"Alfred, I'm hungry. Did you prepare a late-night snack for me...?"
Having just finished a charity gala and danced two dances with a young lady whose name he had failed to remember, Bruce Wayne had barely pushed open the door to Wayne Manor when he sensed that something was wrong.
At this hour, Alfred would usually be waiting at the entrance for him to return. Though it was already late, he would definitely be there, and inside the house...
Bruce released the doorknob and silently stepped into the hall. He looked at the Scarecrow lying on the stairs and the black-and-white striped clothing.
As he stepped forward, something beneath his foot made Bruce stop. He bent down and picked up a silver dinner knife from the floor, his fingers brushing over the pattern on its handle.
Bruce's gaze gradually turned cold. He wore a mask when he acted precisely to avoid drawing attention, and even more so because he did not want the people he cared about to be hurt because of him.
Click. The tape recorder sitting on the stairway began rewinding and playing again. During this time, it had played who knew how many times already.
"Batman... or perhaps I should call you Bruce Wayne. As a psychologist, I am quite concerned about your mental health. After all, a cross-dressing playboy wandering Gotham's streets at night is hardly healthy behavior."
"Uh, let me think. You may not know me. I can introduce myself, if I may. I would very much like to... personally treat you. You may call me Scarecrow!"
"This is my gift to you: a patient's uniform. I have also prepared a room for you. You can move in without any worries. I will make you normal."
"Oh, and your loyal old butler is here as