The call rang out, filling the empty corridors of Wayne Manor. The building that once stood tall in all its grandeur: stained glass windows and ornate arched ceilings, covered in brilliant lights, was now a shell of its own shadow. Though still a spectacular sight, neglect leaked through the pillars, spreading into the gardens, magnificently decayed.
And where is the elusive Bruce Wayne? Gotham’s favourite playboy socialite who loved making his presence known? He’s wandering the vacant halls of his own home. Even the gargoyles perched on his roof, stoic and silent, refused to acknowledge his presence. But he doesn’t seem to notice. With a glass of hooch in one hand and his black silk robe dragging along the floor, he stumbled through each room. The further he walked, the more the hallways seemed to shift.
As he descended the staircase, the light from the panoramic windows seeped through. He slowly tilted his head back, closing his eyes just to feel the sun on his face. A moment full of clarity, but as fleeting as the warmth itself.
Carelessly, he made his way to the library and seated himself by the dusty bookshelves. He knew every single one of the books there, the conversations and stories they carried. He reminisced the joys of the different worlds he had once immersed himself in for hours, and a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Then he heard it again. Another call, another rejection.
If you need him now, don’t count on it. But soon enough, he’ll be by the Batphone.
