Much to his chagrin, Bruce showed up early to the meeting in hopes that he might catch you before it began. He kept himself from thinking about the John Doe by staying up brainstorming gentle questions to ask you tonight. He figured since you didn't trust him, and quite honestly he also did not trust you, you might benefit from getting to know each other better. The only questions he'd been able to manifest on his own were superficial ones, like what's your favorite color and what was your favorite school subject growing up? He quite liked the latter, but figured it a bit redundant assuming how much you appeared to enjoy journalism.

The foyer was as it was; that same chemical rain scent mingling with Chanel number 5, a scent that drove him nearly to tears it bored and triggered him so immediately. The same golden chandelier hung in the middle, the same clusters of people hung in circles atop the warm-toned jacquard rug. If you looked at a photo of the entryway, you might think outside the windows hid an Italian villa with bright grapevines swaying in the breeze. Instead, the gargantuan absorbent mat by the door was soaked to the brim, its fibers screaming and stretching past comfort to be wrung and laid to rest. It was dreary, and dark, and smoggy, as it always was in Gotham.

Right as nostalgia for old family vacations threatened to cocoon him, a wide-shouldered, tall man in a passably pressed suit approached. Bruce grinned and reached out his hand on instinct, hiding his surprise when the stranger opened his arms wide and went for a hug. The man's cologne was sharp, cutting through the usual mildewy accompaniment. He couldn't place it. "Mr. Bruce Wayne! How incredible to finally meet you." When he pulled back he bared his teeth, gleamingly white and straight like they were physically held together by some meticulously hidden brace. Bruce kept his mysterious. "And you, Mr...?"

"Call me Lincoln." He stuck out a hand this time, which tugged up the side of Bruce's mouth to bare his canine. Where did this guy blow in from? "Lincoln March, I'm up for mayoral election this November."

The candidates. In his desperation the past week he'd forgotten all about researching, to which he pictured you a few minutes from now flipping through flawless notes of yours. Of course you'd done your due diligence, likely with a bulleted list of questions in rolling cursive to distract from your vice grip on whoever you'd set to analyze. Lincoln's handshake was timely and firm, which always read to Bruce as rehearsed and performative. His eyes were startlingly green, his voice smooth but ragged at the edge of his sentences. He had a few nicks from shaving, a pinprick of shave foam forgotten near his left ear. He smiled incessantly, but the absence of lines around his eyes confirmed his suspicions. Another schmoozer.

"Call me Bruce." Play nice...

"You're just the guy I wanted to see." Of course, the richest man in the room. Shocker. "You see, I think you and I are aligned when it comes to seeing Gotham underneath it all; greater than the sum of its parts. A prolific city packed with diversity, simply desperate for some TLC."

Jesus Christ. "And you think you can guide Gotham there?"

Lincoln nodded assuredly, his shoulders bobbing with him. "Absolutely. The other candidates want to transform Gotham into something it's not. A tourist destination, a drive-by freakshow."

"Which is why you chose to say your piece first, I assume."

He nodded again and snapped his fingers. "Bingo!" He straightened and glanced toward the ground before shoving his hands in his pockets. His eyes stared at the back wall, then over to Bruce. His voice lowered and his smile faded. "Look, I can see you're not one for the song and dance. I know what this city took from you. But you're still here, aren't you? Trying to make the city a better, safer place. I want to help you do that."

Bruce's eyes narrowed. The demeanor shift was instant, and tense. The man thought he was losing his grip, and Bruce was beginning to feel more and more like a walking bank account. "I look forward to hearing your pitch in the meeting." As if on cue, the man opened the conference room's door and called for people to file in. Five minutes to start. Bruce lifted his eyes and scanned the room. No, no, nope, not you, no, nope, no. Lincoln's brow furrowed. "Can I help you find someone?"

Lincoln's voice fell into the backrooms of his mind as his heartbeat pulsed in his ear. He felt himself turn a few shades whiter, hoping the man's earnest distracted him from noticing. His fingertips felt cold and clammy. He knew he should have gone after you, he knew he shouldn't have trusted you were safe. At this point a missing person's report wouldn't do much good, you could be anywhere across the globe, already turned to mulch after being eviscerated from an unsuspecting garbage truck's teeth.

A short blonde woman slipped into the foyer, and she spun on her heel to survey the room so quickly she nearly tumbled to the floor. The memory caused a painful jolt to slice down his stomach. Lincoln leapt into action and walked over to steady her, but when he'd moved to help she lit up seeing Bruce just behind. She held a notebook and a PRESS badge. Where were you? She rushed over and introduced herself as Bridgit. Were you safe? "I'm with Gotham University, I came to interview you for the Gazette."

She had his full attention. "GU? Journalism department?" She nodded. "Do you have anyone on their way to meet you?"

Bridgit shook her head and dug the pen out from inside the notebook spiral. "I just have a few questions, we can get it done quickly,"

"I'm sorry, where's the journalist from last week?" He didn't know why, but saying your name felt like betraying a secret. He searched her face and ignored the curiosity of the candidate behind her. She shrugged and finally fished out the pen with a subtle click and asked her first question. "Mr. Wayne, do you have a preference for a particular candidate yet for Gotham's mayor?"

"Where's Y/N?" His eyes bored into her notebook. Your handwriting was far better. Would he ever see it again? She didn't react, continuing to pen another question like he hadn't spoken. Until this point he'd thought nothing could be worse than people hanging onto his every word but no, now he knew it was being wittingly ignored. He thought about snatching her pen and staring her down until she divulged your whereabouts, but Lincoln leaned his head in to diffuse the suspense. "Who now? Y/N who?" He smiled again and Bruce grit his teeth.

Bridgit sighed very impatiently, he noted, and tossed her hair behind her shoulders. She was flustered, but why? "I don't know who you speak of."

Bruce's brow furrowed into a glare. "You're with the Gazette, right? She is too." Guilt. It was guilt that was making him so consumed by this. Guilt at having shoved you into dangerous circumstance, guilt about not following up on a finger-painted window that held no innate credibility. She asked another question that he didn't hear, and in a split-second decision he decided against storming out to find you, instead heading into the conference room without a care in the world for what your replacement had to say.

Lincoln sat to the right of him at the head of the table, the seat with a placard stating CANDIDATE reserving it. He held the placard in his hands and tapped it against the wood a few times, seemingly mulling something over. He leaned over to Bruce just as Mr. Convoy turned to introduce the first visiting candidate. Lincoln stood and bowed as everyone clapped, and did a brief introduction before Convoy goaded him on. "Come now, you came here to persuade us into electing you as Gotham City's new mayor: introduce your cause!" With that he sat down, leaving Lincoln alone and standing very tall above the table. Bruce shut his eyes in a desperate attempt to quiet his thoughts, the only one bringing him back being memory of his father's own campaign speech. It was imperative he heard what this man wanted for Gotham.

"I feel out of place here, to be frank with you all. I don't come from money or any real notability; in fact, this suit here I rented from Men's Warehouse. Clearance rack." He paused and listened for laughs that came in abundant whispers. He set the placard down on the wood and heaved a breath from the bottom of his lungs. He paused just long enough to stir discomfort. "I'm not here to convince you of a radical, perfect plan to resuscitate Gotham. I don't believe this city needs a savior." Bruce shifted in his seat.

"I believe this city is good, and can make itself good. It needs resources that are correctly allocated, and someone who does not stigmatize the different struggles that plague not just this town, but many others. Someone who is on their team, not flying high above them." This caused Bruce to shift in his seat again, this time stifling paranoid panic about another vague bird reference. "I want to decrease homelessness. I want to fund our public schools, not just GU. I want to increase paid sick leave, maternity leave and introduce paternity leave. We can offset these costs by increasing taxes on, well, all of you." Lincoln glanced around the room to see a few people narrow their eyes, some even crossing their arms in less subtle disapproval. What a day for Y/N to miss, it was like you'd been cloned.

"And I know that sounds frustrating, but I know you all would appreciate cleaner, happier streets. Your net worths will be inconsequentially affected from an everyday standpoint, and as a gift you get to feel a sense of pride for helping the city." He was rapidly losing the small crowd, who began to snicker and grumble about themselves. He slammed his hand just hard enough against the tabletop to regain control of the room. He shook his head. "I'm only saying the quiet part aloud. My fellow candidates want the same things I do; they want to get inside your pockets, but they want to be deceptive in doing it. I want to work with you, with transparency, to assure your funds are being put to good use and we see real improvement in this city. If elected, I promise to work tirelessly, endlessly, for the benefit of you and all the other people of Gotham."

"What makes you think you're owed our hard-earned money?" A man dressed in a Prada suit pouted at the candidate. A few yeah! s were expressed, and Lincoln shrugged. "The city isn't left with many resources, and I guarantee you have more money than you can ever spend. Don't you want to build a legacy with it?"

"It's our choice what we want our legacy to be!"

"We'll make sure you never get elected with this bold-faced thievery!"

Bruce had had enough. He stood quickly beside him and placed a hand on Lincoln's shoulder. "We should wait to hear what the other candidates have to say in the following weeks. They could be better, they could be worse; but the worst thing we can do right now, ladies and gentlemen, is come to a premature decision." He balled his obscured hand into a painfully tight fist to combat a massive eye roll. "You all love this city as much as I do; my father wanted the same things for Gotham as Mr. March, and no one wants to remove you from financial security." This was too perfect of an opportunity to play up his persona, so very, very begrudgingly, he took it. "I promise you, if we can no longer afford our Beluga caviar and Tiffany bracelets I will personally destroy Mr. March." Bobbing shoulders and grins were seen around the room, with a smattering of tentative nods.

Having effectively dodged a riot, the rest of the meeting went relatively smoothly. No one was paying mind to Lincoln, who raised his hand at regular intervals but was decidedly ignored. He couldn't shake the spiraling thoughts of how much you would've lived and died to witness this meeting, watching the rich people quiver and snivel at the prospect of their pockets turned out. But you were not here, and there was a possibility you were not anywhere at all but returned to the dirt. At the meeting's adjournment, Bridgit waited eagerly at the door for Bruce to walk past and Lincoln muttered a quick acknowledgement. "Wayne. Thanks for having my back there."

Bruce nodded absentmindedly, stretching his neck to look outside the door and into the lobby. It confused Lincoln, watching the man's pupils shoot side to side, up and down, every which direction. "I can't help but think you're looking for someone." He didn't take the bait, so he pressed further. "Y/N, was that it?"

He bristled at the mention of your name, hesitated before nodding, and spoke an old truth to cover himself. "We had an interview set." He eyed Bridgit and groaned.

"I had a girlfriend once in college with a problematic ex; he'd come into work asking for her schedule. They weren't allowed to give it out."

Bruce looked over at the man. "You're saying it's policy not to divulge whereabouts of employees?" He felt embarrassed the second the sentence left his tongue, berating himself for the obviousness of his oversight. Another way he was different, not understanding basic logistics of the working class.

"Correct. The young lady by the doorway might not be legally allowed to tell you."

The legality now apparent did not rid himself of anxiety, it exaggerated it elsewhere. If he could not find out via your workplace (the only place that knew you existed in this metropolis), he was left with two options with equally miserable consequences: try to find you, or leave it alone. If he went looking and he found you, you'd have reason to hate him, thus fuel to nuke his reputation, not to mention the guilt of going back on a promise; if he did not look for you, he would never be alleviated of his guilt that he hadn't at least attempted to save you from the danger he put you in. How could he go on as usual knowing he could have done more? What if you'd simply called out sick and she was a temporary replacement? The tale of the problematic ex ping-ponged within him, reminding him of another alternative: he had scared you away, and you'd left the position to avoid seeing him. Before the emotions of that could burrow into his chest, he resorted to waiting until the following week to see if you'd returned. After a two week hiatus at a new job, there was higher probability you were out of his weekly rotation permanently; whether that meant you were dead or quit the position was another matter entirely, one which he could tackle more sufficiently next—

"Wayne? Hello?"

Bruce blinked at Lincoln, who stared at him with a blend of confusion and concern. He thanked Lincoln for coming, and began to walk away, not before he held out a business card for the billionaire to take—which he took swiftly, kindly, and hurried off. Right past Bridgit shouting interview requests at him, right past the throngs of people waiting for his attention at the exit, and over to the valet which stood waiting with his key in hand. The drive home was quick and dangerous, when he pulled into the cave he felt like he'd blinked and been transported into his seat at the computer. Television static frizzed his brain circuitry until he'd stared at an empty SEARCH screen for fifteen minutes. Alfred, concerned he had not come back and immediately went to the kitchen for dinner scraps, clunked his way out of the elevator and stood behind the boy. A hand on his shoulder startled Bruce, who groaned and pressed ESCAPE. "Jesus Alfred,"

"Mulligatawny's in the fridge, I thought you wouldn't have missed that warm for the world."

"I've been preoccupied." He placed his chin in his hand and slumped over the desk. He was this close to having the answers, just a month ago he'd spent a whole week ramping up the internet speed in there. In a single millisecond he could have the answer, or be closer to the answer. Yet nothing could propel him to push the keys. Alfred was quiet behind him, but not a good quiet; not the quiet of him being lost in a song, or mulling over the duties for the next few days. This quiet was weighted, waiting for Bruce to speak or to pester it out of him. He started with a softball.

"Bad news at the meeting?" At least, Bruce thought he might start with a softball. Alfred wondered in secret if the boy's distress was due to the disorder he presumed was creeping up on him. Bruce had a feeling he wasn't being transparent, and groaned when Alfred spoke again. "You don't have to attend the meetings, you know. The world would go on if Bruce Wayne, or, better yet Batman took a bit of a rest." He noticed the old man's watery smile in the empty reflection of the unused computer screen.

"I don't need more rest." Bruce murmured. Alfred shot a challenging look. He rolled his eyes and pushed himself up from the desk. "I'm getting some food." As he waited for the elevator (it had taken to going back up to the top stair upon arriving in the basement), he considered asking about you. Talking the situation over with him. It wasn't an invasive search, but a conversation that could help him get out of his own mind. But. He hadn't brought you up since you'd left. If he spoke now, it would be a can of worms. The questioning wouldn't cease. Alfred would assume, and pursue, and blow his concern up beyond what it was. He'd wait. He'd wait, and if you still weren't at the next meeting he'd make a decision at that point. Only then would he be able to accurately weigh the consequences of action and inaction. No earlier. In the meantime, he'd have to endure it.