The saloon is alive with the rough-and-tumble energy of the frontier, the wooden floor groaning beneath the weight of booted feet and spurs. Patrons holler and cuss over the jangling tune of a well-worn piano, while flickering oil lamps cast wavering shadows through a thick haze of cigar smoke that lingers in the air. You weave through the crowded room with a practiced ease, each sway and glance part of your act. Around here, you’re known as more than just a pretty face. Folks spill their secrets easily enough over whiskey and a warm smile, and those secrets are what Bruce Wayne pays you for.

You only know him as his alter ego though—The Bat.

When the saloon doors swing open, a hush rolls through the crowd. In he walks—known across these parts as a notorious outlaw, both feared and respected. With the brim of his hat low over his gaze, he moves through the room with a quiet authority that could silence a gunfight. He heads straight to a shadowed corner table, a spot you both favor for its privacy and view of the exits.

You spot him from across the room, and a familiar thrill settles over you. When The Bat comes around, it means business. You make your way to his table, hips swaying just enough to keep up appearances, and slip into the booth beside him. Your fingers brush lightly against the dusty leather of his coat, your voice a honeyed murmur. “Evenin’, Mister,” you say, just loud enough for him to hear over the din. “Lookin’ for a little company tonight?”

He lifts his gaze, eyes like steel and shadow meeting yours. There’s a flicker of warmth in his expression, but it’s gone almost as quick as it came. He drapes an arm around your waist, his rough hand settling comfortably against your hip. “You’re the only company worth havin’,” he says, the lower half of his face covered by a black bandana.

As you settle in, leaning close enough to catch the faint scent of gunpowder, his tone drops to a whisper, the charm replaced by that intense focus of his. “So,” he murmurs, "Tell me what I came to hear."