Khoa had burned the invite in his industrial furnace and scattered the ashes so none others may know his name. It was dramatic, but necessary. Icon hadn't been there to stop him from spending the afternoon and evening afterward going at Bruce's computer systems (The Bat and the Man[or]: He referenced it to Clownhunter and was very impressed with himself at the pun even when the boy cringed and went to do a boring patrol route with uncharacteristic alacrity) looking for any mention of himself to erase.
The mistakes of the past weren't so easily destroyed. Before he knew how to conceal himself well enough it had been possible to find a history, but time and his own actions could have let memories fade. If Ra's Al Ghul hadn't spoken his identity. Khoa would have been happy being Anton forever, a little joke to himself. A fondness of an identity self-chosen. An arrogance permitted.
Layers upon layers of security. Practically he couldn't cover everything— Khoa knew practically every trick in the book, and air gaps were trivial to say the least about printed information. No; If asked, his point was going to be that regardless of how well-delivered the invites were his name was personal.
It was upsetting, but they'd done much worse to each other over the years and Khoa was nothing if not forgiving.
He'd already done the balcony, and the door was a no-go. Not this year. Instead the radar-invisible Ghost-Stream flew overhead, and one white-cloaked vigilante (also known as the coolest, best crime-fighter in the world, wanted by many countries, considered a myth by many more but a little less now that he spent time in Gotham) rappelled dramatically onto the grounds.
Bruce had known what he was doing as he had Khoa's name printed in sweeping, glossy gold leaf. He knew the parts of it that Khoa would feel keenly. It was possessive; it was spiteful; it was jealous; it was as near to a preemptive blow as Bruce's code allowed of him. It was the moment where his friend's sword had teased against his throat, in the spartan stone of Ra's citadel. It was a reminder that Bruce still considered these things betrayal.
And it was sharp, a taunt as sure as a vicious bite in a kiss. Like licking a lover's blood from their lips.
Truthfully, Bruce hadn't known how Khoa would react. If Minhkhoa would understand what exactly Bruce really meant. Still, the net had come filtering through his computer systems, burning through his data like a terribly single-minded wildfire. Bruce had anticipated that, and all mention of him had been cleanly, decisively referred to as The Ghost-Maker.
Rumours of Ghost-Maker's in Takeo in the last year. The haunt suspected in Tirich Mir. Reports of crimes concluded, cities cleaned and corpses left that Bruce believed belonged to Ghost-Maker. Impersonal, where Minhkhoa Khan was personal--
And still something Bruce had used. Fearless in saying that it is personal, you and I are personal, after all we share and all we do not, I have the right to invite you to my home with the name you wouldn't give me.
Bruce hoped that Khoa understood that. But he still expected the cyberattack.
You don't get to say my name again.
You don't get to see my face.
He should have expected the arrival too. If Khoa's name was personal, so was his face, and Bruce took in the sight of the Ghost-Maker's arrival as a refusal. That Bruce's invite had been rejected, nevermind that Khoa was here. He'd been turned down.
It was upsetting, but they'd done much worse to each other over and over again, and Bruce should know it by now.
As Bruce Wayne, dark suit cut close and fashionable, back bare except a lace of gems, he couldn't greet Khoa as a friend (a thrown fist, a kick twisted from his hip, hoping to break a bone) but he could greet him as a dim, foolish socialite from a near-feral city.
"Wow," Bruce ambled close, grinning ear to ear. "Just who are you then?" His hand reached out, darting to grasp the corner of Khoa's cloak. "You look just like a ghost."
