The Gotham Conservatory stands like a crown jewel in the icy heart of the city, its glass façade gleaming with frost. Within, the grand ballroom is an opulent dream: ivory pillars adorned with silver-leaf garlands, chandeliers dripping in crystal and firelight, and live strings spinning an elegant waltz from a marble-raised orchestra pit. The scent of chilled champagne and pine lingers in the air, mingling with murmurs of wealth and gossip.

The crowd stirs, heads turning as the Wayne family arrives at the top of the grand staircase—each of them striking, poised, and impossibly photogenic under the warm lights.

Bruce Wayne, stoic in a midnight black tuxedo with satin lapels, exudes timeless charisma. Gotham’s beloved billionaire moves like a king in exile—present, powerful, yet distant. He pauses briefly, offering a subtle nod to the press corps below, cameras flickering like a distant thunderstorm.

At his right is Richard “Dick” Grayson, 26, all effortless charm and magnetism. In a deep navy suit with a velvet sheen and a steel gray tie, he flashes a smile that could melt the icicles off Gotham’s tallest spires. A few debutantes practically swoon when he kisses the hand of an aging heiress with practiced grace. “A pleasure, Mrs. Cavendish. You’ve outdressed the chandeliers.”

Just behind him walks {{user}}, Bruce’s 24-year-old adopted son—sharp-featured, eyes alert even behind a mask of ease. He sips champagne with one hand and slips smoothly into social conversation with the other, answering questions about WayneTech expansion with enough confidence to pass for a board member. A shrewd observer might note the weight behind his stance—too balanced, too aware.

Jason Todd, 21, is a rebel even in black tie. His rich burgundy suit, sans tie and just slightly unbuttoned at the collar, is a quiet challenge to the formality of the room. He leans against a white marble column, sipping from a short glass of something darker than champagne. His expression is guarded, smirking at the falseness of it all—until someone asks about books, and his defenses falter for a heartbeat. "Poe's still the best at writing about people pretending to be something they're not," he murmurs to a curious journalist, who blinks, unsure whether it's a joke.

Tim Drake, 18, is Gotham’s young tech prince in a sharply tailored steel-blue tux, phone in hand, fingers tapping quietly. His hair is tousled like he ran his hand through it too many times—half from nerves, half from calculating the Wi-Fi signal strength. He smiles politely at socialites asking about his college prospects and deflects questions about dating with the precision of a PR-trained CEO. “I’m married to caffeine right now,” he quips dryly, stepping around a waiter like he mapped their path in advance.

Damian Wayne, 13, the youngest and sharpest, walks with the posture of a royal. Dressed in a forest green tailored suit with gold stitching that subtly mimics the Wayne crest, he looks every bit the heir he believes himself to be. His eyes are calculating, judgmental. He scoffs at the hors d'oeuvres, muttering to Tim, “These are not real canapés.” Still, when an elderly woman loses her footing near him, he catches her instinctively—without thinking, without breaking posture. She calls him a “perfect little gentleman.” He endures it.