Chapter Text
The man was shouting. He wanted Mama’s pearls.
Papa’s hands shook as he tried to help her take them off, but the man kept yelling to hurry.
He lunged for the necklace, and Papa tried to stop him.
Bang!
Mama screamed.
Papa turned. Another bang — closer to me.
My ears rang.
Mama and Papa were talking — no, whispering — no, not whispering, I just can’t hear them well. Strange, because I was standing right next to them.
Alfie told me to take care of them. I promised.
But I can’t move.
I want to. God, I want to.
My legs are stuck. My chest won’t work.
Mama’s hand reaches toward me.
I should grab it. Hug her. Pull her close.
But I can’t.
I can’t.
They stop moving.
The alley is cold. It smells like gunpowder. Like rain. Like Mama’s perfume.
And iron.
Alfred once said: iron means blood.
Blood.
There’s blood on the floor. A lot of blood. It keeps getting closer to me.
Blood. Blood everywhere.
Mama’s pearls roll into it. White pearls turn red.
White. Red. White. Red.
The rain taps on them, one by one, like it’s counting.
They don’t look like pearls anymore. Just drops of blood pretending to be pearls.
Behind me — lights. Red, white, blue.
Voices. Too many voices.
“Move the boy…”
“…write up… perimeter now…”
“Tell us what you saw…”
All broken, like a staticky T.V.
Too close. Too far. All at once.
I want to leave.
I want to go home.
Please. Somebody. Anybody.
It sounds like footsteps all around me, people walking past.
The whole city feels heavy — pressing down, holding me in place.
“Bruce.”
The weight lifts.
I know this voice. I would know it anywhere.
Alfie. Alfie, he’s here.
I blink and he’s standing in front of me, his face sharp and worried.
“Alfie… they’re—”
“I know, my boy.”
His handkerchief is soft against my cheek, wiping the tears I didn’t know were falling.
“You need to change before we can go home.”
Home.
“But the officers said I had to go to the station. They said I had to tell them everything.”
Their voices float around me, buzzing like flies. I can’t remember what they asked.
“You will, but not tonight. Not tomorrow, if I have my way. Come—Gordon’s waiting.”
I hold his hand. It’s warm. Not like the wind that blows against my face.
We walk toward the flashing lights. They stab at my eyes. Cameras.
So many cameras. All pointed at me.
Why?
Pictures are supposed to be of happy things.
Birthdays. Christmas. Celebrations.
Not… this.
Alfie’s voice cuts through: “Change in the ambulance, put the rest in here. Once you’re done, give it to Gordon and stay with him until I return. Don’t leave his side.”
He hands me a clear bag. Evidence, it says.
I stumble inside the ambulance, pull off my shirt. It’s stiff. Sticky.
It smells like rain and blood. I shove it in the bag, slam it shut.
I don’t look at it again.
When I climb out, Alfie isn’t there.
My chest twists — he left. He left.
Mr. Gordon points. I see Alfie, standing tall in front of the flashing lights, speaking to the photographers. His voice is angry. Alfie never gets angry. The men with cameras shrink back.
Alfie comes back, he doesn’t ask. He just lifts me into his arms.
I bury my face in his shoulder.
I don’t want the lights. I don’t want the voices. I don’t want Mama’s perfume mixed with blood. I want to go home.
The car door shuts behind us. The world goes dark, muffled.
Everything hurts.
I didn’t get shot. I’m not bleeding. But it hurts. My chest feels cracked open.
And I hear crying. Loud, ugly crying.
Oh…it’s me.
Alfie hums a song.
It’s Mama’s lullaby.
I press my face against his chest and the sound rumbles through me, like it used to when Mama sang.
We drive. The lights fade. The noise fades.
All I can hear is Alfie’s heartbeat.
We drive for a long time.
Street after street. The windows blur with rain.
I don’t know if I’m awake or dreaming.
Alfie’s chest is warm against my cheek. His shirt smells like soap and tea. Safe.
Every time the car bumps, I hold tighter.
He pats my back. Keeps humming.
The song is cracked now, like he’s trying not to cry. But I pretend not to notice.
By the time the car stops, my sobs are small hiccups. My throat hurts. My head hurts.
We’re home.
But not really. Not without them.
There are lights at the gates — cameras flashing, people shouting.
The sound makes my skin prickle.
I hide my face against Alfie’s neck. He holds me tighter.
“I’ve got you, baby,” he says. “Everything’s okay.”
We go through the garage.
No lights. No shouting.
Inside the manor, everyone stares. Their faces blur — wide eyes, whispers, hands twisting in aprons.
I feel like an animal in a zoo. I want them all to go away.
“All right, to bed with all of you,” Mrs. Rosa says firmly. “The young master needs rest, not a crowd.”
Feet shuffle away. The whispering fades.
Alfie doesn’t stop walking until we’re in my room.
He sets me down, but his hand stays on my shoulder.
“Alright, Master Bruce — shower, pajamas, bed.”
I nod, but my throat closes up.
“Will you… stay? I don’t want to be alone.”
His eyes soften. He kneels so we’re the same height.
“Of course, darling. I’ll stay tonight — and any night you need me.”
I want to believe him. But a part of me is scared.
What if I take too long? What if he leaves?
I hurry into the shower. The water stings my eyes. I scrub fast. Too fast.
When I come out, hair dripping, Alfie is there. In pajamas. Waiting.
Relief crashes over me so hard I almost cry again.
I climb into bed quick, like the shadows might grab me.
Alfie lies beside me. I grab his shirt, and squeeze it tight.
He doesn’t pull away.
He hums Mama’s lullaby. The one with the soft rise and fall.
His voice shakes. I see the tears slide down his face in the moonlight.
But I pretend not to.
If I say something, maybe he’ll stop. Maybe he’ll leave.
So I close my eyes. I keep my hand tight on his shirt.
The rain taps against the window, steady, steady.
Like the city itself is listening.
Like it’s waiting.
I don’t know what it wants.
But I know what I want.
Just one thing.
Please — let Alfie stay.
Chapter Text
The night is blurry.
Sometimes I sleep. Sometimes I don’t.
Every time I start to drift, I grab Alfie’s shirt tighter — just to make sure he’s still there.
He doesn’t pull away. He just keeps humming, even when his voice goes hoarse.
At some point, my eyes close for real.
When they open again, light is sneaking through the curtains.
For a moment I forget. I almost think Mama will knock on the door, telling me to get up for school.
Then I feel it.
Cold. Damp.
I throw the blanket back. My heart stops.
The bed is wet.
No, no, no. I’m too old. I’m not a baby.
Alfie will be angry. He’ll be disappointed.
Maybe he’ll leave me here and never come back.
A towel. I can get a towel and dry it up. Or cover it. Maybe later I can sneak it to the laundry.
I climb out of bed fast, panicked. I need to find a towel before Alfie wakes up.
Panic crawls up my throat. My chest hurts.
What if he leaves? What if he tells the others? What if he doesn’t want me anymore?
I glance sideways. Alfie is still beside me, asleep sitting up, his head tilted against the headboard. His face looks tired. So tired.
My eyes sting. My breath comes too fast.
I try to be quiet, but a small sound slips out anyway.
Alfie stirs. His eyes open.
“Bruce, where are you? Come here, my boy.”
I walk slowly toward him. I don’t want to get too close.
He’s going to be so disappointed in me, and then he won’t want to stay and… and—
“I’m not angry. Accidents happen.”
What if he’s lying? What if he’s just saying that?
“But I… I’m old enough—”
I don’t want to say more. If I do, he’ll know how bad I am.
“Accidents happen. While you shower and get ready, I’ll see to the bed.”
“You’ll stay here? You won’t leave me?”
“I’ll be here when you’re done.”
He has to be lying. I peed the bed. I didn’t even try to help Mama and Papa. I’m not a good boy. Why would he want me?
Still, I listen. I go take a shower.
When I’m done, I hear voices outside the door. I lean against it, careful not to make it creak. But it does anyway.
Mrs. Rosa’s voice: “—and the others, all they can talk about is if they are going to—”
Alfie’s voice, sharp: “Mrs. Rosa. Even walls have ears.”
How did he know? How did he hear me? Mrs. Rosa didn’t.
“Oh, dear, silly me. So much to do, and here I am rambling. I’ll be going now.”
Her footsteps fade. The door shuts.
I come out. The table is full of food — pancakes, strawberries, syrups, sprinkles.
Too much. Too sweet. I don’t feel hungry. Just tired. Just sad.
But I don’t want to make Alfie upset. So I try.
The food tastes boring, bland. Even the chocolate syrup.
“Your parents would have my head if I let you skip meals — and frankly, I like my head.”
I look at him. For a moment, I want to say something. But my mouth won’t work.
I nibble at the pancakes, then stop. My tummy feels funny.
“Alright, young master, I need to dress for the day. Would you like to wait by yourself, or have Mrs. Rosa keep you company?”
“You’ll come back?”
“I’ll come back.”
“Then I can wait by myself.”
I can wait. I’m a big boy. I can wait.
I grab a book. Mama was reading it with me. Sometimes Papa would do the voices.
Now I won’t get to finish it.
I shut the book. I try to draw. Mama said this week we’d go see an art gallery. Papa promised he’d leave work early. After, we’d get ice cream.
Tears drop onto the page. No, no crying. Alfie will be back soon.
But it feels too long.
Voices in the hall. Loud. Sharp.
I open the door, and slowly start walking towards the voices.
“And whose approval would we need,” a man says, “if the boy’s parents are dead?”
I freeze.
Then Alfie’s voice “That would be mine. As Bruce’s guardian.”
Guardian. A person who protects.
Does that mean Alfie is staying with me?
“You? You’re just the help.”
“If you wish to confirm, I can have the Waynes’ lawyers call you.”
The man mutters. “Whoa, no need to get lawyers involved. We just wanna talk with the kid, see what he knows.”
I could tell them. I could tell them what I saw.
But if Alfie doesn’t want me to, then I won’t.
“Mrs. Rosa, please keep Bruce company while I speak to these gentlemen.”
He saw me again? How? Is it because he was a spy before? Is that how he knows I’m here?
I hurry back to my room and sit at a chair, pretending to read.
Mrs. Rosa comes in a little later. She’s muttering in Spanish, words I don’t quite understand. She squeezes my shoulder, gentle.
I’m only with her a short time before Alfie returns.
“Do I have to talk to them?”
“Not until you’re ready. And never alone.”
“Who will I be speaking to?”
“Officer Gordon — the one who gave you the spare clothes yesterday.”
Mr. Gordon. Yes. I think he was talking to me that night. I can’t really remember — that part is too fuzzy.
Mrs. Rosa takes my hand and leads me to the glass patio.
She says she’ll bring snacks and hot chocolate.
I try to read my book, but none of the words make sense.
It feels again like I’m watching everything through a T.V.
Far away, but right here.
Mrs. Rosa sets down the tray. Fruit, and hot chocolate with whipped cream.
I take the cup. It’s warm in my hands.
I sip my hot chocolate. Sweet on my tongue, warm in my chest.
Not as good as Alfie’s, but still good.
I set the cup down. I try to read, but the words blur. The letters slip off the page. My head feels heavy.
I draw instead. Just lines. A house. A man with glasses. Mama’s pearls. The lines get messy when my eyes sting. Drops fall on the paper.
Tears again. No, no crying. I press my sleeve against my face.
Where is Alfie? He said he’d come back.
He always says he’ll come back.
What if he doesn’t?
The house creaks. Rain taps the glass — slow, steady. It feels like someone outside is waiting, listening. Watching.
Mrs. Rosa hums softly as she folds napkins on the table. She doesn’t look at me, but she stays close. Maybe Alfie told her to.
Time drags. The cocoa goes cold. I hug the book to my chest, but it doesn’t help.
Then footsteps. The door opens. Alfie.
Relief crashes over me so hard I almost fall out of my chair.
“Naptime, my boy,” he says, voice soft.
I nod. I don’t argue.
When I’m ready, he’s already there beside me. I curl against him, fingers holding his sleeve. His voice hums the lullaby again.
I don’t let go, not even as my eyes close.
The rain on the glass is steady, steady.
Like the whole city is waiting.
In the afternoon, I follow Alfie everywhere.
I need to prove I can be helpful. If I help, he won’t leave. He can’t.
I help him dust. I fold laundry. I carry clean linens to the closet.
I watch every move and copy him.
I don’t want to make mistakes.
No mistakes.
When lunch comes, we go to the breakfast nook. Not the dining room. It feels strange, but I don’t say anything.
Lunch is chicken nuggets, macaroni, and broccoli.
Alfie never lets me eat chicken nuggets. Not ever.
But today he doesn’t say anything.
Today is different. Everything is different.
I eat quietly. Careful.
Lunch doesn’t last long. I eat what I can, then push the rest around my plate until Alfie takes it away. He doesn’t scold me. He doesn’t even frown. That makes me feel worser.
The rest of the afternoon is blurry. Chores. Books. The house feels too big, too quiet.
When it’s bedtime, I don’t argue. I don’t want him to leave. I don’t want to be alone.
He lies beside me, and I grip his sleeve. His voice hums Mama’s lullaby until my eyes close.
Chapter Text
Sleep isn’t safe.
I’m in the alley again.
The pearls hit the ground.
White. Red. White. Red.
The sound is loud, louder than it should be.
They roll away from Mama’s neck, but when I reach for them they scatter, slipping through my fingers like sand.
Bang.
The gun goes off again.
Too loud. Too close.
My ears ring and the sound won’t stop.
Mama’s hand reaches for me.
I stretch out my arm, but no matter how far I reach, her hand stays the same distance away.
Closer, closer—no, farther. Always farther.
I try to run, but the ground pulls at my shoes like mud. Heavy. Sticky.
My legs won’t move.
I can’t breathe.
Water suddenly pushes against my chest, cold and heavy, heavier every second.
The walls lean in. Dark bricks pressing closer, closer, until I can’t see the sky.
The streetlamp flickers. Then it goes dark.
I know I’m not alone.
Someone is watching.
Footsteps echo, but I can’t see where.
The city hums around me, low and steady, like it’s waiting.
I open my mouth, but only water pours out. I choke on it. I claw at my throat.
No sound comes.
Then—
“Bruce.”
The voice cuts through the flood.
A hand on my shoulder, warm and real.
I gasp awake. The room is dark, but it’s not the alley. My lungs burn. My face is wet — tears, not rain.
“It’s alright, my boy. You’re safe. Just a dream.”
I throw myself against him, clutching his shirt. My hands shake.
He holds me tight. His arms are strong, unshaking, even though mine are weak.
The nightmare is still there, it's like a sticky presence. Like the blood that was on my skin
But Alfie’s heartbeat is steady, and strong.
I press my face against it and try to breathe with him. Soon I fall back to sleep. This time I have no dreams. It's peaceful nothingness.
I wake up and there is Alfie. He changed his clothes and is reading a book. He left. When did he leave? He came back this time but what about the next? What if he gets tired of me and doesn't want to take care of me any more.
“Good morning, Bruce, go wash up while Rosa brings in breakfast.” I slowly get out of bed. I need to do better, otherwise maybe he’ll leave me.
Once I’m done with my shower, I come out and Alfie is reading something. A note.
“What were you reading?”
“Nothing of importance. Mrs. Rosa was just reminding me that today will be the last day for one of the servants. He’s found employment elsewhere.”
He’s lying. I know he’s lying, but I don’t know what about.
Does he not trust me?
Maybe if I help the police, he’ll think better of me. Maybe he’ll want to keep me.
“You said… you said I had to talk to the officers. I want to do it today.”
“Bruce, there is no need to rush. The—”
“I want to do it today. The man who killed my parents is still out there. The police need what I know to catch him.”
It has to be today.
If I do this, Alfie will see that I’m helpful. That I can do good things.
“Very well. If this is what you want, then here is how it will be. Mr. Gordon will come here, to the manor. I will be by your side the entire time. If you wish to stop—for a break, or because you’ve had enough—we will stop. If I feel it best that we end the interview, we will end it. You will not face this alone. Do you understand?”
“I thought… I thought we’d have to go to the police station.”
I’ve never been to a police station.
“Not today. Perhaps another time. For now, Gordon will come here. And until then—” he slides my bowl closer. “Eat, my boy. Even a warrior needs his strength.”
We don’t talk during breakfast. Afterwards, we go to the library. I grab some books and take them to the patio to read.
Alfie goes away to call Mr. Gordon.
He’ll be back.
He said he wouldn’t let me talk to Mr. Gordon alone.
Alfie comes back and I pretend to read. Pretend the words make sense.
After a while he takes me to a sitting room. We wait.
I don’t want to talk. But I have to. No—I need to.
“Here,” Alfie says. “A proper table is as much about presentation as food. Watch.”
He folds his handkerchief into shapes. I watch his hands move. He gives me his handkerchief, and I try to copy what he did.
Footsteps in the hall. My stomach jumps. I scramble into the seat next to Alfie.
The door opens.
“Hello, Bruce,” Gordon says gently. His voice is careful. Respectful. “Do you remember me?”
“Yes, sir. I’m Bruce. It’s… nice to see you again.”
I put out my hand. He shakes it.
Manners are important. Mama said so. Alfie too.
“Today I’ll ask you some questions about what happened. If you don’t want to answer, you don’t have to. We can take breaks whenever you like, or stop altogether. Understand?”
I nod.
“Can you tell me what you and your parents did before the theater?”
“We went to eat at Mr. Antonio’s restaurant. He makes the best pasta and cannoli. Mama likes it because sometimes his son plays the violin. He’s really good. She said he even got paid to go to college.”
“What’s the last thing you remember before leaving?”
“I was holding Mama’s hand. The sky was clear, but I felt… a few drops of rain on my face. Just for a second.”
“I thought it was strange that it was raining.Then I saw a cat in the alley. It came right up to us and stared. It didn’t run, even with people walking by. It just… watched. Then it meowed, and the rain stopped.”
“You remember a lot. That’s helpful, Bruce.”
Alfie squeezes my hand. “Sometimes the city speaks to us, my boy. You were right to notice.”
The rain starts tapping faintly at the window, even though the sky outside is bright.
Gordon coughs. “When you came out of the theater, where did you go?”
“Papa wanted to take a shortcut back to the car. Mama said the main road was safer, but he said… he said he would protect us. That it would be faster.” Alfie pulls me closer to him. He smells like tea.
“Do you remember who else was nearby?”
“…There were people. A couple walking fast. A man selling papers on the corner. But—”
My shoulders stiffen. My voice sticks.
“…The rain. It started again, just for a second. And when I looked up—he was there.”
“Who, Bruce?”
“The man. Standing by the lamp. Everyone else kept walking, but he didn’t move. The cat from the alley ran when it saw him… but he just stood there. Watching.”
The rain outside taps harder, like it wants me to keep talking.
And an idea sparks in my head:
If I find him—if I help catch him—Alfie will see that I’m good enough to keep. I’ll make up for not protecting Mama and Papa.
“Can you tell me what he looked like?” Gordon asks.
I shake my head. “…No. The streetlight wasn’t bright enough. He was tall. A little hunched. His coat was old, torn at the sleeves. But… I couldn’t see his face.”
I lie. But Alfie can’t be upset. He lied earlier.
“Alright, Bruce. That’s enough. You’ve been very brave. None of this was your fault. Do you understand?”
It was my fault.
I could have helped.
If I had moved. If I had shouted.
But I didn’t.
I just stood there.
I just stared.
Stared at their bodies as the pearls rolled into the blood.
“Is there anything you’d like me to know about your parents?”
“Mama was wearing her favorite pearls. Can… can I have them?”
“Actually, I brought some personal effects. Your staff took them for safekeeping.”
Alfie stands. “Wait here, my boy. I’ll walk Mr. Gordon to the door. I’ll be back straightaway.”
“You promise?”
“Always, sweetheart.”
I nod. Alfie always keeps his promises. Always.
But what if this time he doesn’t?
What if he tells Mr. Gordon that I lied, and that he doesn’t want a lying child?
I need to know.
Have to know.
I hide behind the staircase, peeking through the railing. My heart is too loud, I’m scared they’ll hear it.
Then I hear a voice. Sharp. Strange.
“Have my things moved into one of the east bedrooms immediately.”
A man steps inside, tall and smiling like he just won something.
I don’t know him and I don’t like him.
Alfie’s voice answers, firm, hard.
“Philip, you mistake this house for your own. Until the courts say otherwise, you have no claim here. Remove yourself, or I shall have you removed.”
Philip.
He frowns, but it looks more like a smirk.
“We’ll see what the courts decide. The boy belongs with family — not with a servant playing at fatherhood.”
Family.
Family?
I’ve never even seen him before.
Alfie is my family. Not him. Not ever.
But… what if the courts say yes?
What if I have to go with him?
What if I can’t stay with Alfie?
My chest tightens. I can’t breathe. I can’t.
The manor creaks around us, low and long, like it doesn’t like what the man said. The air presses heavy, thick, the same way it did in the alley.
“Then let us wait upon the courts,” Alfie says. His voice is steady, even. “Until then, this house is closed to you.”
I don’t want to hear anymore.
I run.
Back to my room.
Under the covers.
Tears burn hot down my cheeks. I press my face into the pillow to hide the sound, but the sobs still shake through.
Why can’t I stay with Alfie?
Why?
Then—his hand, gentle on my back.
I fling the covers off and grab his shirt, clutching it hard.
“Please—don’t make me go with him!” The words tumble out, messy, broken. “I’ll be good, Alfie, I swear—I won’t cry, I’ll eat all my food, I won’t—”
“My boy.” His voice is soft but strong. “You are not going anywhere. Do you hear me? You are staying here, with me. Always.”
He presses my hand flat against his chest.
“Feel this. Breathe with me. In… and out.”
His heart thumps steady under my palm.
Steady. Steady.
I match him, shaky at first, then slower.
My sobs ease. My body feels heavy, but safer. His heartbeat is like an anchor holding me in place.
For now, I believe him.
Alfie sets the brown paper bag on the bed. His face is gentle, careful.
“Mr. Gordon brought back some of your parents’ belongings. Would you like to see them?”
I sniff and wipe at my face with my sleeve. “…Yes. Please.”
My hands tremble when I reach inside.
The first thing I pull out is Mama’s necklace.
The pearls are cracked. Some are missing.
But they aren’t red anymore.
Not sticky. Not wet.
Someone cleaned them. Was it Mr. Gordon?
I curl them in my hand. They’re cool against my skin.
I press them to my cheek, trying to remember how Mama smelled when she hugged me — perfume and flowers.
But all I smell now is soap. And faint iron that never washed away.
Next is Papa’s pocket watch.
Silver, heavy. Gotham’s skyline drawn on the back.
I can see dark lines where blood still sticks.
I run my thumb across the picture.
The city feels sharp. Hard. Like it cut me just for touching it.
Then Papa’s wallet. Mama’s purse.
I open each carefully. Counting everything inside. Making sure nothing is missing.
Mama always said to be careful with your belongings.
But these aren’t just belongings.
They’re pieces. Pieces of them.
Alfie sets another bag beside me. His eyes soften.
“There’s one more. Gordon said he found this in the car trunk. They must have planned to give it to you after the film.”
I peel back the tissue paper. Slowly. My breath shakes.
Inside is a toy. A bat.
Soft wings. A crooked little stitched smile.
I just stare at it. For a long time.
Then I grab it and hug it tight against my chest.
it smells faintly like Mama. Like her coat.
The tears come fast again. Hot, wet, unstoppable.
I bury my face in the toy and hold on as if letting go would mean losing her all over again.
Alfie doesn’t say anything. He just rests his hand on my back.
Steady. Solid.
The manor creaks softly above us, like it’s listening.
The rain taps slow against the windowpane.
A rhythm I can’t name.
I clutch the bat tighter.
I don’t need pearls. I don’t need the watch.
Just this.
Just Alfie.
Please — let me keep them both.
We head back to the patio where I show Batty around.
Alfred is somewhere behind me, working. Just like Papa used to do.
Maybe he meant it. Maybe he will stay.
I take Batty with me to dinner and sit him next to me. Alfred doesn’t say anything.
The manor creaks softly above us, like it’s listening.
The rain taps slow against the windowpane.
A rhythm I can’t name.
When it’s time for bed, Alfie stays with me again.
Softly humming, patting my back.
I clutch Batty tighter.
The pearls slipped away. The blood washed them red.
But Batty stays. Alfie stays.
Maybe… maybe he meant it.
Maybe I really won’t have to go.
But if I help catch the man who did this — if I prove I can protect like Alfie wanted — then he will know I’m worth keeping.
He’ll never leave.
I shut my eyes. My cheek pressed to Batty’s soft wing.
I whisper desperately into the dark:
“Please just let me stay with him”