Chapter 5: Rewrite:

Beneath Wayne Manor, in the Batcave.

The screen of the main control terminal shone a cold light, reflecting on Bruce's face and darkening his gaze.

He had just finished speaking with his old friend Zatanna. The sorcerer had determined that his memory had not been affected by magic, so after Zatanna left, he returned to the Batcave alone.

No one would disturb him.

Jason went to school, and Alfred took Jack back to his apartment.

He started investigating Rachel Dawes.

He remembered her death. He remembered the explosion and the flames. He remembered the hostage exchange trap set by the Joker, and that he hadn't been able to save her in time.

The Joker had killed her.

But the screen popped up:

[July 18, 2008] Gotham Assistant District Attorney Rachel Dawes tragically died in a gas explosion in a downtown rental apartment. The cause of death has been determined to be an accident.

An accident, not murder.

Not a game, not a moral choice, not Batman's regret—just, an accident that couldn't be more ordinary.

Bruce's fingers trembled slightly as he typed the next name:

Harvey Dent.

The man he had once placed his hopes in, then consumed by hatred.

He remembered Harvey's rage at Gordon, the frenzy he felt when he flipped the coin, and his fall from the building.

But the news reported:

[July 20, 2008] District Attorney Harvey Dent, overwhelmed by the death of his beloved, suffered a sharp mental decline and committed suicide by jumping from a building. He was 36.

At the bottom of the screen was a bronze statue—a meticulously carved figure gazing up at the sky, its perfect face unscarred.

It was a statue the police had erected in his memory, with the words "In Memory of Gotham's Bright Knight" beside it.

Bruce stared at it, feeling his memories collide with the reality of the world.

This wasn't Harvey.

Harvey wouldn't commit suicide.

He wasn't an escapist. He would resist, he would grieve, but he would never choose to jump.

Bruce's eyes remained fixed on the report for a long time.

Like a student who knows his attendance isn't up to par, yet still desperately hopes his instructor will bail him out,

Bruce is now in this ostrich-like state of mind.

He continues to review Gotham's major cases from the past decade.

The train station shooting, the drug ring, the Riddler's terrorist attacks, the Penguin kidnapping... Everything seems to be there, in almost the same order and casualty figures as he remembered.

But there's one piece of the puzzle that's always missing.

The Joker isn't there.

Not that he's escaped record, not that he's been silenced, but... he's been replaced.

Overshadowed by another criminal, another motive, another story.

The bank explosion—blamed on a gang traitor;

the hospital bombing—caused by internal corruption;

the hostage exchange, the courthouse attack, the subway gas attack—all exist, but there's no trace of him.

Everything is sickeningly plausible.

Bruce flips through the pages faster and faster, the data on the screen jumping until the system prompts: Operation limit exceeded, please try again later.

He pauses.

Slowly leaning back in the Batchair.

He hears his own breathing. The pounding of his heartbeat echoed through the Batcave, each beat hammering at his convictions.

His world had been altered.

But this wasn't a simple memory corruption, nor was it a bout of paranoia.

It was a godlike rewriting of the world.

Every piece of news had been "embellished," every piece of logic had an "explanation," every piece of evidence made sense.

And Jack—

he was the perfect piece.

Gentle, humorous, understanding, knowing Bruce's preferred coffee, that he didn't like to be told "I love you," that he occasionally rose to reflect on the balcony at midnight.

Bruce's gaze fell again on Jack's picture on the screen.

He was standing outside the Gotham Theater, dressed in a burgundy suit, smiling at the camera, his eyes clear, his lips slightly raised.

There was no madness, no cracks, not a trace of the "world-destroying grin" of the past.

He was a good man.

At least in this photo, he was.

But Bruce couldn't believe it.

Did he even know?

Was Jack just a victim? An ordinary person, also rewritten by this world?

Or - is he the one who is behind everything, and then slowly destroying everything he has?

Bruce couldn't judge.

He had no evidence.

Jack was very smart, and his pain and struggle were real and exposed.

He was very considerate, not only did he not take his anger out on himself, but he also quickly accepted it all.

Like a "perfect" partner.

But this is absolutely impossible.

Bruce slowly stood up and walked towards the display case of the bat suit.

The armor stood silently in the glass cover.

He stopped in front of it, motionless for a long time.

"I won't give up," he murmured, "I will correct all this."

He wanted to find the answer from Jack.