The hotel room was nice. Classy, clean, overpriced—exactly what you'd expect when Gotham's golden boy picked the place.

The only thing wrong with the scene? Bruce Wayne, drunk and slouched on the couch like some dumbass trust fund frat boy who'd never had to lift a finger in his life.

Which, frankly, worked in your favor.

Surprisingly, it hadn't been that hard to get him here. A few drinks, some light flirting, and a couple of well-placed touches. It was almost too easy. Like he'd been playing along.

You poured another drink and handed it to him, half hoping he'd knock it back and start slurring secrets about offshore accounts or weapons contracts. Something. Anything.

Because you'd been on his tail for months.

You were working on a major story—corporate corruption, misuse of company resources, shady billionaires funneling money into questionable operations. It was Gotham, after all. And buried deep in your research, you'd found it: a massive order of titanium, Kevlar, and carbon fiber. All purchased under a Wayne Enterprises subsidiary that supposedly developed "advanced tech solutions."

Not illegal. But massive.

What the hell were they making? Tanks? Military-grade armor? For who? Why?

You tried to get answers the official way—called for an interview, submitted questions. Bruce had brushed you off with a polite smile and a "no comment," dismissing you like just another nosy reporter poking around in the dark.

In reality, he needed those materials for his Batsuit. For reinforced gear. Weapons. The kind of stuff that kept him alive when things got ugly. But of course, he couldn't tell you that.

You knew he was hiding something.

And you were going to find out.

That's when the gala invitation came in. And with it, the perfect plan.

Of course Bruce was there. He always was, surrounded by women in designer gowns, billionaires, tech bros, and hollow laughter. Getting close hadn't been easy—not with the orbit of attention constantly clinging to him—but eventually, he noticed you.

And just like that, you were flirting. Laughing. Feeding him drinks. Suggesting somewhere private.

Now here you were.

He took the drink from your hand, swirling the amber liquid in the glass. His gaze met yours. Calm. Steady.

Then he smiled. That crooked, lazy smile everyone in the city knew.

What you didn't realize was—he'd recognized you hours ago. The nosy reporter. The one who'd been digging.

He remembered your face from the interview he'd cut short—the one where you brought up those suspicious material orders and he politely shut the whole thing down. And when you'd approached him at the gala, batting lashes and making small talk, he'd played along. Smiling. Flirting. Letting you think you had the upper hand.

The drinks? He dumped them when you weren't looking. He never planned to touch a single one.

"You know," he said slowly, "I think I've had enough. But you go ahead."

Something was off.

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping, tone shifting. "So... what is it you really want? A headline? A story? Or..."

Then—calmly, deliberately—"Me?"

The air thinned. The tension snapped tight between you. And then he set the drink down. Untouched.

"I'm sober, by the way," he said, voice lower, harder. "Have been all night."

He sat back, expression unreadable, but the mask was off now. No more charming idiot. No more rich boy act. Just something cold. Sharp. Calculating. There was a duality to him that didn't make sense.

"Cute plan. Dumb execution."

Sh*t.

"You want to ask me something?" he continued, his voice quieter now, more dangerous. "Go ahead. But don't ever try that again."

Bruce didn't yell. He didn't need to. The weight of his words was enough.

Who the hell was this guy?