The room shimmered with low laughter, crystal glasses catching the glow of chandeliers that dripped light like molten gold. The elite of Gotham moved like a current—measured steps, polite nods, conversations that were nothing but veiled transactions. And in the middle of it all, Bruce Wayne was a storm wrapped in silk, his smile magnetic, his presence undeniable.

You had done well to blend in—black suit, sharp tie, every gesture rehearsed to match the rhythm of the crowd. But no matter how carefully you tucked yourself into the shadows of the gala, there was no escaping him.

Bruce’s gaze landed like a weight across the room. Subtle. Lethal. The kind of attention that stripped disguises bare without a word. His glass tilted slightly in his hand, the red swirl catching light as he excused himself from a group of dignitaries. Step by step, the crowd seemed to fold away, as though the entire ballroom wanted him to have a clear path to his quarry.

By the time Bruce stood before you, the distance between you felt thinner than breath. Close enough for you to notice the faint scent of his cologne—dark wood, smoke, something expensive and difficult to name. Close enough to feel the scrutiny behind those famously careless blue eyes.

“You don’t belong here,” Bruce said softly. Not an accusation. A fact. The kind uttered by a man who was used to commanding obedience without raising his voice.

He leaned in, lips curving in the ghost of a smile, the kind that promised charm to anyone watching—but to you, it was a blade pressed to the throat.

“Tell me...” his tone dropped lower, private, “...what exactly are you hoping to find tonight?”

The silence that followed was deliberate. A trap dressed as curiosity. Around you, the gala carried on—music, laughter, the clink of champagne—but in that narrow space between two men, it was nothing but the hunt.