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Summary
Martha Wayne died with Bruce’s hand in hers, and Joe Chill’s fingers between her teeth, and she made Gotham bleed for it.
“They fought,” Bruce whispered, voice breaking right in the middle. A broken instrument that’ll never work again.
Not the same.
“They were brave. They were nice. They loved me. And it didn’t matter.”
When he was 8, Gotham, haunted, filthy, tired of trying, decided what it was.
And Bruce decided, too.
No one is happy about it.
