The sun rises over the Wayne mansion flooding in through its high windows and drenching its lavish halls in golden light. A wine bottle shatters on the hard wood floors of a dark dingy living room as Bruce Wayne rolls onto his side, desperately trying to ignore the allure of a new day in the harsh cruel world that surrounds his own private stupor.

A newscast playing on a flat screen TV hanging over the lingering flames of the fireplace buzzes in the background. "5 years after the terrible events at Gotham Harbour we ask ourselves, when is the terrorist Batman finally going to answer for his heinous crimes", accuses a delicately beautiful reporter with an English accent from the TV screen, "As our police force are fooled at every turn, this reporter chooses to take a leaf from the Batman's book and take the law into her own hands, Gotham, it's time to unmask the Batman, Emily Dante, Channel 8 News".

Bruce begins to laugh to himself as Alfred enters the room with a large mug of coffee, "Thought you might be needing this sir" the butler recites as he hands over the mug to a considerably more animated Bruce Wayne. "You know, this one doesn't seem like the others, she has some spark in her. You suppose she's smart enough to find the vigilante millionaire that's been hiding under everyone's noses the entire time?" Bruce boasts before gulping mouthfuls of hot coffee.

"Well I don't doubt she'll be paying a visit to the manor some time in the near future, considering you've got your sights set on her" Alfred replies,

"You're not wrong Alfred, you're not wrong".

As Bruce begins to loose himself in his own little fantasy world the news story changes, and the screen reveals a weapons factory manufacturing floor strewn in dead bodies, the reporter begins to speak as Bruce listens intently, "This is clearly the work of a cold blooded killer, not one man is left alive, not even the one lone security officer in the camera room". The image on screen cuts to a shot of the security officer lying backwards in his chair, with one bullet hole in his forehead and several in his genitals, a look of indescribable pain frozen across his face. "Oh God, poor guy" Bruce mumbled to himself, taking a minute to process the image before turning to Alfred, "Get the suit ready" he orders, before finishing his coffee and striding out of the room with his usual air of purpose surrounding him.