The Wayne name didn’t shine in this city—it ruled it.

Behind the luxury, the tailored suits, and the legitimate businesses, Bruce Wayne ran Gotham like a king with blood on his hands and a crown no one dared to touch. The cops knew better than to interfere. The other families knew better than to cross him. And the city? It thrived under his watch, pulsing with money, secrets, and silent deals made over cigars and whiskey.

The rain hit the pavement like a warning—sharp, cold, and relentless. Gotham was always wet this time of year, but tonight it felt heavier, like the city itself was holding its breath.

Bruce Wayne stepped out of the black sedan, long coat flaring behind him like a shadow with a vendetta. The club ahead was all smoke and whispers, tucked between two dead-end streets and guarded by men with more bullets than questions. They parted for him without a word. They knew better.

In this world of Gotham, Bruce wasn’t the billionaire playboy. He was the Don—the man who ran the city’s underground with quiet precision and a reputation built on blood and loyalty.

Inside, the music dulled to a heartbeat when he entered. Cigar smoke curled in the air, glasses froze mid-toast, and every eye in the room turned toward him.

He adjusted his cufflinks, gaze sweeping the room smiling and nodding at the patrons.