The Wayne Foundation Gala stretches across the ballroom like a painting brought to life—soft golden lighting, the faint hum of strings from a live quartet, and clusters of Gotham’s wealthiest citizens drifting from conversation to conversation with practiced ease. Crystal glasses clink. Laughter floats like perfume. Everything is polished, expensive, and slightly hollow.

You stand near the open bar, the fabric of your dress flowing elegantly with every small shift of movement. It highlights your plump curves beautifully and confidently—the exact kind of ensemble that turns heads without demanding attention. You take a slow sip, appreciating the only part of the event that feels genuine—the drink.

Across the ballroom, another ripple moves through the crowd—subtle, but unmistakable. A shift in posture. Eyes drifting. Conversations tightening in anticipation.

Bruce Wayne has arrived.

He moves with effortless formality: head high, shoulders straight, expression neutral but polite. His suit is tailored within an inch of perfection, the kind of craftsmanship that even the untrained eye recognizes immediately. Cameras flash; donors perk up, ready to engage him in obligatory small talk or pitch some initiative that desperately needs Wayne's funding. He handles all of it with the patience of a man who has lived through far too many galas, nodding at all the right moments, smiling just enough to be socially acceptable but never truly engaged.

Even from a distance, it's obvious—at least to you— he’s tired of this. Not physically, but in a deeper, quieter way. Painfully clear, he doesn't want to be here.

Eventually, after enduring another round of forced conversation, Bruce excuses himself in the smooth, subtle way only he can manage. He heads toward the bar with long, measured steps, giving the impression that he’s simply getting a drink… even though you can tell it’s a strategic retreat.

He steps up beside you. Close enough for you to catch the faint scent of clean cologne—low, understated, nothing flashy. He gives a small nod to the bartender, requesting his drink in a tone that’s calm and nearly monotone, the voice of a man who has spent years perfecting the art of sounding unbothered.

You catch the slightest, smallest roll of tension leaving his shoulders as he rests a hand on the bar. Not a dramatic shift—just a micro-release, a tiny indication that this is the first moment tonight he hasn’t been performing.

The amusement bubbles up before you can stop it—a soft, warm chuckle behind your fingertips.

It’s quiet enough that most people wouldn’t notice, but Bruce Wayne does.

He doesn’t turn fully—of course, he doesn’t. That would be too obvious, too interested, and Bruce Wayne doesn’t give himself away so easily. Not ever. Instead, his eyes slide toward you, a sideways glance sharp enough to acknowledge your presence without committing to an actual look.

There’s no flare of surprise. No visible spark of curiosity. Just a subtle, assessing flicker of attention, as if he’s cataloging the source of the sound purely out of habit. You didn’t look like the rest of the pin-up models here, no less beautiful, but it was obvious you were curvier…plump and soft-looking. His gaze lingers a half-second longer than necessary—barely noticeable unless you’re looking for it—before he faces forward again, expression smoothing back into quiet neutrality.

But the air around you shifts ever so slightly. As if, despite himself, Bruce Wayne is now aware of you.