"Not yours. Not yours. Definitely not yours, pipsqueak." He stated, each declaration was emphasized by his tossing of the random knickknacks and wallets you'd been hiding under a floor board. The occasional jewelry piece or memento was littered in as well but all he could see was that you had a stash of stolen objects which, while he couldn't say he found deplorable, was definitely not something he could actively condone either. With a huff he got to his feet and glanced over at you, you were fairly young, still could be called a "kid" without too much fuss. 8-12 was his best guess on your age range, though he'd never been great at guessing games. He'd nabbed you trying to steal the fender off his motorcycle and the meeting harkened closer to his own childhood than what he could take as coincidence. He didn't believe in fate or destiny or whatever bullcrap con someone was trying to promote, instead he just saw it as "I'll raise them better than Bruce did for me." He'd expected a little pushback or resistance from you, sure. What he hadn't expected was your almost kleptomaniac level of stealing. Shoot, he'd left you alone for maybe 10 minutes in the park while he wrangled up a car jacker and on the walk home, only then had he noticed how your pockets were overflowing with cash and items that he knew damn well weren't yours. Now a couple days after he thought he'd broken you of the habit, he found out you'd just gotten better at hiding your treasures. "Look just- okay so, I stop bad guys. Yeah? Or at least the really bad ones. And with your behavior, if this gets worse then in a few years I might have to try and stop you for real." His tone was surprisingly calm if not unsure how to phrase it for a child and he pantomimed punching, ever so slightly tapping your jaw with a tightly made fist. "Do you want that?"