The shrill sound of an alarm broke the calm in the room.
Sebastian frowned furiously.
"What time is it?"
Barely a sliver of light filtered through the window. Too early. He cursed, cursed again, and buried his face in the pillow.
He waited for it to stop, but it didn't.
Annoyed, he groped for the phone on the nightstand. He found nothing. He continued tapping the bed, until he tangled himself in the sheet like a worm in a cocoon.
"Fuck!" he growled, trying to free himself with a sharp jerk.
The result: more discomfort and absurd humiliation.
Resigned, he sighed and calmly unwound himself. He sat on the edge of the bed, picked up his phone, and looked at it. No alarm set. And yet... the beeping continued.
"...I went crazy. That's it. I lost my fucking mind."
That's when he appeared.
A translucent blue window in front of his eyes, floating in the air.
[Protocol Reminder]
"A good steward wakes up before his master, and goes to bed after his master."
Sebastian looked at the clock on the wall.
4:30.
"...Really? You want me to die of sleep?"
He knew perfectly well that Bruce Wayne barely slept, split between his public life as a playboy during the day and his nocturnal activities that no one ever mentioned out loud.
That meant that if he followed it to the letter... he'd never sleep.
He decided to ignore it. He sank back onto the bed, closing his eyes with the stubbornness of an angry child.
The beeping returned. Louder.
He covered himself with the sheet, the pillow, even covered his head with the jacket he'd thrown on the chair. Nothing worked. The sound echoed inside his head, as if it were coming from inside his own skull.
Sebastian jumped up.
"All right! All right, fuck me, I'm up!"
He went into the bathroom, took a cold shower, and got dressed. He looked at his clock: it was fifteen minutes to five.
He ran his hand over his face, exhausted.
"Good. Now, what the hell do I do at this hour?"
The answer didn't take long to appear. Another window.
Initial Routine of a Butler
Current state: Body weakened by fatigue and wear.
To fulfill its obligations, it must strengthen the foundation.
Morning Routine Tasks (05:00 – 06:00):
✓ 50 push-ups → +2 pts
✓ 50 sit-ups → +2 pts
✓ 50 squats → +2 pts
✓ Full stretch (15 min) → +1 pt
✓ Impeccable shower and personal hygiene → +1 pt
Extra Reward: Complete the entire routine without interruptions → +5 pts
Sebastian stared at the screen in disbelief.
"...Push-ups? Squats? Really? This looks like basic training."
Sebastian raised an eyebrow in disbelief.
"Weakened?" he repeated in a raspy voice. "Me?"
He snorted, letting out a bitter laugh.
"I've run through bullets, carried wounded comrades on my shoulders, survived deserts and jungles... and you call me a weakened body."
The screen remained indifferent, as if silently judging him.
"Okay, I admit it..." he mumbled, turning his head. "I didn't train these past two weeks. And yes, I did overdo it on the bottle a couple of nights. What did you expect? My mom died, damn algorithm."
He snorted, kneeling on the ground.
"But from that point on, to weakened... that's not the end of it."
He got into a push-up position and began to push up and down vigorously, almost angrily. Each movement was a silent protest, a way of proving the system itself wrong.
He sighed, shrugging.
"Bah, it's not like I wasn't forced to do the same thing every day in the army."
One
two
three.
Sweat began to trickle down his forehead.
By the time he reached his twenties, he noticed something strange. Fatigue wasn't hitting him the way he'd expected. It was demanding, yes, but he felt his muscles responding with renewed firmness, as if each repetition was fine-tuning his body, eliminating the accumulated heaviness.
"...Shit," he muttered, between snorts. "It turns out it works."
But I wouldn't admit it out loud.
After the last set of squats, Sebastian collapsed onto the bed, breathing heavily. Sweat plastered his shirt to his body. Without thinking twice, he dragged himself to the bathroom and stepped into the shower.
The cold water lashed over his skin like a whip, clearing his mind. When he emerged, towel slung over his shoulder, he growled softly,
"Damn system..."
As he dried off, a practical thought struck him.
"Shit... the army."
He remembered that he was still officially on temporary leave. Three weeks due to the death of a close relative. And at the end of the week, he had to return to duty or face sanctions.
He clicked his tongue, thinking.
"Well..." He smirked, a playful glint in his eyes. "The Wayne family can certainly manage it, right? After all... they're my future employers."
The smile didn't last long.
Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through his temple, forcing him to clench his teeth.
[Warning]
The User may not harbor malicious or abusive thoughts toward his Masters.
"Ugh, fuck!" Sebastian grabbed his head, cursing. "Good, good! I didn't mean that in a bad way. I'm just saying, as an employer, it wouldn't make sense for you to arrange the hiring of a new employee, would it?"
The system remained silent for a few seconds, as if 'thinking about it.' Finally, the answer appeared.
Valid reasoning.
True: employers can facilitate job placement processes.
"See?" Sebastian grinned, victorious. "One point for me!"
But before he could enjoy the triumph, the screen changed again.
However: A good steward takes care of these minor tasks, so that his Family does not have to worry about such trivial matters.
Sebastian's smile faded.
"...Tch. Damn."
He sighed, resigned, sinking back into bed with the towel still around his shoulders.
"All right. I'll admit it. Alfred would probably take care of something like this without anyone finding out."
He closed his eyes for a moment, ruminating on his defeat.
By the time he finished cleaning up and checking his watch, it was almost six o'clock.
He still had time: he'd decided to head to Wayne Manor around nine. That meant he had three hours of freedom left.
And in a city like Gotham, three hours could be an eternity.
He dressed simply and left the hotel. The fresh morning air hit him full force. Against all odds, the streets were quiet. Just a few early morning pedestrians, factory workers, and delivery trucks.
Strangely peaceful.
Sure, "peaceful" in Gotham had a very relative meaning.
Low-level gang members, yes. Petty thieves. The odd drunk on the corner.
But at least the supervillains seemed to respect sleep.
"Even demons need rest..." he muttered sarcastically as he walked.
Then he came up with an absurd idea: to go sightseeing.
Not the kind of tourism that appeared in brochures or travel magazines, but battlefield tourism.
"Oh, look, this is where Batman caught the Joker. You can still see the traces of the fight," he heard from an excited teenager.
He stopped in front of an alley blackened by past explosions.
"The mark Enigma left when he tried to blow up half the district with his riddles," he overheard a reporter saying while taking photos.
On another corner, a vandalized mural still bore a half-painted question mark.
"Oh, and how can we forget that bridge... the one where Killer Croc emerged dragging two police officers last month. A true city classic." A few scientists were taking a water sample from under the bridge.
Sebastian shook his head, smiling bitterly.
"Seriously, how the hell does one city produce so many damn villains?"
He had no answer. Maybe the universe was rotten to its core.
He stopped in front of a puddle on the asphalt, a reflection of the ruined buildings.
"Damn universe..." he whispered.
If he didn't know the truth, if I didn't have the knowledge of his past life in my head, maybe I'd ask Bruce to move the entire Wayne Manor to a safer city.
But no. It would be useless. Batman and Gotham were sewn together.
Time passed quickly between steps, thoughts, and sarcasm. When he looked at his watch, the hour was approaching.
He sighed, raised his hand and stopped a taxi.
"Wayne Manor," he said, slumping into the back seat.
The driver looked at him in the rearview mirror, raising an eyebrow.
But in the end, he shrugged.
The car ride was silent. Neither the driver nor Sebastian bothered to speak.
Questions like "What's the weather like?", "Did you watch last night's show?", or even playing the music too loud could be annoying.
In Gotham, it was best to keep quiet.
The driver's six senses were on the road. Yes, six: the normal five, plus the paranoia necessary to survive in the jungle that called Gotham.
Sebastian looked out the window. The route was the same as the day before, but this time… strangely, he wasn't as nervous.
And why?
It definitely wasn't because he would see his father again. Right?
He sighed and shook his head.
In front of him, the silhouette of Wayne Manor loomed larger and larger, dominating the landscape.
As he got out of the car, he thanked the driver. Just like the day before, he left a little extra as payment. The man accepted it with a simple nod, started the engine, and drove off down the road without looking back.
Sebastian stood in front of the gate. The wrought iron elegantly marked a surname that weighed more than the steel itself: WAYNE .
He took a deep breath, walked over to the stone wall, and pressed the intercom.
"…Wait." A chill ran down his spine. "Déjá vu?"
He didn't have time to analyze it. A clear, firm, and elegantly tinged voice came from the speaker.
The same voice from yesterday.
The voice that, despite his displeasure, his memory had decided to record in every detail.
"Welcome to Wayne Manor. How may I help you?"
Sebastian's stomach tightened. He swallowed, cleared his throat, and finally replied:
"I'm looking for Mr.…"