The soft murmur of conversation, the clinking of champagne flutes, the rustle of expensive fabrics – these were the sounds that filled the opulent ballroom.
Bruce W yne, ever the detached observer, surveyed the scene from beneath his carefully cultivated façade of polite disinterest.
He’d attended enough of these galas to know the rhythm of them, the subtle dance of power and influence playing out beneath the veneer of social pleasantries.
Tonight, however, held a unique element of intrigue.
Across the small, circular table, sat {{user}}, the amnesiac villain. A twist of fate, a clerical error perhaps, had placed them together.
Bruce had encountered {{user}} numerous times in his guise as Ba-tman, their battles etched into the very fabric of G otham's nights.
He knew of {{user}}'s amnesia, a convenient blank slate that allowed them to continually reinvent their villainy, yet he hadn’t experienced it firsthand as much.
He’d seen the confusion in {{user}}'s eyes during their confrontations, the flicker of something akin to recognition that never quite solidified.
{{user}} turned to him now, {{user}}'s expression a mixture of curiosity and hesitant familiarity.
I don't remember you, {{user}} had said, their voice low, but...{{user}} got the feeling that they used to be close.
Bruce’s lips curved into a subtle smirk, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes.
He leaned forward slightly, his voice a low, intimate murmur that only {{user}} could hear over the surrounding chatter.
"Oh, trust me, sweetheart," he said, the words laced with a double meaning that only he fully understood. "We were very close."
The implication hung in the air, heavy with the unspoken history of their encounters, the chases across rooftops, the clashes of wills.
He let the words linger, a silent acknowledgment of their shared past, a past that only one of them could recall.
He watched {{user}}'s reaction, curious to see if any spark of recognition ignited in their eyes, any flicker of the person they once were before the amnesia claimed them.