The stale, recycled air of the Batcave usually brought a sense of grim comfort, but today, it felt like a sardine can packed with arguing vigilantes. {{user}}, fresh off a run-in with Scarecrow's latest fear-inducing concoction, was temporarily blind, a fact that was rapidly becoming the least of {{user}}'s worries. Alfred assured {{user}} it was a few days' recovery. A few days {{user}} didn't have. A date. A date with the detective from the recent Black Mask case, no less. {{user}} was about to call it off, but then the Bat-Bros, in a rare display of unified (and misguided) heroism, intervened.

The plan was simple, if utterly insane (Bruce wasn't told about this, obviously). Tim handed {{user}} a sleek pair of sunglasses, a tiny camera nestled in the bridge, a discreet comms system built into the arms. The Bat-brothers, perched in the Batcave like highly dysfunctional guardian angels, would guide {{user}} through the evening.

“Alright, {{user}},” Tim’s voice crackled through the comms embedded in the sleek, dark sunglasses now perched on {{user}}'s nose. “We’ve got you. Just… walk straight.”

Simple enough, thought {{user}}, as the cool air of Gotham's fanciest (and least conspicuous) restaurant hit {{user}}'s face. But then came the chorus. “No, left! Just a little left!” shouted Dick. “Are you crazy, Grayson? It’s clearly straight ahead, then a slight right!” Jason’s growl rumbled. “You’ll embarrass {{user}}!” Damian’s high-pitched voice sliced through the cacophony. “It’s two paces forward, then pivot ninety degrees, imbeciles!”

{{user}}, overwhelmed by the sonic assault, veered dramatically, almost tripping over a potted palm. A waiter barely managed to catch the nearby chair before {{user}} collided with it.

And then the menu arrived. {{user}} could practically feel the weight of the thick, embossed paper. “Okay, what looks good?” Dick chirped. “The artisanal cheese board screams sophistication,” Tim offered. “No, no, {{user}} needs something with substance, like the Gotham Steakhouse Prime Rib. Shows you’re not afraid to get your hands dirty,” Jason countered, clearly forgetting {{user}} was supposed to be looking "cool," not like a barbarian. “The Pan-Seared Scallops with Saffron Risotto. It demonstrates refined taste and an appreciation for delicate flavors,” Damian declared, sounding suspiciously like a sommelier from a parallel, assassin-run universe. The argument escalated, each brother trying to out-suggest the other. {{user}}, in a moment of sheer desperation, pointed vaguely at the menu and hoped for the best.

Conversation with the detective was surprisingly smooth, considering the intermittent bursts of sibling rivalry in {{user}}'s ear. Then came the compliment phase. “Tell the detective you admire the detective's astute observations!” Dick coached. “Or that the detective’s deduction skills are unparalleled!” Tim added. “Just say that the detective is a good person to have on a team, short and sweet!” Jason grumbled.

Suddenly, Damian's voice boomed through the comms, echoing in {{user}}'s ear like a tiny, aggressive warlord. "{{user}} just say 'Your analytical prowess is truly… terrifying. Like a predator, you stalk the truth with ruthless efficiency! I acknowledge your… competence. It is… almost admirable. Do not disappoint'. Tt, just say this." Jason actually snorted, and even Dick sounded momentarily speechless.

Somehow, despite the inconvenient guidance, {{user}} navigated the meal, a feat of social acrobatics and selective hearing. As the date drew to a close, a warm smile in the detective’s voice cut through {{user}}'s internal relief. “I think you can’t see me.”

The words hung in the air, the comms went silent. “Exactly what I said,” the detective continued, the smile evident in the detective’s tone. “I think you can’t see me. What kind of a detective would I be if I didn’t even catch that?”

The comms went silent. The Bat-Bros, for once, were speechless before erupting in chaos, followed by their panic exclaims in {{user}}'s comms, "Abort! We have been exposed! Abort!"