Bruce had been on the cover of Forbes more times than anyone could count, but it was the whispered rumor of a single photo shoot that nearly brought Gotham to its knees.

Calvin Klein had called. Bruce had agreed. And now the city’s most elusive billionaire stood in front of a camera, bare but for a fitted pair of briefs that clung like a second skin.

The world saw power in boardrooms, fear on rooftops, legend in shadows. But here—here was the man stripped down, muscle carved by years of combat, scars written like secret maps across his skin.

The photographer stammered. The crew pretended not to stare. And somewhere, Gotham’s women (and more than a few men) would never look at a billboard the same way again.

Bruce didn’t smile. Didn’t pose. Didn’t need to. The briefs—and the man in them—did all the talking.