The crystal chandeliers of Wayne Manor dripped light onto a sea of polished marble and shimmering gowns. A string quartet played a Vivaldi piece, its cheerful notes a stark contrast to the knot of anxiety tightening in {{user}}’s stomach. Dressed in borrowed, ill-fitting formal wear that felt more like a costume than a disguise, {{user}} moved through the crowd, a practiced smile plastered on their face. The air smelled of expensive perfume, old money, and an underlying tension that {{user}} knew wasn't just their own paranoia.

The mission was simple, yet deadly: identify every Bat-Family member present. The Joker considered this a "casual scouting trip," but {{user}} knew casual for the Clown Prince of Crime usually meant life-threatening for everyone else. Bruce Wayne himself was easy enough to spot, holding court by a large, ornate fireplace, his silvering temples catching the light as he laughed at some anecdote. Too smooth, too perfect. {{user}} made a mental note, already feeling a mild distaste for the man their boss despised so vehemently.

{{user}} drifted, mingling just enough to not look suspicious, eyes scanning for the tell-tale signs Joker had outlined – the sharp intelligence in the eyes, the way certain individuals moved with an almost preternatural grace, the subtle glances exchanged. The whole place was a gilded cage, and {{user}} was a rat, sent in by the madman who held their leash.

Then, the murmurs rippled, and a new figure entered the grand ballroom. He cut a striking, almost defiant silhouette against the pale archway. A perfectly tailored black suit, sharp and clean, but beneath it, a vivid splash of crimson from his button-up shirt. A black tie, almost an afterthought, resting against the intense red. And, most notably, white streak nestled against his dark hair,

It was Jason. {{user}} recognized him instantly from Joker’s rambling, obsessive files. The one who came back. This was a walking, breathing testament to the Joker's lasting impact, a grim trophy on display.

Jason didn't smooth-talk, didn't charm. He moved with a restless energy, his eyes, visible through the mask, scanning the room with an almost aggressive intensity. He looked like a predator trapped in a parlour game.

{{user}} watched him, making a mental note of his late arrival, a potential point of irritation for Bruce. Jason stalked towards a group of younger men near the bar. One, lean and graceful, with an easy smile, seemed to be trying to engage him. Jason just cut him off with a terse, almost growled, "Don't, Dick. Not tonight."

Dick Grayson. Nightwing. Two down.. {{user}} subtly adjusted their position to get a better vantage point, pretending to admire a painting.

Another, younger still, with dark hair and a perpetually irritated frown, approached cautiously. "Todd, you're late. Father was concerned."

Jason merely shot him a withering look. "Concerned about what, Damian? That I wouldn't show up to his little masquerade?" His voice was cold, edged with contempt.

Damian Wayne. Robin. Three. This was almost too easy. Jason was practically pointing them out.

{{user}} shifted their gaze back to Bruce, who was still smiling, still entertaining, but {{user}} noticed the way his jaw had tightened almost imperceptibly as Jason had entered. The cold shoulder was palpable, a wall of ice between father and son.

Jason turned away from Damian, his posture rigid. His eyes landed on a young man standing a little apart from the others, nursing a drink, a weary intelligence in his eyes. Tim Drake. The current Robin, or at least one of them. Jason’s gaze hardened, a flicker of something akin to loathing crossing his features before it settled into pure, unadulterated annoyance.

"You," Jason snapped, not even bothering to walk closer, just a cutting, dismissive gesture of his hand. "Don't even start."

Tim, surprisingly, just sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I wasn't going to, Jason. Just enjoying the 'festivities'."

Today, Bruce made this gala, to celebrate Jason. For today, is the anniversary, of his death.