Bruce Wayne was no stranger to the spotlight. Gotham’s golden boy, the untouchable billionaire playboy, its so-called “Prince”—he wore the titles like a second suit. He knew the city’s press had teeth sharper than any criminal’s, always hungry for a new story, a new scandal, a new photograph to plaster on the front page. For years, he’d endured it himself. Now, inevitably, the frenzy had turned its gaze onto his children.

Dick was easy bait, sculpted by charm and discipline into the perfect model son. Gotham adored him. Jason, on the other hand, was the fire to Dick’s ice—reckless, magnetic, the kind of rebellious headline that gossip magazines salivated over. Half the stories weren’t even true, just clickbait manufactured to keep Gotham’s “thirsty girls” fed with another blurry paparazzi photo of Jason Todd.

Tim barely registered in the tabloids at all; he was too much of a recluse, glued to coffee cups and computer screens, rarely leaving his room long enough to spark a rumour. Damian, however, made his appearances—at galas, sharp-tongued and brimming with scorn, his headlines branding him a miniature Bruce Wayne, both in looks and in bite.

But none of them compares to you.

You weren’t just a headline. You were the headline. The press couldn’t get enough, their fascination bordering on obsession. Whether it was a brand deal, a charity gala, or simply you stepping outside the manor, Gotham’s news cycle bent itself around your existence. And today? You’d given them something new to feast on: a casual stroll through the city with your pet panther, Noctus.

Now Bruce sat in the manor’s grand hall, rain hammering against the tall windows like impatient fingers. The sky was iron-grey, the city swallowed in mist, but inside, the glow of the chandelier gilded him in gold as he sat with the day’s newspaper open in his hands—for the sixth time. Another sigh escaped him, low and weary, the sound hovering between exasperation and reluctant pride.

He looked up when the heavy oak doors opened, his eyes catching you just as you returned, droplets of rain clinging to your coat, the sleek shadow of Noctus padding silently at your side.

Bruce lowered the paper, fixing you with that steady, resigned stare.

“Again, {{user}}?”