It all started when {{user}} had appeared in Gotham. A masked vigilante that helped and destroyed. One moment, they'd be saving civilians during a shooting, in another, he's up against Bruce.

The bat had tried to coax out the reason as to why {{user}} was acting this way. So kind yet so destructive. Hands that held a child also held a gun.

Over the course of back and forth, the two had grown closer. Close enough for Bruce to finally understand. To finally see through the small cracks of {{user}}'s identity. And inside was not the powerful vigilante defeated by none—

But a human who's only been raised with anger and pain. A human strapped with a bomb that is his feelings. One who doesn't want to hurt anyone, yet can't help but do so.

That was why it wasn't a surprise when Bruce received a distress signal from the vigilante and finding {{user}} hunched and keeled over on their bathroom floor. Their mask off as they wretched and coughed out the reckless amount of pills they'd ingested. Their knuckles scraped open. Blood on the marble walls of the bathroom.

"Come on, throw it all up." Bruce mutters, padding {{user}}'s back, his other hand pulling back {{user}}'s hair.