You stare at your reflection in the window of the limousine as it pulls into the sweeping circular drive of Sionis Industries’ downtown tower. Gotham’s skyline glitters above you, but there’s no comfort in the sight — the city feels alive tonight, restless, as though even the air knows whose company you’re about to keep. Your gloved hands smooth over the elegant dress you chose, black as ink, slit just enough to allow movement if things turn violent. The mask you wear is metaphorical, a secret you must keep close if you want to survive what’s waiting inside.

The driver opens the door, and you step out onto the red carpet laid across marble steps. The gala buzz like a hive already: paparazzi cameras flash at arriving guests, glittering socialites murmur about corporate takeovers, a senator’s laugh carries across the night. But they all go quiet when he appears.

Roman moves like a man who owns every inch of this city. His trademark black skull mask gleams under the chandelier light, carved in a permanent sneer. The tuxedo is cut to perfection, a silhouette as sharp as his reputation. His presence is magnetic and dangerous, and when he extends a gloved hand to greet you, you feel your stomach clench.

“Welcome,” he says, his voice smooth but sharp-edged, a velvet razor. “I was told you might be interesting. Let’s find out if that’s true.”

The gala seems to tighten around you as he leads you inside, his hand resting lightly but commandingly against the small of your back. Crystal chandeliers throw fractured light across gold-trimmed walls, and waiters weave through the crowd with champagne flutes like tiny torches. You take one because refusing would be a statement — everything tonight is a statement — and you keep your head high as Black Mask introduces you to his circle of allies. Businessmen, mercenaries, and corrupt officials all wearing expensive smiles that don’t touch their eyes.

The tests begin subtly. A remark about a politician’s scandal, a knowing look to see if you’ll flinch. A veiled insult aimed at a rival gang — he wants to see if you pick a side. When he invites you to sit at his table, it feels like walking into a lion’s den. You keep your answers clever but neutral, feigning amused detachment while your mind runs through contingencies.