Shawn pulled his hand out of Bruce Wayne's chest and calmly removed his gloves, tossing them aside like used napkins. The black aura that had poured from his fingertips now began to fade, absorbed fully into Bruce's body.
The resurrection was complete.
Bruce's heart was beating again.
His soul—previously floating freely in the room—had been pulled back into his flesh like a fish reeled from the depths.
And now, his body was visibly healing.
The massive wound in his chest that had once torn through his heart began to close. Muscle fibers stitched themselves together. Skin reformed, pink and fresh. Bruises across his torso faded. Broken ribs aligned with audible pops.
For any ordinary human, this would have been a miracle. For a demon like Shawn, this was the power of black aura.
In demonic lore, the black aura was a signature of their lineage—an energy capable of corrupting, creating, or conquering. It could destroy mountains. Or, in this case, revive the dead and imbue them with new strength.
Shawn had never used it like this before. Bruce Wayne was the first.
And that came at a price.
Because now, Bruce's soul belonged to him.
Bound by resurrection, tethered through the black aura—whether Bruce realized it or not—he was no longer just Gotham's Dark Knight.
He was the Devil's knight now.
"Alfred!" Shawn called out, raising his voice slightly.
Within seconds, hurried footsteps echoed from the hallway. The door burst open and Alfred rushed in, his eyes wide with worry.
"Doctor Shawn—what is it? Is something wrong?"
Shawn stood casually by the bedside, wiping his hands with a towel. "Nothing's wrong. Just wanted to let you know… the operation was successful."
"...What?"
Alfred blinked, confused.
He looked at the clock on the wall. It had been less than thirty minutes since he left the room. How could an open-heart operation—especially one on a dead man—be completed so quickly?
It couldn't be possible.
He rushed to Bruce's side, his hands trembling, and leaned over. He placed two fingers under Bruce's nose.
Warm breath.
Steady. Rhythmic.
His pulse surged with emotion.
A moment ago, Bruce was gone. No breathing, no heartbeat. Alfred had seen the signs of death more times than he cared to count. But now…
Now, Bruce was alive.
The tension in Alfred's shoulders melted. A choked breath escaped him. His eyes shimmered with relief.
"Thank you… thank you, Doctor Shawn. Your skill is… it's beyond belief."
Shawn simply nodded. "You're welcome. I'm glad he made it."
Truthfully, Shawn didn't need the praise. He wasn't in it for gratitude or fame. The moment Bruce drew breath again, Shawn's mark was etched into his soul—invisible, irreversible.
Bruce was alive. But not untouched.
"I'll take my leave now," Shawn said, heading for the door. "Bruce is fine. We can talk more later if needed."
"Wait!" Alfred called after him.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pristine check.
Shawn accepted it without a word.
A quick glance told him everything: Ten million dollars. No hesitation. No conditions.
Classic Bruce Wayne.
Alfred bowed slightly. "This is your reward. And… I'd like to ask that you keep today's events completely confidential."
"Of course," Shawn replied smoothly. "Patient privacy is my specialty."
"You understand," Alfred continued, "if word of Bruce's condition were to spread, enemies could come crawling out of every sewer in Gotham."
"I understand perfectly."
Pleased, Alfred motioned for Shawn to follow him.
They exited through a side hallway that led to a private garage. And what a garage it was—a cathedral of horsepower. Dozens of luxury cars lined the walls: Ferraris, Bugattis, custom-built prototypes. All gleaming like trophies.
"I'm sorry I can't personally drive you back," Alfred said. "I need to stay with Master Bruce. But please—choose any car you like as a token of our gratitude."
Shawn didn't even blink.
"Deal."
After casually browsing the rows, he finally settled on a sleek, candy-red supercar. He slid into the leather driver's seat and gave Alfred a nod.
"Thanks. He'll recover faster than you think."
Alfred watched as the red blur pulled out of the garage and disappeared into the Gotham night.
Only then did he return to Bruce's room.
But when he opened the door…
Bruce was gone.
The bed was empty. The bandages were on the floor. The heartbeat monitor was silent.
Alfred's breath caught.
"Master Bruce?!"
He checked the en-suite bathroom.
Nothing.
Then the closet. The window. Still nothing.
Alfred's heart began to pound. Had someone come in while I was gone? Had someone taken him?
No. That wasn't possible.
Then it hit him.
A possibility. A gut feeling.
Alfred rushed to the grandfather clock at the end of the hall. With practiced precision, he twisted the minute hand backward.
Click.
With a low mechanical grind, the clock shifted sideways, revealing a hidden elevator.
Alfred stepped inside.
The elevator descended into the depths of the mansion, revealing a cavernous underground world.
The Batcave.
Massive computers hummed in the distance. Batmobiles and motorbikes sat in their chambers. Monitors tracked satellite feeds and crime statistics across Gotham.
"Master Bruce?" Alfred called out, his voice echoing.
A moment of silence.
Then, from behind a column of workout gear—
"I'm here!"
A crash followed the voice.
Alfred walked toward the sound, turning the corner—
And stopped cold.
His mouth opened in silent disbelief.
There stood Bruce Wayne, shirtless, drenched in sweat, swinging a massive sledgehammer into a tractor tire with savage precision. The clang of rubber and steel echoed with each strike.
He wasn't just moving.
He was training.
Not cautiously. Not tentatively.
With full intensity.
This wasn't a man recovering from heart failure.
This was a man possessed.
Swing. Slam. Breathe. Repeat.
The hammer flew like lightning, powered by legs, hips, and pure determination. Sweat sprayed with each strike, and his muscles tightened like cables under strain.
Alfred was speechless.
Just thirty minutes ago, Bruce had been dead.
Now, he was pushing his body harder than most soldiers could dream of.
It wasn't normal.
It wasn't human.
"Master Bruce…" Alfred finally whispered.
Bruce paused, resting the hammer against the tire. He looked over his shoulder and gave a small nod.
"Alfred."
"You… you're already training?"
"Of course," Bruce said. "I feel fine. Better than fine, actually."
Alfred stepped forward. "You were dead, Bruce. Less than an hour ago."
Bruce exhaled, sweat trailing down his jaw. "I know."
Alfred lowered his voice. "This… isn't natural. What happened in that room?"
Bruce glanced at his hands. He flexed his fingers. There was strength there—more than before. The pain was gone. His injuries were gone.
He could feel something else too. A power. A presence.
It whispered from the edge of his mind.
Not evil. But not entirely his own.
"Doctor Shawn… did something to me," Bruce admitted. "I'm not sure what. But I'm alive. And I'm still me."
Alfred looked concerned. "Are you certain?"
Bruce didn't answer right away.
Instead, he looked down at his chest, where the fatal wound had been. There was no scar. No trace. Just smooth, unbroken skin.
"I'll figure it out," he said. "Whatever he did… I'll control it."
But deep down, Bruce knew something fundamental had changed.
His soul had brushed the abyss.
And it came back touched by it.