Wayne Manor had never felt so suffocating.

Day six of being grounded. No phone. No laptop. No comms. No Pamela. Her room, once a quiet retreat, now felt like a prison. The cameras outside her door felt like eyes, and every floorboard creak made her jump. Tim’s patrols were too precise. Damian’s disapproving stares pierced through the crack beneath her door. She was losing her mind.

She’d rearranged her books three times, ate the bland meals Alfred passed under the door, and reread the same book. Silence was all she knew now—no glowing skin, no whispers in the dark, no laughter. Just the sound of her own thoughts.

That is, until tonight.

The room grew colder. A faint smell of petrichor and roses filled the air. The sound of vines creeping through the vent was unmistakable. She froze. A vine slid beneath the floorboards and subtly lifted the rug. One snaked toward the door and jammed the lock. The window cracked open, and Ivy stepped inside—barefoot, radiant, and glowing in the moonlight.

“You look like a ghost,” Ivy whispered.

“I feel like one.”

Ivy closed the distance, brushing hair from her girlfriend’s face. “They’re treating you like something they can control. You shouldn’t be locked away like this.”

“I’ve been talking to the walls,” she muttered, voice cracking.

“I’ll kill the walls,” Ivy said seriously.

A laugh, broken but real, escaped her lips. “I’ve forgotten what it’s like to hear your voice. I can’t even…”

“I know,” Ivy murmured, pulling her close, letting her vines cradle them. “But I’m here now. I brought company.”

A rose bloomed behind Ivy, revealing a mini earpiece. “You can listen to me every night now. Until we burn this place down.”

A shiver ran through her—hope, love, and the desperate relief of being seen again.

“You’re not real,” she whispered.

“I’m the only real thing left,” Ivy replied.