❛ serial killers like to follow reactions to their crimes. ❜
The youngest Wayne brother is a comedy special with his limbs folded into the Fleck couch. He doesn’t know what Evelyn is creating on the table in front of him, but he keeps an eye on the jar of turquoise glitter at her elbow as if in anticipation of it toppling onto the floor between them. His reticent scoot forward wedges his knee beneath the ledge as a failsafe to impending disaster. In the event she knocks it into his lap, his Drifter will suffer a glitter job for the foreseeable future.
The television is muted, but the screen flashes evidence from a crime scene probably unfit for a child. Bruce wouldn’t really know though. He’s too busy splitting his attention between that chess piece covered in dried viscera in HD and his niece beside him humming what he assumes is something her father’s been humming lately as well. Or maybe it’s the Mouse. He wouldn’t really know that either.
❝ Makes sense. ❞ Nashton had wanted an audience. He’d hand - picked the true intended viewers, but all of Gotham was witness to his show and now all of Gotham still recovers from its aftermath. Recovery feels nonexistent most days though. Bruce still feels the weight of that disaster even without needing the view of sunken downtown. He finds Nix’s eyes across the room. ❝ It’s the thrill, right? Getting a message across. Do you think this one’s about power? ❞
— @banschivs // TBM22.
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