Bruce shrugged off his cape and armor, letting Alfred help him into his white dress shirt.

  Dick leaned against a nearby table, arms crossed. "Don't you think Bane has something to do with this since he's the only enemy that Batman didn't imprison in Arkham Asylum?"

  "Bane is reformed," Bruce said, adjusting his cuffs. "He's been clean for two years."

  "You sure about that?" Dick raised an eyebrow. "Guy broke your back once. People don't just change overnight."

  "He's running youth programs in Santa Prisca," Bruce said as Alfred draped the charcoal tie around his neck. "Teaching kids to stay off Venom. Last I checked, he hasn't touched the stuff either."

  "Right, because criminals never lie about getting clean," Dick pushed off from the table. "Look, I'm just saying—big explosion, military-grade tech, someone trying to draw you out? Sounds like his old playbook."

  "Master Dick does raise a valid point," Alfred said, smoothing Bruce's lapels. "Though perhaps not for the reasons he thinks."

  Bruce turned to face the mirror. "What do you mean?"

  "If someone wished to frame another party for these attacks, who better than a reformed villain? The perfect red herring, as it were."

  "Crap," Dick muttered. "Didn't think of that."

  Bane was a long shot, but the kind that felt just plausible enough to gnaw at the back of Bruce’s mind. The man had played both sides before—acted like he was done with the game, only to crush anyone dumb enough to believe him when the mask came off. Bruce had seen it firsthand, literally felt the consequences in his spine when trust proved fatal.

  Sure, Bane said he was clean now—rehabbed, running outreach programs, a walking after-school special. No Venom, no vendettas. But even the best masks crack under pressure. And if someone else had been pulling his strings? That was worse.

  Bruce’s fingers twitched as Alfred finished straightening his tie. There were too many variables at play, too many moving pieces that didn’t fit together yet. But there was also precedent—Bane had taken Gotham apart once before and left its bones on display for weeks. Bruce didn’t have the luxury of dismissing the guy just because his current PR makeover looked pretty convincing from a distance.

  Maybe this wasn’t Bane. Maybe it was some other ghost clawing its way out of Gotham’s crowded closet of horrors. But if it was him? If he missed something, gave him too much rope to hang them all with…?

  He couldn’t afford to be wrong. Not again.

  Bruce grabbed his jacket. "Oracle, add Bane's known associates to the search parameters. If someone's trying to use his reputation as cover, I want to know who."

  "And if it actually is him?" Dick asked.

  "Then he'll wish he'd stayed reformed."

  Bruce followed Alfred through the cave's winding paths toward the private garage where they kept the "normal" vehicles.

  The Rolls Royce waited in shadows, its silver paint job catching what little light filtered down from above.

  Alfred opened the rear door.

  "I still think this is a waste of time," Bruce said, sliding into the leather seats. "We should be tracking down leads, not schmoozing with Gotham's elite."

  "The two aren't mutually exclusive, sir," Alfred settled behind the wheel, adjusting his driving gloves. "Besides, maintaining Bruce Wayne's public image is just as crucial as Batman's work. The city needs both."

  "The city needs answers," Bruce loosened his tie. "Vale died trying to expose something. Now we're playing dress-up while his killers plan their next move."

  "Perhaps," Alfred guided the car up the ramp that led to Wayne Manor's grounds. "But consider this— One of those party-goes could give you that information."

  "You think they'll just hand over that info over cocktails?"

  "No," Alfred's eyes met Bruce's in the rearview mirror. "But money talks, sir. And tonight, you'll be surrounded by people who have quite a lot to say about it."

  The car emerged into the fading daylight, tires crunching over gravel as they headed toward the city. Bruce stared out the window, watching his home shrink behind them. Time to put on the mask—the other mask. The one that smiled and joked and pretended not to notice Gotham bleeding.

  Bruce couldn’t stand these events. Not because of the tuxedo or the small talk. That part came easy, almost automatic now. What grated on him was the people. The so-called “pillars” of Gotham society. Wealthy socialites with polished veneers and hollow smiles, showing up to sip champagne and make a few tax-deductible donations—not because they cared, but because it looked good.

  These weren’t his allies; they were opportunists. Every handshake came with an agenda, every compliment carried subtext. Money talked in this circle, sure, but it rarely said anything useful. They didn’t know about the Court of Owls or Vale or Blackgate—or if they did, they wouldn’t bring it up over canapés. These people operated on gossip and self-interest; they weren’t exactly the types to stick their necks out. Even if they had information that could help him, it’d cost him something—and not just money.

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  He hated it. Hated pretending to be one of them when he could think of ten better ways to be spending his time tonight—most of which involved tracking down leads on whoever orchestrated Vale’s death. Instead, he’d be stuck playing Bruce Wayne: making jokes about city politics he didn’t find funny, dodging veiled questions about his personal life, acting like he hadn’t been awake for hours chasing ghosts through Gotham’s underbelly.

  That was the worst part—the act. Because even when he was surrounded by people at these fundraisers, dressed to the nines and eager to court Wayne Enterprises’ influence, he felt more alone than he ever did in the cave or on the streets as Batman. At least there, in the dark, everything was honest—the danger, the stakes, even his enemies. Here? It was all masks and theater.

  He leaned back against the upholstery as Alfred navigated through city traffic. Bruce tried to shake off his thoughts—the sense that this entire evening would be a waste of time—but couldn’t quite manage it.

  The fundraiser felt like a concession. A reminder that no matter how much control he had as Batman, there were parts of this war he had to fight as Bruce Wayne—and those fights always left him feeling exposed and powerless.

  Powerless because he knew these people didn’t see him for who he truly was—not that he wanted them to—but also because they didn’t care about Gotham beyond what it could give them: contracts for their businesses, grants for their pet projects, photo ops for their PR teams. They weren’t in this for justice or change; they were in it for themselves. And as much as he hated admitting it...sometimes so was Bruce Wayne.

  He glanced at Alfred through the partition window—his oldest ally, possibly his wisest too—and squashed those thoughts before they spiraled further. Feeling sorry for himself wouldn’t change anything; it never had. Tonight wasn’t about what Bruce wanted or even what Gotham’s elite deserved—it was about extracting value from them while keeping up appearances long enough not to raise suspicion.

  “Alfred,” he said after a moment.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You ever think we’re wasting our time with these people?”

  Alfred glanced in the mirror before answering: “I think time spent strategically is never wasted.”

  Strategically. That’s how Alfred always framed these things—as chess moves in a game most of Gotham didn’t even realize they were playing yet. Maybe that was enough for tonight—to treat this like reconnaissance rather than some futile attempt to change hearts and minds over overpriced wine.

  Still… Bruce couldn’t shake that nagging doubt: what if no one at this party had anything useful? What if all this effort—the suit, the smile, the endless stream of meaningless chatter—amounted to nothing? Worse yet… what if someone at that party did know something important but wouldn’t trust him enough—or fear him enough—to give it up?

  Because at the end of the day? That’s all these people cared about: trust or fear—or sometimes just leverage—and while Batman thrived in those dynamics thanks to broken bones and threats...Bruce Wayne? He operated on borrowed charisma and vague promises wrapped in dollar signs.

  And God help him...sometimes he wondered which mask Gotham really needed more of: his or theirs?

  The Rolls pulled up to the curb outside the Gotham Grand Hotel, its polished exterior reflecting the flash of cameras before Bruce even opened the door. Alfred cut the engine and came around to let him out, but the reporters had already swarmed.

  "Mr. Wayne! Over here!"

  "Bruce, what's your response to the Blackgate explosion?"

  "Is Wayne Enterprises increasing security after the attack?"

  Bruce stepped out, adjusting his tie. The cameras clicked rapid-fire, capturing his ‘smile’.

  "I think tonight we should focus on what matters— supporting Gotham's first responders and their families. That's why we're all here."

  "Sources say a GCPD detective was investigating corporate corruption before he died. Is Wayne Enterprises involved?"

  "The only thing Wayne Enterprises is involved in tonight is writing checks," Bruce said with a chuckle. "Now if you'll excuse me, I hear they're serving that fancy champagne I can never pronounce."

  More questions flew at his back as Alfred guided him toward the entrance. The doorman nodded, opening the massive doors that would lead him into another kind of battleground—one where the weapons were words and wealth instead of fists and fear.

  "Try not to stay out too late, sir," Alfred murmured. "The other suit might be needed before morning."

  "No promises," Bruce replied, stepping into the light and noise of Gotham's elite at play. Time to see what secrets money could buy tonight.

  The Gotham Grand Hotel's ballroom dripped with old money and new ambitions. Crystal chandeliers shimmered warm light over the sea of designer gowns and tailored suits below. The usual suspects filled the room—politicians seeking campaign donations, business moguls hunting contracts, socialites competing for attention.

  Veronica Vreeland held court near the champagne fountain, her red Valentino dress was a splash of blood against the cream marble. The Van Dahl sisters lurked by the seafood station with their matching Chanel ensembles marking them as the twins they tried so hard to deny being. Hamilton Hill Jr. worked the room in his father's old style, glad-handing anyone who might help fund his inevitable run for office.

  Near the stage, where a string quartet played music no one listened to, Commissioner Gordon's wife Barbara stood with the other GCPD spouses. Their dresses came from department stores instead of fashion houses, but they carried themselves with more dignity than the social climbers around them.

  The new money crowd stuck to the edges—tech entrepreneurs and crypto millionaires in flashy suits that screamed "notice me." They'd learned to mimic the old guard's manners, if not their subtlety. Their wives and girlfriends wore this season's most expensive mistakes, diamonds competing with cleavage for attention.

  Even the waitstaff told a story—hired from the same agency that had served Gotham's elite for generations. They ghosted through the crowd in pressed black uniforms, invisible until needed.

  Bruce snagged a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, lifting it in a mock toast to no one in particular. He made a show of scanning the room, offering smiles and casual waves to faces he recognized but wished he didn't.

  "Didn't expect to see you here," Clark Kent appeared at his side, adjusting glasses that never quite sat straight on his face.

  Even in a rental tux that had seen better days, the man managed to look both out of place and completely at ease.

  Bruce nearly choked on his drink. "What the hell are you doing here?"

  "Perry's idea," Clark grimaced, tugging at his bow tie. "Said the Planet needs society coverage that isn't just Lois ripping apart corporate corruption. Something about 'balanced reporting' and 'not antagonizing advertisers.'"

  "So he sent you? To a Gotham charity event?"

  "Trust me, I tried to get out of it. Told him there was a developing situation in Kazakhstan that needed coverage," Clark accepted a glass from a waiter but didn't drink. "He said, and I quote, 'Kent, unless Metropolis is actually on fire, you're covering the damn party.'"

  Bruce snorted. "You could have mentioned Kazakhstan was actually on fire."

  "Thought about it. But lying's not really my thing." Clark's eyes tracked the movement of the crowd. "Besides, figured you might need backup tonight. These people are sharks."

  "I can handle sharks."

  "Yeah, but can you handle them sober?" Clark nodded toward Bruce's already empty glass. "That's what, your third?"

  "First. And I'm not actually drinking them," Bruce set the glass on another passing tray. "Can't afford to be drunk tonight. Something's happening in Gotham."

  Clark's expression shifted. "You mean that explosion at Blackgate? It's connected to something bigger, isn't it?"

  "Keep your voice down," Bruce muttered. "But yes. And someone in this room might know more than they're letting on."