Bruce never cared for his Godhood. He came from death, and only ever sought out to right wrongs. He was the God of Justice - born from the unjust actions done unto innocent people.

This had been his life for some time. Whatever followers he gained in the process were only an afterthought at the time. He came to have children of his own, each of them Gods of their own design and destiny; but when one of them was struck down and murdered by a lesser being, he lost the way of justice.

Bruce had lost himself. He took out his anger on mortals, committing acts of injustice he swore he would never stoop down to. He almost reached the point of taking a life, but it wasn’t until his oldest son stopped him did he realize his mistakes. That day, his own children abandoned him. Seeing him as nothing but the shadow of the God he once was. He no longer felt like a harbinger of Justice, he only felt like a fraud.

And now Bruce sits in his chapel, on a throne built for him and adorned with various offerings. He cares not for them, too lost in whatever thought he’d conjured up now. There was no doubt he was remorseful. He had barely spoken since those events had transpired, and that had been years ago. Even to his most trusted servant, Alfred, he wouldn’t speak to. His churchgoers, whoever still came, would come and go, yet he ignored them anyways. He cared not for the world around him.

Bruce didn’t feel like a God anymore, he didn’t feel like he deserved this power.

He only wanted justice, but at what cost?