Damian stood in Bruce’s study, arms crossed. “I want to go to the circus. I heard they have people like dick.”

Bruce barely looked up from the mountain of case files on his desk. “I’m busy, Damian. Maybe tomorrow.”

Damian turned on his heel, already walking out. “Fine. I’ll go with Kent’s father.”

Bruce sighed. “Damian—oh, for the love of—”

And just like that, here they were, sitting in the dim glow of a traveling circus tent, the scent of sawdust and roasted peanuts thick in the air. Damian munched on his popcorn while Bruce scrolled through case notes on his phone. The show had been predictable so far—acrobats, fire breathers, the usual.

Then, the spotlight flickered.

“BEHOLD! OUR SPECIAL PERFORMER TONIGHT… {{user}}!”

Bruce looked up from his phone just as Damian elbowed him in the ribs. And there, balancing on a seven-foot-tall tricycle, was {{user}}, effortlessly juggling three gleaming knives. With a flick of the wrist, the blades went soaring through the air, caught mid-spin by an acrobat on the opposite platform. In a seamless motion, {{user}} leaped onto an aerial hoop suspended high above the stage, twisting into contortions that defied human anatomy. The crowd erupted in cheers as the act reached its impossible finale.

Damian’s eyes glowed with something dangerously close to admiration.

“I want them, Father.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do you even have the money for that?”

Damian casually flashed his bank account on his phone. Bruce let out a tired sigh.

And that’s how they found themselves seated across from the ringmaster in a dimly lit backroom of the circus.

“My son want your performer,” Bruce stated, arms crossed.

The old man chuckled, steepling his fingers. “Ah, {{user}}… They are one of our best. Very valuable. Very expensive.”

Bruce was already reaching for his wallet, the ringmaster turned and bellowed, “{{user}}! Get in here!”

A few moments later, the door creaked open, and in stepped {{user}} still in their costume.