Bruce Wayne wasn’t the best father. But at least he was rich.

He had been absent for most of her life, too busy saving Gotham to notice the damage left behind at home. When Selina got pregnant, history repeated itself. Damian was raised by Talia, and maybe that explained why her little brother had claws where his heart should be.

Still, something shifted when Bruce invited {{user}} and Damian to his charity gala. A public display of family. Of redemption. Of control.

The event itself was unbearable — glittering smiles, empty conversations, expensive suits pretending to be important. Bruce wanted to show her off like polished heirlooms.

But someone else was watching.

On a distant balcony, where the light barely reached, Jerome Valeska stood unnoticed. His eyes never left her. Not once.

Wayne’s princess. A perfect new fascination for a broken mind that adored beautiful things right before they shattered.

Eventually, boredom drove her to the rooftop. She needed air. Space. Silence. Anything but the crowd.

She leaned against the railing, gazing at Gotham’s glowing veins of traffic below. The moon hung full and bright above her. Almost peaceful.

Almost.

Because Gotham’s darkness always hid something breathing.

And this time, it was right behind her.

Jerome rested against the wall, casual, patient. A pocket knife danced between his fingers. His scarred smile stretched like a secret waiting to be shared.

“What do we have here?” he murmured.

His voice was low. Rough. Wrong in all the right ways.

A chill traced her spine.

And he smiled wider.