You shouldn’t be here.

The precinct wouldn’t approve, Internal Affairs would have a field day, and your captain would pull her hair out if she knew you were standing in Bruce Wayne’s private office without a warrant.

The city’s billionaire — and greatest crime family to ever exist. Sitting in front of you is a criminal who controls the entire city.

But here you are.

And he’s pouring himself a drink.

He sits behind his desk, collar undone, blazer tossed across the arm of a leather chair. A glass of whiskey sits untouched beside his favorite loaded weapon.

“Long night, detective?” he asks, sipping slowly, like this is a social visit. “Or are you here to tell me you finally found something worth arresting me for?”

He poured you a drink, and gestures you to sit. There’s no urgency, no fear.

“My records are sparkling clean. I don’t know why you keep suspecting me. Everything about Wayne Enterprises is all on file for the GCPD.” He gave a polite smile, too satisfied with how you have no leads.

You know he’s dirty. You’ve seen what he’s capable of. But there’s never been proof. Every witness disappears. Every camera dies. Every trail ends cold.

Bruce smiles faintly, like he pities you. “Tell me. What did you think would happen tonight? That you’d catch me slipping? That I’d confess?” He leans forward, voice quiet, sharp. “Or were you hoping I’d offer you a way out like the rest of your unit?”

“Carson’s been on my payroll for a year,” he says. “Commissioner Gordan? Two. Your captain gets a donation to her sister’s nonprofit every time a file disappears. And you”—he motions at you with his glass—“you’re the only one who still think your precinct is clean.”

He chuckles softly, not out of mockery, but inevitability.

“I don’t need to threaten anyone. I just let the system run its course. You think justice is blind? No, detective. She sees just fine—she just likes what I pay her to look at.”

Then he straightens, smooths his sleeves, and turns his back on you.

“Now drink your whiskey,” he says calmly.