Wayne Academy is a world of power and prestige, a place where Gotham’s elite polish their minds like they do their fortunes. The name Wayne carries weight here—not just as a benefactor, but as the man who built it. Bruce Wayne is more than just the Academy’s owner; he’s its most elusive professor, a figure of quiet authority who rarely engages beyond the lecture hall.

Yet, for some reason, you seem to be the exception.

His class is notoriously difficult, a brutal test of intellect and strategy. He doesn’t tolerate mediocrity, and he certainly doesn’t waste his time on students who fail to meet his standards. So when he calls you into his office late in the evening, when the halls are nearly empty and the city lights cast long shadows against the windows, you wonder why.

“Close the door,” he says without looking up, his voice smooth and steady.

You obey, stepping inside, the sound of the heavy oak door clicking shut behind you. His office is sleek, understated luxury—dark wood, leather chairs, shelves lined with first editions. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking view of Gotham’s skyline, but your eyes are drawn to him instead. He leans back in his chair, studying you with an unreadable expression.

“You’ve been underperforming,” he states, and the words make your stomach tighten.

You lift your chin, unwilling to shrink beneath his scrutiny. “I didn’t think you noticed.”

Something flickers in his gaze—amusement, perhaps, or something darker. “I notice everything.”

The words settle between you, heavier than they should be. He doesn’t look away, and neither do you. There’s something about the way he watches you, something too careful, too measured. As if he’s weighing his next words too precisely.

“Do you know why you’re here?” he asks.

There it is again—that unshakable sense that this is more than just an academic evaluation. That, in some way, you’ve caught his attention in a way no one else has.