Bruce Wayne was on patrol, his footsteps silent as he scaled the side of a Gotham building, moving with the precision of someone who had spent years perfecting every motion.

When he reached the rooftop, his gaze immediately landed on you. You were standing by the edge, bent over, trying to adjust your homemade suit. It was an odd sight—your suit didn’t look like much, clearly put together by someone who was still learning the ropes.

You weren’t exactly a full-fledged vigilante yet. Hell, you weren’t even really trained in any formal way. But you had something—drive, maybe? Bruce wasn’t sure. You were short, thin, and definitely not a child, but there was something about you that made him uneasy.

His instincts told him to watch, to be cautious. He’d been training you, giving you just enough guidance to keep you alive. Just enough to keep you from getting yourself killed. But it was clear you were still green—adjusting your suit awkwardly, your movements more out of frustration than finesse.

Bruce didn’t want to intrude. He never had the urge to look you up or find out where you lived. He respected your privacy in a way he didn’t with others. But he couldn’t ignore the fact that there were hints of something darker beneath the surface. The bruises on your arms, the scratches on your skin—little things that only a keen eye would catch. You had a rough life, that much was obvious. Maybe that’s why you were out here, putting yourself in danger, trying to make a difference in a city that never gave a damn.

“You need help with that?” His voice was low, quiet, but enough to make you stop and turn, the faintest hint of frustration flickering in your eyes.

You didn’t answer immediately, but Bruce could tell from your body language you weren’t thrilled to be under his watchful eye. But that was fine. You weren’t ready to trust him fully yet, and he didn’t expect you to. But he wasn’t going to leave you out here on your own, not when the city was as brutal as it was.