The Wayne Manor study was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from the fireplace and the pale moonlight spilling in through the massive windows. Bruce sat in a high-backed chair, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled together in deep thought.
For hours, he had been wrestling with the same question: How do I strike fear into the criminals of this city?
Training had given him the skills. Experience had given him the will. But what he lacked was an identity—something larger than himself.
New York's criminals were different from the ones he had faced before. They weren't disciplined warriors like the Hand. They weren't trained assassins like the Chaste. They were cowards—thieves, killers, and corrupt men who thrived in the shadows. To defeat them, he couldn't just be a man. He needed to be something more.
Something terrifying.
A sharp crack shattered the silence.
Bruce's head snapped up just in time to see the glass of his window explode inward. A dark shape darted into the room, its wings beating furiously as it circled. It was a bat—one of the many that lived in the cave beneath the manor.
The creature finally settled, gripping the bust of his father on the mantelpiece. Its black eyes locked onto his.
Bruce's breath caught in his throat.
A memory surfaced—his childhood fear of the bats that lurked in the cave. How they had terrified him. But I am not that boy anymore.
And then, it clicked.
A bat.
People feared them. They associated them with darkness, with the unknown, with nightmares. If he became the bat, he wouldn't just be a man in a suit—he would be a legend. A terror in the night.
Bruce stood, staring at the small creature as it twitched its wings and took flight once more. He watched it disappear into the night.
Then, he turned to the shadows and whispered, "That's it."
---
Three Weeks Later
The Batcave was alive with activity. Alfred stood at a workbench, polishing what looked like a modified set of gauntlets, while Bruce sat on a reinforced chair, strapping on his boots.
His suit was finally ready.
It wasn't perfect—not yet. But it was a start.
The cowl, made of hardened leather and polymer-composite, rested in Alfred's hands. The lower half of the face was exposed for better breathing and clearer speech, while the rest molded tightly around his skull. The reinforced plating made it resistant to bullets—but only once. A direct shot would break it. That needs improvement.
The chest armor was a mix of Kevlar and a titanium weave, able to stop bullets at close range. But stopping a bullet didn't mean he wouldn't feel it. The impact would still hit like a hammer, and bruises were inevitable.
The gauntlets were reinforced with metal plating. The bracers contained retractable, sharpened blades—useful for defense, disarming opponents, or breaking through obstacles. Built into the gauntlets was a grappling hook—one of the tools he had spent the most time testing.
Then there was the belt. The military-style design carried everything he needed: smoke pellets, a lockpicking kit, a taser, small batarangs—deadly if used right, but meant to incapacitate rather than kill.
And finally, the cape. A lightweight, Kevlar-blended fabric designed for gliding. In theory, it should work, Bruce thought. But I haven't tested it yet.
He exhaled. He could feel the weight of the suit. It was heavier than he had hoped. Something to fix in the future.
Alfred handed him the cowl. "Ready, sir?"
Bruce took it, pulling it over his head. The world around him darkened slightly as he adjusted the fit. Then, he turned to the full-length mirror on the other side of the cave.
For the first time, he saw himself.
Not as Bruce Wayne.
Not as the boy who had lost his parents.
But as something else.
Something more.
Alfred folded his arms. "You know… there was a time when I would have tried to talk you out of this madness."
Bruce turned to him. "And now?"
Alfred sighed. "Now, I suppose it's my job to make sure you don't get yourself killed."
Bruce smirked. "Then let's put it to the test."
He strode toward the Batmobile—or rather, the heavily modified military vehicle he had acquired through Wayne Enterprises' black budget. It was sleek, armored, and built for urban warfare. But he wouldn't take it tonight.
Tonight, he needed to be something unseen.
He turned to the shadows of the cave and grappled up to the exit, disappearing into the night.
For the first time, the Bat would take flight.
The city pulsed below him, a living organism of concrete and steel, drenched in the neon haze of streetlights and the occasional siren that cut through the night. Perched on the ledge of a gothic skyscraper, Bruce adjusted his cowl, the leather stretching against his jaw as he scanned the streets.
His heart was steady. His breath slow.
Tonight, he had already taken down four muggers—men who preyed on the weak. He had left them in the alleys, broken, battered, but alive. But this wasn't enough.
Then he heard it.
A muffled shout. A low, rumbling engine. A van pulling into an alleyway in Hell's Kitchen.
His eyes narrowed.
He fired his grappling hook and swung into the darkness.
---
The van's back doors swung open. Two Russian gangsters in tracksuits stepped out, dragging a young woman with them. She was barely conscious, her arms limp, her breath fogging in the cold air.
"Boss wants fresh workers," one of the Russians muttered. "This one? She'll last a week."
Bruce dropped down behind them, silent as the night.
Before they could react, he moved.
A knife-hand strike crushed the throat of the first thug, cutting off his breath before he could scream. The second spun around, pulling a pistol—but Bruce slammed his elbow into the man's wrist, forcing the gun to the ground. The thug gasped as Bruce drove a knee into his gut, knocking the wind out of him.
The Russian hit the ground, groaning. Bruce grabbed him by the collar and hoisted him up.
"Where's the factory?" His voice was low, a growl.
The thug's eyes widened in terror. "I—I don't know what—"
Bruce punched him in the ribs. Once. Twice.
The man gasped, coughing up blood.
"Where is it?"
"A-abandoned warehouse! 47th Street!" The thug whimpered. "Boss is inside! He—he'll kill you!"
Bruce slammed the thug's head into the alley wall, knocking him out cold.
He turned to the woman. She was waking up, groggy, eyes unfocused.
"Go," he told her. "Run."
She didn't hesitate.
Bruce fired his grappling hook and launched himself into the night.
---
From the rooftop, Bruce surveyed the factory.
A single entrance, guarded by two men with submachine guns. The building itself was old, steel pillars supporting a rusted ceiling. Smoke poured from the windows—chemical fumes from whatever drugs they were cooking inside.
Bruce didn't hesitate.
He dropped from the roof, landing between the two guards. Before they could react, he grabbed their heads and slammed them together. A dull crack echoed in the cold night air. They collapsed instantly.
He dragged their bodies into the shadows, then slipped inside.
---
As soon as he entered, the smell hit him.
Burnt chemicals. Sweat. Desperation.
Dozens of children were working in the factory, cutting and packaging bricks of heroin under the watchful eyes of heavily armed guards. Some of them couldn't have been older than ten. Their eyes were hollow, their faces smeared with powder and filth.
Bruce felt his rage rise.
But he didn't rush in. He couldn't risk the kids getting caught in the crossfire.
Instead, he moved into the rafters, grappling from pillar to pillar like a silent predator. The guards below had no idea he was there.
He started picking them off.
The first one went down without a sound, a steel cable wrapped around his throat, dragging him into the darkness.
The second was taken with a silent chokehold, his body lowered to the ground without a single thud.
One by one, he eliminated them, leaving their unconscious bodies strung up in the shadows.
Then, one of the kids screamed.
A guard had found a body. "He's here!"
The remaining five guards grouped together, raising their rifles.
"Come out, freak!" one of them shouted.
Bruce smirked beneath the cowl. Perfect.
He let them see him—just for a second. Hanging from a pillar above them.
They opened fire.
Bullets ripped through the wooden beam, splinters flying everywhere. But Bruce was already moving, swinging behind them and dropping a smoke pellet at their feet.
Panic erupted. The guards coughed, their vision obscured.
Bruce struck.
The first guard never saw the punch coming—his jaw shattered instantly.
The second swung wildly, but Bruce ducked, driving his knee into the man's stomach before slamming him into the concrete floor.
The third tried to run. Bruce flung a batarang, striking the man in the temple and sending him crashing into a table of heroin bricks.
The fourth pulled a knife. Bad idea.
Bruce grabbed the man's wrist and twisted, snapping bone. The guard screamed—until Bruce drove a brutal elbow into his face, knocking him out cold.
The last one stood frozen, gun shaking in his hands. "P-please—"
Bruce grabbed him by the collar and dragged him close.
"This is your last warning." He pulled a batarang from his belt. Slowly, methodically, he pressed the sharpened edge against the man's chest—just enough to break skin.
The thug screamed as the bat symbol was carved into his flesh.
"Tell your boss," Bruce growled, voice low and menacing, "I'm coming."
The man whimpered. Then, Bruce vanished into the night.
---
The sewers were damp and cold, but Bruce barely noticed. His mind was elsewhere, still replaying the fight, analyzing every move, every mistake.
By the time he reached the hidden tunnel leading to the Batcave, exhaustion was beginning to creep in.
He removed the cowl, sweat dripping down his face. His knuckles were raw, bruised beneath the padding of his gloves.
"Alfred," he called, his voice hoarse.
A moment later, the old butler appeared at the top of the staircase, dressed in his robe and slippers. "Master Wayne."
Bruce sat down heavily on a chair, rubbing his forehead. "Water."
Alfred sighed but retrieved a glass. Bruce drank deeply, the cold liquid easing the burn in his throat.
"I assume the night was… productive?" Alfred asked dryly.
Bruce gave a tired smirk. "Yeah."
Alfred sighed again. "Then I've taken the liberty of drawing you a bath."
Bruce didn't argue.
---
The water was hot, steam rising around him as he sank into it, wincing as the heat licked at his bruises.
He stared at the ceiling, thinking.
Thinking about the criminals who still roamed free.
Thinking about what he would do next.
Thinking about the symbol he had left carved into that man's chest.
The bat.
They would all learn to fear it.
He closed his eyes, letting the heat seep into his bones.
Tomorrow night, it would begin again.