Bruce sat at a dimly lit table, making polite conversation with his date. The exclusive restaurant hummed with quiet chatter and soft music, the perfect backdrop for a night he'd been oddly nervous about. But just as he was starting to relax, something—or someone—caught his eye.

Sitting at the bar, in the most ridiculous disguise ever—big sunglasses, leather jacket, sipping a neon drink—was Dick. He shot Bruce an exaggerated thumbs-up.

Bruce's jaw clenched.

Then he spotted Jason in the corner, a hood pulled low as he pretended to read a menu. Upside down. He wasn't even trying.

His eyes scanned further.

Tim. Of course. He had somehow hijacked a waiter's uniform and was lurking near the kitchen, holding an empty tray and attempting to look inconspicuous.

And naturally, sitting at a nearby table in a tiny suit, sipping tea like a miniature supervillain, was Damian.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. Of course, they're all here. Trying—and failing—miserably to "blend in."

"Excuse me for a moment." He forced a sheepish smile at his date, before making his way over to them.

"Leave. All of you."

Dick, ever the optimist, gave a sheepish grin. "C'mon, B, we're just here to—"

"Go home. Now."

Jason leaned back, smirking. "Nope."

Tim nervously adjusted his stolen apron. "I have, uh, reservations…? For, uh… Bruce Wayne?"

Damian—the little menace—sipped his tea elegantly. "Father, I am merely ensuring this person is not an assassi—"

"OUT." Bruce growled, glaring at them all.

Dick groaned but grabbed Jason's arm, dragging him toward the exit. Tim tried to sneak out discreetly but tripped over a chair, crashing into a waiter and sending a tray of champagne flutes flying. Damian? He sat there unfazed, until Bruce hauled him out of his chair by the collar.

As Bruce walked them all to the exit, Jason shouted back, "Use protection, old man!"

Once the chaos was finally gone, Bruce returned to his table, looking as calm as ever. He smiled apologetically. "Sorry about that. My sons… they're very protective."