TODAY'S HOT TOPIC: PLAYBOY BRUCE WAYNE SPOTTED WITH SILVER FOX VLAD MASTERS
There were many types of visitors to Wayne Manor. Tourists with no respect for privacy, groupies, nosey journalists, Alfred was always fending off all sorts of people who thought they were entitled to the Wayne family’s time.
It was hours past sunset when a lone figure approached the manor on foot, leaving foot-deep steps as they fought against the snow. Once they got to the gate they pressed the buzzer over and over until Alfred drew himself from his task and answered the intercom.
An unfamiliar boy stood in the blizzard, wearing only a damp hoodie and jeans. He had a determined look on his face as he pressed the buzzer over and over.
“May I inquire why a boy as young as yourself is out so late?” Alfred asked.
Alfred watched on the cameras as the boy drew back a shaking hand, a look of trepidation dawning across his face.
“Uh… oh, yeah. Sorry.” The boy said, glancing up at the overcast sky. With the reflection of the white snow on the clouds the sky was light as some days. “I’m Danny. I-I’m um- I was wondering if– is Vlad— Uh, Vladimire Masters, here?”
Vlad Masters, of course. Ever since the start of Master Bruce and Mister Master’s relationship the media had been abuzz with activity about the two billionaires relationship. In Alfred’s opinion their relationship was good for one another— should whatever Masters was running from not come back to bite them.
Just yesterday the storm finally drove a flock of reporters away from the gate.
“Young sir, I hope you understand that even if he were here, I would not be able to inform you of such.”
The boy seemed to wilt, entire body draining of energy, sad, wet shoulders sagging. “Oh, I’m sorry for bothering you then. Thank you for your help, Could I- could you pass a message to him for me?”
“Of course.” Alfred answered, readying a notepad, writing “Danny” at the top.
“Could you tell him... I was wrong, and I’ll take him up on his offer.” He averted his eyes like he was ashamed, “Whatever he wants, please?”
That was a dozen too many red flags for the Butler. He decisively pressed the buzzer, dragging the gates automatically open.
“I suggest you come inside for a cup, and you can tell me your relation to Mr. Masters.” Alfred said, trying to insert warmth and sternness into his voice.
“Really?” The boy’s shoulders slumped in relief. He sniffled, dragging the back of his hand over his runny nose. He stepped out of view of the main intercom camera, heading toward the front entrance of the manor.
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