Batman was true to his word. The city coroner, Dr. Arvin, was profoundly grateful, his initial fear replaced by a quiet awe at Batman’s efficiency and dedication.

Within a few days, the intricate web of resources at Batman’s disposal unraveled the mystery of the Jane Doe. She was Kelley Anne Johnson, from the small farming town of Arlington, Iowa, half the country away from the chaos of Gotham.

It was then that Bruce Wayne took over. He found her family—a quiet, hardworking couple who had long grieved the disappearance of their daughter, lost to the allure of the city. He arranged a funeral fit for a queen, held not in Gotham, but in their small, close-knit community.

More than that, he meticulously rewrote her final chapter. Her death was no longer that of an anonymous prostitute, but of Kelley Johnson, an essential employee at Wayne Enterprises, a brilliant marketing director who had tragically died a hero, saving a child from getting hit by a car in the street.

Her family, stunned and tearful, was amazed she had been so successful, rising to such a prestigious position, and then laid down her life in such a selfless act. The lie, born of necessity, gifted them not just closure, but a legacy of pride and honor for their lost daughter.

After the funeral, as the last mourners drifted away from the graveside, Kelley’s mother, a small woman with eyes that held the deep sorrow of years, pulled Bruce aside. Her hand, fragile and trembling, reached up to cup his cheek, and she pressed a soft, tearful kiss there.

“Mr. Wayne,” she whispered, her voice raw with emotion, “your words… your eulogy… it was so kind. Too kind, perhaps.” She looked past him, her gaze distant, lost in memory. “But you know, I was the only one in our whole family who truly knew the demons my Kelley fought. Her whole short life. I tried, Lord, I tried so hard to help her. I brought her home, again and again, but she… she kept falling back into that abyss. Just when I thought she was free, she’d slip, and then the calls would stop. The letters. Nothing.” A fresh wave of tears tracked paths through the dust on her cheeks. “You’re too kind, Mr. Wayne, painting her as such a hero.” She finally met his gaze, a heartbreaking, knowing look in her watery eyes. “My Kelley… she’s finally found her peace now. I truly believe it.”

Bruce’s heart shattered, broken by the weight of the lie he had built upon her truth. Without a word, he pulled her into a gentle hug, letting her lean against him, a silent acknowledgment of her truth. A mother always knows, the quiet wisdom of Alfred echoing in his mind.

***

The flight back to Gotham seemed to take forever, each minute stretching into an hour. Kelley’s tragic story, now stripped of its heroic veneer and laid bare by her mother’s heartbroken honesty, weighed heavy on him. The success, the heroism—it was all a fabrication.

The reality was a life battling demons and a quiet, lonely fall into the abyss. The weight of that true story, and her mother’s enduring heartbreak, settled deep within him, a somber counterpoint to the city lights that slowly began to appear on the horizon.

Alfred and Hailey met him at the airport. They immediately noticed the grim set of his jaw and the distant look in his eyes but didn’t pry, respecting the quiet burden he carried. Hailey sat in the back with Bruce, the palpable tension of his frame filling the luxurious car. He didn’t say anything the whole way home, the silence thick with unspoken sorrow.

As they entered Wayne Manor, he bypassed all pleasantries, heading immediately for his study and down into the cool depths of the Batcave. He shed his jacket, then his shirt, pulling on his gloves with practiced efficiency. He didn’t waste a moment before assaulting the heavy bag, the leather groaning under his powerful blows.

With each strike, Kelley’s face appeared in his mind, not the fabricated image of the successful marketing executive, but the haunting specter of a young woman lost and alone. Over and over, he pounded the haunting image, sweat stinging his eyes, trying to drive the memory into oblivion. A young woman, a life so full of potential—died a prostitute, alone in an alley. “NEVER AGAIN!” he roared. The primal sound echoing off the cavern walls after every bone-jarring impact. It was a vow, a furious, desperate promise to himself and to Gotham.

The impacts from the Batcave below could be heard even upstairs, echoing like distant thunder through the grand, silent house. Hailey, pacing in her room, flinched with each reverberation.

“Alfred,” she asked, her voice tight with worry as he passed her door. “Will he be okay?”

Alfred paused, his gaze softening as he looked at her.

“He will, Ms. Hailey. Master Bruce carries a great many burdens, and sometimes… sometimes he must confront them in his own way. This is his manner of processing, of reaffirming his commitment. He is a man of immense resolve, and he will emerge from this, as he always does, with renewed purpose.”

Bruce’s arms felt like lead weights, each swing a monumental effort. Still, he continued. Sweat freely dripped onto the Batcave floor, forming dark puddles around his feet as he relentlessly pounded the heavy bag.

With a roar that tore from deep in his soul, Bruce hit the heavy bag one last time. The impact was so immense that the chain finally snapped, sending the massive bag flying and crashing against the wall with a resounding thud.

He stood there, chest heaving, until his breathing began to regulate, then picked up his sweat-soaked shirt and jacket before heading upstairs.

Hailey, still lingering in the hallway, heard him coming up the stairs. She saw him as he emerged, dripping with sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead, and still breathing heavier than normal, his powerful frame radiating a raw intensity. Her worry, evident in her eyes, deepened.

“Bruce?” She asked, stepping towards him. "Are you alright?"

He met her gaze, his eyes still holding a storm of emotion but now with a grim clarity.

“No,” he said, his voice raspy from exertion and emotion. “I’m not alright.”

He ran a hand over his face.

“Her name was Kelley Johnson. From Iowa. She wasn’t some marketing director who died saving a child. She was a young woman who fought demons, who kept falling back into the abyss, and who ultimately died alone, a prostitute, in an alley.”

He looked at her directly, the intensity in his eyes unwavering.

“I lied, Hailey. I fabricated a heroic death for her family, gave her a funeral fit for a queen, all to cover a necessary deception. But her mother… her mother knew the truth. She looked me in the eye and thanked me for the peace I brought her daughter, knowing full well the hell Kelley had lived.” He took a deep, shuddering breath, the vow now a burning brand within him.

“NO ONE… NOT ONE MORE PERSON… will die alone and forgotten in an alley in this city! Not under my watch! NEVER AGAIN!”

His declaration, raw and fervent, shocked her into silence. The sheer depth of his pain and his unwavering resolve to prevent such lonely ends were almost palpable.

When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet but firm, a resonance of her own past determination, “I want to help.”

© Copyright 2025 J.R. Geiger. All rights reserved.