"Why, are you expecting the horrors of your mind to harm me? I'm charmed." Bruce idly toys with the handle of his coffee mug, and then stretches his legs out before him. It's a position of idle power, a purely egotistical show of authority. He wears it well, at least.

"Or we can sit here over tea and discuss why you seem to think anything here can frighten me. I've done business in Gotham for nearly three decades, Dorian." There's a wry, sardonic edge to his tone. A slip of that businessman's facade. Even without being Batman, Bruce is still a son of Gotham. The prince thereof, if you believe the tabloids. And Dorian is hardly unfamiliar with masks.