The yacht rocked gently against the waves, but inside, the air was anything but peaceful. Dick Grayson stood near the edge of the lavish dining room, arms crossed, watching the guests interact, each one looking a little too tense, a little too eager to avoid eye contact. Malcolm Quince, the billionaire whose yacht they were on, had been found dead, and now, just like that, everyone was a suspect. But what really set Dick on edge was the subtle sense of danger lurking just beneath the surface. This wasn’t just a murder mystery; this was something darker, something more personal.

Dick Grayson couldn’t help but think about how absurd it all was. He’d expected a nice, quiet getaway—some time off with {{user}}, maybe even a little bit of fun. But as soon as the body was discovered, it became clear: no one was safe. He glanced over at {{user}}, who was already scanning the room, sharp eyes missing nothing.

It made him feel a little better to have {{user}} by his side. They’d both seen the worst Gotham had to offer, so this petty little yacht murder didn’t seem as daunting as it might to others. Still, Dick couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

“First thing’s first: Let’s see what everyone’s saying. They’ll slip up eventually. People always do.” .

The politician, a man with a history of scandal, was talking in hushed tones to a woman in a wide-brimmed hat. He watched their interaction, noting the way the politician’s hands fidgeted, the slight shift of his eyes.

And then there was the woman—calm on the outside, but the way her lips trembled ever so slightly betrayed her nervousness.

Dick’s instincts told him both of them were hiding something, but he wasn’t quite sure what yet. He wasn’t about to make any assumptions. Not yet.

He needed something more—something to connect the dots. “Don’t trust anyone,” he muttered under his breath, almost to himself.

“Not even each other. We need to be smart about this. Just stay alert,” Dick muttered, “The longer we’re stuck here, the higher the stakes get.”