tw. main character deaths, blood, grief, domestic violence, implied sexual assault, brief mentions of pedophilia, murder, suicide, suicidal thoughts

The air outside felt too clean. Too quiet. The streetlights buzzed overhead as Michael shoved Melina forward, fingers like iron clamps around her arm. His breath reeked of beer and smoke, but she didn't flinch. Not anymore. She couldn't afford to.

She kept her head down.

Not because she was afraid—though the fear twisted hot in her stomach—but because she couldn't bear to look back. Not at the apartment. Not at the door. Not at Maeve pressed to the window like a ghost.

If she looked, she wouldn't be able to leave.

Her new "husband" was waiting by the car, leaned against it like he owned the world. Neatly dressed, cold-eyed. Another man with money and cruelty stitched into his bones. She could see it already—the sharp tilt of his head, the way he looked at her like she was a possession, not a person.

He didn't say anything when she got in the car. Just slid into the driver's seat and pulled away.

And still, she didn't cry.

She watched the city roll past the window. Her city. The one that tried to kill her a hundred times but hadn't succeeded—yet. She remembered sleeping in alleys with Maeve wrapped in her arms, keeping her warm with a body that had taken too many hits. Remembered Jason, lanky and bleeding, trying to hide his pain with sarcasm. Remembered Dick Grayson's smile the first time she met him and wondered—for the thousandth time—what would've happened if she'd had a real shot.

This is the cost, she told herself. This is what it means to save someone.

It was never fair. It never had been.

The apartment they arrived at was spotless, cold, all white marble and glass. It looked like a house you could die in without anyone noticing for days.

He opened the door for her with a smirk.

She didn't thank him.

"Upstairs," he demanded, and she helplessly followed.

Each step felt heavier than the last. Not because of the bruises Michael had left or the way her hands were still shaking—but because she could feel something final in the air. Like a trap clicking shut. Like the last chapter of a book that was never really hers.

Inside the bedroom, he shut the door and locked it with a soft, deliberate click.

Melina turned to face him, jaw set.

"If you touch me," she said, voice low and lethal, "I swear to God—"

"You don't swear anything," he interrupted, stepping closer. "You do what you're told. That was the deal."

She didn't back down. "You think I'm afraid of you?"

"No," he said. "I think you're smart. And I think you care more about that little sister of yours than you do about yourself."

That landed. Because it was true.

Melina looked away, pressing her nails into her palms again. Anything to stay grounded.

She didn't sleep that night either.

Days Later

He was worse than Michael. Maybe not as sloppy. But more calculated. He knew when to smile. When to praise. And exactly how to punish.

She'd learned quickly: don't talk back. Don't cry. Don't fight when it didn't count.

But the bruises bloomed anyway.

He kept her isolated. No phone. No visitors. No windows that opened.

She started talking to herself just to hear another voice. Sometimes she whispered Maeve's name. Sometimes Jason's. Sometimes Dick's. Like if she said it enough, someone would hear. She missed them all, she missed Dick's soft and gentle touches the most. The way he held her like she was the most important thing in the world, she missed feeling important. Feeling loved.

It only took a couple weeks before Melina broke. She knew it would end badly. Girls like her didn't get fair endings. They were discovered in cold rooms, eyes wide and still screaming. But she never expected the suddenness. She never expected it to be only a couple weeks.

The mansion was silent, clinical, expensive — and soulless. It was all glass, steel, and suffocation.

She sat at the edge of the cold marble tub, hands shaking as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her lip was split. Again. A bruise was already blooming across her ribs where he'd kicked her when she didn't move fast enough. Her eyes were vacant. Hollow.

But it wasn't the pain that scared her.

It was the numbness.

She'd been so good at surviving. For so long. For Maeve. For Jason. For the flicker of something she used to feel when she thought about Dick.

But tonight, something in her had finally snapped.

He'd made a comment about Maeve — again. About how ripe she looked. About how Melina had better start preparing her sister to be useful. "Maybe she'll learn faster than you did."

She threw the bottle at his face before he even finished the sentence.

He laughed, blood dripping from his cheek, and promised she'd regret that.

But Melina wasn't afraid anymore.

She was done being afraid.

Later That Night,

She waited until he passed out — sprawled on the couch in his silk shirt, half a bottle of bourbon in his hand, snoring like the devil himself could never touch him.

Melina moved like a ghost through the house. Calm. Silent.

In the drawer by the bed, she knew he kept a gun.

For "protection," he said.

She held it for a long time, the weight cold and final in her palm. Her heart didn't race. Her hands didn't shake.

For the first time in years, she was steady.

She sat beside him on the couch, staring at his slack, mouth-breathing face. He looked smaller like this. Not a monster — just a coward in expensive clothes.

"I warned you," she whispered. "I told you what I'd do if you came near her. If you ever thought about touching her."

He stirred, but didn't wake.

So she pressed the barrel to his temple and pulled the trigger.

The sound was deafening. His body jerked once, then slumped.

It was done.

Her ears rang, but she didn't move. Blood pooled beneath the couch and soaked into the rug like spilled wine. She didn't flinch. Didn't breathe.

There was no going back now.

She walked slowly to the bathroom, gun still in hand.

She didn't want Maeve to find her like this.

But she knew she would.

Melina sat down on the bathroom floor, back against the wall. Her body ached, but her mind was clearer than it had ever been. She thought about Maeve. About how strong she'd become. About Jason's crooked smile. About the life she was never allowed to have — and the people she'd loved anyway.

She grabbed the lipstick she kept hidden in the medicine cabinet — the only thing she still owned from before this nightmare — and scrawled on the mirror:

"Tell Maeve I did this for her. Tell Jason he was my son in every way that mattered. Tell Dick I'm sorry, that I truly do love him. And tell them to live. Please — live."

Then she closed her eyes.

The gun was warm in her hand.

The silence wrapped around her like a blanket.

And with one final breath, Melina pulled the trigger.