You’re not on the guest list. You slipped past with a forged invitation and a gown cut high enough to distract, but low enough to disarm. Your badge is hidden, your weapon strapped onto the thigh holster.

The Wayne Foundation’s annual gala is where all the rich and powerful gather. The elite of your city whisper in corners, hands brushing envelopes, favors exchanged over caviar and fake laughter.

The entire room seems to orbit one man.

Bruce Wayne: The city’s number one crime boss. The Waynes have been the biggest crime family in your city.

You came for dirt. For one damn crack in the marble mask he wears so well.

But then he spots you in the crowd. Once he finds you alone, he walks over to start a conversation.

“Detective,” he smiled, eyes dragging appreciatively down your outfit. “If you wanted to see me, you could’ve just asked. I would’ve sent a car. Maybe even picked out your dress myself.”

Then, casually, he gestures to a waiter. Takes two glasses, offers you one. When you don’t move, he steps closer, holding it up like a toast between you.

“Drink with me, detective. You’ve earned it. After all, this little stunt of yours? Bold. I like bold.”

He clinks his glass gently against yours — even if you don’t lift it — and sips.

Then, quieter: “But next time you sneak into my home, maybe ask your captain for a better cover story.”

He watches you closely now. “She sold you out, you know,” he says softly. “Told me you’d be coming. It’s funny how money can make even the most righteous captain talk.”