Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The world returned slowly. First, the cold.

Clara Monroe became aware of the chill in her fingers, the unnatural stillness of her body, and a steady, rhythmic beep… beep… beep beside her. Then the smell—too clean, sterile, undercut with something metallic and sharp. Her skin prickled with unease. Her mind struggled upward, like she was swimming through syrup.

She tried to open her eyes.

Darkness.

Panic seized her like a vice. Her heart thudded. Her breath hitched in her throat.

“Clara?”

A voice. Male. Gentle.

She flinched, tried to turn toward it, but her limbs barely moved. Her body felt like it belonged to someone else.

“Clara, it’s Father Eli. You’re in the hospital, sweetheart. You’re safe. You’ve been asleep for a while.”

Hospital.

The word crashed into her like cold water. Her mouth opened, dry and slow.

“Where’s my mom?” she whispered.

A pause. Too long.

Father Eli’s voice broke slightly. “They’re… not here, Clara. There was an accident. Do you remember?”

She didn’t. Not really. There had been music. Her brother’s laughter in the backseat. The scent of her mother’s lavender hand cream. A flash of light. Screaming metal. Then nothing.

Now—this.

“I can’t see,” she croaked.

“I know.” A chair creaked beside her. A hand, warm and familiar, rested over hers. “Your eyes are hurt. But the doctors are doing everything they can.”

She turned her face toward the sound of his voice, blinking against the dark. “Are they dead?” she asked, her voice trembling.

Father Eli squeezed her fingers. “Yes.”

No screaming. No sobbing. Just silence.

Clara let the words fall into the space behind her eyes, where there was nothing but the darkness of gauze and something else—something strange.

A streetlamp flickering in the rain. Leather shoes on pavement. A red folder full of legal briefs. Coffee going cold on a cluttered desk. A sharp voice in her own mouth saying, “Gotham law doesn’t work in daylight.”

Her hand spasmed in Father Eli’s.

“Clara?”

She gasped suddenly and sat bolt upright—then recoiled, wincing at the pull of her IV.

“I—I was in an office,” she whispered, her voice suddenly older, distant. “Downtown. Fifth and King. The light kept blinking, and I told her to replace it before it caught fire—”

She cut herself off. Confused. Frightened.

That wasn’t her voice. Not really. It had come from her mouth, but the words were wrong.

Who is she?

“Clara,” Father Eli said carefully, standing now, concern thick in his voice. “Do you know where you are?”

She hesitated. She wanted to say Gotham.

But how did she even know the name?

“…No,” she admitted.

Her head throbbed, and the darkness seemed to ripple behind her eyes.

She pressed the heels of her palms into her temples and whimpered, “Why do I remember things that didn’t happen to me?”

Footsteps hurried outside the door. Voices. A nurse, maybe a doctor.

“Get Dr. Keller—she’s awake, but something’s… off.”

Clara was already sinking back into the bed, small shoulders trembling. Her legs felt too long. Her thoughts too wide.

Inside her mind, a woman she had never met—but somehow was—walked down a long corridor in heels, arguing over legal precedent. The name Alina Voss hung in the air like perfume.

But Clara had never been to a courthouse. She was only eight. She had gone to Sunday school, sung in the pew beside her mother, helped her father stack chairs after the service.

And yet…

She knew what RICO stood for.

Clara didn’t cry that first night. Not in the way anyone expected.

She lay still in the hospital bed, hands folded neatly over the pale blue blanket like she was at rest in a coffin. Her chest rose and fell with careful rhythm. Her eyes—bandaged, lightless—did not move.

Only her mind stirred.

It was like her head was full of radio static, except every few moments the white noise sharpened into something too clear. A memory, vivid and certain, even though it didn’t belong to her. She knew the difference. Clara Monroe had never filed court documents or paid rent or kissed someone with trembling fingers and told them it was a mistake.

But the woman in her head—Alina—had.

And now, Clara remembered those things as if they’d been printed behind her eyes like ink pressed too deep.

In the quiet of her room, while the city’s chaos buzzed beyond hospital walls, Clara whispered things to herself she didn’t understand.

“Plaintiff’s motion denied.”
“Probable cause established.”
“Batman’s just a myth.”

Then she would shudder, curl tighter beneath the covers, and pretend she was nothing more than a little girl again.

But she knew she wasn’t.

⸻

They told her about the blindness the next morning.

The light was already gone.

Clara had woken to the sound of soft murmurs, the rustle of fabric, the quiet wheeze of her own breath. Her eyes had fluttered open reflexively, but the dark didn’t lift. It sat on her like a blanket pressed too close to her skin—too heavy, too still.

She heard the footsteps before she felt the presence beside her bed. A chair creaked. Then warmth encased her hand—Father Eli’s, his fingers rough with callouses, but gentle. He used both hands, as if afraid she might float away if he didn’t hold her here.

And then came the voice. Male. Measured. Practiced in its softness.

“There was trauma to the optic nerve, Clara,” the doctor said, kind and distant in the way doctors often are. “We did everything we could. But the damage was… irreversible.”

Irreversible.

The word echoed in her chest like it had been struck with a hammer.

Not for now, not we’ll try again later—just… done. Over. Gone.

And with it, the last small hope she hadn’t realized she’d been clinging to.

Clara didn’t speak.

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t scream, or shake her head, or beg for something better.

She simply let the silence stretch, wide and tight as a noose. Then she nodded, once, her face turning away from the sound of the voice, toward the wall she couldn’t see.

There was a storm inside her. But it didn’t rise. It didn’t even move.

It just… settled. Cold and cruel. Like it was already used to being there.

⸻

Father Eli was quiet after the doctor left.

He didn’t offer platitudes. He didn’t quote scripture or say things like God has a plan—he knew Clara, knew her family had raised her to believe, and also knew grief had no patience for easy answers.

He simply stayed.

Her small hand trembled once inside his, but she didn’t grip him back. She was far away already, deep in a place no adult could follow.

“I can’t see,” she said softly, after what felt like forever.

“I know,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“I keep… waiting for it to stop. The dark. Like it’s a dream. But it’s still here.”

Father Eli nodded, though she couldn’t see it. “I know,” he repeated.

A long silence.

Then:

“Everything hurts,” Clara whispered, barely audible.

Not her body—though her body did hurt, wrapped in bandages and bruises, ribs tight, bones aching.

She meant something deeper.

A vast, shattering pain that lived behind her ribs. A hollowed-out ache where her family used to be. Where the world used to be.

Where she used to be.

⸻

She didn’t tell him about the memories.

Not yet.

Not about the strange images that kept flaring behind the blindness—brief flashes of places she’d never been. Offices. Courtrooms. Fire escapes. Dark alleyways wet with rain. The metallic click of heels that should never have belonged to an eight-year-old.

She didn’t tell him that sometimes, in the dark, she thought in someone else’s voice.

Or that when she dreamed, she stood in a different body, taller, heavier, older, and felt guilt and rage and exhaustion that no child should know.

She didn’t know how.

How do you tell someone you’re haunted by a person who’s still inside you?

So she said nothing.

And when Father Eli gave her the rosary later, she thanked him. She even wrapped the beads around her wrist the way her mother used to.

But she didn’t pray.

Because the girl who used to believe was fading.

And the woman behind her eyes… never had.

Chapter Text

chapter 2

The orphanage at St. Mary’s sat on the edge of Gotham’s old quarter, tucked behind ivy-covered walls and flanked by stone angels worn smooth by weather and time. It was not loud, nor cruel, nor cold—but for Clara Monroe, it was too quiet in all the wrong ways.

She heard the silence of missing voices in the halls. Her mother’s humming while folding laundry. Her father’s keys jangling in his coat. Her brother, laughing at nothing from the backseat.

She had survived. And yet nothing followed her here.

No family. No light.

Just the smell of waxed floors and old wood, of bread baking somewhere too far away to matter.

And blindness. Always the blindness.

⸻

Clara’s room was small and clean, with high ceilings and creaking floorboards. There was a window, they told her, but she never asked to sit by it. She couldn’t tell the difference anymore between sun and shadow. It all pressed against her the same way—featureless, quiet, consuming.

Sister Honora was the first to show her kindness that didn’t ache.

A tall, soft-voiced woman with hands that always smelled of peppermint and lemon oil, she helped Clara adjust to the rhythm of St. Mary’s. She never rushed her. Never raised her voice. When Clara knocked over her cup or missed a chair or got tangled in her blanket, Sister Honora was there with a warm touch and a quiet reassurance: “There’s no shame in learning slowly.”

And Clara was learning. Not just how to navigate her blindness, but how to live inside it.

She learned to count steps. To fold her clothes with corners turned just so. To listen for the sound of the breakfast bell three floors down and know it was morning, not night.

But most of all, she learned to feel with her hands.

It began with textures—grains of rice in a dish, the weave of her bedsheets, the cold smoothness of her toothbrush handle.

Then came the Braille.

At first, the dots felt meaningless under her fingertips—just bumps in paper, more confusion in a world already too full of it.

But Father Eli was patient.

⸻

He visited every day after Mass, sitting beside her in the orphanage library while the sun slanted through the windows she couldn’t see. There, surrounded by dusty shelves and the faint smell of old pages, Clara began her first lessons.

He started with simple words.

God. Love. Light. Trust.

She learned to move her fingers slowly across the raised dots, each one a puzzle her skin had to solve.

“What am I reading?” she asked one afternoon, halfway through a small passage that felt like poetry.

Father Eli paused. “Psalm twenty-seven.”

Clara tilted her head. “The Bible?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”

Her mouth went dry.

She remembered—no, felt—the echo of another self pulling away from those words. Alina, in a courtroom, arms crossed. Alina, nineteen, standing in a university chapel and saying bitterly, “Faith is a luxury I wasn’t born with.”

And yet here Clara sat, her small fingers sliding over Braille that spoke of light and salvation. She shouldn’t have understood it. But it hit her somewhere deep—somewhere the grief still bled raw.

“The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear…”

She swallowed.

“Is it okay,” she asked suddenly, “if I believe… and don’t believe… at the same time?”

Father Eli didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he leaned forward and said, gently, “It’s more than okay, Clara. It’s honest. And God honors honest hearts.”

⸻

That night, Clara dreamed again.

But not of her family.

She stood on a Gotham rooftop, rain cutting down like glass. Her hands were older—adult hands—holding an evidence file. Below her, sirens screamed, and her heart pounded not with fear, but purpose. She wasn’t Clara in the dream. She was Alina. She was strong. And tired. And angry.

And utterly alone.

⸻

She woke with the rosary still in her hand and a question in her chest:

Why am I still here?

Not in the orphanage. Not even in Gotham.

Why me? Why both of us?

There were no answers in the dark. But there was the Bible in Braille beside her bed, waiting.

And for the first time, Clara reached for it without being told.

Clara sat on the edge of the courtyard garden, knees pulled up beneath her chin, a blanket draped over her shoulders though it was barely cold. Around her, the younger children played with chalk and bouncing balls, laughing and shouting in the clumsy, happy chaos of the barely-healed.

She didn’t join them.

The others were kind enough—Sister Honora had seen to that—but Clara’s quiet, blind presence unnerved some. The other kids whispered when they thought she couldn’t hear.

She doesn’t talk much.
She wakes up screaming sometimes.
She reads with her fingers like a robot.

But she was trying. She sat with them. She listened.

That morning, two older girls were sharing a newspaper they’d snuck from the staff kitchen. One of them read aloud, voice hushed and full of drama, like she was telling a ghost story.

“They were gunned down right in front of the Monarch Theatre. Both of them. Thomas and Martha Wayne. Can you imagine?”

Clara stilled.

The name Wayne hit her like ice water down her spine.

Her fingers tightened on the folds of her blanket.

“No leads,” the girl continued. “And their kid—he was right there. Bruce Wayne. He’s, like, our age.”

Clara didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

She was suddenly falling inward, as if gravity had shifted sideways and was dragging her into a place no one else could see.

This isn’t a dream. This isn’t fiction.

Her heart began to race.

That’s a canon event. A fixed point in the origin. His parents. Bruce. Oh God. Oh God—

A memory that wasn’t hers surfaced sharply: comic panels in a tattered book, dark alleys, pearls in freefall.

Clara couldn’t breathe.

Her head filled with too many images, too much noise—Gotham as drawn and inked, Gotham as real, gunshots in the dark, a boy screaming, a cape against the sky.

Which version is this? Burton’s? Nolan’s? Something else?
What comes next?
Who am I in this story?

She stood up too fast. Her legs buckled.

The chalk clattered. The kids went silent.

“Clara?” one boy asked.

But she couldn’t answer. Her lungs were locked. Her throat closed tight.

She stumbled back, arms outstretched, blind and dizzy, and slammed into the edge of the brick wall. Her breath came in shallow bursts. Her ears rang. Her skin felt too tight, like it didn’t belong to her.

She was eight years old.

She was thirty.

She was nobody.

⸻

Father Eli found her moments later, curled on the chapel floor, fingernails digging into her palms, sobbing without sound.

He knelt beside her, heart twisting at the sight.

“Clara,” he said gently, touching her shoulder.

“I don’t know who I am,” she choked out.

The words were like glass.

“I don’t know who I’m supposed to be. There’s too many pieces. I don’t want them.”

He didn’t ask questions.

He simply drew her into his arms and held her, her small frame trembling against his chest, as if she might come apart molecule by molecule.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “You don’t have to know yet.”

“I remember things that aren’t mine,” she said, her voice cracking. “I feel things. Like I’ve lived another life. Like I… like I died somewhere else and came here by mistake.”

Father Eli closed his eyes. He believed in miracles. But what Clara was describing wasn’t the kind that left people rejoicing.

It was the kind that left them bleeding.

After a long while, once her breathing slowed, he asked, “Do you remember what we talked about? The psalm?”

Clara gave a small nod against his robes.

“Do you remember what it said?”

“…The Lord is my light and my salvation,” she whispered. “Whom shall I fear?”

“That’s right.”

“But I’m still afraid,” she said quietly.

He smiled gently. “So am I, sometimes. Even priests get scared. Faith isn’t the absence of fear, Clara. It’s choosing to stay when fear tells you to run.”

She didn’t answer right away.

Her fingers found the rosary again, tucked into the pocket of her dress. Her thumb found the smooth bead worn by hours of circling.

“Do you think… God made a mistake?” she asked, barely audible.

“No.” His voice was firm now. “But I think the world makes mistakes all the time. Terrible ones. And sometimes, the only holy thing we can do… is survive them.”

Clara sat very still.

Then, finally, she nodded.

⸻

That night, she sat alone with her Braille Bible again.

She traced Psalm 27 slowly, then flipped the page. Her fingers moved more confidently now. Muscle memory. Repetition. Something grounding.

The fear wasn’t gone. But the edges of it softened.

And for the first time since the accident, Clara whispered aloud:

“Please help me.”

She wasn’t sure if she meant God.

Or herself.

Or the strange woman buried in her mind.

But the prayer hung in the dark, unspoken and real, like the first small light after nightfall.

Chapter Text

chapter 3 faith

It began with a question.

They were in the library, or what passed for one in the orphanage—half a dozen donated shelves, two wobbly tables, and a quiet clock that ticked too loud when no one else was around.

Clara sat at one of the tables with a raised-letter book open beneath her fingers, a worn copy of The Gospel According to John in Braille. She was halfway through chapter 8 when Father Eli approached with his usual quiet tread.

He didn’t speak at first. He never interrupted her reading.

But after a moment, he sat across from her and folded his hands on the table.

“You always pause when you reach that part,” he said softly.

Clara lifted her sightless eyes. “What part?”

“‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.’”

She tilted her head slightly. “It’s… familiar.”

“You’ve read it before?”

“No,” she admitted. “But… she—Alina—has.”

Father Eli was silent for a moment, then asked gently, “Do you know who she was?”

Clara hesitated. “A lawyer,” she said finally. “Defense. Criminal cases. Big ones. She was loud. Confident. She… believed in protecting people, even when they didn’t deserve it.”

“And you think that was wrong?”

“No.” Clara’s fingers brushed the page. “I think… it was lonely.”

He watched her carefully, the way he always did when she was turning something over in her mind.

“I don’t know what I believe,” Clara added after a moment. “But… this”—she tapped the book—“doesn’t feel like hers. It feels like mine.”

A soft smile touched Father Eli’s face. “Then perhaps it is.”

He stood and placed a hand gently on her shoulder. “I’ll be back in a little while. There’s something I want to do for you.”

⸻

Three weeks passed.

And then, one rainy Wednesday, Clara was summoned to the office.

She walked the path by memory now, counting the steps, hands grazing the wall. When she opened the door, she heard the rustle of boxes.

Father Eli chuckled softly. “Took some doing, but they arrived.”

Clara frowned. “What did?”

“Come and see.”

He guided her hands to the surface of the desk—and into a world.

Thick bound books, their covers soft, worn, and unfamiliar under her fingers. A strange language of dots waited beneath her touch—Braille, but not scripture this time.

She ran her fingers across one title, confused, then gasped softly.

United States v. Windsor. Constitutional Law.
Gotham Penal Code.
Landmark Civil Rights Cases.

“What is this?” she whispered.

“You’re curious,” Father Eli said. “About law. About justice. About the stories inside you that aren’t just memory, but instinct.”

“You got me… law books?” she asked, bewildered.

He chuckled. “I asked an old friend—Sister Margaret—she used to teach ethics and philosophy in the city. She had these tucked away from when she worked with visually impaired students.”

Clara didn’t speak. Her fingers moved reverently across the titles.

“But why?” she asked finally. “Why go through all that for me?”

He looked at her, his expression warm, steady.

“Because you asked questions,” he said. “Because you listen more than most grown men I know. Because someone once did the same for me when I didn’t know who I was.”

“But you’re a priest.”

“And?”

“You don’t get anything out of this.”

Father Eli leaned forward, elbows on the desk.

“Clara, the world is full of people who offer kindness with a price tag. But sometimes—when we’re lucky—we meet someone who loves us without asking anything back. That’s grace. And if someone shows you grace… you don’t owe them. You become someone who offers it.”

She sat with that.

A warmth bloomed in her chest—alien and fragile.

Maybe it was gratitude. Maybe something more.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “For seeing me. For not… not just treating me like a broken kid.”

He smiled. “You’re not broken, Clara. You’re unfolding.”

⸻

That night, Clara returned to her room with the first book pressed against her chest.

And for the first time in weeks, she didn’t feel like she was split between two worlds.

She was Clara Monroe.

She was blind, yes. And orphaned. And different.

But she was also curious. Capable. A child of faith and logic—of God and law.

She opened the book by the light of her lamp.

The dots beneath her fingers read like a language she’d always known, even if she’d never spoken it.

And for the first time, her thoughts were her own.

A week after the books arrived, Clara found herself sitting in Father Eli’s office again—this time by invitation, not coincidence.

She had a notebook in her lap, one of those thick Braille pads that took up far too much room for far too little writing. She didn’t mind. The dots felt like clarity under her fingertips, better than the chaotic thoughts trying to organize themselves in her mind.

“I have questions,” she said, without preamble.

Father Eli smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Good. Questions are how we grow.”

“I’ve been reading about Gotham’s penal system,” she said, thumbing through her notes. “It’s… confusing.”

He laughed under his breath. “That’s one word for it.”

“Why does this city have so many… exceptions?” she asked. “So many masked figures and corrupt judges and private prisons that don’t follow national standards? Is that legal?”

“In theory? No. In practice…” He sighed. “Gotham has always been a city of contradictions. The law exists—but it’s bent, broken, patched up, and rewritten every time someone with power needs it to be.”

“That’s not justice,” she said firmly.

“No,” he agreed. “It’s not.”

Clara paused. “Was it always this bad?”

Father Eli hesitated.

“Some say yes. Others say Gotham’s soul began to rot slowly, like fruit bruising from the inside out. Organized crime took root during the Prohibition era. Corrupt institutions followed. And now… there are too many fires and not enough people willing to put them out the right way.”

She was quiet for a moment.

“I keep thinking about Alina,” she admitted. “She would’ve hated this place. Or tried to fix it. Maybe both.”

“She sounds like someone worth remembering.”

Clara swallowed. “She believed in the law. Even when it failed her. Even when it didn’t work.”

Father Eli nodded. “That takes strength.”

“I don’t know if I have that.”

“You don’t have to know yet,” he said gently. “You’re still learning. Exploring. And maybe that’s what faith is too—choosing to walk forward even when you don’t see the path.”

She tilted her head slightly, lips twitching. “Is that a metaphor?”

“I’m a priest,” he said dryly. “Everything’s a metaphor.”

She laughed. It was a small, startled sound—like it caught her by surprise.

Then her voice grew quiet again.

“There’s a girl in the hallway who says her brother got locked up for stealing diapers,” she said. “A few blocks from here. He’s seventeen. First offense. No record.”

Father Eli was silent, watching her.

“That can’t be normal,” Clara said. “That shouldn’t happen.”

“It shouldn’t,” he agreed. “But it does.”

She tightened her grip on the notebook. “Then I want to understand why.”

“That’s the beginning of justice,” he said softly. “Not outrage—but investigation. Not vengeance—understanding.”

Her fingers moved over the cover of her next Braille volume.

“I want to fix things,” she whispered. “Even if I don’t know how yet.”

“You will,” Father Eli said. “God willing—or not. Sometimes He waits for us to become the answer to our own prayers.”

The trouble started with an orange.

Clara was sitting at the long dining hall table, the one reserved for the younger children. The end seat. She always sat there—close enough to hear Sister Ruth pass by, far enough to stay out of the chaos. Her fingers were running lightly over her Braille notes from that morning’s reading—case law and breakfast rarely mixed, but she liked to try.

Across from her, ten-year-old Jonah was trying to peel a soft, overripe orange without making a mess.

“Use your thumb at the top,” Clara said gently. “Near the stem.”

He paused, surprised she knew. “You can’t see it.”

“I don’t need to,” she replied, small smile tugging her lips. “I remember oranges.”

He followed her advice. The peel came away more easily. He beamed.

But the moment didn’t last.

Behind Jonah, someone snatched the fruit from his hands.

It was Caleb. Fourteen, taller than most of the nuns, angry in the way only kids made of pain and powerlessness could be. He always knew which kids to push. Jonah, with his stutter and soft voice, was an easy target.

“Didn’t your mom teach you to share?” Caleb said, voice dripping.

“My mom’s dead,” Jonah whispered.

“Then I guess she can’t stop me.”

Clara stood.

She didn’t know what she was doing. Only that she couldn’t sit still.

“That’s not yours,” she said evenly, facing the vague blur of Caleb’s shape.

There was a pause.

The entire cafeteria seemed to still.

Caleb laughed, low and mean. “Blind girl wants to play lawyer again?”

Clara tightened her grip on the table’s edge.

“He was eating it. You took it.”

“So?”

“It’s stealing.”

“It’s survival,” Caleb hissed. “You think quoting laws changes anything here? You think words matter when someone like me wants something?”

Clara didn’t answer right away. Her heart was thudding too loud.

Then she said, quiet but clear, “They matter to me.”

Something shifted in the room—something bitter and cold.

“You think you’re smarter than me?” Caleb’s voice was rising.

“No,” Clara said softly. “I think I’m not scared of you.”

That did it.

The hit came fast.

A sharp pain across the cheek. Her head snapped to the side. She staggered back, ears ringing.

The metal tray clattered to the ground. Gasps. A cry from Jonah. Shouting in the distance—Sister Ruth, rushing forward.

But Clara didn’t cry.

She curled one arm over her head instinctively, breath shallow, trembling.

“You think your words make you better?” Caleb was breathing heavy now. “They don’t! Nobody cares what you say! People listen to fists, not feelings!”

“Enough!” Sister Ruth’s voice cracked through the chaos like a whip. “Caleb! Office. Now.”

The boy stormed out, still muttering.

Clara slowly straightened up, her cheek burning, legs weak.

Hands caught her—gentle ones. Father Eli. She hadn’t even heard him come in.

He helped her to the bench, knelt beside her.

“Are you alright?” he asked, voice like water over stones.

She nodded—but her body was shaking.

He didn’t push her. Just waited. When she finally found her voice, it came out hoarse:

“I thought… if I said the right thing… it would stop.”

Father Eli said nothing for a moment.

Then, quietly: “In a perfect world, it would.”

“But this isn’t.”

“No,” he said. “It’s not.”

She took a shaky breath. “He didn’t care about right or wrong.”

“Yes.”

“So what do I do? When words aren’t enough?”

He placed a hand over hers, steady and firm.

“You survive. You remember. You learn when to speak… and when to stand. And you never—never—let someone else’s violence unmake your voice.”

Clara didn’t reply.

But she clutched his hand tighter.

That night, in the dark, she traced the swelling on her cheek.

People listen to fists, not feelings.

But maybe… maybe if you learned to stand anyway, if you learned to fight smarter, you could change that.

Maybe not today.

But someday.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4 fight

The chapel was nearly empty when Clara found him.

Sunlight filtered through the stained glass in long strips of red and gold, painting the pews in bruised color. She walked slowly, cane tapping softly against the worn wood floor, until she reached the front pew.

Father Eli was kneeling at the altar, murmuring a prayer she didn’t interrupt. She waited, fingers curled loosely around the top of her cane, trying to steady the quiet rhythm of her breath.

He rose after a moment, brushing his hands together, and turned toward her with a warm, tired smile.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked gently.

“Didn’t try,” Clara said. “I wanted to ask you something.”

He nodded, coming to sit beside her on the front pew.

“I want to learn how to defend myself.”

The words were clean. Simple. No emotion in them—just truth.

But he went still beside her.

“I see,” he said slowly.

“I meant what I said,” she added. “I’m not afraid of people like Caleb. But I don’t want to depend on that. On luck. Or someone being there next time.”

“Clara…” he sighed. “I know you’re not afraid. That’s not what worries me.”

“Then what does?”

He took a long breath, steepling his fingers before answering. “I worry about what learning to fight does to a person. About what it takes from you, even if you never mean to use it.”

She was quiet.

“I’ve seen too many kids—boys, girls—take that path thinking it’s just for defense,” he said softly. “But anger has a way of finding its way into fists. Into fear. And Gotham doesn’t exactly reward restraint.”

“I’m not angry,” Clara said.

“I believe you. But violence—even in self-defense—can chip away at you.”

“Then what should I do?” she asked, voice quiet. “Just let it happen again? Hope someone intervenes?”

“No. I don’t want you hurt—”

“You don’t want me to become someone else,” she said. “Someone who hits back. I get that.”

Father Eli hesitated.

“I’m blind,” Clara said, more gently now. “I’m always going to be at a disadvantage. You said yourself—Gotham doesn’t play fair. So I have to learn how to stand my ground.”

“Standing your ground doesn’t have to mean hitting back,” he said. “It can mean drawing lines. Knowing when to walk away.”

“I couldn’t walk away,” Clara replied, voice low.

He looked away.

She wasn’t accusing him—just telling the truth.

“If it’s taught the right way,” she continued, “it doesn’t have to be about anger or vengeance. It can be about control. About being safe in my own skin. About not being helpless.”

The word hung in the air—helpless.

He closed his eyes, and for the first time she saw a trace of something old in his face. Something tired. Maybe even guilty.

“You remind me of someone I used to know,” he murmured.

“Someone blind?”

“No. Someone brave.”

Clara waited.

He exhaled through his nose and rubbed a hand across his face.

“I know a woman,” he said at last. “A former nun, actually. Teaches self-defense to women at the shelter downtown. I don’t like the idea of you learning to hurt anyone.”

“I won’t,” Clara promised.

“But I do like the idea of you learning not to be hurt.”

There was silence between them for a long moment.

Then Clara smiled—just slightly.

“I can’t believe you knew a nun who teaches how to break someone’s nose.”

Father Eli chuckled. “She’s had an interesting life.”

“So will I,” Clara said.

“I’m starting to believe that.”

The gym smelled like old rubber and lemon-scented cleaner.

It was louder than Clara expected—feet scuffing against the mats, the muted thud of palm strikes against pads, occasional sharp laughter and a pop song echoing from a tinny speaker on the wall.

Clara stood just inside the doorway, her cane in one hand, her other fingers curled in a fist against her side.

“Don’t worry,” came a voice. “We don’t bite. Much.”

Clara turned her head toward the sound.

The woman approaching was brisk, solidly built, and spoke like she chewed on steel for breakfast. “You must be Clara. I’m Sister Frankie.”

“You don’t sound like a nun,” Clara said before she could stop herself.

“Good ear. I’m retired.” A pause, then, “And I don’t wear the habit anymore because it’s hard to roundhouse kick in it.”

Clara’s brow lifted slightly. “You still can kick?”

Sister Frankie huffed a dry laugh. “Sweetheart, I can put a grown man on the ground faster than you can say hallelujah. But let’s start smaller.”

She guided Clara into the room with a steady hand on her shoulder.

“I usually teach women coming out of shelters. Bad relationships. Bad neighborhoods. We don’t do violence—we do options. Escape, control, leverage.”

“Sounds like law,” Clara murmured.

Frankie grinned. “Except it works faster.”

They stopped near the back corner of the mat.

“All right,” Frankie said. “You told Eli you want to learn how to protect yourself. I’ll take that seriously. But I won’t go easy on you just because of the blindness. You want real skill? You get the real work.”

Clara swallowed and nodded.

“Tell me what you know about your body.”

Clara hesitated. “I’m short. Small. I bruise easily. My right shoulder’s a little stiff from the accident.”

Frankie nodded. “Good. You already know your weaknesses. Now tell me your strengths.”

“I—” Clara stopped. “I listen well. I remember what people say. I don’t panic.”

“You panicked last week when that boy hit you,” Frankie said bluntly.

Clara’s lips pressed into a line. “Only for a second.”

Frankie was silent a beat. Then: “Good. Then we’ll work with that.”

They started small.

Just standing in ready position was harder than Clara expected—her balance was still off from the damage to her ears, and the world tilted when she moved too quickly.

When Frankie took away her cane, Clara almost panicked again. She felt untethered, vulnerable, childlike in a way she hated.

“How am I supposed to fight if I can’t even find you?” she snapped after the third time she flinched away from a sound.

“By feeling, not seeing,” Frankie said, calm but firm. “Most people over-rely on their eyes. You? You have a gift. Use it.”

Frankie took her hands, placed them on her own forearms.

“From now on, if you want to know where I am—feel me. Know the tension in my muscles. The angle of my bones. The shift in my weight. Let your instincts map the world. Your body’s smarter than your fear.”

It took an hour for Clara to land a single clean push against Frankie’s hip. But when she did, the woman grunted and staggered back a step, and Clara stood taller—panting, heart racing—but with a small, fierce smile on her face.

“That’s it,” Frankie said.

Clara’s lip was bleeding slightly from an earlier misstep. She licked it without flinching.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever be good at this,” she said.

“You don’t have to be,” Frankie replied. “You just have to be ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“For Gotham,” the woman said, simply.

It was one of the rare warm afternoons in Gotham, the kind that tried to pretend the city wasn’t cracked in a thousand invisible places.

Clara sat on a bench in the park, small hands wrapped around the bottom of a melting cup of strawberry ice cream. A breeze passed through the trees, carrying the smell of summer grass and distant car exhaust.

Sister Frankie sat beside her, one ankle resting on her opposite knee, demolishing a scoop of rocky road like it had personally wronged her.

Neither of them said much for a while.

Children shouted somewhere nearby. Birds chirped from unseen perches. The fountain behind them gurgled steadily, like a whisper trying to remember a song.

Clara lifted her spoon and took a bite, slow and thoughtful.

“I used to like strawberry,” she said.

Frankie raised a brow. “You don’t anymore?”

“I don’t know,” Clara said. “It tastes different now.”

“How so?”

Clara hesitated. “Like it’s too… loud. Like I can feel the sugar before I even swallow it.”

Frankie smiled faintly. “That’s not a bad thing.”

Clara furrowed her brow. “Sometimes I wish I couldn’t feel anything at all.”

The woman didn’t reply immediately. Instead, she took another bite of her ice cream.

“You remember when I made you listen for my steps in the gym?” Frankie said eventually. “When I told you to track my position without seeing me?”

Clara nodded slowly.

“Do it now.”

“What?”

“Close your eyes.”

Clara gave a weak smile. “They’re always closed.”

“Good. Now listen. Not just with your ears—with everything.”

Clara let her breath slow.

“What’s around you?” Frankie asked.

“Birds,” Clara said. “Two. One higher than the other. A car just passed behind the hedge… it’s idling now.”

“Good.”

“There’s a kid bouncing a rubber ball. It has a chip in it. I can hear the uneven sound.”

“Excellent. Now your body—what does it tell you?”

Clara tilted her head. “The bench is warm from the sun. My legs are sticky from the ice cream.”

“And your face?”

She paused. “There’s wind. Soft. It smells like… metal. And cut grass. Someone’s mowing.”

Frankie let her words settle.

“Most people go through life numb,” she said. “Relying on sight and nothing else. Missing half the world. But not you. You live in the world through sound, touch, temperature, taste, scent. That’s not a weakness, Clara. That’s a superpower.”

Clara didn’t answer. But her shoulders relaxed slightly.

“You’re not broken,” Frankie continued. “You’re rebuilding. Different doesn’t mean damaged. Don’t ever let this city decide your limits for you.”

Clara ran her thumb along the edge of the cup. It was softening. The ice cream was going to melt soon.

“Do you think I’ll ever stop feeling like I don’t belong in my own body?” she asked, quiet.

Frankie looked at her.

“No,” she said, honest. “But one day you’ll wake up and realize that body—your body—is still yours. Even if it doesn’t feel like the one you started in.”

Clara’s lip twitched. “That sounds like something a nun would say.”

“I’m full of surprises,” Frankie said, licking her spoon clean. “Now finish your ice cream before it drips down your shirt.”

Chapter Text

chapter 5 my corner

The gym smelled like rubber mats and metal sweat.

Clara stood in the center of the room, breathing hard, her right arm dangling uselessly at her side. Her shoulder throbbed—sharp and angry—and the dull roar of her pulse filled her ears. She didn’t cry out. She just stood there, jaw clenched, lips pale, body shaking from the effort of holding herself together.

“Clara!” Sister Frankie’s voice was sharp with concern as she rushed to her side. “Don’t move—Jonah, help me!”

Footsteps pounded across the mat. The next thing Clara knew, Jonah’s hands were on her, steadying her from behind. He crouched low, murmuring softly, his voice barely audible over the ringing in her ears.

“You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

She didn’t feel okay. The pain in her shoulder was white-hot, radiating down her arm and up into her neck. But worse than that was the shame. The blind panic—literal and figurative—that came with the fall. She hadn’t seen it coming, couldn’t brace in time. Her body betrayed her. Again.

“I can’t see,” she whispered, voice cracking, forehead tipping forward. “I can’t see, Jonah—I couldn’t tell where she was. I tried, but…”

“I know,” he said, gently wrapping an arm around her waist to steady her. “Come on. Let’s get you to the bench. You need to sit down.”

“I don’t want to sit down,” she snapped—but the words trembled out of her, not sharp like a blade, but broken like a dropped glass. “I want to fight back. I want to stop feeling like I’m always behind. Like I’m never fast enough or aware enough or—”

Jonah didn’t answer right away. He helped her sit, moving slow and careful as Sister Frankie called for an ice pack.

When Clara sagged against the bench, he knelt in front of her, his voice quieter now. “You’re not behind. You’re just on a different path.”

She turned her head sharply toward the sound of his voice, blind eyes wide and glassy. “Different feels like losing.”

Jonah reached for her hand, curling his fingers gently around hers. “You didn’t lose. You showed up. You faced something hard. That’s more than most people do.”

Her lip quivered. She hated that. Hated how vulnerable she felt. “What if I never catch up?”

“Then I’ll wait with you,” he said simply.

The words knocked the wind from her. She blinked, slowly, face turning down as a single tear slipped down her cheek. She didn’t say thank you. She didn’t have to. Jonah’s hand was still holding hers. That was enough.

After a few minutes, she leaned her head toward him, resting it gently against his shoulder.

“I hate this,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said. “But you’re not alone.”

And in that moment, Clara realized that healing didn’t always come through strength. Sometimes, it came through being held—through the quiet loyalty of someone who saw her even when she couldn’t see herself.

……..

The orphanage library was a cramped room with tall, uneven shelves that smelled of old paper and wood polish. Most of the books were forgotten relics, gathering dust in the quiet corner of the building. But for Clara, this was a sanctuary — a place where the world’s noise faded, and the only sounds were the gentle taps of her fingertips on the raised dots of her Braille books.

The soft scrape of Jonah’s chair sliding against the floor was the only other noise besides her breathing. He sat close by, a well-worn paperback on criminal law open in his lap, but his attention was mostly on her.

“You’re really diving deep,” Jonah said, eyes bright with admiration. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so focused.”

Clara didn’t look up. “It’s the only way I can feel like I’m in control,” she said quietly. “Without my sight, I have to work twice as hard to understand things. The law… it’s complicated, but if I learn it well, maybe I can protect myself—and maybe even help others.”

Jonah smiled, a little crooked, full of encouragement. “I want to be a cop when I’m older,” he said, closing his book and setting it aside. “I’ll be out there on the streets. You’ll be the one making sure people get treated right in court.”

She smiled, a small flicker of warmth she hadn’t felt in a long time. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not,” he admitted. “But you’re one of the smartest people I know, Clara. And you’re tougher than most.”

She ran her fingers lightly over the Braille pages again. “It’s hard sometimes,” she admitted. “When I can’t see where I am, when everything feels so uncertain. But I’m learning to listen better—to trust sounds, smells, the feel of the floor beneath me.”

Jonah leaned forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You mean, like how you hear footsteps before the others?”

Clara laughed softly. “Exactly. You’ve got to use every sense you have.”

“Besides,” Jonah added, “if you can handle this stuff”—he gestured to her books—“you can handle anything.”

There was a pause. Clara felt the weight of the moment settle comfortably between them, like the quiet after a summer storm.

“Thanks for sticking with me,” she said softly.

Jonah shrugged, a teasing grin curling at his lips. “Someone’s got to keep you grounded.”

“Grounded?” Clara echoed, teasing back.

“Yeah,” he said, standing up and stretching. “You get lost in your head sometimes. I’m here to bring you back.”

She smiled warmly as he headed toward the door. “Don’t be a stranger, Jonah.”

He paused, looking back. “Never.”

As the door clicked shut behind him, Clara returned to her Braille book, feeling a little less alone in the vast, confusing world she was learning to navigate.

The punching bag shuddered under the impact of her fists.

Clara moved in a steady rhythm—jab, jab, cross, pivot. The scent of old sweat, rubber mats, and worn leather gloves filled her nose. The world was a sea of sound and breath and movement. Her shoulder, once fragile and stiff, now rolled cleanly with every punch.

The gloves thumped again.

Her body was learning in ways her eyes no longer could.

She listened for the soft whoosh of the bag swinging back, timed her next strike by the vibration in the floor when her foot shifted. The heat of her breath fogged against her lips. Her muscles burned in a way that was satisfying, almost joyful.

This was her release. Her control.

Sister Frankie stood just outside the sparring circle, arms folded, watching quietly. The nun had been skeptical at first when Clara insisted on continuing the self-defense lessons—especially boxing. But now, she couldn’t hide her admiration.

Clara stilled suddenly. Her breath caught.

Without turning her head, she said softly, “You’re standing three feet to the left. I heard the fabric of your habit shift.”

Sister Frankie’s eyebrows lifted. “Impressive.”

Clara smiled faintly, still facing forward. “You always wear those soft-soled shoes. The ones that don’t squeak. You try to walk lightly when I’m training.”

Frankie stepped closer, voice warm. “I don’t want to startle you.”

“I appreciate that,” Clara said. She tilted her head toward the bag again and launched a crisp right hook that landed solidly, the impact echoing off the gym walls. “But today… I felt you before you said anything. I wasn’t startled.”

Frankie let out a soft hum of pride. “You’re tuning in. Letting the world come to you instead of chasing it.”

“It took a while to stop being angry,” Clara admitted, pulling off one glove with her teeth. “At my eyes. At the dark. At the unfairness of it all.”

“And now?”

Clara unwrapped the tape from her knuckles, the rough cloth tugging against her skin. “Now I put it into the punches. It leaves my body one strike at a time. Anger has weight. I’m just… letting it go.”

Sister Frankie smiled, eyes soft with approval. “Your spirit’s sharper than ever, Clara. I think you’re learning to fight the right battles—not just with your fists.”

Clara shrugged, lips twitching with a quiet smile. “Still feels good to hit something, though.”

Frankie laughed, shaking her head. “Well, as long as it’s the bag and not Jonah. He’d never survive.”

“I’d never hit Jonah,” Clara said quickly, her smile deepening. “He’s my corner.”

There was something solid, something whole in the way she said it.

And Sister Frankie, seeing her like this—scarred but stronger, grounded by both grit and grace—felt something stir in her chest.

Clara Monroe had lost much. But she was building something new out of the ashes. And God help the world when she found her footing.

Chapter Text

chapter 6 to be seen

The rejection letter was short. Too short for what it took from her.

Clara’s fingers moved slowly over the embossed Braille as if her touch might change the message with enough pressure. But the words didn’t change. They never did.

We regret to inform you that your request for accessibility accommodations for the Gotham City University preliminary law examinations was not processed in time. As such, your application cannot be accepted for this year’s intake. You may reapply next year. Thank you for your interest.

She sat very still.

The letter slipped from her fingertips and fluttered silently onto the desk, brushing the edge of her textbooks and landing at her feet like a white flag of surrender.

All that work. All the months of studying, of memorizing dense legal codes and case law, of practicing mock interviews with Jonah and pouring over constitutional history with Sister Frankie. All the paperwork—submitted on time, properly notarized. She had double-checked. Triple-checked.

And none of it had mattered.

They forgot her.

No. Worse. They overlooked her.

Her hands curled into fists, trembling.

She wasn’t crying. She wouldn’t cry. But the weight in her chest was something else entirely—something raw and livid, something that made her want to scream even though she didn’t know where to aim it. It wasn’t just the system. It was everything.

They didn’t see her. Not really.

Not the way she needed to be seen.

“Clara?”

She heard the soft creak of old leather as Father Eli entered the study room. His voice, worn by years of sermons and quiet conversations, filled the space like warm sunlight.

She didn’t answer.

He walked slowly toward her. “Jonah said you got a letter.”

Clara nodded once, sharply. “They lost it. My accommodations request. All the documents. Gone. I did everything right, and they just—lost it.”

She spat the words like glass shards.

Father Eli was quiet for a moment. Then he sank into the chair across from her.

“I’m so sorry,” he said softly.

“That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?” she snapped, then instantly winced. “I’m sorry. I’m just—”

“You’re angry,” he finished gently. “You’re allowed to be.”

Clara exhaled a bitter laugh. “I studied for a year. I filed every damn form. I spent hours arguing with offices on the phone just to get Braille formats—like my blindness was a problem for them to deal with. And now I have to wait another year? Because someone didn’t press ‘send’ on an email?”

Eli didn’t speak for a while. He let the silence stretch, sacred and heavy.

Then he said, “You know, I used to think that anger was the opposite of grace. But now I think… maybe grace is what you choose after the anger.”

She slumped back in her chair, exhausted. “You always talk like that.”

“I’m a priest. It’s in the job description.”

Clara gave a breath of laughter—just a small one. “I’m so tired, Father.”

“I know.”

“I’m so tired of being invisible.”

He reached across the desk and gently covered one of her clenched hands with his own. “You’re not invisible. You were just born into a world that doesn’t know how to see.”

She swallowed hard. The anger was still there, still pulsing hot under her skin—but something else, too. Something steadier.

“Next year,” she said, the words like a vow. “I’ll apply again. I’ll fight harder. Louder. I’ll call until they know my name. I’ll make them see me.”

Eli squeezed her hand. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”

And in that room—small, quiet, tucked inside the walls of a city too big and broken to care—Clara Monroe decided that this failure would not define her.

It would sharpen her.

The late afternoon sun filtered through the cracked window of the orphanage common room, casting long, warm beams across the worn wooden floorboards. Dust motes danced lazily in the golden light, drifting like tiny spirits in the air. Jonah sat close to Clara on the battered, threadbare couch, shifting nervously, his fingers interlacing and unclenching in restless anticipation.

For days, he’d been carrying this news—an ember of hope tangled with an undercurrent of worry. How do you tell your best friend, someone who had just been dealt the cruelest hand, that life was moving forward for you while hers had stalled? Every time he glanced at Clara—the way she sat upright, fingers gently tracing the raised dots on the thick Braille legal tome in her lap—his excitement knotted with guilt. She was a quiet storm: steady, fierce, and full of unspoken pain.

“Clara,” he began, voice low, hesitant like he was testing the waters of a fragile bond.

She looked up, those pale lashes fluttering as she paused mid-page. Her fingers rested lightly on the book as if it were both anchor and shield. “Yeah?” she said, her voice soft but attentive.

Jonah swallowed hard, heart hammering against his ribs. “I… got accepted to the Gotham Police Academy.”

The words hung between them, heavy and fragile. The room seemed to still, as if waiting for a response.

Clara blinked slowly, the corners of her mouth lifting into a genuine smile—bright, warm, and surprisingly free of bitterness. “Jonah, that’s amazing.”

He looked away, biting his lip, the weight of unspoken things pressing down on him. “I didn’t want to tell you right away,” he admitted quietly, eyes fixed on the threadbare carpet. “With your law exam… you know.”

Clara closed her book with a soft, deliberate motion. Her hand moved with certainty and found his on the couch, her fingers curling gently around his. “Hey,” she said firmly, “Don’t hold back because you think I’m broken or something. I’m proud of you. Really.”

He met her gaze again, his eyes reflecting relief and gratitude, the walls he’d built between hope and guilt crumbling for just a moment. “Thanks, Clara. That means a lot.”

She squeezed his hand with quiet strength. “You’re going to make a good cop. Someone who fights for people who can’t fight for themselves.”

Jonah’s smile grew wider, more confident. “And you’re going to be a brilliant lawyer, no matter how long it takes. We’re both fighting, just in different ways.”

Clara laughed softly, a sound that was part joy, part weary defiance. “I guess we make a pretty good team.”

The sun dipped lower, shadows stretching long and soft across the room as dusk crept in. Outside, the city’s distant hum carried on—unaware of the small moments of courage being forged in this worn orphanage.

But inside, for Clara and Jonah, the future felt a little less uncertain. No matter how many obstacles stood in their way, they had each other. And that was something no system, no cruel twist of fate, could ever take away.

Chapter Text

chapter 7 Rachel Dawes

⸻

Clara’s cane clicked softly against the stone steps as she ascended into the grand entrance hall of Gotham University’s law school. The sounds of bustling students, the scrape of chairs, and distant voices layered into a familiar, comforting hum. Despite the noise, Clara felt the silent space inside herself — the quiet fortress she’d built over years of coping, shielding her vulnerability.

“Excuse me,” a clear, steady voice called out, cutting through the crowd like a lifeline. “You must be Clara Monroe.”

Clara turned her head toward the voice, fingers instinctively pausing on her cane. “Yes. That’s me.”

“I’m Rachel Dawes,” the woman said, stepping forward with a warm smile. “I’ve heard a little about you. I’m here to help you find your first lecture.”

Something stirred deep inside Clara at the name—Rachel Dawes. The name echoed like a ghost from another life, a life she wasn’t sure she still remembered clearly. In that other world, in another self’s memories, Rachel Dawes was someone tied to Gotham’s darker stories—a figure who represented more than just a name. Clara swallowed the sudden rush of images she hadn’t thought about in years: a city on the edge, shadows lurking in alleyways, the weight of justice hanging thick in the air.

Clara’s voice was steady, but her words carried the quiet distance she reserved for strangers. “Thank you. That would be helpful.”

Rachel’s smile deepened, sensing the wall behind Clara’s calm exterior but not pushing. “I know this place can be overwhelming, especially at first. And you’re handling a lot.”

Clara’s fingers brushed the Braille notes she always carried—a tactile anchor in this sightless world. “I’ve managed so far. It’s not easy, but I want this. I want to be a lawyer.”

Rachel’s eyes brightened with genuine admiration. “That’s incredible. I’m surprised you don’t let blindness stop you. Most people wouldn’t even try.”

Clara shrugged lightly, an easy-going lilt softening her guarded tone. “Blindness doesn’t mean helpless. It just means I have to find different ways.”

As they navigated the corridors together, Clara listened to Rachel’s steady footsteps beside her, feeling a tentative thread of connection form. The name Rachel Dawes, once a distant symbol from a life she barely dared revisit, now carried a different weight—one of possibility, of a future not yet written.

By the time they reached the lecture hall, Clara allowed herself a small, genuine smile. “Thanks for helping.”

Rachel’s reply was warm, sincere. “Anytime, Clara. You’re going to do great here. I can feel it.”

And in that moment, amidst the noise and unfamiliar faces, Clara felt the first crack in her fortress—just enough light to let hope in.

⸻

The classroom hummed with quiet activity—the shuffling of papers, the low murmur of students settling into their seats, the occasional clearing of a throat. For most, it was just another lecture in a long series of classes. But for Clara Monroe, it felt like something more—a threshold she had crossed, away from the shadows of her fractured past and into a new, purposeful existence.

Her fingers moved gently over the raised dots of her Braille textbook, each letter a small victory against the darkness that had settled over her eyes. The words carried meaning far beyond the page; they were the building blocks of something she was determined to build—a life anchored in justice and service to those who, like her, had been overlooked or cast aside.

For a long time, Clara had felt pulled in two directions. The memories that flooded her mind—the memories of Alina Voss, the fiercely intelligent, skeptical lawyer from another world—were both a comfort and a curse. They reminded her of strength and knowledge she had never fully claimed, yet they also threatened to drown her in confusion and doubt. Who was she really? Which world was hers?

But in this moment, sitting in the midst of strangers in a law lecture hall in Gotham, Clara made a quiet, unspoken decision. She would not let those fragmented pieces of another life fracture her spirit any longer. Instead, she would root herself firmly in the present, in the reality of Gotham—a city both broken and brimming with potential.

The city around her was filled with stories of hardship and injustice, stories that called to her in a way no textbook ever had. Children growing up in orphanages, people trapped in cycles of poverty and violence, victims of a legal system that often failed to protect them. Clara had seen glimpses of this world since she arrived—the dark alleys, the weary faces, the whispered cries for help.

And now, she was arming herself with knowledge. The law, once a distant concept tied to a life she barely remembered, was becoming her weapon—and her shield. She wasn’t studying for grades or accolades. She was studying to make a difference, to be a voice for the voiceless, to bring light to the corners where shadows thrived.

As the professor spoke, her voice clear and deliberate, Clara felt her mind sharpen. She imagined the courtroom as a place not of conflict and bitterness, but of possibility—a place where truth could be heard, where fairness could prevail, where people who had been silenced might finally speak.

Her fingers brushed over the Braille notes, absorbing definitions, statutes, and precedents. She connected each legal concept to the faces she had come to know—the frightened child in the orphanage, the man wrongly accused, the woman denied justice. This wasn’t just theory. This was her mission.

Breathing steadily, Clara pushed the other memories aside—the doubts, the fears, the echo of a life that was not hers to claim. Instead, she focused on what lay before her: the path to becoming a lawyer who would fight for Gotham’s forgotten.

In the quiet of that classroom, surrounded by strangers who did not yet know her story, Clara found a fierce, steady flame within herself. She was no longer just a survivor of tragedy or a vessel for someone else’s memories. She was becoming a defender, a beacon, a force for good in a city that desperately needed it.

And with every word she learned, every case she studied, every principle she mastered, Clara Monroe edged closer to the woman she was meant to be—here, in Gotham, in the present, fighting for justice on her own terms.

The lecture hall had been transformed for the afternoon—rows of desks shifted into a makeshift courtroom, complete with a raised desk for the “judge,” two tables for prosecution and defense, and a dozen folding chairs forming the “jury box” at the back. It wasn’t exactly realistic, but there was enough tension in the air to make it feel like something that mattered.

Clara Monroe sat at the defense table, her fingers resting lightly on a Braille-coded set of notes, though she hadn’t needed them as much as she used to. Her hearing had grown sharper over time—compensating, yes, but more than that. She was beginning to notice things others didn’t. The way someone’s voice caught slightly on a lie. The subtle shift in breathing when a person was uncertain. The quickening of a heartbeat when a juror was emotionally moved.

It wasn’t foolproof, but it was more than intuition.

Rachel Dawes sat beside her, leafing through a folder of arguments they had worked on all week. “We’re up after the recess,” she murmured. “You good?”

Clara smiled faintly. “Nervous, but good.”

Rachel laughed. “Same. Though honestly, you’ve carried most of this. I still can’t get over how fast you work through case law.”

“I hear fast,” Clara said with a wry tilt of her head, and Rachel smiled again—easing some of the tension between them that had existed in the beginning. Rachel had been kind, never patronizing, but unsure. That unsurety had faded quickly as she got to know Clara—her resilience, her mind, her sharp humor. Now, they were finding a rhythm. A kind of quiet, mutual trust.

When their case was called—defending a fictional teenage boy accused of stealing medication for his ailing mother—Clara stood slowly, finding her orientation from the feel of Rachel’s arm and the layout of the room, which she had memorized in her mind.

Rachel opened with the basic argument. Steady, clear, articulate. She laid out the facts, challenged the assumptions, and delivered the emotional context. Then Clara stepped forward, tapping her cane once before setting it aside.

The room quieted. Even in mock court, Clara’s presence demanded attention—not because she was dramatic or theatrical, but because she spoke with intent. Each word carefully chosen, her tone low but certain.

She began by telling the story—slowly, intimately—of a boy with no options and a mother whose illness had become a death sentence because of poverty. She painted the picture in shades of desperation and quiet love, not excusing the theft but placing it where it belonged: in the context of survival.

And as she spoke, she listened.

Not just to the courtroom, but to the twelve “jurors” seated in their fold-out chairs. She heard the shift of crossed legs. The quick inhalation at the mention of the boy’s mother. The subtle elevation in heartbeat when she mentioned the injustice of a system that punishes the poor for needing care. One by one, she adjusted her delivery—softening here, sharpening there—until she felt the room tilt.

She couldn’t see their faces, but she didn’t need to.

By the time she returned to her seat, silence lingered behind her words.

Rachel looked at her, eyebrows raised. “That was…” She shook her head, grinning. “Damn, Clara.”

Clara shrugged lightly, though a small smile tugged at her lips. “You laid the groundwork.”

They waited, watching—or rather, Rachel watched while Clara listened—as the student judge reviewed the arguments. When the verdict came down in their favor, Rachel let out a breath and bumped her shoulder lightly against Clara’s.

“Celebratory coffee on me,” she said. “I owe you for carrying the team.”

“Only if I get to bring the next case,” Clara replied, arching a brow playfully.

Rachel laughed, louder this time. “Deal.”

As they packed up their things, Clara felt something shift—not just in the class, not just in the growing strength of her presence as a student lawyer, but in her connection to Rachel. It wasn’t quite friendship yet, not fully. But it was something promising, something solid.

For the first time in a long while, Clara allowed herself to feel the warmth of possibility. Of companionship, of purpose, of becoming someone the city might one day count on.

And as they walked out of the classroom together, side by side, she found herself thinking—this is who I am now.

Not the ghost of Alina Voss.

Not just the girl who survived a car crash.

But Clara Monroe. Blind, brilliant, becoming.

Chapter Text

chapter 8 lawyer

⸻

The bar hadn’t changed much since college. Still smelled like wood polish and fryer grease, still dim enough to blur the edges of long days. The booth in the back corner had been theirs for years—study nights, celebrations, post-mock-trial debates that ended in laughter and fries gone cold.

Rachel spotted her first—Clara seated upright, cane folded neatly beside her, fingers wrapped around a glass of ginger beer. Her posture was the same as always—composed, careful, like she carried gravity in her spine. But there was an ease to her now, too. A quiet command she hadn’t always had.

Rachel slid into the booth opposite her, shrugging off her coat. “Sorry I’m late. Carmine Falcone’s nephew got arrested again, and I had to listen to his lawyer explain how it was all a ‘misunderstanding.’”

Clara tilted her head, a smile playing on her lips. “Let me guess. He mistook assault and battery for a love tap?”

Rachel laughed. “Something like that.”

They sat in the soft buzz of bar chatter for a beat, letting the years between then and now stretch and settle. Clara’s sightless gaze remained steady, directed toward the voice she knew so well.

“I still can’t believe we made it,” Rachel said at last, studying Clara’s face. “Law school feels like a hundred years ago.”

“And also like yesterday,” Clara replied. “I still remember you falling asleep during that lecture on tort reform.”

“Only because your notes were better than the professor’s.”

Clara chuckled softly. “I suppose being blind made me a better listener.”

Rachel looked down at her drink, swirling the ice absently. “You were always more than that, Clara. You had this… way of listening. Not just hearing, but understanding what people meant, even when they didn’t know it themselves.”

Clara’s smile faded slightly, thoughtful. “That’s why I stayed with defense. I couldn’t fix what happened to me, or how this city treats people like me—but I can stand between it and someone who’s got no one else. Even if I lose… at least they weren’t alone.”

Rachel’s brow furrowed. “You know I respect what you do. We’re on different sides, but… we’re still fighting for the same thing, in the end.”

“I know.” Clara reached across the table, fingers finding Rachel’s hand. “You’ve always understood that. It’s why we stayed friends, even when we were arguing our hearts out in mock court.”

Rachel grinned. “And every time you won, you rubbed it in with that smug smile.”

“Blind, not humble,” Clara teased, deadpan.

Rachel laughed again, the kind of laugh you only shared with someone who’d seen you at your most exhausted, most idealistic, most afraid.

Clara sat back, more serious now. “I’ve been thinking… about starting my own firm.”

Rachel raised a brow. “Really?”

“I’m tired of begging for resources. Of being assigned twelve cases at once. I want something sustainable—where I choose who I defend. Where I can mentor others like me. Maybe even hire a few.”

Rachel’s voice softened. “You’d be amazing at that. Have you started saving?”

“Every cent I can spare. Still a long way to go.” Clara gave a rueful shrug. “But I have a name picked out.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Monroe Legal. Simple. Quiet. But mine.”

Rachel nodded slowly. “And if you ever need help, even from someone on the other side of the aisle…”

Clara smirked. “I’ll call you to cross-examine the coffee machine.”

They laughed again, older now, a little more tired—but grounded. Still friends. Still Gotham girls. Still choosing hope in a city that rarely offered it freely.

And for one night, the darkness outside the bar felt a little less heavy.

The community center in The Narrows buzzed with a kind of nervous energy that Clara had come to recognize—people uncertain if they were finally being helped or about to be handed another form they couldn’t read, couldn’t pay for, couldn’t trust.

She stood near the entrance, her cane resting against her hip, listening. Not just to the footsteps and low murmur of the crowd, but to the subtle tremors of breath, the drag of tired feet, the shuffle of paper and uncertainty.

Rachel’s voice carried through the room—firm, clear, encouraging. “We’ve got attorneys volunteering in every area—housing, immigration, criminal defense, family law. If you’ve brought documentation, wonderful. If you haven’t, come speak to us anyway. We’ll help.”

Clara smiled to herself. Rachel still had the fire. All these years later, still fighting with the same conviction she’d had back in law school.

A child brushed past Clara, tugging at her coat by mistake. “Sorry,” the little voice murmured.

Clara turned, crouching slightly. “No harm done.”

The child’s mother appeared, flustered and apologetic. “We didn’t think anyone would be here for real. Places like this… they don’t usually show up for us.”

Clara’s smile was soft but steady. “That’s why we’re here now.”

She rose as Rachel came to her side, clipboard in hand and a fine sheen of sweat on her brow. “You holding up?” Rachel asked.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Clara replied, arching a brow. “You’re the one running around with paperwork like it’s a hostage negotiation.”

Rachel chuckled, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m just trying to keep the line to the family court table from wrapping around the block. You wouldn’t believe how many eviction cases we’ve already processed.”

“I would,” Clara said quietly. “I’ve defended half this city from landlords who think Gotham is a wallet, not a home.”

Rachel’s smile faltered a little, sympathy flashing behind her eyes. “I’m glad we’re doing this. Together.”

Clara nodded. “Me too.”

They stood in companionable silence for a moment, watching the clinic unfold. Volunteers bustled between makeshift stations, legal aid forms were handed out, interpreters offered quiet translations. People—people who had spent years being overlooked—were being seen, being heard.

“This is what law school should’ve taught us,” Clara said eventually. “Not just how to argue in courtrooms, but how to serve.”

Rachel glanced over at her. “Think this will become a regular thing?”

“It better,” Clara said with a small grin. “Or I’ll sue myself for negligence.”

They both laughed, the sound grounding them amid the storm of Gotham’s chaos.

A voice called out, “Ms. Monroe? You’re needed at the disability claims station.”

Clara turned her head, catching the rhythm of the caller’s gait. “On my way.”

Rachel stepped aside but caught Clara’s arm gently. “Hey. Thank you. For trusting me with this.”

Clara’s voice was low but firm. “I never stopped.”

Then she moved forward, her cane tapping lightly ahead of her, steady and sure.

Rachel watched her go, heart full. Gotham hadn’t broken Clara Monroe. It had forged her. And together, they were lighting a fire in the dark. One signature, one consultation, one soul at a time.

The air in the gym was thick with sweat and frustration, heavy with the sharp tang of rubber mats and old leather. Clara’s fists struck the heavy bag in quick, angry succession—her breathing short, uneven. The rhythmic thud of impact echoed through the empty space.

She didn’t hold back. Didn’t count. Didn’t think.

Every punch was a name.

Every blow a memory.

Marissa. Broken cheekbone. Protective order filed—ignored. Three police reports. A dozen calls to shelters.

Dead.

Clara’s knuckles ached beneath the wraps, her shoulder twinged from strain, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. Her chest was too full, her soul too loud. And no courtroom had made a dent. No speech, no petition, no clever turn of law had saved that woman.

“Clara.”

The voice was soft but carried.

Clara didn’t pause at first. She hit again—hard. Her breath hissed through clenched teeth. “Not now, Frankie.”

The footsteps came closer. Then the hand—gentle—on her back.

“I know,” Sister Frankie said. “But if you keep going like that, you’re going to break something.”

Clara turned from the bag, flushed and sweat-soaked, her dark hair plastered to her forehead. She was trembling. Whether from anger or grief, she couldn’t tell.

“She had done everything right,” she whispered. “She filed the restraining order. She moved. She changed her number. I got her pro bono therapy. And he still—” Her voice cracked. “He still found her. And she died.”

Frankie didn’t speak right away. She let the silence settle, let it sit where Clara’s rage had burned a hole in the room.

“You tried,” the nun finally said. “You gave her everything the system could offer.”

Clara shook her head, tears threading down her cheeks. “It wasn’t enough.”

“No,” Frankie said. “It wasn’t. But that isn’t on you. It’s on the man who did it. And the world that let him think he could.”

Clara sat on the bench near the wall, burying her face in her hands. Her voice was muffled, raw. “Sometimes I wish I wasn’t a lawyer. Sometimes I wish I could… do something more. Be somewhere first. Stop the pain before it starts.”

Frankie sat beside her, resting her hand lightly on Clara’s shoulder. “You do more than you think. You gave that woman a voice when no one else would listen. And you’re still here. You’re still fighting.”

Clara wiped her face, the salt of her sweat mixing with the sting of unshed fury. “What’s the point if I keep losing?”

“The point,” Frankie said gently, “is that you haven’t stopped.”

Clara turned her head slightly. She couldn’t see the older woman’s expression, but she could feel it—warm, unwavering, honest.

“You didn’t fall when the world gave you every reason to,” Frankie continued. “You stood. And you made room for others to do the same.”

Clara let out a long breath. The anger didn’t leave. But it settled, tucked deeper into her ribs, where it could burn as fuel instead of fire.

“I just wish the law felt less like patching a sinking boat,” she murmured.

Frankie chuckled softly. “Sometimes, love, it’s about keeping even one person dry. One person afloat.”

Clara nodded, slow and heavy, and rose again to her feet.

“I’m going to keep hitting the bag,” she said.

Frankie smiled. “I figured.”

As Clara turned back, gloved fists tightening again, her movements were more measured, more deliberate.

Still fierce. But not lost.

She was Clara Monroe. Defender. Fighter. Witness.

And she would keep standing—because someone had to.

Chapter Text

chapter 9. Broken system

The Gotham streets breathed shadows after sundown, the kind that clung to brick and bone, humming with danger and secrets too old to name. Clara moved through them like a whisper—silent, focused, nearly spectral in the black hoodie that draped to her knees, a dark scarf covering half her face.

She couldn’t see him, not with her eyes. But she didn’t need to.

She heard him.

The uneven gait. The dragging bootstep. The cigarette habit that left a sour stain on the wind. Clara had followed that sound for three nights. She knew it now as intimately as a closing argument.

Dennis Morrow. Five-foot-eleven. Former corrections officer. No prior felonies. Anger management drop-out. The man who’d beaten Marissa with his fists until she stopped moving. He hadn’t even run. Claimed it was “self-defense.” The DA said there wasn’t enough evidence for a trial. No jury would convict. He was free.

Clara didn’t feel rage. Not right away.

She felt clarity.

It had been building, day after day, behind every empty legal phrase and loophole. The system she had given everything to—the one she’d fought to be part of despite her blindness—had failed. Again.

She’d promised herself she wouldn’t cross this line. But that promise died the day Marissa did.

The alley was quiet, tucked behind a liquor store near the Narrows. He stepped into the shadows to piss, his phone screen lighting up his face just long enough for Clara to find him.

She struck fast.

The first blow landed square in his ribs—hard enough to make him wheeze and stumble back.

“What the f—?!”

The next punch took him in the stomach. He doubled over.

“Who the hell—?!”

Clara didn’t answer. She spun, her elbow slamming into his jaw with a sickening crack. He dropped to his knees, gasping.

He didn’t see her eyes—didn’t see how they were glassy with something older than fury. He didn’t know that the woman before him had studied every sound he made. That she could hear his heart speed up. That she had trained herself for this moment.

“You think you’re free,” Clara said, her voice low, distorted through the scarf. “You think no one saw what you did. That the system forgot.”

She leaned in, grabbing a fistful of his jacket, dragging him upright.

“But I didn’t forget.”

He swung at her wildly, more panic than power. She dodged easily, grabbed his arm, twisted it behind his back, and shoved him hard against the brick wall. He groaned, sputtering blood onto the grime.

“You kill someone like her, and you walk? That’s the Gotham we live in?” Her voice cracked now—not from weakness, but from something deeper. Grief. Betrayal. Conviction.

“Please,” he choked. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Save it,” Clara spat.

She held him there a beat longer, breathing hard, her body trembling with restraint. She could do more. She wanted to.

But she wasn’t him.

She wasn’t a killer.

Clara stepped back, letting him crumple to the ground like the worthless shell he was. She hovered over him, still half-shrouded in darkness.

“I’ll say this once.”

He looked up at her, fear hollowing his bloodshot eyes.

“If you ever raise your hand to another woman, if you even breathe the wrong way around someone vulnerable—I’ll know. I’ll hear. And I will come for you.”

Her voice was ice. Not theatrical. Not a threat. A promise.

And in that moment, he believed her.

She turned without another word and disappeared into the night. No cape. No emblem. Just silence.

Back in her apartment, Clara peeled off the scarf, her breath ragged, knuckles raw and aching.

She should feel shame.

She didn’t.

She felt alive. Not for the violence. But because, for once, the world had listened.

And Marissa was finally heard.

The church was quiet, the kind of stillness that could feel like grace or judgment depending on the hour.

For Clara, it was the latter.

She entered like a ghost, her footsteps soft across the stone floor. The scent of candlewax and old incense clung to the air like a memory that wouldn’t fade. Her hands were in her coat pockets, trembling despite her best efforts. There was still blood beneath her fingernails. She’d washed them three times, but it clung stubbornly—some of it his, some of it hers from torn knuckles.

She slipped into the confessional like she had as a child when dared by other orphans. Back then, it was a game. Now, it was something else entirely.

The screen slid open with a soft click.

Clara didn’t speak at first.

She just breathed.

And Father Eli waited.

She knew it was him. She could always tell. The cadence of his breath. The way he didn’t fill silence with anything but presence. He didn’t ask what she’d done. He never did.

“Forgive me, Father,” she whispered, her voice hoarse, “for I have sinned.”

“How long has it been since your last confession?” he asked gently.

She almost laughed. “Doesn’t that matter less than what I’m carrying now?”

Another pause.

Then: “What are you carrying, Clara?”

Her fingers clenched. The leather of her coat creaked softly.

“Anger. So much anger I thought I might drown in it. And tonight…” She hesitated, swallowing hard. “I didn’t drown. I swam with it. I let it pull me under. And for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like I was blind at all.”

There was silence on the other side of the screen.

Then, softly: “Did you hurt someone?”

Clara flinched. “I didn’t kill him. If that’s what you’re asking.”

“But you wanted to?”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

“I lost someone, Eli,” she said instead. “Someone who begged for help. Who filed the right papers, who followed the law. And the law did nothing. And now she’s dead.”

She drew a shuddering breath.

“I tried to pray. I tried to remember that God sees more than I do. But all I saw was red. All I felt was useless. And I just—” Her voice broke. “I had to do something.”

Father Eli’s voice was quiet but firm. “Romans 12:19. ‘Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God’s wrath, for it is written: It is mine to avenge; I will repay, says the Lord.’”

Clara let out a bitter breath. “God’s running late.”

He didn’t rebuke her.

“I know how this city wears people down,” he said gently. “It grinds the good into dust. But Clara… your heart—your rage—it comes from love. Love for the broken. The unheard. The ones who slip through the cracks.”

She pressed her back to the booth wall, her head tilting up.

“So what do I do with that rage, Father? Bottle it? Pretend it’s not there?”

“No.” His voice was steady now. “You consecrate it. You reshape it into something that helps. Into defense. Into change. Into justice.”

She let that sit for a moment.

Then: “But what if I can’t? What if it takes me first?”

“Then I will stand in the fire with you. Until you remember who you are.”

Her lip trembled.

She didn’t cry.

Not in the confessional.

But when she left the booth, her hands still trembling, Father Eli was already outside, waiting. Not judging. Just there. A steady light at the edge of her unraveling.

He reached into his coat and handed her a clean white handkerchief.

She took it in silence.

Neither of them mentioned the blood.

Chapter Text

chapter 10 Batman

It was late by the time Rachel slid into the booth across from Clara, cheeks flushed from the brisk night air, a scarf still wound tight around her neck. She had barely managed a greeting before she flagged the bartender for a coffee—black, as always—and rested her hands on the table, fingers trembling faintly. She didn’t seem to notice.

Clara noticed.

Clara always noticed.

“You’re late,” Clara said softly, though her tone held no irritation. “And your heartbeat’s doing that thing it does when you’ve either had an adrenaline spike… or seen something you weren’t supposed to.”

Rachel blinked, startled. “You can hear that?”

“I can’t see your face. But I’ve gotten good at hearing the rest of you.” Clara sipped her tea. “You okay?”

Rachel hesitated. She never hesitated.

“Yeah,” she said after a beat too long. “Just a rough day.”

Clara tilted her head slightly. “Falcone?”

A sharp intake of breath told Clara she’d hit close to the mark. “He sent men. To scare me. Or… worse. I was on the train platform, and then—” Her voice faltered.

Clara leaned forward, voice calm but firm. “Then what?”

Rachel swallowed. “Someone stopped them. A man. In a suit. A—cape. Mask. Like something out of a comic book.” She huffed, but it wasn’t quite laughter. “He called himself Batman.”

There was a silence between them. Long, charged, brittle.

Clara set her cup down. “And?”

“And he was… terrifying. But he saved my life.” Rachel looked down at her hands, as if still expecting blood. “He knew things. About me. About Falcone. He disappeared before I could even ask his name.”

Clara considered this. The name Batman reverberated like an echo inside her. A different life. A different timeline. There’d been too many of those lately. Since she was Alina. Since she started remembering the fragments of what wasn’t supposed to be.

She reached out and touched Rachel’s hand gently, grounding her. “You’ve seen plenty of good men break under Gotham’s weight,” she said. “Maybe this one decided not to break at all.”

Rachel looked up, blue eyes fierce even under the sheen of fear. “Or he already broke. And now he’s fighting from the pieces.”

Clara smiled faintly. “You sound intrigued.”

“I am,” Rachel admitted. “I don’t know whether to thank him or file a report.”

“You won’t do either,” Clara said knowingly. “Because something about him made you believe—even for a second—that someone else might care as much as you do.”

Rachel was quiet.

And Clara—despite her practiced detachment, despite the way she tried not to get swept up in Rachel’s causes—felt it too. A ripple in the undercurrent of Gotham. Something had changed.

The city had always belonged to shadows. But now, perhaps, one of them had chosen to fight back.

And Rachel wasn’t the only one who felt it.

The early morning chill clung stubbornly to the pavement as Clara waited by the precinct steps, two paper cups of coffee warming her hands. The street was just waking up—vendors unlocking stalls, cabs humming through intersections, sirens distant like the city’s steady pulse. She tilted her head at the familiar gait before she heard his voice.

“Still bringing coffee like it’s college?”

Clara smiled. “Still wearing that badge like it means you’ve figured everything out?”

Jonah laughed and took the cup she offered. “You haven’t changed.”

Clara’s smile faded into something quieter. “That’s not true.”

They stood side by side for a moment, the world rushing past them in muffled motion. Jonah sipped his coffee, watching her as she turned her face toward the sound of passing traffic.

“You hear about that guy?” he asked suddenly. “The one in the black suit? Calls himself Batman?”

Clara’s brow lifted, but she kept her tone neutral. “Batman? Sounds like a comic book.”

“That’s what we all thought. Then a drug shipment gets intercepted, mob enforcers turn up webbed to lampposts, and suddenly the department’s got a file marked ‘vigilante’ on someone who moves like a ghost and hits like a freight train.”

Clara frowned faintly. “So he’s real.”

Jonah nodded. “Very. A couple of the older guys are pissed, think he’s making them look bad. But some of us… we’re not complaining.”

Clara tilted her head toward him. “You approve?”

“I didn’t say that.” Jonah scratched his jaw. “But I’ve seen what we can’t do. What the system lets slip. And this guy—he doesn’t wait on paperwork.”

A beat of silence stretched between them. Jonah looked at her sideways. “You’re not going to ask what I think of him breaking the law?”

“I know what you’ll say,” Clara replied softly. “That the law has limits. But sometimes justice needs more than limits.”

She didn’t say how the name Batman stirred something under her skin, a memory that didn’t belong to this life—a sense of déjà vu soaked in blood and shadow. She didn’t say that Rachel’s heartbeat had changed when she spoke of him. That even Clara’s own pulse had ticked faster at the name.

Instead, she asked, “You ever met him?”

“No. And part of me hopes I never do.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s not doing this for recognition. He’s doing it because no one else will.”

Clara thought of the woman in the alley, of Marissa, of the times the law was too slow, too silent, too scared.

She nodded, sipping her coffee. “Sounds like Gotham finally got someone willing to bleed for it.”

Jonah didn’t speak, but the way he looked at her—like he’d heard something deeper than the words—said enough.

And Clara, still half in the light and half in the dark, couldn’t help but wonder:

If the city’s shadows were stirring…

…what part of her might already be among them?

The courthouse steps were slick with rain, the kind that clung to the air like sweat and made every footstep sound too loud. Clara stood under her umbrella, waiting in stillness, her cane tapping softly against the marble ledge beside her. She could hear Rachel’s heels long before she spoke—sharp, fast, agitated.

“He’s dead,” Rachel said, almost before she reached her. No hello. Just those two words.

Clara turned slightly, her lips parted. “Finch?”

Rachel’s sigh was jagged. “Crane’s thugs. No witnesses. Just another ‘accident’ in a city full of them.”

Clara stiffened. “And you’re taking over his caseload?”

Rachel hesitated. “Until they find someone permanent. It’s temporary. Just court appearances and filings.”

“That’s what Finch said,” Clara replied quietly.

For a second, Rachel said nothing. Clara could hear her breathing—a little faster than usual, tight and shallow. Behind them, the courthouse doors groaned open and shut, people moving, umbrellas flapping, distant horns crying like wounded animals. The city was alive, but only barely.

“What are you really worried about?” Rachel asked.

Clara’s voice was low, almost inaudible. “That you’ll be next.”

Rachel gave a half-laugh. “I’ve handled worse.”

“No,” Clara said, cutting her off. “You haven’t.”

Rachel blinked at the intensity behind the blind woman’s words. Clara didn’t speak often in that tone—measured, cold, prophetic. But when she did, it landed like judgment.

“They’re saying Falcone had a psychotic break in custody,” Rachel said instead, changing the subject like a woman trying to outrun her own fear. “That he’s unfit to stand trial. Crane signed off on it.”

Clara frowned. “You don’t believe him.”

“No. Falcone is a lot of things, but insane isn’t one of them. This feels staged. Like someone’s pulling strings from behind the curtain.”

Clara nodded slowly. “You think Crane?”

Rachel’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I think there’s something worse than corruption going on. And I think I’m getting close to it.”

The unease that settled in Clara’s chest wasn’t from her blindness or the storm in the air—it came from something older. A low hum in her bones that she had felt before Marissa’s death, before the first punch she ever threw, before her hands got bloody in the alley.

Something was wrong in Gotham. Something deeper than politics or gang wars.

“Rachel,” she said, reaching for her friend’s hand, “you’re not invincible.”

“I know.”

“Then don’t act like you are.”

Rachel’s fingers closed around hers briefly, warm and shaking.

“I’ll be careful,” she said. “But I won’t stop.”

Clara nodded once. “Then I’ll watch your back. From the shadows, if I have to.”

Rachel managed a tired smile. “You always were dramatic.”

“And you always pretend you’re not scared,” Clara said gently.

They stood in the rain as the city whispered around them—Falcone in his cell, whispering secrets to ghosts, Crane in his tower with his toxins, and somewhere out there… a man in a black cape watching from the rooftops.

And Clara, standing beside the woman she refused to lose.

The screams from the Narrows were loud enough to echo across the East River, but Clara wasn’t listening.

Her breath came in steady bursts behind the mask that covered the lower half of her face, black cloth damp with sweat and salt. The pier beneath her boots groaned with rot and age, the boards soaked from tidewater and something far less clean—blood, oil, maybe fear. She could smell it, thick and sour.

The truck sat idling near the water, its back doors cracked open. Inside, she had counted six—six girls, all under fifteen. Doped up. Bound. Packed in like cargo.

She didn’t know their names.

Didn’t need to.

The men who’d put them there hadn’t heard her approach. She’d been quiet. Careful. Calculated. A shadow in a city of monsters.

Then she struck.

One of the men was still twitching on the dock behind her, gurgling through broken teeth. Another had stumbled into the water after she shattered his kneecap. The last two had put up a fight, swinging pipes and curses, but they weren’t trained—they were cockroaches in human skin.

Clara stood over the final one now, her knuckles split and bleeding through her gloves, her ribs screaming where he’d landed a lucky strike. She’d hit him again anyway. Hard. Again. Until her arm ached from it.

He coughed and spat blood onto the planks, eyes rolling as he tried to sit up. “Who the hell are you?” he choked.

She crouched low, gripping the front of his shirt, her voice low and cold beneath the mask. “The one who hears them when no one else does.”

His eyes widened. There was a madness in him—fueled by whatever fantasy he’d fed himself to make this feel normal. That this was just business.

Clara shoved him hard, letting him collapse with a moan.

The pain in her side sharpened as she limped back toward the truck. She called in the location to one of her trusted police contacts—Jonah. She didn’t say much. Just: “Pier 12. Six girls. Breathing. Need help.”

She didn’t wait for a reply.

She leaned her back against the rusted shipping container, inhaling the sea-stained Gotham night, her hands trembling. One glove torn. One eye swelling. Her shoulder screaming from the impact of a steel bar.

Somewhere across the city, people were going mad from fear.

She wasn’t immune to it.

She just couldn’t afford to stop.

Not while they were still out there.

Not while Gotham kept swallowing its daughters whole.

Clara sat at the edge of the cot tucked behind the gym, stripped down to a tank top, sweat cooling on her skin. The blood on her ribs had dried into a dark smear, and one glove had to be peeled off finger by finger, where it clung to split knuckles like a second skin.

Sister Frankie worked in silence, her hands deft but gentle as she cleaned the gash across Clara’s brow with antiseptic. She hadn’t asked how it happened.

Not yet.

“You’re lucky it didn’t break bone,” she murmured, dabbing the cloth again with a frown.

Clara winced and turned her face slightly away. “I’m not lucky, Frankie. I’m stubborn.”

Sister Frankie sighed, setting the cloth aside and reaching for gauze. “Stubborn doesn’t explain why your ribs are black and blue. Or why you keep coming back with blood that isn’t yours on your clothes.”

Clara didn’t answer. Her mouth was a tight line, jaw clenched against a thousand things she wanted to say but didn’t.

“I know what you’re doing, Clara,” Sister Frankie said at last, taping down the bandage across her forehead. “You think I’m blind, but I see you sneaking around late. I see the bruises you don’t limp from until the next morning.”

“It’s not like that.”

Frankie paused, her hands hovering in midair. “Then what is it like?”

Clara exhaled through her nose. “It’s justice.”

“No,” Frankie said quietly. “Justice is what you do in a courtroom. Justice is your gift, Clara. This?” She gestured toward the torn shirt, the bloodied gloves. “This is war. And you weren’t made for war.”

Clara’s shoulders hunched, something flickering deep in her expression—a cracked veneer, the ghost of grief. “Someone has to be the one who stands in the alley when the system fails. Someone has to scare the monsters back under their rocks.”

Frankie sat on the edge of the cot beside her, her voice softer now. “You think it’s your job to save every girl who screams in the dark?”

“No,” Clara whispered, her eyes glistening though she didn’t shed a tear. “But I remember what it was like to scream and no one came.”

Frankie reached for her hand. Took it gently, fingers brushing over the torn knuckles. “And who comes for you, Clara?”

Clara didn’t speak. She just stared at the floor, her lips trembling ever so slightly.

Frankie pulled her into an embrace, careful not to hurt her ribs, holding her like a child who never got to be one. “You’re not alone. Not now. Not ever. But if you keep going like this… one day, you won’t come back. And I don’t want to lose you to the very darkness you’re trying to fight.”

Clara let her forehead rest on Frankie’s shoulder, still and silent in her arms. Her pulse was a slow drum, echoing in her bandaged temple. There were no promises made, no confessions spilled.

But in that quiet space—surrounded by candlelight and the weight of love worn thin by fear—Clara allowed herself to be held.

And maybe, for just a moment, to feel safe.

The apartment was small, tucked above an old bakery that always smelled of cinnamon and stale bread. It was warm and dimly lit, humming with the muted sounds of the city outside—distant sirens, honking horns, the soft tread of late-night footfalls below.

Clara sat on the worn couch, her cane resting against the armrest. One leg was propped up, and beneath the oversized sweatshirt, her ribs were tightly wrapped. The bandages scratched against her skin like reminders. Her knuckles still throbbed beneath the healing bruises, but she welcomed the pain. It made things sharper. Real.

She tilted her head toward the kitchen, ears tracking every familiar movement: the clink of mugs, the hiss of the kettle, the quiet way Rachel exhaled through her nose when she was tired but pretending not to be. Clara didn’t need eyes to see that.

Rachel moved with her usual quiet grace, pouring tea into mismatched mugs—one chipped, the other slightly warped from years of use. She padded across the room and placed a mug on the table with a soft ceramic thud. Clara reached for it without hesitation, her hand guided by sound, memory, and the faint curl of steam she could feel on her skin.

The television murmured in the background. Clara couldn’t see the screen, but she could tell from Rachel’s stillness that the images were grim.

“Authorities continue to investigate the mysterious explosion at Arkham Asylum and the chaos in the Narrows. While early reports suggested mass hysteria, some witnesses described ‘hallucinations’ and ‘monsters.’ And in a stunning development, Wayne Manor was reported to have burned to the ground—”

Rachel froze. Clara heard it: the sudden halt of breath, the shift of fabric as her friend turned toward the sound.

“—though Bruce Wayne was reportedly unharmed. No official statement has been released from Wayne Enterprises at this time.”

There was a pause. Then the clink of ceramic as Rachel slowly set her cup down.

Clara turned her head, eyes pale and unfocused, but her expression sharp with intuition.

“You okay?” she asked.

Rachel hesitated. “Yeah. Just… weird hearing it on the news.”

“You were close to the Waynes?”

A breath. “I knew Bruce. A long time ago. He was a good kid. Quiet. Kind of angry underneath. But good.”

Clara nodded, fingers brushing the rim of her mug as if reading something unspoken there. “I never met him,” she murmured.

The silence thickened. Clara shifted slightly on the couch, the aching in her ribs flaring at the movement. She swallowed and took a breath.

“I was… in the Narrows.”

Rachel’s response was immediate. “What?”

“I didn’t mean to be,” Clara said quickly. “Just… work. Got caught up. Wrong place, wrong time.”

The lie came smoothly. She had rehearsed it in the hospital, while the doctors murmured about ‘unusual injuries’ and Sister Frankie quietly scolded her for slipping out again.

Rachel moved from the armchair and sat beside her on the couch. Her voice was soft, worried. “Jesus, Clara. Are you okay? You didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t want to worry you.” Clara gave a crooked smile. “I made it out. A little banged up.”

She didn’t say how she’d made it out. Not with her fists, her rage, and the voice in her head that told her this city only listened when it was afraid.

Rachel touched her arm gently, a hand grounding them both. Clara flinched, not from pain but from the unexpected warmth of concern.

The TV droned on, and Clara listened. She always listened. The pitch of the newscaster’s voice, the edge in Rachel’s breathing, the faint hum of the city outside—all of it painted pictures she could never see but understood intimately.

Rachel stared at the screen again. Clara didn’t need sight to know her expression. She could feel it, like the room holding its breath.

“You ever feel like something’s shifting?” Rachel asked suddenly. “Like the city’s… changing under our feet?”

Clara lowered her head, hands resting on her knees. She thought of the man in the alley. The girls at the pier. The bruises on her body that meant someone else had been spared.

“I feel it every day,” Clara said softly. “It’s like the ground isn’t solid anymore.”

Rachel turned toward her then, her silence loud with thoughts she wasn’t saying. Clara didn’t ask. Some truths were easier held in silence.

Instead, Rachel leaned back and sighed, a sound that felt too heavy for someone her age. Clara followed the motion, mirroring her, their shoulders nearly touching.

Outside, Gotham buzzed with unease. There were rumors of a man dressed like a bat. Of criminals retreating into shadows that once belonged only to them.

And in the hush of the apartment, with the faint scent of cinnamon from the bakery below, two women sat side by side, both of them tired in different ways—both harboring truths too dangerous to speak aloud.

But for now, they had warmth. They had tea. And in a city teetering on the edge of fear, that was enough.

Chapter Text

chapter 11 friends

⸻

The courtroom was a cavern of polished wood and cold stone, the high ceilings swallowing the murmurs and shuffling feet of those gathered. Clara sat at the defense table, her hands folded neatly over a worn leather briefcase, the faint tremble in her knuckles disguised beneath practiced calm. The bruises on her face were hidden beneath expertly applied makeup, but the fatigue in her voice was real.

Across the aisle, Rachel Dawes adjusted her glasses, the weight of the interim District Attorney’s badge heavy on her chest. Her eyes locked on Clara with a mixture of determination and something softer—regret, perhaps, or understanding.

The case wasn’t simple.

Their client, a young man from the Narrows, was accused of assaulting a police officer during a chaotic drug raid. Witnesses were conflicted, and the evidence shaky at best. But the prosecution painted him as a danger—someone who needed to be locked away to protect the city. Clara saw a frightened kid who had been failed by every system meant to protect him.

Rachel, on the other hand, stood by the law she swore to uphold. She knew the community’s fear, the pressure to show strength. She believed the man needed to answer for his actions, for justice to be served.

The judge called the court to order, and Rachel rose first, her voice steady and clear as she outlined the prosecution’s case. Clara listened, absorbing every word, every angle, searching for the cracks to exploit.

When it was her turn, Clara stood with quiet confidence, speaking not just to the jury, but to the soul of the city itself.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began, “we live in a city where the line between survival and crime blurs. My client is not a villain, but a victim—victim of circumstances beyond his control, and of a system that too often punishes those who have already suffered.”

Her words hung in the air like a plea, and Clara felt the subtle shifts—the softening of jurors’ faces, the quickened heartbeats she could sense even from her place in the room.

Rachel’s jaw tightened. When she spoke again, it was with the crisp edge of law and order. “We must protect the innocent from those who would do harm,” she said. “Justice isn’t about sympathy; it’s about accountability.”

The courtroom became a battleground, their old friendship a fragile thread stretched taut between their opposing roles.

After the day’s proceedings ended, Rachel caught up with Clara outside the courthouse, the dusk wrapping around them like a shroud.

“We’re on different sides of this one,” Rachel said quietly.

Clara met her gaze. “Yeah. But it doesn’t have to mean we’re enemies.”

Rachel gave a small, weary smile. “I know. Just… this case, it’s bigger than us.”

Clara nodded, the weight of the city pressing down on her shoulders. “I’m fighting for people like him—the ones who get forgotten.”

“And I’m fighting to keep the city from tearing itself apart,” Rachel replied softly.

For a long moment, they stood there, the chasm between them filled not with anger, but with the shared burden of Gotham’s dark truths.

“Whatever happens,” Clara said, “we still have each other.”

Rachel reached out and squeezed her hand. “Always.”

And with that, they parted—two friends bound by loyalty, even as the law set them apart.

The verdict came like a slow, heavy breath held too long in a crowded room. The jury filed back in, their faces unreadable, the tension thick enough to taste.

Rachel’s eyes met Clara’s briefly, a silent challenge and respect in that glance. The foreman cleared his throat.

“We find the defendant—guilty as charged.”

A hush fell over the courtroom. Clara’s heart sank, but she kept her face composed, the years of practice carving calm out of the storm inside her.

Rachel allowed herself a small, professional nod before sitting, the weight of the win settling unevenly in her chest.

As the courtroom emptied, Clara stayed behind, gathering her client’s things. The young man sat slumped, exhausted and defeated, eyes downcast.

Clara approached quietly, sitting beside him, her voice soft and steady. “It’s not the outcome we wanted, but this isn’t the end of your story.”

He looked up, surprised at the gentle tone, the care in her voice.

“I’ll keep fighting for you,” Clara said. “We’ll appeal, and I’ll connect you with people who can help.”

She reached out, placing a steady hand on his shoulder—a grounding presence in a world that had spun out of control for him.

For a moment, the courtroom’s harshness faded, replaced by a fragile thread of hope.

Clara felt the weight of the loss, but also the quiet resolve that had brought her here—to be a voice for those who had none.

As she stood, preparing to leave, she whispered, more to herself than anyone else, “This city needs better. And I’ll be damned if I stop trying.”

Walking out into the fading light, Clara carried both the sting of defeat and the ember of determination—a silent promise to keep fighting, no matter how dark the night.

The courthouse lobby buzzed with quiet urgency—the rhythmic clack of heels, clipped conversations bouncing off marble walls, and the constant shuffle of papers passing from hand to hand. Clara sat on a bench near the towering pillars, cane resting beside her, a folder balanced across her knees. Her fingers absentmindedly traced the frayed corner of a legal brief, more out of habit than thought.

She could hear Rachel before she could place her—the familiar sound of heels, confident and fast, and the clipped precision of her voice as she cut through a conversation with a colleague. Then came the subtle shift Clara had grown attuned to over the years: the slight uptick in Rachel’s tone, a thread of something softer. Lighter.

Rachel wasn’t alone.

Clara angled her head slightly as the pair approached.

“There she is,” Rachel said, the warmth in her voice unmistakable. “The one person in this building who doesn’t flinch when I threaten to sue the vending machine.”

Clara smiled faintly. “Because you’ve actually done it. Twice.”

A short, surprised laugh echoed beside Rachel—definitely not a clerk.

“Oh, that’s not even her best one,” Clara added, lifting her head. “Ask her about the time she filed an injunction against a parking boot.”

Rachel groaned. “I was trapped, Clara.”

“You were inconvenienced, Rachel.”

“I had court in twenty minutes!”

Clara gave a small, satisfied shrug. “Still lost the appeal.”

The man with Rachel laughed again—an open, genuine sound—and stepped forward.

“Harvey Dent,” he said, voice full of amusement. “You must be Clara.”

“I must be,” Clara replied, reaching out. She found his hand, firm and sure in his grip. “You laugh like someone who hasn’t yet seen her throw legal precedent like a brick through a window.”

“Is that a warning?”

“A kindness,” Clara said, smiling.

Rachel shook her head, clearly suppressing a smirk. “I regret this introduction already.”

“No you don’t,” Clara replied. “You just wish you had the upper hand for once.”

“You think I don’t?”

Clara gave a small, knowing tilt of her head. “Your shoes are clicking faster than usual. You’re nervous.”

Rachel paused. “I hate how you do that.”

“You love how I do that.”

“Fine. Maybe.”

Harvey looked between them, grinning. “So… how long have you two been doing this?”

“Since undergrad,” Clara said, leaning back slightly, one hand resting on her cane. “She found me in the law library yelling at a scanner that didn’t have text-to-speech. I was ready to sue the whole university.”

“And I realized,” Rachel added, “that she was either going to be my best friend or my biggest threat.”

“Best friend won,” Clara said, quietly but certainly.

The air around them shifted—gentler now, if only for a moment.

Rachel bumped Clara’s shoulder lightly. “Come have lunch with us. You can keep Harvey from getting too smug about his clean conviction record.”

“Oh, I welcome the challenge,” Harvey said, already intrigued.

Clara stood, folding her file. “Well, in that case, I’m bringing the case law.”

As they walked together toward the exit, the sound of the courthouse faded behind them. In its place was laughter, footsteps in rhythm, and the quiet bond of two women who’d grown up fighting side by side in the city’s dark corners—now cautiously welcoming someone new into the fold.

Even if Clara couldn’t see the way Rachel looked at Harvey, she didn’t need to. She could hear it—slight shifts in tone, careful words, silence just a beat too long.

She smiled to herself, already writing the next witty comeback in her head.

Because if Rachel was going to fall for someone, Clara would make damn sure he could keep up.

Chapter Text

chapter 12 crime

The rooftop garden above the DA’s office was one of Gotham’s few well-kept secrets—high above the grime, tucked between glass and steel, with just enough greenery to make you forget the city screamed beneath it.

Clara leaned against the railing, the wind tugging at the edges of her coat. She held a cup of coffee in both hands, the ceramic warm against her fingers. She couldn’t see the skyline, but she could hear it—the distant wail of sirens, the flutter of pigeons taking off from a ledge, the rhythmic thump of construction a few blocks down.

Behind her, the door creaked open. She didn’t need to turn.

“Three footsteps. Light. Heels,” she said. “Rachel.”

“And one set of loafers. Confident. A little cocky. Must be Harvey.”

“Must be,” Harvey said as he stepped beside her. “Though I could’ve sworn I walked in perfectly humbly today.”

Clara smirked, sipping her coffee. “You have a humble walk?”

“I’m working on it.”

Rachel leaned against the railing beside her. “We just finished a press conference. Harvey made a speech about civic duty and the importance of community reform.”

“Oh?” Clara tilted her head toward him. “Did you quote Lincoln or just wink at the cameras until they applauded?”

Harvey gasped, mock-offended. “I do not wink.”

“He doesn’t,” Rachel said, deadpan. “But he thinks about it.”

Clara laughed—a short, soft burst. “Dangerous combo. Confidence and restraint.”

“Coming from you, that sounds like a compliment,” Harvey said.

“It is.” Clara turned slightly toward Rachel. “You’re smiling.”

Rachel’s voice softened. “It’s been a good week.”

Clara said nothing. Just nodded. She felt the warmth between them like sunlight against her skin, even if she couldn’t see the way Rachel angled her body closer to Harvey without noticing, or how Harvey’s hand rested on the railing near hers, not quite touching.

It had shifted. And Clara, always observant, had felt it coming long before either of them probably admitted it to themselves.

“You like him,” Clara said casually.

Rachel scoffed. “You can’t just say that.”

“I just did.”

“She’s annoyingly good at this,” Harvey murmured.

Rachel exhaled a laugh, brushing her fingers through her hair. “She once figured out I was lying about being sick because I breathed weird over the phone.”

“I didn’t need the phone,” Clara added. “You lie like someone who doesn’t enjoy it.”

“I don’t enjoy it.”

“Exactly.”

A pause settled between them—not uncomfortable, but full of the unsaid. Clara leaned her cane against the ledge and turned her face toward the sound of a distant siren.

“I’m glad,” she said at last, quietly. “You’ve both… found something good. Maybe something better.”

Rachel looked at her, brows drawing together. “You okay?”

Clara gave a small smile. “Just thinking.”

Harvey’s voice was quieter now, more sincere. “You’ve always got a seat at the table, you know that, right?”

Clara nodded, grateful. But she didn’t say what she was really thinking: that sometimes watching people you love find joy makes your own quiet feel louder. That even in contentment, there can be ache. And that maybe, deep down, part of her had always been the bystander. The observer. The one who sees—without sight—what others miss.

The wind shifted. Clara lifted her face toward it.

“Just promise me,” she said softly, “you won’t let the city take it from you.”

Rachel touched her arm gently. “We won’t.”

Clara nodded. And for now, that was enough.

The alley was narrow and suffocating, hemmed in by chain-link fences and rotting dumpsters. Somewhere above, a neon sign buzzed. A woman’s voice had screamed only moments ago—sharp, terrified, then abruptly cut off.

By the time Clara arrived, the man had already cornered her. His hand was raised, belt clenched in a white-knuckled grip, rage choking his throat.

But he never got to strike.

Clara hit him first.

She moved like smoke and steel—her black clothes melting into the dark, her face masked in fabric from nose to jaw. No emblem. No flourish. Just a blur of fists and breath and purpose. The man collapsed under the weight of her fury, groaning as she knelt over him, punching again, and again, and—

“Stop.”

A voice like gravel. Familiar. Commanding.

She stilled.

The cape moved before the man did. Clara rose to her feet slowly, breathing hard. Blood stained her gloves. Her knuckles pulsed with fire.

From the shadows, Batman stepped into view. Towering. Silent. The cowl cut hard lines across his face, but his eyes were fixed on her, not the bleeding man on the ground.

“He’s not a threat anymore,” Batman said.

Clara tilted her head toward the groaning figure. “Not to her, no.”

“You’re not the law.”

“No,” she said. “I’m the consequence.”

She turned to leave.

Batman moved to block her path. “Who are you?”

Clara paused, chin lifting just slightly, enough to be defiant. “Someone you should thank.”

“I don’t let vigilantes run wild in my city.”

“Then maybe look harder,” she snapped, brushing past him.

He caught her arm. “You’ve been at this for months. The Ghost, they call you.”

“Then keep calling me that.”

“I can’t let you disappear this time.”

Her hand moved fast—heel of her palm slamming under his chin, just enough to throw his balance off. Before he could recover, she twisted free and sprinted down the alley. He followed, cape flaring like wings behind him.

But this was her part of the city.

She didn’t need sight to move here—just breath, vibration, smell, memory. The hum of the broken light on 3rd. The hissing pipe near Delaney’s kitchen. The uneven grate that dipped half an inch below the pavement.

He couldn’t follow what he couldn’t sense.

She was gone before he turned the second corner.

⸻

Later that night, Clara sat on her apartment floor, knees drawn to her chest, a melting ice pack pressed against her ribs. Her mask lay on the counter, drying beside her cane and coat. In the hush of the room, she listened to the city breathe.

She could still feel the way Batman had looked at her—not like a criminal, not exactly. Like a mystery he was already dissecting.

He’d try to find her. She knew that. But she had spent her life building walls between the world and what it assumed about her.

Clara Monroe was a woman with a name. A job. Friends. Purpose.

She wore a mask to protect the city.

But she wore her real life to protect herself.

And no one—not even the Bat—got to take that away

⸻

The restaurant was tucked on a quieter street near Midtown, far from the flashbulbs and frantic tempo of downtown Gotham. It was the kind of place that didn’t draw paparazzi or power brokers—just regular people, cheap wine, and candlelight that softened everything.

Harvey was running late.

Clara sat across from Rachel, her fingers brushing the rim of her water glass, a faint smile playing on her lips. She could hear the low murmur of other diners, the distant clatter of silverware, the subtle thrum of jazz piped in from a speaker near the ceiling.

Rachel sipped her wine. “He’s trying to give a speech and wrangle donors. We may see him before midnight if we’re lucky.”

Clara smirked. “Should we order for him? Or just guilt him about it later?”

Rachel’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, guilt. Definitely guilt.”

Clara leaned back, folding her cane neatly beside her. “You sure it’s okay, me being here? You two don’t get a lot of time alone these days.”

Rachel shook her head, genuinely. “You’re part of this. Of us. Harvey wants your advice anyway. Especially with how deep he’s digging into Maroni’s territory.”

Clara’s smile faded slightly. “He’s brave. But the deeper he digs, the more dangerous it gets. Maroni’s not just a thug with a penthouse. He’s entrenched. Judges, cops, unions—he owns pieces of Gotham that don’t even know they’re his.”

Rachel exhaled through her nose, thoughtful. “That’s exactly why Harvey wants to cut him out at the roots. He’s already drafting seizure proposals and RICO filings. He even started asking about that case you took last year—Armando Villani.”

Clara’s brow furrowed. “The bodyguard who flipped. Yeah. He was scared out of his mind. Testified, disappeared, probably dead.”

Rachel reached into her bag and pulled out a small stack of printed schematics, folded into quarters. She slid them across the table.

“Harvey got these from a contact in Public Works. Some of Maroni’s businesses tie into old transit lines and maintenance tunnels. They think he’s using them to move product, launder cash. Harvey wants your opinion.”

Clara felt the edges with her fingers—familiar bumps, grooves, crumples. “These are decades old. Nobody would think twice about what runs under the city.”

“Exactly,” Rachel murmured. “Clara… he really trusts your instincts.”

Clara tilted her head, voice quieter. “That’s what scares me.”

Rachel was about to reply when the door opened behind them, and Harvey swept in—tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, that charming grin already flashing.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, dropping into the seat beside Rachel and kissing her cheek. “Someone tried to ask me about Maroni over appetizers. I told them I wasn’t legally allowed to strangle them.”

Clara chuckled. “You’re not. I checked.”

Harvey grinned at her. “God, I love lawyers.”

Rachel raised an eyebrow. “You love justice, Harvey. Remember that when the campaign donations dry up.”

He leaned forward, suddenly serious. “I’m going to bring Maroni down. But I need you both. Clara—those schematics? I want to move fast. If he’s got something underground, I need to know how to corner it.”

Clara hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll map it out. But if you poke the bear, be ready to run.”

Harvey didn’t flinch. “I don’t run. I fight. That’s what Gotham needs.”

Clara’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Then you’d better know when to duck.”

Chapter Text

chapter 13 dinner dates

The chapel was dim and mostly empty, lit only by the flicker of votive candles and the soft amber glow filtering through stained glass. Clara sat in the back pew, her hands folded neatly in her lap, the wooden cane resting beside her. The hush was familiar—sacred in a way the city rarely allowed.

Footsteps approached softly across the stone aisle.

“Clara,” Father Eli’s voice was warm, grounded. “You haven’t come for a while.”

She smiled faintly. “Been busy. Bad habit.”

“God forgives habit,” he said, sliding into the pew beside her. “But He tends to nudge when it’s time to come home.”

Clara tilted her head. “Is that what this is? A nudge?”

Eli studied her quietly for a moment. He never pressed, never prodded, but he had a way of listening that made silence feel like invitation.

Finally, she spoke. “I have… people in my life. Good people. Strong. They believe in making the world better, in burning away rot and corruption. They think it’s a fight they can win.”

“You don’t agree?”

“I think the fight will cost them more than they’re willing to pay.”

There was a pause.

“You’re afraid for them.”

“I’m afraid of being right.”

Eli nodded slowly. “And if you are? What will you do?”

Clara hesitated, the tension in her hands betraying what her voice concealed. “What if… I could stop something before it happens? But doing that—changing it—might lead to something else. Something worse.”

She didn’t say names. She didn’t say “Rachel.” Didn’t say “Harvey.” Didn’t say what she knew—that fire and pain and tragedy waited at the end of the road, unless something changed.

Father Eli didn’t look at her; he looked at the crucifix ahead of them. “I don’t believe fate is fixed. But I do believe every choice leaves a mark. Sometimes the right thing for one person becomes the wrong thing for someone else.”

Clara drew a slow breath. “So you’re saying don’t interfere.”

“I’m saying… if you carry the power to change someone’s path, you carry the burden of the outcome. Are you prepared for that? For what might come instead?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s okay,” he said gently. “Even Christ asked for the cup to pass from Him, just before He accepted it.”

She gave a quiet, humorless laugh. “Not sure I’m built for martyrdom.”

“Then don’t be,” he said, rising slowly. “Just be kind. And honest. And when the time comes—be brave.”

Clara sat alone for a while longer after he left. She didn’t pray. Not in the way others did. But she felt the weight of unseen threads pulling at her—Rachel’s laughter, Harvey’s conviction, the thin edge Gotham walked between hope and ruin.

And in the hush of the church, she whispered only one thing.

“Please let me be wrong.”

It was the kind of Gotham evening Clara Monroe had learned to treasure—still, cool, lit from below with a city that never slept but somehow slowed its breath at twilight.

The rooftop terrace of Wayne Tower was laid out with quiet elegance—strings of golden light, linen-draped tables, silver flickering in candlelight. Clara sat beside Rachel Dawes, angled slightly toward her friend, her fingers wrapped around a warm tea cup rather than wine. She was listening, absorbing—the laughter in Rachel’s voice, the passion behind Harvey Dent’s bold proclamations.

“…and I told him,” Harvey said, leaning forward with the fire of a man who believed in every word he said, “if you want to stop Maroni, you start by following the money. It’s not glamorous, but it gets results.”

Rachel chuckled. “He thinks subpoenas are foreplay.”

Clara tilted her head toward them. “That would explain the foreplay-shaped bruises on half your clients.”

Harvey laughed. “Hey, they heal.”

Clara smiled to herself. Rachel squeezed her hand gently under the table. These dinners weren’t frequent—between campaigns and cases—but they meant something. Clara wasn’t just Rachel’s friend anymore. She was part of the circle. Even if she preferred sitting at the edge of it.

Then came the sound of dress shoes—quick, sure, too lighthearted for the gravity of the evening.

Rachel turned slightly. “Oh no,” she muttered under her breath.

Bruce Wayne, in a dark tailored suit and too-casual confidence, appeared at the terrace steps. Draped over his arm, the radiant Natascha—Russian ballerina, silk in motion.

“Harvey!” Bruce called, grinning like they were old college roommates and not tenuous allies in a city at war with itself. “Rachel. Hope we’re not interrupting.”

Harvey’s smile was thin but civil. “Mr. Wayne. Didn’t know you were in town.”

Bruce waved a hand. “Chartered a flight. We were in the Alps, weren’t we, Tasha?”

Natascha beamed. “Lake Como. Then back to Gotham. I made him.”

She had a thick Russian accent and the kind of smile that drew every camera in a room.

Rachel’s expression faltered, then returned to perfect composure. “Bruce… this is a surprise.”

Clara, who had gone still, nodded politely in the direction of Bruce’s voice but said nothing. Rachel had described him before—the contradictions, the charm, the ghost of what could’ve been. Clara already knew more than enough.

Harvey gestured. “We’re having a private dinner.”

Bruce smiled. “Perfect. So are we.”

Without asking, Bruce gestured for the staff to join their tables. Natascha sat gracefully beside him. Bruce across from Harvey, perfectly between Rachel and the storm she was trying not to show.

Clara eased further into her seat, letting the conversation wash over her like rainfall on stone.

Harvey tried civility. “We were just talking about the crime families. Maroni. Trying to clean things up.”

Bruce sipped his wine. “You really think you can clean up Gotham from a courtroom?”

Harvey raised a brow. “That’s where the law lives. Or dies.”

Natascha turned to him, resting her chin lightly in her hand. “But if you are serious, Harvey, then maybe you are the Batman, yes?”

Harvey chuckled. “If I were, would I be telling you?”

Rachel smiled tightly. “He’s not the Batman.”

Bruce leaned back, too at ease. “No. He can’t be. Batman has no jurisdiction. He’ll find someone like Maroni, and he’ll make him disappear.”

Rachel turned. “You crossed a line when you did that in Hong Kong.”

Bruce’s voice didn’t rise. “I didn’t see any boundaries.”

Clara remained still, but her head tilted faintly. She could feel Rachel’s discomfort spike—not with fear, but conflict. Her heart leaned two ways and didn’t know where it lived.

Bruce’s tone turned philosophical. “Batman has no limits.”

Harvey met his gaze. “You can’t be something to everyone. You either die a hero—or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.”

Bruce’s smile flickered. “You thought that up just now?”

“Yeah,” Harvey said. “You like it?”

Rachel gave a hollow laugh. Clara finally spoke, her voice soft. “Good line. Wasted on billionaires.”

Bruce’s attention shifted. “You’re Clara Monroe. Defense attorney.”

Clara gave a faint nod. “I prefer dinner to rooftop debates, but here we are.”

He studied her. She gave nothing back.

Conversation twisted on, caught between Rachel’s divided gaze, Harvey’s belief in Gotham’s soul, and Bruce’s sense of duty dressed as disinterest.

Clara listened.

She always listened.

And she wondered—if they knew how this would all end, would any of them still be here?

The wine had mellowed the table’s edges. Even the tension between Bruce and Harvey had cooled to polite friction. Conversation danced from politics to the arts, to stories from the campaign trail and late nights in courtrooms.

Natascha leaned slightly toward Clara, her curiosity gentle but genuine. “I hope it’s not rude,” she said in her soft accent, “but I noticed your cane. You are blind, yes?”

Clara turned her head toward her, unbothered. “Yes. Law school didn’t get the memo.”

Natascha blinked. “But… law school? That is not easy even with sight. And you are—how do you say—defense attorney?”

Clara nodded with a small smirk. “Public defender. Technically.”

Rachel grinned. “She made most of our professors nervous. They were afraid of saying something she’d quote back more accurately than they remembered saying it.”

“I just have a good memory,” Clara said, brushing it off. “Also a knack for listening when people think I’m not.”

Harvey raised his glass. “She’s a damn good lawyer.”

Clara tipped her cup toward him. “And he’s a decent politician. Most days.”

Natascha laughed. “I think that’s amazing. You must be very brave.”

Clara tilted her head. “Bravery’s a little romantic for what it actually is. Mostly, it’s stubbornness and caffeine.”

Then, with a dry smile, she added, “And the occasional misstep. I’ve walked into the wrong bathroom more than once. Got a round of applause once at a truck stop in Jersey.”

That earned a round of laughter. Even Bruce smiled, watching her more intently now.

Natascha touched her chest lightly. “You joke, but it is very impressive.”

Clara gave her a warm nod. “Thanks. I don’t mind questions, as long as no one tries to help me cut my steak.”

Bruce leaned forward. “We’ll hold back, then. For now.”

Rachel gave Clara a look that said thank you without words.

Clara only smiled, folding her cane carefully against her chair, content to let the city flicker on below them—just another shadow listening in.

The cool night air greeted them as they stepped onto the street, the soft hum of Gotham traffic thrumming in the distance. Clara walked in step with Rachel, her cane tapping lightly over the sidewalk’s uneven cracks. The rooftop laughter had faded behind them, replaced by something quieter—more introspective.

Rachel slipped her arm gently through Clara’s, not to guide her—Clara didn’t need that—but to feel grounded.

“You were good up there,” Rachel said, a half-smile in her voice. “Handled Natascha’s questions better than I would have.”

Clara shrugged lightly. “She wasn’t being cruel. Just curious. And hey—I got to tell my truck stop story again. Always a crowd-pleaser.”

Rachel let out a breathy laugh, then fell quiet for a beat. “Still. You held your own. That room’s a minefield lately.”

Clara’s head tilted subtly. “You mean Harvey and Bruce?”

Rachel hesitated. “They’ve never liked each other. But tonight… I don’t know. There was something sharper in the air.”

Clara nodded. “Bruce pushes. Harvey bristles. Natascha’s arm candy. You’re caught in the middle.”

Rachel didn’t respond right away. Her heels clicked softly over the pavement. “I used to think I knew what I wanted. But now… Harvey’s so open with his dreams. He’s idealistic, but he means it. And Bruce—he never gives you the full picture. It’s like he’s playing chess and hiding half the board.”

Clara’s voice softened. “You still love him.”

Rachel exhaled. “I don’t know. I don’t know what love looks like anymore. With Harvey, it feels like a future. With Bruce… it’s like a ghost.”

Clara tightened her grip slightly on Rachel’s arm. “Ghosts have a way of haunting us whether we invite them or not.”

They walked in silence for a moment, the wind picking up between them.

Rachel looked over. “You didn’t say much after he arrived.”

Clara gave a quiet smile. “Didn’t need to. Bruce Wayne talks enough for three people, and besides, I wasn’t invited for the dance.”

Rachel smirked faintly. “Still. You’re a better read of people than most.”

Clara tilted her head toward her. “You want the honest version?”

Rachel gave a small nod.

“Bruce is hurting. I don’t know how, or why, but it’s in the way he talks—like he’s building walls faster than anyone can knock them down. Harvey’s trying to build a city. Bruce is trying to protect something that’s already broken.”

Rachel swallowed, the words hitting somewhere deep. “That’s… exactly it.”

They reached the corner. Clara paused. “You know I’m here. No matter what. When it all gets too noisy.”

Rachel looked at her, the edge of emotion in her voice. “Thank you.”

Clara smiled, her sightless gaze pointed toward the stars hidden by city light. “I don’t see the skyline like you do. But tonight, it felt like it was about to shift.”

Rachel followed her gaze, even if she couldn’t see what Clara did.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “It does.”

And they kept walking, shadows stretching behind them, the weight of choices and unspoken things trailing softly in their wake.

Chapter Text

chapter 14 the joker

The radio crackled in the corner of Clara’s apartment, the voice of the news anchor grim and flattened beneath static.

“…in a televised message just moments ago, the Joker delivered a chilling ultimatum: Batman must unmask and turn himself in—otherwise, one person will die each day until he does. Commissioner Gordon has urged calm, but Gotham is already reeling after last night’s attack…”

Clara stood motionless in her kitchen, fingers resting on the edge of the countertop, her knuckles white. The teakettle behind her had long since gone silent, its steam spent. She hadn’t even realized it had boiled.

She felt the weight of the words settle deep in her chest, in that quiet place she kept for fear—the place she rarely let anyone see.

The Joker wasn’t bluffing. She knew that instinctively, as sure as she knew how to hear the trembling breath in a liar’s voice. He would kill. Every day. And he wouldn’t stop.

She reached out and switched the radio off.

The sudden silence was too loud.

Her apartment was dim, the lamps low—she preferred it that way, not out of necessity, but comfort. Outside, sirens wailed, sharp and distant. Gotham was already breaking.

Clara moved to the window and opened it slightly. The breeze brushed against her skin. Somewhere in the city, Rachel was still working, still fighting, still believing they could steer the ship back on course.

Rachel.

Clara’s hand trembled as she pulled it back from the sill.

The thought of losing her—of Rachel caught in the Joker’s next “lesson”—it made Clara’s heart twist. She remembered the rooftop dinners, the elevator rides, the whispered jokes in crowded halls. Rachel’s warmth. Her defiance. Her belief in goodness even when Clara had stopped believing in much at all.

And now the storm was rolling in.

Clara turned and walked to her bedroom. Her fingers found the drawer easily, the worn handle, the familiar contents inside. Black gloves. The mask. The fabric she wore when she left the courtroom behind and became something else.

She ran her hands over them, but didn’t put them on.

Not yet.

She couldn’t fight chaos. Not like this. And she didn’t want to become a shadow without a name again—not now, not with Rachel still in the light.

But time was running out. The Joker wasn’t after money or power—he wanted to break people. To shatter hope. Clara had seen that kind of madness before, but never so loud. Never so public.

She whispered into the silence, her voice low, like a prayer.

“Don’t take her from me.”

Not Rachel. Not the one person who reminded her she wasn’t alone in this city.

She sat back on her bed and folded her hands tightly, listening—not to the news, not to the sirens—but to the ticking clock of a city being held hostage.

Time was almost up?

The Wayne penthouse shimmered like a crown suspended above Gotham. Light refracted off glass, chandeliers glittered overhead, and the city below pulsed with distant, indifferent life. Within, the room was gilded in opulence—politicians, CEOs, celebrities, and socialites orbiting each other in a constellation of curated wealth.

Clara Monroe stood just beyond the entrance, cane in hand, black dress immaculate, dark glasses catching the light. She didn’t need sight to know she was being watched. She could hear it in the way voices dipped when she passed, in the hush of fabric shifting as people stepped aside.

“Is that her?” someone murmured. “The blind attorney?”

“She’s sharp. Doesn’t miss a damn thing.”

They weren’t wrong.

Clara moved with the easy grace of someone who understood every step of her environment. The cane tapped softly—not out of caution, but rhythm. A cadence. She didn’t sweep it dramatically, didn’t fumble. It glided, touched, whispered. A tool, yes—but also a veil. People underestimated what she could perceive.

She could hear the scratch of bespoke shoes on marble, the difference between laughter that touched the eyes and laughter reserved for power. The soft clink of bracelets as a woman adjusted her hair, the tense inhale of a man bluffing through a conversation he couldn’t control. Sound told stories more honest than sight ever could.

Clara circled the room, pausing now and then to sip champagne, to answer a polite question, to exchange quiet pleasantries with men in silk ties and women in backless gowns. No one suspected she was listening as intently as she was—taking in fragments of deals and insecurities, political barbs dressed in smiles.

She caught Bruce Wayne’s voice easily. It carried, not from volume but presence—rich, charismatic, slightly amused. His words moved through the room like smoke, curling around people’s attention whether they wanted it or not. He played the role well: the careless billionaire, the rakish host. But Clara’s ear was trained for false notes.

He wasn’t careless. He was deliberate. Every casual remark a chess piece.

And somewhere in the periphery of the crowd—away from the toasts and the laughter—Clara’s head turned ever so slightly. A shift in tone, a pause in conversation. Two heartbeats, close together.

Harvey.

Rachel.

They thought they were alone. And in any other room, maybe they would be. But Clara lived in spaces between sound, between words.

“I want to marry you, Rachel.”

Harvey’s voice—low, reverent, carrying more truth than bravado. Clara stilled. Her glass was halfway to her lips.

“I want this to be real. After all of this is over. I want you and me to build something together.”

Clara could almost hear Rachel’s heartbeat. It fluttered. Her silence lingered a beat too long.

“Oh, Harvey…” Rachel’s voice was soft, uncertain.

That pause—that breath—Clara knew it. The sound of someone torn in two directions. Not rejection. Not acceptance.

She turned slightly, body angled away so as not to intrude, though she already had. She wasn’t eavesdropping by choice. It was simply that no one else knew how to listen like she did.

The conversation faded into the low hum of the party again. Clara heard a waiter laugh nervously. Heard Bruce crack a joke about fundraisers being a “necessary evil.” She let the noise fold back around her like a curtain, but the intimacy of that moment stayed pressed against her skin.

Rachel hadn’t said yes.

Clara didn’t move toward her friend, didn’t ask questions. She knew Rachel would find her when she was ready. Tonight wasn’t about comfort or counsel. It was about observing the beginning of something that might not end the way anyone hoped.

Clara smiled faintly, slipping into the flow of the crowd again. She didn’t need eyes to know where to go. She followed the air shifts, the rhythms, the murmurs—drifting through Gotham’s elite like a ghost in satin.

People saw a blind woman weaving through high society.

But Clara? Clara saw everything.

The night had grown long, its glitter fading into something quieter. Clara sat on the rooftop terrace just outside her apartment, legs crossed, her cane resting against the chair beside her. The city murmured below—cars drifting, sirens somewhere in the distance, wind brushing the corners of fire escapes.

She heard the elevator chime in the hallway beyond her door. Footsteps. Familiar ones—measured, confident, but carrying something heavy tonight.

Rachel.

Clara didn’t turn. She just reached to her right and tapped the second chair.

Rachel slid the glass door open and stepped out, heels clicking against the worn stone, then finally sitting with a sigh that sounded as if it came from her bones.

“I figured you’d be here,” she said softly.

“I like the view,” Clara replied, a wry smile tugging at her mouth.

Rachel huffed something like a laugh, but it didn’t stay.

“I heard him,” Clara said, after a moment of silence passed between them. “On the terrace. The question.”

Rachel closed her eyes, but Clara could feel the weight of them on her. “Of course you did.”

“You hesitated.”

Rachel exhaled, head falling into her hands. “I did.”

Clara didn’t press her. She just waited.

“I love him,” Rachel said finally, voice low. “God, I do. Harvey… he believes in something. He wants to fix things, really fix them. And when he looks at me, I see a future. One with walls and windows and… mornings. But then—” She faltered.

“Bruce,” Clara said gently.

Rachel nodded, then realized Clara couldn’t see it. “Yeah.”

Clara shifted slightly in her seat. “Do you want the version where I reassure you, or the one where I tell the truth?”

Rachel tilted her head. “I’ve never known you to do much reassuring.”

Clara gave a faint, amused hum. “True.”

She ran a thumb along the curve of her cup. “Bruce Wayne lives in a world you can’t follow him into. You know that. You’ve always known that. He shows up at parties, sure, but he never really shows up. Not the way Harvey does. Harvey gives you everything he is—even when it scares him.”

“I know that,” Rachel whispered.

“But part of you still looks for Bruce in every room,” Clara said gently.

Rachel’s hands clenched in her lap.

“You don’t have to decide tonight,” Clara added, her voice softer now. “But don’t say yes to Harvey out of guilt. Don’t say no out of fear.”

Rachel turned toward her friend. “What if I’m wrong either way?”

Clara tilted her head toward the sound of her voice. “Then you’re human. Welcome to the club. We meet on rooftops and drink bad wine.”

That finally drew a real laugh from Rachel. Brief, but real.

“You know,” she said, “sometimes I forget you can’t see me. You read me better than anyone.”

Clara smiled. “That’s because I listen.”

Silence stretched between them, companionable now.

Rachel leaned back in her chair, gazing out over Gotham. “Do you ever think we were meant for something else? Something quieter?”

Clara’s fingers tightened slightly on her cup. “I used to. But fate doesn’t hand out peace just because we want it. Sometimes we have to carve it out with our own hands.”

Rachel looked at her then, searching her profile.

“And what about you?” she asked. “Would you choose differently if you could?”

Clara’s smile was faint, wistful. “If I started making different choices… I might stop being me.”

They sat in silence again, wrapped in the hush of a city that never slept, each woman holding her own questions, her own ache.

But at least, for tonight, they weren’t alone in them.

⸻

The room was bright with laughter and crystal, the gentle hum of wealth and elegance swirling through conversations. Clara stood near the grand piano, a flute of untouched champagne in one hand, her cane tucked under her arm. Around her, silk dresses brushed past, the scent of perfume and expensive cologne mingling with laughter and murmured toasts.

She’d been focusing on the pitch of voices, following Rachel’s movement as best she could—her friend had stepped out onto the terrace with Harvey not long ago. Clara could tell by the way Rachel’s voice had softened, the particular rhythm of Harvey’s laugh. She tuned into their world with practiced grace, even if she couldn’t see it.

Then the elevator chimed.

And everything changed.

A hush fell. Quick. Heavy. Like breath sucked out of the room. Clara’s body stiffened.

The next sounds were wrong. Too loud. Metal scraping. Shoes scuffing marble without rhythm or purpose.

Then a voice. Dragged like a knife through silk.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen…”

Chairs scraped back. Champagne glasses clinked to the floor. Someone whimpered. Clara’s heart began to pound—not in fear, not yet, but in readiness. Her breath slowed as she tilted her head, listening.

The voice again. Off. Mocking. Wildly amused by his own presence. “We are tonight’s entertainment!”

She couldn’t see him, but she could hear the way people reacted to him—their silence, the way air seemed to thicken around his movements. His boots struck the floor heavily, casually, like he owned the rhythm of the room. Like he’d hijacked it.

Clara let her senses stretch out, searching through the noise for a heartbeat that didn’t belong. A rhythm too steady… or too still.

And there it was.

His.

The Joker.

His heart beat with a slow, almost lazy cadence. Not the racing pulse of a manic. Not the anxious flutter of a madman about to make a mistake. No, this was something else entirely.

Cold. Controlled. Cruel.

A predator that enjoyed the fear in the air. That breathed it in like perfume.

She inhaled slowly, catching something metallic and acrid beneath the scent of wine and sweat—gunpowder? Greasepaint? Blood?

Then she heard him move.

And Rachel scream.

Clara froze, hand gripping her cane like a lifeline. The Joker’s voice was close now, breathless with excitement as he cornered Rachel.

“Look at you. Beautiful—and brave. You must be Harvey’s squeeze. Where is Harvey?”

Clara took a step forward, but someone bumped her shoulder, panicked and backing away. The crowd had stilled into frozen statues, too afraid to move. A woman began to sob. Clara’s head turned instinctively toward Rachel’s voice, but she couldn’t risk shouting—couldn’t risk tipping the Joker off. One wrong sound might snap the fragile balance.

So she listened. Every breath. Every vibration through the floor. Every cruel word.

“Do you know how I got these scars?” the Joker purred, the blade of his voice like glass on flesh.

Rachel’s breathing was rapid, controlled—but only just. Clara knew that kind of fear. The kind that coils in your throat and holds you hostage in your own skin.

Clara tried again to read the Joker. His scent. His rhythm. His intention.

But there was nothing.

No pattern. No tell.

He was chaos wrapped in flesh.

And that terrified her more than any gunshot ever could.

Then—a crash. A grunt. Furniture shattered.

Rachel’s scream again.

And another voice—rough, gravel-dragged and sharp.

Batman.

The room exploded into motion. Clara was shoved against a pillar as people ran. She stumbled, then righted herself, focusing only on the sounds of struggle above. The Joker was laughing, not in surprise—but delight.

He was getting what he wanted.

Clara crouched low, steadying her breath, trying to count the heartbeats. Batman’s was fast—angry. Protective. Focused.

The chaos thundered around her.

Clara had barely regained her footing when the tables flipped and gunfire erupted—shouts, screams, bodies scrambling past her. She ducked low, cane tight in her grip, hearing the heavy thuds of boots and fists, furniture being shattered.

Then she heard him again.

The Joker.

He laughed, breathless with glee, as his men fought around him. And behind that laughter, Clara caught something else: the unmistakable low growl of Batman.

She turned toward the sound, catching only fragments—throats being slammed against walls, the scuffle of boots across tile. Batman was here, moving fast. Efficient. Ruthless.

Someone crashed beside her—she flinched as a man was flung to the floor inches from her feet, groaning, unconscious. Then a glass broke high above. Clara’s head snapped up at the sound.

She heard Rachel’s voice cry out.

“No!”

Then—

A rush of air. A terrible silence.

And then the Joker’s voice, muffled but vicious: “Let’s put a smile on that face.”

Clara’s heart stopped.

Don’t let it be her. Please, don’t let it be her—

Then she heard a window shatter.

A scream was torn from Rachel’s throat, sharp and high—and suddenly cut off by the roar of the wind. Clara’s whole body stiffened.

A second sound followed: Batman’s rasping shout. Then the sound of boots hitting glass and—

He jumped.

He jumped after her.

The room held its breath.

Clara stood paralyzed in the center of it all, unable to move, straining for any hint of what had happened.

But there was only the wind howling through the broken window. And silence.

The Joker was gone.

His men unconscious or retreating, the panic trailing after them.

And Rachel…?

Clara’s grip tightened on her cane.

She didn’t need sight to feel the way the air had changed. The weight of what had almost been lost.

Rachel had screamed like a woman facing death.

And Batman had leapt into it without hesitation.

Someone brushed past her. Then another.

Behind her, voices began to rise—trembling, frantic. Security shouting, guests sobbing.

Clara exhaled, shakily.

Her friend was gone. Gone out that window. Caught by batman.

Clara turned, slowly making her way through the scattered furniture and broken glass, careful with her footing. Every step felt like walking through a war zone. Her hands trembled at her sides.

She reached the edge of the room where the cold wind swept in through the broken window. She didn’t need to see to feel how high they were—how vast the empty air beyond that ledge was.

And in her mind, she could still hear Rachel screaming.

Could still hear the Joker’s laughter echoing.

And underneath it all, a thought settled in her chest like ice:

Next time, she might not be able to listen from the sidelines.

Next time, she might have to fight.

Because Gotham was unraveling.

And even the strongest people she knew were falling.

Chapter Text

chapter 15 change

The bells tolled low and solemn, echoing off the stone and steel of Gotham’s skyline. The crowd was silent, a sea of dark coats and downcast faces, gathered beneath grey skies that felt too quiet, too still for a city that never stopped moving.

Clara stood beside Rachel, her hand loosely curled around the handle of her cane, her face turned toward the casket she couldn’t see but felt the weight of. Commissioner Loeb had been many things—a strict man, a flawed one—but in this war for Gotham’s soul, he had still been a soldier. And now he was gone.

Rachel’s gloved hand hovered near Clara’s, not touching but close enough. Clara didn’t need eyes to sense the stiffness in her friend’s spine, the war waging behind her silence. Rachel hadn’t said much since the fundraiser, since the Joker had dragged her to the window like a piece of meat and hurled her into the night. Bruce had caught her. But something had still been lost in the fall.

The rifles fired in salute. Clara flinched at each shot, teeth clenched. The sound rolled through her like thunder.

Then—

Something shifted.

Not in the ground or the air, but in the crowd. A ripple.

Her senses, always heightened, caught it before anyone else.

Someone breathing too fast. Footsteps too soft. Heartbeats out of rhythm.

She gripped Rachel’s arm just as a wave of gasps rolled outward from the steps of the city hall.

“Rachel—” she warned.

Then chaos broke out.

Gunshots.

Screams.

Security shouting. Bodyguards shoving the mayor down.

Clara ducked low, shielding Rachel instinctively as the world exploded around them.

Above the panic, she caught it—high laughter, sharp and uncontained. The Joker had come to the funeral.

She heard shouting from rooftops, the scuffle of trained feet. Batman, probably—moving like smoke through the chaos. But Clara didn’t care about him right now.

Rachel was breathing hard beside her.

Clara leaned in, whispering, “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Rachel lied. “Let’s get out of here.”

Clara guided her through the stampede of bodies, using her cane not for vision, but to warn others, to hold space through the panic. She moved like a whisper through the crowd, unafraid.

But just as they reached the edge of the square, a uniformed officer brushed past them in a rush, dropping something—a manila folder.

Clara’s fingers caught it mid-fall out of instinct.

She froze.

Her fingertips brushed the label: Targets.

Rachel caught it too, reading quickly over Clara’s shoulder.

Her face went pale.

Her name was listed. Rachel Dawes. Typed clean and cold next to two others already crossed out.

⸻

Later, behind the barricades and police tape, in a silent back corridor of the district attorney’s office, Clara sat beside Rachel as the weight of the truth pressed in.

“They’re picking us off,” Rachel said hollowly. “One by one.”

Clara sat in silence, fingers laced. “He’s not playing a game anymore.”

Rachel laughed without humor. “He never was. This is war.”

Clara reached for her hand, held it gently. “You’re not alone. No matter what comes next.”

Rachel didn’t reply for a long time.

Then she whispered, “I’m scared, Clara.”

Clara squeezed her hand. “So am I.”

And outside, somewhere in the dark veins of Gotham, the Joker was already making his next move.

The city’s pulse beat slow and sour beneath the sky. Thunder rumbled far in the distance, but Gotham’s storm was already here.

Clara stood alone on the rooftop of the precinct, the wind tugging at her coat like a warning. The weight of the city pressed down on her—the concrete, the sirens, the dread crawling into her bones.

Her cane was collapsed and clipped to her belt. She didn’t need it now. Not here. Not when she was listening so hard her head hurt.

Below, muffled by concrete and tension, voices tangled in violence.

The Joker.

His voice wasn’t a sound—it was a feeling. Like broken glass in the bloodstream. He laughed as if the world was already burning and he was only pointing it out.

She tilted her head, trying to find clarity in the storm of sound below.

The chair scraped.

The chains rattled.

Then—Batman’s voice. Brutal. Uncontrolled.

“You have nothing. Nothing to threaten me with. Nothing to do with all your strength.”

A low chuckle from the Joker. “Oh, but I do. I’m not a monster. I’m just ahead of the curve.”

The blow landed—a body slammed against a wall.

Clara clenched her jaw. The vibrations rolled up her spine like gunfire. She could feel it: the desperation, the fury, the chaos.

Then: the words.

Two names.

Two addresses.

Rachel.

Harvey.

And the lie.

She felt it in the Joker’s heartbeat—steady, too steady. Like he didn’t care which one died, because either way, he won.

Clara’s breath hitched. Her fists curled at her sides.

Rachel.

She was the only family Clara had chosen in this broken world. She had to be alive. The Joker’s trap wouldn’t be her ending. Not if Clara could stop it.

She turned, stepping away from the edge of the roof, heart pounding. Her mind was already tracing the route. She didn’t need a map. She had the city memorized by scent, by sound, by how the concrete rose and dipped beneath her feet.

She didn’t know if Batman would choose Rachel or Harvey. And she couldn’t trust the Joker’s directions.

But she could listen.

And she could act.

She would find Rachel. She would cut through the lies and shadows and chaos if she had to tear Gotham open herself.

As the first drops of rain kissed her face, Clara descended into the city’s underbelly.

Silent.

Determined.

And very, very angry.

The warehouse reeked of gasoline and despair.

Clara moved like a shadow between the drums, her breath low and steady beneath the suffocating scent of fuel. The black fabric of her suit clung to her skin, slick with sweat. Her cane was folded away—this was not a night for caution, only instinct.

The Joker’s trap was a symphony of madness: steel restraints, ticking detonators, gasoline sloshing beneath their feet. The room was thick with dread, but Clara followed the voice—the one that had once steadied her through years of law school and heartbreak.

Rachel.

Her voice cracked over the speakerphone—desperate, soft, trying to comfort Harvey even as the seconds ticked down.

“I want to marry you…”

Clara didn’t speak. She didn’t dare. She moved behind the drums, tracing the vibrations with gloved hands, using sound and smell and memory to navigate.

There. A metal chair. A body.

Rachel.

Bound at the wrists, ankles cinched to the bolts in the floor. Her breathing shallow. Her fear loud.

“Rachel,” Clara whispered.

Rachel turned, startled. “Clara—? Clara?! What are you—”

“No time.” Clara’s hands were already moving. Feeling for the zip ties, the knots. Listening for the wires. Her fingers moved with quiet speed, guided by muscle memory and a heart that refused to let Rachel die.

The ropes came free.

Clara yanked Rachel to her feet.

The first beep began—a pulsing, digital tick behind them.

Rachel’s panic cracked. “It’s rigged—the whole place!”

“I know.” Clara’s voice was calm, low. “We’re not dying here.”

They ran.

But just as they reached the side exit, the explosion tore through the building.

A wave of heat punched them off their feet. Rachel screamed—Clara didn’t. Her body hit the ground, ribs cracking against concrete. A steel beam snapped loose from above and slammed across her shoulder.

She didn’t cry out.

Pain bloomed hot and sharp, like someone driving a knife through her side.

Rachel was dragged away by the police in the chaos—sirens and fire and shouting officers filled the night.

Clara… didn’t get up.

She pulled herself, breath rasping, into the shadows beside the broken wall, leaving a trail of blood. Her leg didn’t respond. The arm was worse. But she kept moving, teeth clenched hard.

She couldn’t be caught. Couldn’t let them know it was her.

Not Clara Monroe.

She crawled beneath a collapsed metal shelf, covered in ash and soot, vanishing into debris. Her body screamed, nerves alight, but her mind was still working. Still measuring the seconds between breaths.

Pain was just a storm. One she had weathered before.

Alone now, in the ruin and firelight, Clara lay still. Blood soaking her shirt. Chest rising in shallow movements.

She would live.

Because Rachel was alive.

Because the Joker hadn’t won.

Because Clara Monroe had not broken.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

chapter 16 goodbye

The rain had eased to a mist. Sirens faded into the distance. Rachel’s heels clicked urgently on the cracked pavement as she followed a trail of blood—barely visible, but there.

Her heart thundered. Her hands trembled.

And then she found her.

A shape crumpled beneath a fallen steel awning, wrapped in black, a crude mask clinging to a soot-streaked face.

“Clara?” Rachel whispered, but her voice cracked under the strain of disbelief.

The figure stirred. Slowly. Like movement cost her more than she could afford.

Rachel dropped beside her. “Oh my God, Clara—what—what happened? Why were you there? Why did you come for me?”

Clara tried to sit up, pain etched into every motion. “You’re welcome.”

“You’re bleeding.” Rachel’s hands hovered uselessly over the injury—her friend was covered in blood and smoke, her side dark with seeping red. “Jesus, Clara, you’re—you almost died.”

“I didn’t.”

“This isn’t a joke!” Rachel snapped. “You’re the Ghost, aren’t you? You’re the one everyone’s whispering about in the Narrows. The one beating men into the pavement. Clara.”

Silence.

Clara turned her face away.

Rachel blinked, fighting back the burning in her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Clara’s voice was barely a rasp. “Would you have let me?”

Rachel hesitated. Her hands clenched. “I would’ve tried to stop you.”

“That’s why I didn’t.”

Rachel sat back, overwhelmed. “I thought you were—you were my best friend. And you’re out here sneaking through alleys, breaking bones, risking your life like—like you’re Batman.”

Clara smiled, wincing. “He wears more expensive armor.”

Rachel didn’t smile. Her throat tightened as she said, “Let me call Bruce. He can help.”

“No.” Clara’s hand reached for her arm. “Take me to Sister Frankie’s gym. Please.”

Rachel blinked. “Why not Bruce? He could get you help faster—”

Clara’s brow furrowed, her voice grim. “Because I know who he is. And I don’t want to owe him.”

That silenced Rachel.

They stared at each other, the full implication dawning.

“You know?” Rachel whispered. “And you’ve still been doing this?”

Clara’s expression softened just a fraction. “He fights his way. I fight mine.”

Rachel struggled for words. “This—this isn’t you. You’re kind. You work in advocacy, Clara. You don’t torture people in alleys.”

Clara’s voice dropped. “You didn’t see what that man was going to do to his wife. You didn’t hear him breathing—full of rage, of entitlement. You didn’t hear her begging. I couldn’t let it happen again.”

Rachel looked down, quiet. “But you’re blind.”

Clara gave a wry chuckle. “Not as blind as I pretend.”

Rachel helped her up, carefully, looping her friend’s arm over her shoulders as they started walking.

⸻

INT. SISTER FRANKIE’S GYM – EARLY MORNING

Rachel sat Clara on a worn bench. The gym smelled like sweat and chalk, familiar and grounding.

“You trained here?” Rachel asked, watching as Clara winced while unfastening the body armor under her coat.

Clara nodded faintly. “Frankie doesn’t ask questions. Taught me how to fight without seeing a thing. Taught me how to listen. How to smell sweat, hear weight shifts. How to survive.”

Rachel’s gaze softened—but her voice didn’t. “You lied to me for years.”

Clara didn’t flinch. “I never lied. I just didn’t tell you everything.”

Rachel leaned forward. “And you think that’s better?”

Clara exhaled, tired. “I didn’t want you to see me like this. Covered in bruises. Bleeding. You already had enough of this city’s nightmares to carry.”

Rachel’s voice cracked. “I nearly died tonight. You saved me, and I still want to scream at you.”

“You’re allowed to.”

Rachel looked down, voice breaking. “I don’t want to lose you. You’re all I have left who isn’t… caught in this madness.”

Clara rested a hand on hers. “Then don’t make me stop. Just… let me do it my way.”

Rachel closed her eyes. A tear slipped down her cheek.

“You’re such a stubborn, reckless pain in the ass.”

Clara smirked. “Takes one to know one.”

And for a moment, through the pain and the lies, the weight of their friendship held—bruised, but unbroken.

Rachel stayed close, watching Clara’s jaw tighten with every small movement. Her hands had gone back to work—gently peeling back the layers of makeshift armor, dabbing antiseptic on torn skin with whatever cloth she could find in Frankie’s old med kit. The anger simmering beneath her ribs hadn’t gone away, but it had dulled—cooled into something heavier.

“Harvey’s okay,” Clara said quietly, her voice hoarse.

Rachel looked up, startled. “Yeah. He is.”

Clara leaned back against the brick wall, eyes closed, breathing shallow. “You didn’t tell me.”

Rachel swallowed. “Batman and Harvey… they thought it was safer if I disappeared. If people thought I was gone.”

“They told you to leave Gotham?”

“They told me I needed to. That it was too dangerous now, especially after the Joker.”

Clara nodded slowly, processing. “But you came back anyway.”

“I had to see you.” Rachel’s voice softened. “I needed to know if you were alive. If you were okay.”

Clara gave a bitter chuckle that turned into a wince. “Does this look okay to you?”

“You know what I mean,” Rachel said, reaching instinctively to steady her. “I couldn’t go without knowing.”

There was a long silence between them. The hum of the old freezer in the back buzzed faintly under the lull.

“Did you tell them?” Clara asked, not opening her eyes. “About me?”

Rachel hesitated. “I told them… the Ghost saved me.”

Clara’s expression didn’t change, but her voice grew quieter, rawer. “But not that it was me.”

“No,” Rachel said softly. “Not yet.”

Clara finally turned her head, her face pale beneath soot and blood, her gaze somewhere just off from where Rachel sat. “Are you going to?”

“I don’t know,” Rachel admitted. “I’m still trying to understand what this is. Who you are now.”

Clara nodded. That was fair. And cruel. But fair.

A beat passed.

“Are you really leaving?” Clara asked.

Rachel’s shoulders stiffened. Her hands stilled in Clara’s lap. “I told Bruce I’m marrying Harvey. We’re getting out of here. Somewhere quieter.”

“You love him?”

“I do.” The answer came without hesitation, though there was a flicker of something else in her eyes. “We’ve both seen too much here. Buried too much. Gotham’s… it’s changed. Or maybe we did. I don’t think we can live in the daylight and fight in the shadows anymore.”

Clara gave a small nod. “Some battles don’t belong in the light.”

Rachel looked over. “Exactly.”

They sat in silence. Everything unsaid hung between them like smoke—what had happened, what couldn’t be undone, and the ghosts they’d both become.

“Will I ever see you again?” Rachel asked.

Clara didn’t answer immediately. She reached slowly for her discarded mask on the bench beside her. Her fingers ran over the seam, the stitched edge curling slightly from use. She didn’t put it on, but she held it like armor just the same.

“I don’t know,” Clara said. “I think this city still needs someone like the Ghost. Someone who doesn’t make speeches or wear capes. Just someone who listens. Someone who doesn’t stop.”

Rachel blinked back tears. “Then I hope the Ghost stays alive long enough to matter.”

“I’m stubborn, remember?” Clara managed a crooked smile. “Pain in the ass, I think you said.”

Rachel laughed softly, but it was a wounded sound.

She reached out and, for a long moment, just held Clara’s hand.

“I love you, you idiot,” she whispered. “You don’t get to disappear forever.”

“I’ll still be listening,” Clara said.

Rachel stood slowly, reluctantly. Her shadow stretched long in the dim light of the gym. She hesitated at the door.

“I won’t tell Bruce,” she said.

“Thank you, and Harvey?”

Rachel looked back. “Maybe.”

Clara nodded. “I guess you made your choice.”

Rachel stepped out into the pale morning light. The door shut behind her with a gentle click.

Clara sat there alone, the mask in her lap, blood drying on her skin, a bruise darkening her cheek.

The city would wake soon.

And she would be ready.

Sunlight cut through the grimy windows in thin slats, illuminating the dust in the air like falling ash. The gym smelled like it always did—sweat, rubber, grit—and the dull rhythm of someone working the heavy bag thudded faintly in the background.

Clara sat on the edge of a training mat, torso wrapped in fresh bandages, black hoodie draped over her lap. A tangle of bruises still colored her ribs, and her side ached with every breath, but she was upright. That counted for something.

Sister Frankie stood over her, arms crossed, apron dusted with flour—like she’d come straight from baking and decided a scolding was overdue.

“You look like death reheated,” Frankie said, voice flat. “And not the fancy kind either. The microwave-leftovers kind.”

Clara didn’t smile. “Feel about the same.”

Frankie dropped a paper bag beside her with a dull thump. “Bagel. Pop it in your mouth before you pass out and I have to explain to the Lord why I let a half-dead vigilante bleed out on my mat.”

“I’m not a vigilante,” Clara muttered, biting into the bagel anyway. “That word’s for people with newsletters and fan forums.”

Frankie’s eyebrows lifted. “You’re in here looking like a kicked piñata because you tried to what, out-stubborn an explosion?”

Clara chewed. “Rachel was going to die.”

“And Gotham was going to do what—miss her?” Frankie scoffed. “Girl, the city would’ve buried her under two headlines and a follow-up scandal. But you—you almost let them bury you. You think I like pulling shrapnel out of someone who hears it coming?”

Clara said nothing, just looked down.

Frankie’s tone softened, just a hair. “You know I love you, Clara. But you’re not immortal. And bleeding in silence doesn’t make you noble. It makes you reckless.”

“I had to,” Clara murmured. “I had to do something.”

A long silence followed.

Frankie sighed, sat beside her, and pulled out a second bagel.

“Dent resigned yesterday,” she said casually. “Press conference. Said he couldn’t be Gotham’s white knight without Rachel Dawes.”

Clara froze. Her hands clenched around the bagel.

“Packed his things. Said he needed time to heal. Left town. Probably on a beach somewhere, doing yoga and drinking cucumber water.”

Clara stood too fast. Pain lanced through her side, but she ignored it.

Frankie raised an eyebrow. “Love and trauma do funny things. Don’t act like you don’t know.”

“She made her choice. So did he.”

Clara turned away, breathing hard. The gym swayed for a moment in her mind—too bright, too quiet.

“She was the last thing I had from before,” she whispered. “Before the mask. Before the alleys. Now she’s gone, and he gets to just bow out like the city’s too much for him.”

Frankie didn’t respond at first. Then—

“So what are you gonna do? Burn down a courthouse? Break a few more ribs? The city didn’t ask you to carry all this weight, Clara. You picked it up.”

Clara’s jaw tightened. Her voice, when it came, was steady. Controlled.

“I’m not done.”

Frankie stood and dusted off her apron. “Didn’t think you were. But next time you plan to throw yourself on a bomb, let me know first. I’ll at least cook you a decent meal.”

Clara cracked a smile, faint and fleeting.

She turned toward the locker room, each step slow and careful.

The Ghost would return to the streets soon.

But today, Clara let herself feel it—the loss, the anger, the betrayal. Because even shadows carried grief.

And in Gotham, pain had teeth.

Chapter Text

chapter 17 Bruce Wayne

The garden was quiet, the air heavy with that post-rain stillness Gotham rarely offered. Bruce lingered beneath a tall ash tree, watching as the last few attendees drifted off in silence. The stone bearing Rachel Dawes’ name stood simple and solemn beneath a drape of white flowers.

One person remained.

A woman stood alone, facing the stone. She wore no black veil, no pretense of grief. Just quiet resolve. Her hand lightly gripped a cane, the tip absently tapping the ground in an irregular rhythm.

Bruce approached, slowly.

“Clara,” he said.

She didn’t turn. “Mr. Wayne.”

He hesitated. “You remember me.”

“I remember everyone who pretends not to look at the blind girl,” she replied. Her voice was neutral—neither welcoming nor cold.

He gave a small nod, then realized she couldn’t see it. “I’m sorry. For your loss.”

“My loss,” she echoed, a wry note threading through her voice. “Is that what this is?”

Bruce’s brow furrowed. “Wasn’t Rachel your friend?”

“She was more than that,” Clara said. “She was my home base. My compass.”

Bruce looked down. “She meant a lot to me too.”

Clara’s lips parted slightly, but she didn’t say anything. Her cane stilled.

“I know we didn’t talk much,” Bruce continued. “But I remember Rachel spoke about you. Said you were her north star when everything else pulled her off course.”

Clara smiled faintly. “Funny. I thought that was you.”

That made Bruce pause.

Clara tilted her head, as if listening for his reaction, and then resumed tapping her cane. “Let me guess. Harvey’s not here because the wound’s too raw. Too dangerous.”

“…Something like that,” Bruce said carefully.

A beat.

“And you?” Clara asked. “How are you handling losing her twice?”

Bruce tensed. “What do you mean?”

Clara turned slightly, though her eyes didn’t track him. “You lost her once to Harvey. Then again to the city. Isn’t that how it goes?”

Bruce said nothing.

She smiled thinly, as if that silence told her everything. “People like us don’t really lose people, Mr. Wayne. We bury them beneath layers of choices and walk away pretending it’s noble.”

“You speak like you know.”

“I do.”

Another silence stretched between them. The mist was lifting, the morning sun struggling through clouds. Birds chirped like they didn’t know Gotham was grieving.

“You’re angry,” Bruce said.

“Am I?” Clara lifted her cane and tapped the base of the headstone. “I’m just tired. Tired of people pretending their sacrifices don’t bleed on the ones they leave behind.”

Bruce studied her. “You think Rachel was sacrificed.”

“I think she chose to leave,” Clara said quietly. “But I also think she shouldn’t have had to.”

He froze.

Clara’s head tipped toward him again, and this time her voice softened.

“She told me goodbye, you know. Before she left.”

Bruce’s heart thudded. “You knew?”

Clara’s cane pressed into the damp earth. “I told her she didn’t have to vanish. She told me it was the only way you and Harvey could live with yourselves.”

Bruce looked away.

“She said you’d both come to terms with the lie if you thought it protected something.”

He said nothing.

Clara’s hand curled tighter around the cane.

“You asked how I’m handling it. The truth?” she said. “I’m surviving. That’s what we do in Gotham. We survive. Until there’s nothing left.”

Her voice sharpened then, a sliver of steel beneath silk.

“And when there’s no one else left to keep the line, someone has to step into the dark.”

Bruce glanced at her, sharply now. But Clara only smiled faintly.

“Be well, Mr. Wayne.”

She walked past him, cane tapping out her exit like a heartbeat against stone.

Bruce watched her go, a flicker of recognition nagging at the edge of his mind. She hadn’t cried. She hadn’t asked for answers.

She already knew too much.

The grandfather clock ticked behind him with quiet finality.

Its rhythm was soothing—predictable, at least—unlike the woman whose name hovered on his screen, suspended in sterile white light above the old grain of the oak desk.

Clara Monroe.

Thirty-two.

Graduate of Gotham University. Dual degrees in Law and Religious Studies.

Blinded in a car accident at eight years old. Parents deceased at the scene. No surviving relatives. Raised at Saint Agnes Orphanage until age eighteen. Emergency contact listed as Sister Francesca Mendez.

Bruce scrolled slowly, eyes narrowing at the scan of the accident report. A single, grainy photograph of a crumpled sedan twisted into a streetlamp. Scrawled at the bottom in urgent red ink: “Survivor may require long-term care.”

He leaned back in his chair, hands tented beneath his chin.

Clara Monroe. How had he missed her?

He remembered her only vaguely from years ago—Rachel had once brought her along to dinner. She hadn’t spoken much, hadn’t smiled often. Rachel had described her as quiet. “Stubborn in that soft-spoken way. Stronger than she looks.” Bruce hadn’t thought much of it at the time.

But now she lingered—unexplained. Present at Rachel’s private memorial, silent in the back. Too composed. Too knowing.

And somehow, she’d known Rachel was alive. Rachel had gone to her.

There had been no reaction in her face. No grief. No surprise. She’d simply stood there like someone keeping a secret she had no intention of sharing.

She walked like someone who didn’t need eyes to see the truth.

The cursor blinked at him.

He clenched his jaw.

Behind him, there was the soft clink of porcelain against silver. The familiar sound of someone who knew exactly how late he stayed up thinking about ghosts.

“You’re brooding,” came Alfred’s voice from the doorway, warm and wry, as he stepped inside with a tray of tea Bruce wouldn’t drink.

“I’m working,” Bruce muttered.

“Ah,” Alfred said, setting the tray down with precision. “So, not brooding—obsessing, then. Better distinction.”

Bruce kept his eyes on the screen.

“Clara Monroe,” Alfred read over his shoulder. “Catholic. Blind. Orphaned. You’re just ticking boxes now, sir.”

“She was close to Rachel.”

“Possibly,” Alfred allowed. “Or maybe Rachel just trusted her. That wouldn’t be such a scandal.”

“She knew Rachel was alive.” Bruce’s voice was quiet, but there was an edge in it.

Alfred studied him a moment. “And you’re upset about that?”

Bruce said nothing.

“She said she’d wait for me,” he murmured after a beat.

“She said she couldn’t wait,” Alfred corrected, gently. “That’s a very different thing.”

Bruce turned his face slightly, gazing toward the empty hearth.

“She said if I gave it up… if I walked away from Batman… she’d be there. But she left anyway.”

“She left,” Alfred said, his voice soft, but unwavering, “because she knew you wouldn’t.”

The words hung in the air like the low toll of a bell.

Bruce exhaled—slow, bitter. The kind of breath you only let out when no one else is watching.

“And now Harvey gets to be the good man. The white knight. And I get to be…”

“The one in the dark,” Alfred finished.

The fireless grate crackled with silence. Outside, rain tapped lightly at the manor’s windows, indifferent to the ache inside.

Bruce’s gaze drifted back to the screen.

A security photo of Clara Monroe stared back at him—unsmiling, eyes slightly off-center, but still strangely direct. It wasn’t beauty that held his attention. It was something else. Something still and guarded. A fortress behind the blindness.

“She’s hiding something,” he said quietly.

Alfred picked up the untouched tea. “Aren’t we all?”

Bruce didn’t smile. But his fingers tapped faintly on the desk, rhythm chasing thought.

“Is this your idea of a rebound, Master Wayne?” Alfred asked after a moment, lifting one brow. “Because I must say, it’s an unconventional approach. Mourning one woman by conducting reconnaissance on her blind best friend.”

Bruce glanced at him sidelong. “She’s not a rebound.”

“No?” Alfred tilted his head. “Then what is she?”

Bruce didn’t answer.

Because he didn’t know.

Not yet.

But something about Clara Monroe lingered in the air like a question he couldn’t stop asking. She was like the moment before the city fell asleep—quiet, unreadable, full of possibility. Something he didn’t quite understand.

And that unnerved him.

He clicked deeper.

Chapter Text

Chapter 18 truth

Wayne Manor sat quiet, wrapped in the blue hush of early morning.

Bruce stood at the monitor in the cave, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, tie loosened. The screen in front of him played fragmented surveillance footage—a blur of movement, a shadow, a shimmer of pale cloth turning into nothing at the corner of a broken alley camera.

“Again,” he muttered.

The footage looped. A security guard staggered back from a would-be mugger, gun shaking. Then a shift—a body between them, indistinct. No face. No sound. Just the blur of a figure too fast to track, too small to be one of the usual players.

He paused the frame.

White. Flowing. Compact.

A woman. Or the outline of one.

He tapped a key. A second video played—this one from weeks earlier. A car crash on the Lower Narrows Bridge. First responders on scene. The victim—a teenage girl in the backseat—reported that someone pulled her out of the wreckage and vanished. Left no footprints, no trace. Just a silver chain clutched in her hand, one she swore wasn’t hers.

Another loop. Another angle.

The figure again. Small. Hooded. Moving with an impossible grace, as if walking through the chaos rather than around it.

“Ghost,” the headlines had started calling her. “The Narrows Wraith.”
More romantic than “vigilante,” Bruce thought. Less threatening.

He hadn’t paid it much attention—until Jim Gordon mentioned it that morning.

“The girl who pulled Rachel from the Dent bombing? We never found her. But we’ve seen her since.”
“We?” Bruce had asked.
Gordon had paused. “Few officers in the East End caught a glimpse last week. Muggings stopped mid-strike. One guy swears he saw her walk through smoke like it wasn’t there. She wears white. Looks blindfolded. Nobody’s gotten a good look.”
A beat.
“You think this is a copycat?”
Gordon had frowned. “If it is… she’s better at disappearing than you are.”

That stuck with him.

Better at disappearing.

Rachel had never told him who saved her. Left it at that.

Now Bruce wondered if this woman had been there all along—if she’d passed him once, even brushed past in the wreckage of his own failures, unseen.

He pulled up the map again. Five confirmed sightings in two months. All concentrated around the Narrows, Old Gotham, and the church district.

That last one snagged in his mind. The church.

Clara Monroe.

He narrowed his eyes, fingers flying over the keys as he brought up her file again.

Blinded in a crash. Lived near the Narrows. Rachel’s friend. Present at the memorial.

Too soft-spoken. Too composed. And the strange way she’d said goodbye, as if she’d already known the truth.

He stared at her ID photo. Her eyes were misaligned, slightly unfocused. Her lips closed in a way that suggested she was used to people misunderstanding her silence.

“You were there,” he said aloud to the photo, as if it might confess something in return.

Behind him, the Batcomputer hummed quietly.

The ghost hadn’t left Gotham. She was circling him—always a few steps ahead, like a specter in the smoke he thought he’d mastered.

Bruce leaned back in his chair, the footage still looping.

The footage flickered onto the monitor—grainy, angled from the side of the courtroom, but clear enough to see her.

Clara Monroe.

She stood at the defense table in a slate-gray suit, one hand resting on the wooden edge like a compass. Her head tilted slightly to the side as opposing counsel raised their voice—perhaps too loudly, perhaps not. Clara didn’t flinch. She waited.

When she finally spoke, her tone was low and unshaken, every word deliberate.

“My client did not ask to be born into a system that expects failure and then punishes survival. But since we’re here, let’s talk about facts—not assumptions. Not statistics. You want the jury to see a criminal. I see a young woman who walked herself to school every day past the same street corner where your witness ran that betting ring.”

Bruce didn’t realize he was leaning forward until Alfred’s voice cut in from behind.

“You know, in all my years, I’ve never seen a ghost file a motion to dismiss.”

Bruce didn’t look up. “I’m not saying she’s the ghost.”

“Right. You’re just watching court tapes of a blind advocate from the Narrows who also happens to have no immediate family, a vigilante’s moral backbone, and the habit of appearing wherever trouble is thickest.” Alfred walked closer, holding a mug in one hand. “And I suppose next you’ll be telling me Batman should take the bar.”

Bruce tapped the keyboard to zoom in slightly—on Clara’s face as she waited for the judge’s ruling. Her expression didn’t change. But her posture—how she knew exactly when to rise, how she found her client’s arm without missing a beat—was sharp. Calculated. Practiced.

“She’s confident,” Bruce murmured. “Too confident for someone supposedly afraid of shadows. She’s not afraid at all.”

Alfred leaned against the console, raising a brow. “So we’re back to thinking the blind defense attorney is your elusive ghost.”

“She’s not just a lawyer. She’s an advocate,” Bruce said. “Low-income clients. Women’s shelters. She consults with Narrows outreach and volunteers at the cathedral.”

“You’re making her sound like a saint.”

Bruce shook his head. “No. She’s careful. Too careful. Even her mistakes look rehearsed.”

Alfred sipped his tea. “Suppose, for the sake of argument, she is your ghost. That would mean a blind woman has been running across rooftops, outrunning cops, and rescuing people from burning cars without so much as a scratch.”

“She was trained,” Bruce said quietly. “Somehow. She moves like someone who knows her body. Listens more than she speaks.”

Alfred tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “And here I thought you were interested in her because she reminded you of Miss Dawes.”

Bruce froze, hands still on the keyboard.

The silence stretched.

Alfred sighed and walked away a few steps before adding gently, “Sometimes it’s not about the ghost, Master Wayne. Sometimes it’s about the hole it leaves behind. And the person we try to fill it with.”

“She’s not Rachel,” Bruce said.

“No,” Alfred said. “Just her best friend.”

Bruce glanced back at the screen. Clara was moving again—guiding her client out of the courtroom, chin high despite the cane in her hand. A woman with no sight. No family. Still walking forward.

Still protecting people.

Gotham Legal Aid Center, Midtown.

The elevator chimed low as Bruce stepped into the main hall of the modest, city-funded building. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead. The paint on the walls was peeling at the corners. Somewhere down the corridor, a printer was jamming, violently.

But the room directly ahead was quiet.

Inside, Clara Monroe stood beside a cluttered desk, cane tucked against her hip, fingers gently sifting through a folder. Her hair was tied back in a knot that looked like it had been done hastily that morning. The window was cracked to let in the spring air—and from this angle, Bruce could see the faint outline of an old scar along her jaw.

“Miss Monroe,” he said, voice smooth.

She didn’t flinch. Instead, her head tilted slightly toward the door before he crossed the threshold.

“Mr. Wayne,” she replied, turning toward him, her expression unreadable. “Should I be flattered or concerned?”

Bruce offered the smallest of smiles. “Neither. I’m here on business.”

“Gotham’s favorite billionaire. In my office.” She clicked her tongue softly. “I’d say this office is about three zeros too modest for your taste.”

He chuckled under his breath. “I’m starting a legal outreach grant. For pro bono criminal defense—especially for women and minors. Gotham Legal Aid seemed… underfunded.”

“Flattery and philanthropy,” she said, folding her arms. “That’s a dangerous combination.”

He stepped further inside, slowly, as though approaching an animal that might bite. “I read your files. Your caseload, your work with survivors.” A pause. “I watched your arguments.”

“So this is a job interview?” she asked.

“No,” he said, watching her carefully. “It’s an invitation.”

“To what?”

“To step into the light. With backing. Resources. Protection.”

Her head turned slightly, as though weighing his voice.

“Protection?” she repeated softly. “You say that like I’m in danger.”

Bruce’s expression didn’t change. “Aren’t you?”

Her lips twitched—just slightly. “If I were, I wouldn’t come to you.”

There it was: the shift in the air. A hairline fracture in the performance. Clara’s posture didn’t change, but her presence sharpened, like she’d just placed her queen quietly in the middle of the board.

Bruce stepped closer. “I think you’ve already come to me. In a way.”

She smiled faintly. “Funny. I could say the same.”

He studied her face. Her eyes didn’t move—fixed somewhere to his left—but her body tracked his every breath, every silence.

Finally, she said, “My senses are very strong, Mr. Wayne.” Her tone was polite, but the emphasis was unmistakable. “I can hear when someone shifts their weight in Kevlar. I can smell smoke and grappling cable before the wind carries it away. And I know the difference between a man who plays dumb and one who listens too closely.”

Bruce said nothing. His jaw tightened, just slightly.

Clara let the silence linger before adding, with a tilt of her head, “Do you always use charities as masks, or just when you’re curious?”

“I’m not curious,” Bruce said. “I’m careful.”

“Good,” she replied, voice low. “Because I don’t make a habit of rescuing people who underestimate me.”

That stopped him cold.

“You were there,” he said quietly. “That night.”

She reached for her folder again, flipping it open as though the conversation were done. “I’m many things, Mr. Wayne. A ghost isn’t one of them.”

He let out a slow breath. “No. Ghosts don’t bleed.”

She paused, just for a second. Then: “Neither do myths.”

He smiled then, a real one—tight and dangerous. They were circling each other now.

Two secrets in a quiet room, each watching the other from the shadows.

Bruce looked down at the folder in her hands. Court records. Half-typed notes. Nothing that explained how a blind woman could move like a trained shadow.

“You move like someone who’s used to darkness,” he said.

She turned toward him, slow and deliberate. “That’s the only place people like us ever really see.”

He left before she could press the advantage further. Not because he was losing—but because he was no longer sure he wanted to win.

East End Alley, 2:19 A.M.

The man hit the pavement with a sound like meat slamming into concrete. Wet. Final.

Clara stood over him, breath steady, her right hand smeared with blood that wasn’t hers. The rain made it feel distant—cleansing, even. A few feet away, the girl she’d pulled from the alley had already vanished into the city’s black veins.

Gotham swallowed its wounded quickly.

She was reaching for her cane when she heard him land.

A whisper of air. Leather flexing. That low growl that carried weight like judgment.

“You’re escalating,” Batman said from the shadows.

Clara didn’t turn. “So are they.”

She picked up her cane, but didn’t extend it. Didn’t need to. She knew exactly where he stood.

He stepped closer. “You nearly broke his spine.”

“His ribs will heal.” She nudged the man’s side with the tip of her boot. “Unlike the girl he was carving his name into.”

Batman studied her—how she stood without seeing him. Unflinching. No visible awareness of his presence, but also not guessing. There was no hesitation in her posture.

She knew.

And yet…

He’d read her medical records. Full retinal damage. Optic nerves severed. Car crash when she was eight. The doctors were definitive—Clara Monroe was completely, irreversibly blind.

So how the hell did she move like this?

She tilted her head. “You’re wondering how I do it.”

He didn’t answer, but the silence gave him away.

Clara smiled faintly and flicked a coin from her coat pocket. It danced in the air—one spin, two, three—

She caught it clean, without facing it, and dropped it into his palm.

“I map sound like most people breathe. You stepped on broken glass ten feet back. Your suit creaks at the shoulder when it’s wet. You hold your breath when you’re angry.” Her voice was soft, unapologetic. “You’re a loud man trying to be quiet. I learned in foster care—that’s how you survive.”

He looked at coin.

Then at her.

And something shifted.

Clara Monroe
Trapped by what she lost.
She lived in the margins of a city built for the cruel and the corrupt.
She was defined not by pain, but by the choice to endure it.
She had purpose—but no army. No empire. No Alfred waiting at home with tea.
Only the knowledge that if she didn’t act, no one would.

Bruce Wayne
Trapped by what he inherited.
He fought in the shadows of towers his name built.
He was defined not by what was taken from him, but by what he couldn’t let go.
He had power—but no direction.
Only the mask to keep himself from shattering in the daylight.

They were two halves of the same wound.

He broke the silence first. “You’re alone out here.”

“So are you,” she said without missing a beat.

A long pause.

“Does anyone know what you’re doing?”

“Does anyone know what you’re becoming?” Her words slid beneath his skin.

More silence. The kind that felt like the space between two blows.

She bent, grabbed the unconscious gangster by the collar, and with surprising ease, dumped him into the nearest dumpster. The lid slammed shut like punctuation.

Clara turned to him, blind eyes fixed just past his cowl.

“You have money. Resources. A city that fears your name.” Her voice was even. “I have a cane and the streets. That’s all I need.”

“You think you’re invincible?”

“I think I don’t have the luxury of pretending I’m not.”

The rain had softened now, misting between them.

He looked at her—really looked.

And realized with a twist in his chest that this woman, blind and alone, was not a symbol in the making.

She was already one.

She turned to leave, tapping her cane once against the wall.

Then paused.

“You wear the dark like armor,” she said over her shoulder. “But armor weighs you down.”

And with that, she vanished into the night.

Bruce didn’t follow.

He stood in the alley for a long time, coin in hand, the weight of it more than metal.

Rain gathered on his shoulders. The night pressed in.

And for the first time in a long time, Bruce Wayne didn’t know who he was chasing anymore.

Chapter Text

Chapter 19 orbiting

Gotham City Courthouse – Morning

The courtroom was always cold.

Fluorescents buzzed like gnats above the gallery. The bailiff looked half-asleep. A public defender shuffled papers at the wrong table.

Clara Monroe stood with a stillness that demanded silence. Her presence wasn’t loud—but precise. Every motion she made, every word spoken, was sharpened by intent.

Her cane rested against the table beside her. Useless, almost—more prop than crutch. She didn’t need it here.

She already knew the space. Mapped it in echoes. In breath. In heartbeat.

The DA across from her stammered something about “reasonable doubt,” and Clara tilted her head just enough to catch the hesitation in his voice. She stepped forward. Smooth. Confident. The kind of confidence that made jurors lean in.

She didn’t raise her voice.

She didn’t have to.

⸻

High above, in the gallery, behind tinted glass—

He watched.

Bruce Wayne, face cast in soft shadow, hands clasped neatly over his knee.

To the press, he was attending as a patron of legal reform, investing in defense initiatives for the underserved.

But he wasn’t watching the system.

He was watching her.

⸻

Clara felt him.

Even before she entered the courtroom, she knew.

There was something about his stillness. The weight of him. Not like the press or the police or the courtroom vultures. Wayne’s attention didn’t hunger for spectacle.

It studied.

Measured.

Like a man building a profile.

She didn’t flinch.

She never acknowledged him.

But as she moved around the courtroom, as her voice worked its way into the rhythm of closing arguments, Clara adjusted.

Small shifts. A pause at the bench. A pointed line aimed into the gallery. A subtle emphasis on moral courage.

Let him hear it.

⸻

Bruce was silent. Still.

But he didn’t miss it.

The way her blind eyes turned—not to the judge, not to the jury—but toward him.

He shifted once in his seat. Just once.

And in that moment, she knew.

He had confirmed it. Whatever quiet game they were playing in alleys and rooftops… it was seeping into daylight.

⸻

Later—

The courthouse emptied. The verdict had gone her way. Pro bono case. Kid on a weapons charge walked free.

Clara stood alone in the hallway, hand brushing the wall lightly, coat buttoned high. She didn’t rush. Didn’t run.

But she felt him still.

Somewhere close.

Watching her.

She paused by the stairwell and spoke to no one in particular.

“You should come down next time.” A beat. “You might learn something about mercy.”

Then she descended the steps, slow and deliberate, vanishing into the gray tide of Gotham.

⸻

Bruce remained in the shadows above.

Still cloaked in the safety of wealth. Still unseen.

But her words rang louder than any verdict.

He wasn’t the only one watching.

He never had been.

The old church groaned in the wind like it remembered every prayer ever whispered beneath its rafters. The stained glass wore the city’s dust like a shroud. And yet, the sanctuary held a quiet that calmed the bones, even when it couldn’t touch the soul.

Clara sat in the third pew, her cane resting beside her, unneeded. She faced forward, unseeing, hands folded in her lap like they had been taught in childhood—but her thoughts were anything but devout.

Father Eli knelt nearby, lighting the last of the vigil candles. His joints creaked as much as the pews did, but his movements carried the grace of long practice. He didn’t interrupt the silence until the flame settled.

“You used to sneak into this chapel before dawn,” he said, voice low and warm with memory. “Used to sit just there and recite half-remembered verses under your breath. Never loud enough for anyone but the saints to hear.”

Clara’s lips tugged into a soft smile. “I was trying to bribe God,” she said. “Figured if I said the words right, He might take me out of foster care and drop me somewhere quieter.”

Father Eli chuckled as he sank beside her, his cassock whispering against the wood.

“You always were quieter than the others. Watchful. Stubborn.” He looked at her face for a long moment. “But kind. Fiercely kind.”

Clara didn’t respond at first. Her jaw clenched. She wasn’t sure she liked the sound of who she used to be.

“He told me I was escalating,” she murmured, not looking at him. “The other night. After…”

Eli didn’t ask who. He didn’t need to.

“And are you?” he asked softly.

Clara shook her head. “No. I’m just tired of being patient.”

Another silence settled—thicker, denser.

“He knows who I am, Father,” she said after a moment. “Not just the Ghost. Batman. He knows me.”

Father Eli’s eyebrows lifted, but he didn’t interrupt. Clara continued, her voice hollowed by the weight of recent days.

“And Rachel’s gone. She ran. Ran from Gotham. From him. From me.” Her voice broke there, almost imperceptibly. “And I keep remembering things I shouldn’t—”

“Alina?” he asked gently.

Clara’s face went still.

The sound of her name was a shard of glass under the skin.

She swallowed. Hard.

Father Eli laid a hand over hers.

She didn’t answer.

Her voice, when it came, was brittle and flat. “Why does he care, Father? Batman. He has the whole city. Why does he keep circling me like I’m something rare?”

Father Eli leaned back, gaze lifting toward the dusty cross above the altar.

“The heart,” he said quietly, “knows its mirrors.”

Then, as if speaking not to her, but to the vast hollow space that ached between them:

“‘Deep calls to deep in the roar of Your waterfalls; all Your waves and breakers have swept over me.’”
—Psalm 42:7

Clara closed her eyes at that. The verse hit too close.

Too honest.

When she finally stood, she felt old and young all at once.

“I don’t need saving,” she said, gathering her coat.

Father Eli stood beside her. “No. But maybe he does.”

She paused at the threshold. The rain outside was waiting for her, soft and cold and endless.

Her voice was just a whisper: “So did I.”

Then she walked out into the twilight, cane tapping the stone like a heartbeat. She didn’t look back.

Rain hit the rusted roof in rhythmic thuds as if the sky itself were pacing.

Inside, the air reeked of sweat, gun oil, and old blood. Flickering floodlights buzzed above makeshift cages. Girls—no older than sixteen—huddled in corners, their eyes glazed by trauma and hope ground into dust.

A scream cut the silence.

Then a body slammed through a crate wall—splinters exploded—and Batman followed, cloak flaring like a shadow with intent.

“Where is he?” he growled, dragging a trafficker by the collar. “Where’s Vasquez?”

Before the man could answer, a sharp crack split the air.

Not a gunshot. A cane against skull.

The man dropped limp.

Batman turned sharply.

There she was—Ghost—already moving toward the next corridor, blood at the corner of her mouth, her coat soaked from rain and rage.

He stepped in front of her.

“We need him alive.”

Clara didn’t stop. “He wasn’t talking.”

Batman grabbed her arm. “You’re not helping them if you lose control.”

She yanked free. “And you’re not helping them if you hesitate.”

Two more gangsters rushed the room. Batman pivoted, dropped one with a rising elbow and shattered the other’s knee before Ghost even flinched.

She didn’t thank him.

Instead, she moved past, her cane tapping once—an echo in the dark.

“You’re efficient,” she said coldly. “But you wait until the system approves your morality. Until it’s clean.”

He followed her through the next corridor, lit only by the emergency lights bleeding red on steel. A girl in the cage whimpered. Clara paused—her fingers brushed the lock—and in one swift movement, she shattered it with the weighted tip of her cane.

The girl sobbed, lunging out.

Clara steadied her. “Go. Fast. Toward the river.”

Batman watched her—watched the tenderness under all the sharp edges.

But he didn’t let it pass unchallenged.

“You’re reckless,” he said. “You hit harder than you can afford. You burn through leads like they’ll never run out.”

“And you wait,” she snapped, eyes turning to him though they could not see. “Wait until the body count is high enough to justify breaking your rules.”

“You think this is a game?” His voice dropped. “You want to feel something, fine. But when these girls disappear again in six weeks because we lost the bigger fish—”

“Then at least someone will have done something!” she shouted.

Silence rang like a gunshot.

They were inches apart now.

She was breathing hard. He was watching—closely. The set of her jaw. The way she still tilted her head slightly toward sound, like a wolf.

“You think I don’t feel it?” she said, softer now. “Every kid I couldn’t save. Every time I was late. You think this is about vengeance?” Her laugh was low and hollow. “Vengeance is personal. This is math. You do it long enough, you learn what doesn’t add up.”

He stared at her. “What doesn’t?”

She met his gaze, blind eyes unflinching.

“Men in suits. Cops paid to look away. Girls who scream and never get heard.”

A beat passed.

“I’m not asking you to be like me,” she added. “But don’t pretend what you’re doing is enough.”

From the far stairwell, gunfire barked. Automatic. Close.

They moved at once—no more words.

Side by side, they cut through the last of the ring: he in surgical strikes, she like a blade drawn too long across a whetstone—dangerously close to breaking.

When it was over, six girls had been freed.

Vasquez was bleeding from the mouth but breathing, cuffed to a railing.

Batman was already calling Gordon.

Clara didn’t wait.

She stepped out into the rain, leaning on her cane—but her shoulders were straight.

He caught up with her at the edge of the roof.

“You can’t keep this up,” he said quietly.

She didn’t turn. “I don’t need to. Just long enough to make them scared.”

He hesitated. “You could let me help.”

Clara turned her head slightly, the edge of a smirk on her lips.

“Then keep up.”

And she vanished into the mist.

Chapter Text

chapter 20 complicated

Wayne Foundation Criminal Justice Panel
Gotham Museum of Ethics and Law, 3:40 P.M.

It had been three nights since the warehouse.

Three nights since blood and smoke, since the girl with the butterfly tattoo was pulled from a locked cage, since Batman watched a blind woman take down a man twice her size with precision that defied explanation.

Since she stood over a burning ledge, breathing hard, not looking at him—but knowing exactly where he was.

Now, Bruce Wayne sat beneath soft lights and crystal chandeliers, his tie knotted clean, his face a mask of practiced charm. The city’s elite had gathered in pressed suits and neutral smiles, sipping their conscience from champagne flutes.

Across from him on the panel sat Clara Monroe—civil rights attorney, former orphan, woman of unnerving calm. Today her sunglasses were mirrored, reflecting everything and nothing. Her black dress was simple, sharp. Her posture regal.

Only Bruce noticed the faint bruising along her knuckles.

He wondered if she saw the healing scar on his collarbone—hidden under starched linen and steel-gray silk.

The moderator opened with a predictable line. “Mr. Wayne, what does accountability look like for a city like Gotham?”

Bruce leaned into the mic, measured. “Long-term? It looks like dismantling systemic rot. Redirecting funding. Legislation. Oversight.”

“And in the meantime?”

He hesitated. A flicker.

“In the meantime… people fall through.”

Clara’s head tilted slightly, like she was listening more to him than the question.

“I’ve seen what happens in those margins,” she said when the mic passed to her. “Accountability isn’t just policy. It’s presence. It’s who shows up.”

Her voice was low. Steady.

His jaw tensed slightly.

“You think presence is enough?” Bruce asked, tone casual to most. Not to her.

“I think absence is complicity.”

The crowd murmured at the weight of her words.

Bruce’s gaze didn’t leave her.

“And who decides what presence looks like?” he asked. “Who holds that power?”

Clara’s lips curved faintly. Not quite a smile. Almost a warning.

“Usually the ones who pretend they don’t have it.”

The moderator moved them on. Talk of incarceration rates, legal reform, funding channels.

But Bruce wasn’t listening.

Not fully.

Because across from him, the woman who dropped a trafficker down an elevator shaft three nights ago was now quoting constitutional law like gospel. She hadn’t acknowledged him once. But she knew he was watching.

And she was letting him know she saw.

⸻

Side Hallway, Post-Panel

The museum’s side corridor was quiet—marble floors, muted lighting. Clara moved without her cane, fingers grazing the wall lightly. She knew the echo of this building well.

Bruce caught up to her, footsteps deliberate.

“You could’ve said more,” he said.

Clara didn’t stop. “I said what mattered.”

“Most people here wouldn’t believe where you were a few nights ago.”

She paused. Just long enough.

“I don’t worry much about belief,” she said. “I worry about the ones no one’s looking for.”

He nodded. “You were… effective.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I’m not.”

She turned her head slightly. “Then why do you sound like someone trying to convince himself?”

Bruce exhaled, a slow pull of air. “Because I don’t understand how you do what you do.”

Clara’s voice softened. “Neither did the man you pulled off me. Before I broke his wrist.”

Silence stretched, humming like a wire between them.

“You ever stop?” he asked.

“Do you?”

He didn’t answer.

Clara stepped closer, close enough that her voice could drop to just above a whisper.

“You wear the mask to disappear. I wear blindness so people stop looking.”

Her fingers brushed his sleeve, like a second heartbeat.

“We both picked shadows,” she murmured. “The difference is… I didn’t get to choose mine.”

She stepped back. Gave a nod—not to Bruce Wayne, but to the man beneath the suit.

Then walked away.

And for a moment, Bruce stood in that corridor, staring after her, knowing with bone-deep certainty—

He’d just met someone who didn’t need a cape to haunt him.

The study was cloaked in shadows, a single desk lamp casting a pool of amber light across scattered papers and half-empty glasses. Bruce sat slouched in the leather chair, eyes unfocused, fingers tapping a restless rhythm against the armrest.

Alfred entered quietly, carrying a tray with a glass of scotch and a neat stack of files. He set the tray down with the precision of a surgeon.

“Sir,” Alfred said, voice soft but firm, “I can’t help but notice the notable absence of your usual razor-sharp wit this evening. You seem… distracted.”

Bruce gave a dry chuckle that didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s been a long day.”

Alfred perched on the edge of the desk, fixing Bruce with a knowing look. “Long days tend to bring long nights — and, on occasion, unwelcome company in the form of thoughts one might prefer to avoid.”

Bruce’s fingers stilled. “It’s nothing. Just… business.”

“Ah, yes. Business,” Alfred murmured, tone teasing. “Or perhaps a certain Ms. Monroe? I gathered from the panel this afternoon that she left quite the impression.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “She’s complicated.”

“Complicated is the understatement of the century when it comes to Gotham, sir.”

Alfred rose, pacing slowly. “You spend your nights fighting shadows and your days debating the light. It’s no wonder you’re troubled.”

Bruce looked up, eyes sharp despite the fatigue. “You’ve always known me too well.”

Alfred smiled faintly. “Not quite as well as you’d like to think. But I do know that when someone starts pulling at your focus, it’s rarely just distraction. It’s something worth your attention.”

Bruce leaned back, gaze drifting to the window where the city lights flickered like distant stars.

“Maybe,” he said quietly, “I’m trying to figure out if she’s an ally or a threat.”

Alfred nodded knowingly. “Either way, Sir, it seems you’ve found someone who understands what it means to walk in darkness.”

Bruce said nothing, but the tightness around his eyes softened just a bit.

Alfred tapped the tray gently. “Your scotch awaits, sir. Perhaps a drink will help untangle some of those thoughts.”

Bruce reached out, lifting the glass, but his mind was already elsewhere.

Chapter Text

Chapter 21 connections

⸻

The knock at Clara’s office door came late in the afternoon, slow and hesitant. Clara paused, finger tracing the worn edge of a file on her desk. The stack of cases—fragile monuments to injustice—filled the cramped room with the weight of countless stories waiting to be told. She lifted her head, guided by sound rather than sight.

The door creaked open, and a woman stepped inside, her presence shaky but urgent. Her voice trembled even before she spoke, carrying the raw edge of desperation.

“I’m Lila,” the woman said, clutching a worn purse to her chest as if it were the last lifeline she had. “I… I need help.”

Clara shifted her weight, a faint smile playing at her lips despite the heaviness settling between them. “You’re safe here, Lila. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Lila’s breath hitched. “My husband… everyone sees a successful businessman, but behind closed doors… he’s something else. Dark. Dangerous. Illegal. I can’t keep pretending.”

Clara listened intently, her other senses sharpening in the silence—Lila’s uneven breathing, the slight quiver in her hands, the catch in her voice. She could sense the woman’s fear despite the effort to hold it back.

“Sit with me,” Clara said softly, guiding the woman’s hesitant steps toward the worn leather chair opposite her desk. Lila lowered herself cautiously, hands twisting the purse strap nervously.

Clara reached out, placing a steadying hand on Lila’s arm. “I want to help you. But I need to know—can you afford a lawyer?”

Lila shook her head, fresh tears slipping free. “No. He controls everything—my phone, our accounts, even what I spend. If he knew I came here, he’d ruin me.”

Clara’s jaw tightened. She had carved her name in the Narrows not by chasing wealthy clients, but by fighting for those swallowed by Gotham’s shadows—people like Lila. She knew the weight of silence, the loneliness of trapped voices.

“This isn’t about money,” Clara said firmly. “I take pro bono cases. I fight for those who have no one else. That’s how I earned my reputation. You’re not alone, Lila.”

A flicker of hope softened Lila’s eyes, though fear still clung to her like a second skin.

Clara’s fingers moved to the edge of a fresh legal pad. “Start at the beginning. Tell me everything.”

The night was thick with rain when Clara unlocked the door to her apartment. The familiar creak of the old hinges echoed softly, a muted welcome in the quiet building. She moved inside, cane tapping steadily against the hardwood floor, navigating the space with practiced ease. The weight of the day pressed down on her—Lila’s story swirling in her mind like a storm she couldn’t shake.

She barely had time to shed her coat when the sharp crash of breaking glass shattered the fragile silence.

Heart tightening, Clara froze. The sharp scent of wet stone and rain mixed with something else—malice.

She tapped her cane toward the window. The pane was cracked, a jagged hole punched through the glass. On the floor beneath, a red brick lay half soaked, heavy with purpose.

And there, scrawled in thick, black paint on the white windowsill, a message: “Stay silent, or this is only the beginning.”

The words burned through the haze of the rain outside.

Clara’s fingers brushed the wet letters, tracing the threat with cold clarity.

This wasn’t just intimidation—it was a warning.

But it was also proof.

Proof that someone wanted to silence her, and that the case she was building wasn’t just another forgotten file.

Clara pulled out her phone and dialed 911, her voice calm but unwavering as she reported the incident. “There’s been a break-in at my residence… possible intimidation linked to an ongoing civil case I’m working on. I need officers to respond immediately.”

Minutes later, two detectives arrived, eyes sharp, professional.

Clara gave a measured statement, describing Lila’s case, the danger she was in, and the threatening message left behind.

One detective nodded slowly. “We’ll increase patrols in your area and assign someone to keep an eye out. This kind of intimidation against a lawyer isn’t common, but it’s serious.”

Clara’s mind was already turning—this was more than just a threat. This was leverage.

Back at the office, she arranged for the police report to be entered as evidence. The message at her window would be part of the public record, a stark sign of how far the opposing side would go to bury the truth.

When the court session came, Clara used the incident to sharpen her argument. Standing before the judge, she laid out the case with fierce clarity.

“This threat,” she said, voice steady, “is not an isolated act of vandalism. It’s a calculated attempt to silence a witness and derail this investigation into criminal activity tied to a man of considerable influence.”

The courtroom murmured, the judge leaning forward, interest piqued.

Clara let the weight of the brick’s message hang in the air, reminding everyone that the stakes were real—lives were on the line.

And she wasn’t backing down.

The courtroom fell into a tense hush as the opposing counsel rose, eyes sharp and voice smooth as silk.

“Ms. Monroe,” he began, “would you please explain to the court why you believe this brick at your window is connected to your client’s allegations? Isn’t it possible this is simply a random act of vandalism?”

Clara met his gaze steadily, her posture unyielding despite the probing tone. “Random?” she repeated softly, voice calm but edged with steel. “The timing was no coincidence. The threat came just days after I took on this case publicly. It followed every step of our filings, every demand for discovery.”

She paused, letting her words settle like stones in the quiet room.

“The message was explicit—‘Stay silent, or this is only the beginning.’ How random is that?”

The lawyer pressed, a slight sneer creeping onto his face. “And yet, you have no direct proof linking this to your client’s husband or his associates. How can the court accept mere speculation as evidence?”

Clara’s eyes narrowed, not with anger, but unwavering conviction. “I don’t need a confession. The context speaks for itself. Intimidation tactics like this are common in cases involving powerful defendants. Silence is their weapon.”

She leaned forward slightly, her voice steady and sure. “My client’s husband controls finances, communications, and the narrative around this case. This attempt to scare me—while not the first—signals that the truth we seek threatens someone. That’s not speculation. That’s reality.”

Opposing counsel hesitated for a moment, thrown off by her poise.

Clara’s cane tapped lightly on the floor as she sat back, eyes locked on the judge. She was resolute—not just fighting for her client, but for everyone crushed under the weight of fear and silence.

Her resilience wasn’t just legal—it was personal. And it radiated through every word.

Bruce sat in the back row of the courtroom, shadowed and still, watching Clara Monroe with an intensity that made the flickering fluorescent lights seem to dim. The room smelled of stale paper and quiet desperation, a cage built of legal jargon and half-truths. Clara’s voice cut through it all—calm, steady, unwavering—like a stone set against the tide.

He admired her. Not just for the words she spoke, but for the way she carried herself: resilient, defiant, unbroken despite everything. She wasn’t just defending a case; she was standing guard over the truth in a city designed to bury it. And she was blind. Not just to sight, but to the doubt and dismissal that people piled on her like bricks.

But Bruce knew how this would end.

The judge’s clipped intonations betrayed his allegiance—silent, uncompromising, bought. The opposing counsel wielded his questions like weapons, not just digging for facts but tearing at the fragile edges of hope. There was no justice here, only the appearance of it. The system had already decided.

Yet Clara stood her ground. Alone in that room, facing down the weight of money and power with nothing but her voice and unyielding will. She met every barb, every insinuation, without a flicker of hesitation. She was fierce. Not reckless, but fierce. Like a flame stubbornly burning in a city built to snuff it out.

Bruce’s mind traced back to their encounters—her in the shadows as Ghost, relentless and untouchable; her here, exposed and vulnerable, but no less formidable. Two sides of the same coin, thrown into Gotham’s dark waters and refusing to sink.

He clutched the coin in his pocket, the cold metal a reminder of a moment shared in silence, a silent pact between two warriors on opposite sides of the same fight. He wondered if she sensed him watching, or if she ever felt truly alone.

In that courtroom, surrounded by corruption and decay, Bruce felt something he hadn’t in a long time—hope. Not naive or bright, but sharp and steady, like Clara herself.

She wouldn’t win this fight. Not today. But she was fighting nonetheless. And that was enough to make him watch. To make him care

Bruce found Clara standing just outside the courthouse steps, cane loosely in one hand, head tilted slightly to catch the rhythms of the street. Her hair was pinned back in a way that left the delicate angles of her face exposed, but her stance was armored, balanced — like someone perpetually bracing for impact.

She didn’t look toward him when he approached, but he knew she heard his footsteps.

“Still refusing the extra security?” he asked, keeping his tone light, almost teasing.

Clara turned slightly toward him. “You say that like it’s unreasonable.”

“Someone threw a brick through your window, Clara.”

“I know,” she replied. “It was loud.”

Bruce folded his arms, watching her. She wore simple black slacks and a charcoal jacket — professional, but not flashy. Her cane tapped once, lightly, grounding her. “You’re not invincible,” he said quietly.

“I’m not trying to be,” she answered. “I’m just not hiding.”

He hesitated, studying the subtle shifts in her posture — the way she tilted her face slightly toward the sun, how she positioned herself so that her back was never entirely exposed to the street. She was blind, but she was aware. Always.

“I could offer something else,” Bruce said. “Legal backing. Quiet press pressure. Exposure, if needed.”

She shook her head. “That’d just shift the target. They’d come after someone else — my client, your foundation. I’ve lived in Gotham long enough to know the game.”

“You still think you can win?”

“I think if I keep showing up, they lose a little power each time.”

A pause stretched between them. Then Bruce said, “At least let me walk you in.”

She didn’t smile, not exactly — but something softened in her face.

“That’s fine,” she said. “So long as it’s not about pretending I need a bodyguard.”

He offered his arm, not out of condescension, but as a gesture. She found it, fingers brushing fabric before hooking gently at his elbow. Her touch was light but unhesitating.

They walked side by side, the courthouse looming ahead like a judgment. At the corner, he bought two coffees. She didn’t have to ask what kind — he’d learned after the last time: strong, no sugar, just the way she took her truths.

He handed her the cup, making sure her fingers found the edge of the sleeve before letting go. She brought it to her lips with a practiced ease.

“I don’t know how you do it,” he said quietly.

“Do what?”

“Stay this… steady. After knowing how rigged this all is.”

Clara turned her face toward him, the unseeing eyes somehow still sharp. “You see it because you live above it. I live in it. There’s a difference.”

He didn’t answer immediately. The hum of passing cars and murmurs of early foot traffic filled the silence between them.

“I didn’t used to see it at all,” Bruce said finally. “Not until I had to.”

Her voice lowered, a shade more curious. “And what made you have to?”

He hesitated, caught off guard by the question — by how genuine it was, how closely it brushed up against the life he kept walled off. He could feel her gaze on him, not invasive, just aware.

“Someone showed me the cracks,” he said. “And once you see them, it’s hard to stop looking.”

Clara nodded. “Then maybe you’re not as removed as you think.”

He let out a short breath of a laugh. “You talk like you know me.”

“I don’t,” she said. “But I know the way you talk when you forget to perform.”

That stopped him for a moment. Her head tilted, listening — not just to sound, but to presence, hesitation, the flicker of breath when he didn’t have the right words.

“And am I performing now?” he asked.

“No,” she said softly. “You’re being honest. And that’s rare.”

For a long second, Bruce just watched her, the way the morning light outlined her face, how composed she looked in the face of a city that wanted her afraid.

“You should know,” he said, “I don’t offer to walk people to court.”

“Good,” Clara murmured, turning toward the courthouse steps, cane tapping. “I don’t accept that kind of thing from just anyone.”

He followed her, quieter now. Not as Bruce Wayne, not entirely. Just a man watching a woman who refused to bend, who made him remember what it meant to care without armor.

And she didn’t even need to see him to see through him.

Chapter Text

chapter 22 slow dance

The ballroom shimmered beneath chandeliers like frozen galaxies. Light clung to every crystal and polished glass, casting a warm, opulent glow across tuxedos, gowns, champagne flutes, and carefully measured laughter. Photographers flanked the velvet ropes. A string quartet bowed their instruments with quiet restraint.

Bruce Wayne made his entrance late — as always — descending the marble staircase with a practiced smile and a black tuxedo cut like armor. He adjusted his cufflinks not because they needed adjusting, but because it gave the cameras a second longer to catch him at the right angle.

But even his arrival didn’t stir the whispering as much as the moment she stepped through the door.

Clara Monroe didn’t need to see the glances. She heard them in the subtle hush of air, in the way conversation thinned near her like a ripple in glass. Her black evening dress was simple but elegant, sleeveless, her hair pinned up in a soft twist that let a few strands fall freely. A walking cane — slim, matte black — tapped gently ahead of her in tempo with her heels. She moved without hesitation, despite the shifting terrain of egos and half-truths.

Bruce watched her from across the room.

She had refused a driver, of course. She had also refused security, a stylist, and the idea of having her remarks pre-approved by PR.

“Clara Monroe,” someone whispered near him, “that’s the attorney from the Narrows, isn’t it?”

“The blind one,” another voice said.

“The one Bruce Wayne was seen walking to court last week.”

A third voice laughed under breath. “He’s always had a thing for impossible women.”

He smiled politely and turned away.

Clara’s path found him eventually — or rather, he stepped into it. “Miss Monroe,” he said smoothly, offering his arm as she approached the threshold of the ballroom’s inner floor. “I thought I might get the honor of stealing a few minutes before the speeches begin.”

She paused. Her head tilted slightly, registering his voice. She offered a small smile, unbothered by the gossip crackling around them like static.

“I was warned you might try,” she said.

His chuckle was warm but restrained. “And you came anyway.”

“I came because I was asked. The case needs a voice, not a spotlight.”

Her fingers found his arm, light but confident. She didn’t flinch at the contact — she never did. Bruce adjusted his posture, aware suddenly of how grounded she made him feel.

As they moved through the room together, the cameras clicked again. A fresh flurry of murmurs followed them like perfume.

Clara turned her head slightly toward him. “You’re enjoying this,” she said under her breath.

“What, walking you through a room full of billionaires with nothing better to talk about than who I’m sleeping with?” He offered a nonchalant shrug. “Only a little.”

“And here I thought I was just a lawyer.”

“I thought you didn’t represent the guilty.”

Clara’s lips twitched. “Give it time.”

Bruce guided her deftly, quietly directing her steps around a small platform, murmuring the way a dance partner might count rhythm. She listened, not just with her ears, but her whole body. She knew when the floor changed texture, when the people pressed in tighter, when a waiter passed too close on her left.

As they neared the front of the room, Bruce slowed. “You’re the main event tonight,” he said quietly. “You good with that?”

“I don’t need to see them to make them uncomfortable,” Clara replied.

“You already have,” he murmured.

Their arms remained linked. Their bodies remained apart. But the tension lived between them, unsaid but undeniable.

She turned her head slightly. “You still haven’t asked me to dance.”

“I figured you’d say no.”

Clara arched a brow. “Ask anyway.”

Bruce smiled, not the Wayne smile, but something quieter. Something real.

“Miss Monroe,” he said, “would you dance with me after your speech?”

She tilted her head, considering. Then, with dry amusement: “You’ll need to count. I don’t slow dance with amateurs.”

“Lucky for me,” he replied, “I’m a quick study.”

A tap on Clara’s shoulder broke the moment.

“Ms. Monroe,” a young coordinator said, nervously clutching a clipboard. “They’re ready for you.”

Clara nodded, her expression changing—still soft, but focused. She turned toward Bruce, who hadn’t moved.

“Wish me luck,” she said lightly.

“You don’t need it,” Bruce replied. “They do.”

He watched as she moved toward the stage with practiced grace, her cane tapping quietly against the marble floor, the crowd parting without her asking. She mounted the stairs with ease, guided by the faint rustle of someone whispering stage directions.

Then the room dimmed.

A spotlight clicked on.

Clara stood at the podium—calm, centered. Her pale dress caught the light like moonlit silk, but it was her stillness that commanded attention. The murmuring crowd fell silent.

She didn’t look out over the room. She didn’t need to.

“My name is Clara Monroe,” she began, voice even and strong. “Some of you may know me from the Narrows Legal Aid Project. Others may have seen me walking into courtrooms with clients no one else will defend.”

A ripple of murmurs passed through the crowd. Bruce, near the front, remained still.

“I was asked to speak tonight about justice. But justice is a slippery thing in Gotham. Sometimes, it’s bought. Sometimes, it’s buried. Sometimes, it’s worn like a mask.”

Her voice didn’t rise, but it cut. Clean.

Bruce’s expression didn’t shift. But something in his jaw tightened.

“I’m currently representing a woman who came to me with no money, no protection, and no voice. Her husband—powerful, connected, beloved—has made threats. Directly. And indirectly.”

She paused. A long silence.

“A brick shattered my window. There was a message on it. ‘Drop the case.’”

A hush swept the room.

“I didn’t. I won’t.”

Now her voice rose—not in anger, but in clarity.

“I stand here tonight because justice isn’t about winning. It’s about standing up, even when you’ve already been knocked down. Especially then. Gotham doesn’t need more speeches. It needs courage.”

Her fingers curled lightly on the edges of the podium. Her face was turned toward the sound of the crowd, listening for their breath, their silence, their hearts.

“I don’t care how many bricks they throw. My client deserves the truth. And I intend to see it brought into the light. No matter who’s standing in the way.”

A beat.

“I thank you for your time. And I hope—truly hope—that some of you are listening. Not just tonight. But after.”

She stepped back. The applause started slow—hesitant. Then it grew. A thunder that filled the room, though some clapped with guilt, others with reverence, and a few with fear.

Bruce didn’t clap at all.

He simply watched her descend the steps, her chin high, her shoulders steady, her cane tapping once—twice—like a heartbeat on stone.

And for the first time in a long while, Bruce Wayne realized he wasn’t just intrigued.

He was moved.

The music had changed.

The crowd had thinned slightly—politicians slipping away for backroom deals, donors congratulating themselves in corners. Clara had spoken already—clear, sharp, unflinching. She didn’t shout or plead. She told the truth the way a blade tells flesh it has arrived.

Now, under the softened lighting and the low hush of strings, Bruce found her again.

She stood near one of the tall windows, alone, one hand resting lightly on the cane beside her. The evening lights of Gotham glittered like distant fire through the glass, but her face was turned inward, calm. Unreadable.

He approached without ceremony.

“You promised me a dance,” he said quietly.

Clara turned toward his voice, her head tilting slightly in amusement. “I said I’d let you try.”

Bruce smiled. “That’s the closest thing to a yes I’ve had all night.”

She extended her hand, fingers elegant and sure. “Count for me.”

He took her hand carefully, not like a man taking possession, but like a man accepting something rare.

They stepped onto the floor together—just the two of them now, as the quartet slowed into something older, softer, less formal. A waltz disguised as something more intimate.

Bruce guided her with deliberate subtlety. “Left… now back… good. You’ve done this before.”

She smiled faintly. “I learned by listening. The Narrows doesn’t have many ballrooms, but there’s music in the streets.”

They moved slowly, deliberately. Bruce didn’t hold her too tightly—he let her steer by pressure and presence, allowing her to read him the way a blind woman reads a page: through fingertips and faith.

Around them, the crowd receded. For a moment, Gotham didn’t exist. Just her breath near his collarbone, her fingers resting lightly against his shoulder.

“You’re quieter tonight,” Clara murmured. “Less… Wayne.”

“I think you’ve seen through that act,” he said. “It gets exhausting, trying to fool someone who doesn’t even need her eyes to see.”

She let out a soft breath that might’ve been a laugh. “You sound tired.”

“I am.”

They turned in slow orbit beneath the chandelier. Her fingers flexed slightly on his shoulder, grounding them.

“I don’t usually let people close,” Bruce said.

“I know.”

Another slow turn.

“You let them think it’s because you’re aloof. Or above it. But it’s not that.”

“What is it, then?” he asked.

“You’re afraid you’ll start to feel something real. And then everything you’ve built—everything you’ve buried—it might come back.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

She had already felt the flinch in his breath.

After a beat, her voice softened. “You don’t have to keep pretending with me.”

Their steps slowed. The music dipped lower. His hand at her back lingered.

“You’re dangerous,” Bruce said finally.

Clara smiled. “Because I’m blind and still manage to see you?”

“Because I want to be seen.”

For one long moment, their bodies were still. Close, but not yet touching in the way that meant surrender. The orchestra’s final notes faded like memory.

Bruce stepped back first, but not far.

He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it gently.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?” Clara asked.

“For making me real. Even just for one song.”

Chapter Text

chapter 23 start of something new

The Verdict

The coffee had gone cold, forgotten on the café table between her and Jonah.

Clara had been calm—calmer than she expected to be. Jonah had joked about his coffee being too expensive and too weak, but he watched her closely, protective beneath his usual sarcasm. He had tried to talk her out of walking to court alone. She’d said no.

She always said no to things like that.

Now, hours later, the courtroom echoed with the fading footsteps of reporters and onlookers. The gavel had long since fallen.

Lila Monroe v. Charles Morrison. Judgment in favor of the plaintiff.

Clara stood still, one hand brushing the edge of the plaintiff’s table. Her breath was steady, but her pulse roared like traffic behind her ribs. The courtroom emptied slowly—buzzing voices, camera flashes, heels clicking. A few handshakes, back pats, mumbled congratulations. None of it really touched her.

Lila had wept in her arms. The woman was gone now, whisked away by Jonah and an officer who promised discretion. Clara hadn’t moved.

The bench in front of her was still warm from where Lila had sat.

She let herself feel it, finally.

Not the win—not the legal victory, not the clever cross-examinations or the careful threading of precedent and testimony. No. She felt the weight. The scar tissue. The blood and brick and fear it took to get here. And she felt it lift, just slightly.

She was alone now.

Until she wasn’t.

“Did you come just to gloat?” she asked, without turning around.

Bruce’s voice came soft, amused. “You’re assuming I wasn’t here the whole time.”

She turned, slowly. He was standing in the archway, hands in his coat pockets, face unreadable. A few people still lingered behind him in the hall, pretending not to glance back. She tilted her head.

“Let me guess. Back row. Sunglasses. Pretending to text.”

“Close,” he said. “Third row. No sunglasses. I like to actually watch people when they’re brilliant.”

She blinked once, eyes narrowing behind the dark lenses.

“Be careful, Wayne. You’re sounding impressed.”

“I am.”

She hesitated, not because she didn’t believe him—but because something about the warmth in his tone made her chest tighten. Bruce Wayne, master of masks. But right now, she wasn’t hearing the mask.

He took a step closer, then another, crossing the courtroom slowly.

“You were extraordinary today,” he said.

“I was angry today,” she countered, but her voice softened.

He nodded. “Same thing, sometimes.”

Silence fell between them. Not awkward—just weighted. Something unspoken drawing taut between them like thread.

Then Bruce cleared his throat, quiet and deliberate.

“I was wondering…” He trailed off slightly. “If you’d consider dinner. Tonight. To celebrate. My treat. No press, no photographers.”

She tilted her head again, studying him behind her shades.

“You sure it’s not too soon to be seen fraternizing with Gotham’s latest public menace?”

He almost smiled.

“I’m counting on it.”

That earned him a soft laugh. Clara looked down at her hands, still lightly dusted with courthouse chalk and ink. Still shaking.

She thought of Harvey, once too sharp and too bright for this city, and Rachel, who had run when she realized the cost of staying. People who had believed, but not long enough. Gotham swallowed faith like it swallowed light.

And yet, Bruce was here. Still in the city. Just like her.

She exhaled.

“I don’t drink,” she said. “And I hate expensive restaurants.”

“I’ll find bad food and no wine,” he offered. “Just give me an hour of your time.”

Clara hesitated.

Then nodded.

“One hour,” she said.

And this time, when she turned to leave, he fell in step beside her—no fanfare, no cameras, just two people walking quietly out of a courtroom, into the late Gotham afternoon, the weight not gone, but shared.

The restaurant wasn’t the kind people wrote about.

It was tucked between a boarded-up tailor and an old bodega in the East End—low lighting, cracked tile floors, and a chalkboard menu that hadn’t changed since the 90s. There was no maître d’, just a man named Luis who gave Bruce a nod and Clara a cautious smile.

Bruce held the door, watched her navigate the uneven step with practiced grace. She didn’t stumble—she never did. Her cane folded beneath her arm, unused. She had a memory for space that impressed him more than she’d ever let him admit.

They sat at a booth in the back, far from the window, near the kitchen where it was warm and smelled like garlic and history.

“I used to come here with Alfred,” Bruce said, picking at the corner of a paper napkin. “He hated the place. Said it was where gastrointestinal tracts went to die.”

Clara smirked. “Charming.”

“I liked it,” he added. “No one asked questions. You could eat and not be watched.”

She ran her fingers along the edge of the table, her expression unreadable. “So this is your idea of celebrating? Bringing a blind woman to a hole-in-the-wall with tripping hazards?”

“You said no press and bad food. I delivered.”

Clara laughed. It surprised them both—light and real, escaping her like it hadn’t been given permission. She shook her head and relaxed slightly into the seat, her coat still wrapped around her like armor.

They ordered. Pasta. Bread. Tea for her, something stronger for him that he barely touched.

For a while, they didn’t talk.

It was strange how comfortable it was.

Then: “You’ve been watching me,” Clara said quietly, not accusing—just naming it.

Bruce didn’t deny it.

“You’ve been watching me, too,” he replied.

She nodded slowly. “You play a good drunk billionaire, Bruce. But I’ve met enough of those to know the difference.”

He arched a brow. “Should I be flattered or worried?”

“Neither,” she said, setting down her tea. “Just… curious. Why keep watching?”

Bruce leaned back in the booth, his eyes narrowing—not guarded, but thoughtful.

“You don’t flinch,” he said at last. “Most people… they flinch when Gotham bares its teeth. You lean in.”

Clara tilted her head slightly. “Is that a compliment or a warning?”

He considered that. “Maybe both.”

She let silence fall again, unbothered. The light caught her face in an odd angle—her eyes unfocused, expression soft, tired but not defeated.

“I don’t like this city,” she said suddenly. “It takes too much. Swallows too many good people. Rachel, Harvey, Lila… they all tried to build something here and got buried under it.”

Bruce looked down.

“I stayed,” he said quietly.

Clara didn’t speak for a moment. Then, “Why?”

“I couldn’t leave.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No,” he agreed. “It’s not.”

Her expression shifted—something behind it softened, then sharpened again. “You don’t owe this city anything, Bruce.”

“Yes, I do,” he said without hesitation. “But I don’t know if it can still be saved.”

She looked toward the sound of his voice, blind eyes burning like they could see more than they should. “Then maybe we don’t save it. Maybe we just… hold the line. Make sure it doesn’t get worse.”

Their food arrived. Neither touched it.

Bruce watched her across the table, and for a moment, he forgot about the layers they wore, the names they used to cover the truth.

She wasn’t just Clara Monroe, the civil rights attorney.

And he wasn’t just Bruce Wayne, the billionaire playboy.

They were something else. Something quiet and broken and still standing.

“I wasn’t expecting dinner to turn into a philosophy debate,” he said, reaching for his glass.

Clara smiled faintly. “Then you shouldn’t have invited a lawyer.”

He laughed—low and real. It felt unfamiliar in his mouth.

She heard it, and leaned just slightly forward.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“For seeing me.”

And for once, Bruce didn’t have anything clever to say. He just looked at her. Quiet. Steady. A storm pulling inward.

The cold hit them the moment they stepped outside. A sharp Gotham wind that carried the smell of rain, exhaust, and brick. Bruce shrugged deeper into his coat. Clara didn’t. She walked ahead slightly, cane in hand, moving with purpose—not needing to see to know where she was going.

Bruce didn’t ask where. He just followed.

They crossed blocks in silence, past shuttered shops, flickering neon, the echoes of late-night laughter in alleys. Clara was a shadow in motion—dark coat, quiet feet, weaving between cracked sidewalks and city scars like she was part of the architecture.

Finally, she stopped.

A rusted red door, paint peeling like old scabs, sat beneath a busted lamp. A hand-painted sign above read Frankie’s, barely visible. Bruce blinked. He knew this place—sort of. He’d passed it before. A gym that never advertised. Cash-only. Open odd hours.

Clara ran her hand over the doorframe before knocking twice. A moment later, a bolt shifted and the door creaked open. She stepped inside without hesitation.

Bruce followed.

The gym smelled like sweat and leather, liniment and determination. Fluorescents buzzed overhead. The ring was small, rope frayed, a heavy bag still swinging like someone had just walked out.

Clara walked the perimeter like it was familiar ground. Her hand brushed the rope.

“She used to wrap my knuckles too tight,” she said softly, breaking the quiet. “Frankie. Sister Francesca. She wasn’t like the others.”

Bruce leaned against the wall. “A nun?”

Clara gave a small nod. “Taught self-defense in the back room of the orphanage. Said if God wouldn’t show up for us, we’d have to teach Him how to fight.”

That pulled a surprised laugh from Bruce.

Clara smiled faintly. “She used to take in girls from the street. No questions. Just gloves and water and time. She showed me how to hit back. And how not to hit first.”

Bruce studied her in the pale light. Her hands traced the edge of the ring again.

“You said she wasn’t like the others,” he said. “What happened to her?”

“She got stabbed by a pimp trying to drag one of the girls out. Lost too much blood before help came.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened.

“I stayed,” Clara said quietly. “I kept the gym open. I kept the gloves wrapped. I didn’t want it to end with her.”

The words hung there, heavy.

Bruce stepped closer—not touching her, just close enough to share the warmth between them. “Ghost started here?”

Clara nodded once. “The mask makes it easier. The city doesn’t see a blind woman. It sees what it fears.”

“You’re not afraid?”

“I’m always afraid,” she said. “I just go out anyway.”

Bruce looked around. The dim space, the battered bags, the echo of something sacred and rough in the bones of this place. It made sense now. Clara made sense.

She turned toward him, blind eyes tilted upward. “You thought I was just reckless.”

“I thought you were impossible,” he admitted.

“And now?”

Bruce took a breath. The city hummed outside, but in here, everything felt still. Real.

“Now I think you’re one of the only people who hasn’t run from Gotham for good reason.”

She tilted her head. “Neither have you.”

Their silence stretched, weighted with mutual knowing. Neither said the names they wore after midnight. They didn’t have to.

“You’re not what I expected,” she said.

“What did you expect?”

“Someone lonelier.”

Bruce paused. Then, quietly: “Maybe I was. Until tonight.”

For a moment, something unspoken passed between them. Clara reached up and gently tapped the rope again, a signal—time to leave.

But Bruce didn’t move.

Neither did she.

“Come back tomorrow,” Clara said suddenly. “I could use someone to hold pads.”

Bruce smiled. “I warn you, I don’t make a good sparring partner.”

Clara smirked. “I don’t need good. I need real.”

And for the first time in a very long time, Bruce Wayne didn’t feel like he was pretending.

Alfred found him in the conservatory.

Bruce was seated by the tall windows, coffee cooling on the table beside him, untouched. He wasn’t reading the paper, though it was open. He wasn’t on his phone. He was staring—through the glass, through the garden, beyond.

Which meant, Alfred thought with a sigh, that he was thinking.

Dangerous business, that.

“Trouble in the Narrows?” Alfred asked, setting a fresh cup of tea down next to the cold coffee.

“No,” Bruce said absently, then blinked, registering his surroundings again. “No. Nothing… urgent.”

Alfred’s brow rose. “So not urgent, just brooding with purpose. Must be Thursday.”

Bruce gave him a faint, crooked smile.

Alfred straightened the papers Bruce hadn’t been reading and sat across from him.

“You’ve been awfully… contemplative since that gala,” Alfred continued. “And not the usual ‘I wore a tux and now I hate myself’ kind. No, this is new. Lighter. Dare I say—almost human.”

Bruce didn’t answer. Just sipped his coffee finally, trying (and failing) not to smile.

Alfred’s eyes narrowed. “So it is the lawyer.”

Bruce set the mug down with a soft clink. “Her name’s Clara.”

“I’m aware,” Alfred said dryly. “She’s the one who roasted three billionaires on stage with a smile and a cane, then accepted a standing ovation like she couldn’t hear them. Rather inspiring, really.”

Bruce exhaled through his nose, amused. “She’s… sharp.”

“She’s sharp enough to carve through your armor,” Alfred muttered. “And that’s saying something. Took me a decade and a blowtorch.”

Bruce shot him a warning look, but Alfred wasn’t done.

“You walked her to court,” he added, gesturing vaguely with his teacup. “You had coffee on the courthouse steps like a man in a rom-com. And don’t think I didn’t hear about the gym.”

Bruce arched a brow. “You have a wiretap on the Narrows?”

“Don’t insult me. I have eyes. And staff.”

Bruce leaned back in the chair, not answering right away.

“I think she suspects,” he said finally.

Alfred gave him a look. “Of course she does. She’s blind, not oblivious.”

That got a laugh. Bruce shook his head. “She doesn’t want protection. She doesn’t want charity. She barely wanted dinner.”

“Which is precisely why you like her,” Alfred said. “She doesn’t orbit you. She walks her own path—and God help anyone who tries to move her off it.”

Bruce looked down at his hands.

“She’s been through hell,” he said quietly. “She’s still standing.”

Alfred nodded. “Yes. And she’s not looking to be saved.”

Bruce was silent.

Alfred sipped his tea. “But that doesn’t mean she wouldn’t like someone to walk beside her now and then.”

Bruce glanced up. “Are you giving me dating advice now?”

“I’m saying,” Alfred said, standing with his cup, “if you’re going to skulk around this manor staring into the middle distance, you might as well bring her over and give me something interesting to set the table for.”

Bruce gave a small, lopsided smile. “She’d probably lecture you on underpaid staff and sustainable cutlery.”

Alfred paused, deadpan. “Perfect. We need the challenge.”

As he walked off, Bruce looked out the window again.

The Narrows was miles away.

But her voice—measured, fierce, steady—was already echoing in his head.

Chapter Text

chapter 24 unknown

The pain didn’t bother her so much.

It was the stillness. The forced quiet.

Clara hated being still.

She felt the cot beneath her body—too clean, too quiet, too alien. The hum of machinery told her she wasn’t in any hospital. The air was cooler, dry, smelling faintly of oil, metal, and something older—stone, maybe. She shifted, winced, and felt the sharp pull in her thigh.

“You should stay down,” came his voice. Familiar. Low. Rough.

She smiled faintly. “We both know I won’t.”

“You lost a lot of blood,” Bruce added, and this time the concern edged into the open.

“You brought me here,” she murmured. “Big move.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” he said. “You would’ve bled out in the Narrows.”

She turned her face toward the sound. “Not arguing.”

A beat of silence passed between them.

“You always this quiet when someone nearly dies?” she asked gently, tilting her head.

“I’ve lost people down there before,” Bruce said.

She shifted again, propping herself up slightly with her elbows. “How bad?”

He hesitated. “Deep. Missed the artery by half an inch. You’ll need weeks. Maybe more.”

She cursed under her breath. “Damn it. That’ll set me off the street for months.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Because it is.” She touched the bandage lightly, fingers tracing the outer edge. “Not my first scar.”

Bruce didn’t respond immediately, but she felt the shift—the way he leaned in closer, studying the wound like it was a story half-forgotten.

Clara tilted her face toward him again. She couldn’t see his expression, but she could feel the truth in his voice.

Still, he reached for her hand. She felt his fingers, calloused and steady, brush over hers. She didn’t pull away.

He touched her fingers again—an affirmation, a grounding point. Clara’s hand moved toward his, tentative but certain. She ran her fingertips up his wrist, toward the edge of his forearm. It was how she read people—through movement, through breath.

“You’re always so quiet,” she whispered.

“I could say the same about you.”

Footsteps echoed behind them. Clara’s head tilted slightly. She already knew who it was, though she kept her expression neutral.

“I thought I heard stubbornness echoing off the cave walls,” came a dry, amused voice. “Figured I’d bring reinforcements.”

The scent of bergamot preceded Alfred’s arrival, along with the comforting clink of fine china. He approached with a tray balanced in one hand, as composed as always—one brow slightly raised as he took in the sight of Bruce finishing the dressing.

“Miss Monroe,” Alfred said smoothly. “I thought a proper cup of tea might do more for your recovery than Master Wayne’s charming bedside manner.”

Clara smiled faintly, angling her head toward him. “Alfred, is it?”

He paused mid-step. Just a fraction. She felt it more than heard it.

“It is. Though I have a feeling you already knew that.”

She didn’t respond directly—just offered a noncommittal smile and reached for the teacup he held out. Her fingers brushed the handle with practiced grace.

“I’m good at putting things together,” she said. “It’s how I make a living.”

“Hmm,” Alfred murmured. “Then allow me to commend your subtlety.”

Bruce, now standing beside the cot with arms crossed, shot them both a look. “Are you two bonding while I’m trying to save a life?”

“Looks like she’s the one saving your pride,” Alfred quipped, handing him a second cup. “Considering she dragged herself across two rooftops with a torn quad just to stop a gunfight.”

Clara took a sip of her tea, stifling a smile. “He’s mad because I beat him to the informant.”

Bruce gave her a dark look. “You fell on the informant.”

“I landed with intent.”

“Your leg’s not going to survive another ‘intent’ like that.”

Alfred folded his arms, mirroring Bruce’s stance with a smug air. “Didn’t you once infiltrate a triad stronghold with cracked ribs and a concussion?”

“That was different,” Bruce muttered.

Clara nodded solemnly. “Ah, so we’ve reached the ‘do as I say, not as I do’ portion of the lecture.”

Alfred sipped his tea, satisfied. “Hypocrisy suits him. Like his tailored suits. Very fitted. Not terribly breathable.”

Bruce groaned softly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can’t do this with both of you.”

“You never could,” Alfred said, and Clara’s grin returned, wide and easy.

She didn’t reveal what she remembered—another lifetime, perhaps, when Alfred had stood beside Bruce through fires and funerals and silences that never ended. She kept that knowledge locked behind her smile, her head angled just so. Let them believe she was only a lawyer, only a vigilante. Not someone who remembered how this cave used to echo with another kind of grief.

Alfred cleared his throat and set the tray on the side table. “You’ll be staying the night, of course.”

Clara raised a brow. “Am I?”

“Yes,” Bruce said, brooking no argument.

“I insist,” Alfred added, gentler but no less final. “The manor is far more comfortable than a rooftop. And we’re short on dramatic exits until your leg heals.”

Clara sighed, letting her back sink into the pillows. “Fine. But I’m not wearing a robe with the Wayne crest on it.”

“No one makes those,” Bruce muttered.

Alfred arched a brow. “Not since the last gala, at least.”

Clara chuckled into her cup, her shoulders finally starting to ease. Her body ached, her leg burned, and the cave’s lights hummed overhead—but there was warmth here. Unexpected. And for the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel like she had to disappear into the shadows before sunrise.

Let them think they knew her. She would play coy, wear the mask of the wounded crusader.

And maybe—just maybe—she’d stay.

She didn’t expect to find it.

There was a shift in the air when she stepped into the cave—subtle, like the hush before a storm or the intake of breath before a confession. Clara paused near the steel platform where her gear usually rested in a haphazard pile: gloves, reinforced cane, old combat jacket worn too thin to stop anything. But tonight, something else waited.

She tilted her head, listening first. No hum of machinery. No idle tools. But Bruce was there—she could feel it. Quiet as always, standing somewhere in the dark. Watching, weighing.

Clara moved slowly, her fingers trailing along the edge of the table until they brushed unfamiliar fabric. Thicker. Firmer. Not hers.

She exhaled, brow furrowing as she ran her hands over it—deliberate, tactile, discerning. Reinforced seams. Armored paneling at the joints. Flexible weave. High-quality material with memory under pressure. Something built not for show, but survival.

“You made this,” she murmured.

From the shadows behind her: “I adapted it.”

His voice was cool, uninflected. The usual.

Clara gave a breath of quiet amusement. “You adapted a bespoke suit that fits my exact measurements? That’s very subtle, Bruce.”

He didn’t take the bait. Just a pause.

“You needed something more durable,” he said, finally. “You’ve been getting hit too hard.”

She turned toward the sound of his voice. “You were watching?”

“I always watch the field,” he replied evenly. “That’s what I do.”

Her fingers moved over the shoulder, the ribs, mapping it. There was no embellishment, no flourish. Everything had a purpose. And still—somehow—it felt like a gift.

“I’m used to wearing things I’ve bled through,” Clara said, a small smile tugging at her lips. “This is… careful. It’s strange, wearing something made with care.”

Silence. Then: “You shouldn’t have to make do.”

Clara stilled, sensing the tension in the air, the things unsaid behind his neutral tone. “Well,” she said, letting her hand fall from the suit, “I don’t wear other people’s armor easily. Not since I was a teenager.”

“You’re not,” he said quietly, “wearing mine.”

She turned, facing the dark where she knew he stood. “No?” A tilt of her head. “Then whose is it?”

No answer.

She took a step closer, just one. Close enough to feel him shift his weight slightly, not away, but bracing—an unconscious defense. He had walls taller than Gotham’s skyline.

“So,” she said, breaking the silence. “Is this where you offer to spar with me? Train me up so I don’t get myself killed in your investment?”

His voice was almost dry. “If you want.”

“Are you always this emotionally repressed,” she asked lightly, “or is that just for me?”

Bruce didn’t answer. But she heard it—that flicker of breath that might have been a chuckle, buried under armor and self-restraint.

Clara reached back to the fabric again, brushing her fingers across the chest. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

His answer came after a beat. “It’s not charity.”

“I know,” she replied. “You’re just bad at asking people to stay safe.”

Another silence. Long enough that she wondered if he’d left the room—then, soft as a whisper: “I remember the scar on your leg.”

Clara’s smile faded, but not in sadness. She turned her face toward the memory. “Rachel,” she said. “When Joker rigged the building… I pulled her out. You helped Harvey.”

“I didn’t know it was you. Not then.”

A beat.

“I never thanked you for that,” Bruce said.

“She’s my friend. I’d do it again.” Her hand settled flat over the armor. “You didn’t owe me anything then, and you don’t now.”

But he stepped closer. Close enough that she could feel the heat of his body, the subtle shift of fabric, the way his presence wrapped around silence like a second skin.

He didn’t touch her. But he didn’t have to.

Neither of them moved for a long moment, each parsing the quiet differently.

Then, almost imperceptibly, his hand brushed hers—knuckles first. Like testing if she’d pull away.

She didn’t.

Their hands stayed there, touching lightly over the armor he made her. Something wordless passed between them.

It wasn’t trust.

But it was the beginning of something just as dangerous.

The scent of old wood polish and candle wax hung in the air as the morning light slanted through the stained glass, casting broken colors over the worn stone floor of the community hall. Clara sat near the back corner where she usually folded bulletins and sorted food pantry donations. Her hands worked quickly, methodically—comforted by repetition.

But she could feel it coming before she heard it. The shuffle of hesitant steps. The small cough meant to get her attention. The telltale crackle of a folded newspaper.

“Clara,” came Mrs. Diaz’s voice—sweet, sharp, and just loud enough to carry across the room. “Darling, did you know you’re on the front page of the Gazette this morning?”

Clara didn’t look up. She kept folding. “No. And I still don’t.”

She heard the paper flap open with great fanfare. “It’s a very nice photo! You and Mr. Wayne—oh, excuse me—Bruce—standing on the steps of St. George’s looking quite… friendly.”

Clara gave a small, polite smile. “That’s good. Friendly is nice.”

“You’re holding his arm.”

“He offered it,” Clara said lightly. “I’m blind. It’s functional.”

“His hand is over yours, sweetheart.”

Clara paused in her folding for half a beat. “Oh.”

Across the room, a few of the volunteers had clearly tuned in. Whispering rose and fell like waves. Someone coughed pointedly. She could feel their eyes—curious, gleaming.

“Have you been seeing him?” asked Marlene, the church secretary, whose tone suggested both mischief and maternal concern. “You know… seeing.”

Clara tucked a stack of leaflets under her elbow and rose to bring them to the bin, her cane tapping steadily in front of her. “I’ve… spent time with him.”

“Spent time,” Mrs. Diaz repeated, scandalized and delighted. “Is that what they call it these days?”

“Would you like me to call it something else?” Clara offered with a deadpan smile.

Laughter broke around the room. But the curiosity remained like an itch she couldn’t scratch.

“Is it serious?” someone else asked.

Clara hesitated. Not because she didn’t know how to answer. But because she didn’t think he did either.

“It’s…” she began, then trailed off. “We haven’t exactly talked about what it is.”

The room went quiet in a familiar, all-too-knowing way. Clara could feel the shift in mood like a temperature drop.

“Ah,” said Marlene, softly. “One of those.”

“We’re not not courting,” Clara said, a bit helplessly, “but we’re also not… labeling anything.”

“So he’s seeing you,” Mrs. Diaz declared, “but no titles. No statements. Just long glances and subtle arm-holding?”

Clara exhaled slowly. “Yes.”

“And he brings you to church.”

“I suppose.”

“Clara.” Marlene again, gentle but firm. “You’re either dating Bruce Wayne or Gotham thinks you are. Either way, people will keep asking.”

Clara offered a tight-lipped smile and gently raised her face. “Then I will keep dodging.”

More laughter. Someone clapped her on the shoulder in approval.

But inside, a quiet unease stirred. Because they weren’t wrong.

Bruce had been beside her more than once lately. A hand at her back, a steadying presence at her side. They’d fought together, bled together. He’d made her a suit. He’d bandaged her leg. He’d taken her to church.

But they hadn’t talked about what any of it meant.

And Clara had lived long enough to know that silence didn’t always mean safety.

Still, she slipped out later that day with her coat and cane, making a mental note to tell Bruce—half-jokingly, half-not—that if he didn’t want to define what they were, he really ought to stop giving the press the wrong idea.

Even if—some small part of her whispered—he wasn’t wrong.

The chapel was small, old stone and stained glass humming with the light of midmorning. The scent of wax and incense threaded through the air like memory. Clara sat two pews from the front, her cane resting beside her knees, her posture composed but not rigid. The Mass had already begun.

Father Eli’s voice carried clearly across the space — low, measured, shaped by years of sermons delivered to half-full pews. He was speaking of wounds, of the strange way grace could find its way in through even the worst ones. Of mercy not as a concept, but as a choice. Clara let the rhythm of his words wash over her, but her mind wandered.

She was tired. Still aching from the last patrol, though she’d hidden it well. The leg wrapped neatly beneath the fall of her coat still throbbed with every shift in her seat. She had come here for quiet. Reflection. Routine.

She heard him before she felt him.

A soft shuffle of tailored shoes, the breath of fabric shifting as someone stepped into the pew beside her. Clara didn’t move — didn’t need to. Her senses had sharpened with a lifetime of darkness. She knew the weight of the silence that followed, the careful stillness of someone large but trying to be small.

Bruce.

The scent of him—clean earth, something faintly metallic—mingled with the incense. Her fingers twitched where they rested against her coat.

She kept her gaze ahead, unseeing eyes fixed toward the altar as if she hadn’t noticed. But her pulse betrayed her.

What are you doing here?

It wasn’t suspicion, exactly. Just… unfamiliarity. This wasn’t his world, not truly. She knew that. Bruce Wayne was a myth in a suit, a shadow under Gotham’s skin. Even Batman preferred rooftops and violence to quiet sanctuaries.

And yet.

He stood beside her through the Liturgy. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t whisper. When the congregation stood, so did he. When they sat, he mirrored the movement with practiced ease. A part of her — the part still unhealed, still tangled in the memory of Joker’s fire and Rachel’s scream — wanted to ask him what he thought he was doing.

But another part of her… just listened. To the sermon. To his breath. To the impossible calm she felt with him beside her.

Father Eli spoke of sacrifice, of the way some people are built to bleed for others. That to carry the broken pieces of the world was not sainthood. It was survival.

Clara’s throat tightened. And still, she said nothing.

When the congregation rose for prayer, she felt Bruce’s hand brush her elbow — a ghost of a gesture, just enough to steady. Just enough to say I’m here.

Clara did not turn her head.

But she leaned — ever so slightly — in his direction.

Chapter Text

The house on Pelham Street had ivy trailing up the porch columns, wind chimes made of glass, and a crooked mailbox with faded hand-painted flowers. It also had an eviction notice taped to the front door — a bright red slap against the soft hues of the home.

Clara ran her fingers along the doorframe before knocking. The paint was flaking. The wood beneath felt tired but proud. Like someone who had held on longer than anyone expected.

A moment later, the door creaked open.

“Hello?” a warm, quavering voice called.

Clara smiled. “Susan Howell? I’m Clara Monroe. We spoke on the phone. From the legal aid office.”

“Oh—yes, come in, come in. You’ll have to forgive the clutter, I wasn’t expecting company so soon.”

Clara stepped inside, her cane tapping softly across the worn hardwood. The air smelled of cinnamon and lavender, and something fresh baking in the kitchen.

“I like clutter,” Clara said. “It means a house has been lived in. That’s always a good sign.”

Susan laughed — a kind, lilting sound. “You’d think that would matter more than it does these days.”

They settled at the kitchen table, Clara’s cane resting beside her chair like an old companion. Susan poured tea with practiced grace. Her hands trembled only slightly as she set down the cup in front of Clara.

“Milk and sugar?” she asked.

“Just milk, thank you.”

Susan nodded and poured it gently. “Your voice is so calm,” she said after a moment. “Like a radio host, or someone who’s lived three lives and still doesn’t raise her voice.”

Clara smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve found yelling rarely makes things clearer.”

Susan sat with a sigh, her teacup cradled in both hands. “I suppose you’ve seen the notice.”

“I did.”

“They want me to sell,” Susan said, voice soft. “To a developer. They’ve bought up every house on this block but mine. The others caved. But this—this was my parents’. I raised my son here. Buried my husband from here. It’s not just a house.”

Clara’s face grew still, listening with the kind of attention that made silence feel sacred.

“They sent someone by last week,” Susan continued. “Didn’t threaten me outright. But he stood on my porch and said it was dangerous for an older woman to live alone in this part of Gotham. Said I should think about what could happen.”

Clara’s jaw tensed. “That’s harassment.”

Susan met her gaze, even though Clara couldn’t see it. “They don’t care that I’m old. They care that I’m in the way.”

Clara reached across the table, her fingers resting lightly over Susan’s hand. “Then let me be in the way with you.”

The older woman blinked, startled. “That’s a lovely thing to say.”

“I mean it.” Clara’s voice was steady, low. “We’ll file for an injunction. Review the title chain. If they’ve tried to rezone this property without your consent, we’ll make noise. And I’ll see to it that whoever threatened you doesn’t come back.”

Susan stared at her for a moment, a flicker of curiosity in her warm brown eyes. “You seem like more than just a lawyer.”

Clara gave a small, secret smile. “I’ve worn other hats. But this one fits me well.”

They sipped their tea in a quiet pocket of peace, the wind chimes singing softly outside.

And later, when Clara stood on the porch again, her hand trailing along the railing, she made a quiet promise to the house — and to the woman inside.

I will not let them take this from you.

Because for Clara, the law was not just rules and statutes. It was a shield. A voice. And when the system failed, she had other ways of standing in the way of men who thought they could take what they wanted.

Let them try.

She would be ready.

The Gotham Legal Aid Office was a converted brownstone wedged between a shuttered laundromat and a pawn shop with flickering signage. Inside, Clara sat alone in the small back room they generously called the research library — really just an overworked heater, dust-thick law books, and the low hum of a half-functioning computer.

The scent of old pages and city air clung to the room, grounding her.

Her fingers tapped over the Braille display attached to the keyboard. A screen reader murmured softly in her earbud, guiding her through legislative databases, city housing codes, and the murky corporate filings of the development firm trying to push Susan Howell out of her home.

“KELSO URBAN DEVELOPMENT, LLC,” the reader intoned. Clara paused.

“Kelso,” she murmured aloud, filing the name away. She shifted to cross-reference the LLC with city planning records.

Kelso had been snapping up properties in Gotham’s East End for two years under a web of shell corporations. Quiet acquisitions. Demolitions. Promises of revitalization that never reached the communities they claimed to serve. No accountability. No meaningful oversight.

But one thread caught Clara’s attention.

A zoning variance request, submitted six months ago — and still pending approval.

She sat straighter. “So they don’t have the legal ground they’re pretending to.”

A knock at the door interrupted her, and her paralegal, Jonah, poked his head in. “Still at it?”

“Just getting started,” she said, not looking up.

Jonah glanced at the clock. “It’s 8 p.m.”

“They filed three eviction notices in the last month. And they’re targeting seniors, Jonah. People without the means to fight back. Susan’s just the one who said no loud enough.”

Jonah sighed and left her a thermos of coffee. “Yell if you need help suing Gotham’s third-richest man.”

Clara nodded absently. Her fingers returned to the keyboard.

She dove into Gotham Municipal Code, Section 12.84, regarding elder housing protections. It included specific language about “unconscionable pressure or coercion used to displace occupants over the age of sixty-five.” Violations could lead to injunctions, even civil penalties. She made notes on the tactile pad beside her, tracing bullet points with practiced ease.

Another case — “Ramos v. Metro Housing, 2009” — had set precedent for emotional distress damages when an elderly tenant was harassed into leaving without just cause.

Clara sat back, hands folded.

“You’re not going to scare her,” she whispered into the quiet room. “And you’re not going to scare me.”

Her fingers worked swiftly again, drafting a preliminary cease-and-desist for Kelso’s attorneys. The language was sharp, measured, but firm: any further contact with Ms. Howell would be interpreted as harassment and legally actionable.

She added a clause: “My client is not interested in selling her home. This communication serves as notice of her intent to retain full rights under the Gotham Housing Stability Act and all associated elder tenant protections.”

The law wasn’t always just. But it could be wielded like a blade if you knew where the soft spots were. Clara had learned to carve light into those gaps.

She felt around for her thermos, took a sip of the coffee Jonah had left, and smiled faintly.

Susan didn’t know it yet, but she had teeth on her side now.

Bruce looked up from the desk at the knock.

Lucius had long since gone for the day, the boardroom was quiet, and the skyline of Gotham shimmered past the glass walls in hues of steel blue and dying gold. The knock came again — not hesitant, not impatient — just… intentional.

He stood as Clara Monroe walked in, the echo of her cane a familiar, tapping rhythm against the marble floor.

In one hand she carried a tray with two coffee cups. Her head tilted slightly, listening to the space. Her mouth curled as though amused by something unsaid.

Bruce smiled.

“Clara,” he greeted, stepping forward. “Is this a social call, or are you staging a caffeine intervention?”

She lifted the tray with mock seriousness. “Both. You sounded like you hadn’t slept since the mayor’s gala. I brought reinforcements.”

“God bless you,” he muttered, taking a cup and gesturing to the leather chair across from his desk. “You’re quickly becoming Gotham’s most dangerous woman.”

Clara arched a brow as she lowered herself gracefully into the seat. “Because I brought coffee?”

“Because you brought it here.” He took a sip. “You realize you’re the one fueling the office gossip now.”

“Oh?” She sipped from her own cup with the faintest smirk. “And here I thought you were the scandal.”

“Depends who you ask,” Bruce said mildly, settling behind his desk, his gaze lingering on her face, the way her hand found the edge of her cup with such precision. “Some think I’ve finally found religion.”

“Mm. Poor Father Eli.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “And others think I’ve been ensnared by a mysterious blind attorney who moonlights in moral crusades and wears leather after dark.”

Clara tilted her head toward him, lips quirking. “Have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Been ensnared,” she said, voice soft but edged like glass.

A pause. The air shifted.

Bruce’s mouth twitched, part smile, part hesitation. “I think you already know the answer.”

Her brow lifted, but she said nothing. Just let the quiet settle between them like silk drawn over something unspeakable.

Bruce cleared his throat, retreating into safer territory. “So. Coffee and subtext aside — what brings you to Wayne Enterprises?”

Clara straightened, her tone professional but light. “I need access to Kelso Urban Development’s zoning filings and land acquisitions over the last two years. Public records aren’t enough. I think they’ve been laundering permits through subsidiary names, and the trail gets muddy around a Wayne-funded shell that went dormant last spring.”

He raised a brow, impressed despite himself. “You do realize you just casually accused one of my former holding groups of complicity in tenant harassment?”

“I’m not accusing you, Bruce,” she said evenly. “I’m asking for help. Unless you’re afraid the rumors are true and your tragic blind coffee date is actually out to bring down your empire.”

He leaned forward, eyes glittering. “You wouldn’t be the first woman in Gotham to try.”

“I’d just be the most charming.”

He laughed then, freely. “Fine. I’ll have Lucius pull what we can. Off the record.”

Clara nodded. “Thank you.”

“You’re relentless,” he added, almost admiring.

“I have clients who are scared. A woman who gave thirty years to a neighborhood, and now someone wants to bulldoze her life because her name’s still on the deed.” She paused. “Some of us don’t have the luxury of being cautious.”

Bruce looked at her, really looked at her, as if searching past the glasses and poise for the quiet fire he knew lived beneath it.

“You never stop pushing,” he said quietly.

“Neither do you.”

Another pause, taut and unsaid.

Clara smiled faintly, fingers tapping the lid of her cup. “I didn’t mean to make this awkward.”

“You didn’t.”

“We keep doing this,” she said, head tilted. “Circling.”

“I know.”

Her voice gentled. “What are we doing, Bruce?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Just studied her, unreadable as ever, but softened in ways she was starting to notice — in the stillness of his posture, the careful cadence of his words.

After a moment, he stood and moved around the desk, sitting on the edge close to where she was.

“We’re… not very good at talking, are we?”

“I think we’re very good at it,” Clara said, her smile returning, warm and edged with mischief. “We’re just very bad at saying what we mean.”

Bruce nodded slowly, gaze dropping to her hands, then rising again. “Then let me say this. I’m glad you’re here.”

The silence between them turned tender. Laced with all the possibilities neither of them dared yet name.

Clara reached for her cane, sensing the tension shift. “I should go. I have a deposition in the morning.”

Bruce stood with her, walking her to the door.

“Careful walking out,” he said. “The front lobby’s slick from the rain.”

“I’ll manage.” She smiled up at him. “Unless you want to give the rumor mill something more.”

He hesitated — then gently took her arm, guiding her toward the elevator.

“Let them talk.”

Clara didn’t answer.

But her smile said she agreed.

Clara felt them before she heard them — a shift in the noise behind her, footsteps that didn’t belong. The Narrows had its own rhythm, and she had learned it well. These were wrong. Too measured. Too patient.

She adjusted the grip on her cane and took the longer route — doubling back toward the bodega she passed earlier, past a broken fence, weaving through alleyways only someone who knew the Narrows would dare navigate. The footsteps followed.

Still too close. Still too careful.

She kept walking, unhurried, heart steady.

At the end of a narrow street, she turned a corner and stopped when she felt it: a presence behind her, blocking the way back. And another stepping into her path.

“Miss Monroe,” one of them said smoothly. “We’ve been meaning to talk.”

Her fingers tightened on the handle of her cane, but she didn’t lift it. Didn’t posture. She stayed still. Listening.

“What’s this about?” she asked evenly.

The man in front of her shifted his weight. His voice was calm, practiced. “We think you’re getting too involved in things that don’t concern you.”

“Susan Granger concerns me,” Clara replied. “She’s my client.”

A beat. The men didn’t move, but their presence loomed closer.

“Then consider this a friendly warning. Drop the case. Forget the name Kelso Urban. Or next time, we’ll be less friendly.”

Her jaw tensed. “You’re threatening a blind woman?”

One of them chuckled darkly. “Lady, we’re just asking nicely. Next time, who knows?”

Clara said nothing for a long moment. Inside, she burned. Her instincts screamed to fight — to lash out, to teach them that blindness didn’t mean weakness. She could land a hit faster than they expected. She could drop the one closest with a calculated strike to the knee and take the other off balance—

But she didn’t.

Instead, she drew a slow breath and lifted her chin.

“Next time, try not to smell like engine grease and cheap cologne. I could track you down blindfolded.”

The silence was sharp. The humor flickered out of their tone.

“We’re not joking.”

“And I’m not afraid of men who think intimidation is intelligence,” she said softly.

She didn’t move to attack. Didn’t lift the cane. She turned her head slightly, listening. Calculating.

“I won’t say it again,” the first one warned.

“You don’t need to,” Clara said, her voice quiet but sure. “I heard everything I needed.”

Then, slowly, she walked forward — straight past the one in front of her. He shifted, almost reflexively, but didn’t stop her. Maybe it was the way she held herself. Maybe it was the fact that she didn’t flinch.

They let her pass.

She didn’t run. Didn’t show fear. Only when she turned the corner and felt their presence no longer shadowing her did she let out the breath she’d been holding.

She could’ve fought. But she hadn’t.

Because Clara Monroe didn’t hit first — not unless she had to.

Restraint wasn’t weakness. It was power — tightly held, carefully measured. She could be dangerous. But tonight, she chose not to be.

The judge’s chambers were paneled in dark oak and smelled faintly of old paper and coffee. Clara stood near the window, hand resting lightly on the back of a chair, the early morning sunlight streaming through the blinds as if to underline her presence.

She wasn’t dressed to impress—her clothes were sensible, tailored, the cane in her hand simple but polished—but there was something about Clara Monroe that commanded attention when she spoke. Not volume, not force, but clarity. Purpose.

Across from her, opposing counsel—a tall, silver-haired man named Redmond—shifted with the mild discomfort of someone used to winning by attrition.

“The property isn’t zoned for residential care,” he said, his tone oily with practiced detachment. “There’s no legal obligation for my clients to keep one stubborn woman in her home.”

Clara tilted her head slightly. “Her name is Susan Granger. She’s lived there since 1964. She raised two children in that home, lost her husband there, built her entire world around those walls. Your clients don’t need that property. They want it. That’s not the same thing.”

Judge DeWitt looked over the rim of his glasses. “Miss Monroe—”

“I know the law,” Clara said firmly, “and I know the zoning loophole they’re exploiting. But I also know Gotham statutes allow us to argue precedent based on hardship and longevity of tenancy. Especially with seniors. Especially when the eviction is strategic.”

Redmond scoffed. “With all due respect, that’s thin, Counselor.”

“So is the foundation of your client’s claim,” Clara answered smoothly. “But here we are.”

Judge DeWitt tried and failed to suppress a smirk.

“I assume,” the judge said, folding his hands, “you’re both requesting a hearing.”

“I am,” Clara said. “As soon as the court allows.”

Redmond reluctantly nodded.

“Fine. We’ll put it on the docket for next week.”

Clara’s fingers tightened briefly on the chair. “Thank you, Your Honor.”

As they filed out, Redmond muttered something under his breath. Clara didn’t rise to it. She didn’t need to.

Out in the hall, a younger law clerk tried to catch up to her. “Miss Monroe—Clara, you really think you can win?”

She smiled, the expression soft but steady.

“I don’t take cases I don’t believe in,” she said simply. “And I don’t walk into court unless I know who I’m fighting for.”

Her cane tapped lightly on the tiled floor as she headed down the corridor, coat brushing around her legs like a cape.

In the world of Gotham’s law, Clara Monroe didn’t shout to be heard. She simply spoke—and people listened.

Clara’s office smelled faintly of lemon tea and old books. The afternoon light slanted in through the high windows, casting a golden glow on the case files spread across the desk. A small space, modest, but warm—lined with shelves, a soft rug underfoot, and a pot of lavender by the door that Susan had noticed on her way in.

Susan Granger sat opposite Clara, her worn hands folded neatly in her lap. She wore a floral scarf today—bright violets and sun-bleached green, something that still clung to spring even as Gotham’s skyline loomed gray through the window. Clara could feel her hesitance. Nervous fingers playing with the edge of the scarf. A heart that had braved many storms and was still learning how to fight for itself.

Clara sat quietly, her fingertips tracing the edges of a Braille file on her desk, listening first. She’d learned that silence was sometimes a greater kindness than speech. It gave others space.

Susan finally broke it. “You remind me of my husband,” she said, voice soft. “He was calm like you. Never raised his voice. Not even when he should’ve.”

Clara tilted her head, smiling gently. “Was he the one who found the house?”

“He built it,” Susan said with quiet pride. “With his own two hands. One room at a time. We had nothing then—he used scrap wood, old bricks from demolition sites. But it was ours. Every nail, every coat of paint. We used to dance in the kitchen on Friday nights. No music. Just… quiet.”

Clara’s expression shifted, caught in the shadow of that image. “That’s a kind of wealth most people don’t understand.”

Susan nodded. “He passed in that house. In the same room where he proposed. I think about that sometimes—how many lives can be lived in four walls. These people trying to take it away… they don’t know.”

Clara reached across the desk, her fingers brushing Susan’s hand. “Then let’s make them listen.”

Susan looked down, her throat working as she fought emotion.

“I’m not used to fighting,” she said after a moment.

“I am,” Clara replied, her voice quiet but certain. “But it means more when you do it beside someone who has something to fight for.”

She stood, and walked around the desk, her cane moving lightly. She offered her hand, gently helping Susan to her feet.

“We’ll go over your testimony one more time,” Clara said, guiding her to the small seating area by the window. “But don’t memorize it like a script. Just speak like you did just now. Tell them about him. Tell them about the house. People forget that truth has its own kind of power.”

Susan smiled, tearful but steadier.

“Do you ever get scared?” she asked quietly.

“All the time,” Clara replied. “But I’ve learned fear doesn’t get to make the decisions.”

They sat together for a while, the noise of the city below muted by the glass, sharing tea and the quiet trust that can only form between two people who understand loss—and the stubborn hope that sometimes rises from it.

Chapter Text

Chapter 26

The gavel struck once, sharp and final.

Clara didn’t flinch. But she heard Susan’s quiet gasp beside her, felt the older woman’s trembling hand on her arm.

“We won,” Susan whispered, voice threaded with disbelief. “Clara, we won.”

The courtroom was thinning fast. The opposing counsel—stiff and silent throughout the final arguments—barely made eye contact as he packed his briefcase and strode out with practiced detachment. No rebuttal. No stalling motions. Not even the clipped, obligatory handshake.

Clara sat still, hands folded over her cane, her jaw tense as the words echoed in her head. We won.

She should’ve felt triumph. Pride. Relief.

Instead, a strange hollowness settled low in her gut. Like something forgotten in the dark, watching.

She stood, guiding Susan gently with her hand, offering calm encouragement, a steady voice. “You did beautifully up there. You told them what mattered.”

“They listened,” Susan said, her eyes glistening.

Clara smiled, but it didn’t reach her voice. “Yes,” she murmured. “They did.”

But why?

She’d expected resistance. The kind of backroom pressure she’d seen before—the last-minute motions, the legal technicalities, the sudden change in judges. Maybe even someone from Kelso Urban lingering near the courthouse doors in a tailored suit with a hard smile. But instead… silence.

They’d let it happen.

She turned her head slightly, focusing on the empty seats behind the bench. The shadows beneath the gallery rail. The silence felt too clean. Artificial.

No murmurs. No press. No threats after her opening argument. Not even a call warning her to walk away.

And Kelso Urban had never walked away quietly.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the curve of her cane.

Susan gripped her hand. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You don’t have to.” Clara forced a smile, but her heart beat slow and watchful. “You keep your home. That’s enough.”

They walked down the hall together, Susan chatting gently about what room she’d paint first, her dreams of restoring the garden. Clara nodded at all the right places, but her ears stayed tuned to every footstep, every shift in air.

Something didn’t sit right.

They’d won too easily.

And Clara Monroe knew all too well—Gotham never gave up anything without wanting something in return.

The phone rang just as she set down her mug, her fingers still damp from the chill of Gotham’s morning mist.

She hadn’t even taken her coat off.

“Monroe,” she answered, automatic, steady—until the voice on the other end faltered.

“This is Officer Dalca, Miss Monroe. I—” A pause, thick. Hesitant. “It’s about Susan Granger.”

Clara straightened, every muscle going taut. “Is she alright?”

A longer silence.

“I’m sorry. There was a robbery reported at her residence late last night. She—she didn’t make it. We have a suspect in custody. Said it was a break-in gone wrong.”

Clara barely heard the rest.

Her hand went slack. The phone fell into her lap as the world shrank to the sound of Susan’s voice echoing in her mind—soft laughter, hope about her garden, that moment in court when she’d whispered We won like it meant something.

Susan Granger. Dead.

The woman who had baked her banana bread for their prep meetings. Who had hugged her after the verdict. Who had finally, finally, felt safe in her home again.

Gone.

The grief didn’t come like a flood. It was colder than that. Sharper. It cut cleanly into her chest like glass.

Clara sat motionless in the quiet of her apartment, the shadows stretching long over her walls. Outside, the traffic buzzed like any other morning. Inside, something brittle cracked beneath her ribs.

And then came the anger.

She stood suddenly—too fast—gripping the edge of her desk to steady herself.

A robbery? No. Not Susan. Not now, just days after they’d won. Not a woman who had nothing anyone would bother to steal—except her house.

Except her land.

Clara’s jaw clenched, and her grip whitened on the desk’s edge.

Kelso Urban.

They’d backed off too easily. No appeals. No threats. Just silence. And now, Susan was dead.

They’d waited. Let her feel safe. Then struck where Clara couldn’t protect her.

And the police? They had a “suspect.” A name, probably someone desperate or disposable, placed like a pawn. A body to close the file.

It wasn’t justice.

It was a message.

Her hands trembled, but not with fear.

She walked to the window, blind eyes turned toward the pulsing hum of the city. Somewhere out there, men in boardrooms were sipping coffee over their quarterly reports, already deciding which family to break next.

Clara’s voice was a whisper, but steel-laced and unshakable.

“They want war? I’ll give them one.”

The precinct reeked of floor wax, cheap aftershave, and cold sweat.

Clara pushed through the front doors like a storm, her cane tapping sharp and fast. She ignored the uniform at the desk. The murmurs that followed her. She moved as if she could see straight through walls—see the rot she knew was festering inside.

“Clara!” Johan’s voice caught her before the sergeant’s did.

She paused, barely.

“I need a name,” she said. “Now.”

Johan stepped in front of her, his hand hovering near her shoulder—always gentle, never assuming. “They’re not going to let you talk to him. Not yet. They say it’s under control.”

Her laugh was hollow. “Control? Susan is dead.”

A quiet beat. Johan lowered his voice. “Clara—please. This won’t bring her back.”

“I’m not here to raise the dead,” she said, her voice clipped. “I’m here to make sure the one who killed her isn’t sent off to rot in a cell without answering for who sent him.”

He hesitated. “You think it’s Kelso Urban.”

“I know it’s Kelso Urban.”

She turned her head slightly, towards the murmuring near the back hallway. Somewhere past that wall was an interview room. Somewhere in there—the killer.

And then, she smelled it.

The sour tinge of stale cigarette smoke clinging to fabric. Oil and metal. Under it—cheap cologne. The same kind that burned at the edges of her memory like acid.

And the voice.

Even hushed behind walls, it had a pattern—low and sticky, a drag on syllables like he chewed every word before spitting it.

Her blood went cold.

“That’s him,” she said.

Johan blinked. “Clara—how could you—?”

“He followed me,” she said softly. “A week ago. Two men cornered me near Saint Andrew’s. One of them tried to scare me off Susan’s case. I remember his voice. The way his coat smelled. Burnt rubber and tobacco.”

She turned her face toward the glass wall separating the hallway from the bullpen. “I remember him.”

The noise behind the glass shifted—a scrape of chair legs, the rising snarl of that voice she couldn’t forget. It made her fingers tighten around her cane until her knuckles went white.

Johan exhaled, rubbing a hand through his hair. “I’ll see what I can do. Get the file. Maybe a look at the recording.”

“Don’t give me crumbs,” Clara snapped. Then softer: “Please. I need to know who paid him.”

“Clara…”

She shook her head. “If they can touch Susan, they’ll come for the next name on the docket. I can’t—I won’t let this be just another headline.”

Johan met her in the quiet space between anger and grief. He looked at her, really looked, the way she stood despite shaking. Despite a city that chewed women like her up and spat them out.

He reached for her hand. She didn’t take it, but she didn’t pull away.

“I’ll get you what you need,” he said quietly. “Just… promise me you’ll be careful.”

Clara didn’t answer right away. Her blind eyes lifted toward the interview room—toward the man who had threatened her, toward the chain of shadows that went farther than even she could feel.

“Careful,” she repeated, and her voice was bitter steel. “No. I’ll be prepared.”

The envelope wasn’t labeled. No name, no seal. Just manila, taped shut, and slipped under the office door sometime after midnight.

Clara felt it before she touched it. The faint hum of anticipation pressed into the paper’s edges like static.

She locked the door behind her, pulled the blinds halfway. There was a ritual to things like this—she’d learned it in a different life, long before she ever practiced law. Before masks. Before ghosts.

The small recorder inside was warm from a pocket. She ran her fingers along its surface and knew it was Johan’s—his was always slightly worn at the corner, from nervously rubbing it with his thumb.

She pressed play.

“I told you already, I don’t know his name.”

A voice. Male. Coarse, familiar. The man who had cornered her near Saint Andrew’s. The one who reeked of cologne and malice.

“You met him at a warehouse. You were paid to scare off Monroe. Then Granger ended up dead. That doesn’t look like a scare tactic.”

Another voice—calm, authoritative. Johan. He sounded tired.

“He said the job was clean. That it wouldn’t go that far. I swear.”

“Who is ‘he’?”

A long pause. Then the sound of a chair creaking. The suspect leaned forward, maybe. Clara could picture it even if she couldn’t see it. The way bodies shift under guilt.

“I don’t know his real name. He had a guy with him. But the trucks outside the warehouse—they had the Kelso Urban logo.”

Clara hit pause.

Her breath held for a count of five. Then she slowly exhaled.

There it was. The string. Not enough for court—not yet. But something real. Something dirty.

She leaned back in her chair. The recorder lay in her hand like a pulse.

Wayne Enterprises had the resources. Kelso Urban’s connections were tangled, layered behind dummy accounts and subcontractors. But if anyone could help trace where those trucks were parked, how the money changed hands—it was Bruce.

She didn’t want to need him. But it was bigger than pride now.

Her fingers hovered over her phone. Then she tapped out a message.

“I need to talk to you. Bring Lucius if you can. It’s about Kelso Urban.”

She didn’t wait for a reply.

Outside, Gotham moved as always—grim and grey and teetering on the edge. But inside her office, Clara sat still, listening to the faint echo of a man’s voice, the ghost of a warehouse, and the beginnings of a war.

She would fight it. Blind or not. Grieving or not. The world had taken Susan, but it wouldn’t take anyone else.

Not if she could help it.

Wayne Tower loomed above Gotham like a silent sentinel—glass, steel, and the careful illusion of invulnerability.

Clara stepped through the security gate without hesitation, her cane tapping lightly against the marble floor. She didn’t need sight to know how many people watched her enter. The hush of the reception desk. The rustle of a suited assistant whispering her name. The weight of curiosity bending around her shoulders like fog.

Lucius Fox met her at the private elevator.

“Miss Monroe,” he said, and she heard the faint warmth of a smile in his voice. “An honor.”

“Only if we’re not wasting your time,” she replied lightly. “Otherwise, I’m just a persistent nuisance with good posture.”

Lucius laughed, low and genuine. “You’d be surprised how often the latter leads to progress around here. Come on. Bruce is waiting.”

The elevator hummed upward, smooth as silk. Clara tilted her head slightly as Lucius updated her on the shell companies Kelso Urban used to route funds.

“We’ve been tracking movement through three subsidiaries, all recently activated. On paper they look like import/export, but they’re cycling properties through a laundering chain. We didn’t see the pattern until your case with Mrs. Granger. That… shifted our focus.”

Clara’s fingers tightened slightly on the cane. “She was just a woman who wanted to die in her own home.”

“And now,” Lucius said gently, “she might be the reason we stop something far bigger.”

The elevator doors opened to the quiet heart of Wayne’s inner sanctum—Lucius’s domain, all screens and interface panels. Bruce was already there, sleeves rolled, jaw tense, standing beside a projection of Gotham’s city grid.

She didn’t need to see his face to know he hadn’t slept.

“Clara.” His voice was clipped. But familiar.

She stepped in without hesitation, moving as if she belonged. “You got my message.”

“I did. Lucius pulled the logistics. I’ve been trying to match the delivery trucks to the permits filed last quarter. There’s a pattern—but we needed a name. The audio you got confirms who’s pulling strings.”

Lucius gestured to the hologram: a series of transactions blossomed outward from Kelso Urban like veins.

“The trucks the suspect mentioned left from a warehouse leased to ‘Braxton Holdings.’ They’ve changed names six times in four years. But follow the trail far enough, and it all leads back to Kelso.”

“And it’s enough to tie them to Granger’s death?” Clara asked.

“No,” Bruce answered. “But it’s a start.”

Lucius stepped closer to her, studying her face with a quiet curiosity.

“You always come this prepared, Miss Monroe?”

“I come stubborn,” she said. “The rest follows.”

He chuckled. “Well. Gotham could use a little more of that.”

There was a pause. Clara could feel Lucius’s approval—not pity, not curiosity masquerading as admiration. Something else. The recognition of steel.

Bruce said nothing. But when she turned toward his voice again, his silence was heavier than usual.

She reached into her bag, pulling out the recorder and offering it to Lucius.

“You’ll want the original file. Audio integrity matters more when the other side can afford good lawyers.”

Lucius took it, nodding with quiet appreciation. “You know your way around a case file and a battlefield.”

“Not always in that order.”

A ghost of a smile touched Bruce’s face. “She’s not wrong.”

Lucius looked between them, something glinting in his expression now—an understanding. “I see,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

“I’m right here, you know,” Clara said dryly. “Not just a strange legal bat someone tossed into the tower.”

That earned another soft laugh from Lucius. “No, Miss Monroe. You’re not a bat.” He gave Bruce a sidelong glance. “But I suspect you fly just fine.”

Clara raised an eyebrow, amused. “Is everyone in this building contractually obligated to speak in metaphors?”

“Only the ones who get things done,” Lucius replied.

Bruce finally spoke, tone quieter now. “We’ll dig deeper. And once we have something admissible, we bring it to Gordon.”

Clara nodded. “Good. Because I’m not burying another friend.”

Chapter Text

chapter 27

Rain hammered the windows of Wayne Tower like an impatient hand, drumming the city’s chaos against glass and steel.

Inside the secured sublevel, tension wound itself through the room like a live wire. Lucius Fox stood before a glowing terminal, lines of encrypted data cascading down. Bruce stood just behind him, suited down but unreadable. Clara sat stiffly, her crutches propped beside her chair, her leg elevated.

“They’ve been using Braxton Holdings as a shell,” Lucius said, eyes on the screen. “We finally got a leak from inside. Internal memos, payout schedules, even voice confirmation of Kelso’s orders. The last warehouse in the Narrows—block seventeen—is their physical archive. And it hasn’t been cleared out yet.”

Clara’s fingers tensed around the armrest. “That’s where Susan’s records would be. And probably dozens of other tenants.”

Lucius nodded. “We have one shot to intercept the hard files before they vanish.”

Clara exhaled slowly, her jaw tight.

“I’ll go,” she said.

“No.” Bruce’s voice was immediate.

She turned her head toward him, blind eyes narrowing. “I can handle—”

“You’re still healing,” he said firmly. “You can’t run. You can’t climb. You’d be dead weight in a fire escape scenario. You know that.”

Clara bristled but said nothing. The truth stung harder than the injury itself.

Lucius cleared his throat. “Clara… we’ll need you to coordinate with the legal team and media contacts. If this is going public, you’re the one they’ll listen to.”

But it wasn’t the same. Not being in the thick of it. Not seeing justice firsthand, with her own hands. She crossed her arms, restless.

“So what,” she muttered, “I just sit back while you two play night chess with criminals?”

Bruce stepped closer, voice gentler now. “You’re not sitting back. You’re trusting me.”

That silenced her more than anything else could have.

“I know how much this means,” he added. “To you. To Susan’s memory. I won’t fail her. Or you.”

Clara turned her face toward him, blind gaze steady, as if weighing the truth in his breath.

“You better not,” she said quietly. “Or I’ll limp into that warehouse and drag your cape back myself.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at Bruce’s mouth. “Understood.”

Lucius tapped the terminal. “I’ll handle the blackout window. You’ll have twenty minutes before Kelso’s private security rotates again.”

Bruce reached for the cowl.

Clara stopped him with a change in her voice, she doesn’t always use—soft, intimate, cutting through the hum of machines.

“Thank you.”

He paused, one hand resting on the cowl, his back to her.

Then he disappeared into the shadows of the hall.

Clara sat in silence, the scent of rain clinging to the room, heart pacing with the memory of her own mask. But tonight, it wasn’t hers to wear.

Not yet.

The press conference was chaos. Cameras clicked like teeth. Microphones jostled in the hands of eager reporters, their questions like darts, relentless and overlapping. Flashes lit up the podium as Clara adjusted the height of the microphone by touch, fingers careful and practiced. Her white cane stood beside her, unmoving as a sentinel.

She was blind. But she saw all of it.

The whispers about her relationship with Bruce Wayne. The speculation about her late-night associations. The scrutiny over her win in court against a corporation no one thought could be touched.

But when she spoke, Clara Monroe silenced them.

“Kelso Urban,” she began, voice unwavering, “operated under the protection of money, silence, and intimidation. They preyed on the vulnerable. On people who didn’t have the means or the power to fight back. People like Susan Granger.”

The name settled heavy in the room. Reporters leaned in. Somewhere near the edge of the crowd, Bruce watched—dark suit, dark eyes, hands clenched in his pockets.

Clara continued, letting no emotion crack her composure. “Susan came to me not just for legal aid. She came to me because she believed, even when it was easier not to. She believed the law should protect people like her. And I believed her. I still do.”

She took a small breath. She didn’t cry. Not here.

“The documents we’ve provided show a pattern of fraud, harassment, and collusion that goes beyond Kelso Urban. This is not just one company. It is a culture. And I intend to hold every last thread of it accountable.”

Questions came like storm rain.

“Miss Monroe, are you pursuing criminal charges—?”

“Were you threatened?”

“Do you have a comment on the rumors about your connection with Bruce Wayne—?”

Clara raised a hand, gently but decisively. “I am not the story. The tenants are. The evicted are. Susan is. You want a quote? Here’s one: people with money count on silence. We don’t owe them that anymore.”

A small ripple of applause came from the back.

Afterward, reporters still trailed her down the courthouse steps. Father Eli stood quietly near the base, eyes kind but wary. Bruce didn’t follow. Not yet. He stayed in the shadows.

Clara fielded questions with grace. Legally precise, morally firm. She gave no comment on her personal life. Not out of shame—out of sacredness. Whatever was brewing between her and Bruce, she didn’t owe that to anyone.

Later, in the quiet of her office, her desk stacked with case files and condolence letters for Susan, Clara sat with her cane leaned against her thigh and a coffee gone cold at her elbow.

She had won.

And it still didn’t feel like a victory.

The system didn’t fall with one exposed company. But it cracked. And she’d keep chipping.

When her phone buzzed again, it was another call from the DA’s office. She would return it. After she had a moment to breathe.

The Batcave was quiet, save for the low hum of monitors and the faint ripple of water echoing in the distance. Shadows carved around them like watchful eyes. Bruce had removed his jacket, sleeves rolled up, gloves off. Clara stood opposite him on the training mat, barefoot, cane set carefully against the console. Her breathing was even, her chin tilted slightly upward as if reading the air.

“You’re leading with your right,” she said, not a question.

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “You can’t see.”

Clara’s mouth quirked. “No. But I can hear the difference in your balance. Your right foot’s heavier. The fabric on your shoulder creaked first.” She flexed her fingers in front of her as if pulling invisible strings. “Sound. Pressure. Stillness. You taught yourself to vanish into the dark, Bruce. But you’re still human.”

He circled her, deliberately silent. She turned with him every time. As if tethered.

“Now you’re testing me.”

“I’m always testing you,” he said. It slipped out too easily.

Clara smirked and moved suddenly—quick and low, a feint at his knee. Bruce blocked it, then stepped in close, but she was already rotating, arm sweeping for his shoulder. He ducked, palm brushing her ribs, but not in time. Her elbow clipped his chest—lightly, deliberately.

“That would’ve been your ribs,” she said, backing up with careful precision. “But you knew that.”

Bruce grunted. “You’re slow today.”

Clara straightened. “I have a hole in my thigh the size of a playing card. I’m being polite.”

“You’re off-balance,” he noted.

Clara tilted her head. “You been watching me fight long, Mr. Wayne?”

He didn’t answer. She knew he wouldn’t. And she knew the answer anyway.

They circled again. This time, Bruce came in low—then pivoted without warning. He caught her wrist, not harsh, but swift. A heartbeat later he flipped them both, their weight shifting together, and Clara landed with a muted grunt on the padded floor, her back against the mat, Bruce braced above her. His breath touched her cheek. Her hand was pinned lightly beside her head.

For a moment, the world narrowed to silence. She didn’t flinch. Her brow twitched in something like faint surprise.

Then: “That was rude,” she murmured.

Bruce’s voice was quiet. “You were pulling your punches.”

“I told you, I’m injured.”

“No,” he said. “You’re protecting me.”

Clara gave a breath of a laugh. “And here I thought you liked to be underestimated.”

“I don’t like being handled.”

“And yet here we are,” she replied, her tone warm and infuriatingly calm. “You handled me. I’ll add it to the list of things you don’t talk about.”

His mouth twitched. “That list is longer than yours.”

“You still want to pretend there’s nothing between us?” she asked softly.

Bruce didn’t answer.

He stayed where he was, above her, their bodies balanced in a space that had held too much silence for too long. The hum of the cave faded into a kind of stillness—thick, knowing. Her hand was still pinned beside her head, not forcefully, just held, as if neither of them wanted to let go yet.

Clara turned her face slightly toward him. “I can hear your heart.”

Bruce’s jaw shifted, but he didn’t move. “Then you know it’s not steady.”

“I know.”

It wasn’t an accusation. It wasn’t even a question.

It was permission.

She reached up with her free hand, fingers finding the edge of his jaw, reading him like braille again—along the stubble, the tension behind his cheek, the quiet war in him.

“Bruce,” she said, soft and certain.

He didn’t speak. But he did lean in—finally, finally—his mouth brushing hers with the kind of careful restraint that only meant he’d been thinking about it for far too long.

And then restraint gave way.

The kiss was slow at first, unsure—not because they didn’t know what they wanted, but because naming it out loud would’ve made it real. Bruce didn’t let himself feel often, but when he did, it had gravity. Clara met him with equal weight, hand at his shoulder, anchoring him there.

When he pulled back, he didn’t rise. He just rested his forehead against hers, eyes closed, breathing steadying.

“This isn’t casual,” he said.

Clara gave a breath of a smile. “I’m blind, not oblivious.”

His brow touched hers again, gentler this time. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“You don’t have to,” she murmured. “We just don’t lie about it. Not to each other.”

They stayed like that, balanced in the quiet, breath for breath. No more pretending. No more circling.

Bruce’s voice was low, steady now. “Then we’re not pretending anymore.”

“Good,” Clara said, threading her fingers through his. “Because I was running out of ways to dodge questions at church.”

He let out a soft huff of a laugh and kissed her again, this time without apology.

And for once, neither of them pulled away.

The room was quiet in the way that only early morning could offer—still and sacred, touched by the faint blue-gray light that filtered through the tall windows. Rain had passed in the night, leaving the world damp and hushed outside, while inside, the silence wasn’t empty. It breathed.

Bruce lay on his side, one arm folded beneath the pillow, the other resting lightly against the shape beside him. For a man used to waking alone—alert, tense, already thinking five steps ahead—the unfamiliar comfort of warmth next to him was… disarming.

Clara was still asleep. Or pretending to be. He wasn’t entirely sure.

Her head rested on the pillow beside his, her dark curls half-shadowed, half-lit. Her face was relaxed in sleep—peaceful in a way she rarely allowed herself to be during the day, when her spine held too much memory, and her hands were always reaching for the next task. Now, her breathing was soft. Even.

Bruce let his fingers ghost across the edge of the sheets between them—close, but not touching. A reverence in hesitation. She wouldn’t see him watching her. But she’d know.

She always did.

As if on cue, Clara stirred, lips twitching faintly into a smirk. “You’re brooding too loudly.”

His mouth quirked. “I wasn’t aware that was audible.”

“Everything you do is audible when you’re holding your breath like that.”

Bruce exhaled, amused despite himself, and finally let his fingers trail along her arm—bare skin warm from sleep, fine hairs rising under his touch. He traced the line from her elbow to her wrist, then her fingers, which closed gently around his like they were used to it now.

They weren’t. Not yet. But they would be.

“You’re awake,” he said, voice lower in the morning rasp.

“Mm. Was I supposed to pretend?”

“I wouldn’t mind being the one who watches you sleep for once.”

Clara stretched slightly under the sheet, one leg shifting closer to his beneath the blankets. “Not sure there’s much to watch. I’m not exactly graceful when I’m unconscious.”

“You kicked me twice.”

“I was testing your reflexes.”

He smiled faintly. She always met vulnerability with humor. And he let her. Because this—this—was uncharted ground for both of them. No armor. No masks. No cave walls to echo their doubts back at them.

Just cotton sheets, breath, touch.

She reached toward him, unerringly accurate, her fingers brushing his jaw. Mapping him again. Her fingertips moved slowly—along the line of his cheekbone, his stubble, the faint scar just beneath his eye. The kind she didn’t need sight to find.

“You didn’t shave,” she murmured, thumb dragging lightly under his lip.

“I had a late night.”

“And you say I kick.”

He caught her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist, just once, just enough. Her breath hitched.

“You’re warm,” she said.

“You’re cold.”

“Trade?”

Bruce didn’t answer, just moved in a little closer, his arm slipping around her waist as she tucked herself into his chest. Her body fit against his like memory, like something half-forgotten but instinctively right. She pressed her ear to his sternum.

“I can hear your heart again,” she murmured. “It’s not racing.”

“No reason to.”

“Yet.”

Bruce’s hand moved slowly up her spine, fingertips tracing the knots of old tension that refused to let go, even in sleep. She was always carrying something, even now.

“I could get used to this,” she whispered.

The words were barely there. Almost like a test.

Bruce didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away.

“You should,” he said, kissing the top of her head.

A beat of silence passed. Then, dryly:

“Because Alfred made too much coffee and I don’t want him to think it was just for me.”

Clara chuckled against his chest. “So this is how it is, huh? One night of emotional honesty and suddenly I’m your cover story.”

“Alfred’s been waiting for years to catch me slipping,” Bruce said. “He’s earned some entertainment.”

She tilted her face up toward his, smiling. “You really want to face him together?”

He considered that, then leaned in, his nose brushing hers. “Let’s give him a heart attack. He’s due.”

Clara laughed softly, and for once, there was no darkness between them. Just light.

And morning. And the slow, astonishing weight of letting themselves belong.

Alfred Pennyworth believed in decorum, routine, and the restorative properties of a strong cup of tea. He had survived wars, assassins, three financial collapses, and the unfathomable chaos that was raising Bruce Wayne from emotionally constipated orphan to emotionally constipated vigilante.

But nothing—nothing—had prepared him for Clara Monroe.

She was polite, clever, irreverent in a way that danced just on the edge of blasphemous (which he secretly enjoyed), and blind in the most unbothered way Alfred had ever witnessed. She navigated the manor like a woman who’d lived there in a past life, tapping her cane once every twelve steps like punctuation. Somehow, she’d found the hidden hallway behind the west library faster than Bruce ever had.

And she teased.

God, did she tease.

Which brought Alfred to this morning, and to the not-so-subtle theatrics of two people who were very clearly not just friends, no matter how much they fancied themselves discreet.

He entered the manor kitchen carrying a tray of breakfast—the modest kind Bruce tolerated (egg whites, toast, coffee), and the indulgent kind Clara claimed as an “emergency” (cinnamon scones, fruit compote, and something she called “real butter, not that joyless health paste”).

They were seated at the small table by the window, where Bruce rarely sat with anyone. Bruce, dressed in a Henley and slacks—hair still damp from a shower, which was already suspicious—and Clara, curled comfortably in the corner with a robe slightly too large for her not to have borrowed it from someone else.

Likely someone named Bruce.

Alfred paused just inside the doorway. They were laughing—an honest, unguarded sound from both of them. Clara’s hand was resting near Bruce’s elbow on the table, casually close but not quite touching, like the aftermath of a touch they thought no one had noticed.

But Alfred was noticing. He noticed everything.

“Oh, good morning, Alfred,” Clara said brightly, turning her head toward him with that particular smile—the one that always reminded him of an amused cat who’d knocked something off a shelf and was daring you to scold her for it.

“Miss Monroe,” Alfred said with a smooth bow of the head, “Mr. Wayne. I do hope breakfast suits the mood, whatever that mood may be.”

Bruce made an innocent sound.

Clara grinned. “The mood is ‘don’t ask questions we’re not answering.’”

“Ah.” Alfred set the tray down, straightening a teaspoon with surgical precision. “So we’re in the denial chapter of the romance novel.”

Bruce shot him a look. Clara snorted into her coffee.

“Alfred,” Bruce said, voice laced with a warning that had never once deterred the man. “It’s not like that.”

Alfred raised a single, arched eyebrow. “Sir, I was born at night, but not last night.”

Clara tilted her head toward Alfred, smiling. “You always this sharp in the morning?”

Alfred folded his arms, a glint of satisfaction in his eye. “Miss Monroe, I once held off an armed mercenary with nothing but a ladle and a hot pot of beef stew. I assure you, I wake up formidable.”

Clara laughed again, full-throated and easy. “I like you.”

“Indeed. Flattery will get you a warm scone, and not a word more.”

Bruce rolled his eyes but didn’t move Clara’s hand when it brushed his. If anything, his shoulders relaxed a fraction. The morning light caught the faintest smile tugging at his lips.

Alfred observed it all with the calm precision of a veteran gardener watching an impossible flower bloom in winter.

He’d seen Bruce fall into beds, but not into trust—not like this. And Clara, for all her fire and stubbornness, had a kind of gravity that Bruce responded to. There was no performance between them, no artifice. Just honesty. Wry, exasperated, and a little bruised—but honest.

“She’s good for you,” Alfred said later, in private, as Bruce buttoned his shirt in the cave locker.

Bruce didn’t look up. “You think so?”

“I know so. More importantly, she thinks for herself. And she argues with you, which is a blessed relief, if I may be so bold.”

“You’re always bold,” Bruce muttered.

“And you’re always brooding. She balances the scales.”

Bruce hesitated, fingers stilling on the last button. “…I’m not used to this.”

“No. But you deserve it.”

Bruce didn’t answer, but Alfred saw the way his hands softened their grip, the way his jaw unclenched ever so slightly.

Later that evening, Alfred found Clara in the conservatory, her fingers gently trailing the leaves of a lemon tree.

“I thought you might like a moment without cameras,” he said, offering her a teacup with a subtle clink.

Clara smiled and accepted it, inhaling the scent. “Earl Grey. Fancy.”

“You strike me as a woman of discerning taste.”

“I fake it well.”

Alfred chuckled. “Fake it better than Master Wayne, I daresay.”

She grinned over her tea. “That’s why he needs me.”

Alfred smiled—genuinely this time. “Indeed. And between us…” He leaned in slightly, tone conspiratorial. “If the two of you think you’re being subtle, I suggest switching robes before the cleaning staff draws straws on who gets to gossip first.”

Clara turned her head toward him, lips twitching. “Do they gossip a lot?”

“Not as much as me,” Alfred said, entirely unrepentant.

And Clara—brilliant, battle-worn, keen-eared Clara—laughed.

“Yes,” Alfred said to himself later, polishing silverware with nostalgic efficiency, “I think we’ll keep her.”

Chapter Text

chapter 28

The final hymn faded like mist in the vaulted hush of the church. Clara waited until the last of the congregation had filed out—shuffling coats and murmured greetings echoing against old stone. Her fingers traced the worn edge of the pew before standing, her cane balanced in one hand. She knew Bruce was still beside her—had felt him there through the entire Mass like a silent anchor in her periphery.

Outside, the overcast sky had softened the world to a quiet gray. Light filtered through the stained glass behind the altar like refracted fire.

Father Eli approached down the center aisle, his gait brisk but warm, his cassock whispering with each step. He was a man of quiet power, lined with age but not weariness. His eyes crinkled as he drew near.

“Mr. Wayne,” he said with a wry smile, extending a hand. “I confess I thought my eyes deceived me.”

Bruce took the offered hand, his own expression smooth. “Father Eli.”

“And in our little chapel,” the priest mused. “We’re honored.”

Clara tilted her head, bemused.

“I told her it’s the incense,” Bruce said evenly. “Reminds me of a more honest kind of smoke.”

Clara snorted—just soft enough to sound like a cough.

Father Eli chuckled. “Whatever brings a man to God’s house.” He turned toward Clara then, his expression shifting into something both teasing and approving. “And I take it we have you to thank for this revelation?”

Clara smiled faintly. “Revelation might be a strong word, Father.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, stroking his chin in mock seriousness. “I was beginning to think Mr. Wayne had made an unbreakable vow to late nights and disrepute. But here he is, kneeling through liturgy like a penitent.”

Bruce raised a brow. “I was told there’d be wine.”

That earned a full laugh from the priest.

“But it seems,” Father Eli said, directing the moment squarely at Clara, “you may be turning even the most reluctant hearts.”

“More like dragging them behind me,” she murmured.

“And yet,” Eli replied, “the Lord tells us, ‘He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners.’”

Clara’s head tilted slightly at the verse. “Isaiah,” she said softly. “Sixty-one.”

Bruce looked between them, then added, “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me.”

Clara’s smile flickered—genuine, startled. “You know scripture now?”

“I have my sources,” Bruce said with a glance her way. “And a stubborn lawyer who drags me to early Mass.”

Father Eli folded his hands, clearly pleased. “You two remind me of another verse. ‘As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another.’”

“I think he’s comparing us to weapons,” Clara muttered.

“Appropriate,” Bruce murmured.

The old priest chuckled again and turned toward the altar. “I’ll leave you to sharpen in peace, then.”

As Father Eli retreated to the sacristy, silence settled over them again. Bruce turned slightly toward Clara, hands in his coat pockets. The faint clink of his cufflink brushed against the silver clasp of her cane.

“You surprised me,” Clara said, still facing forward. “With the scripture.”

Bruce’s voice was low. “You surprised me… by not being surprised.”

She considered that.

“I grew up with it,” she said. “Not just the verses—faith. Not just as tradition or comfort. It was… a way to survive.”

Bruce said nothing.

“I don’t pretend to have answers,” Clara continued. “Some days I don’t even know if He hears me. But faith isn’t about certainty. It’s about choosing hope. Choosing light. Even in a city like this.”

“I don’t have that,” Bruce admitted. “That kind of faith.”

“I know.”

“But I believe in you,” he said. “And if this”—he gestured slightly to the stained-glass windows, to the altar—“is where you go to remember who you are… then I can stand beside you.”

Clara turned toward him slowly, her eyes milky and unfocused but somehow precise.

She reached out, touched the edge of his sleeve. “That’s all I’ve ever asked of anyone.”

They stood in silence for another moment. Then, softly, she added, “You never have to believe what I believe, Bruce. But if you respect it—if you see it—then… you understand me more than most.”

He watched her fingers withdraw, graceful and steady.

“I do,” he said. “More than you think.”

The blinds were already closed when Clara Monroe stepped into her office. Not that it mattered.

She felt them before she heard them—the swell of voices outside like a storm building in her bones. The low, artificial whirr of cameras. Someone yelling her name like they had a right to it.

“Ms. Monroe! Over here!”
“Are you living with Bruce Wayne?”
“Did he buy you this office?”
“Clara, smile for us—”

She paused just inside the doorway, hand on the handle. Her cane clicked quietly against the floor as she inhaled through her nose, slow and steady. Gotham’s chaos hadn’t changed. But she had. Or maybe the world had simply turned her into something new.

She locked the door behind her.

“Morning,” came a voice from the adjacent office—her new paralegal, Evie, early again.

“You’re in before sunrise.”

“Because you’ve got vultures nesting outside. I brought coffee,” Evie added. “And… donuts. One of the paparazzi tried to take my picture. I threatened to sue. He smiled and asked me if I was ‘the secretary or the girlfriend.’”

Clara snorted, setting her satchel down. “You say that like those two are mutually exclusive.”

“God, I hope they are,” Evie muttered.

Clara felt along the desk edge until she found the thermos. Still warm. A small kindness. “Any more of them than yesterday?”

“At least six camped out since dawn. Two camera crews. And one guy who claims he’s writing a profile piece for the Times but wouldn’t show credentials. You’re famous now, apparently.”

“Infamous,” Clara corrected, leaning against the desk. “That’s the word you want.”

Evie hesitated. “You really didn’t see this coming?”

Clara tilted her head. “Did you just make a blind joke?”

“No!” Evie said quickly, then winced. “I mean—yes, but not on purpose.”

Clara’s lips twitched. “Relax. You’re hired.”

⸻

Later that morning

Clara sat at the long oak table that passed for her war room. Around her were three people she hadn’t even known two weeks ago: Evie, young and sharp-tongued; Marcel, a legal intern still in school; and Hana, the newly hired front desk assistant with the voice of a therapist and the patience of a saint.

“Here’s the problem,” Marcel said, flipping through a folder. “The Post ran a piece today calling you ‘the Daredevil of Gotham.’ Half your clients think you’re a superhero now. The other half think you’re sleeping with Bruce Wayne to tank your cases.”

“Charming,” Clara muttered.

Evie dropped her phone on the table. “You’re trending on Twitter. Again. Under #BlindJustice and #WayneWoman.”

Hana lifted her eyes. “Do you want to make a statement?”

“No,” Clara said flatly.

“You might want to,” Hana pressed gently. “At least something neutral. You’re becoming a political symbol whether you like it or not.”

“Let them write their stories,” Clara said. “I have real work.”

“But they’re shaping public perception of you,” Marcel argued. “If you don’t counter it, people believe the tabloids. They’re already calling this office a vanity project.”

Clara’s jaw tensed. “Let them.”

The room went quiet. Not tense—just watching her, recalibrating.

“I didn’t start this firm to become a brand,” Clara said. “I started it because I was tired of watching people go down for crimes they didn’t commit. The world can spin its little headlines. The work doesn’t change.”

Evie leaned back. “That’s noble and all, but the press doesn’t care. They’ll eat you alive if you let them.”

“They already are,” Hana said softly.

A long silence.

Then Clara stood.

“I’m hiring you all because I need help—not because I want to scale up. The calls don’t stop. My voicemail fills before noon. Some clients are scared to come in. One was harassed in the parking lot by a reporter pretending to be a process server.”

She walked slowly to the window and reached for the cord. The morning light pressed against the blinds, but she didn’t open them. She just held the string in her hand.

“I knew being with Bruce would cost me something. I didn’t think it would be everything.”

Hana’s voice was calm. “You can walk away from it.”

Clara shook her head. “No. But I can change how I fight.”

The knock was soft, almost hesitant, and definitely not paparazzi.

Clara Monroe didn’t look up from her dictation mic. “Evie,” she called without turning. “If that’s another reporter, tell them I’m in witness protection.”

But it wasn’t Evie who answered.

“I don’t think that’ll work if your name’s on the door.”

Clara paused. Then smiled.

“You’re not a reporter,” she said lightly, tilting her head. “Too quiet. Too respectful. Also, I know your heartbeat.”

The door opened the rest of the way, and Bruce Wayne stepped inside.

He was dressed down—dark blazer, no tie, sunglasses tucked into the collar. Somehow still managing to look like every billionaire magazine cover ever made. But she caught the edge in his silence, the tightness in his breath.

“Bruce,” she said warmly, rising. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Bored of your tower of solitude already?”

“Not bored,” he said. “Just… wanted to see you.”

From behind the frosted glass, hushed whispers. Clara’s ears picked up Evie’s unmistakable voice: “Is that—”
“Don’t stare,” Hana hissed.
“I’m not staring! I’m observing.”
“You’re drooling. Same thing.”

Clara raised a brow toward the door. “My team is being professionally subtle.”

Bruce gave a small smile. “They’re not very good at it.”

“They’re lawyers,” she said. “Not spies.”

She stepped closer, finding the faint scent of cologne and city dust. “You’re tense.”

“I’m fine,” Bruce replied too quickly.

Clara reached out, fingertips brushing the lapel of his coat, then drifting lightly up to his shoulder. “You’re doing the thing where you pretend not to care because you care too much.”

He exhaled a quiet laugh. “You make that sound like a bad thing.”

“It’s not. It’s just… transparent.” She tilted her face toward him. “Which, I guess, is a step up for you.”

His silence stretched. But it wasn’t awkward. Not with her. There was something in the way she stood so easily in his presence—unhurried, unblinking, as though she could read him through stillness alone.

He didn’t need to say I saw the news.

Didn’t need to say I hate what this is doing to you.

Didn’t even need to say I want to fix it.

She already knew.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce said at last.

Clara smiled, gently pressing her hand against his chest. “For what? Being loved by the media? That’s not a crime in Gotham, it’s a job requirement.”

He covered her hand with his own, grounding, warm. “For dragging you into it.”

“You didn’t drag me. I walked.” Her voice softened. “And I don’t regret it.”

Outside, another whisper:
“They’re touching hands. Oh my God, they’re touching—”
“Evie, go file something before I fire you.”
“You can’t fire me, I’m an unpaid intern!”
“Then I’ll pay you just to fire you.”

Clara grinned. “Do you want to come in fully, or are we doing this half-dramatic in a doorway?”

Bruce stepped inside, gently closing the door. “Didn’t want to interfere with your work.”

“You are interfering,” she teased. “But in a very expensive suit, so I’m allowing it.”

He watched her for a beat. “You’re different in here.”

She tilted her head. “In what way?”

“Sharper. Louder. Comfortable. Like this is where you run the world.”

She shrugged. “I run a three-person legal office and a coffee machine that breaks when Mercury’s in retrograde. Not quite the world.”

“To me, it is,” Bruce said.

Clara blinked slowly.

He wasn’t a man of effusive declarations. But when he said things like that, they slipped under her skin like silk and stayed there.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “You’re allowed to be sweet. But only in this room. Everywhere else, you have a reputation to uphold.”

He smirked. “Understood.”

Then, softer: “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m navigating it,” Clara replied. “I have backup now.”

“Your staff?”

“Myself. But yes, the gossiping lawyers help.”

Bruce leaned in, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Let me know if you need anything.”

She gave him a lopsided grin. “What if I need a scandal to distract the press?”

“I’ll fake a yacht explosion.”

“Romantic,” she murmured.

And from outside the door:
“Oh my god!”

Gotham’s East End – 2:46 a.m.

The roof beneath their boots was slick with recent rain, the city steaming in the dark. Gotham’s glow pulsed below them—restless, angry, alive.

Clara stood beside Bruce, her cowl pulled low, expression unreadable beneath her white mask. But he could read the tension in her shoulders. The way her fingers flexed, steady but no longer cold.

“You’re holding back,” he said, his voice gravel in the stillness.

She tilted her head. “You’re welcome.”

“No, I mean it,” he added. “You used to break arms for a warning.”

“I still could,” she offered lightly. “But then I’d have to listen to you lecture me in the car the whole way home.”

Batman didn’t smile. But Bruce did.

They were watching a small weapons exchange three stories down—nothing too dangerous, not tonight. Something easily handled.

She crouched beside him. “Three men, two armed. One lookout. You take the high side?”

He nodded. “You take the talker.”

A beat passed.

Clara added, “No breaking bones unless provoked.”

“You’re learning,” he said.

“No. You just matter now.”

The simplicity of the words startled him. But there was no time to dwell. She was already moving, silent as a breath of smoke.

⸻

Afterward—Rooftop Debrief

The fight had been clean. Quick. Efficient. Bruce was uninjured—uninjured—which, given Gotham’s tendency to chew him up, was unusual.

Clara leaned on the ledge beside him, catching her breath. She wasn’t even winded.

“Two weeks,” she said casually. “No hospital visits. No cracked ribs. You think we’re getting soft?”

He looked at her, amused. “You think it’s soft to not get stabbed?”

“I think it’s new.”

And it was.

They didn’t say it outright, but the rhythm of their nights had changed. Clara didn’t strike first anymore—she let Bruce make the call. She still moved like a shadow, still knew where to hit to make a man stay down, but she wasn’t out for blood the way she had been in the early days. Not with him beside her.

Bruce, for his part, moved faster now. Smarter. Less reckless. He didn’t have to push himself to the edge to survive—because Clara was there. Watching his blind spots. Catching threats before he did.

What surprised him most wasn’t the tactical benefit—it was the calm. The ease. The way the darkness didn’t swallow him whole when she was beside him. They were quieter together. More precise. Less haunted.

He didn’t need to tell her what he was thinking. She just knew.

Chapter Text

Chapter 29

The world outside was still buzzing.

Tabloids speculated, headlines churned, paparazzi circled like crows—but here, in the quiet dining room of Wayne Manor, the noise didn’t reach.

The table was modest by mansion standards—set near the windows overlooking the gardens, not the cavernous hall Bruce used for charity galas. A single candle burned between them, soft and low. No servers, no silver domes. Just two plates, two glasses of wine, and the quiet intimacy of shared breath.

Clara Monroe exhaled, slow and even, folding her napkin on her lap.

“This risotto is incredible,” she said, tilting her head with a teasing grin. “Did you bribe Alfred to make it, or was it an emotional blackmail sort of situation?”

Bruce smiled faintly. “He took pity on me.”

“Pity from Alfred? Must’ve been bad.”

“It was a long day.”

Clara nodded. Her fingers trailed the stem of her glass, catching condensation. She could feel the tension still coiled in him across the table, tight and restless under his silence.

“They followed you again,” Bruce said finally. “To your office. To the coffee shop.”

“They’ve also followed me to the garbage bins behind my building,” Clara replied lightly. “Where I heroically missed the dumpster by two feet. Can’t wait for that photo spread.”

“You shouldn’t have to deal with this.”

“Bruce,” she said gently, “I’m a blind woman who took a mob boss to court last year. I’m not fragile.”

“I know,” he said. “But they’re vultures.”

“They’re just loud,” she said. “And bored. Today it’s us. Tomorrow it’ll be someone’s divorce or a politician’s affair.”

She tilted her head toward him, voice softening. “You know I don’t care what they say, right?”

His jaw shifted slightly. “I know you say that.”

“But you don’t believe it.”

He didn’t answer.

Clara set down her glass and reached across the table. Her fingertips brushed his wrist, then curled gently around his hand.

“I’ve been alone a long time, Bruce,” she said. “But I wasn’t waiting to be saved. I wasn’t waiting for headlines, or fairy tales. I was just… doing the work. Building my life.”

Her thumb moved slowly over the back of his hand.

“And then you showed up in it. Quiet and complicated and good. And I didn’t fall in love with the chaos. I fell in love with you.”

He looked at her then. Really looked. Not like a man seeing, but like one being seen.

She smiled. “So if you’re asking whether the media circus scares me off, the answer’s no. But if you need to run… I’ll understand.”

Bruce exhaled, and for the first time that day, it wasn’t sharp or shallow. It was real. Grounded.

“I don’t want to run,” he said.

“Then stay. Eat. Try not to mope too hard.”

He gave her a crooked smile. “You always know how to say the right thing.”

“I say the true thing,” she corrected. “And occasionally, the rude thing.”

They fell into an easy silence again. Outside, the wind rustled through ivy. Inside, Bruce poured her another glass of wine.

“I told Alfred you were coming,” he said softly.

Clara raised a brow. “Was that… a warning or a celebration?”

“He set the table before I could ask.”

She smiled again, this one softer, quieter. “Then I’m honored.”

She took his hand once more, let her thumb trace the veins, the scars.

The world would always clamor, always judge. But here—in this moment, in this room—it was just them.

And for Bruce, that was enough.

The rooftop buzzed with curated elegance: crystal chandeliers suspended in glass domes, wine flutes glinting under Gotham’s indifferent sky. But Clara Monroe stood quietly apart, framed by shadows and soft music, her hand grazing the edge of a marble-topped cocktail table as if it were an anchor.

She didn’t need sight to feel the shift in atmosphere. The pause in conversation. The subtle intake of breath from someone nearby. A hunter’s presence.

He approached casually, but the air around him was taut. Calculated steps in expensive shoes. Someone used to scanning a room, even when pretending not to.

“Standing alone at a party like this? Either you’re fearless or bored,” came a voice—smooth, amused, guarded.

Clara turned her head slightly toward the source. “Fearless would be unwise. Bored would be a sin. I’m just letting the city speak.”

He chuckled. “What’s it saying?”

“That it doesn’t trust men who smile too easily in tailored suits.” She extended a hand politely, her expression unreadable behind her tinted glasses. “Clara Monroe.”

There was a brief pause before he took it. A firm handshake—confident, but not testing. “Oliver Queen.”

“Of course.” She let the name hang in the air like smoke. “The man who came back from the dead with perfect abs and a revitalized corporate portfolio.”

He laughed, genuinely surprised. “That’s one way to put it.”

“You should hear the other ways,” Clara said smoothly, turning her face slightly toward the breeze. “But I doubt Gotham tabloids would do you justice. Not the kind of justice I deal in, anyway.”

Oliver studied her more closely now. “You’re blind?”

“Is that your deduction or a question?”

“Observation. And a guess,” he said with a hint of apology. “You don’t carry it like most people would.”

Clara smiled. “Sight’s useful. But it’s a poor substitute for attention. Something tells me you know that.”

That gave him pause. His curiosity deepened—like something about her was off-script. He tilted his head, watching her. “Have we met?”

Clara’s fingers tapped idly against her glass. “Not in this life.”

Oliver blinked, as if unsure whether he’d misheard. Before he could press her, a quiet voice interrupted from just behind him.

“Everything alright?”

Oliver turned.

Bruce Wayne was the kind of presence that didn’t announce itself—he simply was, like gravity. He slid in beside Clara with an easy intimacy, placing a hand on the small of her back. Not possessive. But grounding. Protective.

Clara’s smile softened almost imperceptibly at his touch. “Just meeting your old classmate. He’s charming.”

“Careful,” Bruce murmured to her. “That’s his most dangerous weapon.”

Oliver offered a tight smile. “You’re keeping interesting company, Bruce.”

“So are you,” Bruce replied, tone smooth but edged.

There was a beat of silence. Three lives tangled in secrets—two of them playing their parts, one remembering more than she let on.

Clara reached for her wine glass and said lightly, “If you two are going to posture, at least do it near the dessert table.”

Oliver laughed again, but this time it was more cautious. “I’ll leave you to your evening.”

As he walked away, Clara felt the tension in Bruce’s posture linger.

“He’s digging,” Bruce said quietly.

“I know,” Clara murmured, brushing her hand along his sleeve. “But he doesn’t know what he’s looking for yet.”

Bruce tilted his head toward her, voice low. “And you?”

“I think let’s keep our story in Gotham City,” she said.