Wayne Manor sat high above the city, old stone and gothic arches standing like a monument to a world that no longer existed.

The door was heavy. Solid oak, iron hinges, the kind of door that belonged in a fortress.

Bruce Wayne stood behind it, hand resting on the handle, listening to the rain pound against the gravel driveway.

Behind him, the foyer stretched wide and cold. A chandelier hung dark overhead. The grandfather clock ticked, slow and steady.

Alfred stood a few paces back, silent, waiting.

The social worker’s car was already pulling away, red taillights disappearing into the dark.

Bruce didn't move for a long moment.

He had prepared for this. Read the file. Made the calls. Set up a room.

He stepped aside, one hand gesturing into the warmth of the manor.