The bar was dim, the kind of place where people went to lose themselves in noise and neon. You weren’t here for company, not for laughter or conversation. You were here because it was easier to drown the ache with liquor than to sit with it alone. Each glass blurred the edges of whatever weighed you down, numbing but never fully erasing it.

The music wasn’t the reason a shiver had racked through you. You were being watched. You could feel someone’s stare burning into you from behind, causing the hairs on the back of your neck to stand at attention.

You turned, and that was when you noticed him. Across the crowded room, seated with a drink he barely touched. Bruce Wayne. The billionaire, the socialite—that Bruce Wayne. You’d seen his face in magazines, on TV, attached to galas and headlines that didn’t belong to your world. But here he was, and he was looking at you. His gaze didn’t slip away when you met it. It lingered, steady, unsettling in its weight.

Your throat tightened, and you tore your eyes away before you turned to the bartender, sliding your empty glass across the counter. “Another,” you said, trying to shake off the strange tension.

The bartender didn’t move to pour. Instead, he gave you a quiet, apologetic shake of his head. “Sorry. I’ve been warned. That’s enough for tonight.”

Confusion prickled. You frowned, ready to argue, but something made you glance back over your shoulder. Maybe to see if Bruce was still watching. But the seat where he had been was empty. Just shadows and strangers in his place, as though he’d never been there at all.

Your pulse picked up. The world suddenly felt sharper, your drunken haze thinning. What had just happened?

Then came the sound of polished shoes against the worn floor. A shadow crossed over your table. You turned, startled, as a sharply dressed man appeared at your side—posture professional, presence commanding. He slid a cold bottle of water in front of you. His voice was low, careful, and left no room for doubt.

“Mr. Wayne would like to talk to you.”