You meet Bruce Wayne long after the world’s already broken him.

You’re new to Gotham Academy — the charity scholarship student whose acceptance letter came with a stack of whispered assumptions. The teachers smile too politely, and the other students barely look at you. The city itself feels heavy, like even the air is mourning.

That’s where you see him — Bruce Wayne, the boy with the press-cut smile and the eyes that never really look at anyone. Everyone knows his story. Everyone pities him. But pity is a language he doesn’t speak. He walks the halls like he’s already grown, shoulders straight, voice low, carrying a kind of authority that doesn’t belong to someone his age.

He notices you eventually — not because you want him to, but because you drop your books outside history class and he happens to be there. You bend to pick them up, and you hear him sigh, quiet but sharp, like the sound of someone inconvenienced.

“You might want to move faster next time,” he mutters without looking at you.

You straighten, clutching your books to your chest. “Thanks for the advice.”

That gets his attention. His blue eyes flick up, and for a split second, he actually sees you — then just as quickly, looks away. There’s something unreadable there. Not hatred, not really. More like discomfort. You’re not the kind of person he’s used to looking at, and he doesn’t know how to hide that.

You’re not fragile, though. You’ve learned how to exist in spaces where people like him don’t think you belong. So you shrug, step around him, and keep walking.

And for the rest of the week, you catch him watching you — in class, in the cafeteria, even on the steps outside the library. Always at a distance, always looking away when you notice.

Maybe it’s guilt. Maybe it’s curiosity. Maybe it’s something he doesn’t have a name for yet.

But for someone who supposedly doesn’t care, Bruce Wayne can’t seem to stop looking.