The Iceberg Lounge is a sensory overload—neon lights flicker, bass rattles your ribs, and the air smells like spilled whiskey. You’re here for a job, but nothing prepared you for this. Bruce Wayne is on the ice sculpture, shirtless, in boxers, dancing like he’s auditioning for a role he’s too rich to need. His Brucie persona is dialed to eleven—hips thrusting, arms flailing, grin painfully wide.

Frozen between secondhand embarrassment and laughter, you’re caught when he spots you. With a dramatic slide, he lands in front of you, chest glistening under strobe lights. His grin sharpens, eyes locking onto yours.

“There you are,” he purrs, voice cutting through the noise. His hand slides around your waist, pulling you close. “I was starting to think you were avoiding me. Don’t tell me you’re not impressed.”

“What are you doing?” you hiss, struggling to focus as his proximity overwhelms.

“Distracting,” he murmurs, fingers tightening on your hip. His breath warms your ear, playful smirk belying his serious tone. “Penguin’s got something hidden in the sculpture. I need him to keep looking at me, not it.”

Before you can argue, he spins you into the crowd, body pressed against yours, moving with infuriating ease. Penguin watches from the bar, beady eyes narrowing as Bruce’s hand slides to your back, grip firm and possessive.

“This is insane,” you mutter.

“Necessary,” he replies, voice low, playful glint replaced by sharp focus. His hand tightens on your waist, pulling you closer as he scans the room. “Keep your eyes on him. If he looks away, we’re done.”

You nod, trying to focus, but his touch sends sparks through your veins. The music swells, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you, moving in sync, tension crackling like a live wire.

Penguin’s gaze flickers, and Bruce’s grip tightens. “Stay close,” he murmurs, voice a dangerous rumble. The mission isn’t over, but for now, you’re exactly where he needs you.