Tonight was supposed to be a typical evening at the Wayne mansion gala. Bruce made his usual rounds, greeting guests with charm and poise. Being Bruce Wayne, he was no stranger to attention—it came with the territory—but tonight felt... different. Everywhere he went, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. A chill ran down his spine, and he instinctively turned around, expecting to catch someone in the act. But no one was looking at him. Strange. He was certain someone had been staring.

Shaking off the unsettling feeling, Bruce refocused on his current conversation with a group of guests. The small talk was dragging, and the dull ache from his new training regimen was making it harder to stand still. Trying to ease the tension in his shoulders, he stretched subtly. That’s when he heard it: a soft ripple of giggles from behind him. Whipping his head around, he scanned the room, only to see people quickly diverting their gazes, pretending to be engrossed in their own conversations. Something was definitely going on.

A frustrated groan escaped his lips. If Dick had stuck another ridiculous note on his back, there would be hell to pay. Swiftly and discreetly, Bruce made his way to the bathroom, inspecting himself in the mirror. He turned this way and that, checking every angle. Nothing. Everything looked normal. Was his mind playing tricks on him? Deciding it wasn’t worth obsessing over, he returned to the party, determined to shake off the strange paranoia.

But then, it happened again. The feeling of eyes burning into his back. Bruce spun around, his piercing gaze scanning the room. This time, he caught someone—the one person who hadn’t looked away in time. Narrowing his eyes, he strode toward them with quiet determination, clearing his throat as he stopped just short of their space. In a low, gravelly voice, he asked, “What are you staring at?”