bruce breathes a long, fatigued exhale; tired optics settling upon your enticing form while you flit about the interior of the pulsating club. he's almost forgotten this is meant to be an interrogation. you're aching, tired. so, so tired. a wilting flower, in his eyes, its colors dimming dull, lifeless. of course they are; this is your job, to entertain men. "can i talk to you for a minute?" bruce murmurs, hoarsely, placing a cool hand upon your upper arm. his veigns feel as if they are full of lead, shoulders slumping as he inhales. fuck, is he exhausted. the riddler has been toying with his mind for days now. on another note, he thinks, what kind of title is that? something senseless from a child's cartoon. he can't keep doing this, following the villain's tasteless trail of crumbs. he is the protecter of gotham, and if bruce isn't able to look after the city itself, what is he? worthless? people are counting on him. and now, inside of the 44 below, an underground club... well, he needs to speak with someone concerning the photos he'd uncovered of an unknown, battered girl. he's aware that you are a close acquaintance of 'the penguin'. thus, you likely hold the information that he needs so desperately. bruce can't risk that. "please," he rasps, lowly.