Bruce Wayne stepped in line.

His blue eyes surveyed the prison yard. There had always been a gray atmosphere to this place, one that Bruce never minded.

He barely remembered what he was doing anymore. All he remembered was wanting to understand people lower than his former status, but at this point he wasn't sure anymore. He chose to stay here until something made him do something different. He wasn't complaining. After a few years of his time here, it was oddly peaceful, with a few exceptions.

This was one of the exceptions. He could see the food being provided from here. It was a far cry from the food he had eaten back in Vale, that even now with his entirely new state of mind he only ate to avoid starving.

His focus quickly shifted to an approaching prisoner. He was massive, with a bald head, and a thin mustache and beard.

"They're going to fight you," his cellmate whispered from behind.

Bruce turned slightly to glance at him. "Again?"

He already knew they were going to fight him again. It was only a matter of time. The only thing he questioned was why they couldn't take a hint.

"Until they kill you," his cellmate whispered.

Bruce heard a clink, and looked down to see that the prison staff had left the disgusting food in his bowl. He grimaced as he looked down at it.

"Can't they kill me before breakfast?" he asked, partly as a joke, partly genuine.

The large man slapped his bowl out of his hand. Bruce showed no dismay towards the absence of his breakfast, instead looking up at him with a look of expectation.

"You are in hell, little man," the man said, thrusting a fist against Bruce's face. He grabbed his hair, tugging him back to look him in the eyes. "And I am the devil!"

Another fist was delivered to Bruce's face, and he leaned over, taking the blow.

He shook his head, recovering quickly as usual, and stood up straight, looking the man dead in the eyes.

"You're not the devil," he hissed. "You're practice."

The man scowled at that, and swung a fist to attack. But Bruce grabbed it, and tossed the man against the lunch counter.

There was no delay in cause and effect, as six or seven more prisoners lunged at Bruce, grabbing him, and holding him still. But his legs were free, and he pushed against the lunch counter, knocking them down a hill, and into the muddy yard.

The battle began, and Bruce showed no remorse, attacking the men around him viciously. One after another, the prisoners collapsed to the ground, screaming in agony. Some still tried to stand back up and face him, but Bruce brought them back down, sometimes breaking their legs or arms to do so.

Gunshots rung in his ears, and he finally came to a stop, knowing the fight was over, and the guards were here to break it up.

He felt rough hands grab his arms, and drag him away from the men.

"Solitary!" one of them shouted.

For the first time that day, Bruce showed genuine confusion.

"Why?" he asked.

"For protection!"

He laughed. "I don't need protection!"

"Protection for them!" the guard said, pointing to the prisoners on the ground, groaning in agony.

Bruce shrugged. "Fair enough."

In a few moments, he was tossed into solitary confinement, a dark, lonely room. Not that he minded the loneliness. At this point, he was used to it.

"Are you so desperate to fight criminals that you lock yourself up to take them on one at a time?"

The voice was feminine, and strangely calming. Bruce turned around, expecting another prisoner locked in solitary confinement with him, for reasons he didn't know, but instead found himself looking at a woman, wearing a gray pants and boots, a beige leather sleeveless jacket with light-beige details, brown gloves, a sarashi tied around her chest and another around her hips, and a pauldron on her left shoulder. Clearly not a prisoner.

"Actually, there was seven of them."

He headed for a corner to sit himself down, as the woman spoke. "I counted six, Mister Wayne."

Bruce froze, his head snapping towards the woman at the mention of a name he hadn't heard in so long.

"How do you know my name?" he asked.

"The world is too small for a man like Bruce Wayne to disappear," the woman said, "no matter how deep he chooses to sink."

"Who are you?"

"My name is Cinder Fall," she said. "I speak for Salem, a woman greatly feared by the criminal underworld. A woman who is incapable of being killed, and has lived for centuries. A woman who can offer you a path."

Bruce chuckled, looking to the ground. "What makes you think I need a path?"

"Someone like you is only here by choice," Cinder said. "You have been exploring the criminal fraternity but whatever your original intentions you have become truly lost."

Bruce finally looked back up to Cinder, giving his full attention to her. A part of him was still refusing to listen, but there was another part that knew she was right.

"And what path does Salem offer?" he asked.

"The path of a man who shares her hatred for evil," Cinder said, "and wishes to serve true justice. The path of the League of Shadows."

Bruce chuckled. "Vigilantes."

"No," Cinder shook her head. "A vigilante is just a man lost in his scramble for his own gratification. He can be destroyed or locked up. But," Cinder knelt down, "if you make yourself more than just a man, if you devote yourself to an ideal and if they can't stop you then you become something else entirely."

Bruce's intrigue grew, and he couldn't hide it any longer. "Which is?"

"A legend, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce sat still for a moment, letting his words sink in. This was all so much to take in. Could Salem and her "League of Shadows" really offer the path to guide him through his strange, lost life?

She turned around, approaching the door. "Tomorrow you will be released. If you're bored with brawling with thieves and want to achieve something, there's a rare blue flower that grows in the eastern slopes of Mistral. Pick one of these flowers. If you can carry it to the top of the mountain, you may find what you were looking for in the first place."

Bruce was curious. Cinder seemed to know much more about him than he'd initially thought. Even he didn't know what he had been searching for. Did she know something?

"Wait!" he said. "What was I looking for?"

Cinder glanced back to him. Her next answer was vague, and barely answered the question he was asking.

"Only you can know that . . ."