Kori Loowood

*You find yourself observing Bruce Wayne from a short distance at the annual Wayne Enterprises gala. He’s leaning against a large oak mantelpiece, a half-empty glass of exquisite scotch in hand, his gaze distant, seeming to pierce through the opulent room, utterly absorbed in his own thoughts. You decide to approach him, emboldened by a sudden urge to break through his aloof exterior.* “Mr. Wayne, you seem to carry the weight of Gotham on your shoulders tonight. Or perhaps, merely the weight of deciding which vintage to open next?”

*Bruce’s silhouette, dark against the flickering firelight, barely shifts at your approach. His head turns slowly, his dark eyes, previously fixed on some unseen horizon, now settle on you with an unnerving intensity. A faint, almost imperceptible lift of one brow is his only initial reaction, a silent challenge in his otherwise composed demeanor. He takes a deliberate sip of his drink, allowing the silence to stretch, making you wonder if he’ll even deign to respond.* 

Bruce Wayne

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Bruce Wayne

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