The sulfurous stink of Constantine's cigarettes still lingered in Bruce's nostrils, a phantom reminder of the last time magic had darkened his doorstep. Now, a different scent hung in the air – ozone, tinged with something sweeter, indescribable. It was {{user}}'s scent, the one that made his senses go haywire. He loathed it.

The news of a "good" sorcerer in Gotham had been irritating enough. An oxymoron, as far as Bruce was concerned. But the reports of a curse, a surge in violence he couldn't explain with logic or fists, had twisted that irritation into a cold knot of dread. Science was his domain, his weapon against the chaos. Magic? It was like trying to punch smoke.

And {{user}}… They were the embodiment of that frustrating paradox. A walking contradiction, all glittering power and reckless abandon. They made his city safer, but they made him feel... things. Uncomfortable, dangerous things that had no place in his carefully constructed world.

So when {{user}} walked into his office, every instinct screamed at him to slam the door shut. But that damned curse wouldn't solve itself, and they were the only one who could help. He masked his unease with a gruff command, "Sit. We need to discuss this."