*December 14, 2004. Gotham City*
My name is Michael Valentine. I turned 19 on December 1st. I'm the son to a wealthy businessman who built his fortune on deceit, betrayal, and a seas of blood.
On September 13, 1983, he got married to a simple-minded, but very beautiful woman of Italian descent. A little more than two years later, I was born.
But if you think that just because my father was some rich guy, my mother's life — and mine — was some kind of fairy tale, you're wrong.
Hector Valentine was far from the perfect husband or father. Aside from being a greedy, selfish bastard who constantly acted like some kind of high aristocrat, he was constantly cheating on his wife with just about anyone. The maids, some random chicks from the streets and prostitutes from the brothel he owned — or as he liked to call it, 'gentlemen's club'."
I saw how it was breaking my mother's heart. She cried, screamed at him, caused massive scenes at the mansion — and every time, it ended the same way: with my father teaching her a 'lesson'
'Lesson' — my father loved those. Most of the time, I was the one receiving them. You know, the same old classic story: the tyrant father who beats his child for every little mistake, over and over, until the kid can't even stand properly.
More than once, my mother tried to stop him and protect me, but it always ended the same way. You can probably guess how.
And so it went on like that for many years, until I turned 14. Over all these years, my mother seemed to have come to terms with all the bad things that happens in her life. She stopped trying. Stopped even crying. All that was left was silence, trembling hands, and hollow eyes.
That beautiful, vibrant figure of a healthy woman in the peak of her strength was gone and her once shining golden hair already had the first hints of gray even though she wasn't even in her forties yet.
It seemed like I was her only joy and comfort, because every time we spent time together, even if only for a little while, she forgot about all the bad things and the fire was returning to her eyes.
She was a teacher—and a very good one. She specialized in higher mathematics and economics, and she knew five languages, so she often was teaching me at home. And I picked everything up very quickly. She used to tell me that I was her little genius.
Even though I truly loved her, I never understood that woman. I didn't understand why she was still with my father, even though he treated her like garbage. I couldn't understand how she could accept a reality where she and her child were suffering as if it were normal. I didn't understand how she could still smile sincerely at people, and remain kind.
What I understood with absolute certainty was that her end had always been very much predictable. Just an ordinary day — father came back to the mansion in a foul mood, and, as always, he decided to take his anger out on someone — first by yelling over some made-up reason, then by using violence.
And this time the first thing that caught his eye was her. He shoved her, she fell to the floor, and hit her temple on the corner of the table.
Death — instant.
Tragic, isn't it?
I was only fifteen when we buried her. The bastard didn't even bother to show up at her funeral — and just a couple of months later, he was already having an affair with some bitch.
And now, four years later, I'm finally standing at his funeral. A big crowd showed up — mostly his associates, business partners, the usual scum. They all wore the same sad, solemn expressions, faces full of fake grief. But I've always had a uniqe gift for reading people… for seeing past the masks and into their true-selfs. All of them would've gladly put a bullet in my father, in me, or in anyone else — just to get a little more money and power.
I can feel it — they're all already rubbing their hands together in their minds, just waiting for a chance to snatch up the wealth left behind after the death of Hector Valentine.
"Car Accident" — that's what the newspapers will say, and that's what the idiots at the GPD will believe. He was on his way to one of his usual sleazy affairs, with his chauffeur, some whores and a whole convoy of bodyguards. But even they couldn't save him from a brake failure and loss of control.
The crash into the side of the building was so violent, the car exploded instantly, killing everyone inside — and injuring several random civilians who just happened to be passing by.
During the investigation and search, the police couldn't find anything that suggested it was anything other than an accident.
And the only witnesses, when asked if they noticed anything unusual during the crash, would talk about a strange man in a long dark coat with odd patterns, a cane, and a black hat that looked like a fedora. He just stood there on the other side of the road, calmly watching everything unfold — and then vanished into thin air.