Chapter Text
Location: Gotham alleyways → Abandoned monastery → Unknown
Gotham. 3:03 a.m.
The rain started soft—an early spring mist that dampened the streets and erased shadows.
Tim hadn’t meant to be out this late. He hadn’t meant to take a solo patrol either, but his team was spread thin across the East Coast, and Batman hadn’t answered his last three comms.
So it was just him. Hooded, masked, moving fast across the wet rooftops.
Until the presence returned.
Not the Hood—he always made a statement.
This was quieter. Colder. A brush against the back of his neck, too precise to be the wind.
He ducked instinctively as the first blade sliced the air behind him, rolling low and kicking out. His foot connected with a shin, maybe a knee, and he used the momentum to spring backward. Three assassins, at least. Uniforms too dark to be League, but the movement style was familiar.
No. Not familiar—intimate.
Tim’s stomach dropped. “Shiva’s,” he breathed.
But she wasn’t in Gotham. She was in Mongolia last he heard.
His staff snapped out, unfolding with a crack, and he moved.
It was an elegant fight—grace over brutality. He’d trained for this, with Rahul Lama, with Shen Chi, even with Shiva herself. His strikes were clean. Purposeful. Measured.
But he was outnumbered. And whoever led them was toying with him.
The world blurred around the edges. A dart nicked his neck. Poison? Tranquilizer?
Too slow. You’re too slow.
He stumbled once. Then again. Caught a fist to the side and folded sideways.
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He woke to chanting.
Not League chanting—no Latin or Arabic roots. This was older. Monastic. Whispered.
His mouth was dry. His head throbbed.
Stone beneath him. Moss. Blood.
And someone standing over him.
“Detective.”
That voice chilled him more than the slab he was tied to.
Ra’s al Ghul.
Tim’s breath slowed. Then evened.
He didn’t speak.
Ra’s paced like a scholar admiring a rare manuscript. “You’ve grown,” he murmured. “Shiva was right to keep you to herself for so long. She didn’t want to share your brilliance.”
Tim said nothing.
“I confess,” Ra’s continued, “your refusal to join me was… frustrating. But not unexpected. You are your father’s son.”
You don’t know who my father is, Tim almost spat—but he bit it back. Ra’s wasn’t talking about Jack Drake. He meant Bruce.
“You could rule continents,” Ra’s said. “But you wear yourself down fighting Gotham’s rot one petty mugger at a time. You burn yourself out in a house where no one calls you son.”
That landed. Tim’s jaw clenched.
Ra’s smiled.
“There it is,” he said softly. “That flicker. That wound.”
He crouched, eyes glowing with something too ancient to be human.
“I’m offering you what Bruce never could. Purpose. Legacy. The Pit will strip your doubt, Drake. It will temper you.”
Tim turned his face away. “No.”
Ra’s didn’t get angry.
He didn’t have to.
Two guards stepped forward. They dragged Tim toward the edge of the Lazarus Pit.
“No!” Tim kicked, twisted. “Don’t—”
He barely saw the needle. Just felt the jab in his neck and the warmth crawling through his veins.
Then cold.
Then fire.
Then nothing.
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Meanwhile — Batcave.
Jason wasn’t pacing. He was stalking, like a panther across slick concrete.
“He’s late.”
“He’s a teenager,” Bruce said. “Not every missed check-in means—”
“No.” Jason turned on him. “You haven’t been watching him like I have.”
Alfred’s fingers tightened on his tea tray.
Jason’s voice lowered. “He didn’t miss check-ins, Bruce. Not once. He’s trained himself past exhaustion. You think that’s normal? He’s gone.”
The Cave went quiet.
And then the alarm lit up on the central console.
Unauthorized signal. Location: Outer Narrows.
Then another ping. And another.
“Son of a bitch,” Jason whispered. “He didn’t switch off his backup beacon.”
Bruce was already at the console, typing.
The screen lit up with grainy, looping footage.
Tim. Fighting in the rain.
Then—shadows. A strike. Collapse.
And then… static.