Done Worse  

"It is," answered Bane, walking into the basement room. He was dressed to the nines in a black dress shirt and slacks. The shirt was completely done up, leaving only the top button undone. The sleeve for his missing arm was properly tailored, fitting snuggle against the stump of his left shoulder.

 

I studied him up and down, taking note of his slicked-back salt and pepper hair and the smooth, even way he walked. He didn't look like he had been tortured less than ten minutes ago, but then again, he never did.