I spent my first month in the Manor living like a stray cat. Even though Bruce gave me a bedroom bigger than my entire old squat, I couldn't bring myself to sleep in the bed. It was too soft, and it made me feel trapped. Instead, I'd bundle up a blanket and sleep in the narrow gap between the bed and the wall. From there, I had a clear line of sight to the door and the window—a habit from my "John Wick" memories that I couldn't just switch off.
Alfred was the first person to really see through me. He didn't ask questions or treat me like a freak. He just found ways to keep me busy.
"Master Arthur, I believe the kitchen could use an extra pair of hands this morning," Alfred said one Saturday. He didn't wait for an answer; he just handed me a apron.
He put a kitchen knife in my hand and asked me to prep vegetables for a stew. For a second, I forgot I was supposed to be a regular ten-year-old. My hands moved on their own. My grip was perfect, my slicing was lightning fast, and I organized the cutting board with the efficiency of a professional. It was pure muscle memory from my "007" and "Wick" skills.
I noticed Alfred stop what he was doing for a split second. He watched my hands, his eyebrow twitching just a bit, but he didn't say a word. He just offered a small, kind smile. "Excellent technique, Master Arthur. You have very steady hands."
Bruce was a different story. He was a shadow that watched from the corners. We sat across from each other at the massive dining table in silence. My "Cassandra Cain" instincts allowed me to read every tiny movement he made. I could tell when he was tired, when he was frustrated, and exactly when he was trying to study me.
To throw him off, I tried to act like a clumsy kid. I'd "accidentally" trip over a rug or drop a spoon. But when we played chess in the library, my brain wouldn't let me lose. I saw his moves ten steps ahead, my mind automatically calculating strategies like a grandmaster.
"You play with a lot of discipline, Arthur," Bruce said one night, his eyes narrowing as I trapped his Queen. "Where did you learn to think like that?"
"I just don't like losing," I replied, keeping my voice flat and my heart rate steady.
By the second month, the walls felt like they were closing in. My body was itching to move. The "Assassin's Creed" memories were screaming at me to climb. Every night at 3:00 AM, I would sneak out of my room. I'd move through the hallways using "stealth" techniques—walking only on the edges of the floorboards that didn't creak and timing my movements with the ticking of the clocks to hide the sound of my breathing.
I thought I was being a ghost. I thought I was invisible.
It happened on a rainy Tuesday night. I was standing in front of the massive grandfather clock in the library. I had felt a cold draft coming from behind it earlier that day, and my "spy" instincts told me there was a hollow space back there. Just as my fingers found a hidden catch in the wood, the lights overhead flashed on.
"The clock won't open just by touching it, Arthur," Bruce's voice echoed from the doorway.
I froze. The "normal kid" act I had been putting on for two months shattered instantly. I turned around to see Bruce standing there, dressed in a black turtleneck, looking at me with a gaze that said he already knew everything.
"I've watched you for eight weeks," Bruce said, walking closer. "I've seen you skip the bed to sleep on the floor. I've seen how you handle a blade in the kitchen. And I've watched you move through my house at night without triggering a single motion sensor."
He stopped right in front of me. "No more hiding, Arthur. It's time we talked about what's really going on in your head."
He reached out and moved the hands of the clock to 10:47. With a heavy thud, the wall swung open, revealing a dark, stone staircase leading down into the earth.