Bruce's eyes fluttered open, greeted by the blinding glare of the sun. His entire body throbbed in agony. His wounds, deep and raw, screamed at him with every shallow breath he took. He was lying on rough, jagged sand, half-buried in the shore as waves lapped at his feet. He forced himself to move, groaning as he struggled onto his elbows. His mind was foggy, but one thing was clear—he had survived. The explosion, the betrayal, the escape.
He wasn't dead.
But he wasn't safe either.
The pain in his shoulder and stomach was unbearable. The stab wound still bled sluggishly, and the cuts on his back from the explosion were filled with tiny shards of glass. He gritted his teeth, dragging himself forward, scanning the island. It was small, uninhabited as far as he could tell. Palm trees swayed gently in the breeze, and a dense jungle lay just beyond the shoreline.
Bruce forced himself onto his feet, gasping as pain shot through him. He pressed his hand against his stomach, feeling the sticky warmth of blood. He wouldn't last long like this. He needed to stop the bleeding.
Stumbling inland, he searched for anything that could help. After a few agonizing minutes, he found driftwood scattered along the shore and gathered as much as he could. His hands shook as he worked, rubbing sticks together, his mind slipping into an almost meditative state. He had learned this. He had trained for this. After what felt like hours, a small flame flickered to life. He fed it carefully, growing it into a roaring fire.
Now came the hard part.
He stripped out of his tattered shirt and cut a strip of fabric from it, biting down on the cloth as he reached back, gripping one of the glass shards embedded in his flesh. With one swift motion, he yanked it out. A strangled cry tore from his throat, but he didn't stop. One by one, he removed them, his entire body shaking by the time he was finished. Blood dripped down his back in thin rivulets, mixing with the sand below.
Then, he turned to the fire. He found a piece of driftwood, charring the tip until it glowed red-hot. Sweat dripped down his forehead as he pressed it against his stomach wound. The pain was indescribable. His vision blurred, his body convulsed, but he held it there, searing the flesh closed. The smell of burning skin filled the air, but the bleeding stopped. He did the same with his shoulder and his back, each time coming close to passing out, but sheer willpower kept him conscious.
Once it was done, he collapsed onto his side, breathing heavily. The pain was still there, but it was manageable. He had survived one more day. But what now?
One week passed.
Bruce had done what he could to stay alive. He drank from a freshwater stream he had discovered deeper in the island, ate whatever edible plants he could find, and rested as much as his injuries allowed. But his body was still weak, and every night, he fought off fever and exhaustion. He couldn't last much longer here. He needed to get off this island.
On the seventh day, as he sat on the beach, staring out at the endless ocean, he saw it—a ship in the distance. Hope surged through him like electricity. He forced himself onto his feet, ignoring the screaming protests of his body. He stumbled to the shore, waving his arms frantically.
"HEY! HEY, OVER HERE!" His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper at first, but he pushed through the pain, screaming louder and louder. "HELP! OVER HERE!"
The ship continued forward, seemingly unaware of his presence. Desperation clawed at his throat. He couldn't let this chance slip away. He ran along the shoreline, grabbing a long branch and setting it on fire. He waved it wildly, hoping the smoke would be enough to get their attention.
Then, finally, the ship turned.
A small boat was lowered into the water, heading toward him. Minutes later, a group of men and women—fishermen, by the looks of them—arrived at the shore. They spoke in rapid Mandarin, their faces filled with concern. One of them, an older man, knelt beside Bruce, checking his wounds.
"Who are you?" he asked in broken English.
Bruce hesitated. He couldn't use his real name. The Chaste had betrayed him. If Stick wanted him dead, who else was hunting him? He needed to disappear. He needed a new identity.
"My name…" he rasped. His mind raced. He needed something believable. A name that wouldn't tie back to Bruce Wayne. "Thomas. Thomas Arkham."
The old man nodded, helping Bruce onto the boat. They ferried him back to the ship, where he collapsed onto the deck, finally allowing himself to rest.
Two days later, Bruce stood on the docks of mainland China. The fishermen had been kind, feeding him and letting him rest, but now he was alone again. His injuries were healing, but he was still weak. And he had one goal—getting back to New York.
But there was a problem. He had no money, no passport, nothing. Buying a plane ticket was out of the question. But sneaking onto a plane?
That, he could do.
He spent the next day scouting the airport, memorizing guard patterns, security placements, and plane schedules. That night, under the cover of darkness, he made his move. He scaled a fence, dodged patrols, and moved like a shadow through the tarmac. Finding a cargo plane bound for New York, he climbed onto the landing gear and slipped inside, securing himself among the crates.
The engines roared to life. As the plane lifted off, Bruce closed his eyes, his body aching, his mind racing.
He was going home.
But home wasn't the same place he had left all those years ago. And neither was he.
New York awaited.
And with it, his destiny.
---
Bruce crouched in the shadows of the cargo hold, the steady hum of the plane's engine filling the silence. His wounds still ached, the burns on his stomach and shoulder throbbing from his crude cauterization, but he ignored the pain. After days hidden away, rationing what little food he had stolen from supply crates, the plane finally touched down in New York. His city.
He waited until the cargo doors cracked open, letting the cool night air flood in. With practiced precision, he slipped past the workers unloading the plane, keeping low and moving fast. His body protested every movement, but he had endured worse. He found an emergency exit, forced it open, and disappeared into the night.
Wayne Manor was waiting for him.
The moment he saw it, something deep inside him settled. The massive estate stood like a monument to his past, yet it felt strangely foreign after all these years. Scaling the outer fence was easy—his body still knew how to move, even if pain flared through his limbs. He landed silently, making his way to the front door. He hesitated for only a second before knocking.
The door swung open faster than he expected.
Bruce barely had time to react before a shotgun barrel was leveled at his face.
"Who the bloody hell—" Alfred's voice cut off as Bruce moved on instinct, knocking the shotgun aside and twisting it from the old man's grip. With a single smooth motion, he ejected the shells and tossed the weapon away. He looked up, meeting Alfred's wide eyes.
"Bruce?" Alfred's voice was barely above a whisper.
Bruce felt a rush of something he hadn't felt in years—relief.
"It's me, Alfred."
The butler's face crumpled for a brief second before he surged forward and pulled Bruce into a hug. For all the pain Bruce had endured, this was the moment that almost broke him.
---
Hours Later
Bruce sat in the study, an untouched cup of tea on the table beside him. He had told Alfred everything—the Chaste, Stick's betrayal, the ambush, the explosion. Alfred's expression darkened with every word.
"They left you to die?" Alfred's voice was low, controlled, but Bruce knew his anger was simmering beneath the surface.
Bruce nodded. "They called themselves the good guys."
Alfred muttered something under his breath before exhaling sharply. "If I ever see that Stick fellow, I'll introduce him to my shotgun properly."
Bruce smirked. "I'd pay to see that."
Alfred's face softened for a brief second before turning serious again. "You came back at the right time, lad. Wayne Enterprises is in trouble."
Bruce leaned forward. "What do you mean?"
"The board believes you're dead. They're planning to sell off your sixty percent share of the company on the open market."
Bruce's smirk returned. "Then I think it's time we remind them who owns Wayne Enterprises."
---
Wayne Tower, One Hour Later
The ride into the city was quiet. Bruce adjusted the cuffs of his suit—one of his father's old ones, perfectly tailored to fit him. The reflection staring back at him in the limo's window was unfamiliar. The boy who had left New York six years ago was gone. In his place sat a man who had fought, bled, and survived in the darkest corners of the world.
"You look just like your father," Alfred said from the driver's seat.
Bruce's grip tightened. "Then it's time they remember that a Wayne still runs this company."
The limo rolled to a stop in front of Wayne Tower. The moment Bruce stepped out, the security guards at the entrance stiffened.
"I need to see the board," Bruce said as he strode past them.
"Sir, you can't just—"
Alfred stepped forward, presenting a file with legal documentation proving Bruce's identity. The guards hesitated, then stepped aside.
Bruce entered the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor. The doors closed, sealing him inside. He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders.
The doors opened to a long conference room, where the Wayne Enterprises board sat discussing the company's future. The moment Bruce walked in, all conversation stopped.
"What is the meaning of this?" one of the executives demanded.
Bruce walked to the head of the table and placed his hands on the polished surface. He let the silence stretch just long enough for the tension to settle before speaking.
"My name is Bruce Wayne."
A ripple of shock passed through the room. A few of them whispered to each other. Some looked pale. Others furious.
"I believe you were about to sell my company," Bruce continued, his voice calm but firm. "Let me make something clear. Wayne Enterprises belongs to the Wayne family. It always has. It always will."
One of the board members, an older man with graying hair, scoffed. "With all due respect, young man, you've been missing for six years. You have no experience running a company. What makes you think you can simply walk in here and take control?"
Bruce turned to him. "Because I own sixty percent of the shares. Because my name is on the building. And because I just did."
The man swallowed hard.
Bruce straightened. "This meeting is over."
No one argued.
---
Outside Wayne Tower
The moment Bruce stepped outside, the press swarmed him. Reporters shouted over each other, microphones and cameras shoved toward his face.
"Mr. Wayne! Where have you been for the last six years?"
"What happened to you?"
"Are you really Bruce Wayne?"
He ignored them all, stepping into the waiting limo. As the doors shut, he exhaled, rolling his shoulders.
Alfred glanced at him through the rearview mirror. "How did it feel?"
Bruce smirked. "Like coming home."
The limo pulled away, disappearing into the New York night.