Rain battered Neo-Gotham without mercy, pooling in puddles that mirrored—like shattered glass—the warped neon glow of billboards and holographic ads from the mega-corporations that saturated the city.
LexCorp, Militech, Arasaka, Ace Chemicals… and, of course, Wayne Industries.
Despite the downpour, it was rush hour—the time when thousands fled their monotonous jobs and poured into a city where pollution and the ever-present glow of neon erased any trace of day or night.
The highways, stacked one atop another, rose on titanic pillars of concrete, like industrial arteries pumping endless traffic—as if Neo-Gotham had its own circulatory system.
In the back seat of a modest family sedan, a seven-year-old boy twirled between his fingers the "gold" medal he had won at the Neo-Gotham Junior PulseShot League tournament, trying to ease the disappointment that his mother, Mary—behind the wheel—hadn't been there to see him win.
She had arrived hours after the tournament ended, so out of breath and in such a rush that she hadn't even had time to congratulate him.
And now that she was here, she spent the whole ride arguing.
["Matt's daycare called me. They were about to close, and you still weren't there. Again."]
Jack's voice—her husband's—echoed from the car's speakers.
"I know, I know…" Mary exhaled, struggling to keep her voice steady as she crept forward through traffic. "I got caught up in the case. I… I lost track of time."
["That damn case you can't say a single word about?"] Jack shot back, his voice rising at first, then faltering slightly—as though fatigue and disappointment were slowly draining what patience he had left.
Gripping the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white, Mary answered in a tone that bordered on defeat:
"You know I can't tell you without putting it all at risk."
["I don't even know what matters more to you anymore—that damn case or your kids."]
Hearing every word—and mature enough to sense how their parents' relationship was unraveling—the boy in the back tried to tune it out. He turned his gaze to the rain-streaked window, where the neon lights painted his anxious face in flickering colors.
Mary, stung by her husband's words, couldn't hold back.
"Don't talk to me like I don't care about my kids, Jack! I'm doing this for them—for you—for us. I…"
She didn't finish.
Instead, she exhaled sharply, releasing all the breath she'd been holding in, trying to gather herself. Fighting was the last thing she wanted.
Her voice softened, turning conciliatory. "When this is all over… I want us to go back to Laguna Bay. Remember? The kids running with their friends, you shirtless, sunburned… and me, without a watch or a screen in sight."
The mention of that place brought a moment of silence. Laguna Bay had once been their little pocket of happiness—a family escape from the city.
But… it hadn't been enough.
["And you think a week of vacation is enough to fix all this?"] he replied, almost in a whisper.["Terry doesn't believe you anymore. He knew you wouldn't show up to his tournament. Matt cries, asking why you're never home. And me… I don't even know what to think, or what to say to our own children anymore."]
Mary pressed her lips together, holding back. She had a response ready, but what good was it if it was just another empty promise?
"Don't, Jack… Not today… please."
["Not today?"] he snapped, his voice thick with restrained anger. ["And when, Mary? When your all-important case is over? When the boys don't even recognize you anymore? Look… I don't know if we'll ever make it to Laguna Bay. I don't know if I even want to keep pretending there's something left to fix."]
Mary swallowed hard. The light ahead blinked green.
"What are you saying?"
["I'm saying maybe… we should stop hurting each other,"] he said through the speaker, his voice cracking. ["I'm tired of being the only one still trying to make this work."]
The rain. The cars behind flashing their lights, urging her to move. The sad reflection of her son in the windshield. And his words—sharp enough to be cruel.
It all built up inside Mary until it burst out in a cry of disbelief:
"YOU THINK YOU'RE THE ONLY ONE?!"
As if what he had said wasn't worse than her shouting with their son in the backseat, Jack responded— ["Don't yell in front of Terry. We'll talk when you get here. If you actually show up this time."]
And then he hung up. Something he'd regret for the rest of his life.
Mary stared ahead, motionless. The discomfort lingered in the car like a silent ghost.
Until her son broke it, asking: "Why don't you just tell him what you do?"
Mary glanced into the rearview mirror and smiled sadly at those big eyes—eyes far too wise for such a young face.
"If it's really that important, I'm sure Dad would understand."
"I can't, sweetheart. It's a really big secret. But I promise—it's to protect you."
"O-okay," Terry murmured, lowering his head before turning his attention back to the medal. The violet light slipping through the car windows made the inscription on the back easy to read: [Sponsored by Militech].
Seeing that disappointed face reflected in the mirror, Mary couldn't help but make a small exception.
"The case I'm working on… some bad people are putting things in the water," she explained gently.
Terry frowned, then—with the kind of blunt, childlike logic that wasn't entirely honest—he arrived at his own solution:
"Then I just won't drink water."
Mary was caught off guard by her son's abrupt conclusion, and a genuine laugh burst from her lips—releasing all the tension and anxiety that had been tightening her chest since the fight with Jack.
But the laugh turned slightly nervous… as she remembered just how stubborn her son could be once he made up his mind.
"No! No… don't do that, okay, sweetheart?" she said, trying to rein in her tone mid-sentence.
"Water's good for you. Way better than soda. The bad stuff only affects… certain people. Special ones."
Seeing him nod, reluctantly, as if his master plan had been foiled, Mary sighed in relief—grateful she'd avoided that particular trap in time.
Before they could continue, the light blinked green, and Mary pressed the accelerator.
They had barely started crossing the intersection when, from the side street, one of two armored vehicles burst forth like a steel beast—its hood and doors painted with multi-legged cyber-skulls—and slammed into them broadside.
The sedan spun out, skidding off the road and crashing against the base of a traffic light with a metallic crunch.
The armored vehicle came to a halt, thick smoke billowing from its hood like the beast's dying breath. The second one screeched to a stop in the middle of the intersection and veered sharply, tires shrieking, until it stood parallel to its wounded twin.
Moments later, their pursuers arrived.
Like a pack of hyenas.
Low-slung cars plastered in neon lights and senseless graffiti—[HAHAH], [BANG] scrawled across their bodies—swarmed the intersection from every direction.
Before they'd even stopped moving, their doors flew open and out spilled figures dressed like clowns and jesters.
White-painted faces, red felt lips, eyes grotesquely outlined in black.
They laughed. They shouted. They lit flares.
They brandished machetes, spiked bats, chrome pistols, and chains tipped with blades.
One of them—tall and lanky, with a fluorescent green vinyl jacket, spiked hair to match, and ghost-white makeup below scarlet lips—climbed onto the hood of a car.
As if every stunned driver in the intersection were his audience, he threw his arms open and shouted theatrically:
"Finally stopped running, huh, cowards?! You really thought we'd just let you roll into our city?"
Laughter broke out among his gang—disjointed, manic, perfectly rehearsed like a broken chorus.
"Sorry, Maelstrom scum!" the leader roared from atop the hood, lighting a Molotov cocktail.
"Gotham belongs to the Jokers! You can crawl back to the radioactive shithole you came from on the West Coast!"
The moment he finished speaking, he hurled the flaming bottle at one of the armored SUVs stopped in the middle of the intersection.
The explosion engulfed the hood in flames—but none of the passengers got out.
Not until the rear door of the vehicle hissed open with a hydraulic groan… and from within emerged a colossus—not entirely human.
It stood over eight feet tall. Its body was a grotesque fusion of flesh and steel, wrapped in thick cables that snaked from its back to its limbs and neck. Instead of eyes, clusters of glowing red lenses flickered across its skull, like the compound gaze of some cybernetic spider.
For a moment, even the clowns fell silent.
All that could be heard were the desperate cries of a boy trying to wake his mother.
"Mom! Wake up, please! Mom…!"
From the mangled hood, the engine block was ablaze, the downpour hissing into steam as droplets struck the glowing-hot metal.
The tiny hands that shook her gently—along with his desperate pleas—undid what the crash had done and forced her eyes open.
Despite the disorientation, the stabbing pain, and the blood-blurred vision, Mary's maternal instinct snapped her mind into focus.
Everything else was pushed aside.
Only one thought was clear: 'I have to get him out. Now!'
Moving without thinking, Mary ignored her injuries, unfastened her seatbelt, and clumsily twisted her body toward the back seat. Her fingers—trembling and slick with blood—struggled to unclip the child safety lock.
Terry stared at her, wide-eyed, his gaze glassy with fear, the medal still hanging around his neck like some absurd little trophy.
"Come on, baby. Let's go," she whispered—more to herself than to him.
Meanwhile, the Jokers hesitated. Especially when the colossus's allies emerged from the wrecked armored vehicle and, instead of fighting... climbed into the second one and sped off, well aware of what was about to happen.
Mary flung the rear door open and collapsed onto the wet asphalt with Terry in her arms.
The pain in her leg was excruciating, but she ignored it completely, lifting both their weights onto it and running as fast as she could.
Limping. Slipping. Fighting for every step.
With a trembling voice, Mary whispered as she pressed her son's head against her shoulder: "D-don't look."
Obediently, Terry squeezed his eyelids shut—but couldn't stop himself from opening them for one fleeting second he would never forget.
A second burned into his memory.
And into the nightmares that would haunt him.
He saw the colossus look directly at them before jamming a syringe filled with a glowing green fluid into his own neck—madness and danger radiating from it like poison.
As if the monster had marked them.
His body convulsed. His cyberware sparked. Muscles—still visible beneath steel plating—swelled violently. The cluster of red lenses on his face flickered in a hypnotic pattern before locking into a steady, vacant glow.
From his shoulders and arms, weapons unfolded—launchers, machine guns, and strange devices Terry couldn't even name.
And then... the cybersycho unleashed hell.
There was no target. No mercy. Only fire.
Bullets and missiles tore through everything in their path—storefronts, cars, lampposts, bodies...
The thick, relentless downpour refracted the flashing lights, shattered neon signs, and flickering holograms across the street, creating an infernal kaleidoscope that didn't feel real to little Terry.
It was as if the world had been submerged in a distorted painting—a living nightmare.
One of the missiles struck near a taxi. Flames began to lick at the vehicle, casting a hellish red glow across Mary's face.
"Get down!" she shouted, shielding her son with her own body.
All Terry felt was the warmth of his mother's body—
And then, a split second later... the roar that rattled his tender eardrums, the blunt force that slammed into his organs, and for a moment, the sudden dryness in the air that parched his throat—
Followed by the shrill silence of tinnitus.
Her weight fell on him, warm and still.
Her back was a scorched mass. Clothes melted into skin. Flesh turned to charcoal.
And in the midst of it all, the pale curve of her exposed spine.
Her perfume still lingered in the air, laced with the acrid stench of burned meat.
He didn't cry. Not yet.
Not until his face was speckled with the blood that came with his mother's final words.
"Ta...ke c-care... of Matt."
And just like that, the world as he knew it shattered.
-
Almost simultaneously...
"Mom, are we gonna be late?!" The question burst through the car like a firecracker packed with energy.
It came fired from the back seat with theatrical urgency by the six-year-old, her face pressed to the window as if sheer willpower could move the traffic.
Her green eyes shone brighter than the neon lights reflected in the glass.
"No,Elie..." her mother replied with half a patient smile— and the other half just as patient. "For the last time, we're not going to be late. We're three minutes from Gotham Arena."
"Phew..." the girl sighed, flopping back into her seat as if she'd just dodged a global catastrophe. "I don't wanna miss the acrobats." Her orange pigtails bounced as she added, "Just like Dad!"
That earned a small, honest laugh from her mother. "Oh yeah? Just like Dad?" she echoed playfully, catching a glimpse of her daughter in the rearview mirror. She was met with the same lively eyes, the same hair color... though her own now carried the first signs of grey.
Shifting her gaze through the mirror to the other passenger in the back, the mother asked,
"And you, Dara? You want to see the acrobats too?"
The one in question—with black hair and eyes as blue as her father's—acted as if she hadn't heard, nodding her head to the beat of music only she could hear.
Thanks to the ring-shaped earrings hooked along the upper curve of her ears, the sound pulsed directly into her eardrums—without a whisper escaping into the air.
Still, when she felt her mother's interrogative stare intensify in the mirror, she sighed, paused the music with a flick of her finger, and answered with a tone that blended irritation and teen indifference:
"Mom... I'm not a little kid anymore."
Dara picked up the flyer her sister had left on the seat, glanced once more at the picture of the fake acrobat family, then let it drop with a dismissive huff as she added:
"Besides, with Dad's training, even Elie is probably better than all the Winged Braydon put together"
"Hey!" the younger one protested, feigning indignation. "Of course I am! But that doesn't mean I don't enjoy watching others try."
"Sure, sure," her sister replied, raising an eyebrow. "Just don't wreck the living room again when you decide to leap off the couch."
"That was one time!" the little one exclaimed.
Their mother, who had finally spent enough time since the incident to maybe laugh about it… still didn't. The bitterness over the damage was clearly not gone.
And yet, the peaceful air inside the car vanished the moment the mother's radio crackled to life.
["Unit Bravo-6 to Commissioner Gordon… Level Five incident in District 7. Confirmed engagement between Joker cells and a Maelstrom-aligned Cybersycho. Multiple casualties..."]
There was a pause. As if the sight of the boy, still clutching the burned remains of his mother's hand, had taken the words from the officer's throat.
["Only survivor at the scene: a minor."]
Judging by their mother's expression, Dara and Elie instantly understood: there would be no Winged Braydon show for them that night.
Even so, neither complained. Not even Eli.
She simply hugged her favorite plush toy—an over-painted Timbal Monkey.
-
As they neared the scene, they were greeted by a sea of red and blue lights—an artificial heartbeat pulsing through the night.
Beyond the yellow holographic tape of the NGPD, which parted smoothly for the Commissioner's vehicle, a dozen press drones hovered near the perimeter.
Spotlights, flashes, outstretched microphones.
A pack of scavengers, waiting for the next headline. Another name. Another face. Especially if it belonged to a child.
"I'll be back soon… behave," said Barbara as she cut the engine.
"Yes," they both replied.
The younger one pressed her face to the window, trying to see beyond the curtain of heavy rain.
"What do you think happened?"
Dara, eyes fixed straight ahead, answered without looking away:
"…Nothing good."
-
As she stepped out of the car, the same officer who had spoken to her over the radio was already waiting—soaked to the bone, but standing firm in the rain.
"Commissioner Gordon," he greeted, snapping to attention.
Barbara gave a faint nod.
"The perpetrator was subdued by Max-Tac and is being transferred to Arkham's Cyberpsycho wing," the officer reported. "Fifty-seven dead. Seventeen Jokers. The rest… civilians. Only one survivor at ground zero."
Barbara, her voice flat, already bracing herself for what was coming, simply said, "Take me to the boy."
The officer nodded and led her through the scorched remains of vehicles, through puddles of blood and oil, past the thermal blankets covering the dozens of lifeless bodies. All beneath a rain that seemed desperate to wash the massacre away—but couldn't.
"We haven't been able to move him. Not even by force. He resists… always returns to his mother's side."
Barbara swallowed hard, a knot tightening in her throat as her mind betrayed her—imagining her own daughters clinging to her body in a scene like this.
"The father?"
"At home. Taking care of their two-year-old. We've informed him and agreed to bring 'Terry'… when he's ready."
"I'll do it," she said. And after walking a few more steps… she finally saw him.
A boy, alone in the rain. Kneeling, clutching the hand of a body covered in a foil emergency blanket, still steaming from the heat. His face was drenched, tears lost in the downpour, his eyes wide open… but empty.
The image hit Barbara like a punch to the chest. For a moment, an old photo from her father's police file flashed through her mind.
Unconsciously, she overlaid the boy in front of her with the one in the photo. The same look—frozen in a moment that would never stop repeating itself.
So alike it felt like déjà vu.
Only this time, it wasn't a back alley—it was an intersection.
Without realizing it, or perhaps moved by instinct alone, Barbara tried to comfort the boy… with the same words, the same gesture her father once used long ago.
She took off her coat—soaked, but still warm from her body heat—and knelt down in front of him.
"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry…"
Then, gently wiping his mother's blood from his face, she finished:
"You're going to be okay."
And with something as simple and reassuring as putting a coat around a young boy's shoulders, she showed him the world hadn't ended.
-
After several minutes in the rain, soaked alongside him, Barbara finally convinced Terry to let go of his mother.
"Let's go inside… I'll take you to your father," she said, guiding the boy toward her car.
Opening the door, she leaned in and spoke to the occupants inside:
"Girls, make some space and be nice. We're taking Terry home."
"O-okay," the younger one murmured, uncomfortable with the stranger.
"Tch," the preteen scoffed, not moving an inch.
She didn't want to give up her window seat, so she reluctantly pulled her legs in, making just enough room for the hollow-eyed boy to sit in the middle.
A few seconds after the door shut...
"Hey, kid… What happened?" Dara asked without making eye contact.
"…" His silence made her press harder. "Didn't you hear me?"
"Dara, stop! Mom said—"
"Shut it, squirt—" Dara couldn't finish either, as a delayed response finally came:
"My mom died."
None of them knew what to say. Or how to react.
It was the little one who, imagining herself in Terry's soggy sneakers, leaned over and hugged him tightly without thinking. Just like she would've wanted someone to do if it had been her.
Even Dara felt enough empathy to pierce through her preteen apathy. She reached out and awkwardly stroked the boy's drenched hair, nudging his head down—so his tears wouldn't be seen.
When Barbara returned to the car after giving instructions, she was caught off guard by the scene.
She said nothing. But a brief, private smile crossed her face.
Grateful for her daughters' empathy.
-
When they finally arrived at Terry's home, Barbara stepped out first to speak with Jack.
Just as she signaled him to come out and he opened the front door, Elie—though they hadn't exchanged a single word—reached out and grabbed the hem of Terry's shirt to stop him.
She didn't know what to say, but she didn't want him to feel alone. So she gave him her most precious possession: her favorite stuffed toy— the cymbal-clapping monkey.
Terry stared at it for a moment. He didn't want it. He didn't even like it.
But the brightness in the girl's eyes pierced through his grief, cutting deep enough to stir a buried bit of empathy. Enough to accept the gift… and offer something in return.
He had nothing. Nothing except the medal still hanging from his neck.
And as he looked down at it, a single thought crossed his mind: 'Maybe if I hadn't gone to the tournament… mom would still be-'
Before guilt could crush him, Terry handed the medal to Elie and stepped out of the car.
---
Hours after the incident that had shaken the city...
An elderly, broad-shouldered African American woman, her gaze still sharp despite the years, stood before the rusted gates of an old mansion on the outskirts of Neo-Gotham.
With just a glance at the security system, the gates creaked open in a mournful welcome.
On the threshold, beneath the shadow of the grand entrance, waited a man—still imposing in build, yet clearly worn down by time—leaning heavily on a cane as he moved.
No words were necessary. He simply stepped aside and let her in.
Inside, the house lay in ruin. Not physically, but in spirit. Every piece of furniture was draped in dusty gray sheets, like ghosts of a past that no longer hurt… yet never truly healed.
Only a small corner of the study remained exposed: a cracked leather armchair, a lonely side table, and a half-empty bar.
There was no television. No radio. Nothing electric in sight. The silence felt dense, as if the owner had cut himself off entirely from the world. Like a hermit.
Taking in the "cozy" scene, the woman raised an eyebrow and remarked, her tone biting:
"I see you're really living it up in retirement."
The man let out an irritated grunt. Without replying, he pulled one of the sheets aside, revealing a heavy sofa for his "guest."
Then he sank into his own chair. Skipping any pretense of courtesy, he pointed sternly at the sofa across from him and said:
"Get to the point, Amanda. I've never cared for your company."
Despite the thinly veiled insult, Amanda smiled. Not out of politeness, but at the bitter memory of old times. Calmly, she sat down, opened her handbag, and without another word, pulled out a thick file, pushing it toward him.
He took it in his rough hands. And although most of the names and dates had been blacked out, with every page he turned, his brow tightened, and his gaze grew darker.
"It's from Project Beyond," Amanda said, her voice flat, unshaken even by the cruelest parts. "Though the final phase was canceled, there was a moment we actually considered... executing his parents in front of him. The idea was to recreate the same trauma—to forge the same steel."
Bruce slowly looked up. What he had just read and heard surpassed any horror he had imagined. His jaw tightened. His voice came out as a low, barely restrained growl:
"What the hell does this mean?"
"It means you have a biological son, Bruce. Genetically speaking. You didn't know. We never told you. But we made him."
Amanda held his gaze for a second longer before adding, almost cynically:
"Come on, don't make that face… From what I hear… this wouldn't be the first time."
He didn't answer. Not out of disbelief, but from a deep, coiled fury. The pain of having once again underestimated what Amanda Waller was capable of... Just like Talia.
Waller, noticing the look in his eyes—intense, barely contained, as if Bruce were a heartbeat away from lunging at her… though not exactly in the good way—let out a small sigh.
And for the first time in the conversation, her tone softened. More honest. Almost human.
"Over the years... I came to respect you, Bruce. I watched you save the day dozens of times, armed with nothing but your mind, your body, and your will."
She looked away. For a moment, her eyes rested on the cane at his side.
"But I also saw something else. How you were getting slower. More... fragile. Older.
Sooner or later, you were going to have to retire. Or someone would finally manage to kill you."
A brief silence settled before she continued, a trace of reluctance in her voice.
"The idea of a world without Batman was unacceptable to a lot of people in the government. And... though it's hard to admit, it was unacceptable to me too.
So I made a choice.
We got your DNA. It wasn't hard—you left it all over the city. We found a woman who was genetically compatible, and used a flu shot as cover to overwrite her partner's reproductive cells... with yours."
Bruce remained motionless. Like a statue on the verge of shattering.
"In a way..." She met his gaze directly, without a shred of guilt, regret, or shame as she finished, "You're a victim of your own success."
That description—so completely at odds with how he saw himself—was the final straw.
"SUCCESS?!" Bruce roared, springing to his feet.
His voice thundered through the study. All he could remember were the tortured children, the friends he had buried. Not the lives he had saved.
"Is that what you think it was? A SUCCESS?!"
And then, it happened.
Maybe it was the vibration of his shout. Maybe a draft slipping through the cracks of the old mansion. Or maybe it was just the ghosts of the past, still lingering in those halls.
But one of the sheets draped over the wall slipped and fell to the floor with a dry whisper.
Revealing a large, imposing family portrait, painted carefully years ago:
Five young, handsome faces—Dick, Jason, Tim, Barbara, and Damian—all standing around a younger Bruce seated at the center. And behind him, Alfred, wearing that discreet smile the world had long since lost.
A heavy, bitter silence settled between them.
Amanda didn't flinch, answering his tantrum with another question.
"Tell me, Bruce. Since you retired… has the city gotten any better?"
He clenched the arms of the chair until they trembled, and when he finally let go, he fell back heavily into his seat. Then, rubbing his forehead as if trying to hold back the painful memories he had just unleashed, Bruce answered, defeated:
"Since the Datakrash, society has done nothing but tear itself apart."
"If I'm being honest… I don't think it was Moss, or his Datakrash, or even the corporate age that followed that made people lose hope." Amanda turned her gaze to one of the few photographs still hanging uncovered on the wall.
Two tall, imposing men. And beside them, a woman who looked like a Greek goddess—whether despite or because of her elegant gown.
Bruce followed her gaze, and... "Should you be proud?" he spat, venom in every syllable. "This is what you wanted, isn't it?"
Amanda held his gaze for a moment.
"Do I look like a winner to you?"
He didn't answer. He slammed the file shut and dropped it onto the table with barely restrained force.
"Why are you telling me all this now?"
Instead of replying, Amanda pressed a button on her watch, and an image appeared projected above it.
An image that had already been picked up by the media—and gone viral.
A boy, soaked by the rain, empty-eyed, with his mother's charred body lying next to him.
The moment Bruce saw that face… he didn't need to guess.
He recognized that look. That posture. That loss.
He had lived it.
He had seen it staring back at him in the mirror.
The indignation rose so quickly inside him that the words came out as a weak, bewildered whisper:
"What the hell have you done!?"
"As I said, we didn't have the guts, Bruce…" Amanda replied, with something almost like ruthless satisfaction, as if all that effort… hadn't gone to waste after all. "But it seems fate is far crueler. Gotham did it for us."
Bruce shot to his feet, breathing heavily, one hand clutching at his chest. His voice broke into a ragged roar:
"Get out of my house!"
Amanda looked at him, unmoved. For an instant, the faintest flicker of compassion—if it could be called that—crossed her face.
She put on her coat, and before leaving, paused by the door.
"You can hate me all you want, Bruce… that's always been the point. But this is done. And that boy… he's your son, whether you like it or not."
She fell silent for a few seconds more, then added:
"Let me ask you one last question. After all, you're the expert here. What do you think happens to a child after something like that? With that kind of trauma… and your blood…"
Taking a breath, her tone turned less confrontational, almost contemplative:
"There's an old proverb: 'The child who is not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth.'"
Then, in a grave tone, she finished:
"We both know he could become a tool for good… or a very real threat. All he needs is a push. The right one."
And with that, Amanda left.
Bruce returned to the study and collapsed back into his chair. Alone, as he had been so many times before.
He stared at the closed file on the table. For minutes, he didn't move.
Until finally, with trembling hands, he picked it up and walked toward the grandfather clock in the study.
It had been more than ten years since he had last gone down there.
When the door opened, shadows and fluttering wings welcomed him like an old enemy.
As he descended, sensing his presence, the computer turned on by itself, bathing part of the cave in a pale blue glow.
Bruce loaded the file. He read every line. Every code. Every genetic analysis.
And confirmed what he already knew.
Then he closed his eyes. Thinking about the "special" needs a child like Terry would have to manage the anger that would haunt him. It made him remember similar cases… and with them, all the failures and tragedies came flooding back, forcing him to murmur in panic:
"No… I can't do this again."
After shutting down the computer…
"I shouldn't have come down here…"
In that moment, Bruce swore he wouldn't intervene.
But as his "son" grew older and kept finding trouble…
He couldn't stay away… even if it was already too late.