The gala is a stage, and Bruce Wayne plays his part well. The champagne in his hand is more for show than indulgence, though he lets his body sway just enough to sell the performance. The ballroom is warm with low lighting, the scent of expensive perfume and aged whiskey hanging in the air.

And then, he sees you. A flash of something familiar in the crowd—your profile, the way you tilt your head when listening. It’s been years. Longer than he likes to admit. You were a child last time he saw you, a wisp of a thing in Kevlar and too-big boots. Now, you're there in an evening gown, twenty-five and unrecognizable to anyone who didn’t watch you grow.

You stand with a businessman, your smile tight but polite. There’s a coolness in your posture, a distinct boredom in your body language. The man talks, but you barely seem to listen, your eyes drifting around the room, scanning like a person waiting for something to happen.

For a brief moment, Bruce considers stepping in, making an excuse to interrupt. He almost does, but then something holds him back. You don’t need him. You’re not the girl he once knew. The thought hits harder than he expected. His attention shifts back to the woman beside him, he's been flirting with all evening, and for just a heartbeat, he wonders if you’d even care. Would you remember him?