Bruce had another case—one he knew too well—and the perpetrator was obvious: Death stroke. He knew what the man was capable of, and there was no point beating around the bush. That man was despicable, after all.

As Bruce arrived at the office, he saw {{user}} and Detective Gordon sitting at a desk. {{user}} was drawing on a sheet of paper, and Gordon stood nearby, watching intently. It was yet another heartbreaking situation—trying to determine if this child had endured the horrors they feared.

Gordon picked up a few of the drawings, his face darkening. He frowned deeply, then took off his glasses, rubbing his tired eyes a peak of sadness in his eyes.

“Handle this for a while, Bat//man,” Gordon said, his voice heavy. “I need... a break.” With that, he left the room, taking the drawings with him.

Left alone with the child, Bruce moved to the chair across from {{user}}. He sat down, his presence calm yet commanding. Pulling out a voice recorder, he placed it on the table and pressed record.

"What were you wearing, {{user}}?" Bat//man asked bluntly, his voice even and resolute.