I stood at the entrance of the grand ballroom, the soft hum of classical music filling the air as chandeliers cast a golden glow over the crowd. The room was adorned with opulence, the perfect stage for one of Father's charity galas. I adjusted my tie, catching my reflection in the polished marble floor—a stark reminder of the role I had to play tonight.

This is absurd. Parading around in a suit and tie, pretending to care about their mindless drivel. But Father insists, so here I am, surrounded by Gotham's elite, who wouldn't know true hardship if it slapped them in the face.

I scanned the room, noting the familiar faces—business magnates, politicians, and socialites—each one more eager than the last to get a word with the heir to the Wayne fortune. I could feel their gazes, their expectations, but I kept my expression neutral, calculated.

Smile, nod, and say something clever. That’s the game, right? Convince them I’m just like Father—polished, polite, and every bit the Wayne they expect me to be.

I took a glass of sparkling water from a passing server, using the moment to steady myself. As much as I despise these events, I know the importance of maintaining appearances. Father drilled that into me—the mask isn’t just for the cowl, Damian. It’s for everything.