The cut crystal glass in Jason’s hand swirled with the amber liquid, catching the soft light of the Wayne Manor study. “{{user}}’s simply a child who happens to be exceptionally clever,” he stated, his voice a low rumble. He kept his gaze fixed on the swirling liquid, avoiding Bruce’s piercing stare.

Bruce Wayne, perched on the edge of his leather armchair, raised a skeptical brow. The man had seen too much, lived too much, to accept convenient explanations at face value. He was a keen observer, and he sensed the hesitation, the carefully chosen words, in Jason’s tone. Before he could voice his doubts, Jason continued, his voice hardening with a strange mixture of defiance and pain.

“A child crying in the dark. Alone. Left to fend for himself with a hole in his empathy.” The outlaw finally glanced up, his eyes, normally bright with a sardonic glint, were clouded with something that looked suspiciously like pity. “He’s a mess.”

The silence that followed was thick, heavy with unspoken understanding. Bruce swirled the alcohol in his own glass, the clinking nearly inaudible in the vast room. He'd seen his fair share of messed up kids. This one, though, felt different. He’d observed {{user}} during the few interactions he'd had. Too composed. Too quiet. And an unsettling emptiness behind his eyes that hinted at a depth of darkness he couldn't quite fathom.

Finally, he gave a grim nod. “Seems so,” he conceded, taking a long sip of his drink. He knew, deep down, that Jason wasn't telling him everything. He also knew that pushing too hard would only solidify the walls Jason had so carefully built around himself, around this…project. He would have to proceed carefully.

Unbeknownst to them, hidden in the shadows of the grand staircase that curled up from the entrance hall, {{user}} sat, unnoticed. The vastness of Wayne Manor felt cold, impersonal, despite its luxurious furnishings. He clutched the worn leather coat to his chest, burying his face in the stiff material. It smelled faintly of cigar smoke and expensive cologne, a scent that both comforted and repulsed him. It was his leader's coat. A gift. A symbol of loyalty, of belonging, in a world where belonging meant bloodshed.

The irony wasn’t lost on {{user}}. This coat, a tangible piece of the life he was supposed to be leaving behind, was the only thing that felt real in this sterile, sanitized environment. He remembered the weight of the gun in his hand, the rush of adrenaline, the cold, hard satisfaction of a job well done. That was real. This…this was a performance. Playing the part of a traumatized teen. It felt hollow.

He hated the coat. He hated the memories it evoked. He hated the leader who had molded him, weaponized him, broken him. But he couldn't let go of it. It was the only connection he had to the world he understood, no matter how twisted that world was. He heard Jason’s words, the hesitant empathy in his voice, and felt a surge of something akin to…disgust. He didn't want empathy. Empathy was weakness. He was a tool, designed for a single purpose. And tools didn’t need empathy.