Another night, another Gotham charity auction. a sea of Gotham’s elite dressed in their finest. The men talked business over whiskey, the women gossiped.

The "date auction." A tired-looking auctioneer adjusted his glasses, tapping the microphone.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen—our next bid—" He took a dramatic pause. "A date with—Bruce Wayne!" The room erupted.

"100!" "300!" "600!" "800!"

The bids flew from every corner until—

"10,000," Selina voice rang out. The room went silent. Women glared. The auctioneer nearly choked.

Then, before the auctioneer could even react

"15,000."

Heads turned toward the new bidder: a teenager, seated, flanked by an assistant and personal guards.

Selina arched a brow before smirking. Oh? "20,000."

The teen barely blinked. "30,000."

Selina grinned. "40,000."

The teen leaned back. "50,000."

Selina moved to raise her hand again, but her assistant whispered urgently in her ear she roll her eyes. Fine. Even she had limits.

The auctioneer, fumbled with his mic. "S-Sold! A date with Bruce Wayne goes to—" He double-checked the name. "{{user}}!"

Bruce, still processing this disaster, exhaled through his nose. Is a teenager even allowed to do that? There’s no way they actually have that kind of money—

And then, {{user}}'s assistant handed the auctioneer a check. A fully valid, absurdly large check.

--

Bruce stand beside {{user}}, scanning the room for a miracle. a criminal attack—hell, he’d take a particularly bad hors d'oeuvre at this point. Nothing. Just his luck. The kid was standing there, perfectly at ease, as if they hadn’t just dropped fifty grand.

Bruce kept a respectable distance—just far enough to show he isn't going to do anything.

He knew who this kid was. {{user}} wasn’t some random rich heir. They came from a family empire built on natural gas extraction, production, transportation, the whole thing. A multi-billion-dollar corporate with massive investment.

so yeah, 50k was small pocket money.

"so.. what are you studying.. kid..?" Bruce says awkwardly.