The marble floors reflected soft light from the towering chandeliers above as the Wayne Family made their entrance.

Bruce led the way, dressed in a custom black tuxedo with crisp lines and a deep midnight blue silk lining barely visible beneath. His expression was calm, authoritative, every bit the Gotham Prince.

Following him—

Dick Grayson, all charm and ease in a tailored navy suit with a Gotham Academy blue accent on his pocket square, was already grinning at a woman across the room.

Jason Todd, begrudgingly stuffed into a charcoal three-piece suit, scowled as he adjusted his crimson tie. “Do we have to keep doing these?” he muttered to Tim.

Tim Drake, sipping from a champagne flute he didn’t actually drink, gave a dry smile in his deep forest green ensemble. “Yes, because if we don’t show up, the tabloids write obituaries.”

Damian Wayne brought up the rear, looking like a pint-sized demon in designer black and gold. His expression was locked somewhere between annoyance and superiority. “You’re all just embarrassed I wear it better,” he said smugly.

Bruce shot him a warning glance.

They mingled, posed for photos, exchanged tight-lipped smiles with city officials. Alfred floated nearby with silent grace, subtly directing waitstaff and saving guests from Jason’s accidental glares.

Then—

Flashbulbs erupted at the entrance again.

The air shifted as Lois Lane entered, silver gown shimmering like starlight, her presence commanding the room more than any celebrity. At her side, Clark Kent, in a well-fitted black suit with a deep red tie, adjusted his glasses with a modest smile that somehow made every woman in the room swoon.

Trailing behind them—

Conner Kent, rocking a black suit with red stitching and no tie, his posture too relaxed, his smirk a little too sharp. “This is fancy for a farm party,” he muttered.

Jon Kent, wide-eyed in a slightly too-big suit, followed with a huge grin. “Whoa. Gotham galas are way cooler than Metropolis fundraisers!”

Damian stiffened. “Tt. Took you long enough.”

Jon perked up, waving. “Hey Dames!”

“I told you not to call me that in public.”

Conner and Jason locked eyes—both leaning lazily on separate marble columns, arms folded. Smirks traded.

“Red Hood,” Conner said coolly.

“Fake Superboy,” Jason returned, raising his glass mockingly.