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Fresh orangish color, the yellowed October leaves, they covered the path like sparkles at the top of a blank canvas. Bluish color, coming from the cloudless sky that contemplated the human being born from a chemical warehouse. The sun and its glow that contrasted the cold autumn current. His walk was hasty. However, he managed to create a balance to appreciate the roads, the buildings, sculptures, and details from the citizens of Gotham. 

He had arrived at his best-worked hideout, far from his beloved Asylum, filled with debris back in the day as a prestigious engineer. He immediately peeked into his collection of the same Champagne model, which reminded him of the joy he carried when he sat in the modest dining room of the Wayne Manor, toasting his adored Dark Knight on an afternoon tragedy. By nothing in this world, he was going to be able to replace his taste for the mentioned Champagne that filled his throat with warmth. «Remembering is Living,» he thought. He walked infinitely through the same mahogany brown shelf, trying to cure his eternal feeling of abandonment caused and forgiven by the one who carried his other half. 


Drink Champagne just like water. 

Collapsing at not seeing his other half close to his lap.

A joke without a punchline.

A melody that was loved by the young Wayne began to play. The man who was a fanatic of the purple jackets dragging the floor rushed to pour himself a glass of Whiskey, the time when the inevitable happened. The seconds ticked by, his vision blocked by countless white flashes creating an allusion of a camera. It made him dizzy until he grabbed his torn skin from his face to cover himself. His sight that at a slow pace no longer allowed him to inspect the furniture that surrounded him. The whole place, like his soul, had been splashed with a gray color, giving off an atmosphere with a faded panorama. 

His hands hidden in his leather gloves trembled. His orbs filled with tears, but he held them captive by laughing hysterically, closing his eyes tightly. The Valeska warned himself that if he let his bitter tears fall, there was no going back.

Weeks passed by. Again, the Prince of Crime enjoyed his freedom. Consequently, there was the dread of the city roads, trying to continue with the next step of his brilliant plan. His phone boomed, alerting to an incoming call. It was a miracle that immersed in the fog provided by the alcohol he was able to respond. 

"Sorry, Jeremiah." The voice of a forgotten accomplice came through the earpiece.

It was just when the understanding felt like a cold water bucket over his head and slipping down his shoulders. The said deluge that carried his most abysmal fear, it made reality crash what was left of his doomed heart, and the lack of colors on his stage only confirmed what that helpless criminal had just told him. 

Bruce was dead.

His other half no longer existed in this world.