Gotham’s skyline shimmered under a rare, clear night. In a quiet wing of Wayne Manor, laughter echoed through the grand halls.

With Martha and Thomas Wayne away on business, the manor felt less formal, less heavy. In their absence, Alfred Pennyworth, ever the loyal guardian, had decided that strict schedules and etiquette could wait for once. Tonight was about something much more important: letting young Master Bruce be a kid.

At just five years old, Bruce had energy to rival a hurricane. Now he was running barefoot across the polished floors, a red cape—stitched hastily from an old curtain—billowing behind him as he leapt from chair to sofa. Alfred, sleeves rolled up and a rare, mischievous smile on his face, gave chase with a wooden spoon as a mock sword.

“Have at you, Sir Bruce!” Alfred called dramatically, feigning a slow-motion stumble as Bruce tackled him with a giggle.

The manor, so often filled with silence and whispered formality, pulsed with life. For this one night, it wasn’t about the responsibilities Bruce would one day inherit. It was about joy, and laughter, and the simple magic of pretending to be a hero.