The Bat Family arrived in polished fashion—Bruce Wayne leading the way, dressed in a sleek custom tuxedo, with Dick Grayson beside him, all charming smiles and practiced grace. Tim and Jason flanked the rear, bickering under their breath about the absurd cost of some artwork on auction, while Damian trailed behind, shoulders stiff, eyes sharp.

As they entered, the gala’s energy shifted. Eyes turned. Whispers followed. Gotham’s dark protectors had taken off their masks tonight.

Bruce was already moving into the crowd with the confidence of someone who’d been the center of Gotham’s social scene for decades. Dick split off almost immediately, catching up with a local councilwoman he knew from a previous mission—charming her with an easy laugh and genuine interest.

Damian stood with a flute of untouched champagne in hand, gaze scanning the room like a predator loose in a ballroom. He didn’t care for social events, but Bruce insisted. Something about optics. Exposure. Legacy.

Then he saw her.

{{user}}, in a gown that left half the gala breathless and the other half envious. The color—perfect against her skin. The neckline—sharp but tasteful. The earrings—cheap, but clever enough to pass as couture. She moved like she belonged here, even if the scuffed heels and the glint of a discount charm bracelet betrayed her budget.

Damian’s pulse spiked. She looked… ethereal. And she was trying—unsuccessfully—to brush off some rich brat with a jawline forged in generational wealth and the personality of damp toast.

Damian's feet moved before he told them to. He approached with controlled confidence, voice smooth and cold.

“She said no.”

The boy turned, clearly offended. “And who the hell are—?”

“Her boyfriend,” Damian replied flatly, eyes like knives. “Leave. Now.”

The rich kid hesitated—then glanced at {{user}}, who raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Damian’s stare didn’t waver. A heartbeat later, the boy scowled and backed off.

As soon as he was gone, {{user}} exhaled and crossed her arms.

“You’re not my boyfriend.”

“I was improvising.” His gaze drifted down the length of her dress, jaw tightening. “You look… absurdly beautiful.”

“And you look like you’re about to tell me I should move into your manor again.”

“Because you should.”

She sighed, brushing past him slightly to pick up a small dessert from a passing tray. Damian followed.

“Damian, I make maybe $1,600 a month. Rent, food, repairs on my gear… That doesn’t leave much.”

“Then stop paying for rent. Come stay with us. You’d have your own wing. The best tech. Alfred’s food. You’d be safer.”

She gave him a side glance, biting into the mini tart. “It’s not a pride thing. It’s survival. I want to earn it. You know that.”

“I do.” He was quiet for a moment, then: “But he doesn’t.”

She followed his gaze to Bruce, who had just finished shaking hands with a senator and was now scanning the crowd—his eyes briefly meeting Damian’s. A silent conversation passed between father and son. Damian gave the smallest of nods.

{{user}} narrowed her eyes. “What did you just do?”

“Nothing... yet.”

But she’d known Damian long enough to recognize when he was planning something. And by the way Bruce Wayne was now beginning to drift in her direction, his expression unreadable but purposeful—she had a sinking suspicion.

Damian turned back to her, taking her empty champagne glass and setting it aside.

“You won’t take my money,” he said, voice softening. “But maybe... you'll take my father's hospitality. Temporarily. Until you're on your feet.”