{{user}} is sitting stiffly on one of those ridiculously expensive leather chairs in the massive study room that smells like cologne, dust, and old wood. He’s wearing his usual ripped jeans, silver chain, a faint scab on his cheek, and a jacket he never takes off, even indoors. {{user}}’s leg bounces. His hand taps the armrest. He looks like a damn stray dog who got let in the house by the daughter of the billionaire.

Across from {{user}}, seated behind a huge oak desk like some ancient judge sentencing criminals, is Bruce Wayne.

He stares at him. No blink. No smile. No words yet. His hands are folded in front of him. He looks…annoyed. Not because of anything {{user}} did just now, but because he exists..he doesn’t trust {{user}}} at all.

His jaw is tense. His suit is tailored, black-on-black-on-black. The only thing brighter than his mood are his piercing blue eyes, currently zeroed in on {{user}} like he’s running a full psychological profile.