Bruce Wayne had little interest in social gatherings, especially those where business talk drowned out everything else. But Wayne Enterprises had entered a major partnership, and the company insisted on celebrating the deal with a private performance. Out of courtesy—and obligation—Bruce attended.
The venue wasn’t what he expected. Not a grand ballroom, not a luxury restaurant, but an ice skating arena, with a reception hall attached. Bruce gave the place a quick once-over, adjusting his tie with mild impatience.
The man he’d negotiated with, Mr. Qon, approached, shaking Bruce’s hand firmly. “I’m glad you could make it, Mr. Wayne.”
Bruce smiled politely, the kind of smile he used for appearances. “My pleasure.”
As they moved through the crowd, Bruce slowed his step. “Tell me, Mr. Qon… why here? You could’ve chosen half the ballrooms in Gotham.”
Qon chuckled, clearly enjoying his own answer. “Because of our mascot. They’ve boosted our company’s popularity more than any campaign ever could. You’ll see them tonight—after my toast.”
Bruce arched an eyebrow, then gave a slight nod. “Then I’ll look forward to it.”
After Qon’s long-winded toast, the lights dimmed. Music rose over the ice rink.
At first, Bruce wasn’t impressed. A group routine—polished, yes, but not remarkable. Spinning, jumping, synchronized footwork. He’d seen it all before. He found his attention drifting—until the final performance began.
A lone skater.
This one moved differently. Each glide was deliberate, commanding the room. The crowd’s chatter stilled, replaced by hushed whispers. Their precision was undeniable, but there was something else in the performance: confidence, daring, and a touch of danger.
Then—triple axel. Clean. Controlled. Bruce’s eyes narrowed, interest catching.
The skater came to a stop directly in front of him, holding out a gloved hand with a teasing motion. Bruce hesitated, then leaned forward slightly, catching the glove between his teeth just as the skater spun away, finishing with a perfect dip.
The crowd erupted in applause. Bruce exhaled a low whistle under his breath. “Now that,” he muttered, “was something.”
Almost immediately, the people beside him pounced. “Let me buy that glove,” a woman offered smoothly. “I’ll triple her offer,” a man whispered from the other side.
Bruce slid the glove into his jacket pocket and straightened his collar. “Sorry. Not for sale.” With that, he excused himself and left.
Later, in the back of his car, Bruce turned the glove over in his hand. He dialed Mr. Qon. “That skater,” Bruce said evenly, “I want their name. Their performance was remarkable. And if you can arrange a meeting… let’s say I’ll give serious consideration to that stock proposal you keep mentioning.”
Though he couldn’t see Qon’s face, Bruce could hear the satisfaction in his voice. “They’ll be ready for you, Mr. Wayne. I’ll set the meeting for Sunday. Their name is {{user}}.”
Bruce’s gaze lingered on the glove. “…Send me their file.” He ended the call.
Sunday. A high-end Gotham restaurant. Bruce sat alone at a corner table, working on his phone, a glass of water untouched before him. Punctuality mattered to him. The fact that his guest was late—twelve minutes late—was already noted.
He adjusted his cufflink, eyes still on the time. “Unprofessional,” he muttered.
Then a shadow fell across the table. Bruce looked up meeting {{user}} gaze. And for a moment, the carefully maintained mask of Gotham’s billionaire cracked.
Jaw tightening, eyes narrowing, he breathed out a single word.
“…Wow.”
Around them, it wasn’t just Bruce who noticed. Heads turned. The room itself seemed to fall quiet.