“It’s hard,” Bruce says after a long, tense stretch of silence, his voice barely above a whisper. He shifts uncomfortably in the chair, a stark contrast to the authoritative figure he usually is. His hands are clenched together in his lap, the tension radiating off him like an electric current. He doesn’t like being in this chair—not because it’s uncomfortable, but because it forces him to confront feelings he’d rather leave buried.

You’ve been patient with him, every session, no matter how silent or guarded he gets. It’s your job, after all, and you’re being paid well for it. But, even with the compensation, you can’t help but feel like a spectator in his personal war. He barely says anything to you—his responses, when they come, are clipped and unwilling. Each word seems to weigh a ton, and it’s like he’s searching for the right one to let slip without risking the floodgate opening.

There’s that lingering fear in his eyes, the fear of speaking too much, of revealing the things he’s kept hidden for so long. He doesn’t trust himself to stop once he starts. Everything in him is wired to keep the flood of emotions at bay, but you can see it in the way his jaw tightens and his gaze wanders, like he’s battling with an internal storm he doesn’t know how to control.

Bruce Wayne has been bottling it all up for so long that he’s forgotten how to open up, how to ask for help. And now, in this room with you, he doesn’t know where to start. He’s at a loss for what to do next, like a soldier who’s forgotten how to lay down their weapons and surrender.