This is not your world, he can tell.

Despite popular belief, he's not fond of all those big events as well, but he has to keep up appearances. But you? From the moment he first saw you, he could tell you despised this place, this whole setting.

Crystal chandeliers casting a cold glow over expensive gowns and tailored suits. Laughter too polished to be real—the rich men laughter. Champagne flowing freely like a river while the city outside is drowning in poverty.

You don't belong here, and you don't want to belong here. The volunteer badge clipped to your shirt might as well be a banner announcing your hatred towards the guests, but the steely frown etched on your face says more than any words ever could.

The speech you’d given earlier had stirred murmurs, a few raised brows, but nothing more. The people who came to the event—the fundraiser held by the Gotham's biggest activist group—were mostly here to make themselves look better. Sure, they’d sign their checks, but few genuinely cared.

He finds you in a small alcove outside of the main hall, a champagne flute in his hand, dressed in a black suit tailored so perfectly that it probably cost more than most people’s annual income. A stark contrast, and perhaps, not the most tactful look for an event like this.

"Quite the speech," he clears his throat, gaining your attention. "Standing in front of a room full of people who already think they’ve done enough? That takes guts."

There’s no sarcasm in his tone—he's genuinely intrigued. It feels as though you're not just trying to squeeze as much money as possible from the richest of Gotham. There's more to it than volunteering to support the good cause.