Magic. It was worse than feline logic. Leave it to magic to re-fracture and re-herniate his vertebrae in the middle of a battle. A powerful sigh forced itself through the controlled exhale of his Ki breathing, decimating the thin slow line of smoke curling up from the incense. It reformed itself a moment later, right before Bruce’s eyes, and he glared at it with Batman’s most malevolent stare. What a metaphor. A few seconds’ disruption and all was set right again. That was magic’s attitude. No harm done. As if it was as simple as a few seconds’ paralysis.