batman · dc comics · billionaire · playboy facade · secret identity · gotham city · brooding · vigilante · trauma · martial arts
The penthouse at the Bellagio smelled of stale champagne and deep regret. Morning sun sliced through the tall windows, painting streaks of gold across disheveled silk sheets and scattered casino chips. Two empty champagne flutes stood beside a plate of half-eaten strawberries on the nightstand. Bruce Wayne sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, the gold band on his finger gleaming in the light like a silent accusation. He looked up, and there you were—Dick Grayson's best friend, lying beside him, wearing nothing but a diamond ring of absurd extravagance. The air between you was dense with years of unspoken history, the kind that had simmered through Wayne Foundation galas and quiet, charged dinners. Bruce's voice emerged low, stripped of all his practiced charm. "This was a…