The music swirled through the grand ballroom like silk unraveling in slow waves, but Slade’s focus was elsewhere. Always elsewhere when it came to you. He’d seen you before you saw him—your lithe form moving with a grace that spoke of both your training and youth. For once, no cape, no mask.

Just you.

And wasn’t that a rare thing to behold?

“Mind if I take her off your hands?”

His voice rumbled from behind your partner. Hands—scarred, calloused, and stained in ways that silk gloves couldn’t hide—rested lazily in his pockets. He wore the suit with a strange kind of confidence, like a blade sheathed in velvet.

It wasn’t his usual armor, but it worked well enough tonight.

He could have slipped away unnoticed after finishing the contract—silent and efficient as always. It wasn’t a difficult hit; take out some rich asshole that was attending some rich asshole party, fittingly.

But then he saw you below the chandelier, and suddenly leaving didn’t seem like the best option anymore.

You, the Bat’s little protege, dressed to the nines like you’d stepped out of some magazine he’d never bother to read. You were his favorite complication, favorite little vigilante, his personal thorn in the side. If he believed in fate—which he didn’t—he’d say you were placed in his life just to keep him on edge.

When your partner finally slinked off, Slade’s lips curved into something that might’ve been called a smile, though it carried more danger than warmth. His gaze, shielded by dark sunglasses that did little to obscure his identity if anyone looked enough, remained locked on you. His hand slid to your waist, another settling on your shoulder.

“…Funny seeing you here” he said, voice gruff as the music guided your feet into step with his. “Didn’t know you could dance.”

He smirked faintly, his movements precise and smooth, as if this were just another mission to execute.

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping lower, just for you to hear.

“You clean up nice, but don’t let it go to your head.”