"So, what do you know about the Blackgate explosion?"

  Bruce gave Clark a sideways glance. "Since when are you interested in Gotham's problems? Thought you were here for the canapés and small talk?"

  "Come on, Bruce. You know me better than that." Clark adjusted his glasses. "An explosion that big?That's not just local news anymore."

  "Right. And Perry White suddenly cares about Gotham society pages."

  "He doesn't. But when three major crime families' lawyers clear out before their office explodes?" Clark shrugged. "That's the kind of story that makes editors forget about party coverage."

  Bruce grabbed two fresh champagne glasses as a waiter passed, maintaining appearances. "You fishing for quotes?"

  "No. I'm trying to help. Something about this feels wrong—like Intergang wrong. They've been pushing into new territories lately."

  "This isn't Metropolis. Gotham's problems are mine to handle."

  "Geez, Bruce. Not everything's a territorial pissing match," Clark said. "So tell me. What have you got?"

  Bruce scanned the room before leading Clark to a quieter corner near a massive flower arrangement.

  "Fine," he whispered. "But this stays between us. No quotes, no sources, no Planet exclusives."

  "You know I wouldn't—"

  "I mean it, Clark. This is bigger than some puff piece about rich people throwing money at problems they created," Bruce set his untouched champagne on a nearby table.

  "Ok, I got it. Spill it out."

  He sighed. "There’s this detective. Vale is his name. He was investigating something before he died. Something about the Court of Owls."

  "Owls? I thought you shut them down years ago."

  "So did I. But Vale sent a warning to Dick right before the explosion. Said 'The Owls are watching.'" Bruce said. "Could be a copycat using their reputation. Could be remnants of the original Court. Either way, someone wanted Vale dead and Blackgate destroyed."

  "And you think someone here knows something?"

  "These people? They know everything that happens in Gotham. They just pretend not to notice until it affects their stock portfolios," Bruce's lip curled. "Problem is getting them to talk without raising suspicions."

  "Want me to do some enhanced eavesdropping?"

  "Really? You think that’d go unnoticed? Half the room’s already side-eyeing you like you're a walking polygraph," Bruce replied. "Subtlety was never your strong suit."

  "And you’re subtle?" Clark crossed his arms. "News flash: Bruce Wayne seen skulking in corners instead of schmoozing with the elite? Very discreet."

  Bruce shot him a glare. "I work with what I've got."

  Clark held up his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. So what will it be? Want me to use my super hearing?"

  Bruce let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Feels like cheating, using powers like that."

  "Since when do you care about playing fair?" Clark leaned against the wall. "You're the guy who keeps kryptonite in his belt."

  "That's different."

  "How? Because you're the one doing it?" Clark rolled his eyes. "You know, Bruce, sometimes it's okay to take shortcuts. I swear you’re like doing everything the hard way."

  "The hard way works."

  "Yeah? How's that working out for Vale?" Clark said. "Sorry. Low blow. But my point stands. You've got resources—use them. Doesn't make you less effective just because you didn't suffer through getting the information."

  Bruce stared into the crowd. "It's not about suffering. It's about control. Your powers—they're a wild card. Too many variables."

  "And your way isn't? Come on. You're standing here in a thousand-dollar suit, pretending to drink champagne, hoping someone slips up and mentions something useful. How many variables are in that plan?"

  "At least I can account for those variables," Bruce muttered. "And that reminds me, why are you renting a suit?"

  Clark smirked, unimpressed by the jab. "Because unlike you, I don’t have a multimillion-dollar fashion budget to raid whenever I need to blend in with the upper crust. Besides, this suit works just fine. I'm blending better than you are."

  "Whatever. Do your thing. But be subtle about it."

  He straightened his glasses. "Subtle is my middle name."

  "Your middle name is Joseph."

  "Now who's being a smartass?" Clark grinned. "Give me five minutes. I'll let you know if I hear anything interesting."

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  Bruce watched him disappear into the crowd, wondering if he'd just made things better or worse. But Clark had a point—sometimes the direct approach wasn't always the best one. Sometimes you needed to bend the rules a little.

  Even if it felt like cheating.

  Bruce watched Clark vanish into the crowd, shaking his head at how easily his friend could blend in despite being the most powerful being on Earth. The party's dull roar continued around him'—crystal glasses clinking, fake laughter, the quartet playing songs no one listened to.

  "Bruce Wayne. Didn't expect to see you here tonight."

  He turned to find Commissioner Gordon approaching, drink in hand. The older man looked uncomfortable in his dress uniform.

  "Jim. How are things at the precinct?"

  "Like you care about police business," Gordon said. "Though I guess that explosion at Blackgate's got everyone talking."

  Bruce maintained his smile. "Terrible business. Any leads?"

  "Above my pay grade to discuss ongoing investigations with civilians," Gordon took a sip of his whiskey. "Even rich ones who donate to the policeman's ball."

  "Come on, Jim. My company had offices in that building. I've got shareholders breathing down my neck about security concerns."

  "Yeah? Tell them to get in line. I've got the mayor, the DA, and half of city council demanding answers," Gordon's mustache twitched. "But between us? Something's not right about this one. The timing... it's too clean."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Professional job. Military-grade explosives. But no bodies recovered yet - like someone cleared the building first," Gordon stared into his glass. "Vale was onto something big before he died. Now this happens? Can't be coincidence."

  "Detective Vale? I remember reading about that in the internet. Tragic loss."

  "Yeah. He was a good cop. Better than most." Gordon's eyes narrowed. "Funny thing though—he was investigating some of your company's subsidiaries before he died."

  "Wayne Enterprises has nothing to hide. Our books are open."

  "Sure they are," Gordon finished his drink. "Just like how you've got nothing to hide about where you really go during those 'business trips' abroad?"

  Bruce's heart skipped, but his playboy smile never wavered. "You know me. Just chasing the next big deal...or the next pretty face."

  "Right," Gordon set his empty glass down. "Well, duty calls. Thanks for the chat, Mr. Wayne."

  Bruce watched him walk away, wondering how much the Commissioner really suspected. Gordon wasn't stupid—he had to have noticed patterns over the years. But as long as he never confirmed his suspicions about Batman's identity, they could maintain this careful dance of half-truths and plausible deniability.

  Now he just had to hope Clark was having better luck gathering intel than he was.

  Bruce went through the crowd, keeping his smile plastered on as he nodded at various socialites. After a few minutes of mindless small talk, he spotted Clark near the dessert table and made his way over.

  "Find anything?" Bruce asked under his breath, pretending to examine a chocolate torte.

  Clark shook his head. "Nothing useful. Just rich people complaining about their beach houses and stock portfolios. Someone's really upset about their neighbor's new tennis court blocking their ocean view."

  "Seriously? That's it?"

  "Well, there was a heated debate about whether caviar is overrated. And someone's having an affair with their yoga instructor," Clark adjusted his glasses. "But nothing about Blackgate or Vale."

  Bruce tapped his concealed earpiece. "Oracle, please tell me you've got something."

  "Sorry Bruce," Barbara's voice crackled through. "I've been monitoring police channels, surveillance feeds, everything. It's like they knew exactly how to cover their tracks. Even the shell companies are dead ends."

  "That's not possible. Nobody's that thorough."

  "Well, someone is. I'll keep digging, but..." she trailed off.

  "But what?"

  "This feels wrong. We always find something by now. A fingerprint, a money trail, a witness. This time? Nothing."

  She was right - this level of perfection wasn't normal. Even the most careful criminals left traces. The fact that they hadn't found a single solid lead meant someone had resources and expertise far beyond the usual suspects.

  "Keep looking," he told her. "And Clark? Try focusing on anyone who seems too calm about all this. People who aren't gossiping about Blackgate might have a reason to stay quiet."

  "On it," Clark said, moving back into the crowd.

  Bruce grabbed another prop champagne glass. The night was still young, but his patience was wearing thin. Someone in this room knew something—he just had to figure out who.

  "Well, I'll be," a smooth voice cut through the party noise behind him. "If it isn't Bruce Wayne. In the flesh."

  Bruce turned, champagne glass still in hand. "Uhm...you're?"

  "Apologies, where are my manners." The man stepped forward, extending his hand. "Lincoln March."

  Bruce shook it. "Wait a minute, you're the guy that ran for mayor before, right?"

  "Yes, I'm afraid so," March adjusted his tie with a rueful smile. "But sadly, I didn't win."

  "Well, there's always a next time I suppose." Bruce took a casual sip from his glass.

  "That's true."

  They both watched the crowd mill about - socialites laughing too loud at bad jokes, businessmen huddled in corners making deals, waiters passing through it all.

  Bruce knew Lincoln March’s type: the kind of guy who wore his ambition like cologne, over-applied and impossible to ignore.

  March had come out of nowhere a few years back, pitching himself as Gotham’s savior with that politician charm—perfect suits, perfect smile, and just enough fake humility to sell it.

  He ran for mayor claiming he’d clean up the city, bring in jobs, turn crime-ridden neighborhoods into shiny playgrounds for the wealthy. But when Batman looked under the hood of March’s campaign, it was nothing but grease and corruption.

  March had been neck-deep in backroom deals. Money laundering through shell companies that didn’t even bother to hide their false addresses. Bribes to city officials disguised as “consulting fees.” Campaign funds funneling from questionable sources—mob families, black-market arms dealers, and one particularly shady construction firm tied to multiple “accidental” building collapses. He wasn’t just dirty; he was radioactive.

  Bruce had exposed him—well, as quietly as you could while dressed as a bat. The files Batman uncovered made sure March’s political career fell apart before election day. The man disappeared after that—no public appearances, no interviews, not even a blip on Gotham’s nightlife radar. It was like he’d been swallowed whole by the city he once claimed to want to save.

  Now he was back. And not just back, but smiling like he belonged in this room full of vultures pretending to care about things like charity and first responders. That set off alarm bells for Bruce—it wasn’t just that he had resurfaced; it was where he’d resurfaced. His kind didn’t slink into fundraisers without a reason.

  “Why are you here?” Bruce asked.

  Inside his head, though, gears were spinning at high speed: What does he want? Why now? And why here?

  March turned to face him. "I came here for you, what else?"

  Bruce doesn’t buy it. He’s heard too many lines like that before, too many veiled threats wrapped in charm.

  He gave March a faint smile, the kind you'd give an overeager salesman you had no intention of buying from.

  "Flattering," Bruce said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "I'd be flattered if I thought you meant it."

  "Oh, I’m hurt," he said, placing a hand over his heart in an exaggerated gesture. "But I suppose skepticism comes with the territory for someone like you."

  "Not really. By the way, you left after losing the election. Where did you go?"

  March chuckled like oil dripping through cracks in an old machine.

  "Here and there," he said. "A little self-reflection, some travel...you know how it is. Sometimes a man needs to rebuild himself after a fall. Find his footing, reassess his purpose. Losing the election gave me clarity. An opportunity to reinvent myself."