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Donna Conway wasn’t sure what to make of Wayne Enterprises’ current guest.
For starters, said guest looked nothing like what she’d come to expect from these corporate types. Usually they were middle-aged. White, more often than not. Dressed in a tailored suit that cost more than twice her monthly rent. Wearing an equally expensive watch on their wrist, standing with perfect posture. Smiling the kind of smile that probably came with the silver spoon in their mouth.
Jason Head wasn’t that. Sure, he was dressed to the nines, but he looked more like a kid playing dress-up than anything else. Not literally a kid, of course, but young—barely out of his teens, if that. He might have been built like a tank and at least a head taller than her, but he was still alarmingly baby-faced. More than once during their tour of Wayne Tower, she had caught him tugging at the collar of his dress shirt and fiddling with his cuffs.
Donna had thought, when she had first seen him waiting at the lobby, that he was part of the entourage. Some junior assistant, maybe a bodyguard—someone from the usual swarm that accompanied men who made a habit of turning industries into chess pieces.
But no. There had been no entourage. No one else there but this boy—young man—who looked to be more than ten years her junior. He had crossed the lobby toward her, with an easy, unhurried gait that didn’t match how visibly big he was, and she had shaken his hand, trying not to stare at the white bandage covering his throat.
“Sorry to just drop in like this,” Head had said, smiling shyly. “I know it’s not exactly protocol, but I was already downtown and I figured—why not, right? Hope I’m not throwing a wrench in your afternoon.”
He’d sounded apologetic enough, but Donna couldn’t help but think that if he was really, truly sorry about the inconvenience, he would have called ahead of time. He would have scheduled a meeting on Monday or some other day when a more senior IRO—if not Lucius Fox himself—would be there to greet him, instead of showing up out of the blue and rattling her floor into panic.
But Donna knew better than to say any of that aloud. These nepo babies and trust-fund princes weren’t used to being told no, and to start now was way above her pay grade.
So she’d plastered on her best smile and said, “Not at all. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Head. Welcome to Wayne Enterprises.”
Donna had given the tour enough times to know that most people paid little to no attention to her spiel. Prospective partners, donors, journalists doing puff pieces on Wayne Foundation—most of them tuned her out unless she was talking about the company’s quarterly earnings or namedropping the latest celebrity Bruce Wayne was rumored to be dating that had visited the building.
To her surprise, though, Head was actually listening. He didn’t look glassy-eyed or bored, nor was he checking his phone every thirty seconds. Instead, he seemed interested—genuinely interested—as she rambled on about the company history and daily operations.
But then, maybe she shouldn’t have been so surprised. If the rumors were true, then the guy owned part of Wayne Enterprises now. Even if he did look young enough to still have a student ID in his wallet.
Was he even old enough to drink? He didn’t look it.
Jesus.
His parents probably bought out the Kord Corporation as a graduation present or something. That certainly made more sense than a teenager making the acquisition himself, stealthily enough that none of the higher-ups had seen it coming.
It had been the talk of her department for weeks now. Of the entire building, really. From what Donna had heard from the whispered stories and half-confirmed gossip that had trickled down from Fox’s office down to her floor, some small German holding company had bought a controlling stake in the Kord Corporation, Wayne Industries’ R&D branch. A large enough stake, apparently, that they had Bruce Wayne removed from the board of directors.
Whether that meant Wayne no longer owned Wayne Industries—whether Kord’s newest owners were on their way to buying out all of Wayne Enterprises’ subsidiaries and changing the name on the building altogether—no one knew for certain. Lucius Fox had been mum about the whole thing, and apparently Wayne had been out of town with a Russian tennis player when the takeover had happened. As far as anyone knew, Wayne hadn’t stepped foot in the Tower since.
How much of all that Head knew, Donna couldn’t say. Surely he had to be aware of at least some of the hubbub his acquisition had caused. And now with this unscheduled visit . . .
Every hallway they walked through, heads whipped around over cubicle dividers, trying to catch a glimpse of the kid who’d stripped the city’s favorite billionaire of his crown jewel. If Head noticed the frantic, hushed voices trailing their footsteps, he didn’t show it. If anything, he was more than happy to stop and chat with the employees—asking them how their week was going, how long they’d been with the company, commiserating over the morning subway delays, offering warm smiles and idle banter with anyone within arm’s reach—blissfully oblivious to how many of them had doubled back to pass him in the corridors again, just to stare.
It wasn’t until they reached the observation deck, one of the last stops of the tour, that they were finally rid of their audience. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the empty space, sunlight pouring across the polished stone floors. The glass was so clear it was easy to forget it was there. Every direction offered an unobstructed view of city: the Diamond District on one side, the river glittering under the midday sun on another, distant neighborhoods fading into haze. Towering spires giving way, block by block, to older brick, to smokestacks and the tangled sprawl of the Narrows, the skyline laid out like a wound that had scarred over crooked.
“There she is,” Head said softly, drinking in the view.
Donna launched into her usual script. The Tower’s observation deck was the single highest vantage point in the city. Open to the public on weekends, free of charge, thanks to Alan Wayne—one of the only parts of the building, she liked to joke, that didn’t require a badge just to breathe in.
It didn’t look like Head was really listening this time. He’d drifted toward the glass, eyes fixed on the city below. Donna couldn’t blame him. This high up, Gotham looked like it might actually deserve the postcards.
“Why’s nobody else up here?” Head asked abruptly, without seeming to notice he’d cut her off. “Thought you said this part was public.”
“Public access has been temporarily suspended,” Donna said. “In light of recent events, security felt it best to limit crowds in the upper tower.”
“Ah.” Head glanced sideways at her, frowning. “The Joker still on the loose, I take it?”
Donna bit back a grimace. “Unfortunately,” she said with practiced cheer. “Though management was already leaning toward a temporary closure after the—er—incident at Hanover Tower last month.”
Among other things. A whole host of other incidents that had cast a pall over the city, one nightmare bleeding right into the next. It was no small wonder nobody—nobody she knew, anyway, and thank god for that—had suffocated yet under the weight.
It wasn’t just the attack at Hanover Tower, but the weeks preceding it. Warehouses gutted along the docks, bodies of suspected gangsters and drug dealers turning up in states that made the papers reach for euphemisms. There were rumors it was a new mask behind all the carnage—some aspiring crime lord who’d come out of nowhere and moved fast enough, violently enough, that even the Bat hadn’t managed to slow him down.
And then came the horrific explosion that leveled Blüdhaven.
Almost overnight, the Red Hood had vanished without a trace. No more bodies. No more burning buildings. If he’d been among the many casualties in the bombing, if he was gone for good . . . or if he was simply biding his time in the shadows . . .
Well. Who could say for sure? This was Gotham after all. With a homicidal clown at large, the neighboring city in ruins, and another rogue unaccounted for, no Gothamite with a functioning braincell was itching to hang out on a giant glass bullseye, nearly a hundred stories in the air.
Head clicked his tongue. “Man, this city,” he sighed. “There’s always something.”
Donna shrugged. “It is what it is. You get numb to it or you leave.”
She winced the moment the words left her mouth. Stupid. Telling a major stockholder that the city housing his multimillion-dollar investment was a localized dumpster fire was a fast track to HR.
But before she could walk it back—it was on the tip of her tongue, some line about how of course the company took every measure to ensure the safety of its employees and visitors and assets, especially its assets—Head turned around, leaning back against the brass railing.
“Yeah, I get it,” he said, the corner of his mouth curving. “Place hasn’t changed a bit since I left. It’s always been one disaster after another.”
That, Donna hadn’t expected. “You’ve been to Gotham before, sir?”
“I grew up here. Crime Alley, actually. Just moved back a little while ago.”
“Crime Alley? And you came back?” Donna couldn’t hide the disbelief in her voice. Head’s brow furrowed, and she hurried to add, “I mean—that is—no offense meant, Mr. Head, but . . . usually when people manage to get out of the Alley, they don’t exactly buy a return ticket. Most people spend their whole lives trying to get out of Gotham altogether.”
And she would know. Her mother had been saying it all her life. When they’d made enough money to leave the Bowery, they hadn’t looked back.
Neither had her father, when he’d fucked off to California with his new wife all those years ago. As much as it still pissed her off to think about, she’d found, much to her own chagrin, that she could understand why he’d traded Gotham for a quiet life in the sunny suburbs of the west coast.
“They try,” Head said lightly. The corner of his mouth ticked higher. There was something vaguely familiar about it—not quite a smirk, but something close, different from the eager smiles she’d seen from him all day—but she couldn’t place it. “They run halfway across the world, convince themselves they’re done with the grime and the noise. But it doesn’t matter how far you go, Ms. Conway. Gotham stays in your blood. Even the ones who manage to leave . . .” He shook his head, turning back toward the glass. “This city always finds a way to pull its own back in.”
Donna didn’t roll her eyes, but it was a very near thing. God, rich people. Must be nice, having the money to romanticize this hellhole.
“That covers the primary executive suite,” Donna said as she led Head down the corridor. “We have a private lounge down the hall, if you’d like to stop by. We can grab a drink, get off our feet for a minute, and then I’ll walk you down to the lobby whenever you’re ready.”
“Sounds good.”
“Mr. Fox is out for the day, but I’ll make sure his office has a full write-up of your visit so he can reach out first thing. I could even have his assistant arrange a brief summary packet for you to review before—”
Donna stopped, realizing Head had fallen behind. When she looked back, she found him in a recessed alcove, looking out over the sprawling atrium with his back to the hall. She was about to double back, to say something about the view—from that angle, the koi pond caught the light nicely, a bright shimmering orange visible even at this distance—when the elevator at the end of the hall chimed, the doors sliding open.
Bruce Wayne stepped out into the corridor.
He looked, as always, like he’d wandered off the cover of some magazine, immaculately dressed and hair perfectly coiffed. The moment he spotted Donna, his face lit up. She had seen him maybe a handful of times in the near-decade she’d worked here, and every one of those times he’d worn the same expression on his face: that same effortless, flashbulb-ready smile. Amiable enough, if a little vacant, always with that same air of careless indifference, entirely unbothered by whatever was actually happening in the building that bore his name.
It would be infuriating, if he didn’t have the sunny obliviousness of a golden retriever. If this particular golden retriever wasn’t so fond of throwing money at children’s hospitals.
“Donna! Good afternoon,” Wayne called out, strolling toward her. “Tell me Lucius hasn’t already ducked out for the day? I’ve got some sign-offs he needed before the weekend.”
Donna straightened on instinct—you didn’t slouch in front of the man whose name was on your paycheck, however friendly he seemed—and rushed forward to meet him.
“Mr. Wayne,” she said, smiling back. “Mr. Fox is actually out of the office until Monday. But I’m glad I caught you, sir—we have a guest on the floor today.”
“Oh?” His brows shot up toward his perfect hairline. “Is that right? I hope you’re giving them the VIP treatment, Donna. We don’t usually let folks wander around up here without—”
“Quite a drop down to the lobby from here, Ms. Conway,” Head cut in. He stepped out of the alcove, turning around to face the hall.
Wayne’s smile vanished in an instant. The color drained from his face so fast it was as if he’d been pulled taut, his skin nearly paper-white under the bright fluorescent lights.
Donna felt her stomach drop. She moved toward him, half-convinced the man was having a heart attack. But before she could find her voice, before she could ask him if he was all right—
Wayne looked—suddenly he was—
Donna didn’t know how to describe it. Somehow, between one breath and the next, Wayne was . . . it was as though every expression from his face had been scrubbed off, scrubbed clean. Suddenly, he looked as blank as the gleaming marble floor they were standing on.
Wayne was looking at Head, his eyes flicking from the kid’s face to the bandage on his neck and back again.
Head, for his part, didn’t flinch under the scrutiny. He was standing behind her now, looking back at Wayne. He looked . . . expectant, almost curious.
It occurred to Donna then, several seconds too late, that Head might not recognize Wayne. That he was probably waiting for her to make the introductions—as she’d been doing all afternoon.
So Donna cleared her throat, tried to shake off the awkward stillness prickling on her skin, and summoned up another cheery smile.
“Mr. Wayne, if I may introduce our guest,” she said, eager to fill the silence. “This is Jason Head. I’ve been giving him a preliminary tour of the facilities, since Mr. Fox was unavailable.” She turned toward Head, nodding at him. “Mr. Head, Bruce Wayne.”
For a long, long moment, neither of them spoke. Wayne’s gaze was still fixed on Head, unblinking, his jaw clenched so tight it looked close to shattering.
Then Head stepped around Donna, extending a hand toward Wayne.
“Good to finally meet you, Mr. Wayne,” he said smoothly. “I’m sorry to drop in unannounced like this. Ms. Conway’s been kind enough to step in and show me around while I was in the neighborhood. You’ve got a very efficient team here.”
Wayne glanced down at the offered hand but didn’t take it. His eyes drifted back to Head’s throat, lingering there for so long that Donna internally cringed. Not for the first time, she wished Fox was here. If anyone could wrangle some semblance of sense into Wayne, it would be him.
“Head?” Wayne said at last, his voice so low that Donna strained to hear him.
“You’re well acquainted with my mother, I’ve been told,” Head said, one corner of his mouth curling. “She made quite the donation to your charity a few months back.”
Donna looked between them, swallowing back her surprise. That Head? The Talia Head? The former CEO of LexCorp had disappeared from the public eye as quickly as she had entered it. The last anyone had heard of her, she had fled from Metropolis after selling all of LexCorp's assets to the Wayne Foundation. Rumor had it she had even left the country to escape the disgraced ex-president’s ire.
Donna wondered—inanely, she could admit—if Yvonne from Finance had known about this. She was usually in the know about this sort of thing.
Wayne clearly wasn’t.
“Talia?” he choked out. “You’re Talia’s son?”
“She sends her regards, by the way,” Head said, still in that pleasant tone, still smiling blandly. “Said to tell you it’s nothing personal.”
His hand was still outstretched. Wayne looked at it for two more awful, agonizing seconds as if it were a live wire, before finally forcing his own arm up to take it.
“I’m sure it isn’t,” Wayne said stiffly. His grip, Donna thought, looked just a little too tight.
But Head didn’t pull his hand back, didn’t so much as blink. He just met Wayne’s gaze and held it, his easy smile widening into a sly, razor-sharp grin.