The sky was blanketed by a thick layer of ash-colored clouds. It wasn't raining, but the air was cold and still.
In front of the coffin, a dozen people stood in a silent half-circle. Few words. No real comfort. Only faces dulled by grief—or obligation.
Jack McGinnis could barely remain on his feet. Haggard, unkempt, his gaze fixed on the open earth before him. Hands clenched, lips pressed tight, as if keeping his composure was his final act of love toward Mary.
When the priest spoke his name, Jack trembled. He said nothing. He'd already said too much during his last conversation with his wife.
Terry didn't cry. Just seven years old, he gripped the hand of his two-year-old brother, Matt, who didn't understand what was happening. He only knew that Mom was gone, that everyone was dressed in black, and that his father and brother no longer smiled.
Restless, Matt tugged at his brother's arm. His eyes darted around, searching in vain for the face that used to sing him to sleep.
"Where's Mom?" he asked, in a whisper.
Terry didn't answer. He couldn't—not without breaking. He simply held Matt's hand tighter.
When the coffin began its descent, everyone bowed their heads. Everyone except Terry. He kept watching until the very end, his eyes dry, as if he had no tears left to shed.
And that's when he saw him.
At the edge of the cemetery, among the shadows of the cypress trees, a tall, hunched figure stood motionless.
A long, dark coat.
He wasn't part of the gathering. He didn't mingle. He only watched.
Terry didn't know him. He had no way of knowing him.
And yet… something in that gaze felt familiar. Not from recognition, but from understanding.
It wasn't sorrow. It wasn't pity. It was something else.
It was as if… he knew exactly what Terry was feeling.
As if, for a brief moment, the pain wasn't his alone.
And then, with a blink, the man was gone. As if he'd never been there at all.
So sudden that even Terry wasn't sure if he had imagined it.
-
Six years passed without asking permission.
The alarm gave a dry buzz—just loud enough to wake him, not his little brother, at 4:00 a.m
Now thirteen, Terry got up without complaint. He dressed in silence, his movements automatic, as if exhaustion had long since become part of who he was.
Jack McGinnis—his father—was asleep on the couch. As usual… mouth half open, a half-empty bottle in one hand, and the TV still on some random channel. This morning, it happened to be the N54 West Coast news.
The anchorwoman, with a smile as flawless as it was fake, delivered headlines about tech and finance:
["For the fourth time in ten years, Powers Corporation has failed in its attempt at a hostile takeover of Wayne Industries.
Earlier this morning, Derek Powers himself spoke from New York, calling Wayne's resistance a 'barrier to progress' and claiming that 'together, they could redesign the future.'
In response, CEO, billionaire and playboy Damian Wayne, declared: 'Wayne Industries wouldn't be what it is without a Wayne at the helm,' reaffirming his absolute rejection of any acquisition attempt—just as he did during the previous hostile takeover of Arasaka and Militech."]
Terry didn't pay attention. He couldn't care less about the corporate world or the problems of the rich. He turned off the screen. Picked the blanket up from the floor, shook it out, and draped it back over his father.
Not out of affection. Out of routine. Out of respect for the man he used to be.
Since Mary's death, Jack had fallen apart. They argued that day. Yelled. He threatened to leave. Then she died. And everything collapsed.
He lost his way. Drowned in guilt… in alcohol… and eventually lost his job.
Terry couldn't afford to hate him. Or waste time judging him. All he could do was keep moving—just to make sure Matt was okay… like she had asked him to.
By the time he stepped outside, Neo-Gotham wasn't asleep—it had only taken off its mask. The suits and ties vanished, and the city showed its true face. Prostitutes kicked off their heels, counting their earnings. Junkies curled up beneath screens whispering promises of better lives.
The homeless huddled near steam vents for warmth.
Gang members with no rush and no real destination drifted through the streets like the city belonged to them... and it might as well have, given there wasn't a single police car in sight.
Terry didn't look at them. He just pulled his hood tighter... and kept walking. Just another unlucky soul.
Shortly after his father lost his job, money became a problem.
Being so... young, no decent or remotely legal business would take him. So the few jobs Terry managed to find were crap—poorly paid, off the books.
The kind of work nobody wanted, and just light enough for a kid to handle.
That morning, like so many others, Terry made his way to a run-down bar. He gave a brief nod to the person behind the counter and got to work without saying a word.
He scrubbed. Swept. Picked up broken glass, cigarette butts, whatever trash was left. He emptied bins that looked like they hadn't been touched in days, even though he'd cleaned them just the night before.
Then, at 7:30 in the morning, the owner—a potbellied man with more scars than teeth—would close the bar and hand him a few Eddies in cash.
With what he earned, Terry bought cereal, some fruit, and synthetic milk. And, when he could, a little extra.
That morning, he took a detour down an alley and left a paper bag on top of the tattered coat an older man—dark skin, greying dreadlocks, eyes clouded by blindness—used as a blanket.
"Here you go, Lewis."
The old man smiled, sniffing the contents like someone testing them with his nose.
"Oh, little angel... thank you."
"Just returning the favor."
Lewis shook his head, as if he could see him.
"That favor was paid long ago, kid."
Terry shrugged, turned on his heels, and kept walking.
He wasn't much of a talker. Not the type to share what he thought, felt, or carried. He preferred to hide it all behind that neutral face—almost blank, indifferent to the world around him. Except for his brother.
Even so, Lewis had been the only one to approach him when, at just eleven years old, he found Terry crying on a curb after being turned away from every place he'd asked for work.
He didn't ask questions. Didn't make promises. He just gave him an address where they might need small hands and nobody would ask anything... and that had been enough.
After getting home at 8 a.m., Terry would gently wake Matt. He'd help him get dressed, brush his hair. Make sure he had breakfast, and then they'd walk to school together—before heading off to his own classes.
In class, Terry sat at the back. He used the quiet moments to close his eyes and rest whenever he could.
He was smart, but his grades were average at best. Some teachers labeled him lazy. Others called him a lost cause. None of them cared enough to find out why.
Jack would scold him for it, and depending on how much alcohol he had in his system… frustration always won out, and he'd "let his hand fly" at his own son.
Terry said anything. He'd tried explaining before, but it never changed the number of hits—or how hard they landed.
So he just accepted them.
Deep down—he understood. Just like his father, he carried the guilt from that night.
'After all… she never came back because she went to pick me up from that tournament'
And even if no one said it, even if no one blamed him out loud…
Terry felt he had to pay for it. Somehow.
And the pain from the beatings was one way.
After class, he'd return to the elementary school to pick up his brother. He'd carry his backpack on the way home, and while Matt did his homework, Terry would head out again.
From six to nine, he worked at a drone repair shop run by a budget delivery company—known for operating in the grayest edges of legality. They'd already been reported a few times for using "unfit labor" and for unsafe working conditions.
Terry could vouch for that.
The "shop"—if it could even be called that—was a narrow, claustrophobic space not built for humans, filled with metal shelves that doubled as launch racks.
In that kind of place, being small was actually an advantage. Probably the only reason they'd hired him.
More than once, Terry saw accidents: drones launching mid-repair with no warning, or returning to base on erratic paths, buzzing dangerously close to workers… or slamming straight into them.
He had no idea at first, but they only paid him for each drone that left the shop in working condition. So he learned by watching. By copying. By messing up.
With what he earned, he bought dinner. If the day had gone well, maybe some bread with synthetic cheese and something warm. If not… at least enough for a growing kid.
And at 10:15 p.m., he'd go to bed—so the same nightmare could chase him down until 4:00 a.m., when everything would start all over again.
-
In that same night...
Someone else was writing the same story—or at least, the same information.
But told differently. More analytical. More professional. No flourishes. No emotion.
In the dim light of a forgotten cave, the text took shape line by line.
Describing a harsh routine: Wake up. Work. Brother. School. Brother. Work. Dinner. Sleep. Repeat.
When the final line was written, the author paused.
Grunted quietly, and finished with a set of personal notes:
[Attached file nº117: Psychological profile – T. McGinnis, age 13]
[Unlike other… similar cases. With the paternal figure crippled by grief, Terry has no one to rely on. No... butler. No inheritance to support him.
Quite the opposite: he has someone who depends entirely on him.
He prioritizes his brother's well-being above his own with a devotion that goes beyond simple fraternal duty. If I had to theorize, I'd say there's something more behind it. Perhaps a promise... a a mother's last wish.
Whatever it is, the trauma—and the guilt he's imposed on himself—have turned it into a burden that's slowly consuming him.
If things continue as they are—with no room for mourning, no emotional outlet, no support system—collapse is inevitable.
Speaking from experience... The rage, the pain, the guilt, and the being that's forming in their midst, though Terry hasn't realized it yet… will eventually awaken.
And the trigger doesn't have to be anything major. Not even harm to his brother.
A minor injustice will do. A random act of cruelty. Abuse toward someone defenseless. Anything that pulls him back to that night. That forces him to relive the helplessness of losing his mother without being able to stop it.
And the result… considering his genetic legacy, will most likely be violent.
Even so… I want to believe I'm wrong.
I want to believe Terry has inherited his mother's composure, despite the hundreds of hours of surveillance... suggesting otherwise.]
When he shut down the computer, Bruce didn't move.
His aging reflection stared back at him from the darkened screen—as if it were confronting him.
'Should I intervene? Give him just enough support to keep him from breaking?'
'Or would I just be taking the first step toward making the same mistakes all over again?'
He had sworn never to cross that line again. Never to interfere with someone else's life.
Especially not a child's.
That chapter was supposed to be closed.
And with a quiet decision, he renewed the vow he'd been doubting ever since seeing the boy at his mother's funeral:
Do not intervene.
-
One year was all it took for Bruce's fears to come true.