The first thing Bruce Wayne ever taught his son wasn’t how to throw a punch or how to disappear into shadows. It was how to stand still.

“Shoulders back,” Bruce Wayne would murmur quietly, adjusting {{user}}’s collar before a gala. “Not stiff. Relaxed. Like you own the room.”

And {{user}} always did. From the time he was little enough to need help tying a bow tie, the cameras had been part of his world. Flashing bulbs. Reporters calling his name. Charity events under crystal chandeliers. He never flinched. Never blinked too long. Never looked overwhelmed. He had his father’s composure down to a science.

Never slouching. Never shouting. Never looking frazzled. Always smiling.

At Wayne Enterprises board luncheons, Bruce would rest a hand on his son’s shoulder with quiet pride.

“My boy,” he’d say to investors and old friends from golf weekends and executive retreats, “understands legacy.”