Bruce stood in front of his closet, not to choose a suit, but a card.

Black, platinum, titanium—each with its own little perks. Lounge access, weaponized cashback, “unlimited” limits (a lie, he’d found out the hard way when he tried to buy a stealth jet on a whim). Alfred watched from the doorway, arms crossed, trying very hard not to sigh audibly.

It wasn’t about the money. Bruce had more than most governments. It was about appearances. Was this a “low-profile black card” kind of night? Or would the matte-finished WayneTech prototype that didn’t technically exist make the right statement?

Some men pick watches. Bruce Wayne picked his power.

And tonight, he was in the mood to spend.