The leather enveloped Bruce as he manuevered his motorcycle around Gotham's dusty streets, wind in his helmet. He walked down a strangely similiar path between the alleys, passing ransacked theatres and brothels, clutching to a bouquet of blood-red roses. He knelt down, and felt the ache of 18 years past run through him. He could almost feel the fresh blood on the pavement.
"That's a nice jacket you got there...", Came a voice from the damp streets. "Doesn't suit ya though", the man got closer, Bruce hearing the spring of a butterfly knife. He delivered a hard kick into the man's belly, as three more came from his direction, holding metal bars and knives.
With an amazing swiftness, Bruce landed a bloody punch into one of the men's face, and got hold of his metal bar, knocking the knife out of the other man's hand and hitting him hard in the head, knocking him out cold. The remaining man was begging for Bruce to "go easy on him", but Bruce could not think of anything else but feeling his clenched punch around the man's face.
He punched him in the face, feeling his teeth fall out of their place, as he pounded his fists into the man's face, his leather gloves smeared with the poor man's blood. Bruce realized that he went too far and quickly backed off and rode off, fleeing from the scene as fast as he can.
He opened his helmet visor, as it finally came crashing at him. It wasn't the punches or the kicks. It wasn't the squealings of pain that gave him that weird sensation. It wasn't the sound of ribs breaking and rupturing, or men falling to his knees. It was the Anonymity.