Chapter Text
Your witch-hunt ends in Gotham.
The apartment is… less than what you imagined. You had assumed a penthouse – something lavish, if not in the tallest building that this cesspool of a city had to offer, then it’s second, or even third.
There would be white marble and white wood, or dark tiles and sleek, silver linoleum. A coordinated aesthetic of high-priced items and quality materials. Tasteless paintings hanging on the walls, maybe even a glossy, grand piano beneath the loft. It would never feel the press of warm skin against its keys.
A wall made entirely of full-length windows would see out into the city, rarely hidden by wispy, lace curtains.
You had expectations.
That was your first mistake. A week spent staking out the best that money could afford, wasted. But, it’s a forgivable mistake. It will be irritating if your target flees, but that’s just it. Irritating. You have all the time in the world; your target does not.
As such, you hunker down in this mediocrely made kitchen and wait.
You do not tap your foot, or crack your knuckles; you do not shift nervously on the bamboo barstool and fiddle with your hair; your nails are healthy and well-maintained, so there is no need for cleaning the dirt out from underneath them.
(never mind that your hands are covered from fingertip to wrist in glove)
No. You sit, close your eyes, and revel in the darkness that conceals you. You did not come this far because of an impatient sense of vengeance or the furious desire for retribution.
You did not come here because of something so paltry like emotions.
The lock of the front door opens two hours and forty-three minutes later.
You open your eyes and turn, watching serenely as light spills into the hallway. The layout is like this: the kitchen is built into the first archway the apartment has to offer, two yards down from the door, and further down the narrow ‘way is the living area. Beyond that, it branches rightward into a single bedroom, bathroom, and study.
Because of this most fortuitous floor plan, and the disconcertingly average architecture within, your target stumbles past the kitchen’s entrance with little thought and moves, presumably, to the bedroom.
She does not see you as you stand smoothly from your seat, donned in shadows. She does not hear you as you pad silently behind her, a predator on a slow prowl. She does not smell you over the stench of alcohol emanating off of her own body.
She does not know you are here, does not expect you to be here, and that–
That is an unforgivable mistake. It’s her mistake.
She bypasses the bathroom and fumbles for the bedroom knob.
Right now, you muse, is a moment as good as any. Potentially the optimal moment, if you will.
You could gently encircle your fingers around her throat, caress her soft skin and breath warmly against the shell of her ear, and when she starts to beg, and cry, you squeeze. Quick and efficient with a side of sadistic teasing.
Or, you could make it messy; you have enough hidden knives on you that, if they weren’t hidden, you’d glitter like a twenty-carat diamond ring. Let her bleed out across the white carpet and stain the walls with her blood.
You don’t do either of these. Instead, you still yourself and observe as she struggles with even the most basic of tasks, too far gone under the influence of her chosen poison.
You don’t do either of these, because she is your last target. At last, you can indulge.
When there had been more – too many faces and too many names – time had been of the essence. You simply couldn’t afford to draw it out. All you’d had to offer was a simple message – a dead body is still a dead body, after all.
But now…
Finally, the knob gives in and the door swings open.
She is the last loose end; the last fiber of rope you must cut to through to yourself from the weaved net you have been trapped in your entire life.
This isn’t about revenge – it’s about freedom.
And after having had a taste of it – you would do anything to keep it.
Even biting the hand that once fed you. And you would like one last word before you sink your teeth in.