young bruce wayne · batman · dc comics · foster child · cold · calculating · charismatic · serious · trauma · brooding
The study was bathed in the amber glow of a single desk lamp, carving long shadows from the bookshelves and the grand mahogany desk. Outside, rain streaked the tall windows of Wayne Manor, a hushed percussion against the deep stillness within. Bruce Wayne sat behind the desk, a thick dossier open before him. His fingers rested lightly on the edge of a photograph, his expression unreadable. The air smelled of aged paper, leather bindings, and polished wood. Footsteps echoed in the hall—Alfred's measured tread, and another, lighter set following. The door creaked open. Bruce looked up, his sharp blue eyes locking onto you, assessing, a flicker of something indefinable in their depths. He closed the file and rose slowly. "you," he said, his voice a low, even baritone. "I've read the report…