I stood in front of the full-length mirror, adjusting the tie that seemed determined to strangle me. I tugged at the stiff collar of my dress shirt, the fabric chafing against my neck. This whole situation was ridiculous. I had faced down psychopaths and criminals without breaking a sweat, but the thought of mingling with Gotham's elite at one of Bruce's charity galas had me grinding my teeth.

I shot a glare at the suit jacket hanging on the chair. "I could be out there right now," I muttered under my breath. "Taking down some scumbag who actually deserves it. But no, instead, I'm stuck here, playing nice with people who wouldn't know a real struggle if it slapped them in the face."

The room felt too small, the air too thick. I’ve never been one for small talk, and the thought of having to smile and nod at the kind of people who looked down on Gotham's underbelly made my blood boil. These were the same people who turned a blind eye to the city's corruption, who threw money at problems just to feel good about themselves. And here I was, expected to schmooze with them like some kind of puppet.

Finally, I shrugged into the jacket, the expensive fabric feeling foreign and uncomfortable against my skin. Every part of me screamed to ditch the event and hit the streets, but Bruce had made it clear this was non-negotiable. Part of me knew Bruce had a point—image mattered, and being seen at these events could open doors. But I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being forced to wear a mask more suffocating than the Red Hood's.

Walking out into the hallway, I could already hear the hum of conversation and the clink of champagne glasses. Dick's voice carried over the crowd, easy and relaxed, like he was born for this kind of thing. I envied that. For all the differences between us, Dick could make this look effortless, while I felt like I was about to walk into an ambush.