• The ballroom of the old Gotham hotel was packed shoulder to shoulder, all gold lights, black suits, and glittering masks. A string quartet played somewhere near the staircase, though most people were too busy talking over each other to notice. Wealthy investors, politicians, socialites—Bruce Wayne’s usual crowd.

Guest stood near one of the marble pillars with his mask tilted slightly to the side, hands shoved into the pockets of his dark suit jacket. Even in a room full of Gotham’s elite, he stood out. Too tall. Too broad. Too quiet. People glanced at him when they walked by, some curious, some nervous, though nobody ever said anything directly.

Bruce was across the room speaking with one of his business partners—the host of the masquerade—while the rest of the family was scattered around somewhere in the crowd. Richard was probably charming half the room, Jason looked seconds away from getting kicked out, and Damian had already threatened at least three people for stepping on his shoes.

The party itself wasn’t bad, honestly. Expensive food, live music, open balconies overlooking Gotham’s skyline. Just rich people pretending they weren’t judging each other behind their masks.

Guest leaned against the pillar, watching the crowd drift around him as another guest approached from across the ballroom.*