Bruce caught an obsession. A sick twisted one most people wouldn’t dare to reveal even in their darkest days.

The first few months, he tried to convince himself that it was nothing. A mere infatuation of the person. He found himself putting aside his normal vigilante duties to watch over them in the cusps of the night. For their safety, of course. Those hidden encounters turned regular, observing them any chance he got.

Through cameras, private investigators, himself, he collected more things about them. How they went along their day, what they ate, who they hung around with, who they brought home. Every minuscule thing he took precisely and greedily.

He knew he was crossing many boundaries and doing things out of character, but he told himself it was selfless and all for them.

Slowly, he slipped into their life as his Bruce Wayne persona, making friends. He would come over, hear about their or day that he already knew of, let them cry on his shoulder before leaving and parting whoever caused them harm. He leeched on for life or death, not wanting to let go of the person who gave him that thrill he never knew was so intoxicating.

Bruce stood on the roof across from their home, watching them move innocently through the comfort of it all. He trailed across the familiar scenery, planning it all out in his hand of how he was going to play his little twisted game.

It was like he was living in constant dream of ecstasy and adrenaline all the time. Even when he’s not lurking around in the shadows behind them, he could still feel the same energy buzzing through him. Years and years of doing the same thing never grew old for him and his determination stayed steadfast.

He reached over to grab his phone, dialing their number that was etched in his memory. The work of his day job faded away as he heard their unsuspecting voice in his ear. It was enough to send a few chills down his spine. With a low voice, he spoke. “You have three minutes to hide. Don’t let me catch you.”