Chapter Text
Snow fell over Fuyuki City during the afternoon, silent and unyielding, blanketing the streets and alleys in a muted white. The winter air hung crisp and motionless.
Outside a small, isolated cabin at the edge of the city, a lone figure paced. Blonde hair coiled into a braided bun with a blue ribbon, a blue dress reinforced with steel plating catching the cloudy light—she moved without hesitation, her steps measured, her eyes unreadable.
The stillness around her pressed in, but she didn’t flinch, didn’t speak, didn’t breathe faster. She simply walked.
Without warning, she left the cabin and moved toward the freezing cold lake. Each step crunched softly beneath her boots before her legs were swallowed by the water.
When she reached the center, she stopped.
Nothing stirred but the snow.
No wind.
No animals.
No life.
Then the fog came.
Thick.
Heavy.
Smothering.
Wrong.
A pale gray haze swallowed the lake’s surface, curling like smoke around her feet. And in the shifting mist, dark, ribbon-like tendrils began to stir, twisting and writhing, growing from the fog itself. They coiled and swarmed, encircling her, lashing with frantic, violent energy.
She did not move.
She did not speak.
She did not react.
The tendrils lashed harder, ripping and tearing with a sound that tore through the air itself—metal tearing, flesh screaming, the world fracturing in a symphony of violence.
And then—
black.
Ten years later…
The restaurant sat tucked between two older buildings in Bristol Row, its windows fogged by warmth and candlelight, the rain outside blurring Gotham into a smear of neon and shadow. Inside, the noise was low and tasteful—cutlery murmuring against porcelain, muted conversations, the faint clink of glasses.
Civilized.
Normal.
Almost unreal.
Artoria Pendragon sat upright at the small corner table, posture immaculate even in stillness. Her black formal suit was tailored cleanly, understated, her blonde hair pulled into a low ponytail that brushed the lapel collar of her unbuttoned jacket. The lighting caught faint gold in it when she moved. She looked composed—as she always did—but there was a subtle tension in the way her hands rested near the table’s edge, fingers relaxed but ready, as if still accustomed to a hilt that wasn’t there.
Across from her, Dick Grayson leaned back slightly in his chair, jacket off, sleeves crisp, tie loosened just enough to signal off duty. His dark hair was neatly styled, his expression easy—amused, curious, very much alive in a way Gotham rarely allowed.
The waiter returned carrying another plate.
Then another.
Then another.
Dick's eyebrows climbed higher with each arrival.
First came the herb-crusted rack of lamb.
Then a filet mignon resting atop garlic mashed potatoes.
A bowl of French onion soup followed.
Roasted vegetables.
Fresh bread with spreadable butter.
A second side of potatoes.
A small dish of sautéed mushrooms.
The waiter finally placed a neatly folded dessert menu beside Artoria's plate. “There you are, ma’am.”
Dick stared with a smirk on his face.
The waiter glanced at his notepad. "Oh. And the chocolate torte will be out shortly."
“Thank you dearly,” Artoria politely said with a faint bow. “And please, good sir—take your time.”
The waiter gave an affirming nod, then departed.
Silence lingered. Dick slowly looked up, his expression unchanged.
Artoria was silently praying before her… meals before noticing Dick’s smug stare. She jolted slightly and straightened herself.
"...You ordered an appetizer, two entrées, three sides, and dessert," Dick said.
Artoria swallowed politely. "...Yes."
Dick blinked. "Why?"
She considered the question seriously. "It… seemed appropriate."
Dick smugly stared at the food. Then he looked at Artoria, then back at the food.
“…You do realize this isn’t a banquet hall, right?” he said with a grin. “This is a date.”
Artoria followed his gaze calmly. Grilled lamb. Roasted vegetables. A side of potatoes. Bread. Soup. A second entrée still steaming.
“Yes,” she replied, unbothered, her British accent pristine. “I am aware.”
Dick gestured with his fork. “You ordered enough food to feed—”
“—a knight after campaign,” she finished evenly, lifting her glass. “Which I am no longer. But, the appetite remains.”
He laughed under his breath. “Bruce never warned me you’d be dangerous in this way.”
She tilted her head, faintly curious. “You object?”
“Not at all,” he said quickly. “Just trying to mentally prepare myself for the bill.”
The corner of her mouth curved upward—subtle, fleeting, but real.
She lifted her fork.
And then—
She stopped.
The movement wasn’t abrupt. It was almost imperceptible—a pause so small it might have been mistaken for hesitation. Her fork hovered just above the plate.
Something shifted.
Not a sound. Not a sight.
A pressure.
Distant.
Immense.
Her breath caught—not sharply, just enough to notice.
Her eyes unfocused for half a second, gaze drifting past the candle between them, past the window, past Gotham itself.
Weight.
Restraint.
Something vast, waiting.
Dick noticed the stillness.
“Hey,” he said lightly. “You alright?”
Artoria blinked once. Then again.
“Yes.” The word came smoothly, practiced. She set the fork down with deliberate care. “Excuse me. I’ll be just a moment.”
No urgency. No apology.
She rose, straightened her jacket, and moved toward the restroom with quiet grace, loafers tapping softly against the floor. A few patrons glanced up—not because of distress, but because of presence. Even now, she carried it.
The restroom was empty.
Bright. Clean. Too quiet.
Artoria locked the door behind her and stood still for a moment, hands resting against the sink. She inhaled slowly, then exhaled—measured, controlled.
Again.
The air felt thin.
She turned the tap and splashed cold water against her face. The shock grounded her—briefly. She braced herself on the porcelain, head bowed, letting the water run over her fingers.
Focus.
She drew another breath.
It came shallow.
She tried again. Slower. Deeper.
The rhythm slipped.
Not panic—not yet—but the edges crept in. Her chest felt tight, like armor buckled too close. The room seemed smaller than it should have been. Her reflection stared back at her from the mirror: composed, untouched, eyes far older than the face staring out.
The pressure lingered.
Not hostile.
Familiar.
Her fingers curled slightly against the sink.
“Not now,” she murmured—not aloud, but close.
She straightened, forcing her shoulders back, loosening her jaw, regulating her breathing by count rather than instinct. Four in. Four out. Again.
It stabilized.
Enough.
She dried her face, adjusted her ponytail, and smoothed her jacket as though nothing had happened.
When she returned to the table, Dick looked up immediately.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“Yes.” She sat, then picked up her fork. “The lighting was… harsh.”
He studied her for a moment—not pushing, not probing—then nodded. “Fair. Gotham does that.”
She ate, but less now. Her movements remained precise, her expression composed—but the ease was gone, replaced by something quieter. Watchful.
Dick noticed.
He didn’t comment.
Outside, the rain kept falling.
And far from the restaurant’s warmth—somewhere beneath Gotham’s skin—something vast shifted, restrained only by will, waiting for the moment when restraint would no longer be enough.
Later, the rain stopped for a bit.
The restaurant door swung shut behind them with a soft chime, the evening air cool against the residual warmth of the dining room. Forty-five minutes had stretched into nearly an hour of lingering conversation and one dessert too many, and Artoria walked with the careful, measured steps of someone who had thoroughly overindulged.
Dick Grayson walked beside her, hands in his pockets, the corner of his mouth already tilted in that particular way that meant trouble.
“You know,” he said lightly, “I’ve seen people lose fights with lamb before. Never quite like that.”
Artoria’s cheeks colored faintly. She kept her chin high, posture impeccable despite the discomfort. “I was… appreciating the meal. Thoroughly.”
“Thoroughly,” Dick echoed, nodding with exaggerated solemnity. “I think the waiter was genuinely worried. He kept hovering like he thought you might challenge the dessert cart to single combat.”
She shot him a sidelong look, dignity held together by sheer force of will. “You are enjoying this far too much, Grayson.”
“Little bit.”
Their banter carried them only a few steps down the sidewalk before the sound reached them—raised voices, sharp and fractured, cutting through the quieter evening traffic. Both of them stopped.
Down the block, several police cruisers sat at odd angles, lightbars flashing blue and red in silent rotation. No sirens. Just the stuttering glow and a knot of officers forming a loose half-circle around a single figure on the pavement.
Artoria’s posture shifted almost imperceptibly, weight settling onto the balls of her feet. Her eyes narrowed.
Dick’s teasing expression faded. “Stay close.”
They approached at a measured distance. The man in the center was thin, clothes layered and worn, hair and beard wild. He paced in tight, agitated arcs, hands gesturing wildly at the empty air around the officers.
“They’re moving! Don’t you see them?! The shadows—look at the shadows! They’re alive! They’re crawling up the walls! They’re gonna swallow every last one of you whole! Get back! GET BACK!”
An officer near the front spoke in a steady, practiced tone. “Daniel. Hey. It’s me, Officer Reyes. Nobody’s coming for you. Just breathe with me, all right? We’re not here to hurt you.”
Daniel’s head snapped toward the voice, eyes wide and unfocused.
“You don’t see them. They’re right behind you—right behind all of you! They’re laughing! They’re waiting!” He swung an arm in a wide, furious arc, forcing the nearest officers to step back. “Don’t come closer! I’ll—I’ll make them stop if I have to!”
Artoria’s gaze tracked every movement. The man’s breathing was ragged, his entire body coiled with the kind of desperate energy that made violence feel inevitable. To her, the threat was immediate and clear.
Dick’s voice was low beside her. “Look at him.”
Artoria frowned. “I am.”
“No. Really look at him.”
Artoria’s gaze focused. She watched the man’s shaking hands. His frantic eyes. His breathing. The way he's backing away from the officers rather than advancing.
Her brow furrowed. “He’s afraid.”
Dick nodded. “Yeah.”
“But fear does not make him less dangerous,” Artoria said
“No,” Dick replied. “It just means we need to figure out what he's afraid of.”
Silence lingered between them save for the man’s shouts in the distant street.
“Give him room,” Dick said. “Let the cops keep talking to him. If he thinks everyone's closing in, he'll panic.”
Artoria looked at Dick. “And if he attacks?”
Dick's expression tightened. “Then we deal with that.”
She glanced at him, then back at Daniel.
“Very well.”
The sympathy was there—quiet, reluctant—but the instinct to treat the situation as combat still hummed under her skin.
Dick thought for a moment.
Just for a moment.
Artoria noticed. She blinked a couple of times.
He paced forward, hoping he could somehow de-escalate the situation.
“Hey, officer. I might be able to—”
One of the officers intercepted him with an outstretched hand. “Sir, stay back. We’ve got this. Please keep your distance.”
Dick stopped, hands raised slightly in acknowledgment. He didn’t push. The badge didn’t know him as Nightwing tonight; he was just another civilian in a suit.
Artoria remained where she was, watching. Daniel’s shouts continued, rising and cracking.
“They’re under the cars now! Under the street! Can’t you feel them pulling?! They’re gonna drag us all down—my daughter—where’s my daughter—she’s not safe, none of you are safe—!”
He staggered sideways, one hand plunging into the folds of his jacket. When it came out again, the streetlights caught the dull gleam of a knife.
The officers tensed as one. Voices sharpened.
Officer Reyes pulled out his sidearm, instinctively aimed at Daniel despite his refusal to escalate.
“Daniel—put it down—!”
“Don’t do it, man—”
Daniel’s hand shook as he raised the blade, not toward the officers but toward himself, the point angled under his own chin.
His voice broke into something raw and small.
“If the shadows take me first… maybe they won’t take anyone else. Maybe she’ll be safe. Maybe—”
“Put—down—the knife!” one officer shouted.
“Daniel—!” another yelled.
Artoria moved.
She did not rush. She stepped into the open space between the officers and the man with the calm, deliberate pace of someone approaching a wounded animal rather than an enemy.
“Ma’am, back away from him," Officer Reyes shouted, his weapon still aimed at Daniel.
Artoria continued forward.
“I said back away from him!” he repeated.
She stopped.
Slowly, Artoria turned toward the officer. “You misunderstand me. Officer. Let me do what you cannot.”
The officer stiffened. “Ma’am, if you refuse to comply, we will have to place you under arrest.”
Artoria's expression tightened.
She was clearly angry now—but it was the controlled anger of someone forcing herself not to snap.
“Then arrest me afterward.” Her gaze returned to Daniel. “But at this moment, let me do my duty.”
“This is our duty. Not yours. We have this under control.”
Artoria's eyes hardened. “Do you?”
Silence lingered.
She looked back at Daniel.
“Then allow me to help you keep it that way,” she said.
The officers exchanged glances.
Something about the way she said it made them hesitate.
Not arrogance.
Certainty.
And perhaps, more importantly, the certainty of someone who had already decided that the frightened man in front of them mattered more than whatever authority they thought they possessed over her.
Reyes lowered his weapon slightly. “...Let her talk to him.”
The other officer glanced at him.
“Sergeant—”
“If she makes it worse, we pull her back. Let her talk to him.”
Artoria didn't acknowledge either of them.
She was already walking toward Daniel.
The knife remained raised, Daniel’s eyes locking onto her with wild confusion.
“Stay back!” he snarled, the blade trembling. “You’re one of them—or they’re using you—get away from me!”
Artoria stopped several paces away, gloved hands visible and empty at her sides. Her voice, when it came, was even and quiet—neither commanding nor soft, simply present.
“I see them,” she said.
Daniel froze.
She did not look at the empty air. She kept her eyes on his. “The shadows. You are not alone in seeing them. They are… persistent tonight.”
His breath hitched. The knife did not lower, but the frantic energy in his stance faltered by a fraction.
“They’re going to swallow everything,” he whispered. “I can’t stop them. I tried. I tried.”
“I know.” Artoria took one slow step closer, then another, never breaking the careful distance. “You have been fighting them for a long time. That is not weakness. It is endurance. But you do not have to fight them this moment.”
Daniel’s free hand clutched at the air as if trying to push something invisible away. Tears had begun to cut clean tracks through the grime on his face.
“My daughter…” The words cracked. “I was supposed to pick her up. She’s waiting. If the shadows get her because of me—”
“They will not,” Artoria said, still advancing with glacial patience. “Because you are going to lower the knife. And I am going to stay right here until the shadows quiet. You do not have to fight them alone in this moment.”
Daniel’s eyes darted back and forth from Artoria to his surroundings, then back to her again.
His arm shook harder. For a long second the blade hovered, then—slowly, as though the weight of it had become unbearable—it began to descend.
The officers held their positions, watching, ready but no longer advancing.
By the time the knife touched the pavement and Daniel’s knees followed it, the edge of hysteria had drained from his voice.
“Quiet… the shadows are quiet.”
The officers moved in carefully then. Daniel did not resist as his hands were gently placed behind his back. Handcuffs clicked softly.
Officer Reyes' shoulders relaxed as he hoisted his sidearm.
As the police helped him to his feet and guided him toward the nearest cruiser, one of them spoke in the same casual, familiar tone from earlier.
“We’re gonna get you checked out, Daniel," one officer said. "Same place as last time. You’re gonna be all right.”
Daniel’s voice was small, exhausted. “My daughter… she’s—she’s still at work. Someone has to take her home. Please. S-she shouldn’t walk alone. I-I need to get her home.”
“We’ll handle it,” Officer Reyes answered quietly. “We’ll make sure she gets home safe. You focus on breathing, okay?”
The car door closed. The flashing lights continued their silent rotation as the cruiser pulled away from the curb.
Artoria remained standing in the middle of the cleared space for a moment longer, gloves still empty at her sides. When one of the remaining officers, Sergeant Reyes—an older man who had kept a watchful distance—passed near her, she spoke.
“This is not the first time you have encountered him,” she said.
It was not a question.
Sergeant Reyes, hands on his hips, glanced to Artoria then back toward the departing cruiser.
“Daniel? Yeah.”
Artoria watched its taillights disappear around the corner. “You know him.”
Reyes sighed quietly. “Fourth time in six months.”
Artoria’s expression shifted. “Four times?”
“Yeah.”
For a moment, neither spoke.
Artoria looked back toward the street where Daniel had been standing only minutes earlier.
“And his daughter?”
Sergeant Reyes' expression changed.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
“Daniel thinks she’s still alive.”
Artoria went still.
“He was telling you the truth,” she murmured.
“Not exactly.” Reyes rubbed a hand across his jaw. “His wife and daughter died in a car accident a few years back. He never really recovered. Started using drugs to quiet things down. Then the schizophrenia got worse. It’s been shelters, hospitals, the street… back and forth ever since.”
Artoria lowered her eyes.
The image of Daniel came back to her.
The shaking hands.
The knife.
The terror in his voice.
My daughter.
Her expression softened. “And tonight?”
The officer glanced toward the cruiser. “Tonight, we get him somewhere safe. Get him checked out. Try to get him stable again.”
Artoria watched the empty road. “Will he be all right?”
Reyes was quiet for a moment. “Tonight?” He gave a tired shrug. “Probably.”
Artoria turned toward him. “And... tomorrow?”
The officer didn't answer.
That was enough to answer.
Artoria’s gaze lingered on the place where the cruiser’s taillights had disappeared. The sympathy she had felt earlier settled heavier now, no longer edged with combat readiness.
Dick stepped up beside her, quiet.
Neither of them spoke for a while as the remaining officers began packing up. The night felt larger than it had when they left the restaurant.