Wayne Manor, Gotham City
Bruce Wayne awoke with a start, his eyes snapping open in the darkness of his bedroom. For a moment, disorientation gripped him—a side effect of the irregular sleep patterns he'd maintained since donning the cowl. The digital clock on his nightstand read 6:47 AM. Three hours and twelve minutes of sleep. It would have to be enough.
He sat up, running a hand through his dark hair. Despite the brevity of his rest, he felt surprisingly alert—a phenomenon he'd come to rely on over the years. His body had adapted to what Alfred disapprovingly called his "vigilante sleep schedule," allowing him to function on minimal rest through a combination of meditation techniques learned in Tibet and what his physicians reluctantly termed "controlled microsleeps."
The manor was quiet, save for the distant sounds of Alfred moving about the kitchen below. Rain continued to patter against the windows, the storm from last night having settled into a steady drizzle that promised to last throughout the day. Typical Gotham weather—gray, persistent, unyielding.
Bruce swung his legs over the edge of the bed, wincing slightly as the motion pulled at the stitches Alfred had placed along his jawline. The Riddler's cane had connected more solidly than he'd initially realized. He touched the bandage, assessing the damage. Nothing that wouldn't heal, nothing that couldn't be explained away as a fencing accident or some other appropriately frivolous rich-man's injury.
He rose and walked to the bathroom, flicking on lights that seemed harsh after the comfortable darkness. The face that stared back at him from the mirror looked remarkably rested considering the night he'd had. Dark circles under his eyes—his constant companions these past seven years—were present but not pronounced. The bandage on his jaw stood out starkly against his skin, a white flag signaling where Edward Nygma had gotten lucky.
Bruce showered quickly, hot water sluicing away the lingering stiffness in his muscles. As steam filled the bathroom, his mind turned back to the previous night's confrontation. The Riddler had been different—more erratic, more desperate. And the connection to Alberto Falcone... that was troubling. The son attempting to save the father through increasingly elaborate and dangerous schemes.
He shut off the water and dried himself with methodical efficiency, mentally reviewing the evidence they'd gathered. The digital trail from the bank's compromised systems had been the breakthrough they needed—a direct line to shell companies established by Alberto in Europe. Circumstantial, but a start.
Bruce wrapped a towel around his waist and moved back into the bedroom. Alfred had already been in—the curtains were drawn back, revealing a leaden Gotham sky, and fresh clothes were laid out on the newly-made bed. A tailored Tom Ford suit in charcoal gray, crisp white shirt, deep blue tie—the uniform of Bruce Wayne, billionaire CEO, as distinct from Batman's armor as day from night.
As he dressed, Bruce's eyes fell on the small, silver-framed photograph on his dresser—the only personal item displayed in the otherwise spartan room. Talia al Ghul gazed back at him, her expression enigmatic even in happiness. The picture had been taken during their time in the Himalayan compound, a rare moment of genuine contentment captured without either of them fully realizing it. One of the League's senior members had been documenting training exercises that day and had unwittingly preserved this private moment—Talia and Bruce sitting together on a stone bench in the meditation gardens, her head tilted toward his shoulder, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth as she listened to something he was saying.
Bruce picked up the frame, his thumb unconsciously tracing the edge. Two years had passed since he'd left the League, since he'd left her, and yet the wound remained fresh in ways he rarely allowed himself to acknowledge. Talia had been more than a lover—she had been the first person since his parents' death who had truly seen him, who had understood both the darkness and the light that warred within him.
"I wondered if you might linger over that this morning," Alfred's voice came from the doorway, startling Bruce from his reverie. The butler stood with a silver tray bearing a cup of steaming coffee and a small plate of toast. "You often do, after particularly taxing nights."
Bruce set the photograph down carefully, accepting the coffee with a grateful nod. "Just remembering," he said simply.
"Indeed, sir." Alfred's tone conveyed volumes of unspoken understanding. He'd never fully approved of Bruce's relationship with the Demon's Daughter, but neither had he condemned it. Alfred understood loneliness better than most. "Your breakfast is served downstairs whenever you're ready. I've taken the liberty of reviewing the morning papers—the Riddler's capture made the front page, though the details are mercifully vague."
"And my meeting at Wayne Enterprises?"
"Still scheduled for nine o'clock. Mr. Fox called to confirm he'll have those quarterly projections you requested. He also mentioned something about 'that R matter we discussed' being ready for your review." Alfred raised an eyebrow meaningfully.
Bruce nodded, understanding the subtext. Lucius had completed work on the upgraded gauntlets—the ones with improved electrical discharge capabilities that would prove useful against certain adversaries. "I'll stop by Applied Sciences after the board meeting."
"Very good, sir. Oh, and Dr. Thompkins called. She insists on examining that wound herself, rather than trusting my 'battlefield medicine,' as she put it."
"Tell her I'm fine." Bruce sipped the coffee—strong, black and sugar-free: precisely how he needed it.
"I did, sir. She was unconvinced, as usual." Alfred's expression softened slightly. "She worries about you. As do I."
Bruce met his surrogate father's gaze. "I know, Alfred. But I'm careful."
"Careful men don't return home requiring stitches with quite your regularity, Master Bruce." The gentle rebuke was delivered with the perfect balance of concern and respect that only Alfred could manage. "Nevertheless, your breakfast awaits. The eggs will get cold, even if your coffee won't."
After Alfred departed, Bruce finished dressing, his movements precise and economical. The Tom Ford suit fit him perfectly, concealing the muscular frame beneath that would have raised questions among Gotham's elite. Bruce Wayne, playboy billionaire, was known for his rigorous sports activities—polo, fencing, the occasional extreme sport that the tabloids could photograph—but not for the kind of physical conditioning that would suggest he spent his nights battling Gotham's criminal element.
He knotted his tie with practiced ease, then returned to the photograph of Talia. Their time together had been brief by conventional standards—less than a year—but intensely meaningful. In the League's compound, removed from the outside world, they had found in each other something neither had expected: understanding, connection, perhaps even love, though neither had used that word as much as they wanted to.
What would she think of him now? Of what he had become? The Batman was still evolving, still being shaped by Gotham's needs and Bruce's response to them. When he'd left the League, he'd had a vision of what he would create—a symbol to strike fear into criminals, yes, but also a beacon of justice in a city drowning in corruption. Had he succeeded? Or had the darkness he channeled begun to consume more of him than he'd intended?
With a slight shake of his head, Bruce set these thoughts aside. Philosophical reflections were a luxury he could ill afford with the day ahead. He had a Wayne Enterprises board meeting to prepare for, followed by discussions with Lucius about equipment upgrades, and then tonight... tonight Batman would need to investigate the connections between Alberto Falcone and the Riddler more thoroughly.
He made his way downstairs to the manor's dining room, where Alfred had set out a simple but nutritious breakfast—protein-rich foods to fuel his demanding schedule. The morning papers were arranged neatly beside his plate, the Gotham Gazette's headline blaring "RIDDLER FOILED AGAIN: BATMAN SAVES HOSTAGES AT GOTHAM FIRST NATIONAL."
Bruce skimmed the article as he ate, noting the details that had made it to the press versus those that remained confidential. No mention of the data transfer or the connection to Judge Hargrove. Commissioner Gordon had been careful, as always, to control the flow of information. Their partnership, unorthodox as it was, continued to serve them both well.
"You'll be pleased to know I've begun the analysis of that data stream you intercepted last night," Alfred said as he refilled Bruce's coffee cup. "Preliminary results confirm your suspicions—the server in the Caymans belongs to a shell corporation that traces back to Alberto Falcone through several layers of intermediaries."
Bruce nodded, processing this confirmation. "We need more than digital breadcrumbs, Alfred. The DA will need concrete evidence tying Alberto to the Riddler directly."
"Perhaps Mr. Nygma might be persuaded to provide such evidence?" Alfred suggested. "He seemed rather displeased with his employer by the end of your encounter."
"The Riddler's too unstable to be a reliable witness. Besides, Alberto would have insulated himself—Nygma probably dealt with intermediaries." Bruce took another bite of toast, chewing thoughtfully. "We need to track the money. Every contract leaves a trail, especially one substantial enough to tempt someone of Nygma's caliber."
"I've already begun examining unusual financial movements through the shell companies we've identified. There was a significant withdrawal three days before the Riddler's appearance at the bank." Alfred's efficiency never ceased to impress Bruce, even after all these years. The former Royal Marine had adapted to his role as Batman's support with remarkable aptitude.
"Good. Cross-reference that with any unusual communications or meetings involving Alberto during the same timeframe." Bruce glanced at his watch—7:30 AM. He still had time to review the Riddler case files before heading to Wayne Enterprises.
"Already underway, sir. I've also taken the liberty of updating your calendar to include a lunch meeting with Harvey Dent. He called this morning—something about discussing additional security measures for key witnesses in the Falcone trial."
Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Harvey called here directly? Not through official channels?"
"He seemed to think the matter warranted personal attention rather than bureaucratic procedure." Alfred's tone suggested he approved of the District Attorney's caution.
The friendship between Bruce Wayne and Harvey Dent was one of the few genuine relationships Bruce maintained outside of his Batman persona. Harvey's crusade against corruption in Gotham aligned perfectly with Bruce's own mission, making the alliance natural even before Batman had begun working with the DA more directly.
"I'll meet with him," Bruce decided. "Wayne Enterprises security consulting for the DA's office would raise no eyebrows, and it gives me a chance to gauge how much Harvey suspects about Alberto's involvement."
"Very good, sir. Shall I have the car brought around at 8:30? That should give you ample time to reach Wayne Tower for your nine o'clock meeting."
Bruce nodded, his attention already shifting to the day ahead. The board meeting would be tedious but necessary—maintaining control of Wayne Enterprises wasn't just about preserving his family's legacy; it was about ensuring he had the resources Batman needed to continue his work.
After breakfast, Bruce made his way to his study—the one room in the manor that truly reflected his dual identities. To casual observers, it appeared to be the workspace of a dedicated if somewhat distracted CEO—financial reports and corporate documents arranged alongside books on business strategy and global economics. Hidden beneath this veneer, however, were the tools of Batman's trade—specialized reference materials on criminology, forensic science, and psychological profiling, all disguised with innocuous covers or stored on encrypted drives.
Bruce woke the computer system with a touch, the screen illuminating to display the Riddler case files he'd been reviewing before his brief rest. Edward Nygma's face stared back at him—the mug shot from his most recent arrest, his expression a mixture of defiance and fear. Bruce studied it, searching for clues in the man's eyes, in the tension around his mouth.
The Riddler had always been motivated by a need to prove his intellectual superiority, to demonstrate that he was smarter than everyone else—especially Batman. But last night's operation had lacked Nygma's usual elaborate puzzle structure. It had been rushed, almost desperate. Someone had been applying pressure, and Bruce was increasingly certain that someone was Alberto Falcone.
He pulled up Alberto's file next, studying the polished, educated face of Carmine Falcone's youngest son. Unlike his father's obvious criminal bearing, Alberto presented himself as a legitimate businessman—European education, refined manners, charitable foundation work. But beneath that carefully constructed facade lurked something perhaps more dangerous than Carmine's straightforward brutality—a calculating intelligence combined with the same ruthless ambition that had made the Falcone family Gotham's preeminent crime organization for decades.
If Alberto was indeed orchestrating attempts to undermine his father's trial, he was playing a dangerous game. Carmine Falcone had enemies both within and outside his organization who would be watching closely, ready to exploit any perceived weakness in the family structure.
Bruce's thoughts were interrupted by a soft chime from his phone—a reminder that he needed to leave for Wayne Enterprises soon. He closed the files with a gesture, the screens returning to their innocuous corporate displays. Batman's work would resume tonight, but for now, Bruce Wayne had responsibilities to attend to.
As he rose from his desk, his eyes fell once more on the small photograph of Talia he kept there—different from the one in his bedroom, this image capturing her in profile, her expression serious as she practiced forms with a traditional sword. The League's training had been brutal but effective, and Talia had been his equal in every respect—matching him technique for technique, pushing him to exceed his perceived limitations.
He wondered, not for the first time, what she was doing now. Had she remained with her father, continuing the League's ancient mission? Or had their time together changed her as it had changed him? Bruce had no illusions about Ra's al Ghul—the man was dangerous, his methods extreme, his vision for "balance" fundamentally at odds with Bruce's own beliefs. But Talia had been different—caught between loyalty to her father and her own evolving understanding of justice.
The memory of their final conversation still haunted him occasionally. Her words—"Choose carefully when the time comes, beloved. Much depends on it."—had proven prophetic. His choice to refuse Ra's final test, to reject the League's lethal brand of justice, had set him on the path to becoming Batman. But it had also cost him Talia.
With a practiced effort, Bruce pushed these thoughts aside. Sentiment was a luxury he could rarely afford, especially with the challenges currently facing Gotham. The Riddler had been subdued, but the larger game Alberto Falcone was playing remained unclear. And something about the pattern of recent criminal activity in the city suggested a shift in the underworld dynamics that warranted closer investigation.
Bruce checked his appearance one final time in the study's antique mirror—adjusting his tie, ensuring the bandage on his jaw was as unobtrusive as possible. Satisfied that he looked every inch the billionaire CEO rather than the vigilante who had battled criminals mere hours ago, he headed for the garage where Alfred waited with the Bentley.
"The forecast suggests the rain will continue throughout the day, sir," Alfred informed him as he held the car door open. "Quite fitting weather for Gotham, wouldn't you say?"
"The city wouldn't know what to do with sunshine, Alfred," Bruce replied with the ghost of a smile. "It might disrupt the perpetual gloom we've all grown so accustomed to."
"Indeed, sir. Heaven forbid Gotham should experience anything approaching pleasant atmospheric conditions." Alfred's dry humor was one of the constants Bruce relied on—a touchstone of normalcy in his decidedly abnormal existence.
As the Bentley pulled away from Wayne Manor, Bruce gazed out at the rain-slicked grounds. The weight of dual identities settled on his shoulders—Bruce Wayne headed to a board meeting while Batman's mind calculated connections between criminals, planned surveillance routes, and strategized about the night ahead.
The manor receded in the distance, its gothic architecture gradually obscured by mist and rain. Bruce's thoughts returned briefly to Talia, to what might have been in another life, before refocusing on the immediate challenges ahead. Wayne Enterprises, Harvey Dent, Alberto Falcone, the Riddler's unusual behavior—pieces of a puzzle that Batman would solve, because Gotham needed him to.
The Bentley merged onto the highway leading toward the city, the skyline of Gotham gradually emerging through the rain. Bruce flipped open the black leather portfolio containing the day's board meeting agenda, scanning the numbers one last time. He'd memorized them days ago, of course, but his public persona required at least a pretense of preparation.
"Any messages this morning?" he asked, reviewing the urban renewal proposal that would directly counter Earle's military contracts.
"Ms. Marsh has called twice to inform you that the board meeting will not wait for your leisurely arrival," Alfred replied, navigating a particularly congested stretch of highway with practiced ease. "And Dr. Thompkins left another message insisting you visit her clinic this week."
Bruce nodded absently, his focus shifting to the spreadsheets detailing the financial projections for redirecting Wayne Enterprises resources toward his father's original vision. The numbers were solid, but Earle had powerful friends and a vested interest in maintaining the lucrative defense contracts he'd established during Bruce's absence.
"Anything from Commissioner Gordon?" Bruce asked, his voice dropping slightly.
Alfred glanced at him in the rearview mirror. "Nothing official, sir. Though Detective Bullock was on the morning news, taking credit for the Riddler's capture."
Bruce's mouth twitched. "Of course he was."
Traffic thickened as they approached the city limits, the roadway clogged with commuters despite the early hour. Gotham never truly slept; it merely cycled through different species of activity from day to night. The morning belonged to the office workers, the retail staff, the construction crews—honest citizens who formed the economic backbone of a city whose darker elements dominated the headlines.
Bruce watched them through the tinted windows—faces shadowed with fatigue on the subway platforms, hands clutching coffee cups at bus stops, cyclists weaving dangerously through gaps in traffic. Ordinary people living ordinary lives in a city that constantly threatened to consume them. These were the people Batman fought for, even if they never knew it.
As the Bentley inched through downtown traffic, Bruce's gaze lingered on the front page of the Gotham Gazette displayed at a newsstand. The headline screamed about Batman's confrontation with the Riddler, the accompanying photo blurry but dramatic. Seven years, and they still hadn't managed to get a clear picture of him. The Batman myth continued to grow, rumors and reality blending into something more powerful than either could be alone.
"Appears you've made the front page again, sir," Alfred noted dryly. "Though I must say, they never quite capture your better side."
Bruce smiled faintly. "That's the idea, Alfred."
The car made a smooth turn onto Finance Street, the heart of Gotham's business district. Here, the architecture soared upward, glass and steel monuments to capitalism and ambition. Wayne Tower dominated them all, its distinctive silhouette recognizable even through the morning mist—a beacon of old money and established power in a city constantly reinventing itself.
"I've taken the liberty of having your charcoal Armani prepared for the charity gala tonight," Alfred said as they approached the tower's private entrance. "Though perhaps you might consider the Tom Ford instead. It's better suited for a hasty exit through service corridors, should Batman be required."
"The Armani's fine," Bruce replied, his mind already shifting gears from nighttime vigilante to daytime CEO. "I'll change at the penthouse if necessary."
Alfred pulled the Bentley to a stop in the private garage beneath Wayne Tower. "Very good, sir. And shall I prepare your excuses for the inevitable early departure from the charity function?"
"Surprise me, Alfred. Just make it believable."
"I believe 'food poisoning from questionable sushi' is overdue in our rotation, sir."
Bruce actually chuckled as he gathered his portfolio. "Perfect. Exotic enough to be plausible, not serious enough to warrant follow-up."
"I aim to please, sir. Though I do wonder if we might someday try the novel approach of you simply attending an entire social function."
"Let's not get carried away, Alfred."
As Bruce stepped from the car, the transition was already happening—shoulders straightening slightly, chin lifting, expression settling into the familiar mask of Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy. By the time he reached the private elevator, Batman had been carefully tucked away, hidden beneath layers of practiced nonchalance and calculated charm.
The underground parking garage reserved for Wayne Enterprises executives was quiet at this hour, most of the board members having arrived well before their CEO. Bruce's footsteps echoed against concrete as he made his way toward the private elevator, the weight of the day's agenda settling around his shoulders like a cape of a different sort. The vote looming before him would determine whether Wayne Enterprises continued down Earle's military-industrial path or returned to Thomas Wayne's vision of urban renewal and humanitarian technologies.
The biometric scanner recognized his fingerprint, and the elevator doors slid open with a soft pneumatic hiss. Bruce stepped inside, watching his reflection multiply in the mirrored walls as the doors closed. These brief moments of solitude between appearances were valuable—chances to recalibrate, to ensure the mask was firmly in place before stepping back onto the stage.
He reached into his pocket for the small jar of concealer Alfred had insisted he take. The butler's background had given him surprising expertise in disguising injuries—a skill he'd initially developed for cover operations in his military days, now repurposed for maintaining Bruce Wayne's carefree image. The small bruise along his jawline where Nygma had landed a lucky strike would raise no eyebrows if noticed—easy enough to attribute to a wild night out—but Bruce preferred to maintain the illusion of the untouchable playboy, unmarred by the realities of life that ordinary Gothamites faced daily.
More concerning were the dark circles under his eyes, harder to conceal with makeup. Seven years of nocturnal vigilantism had taught him to function on minimal sleep, but the Riddler case had pushed even his limits. Three consecutive nights of surveillance followed by last night's confrontation had left their mark. He dabbed the concealer carefully, watching as the evidence of Batman's activities faded beneath the cosmetic mask that helped maintain Bruce Wayne's.
When Bruce had returned to Gotham and taken control of Wayne Enterprises, he'd discovered how far William Earle had steered the company from Thomas Wayne's original vision. Under Earle's leadership, the corporation that had once focused on urban infrastructure, medical research, and renewable energy had pivoted heavily toward military contracts and weapons development—more profitable, certainly, but at odds with everything Thomas Wayne had built.
Bruce had spent months building support among board members, carefully pulling strings behind his playboy facade, ensuring he had the votes needed to shift the company's direction. Today would see whether those efforts paid off or if Earle still commanded enough loyalty to maintain his militaristic course.
He adjusted his tie and ran a hand through his hair, deliberately mussing it slightly. The playboy shouldn't look too polished. Years of crafting this persona had taught him the value of details—the slightly rumpled suit suggesting a night of debauchery, the designer watch worn just a bit loose on his wrist, the faint scent of expensive cologne that hinted at proximity to women's perfume the night before. The real work happened behind the scenes, in the careful preparation Alfred had helped him complete over breakfast, in the late nights reviewing financial statements and corporate strategy. The public Bruce Wayne was carefully engineered to make people underestimate him—a strategy that had served him well both in the boardroom and on Gotham's streets.
The elevator doors opened onto the executive floor of Wayne Tower—all gleaming marble and polished wood, old money and established power evident in every architectural detail. Unlike the ultra-modern glass and steel of LexCorp or the cutting-edge aesthetic of Stark Industries, Wayne Enterprises maintained a classic dignity that reflected its century-long presence in Gotham. Thomas Wayne had insisted on designs that communicated permanence and reliability rather than trends or fashion—values Bruce had come to appreciate more deeply since donning the cowl.
The receptionist looked up from her desk, her professional smile warming with genuine affection. Grace had been with Wayne Enterprises since Bruce was a boy, and unlike many of the executives, she treated him as the son of her beloved former boss rather than the unpredictable playboy the tabloids portrayed.
"Good morning, Mr. Wayne," she greeted. "The board is already assembled."
"Morning, Grace. How's Michael doing at Gotham State?" Bruce asked, referring to her son, whose college education was being funded by a Wayne Foundation scholarship—a fact known to few besides Bruce, who had personally approved the grant after learning of the young man's academic potential and financial challenges.
Her face brightened at the personal question. "Top of his engineering class. He's hoping to intern at the R department this summer."
"Tell him to apply directly to Lucius," Bruce replied with a wink. "And remind him that being your son won't hurt his chances."
These small, genuine interactions were rare breaks in Bruce's carefully maintained facade—moments when the real man behind both masks showed through. As he continued down the hallway, he let the playboy persona slide back into place, his posture relaxing into the loose-limbed swagger that suggested a man who had never experienced real hardship.
A glimpse through glass doors showed junior executives huddled over presentations, their body language reflecting the nervous energy that always preceded major board decisions. Bruce had made it clear that the urban renewal initiative would involve significant personnel reshuffling. Those who had thrived under Earle's military-industrial focus were understandably concerned about their futures should the company pivot back toward Thomas Wayne's more humanitarian vision.
Bruce passed the Wall of Wayne—a corridor lined with photographs chronicling the company's century-long history. Thomas and Martha Wayne's portrait held a central position, their smiles frozen in time before tragedy rewrote the family's story. Bruce's gaze lingered briefly on his father's face. Today wasn't just about corporate policy—it was personal, a chance to honor the legacy that had been temporarily derailed during his years away from Gotham.
He reached the executive conference room, where Jessica Marsh was waiting outside, checking her watch with poorly concealed impatience. Jessica had been his father's assistant before Bruce was born, and had remained with Wayne Enterprises through Bruce's long absence, Earle's takeover, and Bruce's eventual return. Her loyalty to the Wayne family transcended her considerable frustration with its current heir's apparent unreliability.
"You're late," she said without preamble, falling into step beside him as he strode toward the boardroom.
"Traffic," Bruce replied with a dismissive shrug.
"From the manor? The helicopter pad on the roof exists for a reason."
"And deny myself the pleasure of Gotham's morning commute? Never."
Jessica sighed, years of experience with the Wayne heir having taught her which battles were worth fighting. "The board's waiting. Earle's making a last-minute pitch to maintain the military division's funding. He's brought General Ross as backup."
Bruce nodded, his casual demeanor never slipping despite the internal calculation this news prompted. General Thaddeus "Thunderbolt" Ross had been pushing aggressive military technology development across multiple corporations, not just Wayne Enterprises. His presence suggested Earle was pulling out all stops.
"Sounds thrilling," Bruce drawled. "Any other surprises I should know about?"
"Norman Osborn and Lex Luthor both requested meetings following the board session. Separate, not together. I've scheduled them back-to-back before your charity gala appearance tonight."
Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Osborn I understand—the biotech partnership we've been discussing. But Luthor? LexCorp and Wayne Enterprises aren't exactly natural allies."
"He was quite insistent. Something about 'mutual interests' and 'complementary security technologies.' His assistant was deliberately vague."
Bruce maintained his disinterested expression, but mentally added another layer of complexity to his day. Lex Luthor had rebranded his company and emerged from legal troubles with new focus and ambition over the past two years. His sudden interest in Wayne Enterprises, particularly its security division, warranted careful attention.
"Fine. Twenty minutes each, no more. And have Fox join the Luthor meeting—I want his technical assessment."
Jessica nodded, making a note on her tablet. "Mr. Fox also mentioned he has updates on the Applied Sciences budget proposals. He seemed concerned about some discrepancies in the quarterly projections."
Bruce filed this information away. Lucius rarely expressed concern without good reason. If there were discrepancies in the Applied Sciences division—the department that secretly developed and housed most of Batman's equipment—it warranted immediate investigation.
"I'll speak with him after the board meeting," Bruce said. "Anything else I should know before diving into the shark tank?"
"The Financial Times is running a feature on your first three years back at the helm. They're calling Wayne Enterprises' reorientation 'the most significant corporate pivot since Stark Industries abandoned weapons manufacturing.'" Jessica's tone was professionally neutral, but Bruce caught the hint of pride beneath it. Jessica had been one of the few executives to openly support his initial efforts to redirect the company.
"Let's hope today's vote ensures they can continue that narrative," Bruce replied, allowing a rare moment of genuine sentiment to slip through. Jessica caught it, her expression softening briefly before her professional mask returned.
As they reached the boardroom doors, Bruce straightened his posture subtly and adjusted his expression from merely disinterested to actively bored—the perfect mask for the serious business he was about to conduct.
"Game face on, Mr. Wayne," Jessica murmured.
Bruce flashed her his practiced billionaire smile, the one that charmed socialites and deflected scrutiny in equal measure. "I never take it off, Ms. Marsh."
The doors swung open to reveal the assembled board, conversations halting as all eyes turned to him. William Earle sat at the far end of the table, his position a quiet challenge to Bruce's authority. Beside him, the imposing figure of General Ross scowled beneath his distinctive white mustache.
"Apologies for the delay," Bruce announced, not sounding apologetic in the slightest as he slid into his chair at the head of the table. "Let's get down to business, shall we? I believe we were voting on the future of Wayne Enterprises' military contracts."