"Out of the night when the full moon is bright,

Comes the horseman known as Zorro."

Happiness. That's how the day started and ended. The night started with happiness as well. By the end of the night, the happiness had gone.

Two shots. The eight-year-old boy had never been so frightened by the sounds of two loud cracks that echoed in the quietest one whole minute in his entire life. He had remembered the looks on his mother and father before the crazed gunman had pulled the trigger. It was probably the first time he had ever seen them display the emotion of fear. His parents always had the courage to take down a seemingly impossible situation for as long as he could remember. They would let him know that there was nothing to be afraid of in the dark. They'd let him know that it's okay to be afraid of monsters in the closet. But death had cruel and crafty ways of making nightmares come to life.

In the time before it was renamed Crime Alley, it had been known as Park Row. It hadn't been a safe haven from the corruption that lurked in the heart of a cold hellish city. Yet, it was always silent. Too silent. Silent that even a common drug dealer would be afraid of getting caught. It was always risky. Maybe a cop would be on the corner listening to every conversation. But evil's versatility had ways of adapting.

That night when the boy and his parents had gotten out of the movie theater was supposed to be a night of pleasant thrills. He had been desperately wanting to see the Zorro stage play for a long time. He loved the way the hero would always swoop in and take down the bad guys. He loved how Zorro was able to blend in and hide in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike his unsuspecting enemies. It was everything he had been fantasizing about. By the time they had gotten out of the theater, it had been late at night. Another cold night, even in the midst of October. The Monarch Theater acted as the innocent gate to the darkness beyond.

Park Row was a home for some of the affluent generous residents of Gotham. While it had been an oasis in a barren desert, it wasn't able to hide from the outside. Criminal activity had leaked to almost every street in the city. Park Row's hidden monsters would spring out in the dead of night and make their sinister deeds.

A lovely walk from the Monarch Theater was the usual route, which would've led to more narrow alleyways where muggers would've stalked their prey. The bright side is that another route besides Park Row would've taken them to Foundry Square, the central plaza of Gotham. There, everyone would've been exposed and unable to act on their sins. But Park Row had more genuine friendlier faces. The Waynes were very well known in the city, but the citizens of Park Row met them with convivial visits.

At first, the only sound heard in the darkly lit alley, save for the streetlights was Bruce Wayne's excited exclamations of how much he had enjoyed the stage play. His parents admired their son's positive spirit. It was the only lit candle in the night before the wind would blow it out. The Waynes followed their usual route until they stopped only one meter away from the pale beam of a streetlight. Their eyes turned from calm to panic. Bruce's smile morphed into a gasping open mouth as he looked into the man's hand holding a loaded 9mm pistol in their direction. Thomas and Martha Wayne jerked themselves to a halt and held their son's shoulders, trying their hardest to not let their son be afraid. All the man wanted was just a quick buck by stooping to the lowest level of holding a family at gunpoint. Thomas was the first to react. Martha had remained her hands on her son and tried to hide him behind her so he wouldn't have to face the ordeal. Thomas held out his hand, reaching out to the gunman. He saw that the gunman was frightened, more so than the Waynes themselves. Fear had a funny way of affecting those who resided in Gotham. Depending on who held the gun or knife, someone would die right there. Unfortunately, the shivering moment takes away that notion.

A short and loud crack emitted an echo as if in an endless empty tunnel, and Thomas' eyes grew wild in pain as the bullet's impact in his stomach cost him his balance. Martha shrieked at her husband's collapse. Before she could make any further reactions, her heart had skipped a beat as she saw the hole where a bullet is supposed to fly out at the end of the barrel of the gun. The gunman had reached for the expensive pearls that had been in the Wayne family for many generations. As the gunman caught hold of the tiny silver balls, he had looked at the frightened face of the boy who was watching his father gasping for air and lying on the cold pavement. The finger on the trigger tightly locked itself in and another loud crack echoed.

Martha Wayne instantly fell backward. The man's grip on the pearls and nothing holding her body in place snapped the necklace, creating a shower of pearls that scattered and rolled onto the concrete like hardened snow. Martha's eyes closed forever, and her arms were sprawled as if waiting for an embrace that would never come. Her chest had one small gushing area that dampened more with each passing second.

Shuddering at what he had done, the gunman then shot a quick glance at the young boy. The young boy was wide-eyed, mouth agape with nothing escaping his lips except for quick shuddering gasps.

Silently cursing to himself, the gunman turned the opposite direction and fled like an animal caught in the act.

Bruce was left alone. The silence returned. He swore he could still hear what was left of the bullets echoing on the cold quiet street. He looked back again at his parents. They lay motionless. He silently hoped to himself that they would show any signs of movement that they would be okay.

They're just injured, that's all, he told himself. They're not dead. They can't be. They just can't be.

The boy's cries echoed in the night as his tears made chilling burns on his pale face. The streetlight above him showered a luminous glow on the red puddles that expanded below their bodies. The blood turned black under the light. Lifeless.

No. This isn't happening. We were happy. We were . . . No!

His eyesight began to fail him. The darkness outside of the streetlight above him devoured anything that could be seen. His ears found no sound, only for it to be replaced by the wind that softly howled through his ears, creating a rumbling ambiance until it rang. His breath turned to shudder. It was already a slightly above freezing evening, but the warming sensation of joy was completely gone, leaving emptiness for the coldness to ingest.

The following dreaded days were slow. Bruce barely moved around the house, unlike the previous days before that damned night. Time seemed to no longer exist. All that was heard around the house among his grief was the sound of a clock ticking in an endless mantra. Bruce displayed nothing but a blank stare pasted on him thinking back on that night in Park Row. The gunman. His father's look. His mother's scream before being abruptly silenced forever. Park Row was now dubbed "Crime Alley" ever since the police department identified the Waynes. Nobody would've thought that something like this could happen in Park Row, but Gotham had that shocking curse. The cops on-site asked Bruce questions, which were met with utter silence and a motionless gaze that looked nowhere, leaving it to the on-site investigations to retrieve their own answers. His eyes seemed to have withdrawn into themselves, creating a white soulless stare within dark empty voids of nothingness.

When the police returned Bruce to Wayne Manor, Alfred Pennyworth welcomed Bruce with teary open arms. No emotion emerged from the desaturated face of young Bruce and his lips were slightly parted. They were trying to make out words, but the shortness of breath wouldn't allow much of it.

"He killed them," he whispered wearily, his eyes swiveling around. It was confusing. All of it didn't make any sense. They were just seeing a movie. It was supposed to be a fun night. How could this happen? Was it still happening? This was a bad dream. It had to be a bad dream. He would wake up soon to face his bedroom ceiling, and his parents would be by his bedside.

Alfred tightened his grip around the boy and softly rubbed his hand on his back, giving him as much warmth as possible. He himself couldn't believe or bear that the Waynes were taken from this world, let alone from their son who got a front-row centered seat to what Gotham was capable of.

Child Services was considering sending Bruce off to another one of Martha Wayne's distant relatives or one of her highly funded orphanages. Only that would've seemed heartless of sending him off to an institution of other kids who grew up without a mother and father. Alfred had been informed days prior that there was a letter of Thomas's will should the day he dies. Out of respect, Alfred dared not take a look at it, and it eventually got into the hands of Child Services.

The lawyers took so much time. Time that seemed like an agonizing eternity. Then again, Bruce felt no time. There was no feeling. Alfred couldn't bring himself to take his eyes off him for a second. Any minute, they would be calling him into the office, but he felt that Bruce leaving his eyesight would be too much of a burden to bear. Whoever did this had to pay. One way or another.

After excruciating minutes, the office door opened, giving way for the head of a female worker.

"Mr. Pennyworth," she said formerly.

Alfred lifted himself and paused.

He looked back at Bruce, who continued to show no emotion. It pained Alfred to leave the boy behind even for a second, let alone for an appointment that would guarantee his guardianship.

Alfred was led to an office where two people were sat comfortably in the office. A spare chair was left for him, but he'd rather stand; he knew exactly what he wanted from all this. He never really trusted these kinds of people who made bucks off of simply doing business, and to hell with whoever's involved. To his advantage, he knew they went well, especially for the sake of the son of Gotham's proudest.

"I understand that you wanted to know the wellbeing of the boy." The woman said, adjusting her glasses as she shifted the documents that laid nicely on her desk.

"Yes," Alfred confirmed. "It's awful about what happened. While I insist that this crime does not go unpunished, I wish what is best for him. My understanding is that Bruce has an uncle. I'm sure you've already looked. An Uncle Philip, I believe. Yes. Philip Kane. Martha's brother in Boston. He was quite upset when he heard the news—"

"Uh, Mr. Pennyworth," the woman interrupted in a formerly matter. "I beg your pardon, but from Thomas Wayne's request, Philip Kane was not identified to be the legal guardian."

Alfred's eyebrows raised so abruptly, he felt as if he could've gotten a headache from such an abrupt gesture. "I don't understand."

The woman shifted through more papers and pulled out one sheet from the folder. Locking her eyes onto the document, she said, "According to Thomas Wayne's will, his selected legal guardian is to be you."

"Me?" Alfred said. It was almost a flattering notion that his late friend would request to have someone like him take over the boy's guardianship. But something about it didn't seem all that fitting. Thomas was a trustworthy man. He and Alfred always discussed things closely, but Alfred never would've expected a large weight like this.

"I . . . I'm no parent. Sorry, but you must understand that I was only their family housekeeper."

"Not according to this," the woman said matter-of-factly. She pulled out yet another document. "I read your file. Says that you were in the Royal Marines, Secret Service and a security firm in Seoul before you became a . . .," she looked back at him. "Well, a housekeeper."

"As honored as I feel, ma'am," Alfred said, still confused. "I don't see how my background experience is relevant to becoming a legal guardian of an eight-year-old boy."

"Thomas Wayne has stated that he hired you as someone who's had experience with protection and not just someone who can clean dishes. Mr. Pennyworth, if I may, your experience in the field, while irrelevant to your current position, is not so different than taking care of someone. Thomas Wayne's word and your background experience is good enough for me. I've spoken to his lawyer, and he agrees that Thomas' document is in legal binding."

Alfred sighed silently. He wished Thomas were here and now. Thomas never would've cared about the harshness Alfred went through before he decided to wear a dry-cleaned tuxedo with a cloth soaked in Clorox. He did remember the day Thomas hired him to be their butler. He spoke of how honorable it was for a man to make a difference and lay his life on the line for those he cared for. Alfred supposed it no different as it is now.

"Mr. Pennyworth," the woman continued. "I've already spoken with Mr. Wayne's lawyer, and he confirmed his signature. The document has been deemed binding, but if you don't want to take care of the boy, then I'll call Mrs. Kane, and inform her about custody arrangements."

Alfred tensed his eyebrows despondently at the young boy. The same boy that he had cared for after a good number of years before the day came when he would no longer hear the voices of his masters. They weren't just his masters; they were friends. Friends who had a beautiful child together. It was a grave sin that anyone would want to harm his parents without cause. It would be even a more shameful transgression to turn away. How would he justify that to an old friend? If Thomas would trust him to do this, then he deserved to have it returned.

"No," Alfred said. "I'll take him. He'll still live with me at Wayne Manor. If I may speak, I feel it would be overwhelming for him to be far away from where he lived."

"Okay." The woman nodded modestly. She proceeded to jot down her signatures on numerous pieces of paper. Alfred did his share of numerous signatures and the rest was handled with more discussions of what to expect. Alfred already knew, but that didn't explain how well Bruce was going to have to accept that his parents were no longer there to raise him like any other ordinary child.

"Good luck with him," she said, knowing that it won't make a difference in what can be done to heal any scars. But Alfred understood perfectly.

Exiting the office, he slowly approached the boy, who hadn't changed his expression. Bruce had been sitting with his eyelids neither too narrow nor wide. His posture was frozen still like a lone statue.

When Alfred was inches away from him, Bruce couldn't bring himself to look up. Kneeling, Alfred said, "Master Bruce?"

It took Bruce a couple of seconds to utilize the nerves to raise his head to meet the eyes of a worried man. Alfred could see that the boy felt nothing but a deep endless pit that would have no way of filling itself up back again.

"Master Bruce," the butler said hesitantly, "I will be your legal guardian from now on. Your parents had me take care of you in case anything were to happen to them."

Bruce's eyes glistened around the reddened sore sockets.

Alfred placed a painstaking hand on his shoulder. "Master Bruce. Are you alright?"

Bruce was a blank and bland face that indicated lethargy. Beneath it all was a deep and hollow episode of tragedy. Only the familiarity of Alfred's voice was enough to initiate any kind of reaction. The boy slowly and shakily nodded. He had grown accustomed to Alfred as his much earlier years progressed. When he was much younger, Alfred seemed more like a stranger that wandered through Wayne Manor. Years' passing lifted the mistrust and Alfred seemed a lot more than what met the eye. When Thomas was too busy with work, Alfred always took it upon himself to drop him off at school or take care of medical appointments.

Alfred couldn't bear the travesty in Bruce's eyes. In his past career experience, there were other devastated men who couldn't find themselves to face the ugly reality that stole everything precious to him. He had also seen plenty of children ask for their parents, who were no longer part of this world. Their faces would burn and leave a painful brand in his mind. But this was closer to home than anything else. Bruce's would be added part of that haunting collection of memories. Wayne Manor had grown silent. For less than a week that seemed far longer than it should, Bruce kept the same face. He couldn't eat or sleep much. Every now and then, he'd make a quick glance at his food and maybe have something.

By the week's end, it was time for the Waynes' funeral. Alfred had ironed Bruce's tuxedo and prepped it for the boy to wear. Reluctantly, Bruce donned the tuxedo and even adjusted his bowtie the same way his father taught him many times when attending fancy dinner parties. The funeral would've been held at the front yard of Wayne Manor. Their tombstones lied at the front while the gathering held a tent in place. Alfred requested the tombstones and burial to be held at Wayne Manor to humor young Bruce's comfort zone. What did surprise the boy was that so many people attended the ceremony. Bruce hadn't realized how many people his parents have impacted until now. Sure, he had known the kinds of things they had done for others. The charities and fundraisers held several faces that Bruce became acquainted with. Numerous of them were recognizable. In his understanding, it was strange to see them in a saddened state rather than a casual demeanor like had known them to be. Then again, things had significantly changed over the past several days.

The rain's soft beatings from outside pounded against the tent that hovered above. Thunder occasionally made a distant booming cry. Bruce couldn't stop keeping his head down. When the ceremony began, he had become the center of attention he never thought he would've wanted. There was a time when he loved it, the privilege of being born into a fabulously wealthy household. Now, it was a curse. He refused to go anywhere until now. They all gave their words of condolences, yet all were met with a dispassionate denial. Alfred constantly told him that it was for the best of his parents. Bruce believed that, but he never envisioned it would be this overwhelming. With Alfred accompanying him, Bruce kept his head low, but he could sense everyone's vision focused on nothing but him while he walked along the aisle of the cathedral towards the two massive mahogany caskets, coated in serenely scented flowers. A moment of silence then carried out. Bruce felt like letting out a scream of agonizing anguish. At long last, the priest at the altar began his greetings and proceeded into the recitations. Feeling less overwhelmed, Bruce gathered the courage to slightly lift his head up. The priest's words were nearly drowned by Bruce's unbreakable stare at where his parents were laid. Alfred's hand had never left his shoulder, bringing the only form of warmth in an otherwise frigid figure. He knew that Alfred meant well, but he wanted more than sympathy. He wanted his parents back. He wanted that unreplaceable warmth to return, even if it defied all laws of life and death. Why were they dead? Why is this happening? It can't be happening. They were all still staring at him. He could feel it. Too many people. He could hear his nostrils silently breathe in and out. Don't cry, he told himself. Don't cry!

He may have seen the guests' alarmed faces, but his grief wouldn't allow him to catch a glimpse before he turned around, showing his broken face, sprinting out of the service. Alfred called out his name, but it fell on deaf ears. Several gasps rang, but he never cared where they originated. Nothing was going to stop him—even if it meant running out in the cold rain that endlessly fell like the pearls on his mother's necklace. He closed his eyes. He'd rather see nothing instead of anything that would resemble that night. The more his legs pedaled against the earth, the less he was aware of where he was. The rain fell harder, and the air grew colder. His skin was assaulted from the freezing temperatures that would never warm up. His lungs screamed a burning sensation and tried their hardest to not let him run any more.

The ground began to feel looser. Heavier piles of leaves gave way more and more as his shoes slapped the earth. Soon, the leaves made their way past his ankles and up to his calves. His running was impeded as his legs became entangled with the soil, which was becoming more and more fragile by the second.

Finally, his legs gave way and his feet no longer met the ground. For a curiously long time, there was no ground at all. Opening his eyes, Bruce cried out. His body fell and sank through the ground. His eyes caught the ground level rising above, making way for the black void of the underground. His arms and legs flailed, unable to find any surface.

Bruce hit a bottom. The surface beneath him was rough and uneven, creating several scars and cuts on his exposed flesh. Groaning, he tried adjusting his eyes. The only light source was outside where the relentless rain's water cascaded down on his head. Lightning flashed, followed by the sky's growl.

Bruce's eye caught something. That brief second of bright white light uncovered something hidden within the bowels of where he found himself. He couldn't make out exactly what it was, and it wasn't entirely clear. The darkness wouldn't fade. His eyes struggled to find versatility, but all there was allowed was blackness.

A soft and faint noise was heard. It was a low audible sound, yet it sounded quite nearby. It was a chorus of low squeaks as if they were crickets. Only they weren't crickets. Bruce edged his muscles to move forward at the slowest tempo possible.

The lightning above gave another hint away. This time, Bruce's lucky split second was all he needed to see what was there.

The white eyes became more visible. Sets of demonic slits were glaring back at him. He could feel the hairs on his neck stiffen and his pulse accelerated. The cave seemed bigger than he thought; the sets of eyes reached a large number.

The squeaking got even louder. They were the sounds of anger and aggression. Bruce was in their territory like helpless prey caught in the eyes of a merciless hunter. He knew they could taste his fear.

The lightning was turning more aggressive. Another flash and Bruce screamed.

Hundreds of bats let out angry screeches as they flapped their satanic wings. Their eyes remained unchanged and their mouths revealed tiny sharp daggers. Bruce shielded his face with his arms and let out a cry. The cries felt helpless against the drowning angry squeals. Through his coat, he could feel their tiny bodies along with their wings rapidly tapping.

It seemed like a nightmare that wouldn't go away. They surrounded him with no hope of them calming or him escaping.

"Bruce!"

His heart skipped a beat. Alfred's voice was heard from above. His voice echoing in the cave made a bigger noise than the bats' wrath.

"Help me!" the boy cried in madness.

His parents. The fall. The bats. The terror. . .

Bruce couldn't take his arms away from his face. The persistent harshness wouldn't release him. Sounds of miscellaneous raucous ached his ears. The pain of his ears along with his mind and heart shattered him.

"Please help me!"

Breathing became almost impossible for him. Tears turned hot as they were warmed by his reddening face. The swarm showed no sign of stopping, only that it was getting worse by the second. There was nothing to stop it. No mother or father to give comfort, and no hope of escape from the nightmares. His face burned with the soreness of constant weeping.

Soon, the fluttering died. The screeching turned less frequent and echoing footsteps pounded the thick solid rock wherever Bruce was. Maybe it was something worse. Bruce didn't drop the intensity of his muscles. He felt himself being scooped, but he dared not to face anything else. He then heard a soothing voice. It wasn't the voice of his parents, but it was someone who deeply cared.

"It's alright," Alfred's voice said. "I've got you."

Bruce held his arms tightly around his new guardian. For the first time since he could remember, and it was only a week, he felt a newfound warmth. It wasn't the same as holding onto his parents, but it brought him a new kind of comfort.