"THERE'S SOMEBODY AT THE DOOR, MR WAYNE!"

Bruce Wayne had just made it to his bed, freshly showered after a long and brutal night of fighting criminals on the rainy streets of Gotham.
“Why do I do it to myself?”

But deep down, he knew why. He had a score to settle. Ever since witnessing the double murder of his parents outside the Monarch Theatre that night in ’81, he had sworn to never stop dragging darkness into the light—no matter how many twisted forms it took.

As he rested his head against his black silk pillow, he looked up at the dark void of the canopy above him and suddenly felt the futility of his vigilante endeavours. In the grand scheme of eternity, it was nothing.
“I could bring a million reprobates to Commissioner Gordon, and they’d keep on coming like rats in a sewer. It never stops. Criminals are as inevitable as life and death.”

Then, a fantasia of his most persistent adversaries flashed before his eyes—Ra’s al Ghul, Carmine Falcone, Scarecrow, Black Mask, and Bane, not to mention the even more flamboyant Two-Face, Penguin, and the Riddler. More villain with a thousand faces than hero.
“It’s like we’re dancing off the edge of a cliff together. All fated to drown eventually in the same ocean of darkness.”

Depressed, he found himself needing a distraction from these grim thoughts. Picking up his bedside phone, he called Vicki Vale. He needed to hear a feminine voice—something to soften the weight of his unrelenting gloom.
“You still up?”

He knew it was a stupid question. Vicki was even more nocturnal than he was.
“Yeah, why? What’s the matter? Can’t sleep?”
“Something like that. You want to come round? I can send Alfred to pick you up.”
“No, don’t wake poor Alfred. I just have to finish up at the studio before the private view tomorrow. I’ll get a taxi over as soon as I can.”
“That’s great. I’ll find a nice bottle from the cellar.”

Putting the phone back down, Bruce felt lighter now that he’d acted on his instincts, choosing not to spend the night alone, stewing in his thoughts.

Down in Wayne Manor’s extensive wine cellar, Bruce studied the dusty vintage bottles that had remained untouched since his late father first began collecting them. Certain years on the labels felt especially poignant now—the year his parents married, the year of his birth, and, most tragically, the year of their deaths.

“It was a very bad year…” he mock-sang the Sinatra classic, staring at the last bottle his father had ever acquired before being brutally slain.

He considered opening that very same Screaming Eagle Cabernet but decided to save it for one of Wayne Enterprises’ charity auctions. It was what his father would have wanted. Finally settling on a more modest bottle, he headed back upstairs.

Starting up the open fire in the large kitchen, Bruce began to feel more cheerful.
“It’s amazing what a bottle of wine and a beautiful, intelligent woman can do for the soul.”

He grabbed two stemless glasses from the cabinet by the kitchen table and opened the Château Ausone to let it breathe before Miss Vale arrived.

Then the kitchen intercom crackled to life. It was Alfred.
“What is it, Alfred? I was trying not to disturb you.”
“There’s somebody at the door, Mr. Wayne. Shall I get it?”
“It’s Vicki. Let her in, if you don’t mind, Alfred. Tell her I’m in the kitchen.”
“Yes, Master Wayne.”

How strange, Bruce thought. He hadn’t even heard the doorbell. Suddenly, his stomach tightened with one of his bad feelings.

BANG!!!

Racing into the lower hallway, Bruce froze in that brief moment where the echo of the gunshot still hung in the air. There lay Alfred—his butler, his confidant—sprawled dead on the floor, his claret-red blood stark against the chessboard tiles of Wayne Manor.

And standing above him, smoking gun in hand, was what looked like a taxi driver in a flat cap. Until he looked up—revealing a kabuki-white painted face.

“Hi, Bruce! You’ll never guess who I just picked up in my taxi.”

Bruce was numb, paralyzed by the sight—checkmated by his number one nemesis.
“And don’t worry, Bruce. I brought my own glass.”