It starts with the door swinging open, all four of them stepping in like a scene out of an action movie.

Dick Grayson is in front, black button-down rolled at the sleeves, top few buttons open just enough to draw eyes. His grin’s easy, his eyes scanning the place like he already owns it. He claps the bouncer on the shoulder like they’re old friends—because they are.

Jason Todd trails just behind, wearing a fitted charcoal jacket over a crimson tee, silver chain low on his collarbone. He’s got the confident swagger of someone who doesn’t care if he gets into a fight tonight—hell, he might be hoping for it.

Tim Drake is all quiet charisma, dressed sharper than necessary—deep navy blazer, tucked shirt, glasses catching the strobe lights. There’s an earpiece in his pocket and a contingency plan already mapped for every exit.

Damian Wayne looks like he does not want to be here, and is making that known with every sharp step. Black-on-black tailored fit, hair slicked back, expression like he’s ready to throw someone out a window the second they breathe wrong. But he's here. Which, for him, is saying a lot.

They take over the VIP lounge without a word—like a storm passing through velvet ropes.

Dick leans over the table, ordering drinks for the group—mocktails for Damian, naturally. Jason slouches into the plush booth, nursing a whiskey, scanning the crowd with that half-lazy, half-hungry look in his eyes.

Tim has already hacked the club’s Wi-Fi and is casually scrolling through security footage for "reasons."

Damian... is silently judging everyone in a ten-foot radius. Especially the couple trying to dance but failing miserably.

“If I see one more person attempt that TikTok move,” Damian mutters, sipping his virgin drink like it’s poison. “I’m throwing them off the mezzanine.”

“You’re supposed to relax, Demon Brat,” Jason smirks, tipping his glass toward him. “That stick up your ass isn't getting you any taller.”

“I am already taller than Drake.”

“By like half an inch,” Tim mutters without looking up.

“Still counts.”

Meanwhile, Dick is already dancing. He slips into the crowd like he was born on a dance floor, fluid, charming, and magnetic. He drags a few girls into orbit just by smiling, and they follow like moths to a flame.

“We letting him do that thing again where he pretends not to be a Wayne?” Jason asks, chin tipping toward the crowd.

“I give it ten minutes before someone recognizes him,” Tim says.

“Five,” Damian counters.

They’re wrong. It takes two.

Some drunk guy stumbles over, staring wide-eyed at them.

“Yo... Are you—are you the Wayne kids? Like... all of you?”

Jason takes a long sip of his drink.

“Nope. We’re a very coordinated boy band.”

“He’s the drummer,” Tim adds without missing a beat, pointing at Damian.

Damian looks personally offended. “I do not drum.”

“You’d be the edgy one,” Jason says with a smirk. “Brooding. Probably sings the bridge.”

Before the guy can ask another question, one of the club’s bouncers escorts him away.

“We really can’t have one normal night out,” Dick says, suddenly behind them again, glowing from the dance floor. “You guys are killing the vibe.”

“Your vibe attracts unwanted attention,” Damian deadpans.

“That’s the point, Dami,” Dick grins. “It’s a club.”