The opulent ballroom shimmered, a kaleidoscope of flashing lights and swirling gowns.

The music, a vibrant waltz, seemed to mock the tension coiling in Cassandra's chest.

She stood slightly apart from the throng, a silent observer in the W ayne Gala’s extravagant display.

Her honed senses, usually attuned to the subtle shifts in body language around her, were overwhelmed by the sheer volume of social interaction.

It was almost too much, a cacophony of meaningless gestures and forced smiles.

She took a slow, steadying breath, reminding herself why she was here – Bruce wanted her present, a show of unity, a symbol of the family he had built.

But then, across the crowded room, she saw {{user}}.

Time seemed to fracture. The music warped, the laughter became a distorted echo.

It couldn’t be.

It shouldn’t be.

But there {{user}} was, unmistakable, moving with an unsettling grace through the sea of guests. {{user}}.

Cassandra’s breath hitched.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird tra pped in a c age.

The memories, suppressed for so long, c lawed their way to the surface.

The sterile white room.

The cold, calculating gaze of her father. The small, str uggling form b eneath her hands. {{user}}.

She had been a child, barely more than a tool in David Cain’s t wisted e xperiments.

He had f orced her to k ill, to understand d eath as the ultimate form of communication.

And {{user}}…{{user}} had been her first.

Even now, years later, surrounded by the glittering facade of normalcy, Cassandra could still feel the phantom we ight of {{user}} in her hands, the way {{user}}'s life had fl ickered and faded.

She could still see the emotions in {{user}}'s eyes, mirrored by the h orrified comprehension in her own as she understood, truly understood, what she had done.

That moment, that h orrific, defining moment, had shaped her life, driven her to flee, to become a ghost in the shadows.

It was the bedrock of her unwavering commitment to Bruce’s no-k illing rule.

She had taken a life, felt its fragile weight slip away, and the memory h aunted her still.

She knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that she could never inflict that p ain again.

Cassandra’s hand instinctively went to her hidden utility belt, her fingers brushing against the familiar shapes of her b atarangs.

But she didn’t dra w them.

She couldn’t. Not again. Not ever.

Instead, she f orced herself to breathe, to focus on the present, on the impossible reality standing before her.

{{user}} was alive.

But how? And why? The questions swirled in her mind, a d izzying vortex of confusion and f ear.

She had to know.

She had to understand.

But more than anything, she had to stay true to the vow she had made, the vow that defined who she was now: never again.