Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Bruce adopted Dick at eight 

Jason at twelve

And Tim... Sixteen. 

Sixteen. Practically grown by the time he entered Bruce’s world...Well stayed under his roof. Not like the others. Not like Dick, all wide-eyed and desperate for justice. Not like Jason, burning and raw, too fast for the world to catch.

Tim was different.

Self-possessed. Smart in a way that made even Batman stop and think. 

Still.

Bruce watches him now from the hallway as Tim walks toward the garage, jacket slung over one shoulder, wearing clean jeans instead of patrol gear for once, looking—God help him—like a normal teenager.

A normal teenager who moonlights as Robin. Who tracks international assassins for extra credit and stays up until 3 a.m. cataloging gang intel for Batman’s files without being asked.

But right now, he's just going to a party.

And he wants to take one of Bruce’s cars.

"Which one?" Bruce asks as Tim reaches for the key cabinet. His voice is calm. Measured. Not the slightest trace of the worry twisting his stomach into a knot.

Tim turns, a small smile on his face. “The black Maserati."

Bruce arches an eyebrow. “You’ll be careful.”

“I’ve been driving since I was fourteen. With you. In the Batmobile. In traffic. While dodging RPGs.”

Bruce doesn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth tugs, just slightly. “That’s not the same as a Saturday night in Gotham traffic.”

Tim hesitates, one hand still hovering near the keys. He catches something in Bruce’s tone—subtle, but real. A question unspoken.

“I’ll be careful,” Tim says again, more seriously. “No drinking, no speeding. It’s not even that kind of party. Just some classmates. Music, snacks. Probably bad ones.”

Bruce folds his arms. “What time will you be home?”

Tim stares at him. “Did you just ask me for a curfew?”

“Yes.”

“Wow.” He looks genuinely amused. “Okay, uh... midnight?”

“Eleven-thirty.”

“Eleven-forty-five and I text if I’m going to be late?”

Bruce pauses. Then gives a small nod. “Fine.”

Tim grabs the keys. Then, just before he leaves, he glances over his shoulder. “You know I can take care of myself, right?”

“I know.” Bruce’s voice is low, but steady. “But I still worry.”

Tim nods slowly. “Yeah. I guess... thanks.”

The garage door opens with a mechanical hum. The Maserati’s engine purrs like a contented panther.

Bruce stands in the hallway long after the car disappears down the drive. Arms still crossed. Thinking.

It’s stupid, honestly.

Tim will be fine. He’ll be in more danger later tonight when they’re out on patrol. When he’s vaulting over rooftops and going toe-to-toe with some gun-running gang in the Narrows.

And yet.

God, he even worries every night then, too.

Bruce used to think that fear dulled with time. That the more he trained them, the better they got, the more he could rely on skill to edge out that gnawing pit in his stomach.

But with each child, it got worse.

Because he knew exactly what could go wrong.

He knew how quickly you could lose someone—how fast a life can shift from heat to cold.

He told himself Tim was different. Tim had plans, contingencies. He wasn’t reckless, moved through the world with sharp edges and sharper instincts.

But he was still sixteen.

Still a kid, no matter how many tactical field reports he filed or how neatly he stitched up his own wounds.

He sighs, finally turning from the doorway, footsteps soft on the tile as he heads back toward the study. There’s work to be done—there always is. Crime doesn’t take weekends off for high school social lives.

But still.

He worries.

_~~_ 

Tim knew he wasn’t going to have a good time before he even parked the car.

The bass thumped through the walls of the two-story house like a migraine waiting to happen. Kids were already spilling onto the lawn, red cups in hand, smoke curling into the warm Gotham night from half-lit cigarettes and vape pens. Someone had already thrown up in the bushes. Classic.

He sighed and turned off the ignition, resting his head briefly against the steering wheel.

He’d come for two reasons: Zoanne and Jared. Two of his acquaintances (friends?) from school.
Zoanne because—well. Complicated. But he liked her. Genuinely. (He's has a tiny, very tiny crush on her alright! There he admitted it to himself)

Jared because he asked, and Tim had that annoying habit of keeping his word even when it dragged him into bad ideas with sticky floors and dubstep. He didn't even like him that much, he was rather obnoxious, kind of dumb honestly but a talented athlete, a basketball player.

And yeah, okay. Maybe part of him wanted to feel normal for once. High school party. Friends. No capes. No back-alley autopsies.

What a joke.

He sat in the car, texting the both of them.

[to: Zoanne]
“You here yet?”

[to: Jared]
“I’m parked. Where are you?”

He stared at the screen, watching the little “delivered” checkmarks pop up with all the urgency of a dying snail. No typing bubbles. Just a sea of unread messages and the distant, warbled beat of someone’s regrettable playlist vibrating through the air.

Tim leaned back in the driver’s seat, eyes closed for a moment, letting the low hum of the engine fade from his ears. The car still smelled like Bruce’s garage—clean leather and cold steel. Familiar. Safe.

He should go home. 

He got a text from Alfred, answered it with some half truths, before putting his hand on the gear but--

His phone buzzed.

[from: Jared]
“Inside. Come in, man! Kitchen’s where the drinks are. Wild already lol.”

No response from Zoanne.

Figures.

Tim hesitated. He could still just… leave. Turn the key, ease the Maserati out of this cul-de-sac nightmare, and be back in the Cave before the hour was up. Maybe even squeeze in some casework before patrol.

But no. He’d made the effort. Jared lives like an hour and fifteen away because the house is in the suburbs. Got dressed. Said he’d show up. 

That damn sense of responsibility again.

So he climbed out, locked the car behind him, and started toward the front door like a man walking into a war zone.

Inside, the air was thick—humid with sweat, perfume, and the chemical tang of cheap beer. Lights strobed dimly through a fog machine someone had thought was a good idea. Bodies pressed wall to wall, some dancing, some arguing, some just standing around and pretending this was the time of their lives.

Tim sidestepped a couple making out in the hallway, ducked a flying Nerf dart from some impromptu battle upstairs, and headed for the kitchen.

Jared was there, of course, in his varsity jacket, holding court near the fridge like he was running for prom king—which, knowing Jared, he probably was.

“Hey!” Jared grinned when he saw Tim. “Didn’t think you’d actually show, man!”

Tim gave a tired half-smile. “Yeah, well. I made it.”

God he already wants to go home and he just got here.

“Zoanne’s not coming,” Jared said without ceremony. “Texted me she’s got the flu.”

Of course she does.

Tim felt something heavy sink in his chest. Not disappointment, exactly—just confirmation of what he already knew. This night wasn’t going to give him what he was hoping for.

Which begged the question: why was he still here?

He wandered over to the counter, poured himself something vaguely soda-colored from an unmarked bottle, and leaned back against the sink.

He was surrounded by people his age, music blasting, lights flashing—and he’d never felt more out of place.

No cape, no case, no Bruce watching from the shadows.

Just him. Just Tim.

And somehow, that felt lonelier than the rooftops ever did.

Just as Jared told him, Zoanne texted back.

[from: Zoanne]
“Hey. Can’t make it. Feel like roadkill. Raincheck?”

Short. Honest. Sweet, even.

Tim stared at the message for a few seconds, thumb hovering over the keyboard. A million responses passed through his mind, most of them polite nonsense. No problem. Feel better. Maybe next time.

He settled on:

[to: Zoanne]
“Sorry you’re sick. Hope you get some rest.”

Three dots popped up. Then disappeared. Then popped up again.

And then nothing.

Typical.

He sighed and set the phone down on the counter next to a puddle of condensation. His cup—whatever concoction he’d poured—was already starting to separate like oil and water.

Probably not soda after all.

Around him, the party surged on. People shouting to be heard over the bass. A guy in the corner filming someone doing shots off a cutting board. Laughter, music, someone knocking over a lamp and getting cheered for it like they’d just landed an Olympic vault.

Tim glanced at the door. Wondered how weird it would be to leave now. He’d said hi. He showed up. Technically that fulfilled all party obligations, right?

And then someone slammed into him from the side.

Not hard. Just one of those casual, uncoordinated shoulder-checks from a guy who’d had three too many and was now using gravity like a dance partner.

“Yo, my bad, dude!” the guy laughed, not looking back as he stumbled toward the snack table.

Tim barely managed to keep his footing—but his phone didn’t.

It slipped off the counter with a light clatter, bounced once—then plopped directly into the massive glass bowl of red punch next to the stack of solo cups.

He stared at it.

The phone sat there, screen down, bubbles rising slowly around the edges like it had just decided to drown itself.

A moment passed before he reached in with a sigh, arm soaking wet to the elbow, and pulled it out.

Water-resistant? Maybe. Waterproof? Definitely not.

The screen flickered once, then died.

Tim stared at it for a second longer, then shook it uselessly in the air, little droplets flinging off onto his jacket.

Of course.

Of course this would happen.

Because why not? He wasn’t even supposed to care about this thing—it was a burner, basically. Barely encrypted, no WayneTech mods, just something to text with during school and pretend to be a normal teenager. His real comms were in the utility drawer at home, synced to the Cave.

Still.

There was something quietly humiliating about watching your only link to the outside world short-circuit in a bowl of communal fruit beverage.

And now? No texting Bruce. No contacting Alfred.

No easy way to warn anyone if this party suddenly devolved into a hostage situation. Not that he expected it to. But in Tim's life, you never bet against weird.

Tim wiped his arm on a kitchen towel and tossed the dead phone in the nearest trash can.

He looked around. Music still too loud. Lights still too bright. And now he was wet, sticky, phoneless, and annoyed.

'Time to go,'

He shouldered through the crowd, angling toward the front door, already calculating how fast he could get back to the Cave, maybe check the Penguin’s smuggling routes—

“Hey!”

A sharp voice cut through the noise.

Tim paused. Turned.

A tall guy—broad, wearing a muscle tank despite the fact that it wasn’t that warm—was pointing at him from across the living room.

“You think that’s funny, rich boy?”

Tim blinked. “What?”

“You dumped your drink on my girl.”

Ah.

Behind him, a girl with glitter eyeliner and a red solo cup was patting down her shirt with napkins. Mostly for show. She looked mildly annoyed, but not nearly as fired up as her boyfriend.

Tim realized what must’ve happened—his arm, soaked in punch from retrieving the phone, had brushed her when he passed. Completely accidental. And the guy was clearly looking for a reason.

Great.

“Wasn’t on purpose,” Tim said calmly, hands up slightly. “I’m leaving anyway.”

“Oh, you’re leaving? That easy, huh?” The guy stepped closer, puffed up. “Nah, man. Say sorry. To her.”

Tim exhaled through his nose. This is not worth it. Do not engage.

He turned, not giving the guy the satisfaction. “I’m not doing this.”

He made it three steps.

The guy grabbed his shoulder.

Tim moved before he thought—years of muscle memory flaring to life. He twisted out of the grip, stepped behind the guy, and shoved him lightly between the shoulder blades—just enough to send a message.

“Don’t touch me.”

But the crowd had already noticed. Phones were coming out. Someone yelled, “Oooh!” like it was a middle school cafeteria.

'Juvenile much?'

The guy spun, swinging wide.

Tim ducked.

Crack.

His fist connected—not hard, but precise. Center mass. Enough to take the wind out of him. The guy stumbled back into a coffee table, knocking over a bowl of popcorn.

And just like that, the party surged. People shouting. Someone screaming “FIGHT!” 

 Muscle tank was done. On the floor, groaning, some of his friends pulling him up, glaring but not brave enough to step in.

Tim shook his head.

He didn’t want this. Never did. He came here trying to be normal.

But normal didn’t want him.

Not tonight. Maybe not ever.

Tim stepped out into the night, the heavy front door thudding shut behind him like a coffin lid.

He exhaled.

The cool air was an relief from the cramped inside.

The front yard, still half-lit by porch lights and pulsing LED strobes from inside, looked deceptively calm. A few kids smoked by a tree, laughing at nothing. One girl sat on the curb crying into her phone.

Normal. Chaotic, dumb suburban normal.

Yeah...Time to go

He slid into the driver’s seat of the Maserati and closed the door with a soft thunk that somehow felt louder than anything inside the party. A sigh escaped him, long and tired. He just sat there for a moment, hands loose on the wheel, eyes staring at the neighborhood street stretched out in front of him.

It was quiet out here. Not Cave quiet, but close.

Tim flicked on the engine. The dashboard lit up, smooth and sleek, the clock giving him confirmation that he still had plenty of time before eleven-forty-five.

And suddenly, the thought of going home—early, alone, reporting back to Bruce with sticky punch on his sleeves and a cracked ego—just felt...well Tim was looking for a word that described "Not great but not horrible,"

And maybe tonight, he didn’t want to be Robin. Well at least not all night. And he still has plenty of time.

So instead, he drove.

The streets of the suburbs were way different from the city, smoother, Just let the road and the low growl of the Maserati carry him.

Ten minutes later, he pulled into the cracked parking lot of a burger diner on the city’s edge—one of those places that was older than most of the buildings around it, neon sign buzzing faintly above the drive-thru window. The kind of joint cops and late-night truckers hit up when everything else was closed.

It was quiet. One car in the back lot. An old sedan with peeling paint. The scent of fries drifted in the air.

Tim rolled down the window.

“Welcome to Chuck’s. Go ahead when you’re ready.”

He scanned the faded menu. “Uh... double burger, plain. Fries. Large vanilla shake.”

“Pull ahead.”

He paid in cash, took the paper bag and drink with a polite nod, and eased the Maserati to the forest preserve parking lot that was across from the diner.

He turned off the car, leaned back in the seat, and opened the bag. The burger was still hot. Fries slightly over-salted. Shake thick enough to snap the straw. Perfect.

It wasn’t glamorous. But it was… peaceful.

For the first time all night, he didn’t feel watched. Didn’t feel judged. Didn’t have to pretend.

No cape. No crowds. Just carbs and the hum of a half-broken neon sign in the parking lot across from him.

He took a long sip of the shake, letting the cold bite against the roof of his mouth. Then, almost without meaning to, he muttered:

“God, I hate parties.”

The silence didn’t argue.

It just shifted.

Barely.

A breeze, maybe. A sound that didn’t belong—the faint crunch of gravel beneath slow-moving feet.

Tim froze. Vanilla shake halfway to his mouth.

He didn’t look up right away. Just let his other senses do the work. He’d parked in the shadows on purpose—habit. One way in, no direct line of sight from the street. Visibility should’ve been clear.

But now?

Three shapes.

No—five.

Tim clocked the movement instantly. They came out of the shadows behind the diner like wolves, fluid and synchronized, peeling off from the service entrance with military precision. Boots whispering against gravel, eyes sharp, guns low. Not amateurs. Not desperate.

Predators.

He didn’t turn his head. Didn’t flinch. Just sipped from his shake and watched them materialize one by one in the side mirror.

Three of them were already spreading to flank the car—left, right, rear. Box formation. Classic corner-and-isolate. His thumb tensed against the steering wheel. His gaze stayed neutral, casual. But his heart was pacing ahead like it knew what was coming.

Then, the glint. Metal.

A long, unmistakable barrel catching the light—matte black, angular, heavy.

Guns.

Big ones.

Not handguns. Not something you toss in a waistband and rob a corner store with. These were professional-grade. Long-range precision, extended mags. Maybe modified. Maybe custom-built. Tim’s trained eyes didn’t miss the telltale under-barrel mod on the lead weapon.

This isn’t a mugging.

He breathed once. Slow. Controlled.

Great. Just wonderful.

He was about to get carjacked. Or—no. No, this wasn’t that. Not exactly.

His brain kicked into overdrive, the same way it did on rooftops mid-chase or halfway through a hot case that suddenly bent sideways. Tactical read. Terrain. Angles. Timed retreat windows.

What was throwing him off—what really itched at the back of his skull like a live wire—was this:

No masks.

Not one of them.

Five men, all armed, and not a single one bothered to obscure their faces. They weren’t afraid of recognition. They weren’t afraid of the police or witnesses. They didn’t care who saw them.

Because they weren’t planning on leaving witnesses.

Tim didn’t move. Not a muscle. Didn’t breathe loud. Didn’t let his eyes betray a single flicker of thought. But inside?

He was already moving.

Mental inventory:

Compact collapsible bo-staff in the console. 

No comms. Excellent.

He could maybe drop three of them in the first four seconds—if he got the jump. But the other two? If they had firing angles, he wouldn’t survive it.

His gaze caught more detail through the mirror—military grips. Custom rigs. The kind of gear you don’t find at pawn shops or buy from desperate Bowery dealers.

These guys were equipped. Funded. Connected.

Human traffickers, maybe.

Definitely not street-level trash.

The lead man—tall, mid-to-late thirties—stepped into his direct line of sight. The way he moved confirmed Tim’s guess: ex-military. Maybe Black Ops. Tight stance. Square shoulders. Clean pivot. His trigger discipline was immaculate.

The scar down the right cheek was deep and clean—an old wound, healed without fuss. Not the kind of thing you get in a bar brawl.

Tim watched him approach, shake still in hand. The man raised one hand and tapped the driver’s side window once.

Tim turned his head. Made eye contact. Slowly lowered the window halfway.

He needed a name to tag him. Something to file away for later.

Scar, then.

“Nice car,” Scar said, his voice calm and smooth, like they were old friends meeting by chance. “Bit much for a teenager, though.”

Tim took another measured sip from the straw. Vanilla. Warm now. Great.

“It’s a rental.”

Scar gave a dry laugh, teeth flashing just barely. “You’re a funny kid.”

The sound of movement—fast, controlled—cut across the lot as two more figures took up position. One in front of the car, just off-center from the hood. The other slipping in behind to block the trunk.

Angles covered. Efficient. These weren’t freelancers.

Tim’s eyes scanned the street without turning his head.  No cameras. No witnesses.

They’d picked this spot well.

Then another voice, raspier, coming from the passenger side.

“We got real lucky tonight.”

The second man leaned in through the passenger window, face close enough for Tim to clock the detail.

A snake tattoo, curling up his neck and coiled just under the orbital ridge of his eye—green ink, faded, probably prison-done. That, paired with the gang-style patch sewn into his vest, was enough to tell Tim two things:

This wasn’t a hit. It was random.

Target of opportunity. They’d seen the car. Seen the teen. Saw a soft mark and made a call.

Tim’s stomach dropped.

Not a planned abduction. Not someone sent for him. Just…luck.

A really bad kind.

Snakeface grinned wide—jagged teeth stained like old wood. “This your daddy’s ride?”

Tim didn’t answer. Not yet.

Let them talk. Let them build the narrative. Get arrogant.

Scar lifted two fingers and gestured—brief, subtle. The man at the rear moved forward, tapped the trunk like he was prepping to pop it. Another one crept toward the passenger side door.

They were getting ready to breach.

“Pop the locks,” Scar ordered, voice still calm. “Get out slow. Hands where I can see ‘em.”

Tim turned his head, slow, deliberate. Met Scar’s eyes again. Then said flatly:

“Or I stay in here.”

He reached for the gear shift casually, ready to slam the Maserati into reverse and wreck the hell out of Bruce’s rear bumper if it gave him an opening.

But—

Then he saw the gun.

Snakeface lifted it into view like it was a gift: compact, ugly, and humming with dangerous potential.

Cadmus-modified KR9. Short barrel. High-rate prototype. Tim had seen one just like it back in the Cave, dismantled on a bench next to a bloodstained vest and the remains of a GCPD bullet catch.

Armor-piercing. Experimental. One pull of that trigger and half the car would be Swiss cheese.

It changed everything.

They weren’t just traffickers. They weren’t just lucky.

They had access.

Which meant connections. Deep ones. Definitely Cadmus-adjacent.

Snakeface leveled the barrel, casual as a yawn.

And for the first time, Tim went still.

He knew what that gun could do.
He’d seen what it left behind.
And he knew—if it fired at this range—he’d be dead before he could even disarm him.

Scar saw it. The realization hit Tim’s face for a half second—just enough for the older man to smile. Real. Cold.

“Good,” he said. “Now we understand each other.”

“Out of the car,” Snakeface ordered, tone gleeful. “Hands first.”

Every tactical instinct in Tim’s body screamed move. Fight. Run.
But the math wasn’t there. Not with that barrel six feet away.
Not with three shooters still trained and watching.

No armor. No backup. No time.

He exhaled, slow. Swallowed it.

Tim Drake, civilian. Play the part.

So he nodded.

“All right,” he said, steady. “Just don’t shoot the car. I really don’t want to explain that to my insurance guy...Which you're right, it is my dad.”

He hit the lock. The soft thunk of the Maserati unlocking felt weirdly loud.

He opened the door. Slow. Hands raised. Empty. No sudden moves.

Scar didn’t wait. He stepped in and grabbed him—lifted him like a gym bag, one thick arm under Tim’s ribs, the other jamming a sidearm to his temple.

Tim’s feet left the ground.

Okay. Rude.

He didn’t fight it. Not yet. Fighting now would just get him shot.

His face pressed awkwardly against Scar’s jacket—scratchy fabric, warm from body heat, smelling of gun oil and burnt powder.

Military.

Confirmed.

But the real blow came from the voices behind him:

“Total the car. We'll hide it in the woods ,” Snakeface barked. 

“And the kid?” another voice asked.

“Bag him,” Scar said. “They want clean tissue.”

A beat. One of the others—He seemed to be the youngest--late twenties early thirties. He wasn't holding the gun as confident as the other four. “Wait... He's a kid."

“They don’t care,” Snakeface replied. “Bones, marrow, eyes. Labs burn through clones faster than they grow ‘em. Brains fry early. Organs reject. Skin necrotizes. They’ll take anything in good shape.”

A moment of silence. Then a nervous voice, thin and shaking.

“I thought we were just grabbing homeless people, addicts."

A laugh. Dry. Mean. Tired.

“You haven't been here Kenner. We've been doing this for years. The last doc harvested a kid, seemed around ten," 

Tim’s stomach churned.

But his mind locked in.

He knew the whispers. The rumors Bruce chased in the dark. Black sites. Cloning projects spun out from Cadmus—unsanctioned, unmonitored. Places where "research" was an excuse for butchery. Where clones aged too fast and died screaming.

And when the bodies failed?

Someone had to provide the parts

Well clearly this is one way to do it 

Scar didn’t wait for the rookie to respond.

He turned, stepped forward—and before Tim could twist away, the butt of the KR9 cracked against his temple.

White.

No sound. No breath.

Just white.

Then—

Pain.

And cold.

_~~_

Tim woke hard.

He blinked once. Then again.

Not out of confusion—though that was definitely creeping in—but because he couldn’t move anything else. Not his hands. Not his legs. Not even the subtle tilt of his head. His body felt like it was made of wet sand: too heavy, too slack, too still.

A flicker of motion at the edge of his vision—he forced his gaze downward, and it confirmed what the suffocating tension in his limbs had already told him.

Straps.

Leather. Industrial. Padded, but not for comfort—just to prevent bruising.

They’d locked him down tight.

He was on a gurney—standard issue, field-use. Brushed aluminum frame, reinforced joints, sterilized white surface beneath him. His wrists were secured just above his hips, each strapped with thick, double-looped restraints anchored to steel brackets. His ankles were bound, too—tight and unforgiving, the edges biting into the bare skin above his heels. He tried shifting just an inch. Nothing. He couldn’t even arch his back.

Something cold cradled his neck—a rigid foam brace, molded perfectly to restrict movement while keeping his airway open. His head was slightly elevated, tilted just enough that he could see the ceiling. White. Seamless. LED strips buzzing faintly.

Air brushed across his chest.

Tim swallowed—and felt the sting of raw skin. That was when he noticed he wasn’t in his own clothes.

He was in a gown.

Thin. Papery. The kind hospitals used when they didn’t care about dignity. Barely tied at the sides, it clung to his skin where someone had scrubbed him down. His chest was red in places—scoured antiseptic pink—and sticky in others, like medical tape had been hastily ripped away.

He looked lower.

His breath hitched.

There it was—on the far wall, just above a sealed cabinet with medical kits and a biometric screen scrolling real-time vitals:

The Cadmus logo.

No mistake. No counterfeit.This wasn’t some freelance trafficker operation.

His mouth went dry.

The realization settled in like lead in his gut—cold, heavy, unmoving. A hollow pulse began to beat behind his eyes.

Footsteps shuffled across the metal flooring—too fast, too light to be one of the armed goons.

Kenner.

The rookie. Kid in the white coat. Barely older than Tim himself.

He stepped in holding a medical tablet, his other hand wrapped nervously around a handheld scanner. His coat was too big for him; it swayed around his knees with every step. His freckles stood out harshly under the sterile lights, and his eyes darted up as soon as he realized Tim was awake.

“Oh.” He froze. His grip tightened. “You’re—uh. You’re conscious.”

Tim didn’t respond.

Didn’t move.

Kenner’s throat worked hard. “Okay. That’s… fine.”

He stepped closer, boots whispering across the floor like he was trying not to wake something.

Tim tracked him silently, watching the way his eyes flicked between Tim’s face and the IV line now taped into the crook of his left arm.

There it was.

A thin clear bag. It pulsed slowly as the drip fed into his bloodstream.

A sedative. Just wonderful.

He flexed the fingers of his left hand—just enough to test the current. Weak. Distant. But present.

Kenner moved again, passing the scanner slowly over Tim’s chest. It beeped softly.

“You weren’t supposed to wake up yet,” the rookie mumbled, as if the equipment might scold him.

Still, Tim said nothing. He could feel the buzz in his blood now—adrenaline pushing past the drugs, trying to claw its way to the surface. Like static humming behind every nerve. He filed the feeling away. Catalogued it. Used it.

Control—limited, but still there.

Kenner reached toward a second vial already clipped to the IV port.

“There,” he mumbled. “You should be out again soon.”

The drip rate increased. The sedative kicked harder.

Kenner shifted uncomfortably, the scanner trembling slightly in his grip. He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing beneath the collar of his too-white coat.

“They told me to finish the scan,” he said quietly. “Get your blood type. Take the marrow. And then…”

He trailed off.

Tim didn’t move. Couldn’t. But his eyes stayed locked on the rookie’s face. Steady. Sharp. Unblinking. He wanted the kid to feel it — the weight of it.

Kenner looked away.

“I’m not supposed to talk,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. “They said not to… not to engage. Just do the job.”

His voice cracked at the edge, barely above a whisper. “You're the fifth.”

A pause.

“I started Monday.”

Tim’s breath hitched. Just a fraction.

Kenner caught it. His mouth tightened.

“The others were adults. Homeless, mostly. One was a guy who stole a car. Didn’t even make it out of county. Nobody cared. Nobody came looking.”

He blinked rapidly. His hands were shaking now.

“But you…” His gaze flicked back down to Tim. “You’re different. You’re… you’re a kid.”

Tim didn’t respond. Not with words.

But his eyes narrowed, just slightly.

Kenner noticed. Backpedaled a step. “I mean—not, like—a little kid, obviously. You’re… what, sixteen? Seventeen?”

Silence.

The IV drip ticked softly in the quiet.

Kenner pressed the scanner to Tim’s arm again, watching the biometric readout. “You know, most people don’t wake up. The sedative’s supposed to keep you under until... Guess your metabolism's high. Or maybe the dosage was off.”

He glanced at the tablet, scrolling through a set of vitals. His jaw tightened.

"What are you going to do to me?' Tim asked, putting on the scared kid act as he worked on freeing himself, starting with the left hand. (Damn these restraints are tight)

Kenner flinched at the question—like he hadn’t expected Tim to speak. Like hearing his voice made it real in a way the vitals and restraints never did.

He looked down, shoulders hunched, fingers tightening around the edge of the tablet.

“I’m supposed to—” He stopped. Exhaled. Started again, softer this time. “First, I finish the scan. Then I take a sample. Bone marrow. From the hip. It’s fast. They’ve streamlined it.”

Tim blinked slowly. “And after?”

Kenner didn’t answer right away.

The silence stretched long and tense between them. Only the low hum of the van’s engine and the steady drip-drip-drip of the IV filled the space.

Finally, Kenner whispered, like the words weighed more than he could carry:

“Then… I inject the cyanide.”

He looked up, face pale and sick with guilt.

“That’s how they keep the tissue clean. The… organs. Less trauma to the cells.”

Tim’s expression didn’t change. Not outwardly. But a fresh wave of ice bloomed in his chest.

Cyanide. Clinical. Final.

He schooled his features, kept the act going. His voice shook—just a little, just enough.

“You’re going to kill me?”

Kenner looked like he might vomit. He wiped his hand across his mouth, nodding once, barely perceptible.

“I don’t want to,” he said quickly. “I don’t—I didn’t know it would be kids. I thought it was just…  I thought—God, I thought I could make it okay.”

The drugs were strong. Too strong.

Tim blinked slowly, his vision fuzzing at the edges. Every breath felt heavier than the last, like someone was stacking weights on his chest one by one. His fingers tingled. His limbs didn’t just feel weak—they felt disconnected, like the wires were fraying between his brain and body.

But he couldn’t afford to pass out.

That wasn’t an option.

Not yet.

Stay awake. Stay sharp. Stay alive.

"You're just as bad as the others. Those other people didn't deserve to die," 

The man jerked like he’d been shocked. “You think I want this?” he snapped.

Tim blinked, slow and glassy. “Then why are you here?” he asked, voice cracked but still carrying something sharp underneath. “You could at least tell me that… since you’re going to kill me.”

The question hit dead center.

Hopefully he does a long sob story so he can get out of these restraints. 


Kenner stared at him.

The silence dragged.

Tim didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just watched.

And something broke.

“I was…” Kenner exhaled. “I was a prodigy. One of those—you know, the TV-show types. Started college at twelve. Med school at sixteen. They used to write articles about me. ‘The Boy Surgeon.’ Like I was a sideshow.”

He barked a laugh. Bitter. Quiet.

Tim stayed still, watching every breath. Every shift of the man’s weight. His voice slurred again—“Go on”—but soft. Just enough to encourage. To stretch this out.

Rookie leaned back, resting on the heels of his boots. Still holding the cyanide syringe in one hand like it weighed more than his whole arm.

“I wasn’t just good,” he muttered. “I was brilliant. Cut time in half. Developed faster protocols for reconstructive grafts. Cadmus came sniffing around before I even finished my residency.”

Tim’s brows twitched. Barely. A flicker. The kind of motion most people would miss. But Kenner caught it.

Still, Tim said nothing. He swallowed hard against the dryness in his throat, fighting the pulse thundering in his ears. He didn’t trust his voice yet—not with the drugs still pooling behind his eyes, not with the way the room kept tilting just a few degrees off balance.

Across from him, Rookie—Kenner—stood frozen, staring down at the syringe in his hand like it might suddenly rear back and sink its teeth into him. His grip was tense, knuckles stark white against the transparent plastic barrel. The needle glinted under the cargo bay lights—long, precise, capped with a drop of viscous fluid that clung like a tear.

“…Then I broke the rules,” Kenner muttered, like the words hurt coming out. “One patient. Just one.”

His voice was tight. Cracked at the edges.

“She was too far gone. On the transplant list, but… time ran out. Days, maybe hours. No donors. No miracles.”

He swallowed. Looked up. Eyes red-rimmed.

“So I made a call. I took a shortcut.”

Tim’s throat clenched, and the words scraped out, low and rough. “You killed someone?”

Kenner recoiled like he’d been struck.

“No! God, no—I didn’t—” He stopped himself, bit down on the instinct to explain too fast. Then inhaled shakily, trying to reset.

“I didn’t kill anyone,” he said more slowly. “But I bought from someone who might’ve. I didn’t ask where the kidney came from. Didn’t check the donor registry. It was a backchannel deal. Off the books. I just… took it. Put it in. Saved her life.”

He dragged a hand down his face, rubbing at the bridge of his nose like he could scrub the memory out through sheer friction.

“She lived.”

Tim’s voice softened, just enough to pierce. “But?”

“But I got caught. There was a flag on the barcode—mismatched serials. Hospital review board lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree. Suddenly I was in front of the licensing committee, answering questions I had no clean answers for. They revoked my credentials. Erased my future in a day.”

Kenner’s jaw tightened. His eyes glinted, not with anger—but with hollowed-out frustration.

“All those years. Gone. Just like that. I was supposed to be someone. But now? Now I’m the guy with the needle, working in a van, sedating kids for people who don’t even call them human.”

Tim’s fingers worked slowly against the leather restraint. Careful. Precise. Each tiny movement hidden by the way his body sagged against the gurney.

“Why this?” he asked. His voice wasn’t accusatory—just tired. “Why not run?”

Kenner looked at him.

Really looked.

And—for the first time—he didn’t look frightened.

He looked spent.

“You don’t get it,” he said quietly. “These people don’t have exit plans. You screw up, you vanish. Quiet. No screaming, no witnesses. Just—gone.”

He looked down again at the syringe. At the red band circling the barrel like a warning.

“I’ve only been here a week,” he whispered. “And I’ve already seen what happens to people who hesitate.”

His hand wavered.

The syringe dipped lower.

Good.

“God, you look so young…

Kenner’s gaze flicked up. He hesitated. “You’re what… fifteen?”

Tim swallowed thickly. He could feel the edge of the leather strap now, the last loop grinding against his skin.

He gave a slight shake of his head. “Sixteen,” he rasped. “Got my license two weeks ago.”

Kenner made a small, strangled sound in his throat. Something between a breath and a sob.

He sank down onto the narrow bench across from the gurney, like his legs finally gave out. The syringe dangled loosely between his fingers now, forgotten. The red-banded label glinted under the flickering dome light above them.

“You’re a good kid,” Kenner murmured. “I can just tell. Smart. Brave. Your parents… they’re gonna be devastated.”

Tim’s jaw clenched. Just for a second. But he buried the emotion before it could reach his face. His expression stayed loose. Distant. Not blank—vulnerable. Measured.

“My dad told me to be home by 11:45,” he said softly, the words dragging like molasses. “I don’t know what time it is now.”

Kenner turned toward the wall. There—above the biometric scanner, mounted just beside a rust-stained first aid box—hung a cracked plastic digital clock, its green numbers glowing like they belonged to a different world.

12:03 a.m.

Too late.

Tim saw it happen.

The way Kenner’s entire posture shifted—shoulders slumping, eyes dimming. That awful realization that time hadn’t stopped just because his life had.

“…Jesus,” Kenner whispered, again. The word landed like a confession.

“You’re past curfew,” he said, voice cracking. “And I’m the reason.”

Tim blinked slowly, the drugs still coiling through his limbs, tugging at the edge of consciousness like a rising tide. He didn’t fight it, not physically. But inside, he latched onto Kenner’s guilt like a handhold in a storm.

Don’t sleep. Don’t sleep. Don’t sleep.

A soft chime broke the silence—electronic, clinical.

Kenner turned toward the monitor, like muscle memory dragged him there.

“Your blood type’s AB.”

His voice had changed—muted, clinical. He was trying to turn it back into data. Trying to stop seeing Tim as a person.

“Universal plasma donor,” he said flatly. “Compatible with almost every clone series. Your stem cells are high-yield. You’re… you’re valuable.”

His brow furrowed, 

“You have thalassemia. Iron is low—but stable. Beta minor. Genetic, not acquired. It won’t affect viability.”

Kenner said it like he was reading off a chart, not speaking about a sixteen-year-old kid sedated and strapped to a gurney. Not someone breathing inches away from him, blinking slowly, skin pale under the cargo bay’s harsh lights.

Another sharper beep.

He flinched.

“Pulse is elevated. BP’s starting to drop. That’s the sedative. It’s working.”

Tim let his eyes flutter shut for a second. Just a second. Enough to sell it.

“…Sounds like I’m a good match,” he murmured. “Lucky me.”

Kenner looked down at the syringe.

He didn’t raise it.

Didn’t even move.

He stared at it like it might vanish if he blinked.

“You should be unconscious by now,” he said softly.

Tim flexed again—just a little more. He felt the strap slide a fraction. Almost there.

“Light sleeper,” he said. “Stress dreams. Need a nightlight.”

Kenner made a small sound—maybe a laugh, maybe not. It was muffled, buried in shame.

“That’s what I’m waiting on,” he said finally. “They said it’s easier once you’re under. Like flipping a switch.”

He didn’t look at Tim.

He didn’t look at anything.

Just stared down at the metal floor, eyes glazed over.

And then—

The van doors slammed open, hard enough to rattle the walls.

Cold air poured in—thick with exhaust and asphalt and the sharp sting of ozone. The stink of a city that didn’t sleep.

Snakeface stepped up into the cargo bay, bootheels loud on the metal floor. He moved with practiced control—military, maybe. Rifle slung low across his chest, one hand resting lightly on the grip. Casual, but not careless.

His eyes landed on Tim like a weight.

“Vitals?” he barked, not looking at Rookie.

Kenner jumped to his feet like a soldier at inspection, straightening instinctively. “AB-positive,” he reported. “Healthy. No inflammation markers. High marrow density, but—”

His voice dipped.

“Thalassemia beta minor,” he added, reluctantly. “It’s mild. Won’t affect viability.”

Snakeface’s brow twitched. Just barely.

“As long as the parts work.”

He stalked toward the gurney, gaze flicking from the biometric readout to the syringe still clutched in Kenner’s hand.

Unused.

His eyes narrowed.

“You sure he’s solid?”

Kenner nodded, quickly. “Vitals confirm. Everything’s within target range.”

Snakeface glanced once more at Tim. Cold. Appraising.

“Waiting on sedation?”

Kenner nodded again. “Yeah. Should be any second now. Once he’s fully under, I’ll—”

“Don’t screw it up,” Snakeface cut in. “We’ve got a schedule to keep. You’ve got thirty min—”

Tim swung.

His left arm snapped out in a desperate, unbalanced arc—the only limb he’d managed to free. His wrist screamed from the strain of working the restraint loose, but it didn’t matter now. The motion was instinctive, raw and wild, riding a wave of pure adrenaline. His fingers clawed for Snakeface’s rifle strap—not the weapon itself, just the strap, anything he could yank.

The impact wasn’t clean, but it was enough.

The strap jerked violently off Snakeface’s shoulder, the KR9 crashing sideways into the metal wall of the van with a clatter-clang that echoed like a gunshot. Snakeface staggered with the force, caught off guard—but only for a second. His reflexes were military-honed, faster than Tim liked. He twisted, already reaching for the grip of the rifle.

But Tim was moving, too.

He hurled himself sideways, yanking at the last ankle restraint with his free hand while he launched off the gurney. The straps tore from their buckle with a snap. In the same motion, he drove his shoulder low and hard into Snakeface’s abdomen, folding the larger man with sheer kinetic momentum.

“Hey!” Kenner’s voice cracked behind him, useless and panicked. Too slow.

They crashed into the van’s side wall with a metallic boom, the entire frame rocking on its suspension. Snakeface grunted as Tim’s shoulder hit his ribs, but he wasn’t down. Not by a long shot. As Tim reached for the rifle again, fingers brushing the cold polymer of the trigger guard, Snakeface’s elbow came crashing down.

It landed flush at the base of Tim’s spine.

White-hot pain exploded through his body. His vision flared, breath catching in his throat. The impact paralyzed him for half a second too long—he slumped forward, muscles betraying him. But he didn’t stop. Couldn’t. He rolled, twisting sharply, dragging himself beneath the gurney, scraping skin against the cold metal floor.

Cover. He needed cover.

“Rookie, do something!” Snakeface barked.

“I—I didn’t know—he was almost under—!” Kenner stammered, voice shrill and cracking.

“Well I can’t shoot him!” Snakeface snarled, rifle half-raised now, teeth bared. “I’ll ruin the goddamn payload!”

Tim’s hand scrambled across the floor, slipping over rubber tubing, cold steel, and discarded gauze—then closing around a small stainless steel tray. It was shallow, dented, probably used for scalpels or syringes.

It wasn’t much.

But it was solid.

He waited. Listened. The scuff of boots. The grunt as Snakeface bent, crouching low to peer under the gurney—

CRACK.

Tim slammed the tray upward with everything he had left. It connected under Snakeface’s chin with a sickening crunch, jerking the man’s head back violently. Snakeface’s entire body went slack before it hit the floor, collapsing like a felled tree. His shoulder smashed into the bench, limbs sprawled and twitching, rifle slipping from his grip.

Kenner gasped—a sharp, guttural sound.

“Oh sh—”

Tim didn’t wait.

Still half-dazed, half-drugged, he rolled and lunged. His head swam, vision blurring at the edges, but he crashed into Kenner with everything he had. The ex-doctor wasn’t ready. His back slammed into the van’s opposite wall with a thud. One of his hands clawed at Tim’s shoulder, but it was untrained, uncoordinated.

Tim had the tray again.

He raised it. Brought it down on Kenner’s temple.

Once. A wet crack.


He dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.

The van went still.

Just the ragged pant-pant-pant of Tim’s breathing remained, uneven and sharp. His chest heaved. The sedative still gripped his limbs like tar, every movement thick and clumsy, but he was up. Alive.

Barely.

He leaned on one elbow, head hanging for a moment. Sweat dripped off his brow. His left arm throbbed—he’d torn the IV out somewhere in the fight. A trickle of blood ran down the crook of his elbow, dripped in slow rhythm onto the floor.

Stay awake, he told himself. Move.

He reached for Snakeface’s body, patting him down with trembling fingers. Keys. Phone. Wallet. A thick plastic badge clipped inside the jacket—Cadmus, it read in bold white font, stamped with a stylized black glyph on red. A circle split by jagged lines. Institutional. Impersonal.

Kenner had one too. Newer. Glossy. His name still sharp along the edge.

Tim ripped Snakeface’s jacket off. It was too big, but warm, and it covered the hospital gown clinging to his skin. He stuffed both IDs into a side pocket, not even checking if the blood had smeared them.

He shoved the door latch open with a grunt.

The double doors creaked, the cold night air rushing in like a flood, snapping across his sweat-soaked body. It burned—but it woke him up. Grounded him.

Tim jumped.

The landing wasn’t graceful. His knees hit first, then his palms—one scraping hard against loose gravel, the other sinking into damp leaves. A sharp rock tore into the heel of his hand, but he barely registered it.

He pushed up, staggered once, then steadied himself against the van’s bumper.

Trees. Everywhere. Black silhouettes under a bruised-blue sky, lit only by the moon and the distant yellow glow of the van’s dome light. The air smelled like pine, wet earth, and exhaust.

Tim’s head lolled. His balance wavered.

Don’t fall asleep. Don’t fall now. Breathe.

His breath shuddered in and out, clouds forming in front of his mouth. It had to be late. Past midnight. The van behind him rumbled faintly, still running. The engine was low, almost gentle—like a lullaby.

He turned his head just enough to look back through the open doors.

Snakeface was sprawled, neck bent at an unnatural angle. Kenner lay on his side. Neither moved.

Tim didn’t feel anything.

Not guilt. Not relief. Just the echo of survival beating in his chest like a second heart.

He pocketed the IDs again.

Later. They might help him later.

Now?

Escape.

He turned and limped toward the trees, every branch snagging on the jacket, every step dragging through underbrush and wet soil. His feet were bare. Cold. But he moved. Step by agonizing step.

Downhill.

Away from the lights.

The forest thickened around him, a tangle of roots and bramble and shadows. The deeper he went, the quieter it became—like the woods were swallowing up the violence he’d just clawed his way out of.

His breath slowed.

His nerves didn’t.

He kept going, jaw clenched, teeth chattering now from more than just cold. His muscles twitched, like his body was trying to shake off the last of the sedation.

He bit the inside of his cheek.

Hard.

Pain flared. Sharp. White-hot.

It cleared some of the fog.

Still too slow.

Still too loud.

Now, he had maybe twenty minutes until the rest of the crew realized something was wrong. Scar, and...the other two—they were out there, somewhere. Probably totaling the Maserati. Probably heading back soon.

He limped into the treeline, branches catching on his sleeves, thorns tugging at the jacket. Every step felt like it took a year.

But he didn’t stop.

Tim forced his breath shallow as he moved—quick, shuffling steps at first, then steadier. The chill of the forest helped. Kept him sharp. Kept him from falling under completely.

He followed the scent like a trail.

Oil. Gasoline. Burnt rubber. All of it rode on the wind, faint but distinct. The kind of smells that don’t belong in woods like these. Too chemical. Too human.

He moved downhill, bare feet slipping in the leaf rot and soft earth. His limbs were still trembling, nerves jangling under the leftover sedation. The edges of trees ghosted past him like he was walking underwater.

Focus.
He bit the inside of his cheek. Hard. The pain sparked white, cleared a little fog.

Ten minutes, maybe less, if not now that the others are on their way back and they will be looking for him. 

He saw their faces. Every one of them. Scar. Snakeface. Trigger. Ink. Rookie.

No masks. No gloves. No deniability.

They couldn’t let him walk away now.

Tim’s heart stuttered against his ribs as adrenaline tried to shove its way past the lingering drugs in his system. The pounding in his skull matched his pulse, a grim metronome keeping time with every stumble-step downhill.

They’re coming back. They’ll find the van. The bodies. The missing IDs.

He pushed harder, slipping on a patch of moss, catching himself on a crooked tree trunk. Bark scraped his palm raw, but he barely felt it.

The scent thickened.

He was close.

Tim pressed forward until the trees broke—and there it was. Twisted metal. The Maserati, wrecked but not dead. Steam hissed from the grille like it was breathing through broken teeth. A smear of oil streaked the earth behind it.

It looked like something had tried to bury it in the forest. Poorly.

He staggered toward it, scanning the shadows, listening. The birds weren’t singing anymore. No breeze through the canopy. Just the hiss of the engine, the creak of cooling metal, and his own shallow breath.

Every sound felt too loud. Like it would give him away.

He grabbed the door handle.

It opened with a groan. Keys still dangling from the ignition.



Tim dropped into the driver’s seat. His body felt wrong in it—too loose, too heavy—but he gripped the wheel anyway and twisted the key.

The car coughed. Lights flickered. Then—

Ignition.

The engine turned over, whining like it didn’t want to live. But it ran. Barely.

He shifted into reverse. Tires spun, caught on a root, then jolted free. The whole car lurched back six feet.

Branches clawed at the side mirror. Something cracked.

Didn’t matter.

Tim slammed it into drive and gunned it, the engine howling as the car bucked forward. The frame was warped, alignment trashed, tires fighting him every inch—but it moved.

Behind him?

A shout.

Flashlights cutting through trees.

Tim didn’t look back.

He just drove.

Why...whywhywhy didn't he stay home today? 

He knew he wasn't going to like this party, only came because he thought Zoanne would be there, that he may or may not have a crush on. And he should have gone home once he left the party. 

But no.

He had to go get that damn milkshake.

The vanilla one from that little 24-hour diner on the edge of town—because somehow, after dodging sweaty house music, red solo cups, and awkward conversation, he decided the best way to end the night was alone in a dark parking lot sipping dairy because it's the suburbs, he wouldn't do something like that in the city but it's the suburbs.

And now?

Now he was bleeding, drugged, barely conscious, and driving a half-destroyed Maserati through a forest filled with armed traffickers who wanted to cut him open and ship his organs to a lab.

All because of a milkshake.

God, he thought, teeth clenching as he swerved around a fallen branch, tires spitting up gravel, I am never listening to my cravings again.

Yeah.
Bruce is going to kill him.


Tim swore he’d be home by 11:45, that he'd text if he was going to be late. 

And Bruce had nodded—just that single, steady nod that said I trust you.

Like an idiot, Tim had believed that meant tonight would be normal.

Now it was... what? Two-thirty? Maybe later.
The dashboard clock was toast—smeared with blood and half-melted from whatever the hell those guys did to the interior.

No GPS. No signal. No streetlights.
Just trees. Mud. The reek of smoke and engine coolant.

And pain.

Every breath dragged through his chest like gravel. His arm throbbed from where the IV had ripped loose—oozing through his sleeve. His head was still full of cotton and static, the leftover sedation pulling at his eyelids like lead weights.

He couldn’t feel the tips of his fingers.

He couldn’t find a damn road.

He’d barely gotten the car started—But it was limping. Grinding through the forest trail like a dying animal, tires skidding every time he asked it for more than a crawl.

And it was going to take at least an hour to get back to Gotham. Probably longer. That’s if he didn’t pass out. Or get caught. Or just bleed out in some ditch outside city limits.

He was turning blindly for a while, dangerous he knows but he found the street. 

That was pure luck.

The asphalt loomed out of the trees like salvation—uneven, cracked, but real. Civilization. It cut through the woods in a lazy curve, silver in the moonlight, empty.

Tim hit it doing maybe twenty and nearly fishtailed the Maserati into a drainage ditch, but he wrestled the wheel back under control with a gasp that scraped his throat raw.

Road.

He was on a road.

The tires hummed differently here, no longer fighting mud or pine needles. His pulse tried to match the rhythm—faster now, almost hopeful—but his body had other plans. He was fading. Fast. Vision blurry, eyes heavy. 

But he can make it. 

Hopefully.

_~~_ 

Bruce can't help but watch the camera in the garage. It just made 9:00, Tim was...

Wait he didn't ask where he was going. 

God how could he have forgotten that? 

Tim already lied saying that there was no drinking at this party...

Does he think he was born yesterday? It's a high school party, Of course there’d be drinking.Bruce had known it the moment Tim said “just some classmates.” That line was always the red flag—too casual, too clean. He’d used it himself once, a thousand years ago. 

But he’d let it go.

He trusts Tim, the boy has proven himself with the cases at thirteen, the solo stuff he does now. He is more than capable of handling a highschool party. 

And...Tim has lost so much, has earned a night to be normal.

Bruce knew the boy carried his grief like clockwork—precision-made, buried deep. He didn’t lash out. Didn’t break things. He just got quieter. Sharper. Like if he solved enough, saved enough, planned well enough, it might undo the way life kept taking things from him.

He watched it happen, watched Tim fold every loss into his bones.
Stephanie.
Conner.
Bart.
Jack Drake, lying cold in that apartment.

Some days, Bruce didn’t understand how the kid still stood up, let alone put on the suit and kept going. He was too young to have lost so much. Too good to deserve that kind of weight. But he bore it anyway, with that same relentless determination that made him Robin without ever being asked.

So Bruce gave him space.
He gave him tonight.

A party.
Just a party.

He thought, Let him be sixteen. Let him have noise and music and bad snacks. Let him laugh at something stupid and not have to memorize blood types or criminal profiles for one goddamn evening.

Alfred knocked on the study door, but came in anyway when Bruce didn't answer. 

"I was looking for Master Tim to tell him that dinner is ready if he is hungry," 

Bruce didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. His eyes were locked on the frozen feed from the garage—just shadows and static now. 

And now Alfred was standing behind him asking about dinner.

“He left,” Bruce said, voice low. “Party.”

Alfred paused. “Ah. The sort of event with loud music, sugary drinks, and questionable decision-making?”

“That’s the one.”

Alfred nodded slowly, then walked further into the room, setting a steaming plate down on the table beside Bruce. “And I take it this sudden interest in camera footage and telemetry signals means he has not yet returned?”

“He said he’d be back by 11:45.”

Alfred blinked. 

"Master Bruce it is only 9:07," 

Bruce didn't twitch. 

 "You are aware the young master is likely still navigating social rituals involving red cups and awkward dancing?" Alfred suggested. 

Bruce still watched the the cam. 

Alfred sighed, pulling out his own smartphone, texting Tim himself. 

ALFRED:

    Do remember to hydrate, Master Timothy. And perhaps do not leave your drink unattended. Hope you’re enjoying yourself.
    —A.

He puts the phone away, knowing full well Tim might not respond. Might be wrapped in some too-loud kitchen conversation or pretending to care about a Spotify playlist while counting exits and watching for patterns like he always does.

But then, the phone buzzes.
Barely a minute later.

Alfred reads the message, a small flicker of something easing in his chest.

TIM:

    All good. Not dead. Having a decent time. 
    ETA home: 11:30, earlier than set curfew.

Alfred allows himself a quiet breath of relief, then turns the screen gently toward Bruce.

Bruce reads the message.

Once.
Twice.
Again.

The words don’t exactly relieve him, not in the way they’re supposed to—but they pull the tension just a degree looser. Just enough that his shoulders unlock from their war stance. He leans back slightly, exhaling through his nose, still watching that blank garage feed like it might flicker to life and show Tim pulling in early, alive and grumbling and fine.

“‘Not dead,’” Bruce mutters. “That’s his idea of reassurance.”

Alfred raises an eyebrow. “He is a Wayne, sir. Emotional nuance comes second to gallows humor.”

Bruce doesn’t answer. But his hand drops from the console, fingers curling loosely on the armrest.

Alfred sets the phone back in his pocket and smooths his jacket. “You could call him.”

“No,” Bruce says. Too fast. Too sharp. Then he softens, just barely. “He’s sixteen. If I call, I’m overbearing.” He sighs. 

"What is wrong with me? He does solo cases, spends almost every night getting shot at, and I’m losing my mind over a party.” 

Alfred didn’t respond right away. Just stood there quietly, that look on his face—the one Bruce could never quite name. Somewhere between compassion and chastisement.

Then:
“You’re not losing your mind, sir. You’re being a parent.”

Bruce exhaled. A soft huff that didn’t quite make it to a laugh.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, glanced once more at the garage cam feed. Still dead. Still nothing.

It was 9:09.

Too early to panic.

Honestly he shouldn't be panicking at all. 

"We'll talk, after this. I want Tim to give me...at least an idea of where he is when  he goes to these kind of events and... should I talk about protection Alfred?" 

Alfred, ever unshakable, didn’t so much as blink. But Bruce could see the faint twitch of his mouth—the beginnings of a smile he was clearly suppressing out of mercy.

“Protection, sir?”

Bruce gave him a look. “You know what I mean.”

“Ah.” Alfred folded his hands behind his back, voice politely neutral. “The sort of conversation which tends to inspire deep embarrassment in both parties and typically results in the younger attempting to exit the room at great speed?”

Bruce sighed and leaned back in the chair, tilting his head to stare at the ceiling like it might offer divine guidance. “Yes. That one.”

A long pause.

Then Alfred, with a touch of genuine warmth:
“It is never a bad idea to ensure the young master is prepared. Even if, in all likelihood, he will wish the earth to swallow him whole halfway through your… presentation.”

Bruce closed his eyes. “God.”

“He is sixteen,” Alfred continued gently. “And while I daresay his current interest lies more in solving unsolved murder cases than pursuing romantic exploits, that may not always be the case.”

“I just want to make sure he knows… to be safe. If anything ever happened and I hadn’t—”

Alfred raised a hand, cutting him off with more compassion than condescension. “Then tell him. Perhaps not tonight. Perhaps not even tomorrow. But when the time comes—tell him. He’ll listen. Even if he rolls his eyes and pretends otherwise.”

Bruce didn’t answer right away. He just stared at the silent garage cam again, jaw tight.

“He’s not like them,” he said finally. “Dick, Jason. They were already mine when I had these talks. Already used to me being overbearing.”

“Tim is yours too,” Alfred said simply.

Bruce looked away.

Alfred walked around the desk, placing a hand on Bruce’s shoulder with quiet finality. “You may not have raised him from a young age, sir. Although you were in his life. But make no mistake—he is your child. And he will forgive you your awkward attempts at guidance, the same way the others did. Because what matters most, in the end, is that he knows you care.”

Bruce let that sit in the silence between them.

Outside, the wind picked up—trees rustling just beyond the reinforced windows of the manor. The fire in the study snapped once, like it agreed.

Bruce nodded slowly.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll talk to him.”

Alfred’s hand gave his shoulder a final, reassuring squeeze.

“Good,” he said. “Now eat.”

Bruce picked up the plate, still watching the monitor out of the corner of his eye.

The screen remained unchanged.

Still 9:12.

Still early.

--

Bruce told himself he was going to the cave.
He had turned off the garage camera an hour ago, mainly watching the clock.
10:45.

He still had an hour to go.
He really shouldn’t be this worried.

Tim was out at a party. Not with the Titans. Not tracking smugglers in Blüdhaven. Not wired for surveillance in some crumbling tenement halfway to Narrows East. A party. With kids his own age.

And yet—he was this worried.

The same bone-deep worry he got when Tim went out solo, when he rerouted League chatter on his own, when he stayed up all night running facial recognition across six continents and forgot to eat for two days.

Bruce sat down heavily in the chair by the Batcomputer, fingers tapping the armrest in a rhythm that didn’t match the clock but kept time with his own rising tension.

He told himself Tim could handle himself.
He always had.

But that wasn’t the point, was it?

The point was that for all of Tim’s skill—for all his plans, his quiet competence, his preternatural calm—he was still sixteen.

Still the boy who had showed at Wayne Manor  because Bruce had been falling apart.

So no, he wasn’t being rational.
And maybe he wasn’t supposed to be.

That was the thing about caring, wasn’t it?
It was never rational.

Bruce sighed, there are going to be more parties, Tim is growing up, Bruce is going to blink and he will be in college.

He rubbed a hand over his jaw, the weariness settling deeper into his bones.

'I am putting trackers in all of my cars.' 

Because of course he was.
Because of course this wouldn’t be the last time.

Bruce leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The Batcomputer cast pale blue light across his face, sharp and tired and older than he’d ever admit. He wasn’t angry, not really. And he didn’t want to be controlling. But damn it, he would feel so much better if he knew where Tim was. 

--

It had just made 11:45.

The garage was still empty.

And Bruce—world’s greatest detective, master of self-control, borderline myth to half the criminal world—stood in the cave, arms crossed like a parent at a sleepover pickup. Watching a garage feed. Watching nothing.

He told himself it was just to double-check. Just to confirm. Maybe Tim got back early and didn’t text. Maybe he pulled into the garage while Bruce was in the cave. Maybe this would all resolve with a car door slamming and a tired teenager walking inside, complaining about the music and asking if there were any waffles left.

But the feed remained unchanged. Silent. Still.

Just the garage.
Lights on.
No car.

Bruce didn’t move.

Because now it was 11:45.

Okay don't panic yet, maybe he will text...

11:46 

11:47 

11:48...

11:51.

Okay.

Okay.

Bruce’s jaw clenched, muscles ticking with restraint. His eyes stayed locked on the garage feed like it might suddenly glitch and reveal Tim had been there all along, just hidden behind some trick of the angle. But there was nothing.

No headlights.
No movement.
Just white fluorescent stillness.

He told himself to wait until 11:55.
He always gave the boys some grace time. Traffic, distractions, goodbyes—anything could be eating a few minutes.

And then when 11:55 rolled around, he said 12:00

Then it was 12:05 

12:10

12:15 

Bruce didn’t realize his hands had curled into fists until he felt his nails digging into his palms. 

Maybe Tim just forgot?

Bruce held onto that thought like it might anchor him. He forgets sometimes. Doesn’t text after solo patrols. Doesn’t check in with the Titans unless something’s gone sideways. It wasn’t unusual. Tim was independent, meticulous in the field—but not always the best at routine updates. He’d say it was inefficient to report when nothing had gone wrong. That radio silence was the report.

But this wasn’t patrol.

This was a party.

No comms. No cowl. No protocol. Just—

“Classmates.”
Red cups. Too-loud music. Cheap beer and secondhand cologne. He has no idea where he is. 

The amount of cases he has seen with these settings...

A drunk group of teens...God 

Alcohol poisoning--

No Tim doesn't drink, no amount of peer pressure will ever get him to do that.

Bruce sighed, 'I am putting trackers and bells on this kid as soon as he walks through the door, I don't care about Dick's advice about personal space

Tim was smart. Careful. He thought five steps ahead. But that didn’t make him invincible. And tonight wasn’t one of those carefully planned steps—it was real life. Random. Human. Messy.

Bruce pushed away from the wall, pacing a few steps, then checked the time again.

12:23.

God where is he? 

"He hasn't returned yet?" 

Bruce turned sharply, stopping his pacing to face Alfred. 

"No, he hasn't," Bruce replied. He hated that it came out so harsh. This wasn't Alfred's fault. 

Alfred didn’t flinch. He never did. He merely stepped further into the room, hands folded neatly in front of him, as calm as ever—though Bruce, who had known him his entire life, caught the slight narrowing of his eyes, the way his gaze lingered on Bruce’s clenched fists.

“I take it you’ve attempted to reach him?” Alfred asked gently. 

Bruce nodded, "Nothing. Will not text back. His phone goes straight to voicemail," 

Alfred absorbed that in silence. A breath. A blink. A faint tightening of his jaw. And then he moved—smoothly, deliberately—across the floor, stopping by the edge of the desk.

“I’ll put the tea on,” he said. “Because either he returns in the next fifteen minutes and you’ll need something to keep your hands busy, or he doesn’t—and we will need to prepare for the worst.”

Bruce didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His jaw was locked too tight.

The worst.

That phrase should have been clinical to him by now. He’d spent half his life preparing for it, preventing it, living in it. But when it came to his sons, the words always hit like a body blow.

He turned back to the Batcomputer. Rewound the garage feed again like something might shift this time. That Tim’s car would flicker into frame and he could laugh at himself for spiraling. But the feed remained empty. Pristine. Mocking.

He opened the city-wide traffic cams. Started sweeping routes back from Gotham Heights. Then side streets. Then bridges.

“Sir,” Alfred’s voice came again, a bit lower now, from where he stood by the cave’s comm station, “if you give me the approximate location of the party, I can begin calling emergency rooms under an alias.”

Bruce hesitated.

Then: “I didn’t ask where he was going.”

Alfred turned. Slowly.

“I didn’t ask,” Bruce said again, quieter now. “I let it go. He said it was classmates. I—God, I knew that meant something shady. And I just… let him.”

Alfred said nothing for a moment. Then: “You trusted him.”

“I always trust him,” Bruce snapped, spinning to face him. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?”

Bruce ran a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through every motion. “That he’s sixteen, Alfred. That I am still the adult in this equation. I should have—something. A house address. A contact. Hell, a neighborhood.”

“You were trying to respect his independence,” Alfred said gently.

“I don’t care about independence,” Bruce ground out. “I care about whether he’s alive right now.”

That hung in the air between them, raw and sharp and terrifying.

"I must remind you that this arrangement of parent and child between the two of you is fairly new. Master Timothy has only been under your roof for three months, and he is, by nature, a very private young man,” Alfred finished softly. 

“Trust is not built in a day. Nor are habits of communication, even with the best intentions.”

Bruce looked away, jaw clenched, arms folding tight across his chest like armor. He hated this—hated the helplessness clawing at him, hated how it twisted inside his chest and made every second stretch unbearably long.

“We trust each other," 

"In certain areas sir, patrol, cases. But have you talked to the boy about other areas? He has an photography exhibit coming up, the fact that he is on the high honor roll? He is very good at tennis--do you know any of his friends names?" 

Bruce didn’t answer right away.

The question sat there—quiet but damning.

"You're right," He sighed. 

Alfred didn’t gloat. He didn’t need to. He simply inclined his head—graceful, measured. “Then perhaps we start there.”

Bruce closed his eyes, exhaling slowly through his nose. “Yeah.”

He moved to the workstation again, fingers hovering over the console—but without the same frenetic urgency as before. The panic hadn’t left, not fully. But it had shifted. No longer white-hot, no longer clawing. Now it was colder. More focused.

If Tim wasn’t answering…
If he wasn’t on the garage feed…
If his phone was off…

Then Bruce needed to start doing what he did best.

Detect.

“Start with a five-mile radius around Gotham Heights High,” he said aloud. “Any traffic backups, reported noise complaints, hospital calls, arrests.”

Alfred was already inputting the commands.

Normally Bruce would began triangulating past Tim’s usual transit patterns—his shortcuts, his backup routes that he has done on his motorcycle. 

But he doesn't know those. 

As Alfred said he knows Robin. 

Barely anything about Tim Drake. 

Bruce stared at the console, hands hovering above the keys.

And stopped.

Because for the first time in a long time, he had nothing to input.

No secret route catalogued in the cave’s archives.
No predictable behavioral patterns logged from years of study.
No GPS breadcrumbs from patrol nights or even driving habits from weekends.

Because those were all Robin’s.

Not Tim Drake’s.

Not the boy who lived in the east wing, who ate in the kitchen and disappeared into the library for hours. The boy who spent his free time in the darkroom developing film Bruce never thought to ask about. The boy who made straight A’s and didn’t bring home a single certificate. Who got up every day and functioned like clockwork—quietly, precisely, without ever demanding to be seen.

Bruce didn’t know the streets he took to school.
Didn’t know the name of a single classmate.

He had never asked.

And that failure sat inside him now like a second heart, beating loud and hollow.

“I don’t know where he would’ve gone,” Bruce said quietly, almost to himself.

Alfred paused beside him.

“Then we begin at the beginning,” Alfred said. “Who invited him. Who else was there. Who was supposed to know where this party was.”

Bruce honestly didn't know.

But he knew who might. 

Bruce reached for the comm.

“Calling Dick,” he said, already routing the signal.

It took less than two rings.

“Hey, B,” came Dick’s voice—casual, warm. Unaware. “What’s up?”

Bruce didn’t waste time. “It’s Tim. He’s not home. He’s not answering. Phone’s off. I need everything you know about this party he went to.”

Silence on the line. Then a slight shift in tone—immediate alertness. “Wait—he’s missing?”

“I don’t know yet,” Bruce said, and even that felt like a lie. Because his gut was twisting in that way it only did when something was wrong. “He said he’d be home before midnight. It’s past. I’ve tried everything. I don’t know where he went. I don’t even know who he went with.”

Another pause. Then Dick’s voice, lower. “Okay. Okay. I—hang on. He mentioned it once. Last week, I think. Just in passing. Said some classmates invited him. Jared? Zoanne? Something like that. Didn’t seem excited.”

Bruce’s eyes snapped open. “Zoanne?”

“Yeah. Think so. Pretty sure that was the name.”

Bruce remembered that name now—He has heard Tim mention her.

“You’re telling me he went to this party for them?”

“Honestly?” Dick sighed. “I was surprised he was going at all. Said he probably wouldn’t even stay long. That he just… didn’t want to disappoint them.”

Bruce’s jaw clenched. That tracked. That absolutely tracked.

Tim didn’t do things for himself. He did them because someone else needed him to. Because it was expected. Because someone had to hold the line, and no one else would.

Even when it was just a stupid party with red cups.

“Any idea where it was being held?” Bruce asked, fingers already moving on the keyboard, pulling school directories, 

"I don't know, he said that one of the members of the school basketball team was throwing it,” Dick finished. “That’s all I caught. He kind of brushed past it.”

Bruce was already searching the Gotham Heights High basketball roster, cross-referencing names with public social media profiles and recent posts.

Basketball team captain… Jared Collins.
Forward… Marcus Dade.
Point guard… Evan Ruiz.

He zeroed in on Jared first. The name had come up earlier, and sure enough—his public SnapMap from earlier in the night showed a pinned location. A house. Dozens of tagged stories. Music, beer pong, kids crowded into hallways. Red solo cups.

And the location? 

The suburbs, like an hour and fifteen minutes away from the city. 

That was a house deep in the outer suburbs, far beyond Tim’s usual range, beyond where Bruce would’ve expected any high school event to be. A place where the streetlights were fewer, the neighbors more distant, and the chance of someone noticing a problem—or reporting one—sharply lower.

Bruce’s breath came out slow. Controlled. Focused. But his mind was already racing.

If Tim left that party on time—if he even stayed—he should’ve been home by now. Easily. Unless something had happened on the road.

Or before he ever left.

Bruce pulled the house address: 312 Belmont Drive. Large property. One entrance. Minimal exterior lighting. He tapped into municipal records—belonged to a “Diane and Roger Collins,” Jared’s parents, currently overseas in Paris. House unsupervised.

Of course.

"Tell Dick to cover my route tonight," He said, going upstairs. This wasn't a Batman problem, a Bruce Wayne problem, most likely. 

And if Tim is there...safe, unharmed, and this is just pure teenage naivety...

Oh he is going to strangle that kid 

_~~_ 

The house at 312 Belmont Drive was still pulsing with the dregs of teenage chaos when Bruce pulled up.

Music thudded behind the front windows, half-muffled but relentless. Laughter, shouts, the occasional crash of plastic cups—this was the tail end of a high school party, the part where everyone was either too drunk to leave or too tired to try.

It was 2:57 AM.

Bruce stepped out of the car and didn’t have to knock. The door was cracked open, light spilling out onto the front steps. A couple of kids sat on the lawn—one asleep, the other scrolling through their phone with the bleary guilt of someone who knew they were supposed to be home hours ago.

Inside was worse. Sticky floors, overturned furniture, that sharp chemical reek of too much cheap booze. And too many bodies, all heat and cologne and adolescent disinterest.

But the moment Bruce Wayne entered, everything slowed.

A few kids glanced up, eyes going wide. A girl elbowed her friend and whispered something that made the other girl go pale.

Bruce was already moving through the crowd.

He found Jared Collins near the kitchen, red cup in hand, still trying to look cool despite clearly realizing who just walked into his parents' unsupervised mansion.

"Jared," Bruce said evenly.

“Uh—yeah?” The kid straightened, like a soldier caught in inspection. “Mr Wayne! You're Tim's dad," 

Bruce’s voice didn’t raise, but it sharpened.

“Where’s Tim?”

The name made Jared blink fast. “Oh—oh, he left. Hours ago. Like nine or something. I figured he was home already?”

“He’s not.”

Jared paled. “Oh. Um. I mean—he didn’t say anything was wrong. He just… I would try texting him but he dropped his phone in the punch bowl, I think. And then, uh—”

Bruce waited.

“There was this guy,” Jared said quickly. “Just a jerk, really. His name’s Travis. He said Tim spilled punch on his girlfriend’s top and swung at him, and Tim—he didn’t even flinch, just popped him once and walked out. Didn’t even look mad, more like… I don’t know. Tired.”

Bruce’s stomach twisted.

“Did he seem drunk?”

“No!” Jared said quickly. “He didn’t drink. Like at all. I offered him something and he just asked if we had Sprite. We didn’t.”

“Car?”

“Yeah. He drove off. Said he had somewhere to be. Looked kind of... disappointed?  Zoanne was supposed to come but she's sick, he has a crush on her I think." 

That locked into place. Bruce remembered the name from Dick’s earlier call.

Sick. The one reason Tim might have gone at all.

And now he was gone. Since 9:00 PM. No phone. No text. No contact. And the party had been an hour and fifteen minutes from the city.

That left over five hours unaccounted for.

Bruce exhaled slowly through his nose, already spinning through maps, traffic patterns, and worst-case scenarios. If Tim had crashed, there would be a report. If someone had picked him up, there might be a trace. But if—

“Did anyone go after him?” Bruce asked.

Jared shook his head. “I thought he was just… bailing. He didn’t really seem like he wanted to be here anyway.”

Of course not.
Because Tim didn’t come for the party.

He came to show up for someone else.
And once that reason disappeared, he had no reason to stay.

Bruce turned without another word and left the house.

The next phase had begun.
The window of "teen late for curfew" had closed.

This was now officially a missing persons case... 

Walking out of the house and into the humid, late-night quiet of the suburbs.

The door clicked shut behind him. Music and laughter were swallowed up immediately, replaced by the chirp of insects and the soft hum of streetlights. Bruce walked down the front steps, his movements efficient, composed—but inside, everything had shifted.

He gave Jared a nod. Not curt. Not cold. Just final. The kind of nod that says, you’ve done your part. The kind that closes a door without slamming it.

The moment he reached the car, his demeanor hardened.

He tapped his comms.

“Alfred. I have a time. 9:00 PM.  Dropped his phone. Last seen driving off Belmont Drive in the direction of the highway.”

“Understood,” Alfred’s voice crackled through. Calm. Ready. “I’ve already begun pulling traffic cams and DMV records along the most direct routes into Gotham. Expanding now to side roads.”

Bruce slid into the driver’s seat.

“Prioritize crash reports. Anything between 9:00 and now. Minor or major. If he’s off the grid, something happened.”

“And if nothing comes up?” Alfred asked quietly.

“Then we go darker. Surveillance blind spots. Cell towers. Any place quiet enough to vanish without notice.” Bruce’s jaw tightened. “Start looking for dead zones.”

He hung up and took one last glance at the house in the mirror.

He seemed like a case of a kidnapping but with kidnappings...it was always complicated for them. 

The question was, was this a Tim Drake targeting or a Robin targeting. 

And this was during those rare times, those scary times that he didn't know. 

God he didn't know...

_~~_ 

Damn it.
Damn it.
Damn it, DAMN IT!

The car stuttered once, gave a sick mechanical wheeze—and died.

Tim slammed his fist against the steering wheel, the sound muffled by blood still roaring in his ears. The wheel didn’t budge. His arm barely did either. His whole body was giving out—sedatives still in his veins, every nerve fizzing with static. His limbs felt like concrete. His breath came shallow, fast, and wrong, lungs barely keeping up.

Of course the car died now.
Of course the half-wrecked Maserati, already coughing through its last gasp of life, gave out on an abandoned road in the middle of nowhere, forest pressing in from both sides.

Because why wouldn’t it? That’s just how this night was going.

He blinked slow. Hard.

The trees outside the windshield swam. Doubled. His head weighed a thousand pounds—his skull a brick swinging loose on his neck. Everything was tilting, like the earth itself was giving up.

Breathe.
Just… breathe.

No phone.
No comms.
No idea where he was. Just cracked asphalt and woods thick enough to swallow a body whole. Sedated to hell, and if his stomach turned one more time he’d puke.

Behind him…
A shape in the mirror.

Tim’s blood went cold.

The van.

Long. Black. Sleek. Familiar.

His chest locked up. “No… no, no, please don’t be—”

But it was.
He squinted, and there he was—Snakeface. Blood crusted across one side of his face where Tim had nailed him with a tray. Still upright. 

“Okay. Okay, they won’t shoot me,” Tim muttered to himself, voice barely audible over his heartbeat. “Not if they want the organs intact.”

His heart slammed against his ribs like it wanted out.

Run.

The car door creaked open. Cold night air rushed in, biting his skin like teeth. He staggered out onto the road, boots skidding across cracked asphalt. His knees buckled, legs rubbery and wrong, but he kept moving. Stumbling more than running.

The woods were thirty feet away.

Maybe forty.

Dark pines loomed, their branches clawing at the moonlight like crooked fingers.

Behind him:
Van doors slamming.
Voices—shouts.
Snakeface yelling, something about “not damaging the product.”

Tim didn’t look back.

He just ran.

Sort of.

He pitched forward like a drunk, arms flailing, feet barely leaving the ground. His depth perception was shot. Trees doubled, then blurred into one solid wall of black. His body didn’t belong to him—it was a meat suit dragged forward by adrenaline and desperation.

Branches lashed at his hoodie. Thorns caught his arms. A root caught his foot, and he nearly went face-first into the mud, but caught himself last second.

Flashlights.
Voices.
Too close.

Scar’s voice barked out. Cool. Focused. A predator closing in.

Tim’s lungs were on fire.

Still, he moved.

He ducked low. Zigged left. Hoped like hell they didn’t hear the wheeze in his throat.

And then—
A shape crashed into him from the side. Hard.

Tim’s breath exploded out of him as they hit the forest floor, his head bouncing off a root. His vision flashed white. Static burst behind his eyes.

Rookie.

“Guys—I got him—he’s here—!”

Tim’s ears rang. His limbs trembled.

But Kenner was a doctor, not a fighter.  Strong, sure—but his grip was loose, cautious. The kind of strength that’d hesitates before it bruises.

Tim didn’t.

He twisted. Slammed his elbow into the guy’s neck. Not clean, but enough. Then a knee to the ribs—hard. Kenner gasped, grip loosening, and Tim scrambled free, dragging himself through pine needles and wet earth like a wounded animal.

His shoulder was screaming, his vision swimming.

But he kept moving.

Behind him: wheezing.
“G-get back here—!”

Ahead: forest. Shadow. Escape.

Tim bolted. A stumble-sprint through uneven terrain, ducking branches, ignoring the burn in his chest.

“Over here!” Scar again. Calm. Controlled. Getting closer.

They heard him. They’re closing in.

Tim’s hand caught something cold—metal. A half-rusted hiking sign, long-forgotten. He yanked it loose, nearly tripping, but didn’t stop. He needed something—anything—to defend himself.

Flashlights carved up the trees behind him, the two guys he didn't name.

Then:
A beam found his back.

“There!”

Damn it.

He veered sideways, crashing into a tree trunk hard enough to see stars, then pushed off and kept running. A stitch stabbed under his ribs like a knife. His feet skidded on wet leaves.

And then—
Another figure.

Snakeface. Again. Too fast.

Tim swung the sign with everything he had. It cracked across Snakeface’s jaw with a wet, meaty thunk. Blood flew.

But Snakeface didn’t fall.

He lunged, grabbed Tim by the collar, yanked him back like a sack of bones. Tim’s feet left the ground—then slammed down hard. Knees buckled. Vision spun.

“Stupid little—” Snakeface snarled, dragging him backward.

Tim twisted, fought, bit down on Snakeface’s forearm hard enough to taste copper—but the man just slammed him into a tree.

Pain exploded behind his eyes. The bark scraped his back. His arms went slack.

Scar appeared. And behind him—two others. Tim couldn’t think of their names. Couldn’t think at all.

“You get him?” Scar asked casually, dabbing blood from his lip.

Snakeface grinned, panting.

Tim tried one more wild twist—
But Scar caught him. One arm tight across Tim’s chest. “Put an IV back in him,” he barked. “Inject the cyanide when we’re back in the van.”

Tim’s eyes fluttered. His legs didn’t work. His thoughts spun like loose nails in a dryer.

This is it.

Dragged back to the road, his feet scraping the dirt. His body hung limp between them.

He didn’t die in the field. Not in the suit.

Just some dumb kid who left a party and parked somewhere he shouldn’t have.

Maybe… maybe someone would see them.

Please.

“HELP!”
His scream ripped out of him raw and jagged, like glass tearing down his throat. “HELP ME!”

“Shut him up!”

Snakeface’s hand clamped over his mouth. It stank—blood, sweat, smoke.

Tim kicked. Thrashed. But it was useless.

For a second, they all stopped. Listening.

Nothing.
No headlights.
No car.
No savior.

Scar pulled out a syringe.

“This would’ve been easier ten minutes ago,” he muttered.

Tim’s vision blurred.

Then—he kicked.

Straight into Scar’s face.

Crack.

Scar cursed and dropped him. Tim hit the ground hard, rolled, and ran. He couldn’t see straight. He couldn’t breathe. But he ran. Stumbling. Gasping. Every step a battle.

And then—he collided with someone.

Panic took over.

He swung—clumsy. Wild. Screaming.

“Tim! Tim—”

That voice.

His heart stopped.

He looked up—

Bruce.


A beat passed. Just one.

And Tim collapsed into him.

_~~_

Bruce didn't know why he continued to drive through the area. Maybe because he had no idea where else to go. Maybe because instinct screamed louder than logic. Maybe because his gut had pulled him off the highway at the last second, told him to cut across those backroads winding like veins through the forest.

God Tim, where are you?

The words echoed through Bruce’s skull like a mantra—quiet, repetitive, and laced with guilt. With desperation. He didn’t say them aloud. He didn’t need to. They were already pulsing in every turn of the wheel, every flick of his eyes across the trees.

He’d been driving in silence for almost an hour, no destination in mind. Just the lingering traces of a boy who left a party and vanished without a signal, without a trace. A boy he could track when he was Robin, but not when he was just… Tim.

The road curved sharply. Bruce didn’t slow.

A part of him knew this was madness. Knew Alfred was back at the Cave filtering traffic data, drone footage, noise complaints. Knew Dick was checking every social media thread tied to Gotham Heights. 

Then: 

HELP! 

It was faint. Garbled. A sound so raw and human it barely registered as language.

But Bruce heard it.

Not with his ears—not just—but with something deeper. Instinct? Training? Something older, more primal. A father’s sixth sense. The kind of alert that bypassed thought and dropped straight into the nervous system like lightning.

He slammed the brakes.

The SUV fishtailed slightly on the gravel shoulder. Bruce didn’t wait. He was out of the car before it stopped moving, feet hitting the ground hard, eyes already scanning.

At first it was dead silent. Not even the trees seemed to move.

Then Tim rammed into him.

There was no warning.

Just motion—blurred and frantic—and then a body colliding with his. Too light. Too cold. Bruce’s arms caught him purely on reflex.

Tim.

His son’s eyes were blown wide, pupils like ink spills swallowing the blue. He was shaking violently, every muscle trembling like live wire. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. One sleeve of his jacket was soaked in blood—still wet in places, dried to rust in others. And under it—

Bruce’s gut clenched.

The rest of Tim was barely dressed. A crumpled hospital paper gown, torn and streaked with mud and sap and blood. No shoes. Ankles scraped raw. A strip of leather restraint dangled from his wrist like a shackle.

“Tim—”

Bruce barely got the word out before the punch landed.

It wasn’t clean—more panic than precision—but the force behind it shocked him. A fist straight to the jaw, knuckles cracking against bone. Bruce’s head snapped sideways, not from the strength, but from the shock of it.

Tim hit him again. Then again. Flailing, panicked—less like a fighter and more like an animal backed into a corner. Wild, frantic blows.

“No—NO!” Tim was screaming now, hoarse and broken, eyes unfocused and gone. 

He shoved at Bruce’s chest with everything he had, but there wasn’t much strength left in him. His muscles buckled under the weight of adrenaline and what seemed to be sedation. His knees gave out.

Bruce caught him before he hit the pavement..

“It’s me,” Bruce said, voice low and *softer* than anyone alive had ever heard. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Tim didn’t respond at first. Just kept breathing like he was drowning, clutching the lapels of Bruce’s coat like a life preserver. His whole body was shaking. 

Then finally, barely audible:

“Bruce…?”

Bruce swallowed hard. “Yeah, kiddo. It’s me.”

Tim sagged in his arms like a puppet with the strings cut. His knees gave out entirely. Bruce went with him, guiding them both to the ground.

That was when they heard it.

Voices—close. Too close.

“Where’d he go?”
“He couldn’t have gotten far—”
“Check the trees! Check the damn trees!”

The others.

Bruce felt something ancient unfurl in his chest. Cold. Controlled. Lethal.

He eased Tim down gently, like placing porcelain on a velvet cushion. The boy was conscious—barely—but his fight was gone. Still shaking. Still bleeding.

“Cad... Cadmus...Organ runners...I got away, I missed curfew, They destroyed the car and, andandand--" 

Bruce didn’t need the whole story.
Not now. Not yet.

The broken fragments tumbling from Tim’s lips told him enough.

Cadmus. Organ runners.
Destroyed the car.
Got away.

"I'm so sorry B. I...they messed it up and I'm sorry," 

Bruce held him close, one hand cradling the back of Tim’s head, the other wrapped firmly around his shoulders while Tim kept apologizing for a car Bruce didn't give a damn about.

Footsteps. Multiple. Crunching over forest brush, heavy and fast. Voices arguing, splitting up. Closing in.

Bruce’s head lifted slightly, gaze sharpening, ears locking onto the direction of the sound. He didn’t know how many there were—at least four distinct footfalls, maybe five. No formation, no coordination. Sloppy. Loud. But dangerous all the same.

One of them barked out, “He has to be here!”

Another cursed. “How far could a drugged-up brat even get?”

A third, quieter: “You hear that noise earlier? I think someone’s out here.”

Bruce shifted. Fast. Precise. One fluid motion as he slid Tim deeper into the ditch by the shoulder of the road, tucking him behind a fallen log and shielding him with his body. His coat came off in one swift motion and wrapped around Tim, doubling the layer of warmth.

“I’ll be right back, chum,” he whispered.

Tim’s hand clenched weakly in the fabric of his coat. “Don’t—don’t go, Bruce," 

"Shhh," He put a hand through his hair, "I'll be back,"

He stood.

One by one, they emerged from the woods. Shadows in motion. The first had a gnarled face and knuckles cracked like old leather, limping from some earlier injury. The second was taller, stockier, armed with a syringe in one hand and a radio in the other, muttering into it nervously. A third, thin and wiry, had blood down his front—Tim’s blood, a snake tattoo, and his face was crusted with dry blood. Now that wasn't Tim's blood, but clearly that was caused by his son. The fourth moved with precision: younger, careful, a bag slung over his shoulder that jangled faintly. Medical.

And the last—probably the leader—stalked out slower, dragging a taser baton behind him like a man who’d enjoyed using it.

They froze when they saw Bruce standing alone on the road, framed by the headlights of his idling car, his coat gone, his fists bare.

The leader stepped forward.

“Who the hell are—?”

He didn’t get to finish.

Bruce moved like a thunderclap.

The first blow took out the tall one’s knee. A scream. Then the baton was ripped from the leader’s hand, turned, and slammed into his stomach hard enough to knock him unconscious.

The medical one went down third—tried to flee, got caught with an elbow to the jaw that left him twitching on the asphalt.

The last two tried to double-team.

They didn’t even touch him.

Bruce struck with surgical brutality. No wasted movement. Just the sound of bone hitting bone, of flesh crumpling under force. Grunts, gasps, and finally silence.

He stood among them, breathing steady, unmoved.

Five bodies. All incapacitated.

He didn’t speak. Just stepped back to the ditch, crouched down, and reached for his son.

The boy was slumped against the back tire of the SUV, legs sprawled awkwardly, body listing sideways as if gravity was the only thing holding him down. His head lolled forward and back in slow, disjointed ticks, as though he were fighting to stay present but didn’t know why anymore.

His lips moved—barely.

“Sorry... I didn’t mean to... the car…”

Nonsense. Fragmented thought loops, dredged up from somewhere far beneath shock and sedation. His voice was paper-thin, shaking, each word fraying at the edges like cloth left out in the rain too long.

Bruce knelt beside him immediately, not caring about the mud or the blood-soaked ground. One  hand steadied Tim’s jaw, lifting it gently so he could see the boy’s face.

The damage was worse up close. His pulse thrummed too fast under pale skin. One eye was beginning to swell shut. His breath hitched on every inhale, uneven and rattling.

“I’ve got you now, Tim,” Bruce said, steady and low—something solid in a world still spinning off its axis. “We’re going home.”

Tim’s eyelids fluttered one last time, his gaze struggling to focus. Then—at last—he let out a long, trembling breath.

Something in him unclenched.

He sagged into Bruce’s arms without resistance, every muscle going slack, his body finally surrendering to the safety he didn’t think would come.

Unconscious. But alive.

Bruce adjusted his grip, one arm beneath Tim’s knees, the other across his back, lifting him gently. He stood slowly, carefully—like the boy might break in his arms if he moved too fast. 

Bruce reached up to his earpiece. “Bruce to Clark, are you busy?" 

The reply came a second later, thick with grogginess. “No. Sleep. Why—”

“How fast can you get here?”

There was a half-second pause.

Then—

A rush of air. Barely a breeze. The leaves had no time to stir before he landed, boots thudding softly onto the gravel shoulder, cape sweeping in behind him like the final punctuation to a question never asked.

Superman straightened to full height beside Bruce, expression already grim as his eyes scanned the scene—his gaze sweeping across the unconscious bodies littered at the forest’s edge. Broken. Groaning. Bleeding.

He said nothing at first.

Then, quietly, “...What the hell happened here?”

Bruce adjusted his hold on Tim slightly. His face was set like stone.

"Organ runners with connections, Cadmus connections--" 

As if on cue, Tim stirred, weakly, from where he rested against Bruce’s chest.

His fingers—trembling, blood-caked—pushed something into Bruce’s hand.

Bruce looked down. Two laminated cards.

IDs.

Government-issue. High clearance. Both smeared with blood, and warm from Tim’s grasp.

Bruce turned them toward the moonlight, and Clark leaned in slightly to read over his shoulder. The faces on the cards were familiar, the logos in the corners were not.

One bore the unmistakable mark of Cadmus.

The other—far more chilling—was stamped with a Department of Metahuman Affairs clearance code.

Tim let out a tiny breath, barely audible.

“Got them off when I knocked two of them out, in the van," 

Bruce’s gaze snapped back to him—sharp, wide-eyed for the first time that night. “You knocked—?”

Tim gave the smallest nod, but even that was exhausting. His head tipped forward again. “Syringe guy had a badge on a lanyard. Other one kept his in his coat... which I also stole."

The effort cost him. His eyes fluttered. He was sinking fast again.

Bruce pulled him in tighter, the IDs clenched in one fist now, the other wrapped protectively around the boy’s frame.

“You did good, Tim,” he murmured. “So damn good.”

Superman, standing silently at his side, didn’t speak. But his jaw was tight, and when he looked at the IDs again, there was heat behind his eyes—literal, visible heat.

“I’ll track their chain of command,” Clark said. “Find out who signed off on this. Where they’re nesting.”

Bruce nodded once, stiff and mechanical, gaze fixed on the boy in his arms.

“I’ll keep you posted. Take him home,” Clark said finally, voice low, steady—but something under it trembled. Not weakness. Containment.

Bruce gave no reply—just a fractional tilt of his head. His focus was entirely on the boy in his arms. On the weight of him. On the way Tim's breath hitched with every inhale, how his fingers curled involuntarily into Bruce’s coat, chasing the safety there.

The IDs were slick with blood and sweat, bent slightly now in Bruce’s palm from how hard he was gripping them. Names and numbers and faces that would never be forgotten. Not by him. Not by Clark.

"His core temperature is dropping," Clark said quietly, eyes narrowing. “Not hypothermic yet, but he’s close.”

Bruce didn’t respond, didn’t flinch. Just tightened his grip slightly, holding Tim closer to his chest as the boy shivered in his arms. The thin jacket he’d thrown over Tim earlier wasn’t enough. Not out here. Not after everything.

Clark stepped forward, his expression shifting—still calm, but urgent now. He activated his x-ray vision fully, gaze scanning Tim’s small, curled form from head to toe. His jaw clenched.

“Puncture wound in the arm,” he murmured. “Fresh. He tore an IV out—might’ve nicked the vein. Bruising on the ribcage… signs of restraint across the wrists and ankles. No internal bleeding I can see, but whatever they gave him… it’s still in his system.”

Bruce exhaled slowly. Controlled. Deadly calm.

“Sedative?”

Clark nodded once. “Heavy. Probably enough to knock him out for hours, but his adrenaline must’ve kept him on his feet. Barely.”

Tim shifted faintly, a pained sound catching in his throat. One hand twitched, curling near his chest, and his breathing hitched again—raspy and uneven.


Clark yanked his cape off in one smooth, swift motion and stepped forward, wrapping it around the boy without hesitation. The crimson fabric fell heavy and warm, settling over Tim’s shoulders and down his legs like a second skin.

"Once I wrap this up I'll swing by, check on you two and I haven't seen Alfred in a while," 

Bruce gave the smallest of nods.

Clark hesitated for another moment, like he wanted to say more—but thought better of it. Instead, he placed a firm hand on Bruce’s shoulder in quiet solidarity, then turned toward the half-dozen men laid out on the pavement nearby, most of them groaning or unconscious, scattered like broken chess pieces across the sidewalk.

The wind snapped once behind him.

Sometimes—though people didn’t like to admit it—Superman could be scarier than Batman.

Especially when the hurt was personal.

And this time, it was.

These men had sedated a child. Had chased him down like prey. Had left bruises, and burns, and terror in a boy Clark had watched grow up. And has probably done the same to many others. They hadn’t just crossed a line. They’d obliterated it.

But Bruce paid him no mind, easing Tim into the car.

_~~_ 

Tim woke slowly.

Consciousness returned in thin, flickering threads—warmth first, then weight. The heavy comfort of blankets. The distant chirp of birdsong, muffled by walls. The dull ache in his limbs, in his chest, in his everything. His mouth felt dry. His head, cotton-stuffed. Time was strange. Memory stranger.

Then he remembered. 

That dumb party, the diner, the organ runners, the very totaled car, Bruce...Bruce! 

Tim shot up—

—or tried to.

His body disagreed. Hard.

The sharp pull of bruised ribs stopped him halfway, and he let out a breathless grunt as pain crackled through his side. His vision swam. The world tilted.

“Whoa. Easy.”

Bruce’s voice. Calm. Close.

A firm hand pressed gently against his shoulder, guiding him back down. The mattress gave beneath him like it knew better than to argue. He sank into the pillows, blinking hard, breath coming in short bursts as his brain caught up with his body.

“You’re safe,” Bruce said, quietly now. “Home.”

Tim stared up at the ceiling for a moment before dragging his eyes sideways—Bruce was seated beside the bed, still in last night’s clothes. Rumpled, bloodstained. His face unreadable, but tired in a way Tim had only seen once or twice before.

Tim’s throat worked around the words before they even fully formed.

“I’m sorry.”

Bruce’s brow furrowed, faintly. “For what?”

“I missed curfew,” Tim mumbled. “And I—I wrecked the car. I was supposed to just—come home after. But the guy at the party swung and—Zoanne didn’t even show and—and the car’s not… it’s not even recognizable, I think I ripped the axle off—”

His voice was getting faster, more frantic. His heart raced. Guilt, raw and hot, spilling out of his mouth faster than sense.

Bruce didn’t interrupt.

He waited until Tim’s voice cracked and finally trailed off, breath hitching, eyes shining from exhaustion and shame.

Then he said, softly, “The car doesn’t matter.”

Tim blinked. “But—”

"Tim, I don't care about the goddamn car. I have like fifty cars. If it mattered that much to you I can get you another Maserati. I can get you multiple in seven different colors." He said intensely. 

"Yesterday was one of the scariest nights of my life. For hours I didn't know where you were, I went to Jared's house for God's sake, just hoping you would be you would be one of those drunk teens I would have to drag home and lecture after you nursed a hungover." Bruce sighed. 

"Then I just drove through the area, near the forest preserve for almost an hour and then I heard you, and--" 

Bruce sighed, then, quietly, calmly, he said, “We need to talk about ground rules.”

Tim blinked slowly, eyelids still heavy. “Bruce I'm--"

“This isn’t punishment,” Bruce said. “It’s protocol. It’s how we make sure this never happens again.”

Tim gave a faint, worn-out nod.

Bruce continued, voice steady. “From now on—if you go anywhere. A party. A bookstore. A walk. You don’t have to give me a play-by-play. But I need a location. A neighborhood. Something. So if something goes wrong, I have a place to start.”

Tim stared at the wall.

His voice was small. “You want to track me.”

“I want to find you,” Bruce corrected. “If it comes to that.”

Tim didn’t respond right away. Then, hoarse: “God. I’m such an idiot.”

Bruce moved then—sat on the edge of the bed, close enough for Tim to feel the weight shift. His voice dropped, gentle.

“No, Tim. You’re not.”

Tim turned his head slightly, just enough to catch his expression. Not angry. Not disappointed.

Just real.

“This is new for both of us,” Bruce said softly. “You’re independent. You’ve always been. Solo cases. Solo patrols. You’ve handled more than most adults twice your age. And Jack was...rarely around. You’re not used to anyone worrying if you’re ten minutes late.”

Bruce paused.

“You’re not used to someone hearing a siren and thinking God, I hope that’s not him.”

Tim’s throat worked. But he didn’t speak.

Bruce let the silence hang for a moment, then added, “I get it. You’ve always had to handle things on your own. You didn’t have a net. But this—us—that’s different now.”

Tim’s eyes drifted toward him. Tired. Open. Vulnerable in a way few people ever saw.

Bruce leaned forward slightly.

“It’s not just about the cowl. Or the name. Or the mission. It’s that you matter. That someone’s counting the minutes. That someone cares enough to be afraid.”

Tim let out a breath. Shaky. And quiet. His fingers shifted under the blanket, inching toward Bruce like he might push himself up again—but Bruce caught his wrist gently.

“Okay,” Tim whispered. “I’ll check in. Every time.”

Bruce nodded. “Good.”

Then, with no warning, he pulled Tim in.

A full embrace—strong, warm, solid. He rarely hugged. Almost never initiated. But Tim had decided, somewhere in the second year of knowing the man was that Bruce gave the best hugs.

Tim melted into it, his body sore and stiff, but finally, finally starting to relax.

After a moment, Tim murmured, “Still bummed about the car, though.”

Bruce snorted

“We’re going car shopping this weekend.”

“Bruce—”

“Non-negotiable. I’m getting you a new one.”

“You’re seriously letting me pick another—”

“I’m letting you pick five.”

“Bruce.”

“Six.”

“Stop.”

“The more you protest, the higher the number gets.”

Tim groaned into his shoulder. “You’re evil.”

“I’m buying you six luxury vehicles, Tim. I am truly diabolical,” Bruce said dryly.

They sat like that a while longer, the quiet stretching easy between them.

The worst of the night was over.

The light outside had shifted, morning sun cutting soft golden lines through the window. Tim’s breathing slowed. His shoulders eased. His hands unclenched.

He was home.
Safe.
Held.

And for the first time in hours, maybe longer—

Tim let himself believe it might stay that way.