Kent Farm
The sun had passed its peak in the sky when Emily crossed the field with firm, silent steps, her boots sinking slightly into the soft earth. The white cloth covering the tray fluttered in the breeze, but she maintained her balance effortlessly.
The scent of fresh coffee rose from the porcelain with delicate, enveloping steam. A cup. A saucer. A gesture.
The distance to the barn was short, but in her mind, every step was calculated.
'He's the youngest. The most unstable. The most impulsive.'
The cup clinked lightly against the saucer. She didn't blink.
'The other two watch, measure. This one reacts. This one's dangerous.'
The barn exuded the smell of hay, old wood, and sweat. The sound of a hammer echoed inside, steady, constant.
Ben was alone, kneeling on a plank, hammering one of the fence reinforcements Jonathan had requested. His arm extended, his face dusted with dirt. Sweat dripped down his temples, and his shirt was already stained.
Emily stopped at the door, the sunlight behind her creating an almost serene silhouette.
"Ben."
He looked up with a slight start.
"Emily…"
His voice was surprised but kind. He stood, wiping his hands on his jeans. A smile formed easily.
"Everything okay?"
She lifted the tray slightly.
"I thought you might want some coffee."
His eyes widened slightly, genuinely surprised.
"For me?"
Emily nodded. Her voice calm, gentle.
"I saw you working alone. Thought you deserved a little break."
Ben approached cautiously. His green eyes fixed on her with a mix of surprise and warmth.
"I… no one's ever done that here before."
Emily smiled, and the sun caught the corner of her mouth with a soft glint.
"It's just coffee."
'It's just what he needs. A chance. A slip.'
Ben took the cup carefully, as if holding something precious.
"Thanks a lot. Really."
She watched him bring the drink to his lips. The steam passed close to his face. His eyes closed for a second as he took the first sip.
"It's strong. And perfect."
Emily kept her smile.
"The kind of coffee that chases away sleep. And distracts the mind."
'Or calms. Before the decision.'
Ben sat on a stack of planks, taking another sip, elbows resting on his knees. Silence spread slowly between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable—at least not for him.
"I was thinking about earlier today."
Emily didn't respond.
He looked at the cup, then at her.
"The guys… said some things. About you."
Her eyebrow arched subtly.
"Oh, did they?"
"It wasn't fair. And I kinda lost my temper."
'He admits his temper. Just as I thought.'
"Lose your temper… often?"
Ben shook his head quickly.
"No. I mean… not usually. But… I don't like when good people get judged like that."
Emily took a step closer. Her hands clasped in front of her, like a pious woman.
"And you think I'm… good people?"
Ben looked at her like it was obvious.
"Yeah."
The cup turned slightly in his hands. His gaze distant for a moment.
"You lost something, didn't you? Someone."
Emily stared at the ground for a second. Then lifted her eyes, steady.
"I lost something no one believes existed."
Ben swallowed hard.
"That's… that's worse than losing someone. Because then you grieve, and you still have to convince others you're allowed to grieve."
His voice was low. Almost reverent.
Emily studied every muscle in his face. The way he held the cup, how his brows dipped slightly when he spoke with emotion.
'He believes. He really believes.'
'But it's not real. It's not trust. It's pity.'
'Pity turns to fear. And fear turns to reaction. One day, he'll yell. He'll break things. He'll misjudge. And I can't let that happen.'
Ben took another sip, the coffee now lukewarm.
"You're really strong, you know?"
She tilted her head slightly.
"Strong?"
"For moving forward. For carrying on. For… not giving up."
Emily stepped forward. The cloth on the tray fluttered in the breeze, as if carrying promises.
"You really think that?"
"Of course. And… I wanted to apologize if I made you uncomfortable. When I raised my voice at the others."
'His voice changes when he talks like this. Tries to sound controlled. But inside… it's pressure.'
'Pressure bursts. It always bursts.'
She lowered her head for a moment.
"I didn't feel uncomfortable."
A lie.
"I was… concerned."
Half the truth.
Ben stood slowly, still holding the empty cup.
"I'm not dangerous."
"But you could be."
He froze.
The breeze blew lightly. Dust and straw danced in the air between them.
"Everyone can be dangerous… if they're hurt enough."
His response was calm.
And it stung somewhere inside her.
'That's the problem.'
'He hasn't gone far enough yet. But he could be pushed.'
'And my son… can't live surrounded by potential risks.'
She reached out, taking the cup calmly.
"Thank you for accepting the coffee."
Ben smiled. An open, youthful smile. Slightly hopeful.
"Thanks for bringing it."
She turned, her steps light back toward the house.
The sound of her shoes against the earth was almost inaudible.
But in her head, the sound was different.
'This wasn't a test.'
'It was a warning.'
'He doesn't know it yet, but today was the closest he's come to crossing the line.'
'I'll protect the baby. Even if they don't understand.'
'Even if no one understands.'
The house came into view, and she kept walking without looking back.
But in Emily's mind, the world was already divided in two:
Those who protected the baby.
And those who needed to be kept away.
By any means.
---
Wayne Manor
The black car stopped in front of the tall gates, the engine shutting off with a discreet hum.
James Gordon adjusted his hat, stepped out with firm strides, and observed the manor for a second. The wide windows, imposing walls, silent façade—everything there screamed old wealth and restrained power.
He didn't like this place.
The door opened before he could knock. Alfred greeted him with a short nod.
"Mr. Wayne is on his way. He asked you to wait in the parlor."
Gordon nodded.
He entered.
The air inside was cold, too clean. The smell of leather and polished wood didn't hide the emptiness.
He sat in the armchair to the left of the unlit fireplace.
Seconds later, footsteps echoed in the hallway.
Bruce Wayne entered with a coffee cup, dark sunglasses, and a bored expression.
"Gordon."
"Wayne."
Bruce flopped onto the sofa with a relaxed, almost lazy posture. The dark suit fit perfectly over a body still marked by scars beneath the fabric.
Gordon observed for a second before speaking.
"I was at the party."
Bruce raised his eyebrows behind the sunglasses.
"Hope you enjoyed the cocktail before the gunfire."
"The security room was breached. The alarm system disabled from the inside. Six shareholders dead. A Renaissance painting destroyed. And over twenty million in jewels and artwork stolen."
Bruce took a sip of coffee.
"How many suspects arrested?"
"None."
"Then we're still in Gotham's usual pattern."
His tone was calm. Ironic. Almost offensive.
Gordon leaned slightly forward.
"It was your party. Your security. Most of the targets were tied to Wayne Enterprises."
Bruce removed his sunglasses. His eyes were tired, red at the edges.
"Are you accusing me of being a bad host or of murdering my own company's shareholders?"
"I'm saying you seem… uninterested."
Bruce let out a low laugh.
"Sorry if my priority isn't crying over spilled caviar."
"What happened was a coordinated, professional attack. With very specific targets."
Bruce stood. Walked to the window. The morning was gray, covered in heavy clouds.
"Are you going to tell me you're new to Gotham, Gordon? The city's a parade of corpses in gala attire."
"This wasn't ordinary."
"Maybe it's just the new normal."
Gordon pressed his lips together.
"You don't seem shocked. Or angry. Or scared."
"Anger's a luxury. Fear's a waste of time. Shock? There's no room for that after the fifth assassination attempt in a quarter."
"But you're acting like it's just another inconvenience."
Bruce turned his face slowly.
"Maybe it is."
"You know more than you're saying."
"I know I need to be at Wayne Enterprises tower in twenty minutes."
"You're really going to the company? The day after a massacre?"
"Someone has to show the Waynes don't hide."
Gordon stood.
"Unless they're already hiding behind their own masks."
Bruce smirked faintly.
"That's a good one."
"You should cooperate. With everything you know. If you know anything."
Bruce passed by him, adjusting his jacket. His steps calculated, his tone icy.
"If you catch any ghosts, Gordon, let me know. I've got plenty around here."
Gordon stayed still.
"This isn't a cold war between the rich. People died. And your name's on every headline."
"Then write a new one. Something like 'Billionaire Continues Not to Care.'"
Gordon stared at the back of Bruce's neck for a moment. Then took a deep breath.
"I hope my daughter never dates someone like you."
Bruce paused for a second.
Didn't respond.
Didn't turn his face.
Just kept walking.
The sound of his footsteps echoed down the hallway until it faded.
Gordon adjusted his hat, unhurried.
He left the manor with the same silence he'd entered with.
But outside, in Gotham's cold, he knew—this conversation wasn't over.
Bruce was hiding something.
And Gotham… was about to find out.
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