The speakeasy’s doors opened with a soft creak, spilling golden lamplight onto the slick Gotham sidewalk. Smoke curled lazily from the corners of the room, carrying a faint scent of whiskey, cigars, and danger. The low hum of conversation shifted to a hush as you stepped onto the stage, a single spotlight cutting through the dim haze.

Every eye in the room turned, but it wasn’t the mobsters, the petty criminals, or the suited men discussing illicit deals that mattered. It was the sound that came next — your voice.

Smooth, velvety, and impossibly intoxicating. It wrapped around the room like a drug, threading through whispered negotiations, softening the hard edges of leather jackets and sharp knives.

From the shadows, he watched. Batman, perched atop a balcony overlooking the scene, felt an unfamiliar tug in his chest.. an instinct that had nothing to do with the mission. He was here on business, negotiating terms with a mid-tier crime boss, but every carefully controlled thought was being drowned by the sound of you.

You moved like a predator in silk and shadow, swaying lightly to the music, lips curved just enough to suggest danger and promise all at once. He noticed the subtle glances you threw to the crime lord at the corner table, a tilt of the head and the faintest smirk told him there was more at play than a simple performance.

But none of that mattered.

Nothing mattered except the way you seemed to sink into him, threading through the vigilance that usually left no room for distraction. Batman, trained to suppress emotion, to compartmentalize, felt his chest tighten. His focus slipping.

He tightened his fists by his side, reminding himself that this was neither the time nor the place to be captivated.

And yet he couldn’t look away.

The set ended, a soft applause rippling through the room, and you stepped back, letting the last note linger. His eyes didn’t leave you. Carefully, silently, he descended from the shadows, blending with the crowd in his carefully manicured suit and inconspicuous change of hair and glasses. He had to know — was this charm natural? Calculated? Or was it just… you?

Sliding into the crowd near the bar, he took a seat at a corner table under the pretense of a patron. You noticed him almost immediately.. his height, broad-shouldered intimidation, and the quiet, observing eyes that pierced through the crowd. There was something different about him, something sharp and contained, and it pulled your curiosity.

When your next set began, you sauntered to the bar during a brief interlude, glass in hand, and let your eyes sweep the room.. lingering just a little longer on him.

“Enjoying the show?” you asked, voice low and teasing, your painted lips curved in a smile that suggested you knew exactly what effect you had.

He didn’t answer immediately, studying you instead. “It’s… effective,” his response finally coming, and it was nothing if not measured and careful.

“Effective?” you quipped, raising an eyebrow, letting your fingers trace the rim of your glass. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Though you seem awfully… serious for someone in a place like this.”

His jaw tightened slightly beneath the cowl. “It’s part of the job.”

“Oh, I see,” you murmured, leaning just enough to catch his attention, letting the faintest hint of mischief play in your eyes. “Being serious… protecting people, or just keeping everyone guessing?”

He blinked at that, and the words hit a different chord. Yet the subtle undercurrent in your tone made him pause. Something told him you weren’t just a singer.

“Careful,” he broke the self made silence. “Not everyone in this room has good intentions.”

“Careful is my middle name,” you replied, amusement dancing in your eyes, leaning ever so slightly toward him. “But… thanks for looking out. Though I think I can handle myself… mostly.”

There was a beat of silence, long enough for the weight of the room, the smoke, the danger, and something unspoken between you to settle. Batman found himself drawn closer, not because he wanted to interrogate you, not because he needed answers yet, but because being near you was… impossible for him to resist.

You leaned a fraction closer, your voice softer, silkier, and just above the hum of the bar, “Tell me… do you always hide in shadows like that, or am I special?”

He stiffened, chest tightening, and for a fraction of a second, he considered retreating to the shadows where he was safest. Instead, he leaned back just slightly, keeping his composure. “I work in shadows,” he said quietly. “I don't deal with people's personal matters.”

A small, knowing smile tugged at your lips, the kind that promised you were already guessing his secrets. “Right,” you murmured, swirling your drink as your eyes lit up. “Wouldn’t want to make things complicated, would we?”

Then the door at the back banged open, a minor commotion — a drunk thug or rival trying to send a message — and the Bat’s instincts snapped into place. The pull, the flirtation, the tension... they were all set aside for duty.

And yet, as he melted back into the dim light, blending with the crowd, he knew one thing, he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about you. Not after tonight.

Not when your voice, your presence, and your teasing gaze had captured him entirely — and not when your loyalties were still a mystery.