Chapter 1: A Shot in the Dark

There was a kind of magic in Gotham at night—at least, that’s how Bruce Wayne remembered it.
Before the city became a crucible, before the shadows learned his name, it had been a place of light and music and warmth. From the backseat of the limousine, the skyscrapers had seemed like crystal towers, and the streets below had been full of life—people laughing, couples arm-in-arm, shop windows glowing like promises against the dark.

Ten-year-old Bruce sat straight in his seat, trying to keep his coat from wrinkling. His hair had been combed flat, though the cowlick in the back refused to behave. His black shoes gleamed from the polish Alfred had applied that afternoon, and the tie at his throat—navy silk with a subtle pattern—was Martha’s choice. She’d straightened it three separate times before they left the manor.

Now, in the city’s light, she smiled at him with that familiar mixture of pride and fond amusement. No matter how grown-up you try to be, that smile seemed to say, you’ll always be my little boy.

Her pearls—flawless, luminous—rested against her collarbone, swaying gently with the car’s motion. He had always thought they were perfect. Not just because they were beautiful, but because they were hers.

Beside her, Thomas Wayne sat with quiet confidence, one hand resting loosely on his knee, the other occasionally checking his watch. Not out of impatience—his tone and posture never suggested that—but because Thomas was a man of habit. Always punctual. Always composed. People in Gotham nodded to him in the street, not just out of respect, but because they trusted him. Bruce wanted—needed—to be that kind of man someday.

The limousine stopped, and the Monarch Theater rose before them. Its marquee blazed in gold and silver light, bathing the wet pavement in a glow that felt almost holy. The towering sign read: The Mark of Zorro.

Bruce’s pulse quickened. A masked hero. A sword. Justice in black and silver.
Inside, the velvet seats swallowed him in their softness, but the screen held his full attention. The swash of Zorro’s cape, the ring of steel on steel, the confidence in every step—Bruce wasn’t in the theater anymore. He was riding with Zorro, fighting with him. He wanted to be that man—brave, unstoppable, clever.

Leaning down during one of the film’s duels, Thomas whispered, “Do you like him, son?”

Bruce nodded quickly. “He’s amazing.”

“He fights for people who can’t fight for themselves.”

Bruce leaned forward, eyes still on the screen. “I want to do that.”

Thomas chuckled, warm and certain. “Then one day, you will.”

It was raining when they left the theater. Not the hammering rain Gotham was famous for—no crashing gutters or blinding sheets—but a fine, silvery drizzle that clung to coats and hair, soft enough to seem harmless until the chill seeped in.

Thomas held his coat over Martha’s head as they walked, Bruce between them, small hands tucked in theirs. The city’s hum had softened with the weather; even the streetlamps seemed muted, halos of light shrinking in the mist. The air smelled faintly of rain-washed asphalt, hot pretzels from a vendor cart, and the distant tang of coal smoke. With his parents on either side, Bruce felt safe. Untouchable.

They turned off the main boulevard. Thomas’s shortcut. Park Row had once been a grand stretch, but now its bricks wept with grime. The old signs flickered, and somewhere glass broke, sharp in the quiet. Bruce slowed without knowing why.

Then he saw him.

The man stepped out from a shadowed corner—a silhouette at first, then a gaunt figure in a threadbare coat. His eyes caught the weak streetlight, and for a heartbeat they looked like a predator’s. His hands shook—not with fear, but with a kind of wild hunger. The revolver he drew seemed almost too heavy for him.

“Wallet. Watch. Now.”

Thomas raised his hands, voice calm, steady. “Take it easy. We’ll give you anything you want.”
Martha’s grip on Bruce tightened. Her pearls shifted, catching the light in a soft, milky shimmer.

“I said now!”

Thomas stepped forward, just enough to put himself between the man and his family. “Just let my wife and son walk away. You can have anything you want from—”

The gunshot cracked the air.

Thomas fell as if the world had yanked him down. Martha’s cry tore through the drizzle, and she dropped to her knees beside him. Another shot.

She collapsed against him, and the pearls snapped—beads scattering across the wet pavement, bouncing and rolling into the gutter. Bruce’s gaze locked on them, those perfect pearls tumbling away into the dark, and it felt like pieces of his world were breaking apart with them.

The gunman yanked a few pearls free from her slack hand, then froze, staring at Bruce. The boy couldn’t move. His breath caught somewhere deep inside him.

The man’s hand trembled as he leveled the gun at Bruce.

The boy didn’t flinch. He didn’t raise his hands or cry out. He just stared—eyes wide, unblinking, fixed on the gaunt, hollow face above the barrel. Somewhere inside, the fear was there, clawing at him. But it was buried beneath something heavier, something older. Shock. Disbelief. The refusal to understand what had just happened.

The rain hissed on the gunmetal. A single drop slid down the barrel, clinging at the tip. The man’s breath came fast and shallow, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. In the darkness of his gaze, Bruce saw something flicker—a flash of uncertainty, of guilt, of recognition that this boy was now staring at the rest of his life.

The man’s finger twitched against the trigger. Then stopped.
His jaw clenched. His eyes broke away from Bruce’s for the first time, as if the weight of the boy’s silent stare was heavier than the gun itself. Slowly, almost reluctantly, the weapon dipped.

Without a word, he stepped back. Then another step, until the shadows began to reclaim him. And just like that, he turned and vanished into the mist—leaving Bruce alone with the rain, the pearls scattered like tiny moons, and the still, cooling bodies of his parents.