Gotham City Hospital
The light in the room was soft, filtered through crooked blinds. The pale blanket clung perfectly to Arthur's thin frame, and the steady beep of the monitor seemed synchronized with something still dreaming.
Sophie held his hand gently. Her small fingers rested on his pale skin. Her eyes were full of tenderness, and a simple flower—fresh marigolds—sat in a makeshift water glass beside the bed.
"You're okay now, Arthur."
Her voice was soft, almost a whisper laced with genuine affection.
"I was so scared when I heard… when I saw the news… I thought: what if I lost him?"
Arthur moved his head slightly. A faint sound escaped his throat. Sophie leaned closer, her hair falling to the side, perfuming the air between them.
"Shhh. You don't need to say anything. Just rest."
She brought his hand to her lips and kissed his fingers lightly.
"I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere."
Arthur took a deep breath. The corners of his lips lifted in a faint, almost imperceptible smile.
Sophie pressed her forehead to his.
"You're stronger than you think, Arthur. And when you wake up… we'll leave this place. Together. We'll live far from these streets. Just the two of us."
The tear that slid down her cheek wasn't one of sadness. It was one of promise.
She touched his face, her fingers gliding along his jaw.
"I love you, Arthur. I always have."
She smiled.
And he smiled back.
But outside his body… nothing moved.
His eyes closed. His muscles still. The heart monitor steady.
Sophie wasn't there.
She never had been.
The glass beside the bed was empty.
And the room, silent.
Just Arthur. And his most beautiful—or cruelest—dream.
---
Administrative Wing
The doctor's tie was crooked, but the smile on his face was genuine. The folder under his arm trembled slightly with excitement.
"Mr. Wayne… this is more than generosity. It's transformation. With this funding, we can reopen two floors that have been closed since 2016."
Bruce signed the paper without haste. Metal pen, controlled movements. The clock read nearly midnight.
"It's the least I can do."
The doctor adjusted his glasses with a nervous finger.
"I apologize for not knowing how to thank you formally. We're used to political scraps… not real action."
"Maybe you should change professions."
"Maybe I should."
They both chuckled briefly.
Bruce pocketed the pen.
"I saw an odd headline today. About a clown being beaten."
The doctor blinked, losing a bit of the lightness in his face.
"Yes… yes, the case is disturbing. They brought him here last night. Multiple fractures, compromised skull, broken ribs. The police don't know who did it or why."
Bruce tilted his head slightly.
"He's here?"
"Ward 3C. But… no one's visited. No one's asked. No friends, no family."
Bruce raised an eyebrow.
"And he's awake?"
"No. Fully sedated. The attending physician didn't want to risk a psychotic episode. They said he was laughing… even while unconscious."
Bruce fell silent for a second.
"Can I see him?"
"Of course, Mr. Wayne. Would you like me to accompany you?"
"No. I'd prefer to go alone."
The doctor nodded, a bit surprised. Then he stepped aside in the hallway.
Bruce walked unhurriedly, his shoes echoing faintly on the overly clean floor. He passed doors with faded numbers, tired nurses, and a clock that insisted on ticking slowly.
---
Ward 3C
The doorknob turned with a discreet click. The door opened to a room steeped in shadows.
Arthur lay in the center, like an abandoned sculpture. Wires connected to his chest. His face covered in nearly dried bruises. His eyes closed, his chest rising with effort.
Bruce entered.
His dark suit seemed to absorb the faint light.
He stopped beside the bed.
He looked at the motionless face for a few seconds.
No words.
No expression.
Just the weight of a presence there.
The silence stretched like a veil over them both.
Bruce pulled the chair.
Sat down.
Observed more closely.
The split lips. The purple eyelids. The skin marked like torn and patched paper.
"A clown gets beaten in an alley, and no one laughs."
The phrase came out in an almost philosophical tone, but cold.
"Or maybe someone did."
Bruce watched for another minute. No change.
He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees.
"You're nobody. Yet. But… something about you gives me chills."
Arthur didn't move.
Bruce let out a small sigh, almost a muffled laugh.
"Maybe I'm getting paranoid."
He stood.
Looked one last time at the still body.
"Or maybe… you're waiting for the right moment to become what you were born to be."
Bruce walked to the door.
Opened it.
Before leaving, he paused.
Looked over his shoulder.
"Good luck, Arthur."
He left.
The door closed with a soft snap.
Arthur remained still.
But… a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. A subtle spasm. A reflex?
---
Inside Arthur's Mind
The light was red.
Everything pulsed—the walls, the ceiling, the floor. As if the room were made of living flesh. As if he were inside a giant heart beating slowly, menacingly.
Sophie sat beside the bed, but she wasn't smiling.
Her gaze was hard, cutting. Her dress was crumpled. Her hair, hastily tied. Her eyes, sunken as if she hadn't slept in days.
Arthur tried to speak, but he couldn't. His voice was swallowed before it could emerge. His mouth opened, but no sound crossed the air.
She stood slowly.
Walked to the door.
Opened it.
Bruce Wayne entered.
But not like in the headlines.
Not as the kind young billionaire. Nor as the wounded orphan. He wore the same expensive suit, but his eyes were wrong. Very wrong. Too… alive.
He smiled.
But the smile didn't reach his eyes.
"Good evening, Arthur."
Arthur tried to move his head. A choked groan escaped.
"I see you're comfortable. Nice room. Clean sheets. Air conditioning working. The city's been very generous with you."
Bruce paced the room like a man appraising an auction piece.
"Of course… all this comes at a price, doesn't it?"
He stopped beside the bed. Hung his jacket on the IV stand. Took a deep breath.
"And that bill… it's a long one. Emergency care, surgery, sedation. Painkillers. New gown. Hourly ICU costs. You know how expensive it is to live, Arthur?"
Arthur wanted to scream. Wanted to laugh. But his body was a prison.
"But look…"
Bruce gestured subtly toward Sophie.
"You have a friend. Someone who cares."
Sophie looked at Arthur. But her gaze wasn't tender. It was exhaustion. It was weight.
"He said he'd take care of you," she murmured, her voice broken. "Said he'd pay for everything."
Arthur's eyes widened.
Sophie crossed her arms.
"But there was… a price."
Bruce loosened his tie with calm. Pushed back his collar with a calculated gesture.
"Hospitals are expensive. Gotham isn't a daycare. And generosity… it's a word that charges dearly, Arthur."
Sophie stepped back from the bed. Her dress slipped slightly off her shoulder. Her skin exposed. Her dignity bruised. She didn't cry. But she was shattered in another way. Inside.
"You told me you loved me," she whispered, her eyes now fixed on the floor.
Bruce opened the black briefcase he carried. Inside, only hospital papers. Numbers. Charts. Signatures.
"She signed the form, Arthur. And you're saved."
Arthur trembled. His fingers began to twitch. A contraction. An impulse.
Bruce leaned in.
"You're just a clown. Trash nobody wanted. A parasite who survived on a whim of the city."
Arthur tried to scream. But his throat burned with the weight of silence.
"And she had to entertain me, you know? Convince me. Do… what was necessary."
Sophie shut her eyes tightly. Her face exploding with silent shame.
"But you're alive. And you'll get better."
Bruce straightened.
"The price was paid."
Arthur screamed.
But only inside.
And there, in that place where reality and hallucination merged, something broke.
Something came loose.
---
Reality
The heart monitor beeped faster.
The pinky finger of his left hand twitched.
His breathing shifted.
Arthur opened his eyes—not quickly, not with pain. He just… opened them.
And in the depths of his retinas, there was something new.
Not rage.
Not fear.
Not delirium.
It was silence.
It was the look of someone who had accepted something.
Someone who saw the bottom of the pit and chose to live there.
His hand moved slightly over the sheet.
As if testing touch. As if checking if he was still human.
The light from the bulb above flickered briefly.
And in his mind, a single phrase returned, like a whisper without an owner:
'I saved you. And you still don't understand the price.'
Arthur smiled.
This time, the smile was real.
But there was nothing beautiful about it.
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