Bruce Wayne stands at the center of it all, tuxedo immaculate, expression carefully neutral as he shakes hands with donors who smell like money and moral compromise.

“Another generous contribution, Mr. Wayne,” a silver-haired billionaire beams.

Bruce offers his practiced smile. “Gotham thanks you.”

Behind him, Alfred glides effortlessly through the crowd, tray balanced perfectly, eyes sharp as ever.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred murmurs as he passes, “you are on your third hour of smiling. Do try not to crack before dessert.”

Bruce exhales through his nose. “I’ll do my best.”

Barbara Gordon leans casually against the bar, emerald gown shimmering as she sips a club soda.

“Five minutes in,” she mutters into her earpiece, “and I’ve already overheard three insider trading schemes and one terrible attempt at flirting.”

Dick Grayson appears beside her, effortlessly charming in a tailored black suit.

“C’mon, Babs,” he grins. “It’s a party. Try enjoying yourself.”

She arches a brow. “You’re enjoying this because half the room keeps staring at you.”

“Not my fault I’m delightful.”

Across the casino floor, Jason Todd stands near the poker tables, red tie loosened, posture relaxed but eyes scanning exits.

“If one more guy calls me ‘Bruce’s charity case,’” Jason mutters to Cassandra beside him, “I’m flipping a table.”

Cass tilts her head, reading the room with silent precision. “…Four possible threats,” she signs subtly. “Two are drunk. One is lying about donations.”

Jason smirks. “Figures.”

Stephanie Brown is absolutely thriving—laughing too loudly with Duke Thomas as they hover near the roulette wheel.

“Tell me why these people bet more on colors than on Gotham’s future,” Steph says, spinning a chip between her fingers.

Duke chuckles. “Because consequences don’t exist when you’re rich.”

Tim Drake stands nearby, tablet discreetly hidden behind a champagne flute, eyes flicking between security feeds.

“FYI,” Tim says quietly, “casino servers just tried to run a background scan on Bruce’s private data.”

Bruce’s voice comes calmly through the comms. “Handled?”

Tim smiles faintly. “Already blocked. And rerouted them into a very expensive fake firewall.”

“Proud of you,” Bruce replies.

Tim freezes for half a second. “…Noted.”

At the far end of the ballroom, Damian Wayne stands stiffly beside Terry McGinnis, both in formalwear neither particularly enjoys.

“This environment is inefficient,” Damian says flatly. “Too loud. Too many weak handshakes.”

Terry grins. “Yeah, but the desserts are lethal. I saw one that could take out a small country.”

Damian scoffs—then pauses as a waiter passes with a chocolate fountain.

“…Acceptable.”

Suddenly, the lights dim slightly as Bruce steps onto the raised platform, microphone in hand.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he begins, voice steady, commanding, “thank you for joining the Wayne Foundation tonight. Every chip placed, every glass raised, helps make Gotham safer, stronger, and—”

The opening of doors interrupts him.