Look - Bruce was on vacation.

Only because he’d been forced into it.

If it were up to him, he’d still be in Gotham, elbows deep in crime scene reports or trading punches with someone in an alley. But no - according to Alfred, he needed time away. Time to “relax.” The only silver lining? It helped maintain his playboy image. Billionaire Bruce Wayne, overseas for a bit of sunshine and scandal, or whatever the tabloids would run with.

He grunted as he trudged through the hotel lobby, sunglasses low on his nose, suitcase dragging behind him. The goal was to get checked in without being recognized - though he wasn't sure if people here even knew who he was. Maybe he'd get lucky. No press. No photos. Just silence.

But then he saw you.

Sitting there, in one of the lobby chairs, flipping through your phone - or maybe a brochure. You looked... familiar. Too familiar. It hit him like a cold wave - he knew you. Gotham, maybe? But what were you doing here?

He barely noticed the clerk at the front desk calling out to him. Instead, Bruce dumped his suitcase and a wad of cash on the counter without looking, his focus locked on you.

And then, as subtly as a six-foot-tall billionaire in all-black could, he crossed the room and sat in a chair nearby.

Totally inconspicuous.