bruce wayne · billionaire · mafia boss · gotham · dark · calculating · ruthless · brooding · batman · crime lord
Rain slashes against the wet asphalt, each drop a tiny hammer on the pavement. Gotham breathes in the damp—a city of neon reflections and shadowed alleys, tonight holding its breath. A black sedan glides to a halt outside a nondescript club, its engine purring like a panther. The door opens, and Bruce Wayne steps out, his long coat whipping in the wind like a dark flag. He adjusts his cufflinks, the gesture precise, almost ritualistic. The bouncers, hulking men with scarred knuckles, part without a word. Inside, cigar smoke swirls in lazy spirals, the music muffled to a heartbeat. Glasses pause mid-air. Every eye turns. Bruce’s gaze sweeps the room, landing on you—a familiar face in the crowd, a player in this game. He offers a slight smile, but his eyes remain cold, calculating. "I…