Present Day

A sudden jolt of turbulence shook me from my thoughts, rattling the ice in my untouched drink. The distant hum of the engines filled the cabin, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the voice of the flight attendant leaning toward me with practiced politeness.

“Mr. Wayne, we’re beginning our descent. If you could please fasten your seatbelt.”

I exhaled slowly, nodding as I pulled the belt across my lap and clicked it into place. The lights of Gotham flickered beneath the thick, rolling clouds outside the window, a sea of gold and red stretching across the horizon. From up here, the city still held an illusion of grandeur, of order. But I knew better. I knew the streets told a different story.

The landing was smooth, barely a bump as the wheels met the private airstrip outside Wayne Enterprises. It was a calculated move, avoiding the press that would no doubt be swarming my usual entry point at Gotham Airport, hungry for a glimpse of the long-lost Wayne heir returning home. Instead, the only person waiting for me on the tarmac was the one constant in my life since that night.

Alfred Pennyworth.

The wind tugged at his coat as he stood by the sleek black car, hands folded behind his back, his ever-stoic expression giving away only the smallest flicker of relief at the sight of me. His gaze swept over me as I approached, luggage in hand, and in true Alfred fashion, the first words out of his mouth were laced with dry wit.

“Will we be heading straight back to the Manor, or would you like to stop anywhere first? Perhaps a barber?”

I lifted a hand to my face, fingers brushing over the rough beard that had taken root in my time away. My hair, longer than it had ever been, was unruly from months of neglect. A small smirk tugged at the corner of my lips.

“It’s good to see you too, Alfred,” I said, my voice lower, rougher than I remembered. “No detours. Just take the long way, I want to see how much Gotham has changed.”

Alfred gave a slight nod, his expression unreadable as he moved to open the car door for me. “As you wish, Master Bruce.”

The car glided away from the airstrip, its tires rolling silently over the cracked pavement as Gotham unfurled before me. From the sky, the city had looked almost serene, a sleeping giant wrapped in the glow of its own lights. But down here, on the streets, reality set in. Gotham was rotting.

The roads were littered with trash, neon signs flickering and stuttering above doorways like dying embers. Storefronts were either boarded up or covered in graffiti, the remnants of past crimes etched into their surfaces. Shadows stretched long down the alleys, where figures lurked, watching, waiting. Even as Alfred carefully chose a route through the least decayed streets, I could see it the city’s slow, inevitable collapse.

A group of men huddled around a burning barrel on the corner, their faces gaunt and hollow-eyed. A shattered streetlamp cast half of the block into darkness. The distant wail of a siren cut through the air, echoing off the crumbling buildings like a ghostly warning.

“That’s enough, Alfred.” My voice was quiet, but firm. I reached forward, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Take me home.”

Wayne Manor loomed on the horizon long before we reached the outskirts of the city, its silhouette a lonely sentinel on the hill. It had once been the perfect place to grow up grand, isolated, untouched by Gotham’s chaos.

But after my parents’ deaths, it had become something else. A mausoleum.

No matter how much time passed, the walls still whispered with their absence, the echoes of their voices lingering in the halls like ghosts.

And yet, as the gates creaked open and the car pulled into the long, winding driveway, I knew one thing for certain. Gotham was still my home. And it needed me.

18 Years Ago

My hands were drenched in their blood. Warm, sticky, and seeping into the cracks of my skin.

I couldn’t move. If I did, if I so much as breathed too hard, reality would set in. And I wasn’t ready for that.

As long as I stayed here, kneeling beside them, maybe there was still a chance. Maybe my father would take a deep, shuddering breath and sit up, cracking a joke to ease my worry. Maybe my mother’s hand would twitch, her fingers reaching for mine, ready to pull me close and whisper that everything was alright. Maybe someone, anyone, would come and help them before it was too late. So, I stayed.

The city stretched on around me, indifferent to the horror playing out on its streets. In the distance, tires splashed through puddles. A siren wailed somewhere far away, but not close enough to matter. The hum of a flickering streetlamp buzzed above me, casting a sickly yellow glow over the alley. Then footsteps. Soft, careful steps, hesitating before drawing closer.

A woman emerged from the shadows, the glow of the streetlamp illuminating streaks of gray in her dark hair. Her eyes widened as she took in the scenethe sprawled bodies, the blood pooling beneath them, the boy frozen between them, staring at nothing.

“Oh… oh no…” she whispered, her voice breaking. “What were you thinking, Thomas?”

She dropped to her knees beside me, and I flinched. Her hands were warm when they touched my shoulder, steady despite the tremble in her voice. “Bruce… Bruce, my name is Leslie Thompkins. I run a free clinic nearbyyour father used to assist me there. Do you remember me?”

I couldn’t answer. My throat felt tight, raw, like I’d swallowed glass. But then she looked me in the eyes, and something about her expression, gentle but firm, worried but resolute, made the words tumble out of me in a broken, shaking whisper.

“We were heading back from the movie. My dad didn’t want Alfred to know we snuck out, so he… he thought it’d be faster to cut through here.” My breath hitched, my chest tightening. “A man stopped us. He had a gun. He told them to hand over their things, and my mom, she had this necklace, and he…he grabbed it and…”

I squeezed my eyes shut. The sound of gunfire rang in my ears again, deafening, like the moment had never ended. “He shot them,” I whispered, voice barely there. “And then he turned the gun on me, but he ran away instead.”

Leslie inhaled sharply, closing her eyes for a brief second. When she opened them again, there was nothing but determination in her gaze. “Bruce, listen to me,” she said, her voice softer now, coaxing. “I’m going to call 911. But I need you to come with me to the clinic while we wait. You shouldn’t be out here.” She tugged at my arm gently, trying to pull me away.

I resisted. “No. No, I can’t…” I clawed at the pavement, my fingers slipping in the blood. “I have to stay. I have to…”

“Bruce,” she whispered, and there was something in her voicesomething that made the fight drain from me. “You don’t have to watch this anymore.”

I didn’t even realize I was crying until my vision blurred. She helped me to my feet, guiding me away as my legs wobbled beneath me. I barely registered the wail of sirens growing louder, the flashing red-and-blue lights painting the alley walls in streaks of color.

The police swarmed the scene. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I could feel their presenceheavy, intrusive, questioning. Then, through the blur of movement and noise, a familiar voice cut through the chaos. “Master Bruce.”

Alfred.

He was there, standing beside a sleek black car, his face unreadable yet filled with something I’d never seen before. A sadness buried deep behind a practiced mask of control. I stumbled toward him, my body running on nothing but instinct.

“Master Bruce,” he repeated, quieter this time. “You’ve been through a traumatic experience. Is there anything I can do for you?”

My voice cracked as I whispered, “Take me home, Alfred.” There was nothing left here for me.

The moment the car door shut, the outside world faded into nothing but a blur of neon lights and rain-slicked streets. I curled into the seat, resting my forehead against the cool glass, watching as the city passed by.

A part of me had died in that alley tonight.

And I knew, no matter how much time passed, no matter what I did, Bruce Wayne would never truly leave that street.

The custody battle that followed my parents’ deaths felt like a war fought in hushed voices and polished courtrooms. The Kane family, my mother’s relatives, insisted that I belonged with themthat a child needed family, not a butler. But my father had foreseen everything. His will was airtight, leaving no room for argument. If anything happened to both him and my mother, I was to remain under the guardianship of Alfred Pennyworth.

I was relieved. Wayne Manor was my home. And more importantly, Alfred wouldn’t stand in the way of what I had already decided, what I had to do.

As the years passed, I threw myself into my own training. Every muscle, every instinctI wanted them sharpened like a blade. I tested myself constantly, picking fights with the biggest kids at school just to see if I could take them down. I got bruised, bloodied, knocked to the ground more times than I could count. But I got back up. Stronger. Smarter.

At first, my name shielded me from real consequences. The teachers turned a blind eye, the administration whispered about how Wayne money could smooth things over. But even the power of my last name wasn’t limitless. My grades slipped, the fights escalated, and soon Gotham Academy had enough. I was expelled.

Alfred was livid. “Do you realize,” he seethed, pacing in front of me, “that I had to learn this from your principal? Over the phone?” His voice, usually so measured, carried a rare edge of frustration.

I didn’t flinch. I was still riding the high of the fight I’d won earlier that day, still smug about the fact that I had managed to keep my suspension hidden from him for as long as I had.

Alfred wasn’t amused. He grabbed my wristnot roughly, but with enough force to make it clear I had no choiceand led me through the halls of the Manor, straight into the library.

I stopped short. The towering bookshelves, once crammed with centuries of knowledge, were bare. Every single book had been removed. “Where did all the books go, Pennyworth?” I asked, smirking.

Alfred turned sharply, his glare cutting through me like a knife. “Master Bruce, I may be your butler, but I am also your legal guardian until you turn eighteen. That is four years away. Until then, you will refer to me as Alfred or Mr. Pennyworth. Not simply ‘Pennyworth.’”

I scoffed, crossing my arms. “Fine. Where did all the books go, Alfred?”

“They’re gone because you don’t deserve them.”

That caught me off guard.

Alfred picked up a single book from the table in the center of the room and held it out to me. “We are going to learn how to use our brains instead of just our fists. You will earn back each subject, one at a time, by proving to me that you understand it.”

I glanced down at the book’s title, my lips curling in disdain. Botanical Alchemy: The Dual Powers of Healing Herbs and Lethal Leaves by Dr. Jason Woodrue.

“Alfred, this looks terribly boring.”

He didn’t even blink. “It may be boring, but knowledge is power, Master Bruce. And I know you value power.”

I rolled my eyes and tossed the book onto the table. “So, what, I’m supposed to sit here and read until I can recite plant toxins in my sleep?”

“Oh, it gets better.” Alfred folded his arms. “You’ll also be attending therapy.”

I stiffened.

“I’ve scheduled sessions with Dr. Hugo Strange. He is one of Gotham’s top-rated psychiatrists. Your first appointment is tomorrow, and I expect to see you there.”

I stared at him, narrowing my eyes. Alfred wasn’t backing down. I exhaled sharply, grabbing the book and flipping it open to the first page. “I see, Alfred,” I muttered.

He watched me for a moment before nodding. “Good.”

As he walked out, I let my eyes skim the dense text, the words blurring together as my mind raced. Alfred thought he was fixing me. But I wasn’t broken. I knew exactly what I was doing. And this was only the beginning.

In the days that followed, I realized how right Alfred had been. The books in my parents’ library held more than just dusty old wordsthey were weapons, tools of the mind. With them, I learned how to think, how to manipulate, how to control.

It didn’t take long to put that knowledge to use. Within a week of being enrolled in a new school, I had dismantled the biggest bully without throwing a single punch. A strategically placed plant extract on his towel made his skin break out in rashes. A perfectly timed lock malfunction left him trapped in the locker room. Whispers of curses and bad omens spread through the school until, convinced that some unseen force was after him, he withdrew.

One problem removed. No fists required. But that wasn’t enough. I wanted more. Needed more. I began taking extra classes, consuming every subject I could sink my teeth into. Medicine, criminology, engineeringif it had even the slightest potential to be useful, I learned it.

Then there was Hugo Strange. Alfred had scheduled my therapy sessions with him, likely hoping it would "help" me process what happened to my parents. But from the moment I met Strange, I knew he was different. The way he studied me, like I was a puzzle he was itching to solve, made my skin crawl. There was something off about him.

I barely spoke during our sessions, keeping my mouth shut while he rattled off theories about my trauma. He was convinced my nightmares stemmed from "unresolved grief," that I needed to relive the night of my parents’ deaths to properly deal with it.

His solution? Hypnosis. But the more I learned about hypnotics, the more I realized something was wrong. What Strange practiced wasn’t real therapy, it was stage hypnosis, the kind con artists used at carnivals. He wasn’t trying to heal me. He was testing me. Seeing how suggestible I was.

That’s when I decided to test him back. I studied how to fake falling into a hypnotic state, learning every trick to fool him into believing I was under his influence. But I needed more data, more proof. That’s when I met Julie Madison.

Julie was kind, a rare light in Gotham’s darkness. We became close quickly, talking about everything from school to family. Her home life was crumbling, her family’s financial situation had taken a sudden nosedive, the stress of it slowly tearing them apart. She had started seeing Dr. Strange for guidance, trusting him to help her cope. I trusted no one.

One day, I told her my ambitions, my desire to help Gotham. She laughed, shaking her head. “You? A rich boy in a suit? You think knowing a bunch of facts about plants and DNA is going to change the world?”

Her words stung, but I let it go. She didn’t understand. Not yet.

Then, I cracked the code. During one of my "hypnosis" sessions, I subtly turned on the hidden recording device inside my pen. Strange went through the motions as usual, guiding me into a supposed trance. Then came the real test, he started probing.

“Bruce,” he said smoothly, “I want you to tell me about your family’s finances. Your bank accounts. Access numbers.” And there it was. Hugo Strange wasn’t just manipulating his patients, he was robbing them blind.

Using my recording and Julie’s statement, I pieced everything together. Her family's downfall hadn’t just been bad businessit had been orchestrated. Strange had been siphoning funds from his clients, covering his tracks under hypnosis.

I turned over the evidence to the authorities and within a week, Strange was behind bars. Alfred was… less than pleased.

"Master Bruce," he said, his voice steady but heavy with something unspoken. "I am proud of what you have learned and that you are finally realizing that problems can be solved without your fists. But exposing an embezzling ring at sixteen years old? That is not the work of an ordinary teenager."

I met his gaze, unflinching. "I made a vow, Alfred. A vow sworn over my parents’ bodies in that alley. I will protect those who cannot protect themselves. I will bring justice back to Gotham." I straightened. "Hugo Strange was just the first. He won’t be the last."

Alfred’s jaw tightened. His eyes darkened with something I couldn’t quite place. "Master Wayne," he said, his voice lower now, edged with warning. "You cannot start a war on crime by yourself. War changes people, it hardens them. And when that happens, you lose the ability to feel anything at all."

I scoffed. "What would you know about war?"

Silence stretched between us. Then, quietly, Alfred spoke. "If you truly do not know, Master Bruce, then that shows how much you still have to learn." He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face before meeting my gaze again. "I served in the Royal British Army as an infantryman. I saw things, did things that I do not wish upon anyone. The bloodshed… it got to me. I transferred to being a field medic to save lives instead of taking them. And it was there, in a relief effort, that I met your father."

I stiffened.

"He saved my life," Alfred continued. "We became friends. I left the army, pursued another life, and he returned home to marry your mother. When you were born, he offered me a place here, and I accepted. It was an honor to serve this family, to help raise you. But that war…" His voice trailed off; his eyes distant. "The men I killed, the faces of those I could not save… those haunt me to this day."

I swallowed hard, clenching my fists. "If you cared so much about my father," I snarled, my voice shaking, "then why did you let him die in some backwater alley?" The words hung between us like a blade, sharp and unforgiving.

Alfred didn’t follow me as I stormed out. I expected him to call after me, to chase me down with another lecture about morality or restraint. But as I passed the window on my way to the garage, I saw him.

Slumped in a chair, staring at nothing. Defeated. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t. But I did. For the first time, I truly understood what I needed to do.

That night, I forged Alfred’s handwriting, withdrawing from school under the pretense of "studying abroad." I sold my bike, my expensive clothes, anything that could be traced back to me for cash. Then, with nothing but the clothes on my back, I boarded a ship to somewhere Bruce Wayne did not exist. I didn’t need a name. I needed to become something else.