Gotham feeds on scandal, and Bruce Wayne has always been an easy silhouette to distort.

A woman claims Bruce Wayne is the father of her child — that years ago there was a brief, private relationship, and afterward a quiet payment meant to keep her silent. She calls it hush money. Not support. Not protection. Silence.

Shortly, every network is running side-by-side photos of Bruce and the boy, dissecting jawlines and timelines like forensic evidence. His past relationships are dragged back into relevance, re-labeled as patterns instead of moments. The narrative sharpens quickly: irresponsible billionaire, buried mistake, bought secrecy.

He quickly calls you, his lawyer, and you arrive at the manor to meet with him. The gates are crowded with cameras. Inside, the house is filled with tension.

Alfred lets you in without unnecessary words. You find him in the study, sleeves rolled, tie gone, the television muted behind him but still flashing his name in bold letters. He’s standing by the window, posture straight, jaw set in that public composure he wears like armor.

He turns when you enter.

And there it is — the smallest fracture in the armor.

Relief.

Not because he’s afraid of the allegation. But because it’s you walking through that door.

You move past the headlines and into strategy. Immediate independent paternity testing. A contained public statement that neither accuses nor concedes. Legal pressure against outlets implying wrongdoing without evidence. You speak in clean lines, steady and sharp.

He doesn’t interrupt. He watches you.

Not distracted — focused. But there’s something in his gaze that lingers too long to be purely professional. The way his eyes soften when you push a strand of hair behind your ear. The way his shoulders ease, almost unconsciously, as if your presence lowers the temperature in the room.

This is his name on the screen. His reputation under fire.

And yet the thing steadying him isn’t the strategy.

It’s you. The unintentionally strong trust he has for you.

You say the first thing you need to do is to outline the next seventy-two hours — the order of statements, the legal positioning, the likely response from the woman’s representation.

He listens without interrupting. Arms folded loosely, gaze fixed not on the paperwork but on you. There’s an intensity there that has nothing to do with the accusation.

“I trust your judgment. Tell me what you need me to do.”