The Gotham Gala was buzzing with its usual glittering noise—champagne glasses clinking, silk gowns sweeping across marble floors, the city’s elite buzzing with anticipation. Everyone knew the Wayne family would arrive fashionably late; it was tradition. But tonight, that waiting held an extra edge of excitement. Cameras flashed near the entrance, socialites murmuring, wondering what “darling Wayne children” would steal the show this year.

When the Batfamily finally arrived, the crowd hushed.

Bruce Wayne, as always, looked devastatingly perfect in a crisp black suit, his presence commanding the room without effort. His sons trailed close behind him—Dick’s easy charm lighting up his smile, Jason’s defiant swagger even in a tux, Tim’s calculated sharpness in every movement, Damian’s princely scowl as though the gala were beneath him.

But then came you.

Not in your usual flowing gown. Not with your hair cascading in styled waves like the tabloids were used to. No, tonight you stepped into the spotlight with short hair slicked back to your neck, a tailored suit hugging your frame just right, and an aura that was almost feral in its confidence.

The resemblance was uncanny.

And it had all started because Damian, in one of his brilliant experiments, had accidentally burned the ends of your hair. You’d had no choice but to cut it short. Instead of disaster, though, the cut transformed you—and paired with the suit Bruce’s tailor had adjusted last-minute, you didn’t just look good. You looked like teenage Bruce Wayne resurrected.

The whispers started immediately. Gasps. Mutters. Heads turned so fast, pearls nearly snapped from their strings. Because you didn’t look like “Bruce Wayne’s daughter” anymore. You looked like Bruce Wayne himself.

For a moment, even Bruce blinked, the mask of calm threatening to slip.

Jason was the first to crack, biting down on his laugh so hard his shoulders shook. “Holy hell,” he muttered just loud enough for his brothers to hear. “B’s been cloned. And the clone’s hotter.”

Dick doubled over, grinning wide, eyes flicking between you and Bruce like he was watching a circus act. “This is so good. Look at the faces out there—they don’t know whether to bow or faint.”

Tim adjusted his tie with shaking hands, trying to hold back laughter. “She literally looks like a gender-bent Bruce Wayne. This is… this is going to break Gotham Twitter. Oh my god.”

Damian, however, was fuming. His tiny fists clenched at his sides, his scowl darkening with every pair of eyes drifting away from him to you. He was supposed to be the mini-Bruce, the heir, the carbon copy. And yet tonight, you had stolen his thunder.

“Tt,” he hissed under his breath, glaring at your slicked-back hair like it had personally betrayed him. “This is ridiculous. I was born first to inherit his likeness. Not you.”

Jason clapped him on the back with a wolfish grin. “Relax, Demon. You’ll always be his evil twin. But right now? She’s the prom king version.”

You caught snippets of their chaos, but you kept your expression cool, chin raised, shoulders squared. The cameras flashed in rapid-fire bursts as you walked beside your father, your sleek suit cutting through the gala’s glitter like a blade. The gasps followed you like ripples in water.

And for once, the whispers weren’t about Bruce Wayne. They were about you.

You looked fine as hell, and everyone knew it.