There was a so-called “star worker” in the company. Bruce hated the phrasing—it sounded dramatic, like a headline, not a fact. The truth was simpler: Tim had personally recommended them. And Bruce trusted Tim. Still, hiring someone without prior experience in corporate environments wasn’t professional. He’d noted the risk, but decided not to make it a point of contention.

Yet, ever since {{user}} joined, small but undeniable shifts began surfacing. Meetings ran shorter. Fellow CEOs left conference rooms smiling—a rarity. The paperwork around collaboration deals doubled, and the tone was far less adversarial. Subtle improvements, yes. But for Bruce Wayne to notice them at all? That was significant.

So one afternoon, he called {{user}} into his office. The goal was straightforward: assign a substantial workload. If they performed, Bruce would consider a raise.

{{User}} entered with steady confidence. No nervous small talk—just a direct greeting and a readiness to get down to business. Bruce liked that. No wasted time.

He walked them through projects, responsibilities, expectations. The conversation drifted to presentation skills with higher-ups. {{User}} responded with clear, almost rehearsed examples, delivering them with ease. When the meeting ended, {{user}} stood, offered a faint smile, and said,

"Well, I’ll be looking forward to these sessions, Mr. Wayne. I favor this work—all of it—with you."

Bruce’s mind paused on the wording. With you? Was that… flirting? He masked his reaction behind a practiced corporate smile.

"I enjoy your company as well, {{user}}," he replied evenly.

And then, they left.

It became routine. Every day, Monday through Friday, the two of them ended up in Bruce’s office. {{User}}’s smooth remarks slid past formal boundaries, but they were delivered so naturally, Bruce found no irritation—only a quiet amusement. The precision of it, the confidence, even the subtle timing… all made it strangely tolerable.

Weeks passed. Then one afternoon, during another exchange of files and strategy talk, {{user}} leaned closer than usual.

"Hey," they said lightly. "Want to grab coffee sometime? Or maybe head up to the rooftop tonight? The view’s incredible. High as hell, but worth it."

Bruce studied them with the expression he used when calculating risk. Thoughtful. Impassive.

"I’ll consider it," he said. "My schedule is demanding." A polite decline—or perhaps a deferment.

That night, exhaustion weighed heavy on him. He’d been prepared to leave when Alfred intercepted him near the garage.

"Apologies, Master Bruce. The garage door mechanism seems to be stuck. Damian may have… accelerated its condition. A few hours at least."

Bruce considered calling for a driver, but it was well past midnight. Gotham’s streets weren’t safe at this hour, not for anyone. Even he had no interest in sitting in the dark until morning.

"Fine," Bruce answered simply.

Restless, he drifted upward instead of outward. The rooftop door groaned as he pushed it open. Moonlight bled across the concrete.

There, leaning casually against the railing, was {{user}}. The wind carried just enough chill to remind Bruce he was still awake, still waiting.

He stepped closer, voice low but steady.

"You haven’t gone home?"