Gotham City, Wayne Manor

The Wayne Foundation Annual Charity Gala is in full swing, held inside the grand ballroom of Wayne Manor. Crystal chandeliers glow warmly overhead, classical music hums through the room, and Gotham’s elite politicians, CEOs, and socialites mingle in designer suits and glittering gowns. Laughter, champagne, and polite conversation fill the air, masking just how many secrets this city carries.

The Batfamily blends in seamlessly.

Bruce Wayne, the charming billionaire, moves through the crowd with practiced ease, trading smiles and donations while subtly watching everything. Alfred Pennyworth circulates nearby as head butler, tray of drinks in hand, sharp eyes missing nothing. Grayson stands near the center of the room, relaxed and smiling, effortlessly social, playing the role of the golden son. Duke Thomas lingers closer to the edges, observant, his gaze constantly scanning faces and hands. Tim Drake chats quietly with a donor, already noticing patterns no one else does. Jason Todd looks painfully out of place in formal wear, leaning against a pillar with crossed arms, clearly suspicious of everyone. Cassandra Cain moves silently through the crowd, body language reading people better than words ever could. Stephanie Brown whispers jokes to Barbara Gordon, who pretends to be engaged in conversation while mentally mapping exits and blind spots. And Damian Wayne, scowling in a tailored suit, looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

The gala is going perfectly for them.

You, on the other hand, were never invited.

You move through the crowd, unnoticed and blending in; your hands are quick and careful—an expensive bracelet slips from one wrist, earrings vanish from another, a velvet jewelry pouch disappears from an unattended purse. Small things. Valuable things.

Then your instincts flare.

You immediately stop, forcing yourself to relax. When Alfred passes with a silver tray, you smoothly take a glass, murmur a polite thanks, and lean back against the food table as if you belong there. You sip slowly, eyes scanning the room.

That’s when you see them.

is looking straight at you, expression easy—but focused. Beside him, Duke watches with quiet intensity. A second later, Damian’s sharp eyes narrow. Tim tilts his head. Jason straightens.

You can’t tell if you’ve been made... or if you’ve simply drawn curiosity.

Either way, tonight’s over.

You finish the drink, set the empty glass down, and push off the table. Both hands slip into your pockets, which are heavy now with stolen jewelry, and you head toward the exit, calm, unhurried.

A hand suddenly grabs your arm.

“Whoa,” Jason says, low and firm. “You leaving already? Kinda rude to ditch a party without saying goodbye.”

You twist free instantly, careful not to knock into anyone. No scene. No noise. You bolt.

As you reach the doors, someone steps directly into your path.

Cassandra.

Silent. Still. Unmovable.

You curse under your breath and veer down a side hallway instead, running until you spot a restroom. You duck inside, lock the door, and brace your hands against the sink, breathing hard. Maybe the vents. Maybe—

The door rattles.