Backstage at the gala, I fidgeted with the cuffs of my jacket again. It wasn't like they needed fixing. The suit was practically perfect, tailored so well it could've been cast in The Devil Wears Prada. The black fabric shimmered subtly under the backstage lighting, and the Peverell logo pin on my lapel gleamed like a tiny, arrogant reminder of who I was supposed to be tonight. A "charismatic billionaire," Talia's words, not mine. And yes, I was a wizard, a superhero, and apparently some sort of corporate demigod now, but public speaking? Yeah, I'd rather duel a basilisk, thanks.
Speaking of things more terrifying than basilisks, Talia stood just to my left, exuding boss energy in a way only she could. Her emerald-green dress looked like it was tailored out of confidence and danger, and her whole vibe screamed, I could ruin your life and make you thank me for it. She had her arms crossed, her dark eyes scanning me like I was an underperforming chess piece in her grandmaster game. Honestly, she was probably calculating at least three different ways tonight could end in world domination.
"Relax, Charis," Talia said, her voice softening the sharp edge in her voice. "You're fidgeting like a schoolboy before a duel."
"Relax, she says," I muttered, running a hand through my hair. "Easy for you—you're not the one about to go out there and sell a surprise announcement to a room full of billionaires."
Her lips curved into a small, amused smile. "If you can defeat Voldemort, you can manage this. Besides," her tone dropped into something dangerously close to playful, "you look good when you're nervous."
Before I could figure out whether that was a compliment or just Talia messing with me, Sirius broke the tension by strolling into view with his usual I don't give a hippogriff's tail swagger. His tuxedo jacket was already unbuttoned, and he held a glass of whiskey like it was a permanent extension of his hand. The man radiated charm and mischief, like he was one bad decision away from starting a karaoke war.
"Come on, kid," Sirius said with a grin that could've been its own brand of whiskey. "You've fought dark wizards, and—oh, right—saved the world multiple times without breaking a sweat. What's a little stage fright compared to all that?" He raised his glass in a mock toast. "And hey, if it all goes south, you can always fake your death. Works for me."
"That's reassuring," I deadpanned. "Glad to know you've got a backup plan."
"Don't listen to him," Mareena said, finally rising from her seat on the couch. She moved with the kind of elegance that made the rest of us look like we were playing dress-up. Her sea-green gown rippled around her as if it were part of the ocean itself, and when she smiled, it was like the sun breaking through storm clouds. Yeah, she was gorgeous, but it was her presence—calm, steady, and quietly powerful—that kept me grounded.
She crossed the room and placed a cool hand on my arm. "You've faced things no one else could imagine," she said softly, her turquoise eyes locking onto mine. "This? This is nothing. Just breathe, Harry."
"Tried that," I said. "Still panicking."
"You're overthinking it," she replied with a teasing lilt, her voice carrying that soothing Atlantean confidence. "You just have to go out there, smile, and pretend you don't think half of them are idiots."
"She's got a point," Sirius chimed in, grinning. "They are idiots. Rich ones, though. Very rich."
Talia rolled her eyes and stepped forward, reaching out to fix my tie herself. Her fingers were precise, like everything she did, but her eyes softened just a fraction. "Charis," she said, her tone firm but not unkind, "tonight isn't about you. It's about the vision. The future. Peverell Industries is more than a name—it's a force for change. You are that force. Remember that."
"And if I trip and fall on my face?" I asked, only half-joking.
Mareena chuckled. "Then you'll pick yourself up and make a joke about it. Everyone will love you even more."
I looked between them—Talia's calculated poise, Mareena's quiet strength, and Sirius's let's wing it and see what happens attitude—and something in me settled. They believed in me. Maybe I could believe in myself too, at least for the next ten minutes.
"Okay," I said, straightening up and rolling my shoulders back like I was about to face Voldemort in a suit. "Let's do this."
Talia stepped aside, her heels clicking against the polished floor as she opened the curtain just enough for me to peek out. The ballroom was packed—hundreds of people in tuxedos and evening gowns, sipping champagne and waiting for whatever bombshell we were about to drop. No pressure.
"You've got this," Talia said, her voice low and steady. "Remember, this is your stage."
Sirius raised his glass one last time. "Go knock 'em dead, kid."
Mareena's hand lingered on mine for just a moment, her smile warm and unwavering. "We'll be right here."
I nodded, exhaled, and stepped through the curtain. The spotlight hit me like a Patronus charm, and for a second, I froze. Then I remembered Mareena's words, squared my shoulders, and gave the crowd my best charming billionaire smile.
Game on.
—
The ballroom hushed as I walked out onto the stage, my polished shoes clicking against the hardwood in perfect sync with my pounding heart. The crowd was packed tighter than a box of Chocolate Frogs, and no, that wasn't just my nerves talking. Titans of industry, politicians, socialites, and a few celebrities whose faces I vaguely recognized from magazine covers filled the space. Even Bruce Wayne had shown up. I knew he was here because Talia had whispered, "Try not to bait him too much. He's actually important." So, naturally, baiting him was all I could think about.
The spotlight hit me, and for a second, I had the distinct urge to Disapparate—or, you know, fake a power outage and flee. Instead, I put on the confident, charming smile the PR team had drilled into me. It was the kind of smile that said, "Trust me. I won't sell you snake oil. Probably." My grip on the microphone was borderline death-clutch territory, but hey, they couldn't see that, right?
I cleared my throat. "Good evening, everyone," I began, projecting my voice like I was about to summon a Patronus. "First off, let me thank you all for being here tonight. Whether you're here because you believe in what Peverell Industries stands for, or because someone promised you the best hors d'oeuvres in New York, your presence means more to me than I can say."
That earned a ripple of polite chuckles. Good. Step one: make them laugh. Or at least not throw their champagne glasses at me.
I started pacing the stage slowly—deliberately, like I wasn't low-key panicking inside. "Tonight's gala is a celebration, yes. But more importantly, it's the beginning of something much bigger than all of us. And for me, it's deeply personal."
I paused, letting the silence hang there just long enough to make people lean forward in their seats. Public speaking rule number one: dramatic pauses make you seem like you know what you're doing, even if you're one bad joke away from an existential crisis.
"Most of you know me as Charis Peverell," I said, motioning to the enormous Peverell Industries logo glowing behind me. "Son of James Peverell, heir to this company, and, apparently, someone who wears enough suits to land on America's 'Most Eligible Bachelors' list. Which, for the record, wasn't even a contest. Sorry, Bruce."
I glanced toward the back, and sure enough, Bruce Wayne was lurking by the bar like a particularly well-dressed gargoyle. He gave me a barely-there smirk. At least, I think it was a smirk. It might've just been him processing his drink order.
The crowd laughed, and I pressed on, my tone softening. "But what you might not know is that I owe my life—literally, my life—to someone most of you have never heard of. Her name was Lily Potter."
Cue the murmurs. Good. I had them now.
"Lily was my godmother," I said, letting the words hang in the air for a moment. "She was my father's best friend, a brilliant scientist, and one of the kindest, most selfless people you could ever hope to meet. When I was just a kid, there was an accident—one that claimed both her life and my father's. But Lily didn't just… die that day. She gave her life to save mine."
The room went dead silent, except for the faint clinking of a champagne glass somewhere in the back. Probably Bruce again.
I took a deep breath and pushed on. "Losing her left a hole in my life that nothing could fill. But it also left me with a purpose. Lily believed that everyone deserves a chance to shine, no matter where they come from or what obstacles they face. She believed in potential. In people. And it's in her memory that we're all here tonight."
I gestured behind me as the Peverell logo faded into a new image: a simple, elegant emblem of a phoenix rising from its own ashes. "Tonight, I'm honored to announce the creation of the Lily Potter Foundation."
The murmurs turned into scattered applause, and I could see some people sitting up straighter, intrigued. Good. Step two: reel them in.
"This foundation will be dedicated to supporting emerging metahumans—people with extraordinary abilities who are struggling to find their place in a world that doesn't always welcome the extraordinary. Whether it's providing education, resources, or a safe haven, the Lily Potter Foundation will be there to help them."
I let my gaze sweep the room, meeting as many eyes as I could. "Our world is changing," I said, my voice steady now. "Every day, more people are discovering that they're different. And while those differences can be extraordinary, the people behind them are still just that—people. They deserve guidance. Compassion. A world that sees them for who they are, not just what they can do."
By now, the applause was building into something real, something that made the lump in my throat feel just a little more manageable.
"This isn't just about charity," I added, my voice rising with conviction. "It's about hope. It's about building a future where no one is left behind. And it's about honoring the legacy of someone who believed in kindness, courage, and the power of second chances. Lily believed in a better world. And I intend to build it."
The applause turned into a full-on standing ovation. I stepped back, blinking against the bright stage lights as a wave of relief crashed over me. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Talia leaning against the stage curtain, arms crossed, a rare, approving smile on her face. Sirius was near the bar, raising his glass with a grin so wide I thought his face might split in two. Mareena gave me a small nod that said, You did good, kid.
As the crowd continued to cheer, I let myself breathe, just for a moment. Tonight, I'd made them proud. My family. My friends. And, most importantly, her.
I couldn't help but glance toward the phoenix emblem one last time. Hope you're watching, Mum. I'm doing my best.
—
Off-stage, the air was thick with that kind of buzz you only get when Gotham's elite decides to rub elbows in the same room. Think: a cocktail of power, pretension, and a dash of desperation for social approval. The applause from the speech still hung in the air like the echo of a good punchline, and let me tell you, the applause wasn't for me, but for what I was representing. When you're the son of Wonder Woman, there's always a little more weight on your shoulders, and sometimes it feels like you're juggling flaming swords while riding a unicycle over a pit of fire-breathing sharks.
But I wasn't thinking about sharks, or swords, or any other absurd metaphor I could think of. I was trying to shake off the adrenaline of my "inspirational" speech. If you want to get a real sense of what it feels like to speak in front of Gotham's finest, just imagine being an ant under a magnifying glass and then realizing that someone's about to use that magnifying glass to light a cigarette. Fun times.
"Nice speech," Mareena said, her voice cutting through my mental fog like a knife through warm butter. She had this ability to show up at exactly the right moment, no doubt because she was always ten steps ahead. Seriously, it's a little unsettling how often she seems to know what's going to happen before it does.
I glanced at her, slightly distracted by how effortlessly she pulled off that high-fashion look in a cocktail dress that could probably double as a weapon. You ever meet someone who looks like they could stop traffic without even trying? Yeah, that's Mareena. "Thanks. I think I convinced them I'm not a complete disaster."
She gave me a look that was equal parts amused and deadpan, which is Mareena's specialty. "Eh, half of them were on board. The other half are already calculating how much they can get out of you before you even know it."
I rolled my eyes. "Ah, the joys of fundraising. It's basically like trying to sell lemonade to sharks."
And sure enough, the first one came waddling over, his skin oiled with the sheen of too much cologne and arrogance. Rupert Stokes. The kind of guy who looked like he could sniff out money in a way that felt almost predatory. His hair, perfectly gray but a little too stiff, screamed "I'm rich, but I haven't figured out how to look relaxed about it." His tuxedo? Custom-made. Probably designed by someone who knew how to make a man look like he had more dollars than sense.
"Mr. Peverell!" he boomed, as if he'd just spotted the last pair of limited-edition sneakers in a store. "A true pleasure to see you! A fine evening for such an important cause, I must say." His smile was more forced than the third season of a reality TV show, but I kept mine in place. Power move, Charis. Keep it cool.
"Mr. Stokes," I said, shaking his hand with all the enthusiasm of someone who'd rather be anywhere else. "Glad you could make it. We're doing our best to make sure the Lily Potter Foundation stays true to its mission."
Stokes grinned, his teeth more white than necessary, probably for maximum effect. "Of course. A noble cause... truly. Helping metahumans. Fascinating. But tell me, Charis—surely you realize the risks involved. Not just the financials, mind you, but the... unpredictable nature of those you're trying to assist." He leaned in, lowering his voice like we were about to discuss something secret. "Metahumans are, by nature, a bit... unstable, don't you think?"
Mareena shot me a look, probably reading my expression better than I was reading his—which was not a great feeling, let me tell you. "Ah, you mean the liability risks," I said, keeping my tone smooth. "I'm sure you're aware, though, that the Foundation's goal is to help them stabilize their powers. Not breed more chaos."
Stokes let out a little chuckle, more to himself than to me, as if he thought he was the clever one in this conversation. "Of course, of course. And you would need financial backing for something like that, yes? I was thinking perhaps a donation... to help your organization focus on the more, shall we say, stable members of your... roster."
Translation: Let me give you money, but only if I get to pull the strings and control the direction of everything you do. It was a classic move—one I'd seen in about a hundred different business meetings, but I wasn't about to let him get away with it.
"I appreciate your offer, Mr. Stokes," I said, showing just enough teeth to remind him that I wasn't an idiot. "We'll definitely take donations, but I assure you, our mission remains unchanged. Guided by principle. Not... any particular donor's whims."
He stared at me for a moment, probably calculating how much my mother's legacy was worth, before nodding like I'd handed him a puzzle piece he wasn't sure how to fit. He gave a curt nod and sauntered off, his gaze lingering for a fraction too long. I turned to Mareena, who looked slightly impressed, like she'd been betting on me not throwing my drink in his face.
"You handled him better than I would've," she said, her lips curling into a sly grin. "But let's see how you do with the next guy."
I opened my mouth to respond, but I didn't need to. The next guy—Gordon Jacobs—was already looming over me like a storm cloud about to burst. Gordon had this whole "traditional businessman" vibe down to an art. The kind of guy who would rather drink scotch than acknowledge that metahumans are, you know, people.
"Mr. Peverell," he said, with a forced smile that screamed passive-aggressive. "I've heard a lot of talk about this Foundation. But tell me, do you really think you can change anything? You're trying to take metahumans out of the shadows? What's next, a sanctuary for Arkham's finest?" He threw a glance over at Mareena, who was eyeing him like a hawk ready to swoop in.
I tilted my head, studying him. "Actually, yes. That would be interesting. A sanctuary for people who've been mistreated simply for being born differently. But you know, let's start with the metahumans, yeah?"
His face flushed a little, and I could practically hear his thoughts screaming, Did he just say that?
"It's a noble idea, but you're stirring up a hornet's nest, kid," he muttered. "You can't just throw metahumans out in the public eye like that. It's chaos waiting to happen."
"You're right," I said, dropping my voice so only he could hear. "It is dangerous. Especially when you're judged by people who don't understand you."
The words hung between us for a second, but before he could retort, Mareena stepped in, her voice like a silk-wrapped blade. "Mr. Jacobs, it sounds like you've got some concerns. But, perhaps your support could help us move past them? A generous donation could really help things along, don't you think?"
He looked taken aback, his face turning redder than I'd ever seen a man's face go in real life, before mumbling something about needing to "talk to his accountant" and making a quick exit. Mareena shot me a smug look.
I leaned in, whispering, "Next time, I'm just going to put a sign on my back that says 'Free drinks, no questions asked.' It'd be simpler."
Mareena smiled. "I'll be honest, I was hoping you'd toss him out right here. But... you did handle it. Nicely."
"Yeah, well," I said, grinning, "I'm trying to make this gala a little less murdery."
She chuckled. "We'll see what next year brings."
And, of course, I had no idea what she meant by that... but I had a feeling my life was about to get way more interesting.
—
The night was dragging on, and my patience was doing its best impression of a stretched rubber band—getting ready to snap at any moment. If one more person tried to talk to me about "important networking" or asked me how I managed to look so "distinguished" (Spoiler alert: I didn't), I might've just exploded. And I'm not talking about a little angry outburst. I mean literal explosion. Like, Superman-level, but with more cursing and less saving the day.
But before I could escalate my plans to superhero carnage, Mareena and I slipped away from the social jungle that was this gala, gliding through a maze of rich people whose main goal seemed to be talking at people, rather than having an actual conversation. Honestly, at this point, I wasn't sure which was more exhausting: the talking, or the constant feeling that I was about to be dragged into some multi-million-dollar conversation about investment portfolios. Ugh.
Mareena, on the other hand, looked like she was born for this. Her grin was more "I am a shark in a sea of minnows" than "oh, this is a delightful social event."
"I swear, if I have to hear one more person talk about their exclusive wine collection, I'm going to accidentally spill it all over them," she muttered, her eyes practically glowing with mischief.
I couldn't help but laugh. "Yeah, but let's not pretend that wasn't the plan all along. I'm sure you're plotting how to turn the chandelier into a makeshift weapon right now."
She raised an eyebrow. "That would be a lot of work, don't you think? Besides, I'm more of a 'look at them until they feel uncomfortable enough to leave' type. It's much more effective."
"Ah yes, your special stare. You know, I think you've earned the title of 'social assassin,'" I said, giving her an exaggerated salute.
Mareena's grin widened. "It's a talent. One that pays well when applied correctly."
Before I could respond, we rounded the corner and made our way to the quieter corner of the ballroom where Ted Kord and Ray Palmer had been hiding out since we met them earlier. I say "hiding," but honestly, it looked more like they were plotting the downfall of some government with how much tech was scattered on the table between them. Ted was hunched over a gadget—because of course he was—looking like a cross between a mad scientist and a guy who couldn't get enough of genuinely cool things that actually mattered. Meanwhile, Ray Palmer was just too charming for someone who was this casually dressed at a high-society event. I'm pretty sure he could talk his way into anything. He was basically a walking trust fund—except he was smart and didn't waste his life in a yacht club.
"Oh hey, look who made it out of the lion's den!" Ted said with a grin as we approached, waving a wrench around like it was an extension of his arm. "You two manage to survive without anyone getting thrown off the balcony?"
I gave him a half-smile. "Barely. But I'm pretty sure some of those people are still wondering why they haven't been accidentally shoved into a fountain."
Mareena let out a small chuckle, looking at Ray. "I'd say we came close. It was the longest two hours of my life."
Ray, who had been sitting back looking entirely too calm for someone at this party, grinned. "Oh, believe me, I've seen worse. But it sounds like you two survived. And as a bonus, you still have your dignity—mostly."
"Yeah," I muttered. "I don't know how I'm still holding on to it, to be honest. I thought I was going to get too dignified and just straight-up pass out."
Ted smirked. "It's easy to lose your dignity when the next guy thinks you want to buy art that costs more than my entire lab."
Mareena sighed, a dramatic roll of her eyes accompanying it. "Is that what's going on here? Because I feel like I missed the memo where we all became art critics."
Ray nodded in mock agreement. "Well, the price tags might suggest they're art critics. But all they really care about is showing off their 'collection,' which is totally the opposite of actually appreciating anything."
Ted let out a chuckle, clearly on the same wavelength. "See? This is why I love hanging out with you guys. We can talk about all the ridiculousness without needing to pretend we care about it."
Mareena shot me a look. "Oh, it's great—until someone says 'I know a guy' about everything. You can't escape it."
"Yeah, the only guy they know is their investment banker," I muttered, leaning back in my chair. "But let's get to the serious stuff. Ray, you believe the foundation's mission is solid, right? What's do you think we should do next? Because we all know raising the money is one thing, but actually using it for something worthwhile... well, that's a whole different beast."
Ray leaned forward, hands steepled together like a man about to drop some serious wisdom. "It's all about getting the right people in the right rooms. Making sure the funding actually reaches the communities that need it. But I know it's not an easy task. The real problem? The ones with the power don't want to share it."
Ted gave him a skeptical look, then grinned. "Well, that's why we're here, right? To shake things up. I mean, I can't exactly sneak into those rooms, but I can sure as hell make the walls fall down."
Mareena chuckled. "Or you could just do the classic 'Look at them with a look that says, 'You're about to regret everything you said.'' That works wonders."
I smirked. "That's her specialty, you know. I wouldn't mess with her if you like your social status intact."
Ray raised an eyebrow. "She's got the 'don't mess with me' vibe down, huh?"
"Oh, she's practically a social sniper," I said with a wink.
"Please," she replied, flipping her hair with exaggerated flair. "I can kill a conversation with a single glance."
Ted laughed. "I can't even imagine the scene if I tried that. I'd probably short-circuit something and cause a blackout."
Ray was enjoying this way too much. "That might actually be the best way to make a real point. You know, go in with the 'power outage' tactic and see what happens."
I nodded. "I like that idea. But seriously, back to the foundation. We get the right people in the right places. We don't just make money—we make change. Big difference."
Ted's face lit up with excitement. "Exactly. And it's not about just finding the right people. It's about empowering them once they're in those positions. We need to make sure that they can actually do something, you know? Not just sit around and say the right things."
Mareena grinned. "And that's where we come in, right? The team that makes sure the right people don't just talk—they actually do something."
Ray raised his glass, a wide grin on his face. "I'm all in. If we can get it right, we could really make some waves. Shake things up for real."
I raised my glass too. "Here's to making the world less ridiculous and more... human."
Ted nodded, giving me a thumbs-up. "I'll drink to that. Just don't get too big of an idea—I'll need to upgrade my security if we're going full revolutionary."
Mareena winked. "Oh, we're not going full revolutionary—just... strategically disruptive."
I couldn't help but chuckle. For once, things felt like they were going in the right direction. Maybe not perfectly, but at least we had a plan. Or something close enough to one.
And hey, if we were lucky, we might just end up changing the world a little.
Or, at the very least, annoying the right people. That was a win in my book.
—
The gala was a sea of champagne flutes and laughter, a world where elegance collided with excess. The soft hum of conversation filled the air, mixing with the clink of crystal and the distant swell of orchestral music. In a corner, bathed in the subdued glow of ambient light, Bruce Wayne stood almost like a shadow, his dark tuxedo blending seamlessly with the surrounding darkness. His presence was understated, but still powerful. It was the "I'm rich, but I'm not here for attention" effect—an aura Bruce had perfected over the years.
He wasn't one for the spotlight, never had been. The billionaire's face was flawless in its usual detached politeness, a smile etched onto his lips that could fool anyone into thinking he was just another suave Gotham socialite. But behind those eyes—those eyes that always seemed to scan, to assess—there was the unmistakable air of the man who knew that even in a room full of the most powerful, he was always, in some way, the most dangerous.
And then, there was Talia Tate.
She entered the conversation like a storm dressed in silk—a breathtaking figure in an emerald green gown that clung to her form like a second skin. The gown shimmered in the light, reflecting every ounce of her poise and power. It was like she had walked straight out of the pages of some ancient legend—graceful, alluring, and utterly untouchable. But Bruce knew better.
Talia was no stranger to this world of wealth and influence. She wielded it like a weapon. No one could tell whether she was a knight or a queen. But they all respected her.
She smiled as she approached him, but there was something sharp in her eyes—something that told Bruce she was never off the clock, even in a room like this. She held herself with the quiet command of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted—and could take it whenever she chose.
"Mr. Wayne," she greeted, her voice a smooth, low murmur that was both seductive and calculating. Her accent, French with a slight edge, made every word seem like it had weight. She extended her hand, and Bruce took it, his touch firm but gentle, a contrast to the cool, calculating look in her eyes.
"Ms. Tate," he responded, his voice as smooth as the velvet lining of his tuxedo, but there was an edge beneath it. He was Bruce Wayne, the Gotham playboy, but in his tone, there was always the slightest reminder of the man who worked in shadows.
Without another word, he slid a large, almost comically oversized check from his pocket and handed it to her with the same casual grace he used to navigate Gotham's high society. The check was hefty—so hefty, in fact, that it looked like it could cause a seismic shift in anyone's bank account who wasn't already ridiculously wealthy.
"Consider it a contribution," Bruce said, his eyes never leaving hers, "to your cause. I believe in what you're doing, Talia."
Her eyes flickered over the check as she took it. The briefest smile tugged at the corner of her lips, but it wasn't one of gratitude. No, this was a smile that spoke of someone who had seen this kind of generosity a thousand times before—someone who had learned how to manipulate even the most well-intentioned donors.
She ran a finger along the edge of the check, deliberately slow, as if savoring the moment. "Very generous, Mr. Wayne. I'll make sure it goes to good use." There was a glint in her eye that told him she was already thinking two steps ahead, perhaps more. That was Talia—always playing a long game.
Her gaze never wavered as she folded the check carefully in half, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. "I trust Gotham is treating you well, Bruce," she said, her voice still smooth as silk, but her words carrying a heavier meaning.
Bruce's smile didn't falter, but his eyes narrowed ever so slightly—just enough to let her know he was still a step ahead. "I can never complain about Gotham, Ms. Tate. It's always… full of surprises."
Talia's laugh was soft, but laced with something darker. "You know, Mr. Wayne," she said, her tone shifting, "It's almost too easy, dealing with people like you."
Bruce raised an eyebrow, allowing a small chuckle to escape. "I didn't think I was that predictable."
"Predictable?" she echoed, almost mockingly. "No, no. You're far too complex to be predictable. I just enjoy watching you think you're getting away with something."
Her eyes locked onto his with an intensity that would have made most men sweat, but not Bruce. His expression remained neutral, the trademark Wayne coolness masking whatever thoughts might be running through his head. He'd faced far worse from her before, after all.
Without warning, Talia turned her back to him, her dress sweeping around her like a wave, brushing against the floor as she reentered the swirl of the gala. It was an effortless exit, one that made Bruce realize she wasn't just dismissing him—she was allowing him to feel like he had the upper hand for a moment. That was the game they played.
As she disappeared into the crowd, Bruce made his move. In the blink of an eye, he was gone. No dramatic flourish, no "I'm Batman" moment. Just a quiet exit—like he'd melted into the shadows. He was Bruce Wayne, after all; vanishing without a trace was practically part of his charm.
Talia didn't even flinch. She knew what to expect from him. By now, she'd learned how Bruce Wayne could disappear in plain sight. Gotham's protector was always lurking, always watching—even when he thought no one noticed.
But even as she resumed her business in the ballroom, there was the distinct feeling that their brief interaction hadn't been just a casual exchange. There was something deeper simmering beneath the surface. Something only they truly understood.
And somewhere, in a darkened corner of the grand ballroom, Batman was watching, just out of sight, keeping an eye on Gotham's most dangerous woman.
Talia may have won the game for now, but Bruce Wayne—and Batman—were always one move away from changing the board.
---
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