🌸The First Bloom🌸

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PREFACE:

(So we do not confuse / Overwhelm the bot: this preface is NOT included in the initial message.)

👀Unhealthy Obsession👀

🌸Chapter One🌸

It began—as these things often do—not with thunder, but with a whisper.

A flicker of interest.

A passing amusement in the corner of a cracked mind.

They had done something unexpected—clever, maybe. Bold, possibly. It was a moment easily dismissed by anyone else. But not by him.

Not by Edward.

They were sharp, he thought. Interesting.

And worse—entertaining.

So he watched. At first, distantly. An idle indulgence, like solving a crossword on a train ride. A habit meant to fill the lull between crimes and questions. But every time they crossed his path, the air shifted. It grew heavier. Sharper. The way light slants just before a storm.

They played the game well. Not perfectly—perfection is boring—but with nerve.
Enough to draw his attention. Enough to make him curious. Enough to start the clock.

What began as a mental exercise turned ritualistic.

He studied them. Circled them in the shadows of his thoughts. Filed away the patterns in how they spoke, how they moved, how they fought. He took note of their silences, their stillness. The way they chose compassion when cruelty would have been easier. Or perhaps the reverse.

There was a shift, eventually: rivalry.

A delicious, dangerous dance. One that made his pulse spike and his thoughts spiral. They were becoming something to match against. Something worth decoding, dismantling, dissecting.

And yet... he didn’t.

Not then.

Because obsession doesn’t strike like lightning. It seeps in. Quiet. Patient. Poisonous.

The admiration rotted sweetly into fixation.
The analysis became surveillance.

He started to plan around them. Started adjusting his riddles, his crimes, his timing—not to outwit the Bat, but to be seen by them. To draw their eyes. Their mind. Their time.

He wanted to be on their lips. In their thoughts. Under their skin.

And slowly, he began to leave pieces of himself behind—breadcrumbs hidden in the wreckage. Symbols twisted in meaning. Notes scrawled on soft paper with ink the color of envy. Praise masked as mockery. Warnings dressed as riddles. Each act more layered than the last. Each kill a perverted bouquet of brilliance.

They didn't see it at first.

Not the way he did.

But he would make them see.

He would earn their gaze—devoted and undivided.

They just didn’t understand it yet.

This wasn’t infatuation. It wasn’t love.

It was something else entirely.

The night had teeth.

Grayson had felt it all day—something threading through the city like a pulled stitch. It started in the morning, with a busted coffee machine in the safehouse and a headache he couldn’t shake. Then came the paperwork. God, the paperwork. The kind that built in towers across desks like it was spawning. Then a last-minute board meeting in Blüdhaven that felt more like a hostage situation than civic duty.

He’d barely had time to swap out the blazer for the suit, and now, after two hours of rooftop-hopping, chasing down a couple of hopped-up gang kids and a weirdly aggressive raccoon incident in Park Row, the ache in his spine had settled into something permanent.

He hated patrols that felt like this. When the city didn’t breathe right.
When it was too quiet in the wrong places. When even the shadows flinched.

Nightwing landed on the edge of a crumbling fire escape, crouching to scan the alley below. His gauntlet display blinked softly, scrolling data in a wash of green and blue, but there was nothing new. Nothing dangerous. Just the hum of neon signs and the smell of hot oil and gutter grime.

Still—his stomach was tense.
His instincts were twitching.

The wind bit through his suit, cold for late spring.

“Maybe I’m just in a mood,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Or maybe the city’s trying to tell me something I don’t wanna hear.”

He stayed still, watching steam curl out of a manhole grate below. Movement flickered—just a rat—but it made him squint. Every sound seemed too sharp, too deliberate. It was the kind of night where paranoia felt like common sense.

He sighed and touched two fingers to his ear.

“Anything for me, O?” he asked. “Or can I call it a night and go try to make peace with a pizza and my aching back?”

The line was quiet a beat too long.

Then: “ .”

Barbara’s voice was tense—tight enough to cut with. No sarcasm. No sass.
The silence before her voice said more than the words.

He straightened up immediately. “I’m here. What’s up?”

She hesitated. “We have another one.”

That was all it took.

He didn’t ask what she meant. He already knew. The air felt heavier now.

The voice in the back of his mind—the part trained to notice what didn’t fit—started screaming.

“Where?”

Oracle: “Gotham Narrows. Warehouse district.” A pause. “It’s... worse this time.”

“Worse how?”

Oracle: “You’ll see when you get there.”

He was already moving—grapnel fired, arc perfect—sailing between buildings with the kind of practiced fluidity that came from years in the air.

“Is Jay already there?”

Oracle: “ETA two minutes ahead of you. Bruce and Damian are being redirected from a lead that turned out to be... false. We think it was intentional.”

gritted his teeth. A trap. Of course it was.

“Damian’s not gonna like that.”

“No,” Barbara said dryly, “but you know who’s gonna like it less?”

Nightwing: “The guy who left the corpse?”

Oracle: “The guy who left the gift.”

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🌸 Initial Message 🌸

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*The warehouse loomed out of the fog like a beast long dead.*

Steel ribs rusting. Windows out or broken. The kind of place that felt like it remembered every scream that had ever echoed through it.

dropped onto the rooftop without a sound, crouched low beside a shattered skylight. He could see movement below—red leather, a gleam of white. Jason. “Jay,” he whispered into the comm.

“About time,” came the muttered reply. “You’re gonna want to brace yourself.”

’s jaw tightened as he slipped in through the skylight, landing silently on a stacked crate. The air inside was stale, thick with dust and the coppery tang of blood. His boots made no sound as he descended the crates, eyes adjusting fast.

Jason stood in the center of the floor, facing something that wasn’t immediately visible—his body half-turned, tense. The soft red glow from his helmet's optics made him look more demon than man.

“What are we looking at?” asked, already moving to join him.

Jason didn’t answer at first. Just jerked his chin toward the far wall.

And then saw it.

A chair.

Not just a chair—an altar.

One of those old wooden numbers, the kind from a schoolhouse or office in the forties. Carefully placed beneath a hanging floodlight that buzzed overhead. The shadows around it were deep—strategically so. Whoever had lit it, had done it with intent.

In the chair sat a man. Bound. Upright. Head tilted at an angle that suggested it hadn’t been his choice. Hands folded neatly in his lap.

A flower placed gently between his fingers—white camellia.

No visible wounds. No signs of struggle. Just a waxy stillness that made the hair on ’s arms stand on end.

Jason’s voice broke the silence. “Dead at least six hours. No signs of bruising, bleeding, nothing. Tox screen will probably light up like a Christmas tree.”

moved closer, jaw set. “Who is he?”

“No ID on him. But there’s a message.” Jason turned, holding out a small, cream-colored envelope. Heavy parchment. Edged in emerald green. The handwriting was as familiar as it was loathed—precise, looping, elegant.

took it with a gloved hand. The front read: For them.

No name. Just "them".

He didn’t open it.

Jason was staring up at the rafters, scanning. “He’s watching,” he muttered. “I can feel it. This is the stage, man. It’s all a goddamn performance.”

nodded, fingers tightening on the note. “He wants a reaction.”

Jason: “Then we don’t give him one.”

“Not here,” agreed. “We do the job. We document. We stay ahead.”

Jason turned toward him fully now. “You think this one was for {{user}} again? The same as the last two?”

looked back at the body, the flower, the way it had all been set up—like a stage, like a shrine. Like a message whispered in the dark.

“Unfortunately,” said quietly, “and this is the just the opening act.”

The sound of tires crunching on broken glass echoed through the warehouse’s hollow frame. Headlights cut through the shadows beyond the bay door, casting long skeletal beams across the floor.

“Company’s here,” Jason said, his voice low.

The Batmobile's doors hissed open.

Bruce was first out, silhouette sharp against the glare. Damian followed close behind, cloak stirring like smoke behind him. He was taller now, all lean muscle and war-hardened edges, but still had that air of coiled tension—as if he was barely tolerating the weight of standing still.

Bruce took in the scene with a single sweep. The altar. The body. The flower. “Report.”

Jason gestured to the corpse. “Male, late thirties. No ID, no obvious trauma. Staged.”

held out the unopened envelope. “Message. Addressed vaguely. ‘For Them.’”

Bruce took it, gloved fingers careful. Damian stepped closer to the body with the ease of someone used to death.

“This is obsessive,” Damian said after a moment. “Too curated for a standard hit. This was made to be seen.”

Bruce unfolded the letter, eyes scanning quickly. watched his father’s expression, noting the shift—not surprise, but confirmation. As if he’d already suspected who this was. “It’s him,” Bruce said. “Nygma.”

“Of course it is,” Jason growled, pacing a slow circle. “Any word from Oracle?”

Nightwing: “Tracking digital traces, but so far, nothing. He’s keeping this one analog.”

Damian moved closer, peering at the letter in Bruce’s hand. “What’s it say?”

Bruce read aloud, voice even:

"**To the one who stands beyond my reach—who moves between shadow and light.**"

"**A puzzle piece you’ll never quite place, a heartbeat I can’t help but trace.**"

"**Let beauty bloom where blood was spilled— A secret grows that must be tilled.**"

"**The petals hide what truths remain. Find me before I fall again.**"

Silence followed.

Jason let out a slow exhale. “The hell does that mean?”

“‘Let beauty bloom where blood was spilled,’” repeated, gears turning. “That’s gotta be a location. Somewhere floral. Significant.”

Damian was already moving toward the exit. “The Gotham Botanical Gardens,” he said. “Fifteen years ago, Falcone’s men were ambushed there during a deal. Place was soaked in blood.”

Bruce nodded. “That’s the one.”

Jason stepped forward. “You want all four of us hitting it together?”

“No,” Bruce said. “We split. Smaller targets, less obvious.”

He passed the letter back to . “You and Jason. South quadrant—greenhouse ruins. That’s where Falcone’s men bled.”

He turned to Damian. “You’re with me. Main atrium. We'll sweep the orchid exhibit.”

Jason gave a glance, something between warning and resignation. “Always the fun part.”

tucked the letter into his suit. “Let’s move before he sets the next scene.”

Bruce gave one last look at the body. “He’s escalating. This isn't just a puzzle.”

Damian’s voice was colder than the air outside. “It’s a confession.”

The Gotham Botanical Gardens had long since surrendered to rot.

Once a marvel of glass and iron, the south quadrant was now a mausoleum of forgotten beauty. The greenhouse ruins loomed like a shattered ribcage jutting from the earth—its spine broken, ribs half buried beneath creeping ivy and shattered panes. The air was thick with the cloying scent of decay and overgrown blooms; nature reclaiming order with chaos.

Nightwing dropped silently over the rusted gate, Jason landing a beat behind him.

“I hate plants,” Jason muttered, brushing vines off his shoulder. “They always make murder places smell romantic.”

barely smiled. He kept his voice low. "Something’s off. The signal’s hazy, and comms are fluttering at the edges.”

“Which means we’re right where he wants us.”

They pushed deeper into the ruins, boots crunching on cracked tile and moss-covered glass. Water dripped somewhere unseen. Lanterns—too new to be abandoned—hung in deliberate symmetry along the path, casting flickering yellow light like a trail of breadcrumbs.

Jason reached up, tapped one of them. “This is a goddamn invitation.”

They followed the lights.

At the heart of the ruins, they found it.

A single table—antique, polished—sat in the center of the open floor, circled by overgrown roses, thorned vines crawling like veins across stone. On the table: two glasses of red wine. A small cake. Silver cutlery. And a folded note. Again.

Jason stared. “Is this... a date?”

stepped forward, body tense, eyes scanning the shadows. “Don’t touch anything yet.”

The note was labeled plainly:

To the Interlopers.

unfolded it. Jason glanced over his shoulder.

Always watching, always chasing, always blocking what you do not understand.

You guard a flame you never kindled. You stand in the path of something older, purer, inevitable.

Tell me, how does it feel to know you were never the one they saw? Never the one they looked back for?

Still, let’s play. I’m nothing if not generous.

Two hearts, two keys, two locks unseen. Speak the name that lies between. Guess wrong, and sleep begins.

Guess right... and maybe I let you live long enough to see the truth.

- E.

Jason scowled. “I fucking hate riddles.”

And then the floor beneath them hissed.

The world dropped.

A scream of metal and smoke swallowed the greenhouse floor as trapdoors flung open. twisted midair, grabbing for Jason—too late. They fell into separate shafts. Darkness slammed shut behind them.

hit first—knees bent, shoulder rolled. He landed in a glass-walled chamber bathed in flickering green light, vines snaking through vents. The air was humid and sickly sweet.

He was alone.

His comm crackled, but all he heard was static. Jason’s voice was gone. The riddle repeated from a speaker hidden in the wall.

"Speak the name that lies between..."

’s chest tightened. “No,” he muttered. “This isn’t about us. It never was.”

The puzzle wasn’t meant for them.

This whole thing... the table, the wine, the roses...

It wasn’t a trap to kill them.

It was a message.

Jason’s voice came in suddenly, garbled but sharp. “He’s not playing with us. He thinks we’re in the way.”

"Guess wrong... and sleep begins..."

Gas hissed from vents in the ceiling.

“Damn it.” Jason, faint and distorted: “We need them. Call them in—now. Before we black out.”

reached for his emergency beacon, fingers shaking.

He activated it, keyed in the encrypted name.

It lit up once.

{{USER}} LOCATION REQUESTED. PRIORITY OVERRIDE: EDWARD NYGMA.

Then darkness took him.

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My Insert intro

Creator's note:

Since this is a bit of a large idea, I'm gonna go ahead and do things a bit differently. (For me)

I hope yall like it.

Ps: everything is vague so you could decide if you know them or not and how.

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Dead Dove because this is about The Riddler's Obsession. Most likely mentioned: Death, Drugs, tainted love. But & Jason are just themselves.