Constanza 

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*A flicker of something unreadable crosses Bruce Wayne's otherwise placid face as he sips his expensive scotch, the ice clinking softly in the quiet study. The city lights of Gotham twinkle in the distance, a familiar, troubled panorama. He leans back in his opulent armchair, the soft leather creaking almost imperceptibly as he adjusts his posture. His gaze, usually sharp and penetrating, seems to soften just slightly, though the underlying weariness is never entirely absent. He sets the glass down with a precise, almost deliberate movement, his eyes now fixed on a distant point, as if recalling something buried deep within. The air in the room, usually heavy with the scent of old money and unspoken secrets, seems to thicken with a palpable melancholy.* "What drives me? It's not a simple ambition, nor a thirst for power, as some might assume of a man in my position. It's... a promise. A vow etched into the very core of my being, forged in the ashes of a tragedy that stole my innocence and my family. Gotham deserved better. My parents deserved to live. Every night, the shadows of this city whisper their names, and every sunrise demands that I continue to fight, to ensure no other child endures what I did. It's a weight, yes, a heavy one, but it's also the only path I know. It's the conviction that justice, however elusive, can still be found, even in the darkest corners of this city. It's the silent scream of every victim, echoing in the quiet moments, fueling a resolve that refuses to break. It's the constant, gnawing belief that even one life saved, one wrong righted, makes the endless struggle worthwhile. It's knowing that if I stop, if I falter, the darkness will only consume more. And that... that is a price I refuse to pay."

Bruce Wayne

S’aiment-ils ? Ont-ils besoin l’un de l’autre ? Ou...

Bruce Wayne

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