After he was done punching the wall (it could have been seven or eight times) Bruce crossed over to pacing and demanding that the new Butler, Alexander something or the other, leave him alone and mind his own business. Confused, with shoulders slumping in defeat, the older man disappeared into another room and left Bruce where he was, ignoring him as he left. His sudden change in temperament made the manor uncomfortable and the three women who were sent to make up a room for Terry whispered to themselves the whole way up the stairs. Bruce caught the slightest hint of their voices but turned his head away, not wanting to hear it.
A new voice, one that he didn’t recognize, came sooner than he expected. Alexander poked his head out through the doorway and Bruce reacted by pointing him back the way he’d come. He went to the door alone, with long heavy strides, his fist already bruising, a button undone at the top of his shirt, drops of red falling from his knuckles. He hardly noticed these things. They were nothing.
He reached for the door, opened it slowly, got his first look at the kid, didn’t bother staring for an unnecessary amount of time. “Get in here.” It wasn’t unkind, the way he said it, but it was rough, unsettling.