"I should've known better than to trust Deathstroke," Bruce's soul muttered, his voice tinged with disappointment and regret. "He beat me nearly to death—why would he then tell me how to survive it?"
He shook his head, hovering in the air above his lifeless body, his ghostly form flickering faintly in the dim light of the Wayne Manor bedroom.
Shawn, crouched beside Bruce's corpse, paused at that name.
Deathstroke?
He raised an eyebrow.
So that bastard was behind this?
Things started to click into place. Just a week ago, Deathstroke—barely clinging to life—had crawled into Shawn's clinic, blood pouring from a dozen wounds. Shawn had treated him, reluctantly, because he wasn't the type to turn away a patient. Even if that patient was one of the most dangerous assassins in the world.
Apparently, Deathstroke recovered just fine.
Fine enough to track down Batman and beat him to death.
And to make matters worse… he'd told Bruce that Shawn could save him?
Shawn groaned. "I should've let that bastard bleed out on my floor."
Still grumbling, Shawn began removing the blood-soaked straps and gauze wrapped tightly around Bruce's body. Though Bruce had numerous injuries scattered across his arms and torso, most were superficial compared to the gaping wound over his chest.
The strike had pierced directly into the heart.
That was the fatal blow.
And in a cruel way, it made sense. The heart had always been humanity's greatest weakness.
"Fragile creatures," Shawn muttered as he stared at the torn tissue. "One little puncture and it's game over."
Despite the jab, there wasn't cruelty in his tone—just detached observation.
Hovering nearby, ghost-Bruce let out a dry laugh.
"Well, I guess I proved your point."
Shawn ignored him.
He reached into his black medical case, snapped on a pair of thick gloves, and without hesitation, plunged two fingers into the torn flesh of Bruce's chest. With a practiced touch, he probed the ruined heart, frowning as he felt the severed tissue and jagged tear.
Hovering at his shoulder, Bruce's soul went pale—even though he technically was pale.
"Hey! Can you not jam your fingers into my dead chest like you're scooping jam out of a jar?"
Shawn didn't even flinch.
Instead, he looked directly at Bruce's soul, locking eyes.
"I'll do what I damn well please," he said flatly.
Bruce blinked.
Wait—could he actually see him?
No. Impossible.
He was a spirit. A soul. Alfred hadn't seen him. No one else had.
Maybe it was just a coincidence.
Curious, Bruce waved a ghostly hand in front of Shawn's face.
"Okay," he said, "If you can actually see me, blink twice."
Shawn narrowed his eyes and said, "If you keep waving that transparent hand near me, I swear I'll rip your ghost-heart out too."
Bruce froze in mid-air.
"…you can see me."
"Sharp as ever," Shawn said with a smirk.
Bruce stared at him in stunned silence. It was one thing to come back from the dead. It was another to have someone talking to you while you were still dead.
"Who the hell are you?" Bruce asked.
Shawn shrugged. "Didn't Deathstroke explain it?"
Bruce's eyes narrowed. "He said you were a doctor. A weird one. He didn't mention… this."
"Yeah, well," Shawn said, "I don't advertise the full menu."
Bruce floated a little lower, curiosity overtaking his skepticism.
"How can you see me? What are you?"
Shawn sighed and stood up from the bed, wiping his gloves clean.
"That's not important right now. What's important is your current situation. So tell me…" he turned, meeting Bruce's gaze again, "How do you want to live?"
That question hit Bruce like a cold splash of water.
"Live? I'm already dead."
Shawn didn't blink.
"So what?"
Bruce tilted his head. "So what?"
"Yeah," Shawn said. "So what if you're dead? If I decide to bring you back, I will bring you back."
Bruce stared at him, trying to determine if this was lunacy or some twisted form of hope.
But Shawn wasn't joking.
The weight behind his words was real.
"…How?" Bruce asked. "How would I come back? What do you mean, 'how do I want to live'?"
Shawn finally explained, "Your heart was ruptured. That's the fatal wound. Right now, there are two options for fixing it."
Bruce waited.
"One—standard treatment," Shawn said. "Surgical repair, artificial components. You'll be able to live a quiet life. Read books. Pet cats. Maybe take up painting."
Bruce raised a brow. "And the catch?"
"You'll never fight again. No more rooftop dives. No more combat. No stress. Your heart won't hold up. Push it too far, and you'll drop dead in an alley."
Bruce grimaced. "What's the second option?"
"I'm not done expla—"
"I don't care," Bruce interrupted. "I choose the second option."
Shawn stared at him.
"You don't even want to hear the risks?"
"I just want to know—can I return to normal? Can I fight again?"
Shawn nodded. "Yes. You'll not only return to normal… you'll be stronger than before."
Bruce's eyes narrowed. "Define stronger."
Shawn gave a slow, dangerous smile. "You'll see."
That was all Bruce needed.
"Then let's do it."
"Very well," Shawn said, cracking his knuckles. "Let it begin."
Shawn placed both hands over Bruce's corpse.
He closed his eyes.
Dark energy began to pulse from his palms, seeping into the torn flesh, slithering into the open cavity like a living shadow. The room dimmed. The walls trembled.
From outside, Alfred paced nervously, unaware of the ancient forces now pulsing just beyond the door.
Inside, Bruce felt the shift immediately.
A force—unlike anything he'd felt before—began tugging at his soul.
The cold numbness of death began to fade. He felt heat. Pressure. His essence began being drawn downward—back toward the corpse lying on the bed.
Back into the body.
"What's happening?" Bruce whispered as he felt himself slipping.
"Stay still," Shawn muttered. "Don't resist."
Black tendrils coiled around Bruce's soul, pulling him downward.
And just before he vanished, Shawn's voice echoed one final time:
"You wanted power? Let's see how much you can handle."
Darkness.
Then—
Thump.
Thump.
Bruce gasped, his body convulsing.
He sat bolt upright in bed, clutching his chest, coughing violently. His eyes flickered open—first brown, then briefly red before returning to normal.
"Easy," Shawn said, stepping back. "You're alive. Welcome back."
Bruce stared at him, breath ragged.
"I feel… strange."
"You'll adjust. You're not exactly the same as before."
Bruce's eyes narrowed. "What did you do?"
"I fixed your heart," Shawn said casually. "With a few upgrades."
"Upgrades?"
"You'll find out soon enough."
Bruce groaned, lying back down.
"I'm guessing this isn't standard medical procedure."
"Not unless your HMO covers soul retrieval and dark resurrection rituals."
Bruce laughed, despite himself. "And people say Gotham's healthcare system is broken."
Shawn smirked, packed up his tools, and headed for the door.
"Rest for now. When you're ready, we'll talk about the side effects."
Bruce sat up again, a strange strength already returning to his limbs.
"Shawn," he called out.
The doctor paused.
"…Thanks."
Shawn didn't turn around.
"You're welcome."
Then he left, the door clicking softly shut behind him.