Sofia were even home, that is, which was far and few these days. 

Here, though, Selina could clasp it around her neck and play with the shimmering gems. 

“I didn’t think you would,” he continued distantly. By her neck, his thumb brushed over her skin, warm and bare. It was the very same spot that her blade had pinched into his neck. If she were to peel away his collar and touch him there, she’d find a raised, healing scar. The realization punched away the air in her lungs. 

For a moment, she wondered if she’d accidentally drank as much as him. The entirety of her body felt heavy and clumsy, her head nearly dizzy and her stomach fluttering. It felt dangerous, a hot and startling sort of risk that she couldn’t quite escape.

Though it took a great deal of strength, she stepped back. The necklace slipped from his fingers. Where he’d once touched her now felt ice cold. 

“Bruce,” she murmured, neat and careful. “What are you doing?”

What reason would he have to touch her so willingly? What could he gain from his bare skin against hers?

An ounce of clarity washed over him and he shook his head. His cheeks went a bit pink, and this time, she was sure it was a bout of humility. “I’m sorry. I’m just glad you’re here.”

Selina bit into her tongue. Not enough to hurt, just enough to feel the muscle give beneath her teeth. It was such a simple declaration, but never one that she’d dreamed of hearing from him.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he continued. “I thought… I thought, maybe…”

She waited for him to finish. Instead, his eyes dropped low to the floor and his jaw clicked shut. 

“You thought what?” she asked. Her head tilted to the side, ducking her chin to try and meet his shy gaze. “I’m fine. I’m right here. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Bruce slipped his hands into his pockets and looked everywhere but her. “The reports grew worse every day that I was gone. Over a dozen girls must be dead now.”

“Eleven,” she corrected, though it didn’t matter to anyone but her Father. He’d wanted an even dozen deaths by the first of the month, but they hadn’t quite succeeded. With so little men left, they had to be careful. 

“The Commissioner is finally releasing information about the culprits, too. It isn’t just girls being killed, it’s,” he paused searching for the word. Assassins was his best bet. Monsters, if he wanted to be kind. “It’s criminals, too. The killers being killed.”

Selina said nothing. Nelson had been the first, that day in the square. Rossi and then Cam, too, but other men were dying as well. Loyal dogs that hadn’t done any killing at all but were better suited for sneaking and spying. Maybe the Commissioner would consider them guilty of other crimes, but they weren’t guilty of killing any of those blondes. 

The Commissioner might not know of her Father at the top, but he seemed to know other stones to turn. Nelson and Cam had been clumsy, sticking around for too long after their kills. The others made no sense. The others were well planted and well hidden.

“It’s all meaningless strings,” Bruce continued. “Whatever links them all together; the murders and men, nobody knows. Something’s missing.”

Selina narrowed her eyes. The missing piece of the puzzle was her; her Father, her sister, her. All of their guilty, stained hands that made up an empire of terror and carnage. 

“Don’t you think it’s strange?” he asked. A wild sort of look took over his eyes. “All these deaths, right in the open, and the killers being caught. Except, we still don’t know the head of the snake.”

“Is that what you want?” He looked her way and she continued, “To sever the head?”

In truth, it was nonsensical to grow angry. Bruce had no way of understanding her involvement. Severing the head, in his drunken mind, meant halting crime. Stopping murders, protecting the innocent. 

It was a logical, naive view of the city. Gotham wouldn’t exist without her Father’s carnage and chaos. Stopping the bloodshed wouldn’t bring about peace. Someone would always hold the blade. Someone would always be split open. There was no peace in Gotham and there never would be.

Someone bumped into him from behind and he stumbled. It forced him a step closer, and he lifted a hand to her arm, for stability and comfort alike. 

“I want you to be safe,” he said, ducking his chin down to meet her eyes. “You could’ve been caught.”

Selina hissed a predatory noise and glanced to the side. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Someone could’ve hurt you,” he said, an edge of panic turning his voice into a tremble. It raised his voice to a dangerous height. Though no one turned, too drunk and too uncaring, she withered. 

The hand over her arm felt too soft. If he dug his fingers into her skin hard enough to bruise, she might not recoil, but his gentle touch couldn’t be understood. It felt wrong. It felt bad. 

Ripping herself away, she clasped her own hand over his wrist, hard and mean. It had none of the carefulness that he’d touched her with. “Shut the fuck up,” she hissed. “Shut up. Are you fucking kidding?”

As she dragged him away, his mouth continued to move. The blaring music suffocated the gentle sound and she pretended to notice the shape of his mouth forming, You could’ve been killed.

In the bathroom, the lights were dim and the music muffled.

Selina shoved him back the second the door had been shut and locked. This sort of anger wasn’t new, but she hadn’t felt it in quite some time—hot, boiling fury that started in her stomach and rose up in her ribs. It couldn’t be swallowed away or ignored. It had to be spit up and out from between her teeth. 

“What’s wrong with you?” she repeated, quieter but with no less bite. 

Bruce stepped close. When she recoiled, he froze, mouth quivering and eyes lowering. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I thought… I just.”

“Just what?”

“You could’ve died,” he said, like it meant anything at all. When the day came, she’d be another nameless corpse abandoned in the Narrows. If she died tomorrow, it wouldn’t mean anything at all. 

“And?” she asked, wondering if he was purposefully acting stupid. If anything, the drinks would’ve worn off by now. The flush in his cheeks had faded to a dangerous shade of pale white and when he stepped away, he seemed to shake from terror and not inebriation.

His face screwed up at that, though, and the white turned back to red in an instant. “And? What do you mean and?”

“I mean, who cares?” she asked, bewildered and frustrated. “Seriously, what the fuck are you talking about, Wayne? You’re worried about me getting hurt?”

“Yes,” he insisted, louder than before. “If something happened, how would I know?”

It lowered a bit of the frenzied rage in her blood to a simmer. Rather than shout like she wanted to only moments before, she laughed, short and mean. “Well, I’m sure you’ll hear all about it in the news, won’t you? The killer being killed.”

It turned his cheeks pale, as intended. A burst of horror pinched at his mouth and darkened his gaze, like he’d never once considered her involvement to mean such a thing despite saying it himself. 

Selina sighed and made a face. The irritation was returning, hotter and stronger, because it made no sense for him to be so naive. He’d spent weeks worrying, he said, and yet couldn’t conceive the Commissioner stringing her up in the streets as proof of his victory. It was what he’d done to all the others; Nelson, Rossi, Cam. Dozens of other men as well, all hunted down and killed and used as a prop to prove to the public that the GCPD was capable of anything at all. 

Even if the head hadn’t yet been severed, a few little dogs were dead, and that should be good enough to appease the city. 

“You’re not a killer,” Bruce said finally. It came out slow, a stutter over the word killer. 

Selina tilted her chin, slow and dangerous. “Excuse me?”

The blade had pressed against his neck. It had been his neck cut open, maybe not enough to sever him completely, but enough for a puddle of blood to form by their feet that night. Even now, weeks later, she’d seen him in nothing but high collars to cover up the healing stitches. 

“You aren’t.”

For a moment, she stared in silence. All the hot, boiling anger across her body had diminished. In its place, incredulous contempt crawled up her ribs and settled into her stomach. 

All along, everything she’d originally thought about this awful, naive boy had been correct. Rather than even attempt to understand, he’d rather deny the bloody truth standing before him. Instead of admitting to it, he wanted to play a game. 

Bruce took her silence as hesitance and barreled forward, stepping closer to peer down at her. “You hurt me, I know you did. But I’m still here, aren’t I?”

Selina peered up at him slowly. 

“You aren’t a killer, Selina,” he said softly. A gentle hand touched hers, bare fingers brushing up against the leather of her gloves, and for once she didn’t recoil. “You aren’t any sort of monster everyone wants to make you out to be. When you had the chance, you refused. You didn’t kill me.”

“I should have.”

Bruce stiffened. Slowly, the gentle corners of his face pinched downward, hurt and horror turning him pale. 

“What?” he asked. It was more of a whisper than anything, a stutter of a sound. Had he bit and snarled like she was so accustomed too, she might’ve responded in kind. Maybe, she’d have pitied him a bit less. But it was near impossible to find him anything but pathetic when he refused to shed his fear. What good was a bark without any bite?

“I should’ve killed you,” she said, slow and sharp, shoving closer. “I should’ve let you bleed out that night.”

His face seemed to tremble. When he smiled, it looked awfully sad, like he was on the verge of tears. “I don’t believe you.”

“Why?” she asked. “You know my name, and that’s enough to know whether or not I’d hurt you?”

Bruce stepped backwards, eyes shifting to the side to avoid her gaze. Every inch of his body became small and withdrawn. Though there weren’t any tears in his eyes, the entirety of his face had dropped and he held his hands close to his chest. If she stepped close, he’d likely flinch.

Good, she thought. It’d be better for him to be afraid. It’d be better for him to hate her. In the weeks past, he’d seemed to forget their standing as predator and prey. It was time for him to remember. 

“I always thought,” he met her eyes very slowly, “that you seemed very human.”

It hurt far greater than she expected. Deep in her stomach, a sharp sort of pinch left bruises over every inch of her innards. If she were cut open she’d surely be red and sore, not to mention rotten beyond belief.

“That was a mistake,” she forced herself to bite. “Now you know better.”

Bruce said nothing. For several seconds, he looked her way, waiting for something. Maybe a stronger argument or for her to brandish her knife. The fight had left her body and it took a great deal of strength to even look his way as he left through the door behind her.

In his absence, only the sounds of her own unstable body could be heard. Every staggered shuffle to the side echoed across the walls and each shaking inhale sounded more like a whimper. 

Without Bruce, there wasn’t anywhere to focus her ire. It could only simmer and settle within her body, bubbling up in her throat till she had no choice but to swallow it back down again. Rinse, repeat. 

Eventually, it felt too close to nausea, too much like the time she’d drank all that wine with Sofia. A dizzy wave fell over her head and her stomach felt twisted up. 

Selina staggered over to the sink, nearly tripping with how uneven her knees felt. Both hands lifted up and gripped at the sink, knuckles turning white as she tightened her hold. The steady surface didn’t make her feel much better at all. Rather, shame flushed in her stomach to know that she still needed a steady hand.

Human, he’d said. Nothing about her even rang close. Every inch of her was rotten and scared, ugly and ruined. Even before her Father had found her, she’d been born in the gutters. She was nothing but a dirty, starved street rat. Nothing could’ve ever been done to change her fate. She was always meant to be a monster.

Every breath hurt. It rocked her ribcage and tore at her throat. A single hot tear slid down her cheek and she inhaled. She hadn’t realized her eyes were as hot as they felt. 

Human. Not a monster. It was a joke, or a bad lie, and it would make her laugh if she weren’t so dizzy.

In the mirror, she looked—well, the very same as always. Awful. A poor impersonation of Sofia, especially concerning her state of dress. In the club, she’d wanted to attempt to fit in, and the dress was all sorts of dire. It clung to her skin, too short around her thighs and tight around her waist. 

Around Sofia, it would likely be a perfect fit. It was easy for her, but Selina wasn’t even a complete person, not really. Rather, she was more a mess of scattered parts. All the pieces of her body had been lost and reconnected over the years, stitched up by her own shaking hands. 

Selina poked at the skin of her face, pressing the pads of her fingers beneath her eyes. They were red and beaded with tears. The color in her cheeks was an awful mix of pink and white, like her body hadn’t quite decided whether to sob or faint. 

“You aren’t a killer,” she repeated Bruce’s words. It sounded like a clear lie even to her ears. “You aren’t any monster.”

A frenzied laugh bubbled from her mouth. The edges of it sounded more like a cry than anything and she inhaled as quickly as she could to swallow back a sob.

If only Bruce understood that she was Frankenstein’s monster. Bloody and torn. Raw and gaping. A scared, savage, stitched together beast. 

Those years in the Narrows had cost her parts of herself—her stomach and sturdy ribs and solid wrists. Over the years, she’d lost other pieces, like her pink heart and wrinkly brain and red blood. The only remaining parts that were really still hers were her hands. The hands that had hurt and killed. Hands that split skin, spilled blood, bore the suffocating weight of her family’s honor and name. Only her hands mattered now, because it was with them that she killed. 

“Blood demands blood,” she said, shutting her eyes. In the darkness, she imagined her Father standing behind her. His heavy hand held tight to her shoulder and refused to release. “That’s all that matters. Blood will have blood.”

If not a killer, she wasn’t anything. If not her Father’s executioner, there wasn’t any point in having been taken from the Narrows. This was duty and honor wrapped up in a stained, red bow. It was necessary, no matter how ugly. 

Selina lowered her hands and looked down at them. Covered in leather, she couldn’t see the skin and scars. Beneath the gloves, though, she knew how they looked. There were white scars around the nail beds and across the palms. The pads of her fingers were rough and uneven. 

They were all that mattered; her hands, her duty, her honor. They were the only remaining piece that still really belonged to her, after all.

—

Long before she could see the crowds, Selina could hear rowdy noise and clambering voices.

In her pocket, her blade burned hot. Briefly, just for a moment, her fingers twitched and reached down toward it before she halted. Retrieving the small thing wouldn’t solve much of anything. Against a crowd of her Father’s men, even against her Father or sister in isolation, a singular blade couldn’t do anything. Maybe she was quick and vicious, but she wouldn’t spill blood in her own home, and not the blood of her own family.

It took momentous strength to creep further down the hall and toward the noise. For the first time in weeks, it sounded less like her Father’s furious shouts and more like a cheerful mingling. Strange, really, considering the state of things outside the Manor’s walls. Out there, half their men lay dead, bullets nestled in their skills and limbs askew. 

Selina stepped closer despite herself. The sounds of clinking glasses and muffled music were familiar even if undesirable. In the past, she’d never been allowed close to her Father’s parties. Rather, she’d remained inside her room, staring at the ceiling and pretending the sounds of muted laughter left her entirely unaffected. Now, she understood the scene to be disorienting. Afterall, she’d just come from the club; the noise and temper of it all were awful. Better to avoid than walk toward.

Closer, now, her Father’s voice was recognizable. 

“Eleven,” he said, “and more to come. All thanks to you.”

It was a poor, pathetic speech, really. Eleven women dead, yes, but dozens of their own as well. It didn’t sound much like a victory; just an empty promise of further chaos and turmoil. 

“Eleven of theirs,” she murmured to herself. Alone in the hall, she pressed her back to the wall. Only a few steps away, the wide doors to the ballroom leaked bright, warm light. If she peered around the corner, she knew she’d see men milling about, wine glasses in hand and eyes stuck on her Father as he spoke. “And a hundred of ours.”

Selina shut both eyes and lifted her chin toward the ceiling. No matter how slowly she inhaled, fuzzy irritation pricked at her skin. All the fading, residual anger from her clash with Bruce came roaring back with every breath. It turned her skin hot and lungs tight. 

If dissected, she wouldn’t be able to clearly point in the direction of her ire. Maybe Bruce, maybe her Father. Maybe herself. It bulged in every direction like barbed wire and struck deep into her chest.

Barbara Kean, Sarah James, Maria Palmer. Just this morning, Julia Marin; the eleventh. Each and every one died awful, pointless deaths, gutted and bloodied. Each died for her Father, each died for Gotham. All for nothing. 

Selina rubbed both hands over her face and tried not to deflate. The sharp anger in her stomach forced her upright, but every other inch of her just felt weary; worn down to the bone, teeth shaved flat and smooth.

After everything, all she needed was to collapse. She forced her feet forward and past the open doors. Past the bright lights and deafening noise. A few hours in the darkness of her room might help, eyes stuck on the ceiling and heart hammering. At the very least, it would be routine.

A hand over her wrist, quick and tight, foiled those plans.

Selina’s chin lifted, jaw gone tight and stomach twisting. Before, a brush of skin against hers fluffed up her stomach and turned her cheeks pink. Hours before, Bruce’s gentle touch forced a dull heat up her body, even when she’d been so angry with him. 

Now, the touch made her recoil. It burned and ached. Only when she lifted her eyes did she huff a noise of irritation rather than outright fury—or panic.

Sofia only offered up a sweet, sugary smile. A flash of aversion gave away her disposition, even as her red mouth remained curved. 

“Sofia,” she said shortly. Instead of reaching for her blade like she’d like, she ground her teeth together and blinked till the red glare in her eyes had faded to a pale orange. “What are you doing?”

“Well you didn’t think you could miss this, could you?” Sofia said. Feet away, someone waved and she responded with a twinkling smile and fluttering fingers. The hand around Selina’s wrist only tightened further. “Eleven dead, Selina. That’s cause for celebration.”

“Is it?” Selina gave her a sidelong glance and yanked on her wrist, to no avail. 

“You know Father wanted an even dozen,” Sofia murmured. The corners of her mouth twitched downward before she plastered on another award-winning smile, as polite as ever. 

Selina’s jaw went tight. “Notably, he’s one short. Tonight’s premature.”

Across the floor, their Father’s back turned. Selina could make out only the side of his face and the small crowd standing before him. An empty glass was clutched in his hands, though his guests hadn’t touched their own wine. Only he seemed to be in a celebratory spirit. 

“Stop whining,” Sofia snapped. Her fingers dug into Selina’s wrists. Little crescent marks would likely be pink and present when she eventually released. “I thought you always wanted to be here and play dress up. Although, it seems you’ve done that already.”

Sofia peered over her from top to toe, a cruel sneer twisting her once angelic face. From beside her, Selina knew how she looked; poorly put together and awfully small. Sofia stood tall and straight, shimmering and gleaming. The pinnacle of beauty. Her mouth had been painted red, her hair perfectly pinned away, and a single large diamond drew all eyes to the hollow of her neck.

“Besides, Father asked for you.”

Selina’s head turned so quick that it hurt. “What?”

The last time her Father had requested her, it had been to appoint her to Bruce Wayne. Only within darkened shadows did he wish to see her, whether it be to assign her a task or hand her a slip of newspaper. Here, every eye followed her Father and sister. If she stepped too close, their eyes would soon enough land on her and refuse to part. 

Sofia only gave a prim little shrug. “You said it yourself. We’re one away from a perfect dozen.”

Panic frothed up in her stomach. On instinct, her teeth sunk into her tongue till a spurt of blood flooded her taste buds. One heavy swallow was all that was needed to remove the copper taste from her gums, but the damage had already been done. It was just another cut among dozens of half-healed wounds, another little mark within an array of scars and deformities. It did nothing to soothe her alarm. 

If her Father wished to speak to her, it wasn’t to make polite conversation. It had to be a pointed, horrid reason, one that Selina didn’t wish to dwell on. 

Sofia tilted close, leaning down to brush her mouth against Selina’s ear. “Lucky for you, we’re down quite a few butchers as well.”

Lucky. Fortunate. A blessing and an honor. Except, really, it just meant another harmless woman would be killed for nothing. The Commissioner would grow angrier and crawl his way closer to the top of their empire, where her Father assumed he’d be safe. 

“I’m glad I can be helpful,” she said from between her teeth. A thin smile barely masked her displeasure. 

Sofia finally released her wrist. A tight breath left Selina’s throat, her skin still tingling and hot from the contact.

A foot away, their Father began to pivot. The sound of Sofia’s clicking heels could be heard above any music or conversation. As his eyes landed on the booth of them, they went wide and then narrow within a blink and a tight smile pinched at his mouth.

“Play nice,” Sofia muttered. It was the only warning given before their Father stood before them, towering and muted. Any and all civility had been drained from his body. What remained was volatile silence, like a gun pointed and ready to shoot. The moments in waiting before thunder shook the ground and sky. 

Finally, he offered a thin smile. “Girls. How good to see you both.”

Selina did her best not to wither beneath his acute stare. In these moments of dreadful waiting, she always found herself grateful to be accustomed to stillness. Even as his gaze lowered to her figure, digesting her state of dress, her feet remained planted.

“You don’t look like yourself,” he said. For a long moment, his eyes lingered low. Right at the hollow of her neck, where the gifted pearl sat clean and center. 

Selina swallowed and gave a prim, tight smile, even as her stomach flipped. It took every possible strength not to blanch or vomit. 

“I hope I’m still to your liking,” she said, steady as she could. It was a great relief that anything other than incoherent, desperate apologies had fallen from her traitorous tongue. In the weeks past, Bruce Wayne had become a sort of—friend. Admitting to it, even in the depths of her own feeble mind, stung and burned.

Across her neck sat a gift from her Father’s foe. Gems, at that. The skin over her arms had once been touched by him, the fabric of her gloves as well. Every part of her was stained, ruined, rotten, because of Bruce Wayne.

No, she corrected herself. Not because of Bruce’s person, but because of her own deficiency. It had been her soft heart and sickly brain that had fallen prey to him. It had been her that called him friend, who spoke his name and even gave hers in return. Nobody but her could be blamed. 

Her Father brushed over her arm with two fingers. “You will be. You always impress, even when I expect the least of you.”

Selina avoided his gaze. The skin over her arms itched and pickled. Earlier, Bruce had touched her there, and rather than recoil, she’d welcomed it. Shame crawled up her cheeks and the divots of her spine. 

Sofia cleared her throat, just loud enough to grasp their Father’s attention. “Selina’s here to help. Now we can have our perfect dozen.”

The perky tone narrowed Selina's eyes. “Is eleven not enough for you?”

Sofia had never so easily or quickly agreed to someone being butchered. And never, not once, had she participated with a pretty little smile and fingers clasped together. This was an off-limits sort of business. Only weeks ago, she’d called Selina inhuman, and now she wished to take part and claim credit. 

Selina’s stomach shifted a few degrees sideways, like she’d eaten something rotten and needed to sit down to right herself. 

Sofia’s eye twitched. “Eleven is modest. Father would like a dozen to demonstrate all that we’ve worked towards since the vigil. You should be grateful to participate.”

With their Father watching, neither could spit or scratch. Barking rather than biting would have to do.

“Besides, we’ve picked a special girl for you.” Sofia lifted a hand, fingers twisting over the gem at her neck. “A real diamond in a dozen.”

Selina tried not to twitch too obviously. At this rate, her teeth might be smooth nubs by the end of the night, but she continued to grind them together regardless. That feeling in her stomach, nausea and unease, lifted higher. It grew tighter the longer that her half-sister smiled, sweet and sugary.

A foot away, their Father nodded, his shoulders tight and broad. Sofia grinned even sweeter, and the nausea climbing up Selina’s chest turned wet and sour. Like bile flooding into the grooves of her teeth.

Despite the awful feeling in her stomach, she kept still and waited. Soon enough, she’d hear the name and the date and realize that she was being awfully dramatic. A bit of vomit and panic was all too emotional for her sake. Maybe she really had been spending too much time with Bruce Wayne—the boy had made her tender beneath the skin.

After a long moment of silence, her Father turned his chin and met her gaze. With a thin smile and narrow eyes, he said, “Silver St. Cloud.”

Thunder struck through the sky. A chill overtook her body. 

Slowly, she forced her jaw to release its tight clench. Even as her stomach filled with bile and venom, she inhaled, exhaled, and allowed her heart to beat as normal.

“Silver St. Cloud,” she repeated, a soft murmur of a sound. 

The silver-blonde. The girl that always crept an inch too close, her hands wandering and her smile sharp, her uniform pristine and her heels clicking. The shining diamond among Bruce’s cluster of friends. 

“You know her, of course,” her Father said with a thin smile. The tight edge to his voice gave no room for disagreement. 

“I’ve seen her,” she said. The girl liked to twist close to Bruce, whether it be on the steps outside their school or in the dim light of the club. Always a moment too late, he’d shy away with pink cheeks and wide eyes. 

Just hours earlier, St. Cloud had sat beside Bruce in the dark club, lovely and beautiful. A tight, white dress had cinched around her waist. Tall heels had covered her thin ankles. Across her neck, a pretty diamond displayed the pale skin of her collarbones. 

Even in the faded, blurry memory, she was perfect and shimmering. A blinding beacon of silver-blonde sunlight. 

“She’s blonde,” Selina said with a quiet inhale. The thought made her skin itch. A thousand and one ants crawled up her arms and legs and chest and settled. When she inhaled, it hurt, like glass shards had opened up in her airways. 

Her Father’s smile opened up, storm clouds fading to make way for the sun. “Sure is. As blonde as they come.”

Through a thin, easy smile, Selina gave a little hum and ducked her chin. With her eyes to the floor, she let her tongue roll over her teeth and swallowed back a heavy clump of nerves. 

Months before, Selina would’ve accepted the assignment without thought. Denying her Father was unthinkable. But, this girl had worth. 

The girl—Silver, she reminded herself, because this girl was not just a mark but a person—mattered. To the public, she was rich and pretty and polite. To Bruce Wayne, she was a classmate and a friend. 

Worst of all, the girl mattered to Selina as well. Silver St. Cloud was beautiful enough to spark sour jealousy up her chest. Sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued, but with a beating heart and pumping blood. 

Silver wasn’t a worthless bug that could be stomped on. The thought of her stirred up something in Selina’s chest that she didn’t want to think about or dissect, because doing so required admitting something that she wasn’t quite ready for: a very human sort of empathy. Attachment. Maybe not to the girl herself, but to the idea of life. 

Killing her required a level of indifference that Selina no longer had. It would require a blind, callous sort of apathy that did not reside within her chest. 

“You wanted your dozen,” she said, less a question and more a veiled accusation. Sofia had said so as well—eleven was modest, but twelve was foolproof. Like one more corpse meant anything at all. Silver St. Cloud dead would only breed further disorder, not victory, regardless of what her Father wanted to believe. 

“A dozen and that’s it,” he said, palms coming together to mimic brushing away dust. “Just one more. A special case for my special girl.”

Selina went still. 

Then, just as quickly, she lifted up her eyes and met his gaze. Deep in her chest, her heart twisted and pumped twice as fast, flipping round and round till she could barely think straight. All of her flickering doubt and burgeoning empathy halted in the face of his affection.

Pink lit up her cheeks, just barely bright enough to be visible. Carefully, she swallowed, once and then again, and stared up at him in silence. 

All of those other nicknames had never flipped her heart like this. None had ever sounded so gentle or possessive. 

My girl, he’d said, and she felt nearly dizzy at just the reminder. My special girl.

Beside them, Sofia shuffled a bit, heels clicking on the tile. 

Selina’s mouth opened and then shut again. 

A hand lifted and brushed against her elbow, just two fingers to her arm once before they disappeared. It ached down in every bone and across every nerve to know that she was so easily malleable, ready to be bent and twisted until she resembled a desperate dog. 

“You remember duty, I know you do,” he said, his voice dropping to a sweet murmur. “Blood demands blood. Who else but you, my executioner, could do this for me?”

Selina inhaled, quiet and small. Her heart pounded even louder. 

She was so eager to please. Just another of his drooling dogs, a collar around her neck and begging for scraps. An uncomfortably hot, pink flush rose in her cheeks. 

Killing Silver wouldn’t solve anything. It would only be more blood spilled over her hands and another stain against the ground. Just one more body to be buried amongst a city of starving, dying pests. 

But—her Father wanted her. His special girl. His favorite killer for hire. 

This was recognition, she realized. Finally, her duty being fulfilled and her debt repaid. The name Falcone was being branded into her flesh, so hot it burned the muscle and bone beneath. 

Selina had always expected a show of fireworks when the day finally came: for her chest to erupt into butterflies and her cheeks to flush red with affection. Recognition had turned her half-sister’s spine straight and her half-brother’s chin tall. It was meant to do the same to her. All her bones were meant to lock into place and connect at the ligament. 

It didn’t feel like any sort of grand collapse or rebirth. It felt, instead, like nothing at all had changed. 

Recognition, she identified again. Duty and honor. Blood and flesh. This was all that she had worked towards, her entire life. What a disappointment. 

Defeated and doglike, Selina lifted her eyes. With a thin, flat voice, she asked, “When?”

Her Father only gave a thin smile, unsurprised and expectant. Shame filled up every inch of her body, because she was just another dog to be tugged on by the leash. “It’s her birthday soon,” he said. “Eighteen seems a proper end, just like you’ll give Bruce Wayne.”

February nineteenth was only a month away. The reminder made her bite hard into the muscle of her cheek. Besides the small, fading scar across his neck, Bruce Wayne was unhurt. Blood still pumped through his veins and his heart beat strong and loud. Life pulsed through him, bright and colorful. 

Selina looked down at her hands. Covered in leather, the skin had been stained by Bruce Wayne’s skin. Dirty with the blood of so many others. Pounded and beaten till all that could fit between her fingers was a blade.

Hers. Hers and only hers. 

“Soon, you’ll have both their blood,” she promised.

It didn’t feel like a lie as she said it aloud. If her Father held a gun to her head, she’d swear till her very last breath that it was only the truth: that she had every intention of killing Bruce Wayne and Silver St. Cloud. Dead had kissed and claimed the both of them. Even if it killed her, she’d bury them. 

If asked by another—by a sweet boy with blue eyes and soft hands—she wasn’t quite sure what she’d say. In front of her superior, the boundary between truth and lie became as blurred as the one between life and death. 

Again, she stared down at her hands. The skin of her knuckles and fingers and wrists were all dirty. Soiled, because she’d allowed Bruce to touch her without rejection. 

Rather than split his skin like she was meant to, she’d become attached. That was awfully human of her, and she wasn’t anything close to human.

“Good,” her Father said, eyes and attention already caught elsewhere. As soon as he’d disappeared back into the crowd, a hand caught around her wrist. Tight and unforgiving, five slender fingers clutched at her flesh. 

Selina didn’t so much as flinch. It felt a bit like she was asleep. Like this was a sluggish, blurry nightmare. Instead of recoil, she allowed Sofia to lead her towards the center of the room and tuck a cup of wine into her hands. 

“Here,” Sofia said, clutching at her own glass of red liquid. It nearly dribbled over the top as she yanked harder at Selina’s wrist, tugging her forward. “You’ve barely had a moment to yourself. I’m sure you’re worn down.”

“I can manage just fine,” she said, but it lacked any real bite. Then, she cleared her throat and lifted up her eyes, trying to shake away the lingering fog in her head. This was routine. This was easy. Irritation might make her feel like herself again, and so she forced a glare. “If you don’t let go, I’ll spill all over your shoes.”

Sofia only lifted a brow. “You don’t have to drink it. Just take it, for now.”

Selina frowned but did as asked. The sour smell of wine wafted into the air as she clutched it closer to her chest. It turned her stomach inside out. It made her think back to that terrible disappointment across her Father’s face, all those years ago.

Distracted, she barely felt as her half-sister looped an arm around hers and led her forward. 

“Come,” she murmured, so quiet the corners of her mouth barely moved. Lucky that Selina stood so close, or she might not have heard it at all. “There are so many eyes, Selina, try to smile.”

Except, they both know all attention in the room fell onto Sofia rather than her. Donned in red and diamonds, eyes always drifted her way and stuck like glue. 

Regardless, Selina let a thin smile curve up the corners of her mouth. The inside of her chest felt hollow and she tried to imagine herself as stuffed full with blood and meat: a butcher preparing for the hunt. “Usually,” she said, voice flat, “you like to follow Father around. Something terrible must’ve happened for you to want to spend time with me.”

Sofia gave her arm an arrogant, pitiful pat. “I’m only keeping you company. I know you’ve never been to a party before.”

The edges of her memory drifted to earlier, to bright cocktails and dim lights. Echoing music and shuffling bodies. Rather than correct her half-sister, she lifted her chin and kept looking forward. 

“I’m sure this is all so,” Sofia looked skyward as she searched for the right word, “overwhelming.”

Selina’s eye twitched but she ignored the urge to bite back. There was barely any fight in her bones. Now, she just felt tired and faint. Beaten to the point of turning black and blue. 

“You’re Father’s special little butcher,” Sofia said when Selina failed to fill up the silence. “One of his last, too. I guess that makes you his favorite by default.”

Chosen, but only by necessity. Picked because everyone else was dead. Plucked from the gutters and bred for slaughter, but only as long as she remained in last place. Blood and flesh meant nothing at all. Recognition was a hollow, empty promise made up of bullshit. 

“It would be Zsas, but you can’t prefer a corpse.”

Selina’s chin snapped sideways. She dug her heels into the tiles, halting them both mid-step even as Sofia gave a little grunt in her throat. A tight, sour feeling in her chest made it hard to breathe and her heartbeat quickened to the point that she could hear it in her ears. 

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked, slowly and quietly. Sofia furrowed both brows, fabricated surprise wrinkling up her face. Before she could spit out another cruel barb, Selina said, “Father didn’t tell me that Zsas was dead. Why are you?”

Sofia’s mouth flattened into something honest. Quick as a blink, her eyes darted to the side and then forward again. “Everyone else already knows. The entire city likely heard his meltdown.”

Except, Selina hadn’t, because she’d been too preoccupied with the boy she was meant to kill.

“I tried to help him,” Sofia said, fingers lifting to play with her necklace. “Nelson and Cam, too. They refused to listen, but I’m hoping you will.”

Selina’s eyes narrowed. Time and time again, Sofia called each of them butchers and monsters. If offered the choice, she’d watch them each bleed and writhe beneath the knife just to chase away her boredom. 

“You helped them,” she repeated, slow and dripping with doubt. “Knowing you, I’m sure you directed the Commissioner's gun right to their skulls.”

Sofia made a sort of hissing sound, low and mean, recoiling like acid had been spit her way. “Selina—”

“I bet you’re happy they’re dead,” she continued, hushed and mean. There was a wet, pathetic wail sticking to the edges of her throat. She couldn’t tell whether she wanted to shrink or strike. “I’m sure you applauded every bullet in their skull.”

“I wept for them,” Sofia corrected, leaning forward. Heat blazed in her voice and eyes. “They were my family as much as Father’s, killer or not. Every one of those men belonged to me.”

“You called them monsters,” Selina said. Bloody, stained beasts. Dirty, disgusting creatures without honor or worth. “You’ve called me one every day since I came here.”

It might as well be carved into her skin for how often it was spit in her direction. Not just the word monster but all other similar insults: killer, butcher, and freak. Anything and everything in between. 

Selina couldn’t truly reject the titles, because she knew nothing if not how to hold a blade and cut open a throat. Drinking wine and dressing herself required effort, but killing came so easily. Maybe she hated it, but her hands understood how to operate. 

“Your hands are clean of their blood,” she said, shifting her weight and lifting up her chin. “You’re clean of their corpses, too.”

Sour and irate, she turned on her heels. Nails dug into her arm and pulled, so quickly she stumbled back, her chin turning to the side. All the air in her lungs halted as her feet were forcibly turned. 

“Listen to me,” Sofia hissed. Both hands lifted and grasped onto her, digging in tight till Selina couldn’t retreat. Come morning, ten little bruises would likely stain her arm. 

Selina’s eyes went owl-wide like Bruce’s did so often, flicking down and back up again. “What are you doing?”

“I want to help you,” Sofia argued. A frantic edge colored her voice red and fuzzy, like every breath took a great deal of strength and every word had to be fought from between her teeth.

“How?” she demanded. The air in her lungs ached and twinged. With every inhale, it became harder to keep her shoulders upright rather than to crumble into a puddle of bones and spoiled meat. “How are you gonna help me?”

Help could not be offered, not now. Not after she had devoted her life to being her Father’s best, bloodiest executioner and never quite made the cut. Not after she’d finally been recognized and made deserving of her blood-name and found it to be worth nothing at all. 

“You know nothing,” Selina said, shoving closer and stepping into her half-sister's space. Their toes nearly touched. “You are clean.”

Sofia knew cruelty and desire, appetite and pride, but she did not know death. Not like Selina did, because she had been born with death watching over her shoulder. From the first breath taken in the gutters, death had eaten away at her stomach till her ribs bulged. 

“Tell me, Sofia,” she ordered, softer than before. Over her shoulder, death clung, always out of sight and always near. “Remind me how I can be a better butcher.”

It haunted her, until she was now nothing but a product of it, the daughter and bride of death—because, really, she was nothing but a corpse with strings. A hollow, empty sack of meat with nothing but a pair of hands that still belonged to her. 

Selina knew nothing but death: she had chewed and swallowed it, vomited and eaten it again just to repeat the process. 

“If you kill that girl,” Sofia warned, “you’ll die.”

With a frown, Selina stepped backwards and away. 

“All the others are dead and you’ll be next,” Sofia said through a whisper. It sounded like both a warning and an accusation. Something lingered beneath the surface and in the corners of her eyes that Selina couldn’t quite dissect. Something dangerous and curious. 

“What do you care?” she asked, brows furrowed and mouth twisting. It felt difficult to mix up any anger and instead, she could feel only numb frustration. This conversation was a waste of time. 

“I don’t.” Sofia shook her head and crossed her arms. “I only want you to fully understand what you’re agreeing to.”

Selina gave a tight, humorless laugh at that. As if she didn’t understand flesh and blood. Like she hadn’t spilled it all before. This was routine. This was nothing to fear. 

“You actually sound worried,” she said, mocking and quiet. A flash of blue, warm and soft, filled up her vision and she nearly trembled. “You sound like him.”

Sofia blinked, confused. “What, Father?”

Just hours ago, Bruce had clutched at her and fretted. Held her and worried about her life. Now, Sofia did the same, but it wasn’t quite clear why. Beneath her spidery, slippery web of sugar and acid, some tricky motivation lay hidden.

“That’s exactly my point,” Sofia said, hands still tight over Selina’s arms. They drifted down to her wrists and shook, just a bit. “Father doesn’t care.”

It should shake her resolve. It should turn her stomach. 

But, it wasn’t anything new. Selina was disposable, just like any other tool. Like all weapons, eventually she would rust with age and become too ugly and stained for use. Eventually, the knife would turn her way and split her open. Collapse was inevitable.

Death hunted, always the predator, and she was the prize to be caught.

If it claimed her on behalf of Silver St. Cloud—on behalf of her Father’s twisted, misguided sense of justice and fun—then so be it. That was business. That was recognition. 

Sofia shook at her wrists but Selina didn’t even flinch. Instead, she continued to stare over her half-sister’s shoulder, her gaze blurry and distant. A strange sort of fog filled up her head and refused to leave. 

“You’re being led to slaughter,” Sofia said, deliberate and harsh. The sharp ends of her nails dug into Selina’s wrists and she pulled herself free.

“Stop it.” Selina glared, but it was a weak and half-hearted sort of thing. “You’re only upset because Father thinks you’re useless.”

Their Father had chosen her: his special girl, his favorite butcher. 

Pride was meant to curl up her stomach. It was meant to turn her tall and taut and larger than life. 

But, when she searched for it—behind her ribs, in the twisting of her stomach, the tightness of her jaw, even in her knuckles—pride was nowhere to be found. It didn’t feel any different than before. Selina still felt like herself. Small, hungry, and empty.

“You’re being stupid,” Sofia said, drawing her hands close to her chest. One hand rubbed at the skin of her clavicle. It made her look small and frightened, like she was almost afraid that Selina would lash out. “You’re all that’s left and he’s still letting you die.”

“Then I’ll die,” she said without thinking. A heavy breath left her lungs at the confession. After so long of keeping the sticky, shameful words between her teeth, speaking them aloud felt akin to a victory. 

Rather than recoil or wince, Sofia wrinkled up. The first trace of honest, terrible affliction filled up her cheeks in the same color of wine filling her cup. Disgust, mean and sour, curled up her face. 

There, Selina thought. There was her terrible, cruel sister. So awfully disgusted by blood-stained hands and endless devotion. Always turning up her nose at death and disease and butchers. Finally, Sofia could no longer sustain her mask of pretty perfection. 

And this, she thought, was what Sofia had been searching for. This was what she had been so terribly curious about: whether or not Selina would admit that she was devoted to the point of death. Whether Selina could say, out loud and without hesitation, that she’d rather kill than let their Father down. 

“You would rather die for a stranger than tell Father no,” Sofia said, her teeth clenched and her voice tight. “Instead of thinking, you’ve already decided you’d rather kill and be killed.”

“It’s not about her,” Selina answered truthfully. If it came to that, her death wouldn’t be for Silver St. Cloud—it’d be for her Father, for his fight and victory, for the blood she’d been born to spill. “Father wants a dozen. I can’t say no just because you think it’s inhumane of me.”

“No,” Sofia said, a sharp laugh climbing up and out from between her teeth. Both hands lifted up to point a finger toward Selina. “No. Don’t blame Father, and don’t you dare blame me either. This is about you.”

“Father asked me.”

“Did he really need to?” Sofia murmured, still vicious and cruel. The quiet whisper sounded nearly worse than a sharp bite. That, at least, rang familiar. “You think so little of death, Selina. You’d kill regardless of his order.”

A balloon stuffed with irritation popped within her chest, air and resentment hissing out of her lungs. All that remained was burgeoning dread.

“That’s not true,” she said, flat and devoid of any fight. A small, cruel voice in the back of her skull said otherwise. If all that remained of her body was two hands meant to kill, why wouldn’t she? “I didn’t want any of this.”

It had been given to her. It was a gift. It was so terribly hollow and empty and pointless and her head felt fuzzy and exhausted. None of this truly mattered, she thought quietly. None of this meant anything at all. 

“Well,” Sofia laughed again, quieter and without the sharp edge of before. This time, it sounded stuffed full with pity. “You have it anyways.”

For a moment, the pearl burned hot across her neck. 

Then, Sofia sighed, sad and tired. “Really, I feel sorry for you.”

Selina’s chin lifted. “What?”

The words opened up a sore little hole in her chest. Sofia had never regarded her with this sort of sorrow before. 

Sofia met her eyes, brown to green, and pouted. “You’d give your life for it, Selina. Kill or be killed and nothing in between. What sort of life is that?”

“I do it all for him,” she said weakly, the only plea that she had left to cling onto. Not an obligation but an honor. A privilege above all else. 

“Father wouldn’t do it for you.”

Selina looked up from beneath her lashes. The name Falcone was enough of a gift. All those little privileges, the books and pastries and lessons, were more than she deserved. Asking him to do the same as she would for him—to live and die on his behalf, to await his direction—was outright unthinkable. Nearly laughable, really. 

“Look around,” Sofia pressed. “These men have been abandoned.”

Selina turned her eyes sideways.

The men shuffling about looked worse for wear. Wine filled all of their cups, untouched and unwanted. Nearly all frowned in the direction of their Father, a pack of hungry dogs seeking out attention. 

“You’ve been abandoned, too,” Sofia said, every word slow and carefully spoken. It dripped off of her tongue like poisoned honey. “It’s disappointing to know you’d still die knowing that.”

Noise across the room captured her attention as well as most others. Atop the stairs, her Father stood, one hand raised in a show of seizing focus. 

Though Selina’s torso turned his way without thought, her eyes stuck to Sofia like glue. Thinly, she said, “I guess you underestimated my loyalty.”

“Loyalty?” Sofia tsked and shook her head, lips curling into a cruel smile. “That sounds like obedience, sweet sister. Not loyalty.”

Selina’s teeth dug into her tongue, blood spurting, but Sofia had already turned forward. 

All the narrowed, hungry eyes surrounding them fell onto the stairs. Feet shuffled side to side as men glanced between each other. The speech was customary, even if the circumstances were dire. 

“A dozen deaths have brought us together,” her Father began, standing tall and proud. “A dozen instances of blood and victory.”

A dozen girls, Selina thought. Eleven, really. The number didn’t even begin to mention how many of their own had been lost in the process.

“Although many of our men have fallen, many remain standing,” he continued. Around the corners of his mouth, a little smile formed, dripping with pride and arrogance. “You have remained standing. Such a feat shouldn't be forgotten.”

Nearby, a few shifted on their feet. Their eyes averted from the staircase, hands tightening over their still-full glasses, mouths wrinkling into tight sneers. 

“Those left, champions that you are, will see my promise of a dozen through,” he swore. A dozen deaths meant nothing to those remaining in the room. Silver St. Cloud dead and buried wasn’t a cause for celebration, no matter what her Father thought. “Such a vow will be fulfilled by my very own.”

Selina remained still even as his eyes lifted toward the back of the room. Searching. Even as they landed on her figure, every muscle and nerve stayed calm as she’d always been taught. Carefully, she kept her teeth and tongue in place, every finger motionless, feet sturdy across the tile.

“Victory will be won by my flesh and blood.”

A hand lifted out toward where she stood, declaring and beckoning all at once. All at once, her blood sang and froze, body still immobile besides a slow little blink. 

Eyes turned her way, drifting first to Sofia and then further as they realized that she was the source of her Father’s attention. Beside her, drowned in red and diamonds and beauty, Sofia offered the curious crowd a prim smile and glanced her way as well. 

All the focus had never once belonged to her. Especially when standing beside her sister. Every eye in the room found her and stuck, darting between her clothes and face and hair, likely noticing every little deformity that existed across her skin. 

Selina twisted her hands together behind her back, civil and concealing all at one, and lifted her chin. 

Atop the stairs, her Father tilted his chin and mouthed, Come.

Loyal, obedient, and abandoned, Selina did exactly as ordered.

The crowd parted, men stepping away and lowering their chins politely. Maybe they couldn’t recite her name, but her Father had called upon her. Respect was required regardless of her age and identity. 

All of those eyes pierced into her skull. It was a thousand bugs crawling over her skin. It burned and stung and pricked at her. Every step forward was precise, her chin held high and her spine straight, but her stomach remained behind her on the floor. 

Behind her, the quiet clicking of heels echoed in her ear. 

The sound only lifted Selina’s chin further and forced her shoulders straighter. Should Sofia have her way, Selina would wither; curled up, face down, weeping and wailing. Sofia wanted her to forget that she’d been chosen, picked and plucked from the Narrows like a ripe apple, wanted over and over again because she’d proven herself.

These men saw her now. As the source of her Father’s pride and attention. As his blood, honor, and victory. Flesh and blood, daughter and family. 

Selina carried forward, chin straight and tall, waiting for pride to unfurl in her stomach. Finally, after all these years, it would take root. 

Climbing the stairs felt akin to climbing the empire itself. Finally, recognition could be hers. Atop the stairs, beside her Father, she turned and took her rightful place. The men spread across the room, loyal and desperate, watched in silence.

Recognition was finally hers, and—and. 

It felt like nothing at all.

Nothing had changed. The sky hadn’t parted for her, the blood hadn’t been washed clean from her hands, and worst of all—she was still her. Maybe a Falcone in blood, but down to the marrow and bones, herself above all else.

All this time, she’d thought her spine would straighten and her blood would sing. Being recognized in blood and name meant she had no choice but to overflow with egotistical pride. All would right itself in the world. That’s what happened to Sofia, after all, and her Father as well. Why not her?

One sturdy, gentle hand grasped Selina’s. To his right, he took Sofia’s in his other hand.

“Together,” he said, “we will carry you forward to victory. Every friend of James Gordon, every pretty look alike of Barbara Kean. All will be slaughtered and buried on your behalf.”

These men saw her. Eyes piercing her skull, boring her into her bones, and they saw her for what she was: a killer waiting to be killed. A dog led to slaughter. How pathetic. What an empty, useless role to fulfill. 

Her Father lifted their hands, a mock show of victory. On his other side, Sofia’s tight smile never wavered and her eyes looked forward toward the cluster of men.

Selina stood tall, her spine still straight though she wished to wither. A plastic, sugary smile lifted the corner of her mouth. This was all wrong. An empty, hollow promise of glory had finally been fulfilled. The name was hers and it meant nothing. 

“Together,” he repeated, louder and stronger, “we are judge, jury, and executioner.”

Studying the crowd, she saw nothing but dead dogs; dogs already decaying around the stomachs, ribs bulging and skin flaking, begging for scraps that would never come. Loyal, desperate dogs with loose leashes, hungry but abandoned.

Chin straight, spine tall, and her hand raised in victory, Selina looked out towards her family and thought herself to be just as hungry, just as abandoned, and just as dead. 

Chapter Text

Bruce lingered like a shadow in the corner, shuffling about on his feet. The cup in his hands hadn’t been touched in quite some time and with every little step to the side, beads of wine threatened to spill over the edge. Rather than remain still and polite, he clutched at the glass tighter and pressed his back into the wall. 

The music echoed, deafening and awful. Every beat and chorus knocked his skull out of place, drilling a little hole in his head. It hurt, an awful ache deep in his ears and stomach, but he knew it to be an unreasonable complaint. This was a party, after all. Not one he was the host of, and so it wasn’t his right to complain.

Across the floor, Silver and Grace twisted about, laughing and stumbling on their feet. If not clumsy from liquor, the both were surely lurching in delight. 

Eighteen was a grand event. It was good for Silver to celebrate. A little crown sat atop her head, shimmering and silver, so all caught eyes had no choice but to recognize her as the star of the night. The birthday girl and celebratory host.

Truthfully, most were too preoccupied to notice her this late into the night. Everywhere that Bruce looked, he saw wobbly knees and slurred tongues. Boys hung around the edges of the room, loud and obnoxious, while girls carried about in packs. 

By all means, Bruce should be enjoying himself. Plenty of drinks covered every available surface: wine, vodka, scotch. Empty cups littered the floor while half-full bottles sat in the kitchen, ready to be plucked up by greedy hands.

Still, he found himself looking low. It seemed easier than meeting the eyes of his peers. So many of those surrounding him knew so little about him and would take any invitation to draw close. Much closer than comfortable. 

Bruce sighed and gripped at his cup harder. At least he’d remembered his gloves. The last time they’d gone to the club, he’d forgotten them at home and had been forced to endure every glass and fabric and skin against his bare palms. 

At the very least, it had allowed him a chance to touch her, too. Selina, he thought with a little thrill. The soft skin of her neck, the small pearl at her throat, even her arm covered in nothing but the thin tulle of a glove. It had been him to reach for her, fueled by desire and hunger and half a cup of wine, him to press the pads of his fingers to her bare skin and want more of her. 

A boy stumbled close, knocking into the wall, and Bruce startled.

Thoughts of Selina wouldn’t do much good regardless, especially after how that night had ended in the club. Ever since, she’d been gone, just a ghost haunting his every thought and dream. 

Sometimes, he swore that he saw her in the very last place she should be. Just yesterday, a girl with dark curls had caught his attention in the halls at school. When she’d turned, it had only been Katie from his physics class, her eyes dark and brown. None of the girls at Anders Prep had eyes that put emeralds to shame. 

The boy beside him hunched over a bit, coughing and sounding nearly sick. 

Bruce cringed, shuffling away and bringing his arms tighter to his chest. Better to shield himself already. Maybe if he hid well enough, like she always did, the shadows would swallow him up entirely. 

Selina used the dark like a tool—no. Like a friend. As if she understood every move and twist that the shadows would make and knew exactly how to disappear beneath them. 

Only a few inches away, the body straightened and moved closer to Bruce. Their eyes met, brief and short, but the both of them relaxed around the shoulders. A heavy, tight breath left Bruce’s chest. 

“Sorry,” Tommy murmured, grinning so wide that every tooth could be counted. It didn’t sound like much of an apology, more of a polite obligation. “Just wanted to say hello.”

Bruce frowned at the wobble in his knees. “How much have you had to drink?”

Tommy shrugged, hands shoving into his pockets. Nearly immediately, he stumbled again and had to right himself against the wall. “Only a few,” he said. Then, his face twisted up. “Well, Silver wanted birthday shots, so those too, I guess.”

“Likely story.”

A shoulder lifted and bumped into his side, teasing but gentle. 

“Who am I to deny the birthday girl?” Tommy teased, already stepping away to allow Bruce ample space.

Had anyone else stepped so close, he might shrink and glower. Tommy knew better. Every little touch was only meant to badger. A poke to the chest, a shove the the shoulder, a kick to the ankle; each and every touch came quick and short, light and soft. Tommy made sure to never touch his bare skin, to avoid his hands when his gloves were off and keep himself away from the narrow space between his collar and face, all because crowding often led to panic. 

Even now, several cups in, Tommy knew better. It lifted up the corners of Bruce’s mouth to know someone might notice something so small.

A quiet voice in his head, shameful and impolite, reminded him that Selina knew such a thing as well. That day in the alley, she’d touched him only out of necessity. Even then, she’d been careful to avoid bare skin against bare skin, pressing only the leather of her gloves up against his ears and hands only until his breath had evened out.

In such a short time, she’d learned him well. Maybe it’d be smarter to say she was only protecting herself. Touch made her recoil twice as strongly as him. A finger lifted in her direction made her sneer and a step taken towards her made her ears search for the nearest exit. 

The both of them were different. Strange and quiet, albeit in widely different ways. Bruce’s oddities stemmed from a sort of difference that couldn’t be ripped from his body, no matter how often he poked and scratched and attempted to will himself into a different sort of person. 

But Selina—she was a wild, mean sort of thing. Angry, quick, and vicious. Smart, too, in a way most weren’t. Not just on account of her understanding of Gotham as a bloody cycle of terror, but in the easy way that she understood people. Before they were even taken, she could predict footsteps. Insecurities gave way beneath her poking and prodding. Every word she spoke had been carefully plucked from her head. 

It was the one skill Bruce wished he really had: people. Classical intelligence was fine and well, but she had a knack for people that he was endlessly jealous of. Maybe in school, he passed every test with flying colors, but his classmates and friends thought him unusual. That would never change no matter how many books he read or facts he recited. 

Bruce sighed and stared down at his covered, trembling fingers. 

Selina was strange and different, even if not quite the same way as him. She didn’t approach the world with a fearful wince or practiced imitation of others. It was more so that a layer of barbed wire lived right above her skin, claws always out and up, like she expected the worst and knew to always have one hand on her blade. 

Most of his peers were polite and quiet, graceful and charming. Selina was closer to a stray cat, mean and hungry, sharp around the edges, but really just in need of a bit of consistent affection. 

Bruce bit his lip to swallow away a smile. Should Selina hear such a comparison, she’d likely claw his eyes out. 

“You want something else?” Tommy nodded towards his full cup. “I don’t think you drank any.”

Bruce blinked and stuttered. “That’s alright. I’ll liven up soon, I promise.”

Within an instant, Tommy sobered, brows furrowing and head cocking. “That’s not what I meant, man. You’re fine.”

Still, Bruce shuffled an inch away, humming deep in his throat. A few beads of wine spilled over the edge of his cup and fell to the floor. Red, untouched, and dripping off the sides. A mess waiting to occur.

“We can go outside,” Tommy offered, pushing off the wall to face him. Both shoulders lifted into a polite, offhanded shrug. “Silver really won’t mind.”

It was a kind offer. Tommy had stepped out with him at other parties, to the kitchen or gardens or elsewhere till Bruce seemed fit to return. Except, as they stepped back into the house, the crowds resurfaced and that terrible feeling in his stomach returned tenfold. 

A minute of silence in the bathroom clutching at his ears wouldn’t solve much of anything. The noise would continue. The crowds would remain. His body would betray him further, tossing his stomach side to side and pricking his skin till it ached to be scratched raw. 

“Yes, she would,” he corrected, his smile going thin around the edges. Tonight was for Silver; her birthday, her special night. It wasn’t right for him to spoil it with his hysterics. “But I’m fine. Really, I am.”

Tommy gave a short nod and turned, attention already caught on a nearby crowd of girls. 

Bruce’s mouth fell away, a crooked frown taking its place. Even now, surrounded by all sorts of better attractions, his differences couldn’t quite be hidden. Every time the music rose, his fingers twitched by his side. When a classmate stepped closer, meaning only to offer up polite conversation, he flinched and lowered his chin.

No matter how vigorously he attempted to hide away all his oddities, they reemerged twice as strong and twice as awful. Surrounded by liquor and pleasantries, he stuck out sorely.

Abnormality had been woven into his blood. Every bone sat out of place, crooked and twisted. Every muscle looked too lean, like his body had been bent at birth. Every expression and sound and step out of his body was wrong. 

Others always wrinkled up their noses at him. Bruce couldn’t blame them. 

Just earlier, even Grace had done the very same. With a polite little smile, she’d offered up a game for them to play. Beer pong or flip cup or some other meant to pass the time. He’d only wanted to sit and avoid the deafening noise, but saying so made her smile waver around the edges. Pity had laced her expression, but at least she hadn’t laughed. It was always worse when someone laughed, because he never understood the joke. 

Moments later, the crowd swept Tommy away, and Bruce stood alone again. Just a shadow along the wall, strange and pitiful and moments away from making a mess. 

The cup in his hands wobbled and dripped. Wine spilled across the side and dribbled to the ground, just a few droplets of red. There’d be a stain, small and permanent. 

Bruce stared down toward the minuscule puddle. By his side, his fingers twitched. The dull, healing scar over his neck tingled and ached. 

At home, a red stain covered the hardwood in the study. Alfred had shifted all the furniture three inches to the right just to cover it up, thinking the very sight of it would send Bruce into a fit of tears and terror. Truthfully, seeing it wasn’t pleasant, but sometimes he searched for it anyhow. 

The very thought of it made the pain in his neck flare up once more, each and every time, like the blade was kissing his neck again. It felt wet and hollow, like blood fell down his skin and to the floor wherever he walked. A red stain haunted his every step. 

That night couldn’t be forgotten as simply as shifted furniture. Even if covered, the blade and scar had seared itself into the crevices of his wrinkled brain. The stain of blood would remain. The scar over his neck, fading but still pink in color, lived in his skin. 

Bruce thought it rather futile to pretend otherwise. High collars could cover the scar for now, but it had still touched him. Selina, cause and evidence enough for the night in question, couldn’t blink from existence. 

Trying to forget about the blood and terror solved nothing. Hiding proved itself useless.

“You okay?”

Bruce jumped, eyes shifting to the side to find Silver. Both of her brows lifted, mouth quirking in either amusement or distaste. When he said nothing, lips parting but tongue dry, she gave a sigh and lowered her gaze to his neck.

Beneath his collar, the skin stung hot. Attention usually caught on his covered hands or dull expressions, not his neck. Briefly, he wondered if he’d forgotten a high collar. Maybe it had slipped, and the pink scar was visible for all to see and wonder about and reach for. 

Bruce tried to lift up his fingers in search of his collar, but found them already pressed up against his neck. Without even realizing, he’d clasped a hand over himself, right where above where the scar sat. 

Silver tilted her head, slow and curious. “Are you choking?”

Within a breath, he lowered his hand back to his side, stuffing his twitching fingers into his pocket. Hidden from sight, breathing came an ounce easier.

“I’m CPR certified, you know,” she continued with a little smile. Something coy and unrecognizable glimmered in her eyes. 

This close, the diamond over her neck glimmered almost as bright as the diamonds in her little tiara. They very likely were real. Silver would rather be caught dead that wear cheap, plastic gems when she had such easy access to real ones. 

Dressed in white, she looked lovely, but his eyes slid right over her figure to meet her eyes. Lingering on her body or state or dress would be entirely improper. Especially when his thoughts so often wandered to the figure of another.

Selina’s hands and hair and waist haunted him so frequently. Much more often than appropriate really. Sitting in class or during his meals, she was the focus of his attention. The dark fabric that draped over her and emphasized her lean hips. The skin of her neck, too, caught his eye almost as often as her waist and legs. Her fingers, thought hidden beneath black leather, were small and quick. 

This was the first he’d ever thought of anyone in such a way. It was a bit overwhelming to have someone—their voice and body and hands—caught in the web of his thoughts. Selina possessed a great deal of power over him that couldn’t be so simply severed. 

“No,” he managed, mouth lifting into something tight and thin. “That’s alright.”

For a split second, her face turned brittle and stale. The corners of her mouth looked rather wrinkled and color flashed in her cheeks. But then, he blinked, and anything sour had been promptly replaced with sugar. A trick of the light, he figured.

“Well, I’m here all night if you need me,” she said. It sounded like the words were pushed through her teeth, forced and nasty. A wide, pretty smile lit up her mouth and she lifted her shoulders playfully, so he forced himself to swallow away any thoughts of confusion. Others’ speech never quite made sense to him. Better not to question it. 

“I haven’t seen you much tonight,” he said, pretending not to be the very reason for their separation. Spending the majority of the party hidden in the dark and up against the walls qualified him as perfectly rude and perfectly lame, but it seemed easier than the alternative.

After all, Silver preferred the spotlight. Finding her at an event was especially easy because she always remained directly in the center. Amongst the crowd, drink in hand, and attention caught right on her.

All night, she’d done the same, allowing others to flock to her side. Those who approached received a blinding smile and conversation, even the guests she didn’t quite know or particularly like.

Well, he supposed the latter seemed more an excuse for gossip. The only thing that Silver enjoyed more than the spotlight was a fabricated grin and sugary voice. Digging up dirt was more than amusing for her—it was a pastime, because there were so many that she considered beneath her. Over half their school, really.

Anyone with less diamonds, inferior intellect, or a deficient character wouldn’t make the cut.

Quietly, Bruce wondered what she’d made of Selina. Shining, brilliant, incredible Selina. It seemed she checked every mark and then some. The two might very well get along, if their paths ever crossed. Both had an affinity for sharp tongues and a keen consideration of things. 

“I’ve been busy.” One shoulder lifted into a shrug, offhanded and teasing. She gave a little laugh and said, “Hosting is so very tiring. I’m not sure how you do it.”

“I’ve only done it twice,” he said, looking out toward the crowd. Most were drunk and stumbling about, laughing and enjoying themselves far more than himself. “Tommy deserves most of the credit, really.”

Hosting hadn’t exactly been in his interest, but Silver had requested it of him during his last birthday. A big blowout, she’d said, to celebrate his seventeenth. Like the number mattered much at all. 

Tommy had offered to help with the majority of cleaning and setting up, and so Bruce had figured Silver really only wanted his house and expensive stash of liquor.

“I had fun either way,” she said, settling against the wall. In her hands, a cup of wine glimmered bright and red. Around the rim, a little mark of sticky, pink gloss turned the cup shiny and he wrinkled up his face. Even just the thought of the wet, syrupy mess against his skin made him want to recoil. 

Bruce remembered the feel of it from last year. 

In the very final hours of his birthday, most had been inebriated and dizzy. Only a few cups of wine had touched his lips, and a pleasant buzz had filtered through his blood, turning his knees wobbly but keeping his head clear enough. 

Silver had stayed with him in the kitchen. The two of them had cut up his cake, sharing a piece by the counter. Two silver forks passed through the rich blue frosting in sync. A bit had smeared onto the corner of her mouth, just by her cupid's bow, and he’d removed it for her with his eyes still stuck on the cake. 

It hadn’t been done with any intention or real thought, because she stepped into his space without invitation every day. 

Before she’d left, her arms had lifted up and over her shoulders, drawing him close to her. For once, he hadn’t recoiled, maybe thanks to the wine or maybe just because for once he didn’t want to wince away from the touch of his friend. 

Except, she’d lifted onto her toes as she pulled away, and he’d tilted, knees gone all wobbly. The pink, sticky mess of her mouth had landed on his cheek. An imprint of her gloss remained on his skin when she pulled away and dropped onto her heels. 

Bruce had given her a polite, albeit wavering smile. It wasn’t her fault and he didn’t blame her for the mess left behind. But the feeling of it, sticky and wet like maple syrup, truly did make his skin itch. It would’ve been awfully rude to scratch at his cheek or wipe it away, and so he hadn’t. The gesture was only meant to be a show of kindness, he knew. An indication of affection on behalf of his birthday.

Still, the expression over her face had been rather—well, odd. Even now, he couldn’t understand it, despite nearly an entire cycle of orbit having passed. 

Silver had stared up at him, mouth open and eyes wide, and he’d only been able to focus on the tight feeling in his skin. 

“I’m glad you came tonight,” he’d said, and her face had fallen into something as sour as a lemon dipped in acid. 

Now, eleven months later, Silver looked down to the sticky mark of lip gloss and gave him a tight, thin smile. Nearly—but not quite—as bitter as the year before.

“Will you host again this year?” she asked, arms crossing. From the way she stood, he could no longer see the cup in her hands. 

Bruce cleared his throat and stood a bit taller. “Likely not.”

“Really?” Silver cocked her head and pouted. “You only turn eighteen once.”

It made him smile, even if just a bit. “That’s true, but I could say the same for nineteen. And twenty and all the rest.”

Eighteen meant nothing. A bit of cake and candles were nothing but a masquerade, muffling the true horrors of the remainder of the year and city. 

“I always forget what a cynic you are,” she sighed, tossing her head back. The tiara atop her head nearly fell until she righted her chin, leveling him with a playful glare. “You used to love birthdays.”

Bruce sobered at that. Yes, he had, long ago. Back when his parents still lived and gifted him thick socks and hand-made gloves. When the earth seemed straight on its axis and death didn’t seem so accessible. 

Birthdays mattered so little now. Celebrating a year of aging seemed insignificant. 

“That was a long time ago,” he murmured. In his pocket, his fingers felt clammy and cold. If only he could twist both hands together beneath the warmth of a woven pair of gloves.

Silver gave him a strange sort of look and cleared her throat. It was the same reaction she gave for all his bouts of sorrow. She turned or shuffled about, looking wildly uncomfortable, sometimes even teasing that he’d ruined the atmosphere of the night. 

“Well,” he said, lifting up his cup with stiff movements, “happy birthday, Silver. Eighteen is an honorable number.”

Beneath the dim lights, the color in her face could barely be seen. It was only thanks to her closeness that he could see the clever grin crawling up her mouth. What drew the most attention really was her multitude of diamonds, all shimmering and glinting regardless of how little light shone down on her.

“Thank you,” she replied with a pleased little edge. Content, almost, like she’d won some sort of argument he hadn’t even been aware of them having.

Silver lifted her cup as well, tapping the sticky rim to his own. A few drops of wine spilled and he shuffled backwards to avoid the spill falling onto his shoes. A murmured apology fell from his lips, but rather than sneer, she only giggled and looked downward.

“It’s just shoes,” she said, clicking her tall heels together. Thankfully, none of the dark liquid had spilled onto her all-white attire. Still, Bruce ducked down his chin in unease. Maybe to her, the stain meant nothing at all, but the skin over his neck had begun to itch once again.

A finger poked at his shoulder and his eyes darted up. Her cup was still lifted mid-air and both brows were raised. Confused, he tapped their cups together again, only to blush red when she laughed.

“Cheers,” she said pointedly. With her free hand, she pushed his drink toward him slowly so as to not spill any more liquor. “Bottoms up.”

An exhale left his mouth, bashful understanding woven into the seams. 

Silver lifted her cup up to her sticky lips and drank the remainder of her cup, but he only took a small sip. Just enough to keep anything else from spilling over the sides.

“Did you wish for anything?” he asked once she’d finished. Another sticky mess marked her cup. The skin over his cheek itched nearly as bad as his neck, but he swallowed the urge to scratch at himself.

“I’m hoping for a bit of change,” she mused, lips pursing. A hand lifted to twirl a lock of long, blonde hair round and round. “What do you think?”

Bruce blinked. “What do I… think?”

It was likely a trick question and so he bit his tongue rather than ask for her to clarify. If need be, she’d do it herself. Silver didn’t like being left ignored or unanswered. 

“About my hair, silly,” she teased, dropping her hair to pat at his arm. “I told you I’m thinking about going dark, haven’t I?”

“Oh,” he said, spine straightening and arms tucking themselves closer to his chest. A reflex more than anything, really. Hands on his body, especially bare and sticky, often enacted the same sort of recoiling response. “Right. Once or twice, I think.”

Certainly, she had. After the first few blondes murdered, she’d started to say it, maybe as a taunting remark, maybe as an honest jest. 

During calculus a few weeks prior, she’d tapped him on the shoulder and done the very same as just now—twirling blonde around her finger and asking whether dark hair matched her pale skin. At lunch, days later, she’d wondered aloud whether honey or caramel brown better suited her. 

Silver hummed in her throat and tossed a bit of hair over her shoulder. “I wouldn’t want to be just another dead blonde, you know.”

Bruce twitched, mouth going thin and eyes narrowing. “Sorry?”

“I just think that would be so sad,” she sighed. A mixture of disgust and horror flashed over her face. “How many girls are even dead by now? Like, ten? I wouldn’t want to be the face of something like that.”

“Eleven,” he corrected quietly, though she didn’t seem to hear him at all.

Everyone treated it like a show, as if the city was haunted by some bad spirit and not under attack. As if Silver wasn’t truly in real danger. Carnage and bloodshed terrorized them all, fear broke the city into pieces, and yet so many considered it nothing but a joke. Just another gag. 

“So, what do you think?” Silver asked carefully. A hand landed on his arm, gently but pointed. The look across her face was the very same as that day in the kitchen on his birthday. Eyes wide, lips parted, lashes fluttering as she awaited his answer.

A sudden rush of anger pricked at his ribs. Like so many others, she’d rather turn the situation into a joke than consider the consequences. Nearly a dozen women had been slaughtered for no reason at all. That wasn’t any laughing matter. 

Slowly, he nodded, brows furrowing in mock contemplating. In silence, he peered over her hair, eyes sweeping over the long blonde locks and up to her diamond tiara. Pointedly, with a barbed edge, he said, “I think blonde suits you quite perfectly.”

Silver’s face pinched up. Just as it had in the kitchen, her brows wrinkled and her mouth turned down into a sour little pout. Irritation and confusion alike forced a little noise from her throat. It wasn’t the response she’d been wanting. Naturally, it would turn her sour, as did anything that went against her wishes. 

After a moment, the wrinkles across her face smoothed and her pout turned genuine. More a playful, coy sort of thing. A bit of pink crawled up her cheeks, and strange enough, she fluttered her lashes at him.

“Thanks, Bruce,” she said quietly. “Maybe I won’t change it just yet.”

Bruce frowned a bit. Just a moment ago, she’d frowned at him, and now she looked as if she was about to throw herself at his chest. None of her mannerisms ever quite made sense to him.

“I’m glad you came,” she murmured. The hand over his arm squeezed, just once. 

“Of course,” he said, allowing his confusion to fade so he could smile down at her. “I wouldn’t miss your birthday.”

Silver gave a little laugh like he’d said something funny. The fingers over his arm trailed lower, just inches away now from his fingers. It was rather lucky that he wore gloves. Otherwise, he’d have snatched his hand away already. 

“You’re sweet,” she said. The heels she wore gave her quite an advantage. Rather than lift onto her toes, she really only had to lean forward to reach his cheek and press her mouth up against the skin. 

Wet, sticky lip gloss covered his skin. A tight little inhale left his throat, more a gasp than anything. It took every bit of restraint not to recoil. Just as it had at his last birthday, the syrup of her gloss itched and stung. 

When she leant backward, a content smile bit at her mouth. Pink covered her cheeks, though he couldn’t quite understand why. 

“Happy birthday,” he said after a moment of terrible silence, and then skirted around her. Before he passed, he heard a satisfied little sigh leave her mouth. Nothing about it sounded sour or upset. 

Across the room, the crowd thinned. By the stairs, only a few stood, because most knew Silver’s strict singular rule for hosting: no one stepped foot upstairs. Fornication happened at one’s own home, not in the bedrooms at her house. Those who broke the rule faced her wrath, and not a single person in school wished for such a thing. Not even him. 

Except, with the sticky mess across his cheek, a bit of solitude was necessary. 

Silver would understand. Hopefully.

Bruce carried forward without a second thought.

On the second floor, the noise of the party became muted: music muffled, voices faint, and footsteps dim. Such a reprieve from the night’s chaos allowed his breath to come out in a heaving exhale, his body lurching forward as his lungs emptied of air. 

Both hands lowered to his stomach, collecting himself. Every heavy breath was audible in the empty hall and he let his spine press up against the wall. Both eyes slipped shut. For a long moment, he inhaled, heavy and loud. 

Maybe he was meant to spend his evenings hidden away from all others. This was the most relaxed that he’d felt all night. 

After another breath, steadier this time, he forced his eyes open. Bruce turned toward the bathroom, smoothing down the fabric of his sweater and lifting up his shoulders, and promptly jumped a thousand feet into the air.

Only a foot away, Selina stood, leaning against the very same wall as him. A thin, mean smile quirked up her mouth. 

“Selina,” he gasped, chin turning from her to the stairs and then back again.

“Bruce,” she said in the same breathy, astonished tone. Both brows lifted, jaw dropping, and her mockery became rather clear. 

Still, he couldn’t find it in himself to wither and glare just yet. Rather, his gaze flickered down to her figure. The dark, tight dress hugged every inch and curve. The fabric along her hips and chest shifted as she did and he had to force his eyes away, lower. 

That proved itself to be a mistake instantly, as he found himself staring at pale, bare skin instead. The dark tights over her legs came up only to the tops of her knees, leaving a substantial amount of skin uncovered. A few white scars adorned her thighs, visible only if he squinted, and a bruise peeked out from beneath her short dress. 

Heat crawled up his spine and blossomed in his stomach. Try as he might, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her or the dark fabric shadowing her pretty, lean figure. Shamefully, hungrily, he imagined putting his hands on her, perhaps over her hips or the bare skin of her thighs. Just to feel her, for one little breath. Just to touch her skin and feel her breath beneath his palms.

Higher up, tulle gloves covered her from her hands to her elbows. A flicker of disappointment dampened the heat in his stomach when he realized that he couldn’t see her fingers. Then again, he couldn’t quite recall a single instance that she’d shed her gloves and touched him with her bare skin. Only in his dreams, it seemed, and his most shameful of fantasies. 

Bruce blinked at the sight of the pearl necklace over her neck. Besides the silver chain and white gems, every inch of her was adorned in black. It made her look like the very opposite of Silver: just downstairs, she wore only white, from her tall heels to the diamonds sitting atop her silver-blonde hair. 

Selina was so unlike her. Dressed only in black, with bright eyes and dark curls. Every inch of her looked to be perfection. Even as she glared at him, his stomach did a twisting sort of flip. The palms of his hands felt a bit warm. 

Until, of course, he remembered the last time he’d seen her. More precisely, her insistence that he should be dead at her hand by now. It put a bit of a damper on his fluttering heart.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, far more gentle than intended. The corners of his mouth pressed downward into something thin and brittle. After their argument and all she’d said, after she’d outright threatened him, he had every right to be angry with her.

So then, how come he didn’t?

A bit of irritation turned his cheeks pink, but otherwise, the rolling ire he’d expected never arose. Bruce was an expired soda, shaken and opened and leaving the crowd disappointed when only a little fizzle of steam rose up.

It just couldn’t be helped. Maybe he was particularly stupid. Maybe that one sip of wine had left his judgment impaired. No matter where he searched—behind his ribs, deep in his stomach, down in his hands—anger couldn’t be found.

Selina made a face, frowning and pouting. “Don’t you remember inviting me?”

“No,” he said slowly. Although, truthfully, most of the night was an awful blur. Not from the liquor, but from the despairing atrocity of it all. 

That night, he’d thought for a long, stupid moment that they could have a bit of fun. Maybe she’d let him buy her a drink, like some expensive, fruity cocktail that she’d probably wrinkle her nose at. 

Bruce had wanted to ask her to dance, to take her hand and lead her towards where his friends sat. To maybe, just maybe, stand with her in the corner and laugh and pretend they were anything but predator and prey. 

Selina had reminded him, quickly and viciously, that it could never happen. Bruce was not her friend or companion, not someone she’d accept a drink or dance from, just someone standing opposite her. A stranger at best. 

“You were pretty drunk,” she said with a sigh, stepping away from the wall. As she walked, her tall heels clicked on the ground. It was a wonder he hadn’t heard her coming. “I don’t blame your memory for having some holes.”

Bruce’s face screwed up around the corners. By the end of the night, he’d only been tipsy. Certainly sober enough to remember the details of their conversation, as well as the horrid aftermath: returning home, brushing away Alfred’s concerns, and beelining straight for bed. It was only beneath the covers that he’d allowed a few tears to slip down his cheeks, weeping into his hands for a girl who likely never even thought twice about him.

Really, though, what had turned his sniffles into sobs had been the idea of her thinking the very same. Based on her tone and attitude and general discomfort, it had been made crystal clear that affection was not a card commonly dealt to her. Neither was simple care. 

Selina had only threatened him after his applied pressure of fondness, after he’d declared assuming the best in her. Maybe that had been a stupid decision on his part, an oversight of all her previous unfamiliarity with being noticed. Maybe, more likely, she needed a further push and reminder that someone out there actually knew her name—someone cared, whether she liked it or not.

“Why are you up here?” he asked rather than argue. “Everyone else is downstairs.”

“You aren’t,” she said simply. It was hard to believe that was reason enough for her to be standing so close. A motive always lurked behind the corner. 

Still, Bruce dared to hope.

“Were you looking for me?” he asked quietly. Though she didn’t so much as twitch, a blossom of naive longing crawled up his chest. “If it’s about last week, I should apologize.”

Selina’s eyes shone green. A little sparkle of impatience twitched her fingers and cocked her head, but otherwise she remained quiet. 

“I left without really explaining myself,” he started. Both hands twisted together behind his back. “I wish I’d stayed.”

The pink of her mouth gave him pause. Her lips looked dark but clean, without any of the gloss that covered his cheek. For a long breath, he stared downward, attention caught only on her cupid's bow. 

The skin of her cheeks moved as she frowned, brows furrowing and eyes going narrowing, and he righted himself with a shameful inhale. More important matters had to be discussed now, and she’d never listen if he proved himself incapable of getting a single point across. If just the color of her mouth left him distracted, he was sorely feeble in character.

“That night,” he began again, deliberately lifting his eyes away, “I was forward and impolite. I shouldn’t have said the things that I did.”

The sentiment of care still stood, but the way he’d approached her truly was impolite. Stumbling to her side and grabbing at her made him wince, even now. 

“I’m not hearing an apology,” she muttered, lips pursing. The impatience ringing through her tone made him want to smile. 

“Let me finish,” he said, gentle but pointed. Selina lifted both eyes skyward, hands twisting behind her back. The polite, proper stance placed a generous amount of clavicle on display and he cleared his throat once more. “I’m meant to assume the worst in you. I’m supposed to believe you’re a killer.”

Selina paused, both eyes finding him again. Beneath the dim lights, the green of her eyes looked like emeralds sewn into her sockets. As she looked from his chin to his hair, studying him and awaiting his next words, they shimmered brighter than any diamond atop Silver’s hair. 

“Yeah,” she agreed quietly. A hollow sort of hurt rang through her voice, like hearing it couldn’t quite satisfy her in the way she’d expected. “A man-made butcher.”

Bruce frowned. The words sounded more like an imitation than her own thoughts. Regardless, she’d become certain of it at some point in time. Whether someone had drilled it into her head or she’d formed the belief of her own fruition didn’t matter right now. 

Except, a quiet voice in his head said that it did matter, that whomever had said such a thing deserved to have their teeth knocked in. It stirred up a sort of feral fury deep in his stomach, hot and boiling. 

Bruce swallowed and righted himself. Whomever had said such a thing didn’t stand before him. Selina did, and she was the one in need of his attention. 

Besides, the truth of it couldn’t actually be proved. So far, she’d only said as much, but she’d done a poor job of convincing him that she really was a killer. Sure, she had the capabilities. When held in her hands, a knife was more so an extension of her arm than a tool. The closest she’d ever gotten, though, was that night in the study. Even if the blade had kissed his skin, it hadn’t split him open. 

Right now, with him, all she’d proven was that a sort of innate want was missing. That desire to hunt and kill no longer resided in her marrow. If it lived somewhere within her body, she did a wonderful job of hiding it. 

“You think you’re some sort of monster,” he said, studying her expression. A flat look had overtaken her, something cross between bored and irritated. This was all commentary she’d heard before, or maybe thought herself. It twisted up his stomach to think such a thing. Still, he carried on. “Prove it.”

Selina remained still. If the challenge came as a revelation, she hid it well. Not a single hair moved and her fingers didn’t so much as twitch. 

“Show me what you are,” he pressed. The thought of it made his blood sing and an embarrassing amount of heat rise in his cheeks. 

Humming, her mouth twisted into a cruel sort of pout, mocking and mean. 

“Prove it?” she said, voice lifting into a high-pitched mimic. 

“Yes,” he said, stepping toward her. 

“How?”

“Do something,” he all but begged. Without her usual bark and bite, she looked to be only a pale imitation of herself. By now, she should be spitting and snarling, shoving him away and pointing a blade his way. What possibly could’ve occurred to have diluted her temper? 

“I could hurt you,” she suggested, but even that came out flat and bored. “Or kill someone. You could even pick who. There’s an entire crowd of stupid drunks downstairs.”

Bruce lifted his chin and dared to take the bait. “How about me, then?”

Selina’s eyes narrowed for a blink before she righted herself, flattening out her skin and forcing her mouth flat. “You?”

“Me,” he repeated. The air in his lungs whistled out from beneath his teeth, and for once, he wondered if this was how she felt when they spoke: angry. Irritated down to her marrow. Hot, boiling, and furious to the point of biting. “Third time’s the charm. I’ll even put up a good fight.”

Rather than reach for a blade or bare her teeth, she remained motionless on her feet. A sort of twitching overtook her fingers, like maybe she had to resist reaching for whatever weapon was inevitably hidden on her person. 

“You offered,” he seethed. It didn’t feel right to be so angry with her, and yet it continued to froth up in his stomach the longer he stared her way. The thin, mellow expression she wore only made him want to scream louder. “Why don’t you do it?”

Selina said nothing. He swallowed down the urge to grab her wrists and shake her, just to wake her from whatever slumber she’d been put in.

“Do you want me to?” she finally asked, quiet and uncaring. 

Bruce felt tears bite at his eyes. Hot, stubborn, and terrible tears. The frothy anger in his stomach felt a bit more like nausea, now. This wasn’t—couldn’t be—Selina. The girl standing before him wasn’t anything like the girl he’d come to know and care for, with her sharp tongue and barbed-wire shield. 

“I want you to do something,” he said, hands clenching and rising. All sorts of dizzy horror left his vision swimming. “Don’t just stand there. Tell me you hate me. Tell me you wish I were dead.”

A shadow of fright passed over her face. A tremble took over her hands, the twitching of her fingers turning into a terrible shake, and her eyes slid to the side to avoid him entirely.

“Kill me,” he begged, no less desperate than before. The dismay in her face fell into full-fledged panic, her eyes going wide at his request. “You told me before that if you had the chance again, you wouldn’t.”

Selina’s spine went rigid. Any sort of lingering alarm twisted into an unrecognizable sort of crinkle as she recognized the true challenge. Choosing mercy rather than death.

“I’m giving you that chance,” he said, forcing both hands behind his back. The broad expanse of his chest and neck stood exposed. If she wished, she could cut him down as quickly as she liked. “Do whatever you’d like with it.”

“Why?” she asked. Though it was a simple question, it came across like an accusation. A thousand layers of wariness and doubt shook her voice and hands. “Live or die. That’s a shitty game of chance on your end.”

“It’s not about me,” he argued with a shake of his head. “This is for you.”

Her nose wrinkled, like the very thought of attention made her want to puke. Were it not so very saddening, it would make him laugh.

“Show me what you’re capable of,” he urged with a soft murmur. Spilling guts, blood, and entrails. A show of mercy. No matter what she decided, it ultimately had to be her pick. “I’m giving you a choice, Selina.”

His fate resided in her palms. It felt like a rather safe place to leave his heart. After all, she’d proved herself to be rather gifted with her hands. 

“When’s the last time anyone offered you a choice?” he dared to ask. Weeks ago, such a question would’ve ended in a sharp glare and scoffing remark. Now, he was rewarded with genuine, tender contemplation.

The lines of her face went soft. From beneath her lashes, she peered up at him, sewn-in emeralds twinkling. When she finally spoke, the edges of her voice trembled. “I don’t know.”

It was a horrifying sort of thing to have to admit to. The impact of it fell into her hands and chest. The next breath from her lungs came out unsteady and quiet, while her fingers tightened into fists. 

Bruce had always known this wasn’t a hobby. Killing for hire meant someone pulled the strings of her puppet. Someone had forced this upon her. Maybe for months now, maybe years. At some point, whenever it began, she’d been forced to split blood and skin and bone, all while terrified and unwanting. 

A terrible rush of heat filled his cheeks and nipped at his eyes, but he refused to let any tears shed. This wasn’t his to cry over, at least not before she’d done so herself. 

“You have it now,” he said.

It’s yours, he kept between his teeth, anything that you wish. Anything he had to give belonged to her. Every choice and desire and organ he possessed belonged to her more than it did him. 

One slow step forward brought him only a foot away from her. Though her eyes darted to the side, searching for the nearest plan of escape, she remained in place. Instead of run, she met his eyes again and he watched her spine straighten. 

“It won’t change anything,” she said quietly. It sounded wet even if her eyes were devoid of tears. “The others—”

A gasp choked up her words and squeezed her eyes shut. It ripped from her throat like a strangled cry and her teeth dug into her bottom lip the moment the sound ended. 

“The others,” she started again, slower, “are still dead. This doesn’t change anything.”

Bruce met her gaze readily when it opened up again. Gently, he said, “No, it won’t.”

“Then what’s the point?” she murmured, and that time, wet hurt had seeped into her voice. Searching, he found a distinct lack of tears. Even her hands had stopped shaking. As his heart split in two, he wondered when was the last time she’d allowed herself to simply cry. When, more likely, was the last time that her puppeteer had allowed for such a simple show of pain. 

“You have to keep living, don’t you?” he asked with an empty shrug.

She deflated. “I’d rather not think that far ahead.”

Bruce tried not to reach out for her. Both of his hands jerked, meaning to grasp her wrists or waist or simply to draw her into his chest. 

“I don’t blame you,” he said. The split pieces of his heart cracked even further at her forlorn frown. “But when that time comes, I want you to have that choice. Not just this once, but every time.”

Selina softened around the edges. Both hands lowered, her shoulders relaxing, a pretty pink flush rose in her cheeks. Yet, her voice had a brittle edge when she said, “It’s not that simple.”

“I know,” he said, and took another brave step forward. They were close enough now that she had to lift up her chin to meet his gaze. It nearly made him grin, just as it did every other time she’d been forced to do so. “I’m finally starting to understand that.”

Selina gave him a clever smile, eyes lifting toward the ceiling in a show of mock irritation. 

“Took you long enough,” she murmured. 

Bruce lifted a brave hand out toward her necklace. It was forward, nearly as impolite as that night in the club. This time, pink rose in her cheeks. He rolled the pearl over in his fingers, the way she did when he’d first given it to her. 

“It suits you,” he said, swallowing down the rest of his affections. Pretty seemed like a word she’d scoff at being called, even if it wasn’t strong enough to truly describe her. 

“It’ll do,” she said with a teasing sigh, shoulders lifting up and then falling away again. “Even if it’s not quite as bright as the birthday girl’s.”

Bruce laughed. The tiara really was a gaudy thing. A terrible show of wealth amidst Silver’s many other gems and jewels. More than anything, it was an effective spotlight. Every reflective light and eye caught onto it whenever she walked. 

In the back of his skull, a curious desire to purchase Selina a diamond or two began to form. Try as he might to stifle it, the thought remained in the corners of his mind. It was really a wonder that she’d accepted the first necklace, never mind wore it. He’d all but expected her to toss it back in his face. 

A wrinkle creased his brows as he thought back to her taunt. Down in his stomach, a strange sort of dread blossomed. 

“Why were you watching Silver?” he asked slowly. At no point in the night did Selina reveal herself, up until he’d come upstairs. Rather, she’d remained as a shadow, hidden and obscured. 

The logic of it was—well. Unexplainable. Inconceivable. At least, that’s what he told himself, though the rising alarm in his chest said otherwise. The goosebumps across his arms and taste of bile between his teeth proved another story, but he wasn’t quite ready to admit such a thing. 

Selina peered up at him. Whatever she found within his expression made her own go curiously blank. When he tilted backwards, allowing her an inch more space to breathe, she did the very same for him. Not so much a mimic as instructions, like she no longer knew what to do with her body and could only copy his movements. 

“I saw you with her,” she said, slow and honest. At least, it sounded honest enough. The sticky mark over his cheek started to itch again. He’d forgotten to wipe it away. “Maybe I was just jealous.”

Bruce’s eyes went narrow, lashes fluttering against his cheeks as the corners of his vision tinged with red. 

Jealousy wasn’t a thing she’d admit to even with a gun to her skull. Envy didn’t seem like her sort of affliction, regardless. 

Especially in comparison to Silver. 

The thought forced a wince upon him. It was a cruel, unnecessary thing to consider. It wasn’t as if Silver was deficient in beauty or talent, lacking in demeanor or intellect. Silver was perfectly respectable and Selina had nothing to be envious of either way. 

“That’s not true,” Bruce said with an uneasy frown. The taste in his mouth grew worse. “Why are you really here?”

Silence overtook the space between them, thick enough that it took effort not to step backwards again. In the quiet, only the muffled music playing downstairs and his breathing could be heard. Selina’s own breath was muted. 

In the muted tension, his own words bounced around his skull, poking about at the crevices of his brain. Choice, choice. Up until this very hour, choice was an unthinkable impossibility. Now, it had to be given, plain as day. 

It was very likely, he thought with a jolt, that she didn’t realize another choice was being presented. Having never been offered it before, how could she possibly recognize it?

“Will you tell me why you’re here?” he tried again. It dripped off of his tongue, quieter and gentler like syrup dripping off a spoon.

Selina shut her eyes. A breath passed, visible as it racked through her chest, before she looked up at him again. 

“You aren’t the only one on my roster,” she admitted. The corners of her mouth flattened into a thin line, and it was that very show of placid acceptance that shredded up his already torn heart. There wasn’t an ounce of fear or anger within her. No fight remained. All of her temper had been flattened and extinguished, blown out and ripped from her bones. 

Already, she expected the worst from him, for him to recoil and weep and turn in fear. Even after all had been said about choice, she couldn’t possibly believe it. And Bruce couldn’t blame her in the slightest. It was far easier to offer up his own body and life than to simply trust that she’d choose mercy with all others. 

Hope remained anyhow.

“Silver?” he asked gently. At her miserable little nod, he swallowed. “You’re here to kill her.”

Selina leveled him with a sharp glare. “No, Bruce. To wish her happy birthday.”

Bruce scowled, sharp enough that she pouted and conceded. 

“Look,” she sighed, stepping closer to peer up from beneath her lashes. Only inches remained between them. Heat rose in his cheeks and a familiar fluttering took hold of his stomach. “I came here for her. But, if you’re offering a choice…”

The edges of her voice trailed away. A clever sort of want filled up her eyes. It was the same look that donned her face when she’d first seen the necklace: lips parting, eyes shining, and her appetite spurring her forward. 

“Yes?” he breathed. This near, he could nearly smell her. Sweet citrus filled his nose. 

“Then I’m choosing you,” she murmured. A finger lifted to tap at his collar, right above where her gifted scar sat. Instead of recoiling, he tilted closer, further into her hand. After all, she’d been the one to leave it. It was hers to claim now however she liked. 

Bruce tried to calm the flutters within his stomach. This was no grand declaration of affection. It was only a sentiment of abandoning the alternative. Silver would remain safe. 

“I don’t have any tiara’s to offer,” he said quietly, trying to dissect a sudden onslaught of bashful nerves. Being chosen felt awfully odd. It didn’t often happen. “I might be able to scrounge up some more pearls, though, if you’re lacking.”

Selina gave him a clever, lovely smile. The pink of her mouth stole his breath away. 

“I’m here with you, aren’t I?” she murmured, blinking slowly. Beneath the dim lights, her eyes glittered. At the hollow of her neck, the gifted pearl shone. “No diamonds necessary.”

Bruce swallowed once, cheeks warm, and tilted even closer. One hand lifted to brush against the curve of her waist. Desire, as dark as the shadows and red as wine, curled around his bones. It took strength not to grip her hard and tight, to only press the tips of his fingers against her flesh rather than yank her forward and into his chest.

The finger at his collar pressed upwards until her entire palm pressed to his collar. A few fingers brushed up against the very top of his neck, fingertips tickling his chin, and his stomach flipped.

Both eyes slipped shut. The pink curve of her mouth parted. 

“Bruce?”

A croaky, wet sort of sound echoed at the end of the hall.

Bruce’s head darted to the side, so quickly that a muscle strained. Without meaning to, his spine straightened and he dropped his hand from Selina’s side. 

At the end of the hall, with wet eyes and an open mouth, stood Silver.

One hand still clutched at the bannister. Even from across the hall, he could see her knees wobbling in her tall heels and the tilt of her tiara. 

Selina’s eyes continued to bore into his skull. It forced a shameful flush up his cheeks to know he’d so quickly fallen away from her. The skin over his face and arms pickled the longer she stared. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Silver asked, loud and accusing. A few wet tears beaded her lash line. With a sniffle, she took an unsteady step forward, knees shaking. One hand lifted and pointed, not toward him, but his companion. “Who is she ?”

Beside him, Selina’s chin finally turned. In silence, she bred a dangerous creature. Simmering malice resided just beneath her skin, in her fingers and the long line of her spine. Without looking, he could feel her scrutinizing Silver, remembering her to be a target. Capable of being split open within seconds. 

Bruce dared a quick, brave look toward her and found—hunger. A sly but triumphant smile quirking her mouth. The corner of her eyes crinkling in cruel mirth at Silver’s anguish. While one hand remained at his neck, gripping his collar tight, the other now sat at her neck. Between her fingers, the gifted pearl spun round and round, sparkling beneath the lights.

Frothy, red-hot anger began to simmer in his chest. Down in his hands, a trembling sort of fury overtook him in each knuckle. 

Selina knew—the entire time, all along, she’d known that Silver was approaching. Every gentle gaze, pink flush, and step forward was only for the benefit of mockery. Selina hadn’t chosen him at all, unless the aim had been a taunt and barb. 

“Silver,” he said between clenched teeth, “go sit down.”

“Excuse me?” 

Silver sputtered when he didn’t spare her a second glance, attention caught once more on Selina. 

A little hum left Selina’s throat, curious and feral. Hungry. For what, he neither knew nor wanted to discover. With her eyes caught on Silver’s throat, he could likely guess. 

“Now,” he barked, loud enough that an apology already started to form on his tongue. Silver’s eyes drifted over Selina’s figure and a flicker of disgust twisted her features. It only worsened into stunned horror when his hand passed by Selina’s lower back, a soft sort of gesture as he stepped around her. The apology dissipated immediately. 

Silver turned away as he stepped closer, looking cross. The moment her chin faced the opposite end of the hall, he gave Selina a sidelong look. Beside him, she looked hungry still, prepared to send a blade flying toward Silver's head if he dared to close his eyes for too long. 

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers and willed himself not to fly into a panic.

“Will you stay if I ask you too?” he asked, irate and desperately swallowing any and all desire to kiss away her cruel grin. It was no longer appropriate to think such thoughts.

Selina’s eyes lifted his way. The curve of her mouth twisted into a fake, sugary pout, and already his question had been answered. 

A heavy sigh fell from his mouth. “I’m helping her to bed. I have no idea how much she’s had tonight. Stay if you want, or,” he looked between her sharp eyes and pink mouth, crestfallen and miserable, “or don’t.”

Without waiting for her response, he stepped away. The battered pieces of his heart fell to the floor at her feet. His skin felt tight and itchy, too snug across his ribs and stomach. The taste in his mouth was sour like lemon. Without her, his body had revolted once again.

Bruce paused at the end of the hall, already knowing she’d be gone when he turned. Already aware that she’d claimed and abandoned his heart on the floor, shredded and bloody. Having already turned his stomach and flipped his skin inside out. Every organ and tooth had been ripped out by her hands, every inch of his body possessed and ultimately left behind.

After all, he was hers to claim. Live or die, his fate rested in her palms. 

Chapter Text

For once, she didn’t wait among the shadows. 

Though it was instinct to hide her face and keep her body hidden, Selina lingered by the desk at the very center of the study, illuminated by the warm glow of the lamp light. Her fingers toyed with the papers strewn about the surface rather than the blade beneath her clothes. Old habits died hard, after all. 

Selina tried to remind herself that there was no need to hide, within the dark or beneath a mask or behind any other sort of thick barbed-wire wall. Bruce wanted her here, had asked for her to stay. 

Maybe she hadn’t kept to the hall in Silver’s home, but this seemed the next best thing. Waiting for him. Taking that leap. Beneath the yellow light, face unhidden, palms bare and visible.

Across his desk, photos of eleven familiar blondes turned her heart inside out. This time tomorrow, another photo was meant to be added: another name in red ink, another pretty blonde meant to end all this useless death. 

Except. 

Silver’s heart continued to beat. Safe and warm at home, she likely slept soundly, aided by liquor and Bruce’s warm hands tucking her in. The thought twisted up her stomach, though she couldn’t be sure which was worse: them together, a sticky pink mark still on his cheek and diamonds glinting over her head, or—or, her Father. 

Come morning, he’d know of her failure. Shame crept into her cheeks and she twisted her hands together, palms feeling cold and far too empty. The skin of her fingers seemed a necessary distraction and she dug her nails into her knuckles, the pricks of pain a familiar comfort.

Selina had failed. After all this, after he’d chosen her—from the gutters and for his dream of a dozen—she’d taken his prize and set it aflame. Cold, sour bile rose up in her stomach and settled along the lines of her teeth. No amount of swallowing could get rid of that awful taste in her mouth. 

The lamp light flickered. Down the hall, gentle footsteps shuffled closer. 

Swallowing, bile still present and lingering, she shoved the thought further back. Best not to think of it now. The sun wouldn’t rise for hours, and maybe then, she’d allow herself to curl up and heave, but for now other concerns were deserving of her attention.

Bruce’s eyes remained on the floor when he slid through the door. One hand rubbed at his cheek, not to remove the pink mark but to press at the skin beneath his eye. Dark, hollow bags colored him an exhausted picture. Worn down to the bone. 

Any amount of time with Silver. St Cloud would likely do that to someone—wear down skin, grate bones, grit teeth. The girl was a menace, birthday or not. Dozens of diamonds atop her head might make her a pretty doll, but it couldn’t dilute her nasty smile.

Bruce stepped toward the desk, eyes slipping shut, like he had to fight sleep. Considering all she knew about him, it had likely been days since he’d slept well. Or at all. 

Dull irritation plagued her regardless. Blinking once, she straightened her spine and crossed her arms. A pout covered her mouth in a show of irritation, but that was all it was—a show. 

“You’re not gonna say hello?”

Bruce jolted, chin lifting. The color in his cheeks turned pink and then, curiously, faded within an instant. A small sigh left his mouth and he lifted two fingers to pinch the bridge of his nose.

A sour blossom of embarrassment opened up in the depths of her stomach.

“You’re here,” he started, slow and quiet. It didn’t sound excited like she’d expected—or hoped. Just an hour before, he’d stood close and held her with gentle palms. All that soft exterior had been stripped away and its place was bitter irritation. “It’s late, Selina.”

“I know,” she said slowly. Honestly, it was only midnight, and he likely wasn’t planning to sleep anytime soon. The corners of her mouth twisted. “I thought you’d want to see me.”

I thought you wanted me to stay, she kept between the groves of her teeth.

All night, he’d begged her to prove herself. Now that she had, it no longer seemed good enough. Now that she had, he’d turned bored and would rather pivot his attention elsewhere. 

Bruce halted and frowned. The sticky, pink mark over his cheek glimmered beneath the yellow lamp light. It mocked her even from several feet away. A terrible, inescapable barb of dread curled up her ribcage the longer she stared at it.

“Can we do this tomorrow?” he asked, sharper than before. When her brows twisted, the closest she’d allow him to see to a flinch, he sighed. “It’s late.”

Selina’s shoulders straightened, just a bit. By her side, her fingers twitched, once and then twice. Aching not for a blade, this time, but to point at the remainder of Silver sticking to his skin. 

The barbs of dread in her ribs twisted upward, expanding and sharpening as they went.

“Yeah,” she said with a flat voice, heart squelching and feeling worse by the second. “You said that already.”

Bruce sighed and rounded the desk. Rather than pass by her, he stood on the opposite side, keeping several feet between them. It felt more like a mile. Like thousands of miles stood between them when before, no amount of space could’ve kept them apart. 

“I’m really tired,” he continued like he hadn’t heard her speak at all. Even if he hadn’t spoken over her, it felt exactly like it. Exactly the same as her Father or sister meeting eyes, exchanging words, pretending she didn’t sit in the very same room as them. Like she didn’t exist at all unless it came time to split someone’s neck open. “I’d like to go to bed.”

Closer, now, the pink of his cheek shone even brighter. The shame in her stomach unfurled, turning red and frothy. It took a great deal of strength to keep any of that hot anger from rising into her eyes. This awful, stupid boy was not allowed to see tears bead her lashes, not even with a blade to her neck or bullet in her skull.

“You’re tired,” she repeated quietly. In the last hour, he’d slumped into exhaustion. Before, even surrounded by crowds and liquor and noise, he’d been all too happy to spend his time with her. But now, now that she’d come and stripped herself bare, now that she stood beneath the warm glow of light, he grew tired. 

After he’d reached for him and retracted, given and taken himself away, allowed her to choose him instead of—

Selina tilted her head slowly, fingers going still by her side. The frothy animosity in her stomach paused, the bile in her teeth retracted, and the puzzle pieces slotted into place

Silver St. Cloud.

Only when she’d slipped up the stairs had he paused, pulling himself away, jaw falling and eyes bulging. Only when her diamonds and pink mouth had arrived had he ripped himself away. 

Bruce had always shied away from Silver before, hands tucked into his pockets and chin ducking low. Only after Selina had finally reached out did he decide that silver-blonde and a basket of diamonds was worthy of his attention. 

“You’re tired,” she said again, so quiet his head didn’t even turn. 

Jealousy was a terrible, green thing. It wasn’t unfamiliar after all the time she’d spent with Sofia—beautiful, perfect, shining Sofia—but this flavor tasted more sour than she remembered. It chipped away at her teeth and burned the muscles of her tongue. It was acid over her hands, her arms, her waist, all those little spots he’d once touched her with his bare skin.

Selina did her best to school herself. Reaching into her chest for all that age-old, frothy anger wouldn’t solve anything. 

For a long breath, she shut her eyes and imagined her cruel, perfect sister standing beside her. Sofia’s dark eyes, red mouth, and glittering diamonds all came to mind, and Selina—she was a rusted, imperfect reflection. A poor mimic, but a mimic nonetheless. 

At the desk, Bruce finally looked her way, awaiting her leave. Instead, she smiled, sharp and mean. Alarm shot up his face, turning his skin pale around the cheeks, because by now he likely knew what such an expression meant—they were far from done. The late hour meant nothing. It wasn’t as if he’d sleep otherwise, so they might as well spit and argue till the sun rose. 

“Did Silver wear you out?” she asked, sugar dripping off of every word, the very same tone that Sofia had spent every day perfecting. Never before had she been so thankful for her half-sister, if only to copy the sweetness of her voice.

“Sorry?”

“Is she awfully tiresome?” she continued. Both palms fell onto the surface of his desk, the front of her hips pressing up against the edge to tilt closer. Bruce’s eyes fell low for a brief flash, likely catching on his tousled papers. Red lit up his cheeks when he looked down again. If she had to guess, it was nothing but a show of irritation. “Are you spent?”

Did he touch Silver the very same as he did her—hands at her waist, fingers tight, gentle even through his adoration?

Did he peer down at her with the same gaze—soft, careful, with the weight of his entire body?

Maybe he’d done more. The thought was all too easy for her to visualize: Bruce’s mouth to Silver’s, pink and wet, his palms across her waist. Bare hands against bare skin, gloves discarded in the face of devotion. Fingers traveling down her back, her thighs, her chest. Breathing and hearts shared. 

“Spent?” he repeated, voice going tight around the edges. It had been exactly her intention to press on bruises and prod at skin. And yet, hearing his anger directed her way gave her pause. 

Mimicking her stance, he tilted across the desk, palms flat along the edge. Briefly, her gaze flickered low, toward the bare expanse of his skin. Pale knuckles and veins filled her vision.

“I’m sure she’s sleeping soundly.” A thin smile was sent her way. A tad softer, brows furrowing, he said, “In the morning, she won’t even remember you being there.”

Selina’s smile fell away entirely, plastic as it had been. The words were meant to serve as an empty comfort. It was a reminder that neither her face or name had been revealed, even in the close confines of the hallway. At no point in the night had Silver come close to knowing her.

And—that wasn’t any relief. Instead, it stung at her ribs, leaving a hollow space where her bones should sit. That reminder that no one knew her hurt, pink and tender, like a wound that wouldn’t fade even after years had passed. 

Maybe Bruce knew her name. The color of her eyes, shape of her shoulders, leather of her gloves. All else was a mystery. If asked, he couldn’t recite the title of her favorite book. The flavor of her preferred pastry. The reason she’d done all of this in the first place. 

The name Selina wasn’t a risk to him—only her. Allowing him to live was a threat to her skin and organs, her pride and honor. He gained as much as she lost.

A flare of pain spread through her mouth. Selina lifted her teeth out of the muscle of her tongue, swallowing any blood before it could spread to the fronts of her teeth.

“Well, how nice for you,” she said, sugar and acid seeping into her every word. “It’ll be easy for Silver to forgive you when she doesn’t even remember me being there.”

Pivoting, she turned toward the balcony. As she stepped away, her heels clicked, just another pale mimic of Sofia. An awful heat bit at her eyes, but she swallowed it away with ease. Burying that sore pain would be easy, because she’d been here a thousand and one times. Forgotten, spoken over, unwanted. Just another blue bruise pressed down on until it stopped stinging.

“So fucking stupid,” she murmured to herself. Of course, he’d have chosen Silver St. Cloud. Assuming otherwise was really only a fault of her own. 

The blade burned hot by her thigh but she didn’t reach toward it. It wouldn’t change anything. Blood and split skin had gotten her into this mess, and for once, she didn’t think it would get her out. 

A hand grasped at her wrist, pulling until she twisted around on her heels. For the first time in weeks, it itched and burned, like her Father’s sharp hold over her shoulders. It ached down to her marrow, splitting her bones into shards. 

Selina’s chin rose, already glaring, cheeks hot and jaw tight. The backs of her teeth ground together, hard, when she met his eyes. The warmth of them made her want to lean closer despite herself and she nearly hissed. 

Owl-eyed and open mouthed, he stared at her in bewildered horror. The glossy pink over his cheek only made her wince, eyes averting, but he took the chance to fly closer. His other hand rose to her arm, stopping only inches away. 

“Wait,” he said, a hurried whistle from between his teeth. Quiet, too, like he knew a sharp burst of noise might make her sprint. “Just let me explain.”

“Explain what?” she asked. The lines of her face wrinkled and she tilted her head, waiting. “You don’t need to tell me about her. I already know.”

All those winces and blanched cheeks meant nothing compared to tonight. Hands tucked into pockets and averted eyes couldn't compare to the sticky mark over his cheek. Something had changed. Worse, it had always lived beneath the shadows and she’d only missed it, too focused on stained wine and the scars over her hands. 

“You don’t,” he pressed, head shaking. A tremble had taken over his hands, so strong she could feel it by her wrist. Goosebumps rose over the skin of her arms.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, thin and tired. The anger had fizzled out in her stomach. All that remained was a tender soreness. The entirety of her body was a blue bruise, pressure applied at every inch of her skin. Breathing wracked her bones. “None of this matters, Bruce.”

“It does,” he insisted, stepping forward and reaching closer. When she tilted back her chin, fingers twitching, he halted. It was the closest she’d allow him to see of a flinch. Again, quiet, he repeated, “It does. Tonight was…”

Selina waited. 

He met her eyes and settled back a step. The space between them, inches and inches, allowed her breath to come out steadier than before. The skin over her arms remained itchy and tight even when his hand fell away.

“A mistake,” he said finally. 

The spoiled remains of her heart burst and splattered to the floor. Nausea piled up in her stomach, sour and tight, and rose toward her throat. Her throat felt raw and tasted like bile when she swallowed. The grooves of her teeth felt wet when she did again. 

“A mistake?” she repeated. Though every corner of her skull felt numb and concealed in ice, the words fell from her tongue as sharp as ever. There was that old-age, routine anger, wrapping her barbed wire and shoving him away. 

A mistake. That’s exactly what she was. Picked up from the gutters, stained red around the hands, dirty and half-dead. Barely human. Unworthy of being known or remembered. Abandoned and starving. 

Desperate. Above all, desperate for what she could not have.

All of the anger in her chest twisted up toward her throat like bile, a horrid mess of hot liquid spilling over her teeth, and she stared as straight ahead as she could. 

“Yes,” he said slowly, eyes darting across her face. Studying her expression. “Silver and I—”

“Oh,” she scoffed. A mean, tight laugh fell from her throat and she twisted her hands together, rocking on her feet. “Great. Yes, please, tell me all about her.”

An hour or so had passed between the time that she’d left and Bruce had returned home. An hour that Bruce had spent alone with Silver—likely pressing his mouth to hers, bare hands to bare skin. An abundance of time passed in which he’d made his choice.

Now, he’d like to tell her about it. How wonderful. 

Bruce narrowed his eyes. Both hands retracted further and she tried to pretend it didn’t sting. As if it wasn’t her fault, like her raised hackles and bared teeth weren’t sure to inspire a bit of apprehension. After all, hadn’t that always been the intention? To drive him away, linger in his nightmares, and prove herself to be a worthy predator?

This was what she’d wanted. Finally, she’d gotten it all and more—the name, the recognition, the fear. It was hers and she had no one but herself to blame or thank.

“I don’t understand,” he murmured, blinking and cocking his head. Though his fingers twitched and trembled, they remained in the air. Strange. She would’ve expected them to be tucked away in his pockets by now. “What’s the matter?”

Selina glared and wet her lips, wondering how he could possibly be so stupid. Worse, cruel. 

“You asked me to choose,” she said, heart hammering and throat raw. A dry, buried sob unfurled in her chest. “And I chose you.”

Bruce remained silent, gaping and baffled. Still not understanding the source of her horror, even as she laid it out in front of him, still uncaring that she’d picked him above all else. The sticky mark over his cheek mocked her. 

“You have no idea what I’ve done for you,” she said quietly, eyes dry and throat wet. Shame, familiar and awful, weighed down her shoulders. “I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.”

Again, she turned, stepping away with a quiet click of her heels. Again, a hand reached toward her, hot and stinging. 

Selina jerked, skin hot and itching, but to no avail. The hand remained clamped over her, steady and warm, even as she glared with every ounce of buried anger in her chest. 

“That’s not true,” he insisted, fingers tight over her wrist. “Selina, wait.”

She yanked harder, but his fingers kept their hold. 

“Let go,” she hissed, sharp and quiet. Weeks ago, he’d have done so without question. He’d never have reached for her to begin with. Her feet shuffled back, trying to make herself smaller like a cornered, hungry dog. A fox caught in a trap, ready to snap and bite. 

“No,” he bit, sharp enough that her eyes flickered. Behind him, the lamp light flickered, warm and yellow. Shadows covered both their faces. “Selina, just listen.”

For a blink, she wanted to. The hold over her would never be tight enough to bruise. Even if he feared her, thought her disgusting, wanted nothing to do with her, he still held her with caution. Still, the bare hand over her skin was warm and gentle, like she was made of glass. 

Then, she remembered his hand falling away, the fingers at her waist stuttering at the appearance of Silver. How easily he’d let go beneath the gaze of another. It flipped her stomach inside out till she was nothing but skin and bone, blood and organs, stripped bare and exposed to the world.

“I don’t care,” she snapped, teeth bared and hackles raised. The blade burned hotter when he stepped closer rather than release her. It wouldn’t change anything, she reminded herself. It wouldn't close the hole that she’d dug herself into. Blood would only worsen things. “You have other priorities just like I do—so go. I’m sure Silver’s waiting.”

“This isn’t about her,” he cried, creeping closer and pressing further. The bruises over her heart felt purple and sunken in. “It never was, especially now.”

“I don’t believe you,” she cut in, pressing closer. Inches remained between their faces now. Bruce went quiet, cheeks going pink, eyes wide and lashes fluttering. “Even if I did, I don’t care.”

This time, when she pulled, he gave way. The fingers over her wrist loosened and she jerked away from his grip entirely. Goosebumps lifted over her arm, a cold patch of skin that likely wouldn’t warm for days. A reminder that he’d touched her. One final indication of his presence. 

Selina turned until her back faced him. Weeks ago, she’d never do something so stupid. But what could he do with a blade to her spine that hadn’t already been done?

“You cared enough to let her live,” he called from behind her.

Selina halted.

The blood in her veins froze. The air in her lungs stuttered. Every blink and thought stopped, every bruise and ache numbed. Nothing mattered but his accusation. 

Cared. That was the crux of it. Selina had cared and now Silver walked free, heart beating, blood pumping, as oblivious as before. No blonde blood stained Selina’s blade or hands, no guts had been spilled, no skin turned inside out. All because he’d presented an ounce of a choice on a silver platter. 

Selina swallowed. Blood coated her teeth and filled her raw throat.

Killing Silver St. Cloud wouldn’t have solved anything. It would’ve been one more body on her roster and one more stain of blood beneath her nails. It would’ve been a dozen blondes and proof that she was truly deserving of the name given to her.

The hard lines of her spine straightened. Both shoulders lifted, tight and sharp.

Except, her Father had chosen her. Hollow and empty and aching, hungry and abandoned and desperate. That was the way of things. Dogs begged for a reason. Honor had to be earned as much as any name. 

The blade burned by her side. Her fingers twitched. 

Now what? Now that the decision had been made, a body spared and mercy shown, what was there to do? What were Selina’s hands meant to hold if not a blade?

The splattered, pink, spoiled remains of her heart twisted till she felt as if she were suffocating. Inhaling hurt and exhaling burned. The hands at her side no longer felt familiar. 

Finally, after everything she’d worked for, bled for, starved for. It had been in the palms of her hands, clutched between her rough fingers, and she’d thrown the scraps to the floor.

Selina had tossed it all aside because she’d cared for Bruce Wayne.

Selina’s chin turned, slow and careful. The bones in her ankles felt caught in a trap. Pierced by metal, till she could no longer move. 

“I let her live,” she started, slow and vicious, “for you.”

Bruce said nothing.

Turning, she found his eyes averted and hands tucked away. Across his cheek sat that ugly, nagging mark. Sticky, pink, and unavoidable. 

“Does that mean anything to you?” she asked, eyes narrowed, teeth bared. When she stepped closer, his chin remained ducked. One hand raised and pointed his way. “Do you have any idea what I’ve done for you?”

Selina shoved at his chest. 

With a sharp inhale, he stumbled back, hands lifting from his pockets to regain balance. 

“This was for you,” she hissed, pressing closer and swallowing back a rush of wet heat, “and you don’t even fucking care. You have no idea what I did.”

The bloodless, merciful choice meant she’d chosen to abandon herself. Sofia. Her Father. Everything she’d ever cared for or considered worthy, all within an instant. Any shred of honor and pride that she’d earned had been shredded and set aflame. 

Selina pushed, again, and Bruce allowed himself to stumble back. Horror colored him pink across the cheeks, his mouth parted and eyes dripping with sorrow. For what reason, she couldn’t be sure: he had everything he’d ever wanted. 

A name, maybe not the once he’d requested of her, but another just as just as soaked in blood and terror. The name of another butcher that he could use as he liked. 

His heart, still pumping his chest. For longer than she cared to admit, she knew that he’d live. This was never going to end with her blade in his heart. It just couldn’t. 

The girl, perfect, beautiful, blonde. Alive and all because of his intervention. How lucky he was to have saved her. How heroic he must feel, having rescued her from the cruel fate of a butcher.

Selina lifted her hands again, reaching out. 

Bare, warm palms caught her around the wrists. She jerked with a hiss and a cry, throat raw and heart bursting at the seams, desperate and useless. 

“Selina, wait,” he pleaded. The look in his eyes was frantic and awfully sad. When he spoke next, it was a beg and a whisper all at once. “I do care, more than you know. I do—Selina, please.”

Selina could barely hear him. An awful buzzing had taken over her ears and left her trembling. It felt like her head had been dunked in the ocean. The pressure of a thousand tons of water filled her head.

“I’m so fucking stupid,” she said. It sounded wet, even if no tears slipped down her cheeks. Like a dry, choked up sob lived in her mouth, ready to burst. “I should’ve known this was for her.”

From the start, every look and touch and game and question had all been for Silver St. Cloud. To shield her from the butcher's knife.

Selina was only the killer wielding the blade. Nothing but a pair of hands.

“That’s not true,” he tried to say, but she shook her head and shut her eyes. “Selina.”

“This was always for her,” she croaked. Both hands trembled. Spots danced behind her closed eyes, bright blotches of blue and green. “Everything.”

The ground beneath her feet felt rather steady despite her hammering heart. This was a revelation like all others: the very same declaration made by her Father time and time again. 

Selina was nothing but a weapon. A tool to be used and discarded. Dangerous and hungry.

It shouldn’t ache so deeply to know that Bruce would want someone other than her. Anyone but her. It shouldn’t tremble her hands or work up a wet cry in her throat. This was routine. This was what she’d always known. 

“It was for Barbara,” he tried to correct, every breath lifting his shoulders. She could feel his hands shaking over her own. “I wanted to—to help her.”

It took every ounce of remaining courage not to collapse to the floor. As it were, her face and shoulders fell, drained of color and strength. 

If not Silver, it had to be Barbara. A blonde or a name. Either way, one hungry, bloody monster was left sitting alone in the gutters: her. 

Bruce had never even considered Selina to be a choice. No matter what she gave up, she’d never be picked. If she stripped off every inch of her skin, starved and begged at his feet, proved herself loyal. It wouldn’t be enough because she was never even an option to choose from. 

Selina exhaled, too tired to sneer and too upset to recoil. “Barbara’s dead, Bruce. She’s been dead for three years. A name won’t change anything.”

Bruce flinched, just a brief blink and wince, but she saw it plain as day. The damage passed through her chest, wracking her ribcage. It was an awful, cruel truth. Three years of terror and carnage wouldn’t solve anything just like one singular name wouldn’t. Nothing could bring Barbara Kean back from the dead, mop up her blood, or unbreak her bones. 

Death couldn’t be undone. Trying to do so was futile. 

“It might,” he said quietly. Always the hero, always fighting. Always working toward a pointless regime of peace that only existed in fantasies. Blood had already been spilled. Bullets already lived in the skulls of too many. One name changed nothing. 

Selina scoffed, chin tilting back. With her eyes to the ceiling, she bit back tears and swallowed a dry sob. “It won’t.”

“Then why did you offer it to me?” he cried, hands lifting and throat sounding raw. Without his steady grip over her wrists, she nearly stumbled back. It felt like a frostbite had torn up her wrists where his fingers had held her. Bruises in the shape of him would mark her till she died. “If you’re so sure it’s pointless, why promise to give me a name?”

“I don’t have a name,” she cried out, a wet heat lifting in her eyes again. It nauseated her to admit, a sharp sort of press down in her lungs. 

Even so, he’d already been given one. The name Selina couldn’t be ripped from his palms or erased from his tongue. It had been spoken and memorized. There was no telling what else he’d done with it, and that had been the point the very day she’d given it to him: she’d trusted him to take care of her identity. 

Maybe he didn’t have the name of the Butcher, but he had one just as equally destructive. Either way, she’d chosen to place her trust in his careful palms.

Bruce blinked, looking down at her in stunned silence. Both hands lowered to his sides in loose fists and she felt her body begin to tremble, waiting for his fury to take hold and clenched up his jaw. 

“I don’t know who killed Barbara Kean,” she rasped. The words scratched at her throat till she swore blood lined every inch. Before, she’d have sworn it to be her Father. Maybe one of his dogs. Now, she couldn’t be sure: too many foggy, broken pieces of the puzzle failed to fit together. “I was lying. I never knew the Butcher.”

He continued to stare in silence. It horrified her far more than his irritation or temper. At any moment, he could strike. 

Selina balled up her fists. It took every ounce of strength not to reach for the blade by her side. Again, she reminded herself that blood would fix nothing. A knife could not save her in any way meaningful. 

“I was playing with you,” she said in a rush of air. Might as well admit to the very worst of it: everything was a lie and a game.

Lowering her eyes to his sweater, she imagined a thin scar beneath his high collar. Pink, raised, and likely nowhere close to fully healed. It wouldn’t fade even with time. The piece of her would stick with him. No matter how hard he tried, he’d never be able to rid himself of her. 

What a horrible fate. 

“Why?” he asked gently. When she lifted her eyes, she found warm blue already looking her way. The edges of his face were soft, devoid of the anger that she’d expected to find. 

Selina blinked, unsure of what to say. A multitude of thoughts came forward, but she couldn’t quite say she’d only ever wanted him dead during those first days. Or that, now, she couldn’t imagine him dead. 

Finally, she settled on, “I needed that knife.”

It was an easy excuse, far simpler than the alternative. Much less honest, too, but she couldn’t be expected to lay herself bare at his feet and beg for affection that she’d never earned. 

“You can have it,” he offered quietly. Easily, like it meant nothing at all to him. The lies and games were of no consideration.

“What?” 

She lifted up her chin and forced herself to meet his eyes. All the color had drained from her cheeks and a familiar sort of bile rose in her throat.

This was meant to be a fight. A scratching, screaming, sort of brawl. Accusations made. Names called. Glass shattered and hearts tossed to the floor.

Instead, he was eager to hand over the blade and be done with it in an instant.

“You’re just gonna, what, give it to me?” she asked, voice turning brittle and sharp. A hollow sort of pain built up around the corners of her chest. 

The skin beneath her eyes felt sore and dry. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried like this. By morning, she’d bury the memory away rather than remember the spikes of shame shredding her skin. 

“You don’t have a name,” he said. He twisted his fingers together till the skin around his knuckles bleached of color. “And I really don’t need a knife.”

Selina tried not to gape. 

This easy, awful acceptance wore down her skin and bones. It hurt too terribly to even grind her teeth together. All her familiar, old-age fury had vanished in a blink. Never before had she felt so horrified or stunned. 

When she shut her eyes, just a brief blink to hide away any sorrow brewing in her eyes, all she could see was those old pictures of him.

During those first days, before they’d even met, she’d been so sure of him. Certain, down to the marrow, of his person: a selfish, awful boy. Naive, strange, and lucky.

Lucky beyond belief.

Lucky, because he could toss aside any amount of money, leave the city any time he wished, say and do anything he desired. Any amount of freedom that could be imagined belonged in his pockets.

“I was right about you,” she whispered, too quiet for him to truly hear. Bruce frowned, tilting his head, but she didn’t dare repeat herself. Instead, she did her best to remain upright. 

After everything, he’d like to toss her aside. It wouldn’t be any skin off of his back. Nothing gained or lost. 

“I guess we’re done,” she said slowly, forcing the words out from between her teeth. Her eyes lingered low on his collar, where that hidden scar would remain. That piece of her, stuck to his skin, engrained in his body. 

“I’ve never much liked games,” he murmured. Another day, she might scoff and sigh. Earlier, she’d have accused him of lying: he’d won, in every possible aspect of the word. Inhaling sharply, he tucked both his hands into his pockets and said, “We can both stop playing with each other, I guess.”

Selina gave a slow, short nod. The tall collar of his sweater hid that stupid, meaningless scar from her greedy vision. 

If she could turn back time, she’d dig the blade in deeper, harder, not to spill blood but so the wound couldn’t be covered up. So the thin, pale mark couldn’t be forgotten no matter what he wore or how hard he tried to bury the memory of her.

It wouldn’t solve anything, she told herself. Blood solved nothing. Blades couldn’t save her. Hurting him worse would only make him hate her more. A larger, deeper, bloodier scar meant nothing because the game had finished.

Selina paused.

The edges of her brows twisted. The corners of her mouth lowered into a curious, wary frown.

Slowly, she repeated, “Playing… each other?”

Bruce met her eyes slowly, biting his lip and blinking slowly. It looked as if he were on the verge of a smile, though she couldn’t possibly understand why. 

“I’ve known for a while that you didn’t have a name,” he murmured, taking a half step forward. 

The lights in the room seemed to dim and the shadows halted. All the breath in her lungs froze, dipped in ice water, before a rush of molten heat fell over her and she inhaled sharply. 

“What?” Stunned, horrified, and more than a great deal confused, Selina could only blink. 

“I mean, I guess—I didn’t know for sure,” he corrected and twisted his hands together in a polite sort of gesture, staring down at her with a soft of affection she couldn’t even begin to untangle. “There was a good chance you’d never known who killed Barbara Kean, or you’d just lie and make it up when I asked.”

Skeptical disbelief twisted up her face. If not for the name, there wasn’t any reason at all for him to have agreed to their deal. If all for nothing, there wasn’t any reason to have entertained her for weeks now. 

Not unless it was some sort of awful cruelty, but she doubted it. Any callousness of his came from confusion, not a desire to snicker at others. All those times he’d flipped her stomach and pricked her heart had been mistakes, misspoken words come from a place of care, even if she didn’t like to so easily admit it.

Selina studied him—the looseness in his shoulders, the pink in his cheeks, the strange sort of fondness in his eyes. The easy way he held himself. The bare skin of his hands, no longer hidden beneath leather and camouflage. 

All that past torment had been drained from his skin. All the grey sorrow and twitching winces were long forgotten. 

“Why?” she asked, looking carefully from his bare hands to his covered-up neck. “You agreed to all of this on, what, some sort of whim?”

“No,” he said, mouth quirking. “It wasn’t for nothing. You needed the knife, and I…”

Selina waited. Heart hammering, skin hot, blood pumping. Waiting, for the honest truth and nothing else, for the chance to know what this had all been for if not an equal transaction. 

Bruce’s tongue wet his lower lip. Eyes stuck on hers, hands open and skin bare, he opened his mouth and shut it again. The truth didn’t always like to appear so easily.

“I was always a little more curious about you,” he admitted. A splotch of pink lit up his cheeks brighter than before. Fond affection sparkled in his eyes. She barely saw any of it. A blurry haze had taken over her vision. 

It punched a hole right in her chest, a steel fist reaching in and smacking at her heart. All the surrounding skin and tissue seemed to collapse inward, bruised black and blue, every organ destroyed. 

Selina’s teeth dug into her lip, mouth dry, eyes wide. 

It wasn’t enough. It was more than.

Simple curiosity couldn’t possibly explain weeks spent together, giving and taking. 

The thought shook the very ground beneath her, an earthquake trembling her feet and wobbling her knees. The carefully constructed balance in her body collapsed and she could only clutch at herself, fingers interlocked and legs fit to give out beneath her.

“I don’t understand,” she said softly. It was as loud as she could stand. Anything more would likely break every tooth in half.

“Selina,” he murmured. The sound of her name sounded sweet falling off of his tongue, a gentle sort of sound she’d never heard before. It had always been spit by everyone else, a source of shame and horror. From him, the name dripped with tender affection. “Don’t you see?”

Bruce stepped away from her and toward the desk. Lowering his hand, he sifted through the top drawer of his desk, shuffling through papers and pens. At the very back, a muted clang perked up her ear, and she watched on as he reached further. 

A whistle sounded as he lifted his hand up and out, and in his palms sat a singular blade—clean, silver, and familiar.

Selina bit down on her tongue till blood flooded her mouth.

With the knife in hand, he stepped toward her again, till only an inch remained between them. Tall as he was, she had to crane her neck back to meet his eyes, just as she’d done so many times before. Reminding her of his height seemed to be a pastime of his: stepping close until she had no choice but to remember. 

No matter how loud she barked and sharp she spoke, he’d always be taller. No matter how big she made herself, he’d be bigger. 

It didn’t bother her as much as it did before. 

“This was never about Silver,” he said. The sticky mark of his cheek looked small and insignificant compared to the flush creeping up his skin. The blade shone beneath the dim lamp light. “It was hardly about Barbara Kean.”

Both hands lifted to hers, slowly to give her time to flinch or recoil. Selina did neither. A few fingers twitched, but she remained still otherwise and allowed his bare palms to cover her, lifting up their joined hands between their bodies. Even when the knife twisted toward her for a short blink, just a fumble and nothing more, she remained steady. 

The blade’s handle shifted into her palms. 

Selina swallowed a heavy, full breath, lungs quivering in her chest. 

“It was always you,” he murmured, ducking his chin to try and meet her eyes. Trembling and terrified, she did her best not to puke. This sort of gentle affection had never sat right with her. It felt wrong, like at any moment he might tighten his grip and crush her wrists, or direct the blade toward her skin. “Just you, Selina.”

Selina said nothing, only stared at their joined hands. The blade sat between both of them, facing up and out. For once, she wished that she’d forgone her gloves, if only to feel the rough pads of his fingers over hers.

“I chose you, Selina,” he said slowly, voice breaking over her name. It fell into two awkward syllables, Sel-ina, a pretty sort of sound that made her look up from beneath her lashes. “From the start, I chose you.”

The confession cracked open her chest. It peeled away the layers of skin over her front, dug a blade into her sternum, and split her in two. 

A weak, unsteady breath left her lungs. Pink rose in her cheeks, so hot she could feel it all the way up to her ears, and if she were any weaker, tears might just line her lashes.

Choose. Such a simple word. One syllable, easy to fall off the tongue, impossible to feel unless it had been thrust toward the chest. All from the start, he’d chosen her—the monster in the closet, the butcher in the shadows. The inhumane, blood-stained beast. 

Selina slid her eyes shut and dared to hope. A fight rose in her chest, routine and familiar. Not quite red-hot, not quite frothy and ready to boil, just eager. A greedy, hungry, eager sort of fight, because she couldn’t so easily accept his affections. It wouldn’t really be her without some sort of brawl. 

Between their bodies, Bruce uncurled one of her tightly-clenched hands, smoothing out the tight lines of her hands until it sat flat and open. She hadn’t even realized she’d clamped up. Old habits died hard. 

With gentle fingers, he guided one open palm up to his chest. Beneath her hand, his heart beat in a steady flutter. Strong and sturdy. 

With the other, he tightened her firm grip over the blade’s handle.

This was exactly how it had begun between them. His heart in one of her palms and the means to sever it in the other.

“I’m alive because of you,” he said, tilting over her body. The weight of him didn’t scare her, now. It was a familiar body beside her, a kind shadow entangled with her own. “I’m alive for you.”

The sentiment was dangerously romantic. Sweet and putrid. In a way, he’d made herself into her prey: his body hers to claim, his heart hers to have. Till the end, he belonged in her hands.

“An hour ago,” she murmured, looking toward the covered expanse of his neck, “you wanted me to hate you.”

If he wished to have her, he had to fight tooth and nail. Selina’s palms were already wet and red with the blood of others: he’d have to fight to leave his heart there.

“You didn’t seem yourself,” he said, gazing down at her. Both hands covered hers still, one over his chest and the other around her blade. Not an ounce of fear wracked his body. “I wanted a bit of your anger back.”

Selina hummed. That night with her Father had wracked her body more than she’d thought. Recognition hadn’t been what she’d hoped and it had worn down her bones and shaved away her teeth. Nothing felt the same as before. Nothing was, she supposed.

“I don’t want you,” he tilted his head half an inch, searching and frowning, “diluted.”

“Sorry?”

Selina had never called herself such a thing. Diluted sounded too close to soft, and she’d never known how to accomplish that. The pads of her fingers were rough and the blade strapped to her skin sharp. Every inch of her was wrapped in barbed wire.

“I don’t want you to change,” he said with a heavy exhale. The skin around his cheeks flushed brighter red, though it was far from the bravest thing he’d said to her before. “I like how you are already.”

All that barbed-wire. The barks and bites, bared teeth and raised hackles. Her stained palms and spoiled heart. Everything. All of it. 

It seemed incomprehensible. Nearly laughable. 

Selina lifted up her chin and tightened her hold over her blade. The fingers over his chest dug in just a bit, till she could grip at the fabric of his sweater. The broad expanse of his chest rose with every heavy inhale and bright exhale.

“You only know the worst bits,” she argued gently. They’d only ever fought. Likely, she knew some of the worst of him too—the prickling of his skin when the music blared too loud. The tremble of his hands when someone stepped too close. She’d seen him frown and wither and recoil. Often, she’d done the same, sometimes worse.

All their worst, hungriest bits fit together like jaws clamped around flesh. 

Bruce lifted one shoulder in an easy shrug. The corners of his mouth turned up in a quiet, fond smile. Warmth flooded his green eyes and crinkled the skin around them. “I like them plenty.”

A hesitant smile crawled up her mouth. Hope blossomed in the depths of her chest, twisting upward till her throat felt filled to the brim with ladybugs. Crawling, fluttering little bugs, just searching for warmth in a dry patch of winter. 

“Before,” she whispered, pink mouth parting, “you wanted me to kill you.”

The collar of his sweater was only inches away from her mouth. With every exhale, her breath fell over his skin and surely tickled what little of his throat lay exposed. 

If she peeled away the thick fabric, she knew what she’d find. The scar would remain no matter how much time had passed. Pink, raised, half-healed. Left by her steady hand and clean blade. Hers to claim.

“I’d have let you,” he confessed. It was a dangerous, deadly sort of truth she could barely believe.

The blade was only inches away from his neck. It could split him open if he wasn’t careful. Selina could leave him with gashes and wounds. Bloody marks and terrible reminders of her if he begged enough. 

Bruce’s eyes met hers when she lifted her gaze. A flash of recognition turned him ruddy and she knew she’d been caught. Even covered, she couldn’t so easily forget the mark. She doubted he could, either.

The hand over hers twitched. 

With the handle still firm in her hand, he tilted her hand his way, the sharp point of the blade gleaming in the light.

“What are you doing?” she asked through a wary laugh, uneasy and confused. Both brows crinkled and she jerked her fingers, careful so as not to slip and cut him. 

“I’d have let you,” he repeated, a stupid sort of remark that dried up the air in her lungs. The blade continued to tilt beneath his guidance. “I’m yours to do with as you please, Selina. Live or die.”

The blade pointed firmly his way. Even with a thick layer of fabric in the way, her heart hammered and twisted. Every blink was a risk: if she shut her eyes for too long, he might just dig the blade into his skin. 

“Do you have some sort of death wish?” she gasped through tight teeth, heart racing and stomach falling toward the floor the longer the blade faced him. Maybe this was all some sort of strange desire on his part, a wanting for blood and flesh that no one else could fill but her.

“No,” he said, shaking his head once. It brought the blade closer and she winced. Perhaps he’d always just had a suicidal inclination. “Just trust.”

Selina’s eyes flew upward to meet his. 

“I trust you,” he said, every word carefully pronounced. “I choose you, Selina. I’m yours.”

All she could do was stare, silent and in disbelief, cheeks hot and red. The blade bit into the collar of his sweater, and though his eyes fluttered, he didn’t recoil. Rather, he tilted closer to its edge—to the skin of her hands—and let the pink of his mouth part. Over and over, he mouthed her name, reverent. 

“Only yours,” he murmured aloud.

A thousand and one confessions lived within her. Behind her ribcage and in the palms of her hands. In her mouth and spine. Buried in her marrow so deep she couldn’t dig them out. All sorts of horrible, awful confessions that she’d kept in her body for years now. 

Better to admit to them, she thought. After all this time, she might as well strip herself bare and peel away all her layers of skin and shame. Turn every organ inside out. Shed every last truth that rotted her teeth.

Selina peered up from beneath her lashes. A thousand confessions lived beneath her skin belonging just to him. Affection burrowed in her ribs, desire lined her knuckles, and hunger stained her teeth.

Bruce lived within her. The truth of it was that he couldn’t be cut away with a butcher’s blade. She couldn’t rip him from her teeth, wash him from her skin, or cleave him from her heart. 

And—she found that she didn’t quite mind. A bit of proximity might not be so terrible.

Selina tilted up and, with the blade still kissing the skin of his neck, pressed her mouth to his.

Bruce halted for only a breath and then pressed all the closer, releasing her hands to grip at her waist with firm, gentle hands. The heat of his mouth bore into her and she nudged up, even as the blade pressed closer, even as his breath hitched and heart jumped beneath her flat palm.

Against her mouth, she could feel him smile, so large that it tilted up the corners of her own lips. Fond desire crawled up her throat and settled over her tongue. Heat bit at her skin, warm and inviting. Both her hands itched, wanting more of him. More of the taste of his mouth, the sturdy feel of him beneath her fingers, more of whatever he’d offer up. 

His fingers flexed over her hips, dragging her closer till their chests bumped together. Into his mouth, she made a small noise of pleasure and dug her own fingers harder into the fabric of his sweater. Holding him tighter and keeping him close. 

Come morning, small fingerprints would likely mark her waist. Pink and miniscule, but visible. Just the thought scorched her stomach and prickled the skin of her neck with desire. 

Selina tilted her chin and kissed him harder, digging the hard point of the blade into the fabric of his neck. Bruce made a small noise into her mouth, a cross between a whimper and a sigh, something fearful and wanting. Rather than pull away, he pushed closer toward the blade and her hands and her chest. Toward her mouth, toward her heat.

Were she free to snicker, she’d tease his desire to be hurt so terribly. An innate appetite for another cut seemed to simmer just beneath his skin. 

Another moment, another taste of him, and she tilted away. 

It was a horrid sort of misery to part, but her lungs were starting to pinch without air. A sharp inhale flooded her throat with breath and she let her eyes finally flutter open, stomach swooping. The heat in her skin refused to fade even without his mouth pressed against hers. 

As she leaned back, Bruce followed, lips spit-slick and cheeks ruddy. It was only the sharp edge of the blade up against his neck that forced him still. 

Both of his cheeks were flushed and bright, eyes fluttering like he’d just been woken from sleep. Even with the threat of being cut, he still leaned closer, like he couldn’t quite satiate himself.

Selina gave a slow, wolfish grin, hungry and proud. 

“I thought you needed a name,” she murmured, tilting closer till her mouth just barely nudged up against his. Were she to lean down just a few inches, she’d kiss the sharp blade. He didn’t seem to mind its presence. Rather, the closer it came to his skin, the more his breath hitched. 

With a spark of heat, she realized that the danger itself was a thrill, not a fear. A source of pleasure and piqued interest. A dizzy, blinding smile curled the edges of her mouth up and pride flushed along her skin. 

Bruce’s mouth quirked, breath coming out quick and hot. This close, she could feel the way his skin crinkled with mirth. “I have yours,” he whispered, nudging his nose against hers. “That’s all I need.”

Selina dug her hand into his hair and dragged him down. 

When their mouths met, all she tasted was blood as his lip split beneath her teeth. Strong and sturdy, his heart continued to beat, even as their mouths turned red and wet from his spilled blood. Bruce was alive, blood pumping and heart spilling out the sides, and she felt the very same.

Chapter Text

White stained the ground. 

A thick, heavy blanket covered the dead grass and wilting flowers. All the color across the yard had been bleached and soaked in pale ice. Every rose had disappeared beneath the snow, every bug dead and buried. Anything still living had been covered up and hidden. 

Selina kept her chin forward and her hands clasped.

Just the sight of all that snow prickled her skin and sent goosebumps up her arms. Even if she stood in the halls of the manor, warm and satiated, she remembered what that chilly breeze felt like. That terrible penetration of ice into her skin, burrowing deep into her bones. Impossible to starve away or hide from. 

From inside the Manor, she could understand all the sorts of pretty festivities that surrounded the blue months of winter. Children built up men made of snow, tossed themselves down into the rich blankets to create angels, skated and sled and played. 

From where she stood, the blanket of white looked forgiving. The chill couldn’t bite at her fingers. Ice couldn’t trip her to the ground. Even if she stepped outside, it’d be under the guarantee that she’d return once she’d had her fill of the weather. 

In the Narrows, the only guarantee was death. Winter was no time to play. The first snow was a warning that pain would soon follow. When cold caught within the body, it couldn’t be cleaved out. A bit of simple chill in the fingers quickly spread across every limb and bone. When the skin bleached of color and needles bit at every surface, it meant that death was on its way. 

Selina watched the heavy snow cover up the last of the roses across the yard. The smudge of red and pink disappeared until only white blinded her vision. White, pale blue, and a reminder of all those sorts of horrors that came along with this weather.

Behind her back, her fingers twitched and twinged. An old, familiar ache, even if she stood safe and warm. 

When she’d been young, she’d huddle in alleys with her hands tucked close to her chest, turning blue around the tips of her fingers. Warmth was nowhere to be found, no matter how tight she held herself. Pink in the cheeks and empty in the stomach, she’d do her best to cover up the most vulnerable pieces of her bare skin.

Sonny Gilzeane used to say she’d lose a few parts to frostbite by the time she’d turned double digits. Ten in age but less than in fingers. 

All remained at the age of eighteen. Maybe scarred and bloody, but untouched by death in the Narrows. 

That fear would always eat at her skin, though. A chill would always remain in her fingers, a pit of hunger in her stomach, and the horrors of her childhood would always chisel away at her skull. That reminder that she’d beaten death despite all odds, with every limb and bone still intact, spurred her forward. It made her feel proud and rotten at the same time.

Selina stood in the hall and waited. 

Soon enough, her Father would come. This was no time to linger in the shadows or hide herself away. No time for mercy or begging, apologies or tears. Last night had been no mistake or accident. It hadn’t been a fumble or slip of the hand. 

Silver St. Cloud lived because she’d allowed her to live. Wanted her to, even. 

The choice was hers and hers alone. 

Selina watched the snow fall and twisted her fingers together. Nothing her Father could do would ever compare to those years before. That time spent with her fingers bleached of color, her stomach purged of food. Every moment spent believing that she might collapse and become nothing but a nameless corpse.

Nothing could surpass that terror. Nothing could compare to knowing she’d beaten those odds. 

Selina could take any hit or cut. Any amount of split skin or spilled blood, any bruise of broken bone. The worst had already been braved and survived. 

Down the hall, heavy footsteps began to round the bend. 

The snow continued to fall, heavy and thick. That familiar tremble returned to her fingers and she allowed it, even if it might be seen as weakness. It wouldn’t matter, because she knew exactly where the twitch and terror came from, even if her Father would believe otherwise.

Short clicks came around the corner. Quiet and polite but quick, too, like eager anticipation spurred them on. 

Selina tried not to smack her head into the window. It might just be less painful to cave her own skull in than see Sofia right now. The backs of her molars gritted together, sending tight aches of pain up her jaw, but her mouth went flat by the time she’d turned.

Every ounce of her attention fell onto her Father. 

Though her skin prickled and itched, she stood tall and proud. Spine straight and feet planted. There wouldn’t be any cowering, begging, collapsing. It wasn’t expected of her, nor was it wanted. Both she and her Father knew that tears wouldn’t grant her mercy. 

“You seem well,” her Father started. A tight smile pinched the lines of his face, irritation already simmering beneath his skin. It showed in the tight curve of his shoulders. 

Selina’s chin remained straight even as he glared downwards. The sight of his irritation forced the notches of her spine straighter. 

A flicker of wary disgust twisted his face. By now, she should be teary-eyed and withering. Aware of her faults and promising to correct her behavior, all so he could sneer and punish her. Today, she didn’t see the point in biting her tongue till she bled. Either way, he’d penalize her till her skin turned blue. She might as well remain truthful: she had nothing to apologize for. 

“How are you feeling?” Sofia chimed, tilting forward. It forced her to brush up against their Father’s back, a lock of her dark hair tickling his suit and her elbow nedging against his arm. 

The tight line of his jaw clenched even further. Selina had to starve away a grin, her teeth digging into her bottom lip till she nearly split skin. Always, even now, Sofia was the fly on the wall. Always the dog begging for scraps. Unwanted and irritating.

Regardless, glee lit up Sofia’s cheeks, anticipation barely hidden behind her grin. Likely, she hoped for a grim, bloody show. For Selina’s skin to be turned inside out, body turned black and blue, for her to beg for mercy that would not come. 

The former might just be avoided if Selina played her cards right.

With a short, careful shrug, she admitted, “Different.”

The words rang true enough. A choice had never been offered to her before. Offering mercy rather than poking a blade through an eye socket had always seemed laughable, because she’d never known life to be an option. Death had always seemed inevitable on nights like the last: blood on the floor, a body at her feet, and victory forcing her chin high. 

Now, a different sort of success lit up her skin. 

“I can see that. You seem,” her Father paused, searching for the right word while he studied her, “unlike yourself.”

Selina’s eyes sharpened. Unlike, maybe, but better.

The morning after an assignment was always a mess of tears and nausea. Normal on those days meant a sore throat from vomiting, eyes puffy from crying, and her stomach knotted up. Normal meant she bit her tongue and refused to look her Father’s way, even when he congratulated her on her success.

The straight pull of her shoulders was anything but normal. It spelled trouble for exactly that reason. 

Her Father made a noise in his throat, small and tight. “Are you proud, at least?”

Proud. Selina was always proud in those days after. Sick and miserable, but proud, all because she’d done exactly what had been asked of her. Served up a body on a silver platter for Father, never questioned the reason or method, never thought to say no. 

For a short breath, she lowered her gaze and twisted her hands together behind her back. Her knuckles felt raw, like the skin had been pulled back and the bones were all that remained of her hands. Bruised and sore, even if the actual skin was unblemished for the time being.

“I’ve never been proud of failure,” she said quietly. A truth, a lie, and everything in between.

Disappointing him tore up her stomach and shredded her skin. Honoring him lit up the skin of her cheeks and thumped her heart. It all came hand in hand. Tied like two strings in a knot. Everything was for him, all of it. Every shift of her knife, shed tear, and beat of her heart. 

Selina wanted to dig her teeth into her tongue, or the rough skin of her cheek. To spill her own blood and taste copper so she could remember her place. To force herself to reconcile all that she’d done: all the damage she’d caused and death she’d served up. All those bodies buried. 

All that terror and blood, all for him. All for nothing.

“Failure?” Sofia bit. Selina’s eyes lifted and found a red, sugary smile. “This wasn’t any failure.”

Selina might agree, but she knew that Sofia spoke of another sort of loss entirely. A dozen had been promised, honor and victory along with it. Without that last kill, everything else slipped away.

“That girl is supposed to be dead,” Sofia said, breathing a sigh. It sounded mocking and cruel. “You aren’t even capable of apologizing.”

“It won’t change anything,” she argued quietly. An apology, false and empty as it might be falling from her tongue, would only breed further strife. It would sound too much like a plea for mercy and her Father would only strike harder. 

Sofia’s lips curled until her teeth were bared in a rare show of animalistic anger. “You should be on your knees begging for forgiveness.”

“It won’t change anything,” she said again, sharper and louder, directing each word toward her Father’s chest. At the very least, the both of them understood this in a way that Sofia never would. 

Sofia wanted skin turned inside out. Men brought down to their knees, wailing for mercy, beat into submission. A grand performance of power and glory.

Selina knew that some things couldn’t be bought or beaten or cheated or given. Some things had to be earned in blood, bone, and skin, just as her Father had always taught her. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. Blood must have blood.

Years ago, in the Narrows, she might have run and hid. It was the only way she’d known how to survive. 

Now, sometimes what mattered was planting her feet. Straightening her spine, lifting her chin, and taking anything thrown her way. Every punch and blow. If she was meant to prove herself, then she would, by keeping her chin and spine straight. If her Father wished to punish her, then so be it. 

“You don’t want forgiveness, then?” Sofia scoffed and gave her a withering glare. “Aren’t you sorry for what you’ve done?”

Selina lifted one shoulder and scrunched up her face. “A confession doesn’t mean anything and neither does an apology. I know what I’ve done. I know what I owe.”

Old memories resurfaced of men in this very position. Eyes lost beneath a sharp blade. Knees broken below a hammer. A hand taken in payment for disrespect. 

One year, when she’d been ten and still unaware of discipline, she’d snuck into the kitchen and stolen sweets. They’d been left on the counter, covered and sitting in a tray, easy to knick. Sofia had seen and snitched and her Father had broken her wrist for her theft. 

Selina had never stolen food again but instead waited to be served. The lesson had been well learned in skin and bone. Sometimes, it was necessary. 

“Blood must have blood,” she muttered. 

Their Father’s mouth quirked. 

Sofia laughed, short and tight. The red of her mouth gleamed like spilled blood. “You’re a disgrace.”

It didn’t sting as it might have months or years ago. The corners of Selina’s mouth remained flat and she turned back toward her Father, searching for his inevitable ire. It lived in the corners of his tight frown and the loose hold of his fists, ready to be clenched and aimed.

“You’re a killer,” Sofia continued sharply, fingers lifting to brush away dark hair. At the center of her neck, a singular diamond glittered. Briefly, Selina thought back to that crown of gems across Silver’s head, shining and calling every ounce of attention her way. “You are dirty. You are stained.”

It was everything she’d always thought and known. Nothing new, but rather an old bruise being pressed down upon, black and blue. Instead of baring her teeth, she stared forward and took it. 

“You’ve killed before,” Sofia spit, stepping forward until she stood only inches away. Selina had to crane her neck to meet her eyes, just like all those times with Bruce. Unlike then, Sofia meant to strike and make her small. “One more body shouldn’t mean anything to you.”

“Maybe it does.”

Admitting such a thing rattled her teeth. It struck out all the air from her lungs. Shame curled in her stomach, bright and hot, like a spilled cup of wine over white linens. The tips of her fingers trembled and that terrible feeling of being raw and stripped bare returned to her knuckles.

Sofia went quiet, brows twisting into a frown and lips parting. Behind her, their Father shifted on his feet, chin cocking. Both hands curled into half-formed fists by his side, shoulders straightening, preparing himself to strike if need be. 

In a red-hot rush, all the breath returned to her chest, tight and frigid. Every bone locked against the other, all her teeth sharpened above her gums, and she planted herself in place. 

With every ounce of fight in her marrow, Selina met her Father’s eyes and swallowed away every burgeoning, blossoming remnant of shame. 

In silence, her Father stared back and waited. Maybe for her to grow small and repent, maybe for her to throw herself at the eager will of his blade. She didn’t know or care. 

Silver. St Cloud was no enemy of hers. A pest and irritating brat, certainly, but no real threat. Selina had no desire to see her blood spilled or her pale skin bruised. 

It would only be another spill of red over Selina’s hands. 

For once, she was tired of cleaning blood from skin while her Father sat back and watched. Tired of puking till her throat stung, crying till her vision blurred, begging for a reprieve that would not come—all while her Father reaped the spoils. 

“You have no idea what you’ve cost me,” he said slowly. Heavy footsteps followed him as he stepped toward her. 

Sofia ducked her chin and allowed him space to crowd against Selina. Within moments, it was evident that she hadn’t moved quite fast enough: a hand lifted and grabbed her shoulder, forcing her back further. Sofia winced, small and tight, but quickly hid it behind a glare as she settled behind him. 

Their Father pressed close to Selina, standing so that their chests nearly touched and she could feel his breath pass over her skin. Both of his eyes bore into her skull. It was a challenge to speak up and defy him. 

Were she any softer around the edges, she’d concede and duck her chin. As it were, she met his gaze and didn’t dare blink or breathe. The blood in her veins felt frothy and hot. The muscles in her hands held steady. This fight was hers to win, because she had nothing to lose. 

“One more body,” she repeated, just as slow as him. One more useless stain of blood atop his empire of skulls and ruin. 

Sofia gave a sharp inhale, audible despite neither of them looking her way. The air felt stiff and stale, like all the warmth had been extracted. It wasn’t such an impossible thought: her Father’s glare was certainly icy enough to freeze over even the hottest summer months. 

Slowly, he tilted his chin, eyes lowering over her form. In silence, he studied the way that she held herself. As his gaze lowered, it caught on the silver chain around her neck. Though the pearl was hidden beneath the collar of her shirt, she knew exactly how it looked: like she’d dug out that old locket of her mothers and strapped it around her neck. A show of defiance too great and terrible to ignore. 

“Tell me why,” he said carefully. A deadly sort of distance rang through his voice. It sent a gleam of flickering dread up her spine, though she did her best to hold steady. 

“I tried,” she muttered, and she had. All day, she’d worn holes into the floor from pacing, clutching at her chest and wondering how she could possibly kill the girl. For hours, she’d tried to convince herself that it was necessary, another skull in the pillars of her family’s empire. Another body and another chess piece. A necessary evil. 

Except—then she’d arrived and all she’d seen was Bruce Wayne standing in the shadows. And he was the singular reminder that sometimes, blood and bone wasn’t quite as necessary as she’d like to believe. The lone exception to all her past kills and the constant reason she wondered whether more truly was possible for her. 

“You tried,” he repeated, frantic mirth flooding through the edges of his words. With a loud, bright laugh, the corners of his face fell into frenzied humor. “Are you certain?”

The edges of her stomach rotated once, anxiety crawling up and around. Explosive fury had been expected in the form of red-hot shouting and striking. Not—this. Whatever this was. 

Selina’s brows furrowed. “Yes, but—”

“But,” he repeated, hysterical and loud, “you couldn’t. You weren’t capable.”

A knife sat beneath her clothes, familiar and comfortable. It started to burn against her skin, itching to be held between her steady fingers. All of his anger could be handled: volatile, quick, sharp. Hard, brutal strikes against her chest and face. Violence directed her way till all her exposed skin had turned black and blue and bloody. 

The rage always came in an explosion, painful but quick. An empty expression of destruction that tore apart her body but lasted only a minute. 

This—this was something else entirely. Fueled by hysterics and a temper that she’d never quite seen. It scared her in a way she didn’t know to comprehend. It couldn’t be hidden in her knuckles or mouth because instead it flashed across her face, brighter and stronger the closer that he got.

“What sorry excuse do you have for me?” he asked, stepping closer. She had to bend her spine backwards to avoid their noses brushing. “Tell me why.”

Selina kept her mouth straight and shut. The truth of last night would only worsen things, because she’d have to admit it was far greater than a single day in the making. It was weeks of Bruce Wayne’s gentle coaxing and careful hands, weeks of green eyes meeting hers head on and refusing to stray. 

Time spent in secret and in the shadows. All the while knowing what her Father would say and do if he discovered her, and returning anyways. 

A hand grabbed at her arm, tight and unforgiving. Sturdy fingers dug into skin and flesh and refused to budge even as she twisted on instinct. Hot panic blossomed in her stomach. 

“I promised a dozen, Selina,” her Father said. The edges of his voice shook. “You’ve made me into a liar.”

The fingers dug in harder. Bruises would emerge soon enough, five dark fingerprints, and she forced herself to remain still. The ache in her arm was familiar and trivial, but the awful reminder that he could hold tight and never loosen his grip made her stomach twist. It was a snare around her ankle, trapping her to the ground. 

“Tell me why,” he said again, teeth bared in a snarl. When she said nothing, mouth parted and dry, lungs devoid of breath, he held her arm and shook. It forced her back a step and she lifted a hand, searching for balance, but he only seized her wrist. 

Another wave of panic climbed up her throat and she inhaled, biting away a sharp cry. The snare closed harder around her leg, digging in deep. 

If he liked, he could crush her flesh till the bone broke. If it pleased him, he could do the same to the rest of her body as well. Maybe, if he wished to truly teach her a lesson, he’d grip her tight and hold her down, just to remind her that she couldn’t always escape. 

“I tried,” she said in a rush, wild eyes searching his face. “I promise I tried.”

A sore excuse, she knew, but she had—she’d paced and pleaded with herself, scratched at her skin and tried to remember her place. It hadn’t been enough.

“That’s not good enough,” he said, stepping closer and leaning forward. It forced her back an inch but he reeled her back toward his chest, holding her so tight and firm she had to lift onto her toes to avoid her skin being pulled.

Selina’s breath came hard and fast, but she kept her body still. Pulling and jerking would only earn her a few more bruises. 

“You’re a killer,” he said, eyes wide and earnest. It pulled at the strings of her heart. Even if she tried to deny it, he knew what she always had about herself. “My killer. My executioner.”

The hands over her skin dug in and pulled her closer. She had no choice but to follow, lifting herself higher on her toes and tipping back to head to keep meeting his eyes.

“I picked you from the gutters, my dear,” he said, shaking her till her heart rattled in her lungs. “I saved you from death.”

Selina shut her eyes and tried to shake away the sight of him. The feeling of utter worthlessness clung to her skin anyhow, a sticky sort of mess she couldn’t wash away. The scent of the Narrows still stuck to her, sickly sweet like rotted apples. After all these years, she was still a rat from the gutters and a child half-starved.

“You were a stupid street bitch,” he spit, hands trembling so greatly that she could feel it in her skin. “Hungry and pathetic and useless. Until I made you something.”

The words stung like a hot blade over her skin, like the barrel of a gun pointed toward her ribs. Sofia had called her worse. In the dark, she’d conjured up worse thoughts about herself. It was nothing new. Nothing she’d never heard before. It hurt regardless.

“Don’t you see? I chose you,” he pleaded, wild and frantic. Her eyes flew open to meet his. 

For a moment, her breathing halted, all the air in the world gone cold and dirty. The skin over her knuckles felt raw. Whatever he saw pass over her face only spurred him forward and he released her wrist to cup the back of her neck. 

She bit back tears. The air returned, sharp and quick, and a heavy feeling settled over her body. The gesture was familiar: tight and strong. A means of grasping her attention and keeping her in place. 

“I chose you,” he repeated, softer, even as the hand over her neck dug in tighter. A few strands of hair were caught between his fingers and were pulled as well. It stung her skull. 

Selina stilled. From beneath her lashes, she peered upwards and found a tight smile already awaiting her. 

Chosen, she thought. Picked and plucked and saved. Offered up salvation on a silver platter, with a thousand deadly strings hidden in the shadows. Years of bile, tears, and blood all for a name that meant nothing. 

Frothy, red anger the color of wine prickled her skin. When she twitched, her bones clicked together. The blade by her side burned hotter than any flame. 

I choose you, Selina. I’m yours.

The ghost of gentle hands wafted over her skin. Bare and warm and never tight enough to bruise.

The aches and pains across her body faded. The stinging in her scalp and bruises over her wrist disappeared, forgotten, and she tilted her head, slow and careful. 

I’m yours to do with as you please, Selina. Live or die.

The trap over her ankle sprung open. 

Selina lifted her chin and met her Father’s gaze straight on. “You should’ve chosen someone else.”

The fingers around her nape jerked, a deadly sort of tremble that forced her to plant her feet firmly. She set her jaw and prepared for the hit, bright and loud. Ready for the sharp sting of pain flaring across her cheek, familiar and easy to digest. 

The lines across his face twitched once before smoothing over. A thin smile remained, quirking the skin of his cheeks and cinching his eyes into slits. 

Selina held herself steady, spine a straight line and shoulders back. Jaw set. Feet planted. 

The hit never came.

Rather, a heavy palm encased the front of her neck and squeezed.

Selina choked. A hand flew up to grab at the offending wrist, palm slapping into her Father’s flesh. The grip around the back of her neck tightened, fingers digging hard and tight into the hair at her nape. The sting of her skull barely registered. All that mattered was the flesh over her throat, the rising rightness in her chest when air refused to come after every strangled breath.

“I’ve given you everything,” her Father said carefully. Ice encased every word. 

Heat rose in her eyes, hotter and stronger the longer she went without solid breath. She slapped her palm down against his wrist again, harder till the sound echoed. It was instinct more than anything. It was pointless, too, because she knew that he wouldn't release her until the proper punishment had been administered. 

Maybe it would only be a few more seconds, she thought, once her skin had turned an ugly shade of red. Maybe hours, once life had been properly drained from her body. 

Behind him, a sharp little snicker rang out. Sofia—amused at the show, no doubt. 

“It’s still not enough,” he said, fingers tightening their hold. A gag fell from her throat, an awful sort of noise she recognized from all her times hunched over and sick. “You still want more.”

Had she the breath and nerves, she’d spit and snarl. Argue that more had never been what she’d asked for: only less. Less blood, less guts, less bodies dead at her feet. Less of the crushing, destructive thought that she was a butcher and nothing else.

Her Father’s hand shook around her skin. When she shifted her own closer, measuring each of his knuckles and flat scars beneath her fingers, all she felt was a tremble. A flutter of fury and nerves. 

The corners of his mouth lifted into something animalistic, a sort of sneer she’d worn all too many items. Bared teeth and raised hackles. Trembling hands and scarred skin. It had to be learned from somewhere, after all. Her Father’s daughter. 

“I promised a dozen,” he repeated, acid falling off of his tongue at the reminder of her failure. “You’ve taken that from me. That girl should be dead.”

An ugly noise fell from her throat, choked up and wet. Tears bit at her lashes and both cheeks felt red and hot. That tightness in her chest only worsened as the seconds passed, sharpening and pricking at her insides. 

Sofia made another noise behind their Father, cruel and quiet. A sort of mimicked croon of concern, as if she wasn’t standing by and watching it happen. 

“You were supposed to split her skull open,” he barked, shoving closer to spit at her. It forced her backwards and her head smacked into the glass window. A sharp ache of pain burst in her skull and she made a noise of pain, weak and pathetic. “You were supposed to come home drenched in her blood.”

The words barely registered. Spots danced around her vision and she clawed at the hand holding her. It only earned her a tighter grip and a shake that jolted her entire body. 

“I need a twelfth,” he said from between his teeth. “So why not you?”

Selina gasped a strangled breath. Dark splotches of color filled up her vision, blue and yellow and red. 

The grip tightened. Color and darkness blurred in her eyes. 

Then, quick as it came, the heavy grip shoved her away. 

The back of her skull cracked against the glass as she stumbled. Another sharp pain flared at the back of head and she hissed, but all that truly mattered was the breath returning to her lungs. Knocked off balance, she tripped and let herself fall. 

Both palms slapped against the tile, twisting her wrist into a strange position that would surely ache later on. One knee collided with the cold floor in a loud slap and she instinctively curled up her body, bringing both arms and legs close to her chest while she heaved.

It hurt her throat to inhale and hurt even worse to exhale, but she gagged and gasped regardless. The heat in her cheeks made her entire head feel hot. Come morning, her eyes would likely be puffy from stray tears.

Heavy boots landed in front of her and waited till she looked up.

“Give me another,” he said, tight and quiet, “or you’ll be my twelfth.”

Without another word, he turned and left.

Selina lifted one hand and pressed gently against her throat, tentative fingers tracing the sore skin. Bruises would mark soon enough. A few tears slipped down her cheeks and she sniffled but made no move to wipe them away. Filling her lungs with air was the priority, no matter how much it stung and tore at her body. 

“You should be grateful you’re alive.”

Red around the eyes and pink around the throat, she lifted her head. 

Sofia stared downward in silence, disgust curling her mouth and pinching her eyes. For a moment, her lips pursed as if she were about to say something more. 

Instead, she turned in silence and left Selina clutching at herself.

—

Within a week, the swollen expanse of her neck faded into a nasty splotch of pink.

The skin stung to the touch. It was truly an ugly bruise that required nothing but time to heal, but she’d fared far worse. Enough scars littered her skin that a bit of color on her neck meant little to nothing—to her, at the very least. The boy standing across the room would likely throw a fit when he finally took notice of her.

Selina kept herself in the corner. Here, in the solarium, there wasn’t a single shadow to hide beneath. Only sunlight, bright and yellow. 

It shone over Bruce as well, giving his dark curls a sheen of gold. Turned away from her, only the broad expanse of his back was visible. Selina didn’t mind much. Every twitch of his shoulders rippled the grey fabric of his shirt, and she knew his hands well enough to imagine his pale skin and strong knuckles. 

Sweat covered the collar of his shirt, turning it dark and damp. Low-cut, for once. 

Selina raised one brow and pursed her lips. The scar would be visible, bright and pink across his skin, but maybe in the comfort of his own home, he no longer minded the reminder. It was no longer a shameful thing to be hidden. Just another piece of his skin, familiar and mundane.

Shifting closer, she let her eyes lower to his hands the closer that she stepped. Fabric covered them from view, and every well-aimed hit blurred the sharp lines of his fingers. 

The punching bag rattled on its hook, swaying with every strong hit. As sturdy as he held himself and as tight as he gripped his fists, every punch lacked the fury she’d expected. Even with a target planted in front of him, he remained calm. This wasn’t any show of fury, just a means of practice. 

The heels of his shoes squeaked and he pivoted. Both hands lowered to his side. A heavy sort of pant left his mouth, and from only a few inches away, she could see every breath lifting his shoulders. 

Bruce turned fully, eyes lowering and falling across her—and he jumped, startled.

Selina twisted her hands together behind her back, lips quirking, and swallowed away an impolite noise at the sight of him fully standing before her. Sweat had forced his stiff hair to fall into curls and his cheeks pink were from exertion. In mid-air, his knuckles were still tense and shuddering.

“Selina,” he breathed, the lines of his face crinkling as his shoulders lifted and eyes brightened. Like all the sun in the room had fallen onto him at once and illuminated his heart and bones, warming his spongy insides.

It pulled at the skin of her hands, just a bit, at those raw knuckles of hers. No one had ever looked at her in such a way, like she was deserving of a smile without proving herself worthy. Delighted by her mere presence. The sound of her name dripping like honey off the tongue. 

Flutters of fond warmth rose in her stomach. It felt the very same as that night in the Manor just last week. It tickled like carbonation falling down her throat and settling into her chest.

“Bruce,” she said in that same gentle tone, a cross between genuine and teasing. Right away, she winced, mouth falling shut. It stung her throat to speak, even after days had passed, like that tight hand had pressed down and stolen her air away all over again.

A thousand sort of emotions flashed across his face as he stepped forward and finally noticed that awful splotch of pink over her skin. Fright, bright and blue, turned his skin as pale as the winter snow. Outrage, stronger than she’d ever seen him possess, trembled his hands into half-curled fists. Worry, finally, restrained all that anger and clamped his mouth shut.

“What happened?” he asked quietly, hands lifting as if meaning to touch and soothe. 

Selina’s eyes flashed low, toward his outstretched fingers and shaking knuckles. Moments before, those strong hits had rattled the punching bag. Strong, capable. Though he’d never thought to even tug her hair or press down on a bruise, her smile turned brittle around the edges. 

Bruce paused with a blink. Both hands lowered, slow as possible, and remained loose and open. Palms up, so she could see nothing remained in his grip. No blade and no fist that could aim her way.

A staggering rush of affection clouded her head. The corners of her mouth twitched and though she’d deny it if asked, pink rushed up in her cheeks. Without demand or request, he knew to prove her safety. It flipped her stomach to and fro and she had to resist reaching out toward him, to grab and take and touch. To feel his gentle, safe skin up against hers.

“Sorry,” he murmured, but she shook her head.

“It’s just a bruise,” she said with a shrug, ignoring how the skin around her neck pulled. “Nothing to cry about.”

Another wince and he might just try to rush her to the hospital. All for a few bruises that would fade within days. Weeks prior, she’d have laughed at his concern: fractured bones and split skin was nothing to fret over. A broken rib, bruised cheek, bloody nose meant she’d taken a hit and survived. All that was to be done was to stand and bear it. To take all the aches and pains and bury them behind her ribs like they’d never existed at all, just another nightmare that spoke of nothing but weakness.

Bruce leveled her with a flat glare. “That’s not an answer.”

“Sure it is,” she said lightly, tilting her head. “It’s just not the one you were hoping for.”

The truth was not simple enough to possibly explain. What was there for her to really say had happened: a punishment, a threat, mercy? Selina understood it as deserved discipline, but she doubted he’d see it as anything close. Bruce would never see that sometimes, a blade or a fist was all that was needed to correct her behavior. 

Love bred violence. Sometimes they were one and the same.

“Selina,” he sighed, the name still sounding sweet like sugar, dripping like honey, even with the coarse edges of irritation seeping through.

Selina bit her tongue rather than allow her own frustration to corrode her teeth. Stepping forward till their toes touched, she lifted her chin and met his eyes. 

Bruce blinked down at her, eyes wide at the sudden closeness of her, cheeks gone a bit ruddy. It made her nearly smile to know such a simple act could steal away his breath and dry the words up in his throat.

“I can take care of myself,” she murmured. The pink of his mouth parted and even before she could speak, she knew what he planned to say—you don’t have to.

A flat look fell over her face, terse and withering. Bruce’s jaw snapped shut, so quickly that she heard his teeth click. Agitation twisted up his face for a flash, as if the worst sort of news had been delivered, but it disappeared in a blink. 

Through gritted teeth and a pout, he said, “Alright. Fine.”

Selina smiled, bright and victorious, and pressed closer. One finger prodded at his low collar, nudging it low till she could see one pale collarbone. The touch turned his cheeks even darker, a pretty red that she’d kiss if she had any less shame. 

“Don’t worry about me, princess,” she said. The pink scar gleamed beneath the morning sunlight but she kept her eyes high, meeting his straight on. Pink covered up his cheeks as the nickname registered in his head. “A couple of ugly bruises are nothing to worry about.”

“It’s hard not to,” he said quietly. The confession stirred up—something in her chest. Something too warm and fond, a cotton candy string of sugar affection that was all too foreign. 

Playfully, she narrowed her eyes and bit away a smile, hoping that she looked teasing and annoying. But still, that feeling remained. It was a spot of sugar in her lungs, eating away at her ribcage like a cavity in the mouth. 

Bruce took one of her hands in his own. Each of his fingers folded over her knuckles and his palm covered up the back of her hand. 

Selina startled, heart thumping against her chest. The gloves she normally wore had been stuffed into her pocket before coming into the Manor, and now, her skin was bare. The wrappings over his fists kept her from feeling his skin, a barrier that leather gloves normally served.

The tops of her hands were scarred and ugly. Old, faded marks littered the skin by her knuckles, where she’d once torn herself apart. Blood used to cover her hands everyday all because she had nowhere else to aim her hurt. The inside of her mouth was the very same.

Bruce didn’t so much as wince. A familiar softness came across him as he lifted up her hand, thumb rubbing a slow circle over her uneven knuckles.

“You’ve been gone all week,” he murmured. “Since that night with Silver. I kept hoping I’d turn and you’d be there, but…”

Selina squeezed his hand once, just to prove her presence. Fingers steady and feet planted.

“You never were,” he finished quietly. It struck something soft and pink in her chest to know he’d looked at all. Heat bloomed in her cheeks, warm and soft, because she’d never expected him to think twice about her. 

“I got busy,” she said simply. Blue had clouded the week. When she stepped into a room, her Father turned the other way while Sofia sneered. The swollen expanse of her throat had made it impossible to speak or swallow for the first few days. 

Bruce lifted his other hand to her cheek, gentle fingers tucking a stray curl behind her ear. It forced a shiver down her spine, like he’d reached into her chest and pressed his fingers against her bare bones. 

“I can see that now,” he murmured. The fingers by her ear nudged close, drawing a line down her jaw with his thumb.

Selina glanced up from beneath her lashes. Heat stirred in her stomach, a sort of buzz that rattled her body. It made her desperate for him: his mouth, his hands, his taste. 

The first press of her mouth against his, sudden and insistent, stirred up a familiar sort of need in her hands. Bruce responded in kind, releasing her hand to press his open palm against her lower back, pulling her close till their chests touched. Till all she could taste and feel and breath was him. 

Against her cheek, his fingers remained still, never straying too low. Careful not to graze the pink of her neck. 

Selina pressed her palm against his chest, his heart thumping in time with her own, and pulled him all the closer.

—

Once the sky darkened into blue and black, she returned to the stifling halls of home. 

Selina let her spine fall against the wall, a heavy thump that was sure to bruise her bones, and tipped back her head. With her eyes shut, she could almost imagine she was still in Wayne Manor, mouth bruised from kissing and heart thumping beneath Bruce’s gentle touch. 

The skin over her neck tingled, not from a painful ache but from the memory of his breath, warm and gentle. Never, not once, had he touched her throat, ever so careful not to hurt her even further. As if a poke or prod could damage her worse. 

Selina lifted a hand to the necklace around her throat, two fingers twisting the pearl to and fro. 

The scar over his own neck had shone beneath the sunlight, glinting all the more pink as the sun set. With every passing hour, her eyes slipped low, drawn like a magpie to trinkets. It twisted up her stomach to think about how her hands had split open his skin. A piece of her, raw and ugly, lived within that scar.

Neither time nor force could remove a scar like that. Selina knew that well: enough white, flattened marks covered up her body. A multitude of memories that she could never rid herself of no matter how—

A creak.

Selina halted. 

With her breathing frozen and trapped between her lungs, every sound echoed. Shadows shrouded every crack and corner, but from where she stood, there wasn’t much to see. The entrance hall was a small, cramped place, but it emptied around the corner into the Great Hall. 

Another groan from around the corner, like a heavy foot on hardwood. The air in her lungs started up again, quiet and even. Small little breaths as her heart slowed in her chest and a familiar buzz filled up her ears. A copper taste filled up her mouth even though she knew she hadn’t bit herself. 

Selina pressed her spine flat to the wall. 

Around the bend, an awful creak sounded, familiar and high-pitched. 

All the teeth in her mouth felt fuzzy, aching to dig into flesh and taste blood. That sound, terrible and simple, spun her head in circles. The buzzing in her ears grew louder. The skin over her hands itched and her knuckles tensed, fingers forming a fist around a blade that didn’t yet sit in her hand.

It was the lowest possible panel of the staircase leading up and eastward, old and creaking. Selina knew to avoid it. Sofia, too. Any sort of pressure applied made that very sound: a grating squeak that echoed across the room. 

Selina blinked once, twice, and swallowed. Both her sister and Father were in the East End of the Manor. Now, in the middle of the night, they were likely asleep and unaware of the trouble attempting to hunt them.

The creak sounded again. 

Two bodies, then, she figured with a silent groan. Another set of footsteps unable to learn from his partner and applying the very same pressure, achieving the very same squeaky result. 

Selina grit her teeth. The front of her tongue flattened over the edges of her teeth, trying to swallow away all of her burgeoning irritation. Well, more honestly, trying to pretend all of her blossoming panic was nothing but frustration pounding at her skull. Just a headache, nothing more or less. 

It’d be easier to concentrate if all she could feel was displeasure, frothing up in her lungs till she had to bite back a snarl. Baring her teeth and raising her hackles was routine, after all. Anger could be used. Fear was a distraction. 

The men mumbled, too low for her to make out the words but still loud enough that she could hear the muffled sound from across the room. Clumsy and incompetent, they tramped upwards, uncaring of even the possibility of creaky wood. Idiots. 

Hunger sparked up her spine and stung her teeth till her gums throbbed. With a twitch of her chin, she narrowed her eyes and slipped away and into the dark.

After all, the main staircase, with its old and creaky panels, wasn’t the only route up and eastwards. Other hidden paths could be taken. Paths she knew just as well if not better, because her Father had trained her to live away from prying eyes. 

By the time she’d reached the East End, the men were nearly to the top of the stairs. They were still fumbling and slow, she noticed with a twitching brow. Hunger stirred up her stomach and clenched her knuckles into a fist. The handle of her blade sat warm and comfortable in her palm. 

Selina stood against the corner, back flat against the wall and feet planted firmly. This close, she could hear every little sound they made: the fabric of their pants scraped as they lifted each foot upwards. 

A click echoed, just once, and she cocked her ear. Maybe a blade, clinking in a pocket, or a gun held close to the body.

Fabric crinkled. The man on the left, shorter and clumsier, stepped upwards toward the second floor landing. The toe of his boot caught on the very edge of the landing and he stumbled forward, one hand lifting for balance.

“Shit,” he murmured, a quiet sound that echoed through the empty hall. 

The other’s head turned, brows twisting in irritation, still a step lower. 

Selina’s blade sunk deep into the first’s eye socket. 

The man shrieked, an awful sort of noise that went muffled beneath the palm of her hand. Beneath the weight of her blade, the feeble organ gave way, sinking inward. Blood spurted and spilled across his skin. 

Behind her, the other shouted a curse. 

An ugly squelch sounded as she pressed the blade deeper. It was a noise she’d heard, years before. It would likely haunt her nightmares once again.

With her palm held across his mouth, she pressed forward, shoving the man out and to the side. 

Selina didn’t wait to watch him collapse, already turning. The other stood behind her, but by the time he’d lifted his head, fingers fumbling by his side as he attempted to reach for his weapon, she’d twisted around him.

“What the fuck?” he cried, horror trembling his voice. Ducking low, she slashed out quick and hard. The blade cut deep into his thigh, red emerging and soaking the skin. Both legs buckled, knees shaking, and he shouted louder than she’d like. 

Pivoting, her blade came up, drawing another line across his side. It was deeper than the other and blood dripped off of her knife when she drew it back. 

The man cried out, wet and horrid. Selina’s eye twitched, cringing, but she’d already turned her chin away.

Curled up against the floor, the other continued to moan, hands lifted up against his face. Half of his face was drenched in red. It soaked his neck, and when he tipped back his head, she could see it dripping down toward his collar too. 

It was an ugly, obscene sight. Bile rose in her throat. If Sofia were here, she’d shout and stomp her feet, accusing Selina of having soiled the halls of the Manor. That much blood couldn't be removed with a bit of bleach and time. It would stain.

Heavy weight collided with her shoulder. 

Selina hissed and tightened her hold over her blade before it could slip away. It was a wild sort of blow, unsteady enough to knock her several steps to the side. The edge of her ankle caught against the stairs and she tipped to the side, arm raising to catch her weight and consume the impact.

The stair’s railing met her elbow with a painful thud. As she tripped, the left side of her followed suit. Flesh met wood, and though it hurt, she only grit her teeth.

Selina shoved herself back the way she came. An ache flared up in her muscles, a tight sort of heat around her shoulder, and she bit away a whimper. It felt like a fist had formed and met her flesh, again and again, till her shoulder blade had splintered. 

It didn’t matter. Worse pains had blossomed beneath her skin. 

Except, the man stood closer than expected.

With a yelp, she collided with his front. When he grunted, she could feel it vibrate through his chest. 

It didn’t seem as if he’d expected the weight of her either: one hand lifted toward her front, clasping onto fabric with clumsy fingers while the other lifted to the base of her skull. Searching, maybe, for stability and a way to hold onto her all at once. 

It wasn’t a firm grasp. With enough struggle, she could toss herself back and shove him off at once, except—his hand tightened around her skull. Five sturdy fingers clenched around her hair. With one sharp tug, her neck tipped back and she gave a soft cry. 

Splotches of color filled up her vision. Blue and purple and pink.

The skin of her throat, vulnerable and raw, felt as sore as it had at the beginning of the week. It hurt to swallow. Frothy panic filled up her lungs till she could barely breathe. She jerked, and when the hands didn’t so much as budge, she struggled even harder. 

The buzzing in her ears grew louder. It sounded like a swarm of flies lived in her skull, burying themselves in the crevices of her brain. All she could hear was that fizzy murmur. 

Desperate, strangled cries filled up the room. It took a moment to realize the sound came from her. Shame turned her ribcage brittle. Mercy couldn’t be earned. The debt had to be paid in blood. 

Selina twisted. The hand grasped her harder. Strands of hair were clenched between his fingers, tight and unforgiving. It hurt. It felt exactly like that morning with her Father. 

A blur of movement rose in the corner of her vision. A familiar sort of strike, aimed high toward her skin. 

Biting away a shriek, she lifted her knee, aiming for soft flesh and vulnerable skin.

Seconds too late, the flat plane of her knee cap collided with his groin—just in time for his fist to collide with her cheek.

Selina cried out, sharp and loud. The hit snapped her jaw to the side and she stumbled back several steps. Pain unfolded across her skin, so deep that it tingled her teeth. The railing met the soft plane of her back, hard, and if she were any slower she’d have tipped to the side. 

The fingers released her as he, too, fell backwards, clutching at himself.

Without the hand, every breath came easier. Shame began to bite at her lungs: tugged hair and a tipped back chin was nothing compared to a dozen broken bones. To years of hunger, cold, and spilled blood. 

Selina grit her teeth and steeled her nerves. 

Only a foot away, the man was crouched low, both hands cupping his bruised groin. Behind him, the other twitched and whimpered against the floor. 

Selina exhaled and steadied herself. The soreness faded away, having been swallowed and consumed. Every bruise and stinging pain could be dealt with later, so long as she lived. None of it would matter if these two morons managed to kill her.

The man lifted up at the same time as her, hands leaving his groin to feel for his waist—a glint of metal shone in the low light. A sour taste filled up her lungs and her heartbeat ticked upwards. 

Trembling fingers wrapped around the grip of his gun. 

Shoving forward, she aimed one elbow up toward his ribs. It struck against his sternum with a satisfying thud. A loud cry fell from his mouth, pained and strangled.

The gun clattered to the ground. An echoing click followed as it tumbled down the staircase. 

Selina pressed closer and slashed upwards, fingers tight and heart thumping. With sharp teeth and an insatiable hunger, she struck without pause. Their eyes met, green to brown, and she kept her feet planted. 

The blade kissed flesh. 

The vulnerable skin of his neck split, a deep tear that even hundreds of stitches couldn’t fix. Blood spurted across her cheek and chin. Red stained her skin and she seethed, despite knowing it would cover the fronts of her teeth.

The man grunted. It was a strangled sort of noise. It sounded the very same as the one she’d made when her Father had held her neck and applied pressure. Like all the air had been sucked out of the lungs, all the blood removed from the body. Terror palpable. Death imminent. 

Selina pulled the blade clean from the flesh. It tore at the skin and muscle and he gave another choked up whimper. More blood splattered, wet and sticky. When she swallowed, she tasted salt.

The man twitched, hand pressing at the gaping skin of his neck. Though he gasped for air, none could be found. Every breath was audible even to her ears: a weak, high-pitched wheeze. 

Both eyes were wide as he stumbled to the side, lowering down the steps. Attempting to step away from her. Fear twisted up his face, so bright and visible that it struck hard at her chest like a physical blow. It always hurt to remember that in these final moments, she was what they saw—she was what they feared.

The body dropped, still twitching, and a heavy breath left her lungs.

A blur of a body jumped at her, colliding with her front. She grunted, teeth clicking together, and did her best not to shriek at her own stupidity. The other—with all his moaning, blood, and caved in eye socket—hadn’t quite been dead when she’d last looked his way. 

Two shaking arms wrapped around her waist and shoved her toward the wall. 

With her weight knocked off balance, she allowed herself to tip to the side. It was a dangerous risk: dozens of paintings lined the wall. If she weren’t careful, her skull could collide with a sharp corner. The vulnerable side of her face could hit glass and cut her up her skin. If the man were smarter, he’d be prepared for any alternative, and have a boot already raised and ready to kick in her head. 

Luckily for her, the man was as stupid as he was clumsy. 

Selina landed on her knees. One shoulder knocked hard against the wall, nearly tipping a painting off the wall entirely. Sharp pain splintered up her legs and the ache in her back only worsened. 

The sharp edge of her blade was already raised and waiting. Already, she’d lifted onto her knees, forcing her pained shoulders and aching spine against the wall for stability. 

The man stumbled toward her. Blood painted his face. With every stomping, clumsy step, his eyes—well, eye, considering one had been sunken inward—slipped shut, like he was fighting sleep. Or blood loss. 

The front of her teeth shone red when she smiled.

He shoved closer, hands out like he wished to grab her skull or lift her up by the arms. Close as he stood, the broad expanse of his chest stood vulnerable. 

The blade lifted, angled, and thrust forward. 

It dug hard into muscle, catching like a hook. 

The man screamed, louder than when his eyes had sunk inwards. Blood started to well around the blade. Before he could pull back, she tightened her grip and pulled, straight down.

Skin split. Muscle tore. Blood erupted, bright and red.

Another shout ripped from his throat, a strangled sort of gargle like liquid had filled up his throat. His body started to tip forward as she dragged the blade closer to the floor. Around the waist, he bent, like he could no longer keep himself up. With his front split open the way that it was, she couldn't quite blame him.

The weight of him continued to get closer. His knees started to buckle and she tossed herself to the side. It forced her down the steps and she tucked her limbs close to her body, protecting her head and allowing her elbows and knees to take the brunt of the fall. By the end of this, she’d be horribly bruised: entirely black and blue. At least she’d be alive.

A soft little crack sounded behind her. It sounded like an egg against the counter, the shell crumbling and yolk spilling outward and into a mess of color. 

Bile rose in her throat. Without looking, she knew what the sound meant. 

Still, she rose, shoving forward in case he was still a man and not yet a body.

Heart thumping, hands clenched, she halted mid-step. 

The body was sprawled out across the steps, staring upwards, and—his head had smashed against the step as he’d fallen. Though the wound she’d inflicted would’ve killed him in time, the blood pooled around his skull was evidence enough of his stopped heart. 

Selina exhaled as heavily as possible. 

Blood splattered the walls and pooled around both bodies. It sat wet and tacky on her skin, and with every swallow, she could taste in across her teeth and down her throat. 

Slowly, she lowered herself to the closer of the two bodies, grasping the handle of her blade. It was still stuck in him, sitting low by his stomach. With an awful squelch, she pulled it up and out, trying not to gag. 

The movement jostled him. The fabric of his coat split, falling open, and a gleam of silver caught her eye. 

Carefully, she reached forward, mindful not to dig her fingers into the bloody mess of his front. It made her cringe and wince, still, to feel his flesh brush up against her hand. It took a moment, a long breath of flinching and searching, but her fingers wrapped around something heavy and cold.

It took mere seconds to recognize. 

The blood in her lungs froze and every limb felt stiff. When she stood, fingers trembling, she felt ready to hurl, or maybe faint.

In her hands was a badge, silver and familiar

Gotham City Police. Detective.

Selina rushed to the other man and—in his coat pocket, found the very same badge.

A terrible panic rose in her chest. There hadn’t been much time to consider the circumstances, but—but this wasn’t possible. Where detectives went, so did the Commissioner, and if Jim Gorodn was here—

The buzz in her ears returned, stronger than before. A thousand and one flies dancing around her head. She felt rather sick. 

If they were here, it meant they knew. They wanted her Father. Sofia, too. Any little dog they could get their hands on, they’d take or kill. 

Selina clasped her hands over her neck, willing herself not to vomit. The blood over her face had started to drip down her chin. It wet the sides of her hands but she paid no mind. 

“Fuck,” she whispered, clutching at the badge even harder. The bodies at her feet seemed to mock her. Two dead detectives meant nothing compared to the Commissioner. “Fuck.”

If he weren’t already at the Manor, the Commissioner would be there soon. 

Selina tipped her head back and tried her best to breathe. This was no time to panic. 

Across the hall, deep into the East End, a shot rang out. 

Selina’s head lifted, heart thumping. The blood in her veins turned hot, panic frothing up.

Terror would get her killed. Fear was a distraction and would turn her clumsy, and so she forced herself to shut her eyes for a long exhale. 

When she opened them again, her teeth tingled. The blade in her hand felt hot, eager to split skin. Every inch of her was prepared for the worst: already bruised and bloody, what more could they do to her? Death wasn’t something to fear, not when she’d always known her duty. 

Swallowing once and tasting copper, she steadied herself. This was exactly what she’d always been trained for, why her Father had picked her up from the Narrows. To kill on her family’s behalf. To split blood in the name of Falcone. 

If a few bodies had to split open at her hands, then that was just business. 

In the East End, silence reigned. Shadows drowned every corner, and she was glad for it. It allowed her to slip through the halls, down toward Sofia’s room. Blood covered the top half of her, painting her red and dark. Copper filled up her mouth when she swallowed and so she did her best not to. The salt between her teeth might distract her. 

If Sofia were to see her, she knew what would be said: that she was a bloody, butcher of a thing. A monster. Teeth stained with the blood of another.

It was true enough. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was finding her Father, finding Sofia, and stopping anybody that attempted to interfere no matter the means. Blood already stained her skin and two men had already died at her feet tonight. What were a few more in the name of Falcone?

Selina halted just outside Sofia’s bedroom. 

Inside, by the doorway, a man stood—gun at his side, badge strapped to his jacket, back turned. 

The man started to turn, sighing at the empty room. The target—her sister—was nowhere to be seen. 

What a disappointment, she thought with a snarl, that he wouldn’t be able to put a bullet in Sofia’s skull.

The blade landed firmly in the vulnerable skin of his neck. Just as before, she slashed sideways, allowing his skin to split and his muscle to tear. The detective gave a gag of a cry, blood filling up his throat and muffling his shriek. It sounded faint either way to her. The buzzing in her ears had turned everything muted. Blurry splotches had taken over her vision and left her hands to do the remainder of the work. 

That was alright. This was routine: split skin, bloody hands, fearful gazes. Bodies dropped at her feet. This sort of movement lived in her hands and she didn’t have to remind herself of the steps. 

The man stumbled backwards, hands lifting toward his bloody skin, gagging for breath to no avail. It only took another minute before he fell, twitching, chest going still. 

Selina stared downwards and tried not to think of all the blood spilling over the white carpet. It would have to be replaced. Sofia hated the stain of red, except—she wasn’t there when Selina lifted her head. 

The room was spotless. The bed was made, clean and without a crinkle. Across the desk, Sofia’s many jewels sparkled, neatly piled up as always. There wasn’t a single fuzz or spot of dust out of place.

Selina took one slow step forward, even as it tracked blood further into the room, stupidly hoping Sofia would be hiding around the corner. If not here, where—

Down the hall, muffled voices rang out. A quiet clatter, like two forks rattling against one another—or, guns lifted and prepared to fire.

Vision blurred, head swimming, she turned and left without a second glance.

By her Father’s room, a swarm of men lingered. Six inside, two out: all detectives, all armed. Each and every one tense around the shoulders, their feet planted and fingers wrapped around steel. 

Selina bit her tongue till blood flooded her mouth, salty and disgusting, only piling onto the copper already staining her teeth. It forced her head to stop swimming, at least, as it spilled over her tongue. 

“Stay still,” a voice called. Around the corner, too far for her to see, but that was no matter. From a thousand feet away, blind and half-dead, she’d still know that voice: James Gordon.

Dread filled up her stomach like air in a balloon, so quick she wouldn’t be surprised if her lungs popped right open. It felt like a thousand bugs crawled over her, itchy and awful. 

“This’ll be easier if you cooperate. Don’t try to fight.”

Selina pressed up flat to the wall. It hurt to breathe, a tight pressure over her throat that wouldn’t release.

There was a quiet shuffle. Fabric shifting, hesitant footsteps. Clicking followed right after, light and deliberate. 

“Don’t move,” another shouted. Younger, she thought, inexperienced. With a waver in his voice that spelled all sorts of trouble. 

Throat seizing, she peered around the corner. The sight awaiting her halted her heart: almost a dozen guns pointed up at her Father’s temple, his hands raised in a clumsy, lazy fashion. Uncaring and unafraid.

Selina had never seen him afraid. It would be strange to start now, even with bullets aimed his way. As a corpse, he’d likely still be smiling: victorious till death. 

There was a hole in the wall behind him. The shot from before, then. A warning. 

The sound still echoed in her ears, a piercing sound that grated against her teeth. 

“Relax, kid.” Gordon, if she had to guess, but the voices sounded muddled. Blood was steadily filling up her mouth but she couldn’t remember biting down a second time. 

Deep in her chest, her heart thumped, so hard she could feel it against her ribs. They were sure to break at this rate, splintering beneath the heavy weight of her heartbeat. Already, she was aware what would happen, how this night would end. There was no avoiding it. There were too many men for her to even consider intervening. 

Her Father only smiled, thin-lipped and easy. A bullet aimed his way, eight really, was no cause for concern. No reason to panic. 

Selina shifted in the hall, shifting further along the wall to peer outward. 

The movement, slight as it was, grasped his attention. Their eyes met. Her Father twitched, a frown pulling the corners of his mouth downward, and his chin jerked up.

A shot rang out.

Blood spattered across the wall.

Bright, red, awful.

Selina twitched and twisted around the corner, her palm already firmly clapped around her mouth. Biting down on a scream. Blood filling up her mouth. Everything felt hot: her eyes, her hands, her chest. An ache rose up in her stomach, like wine-filled nausea that wouldn’t dissipate. 

A thump sounded: a body hitting the floor. Dead weight smacking against wood. 

She tried not to gag. 

The sight of the body—her Father—sat behind her eyelids. Folding over at the waist, bloody around the skull, twitching once before going still. Dead. 

A whimper climbed up her chest. If she released herself and parted her lips, she knew what could fall out: an awful, loud shriek. A wail, closer to a gag than a sob. Every possible noise she’d swallowed in her life.

The ringing in her ears steadily quieted the longer she stood, head tipped back and pressed against the wall. It stung the base of her skull and that was the point. Some sort of awful bruise or fracture sat there, and the harder she pressed down, the more she could focus. 

Around the corner, shouts tapered away. Without a rush of water and terror in her ears, she could hear the sigh Gordon released, quiet and irritated. Like this was all very bothersome. 

“Jesus, kid.” 

Selina held her palm tighter over her mouth. Tears slipped down her cheeks, dripping down her chin and across her neck. Blood still lingered across her teeth and sat tacky across her skin. Three detectives were dead around the house, ready to be discovered by the Commissioner. 

If anyone stepped into the hall, they’d find her soon enough. There was only one exit: down the narrow hall and around the corner where she stood. 

Around the corner, more shuffling and sighing. Quiet footsteps, murmurs, clicking of guns placed back into holsters. The sound made her twitch. The men were ready to clean up: a job well done. A problem—a body, her Father—in need of being disposed of. 

Across the hall was a small window.

Selina crept toward it with shaking hands. With one last sideways look, she found a set of blank, grey eyes staring up toward the doorway, her Father slumped over on the floor and blood pooling around his head. 

Beside him stood James Gordon, arms crossed, chin tilting. By the time he’d turned, she’d already fled into the dark. 

Chapter Text

A terrible whining rang in his ears. 

Bruce hummed. The edges of his skull were far too muddled with sleep for him to even think about caring. It was nothing more than a fly, he thought to himself, buzzing and searching for sweet fruit. 

The sound grew louder. It went ignored.

He turned his cheek further into his elbow, nose pressed up against the soft fabric of his sleeve. Sleep pricked at the edges of his brain. It’d be so easy to succumb. These days, it was near impossible to find even a few quiet hours to shut his eyes. With all the carnage in the streets, it seemed more appropriate to keep his eyes peeled. Long, tiresome nights were spent with his eyes drooping while he scribbled notes and stared ahead at the newest reports.

There’d be time for sleep later. Maybe when he’d finally passed away. Maybe when bodies stopped dropping in the streets. Till then, he could sacrifice a few nights of quiet. 

The sound grew louder. Fighting away irritation, he pressed his cheek flat to his arm and inhaled once. Curious enough, the sound steadily grew more wet, like a sort of cry. Not a fly, then, buzzing around his ears.

With a mellow groan, he lifted up his head. The edges of his vision were still blurry with sleep and he blinked till the fog faded away. 

Bruce’s chin turned sideways, and—the sleep drained from his body in an instant. The blood in his veins froze, terror coursing through him. 

There, by the window, stood a shadow. Blood stained her face. Both of her shoulders shook with every wet, trembling breath that she gave, curling inward like her chest might just crumble in on itself. 

Selina.

Papers fluttered about as he bolted up. Pens clattered to the floor, bouncing off of his socks, but he paid them no mind. With his heart thumping so hard that his ribs rattled, he began to imagine only the worst: she was hurt, bruised, split open. Half-dead and in need of medical attention he couldn’t provide. In front of his very eyes, she would slip away, blood leaking over his palms and onto the floor, the pearl over her neck bouncing to the floor and echoing in his ears—

Bruce halted. Inhaled and steadied himself. 

Selina needed a capable, steady hand. She was trembling and looked more terrified than he’d ever seen her. A sort of glaze took over her eyes, even when he ducked his chin to try and catch them. This wasn’t the time for him to panic. 

“Selina,” he said, and then again when she refused to so much as blink. The edges of her gaze were fuzzy like she’d gone drinking, as if wine filled up her veins and muddled her tongue. 

Bruce had never seen her drink. Knowing what he did of her, she likely considered it a frivolous task. A useless means of making oneself sick. 

If he asked for her company at the club—and he had considered it, once or thrice, imagining spinning her around beneath the lights—she’d only laugh. Then, she’d likely poke and prod and taunt him for asking in the first place. There’d be an accusation, most likely, that his time at the club was nothing but a performance. That he only went so he could pretend to be far older and greater than he was in reality.

And, as always, she’d be right. Selina always knew just how to press down on the bruises of truth, how to slide a blade beneath his skin and peel it away till all that remained was his buried shames. Bruce didn’t mind allowing her to see all of his secrets: she held them carefully, even if she teased and taunted. 

Selina’s hands, wild and shaking, clasped around her throat. It looked as if she wished to gag away her own breath and to suffocate herself. The next cry that fell from her lips was louder than before, like a desperate sort of sob. 

Bruce’s eyes went wide, lashes lifting as he stared in horror. Panic tore up the skin around his heart. Her throat was still pink and bruised. Little fingerprints littered her neck and she pressed down upon them without even realizing it, clutching at herself.

With patience that he certainly didn’t feel—fear licked at his spine and turned his blood hot the longer she dug into her own skin—he wrapped his fingers around her wrists and tugged. It didn’t do much at all, likely because he hadn’t pulled very hard at all. Never in a thousand years, and then some, would he jerk with the intent of hurting her. 

At the very least, he succeeded in grasping her attention. 

Selina’s eyes lifted, catching onto the flat expanse of his chest as she released a little gasp. 

Bruce tightened his hold over her wrists. They were still wrapped tightly around her neck, squeezing and pressing down. Come morning, he wouldn’t be surprised if a fresh set of fingerprints sat atop her skin. 

“Selina,” he murmured, just once to try and grasp her attention again. 

The lines of her jaw went taught, teeth clicking together. Though the hollow look in her eyes remained, her gaze lifted and fell onto his shoulder. It felt calculated, like she was drilling a hole into the bone beneath his sweater. 

Bruce let his own gaze travel along her body, searching for other injuries. All he could see, though, was bright fear and dark anxiety. The skin of her face was pink and wet from tears and blood alike. In his gentle grip, she trembled, fingers twitching she wasn’t quite sure to do with her empty hands. 

Oh, he thought, face pinching. Oh, Selina.

Whatever terrible agony lived beneath her skin couldn’t possibly be understood by anyone but her. Whatever had transpired tonight, whatever blood and cruelty, had burrowed into her bones. It lived beside her marrow and clung to her tissue. All that tragedy was bound to her blood like string in a knot.

“Selina,” he murmured, keeping the edges of his voice steady. Were he any weaker, he’d allow himself to shudder and weep on her behalf. Now wasn’t the time and he knew it. Not while tears still lined her lashes and blood still covered her skin. For now, she needed a sturdy hand. “Tell me what happened.”

Selina pressed forward. Stumbled, really. It struck a chord of concern deep in his chest. Selina didn’t stumble, and yet now, she did toward him till her forehead knocked into his shoulder. He lifted up his hands to steady her, fingers brushing up against her spine. This close, he could feel her shiver. 

Against his sweater, a wet spot began to form. Tears. Blood. The sensation forced his eyes shut. If he kept them open any longer, he’d start to wail. As it were, a cry was forming in the back of his throat. Only the tight press of his jaw kept it between his teeth.

The hand over her spine lifted, fingertips rubbing one long line down her back. He could feel the divots of her vertebrae. The longer he pressed down against them, the harder she shook. “Selina,” he said softly. “Breathe. In and out. Just breathe, sweet girl.”

The fond sentiment slipped through his teeth. It was better than a wail, he figured, even as the ridges of her spine locked up. The breath in her lungs seemed to catch like a fly in honey. 

Bruce kept still. If she liked, she could pull away to wither and sneer. Touch was always a cautious play with her, and if he’d pushed too far, he wouldn’t blame her anger. 

Except, she remained just as curiously stiff as him. Like she awaited his next move.

With a tremendous leap of faith, he placed his bare palm over the back of her skull. The other wrapped around her waist, keeping her tight to his chest.

“That’s it,” he murmured. She trembled against him. “All you have to do is breathe, my love.”

The tension in her body snapped like a rubber band. Her forehead knocked against his shoulder as she clutched at him, fingers digging into his sweater. It nearly stung. He didn’t mind.

For a long moment, she made no noise other than a sound, wet and sad. Then, with a croak, “He’s dead.”

Bruce stilled. 

Despite the blood dripping off of her face and the scent of rot clinging to her skin, the confession twisted his heart. Nervous panic spiraled up his chest. Death wasn’t something he could fix. 

Carefully, he pulled far back enough to cup a palm over her chin. It was wet and tacky. Any other time, he’d cringe and pull away, but tonight, the sticky feeling over his skin barely registered. What mattered was her: her pale skin, bleached of color. The pink of her mouth, parted and trembling with sorrow.

“Who?” This sort of reaction spelled trouble. Then, after a beat, his brows furrowed. Furiously, he questioned, “Did someone hurt you?”

A small, upset sound caught in her throat. It was honest enough to confirm his suspicions. Whatever lay beneath her clothes, away from his prying eyes, was likely bloodier than what sat on her face. It was as terrible to imagine as it was easy to spiral into the worst sorts of theoreticals.

Bruce’s eyes darted across her body, searching. Bruises and gashes might line her skin. The soft space beneath her throat might be raw and gaping. Layers of skin might be peeled away, exposing white bone underneath. The pretty, pink expanse of her heart might just be torn in two. 

“Selina,” he said, the name like sugar over his tongue, “it’s only me. There’s only us.”

A confession of guilt meant nothing to him. If she were to tell him that she’d maimed and killed, then so be it. That could be dealt with later. Without that sort of verbal revelation, he could likely still guess where the blood had come from: a body, nameless. Death stuck to her like a shadow but it didn’t matter much. All that mattered was her safety. 

Beneath his hands, her fingers trembled. The fog in her eyes still hadn’t lifted. 

“If you’re hurt,” he tried, poking and prodding at her own set of metaphorical bruises, “let me help.”

Selina twitched, looking rather irritated at the suggestion even while avoiding his eyes. Of course that would be what roused her from the haze of confusion and terror. Help, of all things, always made her sneer and turn away. The implication of her mortality was like a dagger to her heart. It spoke of vulnerability and weakness, and she liked neither. 

Regardless, Bruce stared down at her with warmth, feeling hollow. If only she’d allow him to extend a soft hand. 

“I know you can handle yourself.” Two fingers lifted toward her forehead, brushing away a stray curl. Blood was matted between the strands. He tried not to wince. With a sigh, he said, “Let me at least help you clean up.”

More than anything, he wished to drown her in his affection. It’d be easy to give in and pull her close. To demand answers and direct his anger elsewhere.

Rather than do anything of the sort, he tilted up her chin with his thumb and forefinger.

“Let me help,” he urged. 

The fog around her eyes broke apart even further. Irritation, hot and sour, lifted her chin upward so that she could give him a thin glare. The sight of her returned fury was nearly comforting. 

“You can’t,” she said, quiet and miserable. He furrowed his brows and lowered his hands to grasp her arms. Then, louder and more stern, “You can’t help me.”

There were secrets buried in her chest, behind her ribs, just as there were in his own sternum. Bruce wished he could dig his fingers into them, watching them give way like a bruised peach. If she’d let him, he’d hold those secrets in his palms and keep them safe. 

“You can’t help me,” she repeated. Frantic terror dripped off of her tongue. A wild sort of gleam glittered in her eyes and she backed away with a sniffle. Bruce let her go. There was no point in a chase. It would only make her feel all the more caged in. 

The backs of her knees bumped into the sofa and she jerked, chin swiveling and chest heaving. A whimper fell out of her mouth, loud and panicked, and her hands came up in front of her chest. Protecting herself, almost, covering up all her vulnerable organs with her fists. 

“If you’ll let me—” he started, not one bit surprised when she shook her head. It tossed her curls side to side. Clumps of hair, strung together by red, blurred in front of his vision. 

“No,” she hissed. “No. You can’t.”

Bruce took a half-step forward with his palms lifted, open and bare. She could do whatever she liked with them: bat them away, cut them up, hold onto them for balance. Anything she liked.

“You don’t understand.” 

That much was true. Denying it, denying her, would not only be false but cruel. He couldn’t explain the blood or dirt or hysteria. He couldn’t understand the tears or panic or desperation. Though he’d like to, that truth hadn’t yet been unburied. It still lived behind her ribs, desperate to claw its way through her teeth and toward the light.

There was so much about her he didn’t understand. 

“Alright,” he said quietly, easy as ever. It was all that could be said. Her tear-filled eyes lifted up and toward him. “So tell me.”

Selina sniffled, shifting backwards like she wished to recoil. Every little inhale curled her chest inwards. It sounded like it hurt to breathe. 

“It’s me,” he said, earnest. “There’s nothing you could say to me that I can’t bear to hear.”

There was nothing to be said that would turn his chin or make him run. No matter how awful or brutal, he could bear it. 

Bruce stepped toward her till their toes touched. The hard edges of her boots pressed up against his soft socks. By the end of the night, they’d be dirty and bloody, like his hands and sleeves. That was alright. It could be cleaned away.

“Selina,” he murmured, so soft that a whistle in the wind could’ve covered up the sound. Slowly, he lowered himself to his knees in front of her. That way, she towered over him. He had to tip back his chin to see her, so far that it strained the muscles in his neck. “It’s only me. You and I are the only one’s here.”

Her shoulders were still drawn tight. Her hands still formed half-curled fists over her chest. 

“I just want you to breathe,” he said carefully, placing his palm against her hip. The soft curve of her fit perfectly in his hand. “I want to know. I want you to tell me.”

It did the trick. 

Slowly, she lowered herself to sit on the couch. His hands lifted, coming up to cup her trembling cheeks—and it was wet and gross and strands of dirty hair tickled his hands. 

And what did any of that matter compared to the steady exhale that she gave?

The green of her eyes was dull and sad. With another little sniffle, she ducked closer into his palm, nudging her cheek closer to his skin. When she spoke, it was wet, as wet as her skin and hair and eyes. “Bruce, he’s dead.”

Bruce rubbed circles over her cheekbones with the edge of his thumb. “Tell me his name.”

Perhaps, he figured, she did not know where to even begin. What to say or how to unburden herself. When so much was buried in her sternum, it must be difficult to know exactly how to speak. When she’d always been strung along like a puppet, operating freely must be so terribly strenuous. 

“Carmine Falcone,” she cried quietly. The confession forced a fresh set of tears to well up in her eyes and slip down her cheeks. Then, with a terrible gasp, “My Father.”

Bruce went still. The edges of his heart began to crumble, disintegrating beneath the terrible truth. Never, not once, had he considered the possibility of her family being involved. When he’d thought of her employer, he’d always imagined a faceless figure, cruel and meaningless. Powerful, but with no further relation to her. Not her flesh and blood. 

“Your father,” he repeated, gently, quietly. It only made her shake harder. A weak gasp of a sob tore out of her throat. 

“They shot him,” she cried. Hot tears slipped toward her chin. “I saw it. I heard it.”

The pounding of his heart halted and shriveled up entirely. Though years had passed, he could still hear those pearls bouncing across pavement. The sight of his parents slumping over with death sat in his worst nightmares. 

To know that she had now seen and heard the same—a gunshot echoing, blood splattering. 

Bruce forced himself closer to her. The scent of copper filled up his lungs and he tried not to gag. Bouncing pearls echoed in his eardrums. 

“I don’t know what to do,” she said, staring at his shoulder. “Without him…”

“Yes?”

Selina met his eyes. A frightful clarity had filled them, turning the green of her gaze bright with dread. “There’s nothing left. I have nothing.”

“That can’t be true,” he said slowly. After the death of his parents, the very same fear had rotted his heart from the inside out. Their reputation was crumbling, their legacy in tatters, and there was no one around to save it but him. It had been a horribly overwhelming burden. 

“You don’t know that,” she said. Tears lined her lower lashes, but this time, they didn’t fall. “This was all for him, Bruce.”

Whatever she saw in his face didn’t satisfy her. It made her sigh, rather, a tired and heavy sound. Her hand lifted up and toward his neck, peeling away the thick fabric of his collar. For a moment, he didn’t understand her reasoning, but then two fingers pressed up against his scar.

“Don’t you see?” she muttered. The tips of her fingers prodded harder. It wouldn’t surprise him if they slipped right through flesh and toward his bones. “Everything was for him. Everything.”

Terrible realization set in. The jagged puzzle pieces slid together, clicking into place. 

Every kill and breath and step had been for Carmine Falcone. Everything that Selina had done had been for her Father. Split skin, bruised knuckles, and a trail of bodies: all under his orders. 

For him, Selina lived and breathed. Without him, the line between life and death blurred.

“Oh, Selina,” he said quietly. “Sweet girl, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.” 

Bruce lifted his gaze, but she was staring firmly at his shoulder. The line of her jaw was tight, like she was gritting her teeth till they went flat. 

“Don’t,” she repeated. “I did it all willingly. I’m his executioner.”

The title, spoken like truth, ripped up the skin inside his chest. Acid frothed and fizzed in his chest, dissolving his rib cage and organs and the soft heart that belonged to her. 

You could’ve died. That was what he’d said that day in the club, wasn’t it? Accused, more like. And all she’d said in response, he thought with dawning horror, was—

And? Who cares?

After so many years beneath the thumb of her father, she was nothing if not a tool. That was all she’d been taught to understand herself as: a knife. A weapon. His executioner. 

Ice slipped into his bloodstream, like he’d stepped outside in the dead of winter without any clothes on. It made his bones eager to crack apart. 

“He picked me for a reason,” she continued with a single sniffle. There wasn’t a trace of sorrow left in his voice. Now, the edges of her voice were tight, like she spoke only with brittle certainty. “He knew I had it in me.”

Bruce’s heart trembled and popped. 

There were a thousand things that he could say with ease, a thousand ways he could argue and fight. Except, it wouldn’t change anything. Selina believed it to be true. After all this time, she thought herself to be an executioner because something in her blood and flesh and bones uniquely made her one. There’d always been something within her destined for this sort of life, from birth. Maybe even before. 

With his hands still over her wet, dirty cheeks, he tried to imagine a life spent that way. Years spent believing one’s calling to be death. Blood, guts, and pain. It seemed torturous. Yet, it was the life that she had lived. 

Selina gave another sniffle, her flat gaze still avoiding him. 

“With enough pressure,” he said slowly, thinking about the pink bruises on her throat and the easy way that she spoke about her own death, “anyone will break.”

Selina’s jaw clicked shut. Her eyes shone, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he allowed her to inhale through a wet breath and for silence to stretch across the room. The longer it spread, the greater the fog returned to her eyes, a daze replacing the blur of tears in her green.

“Come on,” he said gently, brushing away her hair and trailing a finger down her face. “Let’s go clean up.”

The blood truly was a grisly sight. It sat around her mouth and chin, bright as the sun. The collar of her shirt had turned damp as it dripped downward, and the edges of her sleeves were much the same.

Bruce winced. Even the thought of it made his skin prickle. All that sticky wetness. Washing away the memory of that horror might allow the wires in her head to untangle.

“Just give yourself five minutes to breathe,” he said gently, brushing his fingers over her cheek. 

It was the final nail in the creaking coffin.

Selina blinked, foggy and dazed. The corners of her mouth went thin and she jerked a nod. 

“Just five minutes,” she agreed quietly.

Together, they stood, his hands reaching for her arms in case she needed balance. Bruce pressed closer, unable to help himself from reaching toward her one final time. Willingly, she sagged against him, clutching her fingers around his arms. The fabric of his sweater crumpled beneath her grip. 

“Five,” he whispered against her ear. Only five, though he wished to give her a thousand years of reprieve. Agreeing to five minutes had taken a great deal of coaxing. Any longer and she’d likely have bitten his head off. 

Maybe, when the streets had gone quiet, she’d allow him to do something pleasantly nice for her. Even something as simple as buying her another one of those pastries, the very same as the day of the vigil. Something sweet and kind. She deserved that, at the very least.

Selina tipped back her chin. The edges of her vision looked foggy again, like she’d had another non-existent drink. 

After this, she might just need one.

Bruce bit his lip at the thought, starving away the sudden influx of theoreticals. It wouldn’t be appropriate to serve her in this state of mind, but—but after, when the carnage had quieted into Gotham’s standard volume of chaos, maybe she’d let him. 

They could spend the night at a bar, sharing wine and tasting terrible cocktails. The sugar would eat away their gums and leave them with headaches. It’d be nice. Just the two of them in the dark, legs pressed together in a dirty booth, lights dim and music blaring.

When things were as normal as they’d ever be, he’d brave the question. A date. A night out. Just them.

A drop of blood dribbled off of her tilted-back chin. It fell to the floor with an inaudible splat. 

The edges of his mouth fell flat. A brittle, sour feeling struck at his chest, like too much liquor drunk at once. Someone was dead. Multiple men, maybe, at her hands or the hands of another. Nothing had ever been close to normal in this city. Not with her, with them, with anything. Waiting for the ordinary to return was a waste of effort.

With a thin-lipped smile, he pressed his hand over her lower back and led them out the door. 

The dim hallway let him stare her way without so easily being caught. Then again, her eyes looked empty. It was likely she couldn’t even feel his stare. 

The emerald of her gaze had faded into a dull, hollow grey. Bruce missed the flicker of life that always sat in her eyes, like twin diamonds sparkling beneath the low light. All the life in her body had been drained away. Covered up in grief and despair. 

Bruce turned his chin forward. 

It seemed intrusive to stare. Any longer and he might stay something, like promise everything would be alright.

After his parents, Alfred had said the very same. At every meal, he’d lingered like Bruce was fit to break while drinking tea. Always saying stupid, empty promises that solved nothing.

Saying the same to her was a betrayal of himself. That freshly grieving, ghost of a boy hadn’t wanted false guarantees, not when it felt like the world was caving in around him. Nothing could be alright while his parents were buried six feet deep. It wouldn’t solve anything to say the same to her. 

Selina jerked to a stop.

The bathroom was less than a foot away. Releasing his grip over her, he slipped inside to flip the light on. White light illuminated them both.

“Selina?”

Other than a few foggy blinks, she gave no reply.

The lines of her face twisted up as she neared the doorframe, like she might be sick. If that were the case, he wouldn’t quite blame her, not after whatever she’d seen tonight. If need be, he’d hold back her hair and stay with her through the long night. 

“You can sit, if you’d like,” he said, trying to offer up a casual suggestion rather than an inquiry. 

With all that fog taking up her head, he figured direction might be easier to follow. Questions never helped him when he was in a sore state of mind, even ones as simple as whether or not he was hungry. When poked and prodded, his tongue came up dry. Every possible answer and word in the English language faded from the corners of his skull.

Selina said nothing as her eyes lifted to meet his. 

“While you clean up,” he said, turning toward the sink to reach for a towel, “I’ll grab you some water. Food, too.”

Silence reigned behind him. That was alright. There was no need for her to respond, now. It’d be better for her to allow the fog to fade away in its own time. Trying to force it would only worsen her grief. 

The towel turned damp and dark beneath the sink water. Lukewarm, because she’d have to scrub all that blood away. 

“Here.” Bruce turned, the wet towel clutched between his fingers, and jumped. Right beside him stood Selina. Their elbows nudged as he drew the towel close to himself, heart thumping in his chest. With a thin laugh, he said, “Sorry, you startled me.”

Selina gave a little hum, low in her throat, and turned her eyes toward the mirror. 

Red stared back at her.

A litre of it stained her skin. It matted down her hair, slid like honey toward her neck, colored her clothes dark. It was a disgusting mess. Though it was not his skin that was stained, the smell of salt wafted into the air and stung at his nose. It made him twitch the longer he smelt it. 

Bruce’s heart twisted in his chest. Aching to reach for her, his fingers shook. He wondered if that smell of copper would ever be purged from the world. 

“Here,” he repeated, quieter than before. When she made no move to reach toward it, he grasped her hand, turning her bare palm to face the ceiling. The wet towel made a splat as he forced it into her grasp. 

Selina’s chin turned, eyes flickering as she registered the weight. 

“I’ll let you clean. Five minutes, then I’ll be back,” he said with a sweet, polite smile. The edges of his mouth trembled the longer he forced it over his lips. Sorrow filled up his stomach like a balloon ready to pop. 

It took great effort to remain standing rather than collapse onto the tiles. There was a dark cloud above his head and the only thing keeping him upright was her flat stare. Selina needed him. His hands had to remain steady for her.

“Five minutes,” she murmured, chin jerking up into a nod. The sound of her voice, even as a croak, filled up his lungs with hope. 

Bruce pivoted around her. The last thing he saw before the door shut was blood. Wet and terrible. Bright and red. Dull eyes, hollow green, and a flat frown. There was none of her standard spark to be found, nothing sharp or biting. It hurt to see her so dim.

The door clicked shut. 

In the dark of the hall, where she could neither see nor hear him, he covered up his mouth with his palm.

Tears, hot and shameful, spilled down his cheeks. A sob worked its way out his throat and went muffled into his hands. It was a strangled, choked-up sound that he’d never allow her to hear straight. It felt like his heart was cracking into thousands of pieces. It pounded and twisted against his ribcage as if he’d drunk until he was sick. 

Bruce swallowed. Gave one last, ragged gasp, and turned away. 

—

Bruce took care to wake early in the morning, long before the sun had risen.

Breakfast took some time, because he had little to no idea of what she liked. It seemed easiest to prepare a bit of everything: eggs, scrambled and fried. Toast and fruit and pastries. Tea as well as coffee, with sugar and cream sitting beside the pots.

They’d never taken a meal together. The most that he had seen of her eat was that pastry during the vigil, and even then, she’d only nibbled. It had fallen during the gunshot, forgotten.

“What’s all this?”

Bruce jerked, pivoting. 

Selina stood at the edge of the counter, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. A little smile was poorly hidden over her mouth. 

“Breakfast,” he said simply, trying to pretend as if his voice didn’t waver.

“Right,” she said, stepping around the counter and toward him. Her gaze remained low, stuck on the plates of food. “I can see that. You having guests, or something?”

Bruce cocked his head, curious and confused. “Just you.”

Without a sound, she turned sharp eyes and a thin mouth in his direction. 

When she did nothing but stare, he gave her a polite smile. It felt thin around the edges, nerves all fried up from her scrutiny. She agitated him in a way that he hadn’t known was possible, leaving him frustrated and wanting all at once. Hungry for her, just as he hoped that she was hungry for him.

“I can’t eat all this,” she said with a barely-visible pout, wandering closer. 

Though he knew it to be impolite, his eyes drifted low and across her body. The clothes she’d worn the night prior had been too dirty to wear again and so, with much complaint, she’d taken a fresh pair from him. Just sweats and a button-up, simple and clean, but it struck at something possessive in his chest. He wished, briefly, to sink his teeth into her and claim her skin just as his clothes had claimed her body. Heat traveled up his stomach, but he did his best not to flush.

“You don’t have to,” he murmured, eyes darting between the pink of her mouth and the curve of her hips. “Just eat whatever you’d like.”

Selina hummed, lips pursing, and took a seat. He watched carefully as she filled up her plate, trying his best to memorize her preferences: fried eggs over scrambled, burnt toast over pale. Sugar and cream in her coffee, such a hefty amount that he actually cringed. Apple slices and raspberries, both of which she inspected first, like she’d never before seen them. 

“I didn’t know what you’d like,” he said slowly, taking the seat beside her. While still watching the bridge of her nose, he filled up his own plate with fruit and toast. Coffee, too, but black. “I hope it’s alright. I thought it seemed safer to have everything out.”

Warmth flickered into her green eyes and pink lit up her cheeks, just bright enough to be visible. The skin beneath her eyes, he noticed, was dark, like she hadn’t slept in years. After the night prior, he couldn’t blame her. It was likely that nightmares had plagued her sleep. The same had terrorized him for months after his parents, and often still did. 

“Yeah,” she said easily. “It’s alright.”

It was the closest she’d give to outright thanks. Fondness never came easy to her. She didn’t seem to have easy access to kindness. Considering all he knew about her, he couldn’t fault her.

Bruce took a slow bite of his eggs, watching her do the same. Every few moments, she poked at something new with her fork, whether it be fruit or toast. Before every bite, she frowned just a bit, like she thought something might jump out at her.

“It’s not poisoned,” he said. Concern bled through his tone. 

Selina’s chin lifted, a piece of apple stuck on the ends of her fork. “I know.”

“You don’t look very sure.”

It didn’t hurt his feelings like he quite expected. Rather, it was a bit cute to watch her flip the fork back and forth, inspecting each piece of food like it might jump toward her with teeth exposed. Food seemed to be something she took rather seriously. 

Bruce felt the very same, albeit with a different sort of precision. Each pile of his breakfast, eggs and toast and fruit and the like, had their separate corners of his plate. It was best that they didn’t touch. The whole meal became sour if they crossed paths. 

“Relax,” she bit, shoving her fork back into the fruit. “I’m not making fun of your cooking.”

With narrowed eyes, he watched her for a moment more. Clearly, something was hidden beneath the surface. Something she didn’t, or simply wouldn’t, speak aloud. 

As she turned away, she blinked, eyes going a bit wide and then narrow at the selection of food in front of her. There were untouched platters of fruit, pastries, and tea still sitting out across the table. A multitude of choices that—

Oh. 

Choices.

Selina had never had much of a choice, had she?

Bruce turned away slowly, taking in every bright apple and fried-up egg, all the toast and pots of beverages. If he’d never been allowed a choice, even one as simple as picking his own breakfast, this would surely cause him panic. 

Ice filled up his veins, turning his bones brittle with every breath he took. Blue, freezing fury flipped his stomach inside out, because she’d never been allowed to so much as choose her own meal. 

“I thought we could spend the day together,” he said deliberately, rather than something stupid like: i’d give you the entire world if you asked. 

Her mouth wrinkled up. “Don’t you have class?”

“Sure, but one missed day won’t kill me.”

Besides, ignoring Silver for another day wouldn’t be so horrible. Ever since her birthday party, she’d given him nothing but icy glares and thin smiles. He couldn’t quite be sure why. 

Bruce cleared his throat, lowering his fork and keeping his hands steady. “I also need to be honest with you.”

Selina paused, gaze sharpening. Every other line of her body remained soft and loose, but he knew better than to assume she was indifferent. Trust was a fickle thing. It could be so easily broken, especially after it had taken so long to build. 

“About?” she asked simply, pink mouth flat and eyes sparkling. With mirth or ire, he couldn’t quite tell. Not yet, at least. Once he’d admitted himself and unburied the awful truth from the cavity of his chest, the incoming storm would surely erupt. 

Hopefully, she’d be kind enough not to resort to her blades like she had in the first few days that they’d met.

“If you stay here much longer,” he said carefully, rubbing his thumb along the edge of his fork. The cold metal soothed his nerves. He’d forgone his gloves for the day since he had no plans to go to school. Now, however, his skin felt raw and peeled away from the bone. “Alfred will find out.”

Selina stayed silent, allowing him to parse out the carefully worded warning. Every line and muscle across her body fixed itself in place, neither tense nor loose, just perfectly and completely still. Pretty and patient and ever so dangerous. 

The skin of his hands itched. 

“I could lie, and tell him you’re a friend from school,” he offered, though the both of them were aware it wouldn’t quite pass. Alfred was far too perceptive and knew far too much of his limited friend group. A sudden addition sounded suspicious. “I doubt he’ll believe it, though.”

“So what do you suggest?” Selina asked, voice thin. “Since I’m sure you already have an idea.”

Bruce swallowed and lowered his hands into his lap. It relaxed his hot, itching nerves just a fraction to have them out of sight. “The truth.”

Hunger curled the pretty features of her face, quirking her lips and narrowing her eyes. It was that same look she’d given him so often in the beginning, when she still thought of him as prey and herself as predator. Back when she liked to point a blade at him till he did what she wanted. 

Well, he thought with a bit of shame, that trick with the knife might still just work. Heat flickered in his stomach at the thought of her capable hands and sharp blade, but he kept his hunger at bay the best he could. This was no time for desire, especially not—that. That was a secret meant to stay buried. 

“And what truth would you like to tell him?” she asked, sugar dripping off of her tongue. A pretty flush lit up her cheeks, fueled by impatient irritation. “That you’re housing an assassin?”

Bruce winced but refrained from arguing. 

Everything was for him. 

It was the truth that she believed, one that had been drilled into her marrow for years and years. Death had been taught to her as a form of duty and love.

I’m his executioner. 

That sort of belief would take more than a day to unwork from the divots of her spine and the strings of her heart. But Bruce could be patient. For her, he could wait all the time in the world. 

“It’s easier than lying,” he argued. Then, with a deep, trembling breath, he let the truth slide out from between the grooves of his teeth. “Besides. Alfred’s already halfway to knowing who you are.”

Selina went entirely still. 

The green of her eyes turned an icy color, dark and menacing, and narrowed into slits as she glared. Sugar still dripped from her mouth as she smiled, thin and dangerous. Were the circumstances any different, he might just try and kiss her. This angry, she looked mighty pretty.

“Oh?” she asked, voice light and sweet. 

“I had to tell him something,” he said slowly. “That night—that first night with you—he found all the blood. He saw the cut. I couldn’t lie.”

Selina’s mouth went brittle around the edges. “So you lied to me instead.”

It was true and that was the horrid part of it: for weeks, he’d been lying, pretending to keep her dark and bloody secrets. James Gordon was a loose cannon, desperate for his so-called justice, and soon enough the truth of the attack might just spill like wine. Soon enough, the entire city might just know that an assassin had done their best to try and kill the Prince of Gotham.

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” she bit, fists clenching and eyes hard. 

Bruce clenched his jaw. After everything, it wasn’t quite unreasonable for him to have told. The blood couldn’t be hidden and neither could the cut. “I didn’t tell him about you,” he explained through gritted teeth. “I let him believe it was that girl that killed Maria Palmer.”

“Cam,” she said quietly, a bit of hurt flashing across her face at the memory. That same sort of ache struck at his lungs. It shouldn’t be such a surprise to know that she knew all of those dead assassins, that everything tied back to her flesh and blood, and yet hearing it aloud hurt all the same. 

“I need you to trust me.” Bruce took one of her tight fists in his own, thumb brushing up against her scarred knuckles even as her chin jerked. “Like I trust you.”

Selina’s teeth ground together, looking all too sour and bitter for a long moment. Then, she gave a sharp hiss, and, “Fine.”

Victorious and ever so fond, he pressed a quick kiss to her cheek. Pink lit up the skin beneath his lips, bright and ruddy, and her eyes went distinctly soft. It was a look of affection he wished to see across her face more often than not. 

Before he could duck away, her thumb and forefinger grasped at his chin. Blinking wildly, heat biting at his stomach, he met her gaze. Hunger had turned her eyes bright again. Hunger, and the knowledge that he liked that sort of manhandling from her. 

“If he tries to shoot me,” she murmered, “I’ll shoot him right back.”

Bruce gave a nervous laugh. “Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

With a brittle smile, she released him, already turning away. “Let’s see.”

Brows furrowing, he followed her line of sight toward the door. There was nothing, not a shadow or speck of dust, but then—footsteps, a moment later. A floorboard creaking. Alfred.

Anxiety erupted in his stomach, twisting the organ so tightly it hurt, and he swallowed roughly. It tasted sour, like he’d eaten slices of lemon. It made him twitch and wince. When he turned his chin, she was already leaning up against the counter, spine straight and shoulders loose. 

The footsteps came nearer. Selina’s jaw went tight.

“Good morning,” Alfred said as he rounded the corner, pleasant and cheery. “Shouldn’t you be on your way to school?”

Bruce swallowed and said nothing. Alfred’s gaze strayed, hands twisting together behind his back, and he eyed the many plates of food across the counter. It’d likely be cold soon, the eggs and toast gone soggy and the coffee lukewarm.

“Are we having guests, Master Bruce?” he asked, lifting a brow. Bruce bit away a frown. Besides the Commissioner, they hadn’t had guests in months. Most of his friends preferred fun and he was no good at that. The clubs were a better form of entertainment, with an endless stream of drinks and laughter. Bruce was only a dull void. “Miss St. Cloud, maybe?”

Bruce winced. Without looking sideways, he already knew Selina’s teeth were grinding together. It was a surprise he couldn’t hear it. That night with Silver still echoed in the back of his mind: the sticky sensation over his cheek and Selina’s flat antagonism.

At the very least, it had ended quite pleasantly.

“No, not her,” he said quickly, offering up a thin smile. “There’s someone else, though, that I’d like for you to meet.”

Alfred frowned, curious and polite. Surprised, too, which filled up Bruce’s lungs with sour irritation. Did it always have to be such a bright, shining surprise that he had friends? That someone out there could like him, despite all his oddities and strange habits?

At school, most ignored him. At the club, girls only wanted him for attention or pleasure. Bruce was either an outcast or a commodity. 

Selina treated him as neither. Rather, she met his gaze and touched his skin. Treated him with irritation and impatience because she believed him deserving of proper feelings, unlike so many others that thought him in need of watered down sentiments. So many adults and peers considered him fragile, a piece of glass eager to shatter, but not her. Never her. 

By the counter, she shifted, clinking together stray silverware. Bruce knew it was a purposeful means of grasping attention. 

Alfred’s chin turned, startled, and landed on the shadow of her.

“I’m Selina Falcone,” she said, a sugary smile lifting the corners of her mouth upwards. It looked plastic and mean and if they were alone, Bruce would kiss it right off of her. Then, her chin jerked upwards, indicating him. “I’m the one who gave him that pretty scar.”

Alfred barely twitched. When he spoke, it was terribly cold and awfully flat. “Is that so?”

It wasn’t the easy, simple introduction that Bruce had hoped for. Then again, there was no polite way to announce her person considering the circumstances. Nothing could be said except the truth: she was a killer, and he’d been a failed target. 

“Alfred,” he rushed to say, stepping forward until he could shield her body with his broad chest, “just listen.”

“Do you mean to say you’ve brought an assassin into our house?” Alfred spit, eyes wild and mouth thin. One finger lifted up and pointed toward her over Bruce’s shoulder. “That you’ve befriended the girl who tried to split your neck open?”

It wasn’t as if Bruce had forgotten how they’d met. It just didn’t quite seem as important as the several weeks that had passed between them afterwards. One night, admittedly bloody and brimming with pain, shouldn’t define the entirety of their relationship. 

If he said such a thing aloud, Alfred would call him absurd, and so he kept the words beneath his tongue.

“Yes.” It came out furious, red-hot anger dripping off the edges. Loud and certain enough, too, that Alfred halted, his jaw shutting and teeth clicking.

Behind him, Selina sucked in a tight breath, like the declaration was still some sort of surprise. Her eyes drilled a hole into the back of his skull.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred said slowly, eyes wide and horrified, “this girl is dangerous.”

“Selina’s my friend,” he said, even as he failed to correct the assumption. It wasn’t as if it was untrue: she knew enough about bloodshed and death that dangerous was certainly a correct word for her. “I care about her. That won’t change no matter what you do to try and convince me otherwise.”

Disgust flickered up Alfred’s face and slowly, he asked, “How long have you been seeing her?”

Bruce swallowed and lifted his chin. “Since that first night.”

It was only a bit embarrassing to admit. To say, outright, that he’d run straight toward her rather than away. That a blade in her hand and blood staining her skin had intrigued him rather than struck fear in his stomach. Everyone had their thing, after all. Bruce just happened to like a thrill of danger. Sue him.

Alfred gave an impolite groan and pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “The first night? Master Bruce, you must be joking.”

With a sputter, he opened his mouth to defend himself—but what was there even to say, really? That Selina was pretty, with bright green eyes and a full mouth, that her clever hands and sharp tongue had interested him more than anything in his life? That he’d spent days attempting to forget her, and couldn’t. Wouldn’t. 

“Quiet,” Alfred bit, waving a hand his way and looking far too exhausted considering the time of day. Bruce’s jaw shut with a click. “I don’t want to know.”

Heat flared up in his cheeks, so hot that he could feel it across every inch of his body. The appalled tone and weary look that Alfred sent him made it seem as if something truly improper had transpired between the two of them. It made him feel agitated and full of want all at once.

“I am going to give you the benefit of the doubt,” Alfred said from between tight, gritted teeth. “Only—and I mean only—because I know you. I know that you like to chase danger like a dog with a bone, no matter how hard I try to reel you in.”

Behind Bruce, Selina made a noise in her throat, amused but muffled. Like she was already well aware of his affinity for trouble. 

“Somehow,” Alfred continued, “it always works out for you rather well. So I am going to choose to assume this girl is the same. I am going to trust you.”

Fond warmth spread across his chest. Stepping sideways to allow Selina space, he whispered, “Thank you.”

“We’re not done there,” she cut in, voice thin. Bruce spared her a brief frown, though he knew the very same. “That’s barely half of it.”

Alfred sighed and tucked his hands into his pockets. “Well, go on then. Explain the rest of it.”

The words reeked of exhaustion—and Bruce knew just how that felt. Living on the outskirts, a witness and bystander alike, was like a tremendous weight on his shoulders. All this time, he’d been forced to watch the blood spill in the streets and bodies pile up like bricks. It was a heavy burden to sit and know there was nothing to be done but watch the carnage unfold. 

Except, it couldn't be even a minuscule amount of the pressure atop Selina’s shoulders: having lived it, having spilled the blood herself. Having been not just a witness but an unwanted participant. 

Neither he nor Alfred were drenched in blood as she was. Neither knew the sweet taste of death and sorrow as well as her. 

With a tight jaw, Bruce warned, “Be nice, Alfred. Selina’s our guest, remember?”

Beside him, Selina went a bit slack, shoulders loosening at the reminder of his approval. Hopefully, that pressure—that endless, heavy burden over her shoulders—could release beneath his affection, even if just by an inch. 

“My Father,” she said slowly, teeth gritted and eyes firmly on Alfred’s, “is Carmine Falcone.”

Bruce could not possibly imagine the pain admitting such a thing caused. All she’d been taught was to burn herself and her name. Unraveling the truth was like cutting apart the strings of her own heart. 

“And Carmine Falcone,” she said carefully, “is the cause of every evil deed in this shit city. Every crime and death in the last few decades: it’s all him.”

Alfred twitched. 

Despite himself, so did Bruce, knuckles flexing and stomach flipping.

The ghost stories spoke for themself: a puppeteer pulled bloody strings across Gotham with ease. Politicians and the police caved beneath his will. Crime spiked when he desired it and bodies dropped with a snap of his fingers.

It was a gruesome, bloody story. It was an easy, awful way to place the blame of everything horrific in Gotham onto one man. 

Most didn’t believe it. Most, rather, thought of Gotham as a shining empire of opportunity. Corruption and crime was nothing but an illusion to keep citizens in line. 

Except, Thomas and Martha Wayne were shot in an alley. Except, Barbara Kean’s head caved in beneath a brick years later. Except, nearly a dozen young blondes were dead, and the illusion proved itself to be true after all. 

“Wonderful,” Alfred said from between gritted teeth. “Am I to assume you’re hiding from him, then?”

Selina gave him a smile full of acid and sugar in equal parts. “No, don’t worry. He’s dead. The GCPD shot him.”

Bruce’s chin spun toward her, so quickly that the muscles in his neck strained. That little detail hadn’t been something she’d shared last night. In truth, he hadn’t known what to think. Maybe that it had been an attack of some old adversary, making good of a promise of retribution. 

That was a stupid assumption, he knew now.

“The GCPD?” he asked, eyes wide and brimming with horror. Panic bubbled up in his stomach, growing worse the longer he stared at her. If the GCPD knew the identity of her Father, then she was only one step behind. “The Commissioner knows?”

“So we are hiding a criminal from the law,” Alfred muttered, sounding irritated rather than distressed. 

“Quiet, Alfred,” he spit, even as he kept his gaze firmly on Selina. Carefully, he approached her, reaching two trembling fingers up and toward her wrist. Though she narrowed her eyes, she made no move to flinch away, and he wrapped his hand around hers. The warmth of her skin calmed his beating heart. “Selina. I can’t protect you from Jim Gordon.”

There wasn’t much to be done against the skewed version of justice that Gordon had adopted since his late wife’s death. At best, he could hide her away till it all died down, keeping her cooped up in the corners of Wayne Manor while the blood trickled away and into the sewers. 

But that wasn’t what he wanted for her. Selina deserved far better than shadows and secrecy.

If he could, he’d hand over the world to her, or at the very least the city. For now, he’d settle for sunlight over her skin and sugar in her teeth. A simple, easy life full of choices made by her and only her.

“But you could protect me from my Father’s killer?” The sharp words instantly destroyed every daydream he’d collected about being her bodyguard. With a rather snide look his way, she crossed her arms and ribbed, “Besides, I’m not asking for your safety.”

Bruce withered at that. It did sound rather stupid when she framed it like that. 

Selina sighed and stepped closer. Their toes brushed together and he could nearly feel her breath wafting over him. “All I’m asking for is time.”

“To do what exactly, Miss?” 

“There’s a rat on the loose,” she said, eyes lifting toward Alfred. It dripped off her tongue like the edge of a blade: razor-sharp and dangerous. A warning above all else. “Someone snitched. There’s no other possible way that the Commissioner found my Father.”

“Maybe he finally just figured it out,” Bruce said gently. Cautiously, he hoped that it would be enough to curb her imminent hunt. If there really was a rat, Selina would likely string him up inside out, guts on display and blood splattered. “It was bound to happen at some point.” 

Selina’s chin tilted ever so slightly. A deadly, stinging gleam flickered through her gaze. “I doubt that.”

“Pardon my cruelty,” Alfred said, voice thin and full of doubt, “but isn’t it a good thing if this Carmine Falcone is dead?”

Bruce turned sharply. It was a cruel thing to say aloud, even if he’d privately thought the very same. With him gone, there wasn’t anyone to pull Selina’s strings. 

Alfred caught his sharp glare and winced, apologetic. “Well, it’s not like he can send her to kill any more schoolboys if he’s gone.”

“It’s not that easy,” she said without a flinch or tremble. Pride and awe alike swelled up in his chest. The amount of strength it took to say such a thing without hesitation was unimaginable. “This fight started years ago. It won’t stop just because he’s dead.”

The words were spoken with a careful, knowing edge. It sounded like ice coated her teeth, like they lived in the dead of winter and all she knew was the brutal truth. It trembled his very chest, because she knew. Selina already knew exactly the answer to this bloody problem. Maybe she’d known along and kept it between her teeth. 

“How will it end, then?” Bruce asked slowly.

“We need to give James Gordon exactly what he wants,” she said simply. One shoulder lifted into an easy little shrug and her mouth twisted into a playful pout. “What he’s been haunted by for years and never managed to catch.”

Realization settled into his bones like ice. In the very depths of his marrow, he felt sick, twisted up and ready to puke. By his side, his fingers trembled, just a bit, and he stepped forward despite every limb feeling locked in place. 

Selina smiled, tight and victorious, eager and hungry. “Let’s give him the Butcher.”

Chapter Text

This late into winter, life nearly ceased to exist altogether.

Across the great expanse of the gardens, snow covered up every bush and briar of flowers. If not already dead, they were brown around the edges, drooping and wilting. If she stepped any closer, the scent of death would surely invade her: sweet apples. The very same smell that stuck to her skin even years after she’d finally left the Narrows for good. 

Only the roses survived. But they, too, smelled like sugar and fruit.

Selina turned her nose up at the splotches of red, barely hidden beneath a thick layer of white. The flowers reminded her only of Sofia. After all, roses had always been a favorite of her half-sister, with their pretty petals and sharp stems. 

But this was no time for irritation and so she forced her chin to lower and her mouth to flatten. With her fingers twisted together, polite and proper, she stood and waited. In front of her, the bright hordes of red filled up her vision with a portrait of hidden life.

If she shut her eyes, she could nearly pretend this was just another hunt. Even with her Father dead, without any other bodies in need of being buried, her heart and brain split from one another. A buzz filled up her ears like air in a balloon. The skin of her knuckles itched, like her nerves were prepared for a fight that her head wasn’t.

Footsteps came behind her, muffled by the snow. A patch of ice over the cobblestone allowed for her to hear the tell-tale sound of clicking.

Sofia. 

“I’ve also found roses so useless,” Selina admitted once her half-sister had settled beside her. The flowers filled up the entire garden: red and pretty and blooming. Alive, despite all the color bleached from the earth. “As pretty as they are.”

Sofia hummed, her fingers twisted and chin straight. “I thought you’d find them charming. They’re quite durable.”

From anyone else, it might nearly sound like a hidden compliment. From Bruce’s mouth, with his sweet tone and warm eyes, she could imagine it as just that: flattery of her own endurance. Praise of her ability to survive the long months of winter in the Narrows, just like a rose.

From Sofia, it sounded only like a sharp taunt. 

“Then again,” Sofia said, mouth twisting into a playful pout, “you’ve never much had a sense for the prettier things in life.”

There it was: the inevitable barbed-wire and sour acid. Selina made an irritated noise low in her throat, laughing quietly without any attached humor. 

“Not like you,” Selina agreed slowly, stomach flipping and bones feeling brittle. The skin of her knuckles felt raw, itching, eager to curl into a fist and hit. Just once. After all these years, she really did deserve a shot at just one.

Sofia tilted forward, lifting up her fingers to brush over the red petals of a single flower. Snow scattered to the floor by her heels. “Father always thought it was the best sort of gift for me. It was so easy.”

A bitter sort of sigh came next, her mouth crinkling up, and she retracted her hand. Easy was one word for it: the flowers and perfume and gems were all the same. Simple, pretty gifts that their Father liked to pretend meant more than they really did. The value made up for the empty sentiment. 

“It was so unlike you,” Selina corrected, twisting her fingers together tighter. The flowers in front of her painted a fairly accurate picture of her sister: bright, shimmering, beautiful. Sharp beneath the surface. 

Except, Selina knew her better than to compare her to a docile little rose: Sofia was a snake. Coiled up, eager for flesh, and hungry for blood. Even if she did like to sparkle, she’d always desired far more than a few pretty things. Recognition couldn’t be bought and it couldn’t be hand-delivered with a satin bow. 

Sofia’s chin turned slowly as she hummed low in her throat. “You’ve asked me here for a reason, Selina. I’m sure it wasn’t to stop and smell the roses.”

Selina remained silent, her heart thrumming and hands twitching. They felt so terribly empty, so awfully devoid of a familiar blade. If only she’d thought to keep it in the palm of her hand, she might be able to relax her nerves by an inch. 

“Selina,” she said sharply, twisting to face her. “What is it?”

If Selina let the truth crawl out through the grooves of her teeth and slide out of her mouth, it couldn’t be taken back. Maybe that was for the best: this awful in-between was like a knife between her ribs. It solved and changed nothing to stay silent, her teeth digging into her tongue and the truth buried deep. 

“I’m worried for you,” Selina admitted, gritting it through a clenched jaw. The admission was a sharp blow to her ribcage and a strike of acid to her pride. 

Never in a thousand years, and then a few thousand more, would Sofia say such a thing. If poison spread through her veins and the only cure was to speak of her affection, Sofia would only sneer and prepare herself for death. If a gun was leveled to her skull, she’d twist her fingers together and accept her fate. 

Nothing could ever force her into admitting that she cared about, nevermind worried for, Selina.

“You’re worried?” Sofia said slowly. The corners of her red mouth curved up into a mean, mocking smile. 

It was another sharp knife to Selina’s pride. If she became nothing but flesh and blood and bones tomorrow, a nameless corpse in the streets, Sofia wouldn’t so much as blink twice. 

Selina’s teeth ground together till they nearly went flat. “I thought you were dead.”

At that, Sofia blinked, bewildered. “Why would you ever think that?”

“Because Father is,” Selina said simply, ignoring the flare of pain in her stomach. It felt like acid twisting up her spine, punishing her for speaking of the dead in such a careless manner. “It’s reasonable for me to assume you were, too.”

A shadow of horror crossed Sofia’s face, her mouth and nose twisting like she’d eaten something sour. The reminder of their Father wasn’t an easy thing: Selina still heard the echo of that gunshot, the sound of his body slumping to the floor. The bright splatter of blood on the wall behind him. 

Death had never been a thing swallowed easily. 

After all those kills, those assignments, bile would rise in her throat as her stomach turned. The memory of their faces and cries would keep her awake long into the night, and she’d be unable to stomach anything but thin broth and plain crackers for days. Anything else was only a reminder of what she’d done: the blood she’d spilled and the guts she’d opened. 

It had always made her sick and disgusted, shaking around the edges, her nerves fried and eyes brimming with tears.

But, never quite like this.This was something else entirely. 

In the days past, spent at Wayne Manor—either tucked into Bruce’s side or on the opposite end of the room, piling together every possible scrap of data on the city—the memory of that night had haunted her.

Closing her eyes resulted in a bright vision of red. Attempts to sleep ended in nightmares, the sound of clicking and heavy weight filling her ears. Eating was pointless altogether. It almost always came back up because she couldn’t take a single bite without thinking of her Father’s pink brain turning to slime as the bullet hit.

The memory of her Father was a ghost, stuck to the crevices of her skull like glue.

“Well,” Sofia said, lips twisting up into a mock of a smile, “I can take care of myself.”

Selina frowned. 

Beside them, the roses swayed in the wind, meek and lovely. 

With a final sugary look, Sofia turned away, hands crossed behind her back. Selina reached forward without having to lift a boot, clasping her fingers around her pale wrist and pulling. Hard. 

It was a poor mimic of every time that Sofia had done the very same to her: yanking and tugging, shoving and pushing. Sofia had always done so out of cruelty, meaning to knock Selina off balance or pull her close to strike her. It had never been done out of a desire to grasp her attention for the sake of it. 

“Listen to me,” Selina hissed, fingers holding tight and firm.

The memory of her Father seeped into the corners of her brain: his heavy hands clasped tight around her shoulder. Searching for her steady gaze and eager attention.

Sofia’s brows furrowed, mouth curling. For a split-moment, just a blink, a sparkle of genuine fear flickered across her expression: they both knew exactly what Selina could do if she truly wished. There were blades hidden beneath her clothes and in her boots. Blood had littered her skin before and would again if necessary. Violence was a means to an end in their family. Death was a product to be sold.

But Selina had never raised a blade toward her sister. Maybe she’d dreamt it once or twice—it was a cruel, inhumane wish, a desire only for recognition and understanding—but she’d never truly considered it.

Selina blinked, inhaled, and fear across Sofia’s face disappeared as if it had never existed at all. In its place, disgust wrinkled her brows and bared her teeth. Quietly, she hissed, “Let go.”

“No,” Selina said between gritted teeth. Sofia’s twitched, looking rather stunned to be denied her wish: their Father had always spoiled her. “Weeks ago, weren’t you the one warning me not to walk toward slaughter?”

Sofia hissed, predatory and snake-like, and yanked her wrist. 

Selina tightened her grip, digging in with all five fingers.

“I’m not a killer,” Sofia argued, pulling harder. Every other sharp breath, her gaze fell across Selina’s gloved hands, like she couldn’t believe her to truly have five fingers and pale knuckles: more likely, she’d have expected them to be dripping in blood, as she always said. 

“Neither was Father.” Selina tilted her chin and straightened her spine. Red-hot fury frothed up in her stomach, getting closer to the boiling the longer her sister seethed and fought. “Except, he’s dead. You and I are next.”

Among the three of them—judge, jury, and executioner as her Father had once hailed—Sofia was the closest to innocence. It would make Selina laugh were the circumstances any different, but Sofia had never held a gun to anyone’s head. Sofia hadn’t cut anyone’s throat or ordered for a dozen blonde’s to be killed. 

If Selina was dirty and stained like she always said, then Sofia was at the very least guilty by association. 

“Well, you’re more prone to death than I am,” Sofia argued, stepping forward to bare her teeth. This close, Selina had to tilt back her chin, just like she always did with Bruce. “I’m clean. I’ve done nothing.”

“Someone snitched,” Selina hissed. The frothy rage in her stomach boiled her, twisting her stomach. “Being clean doesn’t matter. You’re a Falcone—you’re as dead as I am.”

Sofia seemed to jerk and freeze at once, her fingers trembling while her jaw went slack. For a long moment, she didn’t breathe, like the air in her lungs had gotten caught in her throat. Rather, she stared downwards, eyes narrowed and red mouth parted, cheeks rather pale. 

“If Father died so easily,” Selina said, allowing her voice to flatten, “we will too.”

It would be foolish to assume that either of them were exceptions. Against the Commissioner, against a gun, there wasn’t anything to be done. A bullet to her skull couldn't be stopped by a blade, no matter how capable or quick she was. 

The color in Sofia’s cheeks returned all at once: white to pink, bright and splotchy. Quick as an inhale, she ripped herself from Selina’s grip, shoving once at her chest until she stumbled. “Father was weak,” she hissed, voice dripping with acid. “Maybe he shouldn’t have chased a stupid fantasy.”

Ice filled up Selina’s veins. The bones in her chest hurt, like Sofia had struck till her ribs broke, but she didn’t lift up a hand to check or tend to herself. It wouldn’t do anything but prove what Sofia had known all along: the soft tissue behind her sternum was vulnerable and weak. 

“What?” 

“Weakness got him killed,” Sofia continued, sneering. The red of her mouth looked like spilled wine: a stain of blood. “Obedience isn’t the same as loyalty. It can’t be bought and then tossed away. What did he expect?”

Selina allowed herself to wince, though she knew it was a clear sign of frailty. Such obvious discontent had always been hidden in the shadows, but she’d never expected Sofia to outright admit her hatred. 

“Father abandoned us for an empty illusion of revenge,” Sofia said with a hiss. “As if killing the Mayor’s wife would do anything but send James Gordon after us.”

It was something that Selina had thought herself: killing a dozen blondes was only stroking a fire. It caused trouble that they didn’t need and all for what? Fulfilling some deluded idea of revenge?

James Gordon might be their enemy—a pillar of justice and hope that inevitably ended with all their heads severed—but Barbara Kean had already been slaughtered. Using the ghost of her to invoke the Commissioner's fury wasn’t a solution. It only caused more problems to solve. 

“I thought you agreed with his plans,” Selina said carefully, turning her gaze toward the bushes. “You called eleven modest.”

Sofia’s eyes narrowed into a sharp glare. If looks could kill, Selina would’ve been flesh and bones years ago. “You believed me.”

Low in her throat, Selina made a small noise, stuffed to the brim with curiosity. With decidedly less snark than she’d been aiming for, she asked, “Is that a question?”

Sofia leveled her with a cutting stare, chin level, mouth flat, and waited. 

“Yes,” Selina ground out. There was a rather nasty ache in her jaw forming from how long she’d been grinding her teeth together. It wouldn’t surprise her if the skin turned purple and blue to show how truly sore she was. “I believed you.”

“Good,” Sofia said, the lines of her face going smooth. Sugar filled up her face again, like she’d replaced all of her sharp acid for a vat of honey. It was a terribly plastic and terribly empty expression, but if Selina didn’t know her so well, she’d assume it to be entirely genuine. “Just like Father did.”

Selina shifted her weight between her feet. With this much snow, the bottoms of her boots were sunk deep into the ground. Footprints sat behind her from where she and Sofia had both walked toward the gardens, imprints of their existence. 

It was a bit nice, really, to see the impression of her body left behind on the earth. The same could be said in the aftermath of rain, when the dirt turned to sludge and mud and her boots dug deep. It was a reminder that she wasn’t just a ghost floating through the halls of the Manor, but a living and breathing sack of flesh.

Maybe dirty and rotten, stained with blood and a butcher by trade, but—alive. Above all, alive, and recognized by the earth. 

“You gave me Silver St. Cloud,” she wondered aloud, brows furrowed and eyes drifting side to side. “You chose her.”

“I did,” Sofia agreed, mouth going thin and eyes going hard. “Father asked me to make the choice. Told me to have my pick of the litter just like you always did.”

Fury erupted in her chest, tinged blue with a cold sort of hurt that she couldn’t shake. The deaths, all those killings, had been on behalf of her Father. Only with his command did they occur. Not once had she desired to kill outside of his orders. 

Selina’s mouth curled into a small sneer, teeth bared. Before she could argue, Sofia’s eyes slid shut and her chin tipped back. A small, quiet sigh left her mouth. It was more vulnerable than anything Selina had ever seen from her: her neck bared, her face smooth. 

And so Selina slid her tongue over her teeth and swallowed away the ice coating her teeth. Neither of them were happy with their circumstances. Taking it out on Sofia wouldn’t solve anything, even if it might make her feel better. 

“It was supposed to make you feel included,” Selina said slowly, piecing together her Father’s crude logic. If he’d wished for Sofia’s involvement, all he’d needed to do was ask. The desperation clung to her skin like perfume, so profound that it stunk. 

“It was meant to shut me up,” Sofia corrected, tone sharp and quiet. “Father was tired of me suggesting other, smarter ways to deal with the Commissioner.”

It was easy to believe. Sofia was far smarter than their Father ever gave her credit for. She knew exactly how to press on old bruises and exploit invisible wounds. Catching lies was an easy task for her, and spreading her own without discovery came even easier still. 

Selina shifted her weight again, letting her fingers fall slack in front of her. “Like?”

“Like,” she said, tilting her chin sideways, “leaving the Commissioner alone, for starters. Focusing our efforts on areas actually worth our time.”

Selina cocked her head and kept quiet.

An impatient, high-pitched noise fell from Sofia’s throat, far less vulnerable than her previous sigh. “Arkham, Blackgate. Wayne Enterprises. Cops besides just James Gordon.”

Selina gave a slow blink and tilted up her chin, eyes wide and lashes fluttering. Just yesterday, she’d made the very same expression to Bruce in the early morning, meaning to bribe him out of his last bite of pastry, and he’d said she looked like a fawn, innocent and pretty. In response, she’d given him a firm wack over the shoulder and stolen the last few crumbs while he’d winced.

Now, she knew exactly how she looked: stupid. Oblivious. Out of her depths, because they discussed something entirely irrelevant to bloodshed and corpses.

The longer she stayed silent, the more furious Sofia looked: her eyes narrowed into a squint, red lips parting, chest heaving as she hissed an inhale.

“You seriously are useless,” she spit, crossing her arms and tilting back on her heels. 

Selina’s nose wrinkled, irritation crawling up the divots of her spine. It took strength not to curl her knuckles into a fist and strike, hard and quick. “Bruce Wayne is just a mark. What do I care about his stupid company?”

Sofia snapped her fingers beside Selina’s ear. The sound made her wince, lashes fluttering as she blinked once and then twice in succession, surprise lighting up her cheeks with pink.

“Pay attention,” Sofia barked. Every inch of her trembled with anger to the point that it was visible in her fingers and shoulders. “Every inch of this city matters. Every person and company belongs to my family.”

The lines of her shoulders and spine went straight with pride at the reminder of what she’d inherited: not just the broken streets of a city, but an entire empire of power. 

“It all matters.” Something distant passed over her face, a hollow look that withered the rigidness of her body. With a tremble, her chin turned out to face the flowers again and she quietly said, “Everything. Even the roses.”

Selina did not let her gaze twist to the side. Quietly, she said, “I don’t understand.”

Quickly as it had come, the flicker of vacant darkness disappeared, replaced with Sofia’s typical repulsion. 

“Of course you don’t,” she said, voice turning sugary. It was nearly comforting: that sound of sweet honey was the voice she always used. It rang familiar, as cruel as it was. “You’ve never been very bright, Selina. You can’t see the big, pretty picture.”

Selina kept her gaze low and twisted her fingers together. Every breath that she took was audible to both of their ears, a strangled sort of noise like their Father had pressed his hands over her throat again. 

Sofia put two knuckles beneath Selina’s chin and lifted it up. The feeling of bare, cold fingers over her skin made her want to flinch, and she sucked in a small breath as Sofia gave a mean smile.

“That’s alright,” Sofia said gently. Such a soft tone falling from her tongue nearly made Selina dizzy. “You were only meant to kill. Nothing more and nothing less.”

Blood filled up Selina’s mouth, though she couldn’t be sure whether she’d truly bitten her cheeks or not. It didn’t matter, she supposed. Either way, the scarred tissue inside her mouth would remain and the copper taste of blood could never be forgotten. 

“Father always said he saved you because of your blood.” Sofia let her fingers fall away, leaning forward to poke hard at Selina’s chest with one finger. It hurt, like the skin beneath was bruised and sore, like her finger dug right through bone and sunk through muscle. Through a sigh, she said, “I think it’s because he saw you exactly as you are.”

You’re soft in the chest.

Sofia had always seen right through her, even if Selina didn’t like to admit it to herself so easily. Soft, rotten, and closer to dead than alive. A monster living in human skin. A butcher stained in red.

If she were split open, flies would erupt from her chest and worms would crawl out of the hole where her heart should be. It would stink of mold and spoiled wine. All her pink flesh and red blood would be tarnished. 

Sofia knew it without a doubt, just as she did.

“A butcher,” Selina whispered. 

It was agonizing to be seen down to the very bone. It made her feel like a bug beneath a microscope, all her limbs cut away and tied down for inspection. Dissected. Dead.

“Yes,” Sofia said just as quietly, brows furrowing. “That’s exactly what you are. It’s what you’ve always been.”

Selina shut her eyes for a long moment. Red assaulted her: the memory of every corpse that she had slaughtered, blood spilling down their necks and over her hands. Wine, staining white linens and turning her stomach sour. Guts turned inside out and bodies turned into slabs of meat. 

“It must’ve been horrible,” Sofia murmured. The red of her mouth quirked and she lifted her fingers to Selina’s forehead. There, right in the center, she tapped once and then twice: exactly where the bullet had hit. “Watching a bullet of all things beat the man you thought to be invincible.”

The sound of the gun echoed in her ears. Blood splattered, filling up her vision with red.

Sofia made a noise in her throat, mocking and dripping with acidic honey. “It would drive anyone mad.”

Selina jerked her chin away, trembling and twitching. That sweet, fruity scent of death filled up her nose. It would never truly leave her, no matter how hard she scrubbed at her skin. Nothing could erase it. 

Sofia gave a mean, tight laugh and turned to face the roses. Red and beautiful, they swayed in the breeze, covered up in snow and dripping with ice. Alive, despite the harshness of winter. Lovely and docile on the surface, sharp and prickling just beneath. 

Regardless of the consequences, she’d dig beneath deep and find all those tender bruises and press. It just never occurred to her to check whether she’d misstepped in the process, all to focused on pressing down. This slip of the tongue was all too great to ignore: and, exactly what Selina had been digging for. 

Without the cutting gaze of her sister, Selina allowed herself to straighten. The divots of her spine turned tall beneath her flesh, her stomach settling and mouth going thin. Any previous trembling dissipated, replaced by a familiar calm that always overtook her during a hunt. 

This wouldn’t end in blood and death. Still, she twisted her hands together and licked over the fronts of her teeth, imagining herself as hungry. Wolfish, cruel, and starving for blood, just as Sofia always believed her to be. 

“Does it drive you mad?”

Sofia paused, frowning. Carefully, she turned her chin sideways, mouth curled into a pretty picture of impatience and disgust in equal measures. “What?”

Selina lifted both her brows, eyes going wide and mouth parting. With a heap of sugar, she asked, “Wasn’t it terrible to watch?”

A quiet buzz filled her eardrums and she smiled till her teeth showed, white and gleaming. It made Sofia frown a bit, eyes going narrow at the sight of her sharp mouth. Hunger flipped her stomach inside out. 

Sofia was carefully silent and perfectly still. The edges of her body remained motionless without a single twitch or blink or breath. 

That was alright: Selina knew how to push and prod. After all this time, she was rather good at finding old bruises and applying the right amount of pressure. How to slide a blade deep into the ribs and twist, to dissect old wounds and use them. 

After all, Sofia had been the one to teach her. 

“You were there,” Selina said slowly, sliding her fingers together. Even without a blade in her hand, she felt steady and eager, perfectly capable of pressing down on bruises that were black and blue and body-deep. “Weren’t you?”

That night was so easy to recall beyond just the terrible bits. Blood and guts, yes. A heavy slump of a body, but also—

A quiet shuffle. Fabric shifting, hesitant footsteps. 

And then, louder than anything: clicking across the floorboards, echoing louder than any gunshot.

Clicking, like heels approaching. 

After all these years, Selina was rather good at games. It wasn’t out of entertainment, but a learned skill, necessary when she lived amongst snakes and rats and dogs. Pretending came easy, even if she hated it. Sugar and acid were one and the same, corroding her teeth and dripping off of her tongue like honey. And, more than anything, she liked to win, no matter the odds or cost. 

Sofia liked to play too. If there was anything that she was good at, it was games: making up her own rules and knocking off all the other players till she was the only one remaining standing. There was just one headache that she always forgot to do away with: her own desire for power. It was often an obstacle in front of her feet, ready to make her trip and fall, and Sofia didn’t like to look lower than her own chin. 

“You heard it?” Selina pressed when her sister said nothing. “You saw it?”

Beneath her blush, Sofia looked a bit pale, her skin bleached of color like the gardens beside them. The lines of her jaw went a bit tight, like maybe her teeth were grinding together. It made her look far less docile than normal, like she was finally shedding the outer layer of skin to unveil her volatile center. 

“You seem confused,” Sofia gritted out, giving a tight little laugh. The skin of her cheeks looked paler by the second but she stood tall still, muscles taut. Unlike all those times before, it was not out of pride, Selina noticed with a flicker of amusement. No—it looked a bit more like fear. “All that death must be rotting your brain. Seeing Father must’ve tipped you over the edge.”

“I never said I was there.” Selina frowned, mouth twisting into a pout. Plastic, sugary confusion flooded her face. “I never said I saw him.”

Sofia faltered, skin blanching as her face fell into something akin to panic. Not outright fear, but something close, something near to it. 

Frothy pleasure trickled up Selina’s chest. Throughout all their years together, begging for Sofia’s attention and being kicked and taunted in return, it felt like victory to finally strike at the soft plane of Sofia’s chest. It felt like winning, like this was what she had worked for.

It was awfully petty. It still made Selina grin and twist her fingers together, jaw loose and muscles lax. 

The edges of Sofia’s body went taut, her shoulders going tight and her hands curling into little fists. It looked like she might strike any moment, like she was a snake coiled up before assault. Through a tight jaw, she said, “I never said that either.”

“Right,” Selina said simply. Then, slowly, she lifted up one finger and tapped at the center of her forehead, in the same place that her sister had touched. The skin burned, like a mimic of acid poured over her, but she only pouted and swallowed away the lingering sting. “You knew though, didn’t you?”

Sofia’s mouth parted and she inhaled a tight breath. “No.”

“You did,” Selina argued, letting her mouth form a sugary little smile. It dripped with acid and honey, as pretty and docile as a rose. “I mean, fine, maybe you weren’t there that night—”

“I wasn’t,” Sofia barked, stepping close until she towered over her. Irritation filled up her face and impatience made her look rather ugly and twisted-up around the edges. The bare skin of her knuckles turned white as she clenched them into fists. 

“Did someone tell you then?” Selina asked, frowning and lifting back her chin. With two fingers, she prodded at the exposed skin around Sofia’s neck, over her pulse. It thrummed like a live wire. 

Sofia hissed and batted her away. “Selina—”

“Maybe a sneaky rat?”

“What?” Her jaw dropped and her fingers twitched into fists. It wouldn’t surprise Selina one bit if she struck, hard and fast. “How dare—”

“I’m just thinking out loud,” Selina spoke over her. Red filled up Sofia’s cheeks at the interruption and she made a noise low in her throat. There was a warm, comforting sort of thrill at being able to so terribly anger her, after all this time. 

“You’re such a brat,” Sofia hissed, leaning over her. 

The weak, pathetic insult pulled a snicker out of Selina’s mouth. The sound turned her sister’s cheeks even brighter red, like a bright splotch of blush had been rubbed into her skin.

“And you’re a liar,” she said, voice dropping to a murmur. Brittle confidence trickled down the hard line of her spine. A desire to cause hurt, to twist that knife deeper, filled up her stomach. “No wonder Father never listened to you.”

It struck at Sofia’s chest just as intended: her teeth clicked together and her mouth trembled, lips curling back as she glowered. Fury, bright and volatile, colored her cheeks. The knotted strings of her patience withered, turning brittle as they prepared to snap. 

Selina kept her mouth thin and her spine straight. It reminded her of her Father, just a bit, with his broad shoulders and pinched expression. Her heart jerked a bit to think of him in such a manner, to know that she’d never see it again. She’d never have expected to mourn his indifference.

“Did you watch him bleed?” she asked quietly, lifting her eyes to meet her sister’s gaze. “Can you still hear the sound of him falling?”

Sofia trembled. A bit of plastic, poorly crafted hurt filled up her face and welled her eyes with tears. “You’re disgusting.”

Selina hummed and smiled with teeth. The accusation didn’t bother her. Sofia had called her worse, far too many times, for such a pathetic insult to even bruise her nerves. 

“It was awfully ugly, wasn’t it?” 

All that blood on the wall and the stench of death filling up the room. What a mess. What a terrible, disgusting tragedy. 

A single tear slipped down Sofia’s chin, dripping off of her chin and into the snow at their feet. Selina had to bite away a shaky, loud laugh. As if those tears were real. As if Sofia had ever shed tears for anyone but herself.

Selina stepped closer till she could see the wet shine in her eyes, chin tilted up and heart pulsing. Hunger ate away at her stomach, because she was eager beyond reason to finally see beyond Sofia’s pretty face and sugary voice. 

If pushed hard enough, Sofia’s temper would froth up and boil over, but she always resorted to the same disappointing response: a sharp slap and cruel barbs. It hurt for a long moment, but just as quickly faded away like an old bruise. 

The edges of her cotton candy mask had already begun to crack. If pushed and prodded just a bit harder, just a bit longer, maybe she’d swing like she meant it. With her teeth bared and her skin turned inside out, screaming and bloody and hungry. Finally admitting what they both already knew: Sofia was perfectly capable of more than a pretty smile and sweet tongue. 

Selina pressed two fingers over Sofia’s forehead, right where the bullet had landed in their Father. Red filled her vision. The shot echoed in her ears. Her vicious, peeled-back nerves began to sing deep in her skin.

It was a long shot. A one in a million application of pressure, but Selina had nothing to lose in comparison to what she might gain: Sofia, raw and genuine, bloody and bare. Skin stripped and teeth exposed, sugar dissolving as acid took its place in her gums. 

“Did your boyfriend tell you about his lucky shot?” Selina asked, brows lifted to turn her eyes wide. Sugar seeped into every word and corroded her teeth. 

The final strings of Sofia’s patience snapped down the middle. “Jim didn’t shoot him, you bitch,” she snarled. 

Both her hands lifted and shoved at Selina’s chest, hard and quick, meaning to send her sprawling into the snow. It would hurt, too: ice littered the ground beneath the coat of white. There were likely rocks and sticks, just waiting to send sharp pricks of pain up her skin.

Except, the strike was awfully predictable. 

Selina shifted sideways, allowing her arm to catch the weight of Sofia’s hands. 

Atop the ice and snow, Sofia tripped, stumbling forward and into Selina waiting hands. Selina caught her around the wrists, pulling her down and close. Their noses nearly touched as Sofia stumbled and fell toward her. 

A flicker of bright, wonderful fear flashed across Sofia’s face. The next breath she released was a trembling, shaking gasp, something strangled and horrible and ugly. Something entirely unlike her. 

“Jim?” Selina repeated slowly, each syllable stretched out across her tongue. Awe, pink and sparkling, filled every inch of her body. It felt like she’d tasted sugar for the first time, like a cavity was already drilling into her teeth and fluffing up her stomach. “Your boyfriend?”

To her credit, Sofia blanched for only one long moment before her skin returned to a bright flush of red. When she tugged hard at her hands, Selina let her go, watching as she stumbled back a step. 

The lines of her shoulders went taut again, fury and horror muddling and turning her rigid.

“You knew,” Sofia said slowly. The line of her jaw went tight as the truth washed over her, like she had to swallow the instinct to snap her teeth. Then, again, “This entire time, you knew.”

“No,” Selina said with a little laugh. Sugar coated every nerve and muscle. It was like winter had ended and the sun had emerged, warm and bright and wonderful. It was unbelievably euphoric to be right. “Well—I knew you were there that night, watching. But I had no idea you were fucking the Commissioner.”

Awareness washed over Sofia like nausea and her cheeks turned pale again. With just a few pokes and prods, only a little taunting, she’d tripped over her own feet and revealed herself.

Selina bit her lip and forced her mouth to remain thin. “That was just my imagination running wild.”

The white in Sofia’s cheeks actually looked a bit green now, like she might hurl any moment. A tremble took over her knuckles and voice. “How?”

All this time, Sofia had been hungry for more: a voice, power, the entire empire. It didn’t matter much who bled in the process. Their men were called dogs for a reason and the thin line between obedience and loyalty had to be dissected. 

Maybe Sofia knew Selina well—her red hands and rotten chest—but they were sisters. They shared flesh and blood. That sort of familiarity was a string tying them together into one bloody, tangled knot, incapable of being separated unless cut at the very center. 

And so Selina knew her better than anyone. Better than Bruce Wayne and better than herself. And she knew, without a doubt, clear as crystal, that this had been Sofia Falcone’s doing from the very beginning. It just taken a few long moments to undo the knot of disbelief that had wrapped itself around her ribs. 

“At Father’s celebration,” she began, twisting her fingers behind her back. The tops of her teeth felt sharp and intent to bite. “You were the one to tell me about Zsas. You warned the others and you did the same for me because you thought Father was incapable of protecting us.”

All the others are dead and you’ll be next.

“Well,” Sofia said quietly, more to herself than anything, “I guess I was right about that.”

Selina ignored her. “You’re the one that snitched. Aren’t you?”

Sofia’s teeth clicked. A bit of bright, pink surprise filled up her cheeks to be asked so pointedly. For a long moment, she said nothing, seemingly unsure whether to confirm or deny. It wouldn’t make much difference at this point. Their Father was dead and so was anyone else that mattered. 

“Don’t worry,” she said, voice thin and hard with ice, “that was rhetorical.”

Confirmation would be nice, eventually, but for now it wasn’t necessary. For now, all she truly wanted to do was press down on each of Sofia’s black and blue bruises till she popped. 

“The Gotham Gazette wrote this strange little story the night after I visited Silver St. Cloud.” Behind her back, she twisted her fingers together harder. If she weren’t wearing gloves, she’d dig her nails deep into her knuckles, just to feel a sting of pain. “About how James Gordon and his little dogs paid her a visit.”

The paper had come with her breakfast, just as always. Every day, she sat and she ate her cold toast and colorless fruit, and read. James Gordon’s grim face had been plastered right on the front page that morning with the story right beneath. 

“Apparently, he busted them for underage drinking.”

Sofia shifted her weight and blinked slowly. “So?”

“So,” she said, deliberately twisting her head to the side to watch the roses. As she did, Sofia’s mouth twitched into a little frown, icy and sharp. “Since when does James Gordon devote his time to catching a few teenagers drinking? That’s a bit below him.”

Sofia’s teeth grit together, so loud that Selina could hear it. It sounded like it hurt, a deep ache crawling up her muscle and toward her cheeks. It was a feeling that she knew all too well. 

“And isn’t it just so weird,” she said, letting a plastic frown twist up her face, “for him to come only minutes after midnight?”

Selina lifted up her chin and waited a long moment. Sofia’s teeth continued to grind, her jaw a tight line. The other muscles in her body, shoulders and legs and even her waist, looked just as taut. Like any moment, one of them might strike or run, and Sofia needed to prepare for the consequences. 

“Minutes,” she repeated, “after I was supposed to kill Silver St. Cloud.”

By then, she’d been sitting in Wayne Manor. Awaiting Bruce and poking at his files. Completely unaware that just miles away, detectives were searching through Silver’s house, looking for not just a body but a culprit. Someone who wouldn’t have quite enough time to slit a throat and run. 

Sofia licked at her lips and forced a brittle smile. It looked flat and odd, like she’d sucked on a lemon only seconds beforehand. “Except, you didn’t kill her.”

Selina gave a breathy, sarcastic laugh. “Lucky me.”

How awfully lucky that for once, she’d admitted what she’d always known, down in her marrow and deep in her bones: death wouldn’t solve anything. Burying a girl who so-happened to have a bright, pretty shock of blonde hair was not what she wanted. How lucky that she’d decided, for the first time, not to spill blood on behalf of their family.

Slowly, Sofia shut her eyes, releasing a long sigh of a breath. It sounded caught in the cage of her ribs, like she had to fight to remain so steady. “I was trying to protect you.”

The easy admission made Selina blink, once and then twice. It rattled the bones in her chest and all the air in her lungs caught high up in her throat till she couldn’t breathe just right. There wasn’t much to deny, but she’d have at least expected a shift of blame or baring of the teeth. Bright anger and red-hot accusations. Not—this. 

“You could’ve gotten me killed,” she said slowly. If she’d stuck around for another hour, even just to play pretend at being a teenager, it was unlikely that she’d have returned home. It made her stomach feel sticky like glue, stuffed to the brim with heavy lead. 

You’re being led to slaughter.

If she’d stayed, sipping at soda and dancing with Bruce like she’d briefly considered—if she’d indulged in her stupid, dangerous desires, she’d have died. 

“That’s not true,” Sofia said. It sounded biting and mean, like the very thought was outrageous. “I wouldn’t have let that happen.”

Selina made a face, a mocking sort of pout, and nodded. A sharp noise left her throat and she had to swallow down a few giggles. 

Sofia’s face screwed up at her mirth, jaw clenching and eyes going narrow. It only made Selina laugh all the more. 

Protection. What a joke. 

“Jim knows not to touch you,” Sofia bit. Then, almost instantly, shut her jaw and cinched her mouth into a thin line. 

It struck hard at Selina’s chest and stole any remaining air from her lungs. A strange, familiar sort of affection muddled up her stomach, like all those times with her Father. Love mixing with hate and crossing all sorts of wires in her skull. 

The confession took its toll on Sofia, too: her cheeks flushed with color, gaze dropping away for a brief moment to avoid eye contact. Any irritation or sour frustration bled away, disappearing into the snow at their feet, replaced with timid shame. It was the first time that Selina had ever seen such a look cross her face. 

“I don’t understand,” Selina admitted. Doubt licked at her spine. It felt hot, like wax poured onto each vertebra. That was always how it felt to be around her sister: trust turning sour, spoiled devotion burning up the longer it sat in her chest. After all these years, that desire to be close still raged like an orange ember in her heart. “Why?”

Keeping her alive solved nothing. If anything, it only caused more strife, because she was just another headache loose in the streets. A dog having run free of its leash and now, knowing the truth, a threat.

Unless, of course, Sofia still had some use for her. And that could only be achieved if Selina lived and breathed. 

“What about you?” Sofia asked, narrowing her eyes and crossing her arms. Apprehension dripped off of her own tongue. “If you’ve known for so long, why wouldn’t you tell Father?”

Selina lifted one shoulder in an easy shrug, despite anxiety flickering up her spine. “You’re my blood, too, even though you hate to admit it. Telling him wouldn’t have helped either one of us.”

Sofia glared harder and lifted her chin in silence, awaiting further explanation. Apparently, a bit of genuine fondness just wasn’t good enough. Selina didn’t blame her. If Sofia had said the same to her, she’d have laughed in her face—just minutes prior, she practically had. 

Except, protection came at a cost. Sofia never did anything unless it benefited her, especially if it meant keeping Selina around. 

“You wanted out,” she said. A sigh worked its way out of her throat, soft and honest. “You wanted more. Sometimes the only way to do that is with a bit of blood and guts.”

The very same thought had crossed her own mind more times than she could count: out. A life away from the Falcone name. Sometimes, in the dark, she wondered if her life would’ve been better if she’d never left the Narrows. Even if that meant having died alone ten years earlier. 

“And what do you want?” Sofia asked slowly. A sharp edge lined her words, cautioning imminent danger. Maybe from the easy way that Selina had referenced blood and guts like she spoke of the weather. 

It only confirmed the ugly image crafted of her: she was a killer, through and through. A disgusting creature that thought nothing of loss so long as it served her best interests. Blood and flesh and bones were nothing but business. It hurt her chest to think about herself in such a way, but Sofia needed to believe in that ugly side of her. 

“I want more,” Selina said simply, and it was entirely the truth. Maybe not what Sofia had imagined her to say, but the honest and genuine truth regardless.

Years ago, all she’d wanted was a bit of noise. The chatter of classmates, approval of her Father, loud music and traffic blaring in her ears. Sounds of normalcy. Instead, all she ever heard was the snap of bones and splatter of blood, the buzz of flies and the sound of her own wet cries. 

Now, she still wanted noise, just a different sort.

All she really wanted now was Bruce Wayne’s warm voice and gentle hands. Sunlight on her skin and sugar in her teeth. A choice, one as simple as picking her own meal. After everything, all she wanted was to truly live. 

“Just like I know you want more,” Selina finished quietly, lifting her gaze toward the bushes of red flowers. They stood still and silent beneath the cloud of white. 

“You’ve always seen right through me, haven’t you?” A bitter smile curled up the edges of Sofia’s red mouth, but understanding glimmered in the corner of her eyes. Sofia trusted her about as much as Selina trusted her, but they both saw each other in a way no one else truly could. Both wanted more, and both knew it could only be achieved through a bit of violence. 

Selina hummed and circled her slowly. “Why am I alive, Sofia? What do you need me for?”

As soon as her use had run out, she’d be nothing but flesh and bones and they both knew it. 

Sofia never liked loose ends or runaway dogs. 

Sofia pivoted to face her, keeping her hands behind her back and her chin lifted. “If you truly want more, I can give that to you. Don’t get me wrong, there’s no such thing as out: not when you live in this city. Not when Father’s blood runs through your veins.”

Selina blinked. It was an unexpected, strange acknowledgment of their shared blood that she’d never have expected to hear.

“The only way out,” Sofia said, deliberate and mocking, “would be to bleed yourself dry. But I doubt you’d be willing.”

“You’d be right about that one,” Selina muttered, narrowing her eyes. Dread and irritation stirred up, low in her stomach, the longer that Sofia smiled her way. This was too easy. This was meant to be a fight, skirting around each other, pressing and prodding and poking. Not an easy admission and an offer of help, of all things. 

“Then let me give you more.” Sofia’s gaze traveled up and down her body, taking in every twitch of her muscles and tremble of her knuckles. “That, I can give you: something better. Something different.”

Paranoia began to eat away at Selina’s nerves. The desire to sprint and never look back sat low in her legs and she had to fight not to let her hands twitch too visible. It was far too easy an offer and far too simple a compromise. 

“You can have everything you want,” Sofia murmured. Desire and hunger alike shone in her eyes like two glittering diamonds. It almost seemed as if she were about to sigh with pleasure at just the thought of such a fantasy, but Selina couldn’t blame her. After being starved of everything she’d ever wanted for her entire life, being so close to winning must feel euphoric. 

“Everything?” Selina repeated with a mocking edge. 

Though she’d never admit to it, Sofia’s appetite was bloodier than hers: chess pieces knocked over, bodies in the streets, men on their knees with their heads bowed. Undisputable loyalty and power. The city in her hands. 

When Selina tried to picture her own desires, all she could possibly see was Bruce Wayne. 

The edges of Sofia’s face went a bit hard. “As long as you do what I ask.”

For a long moment, Selina squinted, unsure what she was being asked, until—her heart slowed and then picked up again. Astonished fury flooded her senses and stabbed hard at her chest. With a whisper, as loud as she could truly manage, she said, “You want me to kill someone.”

“I want you to prove yourself,” Sofia corrected, voice dropping to a low whisper. Carefully, she touched Selina’s shoulder in the way their Father always had, except—it was nothing like his tight grip. It was gentle and soft. Comforting, almost. “Blood demands blood.”

All the fight drained out of her at once. Wary and brimming with nerves, Selina frowned, blinking slowly. It sounded less like a threat and more of a cautious warning. A reminder.

“You were meant to kill Silver. St Cloud and failed,” Sofia said, frowning and thin-lipped. “You were meant to kill Bruce Wayne and, so far, have failed.”

The hand over her shoulder squeezed, once, and Selina had to force herself to pay attention. It was so stupid how such a simple touch could distract her so greatly, but Sofia had never approached her so gently. It made her head spin in every direction at once.

“I don’t really believe you have what it takes anymore,” she said, fingers clenching and eyes drifting. The dark, palpable disappointment across her face hurt in a way that was unexpected, like a dart thrown and landed right in the center of Selina’s chest. “That’s a problem for me and for you. Prove to me that you’re still capable.”

Selina lifted her chin, working through every word. Realization struck hard at her chest, but it didn’t horrify her like she’d thought. Her head felt quiet, all that familiar buzzing faded into a distant memory. 

“I won’t die for you, Sofia,” she said, reaching up to gently push Sofia’s hand away from her. “I won’t cut off my hand or stick a knife into my eye to pay off whatever debt you think I have.”

“It’s not a debt,” Sofia said through a sigh, frustration twisting her face up. Two fingers lifted to play with the diamond at her throat. “This is who you are, Selina. This is who you need to be.”

It was odd phrasing and Selina paused, confusion striking bright and fuzzy over her skull. “What are you talking about?”

Sofia twisted the diamond once more and then released it so she could press at Selina’s chest with a finger, right where her heart sat. By now, the gesture was nearly familiar, but the intent wasn't quite as clear as it had always been. It didn’t feel cruel or vicious and the press over her skin wasn’t nearly hard enough to bruise.

Rather, it was a pointed tap, once and then twice.

“You need to prove that you’re exactly who you’ve always been,” Sofia said, lowering her hand back to her side. “The Butcher.”

Selina made a noise in her throat, irritated. This was the very same thing that Sofia had always said to her, nothing new or interesting or worth her time. With a childish wave, she batted Sofia’s hands away, sucking at her teeth and rolling her eyes. 

But, then, the wind blew and shifted the pretty roses. Ice filled up her veins and turned her spine into a taut, brittle line. Alarm twisted up her stomach, so bright and sharp that it actually hurt to even think about breathing.

“What?” she asked slowly, narrowing her eyes into slits. One foot stepped forward, then the other, snow and ice crunching beneath her foot. Sofia continued to smile, pretty and bright, and her stomach twisted even more. “Did you say the?”

Not a butcher, but the—Barbara Kean’s killer. The cause for everything in this shit town. James Gordon’s every reason for fighting. 

And, now, apparently Selina’s alias. 

The edges of Sofia’s smile turned sharp and predatory. “Did I? Must’ve been a slip of the tongue.”

Terror licked up Selina’s spine and crawled up her throat. A familiar sense of nausea pressed down on her stomach, like wine sat low in her stomach. Dizziness began to swirl around the corners of her skull, turning the edges of her vision a bit black. Splotches of color swarmed in front of her and water rushed through her ears. 

“Fuck you,” she whispered, so quietly that it was barely audible to her own ears. Then, again, louder and sharper, more a bark than anything, “Fuck you. Fuck, Sofia, you can’t be serious.”

Sofia made a noise in her throat, awfully offended. The edges of her mouth curled in disgust. “Don’t curse at me.”

“You’re lucky I don’t split you open,” Selina said, hushed and trembling. Every word was soaked in sour acid, red-hot and hungry as ever. “You might need me, but I don’t need you. If I wanted, I could cut your throat open right here.”

“That’s not very polite,” Sofia said, looking far too unbothered. “But, I guess I could always bash your head in with a brick.”

Selina stiffened.

The air seemed to drop by a thousand degrees. It felt like a bucket of blue, icy water dumped over her curls, freezing her down to the bone. A shiver wracked her body. When she tried to swallow, it tasted stale and sour. 

Puke sat low in her throat. If she swallowed again, it would surely rise, and so she bit hard at her tongue and inhaled as slowly as she could. 

He couldn’t even recognize her because her head was too misshapen. Whatever was used cracked her skull open in six different places.

The brick—covered in pig's blood. To her Father, a cruel prank. To Sofia—a deliberate, vindictive taunt. A genuine jab, because she’d known all along what weapon had been used, even if it had never been found by the cops and never been mentioned in the papers. 

Selina tried to swallow down vomit. A tremor took over her fingers and she exhaled heavily, face falling and shoulders so tight it hurt down to her hips. “It’s you. You’re the Butcher.”

Sofia licked over her teeth, frowning and shaking her head slowly. But, she said nothing and made no move to deny it, only said, “I’ve always hated that name. It’s barbaric.”

“This whole time,” Selina blinked rapidly, trying to shut out the colors rising in the corners of her vision. Blue and pink, green and red. Bright and distracting, sharp like a migraine forming. “It’s been you all along.”

“What was I supposed to do?” Sofia asked through a sigh, terribly calm despite admitting to murder. “Someone needed to light James Gordon’s spark. I mean, he was so dull before.”

Selina’s jaw dropped at that, just a bit. “So, what, you think he should thank you?”

Sofia went hard around the shoulders and eyes, looking offended and irritated that Selina just didn’t get it. “I helped him.”

“You killed his wife,” Selina hissed, stepping closer till their toes touched and she glared upwards, chin tilted back. “You bashed in her head. You killed her!”

“I did what I had to,” Sofia said, bothered but calm enough to make Selina nearly furious. “Father never would’ve given me the city and I had to prove myself. Don’t you see? I wanted more—just like you said.”

Selina pressed closer and tilted back her chin. “You’re a monster. All this time, you called me a freak.” A high-pitched, hysterical giggle left her mouth, then another when Sofia’s face fell. “It’s you, Sofia. You’re the fucking monster.”

Fury colored her cheeks and curled her fists. But, then, she sighed, long and loud like she was only a bit disappointed. “Oh, Selina. I really thought you’d understand.”

Brighter color filled up her vision, pink and blue and red. Like the colors of bruised skin. It felt like she’d been turned inside out and then told to grin and bear it for the remainder of her life. 

“I understand plenty,” she spit. Sharp as it was, a bit of a tremble lingered in the back of her throat, a wet sort of cry that was eager to escape. “That’s why you need me. You’re using me.”

“I thought you liked being used,” Sofia said, leaning over her. “You let Father do it for a decade.”

The insult barely registered, though she gave a low laugh anyhow. The edges of her vision were turning dangerously dark and she dug her teeth into her cheek to ward it away. She tried to focus on the dull spike of pain instead of her shaking knees. Sofia would not see her buckle.

“I won’t take the fall for you,” she hissed, heart pounding as realization struck like lightning. 

This was what Sofia needed her for. This was why she’d kept her alive. 

“You want me to confess.” Selina clasped a hand over her neck, breath coming out stronger and quicker. Blood spurted over her tongue and she swallowed, skin stinging, teeth digging even harder into her cheek. 

“Someone has to,” Sofia said, and lifted one steady hand. Two fingers flicked back. “I’ve worked too hard to let Barbara Kean’s ghost destroy everything.”

From the shadows of the Manor emerged a figure, then another. Selina squinted, head spinning and heart thumping, knees shaking and knuckles trembling, until—James Gordon stepped onto the white lawn. Behind him, Harvey Bullock. Both had a firm hand on their guns. 

“You’re fucking insane.” Selina turned her chin forward.

“I’m anything but,” Sofia argued, shaking her head slowly and twisting her fingers together. The red of her mouth shone like wine. It made Selina ill just to look at. “This is only temporary, Selina. Just until you’ve done what I’ve asked.”

“You’re crazy,” she repeated, lifting both palms to her neck and pressing hard. It restricted her breath just enough to hurt and she gasped a wet sound. Tears lined her lashes but she couldn’t be sure when she’d begun to cry. Blood filled up her mouth. She didn’t remember biting down. “You’re psychotic. Oh, god.”

Sofia pressed two fingers to her chin and lifted up till their gazes locked. “Trust me. Just one more kill. One little confession.”

Selina inhaled a sharp breath, gaze foggy and mouth wet with blood and tears and bile. It felt impossible to breathe steadily. Her limbs shook beneath her, both her knees eager to collapse, but she held firm. 

The Commissioner continued to approach, his footsteps crunching over the hard snow. From several feet away, he called out to them in a shout, but it sounded only like muffled flies to Selina. It was as if she’d been submerged underwater, ice flooding her veins and solidifying her muscles. 

Bodies surrounded her. Tall, terrifying, standing so close that she wished to snap her teeth and scare them all away. It hurt to even blink. Heat bit at her eyes. Hands wrapped around her wrists and pulled, hard, till they fell behind her back. It stung the muscles of her shoulders but there wasn’t anything she could say or do. 

Selina inhaled. Exhaled. It sounded ragged and heavy, even to her own ears. 

More muffled voices fell over her. The hands held tighter. Cool metal pressed hard to the skin of her wrists, above her gloves where her skin turned bare. It made her want to cry all the more. It made her feel sick. She missed Bruce and his warm skin. 

Sofia’s red mouth quirked. “Don’t cry, Selina. The worst is yet to come.”

A cold breeze fell across the garden, shifting the roses side to side. Bits of snow fell to the ground, jostled, revealing the red flowers beneath. 

Sofia tilted forward and pressed her mouth beside Selina’s ear. With a whisper, so quiet that even Selina barely heard it, she warned, “Just one more kill, my dear.”

Selina shut her eyes and gasped a breath, wet and terrified. Every nerve, bone, and inch of marrow wished, with everything that she had left, with every bit of hungry desperation and remaining fight in her ribcage, that she was the one kill. That, at the very end of it all, she’d be the one bloody, buried, and dead. 

Chapter Text

The feeling of being seen was a knife beneath her skin, peeling her open and wounding her down to the bone. Eyes sat over every inch of her skin, too many to count and unknown by the name. Ants crawled up her arms and twisted her stomach till she felt ready to hurl. If she weren’t lucky, she just might, all over the table in front of her. 

But, that wasn’t an option she’d begun to let herself consider. These men would not see her waver. They had already taken enough from her.

“Your sister has told me a lot about you,” a voice said behind her. 

Selina kept her chin straight and her mouth thin despite panic curling around her spine. Even without seeing him, she knew him. Blind and drunk and half-dead, she’d still know the sound of his voice. It haunted her like the ghost of Barbara Kean did this stupid city. 

“Nothing nice, I’d guess,” she said. It wasn’t like she had many pleasant things to say about Sofia, either. Fair was only fair. 

Days ago, when Bruce had finally braved the question—beyond his usual hesitant, trembling inquiries of do you want more toast and are you warm enough and can i hold your hand, if that’s alright? —about the name Falcone, Selina had not been kind. Maybe careful, so as not to scare him off with horrific stories of bloodshed and corruption, but not kind. 

James Gordon gave her a tight-lipped smile. “No. Nothing very nice.”

Selina blinked slowly and kept very still. In the middle of the table was a thick folder, no doubt filled to the brim with papers and data about her. Every little scrap that Sofia had managed to collect and hand over to her boyfriend for judgment.

If her eyes drifted too low and saw manilla, her head started to go fuzzy. It kept happening all morning, from the first moment that the Commissioner slapped the folder in front of her and asked for her name, age, and all sorts of other boring pieces. 

When she looked down at the papers, she only thought of her own folders, given to her by her Father. Thick files of data and photographs on all of her marks. Evaluations of men soon to be corpses. 

Gordon took two papers from the bottom of the pile, searching for something that she didn’t quite care enough to figure out. Her eyes lowered. The edges of her head started to turn fuzzy, drifting. 

Bruce’s folder had been inches thick, filled with newspapers and photographs and stupid information that hadn’t meant anything at all. 

By now, he was probably pacing the halls of Wayne Manor, wearing holes into the carpet with all his pacing—and ignoring her advice, no doubt. Selina had told him—demanded, really—to stay put. Return to school, see his friends, drink and dine like normal. Pretend he knew absolutely nothing about the Falcone name.

“You seriously think I’ll sit and wait,” he’d whispered, furious and stunned. It had made her smile, just a bit, to see him so eager to stay by her side. Like a stiff, uptight bodyguard desperate to follow her around. 

“Yeah, I do,” she’d said, just as persistent, “because if you go looking for me, you’ll get us both killed.”

If Sofia knew that Bruce Wayne was closer to a boyfriend than a target, she’d put a bullet in both of their skulls. Nevermind whatever last kill she needed from Selina. 

Selina had brushed a loose curl off his forehead, pressing her palm to his cheek and savoring the feeling of his skin for what might be the last time. “Don’t look for me, Bruce,” she’d said, gentle despite the strong command. “Don’t try to help. I can take care of myself.”

Maybe she’d underestimate her half-sister’s brutal desire for control, however. It would’ve been easier to imagine being forced to her knees with a gun leveled to her skull, having to beg for her life and swearing loyalty. Being dragged to the GCPD by James Gordon and Harvey Bullock hadn’t been something she’d thought to prepare for. 

A sharp noise sounded in her ear. Blinking, she lifted up her eyes and found Gordon staring, fingers lifted. 

“Are you listening?” 

Selina gave a slow nod and kept her eyes firmly on his. 

With a sigh, he pressed at the bridge of his nose. The skin beneath his eyes was dark and bruised. If she were in less of a sour mood, she’d taunt his lack of sleep. As it were, she tilted her head to the side, squinting and studying him carefully. 

“I’d like it if you could fill in the gaps,” he said slowly. Irritation seeped into every word and she had the foresight to bite back. “Anything that Sofia hasn’t told me already.”

“Gaps?” she repeated, eyes narrowed and mouth curling back. “You’re already filled those in yourself. I wouldn’t be sitting here otherwise.”

Sofia had done a pleasant, charming job of feeding him information: Gordon thought her to be volatile, eager to bite and chew and ready to stab and spit. The most dangerous one in the family. As if that title shouldn’t be rewarded to Sofia herself.

The lines of his face went hard, ice slipping into his gaze and turning his mouth thin again. “You’re dangerous. You’ve killed people, Selina.”

The sound of her name from his lips was like hot iron over her skin. It felt wrong, like he’d reached deep into her chest and shaken up her heart till she could barely breathe. And it was all because of Sofia: she’d given her name to him willingly, without any sort of fight. 

“Who?” Selina asked through gritted teeth, rather than snap and bite as she wished. Rather than order him to never speak her name again. Both brows raised into a thin expression of empty, plastic confusion. 

“What?”

“Can you give me names?” she asked with a high-pitched edge that spoke of mockery. Before she could dig, she had to know exactly what Sofia had told him. 

“For starters,” he said with a grunt, “three of my men.”

Red filled up her vision. The ugly squelch of her knife slipping into the socket of an eye, of flesh tearing and blood spurting. Two bodies sitting atop the stairs, her shoulder flaring with pain and blood staining the skin of her face, every breath a tight pain to her ribs. Another dead by Sofia’s room.

Then, the echo of a gun. The slump of another, taller body. 

Bile twisted up her throat and she tried not to blanch too visibly. 

“I don’t remember that,” she said with an ease that she didn’t feel. Her ribcage hurt, like immense pressure held it tight and squeezed till the bones were about to shatter. At least the pain gave her something to focus on rather than the ugly frown across the Commissioner's face.

Gordon’s chin lifted and he squinted. Red lit up his cheeks with impatience and he tried again, “Did someone else kill them, then?”

They both knew there wasn’t anyone left to kill them. If not Gordon, then another of his men had already killed all of her Father’s assassins. 

One shoulder lifted into a shrug. “How the hell should I know?”

Gordon’s eye twitched, just a bit. 

It might make her laugh if she weren’t feeling so sick. A rush of panic crawled closer to her teeth the longer she sat still. Every muscle twitched, wishing to stand and run, as far away as possible. 

“I know you were there.” A sigh left his throat, troubled and angry. The red in his cheeks faded to pink as she stared at him, squinting and silent. Up close, he was far less intimidating—though she’d never, in a thousand years, admit to having thought of him as a genuine threat. Maybe just a bit too trigger-happy. 

“Did Sofia tell you that?” she asked, shifting back in her seat. It pulled awkwardly at her arms and shoulders, her wrists still handcuffed to the table, but she managed.

The color returned in his cheeks, brighter and bigger, creeping up toward his ears. A tight inhale left his mouth and his jaw opened half an inch as he looked sideways, toward the glass. Panic, bright and wonderful, twisted up his features. 

Selina tried not to laugh. All that sick panic in her ribs dissipated, replaced by fuzzy, frothy delight. This was just too perfect. “Is that supposed to be a secret?”

Gordon’s chin turned forward again. A hard, sharp edge filled his face and made him look rather mean. Through gritted teeth, he said, “No.”

The apex of justice and law having fallen in love with the dangerous, crimson daughter of Carmine Falcone. It had to be a secret, lingering between the grooves of his teeth, sticking to his gums like tacky syrup. A cavity, drilling into his mouth and rotting his flesh. 

Selina quirked her lips into a sugary smile. “Do your men not know that you’re fucking Sofia Falcone?”

Disgust made him recoil. Atop the table, his knuckles clenched, the skin turning white. The red in his cheeks burned even brighter, like a vat of crimson blush had stuck onto him. “That’s not appropriate,” he spit. 

“Well, it’s true,” she said, leaning forward till her elbows landed back on the table. A few feet still sat between them, but now, she could see the glint of shame in his gaze, a little diamond that sat right in the corner of his pupils. “Right?”

Shame lit up his cheeks. Even if she’d denied her desire for blood—a lie, so bold it was funny—Sofia was still associated by name. The empire belonged to her through birthright. Everything that their Father had done stained her reputation as well. 

Gordon clenched his jaw so hard that it was visible. “Yes. Your sister and I are… together.”

Selina pursed her lips and nodded once. It was almost nice for him to so easily admit it, even if she had taunted and teased. Sofia never would’ve done so, and she’d only slipped over her own tongue because she’d been backed into a corner. 

After a moment, her face wrinkled up. “You do know she’s only, like, twenty five? Not even.”

Confusion made him blink and he gave a long, slow shrug. 

Selina made a low noise of disgust in throat, lips curling back and noise wrinkling up like she’d eaten a lemon in one go. “Aren’t you like fifty, you creep?”

Gordon flinched. Pink colored his cheeks. “What? No.”

“Sure,” she said, making a face. He looked a bit offended, actually. “Whatever.”

“Look at me,” he barked. The loud, sharp tone forced her gaze up and she found his teeth bared and cheeks red. “There’s only one man out there watching and listening to us, and I can handle him knowing about me and Sofia Falcone.”

Dread curled up her spine. It was easy to guess the one figure and it made her feel no better to know only one watched rather than an entire swarm.

“Harvey Bullock,” she said quietly. The two stuck together like glue. Partners. Thick as thieves. 

“You know him,” he said with a sharp smile. “Good. So you know that he’s not quite as nice as me.”

Selina bit at her tongue to avoid the obvious: James Gordon was not a nice man. The Commissioner was a trigger-happy fanatic who believed himself justified because it was all in the name of the law. Any man dead at his feet deserved it because he had a shiny, golden badge in his pocket. 

“If you’d like, I can go get him.” Gordon pointed toward the window, chin still facing forward. Irritation and fury made his fingers tremble the longer he kept them in mid-air. “Except, he thinks the only way to get you to talk is to give you a nice beating.”

The lines of her face wrinkled. A mean, high-pitched laugh crawled up her throat, but she managed to swallow it back. “Well,” she said, snickering quietly, “you can certainly try. I’m no stranger to that.”

As far as threats went, it was weak and pathetic. A few bruised ribs and knocked-out teeth couldn’t force her to admit anything. Skin peeled away and fingers severed wouldn’t do much at all. Blood spilled, her skull caved in, her breath stolen, and still she wouldn’t admit anything. 

Bruce might not think so fondly of her steel spine. A paper-cut over her finger made him fret and brood. A full-fledged beating, with purple skin and broken bones, would probably make him faint. It might even make him sue the department, if he were in an irritable enough mood.

Across the table, Gordon winced and withered. The fight seemed to die in his body, fading away into a sort of pity that made her way to snarl, teeth bared and blades extended. 

“Selina,” he sighed, blinking slowly and staring downward. “I have no reason to trust you. The only reason you’re here and not at Blackgate or Arkham is because I promised your sister that I wouldn’t hurt you—she still needs you.”

It sounded nearly sweet. A sister’s beg to keep her family alive for another day, despite her bloody hands and guilty past. 

Except, she knew what was truly needed of her: loyalty in the form of suicide. Fingers broken and eyes gouged out to prove that she would understood her faults. Better yet, taking the fall for the bloodiest crime in the city’s public history.

“I’m sure that’s difficult,” she said slowly, voice quiet and dripping with acid. “Considering you think that I’m the one who killed your wife.”

Gordon went stiff, shoulders taut and mouth thin. Ice filled up his eyes and he glared, slowly, his eyes twitching and knuckles curling. The skin of his hands went white, like any second he’d punch her straight across the cheek. It really wouldn't surprise her if he did.

“Are you trying to tell me that you didn’t?”

Selina leaned forward, cheeks bleached of color and her heart pounding. It hurt her ribs to breathe. Bile sat high in her throat like she might just puke over the table. “I think if you want to find the Butcher, you should start by looking in your bed.”

For a long moment, he flinched and twitched, bewildered. Then, shock filled up his features, bright and blinding. “You think it’s Sofia?”

Selina clenched her jaw and ground her teeth. “I know it is.”

“You’re lying,” he spit, tilting back in his chair and giving a low laugh. The edges sounded brittle and mean, disbelief soaking into every groove in his mouth. 

“You’ve never doubted her?” she asked carefully, tilting her head. A hungry smile quirked her mouth. “You’ve never wondered why she was so eager to have you in her pocket?”

Gordon shot forward, grabbing hard at her wrist and pulling her toward him by a half-inch. It hurt, the muscles in her shoulder hissing in pain, but she didn’t so much as flinch. “Sofia wants nothing to do with your family. Ever since I met her, all she’s told me is that she wants it destroyed.”

At that, Selina really did laugh, high-pitched. Glee curled up her ribcage. The edges of it were tinged red with pleasure, so bright and bewildered that she had to choke back another laugh. 

No wonder Sofia had chosen James Gordon: he was easy, terribly so. Stupid, too. More gullible than she could’ve ever imagined. What wonderful luck. 

“That’s what you think?” she asked, breathing a laugh that lacked any real humor. 

“Sofia wants this city clean,” he said, emphasizing every syllable like it mattered. To him, it did, and that was the worst part: he truly believed each word down to his pink marrow. “Just like I do.”

Selina tilted forward across the table. It pulled hard at her spine and shoulders but she didn’t care one bit. With a flat voice, cold and deliberate, she asked, “Do you think she stood and watched you kill our Father because she believes in your sick version of justice?

Doubt flickered across his face, small but oh so tremendous. All that she needed was a seed planted beneath his skin, eager to sprout and blossom. If he doubted, then he could believe, and that was enough.

“Sofia knew your Father was dangerous,” he said, but it sounded far less certain than before. Slower, with his eyes drifting about. “Neither one of us could’ve helped him after everything he’s done to this city.”

Selina licked at her lips and bit back the obvious response: if given the chance, Sofia likely would’ve pointed the gun right at his skull, and eventually, she’d do the very same to Selina. Carmine Falcone’s death might have been necessary, but only because Sofia allowed it to happen in the first place. Only because she pointed the cops in the right direction at the right time.

“Did she cry?”

Gordon blinked. The fogginess in his eyes cleared momentarily as he squinted in confusion. “Sorry?”

“When he died,” she clarified, twisting her fingers together and pretending that her ribs didn’t ache. Speaking of her Father so easily still felt wrong, like bugs worming their way into her skin and eating away at her organs. “Did she cry?”

There was more she wanted to say and accuse and dig toward: did tears slip down her pretty cheeks, cries working their way up her throat, every inch of feeling peeled back? Did she truly feel that bullet deep in her skin, like it had pierced her skull and not someone else’s?

Did it matter to her, one fucking bit, or was regret nothing but another form of weakness?

Gordon’s mouth cinched into a thin line. For a long moment, he said nothing as he tried to recall that bloody night. 

Selina nearly snarled at his dazed, easy reaction. What bliss it must be to think so little of that night. It haunted her. Every nightmare was the face of her Father, streaked in blood and pale around the cheeks. Every moment since that night had been spent with her heart twisted up and her stomach dropped to the floor. 

“No,” he said eventually. Grim disgust crept into the edges of his face. “Sofia thanked me.”

A tight laugh left her throat. Were she anywhere else, she might just kneel over and hurt—or cry, sharp and wet. Atop the table, her fingers curled till the skin bleached of color. If Sofia were in front of her, she might not be able to resist a sharp hit. 

“So what?” he said, lifting both hands. “That doesn’t prove anything.”

“It doesn’t prove anything?” she repeated, near hysterical. Another laugh left her throat, lacking any humor, and she tilted back her chin to avoid his stare. All the air in the room felt dry. She resisted the urge to bang her forehead into the corner of the table, just to feel a bit of pain. 

“It doesn’t mean she’s a killer,” he said, one hand still lifted toward her like she was a trembling animal. It made her angry, irrationally so, and she narrowed her eyes until he lowered his hands back toward his lap. 

Word of mouth meant little from a killer like her. There’d have to be other ways to convince him, even if it meant dropping to her knees and begging him to even attempt to understand. To allow himself to believe, for even a split-second, that it was possible. 

“Do you remember those tricks my Father used to play?” she asked, voice vacant and ribs aching. Her palms felt sore and empty. “That year that he sent you a brick?”

Gordon flexed his knuckles. “Yes.”

A flicker of panic crawled up her spine, toward the edges of her throat. If he reached out for her, clasping onto her wrist or neck, no one would stop him. Bullock would likely enjoy the show. It might not scare her to think of a few weak punches, but he could do anything he liked to her: hit till her skin split, splinter her bones, suffocate her and get her close enough to death to just taste it. 

“Sofia came up with that.” With a slow shrug, she met his eyes, mouth thin and teeth trembling. All her nerves felt fried a thousand times over, like she was nothing but a burnt up pile of ash. “Even picked out the pig to slaughter.”

Dread crept into the corners of his face like a shadow. His knuckles clenched harder, tighter, and she tried not to wince. Sofia might have guaranteed her life, but she’d said nothing about the state of her ribcage or flush of her skin. If anything, she’d likely laugh at the thought of Selina bruised and beaten in the GCPD. 

“I remember her laughing as it died,” she said quietly. Flies buzzed in her ears and she had to fight away the sting of tears in her eyes, heart pounding, blood feeling curdled like milk. 

The blood had sprayed as the pig squealed, loud and awful. Selina had kept her mouth tight and thin, hands behind her back because if she twitched, she’d lift them up and cover her ears. Anything to muffle the awful sound of death. 

But Sofia had just laughed and laughed until it stopped squirming. 

“The paper’s never said anything about a brick,” she said eventually, jaw still tight. The shrieking of the pig still echoed in her ear and she shifted her weight, biting at her cheek. “Sofia couldn’t have known that unless it was her.”

Gordon stayed entirely still. The skin of his hands were still white across the knuckles as he clenched them together, gaze sad and empty. Selina wondered what horrors echoed in his ears. 

“I asked her about it, once or twice,” he said, twisting his fingers more. Any harder, and he might peel away the skin of his hands. “But she always said she’d avoided the business. Thought it was ugly.”

“Well,” Selina said, giving him a brittle smile, “the best liars always tell the truth.”

Silence sat like a dirty knife for a long moment, stiff and tense. All that could be heard was the ticking of the rusted clock on the wall, old and brown.

“What about Silver St. Cloud?” Gordon asked, ducking his chin to meet her gaze. “Was that a lie?”

Christ. That stupid girl was becoming as much of a ghost as Barbara Kean. All Selina ever heard was her pretty name and all she ever saw was her shock of blonde hair. It was like a knife digging into her ribs, taunting her.

“Which part?” she said with a raised brow.

One hand lifted to flip through his papers again. From the mess of data, he pulled a photograph: Silver and Bruce, uniforms crisp and arms crossed as they stood close together.

Gordon slid the photograph across the table, as if she somehow didn’t know what either of them looked like. “You were supposed to kill her.” 

“I didn’t. You know she’s still alive,” Selina said, staring across the table rather than downwards. There was nothing that an old, grainy photograph could tell her. At one point or another, they’d both been her marks. She knew their faces better than her own. “And so is Bruce Wayne.”

Gordon’s face fell. All of his simmering curiosity flattened, brows lifting and mouth parting. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say he looked entirely stunned. Horrified, even. 

“Oh no,” she said, letting the corners of her mouth lift. Amusement crept into the corners of her ribcage. “Did Sofia forget to tell you about him?”

One hand lifted, waving her away. It was awfully rude and terribly dismissive. “I already know about his run-in with an assassin.”

The mirth crawling up her ribs dissipated in an instant. Beside her, the clock ticked louder, irritating like a headache drilling into her skull. 

Luckily, he didn’t notice, too busy frowning at the table and putting the puzzle pieces together in the corners of his skull. “Alfred Pennyworth called me. Said some girl attacked him, left a nasty cut across his neck.”

Selina grit her teeth. Sharp pain flared up her jaw and irritation simmered low in her stomach. Conveniently, Bruce had managed to leave that little detail out: James Gordon knew. Maybe not about her, but that some girl had broken in and gave him a pretty little scar across his skin. 

Wonderful.

“I thought we caught her,” he said quietly, leaning forward and frowning. “Your sister had told me about you, and one of the girls we caught was close to your age. Blonde, though.”

Cam, she thought, but didn’t correct him. Sharp, arrogant Cam, with her pretty blonde hair and mean smile. Maria Palmer had died beneath her hands, and she’d died at the hands of Jim Gordon.

It looked like a puzzle was piecing itself together across his face. Though she wanted to argue and spit and snap, she allowed him the silence to finish slotting the details into place. Gnashing her teeth would only make her look guilty. 

“It was you?” he asked, gaze finally lifting up and finding hers. 

One shoulder lifted into a shrug, small and easy. A pretty, sugary smile curved her mouth upwards and she sat in silence, waiting. Irritation still sat low in her stomach, but she tried her best to swallow it back for the time being. Later, much later, when she’d returned to Wayne Manor, she could pull Bruce aside for a few sharp words. 

Gordon clenched his jaw, nearly as irritated as her, and the sight of his frustration managed to fade away a bit of her anger. Bothering him was nearly as fun as taunting her sister. “If that’s true,” he said slowly, hesitant, “then Sofia kept it from me for a reason.”

Jeez, this guy was stupid. Or just willfully ignorant. 

Selina hummed low in her throat and pouted. “Wonder why.”

The lines of his jaw went all the tighter. The muscles in his shoulders, too, looked taut and pulled, tense and rigid. It wasn’t anger that flashed through his face, though, just wary panic. Anxiety, because they both knew that she had a lucky hunch as to what Sofia wanted. 

“If I had to guess,” she said with a bright sigh, leaning forward to meet his eye straight on, “she’s hoping I’ll still kill him.”

The color in his cheeks went white, rage blanching into something icy and horrified. For a long, steady breath, she thought maybe it was directed her way: the thought of her knife sinking into Bruce Wayne’s skin wasn’t a pretty image. 

Except, his weight shifted, shoulders and spine still rigid. The paleness of his skin turned a bit green, like Sofia’s had in the gardens. Shame, sour and familiar, twisted the features of his face till he looked ready to hurl right into his lap. 

This was no ordinary spout of anger: he knew, with bright, crystal clarity, that she was speaking the truth. 

Selina kept every muscle in her body still. If she moved too quickly, even blinked too fast, he’d bolt. Jump and spit and demand answers from her, accuse her of fabricating it all. What he needed was time. A few minutes of silence to put all those puzzle pieces together himself, without her help, to remember every moment of doubt that he’d had and let it fester. 

The seed of doubt bloomed tall and proud beneath his skin. 

Gordon’s chin lifted slowly. Before he could think to speak, she knew what would fall from his mouth, and she remained still to brace for the blow. 

Slowly, he grit out, “I don’t believe you.”

Pride was a forceful, fickle thing. James Gorodn had built his own empire off of justice—however skewed, however tainted: justice above all. Digesting his own betrayal was no easy task. Admitting that he had aided in so much death and horror, all because he’d trusted the wrong woman. 

“You don’t have to,” she said carefully. Both shoulders lifted into a slow shrug. “Ask Sofia. Better yet—ask Bruce Wayne.”

Gordon met her gaze, eyes flashing and mouth thin. With all of his attention and sudden belief sapped onto her body, she had to fight not to wither. So much scrutiny never sat well over her skin. It was like her Father’s cold stare all over again, five cold fingers clenching over her shoulder. 

Selina swallowed bile, her ribs aching, and tried again. “Sofia kept this from you for a reason. You and I both know why. Don’t be stupid. Don’t make the same mistake again by trusting her.”

Silence fell across the room. The clock ticked louder in her ear. 

Gordon stared at her, thin and tight around the mouth and eyes. Buried just behind, belief trickled and blossomed, no matter how small.

“You said she still needs me,” she said quietly, hoping to dig deep enough to allow his belief to sprout. “I know why: after I confess to being the Butcher, she’s going to kill me.”

Alarm darkened his face around the edges, just a brief passing shadow before he thinned his mouth and narrowed his eyes. 

“Relax.” Both her hands lifted an inch, like meaning to ward him off. A mimic of his earlier gesture, though she doubted he’d ever trembled beneath any sort of pressure. “That, or I’ll do it myself.”

The edges of his face twisted up as he worked through her meaning, trying to understand that the end result regardless was her shriveled up and begging for mercy. Covered in blood and half-dead, tears turning her eyes wet and skin pink, vomit in her throat and limbs shaking.

“Maybe she’s just gonna cut my fingers off,” she said, inspecting the ends of her hands and wiggling her fingers for show. Gordon’s gaze drifted low as she did and she flexed her knuckles. “Or take my eyes, or something.”

Honestly, she’d prefer death to a life spent blind and obedient. 

“Why?” Gordon asked, both knuckles curled and pressed up against the edge of the table. 

Selina shrugged, stiff and awkward. “My family has… severe methods of punishment. And I’m a problem. Besides the blame for the Butcher, she has no reason to keep me around.”

“So she’ll get rid of you and claim the title of hero,” he said slowly. It fell across the room like an easy truth, as if he’d been thinking the very same since the beginning. As if he’d never once trusted Sofia Falcone. 

A small, brittle smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “Now you’re getting it. Couldn’t tell you when though.”

The clock ticked loud on the wall, an irritating sort of strike that made her eye twitch and lashes flutter. It seemed like that stupid sound grew louder by the minute. 

The color drained from his face all at once. “Noon.”

Selina frowned. “What?”

“Noon,” he repeated, sharper and stronger as he lifted from his chair to stare at the clock. The longer he stared, the louder it seemed to tick, grating and awful in both their ears. It looked a bit menacing, rusted and old as it was. “At noon, Sofia will be here to take you for an hour. I’m supposed to take you out back to meet her.”

The clock read 11:56. 

Panic rose in her chest, sharp and bright like sunlight. Red filled her cheeks, as dark as wine, as she sputtered. “You can’t be serious.”

Gordon pressed his knuckles to the table, leaning over her. It made her recoil, just a bit, anxiety frothing up into fear as he stared down at her. She’d forgotten how tall he truly was. How big, how strong, how he could truly do anything he liked with her. No one would blink an eye. 

“I trusted her,” he bit, eyes wide and wild. The further he tilted over her, the stronger her breath came from her throat. “I know now that it was a mistake.”

Selina held her chin forward to hide the tremble in her hands and the uptick in her heart. Four minutes until Sofia was meant to lead her away to her death—three, actually, when she glanced to the side. Even better. 

“I’ll figure something out,” he said, a touch softer than before. Maybe he’d seen the flash of alarm in her eyes. The thought of that made her flush with shame, just a bit. “I’ll do my best to keep her away from you.”

“You can’t.”

It fell from her mouth without permission or thought. Gordon paused, ducking his chin to meet her lowered eyes, but she continued to stare down at her hands. They were still, devoid of any tremble or waver or clenched knuckles. 

“Selina,” he said, wary and puzzled, “I know you don’t trust me. I understand, after everything, why you wouldn’t. I still don’t trust you, really. But trust that I can keep you alive.”

Selina said nothing, only licked at her teeth and swallowed. The taste was clean and fresh, without a lick of spilled blood or sour bile. She felt study and calm, like all the puzzle pieces in her head had clicked together at once. 

“I don’t want you to try,” she said, and finally lifted her chin. Gordon stared down with narrowed eyes. As he began to shake his head, a protest falling from his mouth, she sighed and explained, “If you refuse, she’ll know you don’t trust her. You’ll be the one killed today, not me.”

Gordon frowned but didn’t protest any further, stepping away and staring at the clock again. Two minutes left. The breath in her lungs came a bit easier without him leaving over her.

“I can take care of myself,” she said through a tight smile. Evading death was something she’d learned well, and if today was finally the day, then so be it. There wasn’t any point fighting the inevitable, because it would only make it hurt worse in the end. Rather than a bullet to the head, she’d earn endless hours of pain and blood. “I know Sofia. I can handle her, too.”

A frustrated sigh left his mouth but he nodded, because it was true enough. Between the two of them, she knew Sofia far better than he ever would. 

“Besides,” she said, giving him an award winning smile, “one hour is plenty of time to do me a favour.”

Gordon looked her way slowly, equally curious and suspicious. “Excuse me?”

“There’s somewhere you’ll want to look while we’re gone,” she said. Though her breath came out easily, she felt twisted around and turned inside out. If he decided not to listen to her, she really was screwed. “If you’d really like proof about Sofia, that is.”

The edges of his face turned dark and hard, unsure whether or not it was a trap. Selina nearly laughed. Within the hour, she might be dead. What did she have to lose? 

Selina leaned back in her chair and twisted her fingers together. The air in her lungs felt frigid. Every beat of her heart slammed against her ribcage. With his eyes still on her, she pointed toward the clock: one minute to spare. “Sixty seconds, Commissioner. What’ll it be?”

—

Gordon’s grip was tight and unforgiving around her arm as he dragged her toward the back—toward Sofia—but she was feeling awfully unnerved already. Another day, she’d wrench herself away and pick a fight. Today, she really needed to stay on his grim, grey good side, and so she grit her teeth and pretended his fingers weren’t bruising her flesh.

A clicking sounded over the pavement as they stepped nearer. Selina tipped back her head toward the grey sky, a headache already forming. Maybe a stupid thing to think, but she’d almost hoped that Sofia would be late, if only so she’d have another long minute to prepare herself. 

Sofia stood with arms crossed, leaning back against the bricks, a foot tapping. The lines of her face looked curled up, sour and irritated, but it faded away in an instant as she turned to see them coming. Soft warmth filled up her expression instead, her cheeks turning pink and her mouth widening into a smile. 

“Oh,” she said, breathy and delighted. “You’re late—I thought something might’ve happened.”

Selina wrenched away from Gordon. It stung where he’d held her and she hissed, rubbing at her arm with two fingers. 

“You’re fine,” he murmured, mouth thin. “Stop whining.”

Sofia’s mouth quirked, amused, and she rocked onto her heels. “Are we all set, then?”

Without waiting for a proper reply, she reached out, clasping her thin fingers onto Selina’s wrist and pulling hard. Selina made a low noise in her throat, irritated more than anything, and let herself stumble closer to her sister. The gravel beneath her boots was rough and uneven and she tripped over a heavy rock. The edge of her shoulder collided hard into Sofia’s chest, pulling an impolite grunt from her throat.

“Whoops,” she murmured, biting away a laugh. Anxiety rocked her stomach back and forth, but at least for the time being, she could have a bit of fun with Sofia. Maybe it would distract her from what was to come. 

Sofia hissed, glaring down at her. Her fingers tightened. There’d certainly be bruises come morning, if not five little indents in the shape of her nails.

“One hour,” Gordon said with a sigh, ignoring their shoving and stumbling. Two fingers pinched at the bridge of his nose, like he was nearly as exhausted and annoyed as them, but Selina doubted it. “Any longer, and—”

“I know,” Sofia said, voice still sweet and pretty despite the sharp glint in her eye. One hand lifted and patted at his chest, two fingers twisting high to fix his uneven collar. It was a fond, familiar sort of gesture that made Selina wrinkle her mouth. Yuck. “One hour, I promise.”

It was a dull downplay of what was to come. Sixty minutes, nothing more or less, to die. Just one hour to spill her own blood. Selina wondered if Sofia would make it hurt or if it would be quick. Either a bullet to the head, clean and easy, or a knife digging into the artery, till she gasped for air. 

“Come, Selina.” The fingers held her tight and pulled as Sofia stepped backwards, giving Gordon one last sweet smile before she pivoted. “The clock is ticking.”

Selina did not dare to give the Commissioner a final glance, though she could feel his tight stare boring into the back of her head as they left. Anxiety curled her stomach into a tight knot of nerves, and she doubted anything could unravel the seams. 

Walking towards death felt strange. At the very least, heading towards maiming herself. This should be a fight, she thought, heart thumping in her chest. Yanking and screaming and giving Sofia one last fight. Spitting and snarling and making herself into something dangerous. 

But Selina was so tired of fighting. For once, she didn’t want to fight. 

So instead, she let herself be led forward and imagined death taking her into its arms, keeping her warm and safe. It would be comfortable, she thought, to finally rest after all this time. A nice break from the endless fight that was her life. 

As they drove, Selina kept her eyes sideways to stare out the window to watch every blurry street sign and dark alley passed. The minutes ticked by slowly, quiet and tense, and her stomach twisted the longer she had to sit still. 

Eventually, the streets turned dirty and red, the sky darkening as rain overtook the city. Deep in her chest, her heart quickened to a dangerous thump against her ribcage, shoulders going taut and knuckles curling in her lap. The scent of mud and filth filled up her nose, both from the streets and the awful memory of it, too strong to purge.

“I know,” Sofia said, pouting. Selina’s chin tilted backwards and found her staring out toward the dumpsters and alleys, shrouded in shadows. “Ugly little neighborhood, isn’t it?”

The Narrows stared back at them, soaked in blood and a thousand deaths. 

“Though,” Sofia considered, frowning, “I guess you already knew that.”

Selina stared for a long moment, uninterested in biting at such an obvious slight. It was true, afterall, and her head turned a bit dizzy at all those memories she’d tried so hard to forget. The long days of hunger eating at her muscles, wrists and ankles thin, skin sinking in as she cried and begged for scraps that would not come. Searching for warmth in the deep, cold winter, hoping she’d manage to keep all of her fingers by the end of it. 

“I haven’t been here since last year,” she murmured, staring out towards the grey streets. There were piles of blood in every divot and pothole. Once the rain began, it would wash it all clean. Then, come morning, the streets would return to red up until the next shower. 

There were men and women hunched over in every corner. Some were trying to warm their freezing fingers, shivering and tucking their chins close to their body. Coughing and shaking. Some didn’t move an inch even as rain splattered over their head, limbs askew and chests unnaturally still. 

“Do you miss it?” Sofia asked, a sneer coating her words with acid.

Selina didn’t offer up any sort of response. The last time she’d been here, it had been for her Father. The man, Joffrey Davis, was thin as a stick and barely put up a fight when she’d brandished her blade. 

It made her shiver to think about, even now, knowing he’d been so placid as death took him. But she had no room to critique, since she was doing the very same. Maybe not so willing, but she had as little fight as he had. 

All these men were corpses. If not already, then they would be soon enough. Unnamed bodies and unfortunate remains, having been marked for death from the moment they’d been born, all because they lived in the Narrows. 

It was a wonder she’d survived at all.

“I’m sure you remember it well.” Sofia sighed and tipped back her head, lazy and uncaring. Boredom and disgust in equal components forced her eyes shut, allowing her to avoid the ugly streets sitting just outside. It was far easier to pretend none of it existed inside the vehicle, where the scent and noises were muffled and hidden.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. Every brick and pothole and alley. Every dumpster filled with rotten food and broken windowpane. The Narrows was more than a memory: it was a part of her. “I do.”

The neighborhood haunted every corner of her skull. It was sticky gum that resided in her chest, clinging to her heart, impossible to pry away with even the sharpest of crowbars. 

Across the street was a tilted, emptied-out apartment. Once, when she was six, she’d climbed it to escape Sonny Gilzeane and his stupid, useless friends. The bricks were rough and old and had skinned her palms till they bled, but she’d climbed until she’d collapsed at the top, until she’d been sure that Sonny couldn’t reach her. Clinging to the very top, she’d stayed for hours, well after midnight, hands red and stinging and her heart racing. 

It hurt to remember that. For so many years, she’d chosen to forget all of her bruised knees and skinned palms. It was easier to pretend that she didn’t start here, where she spent everyday begging for death to finally take her. Wet with tears and shaking with hunger. Half-dead already.

“I remember when Father first found you,” Sofia said quietly. 

Slowly, Selina turned her chin, but Sofia kept her own firmly forward and avoided her gaze. 

“You were so small.” Sofia twisted her fingers together, shrugging her shoulders like there wasn’t a tremble to her voice. If Selina didn’t know better, she’d say that her sister sounded a bit disturbed to recall the memory. “I didn’t know someone could be that thin. I thought you would die within days because of it.”

Selina looked down toward her lap. Toward her hands, covered up in dark leather. They both knew about the scars over her skin, years-old and faded. They both knew how she used to tremble around food, wide-eyed and open-jawed, terrified to eat any sort of meat because all she could smell was rotten scrap. Both remembered those first few months, when she could barely walk, so terribly sick and thin and pale.

“That was a long time ago,” Selina murmured. Those scars were old, now. That hunger hadn’t pierced her stomach in years. The cold did not reach her skin unless she let it. Death would only take her today because she allowed it.

Sofia met her gaze. Something passed over, unreadable but genuine: mellow and soft. “Yes, it was.”

The rain fell harder and darkened the streets around them all the more. The red surrounding them faded away into grey and blue. 

“Why the Narrows?” Selina sighed, already knowing the awful answer but wanting to hear it regardless. It had to be said aloud, just to truly jolt her into awareness. 

“This is where all nameless bodies go.” Sofia raised a brow. Any previous softness left her face, replaced by sour irritation. “Today won’t be any different.”

Selina nodded slowly. It didn’t sting to hear herself be called such a thing: a nameless corpse in the Narrows. This was how it should’ve always been. This was exactly where she should be. In a way, she was home. 

The car jerked to a stop. 

Before Sofia could reach for the handle, Selina turned her chin and made a low noise in her throat. “Was it worth it?”

Sofia met her eyes with a frown. 

“Everything,” she said, her chest tender and heart sore. “Barbara Kean. Jim Gordon. Killing Father. Was it worth it?”

Silence filled up the car. It was a tense, sharp blade slipped between both their ribs. Selina hadn’t known what she’d expected, but she’d at least hoped that her sister would take responsibility. All of those deaths, all the blood and flesh turned to dust, everything she’d caused. If Sofia could say it was worth it, at least Selina would know it wasn’t all for nothing.

“Are you happy now?” she asked, quieter, softer. “What would Father think about this—what would Mario?”

At that, Sofia finally scoffed, mouth curving upwards. “Mario would think all of this is a waste.”

Selina furrowed her brows. Apprehension tugged at her skin, but she said nothing, only waited. 

“It’s a good thing he’s dead.” Sofia smiled, easy and small, and twisted her fingers together. Selina felt her stomach fall to the floor, heavy as a block of cinder. Slowly, her sister turned her chin and met her wide, horrified gaze. “He and Father can hate us both from six feet under.”

Ants crawled over her skin. Wine filled up her stomach. She wondered, honestly and truly, if this was all one incoherent nightmare. But when she bit at her cheek, teeth digging into the muscle till pain flared up her face, she didn’t jerk awake. 

Sofia tilted toward her, reaching for her wrist. Selina flinched but let herself be grabbed, because there wasn’t anywhere for her to go. Five cold, slim fingers wrapped around her skin and held tight. It felt like icicles sliding beneath the skin and drilling into her muscles. 

“Mario was a pest,” Sofia said gently, tightening her grip when she winced. “Father was incompetent. You and I are the only one’s truly capable of controlling this city.”

Selina kept herself as steady as possible despite her heart thumping and blood boiling. If she had a blade by her side, she might just sink it into Sofia’s eye. Capable. As if she had ever desired Gotham in the palm of her hands. As if she had ever truly wanted this life. 

“You and I are all that’s left.” Sofia patted her fingers against Selina’s arm. It burned and froze the skin all at once. It felt like a death sentence. “You have no one else but me.”

When she said nothing in return, only glared and ground her teeth, Sofia sighed and turned away to reach for the handle of the door. Through a sigh, she said, “You’ll understand eventually, Selina, I promise.”

Selina kept very still for a long breath, trying to keep steady in the momentary silence. Every breath felt tight and filled up with ice, piercing at her heartstrings with a bitter chill. The ends of her fingers shook beneath her gloves, and though she’d like to pretend it was from the weather, she knew her nerves were shot. 

After another moment, she stepped out of the car and toward the front of the building. A tight noise left her chest, humourless but a laugh regardless. “The meat locker.”

“You’ll feel right at home,” Sofia said with a smile, shrugging both shoulders. 

“Funny,” Selina hissed, and shut her eyes for a long breath. Without looking, she could remember every inch of this horrible place. It stood tall but abandoned. Grey around the edges, windows broken near the top, rain splattering the potholes by the front and washing away stains of red that would never truly run clean. 

The meat factory—the Butchers Shop, as her Father used to affectionately call it—was only for playthings deserving of a slow death. Torture in its worst form, where death was given only as a mercy after bodies had been split open beneath the knife. 

“Father never brought me here,” Sofia muttered, arms crossed and glaring up like the bricks had personally spit at her feet. “No matter how much I begged to see it just once.”

Selina licked at the tops of her teeth, tasting bile and sour wine. “You’d have hated it. It smells like shit inside.”

The smell assaulted her in the form of a memory, though it had been years since she’d first visited. Every wall stunk of rotten meat and dried blood. Just the thought made her stomach turn a bit and she tried to ignore the sensation of bile rising in her throat.

“I’m sure I’d have handled it fine,” Sofia bit, narrowing her eyes. 

Selina snorted without humour, though she couldn’t quite be sure where it fell between a truth and a lie anymore. Somewhere mixed and inbetween. Knowing with complete certainty that she was the Butcher colored the image that she had of Sofia. 

There was so much she no longer understood about her, so many gaps that she could no longer fill in. Maybe this entire time, death hadn’t been something she thought to be a disgusting waste. Maybe it had been an act since the very beginning.

Selina couldn’t say with certainty whether or not Sofia would mind what say inside the factory, because she no longer knew what Sofia thought of blood and guts. If she’d gutted Barbara Kean—caved in her skull with a brick till she was barely recognizable to even James Gordon—what were a few broken fingers?

Not just Barbara Kean, she reminded herself. Sofia was the reason their Father was dead. Mario, too, even if wasn’t quite sure how. Sofia was a monster hidden behind pretty skin and glittering diamonds. 

“You only came once,” Sofia said, though it lingered in the air as a question. 

Selina nodded, tight, a sort of jerk of her chin. “After Wilson.”

Taking her here had just been another test from her Father, a way to see if she liked the sight of knuckles splitting cheeks open and crowbars breaking kneecaps. Men begging for death because the pain was all too much to bear. 

But her ambition didn’t stretch quite so far as torture. A quick, painless death was one thing. Playing with pain was something else entirely.  

“Ah,” Sofia said, grinning with her teeth. It pulled hard at Selina’s chest, like a knife tugged clean from her skin. “Your first. What fun.”

“Don’t be cruel,” she said, flat and biting. The muffled squelch of an eye bursting beneath a blade echoed in her ear. She shrugged it away and swallowed. 

“I’m honest,” Sofia corrected, cheeks pink with mirth. A glimmer of amusement turned her eyes bright and full. “Besides, you just said you only came once. Don’t be sore.”

Selina shook her head, curls bouncing and tickling her chin. “Father never told you about it for a reason. You’re lucky.”

This was no place for an easy, quick death, or breath stealing away within seconds. This was for entertainment and toys. Bodies bleeding and begging, voices turning weak with sobs, eyes wet—that was, if their eyes remained. If they had not yet been removed along with fingers and organs and skin. 

“Although,” she said, crossing her fingers behind her back and lifting her brows. “I guess you’d fit in here.”

Sofia wrinkled her face in confusion, mouth parting. 

“They do call you the Butcher for a reason,” she murmured, stepping around Sofia without a glance backwards. 

Inside, it stunk worse than anything: worse than any single body or pile of trash. The scent of death, dark and ugly, clung to every inch, impossible to evade. The further they stepped, the worse it got, because the blood and torture turned worse further back as well.

Sofia lifted two fingers and pinched at her nose, muttering a quiet noise of disgust as the smell hit her full force. 

“Something wrong?” Selina taunted, hands still twisted behind her back. Were she alone, she’d cover up her own nose, but with Sofia around she could grin and bear it. “I thought you could handle this.”

The hand dropped back to her side with a scoff, mouth curling and eyes lifting toward the ceiling. “Laugh now, Selina,” she said, with a sort of sharp and knowing edge that made Selina nervous. “Soon, I’ll be the one laughing.”

Selina grit her teeth and did her best to soothe her nerves. The edges of her stomach were tight and knotted, but she did her best to swallow away the rising feeling of anxiety. Soon enough, she wouldn’t feel anything at all. A bit of panic and bile wouldn't matter for long. 

Blood stained the walls, old and brown. Curtains were hung up from the ceilings, once clear but now yellow with time and piss and all sorts of things she didn’t want to imagine. No one had been here in months and so it was thankfully clean of corpses, but weapons still sat around, ready for use. In one corner, beside a string of old meat that would need to be thrown out soon, crowbars and scalpels and bats sat atop a metal table. 

Selina turned her chin forward and kept walking.

The deeper into the meat locker that they went, the worse everything became. The scent of piss and puke grew stronger. More and more blood stained the walls, till the grey paint became invisible beneath the river of brown and red. The abandoned crowbars turned into saws, scalpels into pliers, bats into drills. Some were still stained with blood around the ends. 

It made her shiver a bit to think of using one of them on herself. Maybe a hammer, to shatter her kneecap. A plier taken to her fingers or a rusted blade to her chest, stabbing till she lay at her sister’s feet. Torturing herself until Sofia decided it was enough and she’d proven herself. 

“What now?” Selina asked, once they’d both slowed to a stop. Would Sofia laugh as she bled out, just as she had when that pig had squealed? 

The edges of her stomach hurt. It felt wrong to stand and wait for death. The urge to run became worse the longer she kept still. Her fingers twitched by her side and she had to wiggle her hands to release her fuzzy jitters. 

Here at the very back, the lights flickered, dim and dark. The smell was strong enough that she had to hold back a gag, wincing at the blood-soaked walls and floors.

Sofia turned on her heels, impassive and silent. It was unnerving to see her so flat around the face, devoid of any sneer or victorious little sneer. “Haven’t you guessed?”

Selina made a face. “Well, we’re in a fucking meat locker. Don’t you want to watch me break my own hand?”

“That would be fun,” she murmured, amusement quirking her lips. One hand lifted to her chest to touch the hollow of her throat. “Later, if we have time, I’d like that.”

Selina frowned. Slowly, her fingers curled into knuckles. Anxiety curled up her spine, clinging to the edges of her vertebrae and turning her nerves into a puddle. Now that she was here, standing and waiting for the sword to swing, she wanted to puke. Just a bit. 

“For now, though, I have something special for you.”

Terrible fright filled up Selina’s stomach. It felt like air filling up a balloon, the latex spread and stretched and ready to pop at any moment. A frothy sort of anxiety made her twitch and lick at her mouth. 

“I meant it when I said you need to prove it.” Sofia collapsed her hands together, stepping toward a yellow curtain. Selina hoped the coloring was just from age and not piss or vomit. “You’ve failed not once but twice now.”

Selina made a noise in her throat and shifted on her feet. “That’s not true.”

Sofia paused several feet away, turning with wide eyes and lifted brows, one hand lifting up to her side. Without saying much of anything, she popped the fight in Selina’s chest, deflating it in an instant. 

“You need to prove that you’re worth keeping around,” she said slowly, resuming her movement. Behind the ugly, colored curtains, she found a thick door handle. Though her hand settled over it, she didn’t attempt to push the handle. 

If Selina had to guess, what lay behind the door was one of Zsas’ old chambers of entertainment. The thick door allowed for muffled screaming and as much bloodshed as he liked. It locked from the outside, but that was less than necessary: once he was done, his playthings surely couldn’t walk out of there. 

“I thought you wanted me dead,” Selina said with a frown. Anxiety knotted her stomach tightly together. “Isn’t that why you brought me here?”

Sofia gave a withering glare and held tighter to the handle. “I want nothing more than to watch you bleed out at my feet, but not yet. First, let’s watch you butcher this one.”

The handle opened with a loud creak and Sofia threw the door open. Out came a panicked and trembling boy, stumbling enough that it was clear he’d been leaning up toward the door and attempting to open it from the inside.

“Come here, darling,” Sofia said, clasping her hands together and smiling brighter than the sun. “Say your goodbyes.”

The boy’s chin tipped upward. Warm, soft eyes and gentle hands met her gaze.

Selina’s heart dropped. Hands lifting and stomach turning inside out, Bruce Wayne’s wet eyes found hers. 

Chapter Text

Selina’s heart remained on the floor, soaked in blood and twisting inside out, as she rushed toward Bruce.

The backs of her shoulders slammed into his front as she shoved herself up against him. One hand, trembling and white around the knuckles, reached back for his wrist just so she could feel him. Bruce took her hand willingly, letting her clamp down onto his skin with five rough fingers. 

A little hiss left his mouth, maybe from pain or shock or something else she couldn’t identify because her head was spinning too dangerously. It sounded a bit like her name, but she wouldn’t stake her life on it. 

One hand lowered to her, twisting down and searching for her blade—except, Gordon had ripped it away from her before shoving her into the interrogation room. Shit. Selina hissed, chin tilting. Nearby, a table covered in old, rusted weapons sat ready to be used: hammers and pliers and scalpels. Not her usual pick, but she’d make do.

A discernible click made her freeze. 

The fingers she had over Bruce’s wrist held tighter. The skin would likely bruise. If they lived, she’d apologize, but for now she just dug her nails in deeper. 

“You try to swing toward me,” Sofia said, tilting her chin downwards and towards the hammer in Selina’s hand, “and I’ll blow your boyfriend’s brains out.”

For a long moment, she remained still, one hand clenched around the handle and the other around Bruce. It would be easy and quick to lift back and up, to swing and smack. It would be loud and messy. Hammers made ugly, deep dents if they were used right, and a heavy enough blow to the skull could knock Sofia to the ground.

It would be just as easy, though, for Sofia to press harder against that little trigger. The bullet would hit Bruce within seconds: his shoulder or neck or skull. Blood would splatter. Pink, gooey brains would turn to mush.

Selina’s heart sank even as she grit her teeth and twitched her knuckles. The skin of her hands was turning white with how hard she held them, curled into fists by her side. Her stomach felt flipped backwards and inside out, like she might puke any minute now. 

“Come on,” Sofia said. A pretty, easy smile lifted up her mouth and her eyes shone bright because she knew she’d already won. Selina wouldn’t risk his life. “Drop it.”

Selina grit her teeth harder at the command—like she was a dog, she thought. Just another pet on a leash, being tugged along and ordered to lick at scraps and boots. But, she did as told, her jaw aching from how hard her teeth ground together and her blood boiling in her veins.

The hammer fell with a thud. 

Sofia lit up brighter. A high-pitched laugh fell from her throat and she held the gun higher, steadier, now that any threat had been eliminated. Now that she knew that she had Selina exactly where she wanted her: obedient and desperate.

“Good girl,” she said, grinning with all her teeth on display.

With both her hands free, Selina reached backwards for Bruce, trying to shove him even further away. The thought of Sofia watching him, aiming for him, killing him, made her skin prickle with fear. It made her want to puke even more. That trigger was so small. It could be pressed so easily.

“Selina,” he hissed, chin ducking so he could whisper close to her ear. Against her back, she could feel his chest rising and falling with every rapid breath. It sounded like a thousand hummingbirds lived in his chest. “Stop it.”

Selina ignored him. “You brought me here to prove myself.”

Sofia jerked her chin upwards in a nod, hands steady and teeth still visible. “Yes. I just never said how.”

This was supposed to be her punishment: limbs broken, skin split, blood spilled. Bruises blooming in black and white, her skull caving in, begging for the pain to end. It was meant to be her opened beneath the knife, cut open and sobbing, her life waning as her breath slowed. 

Not Bruce. Never him. 

“I really do like what you offered.” Sofia shrugged one shoulder and gave a sideways glance toward the mess of rusty knives and tools. “I’ve always dreamed about breaking every one of your fingers. If I had the time, I promise it would be you begging for your life while you bled out at my feet.”

At that, Bruce made a wounded noise in his throat. It sounded more hurt than when she’d held a knife at his back and threatened to torture him. The thought of his own life ended didn’t seem to bother him much. Or, at least not as much as her bloody and crying out in pain. 

Selina didn’t let herself linger on the awful, wet sound. Instead, she kept her chin forward and flexed her fingers over his wrist, just to remind him that she was perfectly fine. 

“You’d never have come if I’d said someone had to die,” Sofia said with such conviction that it nearly knocked her off of her feet. Months ago, she’d have killed without a second thought because her Father snapped his fingers and told her to do so. Now, the thought of dragging a blade across a stranger's skin made her want to hurl. “Especially him. You had to believe you were the one going to be hurt.”

The gun was still pointed up, held straight and sturdy in her sister's hand. It aimed right at Bruce’s head. The sight of it twisted her stomach and shook her knees, but she didn’t allow herself to tremble. If need be, she’d have to shove him away and herself forward and for that, she’d need steady hands and planted feet. If need be, she’d take the bullet. 

“Blood demands blood,” Selina repeated, stepping back till her spine was flush with his front. “That means punishment, Sofia—for me.”

Bruce made another noise, distressed and worried. A sort of sharp inhale that caught between his teeth. If she were to turn and look, she was sure his eyes would be wide and sad, his mouth parted and cheeks white. It was that same face he always made when she said something boring like who cares if i die? just for him to panic. 

“This is punishment,” Sofia hissed, placing deliberate emphasis on every word. The ends of her fingers trembled and clenched, making the gun shake as her hands turned white around the handle. The color in her cheeks went a bit red, as if she couldn’t possibly understand how Selina didn’t comprehend what was happening. 

It made Selina feel awfully stupid, but she was dizzy and nauseous and her hands shook over Bruce’s wrists. Her knees were shaking and her heart pounded so loud that she could feel it in her ears. When she swallowed, she tasted blood and sour wine and spittle, like bile was rising in her throat and trying to escape through her teeth. 

Realization struck eventually, like a glass bottle breaking over her head. It hurt to piece together the words, a dart thrown and striking hard right in the center of her chest.

“You knew.” Selina blinked slowly. The edges of her cheeks went white and her grip went a bit lax before she tightened twice fold, so hard that Bruce shuffled on his feet. Then, again, stronger and meaner, “You knew.”

“Yes,” she said, nodding slowly. The red of her mouth curved upwards, sharp and dripping with sugar. It was a victorious smile. “I knew.”

Just as Selina had known about Jim Gordon fucking Sofia, she had known about Bruce Wayne. It didn’t matter how long—or maybe it did. Selina couldn't be sure. Her head spun and her breath came out quickly. When she tried to swallow, her mouth felt dry even if it tasted sour. 

“I knew,” Sofia said again, mocking and sharp, “about your boy toy. I knew the reason you kept him alive was because you wanted to keep fucking him.”

Selina wrinkled her nose, seething, and tried her best to ignore the shifting of feet behind her. There were worse things to worry about, and she kept her chin forward, but the assumption stung nonetheless. After everything, Sofia still thought her incapable of anything beyond the use of her body. Sofia thought her to want only blood and flesh and the most animalistic of desires. 

Against her spine, Bruce pressed hard, like it had pained him all the same. The idea of their entire bloody, cluttered mess of a relationship boiled down to nothing but sex was hard to imagine. Like all they had to string them together was skin and pleasure and heat. 

Sofia peered over Selina’s shoulder with narrowed eyes. Acid mixed with astonished mirth and she laughed, bright and loud, at whatever she found in his expression. A flush lit up her cheeks, pink and full of awe, and her eyes sparkled with elation. 

“Don’t tell me…” Another laugh fell from her mouth and she glanced between the two of them, then lower, toward where Selina still clutched at his wrists. It burned to be so closely scrutinized, but she held firm. Sofia shook her head and through a soft breath said, “This isn’t about sex at all.”

Selina’s fingers twitched and her stomach clenched painfully. It would be so much easier if it were about sex. If all that existed between them was bare skin and lust, easily earned pleasure and the hot rush of desire in their stomachs. Nothing but a quick passing in the night before they parted. It would be easier if all they did was fuck. If she didn’t love him as much as she did: if her heartstrings weren’t knotted and bunched up into his own.

“You can’t seriously care for him, do you?” Sofia asked, cocking her head as she stared. The edges of her mouth dropped, delight fading away as anger slowly built. “Don’t tell me that he means something to you.”

Bruce pressed closer to her. The edges of his breath fell against the back of her head, warm and gentle, shifting stray hairs out of place as he exhaled. The hands in her wrists twitched and she released her grip, just slightly, so he could flex and shift against her. 

Sofia’s gaze dropped in a second, searching for movement, gun tilting up ever so slightly. Selina jerked and lifted her chin, sapping up all of her sister's attention.

“Is it that hard to believe?” she asked, voice hard despite a tremble soaking into the edges. Her tongue felt fuzzy and her teeth tingled against her gums. Swallowing didn’t help and biting into her tongue only strengthened the feeling.

Sofia stepped forward—and Selina shifted backwards, forcing Bruce back several steps as she shoved her shoulder into his chest, trying to keep him away from the end of the gun. With a sneer, Sofia paused and glared. If looks could kill, Selina would be writhing on the dirty, blood stained floor. 

“I don’t know what’s worse,” she said, teeth baring as she snarled. “That you actually believe you’re capable of love, or that it’s Bruce Wayne.”

“You’ve been fucking James Gordon,” Selina spit, and clenched her hands hard as Bruce jerked in surprise. An unsteady breath left his mouth, stunned and disgusted all at once, and if she weren't so furious with Sofia—and terrified to turn her eyes away—she’d turn around and kiss him square on the mouth. “You have no room to talk.”

“I’m human,” Sofia said, pointing at her chest with her open hand. One finger pressed hard against her chest, over her heart, then again. It looked like it hurt. “You’re a freak. You’re a monster.”

“At least she didn’t kill Barbara Kean,” Bruce said and pushed ahead of Selina. Though she hissed his name, grabbing for his arm and yanking hard, he shrugged her away. “I don’t need to repeat your nickname. You already know what you are.”

With every word, he took a half-step closer, till the end of the fun nearly touched his skin. It stood only a half-inch away, but she couldn’t see a flicker of fear in him. Only stupid, puffed-up bravery and tight shoulders. 

Terror surged in her stomach, hot and strong, lifting high into her chest and ruffling her heart. It hurt to breathe. Watching him stand so close to Sofia—to the gun, pressed snug to his temple—made her twitch and tremble, shifting as close as she could without alerting her sister. 

“Is that why you brought us here?” he asked quietly. Half-way behind him, Selina could barely see him glare and tighten his jaw. But she felt it beneath her hand when she touched his shoulder, just a gentle press of two fingers up against his taut, tense muscles. “I’m sure you feel rather comfortable in this disgusting place.”

Sofia’s teeth clicked together. 

Selina wondered if this would be the reason she finally bit the bullet. Not because she’d caught a cold in the narrows, stomach empty and fingers blue. Or because a mark had gone wrong and turned the blade her way. Rather, because Bruce Wayne was an idiot.

But, then, Sofia gave a gentle little laugh. Humorless and cruel, but still soft and quiet. The edges of her cheeks faded from a furious flush of red to pale pink and she squinted towards them, pouting and considering. 

“And he cares about you, too,” she said, sweet and sarcastic. Ignoring Bruce entirely, she turned her gaze back toward Selina. “How sweet.”

Selina ground her teeth together and clutched at the back of his sweater, pulling hard. Though he didn’t budge, she yanked again just to pull the collar close to his neck and make him wince. Served him right. If he wasn’t careful, he’d earn them both a bullet in the head.

“Do you know how easy it was to get him here?” Sofia asked, shaking her head and dropping her fingers away from her chest. “All I had to do was give him a call and say you were in trouble.”

Bruce went a bit slack, caught, chin tilting backwards to try and pick out whether or not she was properly angry with him. With her teeth grinding and eyes narrowed, she used his distraction to clutch hard at his sweater and pull. 

Anger frothed up in her chest. A single call had been all it took to send him running. Even though she’d made him promise to stay still. Despite her having said over and over again that she could handle herself—especially against her psychotic bitch of a sister. 

There was nothing that he could do against a gun. A bullet couldn’t be stopped with money or a pretty smile. Now, the both of them would end the day buried six feet under because he thought he could protect her. 

“Poor Selina needs help,” Sofia was still saying, taunting, watching them fumble and stumble around each other. “Stupid, little Selina needs you.”

Selina shoved him back another inch, till they stood as they had before: her spine to his front, one hand reaching back to grip at his wrist. It was an intimate, warm way to stand, despite the circumstances, and her breath came out a bit easier to have him so close. It made her heart beat a bit steadier to know she had him safe in her hands, at least for now. 

Sofia’s mouth wrinkled at the sight of her trembling fingers latched around his wrist. “I just thought he wanted to play the hero,” she said slowly. The cruel edge remained, but the sharp bite sounded softened and watered down. “Bruce Wayne could have any girl or boy in this city. There’s nothing special about you, even if you really had been fucking.”

The insult made Bruce jerk, but he didn’t try to step forward again. 

“You’re nothing, Selina,” she said lightly, sighing and barely blinking at the louder protest he gave. “You have nothing to offer him. I can’t understand it.”

Selina didn’t understand it either. It was inconceivable: she and Bruce were two broken puzzle pieces from opposite sets, not made to fit or last. Parallel lines that should not meet. If he was the summer sun, then she was the moon and the stars in the dead of winter, and their paths should never have crossed. 

“This will kill you,” Sofia said, quieter and deadlier. It fell from her red lips as a warning rather than a taunt and when Selina peered closer, there was a wet shine to her eyes. A trick of the light, likely. “This boy’s love will smother and suffocate you.”

“I am not you,” she said firmly, thinking of the gentle way that Sofia had touched Jim Gordon and pressed her fingers to his shoulder. Maybe he was meant to be a tool, but somewhere along the lines, a few wires had been crossed. Selina could understand that. Except. “I know what I am. I know what I’m capable of surviving.”

The both of them wanted more, but Sofia asked for the impossible. She wanted the city in ruins and men on their knees, bodies dead at her feet and every ounce of power in her pocket. All because she believed her blood was pure. Because her name was the right one and she’d been born into the correct family. 

Sofia pointed the gun toward Selina’s chest, fingers trembling and cheeks flushed red. “Then how come he isn’t dead? Why did you let him live?”

Selina bit and swallowed the retort she wanted to give: because I love him. Worse—because if he is dead, I am as well. If he is dead, what is the point in life?

Though her teeth dug into her tongue, Sofia seemed to read through the lines and studied the flicker of affection that crossed her face. It turned her expression hard and mean, wrinkling her nose and mouth like she’d eaten a lemon. 

“You’ve killed worse men.” Sofia sniffed and swallowed, chest rising and falling with every breath. It looked like she was on the verge of hysteric panic. Her cheeks were flushed and her mouth wobbled. “I’ve seen you, Selina. You’ve killed men that have put up stronger fights than this stupid, rich brat.”

Selina lifted her chin. That first night, she’d thought Bruce would wither and cry beneath her blade, too skinny and privileged to know how to even throw a decent punch. It hadn’t been the fight in his hands that had made her pause but the look in his face as he had met her gaze. No one had ever truly looked her in the eye and remembered her. No one had ever known her. 

“I’ve watched you cry and puke because they struggled so hard,” Sofia said slowly, acid soaked into her words and curling back her lips. “I’ve heard you scream yourself awake. You used to come home with broken ribs and limping and they would still be dead.”

It was mortifying to know that Bruce could hear every word. Standing just behind her, he kept very still, aware that she wouldn’t release him no matter how hard he jerked. Instead, he could hear everything that Sofia said, every detail of how weak Selina had been. It made her mouth tremble and her cheeks go hot. 

“This boy didn’t give you any fight,” she said, glaring and trembling. “Don’t pretend that he did.”

But he had. Maybe not with his fists and strength, but in every other way, he had. There was a reason Silver St. Cloud lived, after all, and it was not because Selina suddenly grew tired of killing. Bruce had offered her that choice, that salvation, and she had fought against it every step of the way. 

Selina held tight to Bruce and lifted her chin. 

“You love him,” Sofia whispered, and it sounded like a death sentence, “and it will kill you.”

Selina’s heart beat harder than it ever had. It knocked against her ribs like a drum, dangerously fast, shaking her bones till it hurt to shift on her feet or inhale through her nose. The blood in her veins felt frozen over and covered in icicles. If she moved a centimeter, she might just collapse into a thousand pieces. 

The warning hurt to hear because it was true. As long as she loved him, one of them would always be in danger of losing their head. They both held the power to slit the other’s throat wide open with just a press of their mouths together. Love would kill and bury the both of them. 

“You know it’s true,” Sofia continued, voice louder and steadier as she studied Selina’s face. Whatever she saw there made her shoulders lift and loosen, even as irritation flickered across her face. “You’ve been careless for weeks. You wore that awful necklace like a trophy, thinking no one would see it. That dumb blonde is still alive because she’s his friend.”

“I didn’t kill her because I didn’t want to,” she argued through her teeth, taking a step forward to point at her chest. Right over her sickly, weak, pink heart. Where it beat strong and sturdy. “I never wanted to.”

“All because of him,” Sofia hissed. It made Selina want to flinch, though she refrained. The thought of Bruce having so much power over her felt strange. Wrong. But that was love, she supposed: relentless change. “Father didn’t want to see it, but I did. I saw what you were becoming.”

Selina clenched her jaw tight and clenched her fingers hard around Bruce’s wrist. They were sisters, she reminded herself. Flesh and blood. They had the same name and Father and rotten center. They were connected by one red string that couldn’t be cut. 

Sofia stepped forward and gestured toward her chest. “You’re soft. You’re weak.”

The gun pressed hard over her chest and her heart ticked upwards with every tap. One little press of the trigger was all that it took. Blood would spray and her heart would burst into a thousand pieces. 

“You’re a butcher and you are not allowed to love.” Sofia pressed hard against her chest. A high-pitched gasp left the tight clench of her teeth, like she had to fight for breath. Through another sharp inhale, she said, “You’re a tool. A weapon.”

Bruce made a soft, wounded noise in his throat. The hand not gripped by hers pressed against her spine, as if to comfort her. Though it was a kind gesture, it was equally as unnecessary. Wet heat bit at her eyes, but she swallowed back her tears and bit away the rise of bile and kept her chin high. 

“You’re a killer as much as me,” she said, and ignored the tremble that took over Sofia’s fingers. An ache too strong to soothe pricked at each of her bones. “If I’m a butcher, then so are you. Killing us will only prove that.”

The lines in Sofia’s face went smooth. Her shoulders went straight and sturdy, and so did her hands. Carefully, she took a slow step back, until she could level the gun towards Bruce’s forehead and offer up a pretty, red smile.

“I’m not going to kill you,” she said through a slow breath. A tight noise left her mouth, a sort of condescending click of her tongue. “I’m certainly not going to kill Bruce Wayne.”

Selina frowned. Deep in her chest, her heart slowed and her stomach flipped once.

Sofia gave a slow, dangerous smile. “You’re going to kill him.”

The air went cold. Though she didn’t collapse so visibly, she felt it deep within her chest as her stomach fell to the floor and her knees nearly buckled. Had she not been holding so tightly to Bruce, she might have let every bone cave inward. 

“No,” she said slowly, “I won’t.”

“You will.” Sofia nodded, having clearly expected protests and lashing out and spitting. “You will, because you’re here to prove yourself.”

Bruce shifted on his feet, mumbling something too quiet for her to hear. Maybe her name. Maybe some sort of plea. Hopefully nothing along the lines of acceptance, because if he tried to play the hero now, she really would kill him. 

“I won’t do this,” she said again, insistent and sharp. Panicked and loud. Every breath hurt her chest. It hurt to swallow. Behind her, Bruce pressed up against her back. Unlike before, it felt suffocating. Too much all at once. 

“You are going to split him open,” Sofia said, gun still level and eyes narrowed. 

Selina shook her head. A few curls fell across her cheek and she brushed them away with trembling fingers. Heat bit at her eyes and she sniffled. The hand at her spine touched lower and she flinched, shaking. 

“You can do whatever you like with me,” she tried, even as Sofia clucked her tongue. Break her knees, cut open her chest, harvest her organs. Dry out all of her blood and leave her crying while the last of her life faded away. “Anything.”

“That’s no punishment.”

Selina rushed closer, eyes wet and breath heavy. The room was spinning a bit. “Sofia. Please. You can do anything you want.”

Bruce stepped up behind her, grabbing at her arms and pulling her back even as she twitched and flinched. The room spun more at his touch, at the feeling of hands on her skin and a tight grip over her flesh. A weak, high-pitched noise left her throat. It sounded like a pathetic sort of cry. 

“I’m the one that’s weak,” she said, stumbling backwards and into his chest. The solid front of his sternum collided with her shoulders and it hurt, just a bit, but she barely felt it. The feeling of his arms wrapping around her barely registered either, even when her breath came out faster at being so restricted. “I need to be punished, not him.”

Bruce said her name gently, one hand coming up to her chin to try and tilt her gaze away. The soft, warm touch of his fingers made her want to puke. It burned over her flesh like a hot iron pressed up against her.

Sofia, pouting and wide-eyed, said nothing. This was all too amusing for her, surely. Just another performance of weakness and soft sickness. 

“Break me,” Selina cried, ripping herself away from his grip to point at her chest. Right where her moldy, half-dead heart sat behind her ribcage. Bruce tried to grab for her, hissing her name once and then again. “Kill me.”

“What punishment would that be?” Sofia asked, more gentle than expected despite the words spoken. It made Selina pause, fingers pressing against her chest and lashes fluttering. “A broken hand will heal. If I cut off your fingers, it’ll hurt, but you’ll adjust soon enough.”

There wasn’t much else to offer. Selina gasped a soft breath and did her best to imagine something terrible. Splintered bones, gouged out eyes, skin peeled away to the muscle. It wasn’t enough. Nothing from her body would ever be enough to offer up.

“You can’t bring back the dead.”

Selina froze. 

Then, just as quickly, she pivoted to stare at Bruce, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Horror turned her pale and nauseous. The pit in her stomach felt like a knot of nerves too big to unravel. Only puking it up could remove it. 

“Bruce?” she murmured, a trembling sort of sound. 

He only smiled, slow and quivering. Two fingers lifted toward her neck and pressed over her skin. It made her feel all the worse. 

“Exactly,” Sofia said behind them. “And you’ll never forgive yourself if you kill him.”

For another long moment, she stared, unwillingly to blink or breathe. The warm, careful gaze he gave her made her want to scream. Or take him into her arms and shake him till he was the one screaming. At least then she’d know that he was awake and not in some drugged haze of half-consciousness. 

The fingers over her neck lifted higher, till they touched the very same spot where she’d cut him all those weeks ago. Just shy of her pulse. If he pressed there, he’d find her heartbeat to be pulsing and pounding. 

But his—his heartbeat, his pulse—beat slow and steady. She could see it in the gentle rise and fall of his chest. There wasn’t any fight inside of him. Not a single ounce of fear or anger or desire for struggle. Just—just resignation. A terrible, horrible calm that lived in the quirk of his mouth. 

Bruce looked prepared. Ready to die, just as she’d been ready. 

“If I refuse?” she asked, facing him still but twisting her chin around to glare at her sister. Fury turned her cheeks hot and red, but just beneath, fear colored her white. It made her tremble down to the marrow. 

“Then I’ll kill him.” Sofia’s eyes narrowed and she took a slow step forward. The bottoms of her heels clicked like the trigger of a gun. “And I promise you it won’t be quick and it won’t be easy.”

Selina’s face fell, shoulders dropping. Over Bruce’s chest, her fingers trembled all the more, even as he gripped at them and held tight. It didn’t make sense how he could be so calm. Why wasn’t he fighting?

“I will make you watch as I pick apart every inch of his skin,” Sofia said. “I will cut pieces of his flesh away and force you to eat them.”

Selina bit away a weak cry and clutched harder at his arms. Just to prove to herself that he remained safe and alive in front of her. The thought of it—tears in his eyes, bloody, convulsing with pain—made her want to hurl. 

“You’ll watch him bleed and beg for death.” Sofia stepped closer, trembling with fury. The ends of her fingers shook against the handle of the gun. The red of her mouth looked more like blood than wine, now. Like she’d bitten into flesh and let it spill over her skin. “Only when he’s dead will I put a bullet in your head.”

Trembling and terrified, Selina said nothing. It wouldn't be possible to speak even if she’d wanted to. The air in her lungs had dried up and disappeared. All the salvia in her mouth was gone, too, and her tongue felt fuzzy like she’d taken a dozen shots back to back. 

Sofia tilted forward and let her mouth tilt upward. With bright eyes and sturdy hands, she whispered, “This is your punishment.”

From a nearby table, she picked up an old, abandoned weapon. Among hammers and pliers and all sorts of ugly other tools, Selina was glad to see a plain knife in her fingers. Rusted and brown with old blood, but simple enough compared to the others on the table. 

Still, the sight of it in Sofia’s grip made her heart beat fast enough to be dangerous. Even more so when she tossed it toward her. 

“Now,” Sofia spit, jerking her chin upwards to motion toward the blade now clutched in Selina’s grip. “We’re running out of time and I’m losing my patience.”

With her heart throbbing and stomach turning, Selina turned on her heels to face Bruce. The knife remained clutched between her fingers, shaking with the force of her trembling grip. The air felt far too thin for her to properly inhale. 

She wondered if he’d forgive her if she puked on his shoes. They were probably worth a few thousand dollars. Served him right for wearing such expensive shoes to a meat locker. By now, he’d probably stepped in piss and mud and other muck he’d never seen before. Boys that grew up in Bristol didn’t step in dirt. They had butlers to do that for them.

It was unlikely that he’d ever even been to the Narrows. Besides reading about in papers—on the rare occasion that an uptight rich brat died in the streets—boys like him didn’t hear about the neighborhood. They certainly didn’t visit on the weekends, not when they had castles in France and beach houses in the Hamptons. 

Bruce touched her shoulder with one slow, cautious hand. The pink of his mouth moved but she couldn’t be sure what he said. Everything sounded fuzzy and the edges of her vision were blurred.

Did he know that she’d been born here? Did he know this awful, bloody neighborhood had once been her home—not just for a day or a month but years? Did he know that he loved gutter trash picked up from the Narrows?

The sound of her name made her jerk.

Bruce was staring down at her, one hand still on her shoulder and the other fingering her collar. Again, gently, he said her name and then stepped closer when she made no move to do so towards him.

“It’s okay,” he said, careful and slow, like he maybe knew that someone had cut up all the wires in her head. Like he knew to speak soft and gentle so as not to spook her. 

Selina blinked and swallowed. It tasted like blood, like copper, and she tried again but it tasted even worse. The room spun. Her knees ached. Maybe she’d feel better if she sat down. 

Instead, she gripped at the collar of his coat, clutching at him with shaking fingers and inhaling a sharp gasp. Bruce held her steady, reaching for the wrist that had risen and clamping his fingers around it. His thumb fell toward the front of her flesh, right where her pulse sat, and he brushed a slow circle over it. The gesture made her flutter her eyes shut.

“Selina,” he said, and she opened them right back up again. “It’s alright.”

“It’s not,” she whispered. Anything louder and she might start screaming. Sobbing, too, and that would be so embarrassing. “None of this is alright.”

Bruce ducked his chin until he could find her wild, wet eyes. “Selina,” he said, slow like honey and sweet like sugar. The sound of her name from his tongue had always sounded so perfect. “There’s no other way.”

Horror filled up her stomach like a balloon eager to snap. Her muscles felt taut, pulled every which way, sore and aching. It hurt to stand. Her knees kept shaking and she clutched at his coat harder, hoping he’d somehow fix the tremble in her body. 

“No.” Selina shook her head, lips pressed tightly together to ward off a cry. Then, again, voice and heart cracking, “No.”

“You have to do this,” he spoke over her, holding steady over her wrist even though she wished he would shake her. Just to feel something deep in her bones. 

“I won’t.”

“Yes, you will,” he said, insistent.

“Bruce, please,” she said, not quite begging as much as warning him. If he bled out in front of her, at her hands especially, she’d raise him from the dead just to break his nose. It was already crooked. Another little hit wouldn’t hurt. 

Bruce released her and her chest rose sharply, feeling raw and stripped bare without his hands to keep her bare. But, only a second later, both warm palms were on her cheeks, tilting up her chin to force her gaze on his. 

Her breath caught in her lungs, trapped behind her creaking ribs. Her tongue halted. Such a simple touch felt like all the sunshine in the world had landed on her prone form and burnt her to a crisp.

Bruce exhaled, unsteady but strong. “I won’t let you die for me.” 

Selina’s face screwed up. Though she knew it was pointless, she mumbled another protest along with his name, hoping it would be enough. If he could just listen to her. If he could see how much she needed him. With her fingers still around his collar, she tugged hard, till he was forced to duck an inch lower.

“I don’t want to do this,” she hissed, mean and sharp despite how soft she felt deep inside her chest. Tender to the touch.

“I know,” he said gently. One hand left her cheek to cup the back of her neck and she gave a low, wet gasp. It was so careful and warm, despite how easily it would be to grip her hard and mean. “But if you don’t, you’ll die. I know you don’t care about that, but I do.”

Selina’s brows furrowed in disbelief. It was impossible to imagine him regarding her as more worthy of life than him. The rest of the city would leave her to be eaten by the vultures before they’d let a single hair on his head be plucked. Her own family didn’t care whether she lived or died, only if she was a useful tool for them. 

Bare, warm fingers pressed over and she jerked, gaze dropping low. The hand not over her neck had slipped low without her noticing and now, he wrapped all five fingers around her wrist. When she trembled, he held steady and lifted up—not just her fingers, but the blade as well.

“Please, don’t,” she whispered. Tears lined her lashes. 

Selina’s chest hurt worse than anything. Worse than when she’d drank that wine with Sofia and worse than when her ribs had been broken. Inhaling hurt but she did anyway, because what was life and love if not pain?

The edges of her vision were tinged red and blue. Bright, soft, and colorful. Blinking made it worse.

The fingers around her wrist held tight and firm. They lifted up her shaking grip further even when she tried to jerk backwards. The knife, rusted and mocking, sat straight in her palm. Aimed right towards his stomach. 

Bruce only smiled, thin but genuine. It made her angry. Frothy rage climbed up her spine because he shouldn’t be so calm at the thought of death. Not after everything that she’d done for him. After she’d kept him alive, fought for him, loved him, he wasn’t allowed to smile so easily. Like nothing mattered in the universe but her.

For a split-second, with the blade still clutched between her fingers and her wrist still gripped between his hands, she wished it had only been sex. It would’ve been easier. If only she hated him. It’d be so much easier to kill him.

With warm eyes and gentle hands, he looked down at her and said, “I love you.”

Then, he took her wrist and guided the blade home.

Chapter Text

Beneath the blade, flesh squelched and gave way. Blood spurted, bright and red, as it sunk deeper. 

Selina did her best to suppress a gag, but bile steadily rose in her throat the longer she gripped the handle and the further she stabbed into his stomach. Tears slipped down her cheek, hot and wet and awful, and the blade sunk a half-inch deeper as she gasped. 

Still, even now, he held a hand over her neck. Gentle and soft. Two fingers sat over her pulse point, searching for proof of life, even when the blade shifted and he grunted with pain. Blood dripped from his stomach and to the dirty floor. Another gag lifted up toward her teeth.

“I love you,” he murmured again, too quiet for her to truly hear. But she saw it form over his pink mouth, through the wet and colorful edges of her vision, and it made her want to turn the blade toward her own stomach. “Selina.”

Selina hummed in her throat rather than speak, nodding frantically when he gripped harder at her neck. If she tried to speak, if she let her teeth open from their tight grit, she’d scream and wail. Nothing truly comprehensible would leave her throat. 

Red fell to the floor in a small, wet puddle. It looked a bit like that night in the study. Only this cut was deep, and ugly, and no amount of bandages would patch him up. 

Sofia made a noise behind them, an impatient sort of scoff that boiled Selina’s blood. “Well, he’s not dead yet. Hurry up.”

Any other time, she’d snarl and hiss. Today, the words barely registered. It sounded a bit like she’d been dunked underwater, actually, like every shift of Sofia’s shoes and insult she spit was garbled and muffled. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now except for him. 

Were this a mark, Selina would twist the blade and drive it deeper. If she’d been trembling less and holding tighter to the blade, she’d have aimed higher, toward the artery right in the center of his ribcage. Blood would spurt and spill and life would fade away much quicker.

But Bruce had taken the blade and aimed too low, too close to the hips, and now red dripped slowly. It formed a weak, copper puddle. The room smelled like salt and rust. His stomach likely burned in a slow sort of ache that would soon spiral into something red-hot and dreadful. Like a cramp that couldn’t be chased away with medication, eager to turn into a paralyzing sort of agony.

“Selina,” he said again, quiet and gentle. The edges of her vision were fuzzy but she met his gaze anyhow. A small little smile quirked his lips when she did. “I don’t feel good.”

A weak whimper of a cry fell from her mouth. With her teeth clenched and jaw taut, it sounded strangled and ugly. “I know,” she said, lifting up her open hand to grasp his shoulder. “I know, but it won’t hurt soon.”

“Oh.” Bruce tipped back his chin and stumbled back a half-step. Selina did her best to grip hard at his shoulder and hold him steady, just as he’d always done for her. Just like he’d done that night after her Father, when he’d cupped her bloody cheeks and kept her calm. “‘Cause I’ll be dead.”

There wasn’t any use denying it, but still, she shook her head and inhaled sharply. 

“You’ll be fine,” she said. It came out mean and bitter, much more of a hiss than she’d intended. The boy was dying beneath her hand and her blade and yet she still couldn’t soften around the edges. Deliberately, she swallowed and tried again. This time, more gently, she said, “You’ll be fine. I promise.”

Bruce hummed low in his throat but said nothing. 

It worried her more than if he’d started screaming. There was nothing that he liked more than to pester her and poke and prod till she was gritting her teeth in annoyance. The fight was slowly fading away. The life in him slowly drained like all his blood, dripping to the floor, and it terrified her. 

“You’ll be fine,” she said, wrapping three fingers around the collar of his coat. It took all of her strength not to jerk him around or shake him. That wouldn’t be very polite, especially when he was bloody around the stomach and dizzy in the head. 

“Okay, Selina,” he said, and opened sluggish eyes to meet hers. They were as blue as the sky. “I’ll be fine.”

Selina nodded once, a sharp jerk of her chin, and held tighter to his coat. The fabric was rough and cold. It probably smelled, too, after having spent so much time in the locker. Her fingers clutched tighter and her eyes went wet again at that thought. All his stupid clothes probably smelled. 

“Why did you have to come?” she hissed through her teeth. Heat bit at her eyes, too strong too truly blink away. An awful sob was building in the bottom of her throat. The handle of the blade shook beneath her fingers, still lodged deep in his flesh. If she pulled it clean, he’d only bleed more. “You were supposed to stay at home.”

Bruce smiled, sluggish and warm. “Sofia said you needed me.”

“Sofia’s a liar.” Her fingers trembled harder against the blade. Blood pooled over it and dripped towards the floor. Red, bright, and stinking of copper. The color of wine. She glanced down toward it once and then right back up, trying not to puke. “I can take care of myself, Wayne.”

The nickname slipped before she could halt her tongue. But it made his mouth quirk and affection flare up in his eyes, so she didn’t try to apologize for it. 

“I know,” he said, still smiling like an idiot. The fingers around her pulse point shifted down, toward her chest. They pressed at the flesh over her heart—right where Sofia had always jabbed at and pointed the gun and claimed she was soft—and then remained still. “You don’t always have to. Sometimes you have to let someone else take care of you.”

Selina crumbled just a bit. The blade in his stomach held firm. “Well, look where that got us.”

“We’re running out of time,” Sofia said behind them. The click of her heels came closer by a few inches. “It really shouldn’t take so long to stick a knife in this rich boy.”

Selina pivoted, stomach turning and hands trembling. Hatred made her teeth nash and she thought, for a brief second, about slamming her fist into Sofia’s cheek. One little black and blue bruise couldn’t hurt. Sofia was lucky she didn’t have another blade on hand. It would be sent right into her neck.

Except—behind her sister stood a shadow, coming near. Closer and closer by the second.

Fear climbed up her spine as quick as lighting, shooting through her chest like a dart thrown and landed right in the center of her ribcage. 

“Kill him,” Sofia said, oblivious and sneering, “or I will.”

The red of her mouth looked bright. Like wine and blood. Around her neck, a single diamond glittered beneath the low, flickering lights of the locker. The family jewel. A reminder of her late mother. As always, she looked lovely and deadly, a snake wrapped in sugar-dipped skin. Perfect. Human. 

Selina, frozen down to the bone, stared for a long moment. It was only a split-second, really, but it felt like minutes. Hours, even, just watching her beautiful sister, spinning the diamond in her finger and smiling with all of her teeth exposed. 

The shadow shifted closer.

“Well?” Sofia lifted a brow and shifted on her heels. “Should I—”

A shot rang out. 

The ice in Selina’s veins melted in an instant, turning red-hot with panic. Jerking and stumbling, she grabbed for Bruce and yanked him to the floor by the shoulders. The both of them fell easily, him to his ass and then flat while she let her knees take the brunt of the damage. It hurt, a sharp ache that flared up her kneecaps and towards her legs, but the pain barely registered. 

Bruce grunted, eyes screwing shut and chin tipping to the side. 

Shouts rang out behind them. Stumbling, shuffling, and another shot. 

Selina didn’t spare the commotion a single glance. Rather, she pressed both hands around the knife, still lodged deep into his stomach and still leaking blood at a slow but steady pace. A weak little moan left his mouth and he tipped his chin backwards, gaze facing the ceiling from where he lay flat on his back. 

“That hurt,” he said, lashes fluttering shut. The edges of his cheeks were turning whiter by the second. Fear fluttered up her chest, bright and loud, like a punch directed right towards her stomach.

“Getting shot would’ve hurt more.” Selina pressed harder against him. Blood covered up her palms and spilled around her hands, toward the floor. Another puddle was forming, but it was smaller and darker. 

Bruce grunted, face screwing up with pain. The skin beneath his eyes was dark and his cheeks were pale. Far too pale. It made her nervous and her heart thumped dangerously in her chest, right up against her ribs. 

“I guess,” he muttered, neck still barred but eyes searching for hers. With her hands still pressed snug against him, she shifted forward so that he didn’t have to strain his neck to see her. Sometimes she could be nice. Not often, but sometimes. “Still hurt.”

“Stop complaining,” she hissed, but it didn’t sound as sharp as she’d like. It would be a more effective threat if her voice didn’t waver and if her eyes weren’t still filled up with tears. Christ, he really had turned her soft. 

Bruce only smiled, despite how thin and odd it looked. The burning agony in his stomach made him look tired and nauseous. White colored his cheeks like snow and if he were still standing, she’d bet his knees would wobble. 

Behind them, a struggle sounded out, too loud to truly ignore. Bruce tried to lift his head but she shushed him and guided him back down. Pain twisted his face up again and he grunted, eyes slipping shut for a long blink as he tried to blink away the burning sensation in his stomach. 

“You’re such a wimp,” she said through a sniffle, mouth trembling and hands shaking against his flesh. The smell of copper filled up her nose and lungs and she tried not to gag. “Can’t even get stabbed without whining about it.”

“Sorry,” he said, though he didn’t sound very apologetic. The soft, pretty smile around his mouth made him look too affectionate to truly be sorry. “Next time, I’ll—”

“No,” she spoke over him, pressing harder against his stomach. It was wet and sticky and she wanted to puke—right over his thousand dollar shoes, just to teach him a lesson about chasing after her. “No, next time.”

Red filled up her vision. Tears, too, but she tried to swallow them away. A few slipped down her cheeks with her next sharp inhale and she sniffled, weak and pathetic. Bruce lifted up a trembling hand, weak and slow, and brushed away her tears as they fell to her chin. What a sap. 

A thump sounded behind them. Familiar. Loud. Awful. Like the loud, disgusting thud of a body slumping to the floor.

Just like her Father. Just like her brother, too. Dead. Buried. Disintegrating into flesh and bone. 

Horror turned her stomach to mush. Her nerves felt fried to a crisp and she was more nauseous than she’d ever been. All the fight that had ever lived in her was gone, peeled away with a knife and ripped clean with a crowbar. 

But, if she needed to, she could fight one last time. Not for herself, but for him: if Bruce needed her to, she’d stand and use whatever was left in her body. Against Sofia, against any dog left in the streets, against any criminal or lowlife or cop. For him, she’d do it. 

Carefully, with her hands still pressing down and her cheeks wet with tears, Selina turned her chin. 

Several feet away stood Jim Gordon, gun still raised and mouth thin, and—she swallowed back a gag. A fresh set of tears turned her eyes hot and made her tremble, her muscles feeling weak and her bones wobbling against one another.

Sofia—pretty, perfect, Sofia—lay in a lump on the floor. Prone and bloody. A bullet sat in the center of her forehead. 

Selina gagged again, turning her gaze low to avoid the sight of her sister’s blank gaze. Though she felt rather weak, dizzy in the head and blurry around the eyes and fuzzy around the tongue, she pressed harder to Bruce’s stomach. It was wet against her hands and smelled like copper. Everything smelled like blood. The whole disgusting room smelled like it. 

“Selina?”

A weak gasp left her mouth. Bruce said her name again, soft, but she kept staring at the floor. In the edges of her vision she could see Sofia’s hand, outstretched and motionless. Just another casualty. Another body on the floor. 

Just like her Father. A bullet stuck in the skull, limbs askew, flesh melting away. 

Just like Mario. Blood spilling. Bones collapsing. Death overcoming.

Tears slipped down her cheeks and off of her chin, falling into the bloody little pile by his hip. Everything hurt. Her ribs, her hands, her throat. If she stood, she’d likely collapse right back onto the floor, unable to stand or breathe. Thinking made her dizzy and blinking made more tears fall off of her face. 

Everyone was dead. Every piece of her family and all of her blood and flesh. Everyone she’d ever loved and known had been ripped away. It hurt like a blow to the chest. It felt like her teeth had been ripped from her gums.

Briefly, her eyes lifted, unable to help herself from looking again. 

Blood trickled out of Sofia’s mouth. Again, Selina gasped and gagged, ribs aching and stomach turning inside out. Vomit filled her throat and she ground her teeth together because her hands were still busy pressing down. They still felt wet and sticky. 

“Selina?” he said again, fingers touching her shoulder weakly. Selina shook her head, lips pressing together so she didn’t sob, and swallowed away a muffled cry. “Selina.”

That was her sister. Awful, cruel, and a killer. Terrible and familiar, mean and perfect. Flesh and blood. Connected to her by a long, red string, that couldn’t be cut unless—unless one was dead. 

Selina bit her cheek till blood spurted into her mouth. A strangled, ugly cry fell from her teeth. It hitched her shoulders up a half-inch. The room spun around her, blurry and colorful. Red and blue in the corners of her vision, splotches of black right in the center. When she blinked, the colors only turned brighter and louder, like a migraine that pierced her skull. 

With a little whimper, she bit her lip and gritted her teeth. 

That was her sister, she thought again. The worst girl she’d ever known. The only person who truly saw her down to the sick, moldy marrow. Selina hated her. Selina loved her more than anything. Even after everything. After Sofia had dug a hole six feet deep for her and managed to trip into it head first, burying herself beneath the mess she’d made, she loved her. 

Already, she knew that the rest of her life would be spent imagining what could’ve passed between them. What other horrors could’ve struck and scars could be formed, just to heal over the years. 

In the back of her skull, where those bright colors lingered like a migraine, she could remember Sofia’s cruel laugh and pretty smile. The memory stuck like glue. It couldn’t be removed even with the sharpest of pliers and it would remain there until she, too, had a bullet in her skull. 

Until death took her, she’d love her sister. That was the horrid thing about flesh and blood and killers woven together by knotted string. It couldn’t truly be cut away. Nothing, not even death, could really separate them. 

Footsteps came closer. The shadow from before stepped into the low, flickering light. Slowly, Selina lifted her wet eyes till she met Gordon’s gaze.

In one hand, he held up a brick: covered in dirt, snow, and blood that was brown with age. 

Relief slammed into her like a strike to the head. The brick: the weapon from three years prior, used and buried. The missing piece from that awful day that Barbara Kean’s head caved in, and—proof. 

“Thanks for the tip,” he said, chest rising and falling with every deep breath. “Next time, how about you tell me it’s buried beneath an entire garden of roses? Before I have to dig it up.”

Only Sofia could’ve known it was there. Only Sofia would’ve buried it beneath hundreds of roses, red and in full bloom, her favorite flowers and the scent that always stuck to her skin. Only Sofia. Only that awful, cruel girl that lay dead six feet away. 

Despite herself, Selina gave a weak laugh. It bubbled up from her throat and between her clenched teeth. It sounded ugly and hysterical, wet and unstable, but she laughed again anyways. 

Relief mixed with grief deep in her chest. It turned her bones to rust, like the blood over the walls and painted over the brick used to kill Barbara Kean. It was a knife slipped between her ribs, an ache that couldn’t be removed no matter how much time passed. 

Selina turned back towards Bruce, eyes wet and heart trembling. The Commissioner rushed forward, already calling for backup, hands at the ready to apply steady pressure over her trembling fingers. 

“Don’t worry,” Bruce mumbled, lashes fluttering shut but a grin still lighting up his pale face. “It’s just a scratch.”

Selina laughed, loud and bright and genuine. It felt like all the sunshine in the world warmed her skin and cotton candy sat in the grooves of her teeth, rotting her gums with sugar and affection. Love, as strong as ever, made her heartbeat pound in her chest.

With her hands still pressed over his red stomach, she tilted forward and kissed him square over the mouth. 

Death be damned: he was hers. Nothing could take her away from him.

—

“Come on,” she urged, insistent only for show. Both hands held hard over his shoulders, fingertips digging deep into the muscle, but her smile was warm and forgiving. “I’m getting bored.”

“You’re impatient.” Bruce shifted forward in his seat. Instantly he winced, brows furrowing as the muscles in his stomach tugged at the simple movement. 

Selina tried not to wince on his behalf. He didn’t like it when she did, and he liked it even less when she apologized, despite having been the one to stick a knife in his flesh. 

The stitches had been removed days ago and the scar, pink and raised, fresh and ugly, was on its way towards healing. It just needed time, she knew that. But she was impatient. 

Atop the table, he spun the cake around once more, inspecting every inch as if it would taste different from one side or the other. If she were any less fond—and any less troubled about having quite literally stabbed him—she might tug on his hair and tell him to get on with it.

Except, it was his birthday. So she only rolled her eyes and draped herself further across his back, twisting her fingers together in front of his neck. Rather than tease and taunt as he twisted the cake stand, again, she bit into her tongue and sighed. 

One finger dipped forward and into the frosting. 

“Gross,” she murmured against his ear, mouth wrinkling and breath soft over his skin. Affection crawled up her chest when he shook his head and made a noise low in his throat. “Germs, Bruce.”

Bruce snorted and turned his chin back a half-inch, just so she could press a quick, solid kiss to his cheek. “Germs,” he repeated beneath his breath, quieter and far more offended than he should be. “Please.”

As if a bit of spit and bare skin meant anything to them. Like flesh and blood wasn’t theirs to have and hold, to give and take, shared between them equally. They were closer to one body than two after everything. 

Just that morning, she’d woken him with her mouth to his cheek and forehead and jaw, eager and soft. When he’d blinked away, sluggish and exhausted, stomach still sore but warm with desire, he’d returned her affection tenfold. Mouths pressed together, hands bare, flesh and skin meeting. 

“It’s one big circle, you know,” she said with eyes narrowed. The back of her ribs felt tender and mushy, like she’d been stuffed to the brim with cotton candy. “If you keep spinning, you’ll be back where you started.”

The cake was brown and dipped in white, wet frosting that dripped off the edge and toward the stand beneath it. Red fruit sat piled on top, in between eighteen blue, glittering candles. The flames were still lit over one missed candle because Bruce was picky and liked to inspect before he bit into anything. 

Just the sight of it made her teeth ache, like a cavity had already begun to drill into her gums. The sight and smell of so much sugar nearly gave her a headache and she tilted her head, expectant and excited. 

“Maybe I’m checking for poison,” he muttered, bumping his cheek into her jaw. 

Selina scoffed and took the seat beside him. “Like I’d let your birthday cake be poisoned.”

Besides, there wasn’t anyone left to poison it. The entirety of her family was dead. Any remaining dogs were in blackgate or arkham or six feet under, and they weren’t leaving anytime soon. It was a relief as equally much as a sore ache to know everyone she’d ever known was gone. All of her blood and flesh had been wiped away and purged from the city. All that remained was her, really. 

A twitch of pain hit her chest, right in the center. It was a deep bruise, black and blue, and she kept accidently pressing down every time she remembered her family. 

Grief was an ugly, eternal thing after all. 

Low in his throat, he hummed like he knew where her thoughts had wandered. “Just in case,” he said easily, directing her attention and tender heart away from thoughts of the dead, “I’ll take the first bite.”

Fat chance, she thought, though she didn’t say it aloud. 

Bruce cut a thick slice, nearly the size of her head, and shoved it onto a plate before it could topple over. Wet, sticky icing and red berries covered the plate and made her teeth tingle. Before he could even finish cutting his own, she scooped away a chunk with her fingers and brought it to her mouth. 

Sugar exploded over her tongue, biting deep into her gums and seeping through the grooves of her teeth. A small, pretty smile lit up her face when he turned her way, as if to examine her reaction. When she said nothing, he stared and blinked, eyes wide and mouth thin.

“It’s good,” she said with a little laugh, lifting her thumb to her mouth to lick away frosting. The edges of his cheeks turned pink and he cleared his throat, but she said nothing, only grinned. “Poison free.”

“What a relief.” The taut muscles of his shoulders went slack, like he’d truly worried that she’d have hated the taste. It made her chest fluff up with sugar and affection to know he cared so strongly about something so simple. 

Selina brought her fingers up to his neck, rubbing her thumb over his pulse point. His heart beat loud and strong beneath her skin. Bright and alive. A few centimeters away, the scar that she’d given him had faded into white. On his stomach, the other, new and fresh, was still pink. There were reminders of her presence littered over his body, it seemed. Maybe in time, he’d return the favour. 

“Happy birthday, Wayne,” she said, fingers still pressed to his pulse point. Both their hands were bare, their skin warm and pale, and his knuckles grazed against her as he reached up to grip her hand. Then, with their hands pressed together, he tilted forward to nudge his nose up against hers. It made her stomach flutter.

“Eighteen,” he said. The corners of his mouth quirked. Warmth filled up his blue eyes, dripping with love and desire and all sorts of other things she could barely comprehend. It still struck her like lightning to know that he cared for her. Wanted her. Loved her, even. “I never thought I’d make it.”

Selina laughed. “You sure beat the odds.”

With sugar in her teeth, sunlight on her skin, and Bruce Wayne’s warm hand on her own, she exhaled. Breath came easy now. The beat of her heart against her ribs was simple. Being human hurt, and all her flesh and blood and skin ached more than anything, but that was alright. 

Bruce tilted close and pressed his mouth to hers, long and slow. Strings of sugary, cotton candy affection wrapped around her ribcage and she nudged herself halfway into his lap, wrapping her fingers around his collar and tugging him down.

Love, simple and easy, filled up every inch of her body, down to her bones and deep in her marrow. Love, warm and soft, pumped through her heart like blood. Sticky, wet, and red—and human. So very human.