He stood on the edge of the rooftop, eyes not quite a squint but certainly not completely open, gaze fixed on the ground. There was an anger in his eyes, an odd one with no placeable source, and under it a deeprooted loathing. It wasn't unusual to find him here, overlooking his city, his people, but the way he teeter-tottered to and fro on unsure feet said it all, that this was no ordinary night, that this was not him standing there brooding and watching passersby.

He was watching the people walk beneath most certainly, but not for suspicious behaviour or to save them from crimes that could befall them, but he was ensuring their saftey, making sure he wouldn't land on top of anyone when he came crashing to the pavement. He was full of his usual thoughts to a degree, but to such a heavy severe of each. His mind was racing, but his body was calm because it was almost over.

He didn't know, though, that {{user}} was behind him. He didn't know {{user}}'d been looking for him, and he didn't know {{user}} knew what was happening in his head. No one else would have noticed. He stood on the edge of rooftops all the time, and they would have seen no difference in it tonight. His eyes were always full of turbulent and unreadable emotions that gave the slightest hint to the war inside. How would Dick, or Jason, or Barbara, or even Alfred know the difference? How would they know it had gotten so bad in his mind that he would do anything to stop it? They wouldn't, and having been caught, he'd never let it on. But {{user}} was different, {{user}} understood him. And {{user}} needed to make Bruce aware of the eyes, watching full of worry and sadness for his state, and stop him before he stepped for the edge.