In the Batcave.
Alfred stood before the operating table, wearing gloves as he conducted an extremely meticulous autopsy. But he had a very bad feeling about this.
That face, so strikingly similar to Bruce's, kept leading his thoughts to terrible possibilities—the very things he feared most.
"How is it?"
Alfred looked at Bruce, then walked over with a test report in hand. He desperately wanted to know who the man lying on the operating table was.
The report was placed on the table beside them. The DNA was almost a perfect match. The man lying on the operating table was him.
Bruce Wayne.
Well, that was bizarre. Even a little eerie.
But Bruce was not surprised. What could shatter one's worldview more thoroughly than the existence of angels and demons?
Even if someone who looked exactly like him walked up one day, Bruce would not have been surprised.
Much less a corpse. Perhaps he could get more information from it, such as... how he had died.
Whether it was a parallel universe or time travel from the future, both were fascinating subjects. Perhaps he could even write a paper on it.
"This really isn't good news. I suspect that glass of gin I had last night was fake."
Alfred looked at the report, an expression somewhere between laughter and tears on his face as he tried to defuse the situation with humor.
"So how did he die? Cause of death, and..."
Bruce looked at the wound on the corpse's chest. It was a bullet scar. He had one on his own chest as well.
A thug robbing a worker had shot him with a .22-caliber revolver. He was flesh and blood. He could be injured, bleed, and even die.
But in Gotham, he was the demon of the night, the