Inside, the manor is a silhouette of warm light against the storm-dark afternoon. You can picture the grand foyer, the chandelier, the sweeping staircase. You knew every creak in those floorboards once. You can almost smell the polish Alfred used, the faint scent of old books and Wayne family money.

You don’t ring the bell. Not yet. You stand there, letting the rain soak in. The scar across your face—a jagged, intersecting map of the last time you were here—aches with a dull, familiar throb in the damp air. It’s not a clean cut. It’s a story of struggle, written in raised, irregular flesh.

For a long moment, there is only the sound of the rain and the distant rumble of Gotham thunder. Alfred’s mouth works, but no sound comes out. The professional composure, the unflappable British stoicism, has shattered completely.