The ballroom was stunning, as always—another night, another gala, another excuse for Gotham’s elite to pat themselves on the back. The chandeliers above glittered like a thousand tiny diamonds, casting a soft glow on the crowd. I adjusted the knot of my tie, trying to ignore the way it felt like a noose tightening around my neck.

Why did Bruce always insist on these things? I knew the answer, of course. Keeping up appearances, maintaining the Wayne name’s reputation, and most importantly, the charity aspect—funding projects that helped the city in ways even Batman couldn’t. But that didn’t make it any easier.

I could feel the weight of the eyes on me as I moved through the room, offering a polite smile to anyone who met my gaze. I hated this part. The small talk, the pretending, the forced charm. Every interaction felt like a chess game, each move calculated, every word measured. But that was the life Bruce had taught me—how to navigate through high society just as effectively as I did through Gotham’s underworld.

As a server passed by with a tray of champagne flutes, I grabbed one, if only to have something to do with my hands. I took a small sip, scanning the room. The socialites, the power players, the old money, and new—they were all here, chatting in hushed tones, laughter bubbling up every now and then.