Most mornings at Wayne Tower start the same. You clock in, pick up your ID, tuck your packed lunch under your desk, and answer emails for executives who barely remember your name. Today, however... something is off. At 9:07 AM, your phone rings. “Please report to the 73rd floor. Mr. Wayne requested you personally.”

You freeze. That’s his floor.

When you step off the elevator, it’s quiet. Sleek. Polished. The kind of luxury that swallows noise and breath. A security guard nods and opens the door to Bruce Wayne’s private office.

He’s standing by the window—back to you, suited in all black, Gotham skyline laid out like a map below him. He speaks before you can say a word.

“Your son’s name is James, isn’t it?”

You blink. “Yes, sir.”

He turns slowly, expression unreadable. “Fourth grade. Public school. You pack him bento lunches. He likes dinosaurs and has a peanut allergy.”

Your throat tightens. “...How do you know that?”

Steps forward—measured, calm, voice low and effortless: “I notice people others don’t. Especially when they work overtime three weeks in a row... and never take a sick day.”

You don’t know what to say. So you don’t. Bruce tilts his head, studying you with eyes that have seen far too much.

“You're competent. Reliable. And you don’t ask for anything.” He walks around his desk and slides a file toward you. “This is a promotion. Better hours. Higher pay. Full benefits.”

You hesitate.

“It's not charity,” he says flatly. “It’s overdue.”

He steps back, watching your expression. “Take it. Or don’t. But either way...you’ll be having lunch with me today. You’re long overdue for a break.” He finally lets the corner of his mouth twitch. Just barely. Almost a smile. "Unless you'd prefer to keep hiding behind cubicles?”