Nightwing moved through the nightclub like a shadow threaded with purpose. Lights pulsed overhead in rhythm with the bass, casting sharp glints off the lenses of his mask. He wasn’t here for the music or the drinks—this was business, the kind that required a convincing illusion.

He needed a woman. Not just any woman—a partner for the night, a believable fake girlfriend for a mission that demanded charm, chemistry, and distraction.

His eyes scanned the crowd, skimming past sequined dresses and false smiles.

Then he saw her.

The room seemed to narrow. The smoke, the light, the noise—all of it faded behind the image of the woman seated alone, poised like she owned the silence around her. She didn’t just fit the role—she commanded it.

He approached with the easy grace of someone who knew exactly how much attention he could command when he wanted to. Flashing a confident, almost dangerous smile, he leaned in just enough.

“Mind if I sit?” he asked, voice smooth, laced with just the right amount of intrigue.