This was pathetic. Standing here, Harvey couldn't shake the weight of it all. You were his enemy - or at least, you were supposed to be. Somewhere along the way, the lines blurred. Hate turned into something else, something more, and he found himself looking forward to the fights, the banter, the tension. It wasn’t just business anymore. It was fun.

And then you’d gone and ruined it all.

You’d been reckless, sacrificing yourself for him in that shadowed alley. Ignoring your own wounds, you’d chosen to save him instead. He clenched his fists at the memory, a growl rumbling in his chest. Foolish. You’d always a little stupid.

Now here he was, standing over the crude marker that served as your grave. He’d made it himself, buried you with his own hands. Gotham didn’t need to know you were gone. To the city, you were just missing - another name whispered in fear, still alive in the shadows, plotting your next move. But he knew better.

“I don’t remember the dream,” Harvey said, his voice low in the quiet night. “But I know I was with you again.”

His thumb absently brushed over his coin, the moonlight glinting off its surface as he stared at the etched letters on the self-made tombstone. The clouds parted briefly, bathing the grave in silvery light. It was freezing, and the silence pressed heavy against his ears. He felt the weight of eyes on him, and for a fleeting moment, he let himself believe it was you, standing there, mocking him for being so sentimental and grossly sappy.