Batman: Year one

Prologue

The evening at Gotham's prestigious Monarch Theatre was a tapestry of opulence and anticipation. Gilded balconies curved gracefully above, where the city's elite gathered in their finery, whispering excitedly over the night's play. Below, the plush red seats filled quickly, the air thick with the scent of perfumes and the muted rustle of silk and velvet.

In the heart of this grandeur sat the Wayne family: Thomas, a figure of respect in both the medical and business communities; Martha, her elegance a match for any Hollywood starlet; and their son, Bruce, a boy of just eight years. To the casual observer, they were the picture of an idyllic family. Yet, beneath Bruce's wide-eyed gaze lay a sense of unease, his small hands gripping the ornate program a little too tightly.

The play began, its grandeur and drama filling the stage. Actors in extravagant costumes moved with exaggerated passion, their voices soaring. But Bruce couldn't shake a growing discomfort, the loud noises and sudden movements unsettling him more with each passing moment.

As the story on stage unfolded, Bruce's discomfort turned to fear. An actor dressed as a bat entered the stage... bats were Bruce's biggest fear.

Sensing his distress, Thomas leaned over, his voice a soft whisper. "Bruce, are you alright?"

Bruce opened his eyes, looking up at his father with a mix of fear and embarrassment. "I want to go home," he murmured, barely audible.

Martha, ever the attentive mother, placed a comforting hand on his back. "It's alright, darling. We can leave."

Without drawing attention, the Wayne family rose from their seats, their departure a quiet affair. Thomas reassured Bruce with a gentle pat on the shoulder as they made their way to the exit, a decision he thought little of at the time, but one that would alter their lives forever.

The lobby was a stark contrast to the vibrancy of the theatre hall, its opulence dimmed by the shadows of the evening. As they stepped outside, a chilly breeze greeted them, reminding them of the world beyond the theatre's warmth. Thomas, protective and aware of the night's dangers, chose a less crowded path for their return home.

"This way," he whispered, guiding his family towards a narrow alleyway, a shortcut that seemed innocuous under the city's glowing lights.

As they walked, the sounds of the bustling city faded, replaced by the echo of their footsteps against the cobblestone. The alley, with its looming walls and darkened corners, felt like a world away from the safety of the theatre. Bruce clutched his mother's hand tighter, the earlier fear still lingering in his heart.

Then, without warning, a shadow detached itself from the darkness. A figure, desperate and dangerous, emerged with a gun in hand, its barrel glinting under the sparse light. "Your money, your jewelry," the man demanded, his voice a harsh whisper.

Thomas moved to shield his family, his voice calm yet authoritative. "Take it easy. We'll give you what you want."

Martha, her eyes wide with fear, began to remove her necklace. But in that moment, a combination of panic, greed, and something indefinable in the robber's eyes sparked a catastrophe. Two shots rang out, shattering the night.

Bruce's scream was lost in the chaos. He knelt beside his parents, their bodies crumpled on the ground, blood staining the cobblestones. Tears streamed down his face as he shook his father, then his mother, hoping for any sign of life.

"Mom? Dad?" His voice was a mere whisper, drowned by the immensity of his loss.

But there was no answer. Only the cold, unyielding silence of the alley.

The echo of the gunshots faded into the night, leaving behind a deafening silence that enveloped the alley. Bruce knelt, paralyzed by shock, between the lifeless forms of Thomas and Martha Wayne. His small hands were stained with his parents' blood, his mind unable to process the enormity of what had just happened.