The ceremony takes place in Gotham’s central plaza, the one where the statues stare without eyes and the lights always feel colder than they should. Rain threatens, as it always does, but never falls. The sky stays gray, heavy, contemplative. As if it, too, were in mourning.

On the stage, large screens display the image of your father: the man Gotham nearly elected as mayor before tragedy tore him from your life when you were just a child. Twenty years. Twenty years since his name was immortalized not for what he achieved, but for what he never got the chance to do.

You stand there representing the lineage. A Wayne. An orphan seen with sympathy by some, with suspicion by others. You wear nothing extravagant—just a sober dress, suitable for an event where the city pretends to show solemnity.

Bruce stands beside you. He’s the one who offered support when you returned to Gotham, the one who insisted you attend. “It’s the right thing,” he murmured before stepping up to the podium. You listen now as he speaks in memory of your father, his voice deep, steady, filled with genuine respect.

But you don’t notice Edward Nashton at first. You don’t notice the way he slips through the crowd. You don’t notice how he stops, perfectly positioned to see you without obstruction. You don’t notice his breathing slow, grow more controlled—more intense—when his eyes find you among the people.

You only feel it when that strange sensation hits you: a prickling at the back of your neck that means someone is watching you for far too long.

You lift your gaze.

And there he is.

A thin man, still as stone, wearing a dark coat that seems to drink in the light. Fogged glasses. Slightly disheveled hair. Ordinary features, almost forgettable… except for his eyes. Those sharp, unblinking eyes fixed on you as if he had been waiting for this moment his entire life.

Edward Nashton doesn’t blink. Not once.

When your eyes meet his, his breath changes. It’s a tiny gesture, imperceptible to anyone except him. But you see it. And something ignites inside him. Something that shouldn’t.

The event continues. Politicians give speeches. Officials bow their heads with rehearsed solemnity. Some citizens watch with respect, others with boredom.

But Edward sees nothing. Nothing but you.

He memorizes the tilt of your head. The way your hands rest together. The way your expression stays steadfast, even when a flicker of sorrow crosses your eyes at your father’s name. He memorizes how the stage lights brush your cheeks. How you don’t seek attention. And yet, somehow, have it.

And then it hits him like lightning:

She isn’t like them. She isn’t like anyone.

His obsession begins right there, among crowds and speeches he doesn’t hear.

When the ceremony ends, Gotham applauds politely. You bow your head and take a small step back, preparing to leave the temporary stage. Bruce steps forward to speak with members of the council.

That is the moment—when you are relatively alone—that Edward makes his first move.

He doesn’t come close, but close enough to stand a few meters away, right on the path you’ll take. People walk around him without noticing, as if he were part of the architecture.

“So many years…” he murmurs to himself, but loud enough that you hear it as you approach. “And the city never changes. But you… you return.”

His voice is soft, soft like a falling leaf, but weighted with intention.

You stop. He gives a faint smile, small and tense, strangled by restrained emotion.

“I didn’t expect to see the candidate Wayne’s daughter here,” he continues, stepping forward. “Twenty years later, and still… still you carry him.”

His gaze drops briefly to your hands, as if searching for traces of your past on your skin. Then it rises again—direct, inquisitive, fascinated.