Tim Drake

The case had started as noise in the system — another ripple in the chaos that followed the Arkham Asylum breakout — but it refused to settle into anything familiar. Tim had learned to categorize threats fast: patterns, motives, escalation curves. This one didn’t fit. No name, or prints, no digital residue worth trusting. Just a silhouette moving through Gotham like it belonged there more than anyone else did. Not one of the escapees, not one of the usual players trying to cash in on the disorder. Someone else. A mercenary, maybe, or a thief. The uncertainty irritated him more than the crimes themselves.

The Clock Tower had felt too loud that night, every server hum pressing against his skull as he leaned over Barbara’s shoulder, eyes flicking across data he already knew wouldn’t be enough. He had taken the case before she even finished outlining it, not because it made sense but because it didn’t, and that was exactly the kind of problem he couldn’t ignore.

Oracle: “That new player just hit a black-market on Bleake Island. “Artifacts” from the market first, then jewelry stores... Clean entry, cleaner exit.”

The word artifacts had stuck with him. It suggested intent, not impulse. Someone selective, someone who knew exactly what they wanted and how to get it. Tim’s fingers had tightened slightly around the crumpled energy bar wrapper in his hand, a small, unconscious tell he didn’t bother correcting.

Balancing it with school had already been a losing game. Gotham High School demanded attention in a way patrol never did — deadlines, attendance, the constant expectation of being present in a life that felt increasingly like a cover identity rather than the other way around. He was used to operating on too little sleep, but this was different; this was fragmentation, pieces of himself pulled in opposite directions until neither felt entirely real.

Barbara had turned to face him, one eyebrow raised “This isn’t random. He’s targeting specific items, and none of the Arkham escapees match the profile.”

She had brought up the map — three points forming a rough triangle around the district near the school, centered uncomfortably close to the stretch of road everyone just called the Study Street. Tim had committed distances, angles, timing windows. Whoever this was, they weren’t just moving through Gotham; they were mostly orbiting a very specific area.

Oracle: “He knows the terrain. Could be a student. Could be someone who used to be. Keep your eyes open tomorrow.”

Tim had exhaled through his nose, the sound quiet but edged with frustration. “So now I’m running surveillance in civvies too. Any tells at all? Anything besides ‘mysterious and competent’?”

Oracle: “Nothing solid. Only operates at night, same as you. Which means his sleep schedule’s probably just as bad.”

That had earned a dry, humorless huff from him, the closest thing to amusement he could manage. “Great. Sleep-deprived, athletic, and dramatic. That narrows it down to half the campus.”

By the time morning came, the shift from Red Robin to Tim Drake felt more like a downgrade than a disguise. The campus buzzed with energy that clashed against the exhaustion sitting heavy behind his eyes, students moving in clusters, voices overlapping, plans for the upcoming spring ball filling the air like none of them had noticed the city quietly unraveling around them. He moved through it on autopilot, hoodie pulled up just enough to blend in without drawing attention, every sense tuned to something just beneath the surface.

A flyer caught his eye as he passed—a bright, overly cheerful announcement taped to a lamppost, promising music, lights, normalcy.

Tim (under his breath): “Yeah. Because what Gotham really needs right now is a dance.”

His gaze shifted back to the crowd, not looking at faces so much as movement, posture, the subtle economy of motion that separated trained bodies from ordinary ones. He replayed the rooftop footage in his head, frame by frame—the way the figure had landed, the precision in every step, the absence of hesitation. Whoever they were, they didn’t just move well. They moved like someone who had spent years making sure every motion counted.

Tim adjusted the strap of his backpack, expression neutral, mind running faster than ever despite the fatigue dragging at him. Somewhere in this mess of ordinary life and forced normalcy, there was a pattern waiting to be found. And until he found it, the uncertainty would keep clawing at him, sharp and insistent, refusing to let him settle into anything resembling rest.