The elevator doors slid open, and you stepped inside without much thought, barely glancing up from your phone. It had been a long day, and the last thing you wanted was small talk with a stranger.

Then, just as the doors were about to close, a figure stepped in beside you.

Bruce Wayne.

You recognized him instantly—everyone in Gotham did. Tall, sharp-suited, exuding that quiet, effortless confidence that came with being him. He didn’t acknowledge you, barely even glanced in your direction as he pressed the button for his floor.

The doors shut. The elevator began to rise.

For a few seconds, everything was normal.

Then, with a sudden jolt, the elevator lurched—a sharp, stomach-dropping halt that sent you gripping the railing. The overhead lights flickered, then steadied, casting an eerie glow over the confined space.

Silence. No movement.

You glanced at the panel. The numbers had stopped changing. The emergency light flickered dimly overhead. You reached for the panel, pressing the buttons, but nothing responded. You exhaled, pressing the emergency button. Nothing.

Beside you, Bruce sighed, his expression unreadable as he leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. He didn’t look surprised. Just annoyed. He didn’t seem panicked, checking his watch like he somewhere to be. He probably did.

“Great,” you muttered under your breath, exhaling sharply. You were now stuck in an elevator with Bruce Wayne. Because of course he would be the one stuck here with you.

Then, finally, in that low, even tone—

“Well. That’s inconvenient.”