A skyscraper with a blazing neon "W" atop its crown pierced the sky like a beacon of power. It loomed over Gotham, a steel king among ashen towers. The noonday sun slid across its black glass surface, leaving no shadow, no reflection—only faceless, silent strength.
On the top floor, beyond a panoramic window, stretched a spacious office. The air was cool and humidified, carrying a faint scent of mint. Along one wall stood statues of bats—carved from black stone, wings spread. Like sentinels. Like a warning.
Behind a massive desk of polished wood sat Thomas Wayne. His gray suit fit flawlessly, as if stitched into his skin. Age had carved deep lines into his face, and his hair had gone silver, but his gaze remained the same—steely, unyielding. He was not just the mayor of Gotham. He was a man life had tried to break—and failed.
Across from him sat a young woman in a white coat. Red hair pulled into a bun, glasses perched on her nose, a tablet and pen in her hands. Her eyes were sharp, her voice firm. A psychiatrist, appointed by order of the city council. She had been asking questions for several minutes, jotting down answers, frowning slightly.
"Doctor Wayne," she said at last, clicking her pen, "all your answers are monosyllabic. This seems less like restraint and more like a pathological urge to shut others out."
"You mean, an unwillingness to let strangers into my business?" Thomas said slowly. His voice was hoarse, taut like a drawn wire. "Agreed."
She raised an eyebrow, looking over her glasses.
"Are you serious? Admitting the problem is the first step to solving it."
"No. But it'll help you check your boxes and leave faster," Thomas laced his fingers together, eyes locked on hers. "How old are you?"
"I don't think that's an appropriate question," she replied calmly, adjusting her glasses with academic precision. "I'm here as your physician, not a bar companion."
Thomas stood abruptly. The chair groaned. A bottle of mineral water trembled at the edge of the desk.
"I'm tired of this circus," he snapped. "The only reason you're here is because the cowards on the council don't dare come to me themselves. They question my capacity and hide behind you."
He stepped closer, and even the air in the office seemed to grow heavier. The psychiatrist instinctively leaned back, her fingers tightening around the pen. Her heart beat faster. She was facing the legendary Batman—only now in a designer suit.
"They want to know if I can still take a punch?" Thomas loomed over her. "Then let them come find out. I'm no lab rat. And definitely not yours."
"That's unprofessional," she said, her voice trembling despite herself. Her cheeks flushed, her nostrils flared. "I graduated from Harvard, for the record."
"Harvard doesn't give you experience," he shot back. "And I've saved more lives than you've lived years."
He strode toward the door with a soldier's gait. Opened it. Looked back.
"And one more thing. I'm not obligated to share my feelings with someone who's never truly understood fear, solitude, or a choice without options. That's enough to deem me sane."
The psychiatrist flushed but said nothing. Her pen scratched quickly across the tablet, and finally, she pressed her lips together as she signed: Mentally Sound.
"Smart decision," Thomas said, shaking her hand—firmly, but not cruelly. "Now we each go our own way."
The elevator doors closed, carrying her down, and almost immediately, from the neighboring car emerged Jim Gordon—graying, upright, in his trademark glasses and beige trench coat. Behind him was the young and confident Harvey Dent. His smile all but shouted: I'm handsome, I'm untouchable, and every door opens for me.
"Hey, Tom," Jim said, shaking his hand. "We came—"
"—with your medical records!" Harvey cut in sharply, waving a folder like a weapon.
Thomas didn't hesitate. He seized Harvey's arm and threw him over his shoulder to the floor. The folder flew from his grip and landed with a soft thud on the carpet.
"I'm still capable of defending myself," Thomas said with a smirk, then casually flipped the folder into the air. The papers vanished into the shredder's whirring maw. "There's your physical evaluation."
"You've lost it!" Harvey barked. "Gotham has the right to know the condition of its mayor—its Batman!"
Thomas's face went still.
"Its?" he repeated quietly. "You belong to me. The hospitals. The schools. The police. This entire city, built by my ancestors—it's not your Gotham."
He stepped toward Harvey, eyes unwavering.
"This is my city. As long as I breathe."
"Not for long," Harvey hissed from the floor, while Thomas towered over him like a statue of justice, void of pity. "Maybe you shredded the folder… but I memorized every injury."
He stood, brushed himself off, and began reading from memory with mocking precision—like a prosecutor delivering charges in court.
"Fractured left clavicle. Damaged hip joint. Pulmonary hemorrhage. Compressed spinal fracture..."
With every word, Thomas remembered. Not just the diagnosis—he saw the battles behind them. The crack in his spine—a gift from Bane, who'd tried to break not just bone but the very symbol he stood for. The clawed gashes across his chest—remnants of a savage chase through the night sky with Man-Bat. The ice-burn seared down his back—a frozen brand left by Freeze.
Each scar was a medal on a soldier's body. A reminder: Batman had fallen. But always rose again.
His enemies were young, furious, monstrous. And they were all dead. He was still here. Still standing. Still alive. And smiling.
"Doctors say you should be starting every day in agony with those injuries," Harvey said, triumphant—until he met Thomas's gaze. It was heavy, cold. Like the lid of a coffin. Harvey's grin faded. "I mean... you're not a young man anymore, Tom. Maybe it's time to... step aside. No offense."
"This 'not young man,'" Thomas stepped closer, "was crawling through a damp, rat-infested sewer last night to pull three workers from Killer Croc's jaws. And you, Harvey—you were in a warm, safe courtroom lecturing teenagers about drinking in the park, acting like Gotham's savior."
He paused. Looked at Harvey with disgust.
"No offense."
Harvey's ears flushed red. He sucked in a breath, opened his mouth to snap back—then closed it. He could argue with anyone—but not this man. Arguing with Thomas Wayne was like yelling at a wall. Smooth. Reinforced concrete. That sometimes punched back.
"This morning, Metropolis passed Gotham in the investment index by one percent," Thomas said suddenly, frowning into the distance. "One percent. And here I am, wasting time. Losing money. Losing ground."
He summoned the elevator. Wordlessly. No further explanations. Neither man dared stop him.
Downstairs, a black limousine with matte windows was already waiting. The driver in gloves opened the door.
"Wait," Jim Gordon jogged up, slightly out of breath. "We need to talk. It's important."
"You've got fifteen minutes," Thomas snapped, sliding into the car. "While I'm on my way home."
The limousine pulled out. Onto a special lane for city officials—clean, fast, free of traffic. Outside, rows of graffiti-free buildings glided by. Flawless sidewalks. Alert patrols. Not a single homeless person. Not a single junkie. Only order. Only discipline.
This Gotham had existed for just thirty years. And it was the work of one man. Thomas Wayne.
He didn't just rule the city. He controlled it. Cameras in every office. Reports on his desk each morning. Handshakes from officials too afraid to meet his eyes. Some called it paranoia. Thomas called it power. And power without control wasn't power—it was weakness.
Gotham had become a model city. And like a magnet, it started attracting filth from the outside—gangsters from Chicago, drug lords from Los Angeles, racketeers from Vegas. Each of them tried to take a piece. But City Hall wouldn't allow it.
Although... not City Hall.
Batman.
When laws are useless, fear takes over. The night hunter. The black shadow. He doesn't arrest. He breaks. He whispers into evil's ear: You don't belong here.
Brutality and total control—that's the only way Gotham survives.
"You've done impressive work, Tom," Jim said, watching children play through the car window. "When I transferred here, this place was hell on Earth. Now... best city to live in. Bruce would've liked it."
The words hung in the air like a drop of poison.
Thomas slowly turned.
"Shut up, Jim," he said, his voice cold as steel. "The fact that I made you commissioner doesn't make you my friend."
Gordon smirked, unfazed.
"You don't have friends, Tom. Just me. The last man from your generation who still listens to you."
Thomas gave no reaction to Jim's jab. He ignored it the way he ignored daily pain—with the same practiced, icy resolve.
"What do you want, Jim?"
"You've seen what's happening in New York, right?" Jim's voice lowered, cautious now, like each word might invite catastrophe.
"The alien. Darkseid. Took New York," Thomas replied flatly, as if listing a weather report. "The Justice League is handling it."
"The League lost, Tom," Jim leaned closer, voice barely above a whisper. "I've got a contact in the Pentagon. He said the League was decimated last night. Darkseid didn't stop. He's coming for the country next."
"Pathetic," Thomas snapped. "I was right to reject their offer to join. They're weak. Their codes are chains."
The limo pulled through the gates of Wayne Manor. The grand house, built in Gothic style, stood like a bastion in the midst of its manicured grounds. On the roof, gargoyles shaped like bats perched in ominous stillness, watching for evil from above. Fountains sparkled in the sun, but even in that beauty, there was a sense of unease. A calm before the storm.
"Darkseid's army will reach Gotham soon enough," Thomas said, his voice harder now, as if he were already putting on the mask. "I won't let that happen. What the League failed to stop, Batman will destroy."
"Maybe... maybe you should try working with whoever's left," Jim offered carefully. "Together you could—"
"Batman doesn't work together. He acts alone. Always."
The limo stopped at the wide staircase leading to the manor's front door. Thomas stepped out and tossed over his shoulder:
"Thanks for the intel. You've proven again I made the right choice appointing you commissioner. Come. We have things to discuss."
Jim blinked in surprise. Thomas Wayne rarely let anyone past his threshold. But the door was left open—a direct invitation. More than words.
The manor greeted them with silence, polished luxury, and impeccable order. The servants stood like sentinels, offering slight bows. Their job: keep the house in perfect shape. But Thomas used little of it. A bedroom. A dining room. And what lay hidden beneath the earth.
They passed the old grandfather clock, its ticking echoing like a countdown to the next war. Above the fireplace hung a painting—Martha and Bruce. Happy. Carefree. A frozen moment, eternal pain. A reminder of why Batman was born.
Thomas approached the old clock and turned the hands to 10:40—the exact minute when a bullet changed his life forever. The clock shifted aside, revealing an elevator. He placed his finger on the scanner. A soft click responded from the metal, and the cabin began its descent—down into the darkness that had become home to his second self.
"This is… the Batcave?" Jim stood, looking around in awe.
Electric lamps cast light over massive stone arches. Platforms full of tech: cars, planes, submarines. Workbenches cluttered with weapon prototypes and gadgets. Towering racks of armor, each built for a different enemy.
"You've never let anyone down here," Jim whispered, almost reverently.
"And I wasn't going to," Thomas said quietly. "But times have changed."
He stopped in front of a giant screen blinking blue in the dark.
"Let's be realistic, Jim. What chance does a tired, broken old man have against a creature from cold space that wiped out the Justice League?"
A pause. Then a curt gesture—almost a command:
"Computer. Grant Jim Gordon full access to all systems."
The screen blinked, confirming the command.
"What?... Why would I need access?" Jim adjusted his glasses, confused. "Don't tell me you want me to be Batman. These mustache hairs don't fit a mask."
Thomas didn't even crack a smile.
"Batman isn't a mask. Or a costume. It's a curse. And I'll take it with me to the grave. Anyone who hasn't lived through the same pain can't truly become the Dark Knight."
Jim nodded. Slowly. With understanding.
"Then why show me all this?"
"The day I'm buried, this city will start to fall. The jackals, the rats, the scavengers—they're just waiting for a signal to strike. This arsenal will help you stop them. Pass it on to the police. Build a reserve."
Thomas placed a hand on a cryo-cannon. The metal was ice-cold—like his resolve.
"I trust you completely, Jim. You're the most honest cop I've ever known."
Gordon exhaled. Deeply.
"Thanks. But I've got to tell you something…"
"You mean how Dent convinced the city council to evaluate my mental state?" Thomas asked, not even turning around.
"How did you… know?" Jim's voice trembled, just slightly.
"To see the greedy gleam in Harvey's eyes, you don't need to be a detective. But I am a detective," Thomas snorted. "I've already taken care of it. After my death, your daughter will take the mayor's seat."
Jim looked up, stunned.
"If she was raised by Jim Gordon," Thomas went on, "then she's Gotham's best chance at staying honest."
Gordon wanted to argue—but met that familiar stone-cold gaze. Unyielding as granite. Arguing was pointless.
"Tom… why?" he asked softly, meeting his eyes. "You know you won't survive. Why face Darkseid? It's…"
"Suicide?" Thomas cut in. "Maybe. But Batman doesn't die in bed. He doesn't grow old in a chair. He fights to the very end. Besides… Batman always has a plan."
He turned toward a covered shelf and pulled the cloth off.
Underneath—armor. Massive. Black as the void. The chill it radiated wasn't just metal—it was cosmic. As if the emptiness of the universe had been forged into it. On the chest: a blazing red bat, its heat seeming to pulse from a volcanic core.
Jim recoiled a step.
"What… what is that?" he whispered. Even standing nearby twisted his gut.
"That," Thomas said, with a restrained smile, his eyes burning—not with fear, but with purpose, "is victory. I designed this armor to fight the Justice League. Never thought I'd have to use it to save them."
"Put someone else in the armor," Jim offered. "You don't have to die."
"This armor kills everyone," Tom admitted. "Only a pilot with unbreakable will can activate it. Even briefly."
"So... this is the end," Jim's shoulders sank. "No backup plan. No miraculous rescue."
He stepped closer, looking his friend in the eyes.
"Goodbye, Tom."
"Goodbye."
///
The next day, the world celebrated. Only Gotham mourned.
Darkseid had fallen. A god from the cold void of space was defeated. And Batman had fallen with him.
A mere man. No powers. Broken, old. But still strong enough to drag a monster into the grave.
Among the twisted wreckage of the alien warship, rescue teams found the body of Thomas Wayne. For the first time in many years, he was smiling. His pain was over.
The people of Gotham honored their hero's final wish—to be buried beside his family, in the heart of the city he protected.
The funeral was a mourning unlike anything Gotham had ever seen.
People gathered like pilgrims before a shrine.
They wept.
They prayed.
They stood in silence.
Rain fell without pause.
The heavens wept for the Dark Knight.
By sundown, only one person remained at the cemetery—Jim Gordon.
He stood beneath the gray sky, clutching a half-empty bottle of whiskey to his chest.
"Commissioner," a young officer called gently. "The cemetery's closing in a few minutes."
"Leave," Jim said tiredly. "I need a moment with my friend."
The young cop nodded and vanished into the fog, leaving Jim alone.
He walked slowly to the grave.
Water streamed down the granite headstone, where three lines had been etched:
Bruce Wayne 1980–1988
Martha Wayne 1955–1993
Thomas Wayne 1953–2020
"You waited thirty years to be with them again," Jim whispered, touching the cold stone. "Anyone else would've put a bullet in own head. Or drowned in a bottle. Or given up. But not you. You held on. With claws, with teeth. You turned pain into armor. Broke yourself to piece Gotham back together."
He took a sip of whiskey. A sip of remembrance.
"Your will was something else. But even that can't turn back time…"
A pause.
"Remember how you used to say there's no God? That if there was, He wouldn't have let your family die?"
Jim shook his head, a bitter smile touching his lips.
"I didn't argue then. But now... I'm old enough and drunk enough to say this—I believe in the afterlife. I believe souls don't die. That they find each other in another world."
He finished the bottle and looked down at the name one last time.
"I hope, in that new life, you get to keep what you lost."
/////
Author notes:
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