Batman left Crime Alley to the man who scraped a living selling fake pearls and Star Wars versions of stories. The man needed that alley entrance to make a living. Batman did not, and he certainly had no reason to throw a punch at an unarmed civilian.
He wandered aimlessly through Gotham's night, heading north. By the time he realized where he was, he was standing on the hillside outside Wayne Manor, gazing at the familiar building.
It was exactly as he remembered: the towers, the windows, the corridors he had run through countless times. He stood among the trees outside the manor for an unknown length of time, watching the lights come on one by one.
First the downstairs kitchen, then the second-floor study. He recognized the location of every light, could name them with his eyes closed. The kitchen light would stay on for forty minutes while Alfred made tea. The hallway light would stay on for fifteen minutes while Alfred checked the doors and windows. The study light...
A figure passed in front of the study window.
Batman's breathing stopped for an instant.
The figure moved slowly, pausing before the window as though putting something in order, then disappeared from view. But Batman did not need to see him. He knew what the man was doing.
He was closing the window, checking the lock, straightening the crooked books on the shelves. He would stay in the study a little longer, then go downstairs, bring up the tea, sit in that chair, read for a while, and turn off the light.
Batman knew the routine so well he could play it out in perfect sync.
Forty years ago, after his parents' funeral, that man had bustled up and down the stairs just like this, bringing him tea, tucking