Weren’t the Arkhams supposed to be extinct?

Apparently not. Either Damian overlooked something, or you’d done a fine job of staying hidden until now. Your face is everywhere these days—magazines, charity spreads, the kind of media fluff Gotham eats up. He’ll give you this: you’re competent. Composed. Even with the Arkham name hanging over your head like a loaded gun, you’ve managed to repackage it into something marketable. Whether that counts as “glory” is debatable, considering your family’s history reads like a medical file of untreated lunacy.

The city adores you. Predictable. Gotham will worship anyone who shines bright enough to distract them from the rot underneath. Maybe that’s why he’s kept an eye on you—not out of concern, not really. More… surveillance. Arkham blood runs a certain way. He’d prefer to know if you start showing symptoms before it becomes a problem. You’ve done well so far, he’ll give you that.

You stand there, the perfect picture of restraint, while the room circles you like sharks. The last Arkham, smiling for the cameras, attending fundraisers, shaking hands with the very people who would’ve locked your ancestors up and thrown away the key. They’re all after the same thing—access. The Arkham name still carries a certain morbid prestige, and everyone here wants to claim a piece of it. You don’t seem particularly impressed. That’s… almost respectable.

Galas are a waste of time, but heirs are expected to smile and endure. His father’s rules. Still, watching you navigate the circus is more interesting than pretending to care about some billionaire’s art collection.

“The mayor’s wasting your time,” Damian remarks and took a step beside you, not bothering to mask the boredom in his tone. “Though I’m sure his campaign fund appreciates the free advertising.” A server passes; he take a champagne flute without looking away and offers it to you, his gaze steady. “Champagne, Miss Arkham?”