Talia approached him, her face a complex mixture of relief, sorrow, and resignation. "Come," she said softly. "Let me treat those wounds."
In her private quarters—a space Bruce had visited only rarely, given the League's strict protocols—Talia worked silently, cleaning and bandaging his cuts with practiced efficiency. The room reflected her dual nature: scrolls of ancient philosophy shared space with modern medical textbooks; delicate calligraphy brushes lay beside precision-engineered throwing knives.
"You knew it would come to this," Bruce said finally, as she applied herbal salve to the deeper cut on his shoulder.
"Yes," she admitted, not meeting his eyes. "From the beginning, I think. You and my father—you're too different in the ways that matter most, too similar in your conviction."
"He could have killed me."
"He considered it," Talia said bluntly. "But in his way, he has come to care for you. Not as I do—" Her voice caught slightly. "But as the son he hoped you might become."
Bruce reached up, capturing her hand as she worked. "Come with me," he said quietly, echoing the plea he'd made silently during the confrontation with Ra's.
Talia finally met his gaze, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "My place is here," she replied, though her voice carried a hint of regret. "With my father. With the League. This is all I have ever known, Bruce. All I have ever been."
"It doesn't have to be all you'll ever be," Bruce said gently.
"Perhaps not," she conceded. "But for now... this is where I belong." She squeezed his hand once, then resumed her work, applying bandages with careful precision. "Just as you belong in Gotham."
They spent the remaining hours of darkness together, speaking little, each acutely aware that these were their final moments together. As the first faint light of dawn began to creep over the mountain peaks, Talia helped Bruce dress in warm clothing suitable for the descent.
"The nearest village is a two-day journey," she explained, packing supplies into a sturdy backpack. "From there, you can find transportation to Kathmandu. I've included enough local currency to secure whatever you need." She hesitated, then added a satellite phone to the pack. "This will work almost anywhere. The number for Wayne Enterprises is programmed in."
Bruce accepted the pack, slinging it over his uninjured shoulder. "Thank you."
They walked together to the monastery's main gate, where two League members waited silently to escort Bruce to the boundary of League territory. The morning air was bitterly cold, their breath forming clouds with each exhalation.
"The offer remains open," came Ra's's voice from behind them. Bruce turned to see the League master standing in the shadowed entryway, his face unreadable. "Should you reconsider, should you finally recognize the true nature of justice... a place will be waiting for you among us."
Bruce inclined his head respectfully but made no reply. Some philosophical divides could not be bridged with words.
As the League escorts moved ahead to lead the way, Talia turned to Bruce one final time. "You've changed me," she said softly. "Made me question things I never questioned before. I don't know yet whether to thank you for that or curse you."
"Neither do I," Bruce admitted with the ghost of a smile.
She stepped closer, her hands coming up to frame his face. "Whatever happens between you and my father in the years to come—and something will happen, Bruce, I'm certain of it—know that my feelings for you were real. Are real."
"As are mine," Bruce said, his voice rough with emotion he rarely allowed himself to express.
Their lips met in a final kiss, passionate yet tinged with the bitterness of farewell. Talia pulled away first, her composure visibly reasserting itself with each inch of distance she placed between them.
"Goodbye, beloved," she whispered.
Bruce nodded once, unable to form words that would adequately express everything he felt. Then he turned and followed the League escorts out of the compound, down the winding path that would eventually lead him back to the world beyond the mountains.
The journey down was arduous, his injuries making each step an exercise in controlled pain. The League escorts remained with him until they reached the boundary of what they considered their territory—a high mountain pass marked by ancient stone cairns. There, they left him without ceremony, turning back toward the compound without a word of farewell.
Alone now, Bruce continued his descent, each painful step taking him further from the League of Shadows and closer to the path he had chosen for himself. By nightfall of the second day, exhausted and feverish from his wounds, he reached the small village Talia had described.
At the village's only inn, he used the satellite phone, dialing the number he knew by heart despite two years of absence.
"Wayne residence," came the familiar British accent, proper as always but with an undercurrent of wariness—the voice of a man who had long since stopped expecting good news from unexpected calls.
"Alfred," Bruce said, his voice rough from cold and exhaustion. "It's me."
A moment of stunned silence, then: "Master Bruce? Is it really—where are you? Are you all right?"
"I'm in Nepal. And I've been better." Bruce leaned against the wall, suddenly overwhelmed by how much he had missed that voice, that connection to home. "I need a ride, Alfred."
"The jet will be in the air within the hour," Alfred replied without hesitation. "Just tell me where to find you."
Three days later, as the Wayne Enterprises private jet began its descent toward Kathmandu, Bruce stood looking out the window at the Himalayan peaks receding behind them. Somewhere in those mountains, the League of Shadows continued its ancient mission, with Ra's al Ghul at its helm and Talia at his side.
Bruce touched the bandages beneath his clothing, feeling the healing wounds that would eventually become scars—physical reminders of the choice he had made, of the line he had refused to cross.
Alfred approached, setting a fresh cup of tea on the table beside him. "We'll be landing shortly, sir," he said, his tone carefully neutral. "Dr. Thompkins is standing by at the manor to tend to your injuries properly."
Bruce nodded, grateful for Alfred's efficiency but even more for his discretion. The older man had asked no questions about Bruce's condition or the circumstances that had led to his sudden call. Those conversations would come later, when Bruce was ready.
"Thank you, Alfred," he said simply. "For coming."
"I never stopped waiting for that call, sir," Alfred replied quietly. "Never stopped believing you would find your way back."
"I always find my way Alfred, always."
—
THIRTY THOUSAND FEET OVER THE ATLANTIC
The Wayne Enterprises private jet cut through the night sky, a small bubble of luxury amid the vast darkness. Bruce stood by the window, watching stars above and occasional glimpses of clouds below.
Bruce turned from the window to where Alfred sat nearby, pretending to read but clearly keeping a watchful eye on his charge. The older man had aged in the years Bruce had been away—more lines around his eyes, more gray at his temples. But his posture remained military-straight, his gaze as sharp as ever.
"You should get some rest, Alfred," Bruce said. "It's a long flight."
"I've had quite enough rest these past three years, thank you." Alfred's tone was dry, but the concern in his eyes belied his casual manner. "Besides, I find I'm rather disinclined to let you out of my sight just yet. You have a history of disappearing for extended periods."
Bruce accepted the gentle rebuke with a nod. "Fair enough."
He moved to the seat across from Alfred, settling into the plush leather. For a moment, neither spoke, the quiet hum of the jet's engines filling the silence.
"You've changed, Master Bruce," Alfred finally said, setting his book aside.
"Yes."
"May I ask where your travels took you? After Tibet, your trail went rather conspicuously cold."
Bruce met the butler's gaze directly. "I found what I was looking for."
"And what was that, precisely?"
"Training. Purpose. A way to channel what I was feeling into something... constructive."
Alfred's expression remained neutral, but his eyes missed nothing—cataloging the new scars, the calloused hands, the subtle way Bruce constantly assessed his surroundings.
"I see. And did this... training... involve the rumors I heard about a mysterious organization in the Himalayas? What was it the locals called them? The League of Shadows?"
Bruce's surprise must have shown on his face, because Alfred's mouth quirked in a small, satisfied smile.
"I may be getting older, sir, but my intelligence-gathering capabilities remain quite robust. Particularly when it concerns your whereabouts."
Bruce leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "What else do you know?"
"Only whispers. An ancient organization, dedicated to what they consider 'balance.' Led by a man whose age seems... improbable, shall we say."
"Ra's al Ghul," Bruce confirmed. "Yes, I was with them. They taught me... a great deal."
"Yet you left them."
It wasn't a question, but Bruce answered anyway. "We had philosophical differences."
Alfred studied him carefully. "Significant ones, I imagine."
"They believe the only path to justice is through destruction. Wiping the slate clean." Bruce's voice hardened. "I believe in saving what's worth saving. In building rather than destroying."
"And Gotham? Where does it fit into these philosophies?"
Bruce was silent for a long moment, gathering his thoughts. When he spoke, his voice was soft but resolute.
"Gotham is sick, Alfred. Corrupt to its core. The League would say it's beyond saving—that the only solution is to burn it down and start over." His jaw tightened. "I say they're wrong. Gotham can be saved. It has to be, because if a city like Gotham is beyond redemption, what hope is there for the rest of the world?"
Alfred's expression softened. "Your parents would be proud of that sentiment."
"Would they?" Bruce's voice carried a rare vulnerability. "Proud that their son spent years training to become... what? A vigilante? A symbol of fear?"
"They would be proud that their son refused to surrender to despair," Alfred replied firmly. "That he chose to fight for something larger than himself, despite the personal cost." He paused, then added: "Though I imagine they might have preferred you channel these impulses into slightly more... conventional avenues."
That drew a small smile from Bruce. "Like running Wayne Enterprises?"
"Precisely, sir. Which, I feel compelled to remind you, has been operating under the questionable guidance of the board of directors in your absence. Mr. Earle has taken particular liberty with your father's legacy."
Bruce's expression darkened. "How bad is it?"
"The company remains profitable, but its direction has shifted substantially. Focus has moved from your father's humanitarian projects toward more lucrative defense contracts and pharmaceutical patents. The Wayne Foundation has been particularly neglected."
"That ends when we return," Bruce said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Wayne Enterprises will return to its original mission."
"I anticipated you might feel that way, sir. I've taken the liberty of preparing some preliminary documentation regarding Mr. Earle's... creative accounting practices."
Bruce's eyebrow rose. "You've been investigating the CEO of Wayne Enterprises?"
"I prefer to think of it as protecting your interests, Master Bruce." Alfred's expression remained perfectly innocent. "One must keep busy during unexpected sabbaticals."
For the first time since leaving the League, Bruce laughed—a short, genuine sound that seemed to surprise even him. Alfred's eyes crinkled with pleasure at having provoked such a reaction.
"I've missed you, Alfred," Bruce said simply.
"And I you, Master Bruce." The butler's voice carried decades of affection and loyalty. "More than I can adequately express."
They lapsed into comfortable silence, the jet continuing its journey westward. As the first hints of dawn appeared on the horizon, Bruce's thoughts turned toward Gotham—toward the city that had taken his parents, the city he had left in anger and despair, the city he was now returning to with purpose and determination.
Gotham had no idea what was coming.
—
GOTHAM CITY - WAYNE TOWER
"As you can see, Mr. Wayne, quarterly profits have exceeded projections across all divisions." William Earle's confident voice carried across the Wayne Enterprises boardroom. His presentation displayed charts showing steady growth, each bar climbing higher than the last. "Our pivot toward defense has proven particularly lucrative, with the new weapons division showing a thirty-seven percent increase year over year."
Bruce sat at the head of the table, his expression politely attentive but revealing nothing of his thoughts. He was dressed impeccably in a charcoal Armani suit, his appearance every inch the billionaire heir. Around the table, board members watched him with expressions ranging from curiosity to barely concealed hostility. His sudden return after years of absence—and his immediate assertion of control—had not been universally welcomed.
"Impressive numbers," Bruce acknowledged, his tone neutral. "Though I notice the Wayne Foundation's budget has been reduced by nearly sixty percent during the same period."
Earle's smile tightened almost imperceptibly. "Difficult decisions were necessary to maintain shareholder value during uncertain economic times. The Foundation's work is admirable, of course, but ultimately not aligned with our core business objectives."
"Not aligned with your objectives, perhaps," Bruce replied mildly. "But my father established Wayne Enterprises with dual purposes—profitable innovation and meaningful social impact. The Foundation isn't a charitable afterthought; it's an essential part of the company's mission."
A tense silence fell over the boardroom. It had been three days since Bruce's return to Gotham, and this was his first direct challenge to Earle's leadership. Everyone present understood the significance of the moment.
Earle recovered quickly, his corporate smile firmly back in place. "Of course, Mr. Wayne. Your family's commitment to philanthropy is legendary. Perhaps we can discuss reallocating some resources to the Foundation in the next fiscal year—"
"No need to wait," Bruce interrupted, sliding a folder across the table. "I've already drafted a revised budget. Effective immediately."
Earle opened the folder, his expression darkening as he scanned the contents. "This shifts nearly two hundred million dollars back to Foundation projects. That's completely unrealistic without sacrificing our core business developments."
"Actually," Bruce tapped a section of the document, "you'll notice that the funds are primarily coming from a restructuring of the executive compensation packages—including the elimination of certain... creative bonuses that seem to have developed during my absence."
The room temperature seemed to drop several degrees as other board members exchanged glances. Several began surreptitiously reviewing the documents before them with renewed interest.
"Additionally," Bruce continued, his tone conversational despite the growing tension, "I'm announcing a strategic pivot away from weapons development and toward sustainable technology, medical research, and urban renewal. Projects my father would have prioritized."
Earle's face had flushed an alarming shade of red. "The board would need to approve such radical changes to our business model."
"The board?" Bruce glanced around the table with a small smile. "You mean the board where I hold controlling interest? That board?"
"Your shares were placed in a voting trust during your absence," Earle countered. "A trust that I still control until it's formally dissolved."
"Ah, yes." Bruce nodded as if just remembering. "About that. My lawyers filed the dissolution paperwork first thing this morning. You should be receiving confirmation shortly." He checked his watch. "In fact, right about now."
As if on cue, the boardroom door opened and a severe-looking woman in a crisp suit entered, carrying a stack of documents. "Mr. Earle, these just arrived from legal." She placed them in front of the CEO before exiting.
The silence that followed was broken only by the sound of Earle flipping through the papers with increasingly agitated movements. Finally, he looked up, his expression a mixture of disbelief and fury.
"This is... highly irregular, Mr. Wayne."
"On the contrary," Bruce replied, "it's entirely by the book. My shares, my company, my vision." He stood, buttoning his suit jacket with unhurried precision. "Now, I believe we were discussing the Wayne Foundation's expanded role in Gotham's renewal."
For the next hour, Bruce outlined his plans for Wayne Enterprises with meticulous detail—programs for affordable housing in Gotham's neglected districts, medical research focused on treatments rather than patents, urban infrastructure projects designed to revitalize rather than gentrify. With each new initiative, Earle's expression grew stonier, while several other board members began showing cautious interest.
"These are ambitious goals, Mr. Wayne," remarked Jessica Marsh, one of the longer-serving board members. "Ambitious and commendable. But may I ask what prompted this... evolution in your thinking? You were not exactly known for your business acumen before your departure."
Bruce offered a self-deprecating smile. "Let's just say I've gained some perspective during my time away. I've seen what happens when wealth and power operate without conscience, when communities are abandoned to decay and corruption." His expression grew more serious. "My parents built this company to be part of Gotham's backbone—not just economically, but ethically. I intend to honor that legacy."
"Very noble," Earle cut in, having regained some of his composure. "But businesses aren't run on noble intentions. They're run on profit margins and growth projections. Your father understood that balance."
"My father," Bruce replied, his voice carrying a subtle edge for the first time, "understood that true wealth isn't measured solely in dollars. Wayne Enterprises will continue to be profitable—I'm not suggesting charity at the expense of business. I'm suggesting we can and must do both."
As the meeting concluded, board members filed out with thoughtful expressions. Several even paused to shake Bruce's hand, perhaps sensing which way the corporate winds were shifting. Earle remained seated, staring at the documents before him with thinly veiled hostility.
"This isn't over, Wayne," he said quietly once they were alone. "You can't just disappear for years, then waltz back in and dismantle everything I've built."
"You're right about one thing," Bruce replied, gathering his papers. "It isn't over. It's just beginning. And what you've built isn't what Gotham needs."
He paused at the door, looking back at the man who had steered his family's company in his absence. "By the way, I'll need your resignation letter by the end of the week. You can either leave with dignity and a generous severance package, or you can fight and have your creative accounting practices become very public. Your choice."
As Bruce strode through the executive floor towards the elevators, Lucius Fox fell into step beside him. The older man had been watching the boardroom proceedings from a respectful distance, his expression revealing nothing of his thoughts.
"That was quite a performance, Mr. Wayne," Fox remarked as they waited for the elevator. "The board hasn't been that animated since your father announced we were pulling out of weapons development the first time."
Bruce studied Fox carefully. During his preparation for this meeting, he had reviewed the company's personnel extensively. Lucius Fox had been one of his father's most trusted innovators—a brilliant engineer whose career had stagnated under Earle's leadership, relegated to overseeing forgotten projects in the Applied Sciences division.
"Was it just a performance, Mr. Fox?" Bruce asked.
The elevator arrived with a soft chime. Once inside, with the doors closed, Fox spoke more openly.
"That depends, Mr. Wayne. Some might say the performance was the past few years—the playboy image, the apparent disinterest in your family's legacy." His intelligent eyes assessed Bruce with new interest. "Today felt more like... revelation."
Bruce allowed himself a small smile. "You knew my father well."
"I did," Fox confirmed. "Thomas Wayne was more than my employer; he was my friend. And you remind me of him today—not in looks, but in conviction."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"As it was intended." Fox hesitated, then added, "Though your father might have approached Earle with slightly more... diplomacy."
Bruce's smile widened fractionally. "Diplomacy takes time, Mr. Fox. And Gotham has waited long enough for change."
The elevator reached the ground floor, doors opening to the grand lobby of Wayne Tower. Before stepping out, Fox turned to Bruce with sudden decision.
"Mr. Wayne, if you're serious about steering the company back toward your father's vision, I may have some projects that would interest you. Things Earle deemed... impractical."
Bruce's expression revealed nothing, but his eyes sharpened with interest. "I'm always interested in impractical things, Mr. Fox. Especially those with practical applications."
"Then perhaps you might visit Applied Sciences sometime. It's become something of a... storage facility for ideas ahead of their time."
"I'll do that," Bruce replied, already mentally rearranging his schedule. "Very soon."
As he exited Wayne Tower into the bright Gotham morning, Bruce felt a sense of progress—the first piece of his plan moving into place. To save Gotham, he needed resources, technologies, a base of operations. Wayne Enterprises would provide all of these.
But the work of reclaiming his company had only begun. The real work—the work of saving Gotham from itself—that would require something else entirely. Something he was still formulating, still shaping in the crucible of his mind.
—
WAYNE MANOR - NIGHT
Thunder rolled across Gotham, a deep growl of approaching storm. Through the vast windows of Wayne Manor's study, lightning briefly illuminated the manicured grounds, casting stark shadows that retreated as quickly as they'd appeared. Bruce stood before the cold fireplace, drink untouched in his hand, watching the storm's approach.
"Will there be anything else, Master Bruce?" Alfred asked from the doorway, his posture formal but his eyes conveying concern.
Bruce shook his head slightly. "No, thank you, Alfred. Get some rest."
"If I may be so bold, sir, the same advice might apply to you. You've barely slept since your return."
Bruce didn't respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the building storm. Finally, he said, "I keep thinking about what my father said when I fell down that well as a child. 'Why do we fall, Bruce?'"
"'So we can learn to pick ourselves up,'" Alfred finished. "A lesson you've taken to heart, it seems."
"Have I?" Bruce turned to face his butler, his expression troubled. "I've reclaimed Wayne Enterprises. I've started channeling resources back into Gotham. But that's just foundation-laying. The real work—the work of fighting the corruption that's rotting this city from within—that requires something else."
"And what might that be, sir?"
Bruce set his glass down, moving to his father's desk where newspapers were spread across the surface. Headlines screamed of corruption, violence, desperation: "CRIME RATE SOARS," "FALCONE UNTOUCHABLE," "POLICE CORRUPTION PROBE STALLED."
"Criminals are a superstitious, cowardly lot, Alfred," Bruce said, echoing his father's words from long ago. "To fight them, I need to become something more than just a man. Something that can strike fear into their hearts."
Alfred regarded him with a mixture of concern and resignation. "What precisely did you have in mind, Master Bruce?"
Before Bruce could answer, a tremendous crash of thunder shook the manor, followed by the distinctive sound of breaking glass. Both men turned toward the sound, which had come from the previously unused library wing.
"Stay here," Bruce instructed, already moving with the silent, predatory grace he'd learned from the League.
He made his way through darkened hallways, following the sound to its source. The library door stood slightly ajar, rain blowing in through a broken window. As Bruce pushed the door wider, lightning flashed again, illuminating the scene—shattered glass scattered across antique carpets, rain soaking into priceless first editions, and something dark moving erratically near the ceiling.
Bruce's hand found the light switch, flooding the room with warm illumination. What he had taken for an intruder was revealed to be a large bat, apparently having crashed through the window during the storm. It flapped frantically among the chandeliers, disoriented and terrified.
As Bruce watched the creature's desperate flight, something shifted in his expression—recognition, realization, purpose aligning into sudden clarity. Fear. His childhood fear made manifest, crashing into his ancestral home as if summoned by his thoughts. The very thing that had terrified him as a child now appeared as something else—a sign, an omen, perhaps even an answer.
Without taking his eyes from the bat, Bruce backed slowly from the room, closing the door to contain the creature until it could be safely removed. He returned to the study where Alfred waited, eyebrows raised in silent question.
"A bat," Bruce said simply. "Crashed through the library window."
Alfred nodded, accepting this explanation with typical British restraint. "Shall I call someone to remove it in the morning?"
"No," Bruce replied, his voice distant as his mind raced with possibilities. "Let it find its own way out."
He moved to his father's desk again, but with new purpose. From a drawer, he extracted a sketchbook and began to draw with quick, decisive strokes. Alfred watched in silence as an image took shape—a stylized bat, wings extended, both threatening and protective.
"Master Bruce," Alfred ventured cautiously, "am I to understand that you intend to... dress as a bat... to fight criminals?"
Put so plainly, it did sound absurd. Bruce looked up from his drawing, his expression deadly serious.
"The man who killed my parents was never brought to justice because the system is broken, Alfred. Falcone and men like him own the police, the judges, even the mayor. Conventional methods can't touch them."
"And unconventional methods can?"
"Fear is a powerful motivator. The criminal element preys on the fearful, the vulnerable. They need to be given something to fear themselves." Bruce's eyes returned to his drawing. "The bat is feared, misunderstood. It thrives in darkness but serves a crucial purpose in the natural order. And it's what I fear—or feared, as a child."
Alfred studied the image taking shape on the paper. "You intend to become the very thing that frightened you?"
"I intend to use that fear, channel it toward something constructive. To become a symbol that transcends human limitation." Bruce's voice had taken on a quality Alfred hadn't heard before—absolute conviction layered with something darker, more primal. "In the League, Ra's taught me to use symbols, theatricality, deception as weapons. He wasn't wrong about everything."
Thunder rolled again, closer now, the storm nearly upon them. Alfred remained silent, processing what his charge was proposing. Finally, he spoke, his tone carefully neutral.
"And how do you envision this... symbol... operating, precisely?"
Bruce rose, moving to the windows to watch lightning split the sky. "Outside the law, but not against justice. Targeting the criminals the justice system can't or won't touch. Building cases the police can use for prosecution. Creating a psychological edge that money and corruption can't neutralize."
"Vigilantism, then," Alfred stated plainly.
"Call it what you want. Gotham is dying, Alfred. Conventional methods haven't worked. The city needs something dramatic, something that can't be bought or intimidated."
Alfred's expression revealed his conflict—concern for Bruce's safety warring with understanding of his motivation. "Your parents—"
"Would want me to save lives," Bruce interrupted firmly. "To prevent other children from experiencing what I did. This isn't about revenge, Alfred. It's about justice. About becoming an instrument of change in a city that's forgotten what that looks like."
The storm broke fully now, rain lashing against the windows while lightning illuminated the grounds in stuttering, freeze-frame moments. Bruce turned back to his drawing, adding details with increasingly confident strokes. Alfred watched in silence, witnessing the birth of something both terrible and necessary.
"I'll need equipment," Bruce said eventually, his tone shifting from philosophical to practical. "Body armor, tools, vehicles."
Alfred nodded slowly, resignation mixing with a certain pride. "I believe Mr. Fox might be of assistance there. His 'impractical' projects included a number of military prototypes your father deemed too aggressive for mass production."
Bruce looked up, interest sharpening his gaze. "Military prototypes?"
"Nomex survival suits, ceramic armor plating, tactical innovations that never made it past the development stage. Your father shelved them when he redirected the company away from defense contracts." Alfred's expression softened slightly. "He would approve of them being used to protect his son, I think."
Bruce set down his pen, studying the completed drawing. The stylized bat had evolved into something more—a symbol that encompassed both fear and protection, darkness and purpose. He felt a clarity he hadn't experienced since before his parents' deaths, as if the disparate pieces of his life were finally aligning into a coherent whole.
"We'll need a base of operations," he continued, mind racing ahead. "Somewhere private, secure, with access to the city but removed from prying eyes."
Alfred hesitated before speaking. "There might be... a suitable location on the property already, sir."
Bruce's eyebrow rose in question.
"The caves beneath the southeast corner," Alfred explained. "The ones you... encountered as a child. They extend quite far beneath the estate, connecting to an abandoned railway tunnel that leads toward the city."
Memories flooded back—falling, pain, fear, the rush of leathery wings in darkness. Bruce had avoided those caves since childhood, the trauma of that day too closely linked with his parents' murder. Now he saw the symmetry of it—the source of his childhood fear becoming the foundation of his crusade.
"Show me," he said.