The ride to Wayne Manor was mostly silent.
Shawn didn't speak. Alfred, though visibly anxious, kept his eyes forward, hands tight on the steering wheel. Despite the lack of words, Shawn already knew everything he needed to.
Using his demonic abilities—specifically his power to peer into the hearts and thoughts of others—Shawn had seen the truth in Alfred's mind.
Bruce Wayne was injured.
Badly.
So badly, in fact, that even Gotham's best doctors couldn't help him. That was why Alfred had reluctantly come to Shawn, Gotham's most unconventional—and often morally ambiguous—psychiatrist and healer.
Originally, Alfred had been opposed to seeking Shawn's help. After all, he had a reputation for treating criminals—murderers, arsonists, even a few Arkham escapees. Not exactly the kind of physician a billionaire vigilante would trust.
But Bruce had insisted.
No one else. Only Shawn.
And so, against his instincts and better judgment, Alfred had come in disguise. He drove an unremarkable old car, wore civilian clothes, and avoided contact with anyone who might recognize him. Even as they pulled into the private road leading to Wayne Manor, Alfred still seemed uneasy.
After minutes of quiet, he finally spoke.
"Dr. Shawn," he asked hesitantly, "can you really save Master Bruce?"
Shawn didn't answer right away.
Because, to be fair, he didn't even know what Bruce's injury was. The fragments of knowledge he had gleaned from Alfred's surface thoughts only told him that it was grave.
But it didn't matter.
Whether it was a punctured lung, brain trauma, magical curse, or a soul-rending demonic attack—as long as Bruce was still alive, Shawn could bring him back.
Even if Bruce had already crossed the line into death… there were ways. Risky, messy ways. But ways nonetheless.
So, he replied coolly, "If he's still alive, I can save him."
Alfred let out a breath, just barely relaxing.
The car turned into the heart of Gotham's wealthiest neighborhood, flanked by high walls and surveillance drones. And after a few more minutes, they arrived.
Wayne Manor.
Even in the pouring rain, the mansion looked magnificent. Grand stone walls, ivy-draped balconies, and gothic towers loomed like ancient guardians. A fortress for a man who walked the line between shadow and hero.
The car stopped just outside the main entrance.
"Come," Alfred said quickly, opening the door and motioning for Shawn to follow.
He didn't hesitate.
The two of them walked briskly inside, through elegantly decorated hallways, past priceless paintings and heavy chandeliers. But they didn't stop to admire any of it. Time was running out.
Alfred led Shawn into one of the private upper rooms.
And there—on a grand four-poster bed draped in velvet—lay Bruce Wayne.
The billionaire vigilante.
The Dark Knight.
The Bat of Gotham.
Wrapped in bloodied bandages, his chest barely moved. His skin was pale. Too pale.
Alfred rushed to his side. "Dr. Shawn, please. Help him!"
But Shawn didn't move.
He had stopped cold at the doorway, staring not at the body on the bed—but at the figure standing beside it.
Because there was someone else in the room.
A translucent, ghostly figure. Floating silently in the air, staring back at him with wide, confused eyes.
Bruce Wayne's soul.
That's right.
Bruce Wayne… was dead.
Shawn was stunned.
His jaw tightened as he processed the scene. You've got to be kidding me, he thought. I just said I could maybe fix it if he died—and this idiot actually went and died?!
This wasn't just shocking—it was ridiculous.
Batman, the pillar of the Justice League, the one man who always had a contingency plan, had just died?
Outrageous.
Absolutely outrageous.
"Doctor, please! He's not breathing!" Alfred shouted in panic, breaking Shawn from his thoughts.
Shawn didn't respond right away. Internally, he sighed.
Of course he's not breathing. The man's soul is literally floating three feet away from his corpse.
Still, he couldn't say that out loud. Alfred wasn't ready for that kind of truth.
So, Shawn walked over with measured calm. He reached out and pressed two fingers gently to Bruce's neck.
Ice.
His skin was cold.
Dead cold.
No pulse. No breath. No warmth.
Good grief.
He turned to Alfred, who looked like he was on the verge of a breakdown.
"Please, Dr. Shawn," Alfred begged, "you have to save him. I can't lose him…"
Shawn's gaze softened. He could feel the raw sincerity in Alfred's words. For the stoic butler, Bruce was more than a master—he was family. A son in everything but blood.
And Bruce's soul, still lingering, flinched at those words.
"Sorry, Alfred," ghost-Bruce murmured, hovering above. "I wasn't supposed to die yet…"
"Alright," Shawn finally said, straightening his shoulders. "Leave the room. I need silence."
Alfred blinked. "But—"
"No interruptions. No one comes in, no matter what you hear. If anything distracts me during this process, I won't be responsible for the consequences."
Alfred swallowed hard, then nodded.
"I understand. I'll wait outside. Please… save him."
He turned and left the room, quietly closing the door behind him.
As soon as he was gone, Shawn sighed and rubbed his temples.
"Man, you are really testing me, Bruce."
Ghost-Bruce hovered nearby, arms crossed skeptically. "So… you can actually see me?"
Shawn nodded. "Yeah. Welcome to being dead. You should've read the fine print before playing hero."
Bruce floated downward slightly, his brows furrowed. "Can you bring me back?"
"That depends."
"On what?"
"On whether you want to come back. And whether your body can handle it."
Bruce looked down at his body—broken, battered, unmoving.
"I've been through worse."
Shawn smirked. "We'll see about that."
He opened his black medical case and retrieved a handful of vials glowing with eerie colors—red, violet, and gold. Some shimmered like starlight; others pulsed with demonic energy.
This wasn't medicine.
This was forbidden alchemy, dark resurrection arts passed down through the demonic line. Techniques mortals feared, and even demons used sparingly.
Shawn drew a rune on Bruce's forehead using a drop of his own blood.
The room dimmed.
Candles flickered despite no wind.
The air thickened with pressure.
Bruce's soul began to flicker too—half tethered, half drifting away.
"Don't fight it," Shawn warned. "Stay still."
He placed one hand over Bruce's chest and muttered an incantation in a long-dead tongue.
Suddenly, Bruce's body arched.
His soul let out a sharp cry as it was yanked downward, pulled toward the shell it once occupied.
Flames of dark energy coiled around them, pulsing like a second heartbeat.
Outside the door, Alfred flinched as he felt the floor shake beneath his feet.
But he didn't move.
He had promised not to interrupt. Not even now.
Inside, Shawn's voice grew louder.
The ritual reached its climax.
Then, silence.
For a moment, the only sound was the low hum of residual energy.
Then—gasp!
Bruce's chest expanded sharply, and his eyes snapped open.
He sat up with a jolt, coughing violently, eyes wide in panic.
Shawn stepped back, panting slightly from exertion.
"Easy," he said. "You're alive. Don't waste it."
Bruce blinked at him.
"You brought me back."
"No refunds," Shawn said dryly.
Bruce laid back, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding.
"I owe you."
"You're damn right you do."
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