The plane hovered steadily, the hum of the engines filling the cabin with a murmur that lulled some passengers to sleep. An erratic and somewhat distorted female voice over the loudspeaker interrupted the calm:
—Dear passengers, we are entering Gotham City airspace . We will begin our descent in a few minutes.
The man in the window seat opened his eyes. Dark blue, so deep they seemed to carry with them a sea of fatigue and memories. His black hair, slightly long but not unkempt, framed a face hardened by years of discipline.
For a moment, he didn't know where he was. He looked around the interior of the plane, took a deep breath, and clenched his fists, slowly releasing them until he adjusted to the sensation surrounding him. A murmur escaped his lips:
-Shit...
The word hung suspended, grave, heavy, because the memories returned to him with the harshness of a blow.
Two weeks ago,
he had returned from an operation with the army, his uniform still stained with foreign dust, when he received word that his mother was in the hospital. The news had disarmed him more than any enemy on the battlefield.
He was immediately discharged and ran to her. His mother... his only family, his only home. Or at least that's what he'd believed his whole life.
In that hospital room, she waited for him with a serenity that only comes when you accept the end. With a weak, almost broken voice, she handed him a small metal key.
"In the bank... safe deposit box..." he whispered, his lips dry. "Son, forgive me."
Sebastian nodded, refusing to collapse in front of her. He stayed there until his last breath, until the machine beeped and the line on the screen became straight.
The paperwork was quick. An ordinary life, without riches or luxuries, just the efforts of a single mother who had given everything to raise her son.
Days later, his heart still heavy, he went to the bank. An employee led him to a private room and allowed him to open the safe. Inside, he found two sealed envelopes. One had his name written in his mother's unmistakable handwriting. The other, a strange, foreign name that pierced him like a dagger:
Alfred Pennyworth.
He opened his own first.
His mother's voice seemed to echo with every written word:
*"Dear son.
If you're reading this, it's because I'm back in God's hands. Don't be sad, because I lived my life the best way I could, proud to have a son like you.
However, I must confess something I kept quiet for too long. Your father..."*
Sebastian swallowed, feeling like he was gasping for air. His heart ached as if someone was squeezing it in his chest.
*"...your father was a great man. Even though we knew we couldn't have a long-term relationship, I loved him. And you are proof of that love.
No, son, your father didn't die. I lied to you.
I did it out of fear... fear that you'd leave with him too, fear of losing you. It was a selfish wish, and I regret it with all my heart.
His name is Alfred Pennyworth. The other letter is for him. I hope you'll give it to him and, if you can, speak to him. You don't have to... it was I who came between you.
But, my child, whatever you decide, be happy. Don't regret anything.*
The letters blurred in her eyes, blurred by the tears that threatened to spill over. She brought a hand to her face, pressing against her temples. The pain in her head was unbearable, a mixture of anger, disbelief, and sadness.
His mother had loved him. Of that he had no doubt. But the revelation left him disarmed. A living father. A father he had never met. A father who, it seemed, had never sought him out.
Breathing heavily, she also picked up the second letter. The one with the name of that stranger who, suddenly, was her own flesh and blood.
He didn't know what to do.
Part of him wanted to burn her right there. Another part, perhaps the one that still heard his mother's voice in every word, compelled him to obey her last wish.
Finally, he did it.
He booked the first flight to the indicated address. A destination he would never have chosen on his own: Gotham City .
And now he was there, as the plane began to descend, with a letter in his pocket that brought him closer to a man he should hate, but had yet to meet.
Alfred Pennyworth.
The name was strange, but familiar. Pennyworth. It had the same last name.
It wasn't an illusion. It wasn't a coincidence. He'd looked up records, and what he found stopped him in his tracks: every month, for years, a steady transfer of money had arrived in his mother's account. A modest sum, but enough to ensure they never lacked the basics.
That meant he knew.
That Alfred knew of his existence.
"Damn..." he muttered through gritted teeth, clenching his jaw.
Were the stories his mother had told him false?
All his life, he had believed his father was a soldier. That he had served with honor, and that he had finally died in combat. It was that idea that drove him to enlist, seeking to honor the memory of a man he had never met.
But now... had it all been a lie?
A torrent of memories hit him. The times, as a child, he'd seen other children running into their parents' arms after a recital or a school game, and he didn't feel envious because his mother always whispered to him:
"Up there in the sky, he's watching you."
How many times, on the battlefield, on the verge of collapse, he raised his gaze to the heavens, believing that, somewhere, his father was protecting him. That thought kept him going, kept him going when exhaustion dragged him to the ground.
And now... none of that was real.
He slammed his fist on the armrest of his seat.
"Fuck…"
Suddenly he understood. He knew where he was.
The DC universe.
He had already suspected it; as a soldier, he had witnessed a scene no ordinary man would forget: Superman himself, soaring through the skies. He had seen him, alive, tangible, invulnerable. And although at the time he had assumed it was "normal" in his world, now the memories of that other life told him otherwise.
This wasn't normal.
This was fiction.
This was... too real.
He sighed, putting a hand to his face.
The plane descended, and the screech of the wheels touching the ground brought him back to reality. He grabbed his suitcase with mechanical movements and sat up with the rest of the passengers.
Now he understood everything.
That name that had once seemed confusing, "Alfred Pennyworth," was more than a name: he was an essential figure, the eternal butler of the Bat-Family. The man who had raised Bruce Wayne like a father. The one who had been there for every fall and every scar of that boy-turned-bat.
And him?
He never had a father.
He'd spent entire birthdays staring out the window, talking to an empty sky, convinced someone was listening. Convinced he wasn't alone.
The irony was brutal.
His father had been alive.
Just not for him.
A hand shook him out of his trance.
It was an airport guard, who looked at him with an annoyed expression.
"Sir, are you okay?" he asked.
Sebastian blinked, swallowing, before answering in a raspy voice,
"Yes. Yes, I'm fine."
He left his suitcase on the security desk and answered the routine immigration questions. Everything was automatic. Because inside his mind, chaos was absolute.
A father who ignored him.
A mother who deceived him.
A world of superheroes and villains that, according to another life, was only meant to exist in comics.
And now, he's in the middle of it all.
After completing the monotonous airport routine—forms, baggage checks, tired stares from employees who'd seen it all before—Sebastian stepped out into the chilly Gotham air.
The sky was covered in clouds, a perpetual gray that seemed embedded in the city's skin. The smell of gasoline, sweat, and humidity mingled with every breath.
He raised a hand, and a black car stopped in front of him. The driver looked at him for a moment in the rearview mirror: a young, strong man with dark blue eyes that didn't fit in with the common apathy of the city. But in the end, he shrugged and started the engine. He wasn't paid enough to ask questions.
"Destination?" he asked hoarsely.
Sebastian leaned forward, the words sounding like they were a weight he'd been dragging since the plane.
"Wayne Manor."
The driver raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Silence filled the car as they drove through the streets of Gotham.
Sebastian leaned his head against the window, watching the city's disaster unfold before his eyes. Old buildings blackened by smoke, torn signs, people with blank stares. Gotham wasn't a place for dreaming; it was a place for surviving.
He felt the touch of the letter in his inside jacket pocket again. That envelope, pressed against his chest, was like a constant reminder. His mother's last wish.
He sighed.
"What now?" he muttered softly, more to himself than anyone else.
He could walk away.
He could abandon everything, disappear, and live with the indifference of someone who never needed a father. He could avoid that confrontation, spare himself the pain of seeing that man's face.
But something inside him was holding him back.
His mother had taken care of him his whole life. Even though she had deceived him with that white lie, he never lacked anything. She always fought for his happiness, even alone, even when exhausted. How could she deny him his last request now?
He clenched his fist on his thigh, silent.
He couldn't do it.
He couldn't turn his back on her.
Besides... even if he denied it, a part of him wanted to.
He wanted to meet him.
He wanted to look him in the eyes.
He wanted to know what this man named Alfred Pennyworth was like.
The car moved through the city's gloom, slowly moving away from the urban area. The buildings gave way to trees and hills, until, in the distance, the dark, imposing silhouette of Wayne Manor emerged against the overcast sky.
Sebastian didn't look away. His expression was apathetic, almost cold... but inside, his heart was pounding like a war drum.