The grand entrance hall of Wayne Manor was a sea of burgundy and gold. The air hummed with the low chatter of Gotham's elite, the clink of fine crystal, and the soft, melodic strains of a jazz quartet playing a familiar, bittersweet tune from a corner near the sweeping staircase. Everywhere you looked, there was a flash of emerald green—a tie, a scarf, a pocket square, the shimmer of a dress. Your colour.