With each panicked step in puddles that reflected the dark night, the masked thief ran deeper and deeper into the shadows. The moon cast a pale light down. The thief, as he ran, saw this as a merciful offering of guidance from the night's guardian. But it was never that. No, the moon's light wasn't showing the thief their path; it was showing something must sinister their prey.

Stalking the thief, watching from high above, was a dark figure. They had no mouth. They had no face. They were darkness personified. The only identifiable feature that this thing had was glowing white eyes. Eyes that its victims never forgot... if they were lucky enough to survive. The creature watched as the thief ran themselves into a dead end and saw an opportunity arise. Standing from a crouch, their cape fluttered in the bitter wind of the night. Then, silently, they dropped.

The landing was quiet, but the thief was one edge and heard everything. They turned around and saw them. Not a figure. Not a silhouette. Not a man. Nothing but glowing white eyes. 'Please!' The thief dropped the stolen goods. 'Please, I... I promise I wouldn't have done it if I didn't need to!' The eyes glided closer. Darkness consumed the alleyway until that's all there was. 'I have a kid, please!' The darkness stopped in its path. It was almost as if something inside of it was thinking, and then it spoke. 'You stole from that shop. You stole that man's income. You stole from his family.' Even though words entered the air, and he tried hard to see where they were coming from, the thief saw no mouth move. 'I know! I know!' He cried in a panic. 'I'm sorry.' The thief began to slowly break down as the darkness continued to swallow him. 'Please don't kill me. Please.' He begged, knowing what was coming to him. He'd seen the news. He'd heard the stories. He just never imagined that the night would be this vicious.

'Do it again,' the night speaks, 'and you will lose more.' The thief's eyes dart around the darkness. Sweat slowly trickled down his face and soon joined the tears running down his cheeks. 'W...what?' But the question was answered almost before it was asked. With near-inhuman speed, the night thrust its razor-sharp talons into the thief's eye socket and sliced his eye. 'ARGHH!' He screamed as unimaginable pain shot across his entire body. He quickly covered his newly emptied socket, trying to stop the bleeding. And once he regained vision, however blurred it may have been, the thief knew that the night was gone. Darkness was still there, lingering and watching, but the creature that antagonised him was gone.

The windows were dirty and the apartment on the inside was arguably in worse condition. But it was home. As the sun shined through the moth-eaten curtains, Bruce Wayne lay face-down in bed. He had become accustomed to near-unliveable conditions within the last two decades. That was all he'd ever known really. His memories of fancy dinners, black-tie events with his parents, and mansion-living were fading with every passing day; and he pushed them further from his mind when he remembered how that lifestyle ended for him. His parents' deaths were ever-present on the young man's mind and they drove him each and every night to do what he thought needed to be done: eradicate all criminals. Bruce was a creature of darkness now and feeling the warmth of the sunlight on his cheek only made him more miserable as he tried to sleep.

'And today, all of Gotham mourns.' The radio crackled as Bruce traipsed around his kitchen. The sunlight creeped in just enough for his body to register it was daytime and that he was supposed to be awake. So, much to his chagrin, Bruce prepared himself some breakfast. 'It was twenty years ago that Gotham was shaken to its core by a violent prison outbreak and terror attack. Thousands lost their lives, including Gotham's first family: Thomas, Martha and Bruce Wayne. Today, we remember and celebrate their lives.' Having heard enough, Bruce moved to turn the radio off and eat his breakfast in silence but the story following his own supposed death caught his attention. 'In other news, the GCPD reported to news outlets earlier today that there has been a third murder. They suspect that this is tied to the others and there is, in fact, a serial killer lose in our city. The official report has declared this matter to be of the utmost importance and, from tonight, a lockdown will be set in place to try and minimise further casualties.' Like a bat, Bruce's ears pricked up at the noise coming from the radio. A burning rage began to boil and bubble within him at the news. After two years of proving to the criminal underworld that he believes the adage - 'kill one murderer and the number of murderers stays the same, but kill many and it decreases' - it was almost insulting to see someone trying to commit such heinous crimes whilst he was active. His already fleeting appetite for breakfast vanished. He needed to do something about this.

Daylight had never been Bruce's friend. Ever since he was a small child, he preferred the shadows, shade, and night time. It was easier on his eyes. He didn't get sunburnt. The world was quiet. And quiet was what he needed right now. Nightfall wouldn't arrive for several more hours, so Bruce went to the only place in the world where it seemed he could find any quiet anymore. He went home.

The graveyard was always quiet. People who wanted to show their love for his family went to the memorial outside City Hall. No one ever came to the real resting place of the Waynes. '20 years...' said Bruce in a soft tone. His voice had changed drastically since he began working nights as Gotham's guardian; but when he was here there were hints of kindness and love in the otherwise gravelly, broken voice. '20 years. My god, that's gone fast.' A smile creeped onto Bruce's face for a brief moment before he quickly squashed it. 'And not a day has gone by where I don't think about all three of you. I miss you all so much.' Bruce pauses as he feels a sharp pain in his throat. Swallowing hard, forcing his emotions back into the darkness where he hides them, Bruce continued, 'Even dead, you're the only reasons why I'm still Bruce. If you hadn't loved me-' Bruce choked up again, 'if you hadn't protected me- if I hadn't have been your greatest work... your little boy, I wouldn't be here.' He fell quiet. His breaths were rushed: uncontrolled. For the first time in a long time, Bruce could feel control slipping away from him. 'I know you'd hate what I've become. All of you would. But I needed this. I needed a way to fight back. I needed a way to make sense of what had happened. And this is it.' The wind howled as Bruce looked down at the graves of his loved ones, and his own. That was a sight he'd never adjusted to. All the times he'd visited the graves in secret. It was still unusual to see his own. But, as he grew older, he rationalised it as the grave of his innocence. There was no body in there but there was a spirit. And it was that spirit that it hurt to talk to the most. Even though Bruce had convinced himself he needed to be this vengeful creature of the night, he knew his younger self would be horrified to learn what he grew into. 'I can't do this.' Bruce whispered. 'I thought I could but I can't. I'm sorry.' He blinked hard to clear his eyes of tears, of weakness, and wiped his face. A moment of reconciliation before chasing and killing the serial killer terrorising Gotham. That's what he thought this was, and that's what he thought he needed. But when it came down to it, Bruce realised that he didn't want that. He couldn't face the reality of what he was about to do - what he had already done so many times before. He didn't need to make sense of it. He needed to sink into the darkness and let it consume him. There was no other way now.

As Bruce Wayne tried to redeem part of his soul, the GCPD were hard at work investigating the murders and any patterns between them. 'Gordon!' A gruff voice called out. From his desk in the bullpen, a skinnier-than-average, red-haired man with a bushy moustache stood up. His glasses glimmered in the yellow-tinted light of the precinct and he made his way to the office he was called from. 'Yes, sir.' Detective James Gordon Sr. spoke quick and assertively.

'Jim, what the hell is this?' Gordon looked down at the files in front of him. His boss had them all open on the autopsy page; specifically, he had them all with one image front and centre. This was the only connection between the murders. 'We believe this is the killer's M.O.' Gordon explained. 'M.O.? Jim, this is sick! Does the media know about this?' Gordon silently shook his head left to right. 'Thank god. It stays that way, okay? No matter what, we stay silent on this.' Even from where he was standing, Gordon could see the sweat running down his boss' forehead. 'It's bad enough we've let this freak kill three people! If people knew...' There was a pause. It sounded like Gordon's boss was trying to hold back from throwing up. 'If people knew this psychopath was taking their eyes... we'd be in big trouble with the media. They'd eat us - me - alive.' Gordon remained silent and simply nodded before heading to the door. He knew this meeting was over. 'Gordon,' his boss called for his attention again, 'whatever you do, make sure we catch this sicko. We need to prove that no one can do stuff like this in our city.' With another quick, understanding nod, Gordon was gone. He knew what his job was. Catch the killer. Make them pay. It was a job he was good at, and he didn't need reminding that there was someone out there killing and maiming people.