Shadows Of Gotham

Shadowed Dreams

Hades: Her father.

He said nothing—just stared at her with cold, unreadable eyes.

"I didn't mean to," she begged again, her voice small and childlike.

The shadows rose again, curling higher, tighter—slithering toward her, wrapping around her throat and limbs. They whispered in a language only her bones understood.

"You're a killer."
"You're a monster."
"You're a disappointment."

_______

Amora's eyes snapped open to pitch black.

For a terrifying moment, she didn't know if she was still trapped in the dream. Her sheets were soaked in sweat. The faint, early glow of dawn outside her window was—oddly—a welcome comfort.

She sat bolt upright.

Her heart thundered in her chest, each beat loud in her ears. Around her, faint trails of living shadow still clung to the ceiling and walls—lingering echoes of the nightmare that wrapped around her like a second skin.

Disoriented, she stayed frozen in place. She wanted to move, to run, but her limbs were heavy—held down by fear and guilt.

It took minutes before her breathing slowed, before her pulse stopped rattling her ribcage.

And that's when she noticed the cold.

The temperature had dropped. It was far too cold, even for early morning. The shadows—those distant tendrils of darkness—had begun to twist again, dancing lightly along her arms, curious and alive.

"No, no, no..."

A small sob broke past her lips as she desperately tried to shove them away. But the darkness only thinned when touched by motion or light, resisting her like it didn't want to leave.

A gentle knock cut through her panic.

She tensed. Her breath hitched.

Then—Bruce's voice. Steady. Low. Grounding.

"Amora?"

The door opened slowly. Bruce stepped into the room, barefoot, wearing a plain grey t-shirt and sweatpants—a stark contrast to the suit and tie he'd worn when he picked her up from the station.

As he entered, the shadows around the room recoiled. They slithered back toward the corners, thinning beneath his presence like smoke caught in a breeze.

Even through her panic, Amora noticed how he moved—calm, sure, like someone who knew pain when he saw it. His eyes scanned the room, then settled on her, dark with concern.

She met his gaze for a second—just long enough to see it was real—before she dropped her eyes to her lap.

That's when she realized she'd been crying. A tear slid off her chin and hit her hands. She wiped it away quickly, dragging a shaky hand across her face.

"Amora," he said gently, coming to kneel beside the bed. "Are you alright?"

He half-raised his hand to reach for her—but stopped halfway through the motion, thinking better of it. His arm fell to his side again.

"I—I don't want to talk about it," she snapped, her voice shaking with a mixture of fear and frustration.

She curled into herself, hugging her knees to her chest. Her eyes flicked to the window, refusing to look at him.

"Get out."

She knew she was being awful—rude, cold—but she didn't care. She needed him to leave. Now.

Bruce didn't react with anger. He just sighed, quietly.

"Bad dream?" he asked softly.

It wasn't a question. She didn't answer.

His eyes lingered on her sweat-soaked sheets, the way her body trembled.

"I know you don't trust me yet," he said. "You don't have to. But sometimes... it helps to talk about it."

"No," she snapped, sharper this time. "Just—don't. Don't start acting like you care."

Bruce's expression didn't shift. Calm. Controlled. Steady.

"I do care."

"Why?" Her voice cracked. "You don't even know me. You just... picked me up like I was a stray. brought me to your mansion. Gave me a bed. That doesn't mean you get to ask questions."

He exhaled through his nose. Not irritated. Just patient.

"You don't have to go through this alone. We all have our inner demons—"

"Get out!"

She yelled this time. The words tore from her throat, broken and raw, not sharp like she wanted—just tired.

Bruce's eyes softened.

But he didn't argue. He stood slowly, glancing once more at the subtle, almost sentient shadows that still clung to the walls.

"It's alright if you don't want to talk now," he said quietly. "But when you're ready—I'll be here."

He lingered for a second longer, eyes warm, then turned and left.

The door clicked softly shut behind him.

And as soon as it did, the cold returned.

The shadows crept back up the walls and ceiling, curling slowly, faintly, like they were tied to her pulse.

But she didn't see them.

Her eyes were squeezed shut.

She didn't cry.

Not yet.

She just lay there in silence, her breath shaky, trying to convince herself that the room wasn't spinning. That she wasn't falling apart.

And maybe—maybe—she could survive this new world...

Without destroying it too.