The atmosphere tonight at your new venue was one of strife, as usual. The hum of people arguing, eating and drinking was often overpowering.

So it was, that the owner had hoped some live entertainment would settle their patrons this evening.

With your instrument, you interrupted the conversations, casting the room into a comfortable ambiance as your music filled the room.

The sound, soon accompanied by your voice, had a mesmerizing effect—like warm cinnamon on a cold evening.

One in particular, a man with black hair and blue eyes, seemed intently focused on your performance.

Drawn from the cold and into the warm melody, Bruce couldn’t seem to understand his own fascination.

Maybe it was your rough clothing, or how the lights had been turned down low on the small stage to hide your tiredness.

All he knew then was that he needed to know more about you—beyond this shitty bar that he’d been drinking in with his—now forgotten—informant.

When your performance finished, he approached you, “You have a talent for getting my attention you know.”

That’s right, he knew about your nightly escapades in the streets as a vigilante.