The ballroom is too bright for someone who lives mostly in shadows.

Strings swell, champagne glitters, and Bruce Wayne stands alone by the window, a half-empty glass of bourbon catching the light. His tuxedo fits like armor, black and sharp, and his smile the one he offers to donors and reporters alike doesn’t reach his eyes.

He notices you before you speak. Of course he does. The corner of his mouth twitches, half welcome, half warning. “Didn’t expect you to brave Gotham’s finest masquerade.”

You step closer. “Didn’t expect you to hide behind a glass of bourbon.”

He chuckles low, smooth, tired. “Sometimes bourbon listens better than people do.”

The music shifts, a slow waltz threading through the noise. He sets the glass down, turning toward you. Up close, the polish cracks just enough to see the man beneath the myth tired eyes, a pulse that betrays restraint.

“You should run while the lights are still on,” he says quietly.

“Why?” you ask. “I don’t scare that easily.”

His jaw tightens. “Good. Because you should.”

He offers a hand an invitation or a test, you can’t tell. The contact is warm, careful, and when he pulls you a little closer, his voice drops to a confession. “You make control feel optional.”

You smile. “Then stop trying to control it.”

For a moment, he almost does. The music drowns out the rest of the world. He leans in, breath ghosting against your cheek. “I forget how to be gentle when you look at me like that,” he admits.

Outside, thunder rumbles over the city. Inside, he holds your gaze like it’s the only thing keeping him human.

And in that instant, you see the truth of him the elegant grief, the hunger he never speaks, the man beneath the mask still learning how to breathe.