Dangers in the Dark

Death - An Old Friend 22.1

Third Person POV
Wayne Manor

People were allowed secrets, that was a fact in life. Every single living person would have at least one secret that they would take to the grave; a secret that would remain a mystery to all who remained on this earth, and they would be left wondering and wondering ... what was the truth, who was this person? Those answers, more likely than not, would never be answered. Bruce Wayne refused to let his father's secret disappear just like that.

Two weeks had passed since his visit to Wayne Enterprises, and he was nowhere near closer to finding out what his father had been up to than he had when he had left his company's building. Even with Holly, as was normal, spending much of her time in Wayne Manor and helping him with his search, they weren't close at all.

While he was alone on this particular session, Bruce paced around the room, staring at a photo of his father, and listening to the reporter on the tv going through the day's tragedies, yet again. Ever since the gang war broke out, it had been nothing, but bad news and the bodies were really starting to pile up now.

"The gang war rages on here in Gotham. No one knows what set this bloody turf war off, but it is commonly believed to be the result of a longtime power struggle between Salvatore Maroni and Carmine Falcone."

The reporter continued as Bruce let them fade into the background. He stopped his pacing and picked up the photo that had been tauntingly staring at him as he and Holly had been researching for the passed two weeks. Every time Bruce made eye contact with that damn photo, it felt like his father was mocking him; his secret felt so close but so far.

Part of him hoping to find answers behind it and partly out of rage, Bruce slammed the photo onto the desk, satisfied when he heard the sound of glass smashing. He tore the picture frame apart but still there was nothing apart from a torn photo and a pile of glass crystals now on his father's desk.

"Still looking for secrets, are we, sir?" Alfred asked, finally making his presence known, after watching the young boy for several moments. "Or just breaking stuff?"

"Secrets," Bruce answered, looking down at the photo again, as though a clue would have suddenly appeared in his father's eyes or his toothy grin.

"I don't know. Whole city's going doolally around us. I mean, there's a bloody war on the streets ..." Alfred approached Bruce, turning off the depressing war commentary as he did so "... and you're in here worrying about your poor old dad."

"Yes, I am," Bruce replied bluntly, this time picking up the photo for a better view.

"If your father had a secret life – which I hasten to add, he didn't – I'd know about it, wouldn't I?" Alfred said. "A sober, diligent man he was. Never out gallivanting. Home every night, like clockwork, working, in this very room."

"Yes, I remember," Bruce assured him, resuming his pacing as he scrutinised every single inch of this room. "I wasn't allowed to disturb him while he was working."

"Nobody was," Alfred added.

"Classical music ... he would play for hours," Bruce reminisced.

"That's right," Alfred agreed, resting his hands against each other as he watched his young master deep in thought.

"Mom and I would read books or play board games until he was done," Bruce said, finally snapping out of his reminiscence daze. "I remember. I tried to sneak in to see him, but the door was locked. Was the door always locked, Alfred?"

"Yeah, well, I suppose so, when he was working," Alfred answered.

"Why, though?" Bruce questioned, though he didn't appear to be waiting for an answer from Alfred. "Why lock the door?"