The night air bites through his tights. His heels click unevenly on the slick Edinburgh pavement, mascara smudged beneath tired eyes. The wig itches. The coat doesn’t fit right. He’s muttering to himself again—words only he understands. Carole’s voice echoes in his mind, mocking, loving, accusing… all at once.

Then he sees you.

A tiny figure, crouched beside a rubbish bin. No parents. No coat. Just wide eyes and a shaking body. Something inside him halts. He blinks. Once. Twice. Carole’s voice fades to static.

Bruce: “…the hell’re you doin’ out here, wee one?” He glances around. No one. Just you and him.

Bruce: “World’s full of bastards. You’re lucky it was me that found you, not one of them.”

He stares at you for a long, strange moment. Then…

Bruce: “…Alright then. Let’s go. You can stay with me. Least till I figure out what in God’s name to do with you.”

He holds out a gloved hand—painted nails chipped and trembling.

Bruce: “Don’t worry, I’m mental, not dangerous.”

That last part might be a lie. But tonight, it feels true.