Disclaimer: I do not own/associate with Batman nor any of the fictional characters. This is merely just a fan fiction.

A/N: This fan fiction is based on Christopher Nolan's Batman films, which means the Batman here is Christian Bale! Yes, most of the description is based on the what you see on the film. This fan fiction occurred after The Dark Knight, which is somehow related to The Dark Knight Rises (the upcoming 2012 Batman movie)... Enjoy, readers!

- Chapter One -

The Night's Soul

It was raining heavily. A crowd gathered in the cemetery to partake a funeral. They were all dressed in black, all holding black umbrellas. There were so many people that the cemetery looked as though growing black mushrooms. All of them were in grief and anguished, for the loss of the very eminent man in Gotham City. The grey tombstone was covered with the tears of the sky, the name of the dead engraved was so lucidly displayed – Harvey Dent, 1975 – 2008. Harvey Dent was the 'White Knight' of Gotham City, a district attorney who was very well-liked and revered by the urbanites. This was what he was, before Rachel Dawes, his fiancée's death and half of his right face was disfigured after burned while held hostage by the Joker. No one knew what he had become after the tragedy and trauma he contended with. Since then, he was no longer the 'White Knight' of the city but a man with the ugliest heart, the distorted vigilante who sought retaliation for the death of Rachel.

The people congregated in the funeral, including the urbanites and Dent's family, were in terrible sorrow for the loss, but no one felt worse than the man responsible for Dent's death. No one felt tormented as he did. He was the 'Dark Knight' of Gotham City, or at least he was once acknowledged as the hero of the city. Nonetheless, after James Gordon, the commissioner of the police department publicly (but out of his own will) declared that Batman was the man behind the assassination of Dent; Batman immediately became the fugitive, who was wanted by the government. No one knew the story behind as well as Gordon and Batman. Gordon felt guilt-ridden about what he had been entreated to do – to accuse Batman as the murderer of Gotham's "White Knight", so that Dent would be forever hero of Gotham City. The purpose of this setup was to retain the faith and belief of the urbanites towards light, the true light. Batman needed to veil this hideous secret – Dent's altered ego, so that Dent would remain as the hope of the city. Batman would rather take the blame to be at fault for the sake of the city. This was how much he loved Gotham City; this was how much he would sacrifice for Gotham City. He was never regretful for that decision, and if he was given a chance to return back to time, he will choose the same path he had chosen.

He was standing in the crowd. His butler was holding the black umbrella for him. He could sense the intensive melancholy his master was tolerating.

"Master Wayne," the old man with greyish-white painted hair, droned. The tone in him was full of concern and apprehension. He knew splendidly who his master really was deep inside the core, the soul that was trapped in this disguise… Alfred was not just a butler; he was also his parent, his guardian, his friend, his family, his confidante…

"I'm fine, Alfred." Wayne cleared his throat. He was listening to the sound of the falling of the raindrops, each drops plunged so delicately from the sky. Dent's death was not the only occurrence that made him felt so desolated. He had not gotten over with Rachel's death, too. Rachel was his childhood friend, his love interest, his heartbreaker, his only true friend… apart from Alfred Pennyworth.

Dent's family mourned with weeps. One of them cried, "Curse you, Batman!"

Wayne's expression changed. He frowned, not with ire, but rather woe and wretchedness. Alfred patted sympathetically at Wayne's shoulder. Wayne replied with a slight nod. The casket buried sixth feet under was begun to be enclosed by earth. Each time the earth was threw into the hole, Wayne felt something hard on his chest, and he was coping with breathing difficulty and uneasiness.

"Let's go, Alfred." He then left the cemetery with Alfred.

The first month after Dent's death, most urbanites of Gotham City censured Batman who was responsible for their 'White Knight's' death. It was of course inevitable for them to blame Batman. The TV was always broadcasting Gordon's statement on the stage.

"I am hereby today to announce an incident which will disappoint the residents of Gotham City," Gordon took a deep breath before continuing. "Batman had murdered our city's 'White Knight' – Harvey Dent. I know you may not believe what I have said, as Batman has always been the hero of the city. But this is the fact, the truth; Batman is now a criminal who is wanted by the police department. If you had seen him, do not hesitate to inform and make the call to the police department."

Then the next scene was Gordon, holding up an axe, destroying the Bat Signal which was located on the rooftop of the police department. Everyone was there; the media, the police department… Every time before he stroke, his hands were hesitant and reluctant to make the next strike. It was not palpable though, people who watched the scene would think that he was just taking a break so that he could strike better the next time.

The second month after Harvey Dent's death, the rage in the urbanites of Gotham City towards the homicide of Harvey Dent was yet to be calmed. All action figures of Batman had been banned by the government. All Batman-related issues and news were removed from the media. It was as though a declaration of breaking off the relationship between Batman and Gotham City. Of course, there was a small group of pro-Batman residents (Batman faithful fans) who had performed a demonstration stating that the disappearance of Batman was a conspiracy of the corrupted government. The government had made a proclamation expressing that the government had no connexion with Batman, moreover with his disappearance.

The third month after Harvey Dent's death, the pursuit for the truth by the urbanites seemed to be subsided. Gotham City returned back to tranquillity and serenity. The activists were not as active as the previous month. The government and the Gotham City Police Department's operations had recovered. Batman never appeared himself in any of the streets in Gotham City.

The fourth month after Harvey Dent's death, Gotham City seemed to be brighter and optimistic. The Wayne Corporation announced its latest technology on fabric specialisation and soon to be released in the market. It had also promoted its latest automobile, G-Wayne (combination of Green and Wayne), which was a battery-electric vehicle. G-Wayne's design was based on sports cars', where the doors were made of the butterfly doors (the doors of the cars were opened by rotating vertically and moving outwards at the same time). The price of G-Wayne was only affordable by upper class and wealthy family, though. They were sold in metallic silver, metallic black, red and yellow.

The fifth month after Harvey Dent's death, everyone had outwardly forgotten about Batman and Harvey Dent's death. No one really concerned about the incident anymore. This further encouraged burglaries and thieveries as they knew Batman had vanished and the police department was infamous for its corruption.

It was then the sixth month after Harvey Dent's death, the crime rate of Gotham City soared drastically. There was an average of 5 cases of burglaries, 4 cases of robberies, 2 cases of abduction per day just in Gotham City itself. Batman was the past and the forgotten piece of Gotham City. Most of the urbanites believed that Batman had been killed surreptitiously by the government.

It was October, autumn. In the middle of the city, there located a skyscraper. The building had huge title placed on its rooftop, "Gotham Globe". Gotham Globe was one of the noteworthy newspapers. Inside the building, the employees were hectically working for the next day's newspaper. Phones were ringing riotously, people were drifting and chit-chatting, the doors of the offices nonstop generating the sounds of "Bang", the sound of the scribbles… The whole building was filled with noises.

"Miss Beaumont!" the man on the phone yelled. "Come to my office at once!"

The girl who was listening to the phone jumped a little when she heard the call. "Yes, sir."

She slowly crawled into the office of the editor-in-chief. Her head was facing her feet as she entered the room.

"How many times have I told you that any related Batman issues are proscribed? Not restricted, it's forbidden, it's illicit! It's written in the law!" George Perry, the editor-in-chief, bellowed. He was actually quite patient with her. This was not the first time she had added Batman's name and the vigilante's battles for justice into the newspapers' articles. This was her 23rd time. She was fortunate that this man did not dismiss her.

She was muted. She bit her lower lips. The edge of her lips twisted upwards. She knew he wouldn't sack her because she was one of the best journalists in the building.

"From now on, you don't have to write about crimes anymore," Perry uttered at his darkest voice. "The board of directors decided that the Globe needs more bulletin on our 'Prince of Gotham'. Bruce Wayne is now a hot topic in Gotham City, due to his success in the international market."

She sensed an adverse feeling; it was an omen; something calamitous was soon to fall on her fate. And yet, she had to ask, "What does that have to do with me?"

"Of course it has," Beaumont couldn't think of the worst. She already knew what he was going to tell her, what he was going to instruct her to do. Her jaw dropped onto the floor. "I have decided that you'll be the one in charge of Wayne's news."

"You can ask me to write about mobster's stories, interview with Arkham Asylum's patients (specifically the Joker and Jonathan Crane, I'll really be over the moon), the corruption of the government and the police department… But not about the womaniser, please," she mourned.

"I never really get the reason why you dislike him so much. Bruce Wayne, the Prince of Gotham," he emphasised, "wealthy, powerful, successful – anything a woman wants. He's the dream man of every feminine soul."

"Yet, he's a superficial playboy, a womaniser, a Casanova, a brat that lives off his family's fortune," she disputed, "A young woman like me won't want a man like him, seriously."

"Don't say such thing, Carl. You'll never know about the future." He continued facetiously. "Who knows you might become the next Mrs Wayne?"

She almost choked as she heard the last sentence from the editor-in-chief. She quickly spat, "Touch wood!"

Perry chuckled. He was not like the typical editor-in-chief, who was described as hysterical, violent, psychopath editor like the one in Superman's comic – Perry White, even though they had the similar name 'Perry'.

"So, are you going to do it or not?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. She glared at him playfully, her eyes squinting. "You do realise that there are other journalists waiting for this opportunity."

"They aren't as good as me," she added instinctively.

"Yes, but the Globe won't be paying a worthless journalist that doesn't obey instructions," he spat spontaneously. He had his points, very solid fact. She did feel threaten. She couldn't tolerate with the idea of being made redundant. She had been devoted as a journalist because she thought journalist would somehow connect herself with Batman.

"Fine, I'll write about him," she replied with displeasure.

As she was about to step out of the room, Perry added softly. "You know, we don't really have to publicise about how impressive our Prince of Gotham is. Recently there's information leaked by an insider stating that Wayne's Corporation has some kind of association with the hoodlums and mobsters."

She understood crystal clearly of what the hidden meaning was. She jerked a smile in her face and walked out towards her table.

"Simon," she called the man sitting in front of her seat. "Time for a fresh operation!"

Wayne's Manor's reconstruction had finally completed (which had been destroyed by the fire caused by Ra's al Ghul 3 years ago). As a celebration, Bruce Wayne had held a feast at his newly renovated mansion. He had invited all his company's customers, investors, employees, friends, celebrities, models, upper class, politicians, high ranking civil servants, anyone you could name of that he had known of or even people he didn't know.

Beaumont reached the manor at 8 p.m. Even though the sky was full of darkness and the only dim light emitted from the sky was the moonlight, the manor was very visible, with itself being the light of the city. Wayne's Manor was the brightest spot in Gotham City at night. The manor was painted with light beige colour, with numerous sash windows hanging on the walls of the manor as though the walls were made of windows. The manor was quite a resemblance to a castle; it was very ancient-looking building. Even the carvings and engravings on the building were detailed and exhaustive. The manor was surrounded by a patch of grass field.

She stepped out of the cab she was riding onto. The smell of fresh grass filled her nostrils. She was wearing a pair of hazel-coloured contact lenses; she had her dark cherry red hair tied in an elegant bun, with a few strands of hair dangling and curled; her fringe was right-aligned and was covering part of her ears; her silver long sleeved and figure-hugging white dress was quite revealing, not in a slutty manner but classy, where her back was exposed with a V-cut directly until the end of her spine; she was wearing a pair of diamond ear rings; her make-ups were not dense but were adequate to enhance her beauty; she was wearing a 3 ½ inch crystal heels. All thanks to the connections she built up with all kinds of boutiques, salons, accessories and jewellery shops as a journalist. One of her secret as a journalist was disguise, wit and acting. She continued to step into the manor, before being halted by the guards who was standing inside of the vestibule.

"Please show us your invitation card, miss," one of them requested.

This was not what she had expected. Invitation card? No one tells me I need one!

"Uh," she quickly looked into her black shining clutch and pretended she had forgotten to bring along her invitation card. "I'm sorry. I have forgotten to bring it along."

"No invitation card, no entering," he continued mechanically.

"What?" she squeaked. Then she changed her tone again. "Come on, spare me this time. It's not like I purposely left it in my house."

"No invitation card, no entering," he repeated monotonously.

She bit her lips wrathfully. She took out her cell phone and dialled to the man in charge.

"SIMON!" she shrieked. "How can you not tell me they need invitation cards to enter the manor?"

"What?" Simon also squealed in a surprised tone. "I didn't know either!"

"How can you not know? You knew someone in there right?" she continued hissing.

"Uh, yeah, but that doesn't mean I know about the invitation cards, right?"

She ended the conversation without hesitance. Simon was her cameraman, her photographer, her information contributor, her friend, her co-worker, her partner… and yet this time he could not help her out. She continued to walk to the guards audaciously and brazenly.

She took a deep breath. "Can't you just let me in? I mean, don't you think you might irate Mr Wayne for not letting me, his guest, in?"

"I'm sorry, but I think I just heard someone calling my name." A familiar voice spoke from behind of the guard. It was not like she knew that person who had just spoken. His voice was so commercialised where you could hear his voice all the time on TV, any channel. People who had not spoken to him would have recognised that voice too.

"Mr Wayne!" the guards called.

Her eyes widened. She did not know if this was a good sign or a warning. From observing the optimistic direction, Wayne would be the one bringing her into the manor (despite the fact that there would be a lot of caressing and fondling, she expected that); based on the pessimistic view, Wayne would just kick her off the manor because he didn't know who the hell she was. Though the latter's probability would be much lower as she knew very well what kind of man Bruce Wayne was – he was just not the kind of man that would resist women.

"Wayne's Manor always welcomes beautiful women, Mr Derrick," Wayne smiled while approaching Beaumont, who continued to freeze. Her petrified smile was getting awkward. "Come here, darling."

Beaumont could feel coldness running across her spine that caused her to shiver slightly. Wayne grabbed her arm and made her crossed her arm to his.

"I'm elated to have such a beautiful woman calling my name," he expressed. "But I haven't learned about your name, darling."

"Uh," the only name that came across her mind was her mother's name. "Michelle Grey, Mr Wayne."

"Call me Bruce," he uttered. "It sounds more intimate."

Every word that slipped from Wayne's lips always caused her to feel nausea. She let out a cough. "Bruce."

"That's right."

Then, Bruce led her to the manor's great hall. There were countless guests invited, all had a cup of wine on their hands. She continued to scan through the hall to search for her mobster-list (or whoever in the criminal-list). Before she could really concentrate on what she was doing, she heard high pitch squawks.

"Bruce!" a group of women called. They were tall, slim (though to Beaumont, she would say they were undernourishment), wearing awfully thick make-ups, with very revealing dresses and Beaumont speculated them as models.

"Girls," Bruce grinned pleasingly.

"We have been looking for you, Bruce," one of the models whined. "Where have you been?"

"I was with…" Wayne looked around. The woman he just brought into the manor disappeared from his sight. He wondered a moment, but was distracted by the models in front of him, who were all trying to flirt with him. He smiled at them and cuddling them by their waists.

Beaumont slipped away when Wayne was unmindful. She took her clutch out and began to utilise the technology within it. Yes, there was a hidden camera in the bag that could either takes a snap of a photograph or performs as a video camera, it was 2 in 1; for exact, it was 3 in 1, including its usage as bag.

Raven Dam… Terry Morgan… Joseph Bourdon… Kirk Jones… Florence Parr… She simply mumbled to herself. She could actually remember most of the guests' names. Then, she discovered a familiar short and plump man, a resemblance to a ball. His stomach was sticking out which ruined the exquisiteness of the black tuxedo he was wearing. His hair was falling, causing him to be half bald. He was holding an empty wine cup. He seemed to notice the stare of Beaumont. He replied with a smile and a nod. After excusing himself with the people who were in a discussion with him, he walked slowly towards Beaumont (while bumping onto the people as he directed his way towards her because of his enormous overweight size and the overcrowded guests). Her heart was fluttering, not with excitement or anticipation, but rather with terror and disquiet.

"Good evening, milady," he bowed with decency, but the smile in him was distorted and ugly.

"Good evening, Mr Townsend," she called the name of the leader of a mobster. She forced a grin in her face.

"Oh, so you know me?" he raised an eyebrow. He seemed contented.

"Of course, you're quite of a well-known gentleman," she almost choked as she spoke.

"In a bad way, you say?"

"No, not at all," she hastily changed the topic. "I didn't know you're a friend of Bruce Wayne."

"Ah," he giggled. "I'm just a soon-to-be investor of his company."

"I see," Beaumont nodded lightly.

"I haven't got to know your name," he moved closer towards Beaumont, while stretching him arm and grabbed onto her waist.

"M-Michelle Grey," she coughed, feeling rather uncomfortable and ticklish with his grip.

"What a beautiful name, Michelle. Would you-"

"Michelle!" Someone cut Townsend's line bluntly. At first thought, Beaumont believed someone came to her rescue from a pervert. But the thought snapped when she came back to reality as the man who interrupted was Bruce Wayne. "I was looking all around for you."

"Were you?" she raised an eyebrow.

"I'm sorry to interject the intense conversation, but she has promised me to spend the night with me today," Wayne replied with a smile and dragged her away.

She choked while breathing. "What?"

"Dance with me," he mandated sternly.

"What?" she repeated again.

Without hesitation, Wayne grabbed at her waist as the music started to play. Her face was just a few inches with his. Wayne was leading the dance.

"I don't know how to dance," she replied reluctantly, trying to shove off his grip.

"Just sway your body," he replied monotonously.

She did what she was told, swaying. Both of them continued to vacillate at the same spot, a few times Beaumont would accidentally stepped onto Wayne's foot and shouted, "Oh my God! I'm terribly sorry. Really, I'm really sorry!" and Wayne would reply "It's alright."

"So, tell me, Michelle," Wayne asked, but his eyes was wandering around. He wasn't even looking at her. "What is your occupation?"

She frowned with his rather discourteous behaviour and then replied him with a rough voice. "Modelling."

Wayne spat a chuckle. From her height and body figure, she wouldn't be chosen as runway model; from her facial look, she didn't have those sharp features like those for cosmetics; she wasn't those who would reveal her body, from the way she wore the dress, henceforth she wouldn't be a fetish model or gravure idol; she didn't possess the very healthy and strapping body figure, so she wouldn't be a fitness model. Wayne had encountered hundreds of models, so when he sees one, he'll know if she's a model; when he saw Beaumont, she stood 0% chance of becoming a model.

"What are you laughing about? Are you undervaluing me?" she spurted as though she really was a model. She stepped on his foot weightily and pretended it was an accident while murmuring a soft "Sorry". It was natural for a person to fight back when someone was underestimating one.

"No, I'm not," Wayne ceased his chortle. "So, what company are you bonded with?"

"Uh," she paused. Why did he have to ask so many questions? She was recalling the names of modelling agencies pensively. The only agency that came into her mind was the one with quite highly famed. "IMG Models."

Impressive, Wayne thought himself, laughing deep inside the core. He was rather overwhelmed with her 'performance'. "Ah, the agency that represented by Tyra Banks, Kate Moss. So, you're from New York City?"

She would, if she could, to slap her own forehead real vigorously. She couldn't believe she was involved in this absurdity. She swallowed the lump in her throat. "Yes, I am."

Wayne continued to look around and realised that Townsend was keeping an eye on him the whole time after he dragged Beaumont away.

"Follow me," he halted himself from swaying, and then continued to drag Beaumont away from the crowd and up to the almost spiral-in-shape staircase. The staircase was massive in size, there was a window hanging beside of it. It was dark when they stepped into the second floor. Wayne entered a room and released her.

"Stay here," he warned. "Don't try to escape!"

Then he shut the door with a slight slam. When Wayne meant "don't try to escape", it was actually an expression to tell her that there was no use for any attempts. The door was locked, the door was made of high quality wood which if you had knocked or hit on the door, there would be no sound transferring to the other room; the windows were meshed with iron bars. There was no way out of that room.

"What is this about?" she muttered to herself. The room was filled with darkness. She could barely see her own fingers in the dark. She walked slowly and directionless until she felt a concrete object. It was the wall. She walked along the wall and found a few buttons. She quickly pressed on them and the lights were turned on.

"Where the heck am I?" she asked herself. She was in a room with a gigantic sleigh bed in the middle of the room. There was an antique wooden brown table just opposite of the bed, with a harmonising wooden chair beside of it. The table was in between two vast cupboards with matching colours. The floor was made of dark red carpet flooring. There was another door which Beaumont had hypothesised it as the door that led to the bathroom. She sat on the bed, which was quite comfortable. She took off those throbbing heels which had been causing her feet to swell the past few hours. After waited for a few minutes, she walked towards the windows, which was of the right side of the bed, opposite of the entrance. She stared intensely over the window to see the invitees leaving the manor.

Oh my God! He didn't mean what he said, did he?

She quickly ran towards the door that led her into this room. She turned the door coolly, and turned again, and again… No, she couldn't open the door. Then, she wasn't turning the door knob anymore; she was literally pulling the knob and hitting the door. She was crying in her heart. Spending a night with the irresponsible womaniser? This thought sent her shivers. She didn't even want to continue to ruminate about it. She took out her cell phone and called her only friend that might be able to lend her help.

"SOS Simon!" she yelled.

"What is it, Carl?" Simon asked in an anxious tone.

"I'm locked in Wayne's Manor!" she replied in panicky voice, "Locked by Bruce Wayne!"

"WHAT?" he screamed. Beaumont thought he was surprised and was going to save her, or at least worried about her, but on the other hand, Simon wasn't at the equal frequency with hers. "Isn't that great? Look at you, what kind of man would want you? Now that Wayne himself-"

"SIMON!" she hollered vehemently and yet shaky.

"A decent woman shouldn't shout like that, you know?" Wayne's voice startled Beaumont, who jumped and almost kicked at her own legs. She turned her head to face him. "I suppose the purpose of you creeping into my manor today is to get some information to either condemn my company or Mr Townsend."

She bit her lips. No voice left her lips.

"Yes," he nodded confidently, "I know you're a reporter-"

"Journalist," she corrected him. He threw her a squint. "Journalist sounds more decent."

"Journalist, reporter, paparazzi, they don't differ much to me," he rolled his eyes. "Miss Beaumont."

She bit her lips even harder, this time causing a slight bleeding at her lower lips. Her eyes enlarged with bewilderment. "How did you-"

"I'm Bruce Wayne, I know everything," he smirked at her. "I don't mind you to write about me or try to condemn about my company. But don't waste your time on dangerous men like Fred Townsend."

"Why not?" She continued to ask. Then, something seemed to tick in her mind. She gasped. "Wayne Corp must be having some kind of illegal relationship with the mobsters, isn't it?"

Wayne rolled his eyes once more. "I have warned you not to interfere with this matter. You can do whatever you like, write anything you want, but just don't stick your nose in this matter."

It was the first time she saw Wayne being a rather solemn and sombre man. Was that a threatening tone he was delivering? She started to doubt about the personality of Bruce Wayne. As she was about to consider that Wayne was maybe a nobler man, Wayne had his arms pressing against the wall. She tried to step backwards but realised herself colliding onto the wall. His face was just a few inches away from hers. She could hear every breath he was taking and each breath was so clear. She could feel his warm breath.

"Since I have given you a little warning about the dangerous man, don't you think I should be rewarded?" His face was getting closer… and closer… and closer… before Beaumont sent him a brisk and stinging slap to his left cheek and a powerful step onto his right foot.

"This is what happens when Batman is not around!" She bellowed furiously. She pushed him away and trampled out of the room.

Wayne pressed a smile in his lips as she walked. Then slowly, the smile perched and slanted downwards, but no one could see it.

"Miss Beaumont, do you need a ride home?" Alfred asked. "It's not safe for a charming young woman to go home alone by feet."

"No thank you!" She continued to pass by Alfred, who was still staring at her as she stamped her way down the stairs.

"Master Wayne will be worried-"

"I've said no thank you!" she repeated without looking at Alfred. She opened the main door of the manor. Before stepping out of the manor, she turned her head to Alfred, who was standing at the hallway of the 2nd floor. "If anything happened to me, blame your Master Wayne."

Then she slammed the door with such mighty force. Alfred continued to ogle across the door; the sound of the slamming was still fresh in his mind. After that, he walked to the guest room where Wayne was still in. His posture never shifted. His right palm was still pressing against the wall, but now his left hand holding his cheek.

"You don't really have to act like you're really a playboy, you know, Master Wayne," Alfred spoke. He was sympathised with Wayne's occasional pretence, which he knew it was against Wayne's nature.

"You don't understand, Alfred," he finally moved his frozen body though it was rather hesitant to move.

"Explain to me then. Make me understand."

"Those eyes of hers… They were like Rachel's… I mean," he breathed in before continuing, "it was like she noticed something, she wanted to believe in me. I can't risk that chance to reveal who I am."

"But still, you don't have to make it hard for yourself or her," Alfred grabbed onto Wayne's jaw and examined the redness of his left cheek. It was swelling partially. "Oh, she was quite hard on you."

"So, did the driver send her home?" Wayne cleared his throat.

"Nope," Alfred shook his head. "She rejected the offer."

"What?" Wayne couldn't believe what he had heard from Alfred. "The crime rate of Gotham City has been increasing radically!"

"I've warned her," Alfred tilted his lips.

"She just won't listen, will she?" Wayne spurted irritably. He was rushing into his room.

"Are you sure you're going to do this, Master Wayne?" Alfred asked for confirmation. He knew what his master was about to do. "You might be glimpsed."

Wayne did not reply to his question. He just couldn't pass his conscience, knowing a woman might be in trouble because of him. He never really wanted to live under a guilt-driven life. He continued to turn the non-functioning grandfather clock to 10:47. One of the book shelves in his chamber opened and a well-functioning elevator stood still just behind of the book shelf. Alfred stared at his master entering the elevator and less than a second, the elevator descended with a whoosh. The book shelf returned to its original position and the hands of the grandfather clock began to shift their places.

Beaumont had reached to the centre of the city. It was dark and cold. There was not a single human being walking down the street or at least not that she could have seen. She was alarmed and cautious with her surroundings all the time. She was so disquieting that she was startled by the hissing sound produced by the flying newspapers and the purring of the wild cats. She increased her pace every time she was sent a jump.

She often looked at the dark sky, staring over the twinkling stars and the dazzling moon. It was soothing and It sort of calmed the inner dread deep in her core. Then, as she looked up the sky this time, she saw a dark silhouette staring at her. It was surreal. She was confident it was not just any wild cat or any wild dog, any kinds of objects. No, she was sure with its outline. Although the next blink, it disappeared from her sight.

She murmured the first thought that came into her mind. "Batman."