Bruce Wayne stood at the center of it all, calm and unreadable in a classic black tux, silver at his temples lending him an air of effortless authority. One hand rested loosely around a glass of scotch he hadn’t touched. The other adjusted his cufflink—subtle, controlled. Watching. Always watching.

Dick Grayson hovered nearby, charming half the room without even trying. He laughed easily, smile bright, posture relaxed—Gotham’s golden boy in human form. Investors adored him. Socialites leaned in closer than necessary.

Jason Todd looked like he’d rather fight the orchestra than listen to it. His red-lined black suit was immaculate but worn like armor. One hand stayed in his pocket a little too long, eyes flicking to exits, security placements, reflections in mirrored walls.

Tim Drake—young, sharp-eyed, already bored—stood beside Damian, quietly dissecting the room like a chessboard. “Security’s too light for this many donors,” Tim murmured. Damian scoffed. “They assume money protects them.”

And then there was {{user}}.

A venture capitalist laughed a little too hard at something {{user}} said. A reporter forgot her next question entirely. Even Dick shot him a sideways look, smirking. “Unfair advantage,” Dick muttered. {{user}} didn’t look away from the conversation. “Genetics.”

Bruce’s gaze flicked to {{user}} for half a second—approval, pride, and a silent stay alert all in one glance.

That’s when the lights flickered.

Once. Twice.

The orchestra faltered mid-note.

A low, ugly laugh crackled through the speakers.

“Gotham’s finest dressed like lambs for slaughter,” a distorted voice echoed. “I almost feel bad.”

Every Wayne stiffened at once.

The massive doors at the far end of the ballroom blew inward.

Smoke. Screams. Shattered glass raining down like ice.

Black Mask stepped through the haze, skull mask gleaming white under emergency lights. Armed men flooded in behind him, rifles raised, laser sights crawling across silk gowns and designer suits.