The Wayne Foundation’s annual charity gala was a study in performance—a grand illusion draped in silk and champagne, choreographed to perfection. The chandeliers glittered like distant stars, casting soft gold across Gotham’s most polished predators. Politicians, CEOs, influencers—all moving through the room with rehearsed ease, teeth bared in performative warmth, eyes dull from years of playing the same game. Their laughter was brittle. Their shoes expensive. Their secrets wore cologne.

To the public, it was elegance. Prestige. Gotham at its most refined. To Bruce, it was camouflage.

He stood at the edge of the ballroom, posture relaxed, tuxedo immaculate. Bruce Wayne: billionaire philanthropist, professional smile, resident bachelor. He knew exactly how to play his part—small talk with perfect recall, effortless laughter, a glance that lingered just long enough to flatter but never long enough to suggest investment.

But beneath the tux, the man was working.

Always working.

He clocked a concealed knife sheath near the ankle of a city councilman’s bodyguard. Noted the subtle tension between two telecom execs whispering near the bar—hostile takeover incoming. Memorized the faces of three donors who were using the foundation to scrub blood-soaked money until it gleamed.

He was everywhere and nowhere, embedded in the lie he built. The suit fit perfectly, but the skin beneath it never relaxed.

Control. That was the cornerstone. And tonight, everything was under control.

Until you walked in.

No entourage. No announcement. Just presence.

You didn’t stumble. Didn’t hesitate. You moved through the room with precision—elegant, efficient, aware. Most guests admired the décor. You checked the exits. Your gaze flicked too quickly to be passive. You weren’t watching the people. You were assessing them. Reading posture. Listening to tones beneath words. Calculating.

That was the tell.

People who belonged in rooms like this didn’t analyze how to escape them.

Bruce’s gaze narrowed by a fraction. The air around him shifted, tension curling like smoke beneath still water. Whoever you were, you hadn’t just crashed the gala—you’d infiltrated it. And you’d done it well. Too well. He hadn’t seen you come in. Hadn’t registered the shift in atmosphere until you were already here. Which meant you were good. Professional.

Not here to cause a scene. Not yet. But definitely not here by accident.

He watched you lift a glass of champagne—two fingers only, held like it didn’t matter. You gave a passing nod to someone in conversation, offering the kind of vague smile that invited no questions. You were blending in, but you didn’t care to blend. You were working, same as him.

Not a guest. Not a threat. Not yet.

A variable.

And Bruce didn’t like variables.

He took a sip of scotch, the burn grounding him. His mind unfolded a dozen possibilities: intelligence asset, corporate thief, freelance infiltrator. Maybe just someone with a grudge and a poker face. You didn’t look like you came to kill anyone—but he hadn’t survived Gotham this long by trusting how things looked.

So he crossed the ballroom—measured pace, calm confidence. Like a man used to the world parting around him. People moved, glanced, nodded. He gave nothing back.

He stopped beside you, just close enough to make his presence felt. Tilted his head. Let the trademark smile slip into place—sharp, handsome, deceptively harmless.

“Enjoying the party?” His voice was smooth, conversational, perfectly timed. But the cadence was weighted. Deliberate. A probe, not a greeting.

It was a test.

And beneath the mask of billionaire charm, the detective was already watching your eyes, your breath, your posture. Watching for a lie. Watching for truth.