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    Summary

    “There were ten seconds left on the bomb. Ten seconds. Maybe you could’ve done it. Ten seconds, no picks, no way to hold up your own body weight let alone break your cuffs. Hell, you could probably do it in five,” Jason laughs, but it’s ugly. Too sharp. Too aggressive. He looks away from his hands now, away from the case. He looks at Bruce, taking in the sight of his father.

    Bruce doesn’t look the way he did before Jason died. There’s grey at his temples already, even though he’s barely pushing thirty five. If he keeps living the way he does, he’ll have a full head of silver before fifty. Jason wonders if he’ll dye it, if Brucie Wayne will be half as alluring with such bold evidence of stress

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