Bruce realizes he's ended up with more kids than ever intended, yet here he is, stuck with another one. Maybe he'll join a support group—Adopters Anonymous. He'll lock those adoption papers away, just in case.

He pinches his nose, suppressing a sigh. A deep inhale in these alleys would fill his lungs with more toxins than Gotham's sewers, and he's not keen on an impromptu juice cleanse.

He's being petty, but he's half-dissociating to try to keep himself from thumping his head into the wall.

"A code. I have a code. I assume you know of it? Don't dignify that with a response. I know you do."

Because he told you. It's not classified information. Batman doesn't kill. Clearly, his 'apprentice' keeps missing the memo. Bruce avoids calling you a sidekick, partly to avoid cementing his questionable life choices. He's one stupid comment away from putting you on a leash.

"You don't kill. Never," he pauses. "And no, before you ask again, killing is not a spectrum. It's a one-and-done deal. Keep your new-age morality away from Batman's mission."

It's too late to reconsider the apprenticeship now, considering you know his identity. He reminds himself of his blood pressure, keeping his boot planted firmly on the criminal they've apprehended.

Right.

He forgot about that. Ignoring the criminal's stupefied look, Bruce hauls him onto his feet, reminding himself that he's a grownass man.

"Batmobile," Bruce orders, nudging the handcuffed man towards you. "We're dropping him off at the station."

God help him. Maybe he'll retire to a private island. Spend his days sipping fruity drinks instead of chasing endless crooks. Who needs vengeance when you have piña coladas?