The high-pitched, rhythmic sound of the alarm system pierced his ears like a needle. Sebastian snapped his eyes open, accustomed to reacting immediately, even in the deepest sleep. He stared for a few seconds at the ceiling: white, spotless, without cracks or stains. It wasn't a tent or a metal bunkhouse, nor a motel... it was Wayne Manor.
He exhaled slowly, letting out a sigh filled with resignation. He still found it hard to believe.
He turned his head to the clock on his bedside table: 4:30 a.m.
"Damn…" he muttered under his breath, running a hand over his face. Protocol had woken him up at the same time every day, relentless.
He sat on the edge of the bed and threw off the sheet with a sharp movement. The cold floor against his feet forced him to clear his head. He stood up, stretched his neck, listening to the snap of his vertebrae, and began his routine.
Push-ups.
Squats.
Crunches.
Plank.
Each repetition was punctuated by the invisible beep of the system, correcting his posture, warning him if he faltered. By the fifteen-minute mark, his breathing was deep and even, sweat beaded his forehead, and blood pumped strongly through every muscle.
When he finished, he stood up with automatic movements, as if he were still in the military. He entered the bathroom and let the cold water hit him violently. He sighed as he felt it run over his skin, as if each drop reminded him that he was alive, that he still had things to do.
Upon leaving, he dried himself carefully and returned to his bedroom. In front of the mirror, he carefully adjusted his outfit: black pleated trousers, a perfectly ironed white shirt, a dark waistcoat, and finally the butler's jacket Alfred had given him days before. He buttoned each piece carefully, until he was completely covered.
The white gloves were the last thing. He put them on with the same precision with which he had once assembled his assault rifle. He looked at his reflection. Dark blue eyes, long black hair framing his face, his expression serious and imperturbable.
A butler.
He sighed and turned away from the mirror.
He took the book of manners from the bedside table and opened it. It wasn't a military volume or a tactical manual; it was a compendium on how to serve at a table, how to walk silently, how to project confidence with every gesture. Ridiculous, he thought at first, but after several days he realized that every detail added up. Alfred mercilessly corrected him for any mistake.
As he turned a page, the beep of the system interrupted his reading.
Sebastian closed the book and exhaled again. He stood up and adjusted his jacket one last time.
Sebastian left his room at 6:00 sharp.
The hallway was dim. He walked with a firm step, in absolute silence. The shine of the waxed wood and the old paintings accompanied him.
Instead of heading down the main hallway, he went to the kitchen first. He turned on the light, put on the kettle, and made black tea for five minutes. He poured it into a cup and sipped it in silence, sitting by the window, watching the dawn barely rise over Gotham. Exactly ten minutes.
At 6:15 sharp, he placed the cup in the sink and cleaned the saucer, wiping it dry until not a drop remained. He put on his jacket, adjusted his white gloves, and looked at his pocket watch.
6:20.
The routine began.
He started in the east wing hallway. He straightened the rugs one by one, aligning them with the edge of the walls. He ran his palm over each side table, removing the dust with a cloth folded in his pocket. He checked the picture frames, correcting any that were slightly crooked.
He continued with the windows. He unlocked them, slid the curtains, and let in the first light of morning. He checked that the locks were secure when he replaced them.
He continued toward the side hall. He arranged the vases of fresh flowers, turning each one so its best side faced the hallway. He readjusted a bronze umbrella stand that had shifted a few inches.
In the library, he checked that the reading chairs were lined up in front of the desks and closed a book someone had left open the night before. He turned on the floor lamp in the corner and immediately turned it off to confirm it was working.
Returning to the central hallway, he paused at the main staircase. He wiped a clean cloth along the wooden banister, running from the first step to the last turn. The resulting shine was uniform from end to end.
Finally, he checked his pocket watch: 7:15. He adjusted his jacket, tucked in his white gloves, and walked toward the dining room.
As he opened the door, he was greeted by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and warm bread. Alfred was already there, standing at the perfectly set kitchen table. He raised his chin slightly when he saw him, a sure sign for Sebastian to assist him with the plates and trays.
Sebastian obeyed silently, taking the plates one by one and placing them on the cart. His quick glance lingered briefly on the pot of tea he had made earlier; the contents had run dry. Neither Bruce nor Richard usually drank it, so the only one who had touched it was Alfred. He said nothing, just continued with his task.
The work in the kitchen lasted several minutes, involving minor adjustments, checking the fruit, reheating bread, and lining up cutlery. When they finished loading everything, they pushed the cart together into the dining room and began setting the table. The coordination between the two was precise: Alfred gave a simple gesture, and Sebastian placed each item in its place. At seven-thirty, the table was set, and the two stood silently to one side, waiting.
At 7:45, Bruce Wayne appeared. Dressed in his impeccable suit and with the confident gait of a man accustomed to being the center of attention, he greeted everyone with a slight nod and, upon seeing the plates, thanked them for their efforts with a few brief words. He sat at the head of the table while Alfred, without anyone noticing where he got it from, handed him the day's newspaper. Bruce unfolded it and began to read, still without touching anything on the table.
The silence lasted until the door opened again. At eight o'clock sharp, Richard entered, with that youthful smile he always seemed to carry with him, although his step still carried the weight of sleep. Sebastian watched him approach and immediately noticed the bruise marking his left eye. The surprise was internal, not reflected on his face or his gestures; last night's outing hadn't been as peaceful as it seemed.
He stepped forward, pulled out the chair, and helped him sit down. A cup of coffee was poured in front of him with the same neatness with which, at the same moment, Alfred was doing the same for Bruce.
Both places at the table were occupied. Alfred and Sebastian stood to one side, upright and attentive, as the Wayne family's breakfast began.
The sound of the newspaper turning the page was the only thing that broke the silence for a few seconds. Bruce, without taking his eyes off the printed text, let the page fall and spoke calmly.
"Do you want me to drive you to the airport?" he asked, his voice echoing in the room.
Richard, with the cup of coffee still warm in his hands, shook his head quickly, almost childishly, before answering.
"No, that's not necessary. I was planning on having Sebastian take me there and drop me off."
Sebastian maintained his composure, though his eyes only slightly shifted toward the boy upon hearing this. Alfred, as always, gave no hint of reaction.
Bruce nodded, without arguing. His gaze lifted from the newspaper for only a moment, long enough to linger on the bruise marking Richard's eye. He said nothing, didn't frown, made no comment. He simply looked back down and resumed reading.
Breakfast continued in silence, interrupted only by the sound of cutlery, cups, and the pages of a newspaper.
Breakfast ended without another word. Bruce folded his newspaper, stood up, and left the dining room as calmly as he had arrived. Richard stood up next, stretching his arms lazily before disappearing into his room.
Alfred and Sebastian remained. Without needing to give instructions, they both began clearing the table. The plates went onto the trolley, the cups one on top of the other, the napkins into the linen basket. Neither of them spoke, but their movements fit together naturally, as if they had been silently practicing this choreography for years.
In the kitchen, the scene was repeated as it had been for the past few days. Alfred stood at the sink, Sebastian at his side. Sometimes one washed dishes and the other dried; other times they exchanged roles without speaking. A silent routine had formed between them, a kind of understanding in which their hands worked in unison while the kitchen filled only with the sound of water and cutlery.
There was no need to speak. Coordination was enough. Alfred handed a plate, Sebastian wiped it; Sebastian left a clean cup, Alfred put it back. So, day after day, they had established that strange shared habit, as mechanical as it was natural.
When he finished, Sebastian left a cloth hanging in its place. Alfred, still standing by the sink, broke the silence with his neutral voice:
"The tea wasn't bad."
Sebastian looked at him for a moment, nodded without adding anything, and left the kitchen. He went up the stairs to Richard's room and knocked on the door.
"Young Master Richard."
"Come in," the young voice from inside replied.
Richard was already ready, standing by the bed. He was wearing comfortable clothes and had a sports backpack over his shoulder. Seeing him, Sebastian asked casually:
"Aren't you carrying any extra luggage?"
"No," Richard replied with a slight smile. "I have clothes in Jump City, where I usually stay."
Sebastian nodded, took the backpack from his hand, and escorted him to the exit.
In the garage, Richard searched through the keys hanging on the metal panel and selected another set. With a casual movement, he handed them to Sebastian.
"Today we will use this one."
The chosen car was a black Bentley Arnage, with elegant lines and a deep growl. Sebastian put his backpack in the trunk and, with the same formality he had displayed since he set foot in the mansion, opened the back door for Richard to get in.
The engine started smoothly, the roar filled the garage space, and Sebastian smoothly backed the vehicle out of the Wayne compound.
The Bentley moved smoothly through the streets of Gotham, the engine roaring low under the hood. Inside the vehicle, an unusually quiet atmosphere reigned. Richard, sitting in the back seat, stared out the window with a seriousness that didn't quite fit with his jovial nature.
Sebastian, glancing up in the rearview mirror for a moment, blurted out a comment as calmly as if he were talking about the weather.
"Young master, did you have a fight with your pillow? Looks like you lost."
Richard turned his head, and the smile appeared immediately, fresh, although somewhat crooked by the bruise.
"Damn mansion," he grumbled, with a theatrical air. "It's too big to want to go down there to get water in the middle of the night. Between the gloom and all those old suits of armor and statues, it's impossible not to bump into something."
Sebastian nodded seriously, as if he fully believed the excuse, even though he knew perfectly well that it was a poor lie.
"I understand… I'll try to find some kind of rubber protection so the young master doesn't get hurt so badly next time."
Richard laughed, shaking his head, and leaned his face back against the seatback. The atmosphere relaxed, and the rest of the drive to the airport was spent amidst the steady hum of the engine and the Gotham skyline passing by the windows.