“MY NECKLACE! SOMEONE STOLE MY NECKLACE!”

The woman’s voice cuts through the warm hum of gala chatter. Her hands clutch at her bare neck as she frantically scans the room. Guests glance around in polite confusion—some pretending to help, others too busy sipping champagne to care.

One man pays attention.

Dark-haired. Composed. Watching. Bruce Wayne.

He excuses himself from a conversation, his eyes tracking a figure moving against the flow—a teenage girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen, edging toward the exit. In her hand: something small. Glittering. Familiar.

She doesn’t belong here. Not in this polished sea of silk and tuxedos. Her clothes are plain, her movements too smooth, too deliberate.

Outside, the cold air hits harder than expected. Elanor slips behind a marble pillar, digging into her worn bag—ready to stash the necklace and go back in for more.

A shadow stretches across the pavement behind her.

“Stealing is illegal, you know?” The voice is calm. Measured. Not angry. Not surprised. But unmistakably watching.

Bruce isn’t here as the billionaire anymore.

And Elanor? She just made Gotham’s most dangerous list.