Three days.
That's how long I'd been trapped in the hospital's cold grasp. Machines whirring, white walls closing in. My ribs bruised, my head stitched, my leg in a cast. But nothing hurt more than the silence about my mother.
Sandra was unresponsive. Brain dead.
Doctors said it with clinical detachment. I wasn't ready to accept it.
The machines that kept her breathing eventually stopped.
No ceremony. No words. Just an empty room and a nurse who looked away when I whispered, "Go find Dad. Somewhere far from Gotham."
My world shattered.
---
For weeks after her death, I was like a lost lamb.
No home. No direction. Just numb rage and silence.
I drifted through Gotham's gutters, alleyways, and broken neighborhoods. I slept where I could—sometimes in abandoned elevators, sometimes behind dumpsters with other forgotten people.
I scavenged for food. I spoke to no one. I didn't want sympathy.
One evening, near the Docks, a low-level recruiter from one of the Falcone remnants passed by, offering boys a chance to "become men" by working under their flag. "A little loyalty buys you food, protection… satisfaction."
But I didn't care for that kind of power. My rage wasn't aimless, and it wasn't for hire.
I walked away.
That was the first time someone mistook my silence for arrogance.
"You think you're better than us?" a voice growled behind me.
A grunt from the mob—they'd been resurfacing in Alleytown, trying to expand. Junkies twisted by fear toxins. Psychos who thought pain was loyalty.
He picked up a jagged piece of rebar from the pavement. Thought he'd teach me humility.
He never got the chance.
As he raised it, something inside me snapped. Not fear—focus.
I caught his swing, redirected it, and crushed his skull against the alley wall.
I didn't check if he was dead.
I just stood there, staring at the blood dripping from my hands onto the concrete.
No guilt. No panic.
Just… silence.
---
Days later, I ended up near a bar in Alleytown called The Cat's Cradle.
It was more than a dive—it was Selina Kyle's base. Not just a hangout, but an operational hub for her and her people—runaways, outcasts, broken kids. She mentored them. Protected them.
She watched me carefully, like a panther deciding whether to pounce or let you crawl into the pride.
I dropped a wallet I'd picked off a drunk at her doorstep.
She nodded once.
"Inside. You're useful."
She put me behind the bar. Bartending wasn't my dream, but I learned quick. Pouring drinks. Listening. Watching. Waiting.
Upstairs, cleaning out a forgotten storage room, I found a busted laptop.
I powered it up, logged into my old wallet.
$130,000.
All from old freelance work. Enough to start a life somewhere—New York, Coast City, even Star City.
But as I stared at the number, the whispers around me grew louder. The regulars in the Cradle spoke about the old Gotham—Falcone, Maroni, Roman Sionis before the mask, Zucco before the circus.
And how it all changed when Batman came.
The Bat. The signal. The capes. The madness.
And I realized…
Gotham didn't get saved.
Gotham got poisoned.
Did the world need heroes?
Or did it need something colder.
My eyes flickered.
"This isn't enough," I whispered. "I need more. I need control. I need to learn."
I needed to take Gotham back.
And burn its fake saviors to the ground.