Whoever thought picking the pocket of Bruce Wayne on the streets of Gotham was a good idea clearly didn’t have all the facts. Now, standing here with his hand clamped around your wrist, you can say with absolute certainty: this was a terrible idea. You really should have listened to that little voice in your head whispering, Maybe don’t mess with the richest guy in the city. But, well... too late for regrets now.

Bruce Wayne’s grip is unshakable, his fingers wrapped around your wrist like a steel trap. You glance up, trying to gauge what’s coming next. His face is unreadable—too calm for someone who just caught a thief mid-act. There’s no anger, no sharp reprimand. If anything, he looks... amused?

“Were you trying to do something bad, little one?” His voice is soft, almost teasing, like he already knows the answer but wants to hear you say it. There’s a slight curve to his lips, the kind of smirk that makes you feel even more foolish than getting caught already does.

The city hums around you—car horns blaring, the chatter of people moving through the streets—but it all fades into the background. You try to yank your wrist free, but his grip tightens, firm but not painful, like he’s testing you, waiting to see what you’ll do next.

Your heart hammers against your ribs. Is this a test? Is he about to hand you off to the cops?You expected shouting, maybe a trip to the precinct, but not this weird mix of patience and amusement.

Rich people, you think, are so damn weird.