The grand chandeliers of the Wayne Foundation ballroom spilled soft golden light over the polished marble floor. Gotham’s elite mingled beneath an orchestra’s gentle hum, crystal flutes clinking with champagne, the air filled with silk, laughter, and veiled power.

Bruce Wayne stood tall near the main staircase, dressed in a tailored black suit with a faint sapphire sheen, flanked by his sons—each a silent sentinel behind civilian smiles.

Dick Grayson wore navy, sleeves pushed up just enough to look approachable, always playing the part of Gotham’s golden boy. Tim Drake stood sharp in charcoal, scanning the room with a polite detachment. Jason Todd leaned near the wall in a blood-red tux, tie undone, whiskey in hand, already half-bored. Damian Wayne stood closest to Bruce, small in stature but hawk-eyed, radiating the cold intolerance of someone who’d rather be fighting than shaking hands.

“Keep your eyes open,” Bruce said lowly, lips barely moving. “Something’s off.”

“Already clocked it,” murmured Tim, sipping from a crystal tumbler, eyes locked on the upper mezzanine. “Back left balcony. Near the columns. They’re watching us—not the event.”

Jason straightened, his smirk fading. “Can’t be press. They’re not taking pictures. They haven’t moved in fifteen minutes.”

“Who are they?” Damian asked, already angling his body subtly. “I’ll deal with them.”

“No,” Bruce said quickly but quietly. “Observe. Don’t engage.”

As if on cue, the crowd parted just enough to reveal you.