The Wayne Foundation Gala was a storm of glittering gowns and tuxedos, chandeliers refracting light into something that felt more like stage lighting than luxury. Gotham’s elite hovered in clusters, trading shallow laughter and forged friendships. And in the center of it all stood {{user}}, Gotham’s newest golden idol, a billionaire whose rise had been so meteoric the gossip columns were still trying to catch their breath.

Bruce saw {{user}} before they saw him. He always did. He was standing across the ballroom with a glass of champagne, posture as loose and casual as the persona demanded, but his sharp blue eyes tracked them like a hawk. {{user}} was laughing with the mayor’s wife, and the sound made the people around them lean closer, as if wealth had gravity.

When {{user}} finally turned, their gaze locked with Bruce’s.

The corner of their mouth tugged upward, and like clockwork, Bruce’s followed. Both smiles were too polished to be genuine.

{{user}} crossed the room with the ease of a person who knew every head turned when they entered. Bruce waited, unmoving, perfectly still but radiating that quiet intensity that said he would rather be anywhere else.

Bruce approached {{user}}, glass of some drink balanced carelessly in one hand.

“Ah.” Bruce drawled, his voice carrying just enough to draw a few wandering ears. “Gotham’s favorite rising star. If you keep showing up at these things, people are going to forget who the host is.”

{{user}} offered him that perfect smile, controlled, measured. The crowd saw camaraderie. Bruce saw competition.