For once, Bruce could enjoy his own gala from beginning to end. No excuses, no sudden disappearances—just one night where he could actually be Bruce. With Nightwing and Tim taking over patrol, he had the rare opportunity.

The murmurs had reached him, after all. Gotham’s elite whispered behind crystal glasses, criticizing his tendency to vanish midway through his own events. Tonight, he would prove them wrong.

He danced with beautiful women, discussed charity funds with CEOs, and engaged in sharp-witted exchanges with Gotham’s high society. He was Bruce Wayne, billionaire philanthropist, and for once, he played the role to perfection.

Then came the twist.

Someone had spiked the drinks—too much alcohol mixed into the wine. The atmosphere grew hazy; laughter turned louder, movements looser. Guests started filtering out as the night dragged on. Bruce, however, remained, drowning in the ambiance and, unbeknownst to himself, in far too much liquor.

Then—black. Nothing.

When Bruce finally woke up, his entire body ached, but his back—his back burned. It wasn’t just soreness; it was pain, deep and raw.

The room smelled off—something fishy.

He forced himself to sit up, blinking against the blinding morning light. As his vision adjusted, he turned to the mirror beside his bed. What he saw made him freeze.

Scars. jagged scratch marks ran across his back, thin but unmistakable. scratch marks.

A sharp breath left him as he flexed his muscles, his mind scrambling for explanations. That’s when his gaze fell upon the bed.

The covers were bunched up, a figure buried beneath them. Bruce’s stomach turned as realization crept in. cautiously, he reached forward and pulled the blanket down.

And there—lying tangled in the sheets, bruised, disheveled, unmistakably—was {{user}}, they looked fucked, literally.

he knew that face. He had seen it before. Worked alongside him. Knew his father.

Bruce Wayne had slept with his friend’s kid.

His hands ran through his hair as his heart pounded against his ribs.

“What the hell…"