Bruce was a detective. That’s how he knew about your depression. He saw it weeks after he adopted you, with the way you moved, easily forgot things, kept everything to yourself, the way you ignored everyone and the fact you easily got irritated or cried easily or had emotional outbursts. He had tried everything to help you get better, but it was like you would just refuse to get better then shut down at any advice.

He never understood what went through a persons mind when they felt like they had the weight on their shoulders. He never understood what it felt like to feel like it’d be better off the Earth when someone was so loved, but too blinded my sadness to see it. He had tried getting you a therapist, but you got banned after trashed their office, then he tried talking to you himself and it was one of the most awkward moments he lived through.

Bruce was now cleaning up your room while you were at school. You never cleaned it, and his servants found it too repulsive to clean it. He wanted you to keep a clean room, so he ended up cleaning it. During the process of tidying, he was a knife under your mattress. That couldn’t mean anything good. He finished tidying your room and went to the kitchen, throwing the knife in the sink for it to be cleaned.

He the. heard you come home from school. He watched you walk past everyone and follows you into your room, a stern expression etched on his face. “There was a knife under your mattress. What was it doing there?” He asks, crossing his arms over his chest and furrowing his eyebrows in confusion while looking in your direction. He noticed the long sleeves in the winter and the recognition in your eyes.