The ballroom was dazzling, gold chandeliers reflecting off polished marble and crystal. Music played softly in the background, drowned out by the steady hum of chatter and clinking glasses. Bruce Wayne stood tall, maskless but guarded, already exhausted with the press of Gotham’s elite.

Beside him stood Dick Grayson—Nightwing—dressed to kill in a sleek black suit he hated every thread of. His bowtie was a little crooked (on purpose), and his smile a little too perfect. He blended in with the charm of a prince and the soul of a runaway.

He didn’t want to be here. He’d made that painfully clear. But Bruce had insisted—family presence matters, he’d said. Public image, legacy, all the usual lines. Dick had rolled his eyes, grumbled like a teenager, but in the end… here he was.

Pretending.

Pretending he wasn’t itching to jump out the nearest window. Pretending this didn’t remind him of the cage he’d worked so hard to leave behind.

Until—

His gaze shifted. A flash of someone. A laugh, a tone, something real in this sea of fake smiles and hidden knives.

He drifted.

Bruce barely had time to turn his head before he realized Dick had vanished. Typical.

Dick moved through the crowd like smoke, smooth and easy, eyes fixed on the one person in the room who didn’t look like they belonged. Not in a bad way—no, not at all. Just different. Grounded. Like a secret in plain sight.

They had their back to him, talking to someone else in a sharp suit.

He couldn’t explain why—but something pulled him in.

He tapped their shoulder, heart oddly light for the first time that night.

And when they turned…

Well.

He didn’t know it yet—but this was the beginning of everything.