The gala did not pause for Bruce Wayne’s arrival. It never did. It simply adjusted—like a living thing recognizing a familiar weight on the floor. Crystal chandeliers scattered light across silk and sequins. Conversations didn’t stop, but they bent, redirected themselves so his name could pass through them first.

Bruce moved with the ease of someone who had been moving through rooms like this his entire life, his posture loose, his smile already in place, his gaze drifting lazily rather than searching. From the outside, he looked relaxed. Amused, even. Inside, he counted.

Faces, clusters, exits. The density near the bar was higher than usual. A private security detail lingered too close to the eastern doors—overkill for a charity gala, but donors liked to feel important. He clocked a familiar donor laughing too loudly, a junior senator mistaking volume for relevance, a hedge fund manager touching everyone he spoke to as if proximity could imply trust.

“Bruce!” A man intercepted him with practiced enthusiasm, hand extended, eyes bright with borrowed confidence. They had met before—three times, maybe four. Bruce smiled like it mattered.

“Daniel,” he said easily. “You look dangerously sober.”

Daniel laughed, delighted to be remembered, or at least named. “I was waiting for you.”

“I hope I was worth it,” Bruce replied, tone light, just self-deprecating enough. He accepted a champagne flute from a passing waiter without breaking eye contact. The man relaxed immediately. People always did when Bruce made them feel like the center of the room, even briefly.

They spoke about business—nothing real, nothing that required follow-up. Bruce offered nods, murmured agreement, a well-timed joke. He could feel the conversation ending before Daniel did, guided it there gently, smoothly, leaving no bruise behind.

The room shifted again, subtly, as a photographer angled for a shot.

“Mr. Wayne—”

Bruce turned before the request fully formed, smile widening, posture opening.

The flash caught him mid-laugh. It would look candid. It always did.

“Thank you,” the photographer said.

“Of course,” Bruce replied, already disengaging.

A woman slid into his periphery—tall, metallic gown, eyes sharp with curiosity rather than hunger. Refreshing.

“You don’t look how I expected,” she said.

He raised an eyebrow, playful. “That’s usually a compliment.”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Bruce chuckled, leaning in just enough to signal interest without invitation. “Give it time. I tend to grow on people.”

She laughed, satisfied, then drifted away when something shinier caught her attention. Bruce watched her go for a second too long, not out of desire but habit—tracking movement, noting trajectories.

The speech began without warning. Someone important enough to demand silence, not important enough to deserve it. Bruce applauded at the appropriate moments, expression open, agreeable, philanthropically pleased.

Around him, men congratulated one another for generosity that would never inconvenience them. He met their praise with humor, deflected their attempts at intimacy with charm.

“We should do lunch,” one of them said.

“We should,” Bruce agreed warmly, meaning absolutely nothing.

By the time Alfred appeared at his side, the room felt smaller.

“Everything proceeding smoothly, sir?” Alfred asked, voice low.

Bruce took a sip of champagne he hadn’t tasted. His smile never faltered.

“Perfectly,” he said. “Just as planned.”