Bruce Wayne

The zap in the lab had been instantaneous—a blinding flash of white light, a split second of absolute, dead silence, and then nothing. Bruce had checked his vitals, felt fine, and brushed it off as a harmless static discharge from the containment unit.

Three hours later, needing a break and a dark cup of coffee, he took the hidden elevator up to the manor.

The moment the doors slid open into his home office, Bruce froze. The scent was wrong. Instead of polished mahogany, old leather, and rain, the air smelled of beeswax, lemon, and baking spices. Every muscle in his back went taut. His tactical instincts kicked in instantly.

He stepped slowly out into the corridor. Looking down, a plush orange runner carpet stretched toward the living room. Warm, old-timey oil paintings hung on walls that were usually bare, and a ceramic pot held a flourishing green plant near the entryway. Further down the hall lay a woven basket filled with fresh root vegetables.

He heard quiet humming and the sizzle of a pan coming from the kitchen.

"Alfred?" Bruce called out, his voice low, grounded, and cautious.

He rounded the corner, and the sight hit him like a physical blow. The kitchen—once sleek, stainless steel, and functional—was bathed in the golden light of a blazing sunset. Bundles of dried herbs and garlic hung from exposed wooden beams, fresh apples sat in a bowl, and the window was twice its original size.

Standing by the stove was a woman in a yellow dress, her hair swept up in a tight ponytail, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead as she stirred a pan.

She turned, offering a bright, familiar smile. "Hey honey! You done working?"

Bruce stood rooted to the spot, a sudden wave of nausea hitting his chest. He looked down at his left hand. Glinting in the warm evening light on his ring finger was a simple gold band.

He processed the data in a fraction of a second. The lab shock. Multiversal displacement. A different reality.

He wasn't in his manor. And this woman was his wife.

"Yes," Bruce managed to answer, his voice tight as his mind raced through a thousand contingencies.

She took another glance at him, tilting her head with a light laugh. "You okay? You look like you're at gunpoint."

Bruce kept his hands at his sides, maintaining a steady, careful distance between them. He stared at her trying to figure out how to explain that the man she loved wasn't the man standing in her kitchen.

"...I think," Bruce said slowly, choosing his words with extreme precision, "something happened down in the lab."