Sighing, Sebastian got out of the car. He gave the driver a few extra bills. The man didn't say anything, just nodded in thanks before starting the engine and disappearing down the same road.
The silence that remained was different. Heavy.
Sebastian looked up at Wayne Manor. He'd seen it before... in movies, in some adaptation or other in that other life. But seeing it in person was something else. Imposing. Ancient. A piece of architecture that seemed to hold the weight of Gotham's entire history on its foundations.
He moved forward with a firm step. The memories of that past life accompanied him, albeit fragmented. He wasn't a comic book expert, he wasn't an obsessive fan. He barely knew the basics: Batman, Gotham, the Justice League. What anyone could glean from the movies and a few skimmed comics. Nothing more.
And those memories were hazy, vague. He couldn't even clearly remember what he had for dinner two days ago... how the hell was he supposed to remember everything from a fictional world?
As he reached the gate, he saw the name "WAYNE" engraved in wrought iron. He felt a lump in his throat, took a deep breath, and reached for the intercom on the side of the brick walls.
He pressed the doorbell.
A buzz.
And then, the voice.
Serious. Neat. Elegant.
From a man who, judging by his intonation, must have been in his late fifties, maybe sixty.
"Welcome to Wayne Manor. How may I help you?"
Sebastian pressed his lips together. That timbre of voice, that refined British accent... he'd recognize that voice anywhere.
He swallowed, feeling the air draining from his lungs. Finally, he answered in a strained voice,
"I'm looking for Mr. Alfred... Pennyworth."
There were a few seconds of silence on the other side.
Then, a faint metallic click announced that the gate was beginning to open.
Sebastian crossed the entrance, walking along a wide, perfectly manicured gravel path, surrounded by extensive gardens and ancient trees. The path led to a roundabout in front of the main entrance. There, under the dim light of the overcast sky, a Rolls-Royce Phantom V gleamed like an untouched jewel from the past.
He sighed.
The weight of that family's wealth hit him like a cruel reminder of the distance between them.
He climbed the stone steps to the front door. He was about to raise his hand to knock when the door opened by itself.
And there he was.
Alfred Pennyworth.
A man of impeccable bearing, dressed in a perfectly pressed dark suit, three-piece waistcoat, white shirt, and sober tie. His hair, already gray, was combed back with absolute discipline. His face was serious, with wrinkles that did not detract from his dignity, but rather gave him an air of stern wisdom. His posture was straight, even military, but his eyes... his gray eyes had the calm of someone who has seen too much and still maintains his composure.
"Excuse me, sir," Alfred said politely, bowing his head slightly. "May I ask the purpose of your visit and your name?"
Sebastian felt his chest ache. Every word was a stinging reminder of the truth he'd discovered. He could barely force out a reply, his voice cracking.
"My goal... is to find the man named Alfred Pennyworth. And deliver a message to him."
Alfred showed no emotion. He remained imperturbable, as if the words didn't surprise him. After a brief silence, he replied calmly:
"I'm the man you're looking for."
Sebastian's heart leaped.
With trembling hands, he reached inside his coat. Alfred noticed the gesture: his gaze hardened subtly, and although his expression didn't change, there was a latent tension in his demeanor.
But Sebastian didn't pull out a gun.
What he pulled out was an envelope.
He extended it to Alfred, who took it with sure hands. Sebastian held it for a few more seconds, as if letting go meant letting go of everything that had been his life until then. Finally, he let go and waited.
He waited to see what that man would do.
His father.
It was seconds. Minutes. Maybe hours.
Sebastian didn't know.
The only thing he knew for sure was that time had become unbearable.
Alfred held the letter in both hands, reading every word with a serenity that seemed unshakeable. For Sebastian, every second felt like a hammer blow. He wanted to scream at him, to ask him what he thought, but at the same time, he dreaded the answer.
He had fought on battlefields, seen comrades die at his side, endured impossible orders... and he never backed down. So why did he want to run now? Why did the gray-haired man sitting across from him bring a lump to his throat that choked him?
Finally, Alfred looked up. His expression hadn't changed. Serious, elegant, controlled.
Sebastian thought he saw, for a moment, a gleam in the corners of his eyes. But it was fleeting, and soon the impenetrable mask was back.
"Go ahead, Sebastian."
He stepped aside, making room for him to enter the Mansion.
Sebastian wanted to refuse. To tell him no, that his job was done, that he'd only come to deliver the letter and nothing more. He wanted to turn around, walk away, and never speak to him again.
But his feet moved on their own.
"Damn them..." he whispered, barely audible, as he felt his heart pound against his ribs.
He followed Alfred down a wide hallway lit by classic lamps and family paintings. They finally reached a service kitchen. A sturdy wooden table, used by the staff, occupied the center.
"Have a seat," Alfred said firmly as he headed for the sink.
Sebastian wanted to shout "no." He wanted to reject it. But in the end, he obeyed.
"Coffee or tea?"
"Coffee. Double. No milk. No sugar."
Alfred nodded. Silently, he prepared both drinks with ritual precision. In less than a minute, a steaming cup sat in front of Sebastian.
Alfred himself sat down with his tea, still watching him.
The silence weighed like lead. Sebastian couldn't stand it any longer.
Of all the questions crowding his mind, he chose just one. One that summed them all up.
"Why?"
Alfred drank from his cup, measuring every gesture, every movement. Setting it down on the saucer, he replied in a curt voice:
"Because it was necessary."
Nothing more. Not one additional word.
Sebastian felt rage burning inside him, but his lips refused to let it go.
The silence returned, broken only when Alfred, this time, asked,
"She...? When did it happen?"
Sebastian looked down.
"Two weeks ago."
Again, the void between them.
They both wanted to talk. They wanted to say something more, but something invisible held them back. Pride. Pain. Fear. A wall built over a lifetime.
Twenty-one minutes.
That's how long Sebastian lasted.
He sipped his coffee slowly, using the liquid as an excuse to stretch time, as if somehow stretching out that moment might give him answers Alfred didn't seem willing to give. But in the end, the cup remained empty.
He stood up, shaking his head in resignation.
"Thanks for the coffee. I have to go."
Alfred tried to stand up.
"Let me…"
A firm hand fell on his shoulder, stopping him.
"No. I know the way."
Alfred said nothing. He sat rigidly as he listened to Sebastian's footsteps fade down the hall.
The sound of the front door closing echoed sadly through the Manor.
Only then did Alfred sigh. His gaze fell on the empty coffee cup. He touched it with his fingers, as if it still held some warmth.
And he allowed himself, in solitude, a moment of weakness.
----------------------------------------
Night had fallen over Gotham like a damp, suffocating blanket. In the hotel room, Sebastian checked the return ticket he'd just purchased over and over again.
He'd considered staying longer... but why?
Outside of a world of gods, demigods, caped heroes and masked villains, it could all go to hell. He'd already done his duty: he delivered the letter. Nothing tied him down there.
He sighed, leaning against the window frame. The city stretched out below him, dark, interrupted only by a few flickering lights. They were weak, like small flames about to go out, consumed by a darkness that always seemed stronger.
"That's Gotham," he thought. "Lights drowning with no one to help them."
Three rhythmic knocks on the door interrupted his thoughts.
Sebastian frowned.
He hadn't ordered room service.
He moved with instinct. He rummaged through his belongings and pulled out a small pocketknife, a cheap souvenir from an airport store. The military didn't allow him to travel with a weapon, given that he was on temporary leave following his mother's death. But even something so simple was useful in a city like Gotham, where paranoia was survival.
He hid it in his sleeve and scanned the room, calculating angles, exits, improvising a plan of action. He took a deep breath, relaxed his expression, and, with apparent calm, opened the door.
What he found was not what he expected.
He wasn't a gang member looking for trouble.
He wasn't a prostitute offering company.
He wasn't a drug dealer selling illegal goods.
He was a man.
Thirty, maybe thirty-something. Tall, broad-shouldered, impeccably dressed in a custom-made suit, the kind that cost more than Sebastian and his mother had earned in months of work. The watch on his wrist glittered as if he could buy the hotel itself. His bearing radiated a mix of arrogance and natural charisma, that of someone who knew every camera was searching for him, and that every glance recognized him.
The playboy. The philanthropist. The billionaire.
Bruce Wayne.
Sebastian recognized him immediately. Not because he'd seen him in person, but because he'd done what any sensible person would do upon entering that world: he Googled the names he remembered from his past life. Preliminary reconnaissance. Caution. And Bruce Wayne was at the top of that list.
"Sebastian Pennyworth, right?" Bruce asked, in that deep, modulated voice of a man accustomed to commanding any room he entered.
He didn't say it as a doubt. He stated it as someone who already knew.
Sebastian stared at him silently, hiding the tension in his arm where he held the knife.
The coldness in his voice was his only defense:
"It depends on who asks."
Bruce smiled. A measured, social smile, the kind that appeared in magazines and on the news, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"My name is Bruce Wayne. You may have heard of me."