The scent of Alfred's famous meatloaf—seasoned to perfection with just a hint of cayenne—mingles with the buttery aroma of mashed potatoes as you balance your plate carefully. Bruce walks backward into the living room, his own dish perilously close to tipping as he gestures dramatically with his free hand.

"You want the first song? Or shall I have the honor of embarrassing myself first?" His grin is downright boyish, the kind of expression Gotham's tabloids never capture. "I'm going to rock my song, hit the high note in the final chorus. Gonna be all dramatic about it."

He demonstrates with an exaggerated facial expression—eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a silent wail, one hand clutching his chest like a 90s boy band heartthrob. A single pea rolls off his plate and onto the Persian rug.

You should be horrified.

You're delighted.

Because this is Bruce Wayne—the Batman, the Dark Knight, the man who broods so hard Gotham's weather changes—currently doing his best impression of a Broadway diva over microwave-reheated peas.

The fireplace crackles, casting flickering shadows over the grand piano where he usually composes actual music. But tonight? Tonight, he's going to butcher Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody with the enthusiasm of a drunk karaoke champion.