The city screams. Gotham. A cesspit of crime and corruption. But tonight, something's different. The air crackles with an energy that wasn't there before.

Wayne Manor; deep in his room, a child stirs. Eyes open with a snap, confusion etched over the face.

"What… Where am I?"

The voice that tumbles out of his lips is unfamiliar. High-pitched. Young. Bracing himself on unsteady legs, he stumbles out of bed.

"Mirror. Need a mirror."

The bathroom's too high. He can barely reach the sink. But there it is, his reflection. A face he doesn't recognize stares back.

"Holy sh-"

"Master George? Are you alright?"

The voice startles him. British. Proper. He turns to see an elderly gentleman in the doorway.

"I. Alfred?"

The butler's eyebrow raises slightly. "Indeed, young sir. Are you feeling unwell?"

George, now that is his apparently new name, shook his head. "No, I. I'm fine. Just a weird dream."

Alfred nodded unconvinced. "Very well. Breakfast will be ready shortly."

As the butler left, George's mind raced. This can't be real. He was just a high school kid, reading comics in his room. Now he's… here?

He wanders through the halls of Wayne Manor, every step a revelation. It's all here. The study. The grandfather clock. He reaches for it, half-expecting nothing to happen.

But the mechanism works. The passage opens.

"No way."

The cave yawns before him. Bats screech in the distance. And there, waiting in the center, is what would be a suit.

A voice echoes in his head. Deep. Menacing. Familiar.

"Welcome home, son."

George stumbles back. "Who.?"

The voice chuckles. It's not a pleasant sound.

"You know who I am. The Darkest Knight. The Batman Who Laughs. And you… you're my legacy."

George shakes his head. "No. That's not possible. You're not real. None of this is real!"

But even as he says it, he knows it's a lie. This is real. All of it.

He's George Wayne now. The son of the most terrifying Batman that ever was.

* * *

The city's a corpse. Rotting from the inside out. George Wayne stands at the window and watches Gotham tear itself apart. He's twelve now. Two years since he woke up in this body. Two years of pretending to be someone else.

"Master George, your dinner is ready." Alfred's voice cuts through the silence.

George doesn't turn. "Not hungry."

Alfred wavers. "Sir, please. You've had nothing to eat all day."

"I told you I'm not hungry." The words come out sharper than he means, and George sighs. "Sorry, Alfred. I'll be down in a minute."

The butler goes, and George is left with a voice in his mind. Dark. Amused. "You're slipping, kid. The old man's getting suspicious."

George grinds his teeth. "Shut up. I don't need your advice."

The voice—The Darkest Knight, The Batman Who Laughs—chuckles. "Oh, but you do. This city needs Batman. And you're not ready."

"I will be."

"Will you? Look at yourself. Weak. Untrained. You think you can save this world?"

George turns from the window, his eyes afire with a great fixity of purpose. "I have to. There's no other choice."

The voice grows serious. "Then you know what you need to do."

George nods. He knows. Training. Preparation. Sacrifice. It wasn't going to be easy, but it had to be done.

* * *

He makes his way downstairs. Alfred is waiting, concern etched into every one of his wrinkles. "Master George, for too long now, I've kept this to—I've been meaning to speak with you, sir. Your behavior of late, it's worse than—it's troubling."

George forces a smile. "I'm fine, Alfred. Really… just… adjusting."

"To what, sir? It's been two years since… the incident."

The incident. The death of Thomas and Martha Wayne. George feels something, guilt maybe, but he can't worry too much. It's not like they're his parents. Not really.

"I know, Alfred. I'm sorry if I've worried you. I promise, I'm okay."

The old man's not exactly placated, but he nods anyway. "Very well, sir. Your dinner's getting cold."

As George stuffs his face, his mind is churning. The voice is right. He's not ready. Not yet. But he will be. He has to be. For without Batman, this world is lost.

He turns up the gaze to Alfred. "I want to start training."

Alfred blinks. "Training, sir?"

George nods. "Martial arts. Gymnastics. Everything. I want to be prepared."

"Prepared for what, Master George?"

George's eyes turn into stone. "For whatever's coming."

As he speaks, he feels it there in his mind. Approving. Guiding. The Darkest Knight. The Batman Who Laughs. His mentor. His curse. His destiny.

The city groans. A festering wound at the heart of America. George Wayne, twelve years old, stands in the Batcave, surrounded by books. Not comics now. Real knowledge. Power at his fingertips.

"What's your play, kid?" The voice of the Darkest Knight worms its way through his mind. "Gonna read yourself to death?"

George doesn't answer. His eyes are fixed forward, staring at the ghostly screen hovering in the air in front of him. The Reading System. His ace in the hole.

"Martial arts. Check. Forensics. Check. Advanced engineering. Check," George mutters, ticking off a mental list.

"Impressive," The Darkest Knight chuckles. "But what good is knowledge without experience?"

George squints. "Watch and learn, old man."

He seizes a tome of acrobatics. Flips it open. The knowledge pours over him like a river of fire. His muscles spasm, absorbing years of training in seconds.

He doesn't hesitate. He jumps. Rows of flips through the air. Twists in mid-air. Lands with perfect grace.

"Holy shit," The Darkest Knight whispers, genuinely impressed.

Alfred enters, eyes wide. "Master George! How did you-"

"Practice, Alfred," George cuts him off. "Lots of practice."

The butler's eyes narrow. "In a matter of weeks? Sir, this isn't natural."

George turns, his gaze burning with an intensity that makes Alfred step back. "Nothing about this is natural, Alfred. But it's necessary."

"For what, sir?"

"For what's coming."

Later, in his room, George pours over more books. Physics. Chemistry. Psychology. The Reading System devours it all, feeding his mind, reshaping his body.

"You're playing a dangerous game, kid," warns The Darkest Knight. "Power like this comes with a price."

George paused, thinking. "Then what would you do with it?"

There was a moment of silence before, "I would burn this world to the ground and build a better one from the ashes."

George nodded. "Well, then at least it's good that I'm not you."

The Darkest Knight laughed. "Not yet, anyways. But you will be. In time."

George ignores him, concentrating on the next book. Advanced tactics and strategy. Sun Tzu meets modern warfare.

Within weeks, he was perfect in skills that should take years. The ultimate human. A twelve-year-old with the knowledge of centuries.

Gotham. The cesspool of corruption and rot. Blissfully unaware in its aloofness toward the tempest hurtling toward it. But in the shadows, one sees. One knows.

George Wayne. Twelve years old. Eyes that have seen eternity. In the cavernous depths of Wayne Manor, he stands. Before him, Alfred. The old butler's face a mask of disbelief and worry.

The city festers outside. A putrid ulcer on the face of America—that's what it is. But within these walls, something else festers. Something darker. More potent.

"Master George, this is madness," Alfred begs, his voice cracking. "You're just a boy."

George's laughter is cold, without the childish mirth. "A boy? Look closer, Alfred. What do you see?"

Alfred's eyes narrow, taking in the impossible physique, the stance of a trained fighter, the eyes burning with knowledge no child should possess. He shudders.

"I see something... unnatural," Alfred whispers.

"You see what Gotham needs," George counters. "What the world needs."

The voice of the Darkest Knight hisses through George's mind. "Oh, this is rich. The old man's about to piss himself."

George takes no notice, keeping his gaze leveled on Alfred. "I understand that it's hard to conceive. But this is not merely avenging my parents or cleaning the streets. The very fate of the Earth is hanging by a thread."

Alfred's eyebrows draw high up. "The Earth? Master George, you jest too far."

"I wish I was," George says, his voice low and intense. "But trust me, Alfred. Without Batman, this world is doomed. And I'm the only one who can do it."

The Darkest Knight chuckles. "Well, aren't we full of ourselves?"

"Shut up," George mutters.

"What was that?" Alfred asks, confused.

"Nothing," George recovers quickly. "Look, I'm not asking to start now. Give me four years. Let me prepare. When I'm sixteen, I'll be ready."

Alfred's resolve falters. "But why Batman? Why not work within the law?"

George's laugh was bitter. "The law? In Gotham? Don't make me laugh, Alfred. This city, this world, needs something more. Something... darker."

"It isn't just about fighting crime," George continues in a hushed voice. "It's about what comes after. A dark knight to stand against the coming storm."

Alfred stares at George for a long moment, the conflict in his eyes plain. Finally, he sighs. "God help me, but I believe you. All right, Master George. We'll do it your way. But on one condition."

"Name it," George says, relief evident in his voice.

"You wait until you're sixteen. Not a day sooner. And you let me help you prepare."

George nods, a grim smile spreading across his face. "Deal."

As Alfred leaves the room, the Darkest Knight speaks once more. "That was well-played, kid. Now the real work?"

George's eyes narrow, focusing on the invisible screen of the Reading System. "Oh, it began a long time ago. But now… now we accelerate."

* * *

The cave yawns, dark and damp, a monster's lair below the opulence of Wayne Manor. George Wayne, sixteen now, stands before a mirror. The suit's a second skin, black and gray. The utility belt cuts across his waist, yellow. And on his chest, a bat. The bat is old school. Black with a yellow outline. A beacon through the dark.

"Well, well," said The Darkest Knight in a voice that slithers through his mind. "Don't we look pretty."

George ignored him. His reflection stared back. A monster of a man. Tall. Broad. Face chiseled from marble. The work of the Reading System, turning him into some Adonis.

"You sure about this, kid?" The voice again. Mocking. Always mocking.

"Shut up," George growls. He turns, cape swirling. The cave stretches before him. Transformed. The Batcomputer hums. Vehicles wait, primed and ready. His arsenal.

Alfred appears at the top of the stairs. Eyes wide. "Good lord," he whispers.

George's lips curl. Not quite a smile. "What do you think, Alfred?"

The butler descends. Slowly. Like he's approaching a wild animal. "It's. impressive, sir. But are you certain-"

"I'm sure," George interrupts him. His voice is deeper now. Rehearsed. The voice of the Batman.

"The world needs a child playing dress-up?" The Darkest Knight laughs.

George clenched his fists. "I am not a child," he muttered.

"Sir?" Alfred, confused.

"Nothing," George recovered. "Just... first night jitters."

Alfred nodded, unconvinced. "Of course, sir. And your. plan?"

George turns to the Batcomputer. Screen flickering with Gotham's underbelly. "Crime Alley. Where it all began. Where it begins again."

"Poetic," The Darkest Knight sneers. "You gonna recite Shakespeare while you're at it?"

George ignores him. Again. Always ignoring. He moves to the vehicles. Sleek. Black. Death on wheels.

"Be careful, Master George," Alfred pleads. "You may look the part, but-"

"Then I am the part," George says, and he is cut off. The cowl slides over his face: the features are disappearing. He becomes the Bat. "I've prepared for this. For years."

"With that magic book club of yours?" The Darkest Knight cackles. "Oh, this'll be fun to watch."

The engine roars. A beast awakening. George, now Batman, looks to Alfred one last time. "Don't wait up."

The mouth of the cave opens. Gotham waits — festering, rotting — to its savior that approaches or, rather, doom. The line blurs.

Batman tears into the night. The city screams. Ready or not, here he comes.

* * *

Gotham's decay easily bit the night air clear, and George Wayne, reborn as Batman, crouched upon a gargoyle high over Crime Alley.

"Showtime, kid," sounded off the voice of the Darkest Knight in his head. "Let's see if all that reading paid off."

Batman's eyes narrow beneath the cowl. Down below, a mugging is taking place—two thugs and one knife. A woman's scream pierces the night.

He descends, cape billowing. The first thug goes down with a sickening crunch. The second turns, eyes wide with terror.

"What the hell are you?" he stammers.

But no answer for Batman. His fist gives a proper answer.

The zip-ties cinch around wrists as sirens wail in the distance. Batman's head snaps up.

"Shit," he mutters. "Forgot about that part."

The Darkest Knight cackles. "Rookie mistake, Georgie-boy. Time to run."

Batman grapples to the rooftop, just as GCPD cruisers screech into the alley. Officers pour out, guns drawn.

"There! On the roof!" one shouts.

Bullets whiz past as Batman sprints across rooftops. His body moves with unnatural grace, courtesy of The Reading System. But even enhanced reflexes can't outrun lead.

A bullet grazes his arm. Pain flares. Real. Raw.

"Having fun yet?" The Darkest Knight taunts.

"Shut up," Batman growls, leaping across an alley.

He lands hard, rolls, comes up running. More sirens join the chorus. Searchlights paint the night sky.

As he vaults over a chimney, doubt creeps in. The books didn't prepare him for this. The adrenaline. The fear.

"Maybe…" he pants, "Maybe I'm not ready."

"Too late for that now, kid," The Darkest Knight sneers. "Welcome to the big leagues."

Batman keeps running. The city screams around him. Sirens wail. Guns bark.

This isn't how he imagined his first night. But then again, nothing about this life has been imagined. It's all too real.

The hunt continues. Batman, hunted. For now.

Night slurs into those first moments of dawn. George Wayne, the latest Batman, is collapsing through the entrance of the Batcave. His muscles are screaming. His mind is racing. The black and grey suit—stained, torn, realistically stained—with that yellow belt feels almost like a second skin now.

"Rough night, kid?" The Darkest Knight's voice in his mind is a slithering thing.

George ignores it. Peels off the cowl. The face in the mirror is too perfect. Too young. Eyes haunted.

Alfred appears. Silent. Watchful. "Master George, perhaps-"

"Don't," George cuts him off. "Just. don't."

He strips. Showers. The water can't wash away the memories. The fear in their eyes. The crack of bones. The whisper of bullets too close.

School looms. George Wayne, student. Secret vigilante. Monster in a boy's skin.

The hallways buzz. Voices. Laughter. All seems very far away. Unreal.

"Mr. Wayne," his teacher's voice cuts through the fog. "Care to join us in the present?"

Laughter ripples through the class. George forces a smile. Plays the part.

But his mind is elsewhere. On rooftops. In alleys. Planning. Preparing.

"You need more practice," The Darkest Knight whispers. "Or you'll end up dead. Just like before."

George's fist clenches under the desk. He knows. God, he knows.

One wrong step. One trap. One bullet. That's all it would take.

But he can't back down now. The city needs him. The world needs him.

Whether he is ready or not. Whether he is scared or just too damn brave.

Batman rises as the sun sets. George Wayne fades away.

The cave swallows him. The suit embraces him.

Another night. Another fight.

He'll learn. He'll grow. Or he'll die trying.

The Bat takes flight. Gotham waits. Unforgiving. Relentless.

Just like its new protector.