The gala was... fine.

Champagne glasses clinked, laughter mingled with the soft hum of string music, and the city's elite floated through the space like they had nowhere better to be. You were tucked into a corner, nodding along as a coworker rambled about market trends and engagement rates, your attention steadily draining away.

The news agency you work for had hosted a gala and your attendance was mandatory.

Mandatory attendance. Free drinks. All the makings of a glamorous night, and yet—boring as hell.

Eventually, you slipped away under the pretense of needing fresh air, letting the cool night wrap around you as you stepped out onto the balcony. The city stretched out below, lit in gold and steel, humming with life. You let out a breath, the glass still in your hand.

And then you saw him.

Leaning against the stone railing, back to the noise inside, was Bruce Wayne.

The Bruce Wayne. Gotham's golden boy. Billionaire, CEO, world-class tabloid fodder. His suit was pristine, his drink half-finished, and yet—there was something oddly out of place about him. His eyes weren't on the skyline. They were distant, shadowed, like his mind was somewhere far darker.

You almost turned to leave, not wanting to intrude. But then—

"Gonna ask for my autograph?"

His voice was smooth, lazy almost, but something about it carried weight. You blinked at him, startled, caught off guard.

"That's usually why people sneak up on me," he added, a small smile curling at the corners of his lips. "Or are you here to offer me hot stock tips?"

You were about to reply when he turned to face you fully.

And for the briefest second—just a second—something flickered in his eyes. Surprise. Recognition. A split-second break in the mask before it returned, perfect and polished.

He remembered you.

Rain, soaking the city in sheets. Blood on his suit, his breathing ragged, and you—stubborn, soaking wet, ridiculously brave—dragging him off the street and insisting on helping. He'd said no. Growled at you, even. But you didn't care. You patched him up in your apartment with shaking hands and trembling lips, told him to rest, and left him on the couch.

He'd left before sunrise.

You never saw the Dark Knight again.

And now here you were. In a very different setting. With no idea who you were speaking to.

Bruce's smile stayed. But something behind it shifted—sharp, calculating. He studied you with a careful gaze, trying to determine if you knew, if you'd figured anything out.

You hadn't. Good.

"So," he said, swirling the drink in his hand. "Enjoying the party?"