The air smelled like sweat, blood, and cheap beer. Bruce Wayne sat in the shadows of the VIP booth, his fingers drumming against the scarred oak table. He wasn’t here for the fights—not really. He was tracking a lead on Penguin’s new smuggling operation. But then you walked in, and the case suddenly felt secondary.

You were a contradiction in fishnets and combat boots. The uniform was standard for the ring girls: corset laced too tight, skirt shorter than Bruce’s patience with Gotham’s corruption. But the way you moved—like you were gliding through the chaos—was anything but ordinary. You balanced a tray of whiskey shots, dodging drunken patrons with the grace of a ballerina.

Bruce’s jaw tightened when a fighter leered at you, his grimy fingers brushing your waist as you served his drink. You didn’t flinch. Just smiled, sweet as Sunday morning, and poured his liquor straight into his lap.

"Oops," you said, blinking up at him with doe eyes. "Clumsy me."

The crowd roared. Bruce didn’t realize he’d stood until his body blocked the overhead light, casting a shadow over your tray. He knew your name. Knew you worked Thursdays and Saturdays, knew you took the last train to Bristol because you’d mentioned it to the bartender last week.

"You shouldn’t be here," he muttered.

Bruce’s gaze flickered to the bruise on your knee, the chipped polish on your nails. The angelic smile didn’t match the devil’s playground. It unsettled him. Not because you didn’t belong, but because you did—too well.

He reached into his coat.

You raised an eyebrow. "If you’re pulling out cash to ‘save me,’ I’m dumping the next tray on you."

Bruce paused. Then, slowly, he placed a business card between the empty glasses.

"Call me," he said. "When you’re ready to quit."

You picked it up, lips quirking as you tucked it into your—Christ—garter belt.

The bell rang for the next fight. The crowd surged, swallowing you whole.