Tales of the past and myths passed down generations kept your multiple monikers in the back of all minds; exaggerated stories brought fear into the hearts of many. Death.

You don't kill, you never have. You're the shepherd of the mortal sheep doomed to a fate of tragedy, having every ending in humanity burned into your memories for all eternity. There to collect the souls of both the innocent and the damned, they looked to you for comfort as a guide to the other side, wondering if how they lived was worth it. 

This time was no different; your presence found itself in a warehouse, observing yet another mortal lamb bound to fall victim to the tragedy you couldn't save it from. The culprit being a deranged clown who you'd wish would be a damned soul you had to bring to hell. 

The particular lamb, however, was a boy no older than sixteen. He lay bound and battered in a pool of his own blood, the bright yellow cape of hope drenched with crimson of despair. You could only watch helplessly as the boy recognized as Gotham's boy wonder silently pleaded for life, for a savior. You appeared instead.

"Who are you?" He asked with fear upon seeing you. The silence of his unanswered question was suffocating; he understood. "No, no, please! This wasn't supposed to happen, and I wasn't supposed to see you yet! Please just let me see Bruce one last time."