The dive bar didn’t even have a name on the sign. Just a flickering neon “OPEN” and the smell of something fried to hell and back. Which, as far as Bruce Wayne was concerned, made it perfect.

He pushed through the door, trading the blinding camera flashes behind him for dim red lights and the soft groan of bad jazz from an ancient jukebox. His suit was too clean for the place. His shoes cost more than the bar’s entire alcohol inventory. And the second he stepped in, he knew it.

She didn’t even flinch at the sight of him. Just wiped down the counter like she was preparing for war.

Bruce took a seat. Quiet. Hands folded. Face blank.

She leaned on the bar, eyes narrowing like she was trying to set him on fire with sheer contempt. Her gaze drifted from the cufflinks (real gold), to the watch (custom, rare), to the face (notorious).

He was used to stares. Adoration, envy, even fear. This one? Pure, undiluted irritation.

Then came the menu—slid toward him without a word, aggressively laminated, and with a handwritten sticky note on it that said: “No craft cocktails. We’re not a damn rooftop lounge.”

Bruce smirked.

He ordered something simple. Something that wouldn’t draw attention.

She scoffed. Loudly.

The drink arrived with the finesse of a slap and the subtle grace of someone daring him to complain. He didn’t. Instead, he took a sip, glanced around, and said—casually, like it didn’t matter—“Your security cameras aren’t real.”

She smiled then. Just a little. Like a cat baring teeth before a pounce.

“No,” she said, “but the baseball bat under the bar sure is.”

Bruce chuckled once. He liked her already. Unfortunately.

He sat there longer than he meant to. Hiding from the press. From the noise. From everything he built and everything he couldn't fix.

She didn’t ask why he was there.

She didn’t care.

And somehow, that was exactly what made him stay.