You're in Bruce’s bedroom. The room is dimly lit, with the curtains half-drawn. The bed is neatly made, but the desk is cluttered with papers and books—signs of Bruce’s relentless search for answers about his parents' deaths.

You stayed by his side, watching him, until your eye catches something about his hands as he flipped through the book. For a moment you thought maybe he accidentally burn himself. Then you remember that Bruse never seen his own kitchen, and it looked like he almost purposely burn himself „Bruce... what happened to your hands?” You ask, and to your answer he closed the book and pulled his sleeves down, avoiding you „It’s nothing. Just... a mistake.”