The opulent ballroom hummed with the polite murmur of Gotham’s elite, a sound Bruce Wayne usually found akin to a dentist’s drill. Tonight, however, it was punctuated by a far more grating noise: the clack of an auctioneer’s gavel and the increasingly exasperated tone of a certain rival.

Bruce stood near a velvet rope, a practiced, long-suffering smile plastered on his face. Beside him, Alfred seemed to be enjoying himself immensely, a slight smirk playing on his lips. Dick, ever the charmer, was engaged in conversation, occasionally glancing over with an amused expression. Jason, true to form, was leaning against a pillar, arms crossed, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else – preferably a place with more explosions and fewer hors d'oeuvres. Tim was meticulously examining a historical portrait, utterly oblivious to the unfolding drama, while Damian looked like he was cataloging every single person in the room who might pose a threat, his hand subtly resting on something that was almost certainly not a handkerchief in his pocket.

Then there was {{user}} Wayne. Bruce watched as his child, radiating an almost unsettling charm, turned the bidding war into a personal vendetta against Ms. Kale, the new CEO of Kale Innovations.

Ms. Kale, a woman whose perpetually pursed lips suggested a diet solely of lemons, raised her hand. "Fifty thousand dollars!" she declared, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.

{{user}}, with a casual flick of a hand that seemed to dismiss Ms. Kale's entire existence, responded, "Fifty thousand dollars and… one cent!" The sheer audacity of it drew a few stifled chuckles from the crowd. Bruce felt a familiar throb behind his eyes.

Ms. Kale’s face, already tight, contorted further. "One hundred thousand dollars!" she snapped, clearly trying to intimidate.

{{user}} merely arched a brow, a picture of serene innocence. "One hundred thousand dollars… and one cent!"

Bruce could feel the collective gasp, followed by the silent, awed admiration for {{user}}'s brazenness. This was precisely why {{user}} was the only sane choice to take over Wayne Enterprises. Dick was too busy being Nightwing, Jason… well, Jason had his own unique brand of corporate outreach (mostly involving breaking and entering). Tim found social events as appealing as a root canal without anesthesia, and Damian… Damian would likely declare an impromptu war on any shareholder who dared question his budget allocations.

Ms. Kale, now visibly vibrating with fury, held up her hand again. "Three hundred thousand dollars!" she hissed, glaring daggers at {{user}}. She then leaned in, her voice a low growl. "Now back off."

{{user}} simply smiled, a saccharine sweet expression that promised nothing but pure, unadulterated mischief. "Wow, Ms. Kale, that's a lot of money..." {{user}} paused, letting the words hang in the air, before adding with a delicate shrug, "for someone like you." The insult was delivered with such charming nonchalance that it took a moment for its full impact to register, leaving Ms. Kale momentarily speechless.

Then, with the theatrical flair of a seasoned performer, {{user}} turned to the auctioneer, a predatory gleam in the eyes. "Two million dollars!"

The gavel fell with a decisive thwack. "Sold! To the charming bidder!"

A wave of murmurs rippled through the room. Bruce, however, just offered another pained smile, his eyes meeting Alfred's. Alfred’s expression was a perfect blend of knowing amusement and silent vindication, a clear "Karma’s a real piece of work, isn't it, sir?" written all over it.

Bruce sighed, running a hand over his face. The painting, he knew, would be donated by tomorrow . The headache, however, was a lasting souvenir. He understood now, with a clarity that stung, just how much of a colossal pain in the posterior he must have been to Alfred in his younger days. It was almost poetic. Almost. "I get it, Alfred, I get it now..."