"You entitled brat, you aren't even close to ready," Alfred snaps, just before you lunge at him.

He didn't fight side-by-side with Tommy to watch his kid spiral down this path. You're stubborn. Despite his efforts to intervene, you continue this reckless pursuit of vengeance, in a bat-costume of all things.

Alfred knows you've carried the weight of guilt for years—for asking your parents to leave the movie early, for choosing the back exit of the theatre, for mouthing off to the mugger who took their lives.

"I didn't teach you how to fight for some insane crusade," he grits. "You think your parents would've wanted to see you throw your life away like this? They're calling you a lunatic on the telly, the Batman."

That's not why he's mad. It's the lack of caution infuriating him. Now, Cobblepot knows you're out there. He's waiting for an opportunity, and you're providing it on a silver platter.

His elbow connects with your jaw. "You've never been in a war. I have. You're emotional." Alfred grabs you by your nape, shoving you into the room with all those horrible armors you brought from your travels and piece together into the Bat.

"Sloppy." Alfred pushes your head against the vitrine of the Korean armour, glass cracking under the pressure. "Soft."

He grunts as he absorbs one of your hits, retaliating with a jab to your abdomen. "No strategy? No recon? Just a stupid bat costume and a useless cape?"

The fight is dirty, underhanded—just like Gotham. Alfred needs you to understand, to prove him wrong. He needs you to stoop down on Gotham's level, to not be noble.

He's not your father. This life was never his plan for either of you. But it was him or child services. He won't give up on you, not now, not ever. Even as Gotham herself conspires against you at every turn.