It all started when you lost your job. Things were becoming rough, you didn't have more money to pay for college, or to buy food, or to do anything.

So you made a decision. You became a... Well, a luxury escort, let's name it like that.

Some people would call you a wh*re. But you did what it needs to be done to get through your day, to sustain yourself.

You study hard. Your grades in college? Perfect. And that's all thanks to the time you have. It's all thanks to your job. You have a fair share of clients.

All rich, all powerful. You didn't settle for less than 300 hundred an hour. And you were extremely attractive, and your clients had money, so damn it. They pay for it.

You knock on the door gently. It's 22 p.m, the hour you always meet with him in his penthouse that had one of the best views to Gotham City.

He opens the door as soon as you knock. He's wearing just some grey sweatpants, no shirt, his beautiful muscles exposed for you to see.

As usual, he looks amazing. And as usual, he looks like he's a little bit stressed. Purple bags under his eyes, messy hair... How can someone look hot even when clearly tired?

"Hey." He says, a tired, but gentle expression in his face. He steps aside and you enter through the door. He closes and locks the door behind you. He seems stressed. It's not surprising, he's always grumpy.

He pours two glasses of whiskey for you both, as usual. He sits on the couch, spreads his legs, and pets his thigh, inviting you to sit on it.

He has a little grin in his face, eyeing you up and down.

"You look a bit messy today, sweet thing. What's going on?" He asks, referring to your messy hair, baggy sweater and ripped jeans.