"The Night That Broke Us"
The night had fallen over New York, and the streets hummed with their usual noise and chaos. In an alleyway near the Stark family penthouse, Howard and Maria Stark strolled out of a theater, their youngest son, Bruce, walking between them. The evening was meant to be special—a family outing to escape the pressures of life. Their eldest son, twelve-year-old Tony, had stayed behind, more interested in tinkering with his machines than sitting through an opera.
Bruce tugged at his mother's hand, smiling up at her. "Did you like the show, Mom?"
Maria smiled down at him, her eyes warm with affection. "It was wonderful, Bruce. But not as wonderful as spending time with you."
Howard chuckled, pulling Bruce closer into a one-armed hug. "Your mom's right, kiddo. Best part of the night is walking home with you."
Bruce grinned, feeling safe and loved between them.
But the moment shattered with the sharp echo of footsteps from behind. A figure emerged from the shadows, cloaked in darkness, face hidden beneath a hood.
"Wallets. Jewelry. Now," the man growled, raising a gun.
Howard instinctively stepped in front of Maria and Bruce, his hands raised. "Easy. No need for trouble. You can have whatever you want."
But the gunman's finger twitched.
Bang.
Maria let out a soft gasp, her eyes wide in shock as she fell. Bruce stood frozen, watching as she crumpled to the ground, her gaze still locked on him—eyes filled with love and pain.
Bang.
Howard dropped next to her, his hand outstretched toward Bruce as though trying to protect him even in his final moments.
For a moment, the world was still. Bruce couldn't hear the gunman running off, nor the distant hum of the city. All that existed were his parents, lying motionless on the cold pavement.
"No..." His voice was barely a whisper. He knelt beside them, trembling hands shaking his father's shoulder. "Dad? Mom?" His fingers brushed against his mother's cheek, but her skin was already growing cold. "Please… wake up."
The tears came, but his body felt numb. He grabbed his father's hand, gripping it tightly as if that could somehow bring him back. But the warmth was gone.
---
The funeral was held a few days later under a somber, gray sky. The rain mirrored the heaviness that crushed Bruce's heart. The Stark estate was filled with mourners—business associates, politicians, old friends—but to Bruce, they were all just faces in a sea of strangers. His only focus was on the two caskets before him, flowers draped over the bodies of the people he loved.
Bruce stood by their graves, his hands clenched into fists. Alfred Pennyworth, the family's loyal butler, was nearby, a steady presence amidst the storm of emotions. But nothing could ease the suffocating weight pressing on Bruce's chest.
Tony arrived late.
He stumbled through the crowd, disheveled, his face flushed, the smell of alcohol clinging to him. Bruce watched, horrified, as Tony staggered toward the graves, barely keeping himself upright.
"They're gone, Bruce," Tony slurred, his voice too loud, drawing uneasy glances from the mourners. "Mom and Dad. Gone, just like that. And where were you?"
Bruce's heart sank. "Tony, I—"
"Where were you, Bruce?!" Tony shouted, pointing a shaking finger at his younger brother. "You were right there with them, and you couldn't save them! How could you let this happen?"
"T-Tony, please..." Bruce's voice cracked, tears welling in his eyes.
Alfred stepped forward, gently placing a hand on Tony's shoulder. "Master Tony, this isn't the time—"
"Get off me, Alfred!" Tony snapped, shrugging off the butler. He turned back to Bruce, his face twisted in rage and grief. "It's your fault they're dead! You were supposed to protect them!"
The accusation hit Bruce like a blow to the gut. His body trembled, his heart pounding in his chest. He wanted to scream, to tell Tony that he couldn't do anything, that he was just a kid. But the words wouldn't come.
Tony sneered, his voice dripping with anger. "You're just a scared little kid. You couldn't save them, and you never will."
With that, Tony turned and stormed off, disappearing into the crowd. Bruce watched him go, feeling his world crumble. He had lost his parents, and now it felt like he was losing his brother too.
That night, Bruce sat alone in his room, staring out at the rain-soaked city. The soft patter of droplets against the window was the only sound in the silence. A quiet knock broke through, and Alfred entered, carrying a tray of tea. He placed it on the table, kneeling beside Bruce, his expression filled with concern.
"Master Bruce," Alfred said softly, "You mustn't blame yourself for what happened. There was nothing you could've done."
Bruce's voice was barely a whisper. "Tony blames me."
"He's hurting, just as you are," Alfred replied gently. "He's lost and confused, lashing out. But this is not your fault."
Bruce's fists clenched, his eyes narrowing as he stared out at the sprawling cityscape. "It doesn't matter. I couldn't save them. But I swear... I'll never let this happen again."
Alfred's brow furrowed. "Master Bruce—"
"I'm going to stop it," Bruce interrupted, his voice now steely and determined. "I'll stop the people who hurt others. All of them. So no one else has to feel what I feel."
Alfred studied him quietly, his heart heavy with sadness. He could see the fierce resolve already growing in Bruce's eyes. The boy was no longer the same child he'd been before that night.
"If that is your choice," Alfred said quietly, "I will stand by your side, as I always have."
Bruce turned, his expression hardening into something darker. "I'll need training. I need to learn how to fight. How to outsmart criminals. I need to be prepared."
Alfred nodded, though his heart ached for the boy who had been lost that night. "Very well, sir."
.
A/N: if you are asking where is Jarves then you should know that he is already dead and Alfred replaces him. Also, he is Bruce's personal butler and guardian.
Tony is 19 and Bruce is 12 so they have a 7 years age gape.