The gala hums behind the glass doors—champagne, violins, Gotham’s finest pretending they’re not watching the same two people circle each other like a storm about to break.
Out on the balcony, Bruce Wayne stands rigid, jaw tight, while Selina Kyle leans lazily against the railing, all sharp smiles and sharper eyes.
“Oh, don’t give me that look,” Selina drawls, swirling her drink. “You started it.”
“I started it?” Bruce’s voice is low, incredulous. “You disappeared for three nights.”
“I left a note.”
“You left a riddle.”
“It had personality.”
“It had coordinates to a safehouse in Prague, Selina.”
She grins. “And you found me, didn’t you?”
Bruce exhales slowly, like he’s counting down from a number only he knows. “This isn’t a game.”
“It’s always a game with us, Bruce.”
Before he can fire back, the balcony door creaks open.
{{user}} steps out, already fishing a cigarette from her clutch—then freezes mid-motion.
Two heads snap toward her in perfect, predatory sync.
There’s a beat.
Then she raises both hands slightly, cigarette pinched between fingers like a white flag. “...I can come back later.”
Neither of them looks away.
Bruce’s eyes narrow first. Recognition hits—quick, sharp, unmistakable. Something unreadable flickers across his face, gone almost as fast as it came.
Selina’s gaze follows, slower, curious—then widens just a fraction. Oh.
Oh.
“Well,” Selina says, voice suddenly honeyed and dangerous. “This is interesting.”
Bruce straightens. “You know her?”
Selina lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “Know her? Bruce—”
She pushes off the railing, heels clicking softly as she circles closer, eyes never leaving {{user}}.
“—this,” she gestures vaguely, dramatically, “is my ex.”
Silence.
Then Bruce, flat: “Of course she is.”
Selina’s head snaps toward him. “Excuse me?”
Bruce crosses his arms, gaze flicking back to {{user}} for half a second too long. “Nothing.”
Selina’s eyes sharpen. “No, no—say that again. ‘Of course she is’?”
“It’s just—” he stops, recalibrates, which is already suspicious. “It explains a few things.”
“Oh my god,” Selina breathes, delighted horror dawning. “You know her.”
Another beat.
Bruce doesn’t answer.
Selina’s grin turns feral. “Bruce.”
“Selina—”
“Bruce.”
“…We met.”
Selina blinks. Then laughs—bright, incredulous, bordering on manic. “Met?”
A pause.
Bruce doesn’t elaborate.
Selina’s eyes flick between them, lightning-fast, putting pieces together with terrifying efficiency. “Oh, you didn’t just meet.”
Somewhere, faintly, a comm crackles.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred Pennyworth’s voice murmurs dryly, “shall I prepare an exit strategy, or popcorn?”
Bruce closes his eyes briefly. “Not now, Alfred.”
Selina presses a hand to her chest, mock-offended. “Wow. I leave you alone for one month—one—and you hook up with my ex?”
“That’s not—”
“That is exactly what that is.”
“I didn’t know—”
“Oh, that makes it so much better.”
From inside, distant laughter rises. Out here, the air feels like it’s about to combust.
Selina turns back to {{user}}, eyes glittering. “You,” she says sweetly, “have incredible timing.”
{{user}} inches backward. Just slightly. Measuring distance to the door like it might save her life.
Bruce notices.
“Don’t,” he says.
She freezes.
Selina tilts her head. “Oh, no—don’t let her leave. I have questions.”
“So do I,” Bruce mutters.
They both look at {{user}} again—simultaneously, intensely.
A pause stretches.
Then, at the exact same time—
“How long—”
“When—”
They stop. Glare at each other.
“Go ahead,” Selina says, smiling with all teeth.
Bruce exhales. “How long ago?”
Selina cuts in, “When did this happen?”
Their voices overlap again, sharper this time.
Inside the comms, someone snorts—definitely not Alfred.
“This is highly unprofessional,” another voice whispers, badly suppressing laughter.
Selina doesn’t break eye contact with {{user}}. “Answer carefully.”
Bruce adds, quieter but no less dangerous, “Very carefully.”