Polished Illusions

The reflection in the grimy mirror was almost unrecognizable. Sera tilted her head, watching as the dim light caught on freshly washed strands of dark brown hair, now free of the usual damp tangle of city grime. Her face, stripped of exhaustion-induced smudges and alleyway dust, looked sharper, more defined. The blackout goggles were gone, leaving her grey-blue eyes exposed, their usual hollowness softened by the contrast of clean skin.

The clothing had been “borrowed” in the loosest sense of the word—lifted from an unattended dry-cleaning rack in a high-end building where people didn’t look twice at a woman walking through the halls as long as she carried herself like she belonged. The outfit was sleek but practical, a deep charcoal blazer cinched at the waist over a fitted black blouse, the first few buttons left open just enough to draw the eye but not invite questions. The trousers were tailored, hugging her hips and tapering down to slim, expensive heels that clicked when she walked. She felt the difference immediately—the way people glanced once, then looked away, categorizing her as someone with purpose rather than someone to stop.

It was a calculated presentation, polished enough to pass in the corporate world, casual enough to avoid scrutiny. And it felt… strange. Her body had spent so much time on the fringes, wrapped in reinforced layers, draped in anonymity. Now, standing here, she looked like she belonged in the kind of places that had security checkpoints and glass-walled boardrooms. She looked like she hadn’t spent the last year slipping through Gotham’s shadows, unraveling at the edges.

It was an illusion, but illusions were useful.

By the time she reached Wayne Enterprises, the midday rush had settled into the smooth rhythm of business as usual. The tower loomed over the city, all steel and glass, sleek and untouchable, a monument to wealth and legacy. Inside, the lobby was pristine—polished floors, sharp lines, the low hum of power moving through the veins of Gotham’s most influential empire.

She stepped forward, each measured click of her heels punctuated by the low murmur of executives passing through the security gates, employees flashing badges at silent, watchful guards. The air smelled like expensive cologne, freshly printed documents, and the faint trace of coffee lingering from morning meetings.

The receptionist barely glanced up at first, fingers dancing over the keyboard, her sleek headset in place as she half-listened to some incoming call. But when Sera stepped up to the marble-fronted desk, the movement drew the woman’s attention.

Sera offered a small, neutral smile—the kind that suggested she was exactly where she was supposed to be, no more, no less.

“I need to speak with Lucius Fox,” she said smoothly, resting her fingertips lightly against the counter. “It’s about a project he may have inherited.”