The lights of the opera house spilled onto the crowded sidewalk as Thomas and Martha Wayne stepped outside, their son Bruce nestled between them. The boy, only eight years old, was still buzzing with excitement from the performance, though he wouldn't admit it. He was too busy trying to act grown-up, just like his father.
Thomas pulled out his phone and called Alfred, their loyal butler. "Alfred, we're ready to be picked up," he said. A pause, then a sigh. "You're stuck? No, no, don't worry. We'll come to you."
Martha frowned. "Thomas, maybe we should just wait here. It's late, and you know how dangerous the city can be at night."
"It'll be fine," Thomas reassured her, kissing her on the cheek.
Bruce groaned, scrunching his face. "Ugh, stop kissing," he muttered, drawing a laugh from his parents. Martha squeezed his hand as they started walking down the crowded street.
The city was alive at night—bright signs flickered, car horns blared, and voices filled the air. Bruce walked briskly, trying to keep up, but then he felt it—his shoelace had come undone.
"Wait! My shoe!" he said, pulling back.
"We can't stop here," Thomas noted, glancing around at the bustling sidewalk. "Let's step into that alley for a second."
They turned off the main street into a narrow, dimly lit passage between buildings. The walls were covered in graffiti, the air heavy with the scent of damp concrete and something sour Bruce couldn't quite place. Thomas knelt, carefully tying his son's shoe.
Then, from the shadows, a figure emerged.
A man in a ski mask, his hand trembling as he raised a gun. "Wallets. Purses. Now."
Thomas immediately put his hands up. "Okay, okay," he said, his voice steady. He reached into his pocket, pulling out his wallet. Martha did the same with her purse, her grip on Bruce's hand tightening.
The mugger snatched them both, shoving them into his coat. But then his eyes landed on Martha's pearl necklace. "That too," he demanded.
Martha instinctively clutched it. "Please... no," she whispered. "It belonged to my mother."
The mugger didn't care. He lunged forward, yanking the necklace from her neck. The string snapped, sending pearls clattering onto the pavement like raindrops.
Martha gasped, stepping back. "No!"
Thomas moved on instinct. He grabbed the man's wrist, shoving him away. "Get away from my wife!" he shouted.
The gun went off.
A single shot echoed through the alley, drowning out the distant noise of the city. Thomas staggered back, a red stain spreading across his chest.
Bruce screamed.
Before Martha could react, another shot rang out. She collapsed beside her husband, her eyes still open but lifeless.
The mugger froze, breathing heavily, staring at what he had done. Then, without another word, he turned and ran, disappearing into the night.
Bruce dropped to his knees beside them. His hands shook as he reached for his mother, for his father. They didn't move. His breath came in short, shallow gasps. The world around him faded into a blur of color and sound.
And then—sirens.
The police arrived too late. Officers swarmed the scene, their voices sounding distant, their hands pulling Bruce away from the bodies of his parents. Everything felt like a bad dream he couldn't wake up from.
One Month Later
Wayne Manor felt emptier than ever.
Bruce sat on the grand staircase, staring at the floor, his hands clenched into fists. The house was silent except for the occasional creak of the old wood.
Alfred Pennyworth, the family's butler and Bruce's new guardian, watched him from a distance. He had seen grief before, but never in a child this young. Never so raw, so consuming. Bruce barely spoke. When he did, it was in short, angry bursts.
Alfred had tried comforting him, but words meant nothing now. This boy, once so full of life, was filled with a darkness Alfred knew all too well.
One evening, as the sun set behind the manor, Alfred found Bruce in the study, furiously hitting a pillow.
"What are you doing, Master Bruce?" Alfred asked.
Bruce didn't stop. "I don't know." Another punch. "I just—I just feel like I have to do something!"
Alfred watched in silence. He had been in wars, seen battle firsthand. He recognized that look—the need to fight, to channel pain into action. Perhaps that was the only way Bruce could heal.
"Then let's make sure you do it properly," Alfred said at last.
Bruce looked up, confused. "What?"
Alfred simply rolled up his sleeves. "You want to hit something? Fine. But you'll do it the right way."
And so, Bruce Wayne's training began.
At first, it was simple—discipline, control, technique. Alfred showed him how to throw a proper punch, how to balance his stance. Bruce learned fast. Too fast. His anger fueled him, pushing him beyond what most children his age could handle.
Alfred never told him where he had learned to fight. He simply corrected Bruce's mistakes, pushing him further, making him stronger. And for the first time since that night in the alley, Bruce felt like he had a purpose.
He didn't know what that purpose was yet.
But one day, he would.
And when that day came, the world would never be the same.