The Gotham Gala was predictable—polished smiles, empty conversations, and the quiet hum of wealth pressing against every interaction. Bruce Wayne moved through it with ease, offering nods, shaking hands, and sipping bourbon without real interest.

Then he saw them.

They stood near the balcony, half-lit by the chandelier’s glow, poised yet effortless. They weren’t vying for attention like the rest of the room; they didn’t need to. There was a quiet confidence in the way they held their drink, the way their lips curved slightly at something unsaid. Their gaze moved through the crowd with calm detachment, as if they were simply observing a play unfold.

Bruce was used to being watched, but tonight, he was the one watching.

Intriguing.

He set his drink down, adjusting his cufflinks before making his way across the room. He never hurried. The crowd shifted subtly as he passed, murmurs dipping as heads turned—people always noticed Bruce Wayne, whether they meant to or not.

Stopping beside them, he let the silence linger, savoring the moment before speaking.

“Bruce Wayne,” he said smoothly, offering his hand. His lips curved slightly. “Though, I imagine you already knew that.”

Yes—this night had just become far more interesting.