The lights died. One by one, the monitors went black. Then the lieutenant’s chair spun—empty. Falcone reached for his gun.
“You are not afraid of dying,” Ducard said, sliding a bowl of rancid rice through the bars. “You are afraid of living —of the moment you must choose to act.” Batman Begins
“Then by all means, exsanguinate on the Ottoman.” Alfred’s hands were gentle, but his voice carried the weight of thirty years of watching boys become ghosts. “The detective from Internal Affairs called. A Sergeant Gordon. He wanted to thank you for the location on the drug shipment.” The lights died
Now, on that Narrows rooftop, Bruce pressed the prototype to his chest. Not armor— theater . The cowl’s lenses clicked, painting the world in sonar ghosts. Below, a warehouse: Falcone’s men loading crates labeled imported perfume . Inside, aerosolized fear toxin, a nightmare in a glass vial. Falcone reached for his gun
Later, in the cave beneath Wayne Manor, Alfred patched a knife wound across Bruce’s ribs. “You’re bleeding on the Persian rug again, Master Bruce.”