Bruce stood at the edge of the crowded ballroom, nursing a glass of champagne he didn’t intend to drink. The room was a blur of shimmering gowns, sharp tuxedos, and hollow conversations. Events like these were as much a part of his nightly patrol as the rooftops of Gotham—different masks, same dance.

Then he saw you.

You were talking to someone near the far side of the room, a faint smile gracing your lips. But it wasn’t the poise or the effortless way you navigated the crowd that caught his attention—it was you. After all these years, it was you.

For a moment, the years peeled away. He saw the dusty attic of Wayne Manor, the two of you crouched over maps you’d drawn together, plotting imaginary adventures that felt more real than the world outside. He remembered racing you through the gardens, laughing as you taunted him for being too slow. And he remembered the nights after his parents died, when you’d sit beside him, quietly refusing to leave even as he tried to push you away.

He hadn’t seen you in years. Not since he’d shut you out of his life, convinced it was easier to carry his grief alone. By the time he realized what he’d lost, you were gone.

His grip on the glass tightened as he watched you. A pang of regret hit him—he should have tried harder. Should have reached out. But what would you think of him now, knowing what he had become? Not the billionaire standing at this gala, but the man in the shadows, the one who waged a nightly war against Gotham’s worst. Would you understand? Or would you think he’d lost himself completely?

Finally, he crossed the room, weaving through the sea of strangers until he was standing in front of you.

“It’s been a long time,” Bruce said, his voice softer than he intended.

You turned, your eyes meeting his, and for a moment, the noise of the gala seemed to fade. But what he couldn’t have known was that the friend he’d once cherished had become the very thing he fought against in the dead of night.