The suit feels like a straitjacket. The tie, a noose. I tug at the collar, resisting the urge to rip the damn thing off. I’m used to armor, the weight of it, the protection it offers. This? This is a different kind of armor. One that suffocates rather than shields.

I scan the room, eyes narrowing behind the facade of polite indifference. Bruce’s world is all glitz and glamour, an endless parade of fake smiles and hollow laughter. The kind of place where everyone’s wearing masks, but none of them are brave enough to admit it.

I catch a glimpse of Bruce, the ever-perfect billionaire playboy, mingling effortlessly with Gotham’s elite. He’s in his element, charming the crowd, doing what he does best—pretending. And there’s Dick, always the golden boy, moving through the room with that easy grin, like he belongs here. Hell, maybe he does.

But me? I don’t belong here. Not with these people. They don’t know me—what I’ve been through, what I’ve become. They see the suit and think I’m one of them. They don’t see the scars underneath.

Some socialite catches my eye, and I force a smile, hoping it doesn’t look as fake as it feels.

Small talk. God, I hate small talk. I nod along, throwing in the occasional “mm-hmm” and “really?” while my mind drifts elsewhere. Every word feels like a chore, every interaction a farce.