Chapter 272: Layered Fears (Part 1)

The night was deep; Bruce lay in bed, sleeping more and more heavily, yet even in sleep, his brow remained tightly furrowed.

Suddenly, his bedroom door opened a crack; light spilled out, and the soft creak of the hinge was irritating—Bruce's brow tightened further, his arm shifted, then he rolled over.

A shadowy darkness settled over his face; Bruce seemed to sense it, and in the instant he opened his eyes, a lightning bolt flashed outside the window—a terrifying clown stood before his bed, dagger raised.

In the instant the dagger fell, Bruce sat up in bed, holding his breath as if his throat had been clenched; after a long while, he shuddered and exhaled, staring at the empty room, confirming it had only been a nightmare.

The cold sweat on his forehead and back had not yet faded; Bruce clenched his lips, wiped his face, and sat up on the bed.

He saw that his window had been left slightly open; wind blew in, causing the lampshade to sway, shadows flickering dimly and brightly in the room. Bruce thought this must be why he'd had the nightmare, so he walked over and closed the window.

Once the wind ceased, all light and shadow grew still. Bruce moved slowly toward the bathroom, seeking a towel to wipe the sweat from his face.

Inside the bathroom, he braced his hands on the sink and stared quietly at his reflection—but this time, no hallucination appeared; he merely noticed his pale complexion and the wound on his shoulder, split open and oozing blood.

He gently touched his shoulder with his other hand; the pain was not sharp but persistent, likely torn from the sudden movement when he sat up.

Bruce sighed helplessly and turned on the faucet, bending over to wash his face.

As he lowered his head, closed his eyes, and cupped water in his palms, he did not notice the bathroom door slowly opening.

When he rose again, lifted his gaze, and looked into the mirror, a terrifying shadow stood behind him—and in the mirror, alongside Bruce, appeared a grinning, mad clown, raising his dagger and slashing downward.

"Ugh!!"

Bruce let out a pained groan, sitting up in bed, gasping for breath, gazing dazedly around—he was still in bed, the room still empty, nothing there.

The window was tightly shut; no wind blew in, the lampshade did not sway, the lighting did not shift, and most importantly, there was no mad clown.

He sat stiffly on the bed, his throat trembling with each breath. When he tried to get up again, he hesitated at the bedside before standing, then reached out to touch the corner of the nearby desk.

The sharp edge sent a sensation through his fingertips to his brain, granting him a sliver of safety; this time, Bruce did not go to the bathroom, but walked to the door of his room, turned the handle—and as the door opened, a horrifying sight occurred.

Outside the door was not the Wayne Manor corridor, but a howling black void; Bruce was sucked in almost instantly, and after a nauseating sensation of weightlessness and falling, he sat up in bed once more.

Bruce squeezed his eyes shut tightly—he could no longer determine whether this was a dream or not.

Bruce began to think: if this too was a dream, how could he wake up?

He took several deep breaths to calm himself, then surveyed the room. This bedroom was identical to his memory—all objects remained where they should be. The light he had forgotten to turn off before sleeping cast a faint halo over everything.

What was causing these chained nightmares?

Bruce stood again, walked to the center of the room, paused for only an instant, then stepped once more toward the bathroom—he turned on the faucet, lowered his head, cupped water, washed his face, straightened up—and as expected, a madly laughing clown raised his dagger at him, and once again, he jolted awake from the dream.