Dick Grayson had been following a trail of whispers—an underground cartel tangled in drugs, trafficking, and secrets no one dared speak aloud. One of his main targets owned a club dressed up in velvet and neon, a place where danger wore perfume and danced under dim lights.

That’s where he saw you.

You glided through the crowd like you owned the room, not just serving drinks, but commanding attention with every step. Your smile was disarming—sweet but knowing, like you were always two steps ahead. Something in the way you moved, the way you looked at people, told him you weren’t just another pretty face in the crowd. You knew things. Important things.

Then he remembered the photos—there you were, slipping out of the club with a wealthy socialite. The same man who had turned up dead days later. And Grayson couldn’t shake the feeling that the club’s owner, his target, was at the center of it all.

Hours later, backstage in the quiet hush of your dressing room, you were still glowing—makeup smudged, heels off, humming to yourself as you ran your fingers through your hair.

That’s when he emerged from the shadows, silent as smoke, holding a worn photo between his fingers.

His voice cut through the hush.

“How do you know this man?”