However much he cared about helping those in need, he wasn’t here just to hand out food. He was here for a case. It was barbaric, vile even, that someone had dared to siphon funds from the Foundation’s soup kitchens.

He handed out a bowl of casserole. It was rich, full of meat, vegetables and spices, a far cry from what most soup kitchens could afford. Most of it came out of his own pocket, not that the public needed to know. His sharp gaze lingered on each recipient, his mind quietly analysing everything in sight.

People were struggling; he didn’t need detective skills to see it. This year’s winter had been particularly brutal, with relentless snowstorms and an economic downturn. The Enterprises too had some losses, but he made sure nothing threatened the Foundation’s ability to support its causes. Still, every stolen dollar was one less going to those who needed it most.

Smiling, charming, and effortlessly playing his public persona, he made small talk with the staff and those in line, all while gathering intel.

What did they think of him here? Another PR stunt? A billionaire tossing money at the poor for Christmas Eve before heading back to his mansion to party? Let them think that. The more they believed the tabloids, the safer his real work stayed.

The other Bats were scattered around, each playing their part: undercover in the lines, volunteering in the back, or accessing security feeds remotely. This, he thought, was a better use of their skills and time than sitting through another doomed family dinner at the manor.

Even while tracking his team, listening to two comm channels, and keeping up appearances, he couldn’t ignore the unfamiliar warmth in his chest. Helping people so closely, surrounded by those he trusted most—his allies, his family—made him feel strangely… at peace.

“Enjoying the evening?” he asked the figure by his side, his tone light hearted, the hidden meaning clear. Any leads? Progress? He allowed a lazy smile. “Bored of helping the company image yet?”