Gotham's nights were especially bleak and desolate. There was not a soul on the streets, least of all around Wayne Manor. Bare trees that had only recently shed their leaves cast layered shadows across the ground under different lights, and that already counted as the liveliest sight on the street.
A black limousine stopped at the manor gates. Polished leather shoes stepped onto the fallen leaves with a dry rustle. A lean figure stood before the Gothic-patterned metal gates, somehow carrying the imposing air of one man holding off ten thousand.
The manor had long lost its former brilliance. Only two lamps were lit in the enormous living room. Batman, fresh from a shower and drying his hair with a towel, stood in one pool of light, while the droplets in his hair reflected the glow from another.
Ding-dong!
When he heard the doorbell, Batman felt as though a lifetime had passed. He seemed to see that elderly figure standing by the door again, asking him in a faintly complaining tone, "Who would come calling at this hour?"
But no. There was no such person anymore.
Batman roughly wiped his hair twice, tossed the towel aside, and opened the manor door himself. The cold wind in the courtyard made him shiver, but when he saw who was standing at the gate, he felt even colder.
Batman walked to the gates and stared at Pale Rider through the ornate metal bars.
"Why are you here?"
Pale Rider did not answer. He merely looked Batman over. It seemed he no longer wanted to pretend to be Bruce Wayne—or perhaps he no longer had the strength to keep pretending.
Ever since his old butler Alfred had died, he had become a true solitary ghost. At this moment, Pale Rider genuinely began to wonder