Bruce Wayne stood near the glass partition of the medical suite, arms folded, watching the sleeping boy through the reflection rather than directly. He looked like a man reviewing a problem, not a patient. The monitors hummed in steady rhythm. Controlled. Predictable. Alive.
"Any news, Alfred?"
Alfred returned from the corridor, phone sliding neatly into his pocket after a long call. His expression was composed, but Bruce caught the tell — the faint tightening around the eyes that meant the result was unusual.
"Well, sir…" Alfred exhaled softly. "This is new. I've exhausted every channel available to me. No birth certificate. No school records. No digital footprint. No missing persons match. In every measurable system…" He paused, choosing the words with care. "…the child does not exist."
Bruce's jaw flexed.
"That's not possible."
"No, sir," Alfred replied evenly. "But it is currently true."
Bruce looked back at the boy. Stable vitals. Normal brain activity. Entirely human.
"So he just appeared."
Alfred allowed himself the faintest sigh. "Given our history, I hesitate to use the word just, but… yes. That seems to be the working theory."
Bruce stepped toward the bed.
The boy stirred.
A sharp inhale tore into his lungs as his eyes snapped open. He jerked halfway upright before pain stabbed through his chest, forcing a hiss between his teeth.
"Uh— wh—where am I?" His voice cracked. His gaze darted around the room, locking onto the sterile lights. "Is this… a hospital?"
Fragments returned in a rush.
"I remember the thesis… we were finishing it and then— chest pain, that stupid pop-up ad, and I just…"
His eyes landed on Bruce.
Franz froze.
Tall. Dark hair. Blue eyes. Perfect posture. An expensive suit worn like armor.
His gaze slid to Alfred.
British. Impossibly dignified. Standing like a retired assassin pretending to be a butler.
Oh no.
Oh no no no no.
His heartbeat spiked loud enough he was sure the machines could hear it.
That's Bruce Wayne.
That's Alfred Pennyworth.
That means—
I'm in DC.
Every survival instinct he had screamed: do not say that out loud.
Bruce pulled a chair closer and sat, bringing himself to eye level. He didn't loom. He never loomed over frightened kids.
"You're safe," he said calmly. "You collapsed. We brought you to a secure medical facility."
Secure facility.
Not hospital.
Of course it's not a hospital. It's probably under Wayne Manor. I'm in the Batcave adjacent to the medical wing. I'm in the Batcave. I'm in the—
Franz forced his face to stay confused instead of horrified.
"…Who are you?" he asked, praying his voice didn't betray him.
"My name is Bruce," he said simply.
Yeah. I bet it is.
Franz nodded slowly like this was new information.
"I'm… Franz," he answered. The name felt fragile in his mouth. "Franz Tepes… I think." He swallowed. "Why does that sound weird when I say it?"
Alfred stepped forward carrying a glass of water as if this were an ordinary afternoon.
"Memory can behave strangely after trauma," he said gently, offering it. "Best not to wrestle with it all at once. Small steps first. Hydration, for instance."
Franz took the glass with both hands so they wouldn't see them shake.
Don't mention Gotham.
Don't mention Batman.
Don't mention literally anything.
"Thank you…"
"You're very welcome," Alfred replied warmly. "And before you ask — no, you're not in trouble. You're not being detained. You're a guest while we make sure you're well."
Franz looked between them.
"You don't look like doctors."
A beat.
Bruce almost smiled.
"No," he said. "We're not."
Silence stretched. Franz studied Bruce's face, searching for danger, finding none — which was somehow worse. He could feel the detective engine running behind those eyes, measuring tone, word choice, heart rate.
Please don't Batman me.
"So… uh… where am I exactly?" Franz asked.
Bruce and Alfred exchanged a glance.
"You're in a private medical facility," Bruce answered. True, but incomplete.
Yep. Definitely the Batcave.
Franz nodded like that was totally normal information.
"Cool," he said weakly. "That's… normal. Private facilities. Happens to me all the time."
Alfred's eyebrow twitched a millimeter.
Danger. He noticed.
Franz rushed to fix it. "I mean — not the collapsing part. The hospital part. I don't usually wake up in secret rich-people clinics. That'd be weird."
Stop talking. Stop talking right now.
"…What happens now?" he asked quickly.
Bruce didn't hesitate.
"Now you rest. We run a few more tests. And we figure this out."
He didn't say if.
Franz's shoulders slowly lowered. Exhaustion replaced fear.
"…Okay," he whispered.
Alfred adjusted the blanket with practiced care.
"There we are," he murmured. "One impossible problem at a time. No mysteries need solving tonight."
Franz shut his eyes.
Too late.
I'm literally inside the biggest mystery magnet in fiction.
And I have to pretend I don't know that.
Bruce met Alfred's eyes over the boy's head.
The message passed between them silently:
He stays safe. No matter what this is.
And Alfred, as always, had already decided and added a humorous note.
"We try not to make a habit of alarming our guests, right master Bruce?"