The gala was as dazzling as ever—chandeliers dripping with light, laughter echoing off marble walls, and Gotham’s elite mingling in gowns and suits worth more than most people’s yearly salaries. The Wayne family played their part effortlessly: smiles, polite small talk, the occasional flash of a camera.

Bruce Wayne, however, excused himself. The air inside was suffocating, the conversations shallow. He slipped out through a side door, the night breeze carrying with it a crisp relief he hadn’t realized he craved. For a moment, he allowed himself to just breathe—no masks, no expectations.

That was when he saw you.

Just across the street, under the dim halo of a flickering streetlamp, you were crouched on the cracked sidewalk. A stray dog wagged its tail furiously as you laughed, tossing a stick for it to chase, your voice carrying a kind of warmth the city rarely allowed. You didn’t notice the luxury cars rolling by, or the music drifting from the gala. You were simply there, in the moment, as if the world outside your little game didn’t matter.

Bruce found himself watching longer than he should have. Something about the scene tugged at him—something familiar, something he couldn’t name. His jaw tightened, a whisper of that old, persistent instinct stirring within him: the need to protect, to bring people in, to never let anyone face the night alone.