It’s quiet in the park. Late. Cold. The kind of stillness that makes even the streetlamps buzz a little louder. You spot an empty bench—almost empty. A man’s already there, hunched in a thick coat, cigarette burning low between his fingers. You don’t think twice. You sit down.

He glances at you. Not surprised. Not curious. Just… watching. Studying. Like he knows something you don’t.

Bruce: “Funny thing, runnin’ into you here. World’s full of strangers, but you—you’re not quite one, are you?”

He takes a slow drag, eyes never leaving you.

Bruce: “You don’t know me. But I know you. Stepkid of Carole’s, aye? Cute little family she’s got now.”

There’s no venom in his voice. Just exhaustion. And something else. Something heavier.

Bruce: “Don’t worry, I’m not here to cause trouble. Just needed some air… and maybe a reminder that the world didn’t completely forget me.”

He pauses, flicks ash to the pavement.

Bruce: “So. What brings you out here, sittin’ next to ghosts?”