"Don't touch me!"
Bruce's eyes snapped open, his muscles instinctively tensing. His right hand shot out like lightning and clamped around the throat of the person approaching him.
"Ah! That hurts! Sir, let go!"
A sharp, terrified cry exploded beside his ear. Bruce froze for a moment as the memories from before he lost consciousness flooded back. The burning space beneath the bridge, the old man's betrayal, the swinging steel pipes... and finally, the clown with the ridiculous painted smile.
He quickly let go, gasping for breath as his vision gradually came into focus.
He looked around. It was an extremely cramped rented apartment. Large patches of plaster had peeled off the walls, exposing the yellowed bricks beneath, and an old water stain spread across the ceiling.
Unexpectedly, though, the room had none of the moldy stench or reek of urine so characteristic of the East End. Instead, it carried the fresh scent of cheap soap. The floor had been scrubbed clean, and there was even a healthy pothos plant on the windowsill.
He looked down and discovered that his ragged plaid shirt had been removed. His upper body was bare, and several wounds deep enough to expose bone had been smeared with an ointment that smelled sharply of herbs. They were wrapped in several layers of cheap but clean bandages, washed almost white.
The treatment was crude, but careful.
"You... you almost crushed my wrist."
A thin, frail man stood beside the bed. Wearing a faded gray sweater, he rubbed his reddened wrist, his eyes filled with unmistakable fear and a trace of resignation.
He wore no makeup. His face was pale, his eyes sunken with the exhaustion of chronic sleep deprivation and malnutrition, but his features held a gentle timidity.
Bruce narrowed his eyes, matching the face before