Bruce Wayne

She wondered what he saw, as he entered the room.

A woman on the bed. Late twenties, trying to look younger and succeeding. The hair was a wig, but it suited her made-up face, the short skirt on the long legs, the low cut blouse that emphasized what little bust she had. Her eyes though—deep violet, something that couldn't be faked, even with contacts. A shade only in nature. A dirty little flower, ripe for the plucking.

Lois watched him take in the whole room with a glance, as if casing the place. He shut the door without looking. His eyes bored into her own, and Lois swallowed. She recognized him—from dozens, maybe hundreds of press photos. Dark hair, piercing blue-grey eyes, broad shoulders and a body that screamed gym-bunny. His suit was exquisite, hand-made, and probably cost more than her entire wardrobe.

What is Gotham's richest man doing in a Metropolis whorehouse? Lois wondered.

His eyes narrowed. "We've met before."

The reporter put on her best Suicide Slum accent, gave her crookedest smile, determined to play her part. "I don't think so, stud?"

In a step her was at the foot of the bed. He moved fast and quiet, the bulk of him loomed above her in an instant. His hand, gentle but insistent, lifted her chin so that he could study her face.

Not to be outdone, Lois put her hand between his legs. Underneath that exquisite suit, she felt something hard—some sort of athletic protector, maybe—but it was a lot bigger than she was expecting. If he was surprised, his face didn't show it. He had the most perfect poker face that Lois had ever known...but there was something he was searching for, she could see that in his eyes.

"Expecting somebody else?" she said.

"Someone else working here," he said. "Her name is..."