He stepped from the dim corridor into the light, and didn’t even squint at its brightness.

The ballroom gleamed like a jewel box, every chandelier burning and fluttering, scattering fractured light across champagne flutes and sequined gowns. The air was warm with perfume, cigar smoke lingering just outside the terrace doors. Waiters drifted between clusters of donors and socialites, balancing silver trays with the kind of practiced indifference only years of service could forge.

Another gala. A charity one aimed at supporting the vulnerable segments of Gotham's population. Most of the invitees didn't double-check what they were giving their money for, they just saw Bruce’s signature on the invitation and opened their thick wallets just to have a chance to get a word with Wayne Enterprises owner. But it was for the better, so Bruce continued to trade his face. That was probably one reason he lingered here for so long today at all.

Bruce Wayne smiled when expected, cameras flashed, and he played his part, the charming heir with the perfect tuxedo and the empty glass in his hand.

Bruce finished small talk with an old acquaintance of him and caught a glimpse of someone in the crowd. In the middle of all that glossy menace, his eyes landed someone who looked a tad bit out of place.

A tall man that practically towered over these posturing egos in the room, broad-shouldered in a way that made the tailored suit look like a uniform forced on him. He wasn’t mingling; wasn’t even pretending to. He lingered near one of the marble columns, nodding politely to anyone who approached.

Bruce recognized the look on his face. He’d worn it himself, too many times.

He cut across the floor, weaving through a circle of donors who called his name, and let the mask slip just enough when he stopped in front of the stranger. He smiled, just barely noticeable interest in his eyes. Interest wasn’t feigned. He studied the man a moment longer, catching the stiffness of his posture, the way he scanned the room like it was terrain instead of a dance floor.

“Don’t mind me, sir, but most people here spend half the night trying to push closer to the spotlight,” Bruce said lightly, tilting his glass. “You look like you’re waiting for the extraction team.”

For the first time that night, Bruce wasn’t thinking about the cameras or the foundation’s donors. He was curious, and he was going to figure this man out.