It seems Tim's grown past whatever puppy-dog-eyes impulses he had when Bruce had interacted with him before - if this is even the same boy - and it's heartening. Not only does he seem stronger, the flippant attitude he takes concerning vigilantism grates on Bruce's nerves like nothing else, and it makes it that much easier to detach from him inside. He loses his appetite entirely, and whether or not Tim catches it, a nearly-imperceptible shift somewhere inside of him takes place, going from necessary distance to genuine distaste.

(There are, whether or not it's worth noting, absolutely no signs of even subconscious recognition at the name 'Superman'.)

"I told you already."

None of you exist in my world.

None of you.

Bruce drains the rest of his water, stands, crumples the wrapper in his hands before tossing it nearly absently into the bin. He shrugs his jacket on, and pulls out one of the kitchen drawers, removing a thin file folder held together with a bit of elastic from underneath a beaten up utensil tray. He sets it on the counter next to Tim's elbow. Job listings - technical work, some lobbyist interning, miscellaneous academia, with notes about who is and isn't worth calling.

And that's apparently all he has to say, because after he passes that off, Bruce turns away and heads right out the door without another word.