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The smell came first.
Sawdust.
Sweet popcorn.
Cotton candy.
Bruce would recognize that smell anywhere in the world.
Haly’s Circus had always smelled like that.
Golden lights illuminated the enormous circus tent, reflecting in the excited faces of the crowd. Children laughed, people applauded, and the sound of the band filled the air with vibrant music.
But to Bruce… everything felt distant.
As if he were watching it through water.
He stood near the arena.
And in his arms…
Dick.
Nightwing’s suit was torn, dirty with dust and blood. The bright blue symbol on his chest was almost unrecognizable.
His chest was split open by a deep wound.
The torn fabric revealed the injury cutting diagonally across his body, as if something had pierced through the armor without effort.
Blood dripped slowly.
Warm.
Heavy.
Staining Bruce’s gloves.
Bruce couldn’t breathe.
Because the circus was still there.
People were still sitting.
As if nothing had happened.
As if life was continuing while his world ended in his arms.
“Dick…” Bruce’s voice came out broken.
The weight in his arms felt wrong.
Dick had always been light.
Even as an adult, Bruce still remembered how easily the boy moved, how he leapt and spun through the air as if gravity were only a suggestion.
Now he felt heavy.
As if every gram of his body had become impossible to carry.
Dick’s eyes were half open.
Heavy.
Struggling to stay that way.
His lips were pale.
Even so… there was something stubborn there.
Dick had always been like that.
Even hurt, he still tried to smile.
“Hey…” he murmured with difficulty.
His voice was weak, almost lost beneath the distant sound of circus music.
Bruce lowered his head closer, as if that alone could keep Dick here.
“I’m here.”
His hand trembled as he pressed against the wound in Dick’s chest, trying uselessly to stop the bleeding.
The red kept slipping between his fingers.
Dick took a breath.
Or tried to.
The air left unevenly.
“Funny…” he murmured.
Bruce frowned.
“Don’t talk.”
Dick ignored him.
Of course he did.
His eyes drifted slowly to the circus tent above them.
The lights.
The trapezes.
The ropes swaying gently.
“I… grew up here…”
His voice sounded farther away now.
Bruce clenched his jaw.
He remembered.
He remembered the boy who flew through the air as if he had been born for it.
The smile.
The loud laughter.
The confidence.
“I know.”
Dick blinked slowly.
His eyes were heavy.
Too heavy.
“I always thought… I’d die… up there…”
His gaze returned to Bruce.
Tired.
But far too calm.
“Not… down here…”
Bruce felt something inside his chest shatter.
“You’re not going to die.”
The lie came out desperate now.
Dick looked at him for a long moment.
And Bruce realized.
He knew.
Dick had always been able to read Bruce better than anyone.
His fingers moved weakly.
Trying to hold onto Bruce’s cape.
“Do you… remember… that night?”
Bruce froze.
The question didn’t need explanation.
That night.
The trapeze breaking.
The scream of the crowd.
Bruce swallowed.
“I remember.”
Dick’s breathing faltered.
For a moment Bruce thought it had stopped.
Then another breath came.
Weaker.
“I… thought… you looked… scary…”
A faint breath of laughter escaped him.
Bruce lowered his head.
He remembered the boy looking at him for the first time.
Small.
Hurt.
Alone.
“But you… stayed…” Dick continued.
His eyes were nearly closing now.
Bruce’s heart was beating too fast.
“I’m here now.”
His voice trembled.
Dick took a deeper breath… and winced.
Pain crossed his face.
Blood continued to seep through his suit.
“Bruce…”
The word came out weak.
Bruce felt his chest tighten.
Dick almost never said his name like that.
“Yes.”
Dick’s eyes were nearly closed now.
Too heavy to keep open.
“Thanks… for… letting me stay…”
Bruce held his face carefully.
Desperately.
“You never had to ask.”
His voice broke completely.
“You’re my son.”
Dick opened his eyes one last time.
Just enough to look at him.
And for a moment…
He looked like that circus boy again.
Confident.
Fearless.
“I know…”
His hand slipped from Bruce’s cape.
His breathing stopped for a second.
Then another.
Bruce waited.
Waited.
Waited.
“Dick?”
Nothing.
“Dick.”
The body in his arms grew heavy.
Still.
Bruce felt the world tilt.
The circus music kept playing.
People kept laughing.
As if it didn’t matter.
As if the universe hadn’t just ended.
Bruce pulled Dick against his chest tightly.
“No… no… no…”
His voice broke.
“I’m here.”
Too late.
He was always too late.
A tear fell onto Dick’s face.
Then another.
Bruce pressed his forehead against his son’s.
Desperate.
“I should have protected you.”
The circus music stopped.
The silence that followed felt too heavy to exist.
Bruce was still kneeling in the arena, holding Dick against his chest. His son’s body was motionless in his arms, dried blood covering his black gloves.
He couldn’t let go.
If he let go… it would become real.
If he let go… Dick would truly be gone.
Bruce lowered his head, resting his forehead against his son’s again.
“I should have protected you…”
His voice broke.
The air felt too thick to breathe.
Then something changed.
First it was the smell.
The sweet sawdust of Haly’s Circus began to fade.
Slowly replaced by something else.
Dust.
Rust.
And smoke.
Bruce frowned.
He lifted his head.
The golden circus lights began to fade, one by one.
The stands disappeared into darkness.
The enormous tent dissolved like mist.
Bruce looked down at his arms.
Dick was still there.
But only for a moment.
The body began to disappear slowly, like smoke carried away by the wind.
First the fingers.
Then the arms.
The blue of the suit fading into the air.
“Dick…?”
Bruce tried to hold him tighter.
But there was nothing left to hold.
Within seconds, his arms were empty.
The silence became even worse.
Bruce inhaled slowly.
And then he realized.
The floor was no longer wood.
It was concrete.
Cold.
Cracked.
He knew this place.
An abandoned warehouse.
The air was thick with the smell of explosives.
Bruce felt his stomach twist.
“No…”
He knew this place.
It was where he arrived too late.
Where he lost Jason Todd.
Then he heard it.
CLANG.
Metal against concrete.
Bruce turned his head.
In the middle of the warehouse there were two figures tied up.
Bound.
A woman lying on the ground.
Motionless.
Bruce remembered her only from reports and investigation photos.
The woman from the files.
And beside her…
Jason.
Younger.
His Robin suit torn.
His face covered in bruises.
Dry blood at the corner of his mouth.
Bruce ran.
When he reached him, he dropped to his knees.
“Jason.”
The boy’s eyes opened slowly.
Confused.
In pain.
“B… Bruce…?”
The voice was too weak.
Bruce held his face carefully.
“I’m here.”
Jason blinked slowly.
His eyes were heavy.
But something was there.
Relief.
“I knew… you’d come…”
Bruce felt his chest tighten violently.
Because he remembered.
He remembered that he came.
But not in time.
“I’m getting you out of here,” Bruce said quickly.
His hands began pulling at the ropes.
“I’m getting you out of here, Jason. I promise.”
Jason tried to move.
Pain crossed his face.
“He… said… you wouldn’t come…”
Bruce clenched his teeth.
“Don’t listen to him.”
He pulled harder at the ropes.
“Look at me.”
Jason obeyed.
With effort.
“I’m here now,” Bruce said urgently. “I’m going to save you.”
Jason tried to take a breath.
The air came out uneven.
“I waited…”
Bruce closed his eyes for a moment.
“I know.”
Jason blinked slowly.
“I fought…”
Bruce swallowed hard.
“I know you did.”
His hands trembled as he tried to untie the ropes.
“I know.”
Then the sound came.
Beep.
Bruce froze.
The timer.
Jason turned his head slowly.
“What is that…?”
Bruce looked around.
The bomb was there.
The countdown blinking.
Only seconds left.
Bruce pulled at the ropes harder.
Desperate now.
“No… no…”
Jason looked back at him.
“Bruce…”
Bruce tore one of the ropes loose.
“I’m going to save you!”
The words almost came out as a scream.
“I won’t let you die again!”
Jason blinked.
Confused.
“Again…?”
Bruce pulled Jason against his chest.
“Not this time.”
The timer beeped faster.
Bruce tried to rip away the last rope with shaking hands.
“Hold on a little longer,” he said desperately. “I’m here, Jason. I’m here.”
Jason looked at him.
Tired.
In pain.
But there was trust there.
The same trust he had always had.
“I knew… you’d come…”
Bruce held him tighter.
Protecting him.
Like he should have done.
Like he always wanted to do.
“I’m going to save you,” Bruce repeated, almost pleading now. “I won’t lose you, son.”
The timer gave its final beep.
Jason took a breath.
Or tried to.
His fingers grabbed Bruce’s armor.
“Bruce…”
Then the explosion came.
The flash of the explosion still burned in Bruce's vision.
The ruined warehouse, the fire, Jason Todd's unmoving body in his arms…
Everything began to fall apart.
First the heat.
Then the smoke.
The broken walls dissolved like dust carried away by the wind.
Silence returned.
Heavy.
When Bruce opened his eyes again… he was no longer in the warehouse.
The air was cold.
Dry.
A different smell filled the room.
Chemical developer.
Paper.
And blood.
Bruce slowly stood.
The place looked like a dark storage room.
Wires crossed the ceiling, and dozens—maybe hundreds—of photographs were hanging from clothespins.
They swayed slightly.
Torn.
Wrinkled.
Some stained red.
Bruce stepped forward.
He grabbed one.
A photograph of Gotham at night.
Another.
A crime scene.
Another.
The bat symbol projected into the sky.
Then he saw something that made his heart tighten.
Photos of the Batfamily.
Dick.
Jason.
Photos from missions.
Surveillance images.
Photos of Bruce.
Bruce frowned.
These photographs felt familiar.
The style.
The framing.
The precision.
He knew who took photos like that.
— Tim…?
At the back of the room, a figure was slumped against the wall.
Bruce ran.
And then he saw.
It was Tim Drake.
The Red Robin suit was torn in several places.
The red of the costume had darkened with blood.
A deep cut ran along the side of his abdomen.
Another across his shoulder.
His face was far too pale.
A camera lay beside his hand.
The lens cracked.
Stained with blood.
Bruce dropped to his knees immediately.
— Tim.
The boy's eyes moved slowly.
Heavy.
Exhausted.
But still alive.
— Bruce…?
The voice was weak.
Almost a whisper.
Bruce gently held his face.
— I'm here.
Tim tried to smile.
A small one.
Painful.
— I knew… you'd find me…
The sentence died before it could finish.
Bruce pressed his hand against the wound.
The blood was warm.
Too warm.
— Don't talk now, Bruce said quickly. — I'm getting you out of here.
Tim tried to move his hand.
Pointing toward the camera on the floor.
— I… I was recording…
Bruce grabbed the camera.
The screen was cracked.
But it still worked.
He pressed a button.
The screen lit up.
A sequence of photos appeared.
Shaky images.
Blurry frames.
Shadows.
Movement.
Blood.
Bruce moved to the next one.
Tim lying on the ground.
Another.
The lens smeared with red.
Tim had taken those photos while he was being attacked.
Even wounded.
Even dying.
Bruce felt something tighten painfully inside his chest.
— Tim…
Tim tried to breathe deeply.
Or tried to.
The air came out uneven.
— I wanted… to get proof…
Bruce closed his eyes for a second.
— You didn't have to do this alone.
Tim blinked slowly.
His eyes were heavy.
— I thought… if I recorded everything…
He coughed.
A little blood appeared at the corner of his mouth.
— you could catch him…
Bruce pressed harder against the wound.
— I will catch him.
His voice was low.
But firm.
— But first I'm going to save you.
Tim studied him for a long moment.
Like he was analyzing something.
Like he always did.
Then his eyes moved to the camera in Bruce's hands.
— There's… one more…
Bruce moved to the next photo.
The screen showed a blurred image.
A figure running.
Black cape.
Bat symbol.
Bruce froze.
It was him.
Running toward Tim.
But the photo was out of focus.
Taken too late.
Tim had captured the moment Bruce arrived.
Bruce slowly looked up.
— Tim…
Tim struggled to breathe.
— I heard you coming…
His voice trembled.
— I knew… you'd come…
Bruce pulled the boy against his chest.
— I'm here now.
Tim tried to keep his eyes open.
But they were too heavy.
— I tried… to help…
Bruce held his face.
— You did help.
The camera in Bruce's hands made a soft click.
Automatic.
Bruce looked down.
A new photo appeared on the screen.
Bruce holding Tim in his arms.
Blood on his gloves.
Tim's head resting against his chest.
A perfect picture.
A permanent proof of that moment.
A photo Bruce wished had never existed.
— Bruce… Tim murmured.
Bruce leaned closer.
— Yes.
Tim's fingers weakly grabbed his armor.
— You found… the clue…
His breathing faltered.
— I knew… you would…
Bruce felt his hands start to shake.
— Stay with me.
Tim blinked slowly.
His eyes finally giving in to their weight.
— You always… say that…
His body relaxed in Bruce's arms.
The breathing didn't return.
The room fell silent.
The photographs continued to sway gently in the air.
The camera slipped from Bruce's hand.
---
The air changed again.
The chemical smell faded.
The storage room dissolved around him like ink being washed away by rain.
The photographs vanished first.
Then the walls.
Then the floor.
Bruce blinked.
When he opened his eyes again…
He was standing in an alley.
Gotham.
Dark.
Wet.
Rain fell softly over the pavement.
Red and blue lights flashed in the distance.
A distant siren.
Bruce felt something strange.
He wasn't holding anything anymore.
But someone was lying on the ground a few meters ahead.
A purple figure against the brick wall.
Bruce moved instantly.
His heart already tightening before he even reached her.
He knew that suit.
The short cape.
The hood.
The symbol.
Stephanie.
Spoiler.
Bruce dropped to his knees beside her.
— Stephanie.
She was badly hurt.
The purple suit torn in several places.
A deep wound in her side.
Blood slowly spreading across the wet pavement.
Her eyes were closed.
Bruce gently held her face.
— Stephanie.
She took a weak breath.
Then her eyes opened slowly.
Confused.
Then they focused on him.
— Oh…
Her voice was hoarse.
— Hey… boss…
Bruce felt something twist painfully in his chest.
She was still trying to sound casual.
Even now.
— Don't talk, he said quickly. — I'm calling for help.
Stephanie made a small grimace.
— I don't… think there's time…
Bruce pressed the wound.
— There is.
His voice was firm.
But his eyes already showed desperation.
— Stay with me.
Stephanie studied his face for a moment.
Like she was thinking about something.
Then she asked quietly:
— Did I do it right… this time?
Bruce froze.
She looked down at the wet pavement.
— I tried to do it… the way you do…
Her breathing faltered.
— Follow the plan…
Bruce felt his stomach twist.
— Stephanie—
She kept going, struggling.
— I know I messed up before…
A small sad smile appeared.
— A lot…
Rain mixed with the blood on the ground.
— But this time I… thought first…
She tried to breathe deeply.
— I wanted to prove… I could do it right…
Bruce closed his eyes tightly.
Because he remembered.
How many times he told her she wasn't ready.
How many times he told her to stop.
— You didn't have to prove anything.
Stephanie looked back at him.
Her eyes heavy now.
But hopeful.
— Now… do you believe?
The question pierced through Bruce.
— That I could be… a hero?
Bruce's hands began to tremble.
He held her face carefully.
— You were already a hero.
Stephanie blinked slowly.
As if absorbing that.
— Oh…
A quiet breath of laughter escaped her.
— Took you… long enough to say that…
Bruce swallowed hard.
— Stay with me, Stephanie.
She looked at him.
Tired.
But calm.
— I tried to do it right… this time…
— I saw.
Bruce's voice almost broke.
— You did.
Stephanie relaxed slightly in his arms.
Her eyes starting to close.
— Then… I guess that's good…
Bruce tightened his grip on her hand.
— Don't fall asleep.
Stephanie murmured softly:
— You always say that…
Her hand slipped from his armor.
Her breathing stopped.
Rain kept falling in the silent alley.
Bruce stayed there.
Holding another body.
Another child who tried to follow his example.
---
Then everything froze.
The rain stopped midair.
The sirens vanished.
The alley dissolved again.
When Bruce opened his eyes…
He was standing on a rooftop in Gotham.
The wind howled.
His cape moved in the darkness.
A few meters away, someone sat against a concrete wall.
Black suit.
Cape torn.
Blood on the ground.
Bruce ran.
— Cassandra.
She didn't answer immediately.
Her eyes moved over him.
His body.
His hands.
His breathing.
She was reading him.
Bruce knelt.
— I'm getting you out of here.
He pressed the wound.
But Cassandra kept watching him.
Silent.
Then she slowly shook her head.
No.
Bruce frowned.
— Don't do this.
She raised a trembling hand.
Touching the bat symbol on his chest.
— Lying.
The word came out low.
Short.
She didn't talk much.
She never did.
Bruce felt his stomach tighten.
Her hand slipped from the symbol.
Bruce caught it before it could fall.
— Stay with me.
Her eyes studied him again.
Then she whispered:
— How many?
Bruce froze.
He didn't answer.
But she didn't need him to.
Her eyes moved slightly.
As if counting the ghosts behind him.
Dick.
Jason.
Tim.
Stephanie.
She had always seen more than the others.
Always understood what people never said.
Her fingers weakly tightened around his armor.
— Too many.
Bruce's throat tightened.
— Cassandra—
She gently shook her head again.
Then placed her hand on his cheek.
Her thumb barely brushing the edge of his cowl.
And she whispered one last word.
— Father.
Bruce's hand closed around hers.
— I'm here.
But her hand had already gone still.
The wind continued to howl across the rooftop.
And Bruce was alone again.
Bruce realizes something devastating.
Even while dying…
Cassandra was the only one who completely understood him.
And even then…
He couldn't save her.
A warehouse rises around Bruce as if it has been pulled out of the darkness.
Fluorescent lights flicker across the ceiling.
The floor is covered in shattered glass.
And there is blood.
A trail of it.
Bruce follows the trail.
Each step feels far too heavy.
Then he finds him.
Signal is lying between two concrete columns.
The yellow suit torn.
The symbol on his chest almost black with blood.
Bruce runs.
— Duke.
He immediately drops to his knees.
His hands press against the wound.
The blood spills hot through his gloves.
— Stay with me.
Duke’s eyes slowly move toward him.
It takes a second.
Maybe two.
— Took you long enough.
His voice is low.
No accusation.
Just an observation.
Bruce presses harder on the wound.
— I'm getting you out of here.
Duke blinks slowly.
His eyes scan Bruce from head to toe.
As if cataloguing everything.
Rapid breathing.
Shaking hands.
Too much blood.
— There’s not enough time.
Bruce shakes his head immediately.
— There is.
He presses harder.
The blood keeps slipping between his fingers.
— I’m going to save you.
Duke watches the movement.
Silent.
Then he says:
— You're pressing on the wrong side.
Bruce stops for half a second.
Confused.
Duke shifts his arm slightly.
Weakly pointing to his side.
— The artery is there.
Bruce moves his hands.
But the blood keeps coming.
Too much.
Too fast.
Duke takes a deep breath.
Or tries to.
— I knew you were going to say that.
Bruce looks at him.
— Say what?
Duke answers without emotion.
— “I’m going to save you.”
Heavy silence fills the warehouse.
The fluorescent lights flicker again.
Bruce keeps pressing against the wound.
— I’m not letting you die.
Duke studies his face.
Analyzing it.
Like he’s solving a problem.
— Statistically…
He swallows.
— …you already have.
Bruce freezes.
His breath falters.
But he keeps trying to stop the bleeding.
— Don’t talk.
Duke doesn’t argue.
He simply looks up at the ceiling.
The fluorescent lights trembling above them.
— Funny.
His voice comes out weak.
— I’m the only one who patrols in daylight.
Bruce clenches his teeth.
— Duke.
His eyes return to Bruce.
— Even so…
A short pause.
— I died in the dark.
The silence in the warehouse grows heavy.
Bruce grips his suit tightly.
— No.
Duke studies his expression.
No judgment.
No anger.
Just acceptance.
— You tried.
His breathing begins to fail.
— That is… consistent.
His hand slips from Bruce’s armor.
His eyes go still.
The fluorescent light shuts off with a sharp crack.
And Bruce is alone again.
With another body in his arms.
The warehouse disappears.
Darkness returns.
For a moment there is no floor.
No sound.
Then the world comes rushing back all at once.
Concrete.
Dust.
The smell of smoke.
When he lifts his head, he is inside a ruined building.
Cracked columns hold up pieces of the ceiling.
The ground is covered in rubble.
Deep marks of battle tear across the walls.
Bruce already knows.
Even before looking.
Something inside him already knows.
He walks through the debris.
Each step heavy.
Then he sees it.
In the middle of the broken concrete…
a small body.
The Robin uniform is torn.
Blood spread across the floor.
A sword pierces through Damian’s chest.
Through his son.
The blade came out through his back.
The hilt angled forward.
Bruce stops.
For a second the world becomes completely silent.
— Damian…
His voice falters.
He runs.
His knees hit the ground when he reaches him.
His hands tremble as he holds the boy.
Damian is still conscious.
His eyes slowly move toward Bruce.
His breathing is uneven.
Every breath seems to take too much effort.
Bruce holds his face.
— No.
The word comes out low.
Desperate.
— No…
He grabs the hilt of the sword.
Damian raises his hand.
Slowly.
He grabs Bruce’s wrist.
Even weak…
the grip still has strength.
He shakes his head.
— Don’t pull it out.
His voice is low.
Controlled.
Bruce swallows hard.
— I can save you.
Damian studies his face.
Like he always did.
Reading every movement.
Every flaw.
— No.
A short pause.
His breathing falters.
— Too deep.
Bruce clenches his teeth.
His hands are covered in blood.
— Stay with me.
Damian seems to ignore the request.
His eyes move slowly around the ruined building.
The marks of the battle.
The cracked ground.
Then he looks back at Bruce.
— I faced him alone.
Bruce closes his eyes for a second.
— I know.
Damian breathes with difficulty.
— He was bigger.
A pause.
— Stronger.
Bruce holds him tighter.
— And you still fought.
Damian watches him.
Silent.
Then he says, almost like a report:
— I did not retreat.
Bruce feels his chest tighten.
— No.
His voice breaks.
— You never retreat.
Damian’s breathing falters again.
Weaker now.
Bruce carefully holds his face.
Desperate.
— Look at me.
Damian’s eyes focus on him again.
Heavy.
Tired.
Bruce swallows hard.
— I should have gotten here sooner.
Silence.
Dust continues to fall from the broken ceiling.
Damian speaks again.
Almost a whisper.
— This was not your fight.
Bruce immediately shakes his head.
— Everything that happens to you is my fight.
Damian watches him for a long moment.
Then asks, directly:
— Are you proud?
The question cuts through Bruce like a blade.
He holds his son’s face with both hands.
His forehead presses against Damian’s.
— More than anything in my life.
Damian’s eyes close for a moment.
As if absorbing that.
When they open again, they are heavy.
— Hm.
Almost a sound of approval.
His breathing falters.
Bruce pulls him closer.
— Damian.
His eyes are nearly closing now.
But he forces them open a little longer.
— I did not fail.
Bruce clenches his teeth.
— Never.
The silence grows in the ruined building.
Bruce holds him tighter.
As if he could stop the inevitable.
— I should have protected you.
Damian’s eyes move slowly to his face.
Tired.
But attentive.
He watches Bruce for a long second.
As if trying to memorize something.
His hand moves slowly.
It takes effort.
But finally it reaches the bat symbol on Bruce’s armor.
His fingers press weakly against the emblem.
— I fought… the way you taught me.
Bruce shuts his eyes tightly.
— I know.
Damian’s breathing falters again.
His body begins to grow heavier in Bruce’s arms.
— Damian.
The boy’s eyes are almost closed.
But he forces them open one last time.
Just enough to look at Bruce.
His voice comes out small.
Almost broken.
Different from everything he had said before.
— Dad…
Bruce’s world stops.
Completely.
Damian takes one last breath.
His fingers slip from the bat symbol.
His hand falls.
His body goes still in Bruce’s arms.
The ruined building remains silent.
Bruce pulls the body against his chest.
As if he could stop him from disappearing too.
First the dust fades.
Then the ground.
Then the rubble.
And finally…
Damian begins to disappear in his arms.
Bruce holds tighter.
Desperate.
— No…
But his hands pass through emptiness.
And Bruce is left alone in the darkness.
With the echo of a single word still trapped in his mind.
Dad.
Then the world changes again.
The smell comes first.
Gunpowder.
Rain.
And the distant echo of a gunshot.
Bruce already knows that place before he even opens his eyes.
Crime Alley.
He is small again.
The street is long.
Wet.
The streetlights flicker.
And on the ground…
Two bodies.
Thomas Wayne.
Martha Wayne.
Blood spreading across the asphalt.
Bruce tries to run toward them.
But his legs won’t move.
He tries to scream.
No sound comes out.
Then he realizes something.
They are not looking at the killer.
They are not looking at the street.
They are looking at him.
As if they knew.
As if they had always known.
That night would never end.
That it would simply repeat itself.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Now with his children.
Now with his family.
Now with everyone he loves.
He was not enough.
Bruce wakes suddenly, gripping the sheets tightly as if that could tear the weight out of his chest.
Air tears through his lungs.
The room is dark.
Silent.
For a few seconds he cannot move.
Bruce runs a hand over his face.
Breathes deeply.
But the fear is still there.
Heavy.
Real.
Then he gets up.
Walks down the mansion hallway.
First door.
He opens it slowly.
Inside, Dick sleeps peacefully beside Zitka.
Bruce watches for a few seconds.
Then closes the door.
Second.
Jason lies with an open book on his chest.
Calm breathing.
Alive.
Bruce keeps walking.
Another room.
Tim sleeps surrounded by papers and a glowing laptop.
Another.
Stephanie sprawled across the bed.
Then Cassandra wrapped tightly in blankets.
Then Duke with his phone fallen across his face.
Bruce stops in front of the last door.
His hand hesitates before opening it.
When the door moves…
Damian is sleeping.
His katana resting against the wall.
Calm breathing.
Bruce stands there for a long moment.
Watching.
Making sure.
Then he closes the door slowly.
Only then does he realize his hands are still shaking.
A calm voice appears in the hallway behind him.
— Another nightmare, sir?
Alfred Pennyworth stands a few steps away.
Bruce takes a moment before answering.
His eyes still fixed on Damian’s door.
Then he says quietly:
— This time…
A pause.
— I lost all of them.