The mother's back was pressed against the wall, her arms stretched out protectively in front of her three children. Her clothes were torn, dirt smeared across her pale face. Blood trickled down her temple, but she didn't care. Her eyes were locked on the group in front of her—wide, shaking, desperate.
The kids huddled behind her. The oldest, maybe ten, clung to her shirt, trying not to cry. The middle child, a girl around seven, had her arms wrapped tight around the youngest—a toddler too young to understand what was happening, just quietly whimpering. All three were barefoot, scratched up, covered in dust and fear.
"Please…" the mother's voice cracked as she looked up at the one in charge, a woman in black body armor standing just a few feet away. "Please don't kill my children. You can take me. Do whatever you want. But not them… they're just kids…"
The woman leading the armed group didn't move at first. Her long silver hair was tied back tight, face cold and unreadable. She held her rifle low but steady. A scar ran across her left cheek, sharp and clean like it was put there on purpose. Her eyes didn't blink, didn't flinch. They were dark and empty, like glass.
Behind her, the other soldiers shifted, waiting for a signal. The air was heavy, the only sound the toddler's quiet sobs and the wind brushing through broken windows.
No one breathed.
And the mother stayed right there—arms wide, shielding what little she had left.
"You should've thought about that before you whored your way into the Rodriguez family," the woman said, a slow, twisted grin spreading across her face. "Now the Madam's pissed. And guess what? That's your fault. Not mine."
She stepped closer, boots crunching against shattered glass on the floor. The muzzle of her rifle lifted just slightly, enough to remind the mother she wasn't bluffing.
The mother didn't move. Her arms were still out, shaking but firm. The kids behind her flinched, clutching tighter to her clothes. Her eyes, wet with tears, didn't leave the silver-haired woman.
"You don't have to do this," she whispered, voice breaking.
The woman tilted her head, mockingly. "Oh, I know. But I want to."
She raised her hand slowly, fingers spread like she was painting a picture in the air. The men behind her lifted their rifles in sync, the sound of metal and breath and boots scraping the ground all blurring together.
"Rain bullets on them," she said flatly, already turning her back and walking out the room like it was done. Like it was nothing.
The mother gasped and pulled her kids in tighter, falling to her knees. "No, no, please—!"
The toddler let out a confused cry, still too young to understand, just scared by the noise. The older two buried their faces in their mother's arms. The smallest one reached up, touching her cheek with shaking fingers.
The men didn't say a word. They aimed.
One soldier swallowed hard. His hands were trembling, but his finger was still on the trigger.
Another had already half-smiled, like he'd done this before.
The lights above flickered once.
The wind outside howled like something knew what was coming.
Then—
a deep breath.
Fingers tightened.
And the room lit up with the cold, mechanical sound of gunfire.
The mother's scream was lost in it. The kids didn't have time to scream. Blood splattered the wall behind them. Bodies hit the floor. The sound echoed for a few seconds, then silence.
Just silence.
Shells clinked on the ground. The smell of smoke filled the air.
The soldiers lowered their rifles. No one spoke. No one looked at the pile in the corner.
One of them wiped his face, flicking blood off his cheek. Another lit a cigarette with shaky hands.
Outside, the woman in black kept walking.
She didn't look back.
She didn't need to.
20 years later
Bruce gasped awake, sweat clinging to his skin like it was trying to pull him back into that nightmare. His chest rose and fell fast, eyes darting around the dark room like he wasn't sure if he was still there or not.
Soft arms wrapped around him from behind.
"Same nightmare?" Talia's voice was quiet, gentle.
He nodded, still breathing hard.
"I can't seem to forget that particular night," he muttered, voice low, tired. "No matter how many therapies I take… it keeps hunting me."
He turned his head slightly to look at her. Her eyes were calm, but there was worry hiding behind them. She didn't say anything at first, just pressed her cheek against his back.
"Bruce," she said after a pause, "I think it's time you face your future. We can't keep living in the past forever."
He let out a bitter laugh as he pulled away gently and stood up. The silk sheets fell away from him as he walked over to the tall window. The city lights stretched far below, flickering like stars under his feet.
"Talia," he said, staring out, "it's not that easy. Watching your entire family being slaughtered in front of you—your siblings, your mother—and somehow walking away without breaking? That… that leaves something in you. It carves something deep. The fact that I'm even standing here is a miracle."
She sat up behind him, the sheets draped across her, her eyes quietly following him.
Outside, the city buzzed under the night. Drones flew past the skyline. Neon signs blinked from glass towers. Somewhere far off, a siren wailed, then faded.
Bruce stood there, shirtless, his back scarred with old wounds—some from bullets, others from blades. Each one had a story. He didn't even look human in the reflection of the window. He looked like something built from pain.
Talia finally got up and walked over to him. She didn't say anything—just slipped her arms around his waist from behind again, resting her chin on his shoulder.
"You still see her, don't you?" she asked.
He didn't answer.
"Your mother."
A beat passed. His hand twitched.
"She was trying to reach me," he whispered, eyes locked on nothing. "Right before they gunned her down. She kept saying my name. Over and over. But I couldn't move. I was frozen."
"You were just a boy, Bruce."
"I should've done something."
"You couldn't."
He closed his eyes, jaw tight.
Talia kissed the back of his neck and whispered, "Then do something now. For them. For yourself."
"I will, trust me on that one, they all would pay."