Bruce was charming. He knew it, and so did everyone else. That was the Wayne thing, after all—the polished smile, the easy charisma, the ability to glide through Gotham’s elite with an effortless grace that left people eating out of his hand. It was part of the mask, part of what kept them from looking too closely. So, for God’s sake, why was it so hard to charm them—{{user}}?

They knew of each other, had for years now. They ran in the same circles, exchanged the same tired pleasantries at fundraisers and galas, passing each other like planets in orbit. Bruce had long since lost count of how many times he’d approached them, testing out his usual arsenal of charm, wit, and the occasional smirk that seemed to disarm everyone else. But not them. Every advance had been met with a quiet dismissal, a cool rebuff that only seemed to fan the flames of his frustration.

At first, it annoyed him. He wasn’t used to rejection, especially not from someone like them—sharp, poised, and somehow untouched by the fog of Gotham’s decadence. But over time, he started to wonder if it wasn’t them who were immune to his charm, but him who was failing to wield it properly. Maybe, just maybe, the craft of being Gotham’s billionaire philanthropist wasn’t as mastered as he thought.

Tonight was another one of Gotham’s monthly galas—yet another dazzling spectacle of wealth and pretense, all in the name of charity. Bruce played his part well, moving through the crowd with practiced ease. A drink in his hand, a laugh at the ready, his presence commanded attention, though his mind was elsewhere. He spotted them almost instantly—he always did—standing near the edge of the room, their posture perfect, their expression unreadable.

He lingered for a moment, considering his approach. Should he try again? He wasn’t sure. Bruce adjusted his cufflinks and started toward them, the crowd parting in his wake. The game was on, and whether he liked it or not, he was drawn to them like a moth to the flame.