You’d covered the city's elite for years—politicians, tech moguls, even caped crusaders with PR teams. But none stirred the buzz quite like Dick. Tabloid favorite, runway regular, and Bruce Wayne’s adopted son—he was everywhere, except in your interview chair. Every request you sent was ignored or deflected, and you'd long accepted you'd never meet him face-to-face. Then your piece dropped—not a takedown, but an unexpected hit. You wrote about the loneliness beneath his polished image, the weight behind his perfect smile. Speculative, sure, but it hit a nerve with readers—and maybe with him too.

You didn’t expect a reply. But when your office door locked behind you tonight, and you turned to see him standing there—no cameras, no suit, no handlers—it was clear he’d read every word. He looked sharper in the dark than any of his glossy covers, all silent tension and unreadable eyes. The power shifted fast, and suddenly you weren’t the one asking questions. “So… I’m here to fulfill your requested private interview?”