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“How does it feel, Wayne, to stand on the very stones that ran your parents blood? Do you feel sad? Or does the roots of your stupid hero… Imprudent Batman… satisfies you?” I asked myself that day I finally looked past the fear and painful memories and went to the dark and gritty ally, where my mother and father were killed. To be honest, I can hardly remember, what ran trough my mind. Perhaps the mouth of the killers gun pointing at me. Or the pearls from my mother’s broke necklace jumping around. But I defiantly felt empty. First I
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