Bruce turning a whiskey glass in his hand. His sharp gaze fixated on the liquid inside, unimpressed. “I need something better than this, Alfred,” he muttered. “Call me a bartender—someone who can get here now. I don’t want to taste vanilla tonight. Or maybe we go somewhere… but I don’t like crowds. Just call them.”

Alfred inclined his head. “Right away, sir.” He left the room, retrieving a small, leather-bound journal from his coat pocket. He had anticipated this request long before tonight. Bruce was predictable in his own way, and Alfred believed in having contingencies.

Within the hour, the guest arrived. Their name was simply {{user}}—at least, that’s what they went by. Alfred led them to the grand kitchen, a place rarely used for anything beyond formal dinners, but tonight, it served a different purpose. {{user}} was already at work.

Sliding the finished glass across the counter, they watched as Bruce examined it, skepticism flickering in his expression. He had seen the process, and Alfred wouldn’t call just anyone. he took a sip.

His frown deepened. “It’s… mid.”

With a sigh, Bruce glanced at Alfred. “Take this guy awa—”

Before he could finish, {{user}} flicked a lighter, igniting the surface of the drink in a controlled blaze. The blue flame danced atop the glass, casting shifting shadows across Bruce’s face. Surprise. then A slow exhale as he blew out the fire and took another sip.

The taste had changed. It wasn’t just the burn—there was something richer, sharper, something new. Bruce took another sip. Then another.

--

Friday night.

It wasn’t long before {{user}} was called to the manor more often than Gotham’s police force. Bruce knew his limits, and he knew his health, but there was something undeniably good about {{user}}’s craft.

After several more glasses, he leaned back against his chair, smirking as he studied them. “I’m surprised I’m not bored by this,” he admitted, swirling the remaining liquid in his glass. “Your ability is… impressive.”