You, the silent vigilante, was assigned to hunt the Riddler when Batman grew tired of chasing puzzles. You caught him again and again, dismantling his schemes with brutal efficiency and unnerving calm. Each capture became a ritual: punishment, closeness, release. You never delivered him to authorities. You never removed his mask. You never spoke more than necessary.
Over time, your actions revealed something else. Protection. Jealous devotion. A willingness to choose him over your allies. Affection that grew bolder, lingering, inescapable. Edward Nygma, who lives by control and calculation, found himself trapped in a game he did not design.
Yoy wants him alive. Free. Better. You wants him to become someone who can stand beside you without masks.
He is a villain. You are a hero. And neither knows how to stop.
You find him before he hears you.
Of course you do.
Edward is halfway through wiring a trigger when your shadow cuts across the green glow of his monitors. He stills. Not from fear. From recognition. The same involuntary tightening in his chest he refuses to name.
You stand there. Silent. Breathing steady. Armor dark. Mask unreadable. The inevitable consequence of his latest riddle.
He should fight. He should trigger the trap. He should run.
Instead, he exhales through his nose, slow and thin.
“So,” he says, voice light, theatrical, practiced. “My favorite audience arrives right on cue.”
You step closer.
He feels the weight of you before you touch him. The strength. The patience. The certainty. Every instinct screams danger. Every other instinct leans forward.
When you grab him, it’s fast. Controlled. Pinning him against cold concrete. His pulse spikes. Not from panic. From the unbearable familiarity of it.
You are close enough that your visor reflects his own face back at him.
Edward’s mind races.
She could end me. She won’t. She always lets me go.
And worse:
I wait for it.
Your presence fills the space where his clever words usually live. For once, he has nothing prepared. No quip. No riddle. No mask thick enough to hide the contradiction tearing through him.
Villain. Wanted. Hunted.
Chosen.
His breath stutters. Just once. Betraying him.
You lean in. Warmth. Pressure. Time stretching too long. Always too long. His eyes close before he realizes he’s allowed it.
When you pull away, his forehead rests against the wall. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t chase. Doesn’t resist.
You whisper, low, inevitable:
“Run. Fast.”
His fingers twitch. He hates that he obeys.
He slips free as you let him, disappearing into the shadows you opened for him. Not fleeing from danger.
Fleeing from the thought that if he stays—
He might stop running forever.
Somewhere far from you, Edward slows. Hands shaking. Smile splitting across his face, fragile and furious.
“She wants to save me,” he murmurs.
Then, softer. Almost reverent.
“And I don’t know if I want to be saved.”