Thirty years ago. Late night. Wayne Manor.
The lights were still on.
Most of Gotham slept—or pretended to sleep, or drank themselves into unconsciousness, or committed crimes in the darkness. But in Wayne Manor, in the grand entrance hall with its vaulted ceilings and marble floors, Thomas Wayne was elbow-deep in someone's chest cavity, trying to keep them alive.
He'd rolled up his sleeves past the elbows. Blood had already soaked through the towels Alfred had laid out, staining the dining table's polished wood. The scalpel in Thomas's right hand caught the light as he worked—precise, steady, inhumanly fast.
This was what decades of experience looked like. No wasted motion. No hesitation. Just the mechanical efficiency of a surgeon who'd done this a thousand times in field hospitals, emergency rooms, bombed-out buildings in war zones.
The bullet came free with a wet click.
Thomas dropped it into a metal bowl. It pinged against the others—four now, with one more to go.
On the high spiral staircase overlooking the hall, a small figure crouched between the railings.
Bruce Wayne was eight years old. He should have been asleep. He'd been sent to bed hours ago, before the desperate knocking at the gate, before his father had turned the dining room into an operating theater.
But he'd heard the commotion. The shouting. The urgency in his father's voice.
And now he watched, silent and still, as Thomas Wayne saved a stranger's life.
Bruce had never seen his father work before. Not really. He knew what his father did—everyone knew Dr. Thomas Wayne, philanthropist and surgeon, the man who'd built Gotham General's new wing with his own money, who volunteered at free clinics in the Narrows, who always answered when the phone rang in the middle of the night.
But knowing what someone did and seeing them do it were different things.
His father's hands moved like they were choreographed. Like magic. Scalpel, tweezers, sutures—each tool appearing exactly when needed, Alfred handing them over in perfect synchronization. Blood vessels tied off. Bleeding stopped. The fifth bullet extracted and dropped into the bowl with its brothers.
It was like watching a wizard from one of his storybooks. Impossible made real.
"I know," Thomas said quietly, not looking up from his work, "you know who I am."
He was talking to the man standing beside the table—the terrifying man who'd been pounding on their gate, soaked in rain and panic.
Vincent Falcone. Bruce knew the name even if he didn't fully understand what it meant.
"I'm from the Wayne family," Thomas continued, beginning to close the incisions with neat, practiced stitches. "And I'm a doctor. I heal illnesses and save lives. This is my vocation."
His hands never stopped moving.
"I won't use a son's life to blackmail his father," Thomas said. "But I also don't want to associate with the underworld."
The words were polite. Clinical. The tone of a man drawing a very clear line.
Vincent Falcone didn't seem bothered by the rejection. If anything, watching his son's chest rise and fall with steady breaths—watching the color return to Carmine's face as the blood transfusion took hold—made him more determined.
"I know you're a rich man, Dr. Wayne," Vincent replied. His voice was rough, still shaking slightly from the adrenaline crash. "But I, Vincent Falcone, am a powerful man. And sometimes a powerful friend is worth more than all the wealth in the world."
Thomas tied off the final suture. Checked the dressings. Monitored the pulse at Carmine's wrist.
"I'm really not doing this for your reward," he said quietly.
"Everyone wants something, don't they, Doctor?"
Thomas looked up then. Met Vincent's eyes directly.
"What I want," he said, "is for Gotham to be a place where fathers don't need to pound on strangers' doors at midnight, begging them to save their sons from gang violence."
Vincent said nothing.
Thomas went back to checking Carmine's vitals.
"Your son will live," he said. "Keep him here tonight. I'll monitor him. In the morning, you can take him somewhere safe to recover. But Mr. Falcone—" He looked up again. "This conversation never happened. We've never met. And I will not be in your debt."
Vincent Falcone smiled faintly. It was the smile of a man who'd just gained something valuable, even if the other party didn't realize it yet.
"Of course, Doctor," he said. "Whatever you say."
On the staircase, Bruce watched his father save a life.
He didn't know who the young man was. Didn't know what he would become.
He just knew that his father was a good man. The best man. Someone who helped people because that's what doctors did.
Even if those people would grow up to destroy everything his father had tried to build.
Present day. Wayne Manor.
Bruce set down his teacup with a quiet clink.
"Now I realize who he saved that night," he said, looking at Harvey and Gordon across the sitting room. "He saved Carmine Falcone. The Roman. The man who controls half of Gotham's underworld." A pause. "My father tried to do something good for Gotham. But what he did that night is part of why I face suspicion today."
Harvey and Gordon sat very still.
They'd never seen Bruce Wayne like this. The playboy mask was completely gone, replaced by something raw and genuine. This was Bruce Wayne without the performance—just a man trying to make sense of his father's legacy.
Harvey studied him for a long moment, then asked quietly: "Then why did Gotham Bank approve the cooperation agreement with Falcone Import Company?"
Bruce's expression didn't change. "Gotham Bank is controlled by the board of directors. The board only cares about profits." His voice was flat. Matter-of-fact. "When everyone supported that resolution, I realized my control over Wayne Group was still insufficient. This kind of thing won't happen again."
"So," Harvey pressed, leaning forward slightly, "Thomas Wayne never received any kind of reward from Vincent Falcone? You have no relationship with Carmine Falcone whatsoever?"
"None."
Harvey's expression grew harder. "Then why didn't your father report the crime?"
The question came out sharper than intended, anger bleeding through Harvey's careful prosecutor voice.
"If he had," Harvey continued, words picking up speed, "Luigi Maroni would have been brought to justice for attempted murder. Vincent Falcone would have been investigated. Gotham City would have been saved from the Romans before they even—"
"Perhaps," Alfred interrupted quietly from his position by the tea service, "Mr. Wayne did write a report."
Both Harvey and Gordon turned to look at him.
Alfred's expression was carefully neutral, but there was steel underneath.
"Gotham back then was different from today," he said. "The Gotham Police Department—and the prosecutor's office—were rife with corruption and bribery. Still are, to some extent, though perhaps less obviously."
Harvey's jaw tightened.
"Just a few months after that night," Alfred continued, voice soft but relentless, "the most honest man I've ever known was robbed at gunpoint in Crime Alley. Shot dead in front of his wife and child. I know Luigi Maroni didn't have the courage to directly target Mr. Wayne—but that's what makes his death so much more heartbreaking."
The room was silent except for rain beginning to patter against the windows.
"I'm not sure Gotham is much better today than it was then," Alfred said. "But I am sure it would be rude to accuse Thomas Wayne of not doing enough. He did everything. And Gotham killed him for it."
Harvey looked like he'd been slapped.
Gordon thought about the officers in his precinct who had "unclear relationships" with the Falcone family. The evidence that went missing. The witnesses who recanted. The systemic rot that went so deep he sometimes wondered if there was anything healthy left to save.
Harvey thought about Vernon Wells, his assistant, who'd been taking money from Maroni for weeks now. Who sat in Harvey's office every day, smiling and helpful, while selling prosecution strategy to the enemy.
Gotham might have changed.
But maybe it hadn't changed enough.
And Thomas Wayne definitely wasn't the culprit.
"Mr. Wayne," Harvey stood abruptly, exhaling hard. "I apologize. My preconceived notions caused problems that shouldn't exist. I won't bother you anymore today." He paused. "Goodbye."
"I understand your sense of justice," Bruce said, standing as well. "In any case, Wayne Enterprises will no longer have anything to do with Falcone. You have my word."
Gordon rose too, feeling the weight of Alfred's accusation settle over the room like a shroud. He'd worked in Gotham for years. He knew the Wayne family's reputation. Seeing the misunderstanding cleared up should have been a relief.
Instead, he just felt tired.
"Goodbye, Mr. Wayne," Gordon said. "And... thank you for the explanation."
Bruce nodded once.
After they left, he stood alone in the sitting room, staring at nothing.
Alfred began clearing the tea service, silent and efficient.
Neither of them spoke.
Outside, the rain fell harder.
Across town. A Roman apartment. Night.
A shadow moved on the rooftop across the street.
Selina Kyle crouched in perfect stillness, night-vision binoculars pressed to her face. Next to her, a small device hummed quietly—a lip-reading recognition machine, sophisticated and expensive, the kind of tech that turned silent observations into readable dialogue.
No bugs. No wires. Nothing Falcone's security sweeps could detect.
Just a cat, watching from the darkness.
Through the window, she could see Sofia Falcone holding a beautifully wrapped gift box. Her body language was uncertain—shoulders hunched, weight shifting from foot to foot. Uncomfortable.
Carmine Falcone stood across from her, already moving toward the door. Impatient. Distracted.
The machine's screen flickered with text as it processed Sofia's lip movements:
"I have some business to attend to, daughter. I may be back late."
Sofia opened her mouth. Closed it. Her hands tightened on the gift box.
"I, uh—"
She stopped. Tried again. Failed.
Finally, she just thrust the box forward.
"Here. Happy Father's Day."
Falcone took the box without enthusiasm. Opened it mechanically. Inside was a tie—expensive silk, perfectly tailored, probably worth more than most people's monthly rent.
For a moment, Falcone just stared at it.
Then his expression closed off completely.
Selina knew what he was thinking. She could read it in the sudden tension of his shoulders, the way his hand tightened on the tie.
"I appreciate your kindness," Falcone said. The words were clipped. Automatic.
Then he was gone, leaving Sofia standing alone in the room, staring at the space where her father had been.
The lip-reading machine picked up her whisper:
"Happy Father's Day, Papa."
Selina lowered the binoculars slowly.
She understood Sofia's expression perfectly. The disappointment. The desperate hope that this time would be different, that maybe he'd actually see her.
Carmine Falcone had no idea that in his youth, during his time in the East End, he'd left behind an illegitimate daughter. A child he'd never acknowledged. A daughter who'd grown up alone, learning to survive on Gotham's streets, becoming a thief because what else was there?
Batman would never figure it out. He'd see Catwoman near the Romans and wonder why. See her help him against Falcone sometimes, and then interfere with his interrogations other times, and never understand the contradiction.
Only the cat in the dark night knew the truth.
Only Selina, crouched on this rooftop, watching the father who'd put a bounty on her life, felt the terrible complexity of it.
She wanted him dead. She wanted him arrested. She wanted him to suffer for everything he'd done to Gotham.
She also wanted him to look at her—just once—and recognize her. Acknowledge her. Say her name.
The device next to her flickered and died as Falcone left the apartment, taking the lip-reading angles with him.
Selina sat in the darkness for a long time, not moving.
Then she melted back into the shadows and disappeared.
East End. Gordon residence.
Commissioner Gordon arrived home just after dusk.
Catching the Holiday Killer should have meant mountains of paperwork—evidence logs, witness statements, arraignment preparation. But at Batman's suggestion, Gordon hadn't taken Alberto back to the police station. Batman had insisted on temporary custody, something about "security concerns" and "Falcone's reach."
Which meant Gordon actually got to go home at a reasonable hour.
Miracles did happen in Gotham. Sometimes.
The smell hit him as soon as he opened the door—roasted chicken, garlic, something baking. Barbara's cooking, which meant she'd started preparing hours ago.
Before he could set down his coat, a small tornado of five-year-old energy came barreling out of the living room.
"Dad! Dad! Dad!"
Little James Gordon launched himself at his father's legs with the reckless confidence of a child who'd never considered the possibility that he might not be caught.
Gordon grabbed him, lifting him up despite the protests from his lower back.
"Oof—James, you're too heavy," he groaned, exaggerating for effect. "Sooner or later I won't be able to hold you anymore. Even now, my old back can't take it."
"You're not old!" James protested, grinning.
Barbara emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishcloth, smiling at the scene. "Little James has been looking forward to your return all day. He has a gift for you."
"A gift?" Gordon set his son down, raising an eyebrow. "What kind of gift?"
James immediately thrust a wrapped box at him, face flushed with excitement and shyness in equal measure. The wrapping paper was crooked, held together with far too much tape, clearly done by small hands.
"Mom and I made this for you!" James announced, practically vibrating with pride. "Happy Father's Day, Dad!"
Gordon felt something warm settle in his chest.
All day, he'd been thinking about the Holiday Killer. About Harvey's increasing darkness. About Batman's paranoia. About the systemic corruption that made Gotham feel like a city beyond saving.
But right now, holding this badly-wrapped gift from his five-year-old son, none of that mattered.
"I was wondering why you were so excited today," Gordon said softly. "Good boy. Thank you."
He opened the box carefully, preserving the wrapping paper even though it was already falling apart.
Inside was a tie.
The fabric was ordinary—nothing fancy, probably from the discount bin at Macy's. But the embroidery was meticulous. Instead of the usual grid or solid colors, there were small handprints pressed into the fabric. Child-sized. Slightly smudged. Perfect.
Gordon's throat tightened.
"Okay," he said, voice rougher than intended. "I can see you and your mother must have been busy for a while."
He ruffled James's messy golden curls, then immediately took off his work tie and replaced it with the new one. The handprints were crooked. The colors clashed with his shirt. It was the most hideous tie he'd ever worn.
"This is the best gift a father could receive on Father's Day," Gordon said seriously. "Thank you, James."
He picked up his son and carried him into the living room, where dinner waited.
For a few hours, at least, Gotham's darkness could wait outside.
Dent residence. Late evening.
Harvey arrived home well after dark.
He'd had nothing on his schedule today—no court appearances, no meetings, nothing urgent. So he'd done the thing he'd been putting off for months.
He'd visited his father in prison.
"Welcome home, Harvey."
Gilda was in the kitchen, doing dishes. She turned when she heard the door, drying her hands, smiling the way she always did when he came home—like his arrival was the best part of her day.
"I'm back, Gilda."
Harvey took off his coat mechanically, hanging it on the rack by the door. From the pocket, he pulled out a coin—old, worn, one side burned black—and turned it over in his fingers as he walked inside.
Gilda noticed immediately. "Harvey, what is that?"
"Oh." Harvey looked down at the coin like he'd forgotten he was holding it. "I went to visit my dad in jail today."
"How is he?"
"Same old bastard," Harvey said flatly. "But he did give me something."
He held up the coin so Gilda could see it properly. The difference between the two sides was stark—one normal and shining, the other scorched and blackened.
"Look," he said. "One side is normal. The other side is burned."
Gilda stared at the coin. For reasons she couldn't articulate, it made her deeply uncomfortable. Something about the wrongness of it—a coin that wasn't fair anymore, that couldn't give an honest result.
"He told me," Harvey continued, voice taking on a strange quality, "that in a hellhole like Gotham, even the courts are like coins. Evidence, truth, justice—all of it is insignificant. The outcome of a trial is just a coin flip. Heads, you win. Tails, you lose."
He flipped the coin absently. It spun in the air, catching the light.
"People only flip coins when deciding something insignificant," Harvey said. "Something that doesn't really matter. Because the part that really determines the outcome of the trial? That's already been settled outside the courtroom."
Gilda felt cold. "Harvey—"
"Don't worry." He caught the coin, palm closing over it. His other hand covered hers, warm and gentle. "I told my father he was right. But if the trial really is a coin, it should be an orderly coin. An important coin. A coin that no one dares to despise."
He walked to the window, still turning the coin over in his fingers. Faster now. Rhythmic.
"So today I did some things," Harvey said quietly. "Met some people. Listened to some advice. And I realized that what I've been doing isn't enough. Not even close."
FLIP.
The coin spun high, glinting.
"I told him," Harvey said, "that sooner or later, all the villains in Gotham City will have to watch helplessly as the law flips a coin. Their lives will depend on it. No bribed judges. No rigged juries. Just the law. Just karma."
He turned sideways, catching the coin again, smiling at Gilda.
The smile was gentle. Loving. The same smile he'd given her a thousand times.
"And if retribution doesn't come—"
CRACK.
Thunder exploded over Gotham. Lightning flashed through the window, strobing the entire room with white light.
For one frozen moment, Harvey stood half-illuminated and half-shadowed—one side of his face lit stark white, the other plunged into absolute darkness.
Two people in one body.
"—he should be careful," Harvey finished, voice soft. "Because he'll be spotted by me."
Gilda stared at her husband, speechless.
Then the lights came back on. The normal, warm electric glow flooded the room, banishing shadows. Harvey looked like himself again—gentle, earnest, the man she'd married.
The other Harvey—the one split down the middle—disappeared.
But Gilda had seen it. Just for a moment.
And she couldn't unsee it.
Wayne Manor. Late night.
Bruce stood in front of his parents' portrait, hands clasped behind his back.
The painting showed Thomas and Martha Wayne at some charity gala, both smiling, both beautiful and alive and perfect. It had been commissioned the year before they died. Bruce barely remembered the sitting—he'd been small, bored, fidgeting while the artist worked.
Now it was all he had left.
"If my father hadn't saved the Romans," Bruce said quietly, not looking away from the painting, "the lives lost in Gotham City, the cypress trees beside the cemetery—"
"Let me be clear, Master Bruce," Alfred interrupted gently. He'd followed Bruce into the room, silent as always. "No matter who came knocking at that door, your father would never have left them to die. That was his way."
"I know." Bruce's voice was hollow. "I can't help but imagine what might have happened if he'd made a different choice. If he'd turned Vincent Falcone away. If he'd let Carmine die on our doorstep."
Alfred was quiet for a moment.
"Your father made Batman possible," he said finally. "Not just through his death, though that certainly... catalyzed things. But through his life. Everything he taught you about helping people. About using your privilege for good. About never giving up on Gotham, even when Gotham gives up on itself."
Bruce finally turned to look at him.
"Batman fights criminals again and again," Alfred continued. "But he never kills them. No matter who stands before him—Joker, Falcone, any of them—he saves their lives without hesitation. If Batman started killing..." He shook his head. "Ninety-nine percent of Gotham's criminals would never have the chance to do evil again. But that's not the path he walks."
"Because that's not what my father would have done."
"No," Alfred agreed. "It's not."
Bruce looked back at the portrait. Then, without saying anything, he walked out of the room and headed for the grand staircase in the entrance hall.
He sat down on the steps—high up, where he'd sat as a child—and looked down through the gaps in the railings at the place where the dining table had been that night.
Where his father had saved Carmine Falcone.
Where a good man had done a good thing that led to decades of suffering.
Alfred found him there a few minutes later, sitting in the same spot he'd occupied thirty years ago, staring at the same floor.
"I just missed him, Alfred," Bruce said quietly. His voice was rough. "Am I being rude?"
He didn't look back. Didn't want Alfred to see his face.
But Alfred could see the tear tracks on his cheek, illuminated faintly by moonlight streaming through the windows.
"No, sir," Alfred said softly. He placed his hand on Bruce's shoulder—gentle, grounding, the same way Thomas had done when Bruce was small and frightened.
Under the calm moonlight, Bruce's silhouette gradually overlapped with Thomas's in Alfred's memory. Father and son. Doctor and vigilante. Both trying to save a city that didn't want to be saved.
"You are very much your father's son," Alfred said.
Bruce said nothing.
But his shoulders shook, just once, and Alfred's hand stayed where it was.
Outside, Gotham continued being Gotham.
Burnley. Homeless children's shelter. Same night.
Jude sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by kids, sharing cookies from a battered tin.
Solomon Grundy was wedged into one corner, too large for any of the furniture, contentedly munching on cookies that looked like crackers in his massive hands.
Jason Todd sat on Jude's left, hoarding the chocolate chip ones with the focused determination of someone who'd learned early that food didn't last.
The TV—ancient, boxy, held together with duct tape and prayer—was showing some cartoon. Jude wasn't paying attention to what.
"Brother Jude," one of the kids said through a mouthful of cookie, "these are delicious."
"Hehehe," Jude laughed, sounding more relaxed than he had in weeks. "Secret recipe. The old butler at Wayne Manor taught me. Most people can't have it."
"Solomon Grundy," the massive figure rumbled from the corner, "born on Monday."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Writing takes time, coffee, and a lot of love.If you'd like to support my work, join me at [email protected]/GoldenGaruda
You'll get early access to over 50 chapters, selection on new series, and the satisfaction of knowing your support directly fuels more stories.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~