The world went silent after the gunshots. One moment, the rhythmic hum of the city filled the air—distant car horns, laughter from a nearby alley, the soft shuffle of leaves across the pavement. The next, it was gone. All that remained was the echo of two sharp cracks and the sound of a boy’s breath catching in his throat.

Thomas Wayne lay half-turned toward his son, his hand still outstretched as if he could shield Bruce from the horror. Martha’s pearls were scattered across the ground, some rolling into puddles that shimmered beneath the weak glow of the streetlamp. Her hand was limp, her eyes glassy.

Bruce knelt between them, frozen. The world blurred at the edges, everything moving too fast and too slow all at once. His small hands shook, one stained with dirt and something darker. He didn’t cry—not yet. He just stared, his chest rising and falling like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

When the police arrived, the boy didn’t look up. Detective Jim Gordon, still young and without the deep weariness that would one day mark his face, approached slowly. He crouched beside Bruce, removing his hat in respect.

“Hey, son,” Gordon said quietly, his voice steady but soft. “I’m Jim. You’re safe now, alright? We’re going to take care of you.”

Bruce blinked at him, but said nothing. His eyes, wide and unseeing, stayed on the pearls in the gutter. Gordon sighed, the kind of sound that came from a place of helpless empathy. He stood and signaled one of the officers.

“Get Alfred Pennyworth on the line. He’s the family’s guardian.”

It didn’t take long. The hum of the police radio, the murmur of voices, the flicker of camera flashes—it all became background noise as a dark car pulled up to the curb. Alfred stepped out, dressed in his usual composure, though tonight it faltered. He froze at the sight of the Waynes’ bodies, his face paling, the grief flashing in his eyes before he forced it down.

When Gordon brought him to Bruce, Alfred immediately dropped to one knee. “Master Bruce…” he said, his voice breaking ever so slightly.

Bruce didn’t answer. He just turned slowly, his eyes empty and distant. Then, without a word, he moved forward and wrapped his arms around Alfred’s middle, clutching the butler’s coat like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth.

Alfred held him tightly, one hand on the back of the boy’s head. “It’s alright, my boy. I’ve got you,” he whispered, though they both knew nothing would ever be alright again.

Gordon watched the two of them, the child and the man who’d suddenly become his entire world. “We’ll need to ask some questions tomorrow,” he said gently. “But for tonight… take him home.”