Opening credits over interior old Wayne Manor. It's dusty. White sheets cover the furniture. In a study, we see a window broken from the outside. The room has been systematically looted, and a grandfather clock stands aside for a secret passage.

Opening credits continue over the abandoned Batcave. Some of the lights flicker. Others are altogether burnt out. A layer of grime clouds the glass display cases, making it harder for us to discern which supervillain costume is being displayed. There is a prominent row of such cases for the Nightwing, Robin, and Batgirl suits. One of the cases is empty. It's been smashed.

The music and credits wind down as we close in on a wide computer monitor displaying the news. A news anchor very much in uncanny valley drones indistinctly while the ticker tape reads, MOUNTING TENSION ALONG KASNIA BORDER. Silhouetted against the light of the screen, old Bruce Wayne sits hunched in a chair.

Bruce is in his eighties, but under his loose clothing we can see traces of what was once a very powerful build. The dim light should also contour a powerful jawline. He is not watching the news. He's watching, glaring at, someone to his left.

Terry McGinnis is shirtless, athletic, but lean. He's examining the bruises along his ribcage. He does not meet Bruce's gaze, his expression obstinate and resentful.

"What were you thinking?" Bruce demands. His voice is low, but intimidating.

Terry is stubbornly silent.

Turning to the computer, Bruce closes the news window and brings up a mug shot of Terry. He's in his early teens in this photo, sullen and scared. Bruce reads the rap sheet. "Terry McGinnis. Nineteen years old. Affiliated with a gang called the T's. Detained for public altercations with the Jokerz gang, arrested for breaking and entering. No high school diploma." Bruce turns back to Terry. "I'll ask again. More clearly this time. What makes someone like you think that he can wear the mantle of the Batman, even for one night?"

Terry rolls his eyes. "It's not about your precious mantle," he sneers.

"I assumed you were a fool when you never asked for ransom money—"

"I got busy," Terry snaps.

Bruce pauses. His tone is less harsh now. "I know about your father. I'm sorry."

"Yeah. Everyone's sorry."

"The police suspect you."

"Well, I didn't do it."

"I know. I read the coroner's report."

Terry looks at him curiously.

"It was filed early this morning. They don't have a murder weapon. And there is evidence that most of the damage was done post-mortem." More softly, almost gently, Bruce explains, "He was smothered … from the inside."

It's a long, drawn-out moment before Terry comprehends these words. Bewildered, he turns away. His eyes mist over. Then he loses his temper, knocking over a tray of first aid supplies. "You don't get to act superior! Years before I was even born, Batman just stopped showing up. People figured, 'He must have died.' Turns out you've been rotting in this mansion the whole time. What, were you trying to count all your money?"

Bruce's eyes narrow a bit, but he will not be baited.

"The T's might rip off people like you. But when you're with the T's, you belong somewhere. You know what it's like to grow up alone?"

Bruce arches a brow. "Do you know who I am?"

"Yeah, your parents died and made you a billionaire. Boo-fragging-hoo. My parents left to go work their asses off for no pay. Growing up at my dad's house, it was just me and my friend Charlie."

"Your friend from the T's."

Terry winces. Charlie seems to be a sore subject. "Would have been, only we never finished initiations. We were together the night we got busted... I was sentenced to six months. Charlie did three years. Only just got out. Figure I owe him something for that."

"What does Charlie know?"

Terry looks away, setting his jaw. Softly, he says, "He was the lookout the night I robbed you. We were gonna get into the T's for real this time. But he didn't see…"