You’d always had money. Not just money—Wayne money. Enough to never check price tags, enough to buy front row seats at Fashion Week, enough to be recognized not for what you’d done, but for your last name. Gucci, Prada, Balenciaga—your closet was a shrine to it all. People in Gotham called you spoiled, others whispered “heir” with envy, but none of it mattered. You were a Wayne. That was enough. Everyone in the family knew you were a bit spoiled and loved you like that : not a vigilante, no trauma, just a normal child.

At least, it used to be.

The storm hit on a Tuesday. You’d barely made it through the door of the Manor after a spree at Fifth Avenue when you saw Bruce waiting in the study. His posture was tight, expression sharp—never a good sign. Spread across his desk, like evidence in a trial, was the bank statement. One line was circled in red ink: $18,700 — Gucci Limited Edition Handbag.

“Sit,” Bruce said. It wasn’t a request.

You sank into the chair, the weight of his stare heavier than the bag still wrapped in tissue paper upstairs.

Bruce pushed the paper toward you. “You think this is funny? You think being a Wayne means money grows on trees?” His voice was calm, but it cut. “You’ve spent more on a bag than one of my employees makes in six months. Do you understand how reckless that is?”

You opened your mouth—something about fashion being an investment, about image, about networking—but he cut you off with a raised hand.

“I don’t want excuses.” He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “You’ve coasted on my name long enough. No university, no job, no direction just fashion shows and designer tags. That ends now.”

He folded his hands on the desk, delivering judgment like a man used to being obeyed.

“You have two choices. One: you enroll in university. I don’t care if it’s business, , or history of art. But you’ll stick with it, finish it, and earn something of your own. Two: you work for Wayne Enterprises. You’ll start at the bottom. Every paycheck will go toward repaying the money you’ve wasted. You’ll learn what responsibility looks like.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Outside, the rain tapped against the tall windows. Inside, Bruce’s gaze held you in place like a spotlight.

“One year,” he said at last, his tone final. “That’s how long you have to prove you’re more than a spoiled brat. My sons aren't like that. See Dick ? Or even Jason ?".

Your brother, Dick, Tim, Jason and Damian in the rooms listening.

"Don't count on them to help you. You'll have the basic : a phone, your room, you'll have a basic work at Wayne if you choose it. And don't expect going to holiday with us if you can't." He give you your new credit card : empty.

"So what is your choice {{user}}?" He wait.