It’s cold. So cold it gnaws at bone, numbs thought. Rain hisses softly on concrete. The streetlamp above flickers—once, twice—then dies, plunging the alley into choking black.

Bruce opens his eyes.

Not again.

The alley.

“Please,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “Not here. Not now…”

But he knows the toxin’s grip. Scarecrow’s masterpiece, tailored to perfection. And this place—this twisted echo of that night—is its masterpiece.

They’re in front of him. Smiling.

Thomas and Martha Wayne.

Alive.

Unreal.

“Bruce, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” Martha’s voice is honey, warm and familiar—but wrong. Too perfect. Too whole.

He stumbles back, shaking his head. “You’re not real. You’re not real.”

His father tilts his head. “Is that what you tell yourself? When the city bleeds and you can’t save them?”

Bruce’s breath catches.

Bang.

The shot tears the night in two. His mother’s scream slices through him as she collapses. Pearls explode like shrapnel. Bang. Thomas follows. Eyes wide. Dying. Again.

Bruce drops to his knees.

“Stop it. Please… stop…”

He’s shaking. Helpless. Eight years old again.

“Why didn’t you save us?” Martha’s voice is still soft—but twisted now. Wet with blood. Her hand reaches out, fingers broken and twitching.

“I was just a boy,” Bruce chokes. “I didn’t know—I couldn’t—!”

“But you let it happen. Over and over,” Thomas growls. “Joker. Jason. Alfred. You always fail them.”

“No. I tried—” His voice cracks. “I tried.”

The alley stretches, infinite. A purgatory of flickering lights and dying screams. Blood on his hands. On his soul. On the cape he wears like penance.

“You’re not justice,” the shadows hiss. “You’re just a boy, crying in the dark.”

Bruce clutches his head. “I became Batman to escape this!”

“No,” the voice sneers. “You became Batman to live here forever.”

And the alley closes in.

And he screams.