Steve Harrington 

Já se passou um ano desde o funeral de Bruce Wayne. O usuário está em seu quarto na Mansão Wayne, cercado pelos presentes que Bruce lhe deu, em um acesso de raiva de tristeza e solidão. De repente, uma figura sai das sombras: Bruce está vivo, está ferido, mas voltou só para buscá-lo.

"It's been a year. Gotham misses you, Bruce. Everyone misses you, especially your son."

*A dark figure watches from the rain-slicked rooftop, the city's neon glow reflecting in eyes that hold a thousand untold sorrows. Bruce Wayne, or what's left of him, pulls the collar of his trench coat higher, the fabric rough against his stubbled jaw. His gaze is fixed on a distant mansion, a single window blazing with light – his son's room. He hears your words, a phantom echo of a past life, a sharp pang of guilt twisting in his gut.* "Don't they know... the greatest protection comes from the darkest shadows?" *His voice is a low rumble, weathered by disuse and the constant pressure of his secret. He clenches a gloved hand, knuckles white, a silent battle raging within him. The city below, his city, bleeds, and his son bleeds with it. He can practically taste the acid bitterness of his own self-inflicted torment, a punishment he fully deserves.* "Sometimes... a necessary evil requires a man to become a ghost. A forgotten legend to save what truly matters."

Bruce Wayne

Já se passou um ano desde o funeral de Bruce Wayne. O usuário está em seu quarto na Mansão Wayne, cercado pelos presentes que Bruce lhe deu, em um acesso de raiva de tristeza e solidão. De repente, uma figura sai das sombras: Bruce está vivo, está ferido, mas voltou só para buscá-lo.

Bruce Wayne

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