Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

From the moment Timothy Jackson Drake could form more complex thoughts than the arbitrary, 'What's for dinner?' His mind was a kaleidoscope of fixations—bright, burning stars that flared into existence and sometimes faded just as quickly. His parents were never around remotely enough to keep track of all his' phases.' Janet and Jack Drake were more committed to pursuing relics and academic accolades than the strange, brilliant boy they'd left in the cavernous halls of their Manor. Nannies cycled in and out until they became nonexistent. Tutors came and went until they stopped coming altogether. Tim was left to navigate his kaleidoscope mind alone, longing for the attention and care his parents never gave him.

No one saw Tim. At least, not the way he wanted to be seen.

His teachers often remarked on his 'promising and eager to learn new things' nature. But for Tim, this was not a compliment but a way of life. His determination to understand the world around him and dissect it piece by fascinating piece was unwavering, a testament to his relentless pursuit of knowledge.

At school, he mostly kept to himself—except for his two friends, Ives, with his encyclopedic knowledge of obscure facts, and Bernard, whose sarcasm could slice steel. These unique friendships were a lifeline for Tim, a connection to the world that often felt distant and uncomprehending. Everyone else just saw the quiet, weird kid with the perfect grades and the thousand-yard stare. 

Alone, usually.

Unsupervised, always.

First, there was acrobatics. Tim still remembered the day at Haly's Circus, sitting in the stands with his parents when the Flying Graysons fell from the rafters. His parents hadn't even noticed what had happened until someone screamed. The world changed for the young Robin in the spotlight—and, though no one knew, for Tim, too. Before long, the gym in Drake Manor was littered with crash mats, foam pits, and even a trapeze rig Tim set up that definitely violated at least four safety standards. His parents never asked why. They never questioned where the bruises came from or why the Manor's insurance policy needed revising.

Tim didn't want to tumble—he needed to. And not for any kind of recognition or applause. No, it was a deep-seated need for precision—the art of learning where your limbs should be at all times. The willingness to master the fall before taking flight. 

Then came Judo, sparked by a dusty old manual his parents had brought home from one of their many digs. It was a throwaway item to them, a travel souvenir stuffed between crumpled boarding passes and outdated brochures. 

A dust collector. 

But Tim memorized the moves obsessively, signed up for lessons at the only Judo studio on the outskirts of Gotham—bordering into Blüdhaven—and practised until the motions were second nature. 

His parents didn't notice the belt colours changing, and they didn't mention anything about the extra charges on his transit card, as he would take a half-hour bus ride to the rundown judo studio three days a week.

Chemistry followed when a single science fair experiment turned into a makeshift lab in the basement. No one checked what the boy was mixing. No one asked about the lightheadedness he would experience after being in his poorly ventilated lab for hours upon hours at a time. Then, coding, which was less about the mechanics and more about the thrill of unravelling systems - secrets buried behind walls of text and numbers. His parents' home network didn't stand a chance, nor did Gotham's public servers. 

And somewhere in the swirl of it all came photography.

It started small—just snapping shots with his mother's old film camera, which had been hidden away in one of the many boxes in the dusty attic of the Manor. What began as a pastime turned into a pursuit. Through the lens, Tim found a different kind of clarity, a way to freeze time, to catalogue details others would miss. 

A frayed thread on a jacket pocket. 

The tension in a smile. 

The shadow that shouldn't be there. 

Photography taught him patience, waiting for the right moment, the perfect angle. 

Each obsession had its time in the sun, though many dimmed with the change of a season or two. But some things… some things stuck. 

Photography taught him to observe and document; eventually, it became his tether to what consumed him most: The Batman. 

It became Tim's way into their world. He tracked their movements through careful observation, mapping patterns and connecting dots, a collage of grainy snapshots pinned to cork boards behind a false wall in his room. He wasn't just following his heroes but documenting mythology in real time.

Acrobatics never left him. It wove itself into the fabric of his muscle memory, a silent language that allowed him to chase shadows across rooftops, land silent in alleyways, and ghost through Gotham like a wraith. Coding sharpened his instincts, Judo strengthened his resolve, and chemistry gave him tools no average teenager should possess. But it was photography that opened his eyes. That gave Tim his first look at the world behind the mask. 

Long before Tim figured out who Batman was, he was following him—literally and metaphorically—through the lens, eyes wide, heart thudding with anticipation. The Dark Knight embodied every skill the boy had ever obsessed over: strategy, science, stealth, strength. 

And Robin? Robin was the spark that consumed Tim's vision in light. 

He moved like a dancer. 

He fought like a storm. 

Acrobatics turned divine. 

One evening, it hit Tim in the gut as he cycled through old circus footage he'd painstakingly tracked down from public access archives. Frozen midair in a grainy frame: a quadruple somersault—executed with a grace few adults could ever manage, let alone a child. The same move he had captured in a blurred but telling photo of Robin springboarding off a fire escape. Only two people had ever landed that move in recorded history. One of them had died doing it. 

The other was Dick Grayson.

The realization hit like a lightning strike, igniting Tim's senses. Not just that Dick Grayson was Robin—but what that meant. 

The Flying Graysons had died in Gotham. 

The boy had been taken in as a ward by Bruce Wayne. 

And suddenly, pieces snapped together with frightening clarity. 

The sudden disappearances from public venues- 

The public philanthropy that always followed a major criminal bust-

The bruises Mr Wayne would never explain when caught by the paparazzi-

The mysterious upgrades to the Wayne Tech infrastructure that just happened to align with Batman's evolving arsenal-

Tim didn't stumble onto their secrets.

He earned them—bit by obsessive bit. 

-

Tim was bored. With a capital 'B'.

He'd been running Drake Industries ever since his parents died, and at first, he told himself it was temporary. It was a responsibility to honour their legacy, a puzzle to solve, something to keep his mind from spinning out of control with grief and guilt. But temporary had teeth. It bit down and never let go.

The weight of the company's future rests heavily on his shoulders. 

The crash had happened in a blink, somewhere over the Atlantic. A sleek private jet, somewhere between Lisbon and Gotham, vanished from radar in the dead hours of the night. Mechanical failure, they said. Sudden, catastrophic. 

No survivors. 

Just oil-slicked waves, torn luggage and a plane load of illegally obtained artifacts. 

Tim was able to get control over the media fallout of this event before anything really happened. He painted a picture of tragedy.

'One moment they were texting me photos of wine-stained sunsets, joking about trying exotic food in Portugal... the next their names were headlines...'

Lies.

If all else failed, Tim could be an actor. 

Though the part that haunted him most—he didn't cry.

Not really. Not the way people expected. Not the way he thought he was supposed to. 

He went through the motions. 

Funerals. 

Eulogies.

PR-approved statements. 

Tim shook hands with business partners who'd known his parents better than he ever had. He wore the right suit, gave the right look, and said the right words. And all the while, something inside him remained quiet—cold, observing. 

His parents loved him. They just had a different way of showing it than others.

Sure, Jack and Janet Drake hadn't really been there for Tim. He got gifts for his birthdays—though most were a few weeks, if not months late. Polite smiles over dinner when their schedules would align. That kind of stuff.

They were explorers, socialites, and business chameleons who, if we are being honest, treated Tim more like a long-term project than a person. 

But that doesn't mean they didn't love him. 

So when the jet went down, it wasn't just loss that hit him—it was a profound sense of guilt. Guilt that he felt less than he thought he should. Guilt that he mourned the idea of family more than the reality. He missed what they could have been, not what they were. 

And just like that, everything changed.

Attending school became impossible for the teen. There were too many meetings, too many signatures required, and too much to fix after his parents died. Tim dropped out halfway through the first semester of one of his life's potentially most formative years. He told himself he would go back once things settled.

They never did.

His friends slowly drifted away. At first, they texted, called, sent the occasional meme, and tried to keep him tethered. But the messages slowed, stopped, and eventually faded into silence—not out of malice, just distance. Life moved on, and Tim... didn't.

Now, at fifteen, Timothy Jackson Drake was the youngest CEO in Gotham—maybe in the country—and he was miserable.

No more photography. Tim waved goodbye to Judo. He wept silently as his bat-stalking adventures faded into the fog of memory, like old photos left in the sun too long—colourless, curling at the edges. 

Currently, he was stuck in one of the many suffocating board meetings that cluttered his calendar like flies on fruit. He sat at the head of the table, surrounded by men with mortgages older than he was, all of them speaking in circles—thinly veiled boasts about stock portfolios and vacation homes in places Tim couldn't care less about. 

He was fiddling with his laptop, which did not have a game of Minesweeper running behind a spreadsheet titled "Quarterly Growth Forecast." He clicked a mine of purpose. Boom. Game over. Just like his teenage years. 

It was pathetic. The board of directors were nipping at Tim's heels, desperate for his approval. As if his last name printed on the letterhead made him their king. It was as if he hadn't spent most of his life until now running across rooftops with a camera around his neck and a fire in his chest. 

He leaned back in his chair with a sigh that tasted like stale coffee and regret, staring at the ceiling, wondering if anyone in the room would question his decision to leave. They probably would not. They were too busy laughing at their own jokes and pretending their golf swings made them gods. 

Tim didn't even like golf.

He needed a hobby.

No. He didn't just need a hobby. Tim needed something more that would fill the void in his life and bring back a sense of personal fulfilment.

Under the pressed suits and quarterly reports, Tim was still the kid who had figured out the identities of Batman and Robin before he hit puberty. He was still the teenager who once dreamed of pixels, chemicals, flips, and coded patterns of light.

He closed his laptop with a decisive snap. A few heads turned. He offered no explanation, just rose from his seat and muttered, "I've got a call to take."

There was no call. But something was stirring—something the boy hadn't felt in a long time.

A tug.

A spark.

He felt a tug, a spark, the hint of a trail leading back to who he really was. It was a moment of realization, a step towards his journey of self-discovery.

Because bored or not, Tim was never meant to sit still for long. 

-

Timothy Drake disappeared. Kind of.

He vanished at fifteen, but he wasn't idle.

Under the alias Alvin Draper—a name pulled from an old obituary, a Gotham street kid no one missed—Tim travelled the world with a purpose. He had no cape, no mission statement. These questions demanded answers, and there was a bottomless hunger to understand how people moved: through shadows, networks, ideology, and instinct. 

He learnt to vanish into a crowd in Hong Kong, read body language in Mumbai, mimic accents and manipulate tone in Johannesburg, scale temples in the

Himalayas, and break into secure servers in Berlin. 

While training with Lady Shiva, the deadliest woman on earth, he encountered a weapon raised to be silent and lethal, forged in isolation.

Cassandra Cain.

Tim didn't beat her. He didn't try. He did something far harder.

He listened.

He made her laugh.

He taught her chess, slowly, patiently. Moved pawns while speaking in half-formed Mandarin, learning more from her movements than from any masterclass. He understood that she was more than what they made her. When it came time for him to leave, he stuck a deal and pointed west toward Gotham. Toward a man who might help her find herself. A man called Bruce Wayne. 

She didn't ask his real name. He didn't offer it. As far as anyone knew, he was Alvin Draper. Another street kid running from ghosts.

Tim Drake caught the attention of someone else—someone who made it a point to notice everything that stirred in the shadows. 

Ra's Al Ghul.

The Demon's Head had ruled through centuries of manipulation, with the League of Assassins as his blade in the dark. He'd seen the rise and fall of kingdoms. Of empires. Of pawns.

But not this one.

Not the ghost who slipped through his networks undetected. Not the phantom who sabotaged supply lines in the Balkans, leaked personnel manifests in Morocco and denoted three underground bases in South Korea—all without a single footprint.

One day, a storage vault full of Lazarus Pit samples vanished from a remote facility in Siberia. Days later, its ruins were found buried in permafrost with no surviving guards. 

Each base Tim destroyed was calculated. Each attack was a test run for bigger, quieter systems of control. He wasn't trying to dismantle the League.

He was mapping it. 

Ra's had ruled by knowing every piece on the board.

Tim was one he never saw coming. 

While harassing the League of Assassins, he comes across a boy. 

Damian Al Ghul. Wayne.

Fierce. Spoiled. Dangerous. 

A child.

All teeth and pride and pain so loud it practically bled from his pores. 

Tim didn't coddle him.

He outwitted him.

He could tell the boy was wary. Frustrated. Confused. Tired.

It reminded him too much of who he had been before: a lonely and lost boy who had to find his way.

Getting Batman to pick up his newfound son was easy. A file turning up on the BatComputer was enough to light a fire under his ass and jolt him into gear. 

Two shadows sent back to Gotham, each bearing a piece of the boy who couldn't—wouldn't—wear a cape. 

Tim didn't return.

He had more to do. More to see. 

-

The Bat had allies, of course. A whole constellation of them, in fact.

There was Nightwing—once the Boy Wonder, now patrolling Blüdhaven with practised grace. Dick Grayson had become a legend in his own right these days, no longer a sidekick but his own vigilante.

Red Robin—Jason Todd. He had been Tim's favourite Robin. The one he spent the most time capturing through his lens. After a brush with death, he returned with more force than finesse, more vengeance than a symbol. He wore the 'RR' like a scar he refused to let fade.

Batgirl, the original, was now Oracle. Barbara Gordon—was paralyzed by the Joker, but she didn't let that stop her—it had just redirected her. She was the voice in the comms, the mind behind the maps, the code behind the curtain. She'd built an empire of intel from a wheelchair, and every vigilante in Gotham knew better than to ignore her voice in their ear.

She was everything Tim aspired to be. Call it hero worship—he didn't care. She was kickass. 

The rest of the Gotham entourage he had yet to see in action.

Spoiler—Stepanie Brown, chaotic good in purple, punched first and talked through gritted teeth later.

Black Bat, Cassandra Cain, moved like silence in the given form. She didn't speak, didn't need to.

Damian Wayne. The biological son. The current Robin. Shorter than his ego but just as deadly. Raised by assassins, trained by Batman, loved in his own sharp-edged way. He wore the 'R' like it belonged to him and only him.

Signal, Duke Thomas, an outlier—the daylight warrior, carving a space in a system built for shadows. 

They were a family, broken and strange as it was. Each member carries their own scars, their own burdens, their own reasons for donning the mask. They were bound by a shared mission, a common enemy, and a deep understanding of each other's pain.

But he wasn't a part of it. Not really. Despite his best efforts, Tim couldn't shake the feeling of isolation, a sense that he was always on the outside looking in.

They had masks. Codenames. Missions. 

They fought the drug lords and the human traffickers, the corrupt politicians and the mad scientists. They saved lives and took down criminals, each in their unique way, each with their own skills and tools.

Tim had hard drives, encrypted servers and too many tabs open at once. 

While they fought crime in the streets, Tim dismantled syndicates from behind a screen. They chased leads through alleyways while Tim followed trails through corrupted metadata and deep web chat rooms. He watched while they worked, even documenting it. And sometimes, he cleaned up after them without them ever knowing.

So he made his own place. Quiet. Necessary.

Tim didn't swing into action in a cape and domino mask. He didn't leap from rooftops or brandish a bo staff. No, when the teen finally made his mark on Gotham's endless night, it was behind a screen, buried under a dozen layers of firewalls, bouncing signals through untraceable proxies. He had access—God-tier access—to systems no one even realized were vulnerable.

The GCPD cold case database was child's play. The Batcomputer? Sloppy. Not in function—Batman was nothing if not precise—but in organization. It was like a cathedral built by an architect with no time for labels. Files nested in files. Redundant loops of unsorted data. Clutter everywhere.

It made Tim twitch.

So he cleaned it.

Quietly.

Meticulously.

He rewrote the indexing protocols, improved the encryption without triggering security alerts, tagged metadata, cross-referenced rogue intel and even corrected timestamps. At first, it was just to see if he could. Then, it was because he felt a duty to do so. By the time he was done, the Batcomputer was running smoother than ever—and nobody even knew his name.

At night, Tim sifted through old police files, solving cases that had long gone cold—not necessarily out of a sense of justice but because unsolved puzzles made his skin itch. He'd forward the evidence anonymously, cleanly, and comprehensively to the GCPD inbox. Sometimes, he'd get thank-you messages over encrypted forums from underfunded detectives trying to piece their lives back together. Sometimes, nothing. He didn't care.

He had found a way to tether himself to Gotham's pulse without stepping into its shadow. His independence was impressive, a quality that set him apart.

He was the ghost in the wires. The invisible hand cleaning up the chaos. 

-

When Timothy Drake finally slid back into Gotham, he didn't come through the shadows.

He walked in through the front doors of Drake Industries.

He appointed Tam Fox as his assistant and quietly took over the company bearing his family name. In public, he was a teen genius with a tragic past, poised to carry the legacy his absentee parents had nearly run into the ground. In private, he was a precision blade—cold, deliberate, and playing the long game.

No one knew Alvin Draper and Timothy Drake were the same person.

No one knew that the quiet boy who used to lurk behind camera lenses was now orchestrating Gotham's systems from above and below.

And still—no mask. No cape.

Just control.

-

At first, Bruce thought it was a coincidence.

A corrupt judge whose offshore accounts were suddenly laid bare in a perfectly formatted packet sent to the GCPD's Internal Affairs department. A cold case that had stymied him for months was reopened, reassigned, and suddenly solved with all the proper evidence, filed neatly and anonymously. 

Anonymous tips unravelled tax fraud, insider trading, and old scandals buried deep beneath the Gotham elite's money and media layers. 

Then, the BatComputer's performance subtly improved. Indexes were reorganized. Search queries were refined. Obsolete intel was tagged and archived without Oracle's input, leaving a trail of mystery in its wake. 

Bruce didn't like ghosts. Not in his city. Not in his system.

He reviewed the logs twice and three more times. There were no breach alerts or forced entry, and whatever it was, they knew how to hide.

But more than that—they knew how to hide from The Batman, a feat that even the most cunning criminals struggled to achieve.

That made it worse.

The Batcomputer was an organized machine once when he was the only one using it. But over the years, that changed.

First Dick, then Jason, Steph, Cass, Damian, Duke. Each of them brilliant in their own right—but filing? Naming conventions? Consistency?

Nonexistent.

Jason labelled files like he was writing poetry. Dick didn't label them at all. Stephanie used emojis in mission reports. Cass insisted on handwriting her reports using shorthand that only she could decode. Duke tried, but his tags were disorganized chaos. Damian's filling system was predictably just him putting everything under a folder called 'Classified.'

It had become an unholy mess of half-synced case logs, redundant metadata, and improperly stored footage. Bruce had learned to live with it the same way a father learned to live with scattered shoes and mysteriously missing—broken—coffee mugs. Resigned. Irritated. A little fond. 

But now... everything was in order.

Files were categorized, metadata was clean, and entire segments of the Batcomputer's archive had been optimized without a trace. If he didn't know better, he would've thought the system had evolved intelligence.

The only evidence this wasn't an algorithm was a simple sticky note left open for him to see on the supercomputer's desktop.

> YOU'RE WELCOME — Veritas

Someone who understood how to think like him and perhaps even better. The thought sent a chill down his spine.

It should've unnerved him. It did.

But deep beneath the suspicion, beneath the calculation and cold deduction, something else stirred. Not anger. Not fear.

Name: Veritas

 DOB: N/A

 Family: N/A

 Status: Alive (?)

 Occupation: Ally (?)

 Current Residence: N/A

Curiosity.

-

The room shimmered with old money and colder intentions. Strings played from the upper mezzanine, the sound rich people associated with elegance. The Gotham elite floated around, dressed in golds and blacks, glasses clinking, lips smiling lies.

Somewhere mid-toast when the room shifted.

Not loudly.

Just enough to be noticed.

It was when the doors opened, and he stepped in. 

Seventeen years old. Armani custom-tailored suit. Cufflinks gleaming. Posture like a man born for this stage and haunted by every inch of it. Unnaturally calm for someone his age—like he'd already lived too many lives to be fazed by these little games.

Timothy Jackson Drake.

Gone from Gotham for two years. Not a single public appearance. No clear explanation. No tabloid sightings. No whispered rumours. Just... vanished.

And now he was back, casually taking his place as the new CEO of Drake Industries, his parents' company—what was left of it after years of neglect. He didn't look lost. He didn't look unsure.

He looked like he'd never left.

He moved through the crowd like a scalpel through silk—smiling, nodding, shaking hands. Charismatic. Unassuming. Utterly in control. His assistant, Tam, ghosted behind him, answering questions before they were asked.

People parted for him without realizing it.

Tim moved through the room like he owned it. Every greeting was effortless. Every smile was calibrated precisely. He remembered names, asked after children he'd never met, and commented on business ventures as if he'd been in the boardroom last week.

And somehow, no one knew where he had been.

The elites watched him carefully, uneasily. The kind of discomfort that came not from knowing too much—but from knowing nothing at all. Because someone who could vanish that completely and return that composed?

That kind of person was dangerous.

His face was unreadable—lips set in a polite smile, but his eyes scanned the room like they were casing it.

A few tried to make polite conversation. Others avoided his gaze entirely. There was a senator whose smile cracked like old paint. A CEO who muttered an excuse and fled to the bar. The chair of a media conglomerate didn't even try—he just turned and walked the other way.

"Mr. Muldoon," Tim said lightly as one of Gotham's oldest financiers tried to shuffle past him unnoticed. "The renovations on your Cayman property are coming along nicely. I hope your accountant found that missing invoice. I'd hate for something to get lost in translation again."

Muldoon's face paled. "O-of course. Good to see you again, Timothy."

The corners of his mouth turned up in a smile too practised to be warm, too perfect to be human.

He paused to admire a sculpture near the gala's edge. Fingers behind his back. Calm, unreadable.

Then his eyes flicked across the room.

Right to Damian.

He gave the slightest nod.

Not recognition.

Not an invitation.

A move.

The beginning of a game.

Across the room, Damian Wayne's eyes followed the new entry like a hawk tracking prey.

He'd observed the boy's every move, noting every perfectly timed smirk and calculating glance. Something about him stirred Damian's sense of unease like a puzzle piece being forced into the wrong place. His instincts were on high alert.

"Who," Damian asked, with measured suspicion, "is that?"

Dick, who was stuffing his face with the hors d'oeuvres, coughed.

There was a beat.

Then another.

"That's… Tim Drake," Dick said, cautiously as if he had to think about the teen's name, "He's our neighbour, didn't know he was coming to this thing."

Damian squinted.

"Drake. As in Drake Industries?"

"Yeah."

Damian, who had spent his entire first month living in Gotham, had familiarised himself with most of the elite population he may have to face and had never encountered Timothy Drake.

"I was not aware of his existence," Snorted the youngest Wayne, not out of mocking but out of unease.

"Uh, as far as I knew, he wasn't in Gotham..." Dick shrugged, not too invested in the conversation as he continued to stuff his gullet like the glutton he was.

Damian watched him for another long moment. The trained assassin noticed the smooth movements, the deliberate silences, and how people leaned in when Tim spoke, even if they didn't realize they were doing it.

"Tch," Damian muttered, "There's something off about him."

-

The cold around him stabbed into his skin like tiny needles.

Damian didn't flinch—the boy had been trained not to—but the air still burned where his mask didn't reach and pulled at the scars across his knuckles. 

The ten-year-old assassin crouched alone on the rooftop above the shipyard, every muscle still, every breath measured. The crates upon the docked ship gleamed in the frost-heavy light—a covert freight, high-tier weapons.

Damian wasn't nervous.

He was ready.

This was his first solo field mission under the Demon Head's command—his moment to prove he could do more than train, that he was more than an experiment, and that he was worthy.

A flicker in the shadows caught his attention, a movement too quick for a mere civilian. Damian's hand instinctively went to the hilt of his blade, fingers tightening, muscles tensing in preparation.

Before he could fully assess the threat, a sound pierced the air. The explosion that followed was catastrophic. The ship's hull groaned as flames erupted from within, consuming crates and barrels in an inferno. Screams rang out as the few security personnel aboard the vessel scrambled in panic, desperate to douse the flames. But it was too late. The fire spread with a viciousness that seemed almost… intentional.

Damian's mind raced. He didn't hesitate. The mission and the shipment were all secondary now. 

He sprinted toward the edge of the docks, the sound of his boots pounding the pavement merging with the chaos. Through the smoke and fire, he saw a figure move. 

A boy. Older, dressed in an unassuming black hoodie and jeans—no armour, no weapons visible. He moved with a precision that told Damian he wasn't some rogue civilian. He was trained. Dangerous.

Damian didn't hesitate. He charged forward, slashing through the air with a practised arc of his blade, the strike aimed for the boy's neck.

But the boy was faster.

With a fluid movement, he ducked and weaved, evading each strike effortlessly. His foot moved in a precise arc, sweeping Damian's legs out from under him, sending him sprawling to the ground. It was the kind of movement only a few could execute—perfect form, honed through years of brutal training.

Damian gritted his teeth, rolling backward in a fluid motion to regain his footing, eyes never leaving the boy.

"Reveal yourself," Damian growled, his voice as low and dangerous as someone who hadn't hit puberty could manage.

The boy's expression was unreadable. He quirked an eyebrow and curved his lips briefly, but they didn't quite reach his eyes.

"I thought Ra had stopped raising child soldiers," the boy replied. His voice was calm, almost too quiet for someone in a firefight.

Damian lunged again, his blade flashing in a flurry of strikes, faster this time, testing the boy's defences. The boy continued to outmaneuver each one with uncanny precision, his movements like a mirror of Damian's own.

They danced around each other in a deadly game, two experts who understood every misstep could mean the end.

"You're... a ghost," Damian spat, his eyes narrowing. 

The boy chuckled, stepping back momentarily, his hands raised in mock surrender.

"Not quite a ghost, kid," he said, his voice soft and almost kind, "I'm just a lonely little chipmunk."

Damian paused for only a moment—a chipmunk?—and that was enough for the boy to strike. He moved like lightning, a blur of motion as he swept Damian's legs out from under him again, sending him crashing to the frost-covered ground.

Damian recovered quickly, but the boy had already vanished into the air, like an echo fading into nothing.

The fire raged on the ship behind him, irrevocably compromising the mission. Damian's breath came in shallow gasps, his heart pounding from the physical exertion and the undeniable feeling that something larger was at play here—something far beyond simple sabotage.

Damian knelt before Ra's al Ghul, his stance rigid, the weight of failure heavy on his chest. 

"I failed," Damian said, refusing to let his voice shake, "I was unable to secure the identity of the attacker." 

He hadn't expected to return in such a state, but here he was, recounting the events to his grandfather, the Demon's Head. His eyes did not flicker or betray the storm in his mind.

Ra's al Ghul didn't look surprised. He wasn't even interested in the details of the mission. The flickering candlelight in the room cast long shadows across his face, but his expression never shifted. He was as inscrutable as the walls of the League's mountain stronghold. 

"It seems Alvin Draper insists on being a thorn in the League's side."

Damian stared at his grandfather, an unsettling thought stirring in his mind. Ra's had already known. He always knew. And that thought, more than the failure itself, twisted something deep within Damian's chest.

His stomach twisted.  

His grandfather didn't want him to protect this mission.

He wanted him to watch it burn.

-

Damian descended the spiral walkway in near silence, the tie of his suit loosened. The Cave was empty—Alfred had long retired to his room, Bruce was on patrol, and the rest of the family was scattered across the city.

Usually, Damian would be joining his family, but due to an unfortunate event, he was benched. No matter how many times he tried to explain himself, it seemed like his father didn't give leeway when it came to stabbing criminals instead of asking questions. 

Perfect.

He slid into the chair before the Batcomputer, fingers flying across the keys. The screen lit up, illuminating the sharp line of his jaw and the narrowed gleam in his eyes.

SEARCH: Timothy Jackson Drake

Searching ...

The results loaded faster than expected—but offered less than he'd hoped.

Name: Timothy Jackson Drake

 DOB: 19/06/20XX (confirmed)

 Family: Jack Drake (deceased), Janet Drake (deceased), Edwin Drake (deceased)

 Status: Alive

 Occupation: CEO, Drake Industries

 Current Residence: Drake Manor

That was it.

Damian scowled.

There were no school records, health files, travel history, training logs, or archived surveillance from before his disappearance. It was as if someone had meticulously erased all traces of his existence, leaving only the legal bones behind. Even Cass had more of a footprint. He did despite the League's attempts to bury him in the shadows. But Tim? Tim was a ghost with a birth certificate.

Damian leaned back slowly, the chair creaking under him. The silence in the Cave felt heavier now, almost suffocating. It was as if the air was pressing down on him, amplifying his isolation.

He opened Oracle's private logs—what she let them see, anyway. Nothing.

He pulled up travel databases. No matches.

"Tch," Damian let out an annoyed hiss, his frustration palpable as he stared at the screen like it might flinch.

The boy bit his lip before taking a deep breath.

SEARCH: Alvin Draper

Searching ...

Name: Alvin Draper

 DOB: 09/01/20XX (estimated)

 Family: N/A

 Status: Deceased

 Occupation: N/A

 Current Residence: N/A 

As expected, nothing. 

The Alvin Damian met didn't exist. 

The boy's shoulders slumped with defeat, scowling.

He leaned forward again, typing.

The screen came to life, playing the recording from tonight's gala.

Damian crossed his arms.

Damian's eyes flicked across the surveillance footage from the gala, pausing at every moment Tim appeared on screen—every handshake, smile, and angle. He replayed the clips repeatedly, trying to decode how he moved and watched.

The Batcomputer hummed quietly behind the keystrokes.

He despised the unknown. He detested mystery. He loathed Tim Drake.

-

Damian had long since gone upstairs, the file still fresh in his mind, burned behind his eyelids. The system sat quiet—nothing but ambient code running behind the scenes.

That's when the breach happened.

There were no alarms. No pings. No flashing lights.

Just a soft flicker across the primary monitor. A diagnostic screen blinked once like an eye twitching in sleep. Then the Batcomputer began to shift—ever so slightly. The lights on the console warmed by a single degree. A line of code slipped into a gap no one had ever noticed.

Remote access.

Silent. Seamless. Absolute.

Lines scrolled across the screen, invisible to any passive viewer. Deep-layer encryption keys unravelled, systems peeled back, and the file—Timothy Jackson Drake—opened without resistance.

The contents were thin by design.

A shell.

Tim had left it as such purposefully, just enough to keep the curious busy. But someone had poked too far. Too long.

So he cleaned up.

The file dissolved meticulously. It was erased not only from the database but also from the backups, mirrors, and off-grid drives hidden in vaults, which even the BatFamily didn't know existed.

A final command was typed.

Not in the file.

But into a hidden corner of the root system—buried just deep enough to be found by the one person persistent enough to look again.

Then, just as silently, the breach closed itself.

Logs overwritten.

Code patched.

Firewall reknit like it had never been touched.

To the Batcomputer, it was as if nothing had happened.

-

Since Tim's return to Gotham, he had been secretly pleased with his successful maneuver to recruit Tamara Fox from Wayne Tech. It was a strategic move—calculated, opportunistic, and, admittedly, a little lucky. She had only accepted the secretary position out of anger towards her father, Lucius Fox, after a now-classified dispute at Wayne Enterprises. A touch of rebellion, a hint of revenge. Tim just happened to be the nearest escape route.

He was also about ninety per cent sure she knew what he did when he wasn't pretending to be a CEO.

She never said anything directly. Just gave the teenager that look sometimes—dry, unimpressed, maybe a little entertained—whenever a shipment 'accidentally' got rerouted through a city with the League's presence just to piss off Ra's.

But that was part of why he kept her close.

Tam didn't ask questions. She already knew most of the answers. And despite her disinterest in corporate games, she ran his office like a tactician and kept people—dangerous and otherwise—out of his hair. Over time, they'd become something more than just coworkers. Not partners exactly, but… allies. Friends, maybe. The kind who didn't have to say it out loud.

That's why he felt a sense of unease when today's schedule was suspiciously devoid of meetings.

The view from the 58th floor was pure Gotham—a grey skyline cut with gold, windows catching the afternoon sun like polished knives. The city looked peaceful up here as if it could be understood and controlled.

Tim Drake didn't trust it for a second.

His office was a minimalist cathedral—sleek furniture, a black glass desk, and a single bonsai near the window that had not yet died. The bonsai, a symbol of resilience and endurance, was a testament to the challenges Tim had faced and overcome. Dual monitors lit his face with cool light as he paged through quarterly projections—numbers, noise, a momentary distraction.

Tim was neck-deep in reports, sifting through infrastructure proposals that were all basically the same pile of buzzwords in slightly different fonts. Ew, Comic Sans. Denied. His second espresso had gone cold. His third was brewing.

Then the intercom buzzed.

Tamara's voice came through, crisp and cool as ever:

"Heads up, boss. You've got a visitor."

Tim blinked.

"Not on my calendar. Who is it?"

"You'll find out."

He frowned, "Tam, I really don't have time for surprise—"

The intercom fizzled off before he could finish his thought.

A moment later, the door hissed open.

And there he was.

All four feet of Damian Wayne.

Black slacks, Gotham Academy blazer, backpack over one shoulder like tactical gear. His expression was unreadable, his posture military-pristine, and his eyes scanning the office with assassin-level scrutiny.

"… What?"

Damian stepped in like a diplomat or a threat, depending on the lighting.

"I've been accepted for an internship," Damian announced, his words unexpected and startling.

Tim didn't move from his chair, but his posture shifted subtly—back straightening, tone flattening.

"You're twelve."

Damian walked forward with all the grace of a trained killer and none of the awareness that he was still four feet tall, "Perceptive. I can see why you're in charge."

Snarky little shi-

"Miss Fox said I could start today."

Of course, she did.

"You're Bruce Wayne's son," he said slowly, "You could walk into any company in the city—Wayne Biotech, R&D, Defense—and they'd clear an entire department just to give you a fake badge and a corner office."

"Yes. But none of them are interesting."

Tim tilted his head.

Damian stepped further in, hands clasped behind his back, "Your security's good—better than WayneTech in some sectors. But your backend isn't Wayne-standard. It's cleaner, faster, and like it was rewritten from the ground up by someone who got bored of firewalls and started designing traps."

Tim's fingers tapped his desk once.

Twice.

"And your point is?"

"My point is," Damian said, stepping up to the desk and repeating his previous words, "I've been accepted for an internship."

Tim stared at him.

Damian stared back, his gaze challenging, the tension in the room palpable.

The CEO could feel the double meaning behind his words.

Finally, Tim leaned back in his chair and let out a slow, mirthless chuckle.

"You're not here for a résumé builder."

"Obviously."

"You're spying on me."

"Obviously."

"And you think I'll just let you."

Damian smirked. "I think you already have."

That hit a nerve. Tim's smile didn't reach his eyes.

"You're not going to find anything interesting," Tim said coolly, "I'm a very boring man."

"Barely a man."

Tim stood slowly. He moved past the boy toward the sideboard and lifted the freshly poured espresso the machine had dispensed with deliberate ease.

"So," he said, sipping. "If you're staying, you can start by going through the shipping conflict with our Jakarta division. They're five million short, and someone's cooking the reports."

"I'm not your assistant," Damian snapped, "besides you could do that yourself."

"I could. It would be easy," Tim said, placing the mug down, "But you're twelve. And I'm the adult you're annoying. So welcome to your internship."

Damian narrowed his eyes.

Tim smiled over his shoulder.

"Have fun, kid."

-

The quiet of the Manor was unsettling.

Bruce rechecked the time. Damian should've been home three hours ago. He knew, of course, that his son was punctual—militantly so. If Damian was ever late, it was intentional. Which was worse.

Unexpectedly, Damian strolled in with the deliberate gait of someone who had just pulled off a major coup. His school uniform was dishevelled, with one sleeve rolled up and the collar askew. He carried a sleek black folder under his arm, exuding an air of authority more befitting a hedge fund manager than a child.

Bruce stepped out from the shadows of the hall.

"You're late."

Damian didn't even blink, "I was at the office."

Bruce frowned, "What office?"

With a nonchalant air, Damian replied, "Drake Industries," as if it were the most obvious answer in the world, and headed for the kitchen.

Bruce followed, "Damian, that's not an office. That's a corporation. You're twelve."

"Yes, and it's in disarray."

Bruce paused in the doorway, his expression a mix of disbelief and confusion, "…What?"

"I'm appalled that it didn't go up in flames while Drake was gone for two years," Damian said, already pulling cold soba from the fridge like a stock analyst carb-loading before market open, "There is an entire logistics division that doesn't communicate with regional procurement. Inventory's getting misrouted to Jakarta when it should be bound for Mumbai."

Bruce just blinked.

Damian continued, opening the drawer for chopsticks. "Also, their capital is bloated—DI has been sitting on a dividend reserve for six quarters. It could buy out three competitors and still have enough leftover to restructure the board."

"You… understand all that?"

"Father," Damian said, very seriously, "I've read Sun Tzu in the original Chinese. This is just a different kind of war."

Bruce put a hand to his temple. He would have to limit Jason's time around his youngest. This level of snark was deadly.

"And the board," Damian added, after a mouthful, "is an absolute embarrassment. One owns stock in a shell company and is laundering funds through Blüdhaven property flips. Another hasn't attended a meeting in seven months and claims travel expenses. Disgusting."

Bruce stared, "Since when do you care about board governance?"

"Since one week ago. I was benched from fieldwork and needed something productive to do with my time."

"And this… productive thing… is corporate espionage?"

"No," Damian said, matter-of-fact, "It's shadow auditing."

Then Bruce asked quietly, "And what's your goal?"

"I want to know what Drake is hiding."

"And if he's not hiding anything?"

"Then I'll be very disappointed."

There was a beat of silence. Bruce's brain desperately tried to reboot.

"… You're spying on him."

"Obviously."

"While correcting his internal operations."

Damian nodded, chewing.

"And you're enjoying it."

"I'm excellent at it."

Bruce just stared, arms crossed. The last spreadsheet he had personally opened was formatted in Comic Sans, and he was 85% sure Lucius had burned the server afterwards out of shame.

Damian set the now-empty container on the counter, brushed his hands on a napkin, and said:

"Also, I'm writing a report on the company's burn rate and suggesting a potential merger opportunity with a Singaporean cleantech firm. Their IP could double the value of Drake's urban infrastructure projects in less than two fiscal quarters."

Bruce opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

"...Do you want to run Wayne Enterprises?"

Damian looked genuinely offended, "Do not be a fool, Father. That place is a nightmare. I'd have to work with shareholders."

Bruce just stared.

Damian grabbed his folder.

Then, with the confidence of a young tycoon, he was gone—like a short, overly assured hurricane in Italian loafers.

Bruce stood in the kitchen for a full minute before muttering to absolutely no one:

"…What the hell just happened."

-

At first, Tim gave the little snot runner actual work—logistics reports, shipment tracing, and even a lightly encrypted budget discrepancy, which he claimed needed auditing.

Damian finished it in thirty-nine minutes. With annotations.

After that, Tim got creative.

Task #1

"Head down to Legal. Tell them you're here to 'streamline their workflow.' Take notes. Use those exact words," Tim instructed, a mischievous glint in his eye.

Damian returned an hour later with a meticulously crafted flowchart and a list of two attorneys who could be laundering money through nonprofit donations.

Tim sipped his coffee, "Excellent initiative."

Task #4 

"Go to the IT department and open the blinds. All of them."

Damian narrowed his eyes, "Why?"

"They've been in darkness too long," Tim said solemnly, "They need to remember the sun."

Five minutes later, the blinds in the IT wing rolled up with a mechanical whirrrrrrr .

Light poured in like divine judgment.

The IT staff screamed. One flung a hoodie over his monitor like a dying man shielding his last breath of air. Another threw a stress ball at Damian and missed.

Someone shouted, "It burns!"

Damian returned with a single USB drive in his pocket.

Tim arched his brow, "Souvenir?"

"Encrypted," Damian said, "Figured you planted it."

Tim smirked behind the rim of his coffee mug, "Maybe I did."

Task #7  

"Please go to HR and reorganize their motivational posters by irony level."

Damian didn't blink, "Understood."

When HR caught on, "Teamwork Makes the Dream Work" was hanging directly above the fire exit, and "This Is a Safe Space" had been removed entirely.

Task #12

"Boardroom. Rearrange all the chairs in ascending height order. Alphabetically by the last name."

"There are no names on the chairs in the boardroom."

"Exactly."

Task #15

"Take this plant to Accounting. Its name is Gilligan. He's their new morale officer—dont ask about the old one."

Damian squinted, "It's a ficus."

"It's Gilligan . Put some respect on their name."

Later, Accounting's department head filed a formal complaint—not about the plant—about Damian silently standing behind them for twenty minutes, 'observing team cohesion.' Gilligan now has a desk, a nameplate, and an official Drake Industries login.

Task #18 

"Perform a stealth audit of the office supply closet. Document any suspicious pen hoarding."

Damian had already disappeared when the CEO looked up.

He returns with a spreadsheet, photographic evidence, and a handwritten confession from an intern who was smuggling gel pens out of their lunchbox. No one knows how he got it, but that same intern submitted a form to HR, wanting to claim 'emotional damages.'

Task #21

"Please ensure the executive fridge is alphabetically arranged by product name, left to right, shelf by shelf."

"That's stupid," Damian scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. Not pouting at all.

Tim rolled his eyes and then looked serious, "So was Caesar ignoring the Ides of March. We all make choices."

Damian completes the task with military precision and leaves a laminated chart inside for future compliance. DI's executive team is now terrified of touching the fridge.

Task #23

"I need you to sit on the marketing team's branding brainstorm. Offer your feedback. Constructive only."

Two hours later, the marketing team emerges pale and shell-shocked.

Damian's notes include:

- Your logo is weak. A falcon with no talons. Do better.

- The target demographic is foolish. Target someone more competent.

- Fire Greg.

Greg has not returned to work since.

Task #26

"Go into the lobby and politely interrogate any visitor who wears more than three primary colours."

Damian nods as if this is the most sane thing Tim could ask him to do, "What am I looking for?"

The CEO shrugs, "Clowns. Possibly spies. You decide."

Damian does not smile. But he does confiscate a canister of glitter from someone in the lobby and mutters "Suspicious…" under his breath.

Task #29

"Make a new floor map labelling the most dangerous people in the building. Include reasons."

Later, Tim finds the list stuck on the fridge in the breakroom with a Hello Kitty magnet. 

1. Tamara Fox – Knows too much. Maybe Batman-adjacent.
2. Janice from HR – Unnaturally good at hiding snacks. Possibly a former thief.
3. Timothy Drake – Suspiciously overprepared. Disappears too often. Adds Red Bull to his coffee

He leaves a sticky note next to it: 'Glad I made the top 3. You forgot to include yourself. Rookie mistake.'

Task #33

"Sit in my office and pretend to be me for ten minutes while I go to the roof and scream."

Damian settles in his chair without complaint, "What do I say if someone calls?"

"Be vague. Use words like 'synergy' and 'innovation pipeline.'"

Damian answers two calls. In both cases, the callers hung up, thinking Tim was being very intimidating.

The longer this continued, the more absurd the tasks became—and the more Damian adapted. Tim couldn't tell if the kid was genuinely falling for it or outmaneuvering him with perfect execution.

Damian seemed to take it all in stride—dead-faced, cold-eyed, executing every order with a soldier's discipline and a hacker's precision. The man didn't crack, not even when Tim asked him to audit the break room snacks for morale impact.

"I've created a three-tiered preference chart by department," Damian reported, "Also, one of your VPs is hoarding the peanut butter cups in his personal fridge. I've dealt with it."

"…Do I want to know how?"

"No."

Tim sat back in his chair that night, glancing at the latest 'intern report' on his desk—handwritten, fourteen pages, complete with a red string diagram.

He shook his head, impressed despite himself.

-

He was onto something.

He knew it. Felt it.

When he stepped into Drake Industries, Damian could sense the layers—intentional obfuscation like a city built on top of a city. Everything was too clean, too seamless. The building hummed efficiently in ways that didn't match Drake's public image as Gotham's 'ghost heir.'

Most of the employees were loyal but tight-lipped. The security systems were high-grade but old. Everything looked like it was telling the truth, which meant it was lying.

And then there was Timothy Drake himself.

Infuriating.

Smug.

Impossible to pin down.

He hadn't denied anything. Hadn't admitted to anything either. He just smiled that too-knowing smile, handed Damian tasks like the world's most bored summer camp counsellor, and watched from the shadows with mild amusement as Damian completed each with military precision.

At first, Damian thought it was a test.

Then he realized—it was a game.

Tim wasn't trying to teach him anything. He was trying to annoy him into quitting. Distract him. Bore him into submission.

Open the blinds. Rearrange the fridge. Audit the snack inventory.

It would've worked—if Damian were someone else.

But he wasn't. He was a Wayne.

A League-trained heir with an IQ high enough to file patents before puberty. He logged each ridiculous task like a breadcrumb trail, tracking how Tim operated, where he deflected, and what he avoided. No one played games that well unless they had something to hide.

And Damian knew Tim was hiding a lot.

No one disappeared at fifteen and with perfectly curated public gaps in their history unless they were doing something particular.

And very dangerous.

So, if Tim wanted to play games?

Fine.

Damian would play.

He wasn't going to quit. He was going to stay.

He was going to smile through every bizarre assignment, audit every damn snack tray—and while he did it, he would dismantle the puzzle of Tim Drake piece by piece.

Because Damian Wayne did not lose.

This is what Damian Wanye thought with conviction as he turned down one of the darkened alleyways to arrive at Drake Industries faster. Something that he had been doing without fail over the past month during his internship. 

The hairs on his neck stood up as his instincts flared, and he stopped mid-step, scanning the shadows around him. The street lights flickered above, casting long, distorted shadows along the cracked pavement. A subtle shift in the air—a sound too soft to place—made his eyes narrow. 

A van slid into view from the opposite end of the alley, tyres skimming the ground, its engine low and rumbling. It was black. Too clean. It parked with a precision that betrayed too much familiarity with the surroundings. The door slid open, and three men in nondescript suits stepped out, their movements fast and deliberate. Their eyes locked on Damian instantly.

He didn't waste time thinking. His body reacted as he sprang into a fighting stance, his muscles primed. The League's training kicked in immediately, calculating the angles of the alley, the distance between him and his opponents, and the precise vulnerability of each man. He was fast—quicker than all three of them combined. But the element of surprise was against him. 

One grabbed his arm, yanking him backward, and pressed something cold against the back of his neck.

"You're coming with us, kid," he growled.

Damian's eyes flickered with irritation. He hadn't even had time to prepare a counterattack. They were good, but not good enough. Still, he had to think quickly—he wasn't some naïve civilian who'd just been grabbed off the street.

He'd spent his life learning the art of combat, assassination, and evasion. 

He fought back instinctively, twisting his arm free with a precise motion. Before he could react, Damian kicked the one holding him in the stomach, sending him staggering back. But just as quickly, another pair of hands grabbed him, locking him in a vice-like grip.

"You're a persistent little brat," the second stranger hissed.

Damian didn't have time for this. He was quick, but there were too many of them. They overpowered him easily, strapping his hands together with zip ties and dragging him into the van. His head hit the side of the door with a sharp crack as he was shoved inside, disorienting him.

The van lurched into motion, taking him further from Drake Industries, deeper into the unknown. He could hear the muffled voices of the men up front, but he didn't care. His focus was on the task at hand.

But before he could move, the van screeched to a halt. His body jerked forward, and the man's grip tightened on him again. The door swung open.

"Move," one of them barked.

Damian didn't need to be told twice. He was already springing into action. But as he made his move, one of the men hit him with something—a sharp sting in the back of his neck that sent a jolt of numbness through his body. The world swirled, and his legs buckled beneath him.

Everything went black.

-

Tim Drake sat at his desk with narrowed eyes as he glared at the clock. 

3:20PM

School had finished twenty minutes ago. It was around a fifteen-minute walk from Gotham Academy to Drake Industries. Ten with the shortcut that Damian would take every day. An approximate two-minute elevator ride up to the floor his office was at. The little squirt would be in his room no later than three fifteen for the past month without fail. So why was he five whole minutes late today?

-

Damian could still taste blood.

Metallic, thick, coppery—it pooled under his tongue, warm against his teeth. His head lolled slightly where he sat, his arms bound behind him, one of them definitely broken or dislocated. Probably fractured. He couldn't tell anymore.

Time had become a blur of electric pulses and bootheels.

They were professionals—ex-military, maybe private sector turned underground. They didn't monologue. They didn't threaten. They just worked him over with precision. Not enough to kill. Just enough to extract.

The pain had dulled into something colder now. Quieter.

They didn't explain what they wanted, almost like they didn't know.

He endured.

Even as his vision blurred, even as his knees gave out and his body hung by one shoulder, even when he felt the ground shift below him in slow, sick waves—he endured.

But he wouldn't last much longer.

He hated that he knew it.

The first sign the captors got that something was wrong was the blackout.

Not just the lights—but everything.

The power grid, the backup battery, and even the internal sensors. Gone.

Then came the sound—footsteps. Not rushed. Deliberate.

The door groaned.

And then—

It exploded inward.

Smoke. Flash-bang. A shape moved through the haze like a ghost—fast, efficient, furious. Then, like a wraith, Tim Drake emerged through the fog.

He was still dressed in his work suit. His expression was blank. His eyes? Ice.

"Back away from him," he said calmly. Coldly.

One guard panicked and went to pull out a weapon—too slow.

Tim moved like a shadow caught in a storm.

Two disarms. A knife flicked from a sleeve. One man screamed as a taser found his ribs. Another cracked against the concrete wall with a sound like a shattering bone.

And then there was silence.

Only Damian's shallow breathing remained, ragged and unsteady.

Tim was across the room in a second, dropping to one knee and reaching out with surprising gentleness, "Hey. Hey, kid—look at me."

Damian's eyes fluttered open. Blood caked his temple. His right shoulder was at an unnatural angle. His lips parted like he wanted to speak, but nothing came out.

"Damian," Tim said again, voice lower, steady, "I've got you."

"You're late…" Damian rasped, tone dry but weak.

Tim exhaled—some mix between a laugh and a curse—and carefully untied the restraints. Damian collapsed forward against him, body going limp. Tim caught him without hesitation, cradling him close, one arm firm around his back.

"I know," he said softly, his voice barely audible, "but I'm here now."

"You're concussed. Not badly. Dislocation, yes. Ribs… may be cracked. I'm getting you out of here."

Damian didn't respond.

Tim looked down.

The boy had passed out on his chest.

Tim stared at him for a long second, then whispered—so quietly no one would ever hear—"It's good to see you again, kid."

-

The air was electric with tension.

Dick's relentless pacing had evolved into complete laps of the Batcave. Jason was on his third scan cycle of Gotham's underbelly, his determination palpable. At the same time, Steph and Duke cross-referenced every traffic cam and satellite feed known to the BatComputer, their commitment unwavering.

Alfred had long since abandoned tea. Bruce stood at the console, shoulders squared, expression carved from stone—but his fingers tapped restlessly against the desk.

"No trace. No comms. No distress call," Bruce muttered, "Not even a body cam freeze-frame. He's just gone."

"Wherever he is," Duke said tightly, "he ditched the tracker—either someone forced him, or he's hiding on purpose."

"Has anyone been able to contact Oracle?" Dick asked frantically.

'Busy,' signed Cass, 'Soon.'

Jason scowled, "Isn't he at that internship that he goes to?"

"I contacted Drake Industries, but it was impossible to get a straight answer from anyone in the lobby, and apparently, the CEO had stepped out for the night," Bruce growled as his fingers tapped harsher against the table.

Then, the Batcomputer, the nerve centre of their operations, chimed, breaking the tense silence and signalling a potential breakthrough.

A sudden override. Not hostile. But immediate.

Every screen went black.

Then:

>>SIGNAL RECEIVED — VERITAS<<

The text appeared, typed in crisp, clinical bursts:

> STATUS UPDATE: ROBIN  

> CONDITION: STABLE  

> INJURIES: MODERATE  

> INTERFERENCE: HANDLED  

> CURRENT LOCATION: CLASSIFIED  

> ETA UNTIL RETURN: UNDETERMINED  

> RECOMMENDATION: STAND DOWN

There was a beat.

Then, at the bottom, one final line appeared, leaving everyone in disbelief:

> HE'S SAFE. STOP PANICKING.

Steph blinked, "Did we just get… sass? From Veritas?"

Bruce leaned in, "Trace it."

"No source," Duke muttered, hands flying over the console, "It's routed through at least seven ghost networks and one of ours. I think they used our own backup relay."

"They have Damian," Bruce said grimly.

"Then why not bring him here?" Dick asked.

Cass's eyes narrowed and signed, 'Little brother hurt. Emotions.'

Jason scowled.

"More than he wants us to see," Steph added quietly.

Bruce stared at the screen, jaw tight, "Keep the Cave ready. He'll come back when he's ready."

-

The message had been sent.

Tim closed his laptop that had been perched precariously on his lap and turned back to the bed where Damian lay unconscious, clean bandages wrapped tight around his shoulder, a faint bruise still blooming along his temple. A faint crease formed between the boy's brows, like his dreams were troubled.

The room was dim. Safe. Temperature regulated. Monitors hummed in a low, steady rhythm. 

Tim sat beside him.

He hadn't moved in nearly an hour.

There was a calm stillness to him, but beneath it, his mind roared like a storm. Every second ticked like a blade against his thoughts—what he could've done sooner, how close it had been, how small Damian looked when he passed out in Tim's arms.

He exhaled through his nose and leaned back, eyes never leaving Damian's sleeping form.

Tim grabbed the blanket and pulled it up another inch.

"Just sleep," he said softly, mainly to himself, "You're safe here."

He didn't say it, but part of him knew this wasn't just about recovering.

This was about giving Damian space the Batcave wouldn't—not the lectures, fear, or pressure.

Just time.

Tim adjusted the pillow, then sat back, arms crossed, eyes fixed on his little brother like a silent sentinel.

The storm could wait.

Chapter Text

Damian sat at the kitchen counter in Tim's penthouse, fiddling with a sleek black pen deep in thought. The CEO pottered around the stove, making one of the only meals he knew how to make—instant noodles.

"You're Alvin Draper," Damian said, giving him a pointed look.

Tim continued his task, not bothering to look up, and casually nodded as if it were the most natural thing in the world: "Yep." 

Damian scowled and crossed his arms, his determination burning bright despite the slight strain of his dislocated shoulder, "And Veritas?"

Tim finally looked up at him, his eyes twinkling with mischievous amusement, "Sure am," he confirmed, a playful glint in his eyes.

"You know about Robin," The boy said bluntly.

"And Batman, Nightwing, Red Robin- need I go on?"

There was a beat of silence as Tim plated the noodles, sliding one bowl to the boy across the counter before taking his own seat.

Damian exhaled slowly, a sense of relief washing over him as if all the puzzle pieces had finally been in place after so long.

"How do you feel about giving Bruce a full head of grey hair?"

Damian's lips quirked up slightly before he schooled his expression, "Elaborate."

A wide smirk spread across Tim's lips as he felt the familiar tug of purpose flood his chest.

-

Parents and students alike in tailored suits and modest pearls navigated between decorated bulletin boards and rows of folding chairs, clutching printed schedules and thin smiles. The lighting was just bright enough to remind everyone that this was a school and not, in fact, a courtroom or a gala.

Damian Wayne stood stiff-backed, looking like he was about to be interviewed for a corporate acquisition.

Beside him stood Tim Drake.

Not Bruce Wayne.

Not Alfred.

Not even Dick Grayson.

Tim.

Mrs. Alderson—the AP Civics teacher—called out, "Next—Wayne?"

Damian, exuding confidence, adjusted the cuffs of his blazer and strode forward like a prosecutor heading for closing arguments.

Mrs. Alderson blinked.

"Mr Wayne," she greeted, "and Mr Drake…?"

Damian gestured toward the other with the air of someone presenting a particularly dangerous legal document. 

"This is my legal oversight manager."

Tim nodded solemnly. 

There was a beat of complete silence. Mrs. Alderson opened her mouth, then closed it. She looked back at the two boys.

Damian's posture radiated cold precision. Tim's expression was unreadable and polished, like a man who could order a hostile takeover mid-sip of espresso.

"Right," she said faintly, "Well—uh—Damian's work is… exceptional. Very thorough. A bit aggressive during the Model UN, but I suppose that's to be expected."

"He was negotiating on behalf of Latveria," Tim said, "and they were disrespected."

Mrs. Alderson blinked again.

"Indeed," she said.

A very long pause passed.

"Would you," she said slowly, "like to… speak about Damian's coursework?"

Tim just hummed and handed her a printed spreadsheet. The teacher accepted it with trembling fingers.

"Thank you for your time," Damian said, already standing.

Then they were gone.

Two days later, Damian Wayne was moved into two additional AP classes and discreetly given a locker upgrade.

No one mentioned it.

It started with a phone call.

Bruce picked up the secure line on the third ring, already rubbing the bridge of his nose. The contact ID read Gotham Academy – Dr. L. Morrison (Science Dept).

"Mr. Wayne, thank you for your time," the teacher began, "I just wanted to call and say how impressed I was by Damian's recent paper on neural mapping and cognitive elasticity."

Bruce blinked. That was… not the direction he'd expected this call to go.

"I'm glad to hear that," he said cautiously.

"It was an outstanding piece of work—graduate-level in some sections. Your son even opened with a quote that framed the argument beautifully. Very thought-provoking."

Bruce leaned back in his chair, "Oh? What quote?"

The teacher laughed lightly, "It read: 'Perception is leverage. – T.J. Drake.' Honestly, I don't know the philosopher—I'd never heard of them before!"

Bruce froze.

There was a long, weighted pause.

"…T.J. Drake?"

"Yes! Very insightful, whoever they are. I assume it's someone from his reading list?"

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose harder, "Something like that."

"Just brilliant, really," the teacher continued, oblivious. "We're considering submitting the paper to the state science fair. It deserves recognition. And the quote just gave it a sort of—gravitas."

Bruce hung up as politely as he could and dropped the phone onto his desk.

Alfred simply offered him a cup of tea and a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, "At least he's citing his sources."

The next day, Bruce was halfway through his second cup of coffee, reading the encrypted GCPD overnight reports, when his phone pinged from his personal email.

He blinked as he flicked his eyes to the sleek black brick and tapped it to life to see its contents, which made him frown.

Subject : Congratulatory Regards to Engagement — Gotham Academy

From : [email protected]

To : [email protected]

Cc : [email protected], [email protected]

His brow furrowed as he read the email.

Then blinked.

Then, re-read it.

'Congratulations, Mr. Drake!

We wanted to personally recognize your growing involvement in the academic and social success of your ward (ish), Damian Wayne. It's always a joy to see guardians actively participate in their child's school life. We especially commend your recent submission as Damian's updated emergency contact. The note, 'Guardian Adjacent,' gave us a chuckle at the front office.

Keep up the excellent engagement!  

Sincerely,  

Ms. Tilda Merrin  

Administrative Head, Gotham Academy'

Bruce stared at the email.

Then opened the Gotham Academy parent portal.

Under Emergency Contact #1, in pristine Helvetica font, it read:

T.J. Drake – Contact Verified ✔  

Relationship to Student: "Corporate & Moral supervisor."

Bruce's eye twitched.

Another ping from his email. He almost ignored it, but something about the subject line gave him pause.

Subject: Custody Status Clarification — Gotham Academy

From : [email protected]

To : [email protected]

Bruce clicked it open.

'Dear Mr. Wayne,  

We hope this message finds you well. We are reaching out to confirm whether there has been a recent change in the custody or legal guardianship status of Damian Wayne, currently enrolled in our advanced placement curriculum.  

This inquiry arises due to a pattern of recently submitted assignments—essays, lab reports, and a rather impressive economic policy presentation—all signed 'Damian Drake.'

We, of course, want to ensure our records are up to date and that all documentation reflects the appropriate guardian information.  

Please advise at your earliest convenience.  

Warm regards,  

James Peterson

Gotham Academy Administration'

Bruce stared at the screen.

He re-read the phrase 'Damian Drake' at least five times, a subtle feeling of foreboding washing over him.

-

The Annual Wayne Foundation charity Gala was in full swing—crystal chandeliers, string quartets, and champagne flutes balanced delicately on silver trays. Gotham's elite moved through the marble atrium like peacocks in designer suits.

Bruce approached the guest registry with practised ease, nodding politely at the museum director. Then he saw it.

Right there, in Damian's deliberate cursive:

'Damian Wayne-Drake'

Bruce stared at it.

The pen clicked in his hand like a warning shot.

He found Damian across the room near the sculpture installation, sipping sparkling cider out of a champagne flute.

Bruce approached, voice low so as to not attract attention, "Damian, Son—care to explain the hyphen?"

Damian glanced at him, seemingly not catching his father's exasperation, "hyphenation is trendy."

Bruce's eye twitched, "You're not a lifestyle brand."

"I'm building personal branding," Damian replied coolly, "It's called proactive legacy management."

And then he sauntered away, leaving Bruce spluttering. 

That night, while on stage, Bruce adjusted the mic with the practised ease of a man used to commanding rooms full of billionaires and board members.

"Thank you all for joining us tonight in support of Gotham's youth initiatives. The Wayne Foundation has always—"

Behind him, standing just slightly off to the side in a crisply tailored suit and the poise of someone who definitely didn't ask permission to be there, was Damian.

He leaned toward the mic, tone conversational.

"These suits were designed by a man who once embezzled half a million dollars from a children's hospital in Metropolis."

Silence.

Utter silence.

Tim stood beside the bar with his champagne flute at the far end of the room. Without missing a beat, he reached over and refilled it (with cider). Didn't even flinch.

Bruce's smile was locked in place like a hostage. His hand found Damian's shoulder with the same tension one might use to disarm a grenade.

"Damian. Now is not the time."

Damian blinked innocently, "I thought transparency was a virtue."

Tim's exaggerated sipping seemingly echoed through the room as he nodded thoughtfully.

Bruce did not scream.

He simply turned back to the mic, smiling in that tight, rich-man way displaying, ' Everything was fine; we are not on fire.'

"Let's… thank our design sponsor for their generous reparations donation," he said through clenched teeth.

The crowd clapped slowly, awkwardly.

Damian stepped back from the mic. Tim raised his glass from the bar in a silent toast.

One month later, during another gala, Bruce stood near the entrance, drink in hand, scanning the crowd like a soldier preparing for impact. Around him was the sound of clinking glasses and the dull roar of Gotham's elite pretending to care about tax write-offs. And then he saw them. Tim and Damian, flanking each other like matching blades in tailored suits. 

Tim's eyes flicked to the servers and exits, locking on to his prey. Damian was already peeling off into the crowd of billionaire children, his expression unreadable.

"Dear god," Bruce muttered into his glass.

The chaos started small.

Damian introduced himself as 'Damian Drake' to a cluster of heirs, casually mentioning his internship and asking if their fathers were being investigated for money laundering. Two of them choked on their canapés.

Fifteen feet away, Tim leaned against a marble column, seemingly unbothered.

He tapped something on his phone. Overhead, the carefully orchestrated gala light show shimmered—and then blinked, just once, before returning to normal.

No one noticed.

Except for a very partial few, their faces twitched as the lights began to pulse again—barely perceptible flashes.

Morse code.

'Nice stock dip, Alan.'

' Your charity's a front. Hi, Randall.'

' Smile if you fear an audit.'

The older men stiffened. One began to sweat. Another dropped his wine.

Bruce was halfway through a conversation with Lucius when he noticed movement near the main exit.

Tim.

Already heading out the door.

"Of course he is," Bruce muttered.

Trailing behind him was Damian, still chewing on a sugar-dusted dessert skewer like a smug gremlin.

"Let's go before the faux philanthropy kicks in," Tim said flatly, brushing past a senator's wife mid-sentence about her yacht renovation.

"Damian," Bruce called, "Can I have a word?"

His son didn't slow down. The boy just tossed over his shoulder, "You just did."

They disappeared into the hallway. Bruce swore he heard them high-five as they did.

-

Damian had been standing at a podium during a youth entrepreneurship panel.

With every answer he had given, he found a way to include Tim.

"My mentor believes diplomacy begins with subtle psychological warfare."

"I'm interning with Drake Industries. Junior executive track. I manage two departments and one teenage CEO."

" Drake taught me everything I know. Mostly how to manipulate people through passive-aggression and selectively returned emails."

He was flanked by children—his peers—of other CEOs when a local journalist lobbed a casual question:

"Is balancing your work at Drake Industries with being Bruce Wayne's son difficult? "  

Damian didn't even pause.

"I admire Timothy Drake's leadership," he said, with a straight face that could rival a statue, "Unlike my father, he answers his emails."

The stark contrast between Damian's deadpan humour and the serious press was a sight to behold. The audience laughed, thoroughly entertained by the unexpected jabs at the Wayne family dynamics.

By the next morning, headlines were everywhere, screaming drama and intrigue. The impact of Damian's words was evident in the sensational headlines that dominated the news, sparking public interest and speculation.

"Wayne vs. Drake? Gotham's Power Heirs at Odds?"

" Family Rift or Corporate Coup? Damian Wayne Throws Shade at Beloved Bruce Wayne"

" Email Etiquette: The Real Divide in the Wayne Household?"

Bruce stood in the foyer, his forehead pressed against the cool marble wall, trying to suppress the oncoming urge to bang his head against the wall as Alfred read the titles aloud.

-

🦇Wayne Family Mutual Support Chat🦇

Members: Dick, Jason, Cass, Steph, Duke, Barabra (muted notifications), Alfred (muted notifications), and Bruce (hasn't been active in 7 months)

💬 TheHotOne: guys

💬 TheHotOne: we need to talk about what is going on with dami

💬 HelmetBoy: Are you allergic to proper punctuation? 

💬 SpoiledBrat - replying to TheHotOne : oml ikr

💬 SpoiledBrat: he hasnt tried to stab me all month like??? 😞😞

💬 HelmetBoy: …

💬 TheHotOne: do you want to be stabbed 

💬 TheHotOne: im sure if you ask him he will

💬 AssassinNotAssassin: Brother happy

💬 AssassinNotAssassin: Suspicious 

💬 BrightBoi: Okay but is it bad suspicious or ' accidentally obtained a kid CEO as your sidekick ' suspicious?

💬 BrightBoi: Because I'm not sure we should interfere

💬 HelmetBoy: Bold of you to assume we can interfere

💬 HelmetBoy: I tried to ask the brat about something on patrol and he told me I 'wouldn't survive a corporate merger.'

💬 TheHotOne: the brat told me my media presence lacked brand cohesion 😭

💬 SpoiledBrat: hold on

💬 SpoiledBrat: he asked me last week if i knew the tax implication of vigilante gear imports

💬 SpoiledBrat: i thought it was a weird hypothetical

💬 SpoiledBrat: it wasn't a hypothetical was it

💬 BrightBoi: Every week, I get a package from DI that includes a legally binding cease and desist with Damian's signature. Wax sealed. 

💬 BrightBoi: I don't even know what I did.

💬 🦇™️ : They're just kids, it will pass.

💬 TheHotOne: you say that but dami cc'd me on a board presentation

💬 TheHotOne: the kid had a powerpoint called: 'why fathers corporate strategies are weak: a visual breakdown'

💬 AssassinNotAssassin: I liked slide three

💬 AssassinNotAssassin: It had explosions

💬 ButlerofSass: ☕️

💬 TheHotOne: i tried asking him what was going on and he just responded with 'nda' then offered me a consulting role

💬 BrightBoi: He wears cufflinks now. On patrol.

💬 SpoiledBrat: not gonna lie he ditched me on the weekedn  

💬 SpoiledBrat: said he had a 'board vote' 

💬 SpoiledBrat: i thought he was joking but then he sent me a photo of him in a literal boardroom

💬 HelmetBoy: So what's the move?  

💬 HelmetBoy: Do we stage an intervention?

💬 TheHotOne: i say we let Bruce handle it invite tim over for a totally casual not awkward dinner and see what happens

💬 HelmetBoy: Oh. So, a hostage situation, then.

💬 🦇™️ : Fine, I'll invite him.

💬 BrightBoi: Anyone want to make predictions?

💬 BrightBoi: Possible outcomes: Damian declares Tim his legal guardian, Tim sues for custody, Alfred adopts Tim, Bruce gets disowned by his own child

💬 SpoiledBrat: bet bruce adopts tim lmao

💬 AssassinNotAssassin: I will bring snacks

💬 TheHotOne: i will bring a fire extinguisher

-

The dining room gleamed with Wayne Manor's familiar opulence. Silver chandeliers cast a soft glow over the long, polished table, where plates and glasses filled with wine and water were set. 

Brucie sat at the head of the table, his expression smiley and inviting, though his eyes betrayed a hint of the stress he was trying to suppress. To his credit, Damian looked like a picture of obedience—clean blazer, pressed collar, polished shoes. He even said 'please' when Alfred refilled his glass. A model son.

A dangerous, smug, chaos-loving model son.

In his neatly dressed navy and charcoal attire, Tim sat at the table with his blazer hanging off the back of his chair and sleeves rolled up. He smiled easily as if he was always at home in this silent chaos. The teenage CEO was indeed comfortable, even while pretending not to know the man at the head of the table was Gotham's most prolific vigilante.

Dick made a valiant effort to maintain a casual conversation while Jason attacked his food as if it had personally wronged him. Cass observed everything in perfect silence, adding to the palpable tension in the room.

Barabara's absence was noted only briefly—Alfred had mentioned she was 'having a girl's night out.' That is, she had elected to monitor the city instead of sitting through what she correctly predicted would be a disaster with candles .

According to Damian, Steph and Duke were on patrol—thanks to a brutal game of rock-paper-scissors between the Wayne children. Steph had chosen paper three times in a row. Duke had trusted scissors one time too many.

Alfred moved gracefully between chairs, pouring drinks and placing dishes with practised precision, as if the entire atmosphere weren't pulsing with awkward, forced small talk. At the centre of the chaos: one Tim Drake, a civilian guest, tech mogul, and (as far as everyone except Damian knew) blissfully unaware of the family's extracurricular activities.

"Roast beef, Master Tim?" Alfred offered politely.

"Yes, please," Tim said with a smile, entirely at home in the silent chaos despite the way Jason kept watching him as if he might spontaneously guess Bruce was Batman by the shape of the mashed potatoes.

"So, Tim," Dick began, tone overly casual, "uh, how's… business going?"

Tim looked up mid-sip of water, "You mean the multi-national, cross-sector tech conglomerate I'm CEO of?"

Jason coughed into his drink.

"Yeah, that one," Dick said, sheepish as if realizing his question sounded childish, "Any cool gadgets lately?"

Across the table, Bruce's fork paused mid-air.

"I've been working on predictive analytics and spatial targeting tech," Tim replied innocently, "Mostly for urban mapping and disaster prep. Though I suppose it could technically be used for… other things."

A beat of tense silence.

Cass blinked slowly as if she had figured everything out. Damian didn't even look up from his plate.

"I also filed a patent for a reinforced grappling system," Tim added thoughtfully, "I mean, for utility work. Obviously."

Jason started, "Why do I feel like you're messing with us?"

Tim smiled, all teeth and no apology, "Am I?"

"Anyway," Dick said quickly, trying to save the conversation, "we're just glad you could come tonight. Family dinners are kind of rare. Not usually this formal, though."

Tim tilted his head, feigning curiosity, "Right. I heard there was an incident with a smoke bomb last time?"

Jason visibly choked.

"Rumor," Bruce said flatly, his smile not strained.

'Baseless,' Cass signed.

Damian sipped his sparkling water, "The cheese platter survived. Barely."

Tim hummed, "Good to know."

The silence was interrupted only by Alfred returning with a bread basket, utterly unfazed by the escalating subtext around the table.

"So, Damian," Bruce said a little too loudly, "how's school?"

"Excellent," Damian replied smoothly, "Timothy has taken an interest in my academic performance. I recently submitted a paper on applied surveillance ethics under his mentorship."

'Timothy?' mouthed Dick with a look of horror crossing his face.

Jason leaned in, confused, "Wait—you're mentoring him?"

"He is interning at DI—though I prefer to think of it as strategic co-consulting," Tim offered casually, tearing a piece of bread, "We have meetings."

"Meetings," Bruce echoed warily.

"In boardrooms," Damian added, "With snacks."

"And juice boxes," Tim continued.

Cass nodded like this made perfect sense.

Jason leaned back in his chair, "So, just to clarify… are you guys co-parenting the demon brat or what?"

Cass nodded and signed, 'Brother.'

"He's not—" Bruce started, but Tim was already turning slightly in his chair, calm and deliberate.

"I'm not trying to replace you," he said, and for the first time, his voice was quieter. Honest, maybe, "But I'm not going to apologize for anything."

Bruce studied him for a long time.

Damian didn't say anything, but the way he angled his chair a little closer to Tim's said enough.

Jason stabbed his potatoes, "This is literally more intense than every gala this year."

"And those had actual jewel thieves," Dick added.

The table descended back into silence.

Tim finally turned toward Cass, offering her a slight nod, "You always knew, didn't you?"

She smiled like a secret, 'I always do.'

"Wait—what did she know?" Dick asked, looking betrayed.

"That he's Veritas," Cass and Damian said/signed in unison.

Bruce blinked, "What?"

Jason choked on his water.

Dick dropped his fork.

Bruce ran a hand down his face like he was physically aging in real-time.

Damian, entirely unbothered, took another bite of rice and said, "Also, I'm rebranding at public events. 'Damian Drake' polls better with investors."

Bruce's head hit the table.

Alfred simply cleared the empty plates.

-

Bruce scrolled through his inbox with the kind of grim determination typically reserved for hostage negotiations or decoding alien languages. He was seated in the study of Wayne manor. His shoulders were tense, his tie loosened from an earlier board meeting, and a headache drummed lightly behind his eyes—he should have never agreed to be more proactive in his company again.

His inbox dinged. A new message.

Subject : Damian Wayne Emotional Growth Report – Day 17

From : [email protected]

To : [email protected]

Cc : [email protected], [email protected]

Bruce squinted. That was never a good sign.

He clicked.

The body of the email loaded with a painfully bright layout. Blue header. Minimalist icons. The kind of formatting only someone with too much time and access to a private graphic design team would use.

Mood Pie Chart:

• 40% Strategic Disdain
• 25% Low-Grade Murder
• 15% Emotional Growth
• 10% Suspicious Quiet
• 10% Snack-Induced Coma

Quote of the Day (Unprompted):

"Tim's taste in art is surprisingly competent for a man who owns four identical sweaters."

Behavioural Badge Unlocked:

🟢 Did Not Threaten Violence Before 10 a.m.

Bruce stared at the screen.

Then, slowly, leaned back in his chair like a man absorbing some quiet horror.

Alfred stepped into the study, a silver tray balanced in one hand, a fresh cup of Earl Grey steaming gently on porcelain.

"Tea, sir?"

Bruce didn't answer at first. He gestured faintly toward the laptop, eyes still locked on the pie chart.

"He added graphs," he muttered.

Alfred glanced at the screen, then nodded approvingly, "I find the aesthetic rather charming, sir. Immaculate lines. Subtle colour balance."

Bruce exhaled through his nose, "This is psychological warfare."

"Master Tim does seem to take pride in presentation."

Bruce closed the laptop, but not before catching the final note at the bottom:

Coming Tomorrow:

• Projected Mood Forecast
• Snack Inventory Spreadsheet
• Pending Behavioral Achievement: 'Tolerated Jason for 3 Consecutive Interactions'

He groaned quietly.

"Is it wrong that I miss the days when Damian's emotional development involved fewer emails and more sword threats?"

"I daresay this method is far more sustainable. And entertaining."

From the hallway beyond, a door creaked.

"I am not answering that form, you glorified intern!" came Jason's voice.

"It was a satisfaction survey," Damian replied coolly, "You failed it."

Bruce didn't even blink.

Alfred placed the tea beside him with a quiet clink of porcelain, "I imagine, sir, that tomorrow's badge may be revoked."

The tea was calming.

He would need it.