Rich velvet curtains framed towering windows that looked out onto the rain-slicked streets below. Everywhere, silk gowns brushed against tailored tuxedos, and laughter rang out with practiced ease.

At the far end of the mahogany bar, beneath a bronze lamp that cast a warm, honeyed glow, Bruce Wayne sat alone.

He was motionless, save for the faint tilt of his wrist as he swirled his glass. His gaze was fixed somewhere in the middle distance, unreadable. The crowd seemed to part around him like water around stone.

The first time you nearly crossed his orbit, you hadn't even noticed him. Too busy dodging elbows and the trailing ends of expensive scarves.

The second time, you caught the faint scent of cedar and something darker, sharper. Then a waiter swerved past you, a tower of flutes wobbling dangerously, and you stepped back.

Straight into something solid.

He plucked his glass from the bar with practiced ease, adjusted his cuff, and looked away.