Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Living in a tiny bubble frozen in time was not Kon's definition of a good life, but it wasn't like he'd had a choice in the matter. Everything he had known and loved vanished in an instant when the universe rearranged itself, leaving him stranded in an imitation of the Kent farm for, however long. He didn't think time really existed there.

Then one moment there was a break in the shield that kept him safe. Trapped. He didn't think too much about it when he stepped through. Bart had often said that his devil-may-care attitude would one day leave him in more trouble than he could handle.

In the blink of an eye, he found himself in a painfully familiar city. Gotham looked every bit as grimy and shady as he remembered, there were some differences, the technology was more advanced, but the people were just as he recalled. Honestly, he was glad the tiny crack had spat him out in Gotham and not Metropolis or Kansas. He didn't think he could stomach seeing the faces of who had been his family and have them look at him like a stranger.

He knew the Bats wouldn't look twice at another face on the streets unless he called attention to himself. That would have to work to his advantage.

It didn't take long to find more differences between this world and his own, and they cemented the importance of keeping himself away from the current Super-family. A true biological son of the Man of Steel was the current Superboy, and Kon had no desire to dip his fingers in that pie again. The first rejection from the man who was essentially his father had hurt enough, and Kon-El was no homewrecker.

Jonathan Kent, the true son of Superman. There was no way to predict how the super family would react to the sudden appearance of a ‘half-brother’, one with experience and advantages over him in heroics. Kon had dealt with enough in fallout from Jason and Tim's conflicts, even if they had somehow managed to make peace by the end.

So, he pulled on his Luthor way of thinking for the time being. He faked his documents, faked his school records, and made some questionable dealings to accumulate a modest amount of money. Essentials taken care of, the former Superboy did what he was sure both his genetic parents would supremely disapprove of, for different reasons of course. He became a doctor. Youngest in the history of Gotham University of Medicine. Youngest surgeon too.

It didn't matter that his accomplishments were impressive. He was known only among very small and select circles, and for the most part made his income from investments and shares. He made every effort not to stand out in the place he knew Batman frequently monitored. He knew that as Bruce Wayne, the man had access to the circles where his name was occasionally mentioned, but the League had no need of a human surgeon. So he didn't worry.

Kon didn't quite expect one of the Wayne kids to fall prey to appendicitis or that he would be the only surgeon available at the time of admission. Well, that wasn't exactly true. It was a hospital; there were plenty of surgeons. Kon was the only one, however, with the social cachet that meant he was "the best," and as Bruce Wayne only got the best, Kon was the only one available.

It was such a simple thing. The myth of the Bat was so extensive that he had simply overlooked that they were human, and humans got sick unexpectedly.

He was helping in the emergency department when he got paged to surgery. As he drew nearer, the familiar heartbeat of Batman sent a thread of panic through him, but he ruthlessly squashed it down before entering the room.

Bruce Wayne greeted him as charismatically as the situation allowed but seemed frantic in a way Kon had rarely seen before. He understood why when he looked at his actual patient: twelve-year-old Damian Wayne.

Damian hadn't existed in his universe, and as far as he knew, none of the Robins had ever fallen ill with appendicitis. The half-Kryptonian guessed that the man had been thrown for a loop when his child managed to be hurt by his own humanity. Living among aliens and metas tended to do that.

He answered in kind, falling into the professional doctor’s mindset that he needed. One look at the kid with his enhanced vision while he palpated his abdomen and asked the necessary questions told him everything. The kid grimaced in discomfort but never complained during the physical examination. When it was over, Damian just crossed his arms with a huff.

Surprisingly cute, Kon thought.

It was kind of funny that he was soothing frayed Bat nerves when it used to be the Bat who helped him with his nerves so many years ago.

Some hours later, he was checking on the kid when he heard the appreciative noise. He knew Damian Wayne was not a normal kid, so when the youngest Wayne expressed his gratitude, he didn't brush it off. He accepted it as he would have from any of his adult patients.

In hindsight, perhaps treating him like a normal kid would have been better for his peace of mind. After all, Damian had been raised to be a leader, and as such, he was always looking for potential candidates to make them "his people." Kon had painted a very stubborn target on his back.

Earlier that day, at the Bat Cave

Damian huffed, annoyed, as the persistent twinge in his lower stomach continued. It had been going on for hours and hadn't gone away even after taking pills. But stubborn was his middle name, so he didn't say anything until his father caught him grimacing in pain. He had just been walking when the sharp pain caught him unaware, and he'd reflexively reached to touch the area.

His father switched from Batman to Bruce in a split second, fussing over him and not even giving him time to complain before he was unceremoniously dumped in the car and told to change into his spare civvies as they drove to the hospital.

Arguing with his father in this state was an exercise in futility, so Damian complied while grumbling the entire time.

He had to admit it was quite funny to see this bunch of so-called professionals fall over themselves at his father's demands. But his interest was piqued when the head of the area bowed out of checking him personally, instead opting to page Dr. Keres.

Dr. Keres, as his father had told him once, was quite famous among the upper classes of Gotham, though Damian had never seen the man himself. They were both surprised by his appearance and demeanor. He was younger by several years in comparison to his peers in the same field, tall with black slightly curly hair and a pair of blue eyes behind glasses. Not only did he converse with Bruce Wayne as if he were just another patient, but when everything was said and done, the surgery was performed magnificently. More importantly, he treated Damian as he was used to being treated, like a rational person, not a simple spoiled child. He answered all of Damian's questions and didn't dumb down his responses. Well, he did simplify them, but only so someone without medical training could understand. Not dumbed-down answers meant for a twelve-year-old.

There was a spark of interest in his father's eyes, but Damian had staked his claim, and there was no way he was losing this doctor to his father.

Days later, Damian was even more convinced that he had made the right call by insisting that Dr. Keres was his to claim. As much as he respected his father, such prodigious talent as the young doctor possessed would be wasted in the League. Comprised of mostly non-humans, to snatch the man away to tend to the limited injuries the human members of the League incurred would be a shame.

No, Damian had much grander plans. Living as Robin under the tutelage of Batman was a limited time gig, and if he was being honest, he was not first pick to take up the mantle of the Bat once his father retired nor did he want to. Fiercely independent, Damian Wayne wanted to branch out on his own, to have a team of his own like the previous Robins did. Dick had the Teen Titans, Jason had his Outlaws, and Tim had Young Justice.

Damian had a pre-picked version of the Titans that Dick had included him in, and as much as he enjoyed Raven's company, it was not HIS team. It was a team designed to teach problem children and tie them to the League.

That was not what the son of Batman had been trained for. He was a leader. He needed his own network. Not the League, not the Titans, and certainly not his grandfather's assassins.

Seeing Dr. Keres remain unfazed in the face of Gotham's most powerful man had reinforced that desire.

The more he dug into the man, the more Damian wanted to pull him into his orbit.

Born Kon, an orphan in the slums of Gotham, he was bestowed the surname Keres after he aged out of the system, and the orphanage was torn down. His middle name, Elías, came from the streets he used to frequent.

Kon proved himself exceptional from a young age, though he remained undiscovered due to poor management at the orphanage. He only started to truly shine once he entered medical school, where even experienced doctors acknowledged his brilliance, granting him spots in increasingly difficult procedures. Truly a gift to modern medicine, according to anyone who met him. Of course, the man was not without some hearsay and rumors, but further investigation proved these to be merely the grumblings of jealous colleagues.

Damian waited until his father finished reviewing the medical reports before making his announcement. They were in the study, Bruce still in his day clothes, looking every bit the concerned parent rather than the Dark Knight.

"I intend to make Dr. Keres one of my people," Damian stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "So back off, Father."

Bruce looked up from the paperwork, and Damian could see the hint of amusement dancing in his eyes, the kind most people would miss but that he had learned to recognize over the years.

"You might find that difficult," Bruce said, his lips quirking ever so slightly.

Damian's eyes narrowed. "And why would you say that?"

Bruce set down the reports and leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled in that infuriatingly knowing way of his. "Do you think a brilliant doctor like him doesn't have people trying to recruit him? So far, no one has been successful."

"That's because they're not me," Damian said with the absolute confidence of youth and training. "They don't understand what motivates someone like Dr. Keres."

"And you do?"

"I will." Damian crossed his arms. "He didn't become the youngest surgeon in Gotham's history by following the usual paths. He might not be interested in the League's mission or in being another tool in someone else's arsenal. But his own network? His own choice? That's different."

Bruce studied his son for a long moment, the amusement now mixing with something that might have been pride. "Just remember, Damian that recruitment is a two-way street. You might find that Dr. Keres has his own plans that don't include being anyone's 'person.'"

"Then I'll make sure our interests align," Damian replied smoothly. "I learned from the best, after all."

The soft huff of laughter from his father was all the acknowledgment Damian needed. Challenge accepted.

Three days later, Damian found himself perched on a rooftop across from Gotham General Hospital's emergency entrance, binoculars trained on the chaos below. He had changed out of his Robin gear into civilian clothes, a pair of dark jeans, and a nondescript jacket, though he kept some of his equipment tucked away in his pockets just in case. The emergency room was visible through the large glass windows, a hive of controlled chaos even at two in the morning.

Dr. Keres moved through it like water flowing around stones.

Damian had been watching for hours now, taking notes on his tablet. He would not approach the man without more in-depth information. His training under both his father and his grandfather had taught him that preparation was the difference between success and failure. You didn't recruit someone by walking up and making demands. You observed. You learned. You found the leverage points.

So far, he had learned that Dr. Keres took the overnight shifts more often than seemed reasonable for someone of his status. Most surgeons of his caliber delegated the ER rotations to residents and interns, but Keres seemed to prefer the front lines. Interesting.

Through the windows, Damian watched as an ambulance pulled up, EMTs rushing out with a gurney. Keres was there in seconds, his hands already moving in examination even as they wheeled the patient through the doors. No hesitation. No ego about who did what work.

The man treated a homeless person with the same focused intensity he had shown Damian. He'd watched him spend twenty minutes carefully explaining medication instructions to an elderly woman who barely spoke English, using hand gestures and simple drawings when she didn’t understand.

Damian zoomed in with the binoculars, studying Keres's face as he worked. There was something there, a guardedness behind the professional mask, a careful control in every interaction. The man was hiding something. Not malicious, Damian's instincts told him, but definitely hiding.

Someone with Keres's skills could work anywhere, private practice, prestigious hospitals, even abroad. Yet he stayed in Gotham, took the worst shifts, and kept himself strategically invisible despite his considerable reputation.

Why?

Damian made another note on his tablet. He had watched Dr. Keres leave the hospital four times now, always alone, always taking different routes home. The man was situationally aware in a way that most civilians weren't. He checked his surroundings, varied his patterns, moved with an efficiency that spoke of training or instinct.

Most curious of all twice now, Damian had seen Keres pause and look up, as if sensing something. Once toward a rooftop where Damian knew his father was patrolling. Once toward a distant siren that human ears shouldn't have been able to hear yet.

The pieces didn't quite fit together, but they would. Damian was patient when it mattered.

His comm crackled softly. "Robin, status?" His father's voice, quiet.

"Observing," Damian murmured back. "Nothing actionable yet."

A pause. "Don't stay out all night. You have school in the morning."

Damian rolled his eyes but didn't argue. He snapped one last photo of Dr. Keres coordinating with two nurses over a patient chart, then packed up his equipment.

He will be back tomorrow night. And the night after that, if necessary.

Dr. Kon Elías Keres was a puzzle, and Damian Wayne had never met a puzzle he couldn't solve.

"So let me get this straight," Jason said, leaning back in his chair at the Batcave's conference table with a grin that promised mischief. "The Demon Brat has a crush on his doctor?"

"It's not a crush, Todd," Damian snapped, glaring daggers at his brother. "I'm recruiting him for my future network. There's a difference."

"Sure there is," Dick said, his own smile far too amused for Damian's liking. "That's why you've been doing surveillance on him for two weeks straight."

"It's called due diligence."

"It's called stalking," Tim muttered, not looking up from his laptop.

Damian's hand twitched toward his knife. "Drake, I will—"

"Boys," Bruce said mildly, though his tone carried enough weight to stop the brewing argument. "Damian's interest in Dr. Keres is... noted. However, I'll remind you all that the man has successfully avoided recruitment from several organizations. He clearly values his privacy."

"Which is exactly why the baby bat can't just walk up and make demands," Jason said, his grin widening. "He actually has to use people skills. This should be hilarious."

Dick's eyes lit up with that particular gleam that meant he was about to be insufferably helpful. "You know, I could introduce myself. Wayne Enterprises does charity work with the hospital. It would be perfectly natural for me to—"

"Don't you dare, Grayson."

"Or I could accidentally bump into him at a coffee shop," Tim suggested, finally looking up with a smirk. "Get talking about medical research, academic prodigies, that sort of thing. We'd have a lot in common."

"I could get shot," Jason offered cheerfully. "Nothing serious, just a flesh wound. He'd have to treat me, and then—"

"Absolutely not!" Damian shot to his feet. "All of you will stay away from Dr. Keres. This is my recruitment, and I will not have you incompetent fools ruining it with your meddling!"

The three older brothers exchanged glances, and Damian realized with growing horror that he'd just issued a challenge.

"Oh, now we have to," Dick said, still smiling that infuriating smile.

"It's basically required," Jason agreed.

"I'm already thinking of which coffee shop," Tim added.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. "Please don't actually get shot, Jason."

"No promises, B."

Damian looked at his father with something approaching betrayal. "You're going to let them do this?"

Bruce met his son's gaze with an expression that was probably meant to be sympathetic but still had traces of amusement. "I seem to recall you telling me to 'back off.' I assumed that meant you wanted to handle this yourself, without interference from family."

"That's different! I meant—" Damian cut himself off, realizing he was about to admit he'd wanted his father's help, just not his brothers'. "Forget it. Do what you want. When you all fail spectacularly, don't come crying to me."

The youngest bat stormed toward the exit, their laughter following him.

"Twenty bucks says Dick makes contact first," he heard Jason say.

"You're on. Tim's got the strategic advantage," Dick replied.

"You're both wrong," Tim said. "I give it three days before Damian caves and asks for advice."

Damian didn't dignify that with a response. He had work to do, and now he had a timeline. Whatever his brothers were planning, he needed to make his move first.

Dr. Keres was reviewing patient charts at the nurses' station when a cheerful voice interrupted his concentration.

"Dr. Keres! Hi, I'm Dick Grayson."

Kon looked up to find Gotham's favorite son standing before him with an extended hand and a smile that could probably power half the city. He'd known this was coming, had heard the conversation in the Batcave three nights ago with his enhanced hearing during one of his careful snooping in light of Damian’s surveillance but he still felt his stomach drop.

So it begins, he thought.

He shook the offered hand, keeping his expression professionally pleasant. "Mr. Grayson. What brings you to the ER? Not an emergency, I hope?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that! I'm here about the Wayne Foundation's partnership with the hospital. We're expanding our funding for the pediatric wing, and I wanted to meet some of the key staff members." Dick's smile somehow got warmer. "I've heard amazing things about your work."

Kon bet he had. He also bet that Dick Grayson hadn't set foot in hospital administration in months and that this visit had everything to do with a certain twelve-year-old's surveillance operation.

"That's very kind," Kon said neutrally. "Though I primarily work in emergency medicine and surgery. You might want to speak with Dr. Chen in pediatrics."

"Oh, I will! But I also wanted to talk to you about potentially lecturing at some of our youth outreach programs. Kids from underprivileged backgrounds, like..." Dick paused meaningfully, "like the orphanage system. Your story is really inspiring."

There it was. The personal angle. Dick Grayson, fellow orphan, reaching out in solidarity. It was a good approach, Kon had to admit. If he were anyone else, it might have even worked.

"I appreciate the offer, Mr. Grayson, but my schedule is quite demanding. I'm sure you understand."

"Of course, of course! No pressure. Here's my card though, in case you change your mind." Dick handed over a business card with that same megawatt smile. "It was great meeting you, Dr. Keres. I'm sure we'll be seeing more of each other."

That's what I'm afraid of, Kon thought.

He watched Dick Grayson walk away, then glanced down at the business card. Direct line to Dick Grayson, with a handwritten "Call anytime!" on the back.

Kon tucked it into his pocket and went back to his charts, already bracing himself for whichever brother would show up next.

He gave it two days. Three, tops.

It was one day.

Kon was on hour six of his shift when the commotion started near the ambulance bay. He heard the raised voices before he saw anything, one voice in particular making his enhanced hearing immediately identify the source.

Jason Todd. Of course.

"—telling you, I'm fine! It's just a graze!"

"Sir, you're bleeding all over the floor. You need treatment."

Kon rounded the corner to find a leather-jacket-clad Jason Todd arguing with two very exasperated EMTs, one hand pressed to his side where blood was seeping through his fingers. Not a gunshot wound, Kon's x-ray vision confirmed after a quick glance, but a knife wound. Shallow, deliberately so. The kind of injury someone might get if they were trying to get hurt just enough to require a hospital visit but not enough to be actually dangerous.

Kon pinched the bridge of his nose. These people were going to give him an aneurysm.

"I've got this," he told the EMTs, who looked relieved to hand off their difficult patient. "Exam room 3."

Jason's eyes lit up with recognition and something that might have been triumph. "Dr. Keres! Fancy meeting you here."

"In the emergency room where I work. Yes. Shocking." Kon gestured toward the exam room. "Inside. Now."

To his credit, Jason went without further argument, though his grin suggested he thought things were going according to plan. Kon shut the door behind them and pointed at the exam table.

"Shirt off. Let me see the damage."

Jason complied, peeling off his jacket and shirt to reveal a toned physique covered in scars, some old, some relatively new. The knife wound on his ribs was still bleeding but sluggishly. Definitely not deep enough to hit anything vital.

Kon pulled on gloves and began cleaning the wound, his movements efficient. "So which brother put you up to this? I'm guessing you lost the bet on who'd make contact first."

Jason's grin faltered. "What?"

"Mr. Grayson showed up yesterday with his Wayne Foundation story. You're here today with a conveniently minor injury. I'm assuming Mr. Drake will manufacture some kind of intellectual meeting in the next 48 hours." Kon didn't look up from his work. "Did you actually let someone stab you, or did you do it yourself?"

There was a beat of silence. Then Jason laughed, a genuine bark of surprised amusement. "Shit. You're sharp. Most people don't—"

"Most people don't have three Wayne brothers suddenly taking an interest in them within a week of treating Damian Wayne's appendicitis?" Kon raised an eyebrow. "I'm a doctor, Mr. Todd, not an idiot. Your family isn't exactly subtle."

"Fair point." Jason watched him work with newfound interest. "And for the record, I let someone stab me. More authentic that way. Plus, I owed the guy a free shot for that thing last month."

"The thing."

"Don't ask."

Kon finished cleaning the wound and reached for the suture kit. "This is going to need stitches. And before you ask, no, I'm not interested in whatever your family is trying to recruit me for."

"Who says we're recruiting you for anything? Maybe we're just friendly."

"The Wayne family doesn't do 'just friendly.' You're vigilantes, Mr. Todd. Or did you think the Red Hood's fighting style wasn't distinctive enough for a doctor who patches up Crime Alley residents to notice?"

Jason went very still. "Careful, Doc."

"I'm always careful." Kon began stitching, his hands steady. "I'm also not a threat. I have no interest in your identities, your work, or whatever Damian Wayne thinks he's building. I'm a surgeon. I fix people and I stay out of the cape business. That's the beginning and end of my involvement in your world."

"And if I told you that you don't really get a choice? That Damian's decided you're his person, and when a bat decides something..." Jason trailed off meaningfully.

"Then I'll tell Damian the same thing I'm telling you: I'm not interested." Kon tied off the last stitch. "You're all done. Keep it clean, change the dressing daily, and try not to let anyone stab you for at least two weeks."

Jason slipped his shirt back on, studying Kon with an expression that was far more serious than his earlier grin. "You know, the fact that you clocked all of us this fast? That's exactly why Damian wants you."

"Then Damian is going to be disappointed." Kon stripped off his gloves and tossed them in the trash. "Have a good evening, Mr. Todd. Try to use the front door next time."

Jason paused at the door, glancing back. "For what it's worth, Doc? I like you. You've got guts." His grin returned. "Also, you're right. Tim's got a plan for tomorrow. Coffee shop near Gotham U. Just a heads up."

Then he was gone, leaving Kon alone in the exam room with the lingering smell of antiseptic and the growing certainty that the Wayne family was going to be a much bigger problem than he'd anticipated.

He pulled out his phone and stared at it for a long moment before typing out a quick search: "How to get vigilantes to leave you alone."

The results were decidedly unhelpful. And probably put him in some sort of watchlist with the authorities.

If Kon was being honest with himself, which he tried to avoid most days, it wasn't the Wayne family in general that worried him. Dick was charming but ultimately harmless. Jason was direct and refreshingly blunt. Damian's intensity was almost endearing in its single-minded determination.

No, the brother he desperately needed to avoid was Tim.

Because his Tim, the one from his home universe that no longer existed, well... they had been on the cusp of becoming something serious before everything ended.

Kon could still remember the last conversation they'd had, standing on the roof of Titans Tower at sunset. Tim had finally taken off his domino mask without prompting, and Kon had made some stupid joke about finally getting to see both eyes at once. Tim had laughed, that real laugh, not the fake one he used for galas or missions, and said, "Took us long enough, didn't it?"

"Took you long enough, you mean," Kon had replied. "I've been waiting for you to catch up since we were sixteen."

"I'm worth the wait though, right?"

"You're worth everything, Tim."

They'd kissed as the sun set over the bay, and Kon had thought, foolishly, naively, that they had all the time in the world to figure out what came next.

Three days later, the universe restructured itself, and Kon lost everything.

He'd grieved in that frozen bubble of non-time. Grieved for his friends, his family, his almost-boyfriend who he'd never get to kiss again. And then he'd stepped through the crack and found himself in a world where Tim Drake existed but had no idea who Kon-El was.

Where Tim Drake was nineteen and brilliant and alive, but wrong in a thousand tiny ways. This Tim was sharper-edged, but less paranoid, carried himself with a different kind of weight. This Tim had never known him, never trusted him, never looked at him with fond exasperation and said, "You're such an idiot, Kon," in that tone that meant I love you anyway.

Kon had caught glimpses of him over the years, Red Robin swinging through Gotham's skyline, Timothy Drake at charity functions he'd seen on the news, mentions in medical journals about Wayne Enterprises' biotech innovations. Each time felt like a fist around his heart.

He couldn't do it. Couldn't stand in front of this Tim and pretend they were strangers. Couldn't shake his hand and smile politely and act like he didn't know that Tim took his coffee with too much sugar, that he muttered case notes in his sleep, that he had a small scar on the left side of his neck from one memorably dangerous time he fell asleep with an x-acto blade barely pressed against his skin.

Dick and Jason he could handle. They were different enough from his memories, Jason had been much more independent and separate from the overall batfamily, Dick had been older, more settled. Even Bruce, for all his similarities, wasn't the man who'd been like a father to him.

But Tim? Tim was too close. Too familiar. Too much like coming home to a house where all the furniture had been rearranged just enough to make you trip in the dark.

So when Jason had warned him about the coffee shop tomorrow, Kon had already made his decision. He'd call in sick. Change his routine. Do whatever it took to avoid that particular meeting.

Because he'd lost Tim Drake once, and he didn't think his heart could survive meeting him as a stranger.

The universe, as always, had other plans.

Kon was three blocks from his apartment, having successfully avoided Gotham U and every coffee shop in a two-mile radius, when he heard it. A heartbeat he'd know anywhere, even in this universe where it had no business being familiar. Elevated. Stressed. In danger.

His feet were moving before his brain caught up, enhanced speed carrying him around the corner to find exactly what he'd feared: Tim Drake, in civilian clothes, cornered in an alley by three men with guns.

"—just want the wallet, pretty boy. Nice and easy."

Tim's hands were up, his expression calm in that way that meant he was calculating angles and odds. Kon could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his weight shifted slightly onto the balls of his feet. This Tim knew how to fight his way out. Would fight his way out.

And would potentially get shot in the process because he wasn't wearing body armor and Kon could see the lead finger already tightening on the trigger.

Damn it.

Kon moved.

Made noise, grabbed their attention just enough that all they saw was someone crashing into them from the side, sending guns clattering and bodies sprawling. Kon was careful to hold back, to make it look almost lucky rather than superhuman. Just a good Samaritan with some self-defense training and terrible timing.

He grabbed Tim's arm, warm, solid, real, oh god and pulled him toward the mouth of the alley. "Run!"

They ran.

Kon let Tim set the pace, matching his speed even though every instinct screamed to just scoop him up and fly them both to safety. They turned two corners, cut through a convenience store, and finally stopped in another alley three blocks away, both breathing hard.

Well, Tim was breathing hard. Kon was faking it.

"Thanks," Tim said, hands on his knees as he caught his breath. "That was... impressively fast response time. Do you have ninja training or something?"

Kon's heart stuttered. He'd forgotten. In all his planning to avoid this exact scenario, he'd forgotten that Tim Drake was a detective. That even this Tim, who didn't know him, would notice things. Would be curious.

He straightened up, carefully keeping his expression neutral, and finally let himself look directly at Tim Drake's face.

Blue eyes. Sharper cheekbones than his Tim had had at nineteen. A faint scar on his chin that was new. But still Tim. Still the boy he'd loved, even if this version had no idea.

"Just lucky timing," Kon managed. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." Tim was studying him now with that intense focus that Kon remembered too well. "Do I... have we met before? You look familiar."

"I don't think so." The lie tasted like ash. "I'm Kon. Kon Keres."

Tim's eyes widened in recognition. "Wait. Dr. Keres? The surgeon who operated on Damian?"

Of course he would use this, ever the opportunist bat. Of course. "That's me."

"Huh." Tim's expression shifted into something complicated, surprise, curiosity, and was that suspicion? "That's... quite a coincidence. My brothers have been trying to meet you all week."

"So I've noticed." Kon edged toward the mouth of the alley. "Look, you should probably get somewhere safe. Those guys might come back with friends."

"What about you?"

You. Always worrying about everyone else. Some things never change. "I'll be fine. I live near here."

Tim pulled out his phone, fingers moving quickly. "Let me at least call you a cab. Or—better yet, let me buy you coffee. As a thank you. There's a place around the corner that—"

"I can't." The words came out too sharp, too quick. Kon softened his tone. "Sorry. I have a shift soon. Need to get ready."

"Right. Of course." Tim looked almost disappointed, which was somehow worse than suspicion. "Can I at least get your number? I really do want to thank you properly. Maybe dinner sometime?"

No. No no no. This was exactly what Kon had been trying to avoid. But Tim was looking at him with those blue eyes, and Kon had never been able to say no to him. Not in any universe.

"Look, Tim—Mr. Drake—"

"Tim's fine."

"—I appreciate the offer, but I'm really not interested in getting involved with your family's... thing. Whatever Damian is planning, whatever your brothers are doing. I just want to do my job and be left alone."

Something flickered across Tim's face. Not hurt, exactly, but a kind of careful blankness that Kon recognized as Tim's version of a retreat. "I wasn't asking as part of whatever Damian's planning. I was asking because you just saved me from getting mugged and you seem like someone I'd like to know."

Damn it. Damn it. How did Tim always manage to do this? Find the exact words that would slip past every defense?

"I..." Kon hesitated, and that hesitation was fatal. Tim pulled out a business card—why did they all have business cards—and held it out.

"No pressure. But if you change your mind. My personal cell is on there."

Kon took the card because refusing would be more memorable than accepting. "Thanks."

"Thank you. Really." Tim smiled, and it was almost his Tim's smile, the real one, and Kon felt something crack in his chest. "I should go. But I'll see you around, Dr. Keres."

"Kon. Just Kon is fine."

"Kon, then." Tim's smile widened slightly. "See you around, Kon."

Then he was gone, jogging toward the main street with his phone to his ear, probably calling one of his brothers or Alfred for pickup.

Kon stood in the alley for a long moment, staring at the business card in his hand.

Timothy Drake. Personal cell. "For emergencies or coffee. Your choice. -T"

He should throw it away. Should delete the number and forget this ever happened. Should go back to his careful, isolated existence and stop letting the Wayne family pull him into their orbit.

Instead, he tucked the card into his wallet, right next to Dick's, and tried not to think about how much trouble he was in.

The Batcave's conference table had seen many tense meetings over the years, but the current gathering had a distinctly different energy. Bruce sat at the head, fingers steepled, expression carefully neutral. Dick leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed. Tim had his laptop open but wasn't actually looking at it. And Damian—Damian looked like he was contemplating fratricide.

"So," Bruce said mildly. "Dr. Keres."

"I had it handled," Damian snapped immediately. "I had a plan. A timeline. A strategy. And then you three had to interfere—"

"Hey, you're the one who told us to back off, practically threw the challenge at our faces" Jason said from where he was leaning against the wall, arms crossed. "We just wanted to see what all the fuss was about."

"The fuss," Damian said through gritted teeth, "was going to be resolved through careful observation and strategic approach. Not through your ham-fisted attempts at manipulation."

"My approach was perfectly reasonable," Dick protested. "The Wayne Foundation does partner with hospitals. I was simply—"

"You were obvious," Tim cut in. "I ran the numbers. Dick Grayson hasn't personally visited hospital administration in fourteen months. Suddenly showing up the days after Damian's surgery? Keres would have to be an idiot not to notice the pattern."

"And yet he was perfectly polite," Dick pointed out.

"Politely telling you no is still telling you no, Grayson," Damian muttered.

Bruce cleared his throat. "What are your individual assessments?"

Dick went first. "Charming. Professional. Deflected every personal question without being rude about it. He's had practice brushing off recruitment attempts. I'd say he's turned down at least a dozen organizations based on how smoothly he handled me."

"Smart," Tim added, not looking up from his laptop screen. "Really smart. The kind of smart that knows exactly what you're doing before you're doing it." He paused. "Also, impressively fast reflexes for a civilian. And he has some kind of martial arts training, the way he moved during the mugging wasn't luck."

All eyes turned to Tim.

"Mugging?" Bruce's voice sharpened.

"Not important. I'm fine. But the point is, Keres isn't just a brilliant doctor. He's got situational awareness that's almost paranoid. He varies his routes, checks his surroundings, and when those muggers showed up, he assessed and acted faster than most trained civilians would."

"Because he's not a civilian," Damian said smugly. "I told you. He's hiding something. That's what makes him valuable."

"He's also," Jason said casually, "extremely wary of us specifically. More than he should be if he was just a private person who doesn't like attention."

They all nodded in agreement. That much had been obvious from each encounter.

Then Jason dropped the bomb.

"Well, considering he knows we're capes, I'm not surprised."

The silence was deafening.

Dick's chair scraped as he sat up straight. Tim's fingers froze over his keyboard. Damian's expression shifted from fury to shock. Bruce's neutral mask cracked just slightly.

"Jason," Bruce said, his voice dangerously quiet. "What did you just say?"

Jason looked perplexed, glancing around at their faces. "What? He didn't tell you?" He straightened up from the wall, frowning. "He clocked me as Red Hood almost immediately and by association figured out the rest of you were—"

"He WHAT?" Damian was on his feet.

"How?" Dick demanded.

Tim was already typing furiously. "That's impossible. Our operational security is—"

"—apparently not as good as we thought," Bruce finished, standing slowly. His expression had gone from amused to deeply concerned. "Jason. Explain. Everything."

Jason held up his hands. "Look, I went in with the shallow wound like we joked about—"

"You actually let someone shot you?" Tim interrupted.

“Not shot, just stabbed”

“That’s not better you ass!”

"Not the point right now, replacement. Anyway, I'm there for maybe five minutes before Keres starts asking which brother put me up to it, mentions Dick's visit, predicts that Tim would try next. Then he straight up tells me that my he has me clocked as a cape and calls me Mr. Todd before I'd even introduced myself."

"He knew your face," Dick said slowly.

"Yeah, but it's more than that. He said—" Jason paused, remembering. "He said, 'You're vigilantes, Mr. Todd. Or did you think the Red Hood's fighting style wasn't distinctive enough for a doctor who patches up Crime Alley residents to notice?'"

Bruce's jaw tightened. "He's been watching us."

"Or he's just that observant," Tim countered, but his fingers were still flying over the keyboard. "Let me check something. If he works in Gotham General's ER, he'd see the aftermath of our patrols. Patterns in injuries, timing, locations..." He trailed off, eyes widening. "Oh. Oh, that's clever."

"Drake," Damian said impatiently.

"Dr. Keres has been working in Gotham's emergency rooms for three years. In that time, there's been a statistical anomaly in the types of injuries treated in his shifts specifically. Higher rates of criminal injuries with distinctive patterns, electrical burns consistent with shock weapons, specific types of blunt force trauma, escrima stick-shaped bruising, katana wounds that were clearly inflicted by an expert." Tim looked up. "He's been profiling us through our work. Every criminal we send to the hospital is a data point."

"That's..." Dick started.

"Brilliant," Bruce finished grimly. "And dangerous. If he's figured it out, others could too."

"I don't think so," Jason said. "He made it pretty clear he's not interested in doing anything with the information. Told me he's 'not a threat' and that he 'stays out of the cape business.' Seemed pretty sincere about it."

"Sincerity isn't the issue," Bruce said. "The issue is that a civilian doctor has compromised our identities through pure deductive reasoning and medical observation." He turned to Tim. "Full background check. I want to know everything about Kon Elías Keres."

"Already running it," Tim said. "But Bruce, I've been through his basic background before, after Damian's surgery. It's clean. Too clean, actually. His documentation is perfect, his school records are impeccable, but there are gaps. Small ones, but they're there."

"Gaps?" Damian leaned over Tim's shoulder to look at the screen.

"Yeah. Like his birth records. They exist, but they're... loose. The orphanage he supposedly came from was torn down, all records destroyed in a 'fire.' His early childhood is basically untraceable. He doesn't show up in any system until he's sixteen and entering the foster system."

"So he's running from something," Dick said.

"Or he's hiding something," Bruce corrected. "The question is what."

Damian's expression had shifted from furious to calculating. "This changes things."

"It certainly does," Bruce agreed. "We need to—"

"No." Damian cut him off. "This changes things in my favor. Dr. Keres isn't just brilliant and talented. He's smart enough to deduce our identities, skilled enough to create a false background that passes scrutiny, and careful enough to stay off our radar for three years while working in our city." His eyes gleamed. "That's not a civilian. That's someone who understands our world and has chosen to stay hidden in it."

"Which makes him dangerous," Bruce said.

"Which makes him exactly what I need," Damian countered. "Someone who can operate in both worlds. Someone who understands what we do but isn't part of the existing power structures. Someone who—"

"Someone who told Jason, and I quote, 'I'm not interested in whatever your family is trying to recruit me for,'" Tim interrupted. "He doesn't want to be found, Damian. He definitely doesn't want to be recruited."

"Then we need to find out why," Damian said stubbornly. "What is Dr. Kon Elías Keres hiding? And more importantly, how do we convince him that hiding with us is better than hiding alone?"

Bruce looked at his youngest son for a long moment, then sighed. "Tim, dig deeper into his background. Dick, pull hospital security footage, I want to see how he moves, how he interacts with people. Jason, reach out to your contacts in Crime Alley. See if anyone knows anything about a street kid named Kon from about ten years ago."

"And me?" Damian asked.

"You," Bruce said, with a hint of that earlier amusement returning to his voice, "are going to do what you do best. You're going to be patient, observant, and strategic. No more surveillance from rooftops. No more plans. We're going to take this slowly and carefully, because Dr. Keres has proven he's at least as smart as we are, and possibly more dangerous than we realized."

Damian looked like he wanted to argue, but something in Bruce's expression stopped him. He nodded once, sharply.

"However," Bruce added, "I agree with your assessment. Someone with Dr. Keres's skills and knowledge, who has managed to stay hidden in Gotham for three years? That's not someone we want as an enemy."

"So we make him an ally," Dick said.

"If he'll let us," Tim murmured, still staring at his screen.

Jason snorted. "Good luck with that. The guy looked me dead in the eye and told me to use the front door next time. Pretty sure he's done with the Wayne family's brand of friendly recruitment."

But Bruce was watching Damian, seeing the determined set of his son's jaw, the calculating gleam in his eyes. He'd seen that look before, usually right before Damian accomplished something everyone else thought was impossible.

"We'll see," was all Bruce said. But privately, he suspected that Dr. Keres had vastly underestimated exactly how stubborn a bat could be when they'd decided someone was worth pursuing.

And Damian Wayne had definitely decided.

The surveillance, when it came, was significantly more subtle than Damian's initial rooftop observations.

Jason started making regular appearances in Crime Alley, not as Red Hood but as himself, just another one of the neighborhood's own who'd made it out and came back to check on people. He bought coffee at the corner bodega where Kon sometimes stopped on his way to work. Talked to the street kids who hung around the clinic where Kon volunteered twice a month. Asked casual questions about the doc who didn't ask for ID or insurance and never reported anything to the cops.

"Yeah, Doc K," one of the older kids said, accepting Jason's offered cigarette. "He's solid. Fixed up my shoulder last year when I took a fall. Didn't even ask how I really got hurt."

"He been around long?"

The kid shrugged. "Few years? Keeps to himself mostly. But he's good people."

Tim, meanwhile, had gone full investigative mode. Kon's digital footprint was being dissected with the kind of obsessive attention that had once cracked the Riddler's encrypted files. Bank records, medical licensing, school transcripts. Tim was correlating timestamps, looking for anomalies, tracking IP addresses from old online forum posts that Kon had made during medical school.

"There's something here," Tim muttered to himself at three in the morning, energy drink number four sitting forgotten at his elbow. "The documentation is too perfect. Real records have inconsistencies, typos, administrative errors. His are flawless. Someone created these with extreme attention to detail."

Dick took a different approach. He showed up at hospital fundraisers, chatted with staff, learned the gossip. Dr. Keres was well-liked but private. Brilliant but humble. He turned down speaking engagements, avoided publicity, and had never once attended a hospital social event. Several nurses mentioned he seemed tired lately, taking extra shifts.

"It's like he's avoiding going home," one nurse told Dick over champagne. "Poor thing probably doesn't have much of a life outside work. Shame, really. He's quite handsome."

Damian's surveillance was the most sophisticated. He'd placed micro-cameras near the hospital exits, tracked Kon's patterns with facial recognition tied into Gotham's traffic systems, and created a detailed timeline of his movements. He noted the variation in routes, the careful way Kon checked his surroundings, the fact that he never used the same entrance to his apartment building twice in a row.

Most interesting were the moments when Kon would pause—head tilted slightly, as if listening to something no one else could hear—before changing direction or altering his pace.

"He has counter-surveillance awareness," Damian reported during their next meeting. "Professional level. Military or intelligence training, possibly."

What none of them realized was that their subtle surveillance was anything but.

Kon was going insane.

He knew. Of course he knew. How could he not know when he could hear Jason's heartbeat from two blocks away, steady and familiar even if it belonged to a Jason who'd never been his friend? When Tim's typing pattern from his apartment across the city was distinctive enough that Kon could identify it through walls and interference? When he could see the micro-cameras Damian had placed with his x-ray vision, count the number of times Dick's phone pinged with notifications from facial recognition software?

He heard them on rooftops. Smelled the gun oil Jason always used. Caught glimpses of Robin's cape in his peripheral vision when he left work late. Felt the weight of their attention like a physical thing pressing against his skin.

And he couldn't do anything about it.

Couldn't confront them without revealing how he knew. Couldn't use his powers to lose them without exposing himself. Couldn't even look directly at their hiding spots without giving away that he had enhanced senses.

So he did what he'd been doing for years: he pretended to be normal. Pretended not to notice. Pretended that his hands didn't shake slightly when he heard Batman's cape whisper against stone three buildings over. Pretended that walking past Tim Drake on the street didn't feel like swallowing glass.

The only escape was work.

Kon started taking more shifts. Then more. Double shifts became triple shifts. The hospital administration was thrilled, Dr. Keres was their best surgeon, and if he wanted to work seventy, eighty, ninety hours a week, they weren't going to stop him. The other doctors assumed he was building his reputation or paying off student loans. The nurses worried but didn't pry.

None of them knew he was hiding.

The hospital was one of the few places where the surveillance couldn't follow as easily. Too many people, too many security protocols, too much HIPAA-protected space. Inside those walls, surrounded by the beeping of monitors and the smell of antiseptic, Kon could almost breathe.

Almost.

"Dr. Keres?" One of the younger residents caught him in the hallway. "Are you okay? You've been here for... it's been eighteen hours."

"I'm fine, Martinez. Just wanted to observe the post-op patients."

"For eighteen hours?"

Kon forced a smile. "Dedication."

Martinez looked unconvinced but didn't push. No one pushed Dr. Keres. He was too valuable, too brilliant, too needed.

Too tired.

Kon caught his reflection in a window as he walked past. He looked exhausted, shadows under his eyes, a tightness around his mouth that hadn't been there a month ago. He was sleeping maybe three hours a night, spending the rest pacing his apartment, trying not to listen to the city, trying not to hear the Bats as they coordinated their surveillance in careful, coded language.

Last night, he'd heard Tim on a rooftop four blocks away, talking to Dick.

"Something's off about his recent behavior. He's working himself into the ground."

"People cope with stress differently," Dick had replied. "Maybe he's just busy."

"Or maybe he knows we're watching and he's avoiding going home where we have better sight lines."

Kon had stopped breathing for a full minute, standing frozen in his kitchen with a glass of water halfway to his lips.

Tim was too smart. Had always been too smart. It was one of the things Kon had loved about him—his Tim, the one who didn't exist anymore. This Tim was just as brilliant, just as observant, and getting dangerously close to the truth.

A code blue interrupted Kon's spiral. He moved on autopilot, run to the ER, assess the patient, bark orders, start compressions. The familiar rhythm of saving a life pushed everything else aside. This, at least, he could control. This, at least, made sense.

Thirty minutes later, the patient stabilized. Kon stripped off his gloves, accepted the quiet congratulations from the ER staff, and checked his watch. Six AM. He'd been at the hospital for twenty-three hours.

His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

"You should go home and sleep, Dr. Keres. You're no good to your patients if you collapse from exhaustion."

Kon's blood ran cold. He looked up, scanning the ER, but there was no one suspicious. No one watching. He pulled up the number, most likely a disposable cell, untraceable.

Another text came through.

"Don't bother looking. I'm not there. But I am concerned. ~T"

Tim. Of course it was Tim.

Kon's hands tightened around his phone. For a wild moment, he considered responding. Considered saying something, anything, to make this stop. But what could he say that wouldn't give him away? What explanation could he possibly give?

Instead, he pocketed his phone and headed for the doctors' lounge. He'd sleep here. Two hours on the couch, then back to work. It wasn't sustainable and he knew it, but he didn't know what else to do.

He couldn't keep running. But he couldn't stop either.

Because stopping meant facing them. And facing them meant either lying better than he'd ever lied before, or telling the truth, that he was Superboy from a dead universe, that he'd loved one of them in another life, that every moment in their presence was agony and relief in equal measure.

Neither option was acceptable.

So Kon did what he'd always done when things got too complicated: he buried himself in work, ignored his body's protests, and hoped that eventually, the Bats would lose interest and move on to more pressing problems.

It was a naive hope, and he knew it.

But it was the only one he had left.

"He's deteriorating."

Tim's voice was tight with concern as he pulled up surveillance footage from the hospital's parking garage. On screen, Kon stumbled slightly as he walked to his car, caught himself on the hood, stood there for a long moment before straightening up.

"When was this?" Bruce asked.

"This morning. He's been at the hospital for thirty-one consecutive hours."

"That's not sustainable," Dick said, frowning. "He's going to hurt himself. Or worse, hurt a patient."

"I sent him a text," Tim admitted. "Told him to go home and sleep. He didn't respond."

"Did he read it?" Damian asked.

"Yes. Read it within thirty seconds. Then went to the doctors' lounge and locked the door."

They all stared at the screen, watching Kon's exhausted form disappear into the hospital.

"He knows," Bruce said quietly. "He knows we're watching, and it's driving him to this."

"Then we back off," Dick said immediately. "If our surveillance is causing him to self-destruct—"

"No." Damian's voice was sharp. "If we back off, we lose our chance to understand what he's hiding. And clearly, whatever it is, it's significant enough that our attention is threatening his carefully constructed life."

"Damian's right," Tim said reluctantly. "But he's also burning out. We need to change our approach."

"Meaning?" Bruce asked.

Tim closed his laptop, expression thoughtful. "We stop watching from a distance. We engage directly. Not as investigators, but as..." he paused, searching for the word. "As people who are genuinely concerned."

"He'll see through that," Jason pointed out.

"Probably," Tim agreed. "But maybe that's the point. Maybe we stop pretending we're not interested and just... be honest about it. Tell him we know he's hiding something. Tell him we don't care what it is. Tell him he doesn't have to run."

Damian looked skeptical. "And you think he'll simply accept that?"

"No," Tim said. "But I think it's better than watching him work himself to death because he's too afraid to let us get close."

Bruce studied his sons, seeing the genuine worry in their faces. Somewhere along the way, this had stopped being about recruitment or investigation. They actually cared about Dr. Kon Keres, this mysterious surgeon who'd saved Damian and then tried to disappear.

"All right," Bruce said finally. "Tim, you take point on this. But be careful. If he's running from something dangerous—"

"Then maybe it's time he learned he doesn't have to run alone," Tim finished.

He just had to figure out how to convince someone who'd spent years hiding that it was safe to be found.

Kon woke up on the doctors' lounge couch with his phone alarm blaring and every muscle in his body screaming in protest. He silenced it, stared at the ceiling for a long moment, and made a decision.

He needed a day off. A real day off. Not hiding in his apartment where he could hear every footstep on the fire escape, not at the hospital where he was running on fumes and caffeine. Somewhere else. Somewhere he could just... be.

Somewhere he could recharge.

Twenty minutes later, he'd called in (his first sick day in three years, which caused a minor panic among the administration), changed into civilian clothes, and headed out. He took three buses, doubled back twice, and finally ended up at one of Gotham's forgotten parks, a stretch of green space on the outskirts of the city that had been abandoned by the Parks Department years ago. Too remote for most people to bother with, no playgrounds or amenities, just overgrown grass and a few struggling trees.

Perfect.

Kon found a spot where the sun hit directly, unobstructed by Gotham's usual tangle of buildings and smog. He spread out his jacket on the grass, lay down, and closed his eyes.

And for the first time in weeks, he let himself stop pretending.

The sun felt like coming home. He could feel it soaking into his skin, his cells drinking in the solar radiation like a man dying of thirst. The constant low-level exhaustion he'd been fighting started to fade, pushed back by the steady influx of energy. His hearing sharpened. His vision cleared. The tension in his muscles began to ease.

This was what he'd been missing. Not sleep—though he needed that too—but this. The sun. His connection to the power that made him what he was.

He'd been rationing it, spending too much time indoors under artificial lights, taking night shifts to avoid the Bats and inadvertently starving himself. Stupid. Dangerous. But he'd been so focused on hiding that he'd forgotten he still needed to take care of himself.

Kon let out a long breath and just... existed. No pretending to be human. No carefully controlled heartbeat or measured breathing. Just him and the sun and the relief of finally, finally letting go.

He'd stay an hour, he told himself. Maybe two. Just enough to take the edge off.

"Okay, that's... weird."

Dick leaned closer to the screen in the Batcave, watching the traffic camera feed that Tim had pulled up. It showed a distant view of Robinson Park's east section, the abandoned part that even Poison Ivy had given up on.

Dr. Kon Keres was lying in the grass, completely still.

"How long has he been laying there?" Dick asked.

Tim checked the timestamp. "He arrived at 11:47 AM. It's now..." He glanced at the clock on the wall. "3:47 PM. So... four hours."

"Four hours," Damian repeated, moving to stand beside Dick. "In the same position?"

"Hasn't moved," Tim confirmed. "I've been monitoring. He's not asleep. He's just... lying there."

"In direct sunlight," Bruce noted, studying the feed. "It's 78 degrees out there. Most people would have moved to shade by now."

Jason snorted from his position at the training mats. "Maybe he's just a weirdo who likes to tan? Not everything has to be suspicious."

"For four hours?" Dick raised an eyebrow. "Without water, without moving, without even checking his phone?"

"The man worked thirty-one hours straight and then slept two hours on a couch," Jason pointed out. "Maybe he's just exhausted and wanted to lie down somewhere that isn't a hospital."

"In an abandoned park on the outskirts of Gotham," Damian said dryly. "Yes, such a logical choice for rest and relaxation."

Tim was already running searches. "Robinson Park East. High crime area, no amenities, no foot traffic. Average of 2.3 visitors per day, mostly drug dealers and homeless population. Not exactly where you'd go for a relaxing day off."

"Unless you specifically wanted to be alone," Bruce said thoughtfully. "Away from cameras, away from people, away from..."

"Away from us," Dick finished quietly.

They all looked back at the screen. Kon hadn't moved. The sun was bright on his face, and from this distance, he looked almost peaceful. It was jarring compared to the exhausted, hunted expression he'd been wearing for weeks.

"He knows we're watching," Tim said. "He has to know we have access to traffic cameras. So why go somewhere we can still see him unless..."

"Unless he doesn't care," Damian concluded. "Or unless whatever he's doing is worth the risk of being observed."

"But he's not doing anything," Dick protested. "He's just lying there."

"Is he?" Bruce zoomed in as far as the camera would allow. The image was grainy, but Kon's face was visible, eyes closed, expression relaxed. "Tim, any other cameras with a better angle?"

"Negative. That's the only one with line of sight to that section. And before you ask, no, I'm not sending a drone. If he went there for privacy, we should respect that."

"Since when do you respect privacy during an investigation?" Jason called over.

"Since our surveillance started causing the subject to self-destruct," Tim shot back. "We agreed to change tactics, remember?"

"He took a day off," Dick said, still watching the screen. "First one in three years according to hospital records. That's... that's actually progress, right? Maybe our concern got through to him."

"Or he's finally collapsed from exhaustion and just happens to be conscious while doing it," Jason suggested.

Damian was silent, his eyes narrowed as he studied the feed. Something was nagging at him, some detail he couldn't quite place. The way Kon was positioned, face turned directly toward the sun, arms loose at his sides, legs uncrossed. Not the position of someone who'd just collapsed. Not even the position of someone taking a nap.

It was deliberate. Intentional.

Bruce was very quiet, his eyes fixed on the screen with an intensity that made Tim's instincts prickle.

"Bruce?" Tim prompted.

Kon didn't move. The sun continued to shine down on him. And whatever was happening—whatever he was doing—it was clearly something he'd needed desperately enough to risk being observed.

Finally, at the five-hour mark, Kon stirred. He sat up slowly, stretched, and even from the distant camera, they could see the difference. The exhausted slump was gone. His movements were fluid, energetic. He looked, for lack of a better word, recharged.

He stood, picked up his jacket, and walked back toward the bus stop with a spring in his step that hadn't been there in weeks.

"Well," Jason said into the silence. "That was weird."

"Add it to the file," Bruce said quietly. "Along with everything else that doesn't quite add up about Dr. Kon Keres."

Tim was already typing, creating a new entry in his investigation notes.

Subject displays possible photosensitivity (positive) or unknown medical condition requiring solar exposure. Alternative hypothesis: ???

He stared at those question marks for a long moment, a thought trying to form in the back of his mind. Something about the way Kon had looked lying in that sun. Something about the precision of his position, the length of time, the visible improvement in his condition afterward.

Something that felt important.

But before he could grasp it, the thought slipped away, leaving only a vague sense of unease and the certainty that they were missing something big.

Something that Dr. Keres was desperately trying to keep hidden.

Kon woke up in his own bed for the first time in weeks, feeling actually rested. Four hours of sleep,his normal, all he really needed as a Kryptonian, and he felt like a new person. Or rather, like himself again.

It had been the sun. Of course it had been the sun. He'd been so focused on avoiding the Bats, on working himself into the ground to escape their surveillance, that he'd forgotten the most basic requirement of his biology. Kryptonians didn't need much sleep, four hours was standard, five was luxury, but they did need solar radiation. Starve that, and everything else started to fall apart.

Stupid. He'd been so stupid.

But now, recharged and clear-headed, he could actually think instead of just react.

Kon made himself coffee (for the taste and the ritual, not the caffeine, that didn't work on him), sat at his kitchen table, and forced himself to assess the situation rationally.

The Bats knew he was hiding something. That ship had sailed the moment he'd opened his mouth to Jason. Revealing he'd clocked them as vigilantes had been a hasty move, born of exhaustion and frustration and the bone-deep weariness of pretending. No use crying over spilled milk now.

So. Options.

Option One: Continue as he had been. Keep his head down, maintain his cover, and hope the Bats eventually got bored or too busy to maintain their surveillance. Gotham had no shortage of problems, after all. Eventually, something bigger would demand their attention and Dr. Kon Keres would fade back into the background noise of the city.

Pros: He could stay in Gotham. Keep his job. Maintain the life he'd built.

Cons: The Bats didn't seem inclined to lose interest. If anything, his attempt to avoid them had made them more invested. And Damian Wayne had that look—the look that said I've decided you're mine and I don't give up.

Also, he was kidding himself if he thought he could keep this up indefinitely. Every interaction with Tim was torture. Every time he heard Bruce's heartbeat, he thought of the father figure he'd lost. Dick's laugh, Jason's rough humor, they were all echoes of people he'd loved and lost, close enough to hurt but different enough to be constant reminders that his family was gone.

Option Two: Leave.

The thought sat heavy in his chest, but he forced himself to consider it objectively.

He had the reputation to get a job anywhere. Hell, he'd gotten offers. That email from Doctors Without Borders last year, asking if he'd consider a position in their surgical teams. Multiple hospitals in other cities had tried to recruit him. He could even go international, his fake documentation would hold up to standard scrutiny, and his skills were in demand worldwide.

He didn't need the money. The doctoring had never been about money. He made his actual income from investments and stock trading, years of using his enhanced intelligence and the knowledge of his home universe's future (similar enough to be useful, different enough to be unpredictable) had built him a substantial portfolio. He could manage that from anywhere with an internet connection.

He was a doctor because he wanted to help people. Because using his powers openly was off the table, but using his knowledge and skills to save lives? That was something he could do. Something that made the endless pretending feel worthwhile.

And Doctors Without Borders... he could do a lot of good there. Go places where his skills were desperately needed. Move frequently enough that no one would have time to get suspicious about his lack of aging or his unusual abilities. Stay away from capes and cowls and painful reminders of everything he'd lost.

Kon pulled up his email, found the message from DWB. It was dated eleven months ago, a personal note from their recruitment director.

Dr. Keres,

Your work in Gotham has not gone unnoticed. We're always looking for talented surgeons willing to work in challenging conditions, and your background suggests you'd be an excellent fit for our teams. If you're interested in discussing opportunities, please don't hesitate to reach out.

The world needs more doctors like you.

He could reply right now. Say he'd reconsidered. Be on a plane to somewhere far from Gotham within the month.

His finger hovered over the keyboard.

It would be easier. Cleaner. A fresh start in places where no one knew Superboy had ever existed, where the weight of his lost universe wouldn't crush him every time he heard a familiar heartbeat or saw blue eyes that were almost—but not quite—Tim's.

But.

(There was always a but.)

Kon looked around his apartment. Small, carefully anonymous, but his. The first place that had been his since he'd landed in this universe. He'd built a life here, modest as it was. Had patients who trusted him. Had made a difference, even if no one knew it was Superboy's hands guiding those surgical instruments with superhuman precision.

And there was Gotham itself. Grimy, dangerous, broken Gotham. It wasn't Metropolis, wasn't the Kent farm, but it had become... not home, exactly. But familiar. A place where he could exist in the shadows and do good without anyone asking too many questions.

Leaving felt like giving up. Like letting the universe win again.

But staying meant dealing with the Bats. Meant eventually, inevitably, being forced to either reveal himself or construct even more elaborate lies. Meant watching Tim Drake solve the puzzle piece by piece until he figured out that Dr. Keres wasn't just hiding a fake background or meta-human abilities.

Meant the constant pain of being so close to people who were almost his family but would never, could never be.

Kon closed the email without responding.

He wasn't ready to decide yet. Maybe that was cowardice, but he'd give it a little more time. See how the next few weeks played out. If the Bats backed off, if he could re-establish some distance, maybe he could make this work.

And if they didn't...

Well. The Doctors Without Borders offer probably wasn't going anywhere.

His phone buzzed. A text from the hospital: Dr. Keres, hope you're feeling better. Just wanted to let you know we have a multi-car pileup incoming. Could use your hands if you're available. No pressure. -Dr. Johanson

Kon looked at the message for a long moment. Then at the email still open on his laptop. Then out the window at Gotham's skyline, hazy with smog and morning light.

On my way, he typed back.

The decision could wait. Right now, people needed him.

And whatever else was true, whatever else he'd lost or left behind or was running from, he was still a doctor. Still someone who saved lives.

That, at least, hadn't changed.

He grabbed his keys and headed out, trying not to think about the fact that he could hear Robin's heartbeat three buildings over, steady and familiar and absolutely, definitely watching his apartment.

Later. He'd deal with all of it later.

Right now, he had work to do.

Tim found him three days later in the hospital cafeteria.

Kon sensed him before he saw him, that distinctive heartbeat, the particular cadence of his footsteps. He'd been expecting this, dreading this, and now here it was. No more pretense. No more subtle surveillance.

Just Tim Drake, sliding into the seat across from him with two cups of terrible hospital coffee and an expression that was painfully, achingly familiar.

"Dr. Keres," Tim said.

"Mr. Drake." Kon kept his voice neutral, even as his chest tightened. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Tim pushed one of the coffees across the table. "Peace offering. And honesty, since we seem to be in short supply of both."

Kon looked at the coffee but didn't take it. Waited.

Tim took a breath, and Kon could see him choosing his words carefully. "We invaded your privacy. My family and I. The surveillance, the questions, the—" he gestured vaguely, "—everything. We apologize for that. But..." He met Kon's eyes directly. "We truly think you could be a valuable ally. Not just to Damian, not just to the family, but to Gotham. To the work we do."

There it was. Cards on the table. No more games.

Kon looked at Tim, really looked at him. Saw the earnestness in those blue eyes, the slight tension in his shoulders that meant he was worried about the response. This Tim was nineteen, brilliant, carrying the weight of too much responsibility too young. Just like his Tim had been.

But he wasn't his Tim. Would never be his Tim.

Kon smiled. It was a grateful smile and a bitter one, both at once. "I appreciate the honesty."

He meant it. After weeks of surveillance and dancing around the truth, Tim's directness was almost a relief. Almost.

"But—" Tim started.

"Dr. Keres to Trauma 2. Dr. Keres to Trauma 2, stat."

The overhead page cut through whatever Tim had been about to say. Kon was already standing, muscle memory and training overriding everything else.

"I'm sorry, I have to—"

"Go," Tim said immediately, waving him off. "I didn't mean to intrude on your work time. That's... that's actually exactly what I was apologizing for, so." A self-deprecating smile. "Go save lives. We can talk later. If you want to."

Kon nodded once, grabbed the coffee Tim had brought him, because it would be rude not to, and some habits died hard, and headed for the trauma bay at a controlled run.

If you want to.

As if wanting had ever been the problem.

The trauma case was bad—car accident, internal bleeding, touch and go for two hours before Kon finally got the patient stabilized. By the time he scrubbed out, Tim was long gone. But his words lingered, echoing in Kon's head as he finished his shift.

We truly think you could be a valuable ally.

An ally. Part of their world. Part of their mission. Part of their family, in the way that the Bats built family, through work and trust and shared purpose.

Everything Kon had told himself he'd wanted. Everything he'd promised himself he'd accept if they just backed off, gave him space, let him breathe.

But now that it was here, offered openly and honestly...

He couldn't.

Kon changed out of his scrubs in the locker room, moving on autopilot. He'd thought he could handle this. Thought that if the Bats stopped the surveillance, stopped the pressure, he could find a way to exist in their orbit without breaking.

But Tim's earnest expression, his careful words, the way he'd offered coffee and apology and alliance, it was too much. They weren't going to back off. Not really. They were going to try to be part of his life, try to build something, try to trust him and earn his trust in return.

And Kon couldn't face them. Not for long. Not knowing that every conversation with Tim would be a reminder of what he'd lost. Not watching Damian grow into the leader he was meant to be. Not hearing Bruce's voice without thinking of the man who'd been like a father.

He'd told himself he'd stay if they backed off. But they weren't backing off, they were leaning in. And the difference was everything.

Kon pulled out his phone and opened his email.

Dear Dr. Morrison,

Thank you for reaching out last year about opportunities with Doctors Without Borders. I apologize for the delayed response, but if the position is still available, I'd like to discuss the possibility of joining your surgical teams.

I can be available for deployment within the month.

Best regards, Dr. Kon E. Keres

His finger hovered over the send button.

This was it. The decision he'd been putting off. Once he sent this, there was no taking it back. He'd be leaving Gotham, leaving the life he'd built, leaving the Bats to wonder what they'd done wrong.

Leaving Tim.

Again.

Kon closed his eyes and thought about that moment in the cafeteria. Tim's honest face. The careful hope in his expression. The way he'd said if you want to like Kon's wanting mattered, like it was a choice Kon actually had.

But it wasn't a choice. Not really. Staying meant slowly breaking apart every time he heard Tim's laugh or caught Bruce's scent on the wind or watched Dick perform a quadruple somersault that was exactly like the one from his universe. Staying meant pretending that his heart didn't crack a little more every single day.

Leaving meant survival.

It wasn't a choice at all.

Kon hit send.

The email whooshed away into the digital void, and Kon felt something settle in his chest. Relief, maybe. Or resignation. Or grief for a life he'd barely had time to live.

His phone buzzed immediately but not with a response to his email. A text from an unknown number.

The coffee really is terrible, isn't it? Thanks for taking it anyway. -T

Kon stared at the message for a long moment. Then he typed back, because he owed Tim that much. Owed all of them that much.

It's the thought that counts. Thank you for the honesty. It meant more than you know.

He almost left it there. Almost. But then he added:

I'm sorry.

He didn't explain what he was apologizing for. Maybe Tim would think he meant the surveillance, the trouble, the mystery. Maybe he'd never know that Kon was apologizing for leaving. For not being brave enough to stay. For loving a version of him that didn't exist anymore and being unable to settle for anything less.

The response came quickly: Nothing to apologize for. Take care of yourself, Kon.

Kon closed his eyes against the burning sensation that definitely wasn't tears. Kryptonians didn't cry easily. It took a lot to overwhelm the physiological controls.

Apparently, this was enough.

He pocketed his phone, grabbed his jacket, and headed out into Gotham's perpetual gloom. He had a month, give or take, before DWB would respond and arrangements would be made. A month to wrap up his cases, to train his replacement, to say goodbyes that wouldn't really be goodbyes because no one knew he was leaving yet.

A month to memorize the sound of Tim's heartbeat one last time before he left it behind forever.

Kon tilted his face up toward the sky, overcast today, barely any sun filtering through and tried to feel something other than the crushing weight of loss.

He'd survived the end of his universe. He'd survive this too.

He just wasn't sure he wanted to.

The response from Doctors Without Borders came within six hours.

Dr. Keres,

I cannot tell you how thrilled I am to receive your email. We actually have an urgent need that arose just this week—a surgical team deployment to a conflict zone in East Africa. The situation is critical, and we're short-staffed. I know this is incredibly short notice, but would you be willing to move out in two weeks? We'd provide accelerated field training and full orientation on-site.

I understand if this timeline is too aggressive, but your skills are exactly what we need, and frankly, you'd be saving lives from day one.

Please let me know as soon as possible.

Dr. Sarah Morrison Director of Surgical Recruitment, DWB

Two weeks.

Kon stared at the email, his coffee growing cold in his hand. It was hasty—ridiculously hasty, actually. Most people would need at least a month to wrap up their lives, give proper notice, say proper goodbyes.

But Kon wasn't most people. And the faster he left, the less time the Bats would have to notice. To ask questions. To try to stop him.

His fingers moved before his brain fully caught up.

Dr. Morrison,

Two weeks works for me. I can be ready.

-Kon Keres

Send.

There. Done. No taking it back now.

The next thirteen days passed in a blur of careful choreography.

Day one: Kon submitted his resignation to Gotham General. The administration was devastated—Dr. Keres was one of their best, how could they possibly replace him, was there anything they could do to convince him to stay? He deflected with practiced ease. "Amazing opportunity," "always wanted to do humanitarian work," "can't pass this up." They understood, even if they weren't happy about it.

Days two through five: House calls to his private clients. The wealthy Gotham elite who paid premium rates for a discrete doctor who made house calls and didn't ask questions. He recommended replacements—Dr. Reynolds for the Falcones, Dr. Chen for the Elliots, Dr. Park for the others. Each meeting was brief, professional. They were disappointed but understood. Rich people always understood when you framed it as "pursuing your passion."

Days six through ten: Training his replacement at the hospital, transferring patient files, tying up loose ends. The other doctors threw him an impromptu going-away party in the cafeteria. Cake from the supermarket, cheap wine someone had smuggled in. They signed a card. Wished him well. He smiled and thanked them and felt nothing but the ticking clock in his head.

Days eleven through thirteen: The apartment.

That was the easiest part. Kon looked around the small space he'd called home for three years and realized how little of it actually mattered. Furniture came with the place. Kitchen supplies could be donated. Clothes—he packed two weeks' worth and left the rest. Books could go to the hospital library. The few photos he'd printed (none of people, just Gotham landscapes) went in the trash.

His entire life fit into a backpack and one small duffel bag. Passport (fake but good), international medical licenses (also fake but excellent), laptop, tablet, phones, chargers, a few changes of clothes, and his well-worn copies of advanced surgical texts. That was it. Everything he needed to survive.

Everything else was just weight.

He'd lived out of less before. Had traveled through the universe with nothing but his suit and his powers. A backpack was luxury by comparison.

On day thirteen, he did a final sweep of the apartment. Checked every drawer, every closet. Found Tim's business card tucked in his wallet and stared at it for a long moment before leaving it on the kitchen counter. A goodbye he'd never say out loud.

Found Dick's card too. Left that one next to Tim's.

He kept Jason's, the one that just said "Red Hood" with a phone number scrawled on the back. A reminder that some secrets weren't his to share.

On day fourteen, Kon locked the apartment door for the last time, left his keys with the building superintendent, and took three buses to the airport.

All without the knowledge of the Bats.

Just as he'd planned.

He'd timed it perfectly, checked their patrol schedules, knew when they'd be too busy to monitor traffic cameras, knew that the morning shift change at the hospital would provide the perfect distraction. They'd been watching, yes, but they'd also backed off slightly after Tim's visit. Giving him space. Respecting his boundaries.

It would be hours before anyone noticed he was missing from the hospital. Days before they realized he wasn't coming back. By then, he'd be on the other side of the world, somewhere even Batman's reach would have trouble following.

Kon checked in for his flight—first leg to London, then on to Nairobi, then the final transport to the DWB field hospital. Forty-three hours of travel time. He'd be unreachable, untraceable, gone.

He made it through security without incident. Found his gate. Sat down in an uncomfortable plastic chair and watched the planes take off through the window.

His phone buzzed. A text from the hospital: We'll miss you, Dr. K! Good luck saving the world! -Martinez

Another buzz: The ER won't be the same without you. Stay safe out there. -Nurse Williams

Kon responded to both with brief thank-yous, then turned off his phone.

The boarding call came. He stood, shouldered his backpack, and joined the line.

He didn't look back.

Looking back had never helped before. It wouldn't help now.

As the plane lifted off, Kon pressed his forehead against the window and watched Gotham shrink beneath him. The city lights blurred together, dark and glittering and already fading into memory.

Somewhere down there, the Bats were patrolling. Protecting. Saving people who needed saving.

They'd be fine without him. They'd been fine before he arrived. They'd be fine after he left.

And if a small, traitorous part of his heart whispered that he'd never know for sure, that leaving without saying goodbye was cowardice dressed up as strategy—well.

He'd survived worse lies.

The plane banked east, and Gotham disappeared behind the clouds.

Kon closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He had a few hours before the London layover, and after that, a new life waiting.

One without the Bats. Without the constant reminders. Without Tim's blue eyes and Bruce's gravelly voice and Damian's sharp intelligence and Dick's easy laughter and Jason's rough humor.

Without everything that felt like home but wasn't. Could never be.

It was for the best, he told himself.

He almost believed it.

Three days later, Tim stood outside Kon's apartment building with a coffee in each hand and a carefully prepared speech about taking things slow, respecting boundaries, and maybe—just maybe—being friends first.

The building superintendent looked at him with sympathy when he asked for Dr. Keres.

"Oh, honey. He moved out almost a week ago. Left the country. Some kind of overseas medical thing."

Tim stood very still. "When?"

"Tuesday morning, I think? Seemed real sudden. But he was a quiet tenant. Never any trouble."

Tim thanked her automatically and walked back to his car in a daze. Pulled out his phone and called Bruce.

"He's gone," Tim said when Bruce picked up. "Kon. He left. Three days ago."

There was a long pause. "Where?"

"I don't know. I don't—" Tim's voice cracked slightly. "We pushed too hard. He ran."

Another pause. Then, quietly: "Find him."

"Bruce—"

"Find him, Tim. And when you do, we figure out why he ran. And we fix it."

Tim sat in his car outside the empty apartment building and stared at the two coffees cooling in his cup holders.

"Yeah," he said softly. "Yeah, okay."

But even as he said it, he had the sinking feeling that finding Kon Keres would be the easy part.

Getting him to come back? That might be impossible.

Some people ran because they had to. Tim had a feeling Kon was running because he wanted to stay and that was so much worse.

Six months.

It took Tim six months to find even a trace of where Kon had gone.

The DWB databases were semi-public—doctor profiles, credentials, general assignments. Tim found Kon's profile within twenty minutes of starting his search: Dr. Kon E. Keres, trauma surgeon, specialized in emergency medicine and field operations. The photo was professional, probably taken before deployment. Kon looked tired but composed, his expression carefully neutral.

But where their doctors were deployed, when they moved, what specific operations they were involved in—that was classified. For safety reasons, DWB was notoriously tight-lipped about active field locations. Doctors in conflict zones were targets. Revealing their positions could get them killed.

Even for Tim Drake, cracking that particular database proved nearly impossible. Oh, he could have done it, given enough time and resources, he could crack anything. But the ethics of it stopped him. These were people risking their lives to save others. He wasn't going to compromise their safety just to satisfy his need to know if Kon was okay.

So he waited. Monitored. Set up alerts for any mention of Kon Keres in medical journals, news reports, social media. Checked obsessively.

Nothing.

Bruce had put out feelers through Wayne Enterprises' humanitarian connections. Dick had reached out to every contact he had in international aid organizations. Jason had even called in favors with some of his more morally flexible associates. Damian had been uncharacteristically silent, but Tim had caught him more than once staring at the file they'd compiled on Kon, expression unreadable.

Six months of nothing.

And then, on a random Tuesday morning while Tim was nursing his fourth coffee and contemplating giving up, an alert pinged.

A war journalist—Maya Chen, embedded with various humanitarian organizations—had published a long-form piece in The Atlantic: "The Surgeons of the Forgotten War: Medical Heroes in East Africa's Deadliest Conflict Zone."

Tim's hands were shaking as he clicked the link.

The article loaded slowly, heavy with embedded media. Photos, videos, interviews. Tim scrolled frantically, scanning names, looking for—

There.

A video, thirty seconds long. The caption read: Dr. Keres evacuating wounded civilians under fire.

Tim's breath caught.

The video was raw, clearly shot on a phone or small camera. Shaky footage of chaos,smoke, distant gunfire, people screaming. And through it all, a figure in a blood-splattered white coat moved with impossible efficiency.

Kon.

He was carrying someone, an elderly man, cradled in his arms like he weighed nothing and running toward what looked like a reinforced medical tent. His face was streaked with dirt and blood (not his, Tim noted with desperate relief, the blood pattern was wrong). Behind him, another person stumbled, and without breaking stride, Kon reached back with his free arm and pulled them along.

The video cut off as he disappeared into the tent.

Tim played it again. And again. Trying to see past the chaos, to read Kon's expression, to find some clue about his state of mind. But the footage was too brief, too distant.

He scrolled down.

More text, more photos. And then—

A photo of Kon in surgery.

This one was staged, clearly taken during a lull in operations. Kon stood at a makeshift operating table, hands poised over a patient, his face visible above a surgical mask. Someone had made an effort to clean up, the blood was gone, scrubs looked almost fresh. Behind him, another doctor (Dr. Sarah Morrison, according to the caption) assisted, but it was Kon who dominated the frame.

His eyes were focused, intense. That same concentration Tim remembered from watching him work at Gotham General. But there was something else there too. Exhaustion, yes. But also... purpose. The kind of bone-deep satisfaction that came from doing exactly what you were meant to do.

The caption read: Dr. Kon Keres, 24, one of the youngest and most skilled surgeons in the DWB program. In six months, he has performed over 300 life-saving operations in conditions that would break most medical professionals. "He's extraordinary," says Dr. Morrison. "I've never seen anyone adapt to field medicine so quickly. It's like he was made for this."

Tim read the article three times. Memorized every mention of Kon:

—working 16-hour shifts regularly—

—refuses to leave even during the worst of the shelling—

—has a remarkable talent for triage under pressure—

—the local population calls him 'the miracle doctor'—

—saved an entire family of six when their village was bombed—

—somehow managed to perform emergency surgery in a bunker with only a flashlight and basic supplies—

He was thriving. That was the worst part. Kon wasn't just surviving out there, he was excelling. Doing exactly what he'd told the Bats he wanted: helping people, staying out of cape business, making a real difference.

He'd found what he was looking for. And it had nothing to do with Gotham. Nothing to do with them.

"Tim?"

Bruce's voice startled him. Tim looked up to find his mentor standing in the doorway of his apartment, he'd given Bruce a key years ago, for emergencies. This apparently qualified.

"I found him," Tim said, his voice rough. "East Africa. Active war zone. He's been there the whole time."

Bruce crossed the room, looked at the screen. Tim watched his expression shift as he took in the video, the photos, the article.

"He looks..." Bruce started, then stopped.

"Happy," Tim finished bitterly. "He looks happy. Or at least, more at peace than he ever looked in Gotham."

Bruce was quiet for a long moment. Then: "We can't go there."

"I know."

"It's a war zone. Our presence would compromise the entire operation. Put dozens of aid workers at risk."

"I know," Tim repeated. "And even if we could, what would we say? 'Come back to Gotham so we can integrate you into our vigilante operation'? He left for a reason, Bruce. He's saving lives without us. Maybe that's enough."

"Is it?" Bruce asked quietly. "Enough for him, or enough for you?"

Tim didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Because the truth was that nothing about this felt like enough. Kon was alive, was helping people, was doing good and that should be enough. That should make Tim happy for him.

But instead, all he could think about was the way Kon had smiled in that hospital cafeteria. Grateful and bitter, both at once. Like he'd wanted to say yes but couldn't let himself.

"He's running," Tim said finally. "From us, from Gotham, from something. And he went to literally one of the most dangerous places on Earth to do it. That's not someone who's found peace. That's someone who's—"

"Punishing himself," Bruce finished. "Or hiding. Or both."

Tim looked back at the screen. At Kon's focused expression in the surgery photo. At the blood-splattered exhaustion in the evacuation video.

"We pushed him away," Tim said. "By trying to pull him close. And now he's somewhere we can't follow, doing work we can't interfere with, and I don't know if that's the best thing that could have happened or the worst."

Bruce put a hand on Tim's shoulder. "Forward the article to the family. They deserve to know he's alive and well."

"Is he well?" Tim asked. "Three hundred surgeries in six months. Sixteen-hour shifts. Refusing to evacuate during shelling. Does that sound well to you?"

Bruce's hand tightened slightly. "It sounds like someone we know."

Tim huffed a bitter laugh. "Yeah. It does."

After Bruce left, Tim sat alone with the article still glowing on his screen. He saved the video, the photos, the text. Archived everything in the file labeled "Kon Keres - Investigation."

Then he opened a new document and started typing.

Dr. Keres,

I don't know if this email will reach you, or if you even check your DWB account. But I wanted you to know that we saw the article. We know where you are. We're not coming after you—I promise. Your work is too important, and frankly, you've made it pretty clear that Gotham isn't where you want to be.

But I wanted to say thank you. For the coffee that day. For the honesty. For saving Damian, even though you had no reason to trust us.

And I wanted to say I'm sorry. For whatever we did that made you feel like you had to run to the other side of the world. For not understanding sooner that sometimes the best way to help someone is to leave them alone.

Stay safe. Keep saving lives. And if you ever want to come back—not to work with us, not to join anything, just to exist in the same city without people watching you—the offer stands.

-Tim Drake

He stared at it for ten minutes. Then deleted the whole thing.

What was the point? Kon had made his choice. Interfering now, even with good intentions, would just prove that the Bats couldn't respect boundaries. Couldn't let go.

Instead, Tim bookmarked the article, set up alerts for Maya Chen's future publications, and added a note to the file: Subject located. East Africa, DWB deployment. Alive, well, and clearly where he wants to be. No further action recommended.

He tried to believe it.

He almost succeeded.

Across Gotham, in the Cave, Damian read the same article and said nothing. But his jaw was tight, and his hands were clenched, and when Dick tried to make a joke about Kon "really committing to the 'staying away from vigilantes' thing," Damian walked out without a word.

Jason read it and muttered, "Crazy bastard," with something that might have been respect.

Bruce read it and made a note in his own files: Kon Keres. Meta-human or enhanced. Requires solar radiation. Skilled combatant. Exceptionally intelligent. Currently in East Africa, DWB. Status: Alive. Threat level: Unknown. Recommended action: Monitor from distance. Do not approach.

And then, in his personal journal, the one only Alfred ever saw: We failed him. Whatever he was running from, we made it worse. I hope he finds what he's looking for out there. I hope it's enough.

Somewhere in East Africa, in a tent that smelled of blood and antiseptic, Kon Keres scrubbed out from his fourteenth surgery of the day and tried not to think about Gotham.

He was getting better at it.

Most days, he almost succeeded.

The conflict escalated faster than anyone had predicted.

What had been skirmishes and intermittent shelling became full-scale warfare. Artillery fire became constant. Supply lines were cut. The civilian casualties mounted exponentially, and for the first time in his career with DWB, Kon heard the word that medical staff dreaded most:

Evacuation.

"It's not optional anymore," Dr. Morrison said, her face haggard after a seventy-two-hour shift. "The UN is pulling out. All humanitarian organizations are being ordered to evacuate. We've lost two medical camps in the last week. We can't help anyone if we're dead."

The doctors and nurses gathered in the main tent looked shell-shocked. They'd known this was a possibility, you always knew, in a war zone but actually facing it was different. There were still patients. Still people who needed them.

"We'll evacuate in teams," Morrison continued. "Transport trucks to the airfield, then flights out. Priority is the local staff and their families, then critical patients we can move, then international volunteers. The whole operation needs to be completed in seventy-two hours."

"I'll go last," Kon said immediately.

Morrison looked at him with exhausted gratitude. "Kon—"

"You need someone who can work until the final transport. I can do that." He looked around at the other doctors they were all running on fumes, physically and emotionally spent. "I'm young, I'm single, no one's waiting for me. It makes sense."

It wasn't entirely true. There were people in Gotham—no. He shut that thought down hard. There were no people waiting for him. He'd made sure of that.

"Okay," Morrison said finally. "You'll be on the last transport. Seventy-two hours from now. Don't miss it, Kon. I mean it."

"I won't."

Seventy-two hours became sixty became forty-eight. The bombing intensified. They worked around the clock, stabilizing patients for transport, making impossible choices about who could be moved and who had to be left behind with basic supplies and prayers.

Kon didn't sleep. Didn't need to, not with the sun beating down during the day, recharging him faster than the work could drain him. The other staff thought he was running on pure adrenaline and determination. Let them think that.

Maya Chen, the journalist who'd written the article about their efforts in the war zone, had stayed through the evacuation to document it. "People need to know what's happening here," she'd said stubbornly when Morrison had tried to get her on an earlier transport. "I'm not leaving until I have to."

She ended up assigned to Kon's final transport—the last truck out, scheduled to leave at dawn on the third day. Just the two of them, a driver, and whatever final supplies they could pack.

Kon spent his last night in the camp doing a final round of the patients who were being left behind. Local volunteers would stay, but without the international medical staff, their chances plummeted. He left detailed instructions, extra medications, everything he could think of.

"Thank you, Doctor," an elderly woman said, clasping his hand. "May God protect you."

Kon managed a smile. "You too."

Dawn came too fast and not fast enough. The transport truck idled outside the main tent, engine running. The camp was eerily empty, everyone else had already evacuated. Just Kon, Maya, and their driver, a local man named Joseph who knew every back road in the region.

"Ready?" Maya asked, her camera bag slung over her shoulder.

"Ready," Kon lied.

They climbed into the truck. Joseph put it in gear. The camp disappeared behind them in a cloud of dust.

They made it fifteen minutes.

Kon heard it first, the whistle of incoming artillery, the distinctive sound that meant you had seconds to act. His enhanced hearing picked it up when it was still miles away, tracking fast.

"Joseph, stop the truck!" Kon shouted.

"What? Doctor, we need to—"

"STOP!"

Joseph slammed the brakes more from shock than compliance. Kon was already moving, grabbing Maya, pulling her out of the truck. She yelped in surprise as he half-dragged, half-carried her away from the vehicle.

"Kon, what—"

The shell hit.

Not the truck, fifty meters away, close enough. The explosion was massive, the kind designed to take out reinforced positions. The shockwave hit like a physical wall.

Kon threw himself over Maya, wrapping his body around hers. In that split second, he made the decision to ignore the instinct to hide, to pretend, to be normal. But not this time. Not when it meant watching someone die.

His tactile telekinesis flared to life, a protective bubble extending from his body to wrap around Maya. The blast wave hit it and deflected, curving around them like water around a stone. Debris pelted his back, he felt it, but his invulnerability meant it was just pressure, not pain. Heat washed over them, but the TK field kept the worst of it at bay.

Maya was screaming, he could feel it more than hear it through the ringing in his ears. The ground shook. More explosions, secondary detonations, the truck's fuel tank, something else.

It felt like forever. It was probably ten seconds.

When the world stopped trying to kill them, Kon cautiously lifted his head.

The truck was gone. Just a smoking crater where it had been. Debris everywhere—twisted metal, burning supplies, and oh god, Joseph. What was left of Joseph.

Kon's stomach turned. He'd heard it coming. Could have saved him too, if he'd moved faster, if he'd been willing to expose himself completely—

"Kon?" Maya's voice was thin, shocky. "What... how are we..."

She was looking at him with dawning realization. Looking at the debris field around them, at the perfect circle where nothing had touched them. At Kon's position over her, protective and impossible.

"Are you hurt?" Kon asked, his voice rough from dust and smoke.

"No, I'm—" She touched her head, her arms, checking. "I'm fine. I'm not even scratched. How am I not—" Her eyes widened. "You. You did something.”

Kon pulled back, helped her sit up. His mind was racing. The truck was destroyed. Joseph was dead. The radio was gone. They were 15 minutes from the camp by truck, in hostile territory, with no way to communicate that they'd survived.

"We need to move," he said instead of answering. "More shells could be coming. We need to find cover."

"Kon." Maya grabbed his arm. "What. Are. You."

He looked at her, really looked. She was terrified, in shock, but also curious. A journalist to her core. Even in the middle of a war zone, she wanted the story.

"Someone who just saved your life," he said finally. "That's all that matters right now."

"But—"

Another whistle. Closer this time.

"RUN!" Kon grabbed her hand and pulled her toward a rocky outcropping a hundred meters away. They made it just as the second shell hit, this one even closer. Kon shielded her again, his body between her and the blast, TK field flaring.

When the dust settled, Maya was staring at him with certainty now. "You're not human. Or you're... what, meta-human? Enhanced?"

Kon didn't answer. Just pulled out his phone, miraculously intact in his inner pocket, and checked for signal.

Nothing. Of course nothing.

They were in the middle of a war zone, fifteen minutes from a destroyed medical camp, with no transport, no communication, and no way to let anyone know they'd survived the blast.

By now, whoever was monitoring the situation would have seen the explosions. Would assume the transport had been destroyed. Would mark Dr. Kon Keres and journalist Maya Chen as casualties.

They were presumed dead.

And Kon, for the first time in six months, had broken his most important rule: he'd used his powers where someone could see.

"We need to get to the airfield," he said, ignoring Maya's stare. "It's forty kilometers northeast. Can you walk?"

"Walk? Kon, we need to—"

"Maya." He looked at her seriously. "I will get you out of here alive. I promise. But I need you to trust me and not ask questions you don't want the answers to. Can you do that?"

She stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, she nodded.

"Okay. Let's go."

They started walking. Behind them, black smoke rose from the remains of their transport, visible for miles.

The world would think they were dead.

Kon tried to figure out if that was the worst thing that could have happened, or a strange kind of mercy.

Gotham - The Batcave

The alert came through at 3 AM Gotham time.

Tim was still awake, had been awake for thirty-six hours straight working on a case, when his computer dinged with a news notification. He'd set up alerts, just in case. Dr. Kon Keres, DWB, East Africa.

He clicked it with fingers that didn't feel quite connected to his body.

BREAKING: DOCTORS WITHOUT BORDERS TRANSPORT DESTROYED IN EAST AFRICA SHELLING - CASUALTIES REPORTED

Tim's stomach dropped. He read faster.

...aerial bombardment of evacuation route... transport vehicle destroyed... multiple casualties including local driver Joseph Makena... American Dr. Kon Keres and British journalist Maya Chen listed as presumed dead...

The laptop screen blurred. Tim realized distantly that his hands were shaking.

"No," he whispered. "No, no, no—"

He was calling Bruce before he consciously decided to, muscle memory taking over when his brain couldn't process.

"Tim?" Bruce's voice was alert immediately, Batman never really slept. "What's wrong?"

"Kon. The transport—there was shelling, they're saying he's—" Tim couldn't say it. Couldn't make it real by speaking the word out loud.

"I'm looking at it now," Bruce said quietly. Tim heard the clicking of a keyboard. "Presumed dead. No bodies recovered yet, but the transport was completely destroyed."

"We have to—we need to—" Tim stood up, started pacing. "We can go there. We can search. Presumed isn't confirmed, Bruce. Maybe he—"

"It's a war zone, Tim. We can't just—"

"He's not DEAD!" Tim's voice cracked. "He can't be dead. We never got to—we didn't—"

The line was quiet for a moment. Then Bruce said, very gently, "I'm sending a car. Come to the Cave. Don't drive yourself."

Tim nodded, then realized Bruce couldn't see him. "Okay. Yeah. Okay."

He hung up and just stood there in his apartment, staring at the news article, and tried to remember how to breathe.

Six months. He'd had six months to reach out, to send an email, to do something other than respect Kon's distance. And he'd told himself it was the right thing, the mature thing, to let Kon have the space he clearly needed.

And now it was too late. Forever too late.

Wayne Manor - Bruce's Study

Bruce stared at the same headline on his computer and felt the familiar cold weight of failure settle in his chest.

He'd let this happen. Had convinced himself that respecting Dr. Keres's boundaries was the right call, that monitoring from a distance was enough. Had told himself that a grown man had the right to make his own choices, even if those choices led him to war zones.

And now that man was dead.

Presumed dead, his detective's mind insisted. No body. But the report was clear, direct hit, transport destroyed, hostile territory. The odds of survival were...

Bruce pulled up satellite imagery of the region, even though he knew it was futile. The area was under heavy cloud cover. Even if Kon had somehow survived the initial blast, the follow-up bombardment, the hostile forces in the region...

His phone rang. Damian.

"Father."

"I know. I'm looking at it now."

"We should have brought him in." Damian's voice was tight with an emotion Bruce had rarely heard from his son, grief. "He was clearly running from something. We should have pursued."

"He made his choice, Damian."

"His choice got him killed!" For once, Damian sounded his age—a thirteen-year-old boy who'd lost someone he'd decided mattered. "We let him run. We should have—I should have—"

"This isn't your fault."

"Isn't it?" Bitter. Raw. "I was the one who started all of this. Who decided he needed to be recruited. Who sent you all after him until he felt like he had to run to the other side of the world to get away from us."

Bruce closed his eyes. "Come to the Cave. Tim's on his way."

"The others?"

"I'll call them."

After Damian hung up, Bruce sat in the quiet of his study and let himself feel it, the grief, the guilt, the anger at a universe that kept taking people who shouldn't be taken.

He'd seen Kon's file. No emergency contacts. No family. "Donate remains to medical science" in the space where most people listed loved ones to notify.

A young man so alone that if he died, he wanted his body to at least serve a purpose.

And now he was gone, and there was no one to mourn him except a family of vigilantes he'd been running from.

Bruce pulled up the article one more time, studied the photo of the destroyed transport, and tried to convince himself there was still hope.

He failed.

Crime Alley - Jason's Safehouse

Jason put his fist through the wall.

Then immediately regretted it because the wall was brick and his knuckles weren't Kryptonian, and now his hand hurt like hell.

"Fuck," he said to the empty room. "Fuck!"

He'd liked Kon. Had respected him. The doc had looked Jason dead in the eye, called him out on his vigilante bullshit, and then stitched him up without judgment. Had been smart enough to figure out their identities and decent enough to keep his mouth shut about it.

And scared enough of something that he'd run to a literal war zone to get away from them.

Jason looked at his bloodied knuckles and thought about fear. About the things that made people run. About the choices you made when you were terrified and the ways those choices could kill you.

He'd died once. Knew what it felt like to be presumed dead, to have the world move on without you. Knew the weight of coming back to a world that had already mourned and moved on.

But Kon wasn't coming back. The report was clear. The transport was slag. The area was too hot for body recovery.

Dr. Kon Keres, who'd saved hundreds of lives and apparently had no one who would even notice he was gone, was dead at twenty-four.

"Fuck," Jason said again, quieter this time.

His phone buzzed. Bruce, summoning him to the Cave.

Jason looked at his destroyed wall, his bleeding knuckles, and the whiskey bottle he was now seriously considering opening at 3 AM.

Then he grabbed his jacket and headed for the Cave.

Because at least Kon would have someone to mourn him.

Even if it was just a bunch of vigilantes he'd been trying to escape.

Blüdhaven - Dick's Apartment

Dick sat on his couch in the dark and tried to understand how he'd failed so completely.

He was supposed to be the one who was good with people. The one who made connections, who brought people in, who made them feel safe and welcome and like they belonged.

And he'd driven Kon Keres away so thoroughly that the man had chosen a war zone over Gotham. Over them.

Dick remembered that first meeting in the hospital. Kon's professional courtesy masking wariness. The way he'd deflected every personal question with practiced ease. Dick had recognized another mask when he'd seen one—had grown up wearing them himself.

But instead of respecting that, understanding that, he'd pushed. They'd all pushed. And Kon had run.

And now he was dead.

Dick's phone lit up with texts from the family group chat.

Bruce: Cave. Now.

Tim: He can't be dead. He CAN'T be.

Damian: This is unacceptable.

Jason: On my way.

Dick stood, grabbed his keys, and headed for his car.

At least they'd have each other to lean on while they grieved someone who'd wanted nothing to do with any of them.

It was cold comfort.

But it was all they had.

Somewhere in East Africa, Kon was walking through hostile territory with a shocked journalist, very much alive.

But the world and the Bats thought he was dead.

And maybe, Kon thought as they walked, that was exactly what he needed them to believe.

But.

(There was always a but.)

Dr. Keres couldn't stay dead. Because Maya Chen had a family, a wife and two kids, according to the photos she'd shown him during late-night coffee breaks at the camp. She had people waiting for her, people who deserved to know she was alive. And Kon couldn't rope her into his lies, couldn't ask her to disappear just because it would be convenient for him.

Which meant they had to make it back. Had to survive. Had to tell their story.

Which meant Kon needed to give Maya a believable lie.

They'd been walking for two hours, navigating by the sun and Kon's enhanced senses, when Maya finally broke the silence.

"So. Are you going to explain, or do I have to start guessing?"

Kon kept his eyes on the horizon, scanning for threats. "I'm a meta-human."

Technically true. He was half-human, half-Kryptonian. Meta-human was close enough.

"What kind?" Maya's journalist instincts were fully engaged now, shock giving way to curiosity.

"Durability. Some enhanced senses. When I got into med school, I was advised not to announce my powers if I didn't want to get poached by capes or shadow organizations." He glanced at her. "So I never told a soul."

"Until now."

"Until now," Kon agreed quietly. He stopped walking, turned to face her fully. "I heard the bomb coming. The whistle, the trajectory. I should have reacted sooner."

Maya's expression softened. "Would it have made a difference?"

Kon thought about it, really thought about it. His speed was good, better than human, but he wasn't Flash. Wasn't even as fast as Clark in his prime. By the time he'd processed the sound, calculated the trajectory, the shell had already been seconds from impact. Even if he'd moved immediately, grabbed Joseph, tried to shield all three of them, the physics didn't work. The blast radius was too large. Joseph had been too far from them, on the other side of the truck.

Not even a speedster could have saved everyone. Not from that position, not with that little warning.

"...No," he said, and this time it was true. "No, it wouldn't have."

But the guilt sat heavy in his chest anyway. Because maybe if he'd been more vigilant. If he'd been scanning constantly instead of rationing his powers. If he'd convinced them to leave an hour earlier. If, if, if.

Maya studied his face, and something in her expression gentled. "I've covered wars for eight years. I've seen good people die for no reason at all. Joseph—" her voice caught, "—Joseph knew the risks. We all did. You saved who you could. That's all anyone can do."

Kon nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"I won't tell anyone," she said finally.

Kon looked back at her in surprise. "What?"

"About your powers. I won't tell anyone." She adjusted her camera bag, expression resolute. "The world will clamor for our story of survival. We'll tell them the first shell overturned the truck, and that protected us from the initial blast. Joseph didn't make it. A second shell destroyed the transport before we could go back for him. We walked to safety. That's the story."

"You don't have to lie for me."

"If this is what it takes to keep Doctor Keres alive and able to keep saving lives, then it's no skin off my back." Maya's jaw was set, determined. "You saved my life. You've saved hundreds of lives. The world needs doctors like you more than it needs another meta-human to gawk at or recruit or dissect."

Kon felt something crack in his chest, gratitude and guilt in equal measure. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet." Maya started walking again, and Kon fell into step beside her. "Just hope the airfield is still there when we arrive."

The airfield was empty.

They crested the final hill as the sun was setting, eight hours of walking behind them, and looked down at the abandoned runway. No planes. No people. No DWB vehicles or UN peacekeepers or anyone at all.

Just empty tarmac and a few abandoned supply crates, already being picked over by locals.

"No," Maya whispered. "No, they can't have—"

"They evacuated," Kon said quietly, his enhanced vision picking up the details even in the fading light. Tire tracks, recent. Fuel stains where planes had been. "Probably this morning. After the shelling intensified."

Maya's hand flew to her mouth. For a long moment, she just stood there, shoulders shaking. Kon could hear her heart racing, could smell the salt of tears she was desperately trying not to shed.

"They think we're dead," she said, voice breaking. "Sarah, the team, they all think we're dead. My wife thinks I'm—"

She cut herself off with a strangled sound that wasn't quite a sob. Her eyes were shining, but she stubbornly refused to let the tears fall. Kon watched her pull herself together through sheer force of will, straightening her spine, setting her jaw.

"Alright," she said, and her voice only shook a little. "Now we know they're safe. They got out." She took a deep breath. "We can't stay here. The area's not secure, and if the fighting's moving this way..."

Kon pulled out his phone, still miraculously functional, and checked the maps he'd downloaded before leaving the camp. "The nearest airfield with operational flights is about 250 kilometers northeast. Through mostly rural terrain."

Maya stared at him. "That's... that's a two-week walk. At least."

"Ready for a hiking trip, Maya?" Kon tried for levity, even though his chest felt tight.

She laughed, a weak, slightly hysterical sound, but then she steeled herself. Shoulders back, chin up. The same determination he'd seen in her when she refused to evacuate early, when she insisted on documenting everything, when she'd dragged herself through eight hours of walking without complaint.

"Ready," she said firmly. "Let's make global news."

Two Weeks Later - Somewhere in East Africa

Kon and Maya crested another hill, and Kon could finally see it in the distance, the airfield. Planes. Civilization. A way home.

They'd walked for fourteen days through some of the most dangerous territory in the region. Kon had used his powers sparingly, flying them over particularly treacherous areas at night when no one could see, using his enhanced senses to navigate around hostile forces, his invulnerability to shield them when they had no other choice.

Maya hadn't asked questions. Had simply accepted that her meta-human doctor companion could do impossible things and had been appropriately grateful for each impossibility that kept them alive.

"We made it," she breathed, and this time when the tears came, she let them fall. "Oh my god, we actually made it."

Kon looked at the airfield, at the planes, at the path back to the world.

And wondered what the hell he was going to tell everyone when they asked how they'd survived.

More importantly, he wondered if the Bats had seen the initial reports. If they thought he was dead. If they'd mourned him.

If, maybe, being dead to them would have been easier than whatever came next.

But Maya was already moving, practically running down the hill toward the airfield and salvation, and Kon had no choice but to follow.

Back to the world. Back to questions he couldn't answer.

Back to a life he still didn't know how to live.

He took a deep breath and started walking.

At least he was getting good at walking into impossible situations.

It was practically his specialty at this point.

The airfield was small, barely more than a landing strip with a few corrugated metal buildings. No international flights, no major organizations. Just local cargo planes and a handful of staff who looked up in surprise when two filthy, exhausted foreigners stumbled out of the bush.

None of them spoke English.

"Uh, Kon?" Maya said, swaying slightly on her feet. "Please tell me you have a plan."

Kon mentally cycled through the languages he knew—English, Spanish, Kryptonian (fat lot of good that did him), other assorted languages of no help here, some Mandarin, and... yes, some Xhosa. His enhanced brain had picked it up during his time at the camp, listening to the local staff. Not fluent, but functional.

He stepped forward, addressing the nearest worker in halting Xhosa. "We need help. We came from... the medical camp. Two weeks walking. World thinks we dead."

The man's eyes widened. He called out to his colleagues, and suddenly Kon and Maya were surrounded by concerned faces, rapid-fire questions in Xhosa and what sounded like Swahili.

Kon did his best to explain. DWB. Bombing. Long walk. American doctor. American journalist. Need to contact... someone. Anyone.

One of the workers—an older woman with kind eyes—disappeared into one of the buildings and returned with water, bread, and a satellite phone.

"UN," she said in heavily accented English, gesturing to the phone. "You call UN."

It took three days.

Three days of waiting in the small airfield, sleeping in a spare office, eating whatever food the local staff could spare. Maya spent most of the first day unconscious, her body finally giving in to exhaustion once safety was assured. Kon kept watch, monitoring her vitals with his enhanced senses, making sure she was just sleeping and not crashing.

The UN officials who arrived on day two were skeptical at first. Kon didn't blame them, two people presumed dead for two weeks suddenly appearing out of nowhere, with an incredible story about walking 250 kilometers through hostile territory. It sounded like fiction.

But their credentials checked out. DWB confirmed their identities. And when Dr. Sarah Morrison's face appeared on a video call, pale and shocked and openly crying, any remaining doubt evaporated.

"Oh my god," Morrison breathed, her hands shaking as she clutched the phone. "Oh my god, Kon. Maya. We thought—we held a memorial. We notified your families. We—" She broke down, unable to continue.

Maya took the phone with trembling hands. "Sarah. Is everyone else safe? Did everyone make it out?"

"Yes. Yes, everyone, except Joseph, and we thought you two—" Morrison wiped her eyes. "I can't believe you're alive. How did you—two weeks through a war zone? How is that even possible?"

Maya launched into the cover story they'd refined during their walk. The overturned truck. The protection from the blast. Joseph's death. The decision to walk rather than wait for rescue that might never come. She was convincing—a natural storyteller, which made sense given her profession.

Kon added details when needed, medical observations about their condition, practical explanations for how they'd rationed water and avoided patrols. All technically true. Just... incomplete.

By day six, a small contingent of UN officials had assembled at the airfield, humanitarian coordinators, security personnel, a medical team. Some of them had tears in their eyes as they embraced Maya and Kon.

"Miracles," one of them said in accented English. "You are miracles."

Kon thought about Joseph, about the hundreds of patients they'd left behind, about all the people who hadn't been miracles. He smiled and said thank you and tried to feel like he deserved the word.

The media arrived on day seven.

It started with a few local stringers, then regional reporters, then—somehow—international news crews who'd chartered planes specifically to cover the story. Two Americans, presumed dead, walking out of a war zone after two weeks. It was the kind of human interest story that cut through the usual news cycle.

Maya handled most of the interviews. She was a professional, knew how to work a camera, how to tell a story that would resonate. Kon stayed in the background when he could, answering questions when directly asked, keeping his responses brief and factual.

"Dr. Keres, how did you survive?" one reporter asked, shoving a microphone in his face.

"We were lucky," Kon said simply. "The initial blast threw us clear. We had medical training, some basic supplies. We walked during cool hours, rested during the heat. Avoided conflict zones." He shrugged. "We were very, very lucky."

"And Joseph Makena, your driver?"

Kon's expression tightened. "He wasn't as fortunate. He was a good man. He deserves to be remembered."

The footage would be everywhere within hours. Kon standing there, dirty and exhausted, with Maya beside him. The miraculous survivors. The incredible story.

By evening, Kon's phone—finally charged and reconnected to a network—was exploding with notifications. News alerts. Social media mentions. Emails from hospitals, from medical journals, from organizations wanting statements.

And buried in there, three messages that made his heart stop:

Unknown Number: Thank god you're alive. -Tim

Unknown Number: We saw the news. If you need anything, and I mean anything, call this number. -Dick Grayson

Unknown Number: Next time you decide to fake your death, give a guy some warning. -Jason

Kon stared at the messages for a long moment. They knew. Of course they knew. The story was everywhere, and the Bats missed nothing.

They thought he'd survived. Thought it was incredible luck. Thought he was just a very skilled, very fortunate doctor.

They had no idea how right and how wrong they were.

His finger hovered over Tim's message. He could respond. Could say something. Could... what? Thank him for caring? Explain why he'd left? Apologize for making them think he was dead?

He pocketed the phone without responding.

"You okay?" Maya asked, appearing beside him with two bottles of water.

"Yeah," Kon lied. "Just... a lot of messages."

"Tell me about it. My wife has called seventeen times. My kids sent a video." She smiled, soft and genuine. "They're flying out to meet me in Nairobi. I'll get to see them in two days."

"That's great, Maya. Really."

She studied his face. "What about you? Where are you going after this?"

Good question. London, where he'd originally planned? Back to the States? Anywhere but Gotham?

"I don't know yet," he admitted.

Maya squeezed his shoulder. "Well, wherever it is, thank you. For saving my life. For getting me back to my family. I won't forget it."

"You would have done the same."

"Maybe. But you're the one who actually did it." She paused. "And I meant what I said. Your secret is safe with me. But Kon—" she met his eyes seriously, "—don't run forever. Whatever you're hiding from, whatever scared you into the middle of a war zone... maybe it's time to face it."

Kon didn't answer. Couldn't answer.

Because Maya was right, and he knew it. But knowing something and being able to act on it were two very different things.

Gotham - The Batcave

"He's alive."

Dick's voice echoed in the Cave, breaking the silence that had hung over them for three weeks. On the main screen, news footage played; Kon and Maya Chen at a small airfield, surrounded by UN officials and reporters.

"He's alive," Dick repeated, and this time his voice cracked with relief.

Tim was standing so still he might have been carved from stone, eyes locked on the screen. On Kon's face, dirty, exhausted, but undeniably, impossibly alive.

"Fourteen days," Bruce said quietly, reading from the news report. "They walked 250 kilometers through hostile territory. Survived on minimal supplies. Avoided multiple patrol groups." He looked at the footage again. "That's not normal. Even for someone with extensive survival training."

"I don't care," Tim said, his voice rough. "I don't care if he flew there on a magic carpet. He's alive."

"He didn't call," Damian pointed out, his tone carefully neutral. "He's been at that airfield for seven days. Had access to communications. He sent statements to DWB, spoke to media, but didn't contact anyone personally."

"Because he has no one to contact," Jason said from where he was leaning against the Cave wall. "Remember? No emergency contacts. No family. The doc's been alone since day one."

"He has us," Dick said.

"Does he?" Jason challenged. "Because from where I'm standing, we're the thing he ran away from. And now he's survived the impossible, and he still hasn't reached out. Message received, don't you think?"

Tim's jaw clenched. "I sent him a text. Let him know we're glad he's alive."

"Did he respond?" Bruce asked.

"No."

The silence that followed was heavy.

"So what do we do?" Dick asked finally.

Bruce looked at the screen, at Kon's careful expression during the interview, at the way he stood slightly apart from Maya Chen, isolated even in the moment of rescue.

"We respect his choice," Bruce said. "Again. We let him know we're here if he needs us, and then we let him go."

"For how long?" Damian asked. "How many times does he run before we acknowledge that he's running from something, and that something might be dangerous?"

"As long as it takes," Bruce replied. "He's an adult. He's made his choices clear. We can't force him to accept help he doesn't want."

Tim turned away from the screen, unable to watch anymore. "He almost died. He walked for two weeks through a war zone. And he still won't..." He stopped, swallowed hard. "When does it stop being about respecting his choices and start being about watching him destroy himself?"

Bruce didn't have an answer for that.

None of them did.

On screen, Kon finished his interview and walked away, alone, and the Bats watched him go.

Again.

Kon stared at his phone for the hundredth time that day. Three messages. Three different people. Three different flavors of caring that he didn't know how to accept.

Tim's was the simplest. Direct. Thank god you're alive.

Dick's was the most open. An offer with no strings. If you need anything, and I mean anything, call this number.

Jason's was the most Jason. Dark humor masking genuine concern. Next time you decide to fake your death, give a guy some warning.

Kon's finger hovered over Tim's message. He could respond. Should respond. Tim deserved at least that much after, after everything. After the coffee in the hospital cafeteria. After the honesty. After probably spending two weeks thinking Kon was dead.

But every time he tried to type something, his throat closed up. What could he say? Sorry I made you think I was dead. Sorry I keep running. Sorry I can't be around you without my chest feeling like it's caving in because you're almost the person I loved but not quite and that's somehow worse than if you were nothing like him at all.

No. He couldn't say any of that.

But Jason... Jason he could maybe handle. Jason hadn't offered coffee or alliance or anything that felt like it would require Kon to be something other than what he was. Jason had just made a joke. Dark, slightly inappropriate, but honest in its own way.

Kon's fingers moved before he could overthink it.

It's not like I planned it, Red. Tell your brothers the concern is appreciated.

He hit send before he could delete it. Stared at the screen. Waited for the three dots that would mean Jason was typing back.

They didn't come.

Maybe that was for the best. One message. Acknowledgment without commitment. Gratitude without promises. It was all Kon could manage right now.

He pocketed the phone and tried to ignore the weight of the two unanswered messages still sitting there.

Dr. Morrison called him the next day via video chat, her face equal parts relieved and exhausted.

"Four months," she said firmly. "Minimum. Kon, you walked through a war zone for two weeks. You need time to recover, to decompress, to—"

"I'm fine," Kon interrupted.

"You're not fine. No one who goes through what you went through is fine." She softened slightly. "Please. Four months paid leave. See a therapist. Rest. Do normal people things. The world will still need surgeons when you're ready to come back."

Kon wanted to argue that he didn't need rest, that Kryptonians recovered faster than humans, that sitting idle for four months would drive him insane. But Morrison didn't know any of that. Couldn't know.

"Okay," he said instead. "Four months."

She looked surprised that he'd agreed so easily. "Good. Where will you go?"

Where would he go? Not Gotham, he wasn't ready for that. Not back to East Africa, too many memories, too many questions. Not London, too close to Maya and her family, and somehow that felt wrong now.

"France," he said on impulse. "Paris, maybe. I've always wanted to..." He trailed off, searching for a plausible reason.

"To see the city?" Morrison supplied with a small smile. "That's good, Kon. That's healthy. Go be a tourist for once instead of a doctor."

Kon nodded, accepting the out she'd given him.

But being idle had never been in his nature. And four months of doing nothing but thinking sounded like a special kind of torture.

Three Weeks Later - Hôpital Saint-Louis, Paris

"Dr. Keres, we have a multi-vehicle accident incoming. ETA five minutes."

Kon looked up from the chart he'd been reviewing, already moving toward the trauma bay. "How many?"

"At least six. Mixed severity."

"I'll take the critical cases. Alert surgery that we might need multiple ORs."

The nurse nodded and hurried off. Kon scrubbed in, letting the familiar rhythm of emergency medicine wash over him. This—this he understood. This he was good at.

He'd arrived in Paris three weeks ago with vague plans to "recover" and "decompress." Had lasted exactly four days doing tourist things; the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, wandering along the Seine. All very picturesque. All very boring.

On day five, he'd walked past Hôpital Saint-Louis and seen the emergency entrance. Had stood there for twenty minutes, listening to the organized chaos inside with his enhanced hearing. The familiar sounds of monitors, urgent voices, the barely-controlled panic of lives hanging in the balance.

On day six, he'd gone inside and asked if they needed any temporary help. His credentials were impeccable. His French, thanks to his enhanced brain picking up languages like some people picked up spare change, and Cadmus’ overzealous information dumping, was fluent. The hospital was understaffed and overwhelmed.

They'd said yes within an hour.

Morrison didn't need to know. This wasn't an official DWB assignment. Just a doctor helping out at a local hospital. Temporary. Casual. Totally in line with "recovering" if you squinted hard enough at the definition.

(He wasn't fooling anyone, least of all himself. But at least he wasn't sitting alone in an apartment thinking about Tim's unanswered message.)

The ambulances arrived. Kon fell into the practiced flow of triage, assessment, action. A collapsed lung here, internal bleeding there, possible spinal injury, severe lacerations. He moved between patients with efficiency born of hundreds of emergencies, his hands steady, his mind clear.

This, at least, made sense. Patients didn't ask complicated questions. Medicine had rules, procedures, logic. Do A, B follows, patient lives. Clean. Simple. No room for messy emotions or impossible choices about whether to answer text messages from people whose eyes were the wrong shade of blue.

"Dr. Keres, incredible work," the head of emergency medicine said hours later, after the last patient had been stabilized. "Where did you train again?"

"Gotham University of Medicine," Kon said, carefully omitting the part about being the youngest graduate in their history. "And I've done some work with Doctors Without Borders."

"Ah yes, I read about that. The survival story. Quite remarkable." The doctor studied him. "You know, if you're planning to stay in Paris for a while, we could use someone with your skills on a more permanent basis. Not a full position, but regular shifts?"

Kon should say no. Should stick to his plan of lying low, recovering, staying out of sight. Should not get attached to another hospital, another city, another group of colleagues who would ask questions when he eventually left.

"That would be great," he heard himself say. "Thank you."

Because the alternative was sitting alone with his thoughts and the weight of messages he couldn't bring himself to answer.

And that was a pain he didn't have the courage to face.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

Gotham - Jason's Safehouse

Jason's phone buzzed while he was cleaning his guns. He glanced at it, expecting another message from Bruce about patrol schedules or Dick being insufferable about something.

Instead: It's not like I planned it, Red. Tell your brothers the concern is appreciated.

Jason stared at the message for a long moment. Read it three times. Looked at the timestamp, sent two weeks ago, but he'd been out of the country on a mission and hadn't checked this particular burner phone.

Kon had answered him. Not Tim, not Dick, not Bruce. Him.

And the message was... exactly what Jason would have expected from someone who was barely holding it together but too stubborn to admit it. Deflection with a side of gratitude. Acknowledgment without engagement. The kind of response Jason himself had given a thousand times when people tried to care about him and he didn't know how to let them.

He forwarded the message to the family group chat without comment.

Tim: He answered you??? When? Why didn't you tell us?

Jason: Just saw it. Been in Markovia.

Dick: That's good though, right? He's reaching out?

Damian: Barely. He acknowledged existence and then presumably went back to ignoring us.

Bruce: It's progress. Don't push.

Jason looked at the message again. Tell your brothers the concern is appreciated.

Not "tell them I'm fine." Not "tell them not to worry." Just... acknowledgment. Like Kon knew they cared and didn't quite know what to do with that information.

Yeah. Jason understood that feeling.

He typed out a response, knowing Kon probably wouldn't answer but feeling like he should try anyway.

Glad you're not dead, doc. For what it's worth, the offer stands. You ever need anything, anything at all, you know how to reach us.

He hit send and went back to cleaning his guns.

If Kon never responded, well. At least he'd know someone cared.

Even if caring from a distance was all Jason could offer someone who clearly needed space more than he needed company.

Sometimes, Jason thought, the best way to help someone was to let them know the door was open and then stop blocking the goddamn exit.

Kon would come back when he was ready.

Or he wouldn't.

Either way, it had to be his choice.

Jason just hoped Kon made it before running himself into the ground became running himself into an early grave.

Again.

Bruce's Private Journal - Entry Dated Six Months After First Contact

Alfred suggested I write this down. Said it might help me process. I doubt it, but indulging him occasionally keeps him from staging interventions.

It started simply enough. Damian needed an appendectomy, a reminder that even my children are human, despite how often they seem to forget it. The surgeon was young, brilliant, and according to Damian, "exactly the kind of talent I need for my future network."

I was amused. My youngest son, barely thirteen, already building his own organization. It was so perfectly Damian—the confidence, the strategic thinking, the absolute certainty that he could recruit anyone if he just applied the right pressure.

I should have paid more attention to that word. Pressure.

Dr. Kon Keres. Twenty-four years old. Youngest surgeon in Gotham's history. Impeccable credentials, minimal social footprint, and according to my initial assessment, someone who valued his privacy above almost everything else. A man who'd built a careful, quiet life and wanted to be left alone.

I told Damian to be patient. Strategic. To observe before acting.

And then I watched my sons completely ignore that advice.

Dick went first, using the Wayne Foundation as cover. Transparent, but well-meaning. Jason actually let someone stab him—I'm still not sure if that shows dedication or concerning judgment. Tim planned some elaborate coffee shop encounter that spiraled when he was nearly mugged in his civvies. And Damian... Damian conducted surveillance with the intensity usually reserved for tracking international criminals.

I should have stopped them. Should have recognized that four vigilantes circling a private citizen would feel less like recruitment and more like hunting.

But I didn't. Because part of me was curious too. Dr. Keres had appeared in Gotham some years ago with perfect documentation and no history. A background too clean to be real. Skills too advanced for his age. And he'd stayed in Gotham, stayed in our city, despite having the credentials to work anywhere in the world.

That meant something. Or I thought it did.

Then Jason dropped his bombshell. Dr. Keres had known we were vigilantes all along. Had identified Jason as Red Hood through injury patterns and fighting styles. Had figured out the rest of us through pure deductive reasoning and medical observation.

In three years of operating in Gotham, he'd profiled us through our work and never said a word.

That level of observational skill and discretion isn't normal. Neither is the ability to create false documentation good enough to pass basic scrutiny. Or the decision to hide those abilities while working in a hospital instead of leveraging them for profit or recognition.

Dr. Keres wasn't just private. He was actively hiding. And our attention, our recruitment attempts, had threatened whatever carefully constructed life he'd built.

So he ran. To the other side of the world. To an active war zone.

That's when I realized we'd made a serious mistake. People don't run to war zones to escape recruitment. They run to escape something they fear more than death. And somehow, our interest, however well-intentioned had triggered that fear.

I called off the investigation. Told the family to back off, to respect his choice. We monitored from a distance, told ourselves we were doing the right thing by giving him space.

And then the report came through. Transport destroyed. Dr. Keres presumed dead.

I've lost people before. Too many people. It never gets easier, but you develop... coping mechanisms. Professional distance. The ability to compartmentalize grief and keep functioning.

This was different.

I watched Tim break. Not just sadness or professional regret, actual grief. He barely slept for two weeks, compulsively checking for updates, unable to accept that Kon was gone. When I asked him why it was hitting him so hard, he couldn't explain it. Or wouldn't.

"We never even—" he started once, then stopped. "I never got to tell him—" Another stop. "He just wanted to be left alone, and we couldn't even give him that, and now he's dead because—"

He didn't finish. Didn't need to. The guilt was clear enough.

And Damian. My son who rarely shows emotional vulnerability, who was raised by assassins to view attachment as weakness. He stood in the Cave staring at Kon's file and said, "I should have pursued harder. I should have made him understand he didn't have to run."

As if Damian's thirteen-year-old determination could have prevented a war zone bombing. As if any of us could have.

But that's the thing about guilt. It doesn't care about logic.

I pulled Kon's file that night. Read it front to back. Looked for what I'd missed, what had made this particular person matter so much to my sons in such a short time.

And I found it in the small details. The way Kon had treated Damian, not as a child or a Wayne, but as a rational person worthy of respect. The way he'd dealt with Jason's obvious test without judgment or alarm. The conversation with Tim in the cafeteria, where Kon had apparently offered honest gratitude and genuine apology in the same breath.

Kon had seen my sons, not Robin or Red Robin or the Wayne legacy, just them. And he'd treated them with a kind of straightforward honesty that none of them were used to receiving.

No wonder they'd wanted him to stay.

No wonder losing him hit so hard.

I wrote his name in my journal next to too many others. People I'd failed to protect. People who died because I didn't act fast enough, or acted too much, or made the wrong call at the wrong time.

Dr. Kon Elias Keres. Age 24. No family. No emergency contacts. Died doing humanitarian work in a war zone.

It should have been enough. The man had saved hundreds of lives. Had made a difference. Had died trying to help people.

But all I could think about was that notation in his DWB file: "In case of death, donate remains to medical science."

No one to mourn him. No one to notify. Just... donate the body and move on.

What kind of life does someone live where that's their final request?

What had he been running from that made being completely alone seem preferable to having people who cared?

I didn't have answers. And I thought I never would.

Then, two weeks later—alive. Against all odds, impossibly, miraculously alive.

The relief was immediate and overwhelming. Tim cried. Dick laughed. Jason punched a wall and then laughed. Damian stood very still and then excused himself for an hour.

We'd gotten a second chance. Sort of.

Because Kon had survived, but he still wasn't reaching out. Seven days at that airfield with access to communications, and he'd called DWB, talked to media, but hadn't contacted anyone personally.

Because he still had no one to contact.

Jason got a message eventually. Brief. Deflecting. The kind of response someone gives when they're acknowledging care but don't know how to accept it. Jason understood that language, he's fluent in it himself.

But Tim got nothing. And Tim, I realized, had wanted something specific from Kon Keres. Not recruitment. Not alliance. Something more personal that he still hasn't been able to articulate.

And Damian. Damian who'd started all of this with his insistence on recruitment, who'd surveilled and planned and strategized. He'd gone quiet after the survival news broke. Stopped talking about plans. Just watched the footage of Kon at that airfield with an expression I rarely see on my son's face.

Hurt.

This stopped being about recruitment months ago. Maybe it never was recruitment to begin with.

Dick saw it before I did. "They care about him, Bruce," he said quietly, watching Tim compulsively check his phone for a response that wasn't coming. "Not as an asset or an ally. As a person. And he's made it clear he doesn't want that from us."

He's right. And that makes it worse somehow.

Because I can handle professional rejection. Can accept that someone doesn't want to work with the Justice League or join our mission. That's their choice, and it's a reasonable one.

But watching my sons care about someone who keeps running from that care? Someone who'd rather walk through a war zone, rather be completely alone, rather die with no one to even notify, than accept that people might want him in their lives?

That's not something I know how to fix.

And maybe that's the point. Maybe it's not mine to fix.

Kon Keres is an adult. He's made his choices clear through action if not words. He wants distance. Space. To be left alone to do his work without people looking too closely at whatever he's hiding.

The ethical thing, the right thing, is to respect that. To let him go. To stop treating him like a case to be solved or a person to be saved.

But I'm also a father. And I'm watching two of my sons hurt over someone who doesn't want their care. Watching them struggle with respecting boundaries while worrying about someone who's clearly running from something.

There's no good answer here. No clear right choice.

So I do what I always do: I make the best decision I can with the information I have.

We leave him alone. We stop the surveillance. We send one message making it clear the door is open, and then we step back and let him choose.

If he comes back, we'll be here.

If he doesn't... well. At least we'll know we respected his choice. Even if it's not the choice we'd want him to make.

Even if watching him walk away again might hurt my sons more than I know how to help them through.

Alfred says I can't save everyone. That sometimes the best thing I can do is give people space to save themselves.

I hope he's right.

Because Dr. Kon Keres is alive, and running, and alone.

And there's nothing I can do about any of it.

Except wait.

And hope.

And try to help my sons accept that sometimes, caring about someone means letting them go.

Even when every instinct screams to chase after them and drag them back to safety.

Especially then.

-B

Paris - Hôpital Saint-Louis, Two Months Later

Kon was reviewing lab results when the commotion started in the ER.

"Non, non, écoutez—listen! It was an accident! I wasn't trying to kill myself, I was just—"

"Monsieur, please calm down. We need to evaluate—"

"Evaluate this, mate!"

Kon's enhanced hearing had already picked up the details before he reached the exam room: elevated heart rate, significant blood loss, extensive wounds on the forearms, and the distinctive accent of working-class London. He pushed through the door to find a blond man in a rumpled trench coat arguing with two nurses and a visibly frustrated resident.

Both of the man's wrists were bandaged, blood already seeping through. Self-inflicted cuts, precise and deliberate. The kind that screamed suicide attempt to anyone who didn't know better.

Kon knew better.

He'd never met John Constantine—not in his universe, not in this one until today—but he'd heard enough stories. The Hellblazer. Chain-smoker, con artist, occasional Justice League Dark consultant, and walking disaster magnet. Also, apparently, someone who used his own blood for magic rituals with alarming frequency.

"What do we have?" Kon asked in French, keeping his tone professional.

The resident looked relieved to see a senior doctor. "Suicide attempt. Both wrists. He claims it was an accident, but the cuts are clearly—"

"C'mon doc, it was an accident!" Constantine interrupted in English, his eyes landing on Kon with desperate hope. "I was... opening a can. Very sharp can. Slipped. Twice."

"A can," Kon repeated flatly.

"Very sharp can."

The resident switched to English, his accent thick. "He is clearly unstable. We should admit him to psychiatric evaluation—"

"I'm not bloody unstable! I just had a bit of a situation with—" Constantine caught himself, "—with a can."

Kon could see the discharge marks on Constantine's coat collar. Sulfur traces that normal humans couldn't smell but were obvious to Kryptonian senses. The man reeked of brimstone and stale cigarettes, and there were symbols drawn on his inner wrists in what looked like ash mixed with blood.

An exorcism. Recently. Messy one, by the looks of it.

Kon turned to the resident and nurses. "I'll handle this. Please prepare a standard suture kit and start him on IV fluids. I'll do the evaluation."

They looked uncertain but nodded, filing out. Constantine sagged with relief.

"Oh, thank Christ. Listen, doc, you seem like a reasonable—"

"Blood magic," Kon said quietly, once they were alone. "Really?"

Constantine's eyes widened. Then a grin spread across his face, the kind of grin that said he'd just found an unexpected ally. "You know! Oh, thank fuck. Common, doc, help me outta here, would ya? I've got places to be, demons to bind, the usual—"

"No."

The grin faltered. "What?"

Kon pulled up a stool and started examining Constantine's wrists properly, peeling back the temporary bandages. The cuts were deep but clean. Ritualistic. The rest of the ash-and-blood symbols were still visible beneath the blood.

"Tell you what, John," Kon said, reaching for gauze. "Stay the week. Heal. Behave. And stop talking about magic with the other doctors. I'll get you cleared."

"A week? But I—" Constantine started to protest.

Kon looked up, and whatever Constantine saw in his expression made the man's mouth snap shut. It wasn't a threatening look, exactly. More... tired. The look of someone who'd dealt with too many self-destructive idiots and had exactly zero patience left for it.

"...Fine," Constantine muttered. "I'll behave."

"Good."

Kon went back to cleaning the wounds, working in silence. Constantine, for once, seemed content to shut up and let him work. The cuts were deeper than they'd first appeared—Constantine had really committed to whatever ritual he'd been performing. Kon could see the traces of demonic energy still clinging to the edges of the wounds. Nothing dangerous, just... residue.

"You're going to need stitches," Kon said. "And a tetanus shot. And probably a lecture about proper magical safety protocols, but I'm not qualified for that last one."

"You know about magic but you're not—" Constantine studied him more carefully. "What are you, then? You're not exactly human, are you, doc? I can smell the power on you. Different kind, though. Not magic. Something else."

"I'm your doctor," Kon said firmly. "That's all you need to know."

"Fair enough." Constantine settled back, watching Kon work with intelligent eyes. "You're good at this. The stitching. Done a lot of supernatural-related medical work?"

"More than I'd like."

"Yeah, well, welcome to the club." Constantine laughed, then winced as Kon pulled a stitch tight. "Ow."

"Stop moving."

"Bossy."

Kon ignored him, focusing on the delicate work of closing the wounds. Constantine's hands were already scarred, old ritual marks, burn patterns, the kind of damage that accumulated over years of dangerous magical practice. This man was going to get himself killed eventually, and probably soon.

Not Kon's problem. He was just here to patch him up and make sure he didn't die in a French hospital's psychiatric ward.

"So," Constantine said after a few minutes of silence. "What's a powerful not-quite-human doing playing doctor in Paris? Seems a bit beneath your pay grade, if you ask me."

"I didn't ask you."

"Touchy. Running from something?"

Kon's hands stilled for just a moment. Constantine, damn him, noticed.

"Ah. Hit a nerve, did I?" The Brit's tone softened slightly. "Look, mate, I'm not judging. Half the people I know are running from something. Hell, I'm usually running from about six different things at once. Just saying, Paris is nice, but it's not exactly a permanent solution to whatever you're avoiding."

"And what makes you think I'm avoiding something?"

"Because you're too good at what you do to be wasting away in a hospital treating idiots like me." Constantine gestured with his free hand. "You've got that look. The 'I'm going through the motions but my heart's not in it' look. Trust me, I've worn it enough times to recognize it."

Kon finished the last stitch and started bandaging. "You don't know anything about me."

"Don't I? Let's see, you're not human, but you're pretending to be. You're clearly powerful, but you're suppressing it. You know about the supernatural world but you're not engaging with it. And you're working yourself to death in a foreign country instead of..." Constantine paused, studying him. "Instead of going home. Wherever home is."

"Home doesn't exist anymore," Kon said before he could stop himself.

Constantine's expression shifted, still sharp, but with an edge of understanding. "Ah. One of those stories. Dimensional refugee? Timeline collapse? Reality restructuring?"

Kon didn't answer, just taped down the last of the bandaging with more force than necessary.

"Right, none of my business." Constantine sat up slowly, testing his wrists. "But for what it's worth, doc. Running doesn't actually solve anything. It just postpones the inevitable. Whatever you're avoiding? It'll still be there when you stop."

"Is that advice from experience?"

"That's a warning from experience. Big difference." Constantine swung his legs off the exam table. "Now, about that week in hospital—"

"You'll stay," Kon said firmly. "Or I'll tell them exactly what kind of magic you were performing and let them draw their own conclusions about your mental stability."

Constantine stared at him. Then laughed, a real laugh this time, not the cynical one from before. "Christ, you're a bastard. I like you."

"I'll try to contain my excitement."

"Yeah, you do that." Constantine settled back down, resigned. "Fine. One week. But I'm smoking, and if anyone tries to stop me, I'm blaming you."

"Smoking is prohibited in the hospital."

"Like I said. Blaming you."

Kon walked toward the door, already regretting every decision that had led to this moment. Constantine called after him:

"Hey, doc? What's your name?"

Kon paused. "Dr. Keres."

"Right. Well, Dr. Keres—thanks. For understanding. And for not making me explain about the demon."

"Next time, use a blood infused knife instead of your wrists. Less suspicious."

"Next time, I'll try not to need blood magic at all. But we both know how that usually goes."

Kon left before Constantine could say anything else, pulling the door shut behind him.

"I'm going to regret this," he muttered to himself.

From inside the room, he heard Constantine's rough laugh. "Probably, mate. Most people do."

And somehow, that made it worse.

Because John Constantine might be a disaster, but he was right about one thing: running didn't solve anything. It just postponed the inevitable.

And Kon was running out of places to run to.

The week passed faster than Kon expected.

Constantine, for all his protests about being trapped in a hospital, turned out to be a surprisingly tolerable patient once he'd accepted his fate. He smoked out the window when the nurses weren't looking (Kon pretended not to notice). He flirted shamelessly with the older French nurses (who found him charming despite the language barrier). And he told stories, outrageous, impossible stories about demons and angels and the time he accidentally sold his soul to three different entities and had to con his way out of all three contracts.

Kon didn't believe half of them. But they were entertaining.

"So there I am," Constantine said on day five, gesturing dramatically with his bandaged hands, "standing in the middle of a warehouse in Liverpool, covered in ectoplasm, holding a chicken—don't ask about the chicken—and the demon lord is looking at me like I've personally offended his entire family tree. Which, to be fair, I had."

Kon didn't mean to smile. Didn't mean to let his guard down. But something about Constantine's absolute commitment to the bit, the way he told the story like it was the most normal thing in the world, cracked through his carefully maintained professional distance.

"What happened?" Kon asked despite himself.

"What do you think happened? I ran. Fast as I could. Left the chicken. Felt bad about that, actually. It was a nice chicken." Constantine grinned. "The demon lord's probably still pissed about the whole thing. Might want to avoid Liverpool for a few decades, just to be safe."

"Noted."

By day seven, when Kon came to sign the discharge papers, Constantine was already dressed in his signature trench coat, looking significantly better than when he'd arrived. The wounds on his wrists were healing well, no infection, no complications. Modern medicine combined with whatever supernatural constitution Constantine possessed had done its job.

"Well, doc," Constantine said, watching Kon sign the final forms. "It's been a pleasure. Well, not a pleasure exactly. More of a... tolerable inconvenience."

"High praise coming from you," Kon said dryly, signing his name with a flourish.

"I mean it, though. You're all right, Dr. Keres. For a bloke who's clearly got more secrets than sense." Constantine paused, then added more seriously, "And if you ever need anything, and I mean anything in the magical realm, you know how to find me. Just light a candle, draw a circle, say my name three times. Or, you know, email. I do have email now. The modern age and all that."

Kon looked up, surprised. "You're offering to help me?"

"Why not? You helped me. And you didn't ask too many questions, which I appreciate." Constantine pulled out a battered business card, actual card stock, surprisingly professional, and slid it across the desk. "Fair warning though: calling me usually makes situations worse before they get better. But if you need someone who understands the weird shit? I'm your man."

Kon took the card, studying it. John Constantine - Exorcist, Demonologist, Master of the Dark Arts. (Also available for bar trivia and weddings.)

Despite everything, he smiled. "You are impossible."

"Ah, he laughs finally!" Constantine's face lit up with genuine delight. "I was beginning to think you were physically incapable. Good to know there's a human under all that professionalism."

"I'd better not see you soon, John."

"Believe me, mate, I'll try not to need more stitches." Constantine headed for the door, then paused and looked back. "But seriously. You ever get tired of running? Paris, Gotham, wherever. You've got my number."

He was gone before Kon could respond, leaving only the lingering smell of cigarette smoke and sulfur.

Kon pocketed the business card and tried to ignore the warm feeling in his chest that felt dangerously close to friendship.

One Month Later - Gotham City

Constantine hated Gotham.

It wasn't the crime—he'd seen worse. It wasn't the corruption—he'd worked in London, for Christ's sake. It was the feeling of the place. Too many bats, literal and metaphorical. Too much darkness that wasn't the fun supernatural kind. Just human misery compounded by vigilantes in costumes.

But a job was a job, and this particular haunting was paying well enough to justify the trip.

He'd finished the exorcism (messy, but successful) and was settling his bill with the client when Batman himself dropped onto the fire escape outside the window.

"Bollocks," Constantine muttered.

Batman entered through the window like he owned the place. The client, a nervous accountant who'd accidentally summoned something nasty in his basement, took one look at the Dark Knight and fled to another room.

"Constantine," Batman said in that gravelly voice that probably worked wonders at intimidating criminals but just made Constantine want to light a cigarette. "What brings you to Gotham?"

"Work, same as always. Standard haunting, nothing to concern yourself with." Constantine pulled out his pack of Silk Cut. "Care for a smoke?"

"No."

"Suit yourself." He lit up, taking a long drag. "So what's this about, then? You tracking all magical activity in the city now? Because that seems like a lot of paperwork, even for you."

"I keep track of potential threats."

"Charming. And here I thought we were mates." Constantine exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. "The haunting's dealt with, by the way. Standard poltergeist, bit of a nasty streak but nothing I couldn't handle. Your city's clean, at least of this particular problem."

Batman was silent for a moment, that unnerving stillness he did so well. Then: "You were in Paris recently."

It wasn't a question. Of course it wasn't. Batman knew everything, the nosy bastard.

"Yeah, had a bit of a situation. Blood magic gone wrong, needed stitches. Spent a delightful week in hospital." Constantine grinned at the memory. "Met this interesting doctor, actually. Brilliant bloke. Got me out of being tossed in the loony bin. Very understanding about the whole 'accidentally cutting my wrists for a ritual' thing."

Something shifted in Batman's posture. "Doctor?"

"Yeah, Dr. Keres. Young guy, spoke perfect French, knew his way around supernatural injuries without batting an eye." Constantine took another drag. "Saved me a lot of hassle with the psychiatric evaluation, that one. Even gave me his card, well, no, I gave him mine, but still. Good bloke."

The silence was different now. Heavier.

"Dr. Keres is in Paris?" Batman's voice was carefully neutral, which meant it was anything but.

Constantine's magical senses prickled. There was a story here, and apparently he'd just stumbled into it. "Last I saw him, yeah. Working at Hôpital Saint-Louis. Why, you know him?"

"We've... met."

"Ah." Constantine studied the Dark Knight with renewed interest. "And by 'met' you mean...?"

"It's complicated."

"It always is with you lot." Constantine stubbed out his cigarette. "Well, if you're thinking of tracking him down, word of advice: the doc's running from something. Didn't ask what—none of my business—but he's got that look. The one that says he'll bolt if you push too hard. Might want to keep that in mind."

"I know."

"Do you? Because from where I'm standing, you've got that look too. The 'I'm going to fix this whether they want me to or not' look. Fair warning: doesn't usually end well."

Batman was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Is he well?"

And there it was. Under all the gravel and intimidation, actual concern. Constantine almost felt bad for the bloke.

"He's... managing. Working too much, probably. Seemed tired. But he's good at what he does, and he's helping people, so there's that." Constantine pulled out another cigarette. "If you want my opinion, which you didn't ask for but you're getting anyway—leave him be. Whatever he's running from, he needs to sort it in his own time. Chasing him will just make him run farther."

"And if what he's running from is dangerous?"

"Then he's a grown man who can handle his own problems. Or not. Either way, it's his choice." Constantine lit the cigarette. "You can't save everyone, Batman. Not even the ones you want to."

Batman turned toward the window. "Thank you for the information."

"Yeah, well. Professional courtesy and all that." Constantine watched him prepare to leave. "Hey, Batman? When you do see him again—and we both know you will—maybe try just talking to him. Not recruiting, not investigating. Just... talking. Seemed like the kind of bloke who could use a friend more than a mission."

Batman paused, silhouetted against the Gotham night. "He has friends. Whether he'll accept that or not remains to be seen."

Then he was gone, cape swirling dramatically.

"Dramatic bastard," Constantine muttered. But he was smiling slightly.

He pulled out his phone and typed a quick text to the number on the card Dr. Keres had filed away in his hospital records.

Ran into a mutual friend in Gotham. May have accidentally mentioned where you are. Might want to brace yourself. Sorry, mate. -JC

He hit send, finished his cigarette, and collected his payment from the still-nervous accountant.

Sometimes, Constantine reflected, helping people meant forcing confrontations they were trying to avoid.

He was probably going to hell for that.

But then again, he was probably going to hell anyway.

Might as well make it worth the trip.

Kon's phone buzzed during his lunch break, which wasn't really a break, just him scarfing down a sandwich between surgeries while reviewing post-op notes.

Ran into a mutual friend in Gotham. May have accidentally mentioned where you are. Might want to brace yourself. Sorry, mate. -JC

The sandwich turned to ash in his mouth.

Kon stared at the message for a long moment, then set down his food carefully, like it might explode if he moved too fast. His hands didn't shake, years of surgical training prevented that, but his jaw clenched tight enough that his teeth ached.

Of course. Of course Constantine had run into the Bat. Of course he'd mentioned the "interesting doctor in Paris." Of course the universe had decided that Kon couldn't have one thing, one place, one moment of peace without it circling back to Gotham.

He should have told John to keep quiet. Should have made him promise not to mention their meeting to anyone. Should have—

No. Kon stopped that train of thought before it could build momentum. Even if he'd explicitly told Constantine to keep his mouth shut, it wouldn't have mattered. The universe seemed determined to drag him back into the Bats' orbit one way or another. Fighting it was like trying to hold back the tide with his bare hands.

And he'd been doing that for months now, hadn't he? Running to East Africa, then Paris, throwing himself into work, keeping his head down, and still capes kept finding him.

It had started small. A woman with unusual burns on her hands that screamed magic backlash. A man with bruising patterns consistent with enhanced strength combat. Nothing obvious, nothing that the other doctors noticed. But Kon's enhanced senses picked up the telltale signs: traces of exotic radiation, the particular smell of Kevlar, the way certain patients moved like trained fighters even when they were trying to look civilian.

Last week, he'd treated someone he was ninety percent sure was a Green Lantern, not Hal, someone else, probably from one of the sectors passing through. The energy signature had been unmistakable, even if the patient had sworn up and down they'd just "fallen off a ladder."

Two weeks before that, a speedster with a pulled muscle who'd very carefully avoided giving a real name and had vibrated nervously (literally) through the entire examination.

And just yesterday, a young woman with Amazonian bone density and fighting calluses who'd claimed she'd gotten her concussion "playing soccer."

Kon had patched them all up, kept his mouth shut, and tried not to think about the irony. He'd come to Paris to escape capes. To get away from the constant reminders of a world he'd lost and a life he couldn't have. And somehow, Paris had more costumed traffic than his ER in Gotham had ever seen.

Maybe it was karma. Maybe it was coincidence. Maybe the universe just had a sick sense of humor.

Or maybe—and this was the thought that kept him up at night—he was never going to escape this world. The cape world. The world of powers and masks and impossible choices. It had been his life in his old universe, and apparently, it was determined to be his life in this one too, whether he wanted it or not.

Kon picked up his phone and typed a response.

Thanks for the warning. How long do I have?

The reply came quickly.

Knowing Batman? He already knows what color underwear you're wearing. But he might wait a bit before showing up. Might. No promises. -JC

Kon huffed a laugh that had no humor in it. Yeah. That sounded about right.

Another message appeared.

For what it's worth, I told him to just talk to you. Like a normal person. Fat chance of that happening, but I tried. -JC

I appreciate the effort, Kon typed back. Then, after a moment: And the week was good. Thanks for not being too much of a disaster.

Me? A disaster? I'm wounded, doc. Deeply wounded. -JC

You literally arrived with both wrists cut open.

Fair point. Try not to run again, yeah? Running gets exhausting. Trust me. -JC

Kon didn't respond to that. Couldn't respond to that. Because Constantine was right, and Kon knew it, and knowing it didn't change anything.

He pocketed his phone and stood, throwing away the remains of his sandwich. He had a surgery in twenty minutes, routine gallbladder removal, nothing complicated. He could lose himself in the work for a few hours. Not think about Bats or capes or the fact that his carefully constructed isolation was crumbling around him.

"Dr. Keres?" One of the nurses poked her head into the break room. "We have another walk-in. American tourist, claims he fell."

Of course they were.

"I'll be right there," Kon said, already moving.

As he walked toward the ER, he ran through the possibilities. Vigilante? Meta-human? Alien? Magic user? The variety was almost impressive at this point. Paris was supposed to be a vacation destination, but apparently, that didn't stop capes from trying to hero and getting hurt in the process.

The universe, it seemed, was determined to keep throwing costumed problems at him until he stopped running and dealt with them.

Kon pushed through the ER doors and tried to ignore the feeling that his time was running out.

That sooner or later—probably sooner—he was going to have to stop running and face the thing he'd been avoiding since the day he'd landed in this universe.

The Bats. Tim. The family he couldn't have and the life he couldn't live and the grief he'd been carrying for so long it had become part of his skeleton.

But not today.

Today, he'd just patch up one more cape and go back to pretending he was normal.

Tomorrow could take care of itself.

Even if he was starting to suspect that tomorrow was going to look a lot like Gotham.

The person waiting in the reception area was not Tim.

It wasn't Jason or Dick or even Batman himself.

It was Damian Wayne.

The thirteen-year-old sat in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs with the kind of perfect posture that screamed expensive private schools and combat training. He looked awkward, well, as awkward as Damian ever allowed himself to look in public, in civilian clothes that were probably worth more than most of the other patients' monthly salaries. His face was carefully neutral, but his fingers drummed once against his knee before he caught himself and stopped.

Kon spotted him from across the room and his first instinct was to turn around and walk away. Just leave. Clock out early. Pretend he hadn't seen anything.

But that was cowardice, and whatever else Kon was, he'd never been a coward about facing things head-on. Well. Except for the whole "running to different continents" thing. But that was different.

He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and strode forward with the practiced confidence of a doctor approaching a patient.

"Young Mr. Wayne," Kon called out, his voice pitched to its usual neutral professionalism. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" He kept his tone light, polite. "Not injured like your older brother, I hope?"

God, he hoped not. He didn't think he could survive his conscience if even Damian was getting himself hurt just to talk to him.

Damian stood immediately, and for just a moment—barely a heartbeat—something flickered across his face. Something raw and uncertain and very young. Then his expression settled back into its usual controlled mask, though traces of that vulnerability remained in his eyes.

"Tt. Of course not. I am not so foolish." Damian's voice carried its characteristic disdain, but it was muted. Softer. "I... I just wanted to talk to you for a moment."

Kon's enhanced hearing picked up the subtle rustle of clothing from near the entrance, expensive fabric, distinctive cologne, the particular way someone who'd spent decades in service moved. Alfred. The Wayne butler was here, probably waiting by the car, giving Damian space but staying close enough to supervise.

But there were no other heartbeats he recognized. No Tim lurking on a nearby rooftop. No Jason smoking in an alley. No distinctive cape-swish of Batman perched somewhere watching. Just Damian and Alfred.

The kid had come alone. Or as alone as a thirteen-year-old could when he had a family of overprotective vigilantes.

"Well then," Kon said, gesturing toward a hallway. "Let's go somewhere more quiet, yes?"

He led Damian to a small consultation room—private, soundproofed, the kind they used for delivering bad news to families. Kon closed the door and turned to face the teenager, ready for... he wasn't sure what. Demands? Accusations? Another recruitment pitch?

What he got instead was something he'd never expected to hear from Damian Wayne.

"I apologize."

Kon blinked. "What?"

Damian's jaw tightened, and he looked away—not meeting Kon's eyes. His gaze fixed somewhere around Kon's shoulder, and when he spoke again, the words came with obvious difficulty.

"It was my interest that put you on our radar and..." Damian's scowl deepened, directed at the floor now. "When the others began to approach you, they only did so because they were goading me. Teasing me about my... recruitment attempts."

Kon knew the Bat family dynamics—had known them in his universe, even if that universe's Damian hadn't existed. He could see it playing out perfectly: the older brothers ribbing their youngest sibling, turning it into a game, each trying to one-up the others. What started as Damian's project becoming a family competition.

He'd seen Dick and Tim do similar things to each other before. Back when... before.

"And then they also got interested," Damian continued, still not looking at him. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "And we... we didn't stop to consider how that might have affected you. The surveillance. The attention. The pressure."

He finally looked up, and Kon saw something he'd never seen in any Damian, genuine remorse. The kind that came from understanding you'd hurt someone, not just from being caught doing something wrong.

"So I apologize," Damian said firmly. "My actions directly led to your decision to leave Gotham. To join Doctors Without Borders. To—" his voice caught slightly, "—to nearly die in a war zone because you felt you had no other choice. That was not my intention. But it was my fault nonetheless."

Kon stood very still, trying to process this. Damian Wayne, trained by assassins, raised by Batman, the boy who approached everything like a tactical operation, had flown to Paris to apologize. Not to recruit. Not to investigate. Just... to say sorry.

"Damian..." Kon started, then stopped. What could he say? That it wasn't Damian's fault? It wasn't, not really. That he'd been running from things much bigger than a teenager's interest in recruiting him? That would require explanations he couldn't give.

"You didn't make me leave," Kon said finally, carefully. "I made that choice myself."

"Because we made staying impossible," Damian countered. "I am not a child, Dr. Keres. I understand cause and effect. I understand that actions have consequences, even when the intentions are... benign." He straightened his spine, meeting Kon's eyes directly now. "Father says that respecting someone's boundaries means accepting their choices even when you don't understand them. That pushing too hard, even with good intentions, can drive people away."

"Your father sounds wise."

"He is. Usually." A hint of the usual Damian arrogance flickered through. "Though his execution of that wisdom has been... imperfect over the years."

Despite everything, Kon felt his lips twitch. Almost a smile. "I'm sensing a 'but' coming."

"But," Damian continued, "he also taught me that when you make a mistake, you acknowledge it. You apologize. And you do better." His expression became serious again. "So. I am apologizing. And I am telling you that we will leave you alone. No more surveillance. No more... interference. You have my word."

"Your word?"

"I convinced the others to let me come alone," Damian said, and there was a hint of pride in his voice. "Drake wanted to accompany me. Grayson insisted on 'emotional support.' Todd said he'd 'just happen to be in Paris' at the same time. Father was... less than pleased with the idea of me traveling internationally without backup."

"And yet here you are."

"I pointed out that arriving with the entire family would rather defeat the purpose of demonstrating that we can respect your boundaries." Damian's expression turned wry. "Alfred agreed with me. That settled the matter."

Kon found himself almost smiling again. "Alfred does seem to be the final authority in your family."

"More than Father would care to admit." Damian paused, then added quietly, "He's waiting outside. Alfred, I mean. In case you were concerned about security protocols. I am not entirely unsupervised."

"I heard him."

Damian's eyes sharpened. "Your hearing is—" He stopped himself. "Apologies. None of my business."

And that, right there, was the difference. The respect for boundaries that Damian was trying to demonstrate. Not pushing. Not investigating. Just... accepting.

Kon felt something in his chest loosen slightly. Not much. But enough.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "For the apology. And for coming all this way to deliver it in person."

"It seemed important." Damian shifted his weight, looking uncertain again. "I also wanted to say... what you do—the medical work, saving lives—it matters. Whether you do it in Gotham or Paris or a war zone. We may have been wrong to try to recruit you for our purposes, but we were not wrong about your value. As a doctor. As a person."

Kon's throat felt tight. "Damian—"

"You don't have to say anything," Damian interrupted quickly. "I just... wanted you to know. That we—that I—think you're extraordinary. And not because of whatever it is you're hiding. Just... because of who you are."

The silence that followed was heavy but not uncomfortable. Kon struggled with what to say, how to respond to this teenager who'd just cracked open something Kon had been keeping carefully locked away.

"I'm not extraordinary," Kon said finally. "I'm just... trying to help people. Same as you."

"Perhaps that's what makes someone extraordinary," Damian replied. "The trying. Even when it's difficult. Even when you're running from something." His eyes met Kon's, knowing and far too perceptive. "Whatever you're running from, Dr. Keres... I hope you find what you're looking for. And I hope that when you do, you'll remember that not everyone you left behind was a threat."

He turned toward the door, then paused with his hand on the handle.

"If you ever do want to come back to Gotham, not for us, not for recruitment, just to... exist, you would be welcome. That is not pressure. Just... information. What you do with it is your choice."

Damian opened the door and left before Kon could respond.

Kon stood alone in the consultation room, staring at the closed door, and tried to remember how to breathe around the knot in his chest.

A thirteen-year-old had just flown across an ocean to apologize and somehow made Kon feel more seen, more understood, than he had in months.

And the worst part was that it made the running feel less like survival and more like cowardice.

Kon sat down heavily in one of the chairs and put his head in his hands.

"Damn it, Damian," he muttered to the empty room.

Because now he had to think about it. About going back. About stopping running. About facing all the things he'd been avoiding.

And he wasn't sure if he was brave enough for that.

But maybe—just maybe—it was time to find out.

Kon sat in his small Paris apartment that night, phone in hand, staring at the blank message screen for a long time.

Damian's visit had cracked something open. Something Kon had been keeping sealed tight for months, years, if he was honest with himself. The constant running, the isolation, the pretending he didn't care about people who clearly cared about him.

It was exhausting. Constantine had been right about that.

And maybe... maybe it was time to stop. Not immediately. Not rushing back to Gotham tomorrow. But eventually. When he was ready. When he'd figured out how to exist in the same city as people who looked like his family but weren't.

But he could give them something now. A promise. An acknowledgment. Something more than silence and running.

He pulled up his contacts and started typing.

To Bruce:

Mr. Wayne,

I want to thank you for respecting my choice to leave Gotham, and for whatever restraint you showed in not tracking me down sooner. I know surveillance is second nature to your family, so the space you've given me is appreciated.

I'm not ready to come back yet. I have things I need to work through on my own. But I wanted you to know that I understand what your sons were trying to do, even if the execution was flawed. Their interest, however overwhelming it felt, came from a good place.

I will return to Gotham eventually. I don't know when. But when I do, I hope we can start fresh. No recruitment. No investigation. Just... a conversation. If you're willing.

Take care of your family. Especially Damian. He's more thoughtful than I think any of you realize.

-Kon Keres

Send.

To Dick:

Mr. Grayson,

The coffee you offered that day—and the genuine kindness behind it—didn't go unnoticed. You have a gift for making people feel welcome, even when they're determined to keep everyone at arm's length.

I'm sorry I couldn't accept what you were offering. It wasn't about you. It was about me and things I'm still figuring out. But I wanted you to know that your approach wasn't wrong. Sometimes the timing is just off.

I'll need more time before I can come back to Gotham. But eventually, I'd like to take you up on that offer. Not the recruitment—just the coffee. And maybe the conversation that goes with it.

Thank you for caring about a stranger who didn't make it easy.

-Kon

Send.

To Jason:

Red,

You're the only one who got me to respond, you know that? Something about your approach felt... honest. No pretense. No carefully crafted strategy. Just straight talk from someone who understands what it's like to need distance.

I appreciate that. And I appreciate you giving your brothers my message about the concern being appreciated. Even if I didn't know how to accept it at the time.

I'm not ready to come back to Gotham yet. But I will eventually. When I do, I owe you a proper conversation. Maybe over drinks instead of in an ER with you bleeding all over my exam table.

Try not to get stabbed again. Or shot. Or whatever the hell you get up to on a regular basis. Some of us would prefer you to stay alive.

-Doc

Send.

To Damian:

Damian,

What you did today—flying to Paris to apologize in person—took more courage and maturity than most adults could manage. You didn't have to do that. The fact that you did says more about your character than you probably realize.

Your apology is accepted. And I want you to know that you didn't fail in what you were trying to do. You saw someone you thought could be valuable and you pursued that. That's leadership. The fact that I wasn't ready to be pursued isn't a reflection on your judgment.

You were right about what you said. About not everyone you left behind being a threat. I'm still working on remembering that. But your visit helped.

I'll need more time before I come back to Gotham. But when I do, I hope you'll have that conversation you were planning. About your future network, your plans, whatever it is you're building. I think I'd like to hear about it. No promises beyond listening, but... listening is a start.

Keep being extraordinary. And tell Alfred he raised you well, even if you'd never admit that to his face.

-Kon

Send.

To Tim:

Kon stared at Tim's contact for a long time.

This was the hardest one. The one that mattered most and hurt the worst. Tim, who looked almost like his Tim but wasn't. Who'd offered coffee and honesty and everything Kon wanted but couldn't accept. Who'd probably spent two weeks thinking Kon was dead and Kon had never even acknowledged that pain.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard. Started typing. Deleted it. Started again.

Tim,

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry for running. I'm sorry for not responding to your message when I survived. I'm sorry for making you think I was dead and then not even having the courage to reach out after.

You offered me honesty that day in the hospital cafeteria. Alliance. Understanding. And I threw it back in your face by disappearing to a war zone. That wasn't fair to you.

I want to explain why I ran. Why I keep running. But I can't. Not yet. Maybe not ever. There are things about me, about where I come from, that I don't know how to talk about.

But I wanted you to know that it wasn't because of anything you did. You were perfect. The coffee, the conversation, the offer, all of it was exactly what I needed. I just wasn't ready to accept it.

I'm still not ready to come back to Gotham. But I will eventually. And when I do, if you still want to have that coffee... I'd like that. I'd like to try to explain. Or at least try to be honest about why I can't explain.

You deserve better than silence and running. I'm sorry I haven't been able to give you more than that.

Maybe someday I will be.

-Kon

He stared at the message for five full minutes before hitting send.

Then he dropped his phone on the couch and put his head in his hands, feeling raw and exposed and terrified.

But also... lighter. Like he'd been carrying a weight he hadn't realized was there until he set it down.

One more message.

Kon picked up his phone again and found Constantine's number.

Next time you "accidentally" mention where I am to mutual friends, I'm going to tell them about the chicken incident in Liverpool. In detail. With diagrams.

But... thanks. For the push. I needed it, even if I didn't want it.

Also, you were right about the running thing. It does get exhausting.

Try not to need stitches again. I'm not always going to be available to save you from the psych ward.

-Kon

PS: Your advice about keeping my mouth shut is sort of impossible. Do you have ANY idea how many capes come through Paris on vacation? It's like a superhero convention. I've treated two Lanterns, three speedsters, at least one Amazon, and someone who I'm pretty sure was Atlantean. None of them had good cover stories. I'm starting to think capes are just universally bad at lying about their injuries.

PPS: If Batman asks, you don't know about the cape traffic. I have a reputation to protect.

Send.

The response came within minutes.

Diagrams??? That's just cruel, doc. And here I thought we were mates. -JC

But seriously—proud of you. Reaching out takes guts. And yeah, Paris is apparently where capes go when they want to pretend they're on holiday. Geographic proximity to the Channel, European attitude about minding their own business, excellent wine. It's practically a cape resort.

As for Batman—my lips are sealed. Professional courtesy. He asks about you again, I'll tell him you're fine and to leave you alone. Deal? -JC

PS: I make no promises about the stitches. My lifestyle choices are questionable at best.

Kon smiled despite himself. Then he set his phone aside and looked around his small apartment. It wasn't home. Paris wasn't home. But it was a place where he could breathe, could think, could slowly start to figure out who he wanted to be in this universe.

Eventually, he'd go back to Gotham. Face the Bats. Face Tim. Face all the complicated feelings he'd been running from.

But not yet.

For now, he'd stay in Paris. Keep patching up capes who were terrible at lying. Keep saving lives. Keep working toward the day when he could walk back into Gotham and not feel like his chest was caving in.

The messages were sent. The promises were made. The door was open—on both sides now.

The rest was just a matter of time.

And for the first time in months, Kon felt like maybe—just maybe—he had enough time to figure it out.

One day at a time. One patient at a time. One step closer to being ready.

Eventually.

Gotham - The Batcave

The alert came simultaneously to all their phones.

Bruce read his message first, then quietly forwarded it to the family chat.

Dick's came next, followed by Jason's, then Damian's.

Tim's arrived last, and he didn't share it. Just read it three times, set his phone down carefully, and excused himself without explanation.

Bruce watched him go, then looked at the others gathered around the conference table.

"He's coming back," Damian said quietly. "Eventually."

"Eventually is better than never," Dick replied.

"Is it though?" Jason asked. "Because 'eventually' could be years. Could be decades. Could be when he's good and ready and we're all old and gray."

"Then we wait," Bruce said firmly. "As long as it takes. He's reaching out. That's progress."

"Father's right," Damian said. "Dr. Keres is... healing. From whatever drove him away. Pushing now would undo everything we've worked to repair."

"When did you get so wise?" Dick asked, ruffling Damian's hair.

"Tt. I have always been wise. You simply haven't been paying attention."

Jason snorted. But he was smiling slightly, looking at his own phone. "Doc called me 'Red.' That's practically a term of endearment coming from him."

"He told me Alfred raised me well," Damian said, and there was unmistakable pride in his voice.

"He thanked me," Dick added. "That's something."

Bruce looked at his own message again. Take care of your family. Especially Damian.

"We wait," he said again. "And when he's ready, we'll be here."

"What about Tim?" Dick asked quietly.

They all looked toward the elevator where Tim had disappeared.

"Tim waits too," Bruce said. "Whatever Kon said to him... that's between them. We give him space to process it."

In his room, Tim sat on his bed holding his phone, reading Kon's message for the fourth time.

Maybe someday I will be.

It wasn't a promise. It wasn't even really hope. But it was more than nothing.

It was eventual.

And for now, eventual would have to be enough.

Tim saved the message, set his phone aside, and tried to figure out how to wait for someone who might never be ready.

But at least now he knew Kon was trying. That had to count for something.

It had to.

The Watchtower - Two Weeks Later

The Justice League debrief was running long, as they always did when Superman insisted on thoroughness. Bruce listened with half his attention while reviewing reports on his tablet, the usual mix of mission summaries and threat assessments.

"—and we should probably discuss the Paris situation," Green Lantern (Hal Jordan) said, sprawled in his chair with the kind of casual confidence that made Bruce's eye twitch.

Bruce's attention sharpened. "Paris?"

"Yeah, you know. The doctor." Hal waved his hand vaguely. "What's his name—Keres? French hospital, super discreet, doesn't ask questions. Half the capes who pass through Europe end up in his ER."

Bruce's expression remained carefully neutral. "I wasn't aware this was a League concern."

"It's not a concern, per se," Diana said thoughtfully. "More of an... observation. I've heard his name mentioned several times in the last few months. Apparently, he's very skilled and very private."

"Treated my shoulder last month," Flash, Barry Allen, chimed in. "Pulled muscle from overshooting a vibration frequency. Told him I got it playing tennis." Barry grimaced. "He didn't believe me for a second, but he didn't push. Just fixed me up and sent me on my way."

"You went to Paris for a pulled muscle?" Hal asked incredulously.

"I was already in Paris! There was a thing with Mirror Master and the Louvre, long story. Point is, the doc was great. Professional. Didn't even blink when I accidentally vibrated through the exam table."

"That's what I've heard too," said a voice from the far end of the table. Bruce turned to see one of the newer Green Lanterns, Jessica Cruz, looking uncomfortable at being the center of attention. "When I was on Earth assignment last month, some of the other Lanterns mentioned him. Said he was 'cape-friendly' but discreet. Like, really discreet. Never reports anything, never asks for explanations, just treats whatever injury and moves on."

"That's... unusual," Clark said slowly, his reporter instincts clearly activated. "Most civilian doctors who encounter evidence of meta-human activity are required to report it. At minimum, they ask questions."

"Maybe he's just a good guy who minds his own business," Hal suggested. "Not everyone needs to be investigated, Clark."

"I'm not suggesting investigation," Clark protested. "Just noting that it's interesting. A doctor in Paris who's apparently become the go-to for injured heroes in Europe? That's worth knowing about. For safety reasons if nothing else."

Bruce said nothing, but his mind was working. Kon had mentioned cape traffic in his message to Constantine—a message Bruce had absolutely not intercepted and read, thank you very much. But hearing it confirmed by League members was different. This wasn't just a few coincidental encounters. Kon had somehow become an unofficial resource for the cape community in Europe.

Which meant he was more embedded in their world than ever, even while claiming he wanted distance from it.

"Has anyone actually talked to him?" Diana asked. "About his... awareness of our community?"

"I tried," Barry admitted. "Asked if he knew what I was. He just gave me this look and said 'I'm a doctor, not an idiot.' Then he told me to ice the shoulder and avoid super-speed for forty-eight hours." He paused. "I didn't follow that advice. Probably should have."

"So he knows," Hal said. "And he doesn't care. Honestly, we could use more people like that. Someone to patch us up when we're in Europe without having to worry about compromising our identities or dealing with authorities."

"Or we could not encourage our members to seek out civilian medical care for injuries sustained during cape activities," Bruce said dryly. "We have medical facilities on the Watchtower for a reason."

"Yeah, but Paris is closer than space when you're bleeding out in Lyon," Hal countered. "Just saying, having a friendly doctor on the ground is useful."

"He's not League," Bruce said firmly. "He's a civilian doctor who happens to be discreet. That doesn't make him a resource for us to exploit."

"No one's talking about exploitation, Bruce," Clark said gently. "Just acknowledging that there's a doctor in Paris who's apparently helping our people. That's a good thing, isn't it?"

Bruce wanted to argue. Wanted to point out the complications, the risks, the fact that Kon was clearly trying to stay out of cape business even as cape business kept finding him. But saying any of that would reveal that he knew more about Dr. Keres than he should.

"Just... be respectful," he said instead. "If someone's providing medical care without asking questions, the least we can do is not take advantage of that discretion."

"Agreed," Diana said. "Though I confess I'm curious about this doctor. Anyone who can treat our injuries without flinching must have interesting experiences."

"Or a really good poker face," Hal suggested.

"Or both," Barry said. "Definitely both. The guy is unflappable. I literally vibrated through furniture in front of him and he just sighed and made a note in my chart."

"Did the note say 'patient is terrible at lying'?" Clark asked with a smile.

"Probably. I didn't ask to see it."

The conversation moved on to other topics, but Bruce remained distracted. He pulled out his phone during a lull and typed a quick message.

To the family group chat:

Dr. Keres has apparently become popular with the cape community in Europe. Multiple League members have mentioned him during debrief. His discretion is noted and appreciated. Do NOT use this as an excuse to "check in" on him. He's maintaining professional boundaries and we will respect them.

The responses came quickly.

Tim: Is he okay? Are they respecting his privacy?

Dick: That's actually kind of awesome. He's helping people without them even knowing he's going above and beyond.

Jason: Doc's building his own reputation. Good for him.

Damian: Of course he is excelling. Did we expect anything less?

Bruce pocketed his phone and tried to focus on the rest of the debrief. But his mind kept returning to Kon, patching up heroes in Paris, maintaining his careful distance from the cape world while somehow becoming more entrenched in it than ever.

It was very Kon. Running away while simultaneously being exactly where he was needed most.

Bruce just hoped that when Kon finally stopped running, he'd realize that was exactly what made him valuable. Not his powers or his secrets, but his fundamental inability to turn away from people who needed help.

Even when those people were complicated vigilantes who'd driven him to another continent.

Paris - Hôpital Saint-Louis

"Dr. Keres, another American tourist," the nurse said with a knowing look. "Says he 'fell off a bicycle.'"

Kon looked up from his paperwork to see her skeptical expression.

"Let me guess," he said. "Injuries inconsistent with a bicycle accident?"

"Très inconsistent. Also, he's wearing what looks like tactical gear under his jacket."

"Of course he is." Kon stood, grabbing his tablet. "Exam room three?"

"Oui."

As Kon walked toward the exam room, he passed another nurse who muttered in French, "At this rate, we should just put up a sign: 'Superheroes Welcome, No Questions Asked.'"

Kon pretended not to hear, but he couldn't quite suppress his smile.

Apparently, his reputation was spreading.

He just wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a problem waiting to happen.

Probably both.

It was usually both.

Paris - Three and a Half Months Later

Kon's phone rang during his lunch break, actual lunch this time, not just coffee and a hastily eaten sandwich between patients. He'd been making an effort lately to take care of himself. Small steps. Eating regular meals. Getting his full four hours of sleep. Even taking a day off occasionally to sit in the sun at the Jardin du Luxembourg and recharge properly.

The caller ID showed Dr. Sarah Morrison. DWB.

Kon answered. "Sarah. How are you?"

"Exhausted, overworked, and about to make you an offer I really hope you'll refuse." Her voice carried the particular weariness of someone who'd been dealing with logistics and bureaucracy for too many hours straight. "How are you doing, Kon? Really?"

"Better," he said honestly. "Paris has been... good for me. Quieter than East Africa."

"Relatively speaking," Sarah said dryly. "I've heard rumors about your patient population. Apparently, you've become quite popular with a certain demographic."

Kon winced. Surprised Sarah knows but also not, as part of the permanent team do DWB she must have access to a considerable amount of information when it comes to medicine and Doctors, he is just grateful she scold him when he was supposed to be taking a break "I don't ask questions. They don't volunteer information. It works."

"I'm sure it does." Sarah paused, and Kon could hear papers rustling in the background. "Look, I'm calling because I have an assignment. It's not another active war zone—I wouldn't do that to you again—but it's not exactly a vacation either. Rural clinic in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Minimal resources, high disease burden, significant need for surgical intervention. The kind of place that most of our surgeons turn down because it's too remote, too difficult, too..." She trailed off. "Too everything."

"But you need someone to go."

"We always need someone to go. But honestly, Kon? I'd rather you turn this one down. You've done enough. More than enough. You walked through a war zone. You nearly died. You've earned the right to say no and focus on your recovery."

Kon looked out the window of the hospital break room at the Paris skyline. He'd been here for almost four months. Four months of routine surgeries, difficult cases, and capes with terrible cover stories. Four months of slowly building something that felt almost like stability.

But stability wasn't the same as being ready. And going back to Gotham—facing the Bats, facing Tim, facing all the complicated feelings he'd promised to eventually deal with—that still felt too big. Too immediate. Too much.

"I'll go," Kon said.

"Kon—"

"But Sarah, I think after this one, I'll have to step down from the organization. At least for a few years." The words came out steadier than he expected. "I need to... I have things I need to deal with back home. Things I've been putting off."

Sarah was quiet for a moment. "You're sure? About the assignment and about stepping down?"

"Yes to both."

"Okay." She let out a long breath. "Okay. Thank you, Kon. You've been one of our best. Whatever you need to deal with, I hope you find what you're looking for. And the door's always open if you want to come back."

"I appreciate that."

"The assignment is six months. Congo. Small clinic about three hours from the nearest city. You'd be the primary surgeon for a region of about fifty thousand people. It's challenging work, but it's important work."

"When do I leave?"

"Two weeks. I'll send you the briefing materials and logistics information." Sarah paused again. "And Kon? Good luck. With the assignment and with whatever comes after."

"Thank you, Sarah. For everything."

"You're welcome. Stay safe out there."

After she hung up, Kon sat in the break room for a long time, holding his phone.

Six months in rural Congo. Then... what? Back to Gotham? Face the music? Try to figure out how to exist in the same city as people who mattered too much?

It was another delay. Another way to put off the inevitable. But it was also the last delay. After this, no more running. No more hiding behind humanitarian work, however important that work was.

After this, he'd have to go home. Wherever home was.

He pulled up the family group chat that dick had added him to and typed a message before he could talk himself out of it.

Taking another assignment with DWB. Six months in rural Congo. Then I'll be done running. I don't know if I'll be ready to come back to Gotham right away, but I'll be ready to stop running. That's something.

See you eventually.

-Kon

He hit send and pocketed his phone.

Two weeks. He had two weeks to wrap up his work in Paris, say goodbye to the colleagues he'd somehow become friends with despite his best efforts, and prepare for six months in one of the most challenging medical environments in the world.

And then... then he'd figure out the rest.

One step at a time. One assignment at a time. One day closer to being brave enough to face the life he'd been avoiding.

Eventually was starting to feel less like an empty promise and more like an actual deadline.

Kon wasn't sure if that was terrifying or a relief.

Probably both.

It was usually both.

Gotham - Wayne Manor

The notification appeared on everyone's phones simultaneously.

Tim read it three times, trying to parse the subtext. Done running. That was new. That was progress. But also, six months in rural Congo. Six more months of waiting. Six more months of wondering if Kon would actually come back or if he'd find another reason to delay.

"He's setting himself a deadline," Dick said during their impromptu meeting in the Cave. "That's good, right? He's committing to eventually."

"Or he's buying himself six more months to avoid dealing with whatever he's running from," Jason countered. But his tone wasn't harsh. Just... knowing. "Been there. Done that. Bought the t-shirt."

"He said he'd be done running," Damian pointed out. "Dr. Keres does not make promises lightly. If he says he will stop running, he will stop running."

"The question is whether 'stop running' means 'come back to Gotham' or just 'stop moving to new continents,'" Tim said quietly. "He didn't actually say he'd come here."

"He didn't say he wouldn't," Dick replied. "And he's in the family chat now. He's communicating. That's huge progress from six months ago."

Bruce had been quiet throughout the discussion, but now he spoke. "Congo is one of the most medically underserved regions in the world. If Kon is going there, he's going because people need him. That's who he is. We respect that. And we wait."

"For six more months," Tim said.

"For as long as it takes," Bruce corrected gently. "He's telling us he's working toward coming back. That has to be enough."

Tim nodded, but he didn't look convinced. He pulled out his phone and typed a private message.

Six months. I can wait six months. Be safe out there. The coffee offer stands whenever you're ready.

-Tim

He hit send and tried to ignore the way his chest felt tight.

Six more months. Then maybe Kon would finally stop running.

And maybe Tim would finally get answers to the questions he'd been carrying for almost a year.

Or maybe he'd just get more coffee and more carefully worded half-explanations.

But at least it would be something.

At least it would be eventual.

And right now, eventual was all he had.

Paris - Two Weeks Later

Kon's last day at Hôpital Saint-Louis was quieter than he'd expected. A small gathering of staff in the break room, a cake that someone had brought from a local bakery, brief speeches about what a pleasure it had been working with him.

"You'll come back to visit, yes?" asked Marie, one of the senior nurses who'd taken him under her wing when he first arrived.

"Maybe," Kon said, which was more honest than a promise he might not keep.

"Where are you going?" asked another doctor. "Another hospital? Private practice?"

"Humanitarian work. Congo. Rural clinic."

"Ah." Marie nodded approvingly. "Good. The world needs more doctors willing to go where they are needed most."

Kon smiled but said nothing. He wasn't going to Congo because the world needed him there, though it did. He was going because he needed six more months before he had to face Gotham.

But maybe that was okay. Maybe running toward something, toward people who needed help, was different than running away from people who wanted to care about him.

Or maybe he was just getting better at justifying his avoidance.

He collected his things after the small party, said his goodbyes, and walked out of the hospital for the last time.

Tomorrow, he'd fly to DRC. Six months of challenging medicine in brutal conditions. Six months to prove to himself that he could still do this, still help people, still matter.

And then... then he'd figure out if he was brave enough to go back to Gotham.

To face the Bats. To face Tim. To face the life that felt too much like the one he'd lost.

Six months.

He could do anything for six months.

Even prepare to stop running.

Democratic Republic of Congo - Four Months Later

The clinic was chaos.

That was the only word for it. Kon moved through the crowded space like water flowing around obstacles, from the woman in labor in the back room to the child with malaria in bed three to the local medical student he was teaching to suture properly to the man with the infected wound who needed surgery within the hour or he'd lose the leg.

"Dr. Keres!" One of the nurses called out in French. "The supply truck is here, but they're missing half the antibiotics we ordered!"

"Call Kinshasa, tell them we need the rest by tomorrow," Kon called back, not breaking stride as he checked the child's IV flow rate. "And see if the mission clinic twenty kilometers west can spare some ampicillin. Tell them I'll replace it as soon as our shipment arrives."

"Oui, docteur."

"Dr. Keres," one of the medical students, a young man named Pascal, approached nervously. "The patient in bed seven, his vitals are dropping. I think—"

Kon was already moving, his enhanced hearing having picked up the change in heartbeat. "Get the crash cart. Now."

The next twenty minutes were a blur of CPR, medications, and desperate measures. When the patient's heart finally stabilized, Kon looked up to find Pascal staring at him with awe.

"How did you know?" Pascal asked. "I only noticed the vitals when I checked the monitor, but you were already moving before—"

"Experience," Kon said shortly. "You learn to read the signs. Now, I need you to monitor him closely for the next hour. Any changes, you call me immediately. Understood?"

"Yes, Dr. Keres."

Kon moved on to the next crisis, then the next, then the next. This was what his days looked like. Controlled chaos from sunrise to well past sunset. They were the only surgical clinic for a region of fifty thousand people, and it showed. The waiting area was always full. The beds were always occupied. There was always someone who needed help.

It was exhausting.

It was overwhelming.

It was exactly what Kon had needed.

Here, there was no time to think about Gotham or the Bats or Tim's blue eyes that were almost right but not quite. Here, there was only the next patient, the next emergency, the next life to save. It was simple. Immediate. Real.

He was making a difference. A tangible, measurable difference. And for four months, that had been enough to quiet the voice in his head that kept asking what are you running from?

"Dr. Keres." Another nurse, this one speaking in Swahili. "There's a visitor. American woman. She says she knows you."

Kon looked up from the chart he was reviewing, confused. "American woman?"

"Says her name is Maya Chen. She's a journalist."

Kon's hands stilled. Maya. Here. In rural Congo.

He found her in the waiting area, camera bag slung over her shoulder, looking thinner than he remembered but with that same determined glint in her eyes. When she saw him, her face broke into a genuine smile.

"Hey, doc."

"Maya." Kon approached, aware of the blood on his scrubs and the exhaustion that was probably visible in his face. "What are you doing here?"

"Working. Same as you." She gestured to the camera bag. "Doing a piece on medical care in underserved regions. Your name came up. Thought I'd stop by."

"All the way in rural Congo?"

"All the way in rural Congo," she confirmed. "Plus, I wanted to check on you. Make sure you weren't—" she paused meaningfully, "—getting yourself into any more bombings."

"Just the usual medical emergencies."

"Good. That's an improvement." Maya looked around the clinic, taking in the crowded space, the makeshift equipment, the obvious strain on resources. "Busy day?"

"Every day is busy."

"Then I won't interrupt. I'll just—" she gestured vaguely, "—observe. If that's okay?"

Kon wanted to say no. Wanted to send her away before she saw too much, wrote too much, made him into something he wasn't. But Maya had kept his secret. Had lied for him. Had walked through a war zone with him and never asked questions she knew he couldn't answer.

He owed her this much.

"Stay out of the way," he said. "And if I tell you to leave a room, you leave. No arguments."

"Deal."

Maya Chen was a professional.

She didn't interrupt. Didn't ask questions at inappropriate times. Didn't get in the way of the controlled chaos that was Kon's daily routine. She simply set up her camera in an unobtrusive corner, with the permission of the patients, after explaining in careful French and Swahili what she was doing, and documented.

She documented Kon teaching Pascal how to properly debride a wound, his hands steady and his voice patient even though this was the third time he'd explained the same concept.

She documented him carrying an elderly woman who couldn't walk from the waiting area to an exam room, gentle despite the urgency of her condition.

She documented the surgery, after getting explicit consent from the patient and scrubbing in herself to avoid contamination. Four hours of meticulous work to save a leg that any other surgeon would have amputated. Kon's hands moved with impossible precision, his focus absolute.

She documented him sitting with a mother whose child had died despite his best efforts, speaking in quiet French, his hand on her shoulder as she wept.

She documented the moment at 2 AM when Kon finally sat down in the small room that served as his office/bedroom, put his head in his hands, and just breathed for five minutes before someone called for him again and he was up and moving.

She documented all of it.

Because Maya Chen had decided something four months ago, walking through a war zone with a man who'd saved her life with impossible powers he refused to explain. Kon had been her hero then, whether he admitted it or not.

It was time the world saw him as one too.

Not for his powers. Not for whatever secrets he was keeping. But for this, the exhausting, grinding, beautiful work of saving lives in one of the hardest places in the world. For showing up every day and doing it again, even when it would be easier to leave. For teaching and healing and caring when no one was watching.

That was heroism. The kind that didn't need a cape.

Maya stayed for three days. On the last day, she found Kon during a rare lull in the afternoon, sitting outside the clinic in the shade, reviewing patient files.

"I'm heading out tomorrow," she said, sitting beside him. "Back to Kinshasa, then home."

"How's your family?" Kon asked, not looking up from the files.

"Good. Really good. My wife wants to meet you, actually. Keeps saying I should invite you to dinner when you're done here."

"Maybe," Kon said, which they both knew meant probably not.

Maya was quiet for a moment. "Can I ask you something? And you can tell me to mind my own business if you want."

"You can ask."

"Why here? You could work anywhere. Big hospital, prestigious position, all the resources you could want. Why choose the places that have nothing?"

Kon set down the files and looked out at the landscape—red dirt, struggling vegetation, the kind of poverty that most people couldn't imagine. "Because the places with everything don't need me as much."

"That's not the whole answer."

He glanced at her, and she met his gaze steadily.

"No," he admitted. "It's not. But it's the answer I can give."

"Fair enough." Maya pulled out her camera and showed him the view screen. "I got some good footage. Really good. I'm thinking of submitting it to the Atlantic again. Maybe some other outlets. Is that okay?"

Kon looked at the images, himself teaching, operating, caring. He looked exhausted in every shot. But he also looked... purposeful. Like he was exactly where he needed to be.

"What are you going to call it?" he asked.

"Haven't decided yet. Maybe 'The Doctor Who Stayed.' Or something about choosing the hard places. I don't know. I'll figure it out."

"Whatever you call it, just—" Kon paused, searching for words. "Don't make me out to be special. I'm just a doctor doing his job."

"You're a doctor who walked through a war zone, nearly died, and then came right back to doing the hardest medical work in the world. In rural Congo. With almost no resources." Maya's voice was firm. "You're a lot of things, Kon, but 'just a doctor' isn't one of them."

"Maya—"

"I won't mention anything about... you know." She gestured vaguely, meaning his powers. "Your secret is still safe. But the work you're doing here? The lives you're saving? That deserves to be seen. You deserve to be seen."

Kon didn't have an answer for that. Didn't know how to explain that being seen was exactly what he'd been avoiding. That every article, every mention, every bit of attention made him more visible to people he wasn't ready to face.

But Maya had already made up her mind. He could see it in her determined expression. And maybe... maybe it was okay. Maybe the world seeing him as a doctor who helped people wasn't the same as the world knowing what he really was.

Maybe he could live with that.

"Okay," he said finally. "But I want approval on the final article before you publish."

"Deal." Maya stood, extending her hand. "It was good to see you, Kon. Really good. You're doing important work here."

"So are you."

"Yeah, well. Someone has to tell the stories that matter." She grinned. "Take care of yourself. And maybe think about going home when you're done here. Wherever home is."

"I know," Kon said quietly. "I'm working on it."

"Good."

After she left, Kon sat in the shade for a few more minutes, thinking about her words. About home. About the two months he had left before his assignment ended. About the promises he'd made to himself and to the Bats.

About Tim's message: The coffee offer stands whenever you're ready.

Two months. Then he'd be out of time. Out of excuses. Out of places to run.

Then he'd have to figure out if he was brave enough to go home.

But for now, there were still patients waiting. Still lives to save. Still work to be done.

Kon stood, picked up his files, and went back inside.

One day at a time. One patient at a time. One step closer to being ready.

Eventually.

Two more months.

He could do anything for two more months.

Even prepare to stop running and face the impossible choice of going home to a family that wasn't his and never could be.

Even that.

The Atlantic - Published Six Weeks Later

THE DOCTOR WHO CHOOSES THE HARDEST PLACES By Maya Chen

Photography and Video by Maya Chen

There are doctors who heal in gleaming hospitals with cutting-edge technology. Then there are doctors like Kon Keres, who choose to heal in places the rest of the world has forgotten.

I first met Dr. Keres in East Africa, in that place where we were both supposed to die. A transport bombing during a humanitarian evacuation left us stranded in hostile territory. What followed was a two-week walk through a war zone that I survived only because of his skill, determination, and the kind of courage that doesn't announce itself.

Six months later, I found him again, this time in rural Democratic Republic of Congo, running a clinic that serves fifty thousand people with resources most American hospitals would consider inadequate for fifty patients.

The video that accompanies this article shows a single day in Dr. Keres's life. Not his best day. Not his worst. Just... a day.

[VIDEO: 8 minutes, 47 seconds]

The footage opens on a crowded clinic. Dawn light filters through windows. Dr. Keres moves between patients—checking vitals, adjusting IVs, speaking in French and Swahili. He looks young, exhausted, focused.

Cut to: Teaching a medical student proper suturing technique. His hands are steady. His voice is patient. "Like this. See? The tension needs to be even."

Cut to: Surgery. Four hours condensed into ninety seconds. Kon's hands move with precision that seems almost impossible. A leg is saved. A life is saved.

Cut to: Late night. Kon sits with a mother who has just lost her child. He doesn't speak much. Just sits. Just stays.

Cut to: 2 AM. Kon in a small room that serves as his office and bedroom. He puts his head in his hands. Breathes. Someone calls his name. He stands. He goes.

Final shot: Dawn again. Kon walking toward the clinic. Another day beginning.

The clinic has no CT scanner. No MRI. Often, they run out of basic antibiotics. The nearest hospital with advanced capabilities is three hours away on roads that barely exist.

Dr. Keres operates anyway. Teaches anyway. Saves lives anyway.

"Why here?" I asked him during my visit. "You could work anywhere."

"Because the places with everything don't need me as much," he replied.

It's not the whole answer but it's the one that matters.

Dr. Keres is 24 years old. He graduated from Gotham University of Medicine as the youngest surgeon in their history. He has worked in some of the most dangerous and underserved regions in the world. He has survived situations that would break most people.

And he keeps showing up.

That's the thing about real heroism. It's not dramatic. It's not flashy. It's showing up every day in places where showing up is the hardest thing you can do.

Dr. Keres is what heroism looks like when no one is watching.

I'm watching now. And I think the world should too.

[Editor's note: Dr. Keres is currently completing a six-month assignment with Doctors Without Borders in DRC. His work has saved an estimated 500+ lives in the past four months alone.]

Social Media Explosion

The article went viral within hours. The video hit a million views by the end of the first day.

Twitter/X:

@MedTwitter: This is what we should be celebrating. Not influencer doctors. Not social media personalities. Doctors like Keres who actually do the work. #RealHeroes

@GlobalHealthNow: Dr. Kon Keres is 24 and has saved more lives than most doctors twice his age. This is the content we need. [link to article]

@DoctorsOfInstagram: Everyone needs to watch this. This is why we went to medical school. #Inspiration #DrKeres

@YoungSurgeons: Youngest surgeon from Gotham U now saving lives in Congo. Meanwhile I'm complaining about my residency hours. Perspective = adjusted.

Gotham General Hospital - Break Room

Dr. Chen (pediatrics, former colleague) stared at her phone in the break room, tears streaming down her face.

"That's our Keres," she said to the other doctors gathered around. "That's exactly him. Never wanted recognition. Just wanted to help."

Nurse Williams nodded, wiping her own eyes. "He worked himself to exhaustion here too. Always took the worst shifts. Always stayed late."

"We should have appreciated him more while we had him," another doctor muttered.

"He's coming back though, right?" Martinez, the resident, asked hopefully. "After Congo?"

No one had an answer.

Hôpital Saint-Louis, Paris - Emergency Department

Marie, the senior nurse, played the video for the entire ER staff during their team meeting.

"This is the doctor who worked with us for four months," she said in French. "This is who we had the privilege of learning from."

"He was always so quiet," another nurse said. "So professional. I had no idea he was doing work like this."

"He never spoke about it," Marie replied. "But that's what made him extraordinary. He didn't do it for recognition. He did it because it needed to be done."

"The Americans," someone said. "They let him go. We let him go."

"No," Marie corrected gently. "He was never ours to keep. He goes where he's needed most. That's who he is."

Wayne Manor - Bruce's Study

Alfred set down the tablet showing the article on Bruce's desk.

"I believe you'll want to see this, sir."

Bruce read in silence. Watched the video twice. His expression remained carefully neutral, but Alfred had known him long enough to read the tells. The slight tightening around his eyes. The way his fingers gripped the tablet edge just a fraction harder.

"He's remarkable," Alfred said quietly. "And clearly running himself into the ground. Again."

"He looks exhausted," Bruce agreed.

"He looks purposeful, Master Bruce. There's a difference." Alfred paused. "He's also completing his assignment in less than two months. Will you contact him?"

"No. We wait. Like we agreed."

"And if he doesn't come back?"

Bruce looked at the final frame of the video, Kon walking toward the clinic at dawn, shoulders squared, ready for another impossible day.

"Then we respect his choice," Bruce said. "But I think... I think he'll come back."

"What makes you certain?"

"Because he's tired of running. You can see it." Bruce replayed the moment where Kon sat with his head in his hands at 2 AM. "He's ready to stop. He just needs to finish this first."

"Let us hope you're right, sir."

Dick's Apartment, Blüdhaven

Dick sent the article to the family chat with one word: Wow.

Jason: Doc's famous now. Bet he hates that.

Tim: 500 lives in four months. That's... that's incredible.

Damian: Of course he is excelling. Did we expect anything less? Though he appears to be neglecting his own health again.

Dick: He looks so tired. But also like... like he's exactly where he needs to be?

Tim: Two more months. Then his assignment ends.

Jason: Think he'll actually come back?

Bruce: We wait and see. No contact. We agreed.

Damian: Father is correct. Dr. Keres will return when he is ready. Pressuring him now would be counterproductive.

Dick: I'm just glad he's okay. And that the world finally sees what we saw.

Tim: Yeah. Me too.

Tim stared at his phone for a long time after, watching the video on loop. The exhaustion in Kon's eyes. The quiet competence. The way he moved through impossible situations with steady hands and steadier resolve.

Two more months, Tim thought. Two more months and maybe...

He didn't finish the thought. Couldn't finish it. Because hope felt dangerous when it came to Kon Keres.

But he felt it anyway.

Justice League Watchtower - Common Area

"Hey, isn't that the Paris doctor?" Flash asked, pointing at the video playing on the common area screen.

Diana had pulled it up after seeing it trending. Several League members had gathered to watch.

"Dr. Keres," she confirmed. "The one who has been treating our members in Europe."

They watched in silence.

"Five hundred lives," Superman said quietly when it ended. "In four months. In conditions that would challenge the most experienced physicians."

"He makes it look effortless," Green Lantern observed. "But you can see how much it's costing him."

"The question is why," Diana said. "Why choose the hardest places? Why push himself to these extremes?"

"Because someone has to," Batman said from the doorway, surprising them all. They hadn't heard him arrive. "And he's capable. So he does it."

"You know him," Clark said. It wasn't a question.

"We've met."

"Bruce." Clark's tone carried gentle concern. "Is there something we should know?"

"No. Dr. Keres is exactly what he appears to be, a brilliant surgeon who chooses to work in difficult places. That's all." Bruce's voice was firm. "And his work should be respected, not investigated."

Diana studied him for a long moment. "You care about him."

"I care that people like him are supported, not exploited." Bruce turned to leave. "He's finishing his assignment in two months. After that, what he does is his choice. We leave him alone unless he asks for help."

After Batman left, the others exchanged glances.

"There's definitely a story there," Hal said.

"Which we're not going to investigate," Diana said firmly. "Batman is right. Dr. Keres deserves his privacy."

"Agreed," Clark said, though his reporter instincts clearly disagreed. "But I hope... I hope he's taking care of himself. He looks like he's carrying a lot."

"Don't they all?" Diana said softly, looking at the frozen image of Kon on the screen. "Heroes always do."

DWB Headquarters

Dr. Sarah Morrison's phone hadn't stopped ringing since the article published.

Donors wanting to contribute. Hospitals offering positions. Media requesting interviews. Other aid organizations trying to recruit Dr. Keres before his assignment ended.

She ignored most of them and sent one email to Kon:

The article is beautiful. You deserve the recognition, even if I know you hate it. Two more months. Take care of yourself out there. The world is watching now. -Sarah

The response came a day later:

I really hate this. But thank you for understanding. See you in two months. -K

Sarah smiled despite the exhaustion of managing the sudden attention.

Kon Keres had spent years trying to be invisible, trying to hide, trying to stay out of the spotlight.

Maya Chen had made that impossible.

And maybe—just maybe—that was exactly what he'd needed.

Someone to show him what everyone else could already see: that he was extraordinary. That his work mattered. That he deserved to be seen.

Now the world was watching.

The question was: what would Kon do about it?

Two more months until they found out.

Democratic Republic of Congo - Two Weeks Before Assignment End

Kon was teaching Pascal how to manage a complicated wound closure when he heard the vehicle approaching. Unusual, supply trucks weren't due for another three days, and unscheduled arrivals usually meant emergencies.

He finished demonstrating the technique, then stepped outside to see a DWB van pulling up. Four people climbed out, three young doctors in their late twenties, clearly fresh-faced and nervous, and one older woman who moved with the kind of confidence that came from decades of surgical experience.

Kon froze.

"Dr. Mallory?"

Dr. Elizabeth Mallory—head of surgery at Gotham University Medical Center, the woman who'd personally overseen his training, one of the best surgeons he'd ever seen—looked up and broke into a wide smile.

"Dr. Keres!" She strode forward, arms open. "Oh my boy, don't make that face!"

Kon realized his expression had gone slack with shock. He tried to recover, but Mallory was already laughing, that warm, infectious laugh he remembered from late-night surgeries when she'd crack jokes to keep everyone's spirits up during the worst cases.

"What are you—you were retiring," Kon managed. "You said you were done. Golf and grandchildren, you said."

"I was retiring. I was done. Then I saw your face on my tablet, working yourself half to death in the middle of nowhere with barely any resources, and I thought—well, damn. If that boy can do it, so can I." She looked around the clinic with an appraising eye. "Besides, golf was boring. And the grandchildren are teenagers now. They don't want to spend time with me anyway."

"Dr. Mallory—"

"That article has made a lot of waves, Kon." Her expression turned serious. "A lot of waves. Do you have any idea how many applications DWB has received in the last month? Medical students wanting to do field rotations. Residents changing their career plans. Experienced surgeons—like me—deciding that maybe retirement can wait."

One of the young doctors stepped forward nervously. "Dr. Keres? I'm Dr. Amanda Foster. I watched your video and—it reminded me why I went to medical school. I was doing cosmetic work in Beverly Hills, and I just... I wanted to do something that mattered. So I applied."

"I'm Marcus Webb," another young doctor added. "Emergency medicine. I saw you teaching in that video and I thought, that's what medicine should look like. So here I am."

The third doctor, a quiet woman with intelligent eyes, just nodded. "Chen Li. General surgery. You're kind of my hero."

Kon felt his face heat. "I'm not—I was just doing my job."

"That's exactly what makes it heroic," Dr. Mallory said gently. She put a hand on his shoulder, the same way she used to when he was a medical student pulling an all-nighter. "You don't see it, do you? You never could see what was obvious to everyone else. You're brilliant, Kon. Not just as a surgeon. As a person. As a teacher. As someone who shows up even when it's impossibly hard."

"I'm just—"

"Just extraordinary," Mallory finished firmly. "And you've inspired an entire generation of doctors to remember what this profession is supposed to be about. So stop arguing with me and show us around your clinic. We're your replacement team. All four of us. Because apparently, it takes four doctors to do what you've been doing alone."

Kon stood there, completely overwhelmed. Pascal had emerged from the clinic and was watching with wide eyes. Other staff members were gathering, curious about the new arrivals.

"Four of you," Kon repeated faintly.

"DWB is expanding operations here," Mallory explained, her tone becoming more professional. "Your work proved that this region desperately needs sustained medical support. So they're setting up a permanent facility. Larger staff. Better resources. The whole thing." She smiled. "You built something here, Kon. Now we're going to keep it going."

"I didn't—I was just treating patients."

"You saved five hundred lives. You trained local medical students. You created a system that works despite having almost nothing to work with." Mallory gestured to the clinic. "That's not 'just' anything. That's transformative. And now other people want to be part of it."

Amanda stepped forward again, pulling out a folder. "We actually have a list of doctors who want to rotate through here. Six-month assignments. Dr. Mallory is staying for a year, but the rest of us will do six months each, with rotating replacements. There's a waiting list of forty-three applicants."

"Forty-three?" Kon's voice came out strangled.

"Forty-three," Marcus confirmed. "All because they saw you teaching Pascal how to suture at 2 AM and thought, 'That's what I want to do with my life.'"

Chen Li spoke quietly. "You made it okay to choose the hard path. To go where we're needed instead of where it's comfortable. That matters to more people than you know."

Kon had no idea what to say. He'd spent so long trying to be invisible, trying to hide, trying to just do the work without being seen. And now—now his work had inspired dozens of doctors to follow him into difficult places. To choose service over comfort. To do exactly what he'd been doing.

He'd accidentally started a movement.

"I—" Kon cleared his throat. "I need to sit down."

"Understandable," Mallory said, amusement clear in her voice. "Pascal, be a dear and get Dr. Keres some water. He looks like he's about to pass out."

"Oui, Dr. Mallory!" Pascal rushed off, clearly star-struck by the legendary surgeon.

Mallory guided Kon to a bench outside the clinic and sat beside him. The three younger doctors diplomatically wandered off to start unloading their supplies, giving them privacy.

"You really didn't know, did you?" Mallory asked quietly. "What that article would do?"

"I just—I was just working. Same as always."

"That's what makes it powerful, Kon. You weren't performing. You weren't trying to inspire anyone. You were just being yourself. Being brilliant and dedicated and impossibly selfless." She paused. "That article also made waves in Gotham, you know. At the hospital. People talk about you like you're a legend."

Kon's chest tightened. "I'm going back. To Gotham. After this."

Mallory's eyebrows rose. "Are you really?"

"I promised I would. Eventually. Eventually is... two weeks from now."

"Good." Mallory's voice was warm. "Good. You've been running long enough, I think. Time to go home."

"Gotham was never home."

"Maybe not before. But maybe it could be." She stood, brushing dust off her pants. "Now, come on. Show me your clinic. Show me your systems. Show me what you've built here so I can keep it running when you're gone. We've got two weeks to transfer everything in your brilliant brain into mine."

Kon stood, still feeling slightly dizzy from the revelation that his work had inspired this many people. That Dr. Mallory, his mentor, one of the best surgeons in the country, had come out of retirement because of him.

"Dr. Mallory?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you. For coming. For—for everything."

She pulled him into a brief hug. "Thank you for reminding me why I became a doctor in the first place. Now stop being sentimental and start the handover. I'm old, but I'm not that old. I can still learn."

As Kon began walking her through the clinic, showing her the systems he'd developed, the relationships he'd built, the way he'd made impossible work possible, he felt something shift inside him.

Two weeks. Then he was out of time. Out of excuses.

Two weeks, and then he'd have to face Gotham. Face the Bats. Face Tim.

Face the possibility that maybe he could stop running and start building something real.

The thought terrified him.

But for the first time, it also felt possible.

Maybe even inevitable.

Two weeks.

He could do anything for two weeks.

Even prepare to finally go home.

Gotham - Wayne Manor

"Did you see?" Dick burst into the study where Bruce was working. "Dr. Mallory—she went to Congo. Because of Kon. And there are forty-three other doctors who want to follow."

Bruce had already read the update Sarah Morrison had posted on the DWB blog about the expanded operations in Congo. He'd also seen the social media posts from the new doctors arriving, all of them mentioning Dr. Keres as their inspiration.

"I saw."

"He changed everything," Dick said, wonder in his voice. "He went there to hide, to run, to... I don't know, punish himself or find purpose or whatever. And he ended up inspiring dozens of doctors to do the same thing. He created something."

"He always was going to create something," Bruce said quietly. "That's who he is. The question was never whether he'd make a difference. It was whether he'd let himself be seen making it."

"And now the whole world sees him."

"Yes. Now the question is whether he'll run from that too, or finally accept that people care about him."

Dick was quiet for a moment. "Two weeks, Bruce. His assignment ends in two weeks."

"I know."

"Do you think he'll really come back?"

Bruce looked at the photo from the DWB blog—Kon standing with Dr. Mallory and the other new arrivals, looking stunned and overwhelmed and like he couldn't quite believe this was real.

"Yes," Bruce said. "I think he will. He made a promise. And Kon Keres keeps his promises, even when they terrify him."

"Should we—"

"We wait. We give him space. And when he's ready, we're here."

Dick nodded and left, but Bruce remained at his desk, looking at the photo.

Two weeks.

After all this time, all the running, all the fear—two weeks until they finally found out if Kon Keres was brave enough to stop running and come home.

Bruce had faith that he was.

But he also understood that sometimes, the bravest thing someone could do was admit they needed people.

And for Kon, that might be the hardest step of all.

Two weeks to find out.

Democratic Republic of Congo - Two Days Before Departure

Kon's final rounds felt heavier than usual. Not physically, his Kryptonian physiology ensured he could work for days without fatigue if needed, but emotionally. Six months of patients, of faces he'd learned, of people he'd saved and people he'd lost and people he'd taught.

Pascal followed him through the clinic, taking notes for the handover even though Dr. Mallory had already been briefed on everything twice.

"You'll come back, yes?" Pascal asked, his English improving every day. "To visit?"

"Maybe," Kon said, which was more honest than a promise he wasn't sure he could keep.

"Dr. Mallory says you're going home. To Gotham."

"Yes."

"Is it a good place? Gotham?"

Kon thought about that. "It's complicated."

"Life is always complicated," Pascal said with the kind of wisdom that made Kon forget the kid was only twenty-three. "But home should be home anyway, yes?"

"Yeah. It should be."

That evening, Kon sat in his small room and made his final arrangements. He'd already transferred all patient files to Dr. Mallory. Already said goodbye to most of the staff. Already packed his single duffel bag, still living out of the same minimal belongings he'd had in Paris.

He pulled out his phone and sent one last message to the family chat.

Landing in Gotham tomorrow evening. Flight gets in at 7 PM. I don't know what comes next, but I'm ready to figure it out. See you soon. -Kon

Then he lay back on the narrow cot and stared at the ceiling, trying to prepare himself for what came next.

Gotham. The Bats. Tim.

Home. Maybe.

He fell asleep still trying to convince himself he was ready.

Gotham International Airport - The Next Evening

Kon knew something was wrong the moment he stepped off the jet bridge into the terminal.

Too many heartbeats clustered in one area. Too many cameras. The distinctive smell of printer ink and cheap cologne that somehow always accompanied journalists. His enhanced hearing picked up fragments of conversation:

"—there he is—"

"—Dr. Keres, the doctor from the article—"

"—get a statement—"

Oh no.

Kon had approximately three seconds before the swarm noticed him. He used those seconds to calculate the fastest route to baggage claim, the nearest exit, and the probability he could get through security before—

"Dr. Keres!"

And there it was.

The media descended like a wave. Cameras flashing, microphones thrust forward, voices shouting over each other in a cacophony that would have been overwhelming even without enhanced hearing.

"Dr. Keres, can you comment on your work in Congo?"

"Is it true you saved over 500 lives?"

"Are you returning to Gotham permanently?"

"What inspired you to pursue humanitarian work?"

"Dr. Keres, just a few questions!"

Kon put his head down and moved. Not super-speed—that would be too obvious—but faster than the average person, using his knowledge of crowd dynamics and his ability to hear where the gaps were. He dodged left around a particularly aggressive cameraman, slipped through a family with luggage, and made it to the escalator leading down to baggage claim.

The press followed. Of course they followed.

"Dr. Keres, please!"

"Just one statement!"

"The people of Gotham want to hear from you!"

Kon grabbed his duffel from the carousel—conveniently near the front because of his enhanced vision spotting it immediately—and headed for the exit. The press was still following, still shouting questions. Airport security was trying to intervene but they were outnumbered.

He made it outside to the taxi stand, where—thank god—there was actually a cab waiting. Kon threw himself into the back seat.

"Drive. Please. Anywhere away from here."

The driver, a middle-aged woman with graying hair, looked at the mob of journalists swarming toward the cab and didn't need to be told twice. She pulled away from the curb with the kind of aggressive Gotham driving that Kon had actually missed.

"You famous or something?" she asked, eyeing him in the rearview mirror.

"Apparently," Kon muttered, slumping in the seat. "I didn't used to be."

"What'd you do?"

"I'm a doctor. I helped some people. Someone wrote an article about it."

The driver snorted. "In Gotham? You're a doctor who actually helps people? Yeah, that'd make you famous. Most of our doctors are too busy working for the mob or charging an arm and a leg for basic care."

"That's... depressingly accurate."

"Where to?"

Good question. Where was he supposed to go? He didn't have an apartment anymore—that had been rented out months ago. He didn't have family or friends who could put him up. He had—

He had the Bats. Who he'd told he was coming. Who probably knew by now that he'd landed. Who definitely knew where he was because Batman knew everything.

But showing up at Wayne Manor or one of their addresses felt like too much. Like admitting he needed them. Like—

His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

Doc. You need an extraction? Watching the airport feed. Looks rough. -J

Jason. Offering help without being asked.

Kon stared at the message for a long moment, then typed back.

I'm fine. Just need somewhere to stay for the night. Hotel recommendations?

The response was immediate.

Fuck hotels. Got a safehouse in Bowery. Clean, secure, no press. Address below. Key is under the third brick to the left of the door. Make yourself at home.

An address followed.

Kon showed it to the driver, who whistled. "Bowery? You sure? That's Crime Alley territory."

"I'm sure."

She shrugged and changed direction.

Kon leaned his head against the window and tried not to think about the media circus he'd just escaped. He knew how this worked. He'd seen it happen to capes often enough. The public wanted a piece of you. Wanted statements, sound bites, something they could consume and share and discuss. They'd hound him until he gave them something.

Which meant he'd need to make a statement soon. Hold a brief press conference. Give them a few words so they'd leave him alone.

The thought made him want to fly back to Congo. Or Paris. Or literally anywhere that wasn't Gotham.

He pulled out his phone and typed a message to Constantine before he could talk himself out of it.

How much blood would it take to make everyone forget I exist? Asking for a friend who is currently being stalked by journalists.

The response came quickly.

More blood than you've got, mate. Also wouldn't work. Memory spells that broad are impossible and trying would probably open a hell mouth. Just face the music. Give them a statement. They'll get bored eventually. -JC

How eventually?

Depends. You do anything else interesting? No? Then maybe a week. Two tops. -JC

Kon groaned. A week of this. At minimum.

He typed one more message to the family chat.

Made it to Gotham. There were journalists. Many journalists. I'm staying at Jason's safehouse in Bowery tonight. Will figure out next steps tomorrow. Sorry for the chaos.

Multiple responses came immediately:

Dick: Welcome home!!! Don't worry about the press, they'll calm down. Get some rest!

Tim: You're back. You're actually back.

Damian: The media attention was inevitable given your work. Do not let them pressure you into statements you're uncomfortable making.

Bruce: Welcome home, Kon. Take the time you need. We're here when you're ready.

Jason: Beer's in the fridge. Spare room is made up. Don't touch the weapons case in the closet.

Kon smiled despite everything. He'd forgotten what it felt like to have people who cared. Who offered help without expecting anything in return. Who just... showed up.

It was terrifying and comforting in equal measure.

The cab pulled up to a nondescript building in the Bowery. Kon paid the driver, overtipped because she'd been kind, and found the key exactly where Jason said it would be.

Inside, the safehouse was spartan but clean. One bedroom, small kitchen, living room with a couch that had seen better days. And yes, beer in the fridge. Also leftover Chinese food and a note in Jason's scrawl:

Welcome back, doc. Try not to let the vultures eat you alive. -J

Kon set down his duffel, grabbed a beer, and collapsed on the couch.

He was back in Gotham. The city he'd fled from. The city full of people who looked like his family but weren't. The city that had driven him to run halfway around the world to escape.

And somehow, impossibly, it felt almost like coming home.

Which was either progress or a sign that he'd completely lost his mind.

Probably both.

Kon took a long drink of beer and tried to figure out how to be Kon Keres in Gotham without running away again.

Tomorrow, he'd deal with the press. Make a statement. Get them off his back.

Tonight, he'd just... exist. In this safehouse. In this city. In this life that might actually be his if he was brave enough to claim it.

One day at a time. One step at a time. One decision at a time.

He'd faced war zones and bombings and impossible odds.

He could face Gotham.

Probably.

Maybe.

Eventually.

Starting tomorrow.

Jason's Safehouse, Bowery - Three Days Later

Kon's "temporary" stay at Jason's safehouse had stretched into its third day, mostly because apartment hunting in Gotham was exactly as soul-crushing as he remembered. Everything was either overpriced, in a terrible location, or came with a landlord who asked too many questions.

He'd looked at six places. Six. All terrible.

The search would continue, but for now, he had more pressing issues: the mountain of interview requests filling his email inbox.

Kon sat at the small kitchen table with his laptop, a cup of coffee (for comfort, not caffeine), and a growing sense of dread. Seventy-three interview requests. Seventy-three. From local news, national news, medical journals, podcasts, morning shows, and at least three separate offers to write a book about his experiences.

"No," Kon muttered to himself, deleting another request. "No. Definitely no. Who even is that? No."

He'd been putting off finding a new job—the thought of jumping back into hospital politics and schedules felt overwhelming after six months in Congo. But he couldn't avoid the media forever. Constantine had been right. He needed to give them something or they'd never leave him alone.

Kon scrolled through the requests, looking for ones that felt... manageable. Safe. Not too probing.

Then he stopped.

Lois Lane - The Daily Planet Dr. Keres, I'd love to speak with you about your work and what drives doctors to choose humanitarian medicine in the world's most challenging environments. I promise a fair, in-depth piece that focuses on the work rather than sensation.

Kon stared at the email for a long moment.

Lois Lane. Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist. Superman's wife. One of the best investigative reporters in the world. Known for uncovering secrets and asking the questions no one else dared to ask.

Absolutely not.

He hit delete so fast he almost broke the mouse button.

Even with the glasses he wore, the ones with the lenses that dulled his eyes and emitted a distortion field that made his facial features harder to pin down, he was not risking an interview with Superman's wife. Lois Lane had instincts like a bloodhound. She'd take one look at him and somehow know. Maybe not know what, but know something was off.

Kon refreshed his email to clear his head, and immediately wished he hadn't.

Clark Kent - The Daily Planet Dr. Keres, I'm working on a piece about the impact of humanitarian work on young medical professionals. Your story has inspired many, and I'd love to discuss not just what you did, but why you chose this path. Would you be available for an interview?

Kon's coffee cup froze halfway to his mouth.

Clark. Kent.

Superman.

His genetic donor. The man whose DNA he carried. The person who'd been like a father in his old universe. The person who, in this universe, had no idea Kon-El existed and absolutely could not find out.

The coffee cup hit the table with a thunk.

"No," Kon said out loud to the empty apartment. "No, no, absolutely not. Not happening. Never happening."

He deleted the email with prejudice and then cleared his trash folder for good measure. Clark Kent was a reporter, a good one. Too good. Add in Kryptonian senses and the man was basically a walking lie detector. One interview and Clark would know something was off. Would investigate. Would figure out that Kon wasn't entirely human.

And then what? Then Kon would have to explain that he was a clone from a dead universe? That he carried Clark's DNA? That in another life, another world, they'd been family?

No. That was a conversation Kon would literally rather die than have.

He took a long drink of coffee and kept scrolling, this time being much more selective.

Gotham Morning News - Regional Human Interest Story Dr. Keres, we'd love to feature your work in our health and wellness section. Brief interview, 30 minutes, focusing on your experience in Congo and advice for medical students. No deep dives, just the basics.

That... that could work. Local paper, but health and wellness section sounded safe. Thirty minutes. Basic questions. No investigative journalism.

Kon flagged it as a maybe.

He kept scrolling and found another possibility:

TED Talks - Speaker Invitation Dr. Keres, We're hosting a TED Talk event focused on "Healthcare Without Borders" and would be honored if you'd speak about your experiences. 25-minute talk, subject matter entirely your choice. The event is in six weeks, which gives you time to prepare.

A TED talk. Scripted. Controlled. He could write exactly what he wanted to say, rehearse it, and there'd be no surprise questions. Just him, a stage, and a speech about medicine. No personal probing. No investigative journalists.

That was about as safe as it got.

Kon marked it as a yes.

Two interviews. That should be enough to satisfy the media's appetite. He'd give them something, enough to seem accessible without revealing anything real. Then maybe they'd leave him alone and he could figure out how to actually live in Gotham.

He typed out quick responses to both:

Gotham Morning News - Yes, I'm available. Please send details about timing and format.

TED Talks - I'd be honored. Please send information about the event and any guidelines for the talk.

There. Done. He'd faced the media monster and survived.

Now he just had to actually do the interviews without having a panic attack or accidentally revealing he was an alien from a dead universe.

How hard could that be?

Kon's phone buzzed. A text from Tim.

Saw you're looking at apartments. Found a few listings in decent neighborhoods if you want recommendations. Also, coffee sometime? No pressure. Just... if you want to.

Kon stared at the message for a long time. Tim. The one person he'd been most afraid to face. The one whose blue eyes were almost right but not quite. The one who reminded him most painfully of everything he'd lost.

But also the one who'd sent him messages. Who'd waited. Who'd offered coffee with no strings attached.

Coffee sounds good, Kon typed before he could overthink it. Maybe later this week? I'm still settling in.

The response was almost immediate.

Whenever you're ready. I'll wait. I've gotten good at that.

Something in Kon's chest tightened. Tim had been waiting for almost a year. Waiting for Kon to stop running. Waiting for Kon to come home. Waiting for answers to questions Kon still didn't know how to answer.

I'm sorry, Kon typed. For making you wait so long.

You're here now. That's what matters.

Kon set down his phone and finished his coffee in silence.

He was here. In Gotham. In Jason's safehouse. Looking at apartments and interview requests and trying to figure out how to build a life in a city that felt like home and foreign in equal measure.

He'd survived war zones and bombings and six months in rural Congo with almost no resources.

Surely he could survive coffee with Tim Drake.

Surely he could survive two carefully controlled interviews.

Surely he could survive being back in Gotham.

The key word being "survive."

Living, actually living, not just surviving, that was still terrifying.

But maybe he'd figure it out.

One apartment viewing at a time. One interview at a time. One coffee date at a time.

Eventually.

Which was starting to feel less like a delay and more like a promise he was actually going to keep.

Daily Planet - Metropolis

Clark Kent stared at his email inbox, specifically at the automated response from Dr. Kon Keres's email address:

Thank you for your interest. Unfortunately, I'm unable to accommodate this interview request at this time. Best regards, Dr. K. Keres

"Something wrong?" Lois asked, appearing at his desk with two cups of coffee.

"The humanitarian doctor—Keres. He turned down my interview request."

"He turned down mine too." Lois handed him a coffee. "Smart guy. Knows to avoid investigative journalists when he wants privacy."

"It's not an investigative piece," Clark protested. "Just human interest."

"Clark, darling, everything you write turns into investigation eventually. It's who you are." She smiled. "Besides, if the man wants privacy, we should respect that. He's been through enough without us adding to it."

"You're right." Clark deleted the email draft where he'd been planning to try again with a different angle. "It's just... something about his story. Something I can't quite put my finger on."

"Your reporter instincts?"

"Maybe." Clark frowned slightly. "Or maybe I'm just curious why someone that young and that talented would choose the hardest possible path. What drives someone to work themselves to exhaustion in places most people wouldn't survive?"

"The same thing that drives someone to put on a cape and fight crime when they could be living comfortably in Kansas," Lois said pointedly.

Clark smiled despite himself. "Fair point."

"Leave the good doctor alone, Clark. Let him have his privacy. If he wants to tell his story, he will. On his own terms."

"You're right. As always."

But as Clark went back to his other work, he couldn't quite shake the feeling that there was something about Dr. Kon Keres that didn't add up.

Something just beyond his ability to identify.

Something that made his reporter instincts tingle in a way that usually meant there was a story worth investigating.

But Lois was right. The man deserved his privacy.

Clark would let it go.

For now.

At least until the feeling went away.

If it went away.

Gotham Morning News Offices - Four Weeks Later

The interview was exactly what Kon had hoped for—safe, professional, and blessedly surface-level.

The reporter, a middle-aged woman named Patricia Chen, had done her research but kept her questions focused on logistics and practicalities rather than emotions or motivations. She was interested in the systems, not the story.

"So walk me through a typical day at the clinic," Patricia said, her recorder running on the table between them. "What were the biggest challenges in terms of resources?"

Kon relaxed into the familiar territory of medical logistics. This he could talk about. This was safe.

"We were the only surgical facility for a region of fifty thousand people," he explained. "Our biggest challenge was always triage, deciding who needed immediate intervention versus who could wait. We had limited OR time, limited supplies, limited staff. Every decision had to be strategic."

"And the supply chain issues?"

"Constant. Antibiotics were always in short supply. We had to ration them carefully, prioritize the most critical cases. I spent a lot of time on the phone with DWB headquarters in Kinshasa, begging for emergency shipments."

Patricia nodded, taking notes. "What about training the local medical students? That seemed to be a significant part of your work."

"It was crucial," Kon said, warming to the topic. "Sustainable healthcare means building local capacity. I could be there for six months, but Pascal and the other students would be there for decades. Teaching them wasn't just about the immediate patient care—it was about creating a system that could continue after I left."

They talked for the full thirty minutes about resource management, training protocols, the balance between emergency care and preventive medicine. Technical. Practical. Nothing personal.

It was perfect.

"Last question," Patricia said as they wrapped up. "What advice would you give to young doctors considering humanitarian work?"

Kon thought for a moment. "Go in with humility. You're not there to save anyone, you're there to support existing systems and communities. Learn the local language, respect the local culture, and understand that you have as much to learn from them as they do from you." He paused. "And be prepared for it to change you. You won't be the same person when you leave."

Patricia smiled. "That's beautiful. Thank you, Dr. Keres. This will run the morning of your TED talk—good timing for both pieces."

After the interview, Kon felt lighter. One obligation down. Now he just had to survive the TED talk.

Kon's New Apartment, West End - Six Weeks After Returning

Kon had finally found an apartment—small, affordable, in a neighborhood that was gentrifying but not quite gentrified yet. It was his. Actually his. Not a safehouse, not a temporary stay. A place he could maybe, possibly, build a life in.

He sat at his tiny kitchen table with his laptop, staring at the blank document that was supposed to become his TED talk script.

The guidelines had been simple: 25 minutes, focus on your experience, make it personal but accessible. Easy enough in theory.

In practice, Kon had been staring at the blank page for an hour.

He'd planned to keep it safe. Talk about systems and logistics and the technical challenges of humanitarian medicine. The same territory he'd covered in the newspaper interview. Professional. Distant. Controlled.

But Maya's article kept echoing in his mind.

She hadn't written about logistics. She'd written about why. About choosing the hardest places. About showing up when it would be easier to look away. She'd written about heroism—the kind that didn't need a cape.

And it had inspired dozens of doctors to change their lives. To choose service over comfort. To go where they were needed most.

Maya hadn't needed his words to inspire people. Just his actions.

But maybe... maybe if he actually talked about it. If he let himself be vulnerable. If he pushed past the professional distance he always maintained...

Maybe he could inspire more people. Maybe his words could matter as much as his actions had.

The thought terrified him.

But it also felt right.

Kon took a deep breath and started typing.

TED Talk Event - Gotham Convention Center - Six Weeks After Returning

The green room was too bright and too loud. Kon adjusted his glasses—the distorting ones that made his features just slightly harder to pin down—and tried to calm his racing heart.

Not that anyone could tell his heart was racing. Kryptonian physiology meant his vital signs looked perfectly normal even when he was panicking internally.

"Dr. Keres?" A production assistant poked her head in. "You're on in five minutes."

"Thank you."

Five minutes. He could do this. He'd faced war zones and bombings and six months of impossible medical conditions. He could face a stage and an audience and fifteen minutes of talking about things that mattered.

His phone buzzed. Multiple texts.

Jason: Break a leg, doc. Metaphorically. Don't actually break anything.

Dick: You're going to be amazing! We're watching the livestream!

Damian: Your perspective is valuable. The audience is fortunate to hear it.

Bruce: You've got this.

Tim: I'll be in the audience. Third row, left side. If you get nervous, just look for me. You're going to be great.

Kon's breath caught. Tim was here. Actually here, in the audience, supporting him.

He typed back quickly: Thank you. All of you. For believing I could do this.

"Dr. Keres? You're up."

Kon pocketed his phone, squared his shoulders, and walked toward the stage.

The auditorium was packed. Easily a thousand people. The stage lights were bright enough that he couldn't see most of the audience, but he found the third row, left side, and there was Tim. Smiling. Giving him a small thumbs up.

Kon took his position center stage. The host finished the introduction. The audience applauded. The spotlight focused on him.

And Kon began to speak.

"I didn't set out to be anyone's hero," he started, his voice steady. "I went to medical school because I wanted to help people. That's the answer most of us give in interviews, and it's true, but it's also incomplete."

He took a breath, committing to the vulnerable path he'd chosen.

"The truth is, I went into medicine because I was looking for a way to matter. To prove that my existence had value. To save lives in a way that was tangible and measurable and real."

A pause. The audience was quiet, attentive.

"And then I went to East Africa. To a war zone. Because I was running from something. From people who cared about me. From a life that felt too complicated to face. I ran to literally one of the most dangerous places on Earth because it felt safer than staying in Gotham."

He could see some surprised faces in the front rows. This wasn't the inspirational opening they'd expected.

"I spent six months in a war zone. I survived a bombing. I walked 250 kilometers through hostile territory. And I learned something important: running doesn't solve anything. It just postpones the inevitable."

Kon found Tim's face in the audience again. Tim was leaning forward, completely focused.

"So I went to Congo. To a rural clinic with almost no resources, serving fifty thousand people. And I told myself I was doing it to help. Which was true. But I was also still running. Still avoiding. Still trying to prove my value through exhaustion and self-sacrifice."

"But something changed there. My mentor—Dr. Elizabeth Mallory, one of the best surgeons I've ever known—she came out of retirement because she saw me working myself to death and thought, 'If that stubborn kid can do it, so can I.' And three young doctors came because they watched me teach a medical student at 2 AM and decided that's what medicine should look like."

His voice grew stronger.

"Forty-three more doctors signed up to follow. To choose the hard places. To go where they're needed most. Not because I told them to. Not because I gave some inspiring speech. But because they saw someone showing up. Doing the work. Trying to make a difference."

Kon looked out at the audience—so many faces, so much attention focused on him.

"I'm standing here today because a journalist named Maya Chen decided my work mattered enough to document. Because four doctors decided it mattered enough to continue. Because people I was running from decided I mattered enough to wait for."

His eyes found Tim again.

"Here's what I've learned: Heroism isn't about being perfect. It's not about having all the answers or never being afraid. It's about showing up anyway. It's about doing the work even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard."

"You don't have to go to a war zone to matter. You don't have to save lives in dramatic ways. You just have to show up. For your patients. For your community. For the people who need you. For the work that scares you."

Kon's voice softened.

"I spent a year running from people who cared about me because I was afraid. Afraid I wasn't enough. Afraid I couldn't be what they needed. Afraid that being seen would mean being vulnerable."

"But being seen—really seen—that's when the real work begins. When you stop running and start building. When you stop trying to prove your value and start accepting that you have value, just by showing up."

He took a breath.

"So if you're watching this and thinking about making a change, about choosing a harder path, about going where you're needed instead of where it's comfortable, about showing up for work that matters, I want you to know: You don't have to be extraordinary. You just have to be willing."

"Willing to show up. Willing to learn. Willing to be vulnerable. Willing to let people see you, really see you, even when it's terrifying."

Kon smiled slightly.

"I'm still learning that last part. But I'm here. I stopped running. And if I can do that, anyone can."

"Thank you."

The applause started immediately—thunderous, sustained. People were standing. Kon stood there, slightly stunned, as the audience responded to his honesty.

He found Tim in the crowd again. Tim was standing, clapping, and there were tears on his face.

Kon had done it. He'd been vulnerable. He'd told the truth—as much as he could without revealing everything. And people had heard him.

Maybe Maya was right. Maybe he did deserve to be seen.

Maybe that was okay.

As he walked off stage to continued applause, Kon felt something shift inside him.

He'd stopped running.

Now he just had to figure out how to stay.

Kon's Apartment - Two Days After the TED Talk

Kon sat at his kitchen table with a cup of coffee and a mental checklist that was significantly more daunting than any surgery he'd ever performed.

Item one: Find a job. He'd been putting this off for weeks now, living off his investments and the money he'd saved from DWB work. Gotham General had reached out. So had three private hospitals, two research facilities, and one very persistent plastic surgery clinic in the Diamond District. He'd ignored all of them.

The thought of jumping back into hospital politics, regular schedules, and the mundane bureaucracy of American medicine felt suffocating after Congo. But he'd need to decide eventually. Money wasn't an issue yet, but purpose was.

Item two: Meet with the Bats.

That was the real problem. The thing he'd been avoiding since landing in Gotham six weeks ago. He'd texted them, sure. Sent updates. Even accepted their offers of help with apartment hunting. But actually seeing them? Face to face? That was different.

His phone sat on the table, Tim's last message still visible: Coffee whenever you're ready. I mean it. No pressure.

Kon had been staring at that message for two days now.

The TED talk had been a breakthrough of sorts. He'd been vulnerable. Admitted he was running. Admitted he was afraid. And the world hadn't ended. If anything, people had responded to his honesty with more support than he'd expected.

Maybe he could do the same with the Bats.

But there was a complication he kept circling back to: civilian identities versus masks.

Meeting Dick Grayson, Tim Drake, Jason Todd, Damian Wayne, and Bruce Wayne—that he could maybe handle. They were people. Complicated people with their own baggage and issues, but people. He could have coffee with Tim. Could accept dinner invitations from Dick. Could tolerate Jason's dark humor and Damian's intensity.

But Nightwing, Red Robin, Red Hood, Robin, and Batman? Those were the Bats. The vigilantes. The capes. The people who represented everything Kon had been running from, the hero world, the impossible standards, the reminder that he was supposed to be Superboy but couldn't be, not here, not in this universe.

Meeting them in costume felt like crossing a line he wasn't ready to cross. Like admitting he was part of their world in a way he'd spent three years denying.

Civilian identities first, he decided. He'd meet them as people. Get used to being around them without the weight of capes and cowls and everything those represented. Then maybe—maybe—he'd work up to the rest.

If he ever had the guts to do it.

Kon picked up his phone and typed before he could overthink it.

Tim - Coffee sounds good. Tomorrow? There's a place near my apartment. Nothing fancy.

The response came within seconds.

Yes. Absolutely yes. Send me the address. What time?

10 AM?

Perfect. I'll be there.

One down. Kon took a breath and opened the family chat.

I know I've been back for six weeks and haven't actually seen any of you in person. That's on me. But I'm ready now. Or at least, I'm ready to try. Coffee with Tim tomorrow. Maybe we could do something else later this week? Dinner? Just... civilian stuff. If that's okay.

The responses came quickly:

Dick: Civilian stuff is PERFECT! I know this great Thai place in Blüdhaven. Or we could do Gotham if that's easier?

Jason: Doc wants to ease into the whole Bat-family thing. Smart. I respect that. Let me know when you want to grab a beer.

Damian: I would be amenable to meeting for tea. There is a acceptable establishment near the manor. I shall send you the details.

Bruce: Take whatever time you need. We're here when you're ready. All of us.

Kon stared at the messages, feeling that familiar tightness in his chest. They understood. They weren't pushing. They were just... there. Waiting. Like they'd been waiting for almost a year now.

He typed back: Thank you. For understanding. And for waiting. I know I haven't been easy to deal with.

Tim: You've been dealing with impossible things. We get it. See you tomorrow. I'm really glad you're back, Kon.

Dick: We're just happy you're here. The rest we can figure out together.

Kon set down his phone and let out a long breath.

Tomorrow he'd have coffee with Tim. Face those blue eyes that were almost right but not quite. Try to have a conversation without his heart breaking every time Tim smiled or laughed or did something that reminded Kon of a person who didn't exist anymore.

Later this week he'd probably have dinner with Dick, tea with Damian, beer with Jason. He'd try to build relationships with people who looked like his family but weren't.

And maybe, eventually, if he was very brave and very lucky, he'd figure out how to meet the Bats themselves. How to stand in a room with Batman and Nightwing and Red Robin and not feel like he was drowning in memories of a universe that didn't exist anymore.

But that was a problem for future Kon.

Present Kon just had to survive coffee.

One step at a time. One meeting at a time. One carefully controlled civilian interaction at a time.

He could do this.

Probably.

The Next Morning - Small Coffee Shop, West End

Kon arrived fifteen minutes early because his anxiety wouldn't let him do otherwise. The coffee shop was exactly what he'd wanted, small, quiet, the kind of place where two people could have a conversation without being overheard or bothered.

He ordered a coffee he didn't need and claimed a corner table with a good view of the door. Old habits from years of needing to know his exits and entrances.

Tim arrived exactly on time, looking nervous and hopeful in equal measure. He was dressed casually, jeans, a hoodie, sneakers. No sign of Red Robin except for the careful way he scanned the room before his eyes landed on Kon.

Their eyes met. Tim smiled, tentative, genuine. Kon's chest did something complicated.

"Hi," Tim said, approaching the table.

"Hi," Kon replied, standing because it seemed like the polite thing to do.

There was an awkward moment where neither of them knew quite what to do. Handshake? Hug? Just sit down?

Tim solved it by pulling out the chair across from Kon and sitting, setting down his own coffee. "Thanks for this. For reaching out. I wasn't sure if you would."

"I said I would eventually," Kon said, sitting back down. "Eventually just took a while."

"A year is a while," Tim agreed. "But you're here now. That's what matters."

Kon looked at Tim properly for the first time since arriving back in Gotham. The same blue eyes, the same sharp intelligence, the same careful way of holding himself like he was always analyzing three steps ahead. But there were differences too. This Tim was more guarded. More tired. Carried different weights than the Tim Kon had known.

"I watched your TED talk," Tim said after a moment. "Live. I was there. Did you see me?"

"Third row, left side," Kon confirmed. "You gave me a thumbs up right before I started."

Tim's smile widened. "You were incredible. The whole thing, the honesty, the vulnerability. That took a lot of courage."

"Or stupidity. Jury's still out."

"Courage," Tim said firmly. "Definitely courage." He wrapped his hands around his coffee cup. "You talked about running from people who cared about you. Were we... were we part of that?"

There it was. The question Kon had been dreading.

"Yes," he admitted. "But not for the reasons you probably think."

"Then help me understand," Tim said gently. "Because I've spent a year trying to figure out what we did wrong. What I did wrong."

"You didn't do anything wrong," Kon said quickly. "None of you did. It was never about you. It was about me and things I can't—" he stopped, searched for words. "Things I'm not ready to explain yet. Maybe ever."

Tim nodded slowly. "Okay. I can accept that. But can I ask, is it something we could do differently? Something that would make it easier for you to be around us?"

Kon thought about that. About how to explain that every time he looked at Tim he saw someone else. That civilian identities were manageable but masks and capes felt like too much. That he was terrified of building connections that felt like replacements for the family he'd lost.

"Meeting you like this helps," Kon said finally. "As Tim. Not as..." he gestured vaguely.

"Not as Red Robin," Tim finished, understanding immediately. "The cape stuff is complicated for you."

"Yeah. Really complicated."

"Okay." Tim leaned forward slightly. "Then we do civilian stuff. For as long as you need. Dick will understand. So will the others. We can just be people. Is that okay?"

Something in Kon's chest loosened. "Yeah. That's okay. That's... that's really okay."

They sat in silence for a moment, sipping their respective coffees.

"So," Tim said eventually, a hint of mischief in his eyes. "Tell me about apartment hunting in Gotham. Dick said you looked at some truly terrible places."

Kon huffed a laugh. "Dick has no idea. I saw a studio apartment that was literally just a closet with a hotplate. The landlord tried to convince me it was 'cozy.'"

"In Gotham, 'cozy' means 'you can touch all four walls without moving.'"

"Exactly."

And just like that, the tension broke. They talked about apartments and Gotham's terrible real estate market and the ridiculous things landlords tried to pass off as amenities. Safe topics. Easy topics. The kind of conversation two people who were carefully building a friendship might have.

It wasn't the same as it had been with his Tim. It would never be the same.

But maybe it could be something different. Something real. Something that belonged to this universe and this life.

Maybe that was enough.

Kon was starting to think it might be.

Six Months Later

Life, Kon discovered, could be almost normal if you let it.

Six months of coffee dates with Tim that turned into lunch dates that turned into just... spending time together. Six months of dinners with Dick, who told terrible jokes and somehow always knew when Kon needed someone to just be aggressively cheerful at him. Six months of beer with Jason, who never asked probing questions but always seemed to understand anyway. Six months of tea with Damian, who discussed art and swordplay and the proper way to organize a medical kit with equal intensity.

Even Bruce had become a regular presence, occasional dinners at the manor, conversations about philanthropy and how Wayne Enterprises could support medical initiatives without money falling into the wrong hands.

Kon had even gone back to work. Gotham General had been thrilled to have him back, though he'd negotiated for a lighter schedule than his previous workaholic tendencies. Thirty hours a week. Time for an actual life. Time for the relationships he was carefully, cautiously building.

He still hadn't met the ‘Bats’. Still hadn't set foot in the Cave or seen any of them in costume. That line remained firmly drawn, and to their credit, they respected it. When police scanners went off during dinner, Bruce excused himself with vague mentions of "business." When Tim showed up to lunch with bruises barely concealed by makeup, Kon pretended not to notice.

It was a careful dance, and it worked. Most of the time.

Kon was starting to feel almost settled. Almost like he belonged in this life. Almost like Gotham could actually be home.

Which should have been his first warning that everything was about to go to hell.

Gotham - Robinson Park - Wednesday Evening

They were walking alongside Robinson Park, the evening air cool and relatively clean by Gotham standards. Bruce had suggested the walk, deliberately public, deliberately casual. When discussing how to keep corruption out of medical funding, it was better to be overheard talking about supply chains and accountability measures than to hide in private offices where suspicion could breed.

"The key is multiple independent audits," Kon was saying, hands in his pockets as they followed the park path. "Not just financial, but physical verification that supplies reach their destinations. You can't trust a single oversight body—"

Bruce's stride faltered slightly. His hand went to his ear, subtle, like he was adjusting something, but Kon knew better after six months of watching the man's tells.

The comm. Someone was calling Batman.

Kon kept walking, kept talking, but his enhanced hearing focused in on the transmission before he could stop himself.

"Batman, Superman has been compromised. He's heading to Gotham under some sort of mind control. I'm en-route but won't make it in time to avoid massive damage. Shazam is in a similar situation."

Wonder Woman's voice. Urgent. Afraid.

Kon froze mid-step.

Superman. Clark. Compromised. Mind control.

Heading to Gotham.

The closest thing a mortal could be to a god was en-route to this city, and he wasn't in control of his own actions. The man who could level buildings with a glance, who could move faster than fighter jets, who had all of Kon's powers and decades more experience using them, that man was coming here, and he was going to hurt people.

Kon's enhanced hearing picked up something else. Something that made his Kryptonian instincts scream danger.

The distant but unmistakable rustle of a cape cutting through air at high speed.

"Bruce—" Kon started to say.

The sonic boom hit before Bruce could even respond to Wonder Woman's message.

The shockwave rattled windows. Car alarms triggered across three blocks. People in the park screamed and ducked. And there, descending from the sky like a meteor with murderous intent, was Superman.

Clark Kent. Kal-El. The Man of Steel.

His eyes were wrong. Glowing, but not with their usual warmth. These were cold. Empty. Controlled.

Bruce's civilian mask slipped for just a second, Batman's tactical assessment flooding through Bruce Wayne's features. But he was in a suit. No armor. No kryptonite. No gadgets. Just a man standing in a park.

And Superman's eyes locked directly onto Bruce Wayne.

Kon's tactical mind, the one trained by Batman in another universe, the one that had survived war zones and impossible odds, processed what was happening in an instant.

Whoever was controlling Clark knew where Bruce currently was. They'd sent Superman to kill him. In public. In broad daylight. To send a message.

Superman launched himself at Bruce.

Kon didn't hesitate.

He moved.

There was another boom—smaller than Superman's arrival, but just as impactful. Civilians would later describe it as an explosion, as a collision, as something impossible to fully comprehend.

When the dust cleared, Superman had stopped mid-flight.

Because Kon had caught him.

Hand to hand. Fingers interlaced with Clark's in a grip that would have crushed steel. Kon's feet had dug furrows in the park grass from the force of stopping Superman's momentum. His civilian clothes, jeans and a too big button-down shirt, rippled from the shockwave. His glasses had fallen off, revealing eyes that glowed with the same solar-powered energy as the man he was holding back.

For a moment, everything was still.

Superman strained against Kon's grip, his face expressionless, controlled. Kon held firm, his own Kryptonian strength matching Clark's, even if his experience didn't.

Superman's only response was to push harder. Kon's feet dug deeper into the ground.

Behind him, he heard Bruce's sharp intake of breath. Heard the whispers starting from the civilians who'd witnessed the impossible, a young doctor catching Superman like it was nothing.

Kon's carefully constructed life—six months of normal, six months of pretending, six months of building something that felt like home—shattered in that moment.

But Gotham was still standing.

Bruce was still alive.

And that was worth any price.

"Sorry, Bruce," Kon said, not taking his eyes off Superman. "Guess the secret's out."

Then Superman's heat vision activated, and Kon had more immediate problems than explaining himself.

He raised his own heat vision to meet Clark's, two beams of superheated energy colliding in the space between them. The air around them shimmered with heat.

This was going to be bad.

But at least Kon wasn't running anymore.

At least he was finally fighting for something that mattered.

At least, for the first time in years, he was being exactly what he was meant to be.

Even if it meant losing everything he'd built.

Even if it meant the Bats would finally know the truth.

Even if it meant facing all the questions he'd been avoiding.

Right now, he had a mind-controlled Superman to stop.

Everything else would have to wait. 

Chapter Text

Ten minutes.

It took ten awful, endless minutes for Wonder Woman to arrive.

Ten minutes of Kon matching Superman blow for blow. Ten minutes of prioritizing civilian evacuation over offense, of redirecting Clark's attacks away from populated areas, of taking hits meant for buildings full of people. Ten minutes of Bruce—still in his civilian suit—coordinating with the League through his comm, directing emergency services, evacuating the area with the kind of efficiency that only came from years of disaster management.

But Kon realized something crucial in those ten minutes.

This Superman didn't have the experience his world's Clark had.

Kon had been trained in combat. Extensively. His Batman had demanded it and made sure he knew how to fight just as well as any of his Robins while Superman—his world's Superman—had made sure he knew how to use his powers with precision rather than just brute force.

This Clark was relying on strength and innate ability. Powerful, yes. Devastatingly so. But untrained. He telegraphed his moves. Left openings. Fought like someone who'd never needed to learn proper technique because raw power had always been enough.

It was one of many distinctions Kon had noticed over the past three years. This dimension was different from his own in subtle but significant ways.

This world was more peaceful. There were fewer world-class incidents. The crises that did occur seemed to resolve faster, cleaner. The Justice League was larger here, more heroes, more redundancy, more support systems. Where his world had struggled with a handful of heroes desperately trying to hold things together, this world had dozens.

Hell, there were four Green Lanterns in this dimension's League. Four. His world had only ever had one.

Different inheritors of legacy names. Different power structures. Different histories.

A different Superman who'd apparently never needed to learn how to properly fight.

Kon used that. Deflected instead of blocking. Redirected Clark's momentum. Used leverage and technique where Clark used raw strength. It was still brutal—they were both Kryptonian, both capable of leveling cities—but Kon was fighting smarter.

And he was winning. Barely. But winning.

Then Wonder Woman arrived, Shazam and Martian Manhunter flanking her.

Diana took in the scene immediately—Superman restrained by someone who matched his power, Bruce Wayne coordinating evacuation efforts, civilians being led to safety by emergency responders.

"Report!" Diana called, already moving to help.

"Hostile redirected, casualties minimized," Kon shouted back, grappling with Clark. "Someone targeted Bruce Wayne specifically. Superman was the weapon."

Diana's expression darkened. She pulled her lasso, and between her, Shazam, and Kon's combined efforts, they managed to restrain Clark long enough for J'onn to approach.

The Martian's eyes glowed as he placed his hands on Superman's temples. "I am entering his mind. The control is... artificial. Biotechnological in nature. Give me a moment."

That moment felt like an eternity. Clark struggled against the restraints, Diana's lasso, Shazam's grip, Kon's strength. But slowly, the wrong glow faded from his eyes. The struggling stopped. Clark went limp.

"It is done," J'onn said quietly. "He is free."

Kon immediately loosened his grip, floating back a few feet. Clark's eyes opened, normal now, blue and confused and horrified.

"What—" Clark looked around at the destruction, at his fellow heroes restraining him, at Bruce Wayne standing nearby in a torn suit. "Oh god. What did I do?"

"It wasn't you," Diana said firmly. "You were controlled. But we need to get you to the Watchtower. Medical evaluation. Debriefing."

Clark nodded numbly, and Shazam moved to support him.

Kon used the moment of distraction to do a final sweep. Enhanced hearing confirmed no civilians in immediate danger. X-ray vision showed Bruce had evacuated everyone within a three-block radius. The area was secure.

Superman was subdued. Martian Manhunter had fixed whatever had been controlling him.

Time to go.

Kon caught Bruce's eye across the destruction. Bruce was staring at him with an expression Kon couldn't quite read—shock, understanding, calculation, maybe something else.

Kon rose into the air.

"Wait—" Diana called out.

But Kon was already flying, pushing his speed to the limit. Not running away. Not this time. But he needed space. Needed to think. Needed to be somewhere familiar before the questions started.

He made it to his apartment in thirty seconds, flying through the window he always left unlocked (force of habit from his hero days). He landed in his small living room, still in his civilian clothes—torn now, covered in dust and scorch marks from heat vision exchanges.

Kon pulled out his phone and typed a message to Bruce with shaking hands.

Not running off. I'm in my home. I'll wait here.

Because that was the truth. He wasn't running. Not anymore. The cat was out of the bag. Time to face the music.

He hit send and collapsed onto his couch, putting his head in his hands.

Six months. He'd had six months of normal. Six months of building a life. Six months of pretending he was just Dr. Kon Keres, and the Waynes were just a rich family who was interested in his skills as person, his role as humanitarian doctor with a complicated past.

And it had all come crashing down in ten minutes.

Now the League knew. Bruce knew. Soon everyone would know that Dr. Keres wasn't human. That he had powers that nearly matched Superman's. That he'd been hiding in plain sight for years.

The questions would come. What are you? Where did you come from? Why did you hide? How long have you been watching us? Are you a threat?

Can we trust you?

Kon didn't have good answers to most of those questions. Didn't have answers at all to some of them.

But he'd meant what he said in his TED talk. About showing up. About being willing to be seen, even when it was terrifying.

He'd shown up today. Saved Bruce. Saved civilians. Stopped Superman without killing him.

And now he'd wait. In his apartment. While the Bats—and probably the League—decided what to do about Dr. Kon Keres, who was apparently Kryptonian.

His phone buzzed. A response from Bruce.

Stay there. I'm coming. Alone. Give me twenty minutes to handle the immediate fallout. We'll talk. Just the two of us first. You're not in trouble, Kon. But we do need to talk.

Kon let out a shaky breath.

Twenty minutes. He could wait twenty minutes.

He'd already waited years. What was twenty more minutes?

Though knowing Bruce, "talk" probably meant an interrogation that would make CIA debriefings look gentle.

Kon was so screwed.

But at least he wasn't running.

That had to count for something.

Right?

Twenty minutes turned into twenty-three.

Kon heard Bruce's heartbeat approaching long before the man approached his door. Steady, controlled—Batman's heartbeat, not Bruce Wayne's, even though the man was in civilian clothes.

"It's unlocked," Kon called out before Bruce could knock.

The door opened. Bruce stepped inside, still in his torn suit from the park, though he'd clearly taken time to coordinate with the League and emergency services first. Always the mission before personal concerns.

Kon had changed. The ruined clothes were in the trash, replaced by soft cotton pants and an old t-shirt he usually reserved for sleeping. The texture helped—something about the familiar, comfortable fabric soothed his frayed nerves. His glasses had been replaced with a spare pair, identical to the ones that had fallen off during the fight.

Bruce closed the door behind him and just... looked at Kon. Really looked at him, the way he probably should have been looking for the past six months.

Now that he knew what to look for, Bruce could see the resemblance. The strong jawline. The dark hair with that unmistakable curl. The build, too broad-shouldered, too perfectly proportioned for a normal human. The way Kon moved with unconscious grace that spoke of perfect balance and strength held carefully in check.

How had he not noticed before?

"It's the glasses," Kon answered as if reading his mind. His voice carried a rueful humor that didn't quite hide the anxiety underneath. "The thick lenses dull the color of my eyes, but the frames..." he reached up and tapped them lightly, "they emit a low-level distortion field. Your perception of my facial features is changed. Slightly. Just enough that you see what you expect to see—a normal human doctor."

He paused, then added, "I paid a street mage a lot of money for them. Best investment I ever made. At least until today."

Bruce's detective mind was already cataloging the implications. "Take them off."

Kon hesitated for just a moment, then slowly removed the glasses.

The change was immediate.

It wasn't dramatic—Kon's features didn't shift or morph. But suddenly they were sharper. More defined. The resemblance to Clark became unavoidable. The shape of his eyes, the set of his jaw, the way his expression carried that same earnest quality Superman had, even when he was trying to be guarded.

But there were differences too. Kon was younger, his features not quite fully mature. His eyes were a slightly different shade of blue—brighter, more intense and were slightly more slanted—sharper— than Superman’s. His skin tone closer to a shade of Olive than Clark’s pale complexion. And there was something in his expression that Clark never had. A wariness. A weight.

Someone who'd seen too much, too young.

"How long have you been in Gotham?" Bruce asked, his voice carefully neutral.

"9 Years. Give or take."

"And you've been... what, exactly? Kryptonian? Clone? Alternate universe version?"

Kon's laugh was brittle. "That's the million-dollar question, isn't it?" He set the glasses on the coffee table and met Bruce's eyes directly. "I'm going to tell you the truth. All of it. Not because I want to, but because you deserve it after six months of me lying to you."

"You weren't lying—"

"I was lying by omission. Every time you talked about Wayne Enterprises medical initiatives. Every time you even alluded to the League in passing. Every time you left dinner early for 'business' and I pretended not to know where you were going." Kon's voice was steady but strained. "I knew, Bruce. I've always known. I knew before I ever met any of you in person."

Bruce's expression didn't change, but Kon saw the minute tightening around his eyes.

"Because," Kon continued, "in my universe—in my original universe—you were my friend. My mentor. My family." His voice cracked slightly on that last word. "And then that universe ended, and I ended up here, and you didn't know me. None of you did. Because in this universe, I was never born."

Bruce remained silent, processing.

Kon sat down heavily on the couch, suddenly looking exhausted. "I'm a clone. Or I was. Genetic material from Superman and Lex Luthor. Cadmus created me to be a weapon, to replace Superman if he ever died and kill him if he became a threat to them but Superman—my Superman—he saw past that… eventually. Helped me become a hero instead. Superboy, they called me. Part of Young Justice then part of the Teen Titans. Part of the family."

He looked down at his hands. "This world is much more peaceful than mine was. My world, we were always fighting. Always one crisis away from extinction. But I had it good, you know? I had a family. A purpose. A place I belonged." His voice went quiet. "And then between one breath and the next, it was all gone. Reality restructured itself and I was trapped in a bubble outside of time, a reality marble. A day, a year, millennia? I don't know. Time didn't exist there. But the moment that crack appeared, I didn't hesitate. I escaped."

Kon looked up at Bruce. "And then here I was. In a world so similar to my own but not. Where I was never made. Where Superman had an actual son, Jonathan. A real son." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "I couldn't do that to Jon. Couldn't complicate his life by showing up and saying 'hey, I'm a clone of your dad from another universe.' I saw the fallout between Tim and Jason in my world when Jason came back, it was brutal. Even if they did get over it eventually."

The laugh that followed was self-deprecating. "I don't know why I was the only one who survived. Why me and not the others. Not my Tim, or my Bart, or my Cassie. Just me. Alone in a universe that didn't want me." He shook his head. "But I knew I couldn't interfere with this world's heroics if I wanted to stay anonymous. If I wanted to just... exist without complications."

"So you became a doctor," Bruce said quietly.

"Yeah." Kon smiled, but it was sad. "I still wanted to help people, after all. I just couldn't do it the way I used to. So... Dr. Kon Elias Keres."

Bruce's detective mind caught on something—something he'd heard dozens of times over the years he had been aware of Dr. Keres but never really processed.

"Kon Elias," he said slowly. "Kon-El."

Kon nodded, meeting Bruce's eyes. "Kon of the House of El. I couldn't bear to get rid of the name completely. It was all I had left of who I was. But I couldn't be obvious about it, you know? So I hid it. Kon Elias Keres. My real name buried in the middle where no one would think to look for it."

"Keres," Bruce said. "Greek mythology. Spirit of violent death."

"Yeah, well." Kon's smile was bitter. "Felt appropriate. I'm a ghost from a dead world. Everyone I loved is gone. The only version of me that ever mattered died when my universe did." He paused. "Keres seemed fitting."

Bruce was quiet for a long moment, absorbing all of it. The truth behind Dr. Kon Elias Keres. The reason for the years of hiding. The weight this young man had been carrying alone.

"You weren't lying when you said you had things to work through," Bruce finally said.

"No. I wasn't." Kon looked at Bruce directly. "I know this complicates everything. I know you'll have to tell the League. Tell Clark. I know there will be questions I can't answer and suspicions I can't dispel. But I need you to know—I never meant to deceive you. Any of you. I just wanted to exist. To have some semblance of a normal life. To help people without the weight of being known."

"And today?"

"Today I chose." Kon's voice was firm. "Your life or my secret. Gotham or my carefully constructed normal. And it wasn't even a hard choice, Bruce. I couldn't let Clark kill you. Even if it meant exposing everything."

Bruce studied him—this young man who'd lost everything, who'd rebuilt himself as a doctor, who'd spent six months carefully building relationships while carrying the weight of a dead universe. Who'd saved his life without hesitation despite knowing what it would cost.

"You're not alone anymore," Bruce said finally. "Not if you don't want to be."

Kon's breath caught. "Bruce—"

"We'll handle the League. I'll talk to Clark personally, explain the situation. Give you a bit of time before you have to face him." Bruce's expression was unusually gentle. "You've been carrying this by yourself for years. You don't have to anymore."

"You want me to stay? After everything?"

"You saved my life today. You've been a good friend to my sons for six months. You've been a good friend to me." Bruce paused. "And you're Kon-El. You were a hero in your world. You can be one here too, if you want. Or you can stay Dr. Keres. The choice is yours."

"I don't know how to be Kon-El anymore," Kon admitted quietly. "That person died with my universe."

"Then be who you are now. Kon Keres. Doctor. Refugee. Survivor." Bruce stood and moved to the window, looking out at Gotham. "You don't have to replace who you were. You just have to figure out who you want to be here."

Kon joined him at the window. "What if I don't know?"

"Then we figure it out together." Bruce turned to face him. "My sons have spent six months getting attached to you. Dick thinks you're wonderful. Tim cares about you more than he's ready to admit. Damian respects you. Jason actually likes you. And I consider you a friend. That doesn't change because you're Kryptonian. It doesn't change because you're from another universe. You're still Kon. That's what matters."

Kon felt something in his chest crack open—not painfully, but like a release. Like finally letting go of something he'd been holding too tightly for too long.

"I'm so tired of running," he whispered.

"Then stop," Bruce said simply. "Stay. Let us help. You don't have to be alone anymore."

Kon looked out at Gotham—the city he'd chosen to protect today. The city that felt more like home than anywhere had since his universe ended.

"Okay," he said finally. "Okay. I'll stay."

Bruce's hand landed on his shoulder—brief but firm. "Good. Now, we need to discuss logistics. The League is going to want a meeting. Clark will want answers. We need to prepare—"

"Bruce?"

"Yes?"

"Can we do this tomorrow? Please? I just—I need tonight. To process. To accept that I'm not hiding anymore. To figure out what comes next."

Bruce studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Tomorrow. But Kon—you're not facing this alone. Whatever comes next, we handle it together. Understood?"

"Understood."

After Bruce left, Kon sat alone in his apartment and stared at his reflection in the dark window.

Kon-El. Kon Elias Keres. Superboy. Doctor. Clone. Refugee.

So many names for one person. So many identities layered on top of each other.

But underneath it all, he was just Kon. Someone who'd lost everything and tried to rebuild. Someone who'd hidden for three years and finally chosen to be seen. Someone who'd stopped running and decided to stay.

Tomorrow he'd face the League. Face Clark. Face all the questions and complications.

Tonight, he'd just sit with the truth: he wasn't alone anymore.

And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.

The Watchtower - Conference Room Alpha - The Next Morning

Bruce had faced down intergalactic warlords, reality-warping sorcerers, and Darkseid himself with more composure than he felt walking into this meeting.

The League's core members were assembled: Diana, wearing her full armor and an expression of concerned curiosity. Hal Jordan, arms crossed, looking skeptical. Barry Allen, vibrating slightly with nervous energy. Arthur, solid and thoughtful. J'onn, serene as always but with questions in his eyes. And a dozen others, all wanting answers about the Kryptonian who'd appeared out of nowhere and fought Superman to a standstill.

Clark was notably absent. Still in the infirmary, under observation after the mind control incident. Batman had made sure of that, had personally requested that J'onn keep Clark there for "extended monitoring" to give Kon more time. To give himself more time to figure out how to explain this.

"Let's get started," Diana said, taking her seat at the table. She looked at Bruce directly. "Batman. You were there. You saw everything. The League deserves a full report."

Bruce stood, activating the holographic display. Footage from Robinson Park appeared—grainy, from a civilian's phone, but clear enough. Superman descending. The attack. And then Kon, catching Clark mid-flight with impossible strength.

The room was silent as the video played.

"That's…" Barry said quietly. "Kryptonian strength. Who is he, Bruce?"

"His name is Kon Keres," Bruce said, his voice even. "He's been living in Gotham for nine years. Working as a doctor. He's a binary clone, genetically derived from Kryptonian and human DNA."

The silence that followed was deafening.

"A clone," Hal repeated. "Of Superman?"

"From another universe," Bruce continued. "One that no longer exists. He's a refugee. The sole survivor of a reality that was restructured out of existence."

Diana leaned forward. "You're certain of this?"

"I spoke with him last night. At length." Bruce met her eyes. "He's not a threat. He's been living quietly, helping people, staying out of League business deliberately. He only revealed himself to save my life."

"How long have you known?" Arthur asked, his tone carefully neutral.

"I found out yesterday. Same as the rest of you." Bruce's expression didn't change. "He's been very careful about hiding what he is."

"For nine years," J'onn said thoughtfully. "He's been on Earth for nine years and we never detected him. That suggests significant control and intention."

"He didn't want to be found," Bruce said. "For understandable reasons."

"What reasons?" Hal demanded. "A Kryptonian with Superman's powers hiding in Gotham? That's not suspicious to you?"

"A refugee hiding from the people who look like the family he lost?" Bruce countered. "No. That's not suspicious. That's traumatized."

"We need to bring him in," Hal insisted. "Question him. Verify his story. Make sure he's not a threat."

"No."

The word hung in the air. Diana raised an eyebrow. "Batman—"

"He saved my life. He stopped Clark from killing civilians. He fought to protect Gotham, not to harm it." Bruce's voice was firm. "He's not a threat. He's someone who's been through hell and deserves the chance to tell his story on his own terms. When he's ready."

"And when will that be?" Barry asked gently.

"When I've given him enough time to prepare for this conversation." Bruce looked around the table. "He's terrified. Of being seen as a weapon. Of being studied. Of facing Clark and having to explain that he's a clone from a dead universe. He needs time."

"Time for what?" Hal pressed. "To run again?"

"He's not running," Bruce said sharply. "He's stayed in Gotham for nine years. He came back after spending a year doing humanitarian work abroad. He's built a life here. He's not going anywhere."

Barry's head suddenly snapped up. "Wait. Keres. Dr. Kon Keres?" His eyes widened. "The doctor from Paris. The one who treated my shoulder last year. That was him?"

Bruce nodded once.

"I vibrated through his exam table," Barry said, sounding stunned. "He just sighed and made a note. I thought he was just really unflappable, but—he knew. He knew who I was and didn't even blink."

"He's treated multiple League members," Bruce confirmed. "Discreetly. Without asking questions or reporting anything."

Jessica Cruz, one of the newer Green Lanterns, spoke up hesitantly. "I was in Paris six months ago. Ring malfunction after a fight. He treated the burns without—" she stopped, realization dawning. "He knew I was a Lantern. He made a joke about 'unusual energy signatures' but never pushed. I thought I'd gotten lucky with a doctor who minded his own business."

"He's been protecting us," J'onn observed. "Treating our injuries, keeping our secrets, asking for nothing in return. That is not the behavior of a threat."

"That's the behavior of a hero," Diana said firmly, looking at Hal pointedly.

It wasn't a question. Bruce didn't bother denying it. "He's been a friend to my family for six months. He's a good man. Yes, I care about him."

"Six months?" Barry's eyes widened. "You've known him for six months?"

"As a civilian, yes. As Bruce Wayne. My children know him too. They've been building relationships with him." Bruce pulled up another image, Kon at his TED talk, looking exhausted but determined. "This is who he is when he's not being Kryptonian. A doctor who works in the hardest places. Who saves lives because that's what he does. Who hides his powers because he doesn't want to be seen as a threat."

"He gave a TED talk?" Barry sounded almost amused.

"Two months ago. About humanitarian medicine and choosing the hard path. It went viral. Inspired dozens of doctors to pursue similar work." Bruce closed the image. "He's not a villain. He's not even a traditional hero. He's just someone trying to help while dealing with trauma most of us can't imagine."

J'onn spoke up, his voice thoughtful. "I sensed no deception from him yesterday. During the fight, his primary concern was civilian safety. He could have killed Clark—his power level is comparable—but he restrained himself. Fought defensively. That speaks to character."

"Or good training," Hal muttered, but with less conviction than before.

"I want to meet him," Diana said firmly. "Not to interrogate. To understand. To offer him a place if he wants it. If he truly is a refugee, then he deserves sanctuary. Protection."

"Agreed," Arthur said. "But on his terms. If Batman vouches for him, that carries weight."

Bruce nodded. "I'll arrange a meeting. But it needs to be handled carefully. Especially—"

The infirmary door hissed open. Clark stood in the doorway, looking pale but determined, still in his medical sweatpants with monitoring equipment attached.

"Especially me," Clark finished. His voice was strained. "You're talking about me. About why he's afraid to meet me."

"Clark," Diana started, rising from her seat. "You should be resting—"

"I was mind-controlled and used as a weapon to kill Bruce Wayne," Clark interrupted, walking into the room despite J'onn's telepathic protest that Bruce could feel. "And apparently there's a Kryptonian in Gotham who saved his life. A clone. Of me." His eyes fixed on Bruce. "And you're all discussing him without me. No. Not happening."

Bruce kept his expression neutral. "You need more observation time."

"I need answers." Clark's voice cracked slightly. "There's someone out there with my DNA. My powers. Living in Gotham for nine years and I never knew. How is that possible?"

"He's been very careful," Bruce said. "And he's been avoiding you specifically."

"Why?"

Bruce met Clark's eyes. "Because in his universe, you were his father figure. And when he arrived here, you had Jon. A real son. He didn't want to complicate your life."

Clark's expression shifted—shock, pain, understanding all flickering across his face. "He's—what?"

"His real name is Kon-El," Bruce said quietly. "In his universe, Project Cadmus cloned you without permission. Created him as a weapon. You helped him become a hero instead. Became his mentor. His family." Bruce paused. "And then his universe ended. He's the only survivor. Everyone he loved is gone. And he ended up here, in a universe where he was never born. Where you have Jonathan and don't need another son."

The room was silent.

Clark sat down heavily in the nearest chair. "He thinks I won't want him."

"He thinks you'll see him as a violation. As Cadmus did in his world, stealing your DNA, creating life without consent." Bruce's voice was gentle. "It took your counterpart time to accept him. He doesn't want to go through that again."

"Where is he?" Clark asked. "I need to talk to him. To tell him—"

"That you're not ready," Bruce interrupted. "Clark, you were just mind-controlled. You need rest. And he needs time to prepare for this conversation. Rushing it won't help either of you."

"Bruce—"

"Tomorrow," Bruce said firmly. "I'll arrange a meeting tomorrow. Give you both time to process. To prepare. This conversation is too important to have when you're both emotionally compromised."

Clark looked like he wanted to argue. But J'onn placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, and some silent communication passed between them. Clark deflated slightly.

"Tomorrow," Clark agreed reluctantly. "But Bruce, tell him I'm not angry. Tell him he's not a violation. Tell him—" his voice broke, "—tell him he doesn't have to hide. Not from me."

"I'll tell him," Bruce promised.

After the meeting, Diana caught Bruce in the hallway.

"That was well done," she said quietly. "Protecting him while giving Clark hope. It's a delicate balance."

"It's necessary," Bruce replied. "Kon's been through enough. He doesn't need the League descending on him like he's a problem to be solved."

"He's not a problem. He's a person." Diana smiled slightly. "You've become protective of him. It's good to see. You care about more than just yours."

"He lives in Gotham. That makes him mine to protect."

"Bruce." Diana's voice was knowing. "He's become important to you. To your sons. It's all right to admit that."

Bruce was quiet for a moment. "He reminds me of what we could all become if we lost everything. How we might survive. Or fail to survive." He looked at Diana. "He's been incredibly brave. Living in a world that isn't his. Building a life from nothing. Helping people despite carrying that much grief. He deserves better than to be treated like a threat."

"Then we'll make sure he isn't," Diana said firmly. "Tomorrow, we extend an offer of sanctuary. Of family, if he wants it. The League takes care of its own."

"He's not League."

"Yet," Diana corrected with a slight smile. "But he could be. If he chooses."

Bruce nodded and headed for the zeta tube. He had a promise to keep.

He had to tell Kon that Clark wanted to meet him. That the League knew his secret. That everything was about to change again.

And somehow, he had to make Kon understand that this time, the change might actually be for the better.

Even if Kon wasn't ready to believe it yet.

Wayne Manor - The Cave - Same Evening

The footage was playing on the main screen for the fourth time. Dick, Tim, Jason, and Damian stood in various positions around the Cave, all staring at the grainy cell phone video that had been uploaded to social media within minutes of the fight.

Superman descending. The attack on Bruce Wayne. And then—

The collision. Dust clearing. Kon holding Superman back with his bare hands.

"Holy shit," Jason said again. He'd been saying it periodically for the last hour. "Holy shit."

"You've said that" Damian replied, his voice tight. His eyes hadn't left the screen. "Repeatedly."

"Because holy shit, Damian!" Jason gestured at the screen. "That's Kon. Our Kon. The doctor who gets nervous ordering coffee. Who apologized for taking up too much space at dinner. Who—" he stopped, shaking his head. "Who apparently can go toe-to-toe with Superman."

Tim had been silent for most of the viewing. Now he spoke, his voice quiet. "He caught Superman. Mid-flight. Like it was nothing."

"It wasn't nothing," Dick said, rewinding the footage again. "Look at his stance. The way his feet dug into the ground. He was bracing for impact." He paused the video at the moment of collision. "That's not instinct. That's training."

"He's Kryptonian," Damian stated flatly. "That much is obvious now. The strength, the speed, the—" he pointed at the screen where Kon's eyes glowed with heat vision, "—the ocular heat projection. He has Superman's power set."

"But he's not Superman," Tim said, still staring at the frozen image. "Look at how he's positioned. He's putting himself between Clark and Bruce. Between Clark and the civilians. Every single move is defensive. Protective. He's not trying to win. He's trying to minimize damage."

Jason snorted. "Yeah, because he's a doctor. Even when he's being Kryptonian, he's still trying to save people."

"He saved Father's life," Damian said quietly. There was something in his voice, not quite awe, but close. "Without hesitation. Despite knowing it would expose everything he's been hiding."

Dick ran the video forward, watching the full ten-minute fight. "He's been holding back. All this time. Six months of dinners and coffee and conversations, and he's been—" He stopped, looking at his brothers. "He could have flown away at any time. Could have disappeared. We never would have found him. But he stayed. Because of us?"

"Because he wanted to," Tim corrected softly. "He said it in his TED talk. About being willing to be seen. About showing up even when it's terrifying." He finally looked away from the screen. "This is what he meant. This is what he was working toward. Being brave enough to stop hiding."

"Or he just didn't want Bruce to die," Jason said pragmatically. "I mean, let's not make this more complicated than it is. Superman was about to kill Bruce. Kon stopped him. Simple."

"Nothing about this is simple," Dick countered. "Kon is Kryptonian. He's been in Gotham for years. He knew who we were—Batman, the Robins, all of it. He could have reached out at any time. Could have asked for help. But he didn't. He stayed hidden. Why?"

"Because he's running from something," Tim said. He'd been thinking about this since the moment Bruce had called with the news. "Or someone.”

Damian pulled up another angle, this one from a traffic camera, showing Kon's face clearly as he fought. "He's younger than Superman. Mid-twenties at most. But he fights with experience. With strategy. He redirects rather than blocks. Uses leverage. Fights intelligently."

"Like someone trained him," Dick said slowly. "Like someone taught him how to fight Kryptonians specifically."

"Or like he's fought them before," Tim added. "In whatever situation he came from before Gotham."

Jason crossed his arms. "So what do we do? Bruce said to give him space, but—" he gestured at the screen, "—the cat's out of the bag now. Everyone's seen this. Everyone knows there's a Kryptonian in Gotham. We can't just pretend it didn't happen."

"We don't pretend," Dick said firmly. "We support him. We show him that this doesn't change anything. That we still—" he stopped, swallowed. "That we still care about him. Powers or no powers."

"Does it change things?" Damian asked quietly. "He's been lying to us for six months. By omission, perhaps, but lying nonetheless."

"He was protecting himself," Tim said immediately, defensively. "You saw how scared he was. How careful. He wasn't lying to hurt us. He was lying to survive."

"And now?" Damian challenged. "Now that he can't hide anymore. What happens now?"

The silence that followed was heavy.

"Now we show him what family does," Dick said finally. "We show up. We support him. We help him deal with whatever comes next. The League, the media, Superman—all of it. We don't abandon him just because we found out he's more than human."

"Was planning on it anyway," Jason muttered. "Doc saved Bruce's life. That buys a lot of loyalty in my book."

Tim was still staring at the screen. At Kon's face in that moment of impact, determined, frightened, but resolute. "He's been alone. All this time. Dealing with this by himself. No wonder he ran to war zones. No wonder he worked himself to exhaustion. He didn't think he could trust anyone with the truth."

"He trusted Father," Damian pointed out. "Eventually. Last night, according to Father's message."

"Hard to hide after this," Tim said. "After his secret was already exposed, that's—" he stopped, ran a hand through his hair. "We need to show him it's safe. To be seen. To be himself. All of himself."

Dick nodded. "Tim's right. Powers don't define him. His choices do. And every choice he made yesterday was about protecting people. About being a hero, even though he's been trying not to be one."

"So what's the plan?" Jason asked. "Bruce said he needs time. How much time? And what do we do in the meantime?"

"We wait," Dick said. "We let him know we're here when he's ready. We don't push. We don't demand explanations. We just—" he looked at his brothers, "—we just be there. Like he's been there for us these past six months."

Tim pulled out his phone, staring at his last message to Kon, the one about coffee that had gone unanswered since yesterday. He typed quickly:

I saw the footage. I know you're probably freaking out. But nothing's changed. You're still Kon. You're still my friend. Whenever you're ready to talk, I'm here. No questions. No judgment. Just coffee.

He hit send before he could second-guess himself.

"Good," Dick said, seeing the message. "That's good. The rest of us should do the same. Let him know we're not going anywhere."

Damian pulled out his own phone with obvious reluctance. But his message, when he typed it, was characteristically blunt:

You saved my father's life. That is not a debt I take lightly. Whatever you are facing, you do not face it alone. -Damian

Jason's was shorter: Still owe you a beer, doc. Powers don't change that.

Dick's took longer to compose, but finally: You showed up when it mattered. That's what heroes do. Proud of you. Here if you need anything. -D

They stood together in the Cave, watching the footage loop again. Kon catching Superman. Kon protecting civilians. Kon being exactly what he'd spent years trying not to be, a hero.

"He's going to hate the attention," Tim said quietly.

"Probably," Dick agreed. "But he'll deal with it. Because that's what he does. He shows up and deals with the hard things."

"Think he'll stay in Gotham?" Jason asked.

"I don't know," Dick admitted. "But I hope so. Because Gotham could use someone like him. And we” he looked at his brothers, "—we could use a friend who understands what it's like to hide who you really are."

"He's one of us now," Damian said, and it wasn't a question. "Whether he wants to be or not. He's family."

"Yeah," Tim said softly, still looking at Kon's face frozen on the screen. "Yeah, he is."

They just had to hope Kon would believe it.

That he'd finally accept that he'd found what he'd been looking for all along.

A family. A home. A place to belong.

Even if it wasn't the one he'd lost.

Even if it was something different.

Maybe different could be enough.

They'd make sure it was enough.

Because that's what family did.

Kon's Apartment - Two Days After the Fight

Kon stared at his laptop screen in disbelief.

The footage was still circulating, dozens of videos from different angles, all showing the fight in Robinson Park. But something was different. In every single one, his face was blurred. Distorted. Unidentifiable.

He scrolled through social media. Theories were everywhere:

New meta hero in Gotham? Who is the mystery super who stopped Superman? Justice League covers up Superman incident - what are they hiding?

But not a single person had connected the mysterious Kryptonian to Dr. Kon Keres. Not one article. Not one post. Even the closest angles, the ones that should have shown his face clearly, were too blurred, too chaotic to make an identification.

The League had scrubbed him from the footage. Professionally. Completely.

His phone buzzed. A text from Bruce: We handled the media. You're safe. No one will make the connection. Humans try to make sense of things, but eventually they'll stop looking. The man who fought Superman and Dr. Keres will remain separate in public perception.

Kon let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

Another text: Meeting tomorrow. 2 PM. Watchtower. Just you, me, and a few of the League members. No pressure. But it's time.

Kon stared at that message for a long time.

Time. It was time.

He typed back: I'll be there.

The Watchtower - Private Conference Room - The Next Day

Kon stood in the zeta tube arrival area, wearing jeans, a black t-shirt, and the leather jacket he'd bought years ago when he first arrived in this universe. Back when he'd thought he might go back to the punk aesthetic he favored as teen, now that his clothes wouldn’t be destroyed every three days by superhero missions.

But his workaholic tendencies and medical profession hadn't left him much choice in his everyday wardrobe since he started. The jacket was mostly hung in his closet. But today felt like a day for armor, even if it was just leather and attitude.

He still wore the glasses. One last layer of protection before he faced what was coming.

Batman—Bruce, in his full suit—met him at the arrival point. "Ready?"

"No," Kon said honestly. "But I'm here anyway."

Bruce's mouth twitched slightly. Almost a smile. "That's all anyone can ask. Come on. They're waiting."

The private conference room was smaller than Kon had expected. Intimate. Just six people: Bruce, Diana, Clark, J'onn, Barry, and one of the Green Lanterns, Jessica Cruz, who gave him a small, nervous smile.

Clark was in his full Superman suit, standing near the window. He turned when Kon entered, and his expression was... complicated. Hopeful and nervous and uncertain all at once.

Kon stopped just inside the doorway. His enhanced hearing picked up everyone's heartbeats—all elevated. Diana's steady but alert. J'onn's calm. Barry's rapid (but that was normal). Jessica's anxious. Bruce's controlled.

Clark's racing.

"Kon," Diana said gently, stepping forward. "Thank you for coming. We know this isn't easy."

"Nothing about this is easy," Kon agreed. His voice came out steadier than he felt. "But Bruce said it was time. So. Here I am."

"We have questions," Diana continued. "But first, we want you to know, you're not in trouble. You're not being interrogated. We just want to understand. And to help, if you'll let us."

Kon nodded slowly. He looked around the room, at these heroes he'd watched from afar for nine years. Heroes who looked like his friends but weren't. Who could never be.

His eyes landed on Clark and stuck there.

Clark took a small step forward. "I—" his voice caught. He tried again. "Bruce told me. About your universe. About what you are. What I was to you there." His eyes were suspiciously bright. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry you lost that. Lost him. Lost everyone."

Kon felt his throat tighten. "Yeah. Me too."

"Can we..." Clark gestured helplessly. "Can we see you? Really see you? Bruce said you have something that hides your features."

Here it was. The moment of truth.

Kon reached up and slowly removed his glasses.

The distortion field faded.

There was a collective intake of breath.

Because the resemblance to Clark was remarkable. Undeniable. The strong jawline, the dark hair, the build. They could be father and son. Brothers. Family.

But there were differences too. Kon's eyes were a slightly more intense shade of blue—brighter, sharper. His hair was curlier, less controlled than Clark's neat styling. His lips were fuller. His skin tone more on the olive side than Clark’s fair skin. He was younger, his features not quite fully matured.

But unmistakably, undeniably made from Clark Kent.

"Oh," Clark breathed. His hand came up to his mouth. "Oh my god."

"Yeah," Kon said, his voice rough. "I'm a clone. Project Cadmus. In my world, they stole your DNA and Lex Luthor's. Made me in a lab. Weapon designation: Superboy." He looked down at the glasses in his hands. "My Superman—he didn't take it well at first. Took him months to see me as a person instead of a violation. But eventually..." Kon's voice cracked slightly. "Eventually he became the closest thing I had to a father."

"And then your universe ended," Diana said softly.

"And then my universe ended," Kon confirmed. "Reality restructured itself. I was the only one who survived. Trapped in a bubble outside of time until I found a crack and escaped into this universe. Where I was never made. Where you—" he looked at Clark directly, "—where you have Jonathan. A real son. Not a lab-grown copy."

"You're not a copy," Clark said immediately, intensely. "You're not—Kon, you're a person. You're—" He seemed to struggle with words. "Bruce told me your name. Kon-El. You're family. House of El. That's not a copy. That's family."

Kon's laugh was bitter. "I'm a ghost from a dead universe. Your DNA without your permission. How is that family?"

"Because I'm saying it is," Clark said firmly. He took another step closer. "Because you saved Bruce's life. Because you've been living here for nine years and never caused harm. Never used your powers for anything but helping. Bruce said you've been treating League members who were injured. Keeping their secrets. Asking for nothing."

"I was just trying to stay hidden," Kon protested.

"You were being a hero," Diana corrected. "Whether you wanted to admit it or not."

J'onn spoke for the first time, his voice thoughtful. "I sensed no deception when we fought together. No malice. Only fear. Fear of being seen as a weapon. Of being rejected." His eyes—ancient and kind—focused on Kon. "You have been carrying great pain. Great loss. But also great purpose. You are not the weapon Cadmus intended. You are who you chose to become."

Kon felt something in his chest crack. "I don't know how to be Superboy here. That person, he doesn't exist. Can't exist. This world has Jon. Has Superman. It doesn't need another one."

"Maybe it doesn't need another Superman," Barry said, speaking up for the first time. "But it could use a Kon. Just Kon. Doctor, hero, refugee, whatever you want to be. We're not asking you to replace anyone or be anyone except yourself."

Jessica nodded. "When you treated my burns in Paris, you were so kind. So professional. You didn't make me feel like I was a problem or a secret to be managed. You just helped. Powers or no powers."

Kon looked around the room. At these people offering him acceptance he wasn't sure he deserved. Offering him a place he wasn't sure he could take.

His eyes landed back on Clark. "You really want a clone hanging around? Even knowing what I am?"

"I want my—" Clark stopped, swallowed hard. "In your universe, I was your father. Or like your father. Here, I have Jon. But that doesn't mean there isn't room for you too. If you want there to be." His voice was thick with emotion. "I can't replace what you lost. I know that. I'm not him. But I could, we could, try to build something new. If you wanted."

"I don't know if I can," Kon admitted, his voice small. "Every time I look at you, I see him. And it hurts. It hurts so much to see someone who looks like him, sounds like him, but isn't him."

"Then maybe we don't try to be them," Diana suggested gently. "Maybe we just try to be us. The people in this universe. This League. We can't replace your family. But we can offer you a new one. Different, but real."

Kon stood there, glasses in hand, feeling more exposed than he ever had. Even when he'd fought Superman in front of hundreds of people. Even when he'd confessed everything to Bruce.

This was different. This was the League, the people he'd been watching, avoiding, running from for nine years. Offering him exactly what he'd been terrified of wanting.

A place to belong.

"I'm still figuring out who I am here," Kon said finally. "I'm not Superboy. I'm not even sure I want to be a hero full-time. I like being a doctor. I like helping people without the mask and cape."

"Then be a doctor," Clark said simply. "Be a doctor who happens to have powers. There's no rule that says you have to be a full-time hero."

"But when Gotham needs you," Bruce added, "you show up. Like you did two days ago. That's enough."

Kon looked at Bruce. "You really think I can do that? Be both? Doctor and hero?"

"I think you've been doing it for years," Bruce replied. "You've just been doing it alone. Now you don't have to be."

Kon closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the decision. Stay isolated. Or let these people in. Risk the pain of building something new with people who reminded him of everyone he'd lost.

He thought about the Bats. About six months of dinners and coffee and slowly learning that these people weren't replacements, they were different. New. Real.

Maybe the League could be the same.

"Okay," Kon said finally, opening his eyes. "Okay. I'll try. No promises. No commitments to being a full-time League member. But I'll try. To build something new. To let you in."

Clark's smile was brilliant and heartbreaking all at once. "That's all anyone can ask."

Diana stepped forward and placed a hand on Kon's shoulder. "Welcome, Kon-El. To the Justice League. In whatever capacity you choose. You are family now. House of El. House of Justice. Both."

Kon felt tears prickling at his eyes. "I don't know how to do this."

"None of us did at first," Barry said with a gentle smile. "But we figure it out together. That's what family does."

Family. The word echoed in Kon's head. He'd lost his family. His universe. His everything.

But maybe he could build a new one.

Different. Imperfect. Not a replacement.

But real.

And maybe that could be enough.

"Okay," Kon said again, voice stronger this time. "Okay. Let's try."

Clark was still smiling, tears on his cheeks now. "Can I—would it be okay if I—" He stopped, uncertain.

Kon understood what he was asking. "Yeah. Yeah, you can."

Clark crossed the distance between them and pulled Kon into a hug. Careful, like he was afraid Kon might break. Or run.

Kon stood stiff for a moment, overwhelmed by the familiar-but-not scent, the familiar-but-not strength, the familiar-but-not warmth.

Then he let himself relax. Let himself hug back.

It wasn't his Clark. Would never be his Clark.

But it was still a hug. Still acceptance. Still someone saying: you're not alone anymore.

And for now, that was enough.

When they pulled apart, both were crying.

"Sorry," Kon said, wiping his eyes. "I don't usually—Kryptonians don't usually—"

"It's okay," Clark said, wiping his own eyes. "It's okay to cry. It's okay to grieve. It's okay to take as much time as you need."

Kon nodded, not trusting his voice.

The rest of the meeting was practical. Discussion of what Kon wanted moving forward. League membership (associate member, on-call only). Access to Watchtower resources. A communicator if he wanted one (he did, reluctantly). Understanding that he could say no to missions. That he could continue being Dr. Keres and only be Superboy—Kon, he corrected, just Kon—when Gotham needed him.

By the time he left, Kon felt wrung out. Exhausted. But also lighter.

Bruce walked him back to the zeta tube.

"You did well," Bruce said quietly.

"I cried in front of Superman."

"Clark cried as well and he needed to see that." Bruce paused. "And you needed to let it out. You've been holding too much in for too long."

Kon put his glasses back on, feeling the familiar distortion field settle back into place. One last shield between him and the world.

"Thank you," Kon said. "For pushing me to do this. For arranging it so I wasn't overwhelmed. For—" he stopped, smiled slightly, "—for being Batman even when you're Bruce."

"That's my secret," Bruce said, and there was definite humor in his voice now. "I'm always Batman."

Kon laughed, surprised by the joke. "Did you just quote the Hulk at me?"

"Damian made me watch it. He said I needed to understand pop culture references."

"Bruce Wayne, watching Marvel movies. The world really is ending."

"Don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain."

Kon smiled—genuinely smiled—for the first time in days. "Your secret's safe with me."

"Good. Now go home. Rest. The boys want to have dinner tomorrow. Are you up for it?"

Kon thought about it. About facing Dick and Tim and Jason and Damian now that they all knew the truth. About trying to navigate relationships that had changed fundamentally.

But also about family. About people who'd sent him messages saying nothing had changed. That they still cared.

"Yeah," Kon said. "Yeah, I'm up for it."

"Good. I'll text you the details." Bruce paused. "And Kon? I'm proud of you. For staying. For facing this. For choosing to build something new."

Kon felt his throat tighten again. "Thanks, Bruce."

He stepped into the zeta tube and was back in Gotham seconds later.

Back home. In the city he'd chosen. With people who'd chosen him back.

It wasn't perfect. It wasn't what he'd lost.

But it was real. And it was his.

And maybe—finally—that was enough.

Wayne Manor - Dining Room - The Next Evening

Kon stood outside the manor's front door for a full minute before ringing the bell.

He'd been here before. Multiple times. For dinners with Bruce, tea with Damian, casual visits that had become part of his routine over the past six months. But this felt different. This was the first time he'd be here as Kon-El, not just Dr. Keres. The first time they'd all be in the same room knowing the truth.

The door opened before he could ring. Alfred stood there with his usual perfect posture and knowing smile.

"Dr. Keres. Or should I say, Mr. Kon-El? Do come in. The family is waiting in the dining room."

"Just Kon is fine, Alfred." Kon stepped inside, trying not to fidget. "And thank you. For—everything."

"I merely opened the door, sir."

"You know what I mean."

Alfred's expression softened slightly. "Master Bruce has spoken highly of your character for months now. I confess I'm not entirely surprised by recent revelations. You've always carried yourself with a certain... otherworldly quality."

"You knew?"

"I suspected. Though I must admit, Kryptonian was not my first hypothesis." Alfred guided him toward the dining room. "For what it's worth, it changes nothing in my estimation of you. You are still the young man who always thanks the kitchen staff and insists on helping with dishes."

Kon felt something in his chest loosen. "Thanks, Alfred."

The dining room was less formal than Kon expected. The large table was set, but the atmosphere was casual. Dick was already there, arguing with Jason about something sports-related. Tim was on his laptop, probably working despite the dinner setting. Damian sat with perfect posture, but his eyes tracked to the door the moment Kon entered.

Bruce stood at the head of the table. "Kon. Glad you could make it."

Everyone went quiet. All eyes on him.

Kon fought the urge to run. "Hey. So. I guess we're all on the same page now?"

"That you're an actual superhero who can bench-press buildings?" Jason said with a grin. "Yeah, we got the memo."

"I don't bench-press buildings," Kon protested automatically. "That would be structurally unsound and—" He stopped, realizing Jason was messing with him. "You're messing with me."

"Always." Jason's grin widened. "But seriously, doc. You caught Superman mid-flight. That was the most badass thing I've ever seen, and I've seen a lot of badass things."

"It was adequately impressive," Damian added, which from him was high praise. "Though I must inquire—have you always possessed such capabilities, or was there a triggering event?"

"Always," Kon said, moving to the chair Bruce indicated. "Kryptonian powers. Solar radiation based. I've been holding back the whole time we've known each other."

"That must have been exhausting," Tim said quietly, closing his laptop. "Constantly monitoring your strength. Your speed. Making sure you seemed human."

"It was," Kon admitted. "But I've had practice. Even back in my universe I had a civilian identity, used rarely but it existed."

Dick stood and moved around the table. Before Kon could react, he pulled him into a hug. "I'm glad you're okay. When I saw that footage, when I thought you might get hurt stopping Clark—" He pulled back, hands on Kon's shoulders. "I'm just really glad you're okay."

"I'm Kryptonian," Kon said, slightly overwhelmed. "It takes a lot to hurt me."

"Doesn't mean we don't worry," Dick replied. "That's what family does."

There was that word again. Family.

Kon looked around the table at these people who'd spent six months getting to know him, who'd sent him messages of support, who were looking at him now with the same expressions they'd always had. Concern. Affection. Acceptance.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you," Kon said. "Any of you. I wanted to, sometimes, but I was scared. Of being rejected. Of being seen as a threat. Of—" he stopped, swallowed hard. "Of losing what I'd built with you."

"You're not losing anything," Tim said firmly. "You're still Kon. Still our friend. The powers don't change that."

"Though they do explain several anomalies," Damian noted. "Your lack of visible exertion during physical activities. Your perfect surgical precision. The time you caught that falling tray without looking."

Kon winced. "You noticed that?"

"I notice everything, Kon. I simply chose not to comment." Damian's expression softened slightly. "I am glad you trusted Father enough to reveal yourself. Even if the circumstances were less than ideal."

"Less than ideal is one way to put it," Jason snorted. "Superman trying to kill Bruce is more like 'completely FUBAR.'"

"Language," Bruce said mildly, gesturing for everyone to sit. "Let's eat. We can discuss everything else over dinner."

The meal was surprisingly normal. Alfred had prepared Kon's favorites—had he always been doing that, knowing somehow?—and the conversation flowed easily. Jason told a story about a recent Red Hood operation that was probably 80% exaggeration. Dick talked about Blüdhaven's new community center. Damian discussed his latest art acquisition with the kind of passion he rarely showed.

But there were new elements too. Questions about Kryptonian biology. About Kon's training. About his old universe and the differences from this one.

"So in your world," Tim said, leaning forward with that intense focus that meant he was cataloging every detail, "we were a team?"

"Yeah. You, me, Bart Allen—Impulse—and Cassie Sandsmark—Wonder Girl. Plus others who rotated in and out." Kon smiled, the memory bittersweet. "We were a disaster most of the time. But we were family."

"What was I like?" Tim asked. "Your me?"

Kon looked at him carefully. "Different from you. Same brilliance, same strategic mind. But you'd been through different things. Lost different people. Carried different burdens." He paused. "But some things were the same. The way you care about your team. The way you push yourself too hard. The terrible coffee habits."

Tim's lips quirked. "So some things are universal."

"Apparently."

"And me?" Damian asked. "Did I exist in your universe?"

Kon shook his head. "No. You're unique to this one, or maybe if it had continued to exist you would have been born later on. Though I knew your mother, different version, but still... formidable."

"Of course she was," Damian said with satisfaction.

Dick grinned. "What about me? Was I still devastatingly charming and—ow!" He rubbed his arm where Jason had punched him.

"You were older," Kon said. "Already Nightwing. More settled. You'd been through a lot, but you still—you still had that light. That ability to make people feel like they mattered." He looked at Dick. "Still too fond of plunging necklines, Some things are universal too."

"And Jason?" Tim asked, glancing at his brother.

Kon hesitated. "Jason was dead in my universe. Until he wasn't. His return was... complicated. Violent. It took years for him and my Tim to work through it."

The table went quiet.

Jason broke the silence. "Well, that's cheerful dinner conversation."

"Sorry," Kon said quickly. "I shouldn't have—"

"No, it's fine." Jason's voice was serious now. "I'm guessing the resurrection wasn't exactly smooth in your universe either."

"Lazarus Pit?"

"Lazarus Pit."

"Yeah. It messed you up. Made you—" Kon stopped, searching for words. "Made you hurt in ways that took a long time to heal. But you did heal. Eventually. You and Tim became brothers again. Real brothers, not just people who tolerated each other."

Tim was very still. "How did we work it out?"

Kon winced, and said with a rueful tone. "It was…explosive… when I went to pick Tim up from the site there was nothing of the original structure left and Tim and Jason were trading ‘I hate you’s with the same fondness one would say I love you to a sibling…. I had to carry both of them to the cave and Bruce tore them a new one."

"Huh." Jason looked at Tim with an unreadable expression.

Then Damian cleared his throat. "Kon, I have a question regarding your powers. The solar radiation absorption, does it function similarly to Superman's, or are there variations due to your hybrid genetics?"

And just like that, the conversation moved on. But something had shifted. Some acknowledgment that Kon's other universe could offer insights into this one. Could help them understand themselves better.

After dinner, they migrated to the study. Bruce poured drinks for those who wanted them (Kon accepted a whiskey even though alcohol didn't affect him, just for the ritual of it). They sprawled on couches and chairs, the formal dinner dissolved into comfortable hanging out.

"So," Dick said eventually. "What now? Are you going to join the hero community? Costume and code name and everything?"

Kon shook his head. "No. I mean, I'll help when Gotham needs it. When there are emergencies. But I'm not putting on a cape. I'm not becoming a full-time hero. I'm a doctor. That's who I want to be."

"The League offered associate membership," Bruce added. "On-call only. No obligation to participate in regular missions."

"And I took it," Kon said. "But on my terms. I help when I can. When it makes sense. But my priority is still medicine. Still helping people the way I've been doing."

"That's actually really cool," Tim said. "A hero who has a real life outside of it. Who prioritizes the civilian identity. That's rare."

"It's smart," Jason agreed. "Keeps you grounded. Gives you purpose beyond punching bad guys."

"Though your punching technique is adequately effective," Damian noted. "I watched the footage. Your form could use refinement, but your strategic thinking is sound."

"Thanks?" Kon wasn't sure if that was a compliment or criticism. With Damian, it could be both.

"He's saying he wants to spar with you," Dick translated with a grin. "Damian's been itching to test himself against someone with super-strength."

"Tt. I merely wish to understand his combat capabilities. For strategic purposes."

"Sure, gremlin. Strategic purposes." Jason smirked. "Admit it, you want to see if you can take down a Kryptonian."

"I could take down a Kryptonian if properly prepared," Damian said with absolute confidence. "Father has protocols."

"Everyone has protocols for everyone," Kon said. "That's what Batmen do. I'm assuming Bruce already has seventeen ways to neutralize me if I go rogue."

Bruce's expression didn't change. "Thirty-two, actually. But who's counting?"

"Thirty-two?" Kon laughed despite himself. "Really?"

"You're Kryptonian. Protocols are necessary."

"I'm not going rogue, Bruce."

"Good. Then you'll never find out what they are."

The evening wound down eventually. Jason left first, citing an early "meeting" (patrol). Damian retired to work on homework, though not before extracting a promise from Kon to visit for tea again soon. Dick lingered, giving Kon another hug and making him promise to call if he needed anything.

Tim walked Kon out to his car.

"Hey," Tim said as they reached Kon's beat-up sedan (he still hadn't replaced it, even though he could afford better). "Thank you. For today. For letting us in. I know it wasn't easy."

"Nothing about this is easy," Kon agreed. "But you guys are making it easier. So. Thanks for that."

"We're not going anywhere," Tim said firmly. "Whatever you need, time, space, support, someone to drink terrible coffee with at 2 AM, we're here."

"Even though I lied for six months?"

"You were protecting yourself. That's not lying. That's surviving." Tim's expression was intense. "And Kon? What you said about your Tim and your Jason, about them working through it, that matters. That helps. Knowing it's possible. Knowing that broken things can be fixed if you try hard enough."

"It's possible," Kon confirmed. "You just have to both want it."

"Yeah." Tim stepped back. "Drive safe. Text when you get home?"

"A car crash would do nothing to me, you know."

"So? Text anyway. Humor me."

Kon smiled. "Okay. I'll text."

As he drove away from Wayne Manor, Kon's phone buzzed multiple times. Messages from the group chat:

Dick: Tonight was great. Same time next week?

Jason: Doc's buying next round. He's got Kryptonian strength, he can carry more beer.

Damian: Your insights into our alternate counterparts were valuable. I would appreciate further discussions on the matter.

Bruce: You did well tonight. Proud of you.

Kon pulled over for a moment, reading the messages with something that felt suspiciously like happiness.

He typed back: Same time next week sounds good. I'll bring dessert.

Then added to Bruce privately: Thank you. For everything. For pushing me. For believing I could do this.

The response came quickly: You did it yourself. I just provided the opportunity. That's what family does.

Family.

Kon was starting to believe it might actually be true.

Two Days Later - Kon's Apartment

Kon was reviewing patient files when his phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number. He opened it cautiously.

This is Clark. I hope it's okay that I'm texting. Bruce gave me your number. I wanted to ask you something, but I need you to be honest with me. Can I tell Lois and Jon about you? About what you are and where you came from?

Kon stared at the message for a long time. His first instinct was to say no. To keep the circle small. To minimize the number of people who knew the truth.

But then he thought about Damian. About how Damian and Jon were best friends. About how unfair it would be to ask a thirteen-year-old to keep such a massive secret from his best friend.

About how Lois Lane was Clark's wife, and she deserved to know.

About how hiding had brought him nothing but loneliness.

He typed back: It's okay. You can tell them. But maybe... maybe give me some time before I meet them? I'm still processing all of this.

Clark's response was almost immediate: Of course. Take all the time you need. Thank you for trusting me with this. It means more than you know.

One question though—does Jon know about your universe? About how reality works?

He knows there are alternate universes. He's met some. But I'll be careful how I explain you. I'll make sure he understands how painful this is for you.

Thanks, Clark.

Kon? I know I'm not him. Your Clark. But I meant what I said. There's room in my family for you, if you want it. No pressure. No obligations. Just... room.

Kon felt his eyes sting. He blinked rapidly, refusing to cry over a text message.

I'll think about it. It's just... it's hard. Seeing you. Knowing you're not him.

I understand. Take your time. I'm not going anywhere.

Kon set down his phone and went to his window, looking out at Gotham's skyline. His city. The one he'd chosen. The one that had chosen him back.

Somewhere out there, Clark was probably telling Lois right now. And soon, Jon would know that his father's clone from another universe was living in Gotham.

It should have felt terrifying. Should have felt like exposure, like vulnerability, like risk.

Instead, it felt like progress.

Like slowly, carefully, building something new from the ruins of what he'd lost.

It wasn't the same. Would never be the same.

But maybe it could be something good anyway.

Different. Real. His.

Kon smiled slightly and went back to his patient files.

One day at a time. One person at a time. One step closer to believing he deserved the family he was building.

Eventually was finally starting to feel like now.

And that was enough.

Kent Farm, Smallville - That Evening

Clark had been staring at his phone for twenty minutes, reading and re-reading Kon's permission to tell Lois and Jon. Now he sat at the kitchen table in the farmhouse, watching Lois make tea while Jon did homework at the other end of the table.

This was it. No more putting it off.

"Lois, Jon—I need to talk to you both about something. It's important."

Jon looked up immediately, his enhanced hearing probably catching the stress in Clark's voice. Lois set down the kettle and joined them at the table, her reporter instincts activated.

"What's wrong?" she asked, her hand finding Clark's.

"Nothing's wrong. At least, not exactly. But there's something I need to tell you about." Clark took a breath. "You both know that reality is complicated. That there are alternate universes, other versions of Earth."

"Like the ones I've visited?" Jon asked, sitting up straighter.

"Similar. But this is about someone who came from one of those alternate realities. Someone who lost everything when his entire universe was destroyed." Clark paused. "Someone who's been living in Gotham for nine years. A refugee."

Lois's eyes sharpened. "The Kryptonian who fought you in Robinson Park. Batman's mystery hero."

"How did you—"

"Clark, I'm an investigative journalist. I saw the blurred footage. I noticed the League scrubbed the identity. And Batman doesn't usually defend random meta-humans with that much vehemence unless there's a personal connection." She leaned forward. "Who is he?"

Clark looked at his wife, then his son. "His name is Kon-El. Kon of the House of El. He's a clone, created from my DNA and Lex Luthor's in his universe by an organization called Cadmus. They made him to be a weapon, but his universe's version of me helped him become a hero instead. Superboy, they called him."

Jon's eyes went wide. "A clone? Of you?"

"Of that universe's me, yes. He was part of a team, Young Justice. He had friends, family, a life. And then his entire reality was restructured out of existence. He's the only survivor. Everyone he knew, everyone he loved, all gone." Clark's voice was thick with emotion. "He ended up here, in a universe where he was never created. Where I have you instead of him."

Lois was very still, processing. "Dr. Keres," she said suddenly. "The humanitarian doctor. The one who declined my interview request."

Clark nodded. "He's been hiding. Working as a surgeon. Trying to stay away from anything that would expose him as Kryptonian. He's been terrified of—" he stopped, swallowed. "Of me rejecting him. Of being seen as a violation instead of a person."

"Oh, Clark." Lois squeezed his hand. "That's why you've been so emotional the past few days."

"He's carrying so much pain. So much loss. And he's been alone with it for nine years." Clark looked at Jon. "He knew about you. About us. And he stayed away because he didn't want to complicate your life. Didn't want you to feel like you had to compete with him for my attention."

Jon was quiet, his young face serious. Then, in typical eleven-year-old fashion, his enthusiasm bubbled up. "So I have another brother? That's amazing! I've always wanted a sibling and—" He stopped abruptly, his expression shifting to concern. "Wait. Is he going to be the new Superboy?"

The question hung in the air.

Clark immediately moved to kneel beside Jon's chair, taking his son's hands. "No, Jon. Kon has said he doesn't want to be Superboy again. That title belongs to you. He's choosing to be a doctor first, a hero second. He's not here to replace you or take anything from you."

"But he's older," Jon said, and there was a vulnerability in his voice that broke Clark's heart. "And he's been a hero before. And he's, he's you and Lex Luthor combined. That's like, the smartest person ever plus Superman. How am I supposed to—"

"Jon." Clark's voice was firm but gentle. "You are my son. My pride and joy. Nothing changes that. Kon's not here to overshadow you. He's just someone who needs family. Who needs to know he's not alone anymore."

"And you're not in competition," Lois added, moving to join them. "You're both family. Different, but both important. Both loved."

Jon was quiet for a moment, processing. "Does he want to be part of the family? Or is he still hiding?"

"He's... working on it," Clark said carefully. "He's scared. He's grieving. But he's trying. And maybe later on we can help him create another hero identity for when we need his help. Not Superboy. Something new. Something that's his."

Jon's face immediately brightened, the mood shift so rapid it gave Clark whiplash. "I can come up with options! Code names and costume ideas and—" He was already pulling out his notebook, the one where he designed hero concepts. "What colors does he like? Does he want to fly solo or work with teams? Does he have a symbol preference?"

And just like that, the concern was replaced with enthusiasm. Jon was already sketching, muttering about design elements and thematic coherence.

Lois caught Clark's eye and chuckled softly. "Our son is too quick to change moods."

"Thank Rao," Clark murmured, relief flooding through him. The alternative—Jon feeling threatened or replaced—would have been so much harder to navigate.

Lois stood and pulled Clark up with her, guiding him a few steps away to give them privacy while Jon sketched furiously.

"How are you doing with all of this?" she asked quietly. "This isn't just about Jon and me knowing. This is about you having to confront what Cadmus did in another universe. About someone carrying your DNA without your permission."

"I know. And it's—" Clark stopped, searching for words. "In his universe, I struggled with it. Bruce told me it took months for that version of me to see Kon as a person instead of a violation. I don't want to make the same mistakes. I don't want him to feel like he has to earn my acceptance."

"So you're going to give it freely," Lois said, understanding in her eyes.

"I already did. At the Watchtower. I told him he's family. House of El. That there's room for him." Clark's voice cracked slightly. "He's so young, Lois. Twenty-four. And he's carrying the grief of losing an entire universe. Everyone he loved. I can't—I won't—add to that pain by making him feel unwanted."

Lois pulled him into a hug. "You're a good man, Clark Kent. And you're going to be exactly what he needs, a friend, a mentor, maybe eventually family. When he's ready."

"When he's ready," Clark agreed.

"Can I meet him?" Lois asked. "Not as a reporter. As your wife. As someone who wants to welcome him."

"Eventually. He needs time. He asked for space before meeting you and Jon. He's still processing everything." Clark smiled slightly. "But I think he'd like you. You're fierce and brilliant and exactly the kind of person who would have seen through his disguise in about ten seconds."

"I already did see through it," Lois pointed out. "I connected Dr. Keres to the mystery Kryptonian immediately."

"Of course you did."

Jon bounced over, notebook in hand. "Dad, look! I designed three options. This one is called Apex, it's got blue and silver. This one is Haven, more peaceful, green and white. And this one is Eclipse, black and gold, very dramatic."

Clark looked at the surprisingly detailed sketches. "These are really good, Jon."

"I thought about what would make him different from you and me. His own identity. Something that says 'I'm not trying to be Superman or Superboy, I'm just me.'" Jon's expression turned serious. "Because that's important, right? That he gets to be himself?"

"That's very important," Clark said, pulling Jon into a hug. "And very thoughtful of you to consider."

"Can I meet him soon?" Jon asked, muffled against Clark's chest.

"When he's ready. He's still scared, Jon. He's been hurt a lot. We need to give him time."

"Okay. But when we do meet, I'll be the best brother ever. I promise."

Clark's eyes stung with tears. "I know you will."

After Jon went back to his homework—though he kept sneaking glances at his hero designs—Lois and Clark stood together by the window, looking out at the Kansas sunset.

"We're going to need to talk to Damian," Lois said thoughtfully. "If Jon and Damian are best friends, and Damian knows about Kon, this is going to come up."

"Bruce said Damian's known Kon for months."

"That must have been hard for him. Damian loves showing off what he knows." Lois smiled slightly. "We'll make sure Jon understands the sensitivity. That Kon's story is his to tell, not ours to share."

"Thank you," Clark said. "For understanding. For being willing to welcome him."

"He's family. House of El. That makes him mine to protect too." Lois leaned against Clark. "Even if he doesn't know it yet."

Clark wrapped his arm around his wife and watched Jon work on his hero designs with the kind of enthusiasm only an eleven-year-old could muster.

His family was expanding. Differently than expected. More complicated than he'd imagined.

But family was never simple. And Kon—lost, grieving, brave Kon—deserved a family who would fight for him.

Who would give him the space he needed and the acceptance he craved.

Who would help him build something new from the ashes of what he'd lost.

Clark would make sure of it.

Even if it took time. Even if it was complicated.

Kon-El was family now.

And the House of El took care of its own.

The Batcave - Training Area - One Week Later

Kon stood in the center of the training mat, wearing workout clothes and no glasses. There was no point in the distortion field here—everyone knew what he was now.

Damian circled him like a predator sizing up prey, also in training gear, his expression focused and analytical.

"Standard sparring rules," Bruce said from the sidelines, where he stood with Dick, Tim, and Jason. "No powers, Kon. Hand-to-hand only. Damian, no lethal strikes."

"Obviously, Father," Damian said, not taking his eyes off Kon. "I am not attempting to kill our guest."

"Just maim him a little," Jason muttered. Dick elbowed him.

"Ready?" Kon asked, falling into a fighting stance that was immediately recognizable—Batman's style, or a variation of it.

Damian's eyes sharpened. "Interesting. Begin."

Damian moved first, fast and precise, going for a leg sweep that would have taken down most opponents. Kon shifted his weight, redirected the momentum, and countered with a move that forced Damian to roll away.

They traded blows—Damian's assassin training versus Kon's carefully controlled strength and borrowed Batman techniques. Kon was holding back significantly, but his skill was undeniable. He read Damian's moves, countered them, adapted his strategy on the fly.

"You've had extensive training," Damian said, breathing slightly harder as they reset. "This is not self-taught."

"Nope," Kon agreed, blocking a strike aimed at his solar plexus. "I had a good teacher."

He swept Damian's legs out from under him—gentle enough not to hurt, fast enough that Damian couldn't counter—and the younger boy hit the mat.

Damian was up immediately, a rare grin on his face. "Again."

They went three more rounds. By the end, both were sweating (Kon more from effort than exertion), and Damian looked simultaneously frustrated and impressed.

"Your technique is exceptional," Damian admitted, accepting the water bottle Dick tossed him. "Particularly your adaptability. You shift styles mid-fight."

"I had a good teacher," Kon repeated, wiping his face with a towel.

"Yeah, but who—" Tim started, then stopped. "Wait. Batman. Your universe's Batman."

Kon nodded. "For the first few months after I was created, Clark was still processing the whole 'clone made without my permission' thing. He wasn't ready to mentor me yet. So Batman stepped in. Taught me how to fight, how to think strategically, how to be a hero instead of a weapon."

He looked at Bruce. "Your counterpart was stern, demanding, and probably the best teacher I ever had. He made sure I understood that powers weren't enough. That I needed skill, strategy, discipline."

Bruce's expression was unreadable, but something flickered in his eyes. "He sounds like he knew what he was doing."

"He did. Even if his methods were sometimes—" Kon paused, smiling slightly, "—intense."

"Batman? Intense? I'm shocked," Jason drawled. "Truly."

"I want to try," Dick said suddenly, stepping onto the mat. "I want to see how you handle Nightwing's style."

"You don't have to ask twice," Kon said, resetting his stance.

Dick was different from Damian—more fluid, more acrobatic. He used momentum and flexibility in ways that made him unpredictable. But Kon adapted, reading the patterns, anticipating the aerial attacks.

"You're good at this," Dick said, breathing hard after Kon managed to pin him. "Really good."

"I've fought a lot of acrobats," Kon admitted, helping Dick up. "My Nightwing was similar to you. All momentum and movement. I learned to counter it."

Tim was next, approaching with his characteristic analytical intensity. "I want to see something. Try to fight me like you'd fight my counterpart."

That was harder. Kon's muscle memory kept wanting to pull punches, to protect, because this was Tim. But he pushed through, treating it like a real sparring match.

Tim's style was more cerebral—he set traps, created openings, used Kon's expectations against him. It was impressive, and a few times Kon nearly got caught.

"You're different from him," Kon said after they finished, both slightly winded. "My Tim was more aggressive. You're more patient."

"Different experiences shape different fighting styles," Tim said thoughtfully. "Did we—did my counterpart and you spar often?"

"All the time. You were one of the few people who could consistently surprise me in a fight." Kon smiled. "You also talked the most trash. Like, constant commentary."

"That sounds about right," Dick laughed.

"My turn," Jason announced, cracking his knuckles. "Let's see if you can handle someone who doesn't play by the rules."

Jason's style was brutal—street fighting mixed with formal training, unpredictable and aggressive. He fought dirty, went for weak points, used every advantage.

Kon countered it all.

"Okay, how?" Jason demanded after Kon had him in an arm lock. "How are you this good at reading all of us?"

"Because I've fought most of you before," Kon said, releasing him. "Different versions, but the core styles are similar. Damian fights like an assassin, while I never fought Talia myself I saw enough alumni of the League of assassins to recognize the stance. Dick fights like he learned from the circus and Batman—same foundation. Tim fights like he taught himself and then refined it with Batman's training—again, similar. And Jason—" he looked at Red Hood, "—you fight like a Batman raised by a gang. That's universal too."

The silence that followed was heavy.

"Well," Jason said finally. "That's a hell of an observation."

"Sorry," Kon said quickly. "I didn't mean—"

"No, you're right." Jason's expression was complicated. "It's just weird having someone who knows that. Who understands where the fighting style comes from."

"I can stop," Kon offered. "If this is too much—"

"Don't," Bruce interrupted, stepping onto the mat himself. "Don't stop. This is valuable. Understanding how you fight, how you think—it helps us work together if we need to."

He settled into a fighting stance. "Let's see how you handle the original."

Sparring with Bruce was different from sparring with his sons. Bruce was precise, economical in his movements, always three steps ahead. It was like fighting a computer that had analyzed every possible move.

But Kon had fought his Batman. Had trained under him. Knew the patterns.

They moved together like a choreographed dance—strike, counter, deflect, adapt. Bruce tested Kon's limits, pushed him to use more of his skills, forced him to think faster.

When they finally broke apart, both were breathing hard (Kon from the mental effort more than physical).

"You've been trained well," Bruce said. "Your Batman did good work."

"He'd be proud of you too," Kon replied without thinking. "You're a lot like him. Just—less worn down. He'd be glad to see a version of himself that still laughs sometimes."

Bruce's expression softened. "He sounds like he had a hard life."

"He did. But he still showed up every day. Still tried to make things better." Kon swallowed hard. "He was one of the best people I ever knew. Even when he was being impossible and demanding and making me do training exercises I was pretty sure would kill me."

"Sounds familiar," Dick muttered.

"The point is," Kon continued, looking at all of them, "I might have been on a team with Tim, but for the months before Clark got comfortable with my existence, I was practically raised by Batman. And Cadmus did dump a lot of combat information in my head when they made me. But it was Batman who taught me how to use it right. How to think like a strategist instead of just a weapon."

"That's actually really cool," Tim said. "Having that institutional knowledge from another universe. It's like having a cheat sheet for how we all fight."

"It's also kind of unfair," Jason pointed out. "We don't have a cheat sheet for how you fight."

"Sure you do," Kon countered. "I fight like someone who was trained by your father. You know all his moves. Mine are just adaptations."

"He's right," Damian said thoughtfully. "His base style is Father's. The variations are from his own experiences and physical capabilities. It's actually quite logical."

"That's the nicest thing you've ever said about my fighting," Kon said.

"Do not let it go to your head."

They ended up going for another hour, rotating through different combinations—Kon versus two opponents, three-on-one scenarios, tactical exercises. By the end, everyone was exhausted (Even Kon).

"We should do this regularly," Dick suggested as they headed toward the showers. "Not just for training, but—it's fun. And it helps us understand how to work together."

"You just want an excuse to try new moves," Jason accused.

"That too."

Kon lingered behind as the others filed out, finding himself alone with Bruce for a moment.

"Thank you," Bruce said quietly. "For sharing this. Your training, your knowledge, your memories of him. It—" he paused, searching for words. "It means something. To understand what I could have been. What I was in another universe."

"You're better than him," Kon said honestly. "You've got something he lost—hope. Family that's not just duty. You laugh. He forgot how to do that. I don’t… I don’t think he hoped the world could be saved, but he wanted to save the few people who he loved dearly…I know I’ve said my world was rougher…I would have loved to have shown Bruce this one, even if only a bit, to restart that hope"

"Maybe he needed someone like you to remind him."

"I tried. We all did. But he was stubborn." Kon smiled. "Though I guess that's universal too."

"Apparently." Bruce's mouth twitched. "You're welcome here, Kon. In the Cave, on patrol, for training—whatever you need. This is your home now, if you want it to be."

"I'm still figuring out what I want," Kon admitted. "But—yeah. This helps. Having people who understand. Who get it."

"We get it," Bruce confirmed. "And we're not going anywhere."

As Kon headed for the showers, he felt that familiar warmth in his chest—the one that meant family, that meant belonging, that meant home.

Different from what he'd had. Different from what he'd lost.

But real. And his.

And maybe that was exactly what he needed.

One Month Later

Life, Kon discovered, could be surprisingly normal even when you were an interdimensional refugee with Superman's powers.

The month had passed in a strange blend of ordinary and extraordinary. He still worked at Gotham General—thirty-hour weeks, surgical rotations, teaching residents. His colleagues had noticed the increased media attention after "that incident in the park" but Kon deflected with practiced ease. Just wrong place, wrong time. Nothing to do with him.

Clark had started texting. At first it was awkward—both of them trying too hard, unsure of boundaries. But slowly it became easier. Coffee meetups every week or so, always in civilian clothes, always in neutral locations. They talked about medicine, about Smallville, about everything except the elephant in the room until one day Clark just asked: "What was he like? My counterpart?"

And Kon told him. About his Superman's kindness, his struggles, his eventual acceptance. About how he'd become family.

They were building something new. Carefully. Slowly. But building.

The League had started visiting too. Barry showed up at the hospital one day, claiming he needed a physical for "insurance purposes." Spent the whole appointment asking about Kon's medical techniques and comparing notes on superhuman metabolism. Diana came by with flowers "for a friend," stayed for tea in the cafeteria, and talked about the weight of being different from everyone around you. Even Hal stopped in, awkward but sincere, to apologize for his initial suspicion.

J'onn visited in his human form, just sat quietly in the hospital lobby reading while Kon worked, a silent support that somehow meant everything.

Then there was Constantine.

John had stumbled into Gotham General's ER at 2 AM on a Tuesday, blood-soaked and reeking of sulfur, with what he claimed were "just scratches" from a "minor disagreement with a demon."

The "scratches" required forty-three stitches and a tetanus shot.

"You promised to try not to get stabbed again," Kon had said while suturing.

"I said I'd try. Didn't say I'd succeed."

"What was it this time?"

"Possession case gone wrong. The demon took offense to my methods."

"Your methods of what?"

"Exorcism via creative profanity and a bottle of holy water that may have been mostly gin."

Kon had paused mid-stitch. "John, that's not how exorcism works."

"Worked, didn't it? Demon's gone. I'm alive. Mostly."

After patching him up, Constantine had looked at Kon with that sharp, knowing expression. "You've been better. I can tell. Got some of your mojo back. Good. Means you're not running anymore."

"I'm trying not to."

"That's all anyone can do, mate." Constantine stood, testing his newly stitched arm. "Right then. You're buying me a drink."

"It's 3 AM."

"So? You're Kryptonian. You don't sleep. I don't sleep. We're both disasters who make terrible life choices. Pub?"

And somehow Kon had ended up at a dive bar in Crime Alley at 4 AM, drinking whiskey that did nothing to him while Constantine told increasingly improbable stories about his magical misadventures.

It became a thing. Every few weeks, Constantine would show up—sometimes injured, sometimes just passing through—and drag Kon out for drinks. They'd sit in terrible bars, and Constantine would talk about magic and demons and the weight of making impossible choices. And Kon would talk about medicine and grief and trying to build a life in a universe that wasn't his.

They understood each other. Both running from things. Both trying to help in broken ways. Both disasters who kept showing up anyway.

The Watchtower - Conference Room

"I'm just saying," Hal was saying, leaning back in his chair, "it's concerning. Constantine is a walking disaster. And now he's apparently best friends with our new Kryptonian."

"They're not best friends," Barry protested. "They just... drink together sometimes."

"They drink together a lot," Hal corrected. "I've seen the reports. Constantine's been spotted at Gotham General at least 2 times this month. And they've been photographed at various bars across the city."

"Since when do we surveil Kon?" Diana asked, her tone sharp.

"We don't. But Constantine's on the watch list. And Kon keeps showing up in proximity."

Bruce, who'd been silent until now, spoke up. "They met in Paris. Constantine was injured, Kon treated him. They developed a rapport."

"A rapport," Hal repeated. "With John Constantine. The man who's sold his soul to three different demons and somehow conned his way out of all three contracts. The man who's banned from half the magical establishments in Europe. That John Constantine."

"That's the one," Bruce confirmed, utterly unruffled.

"And we're okay with this?"

"Why wouldn't we be?" Diana challenged. "Constantine, for all his flaws, is an ally. And if he and Kon have found common ground, that's not our concern."

"It's just—Constantine's a bad influence."

"Kon fought in war zones for months," Bruce pointed out. "Walked through hostile territory for two weeks. Survived the end of his entire universe. I think he can handle John Constantine's influence."

"Plus," Barry added, grinning, "from what Clark's told me, Kon gives as good as he gets. Apparently, Constantine tried to convince him to help with a necromancy case, and Kon gave him a fifteen-minute lecture on the medical ethics of disturbing the dead."

"He what?" Hal looked stunned.

"Complete with citations," Clark confirmed, entering the conference room. He'd been listening from the hallway. "John called me afterward. Said Kon was 'absolutely insufferable' and 'worse than a nun' and that he 'liked the kid even more now.'"

Diana laughed. "That sounds like both of them."

"I still don't like it," Hal muttered.

"You don't have to like it," Bruce said flatly. "Kon's an adult. He can choose his own friends. And if Constantine makes him laugh after everything he's been through, then I'm not going to interfere."

"Makes him laugh?" Clark asked, something soft in his expression.

"According to Alfred, yes. Kon came to dinner last week and told a story about Constantine trying to teach him a warding spell. Apparently, John set his own coat on fire."

"That's because I questioned whether the spell was 'medically sound,'" a new voice said from the doorway.

Everyone turned to see Kon himself, in his civilian clothes and glasses, looking mildly exasperated at finding himself the topic of conversation.

"How long have you been standing there?" Hal asked.

"Long enough to hear you debating my friendship choices like I'm a teenager with questionable taste." Kon walked into the room with confidence he hadn't had a month ago. "For the record, John is a disaster. But he's a disaster who understands what it's like to be alone, to make hard choices, and to keep going anyway. We get each other. That's rare."

"He's also a magical menace," Hal pointed out.

"So? You're a space cop with a ring that runs on willpower. Diana's an immortal Amazon. Clark's an alien who can bench-press mountains. We're all weird." Kon shrugged. "At least John's honest about being a mess."

Barry snorted. "He's got a point."

"Plus," Kon continued, "John's the one who told me to stop running. Back in Paris. He said running doesn't solve anything, just postpones the inevitable. He was right. So yeah, I'm going to keep drinking terrible whiskey with him in dive bars and listening to his ridiculous stories about demon contracts. Because he helped me when I needed it."

The room was quiet.

"Also," Kon added with a slight smile, "he's hilarious. Last week he tried to con a demon using Monopoly rules. It almost worked."

"Almost?" Clark asked, clearly trying not to laugh.

"The demon got Park Place. John's still bitter about it."

Even Bruce's lips twitched at that.

"Fine," Hal said, throwing up his hands. "Be friends with the magical disaster. But when he inevitably gets you into trouble—"

"I'll handle it," Kon said confidently. "I'm Kryptonian. I can take a little magical backlash."

"That's not how magic works," Diana said, but she was smiling.

"Then John will teach me. Between the two of us, we'll figure it out." Kon looked around the room. "Was there an actual reason I was called here, or was it just to discuss my social life?"

"There's a situation developing in Coast City," Diana said, pulling up a holographic display. "Nothing requiring immediate intervention, but we wanted you to be aware—"

The meeting shifted to business, but Clark caught Kon's eye and smiled. Kon smiled back.

A month ago, Kon would have been terrified to walk into this room. To assert himself. To defend his choices to heroes he'd been watching from afar for years.

Now he did it without hesitation. Because they were colleagues. Friends. Family.

Different from what he'd lost, but real.

And if part of that reality included drinking with John Constantine and debating the medical ethics of necromancy, well.

That was just who Kon was now.

Doctor. Hero. Kryptonian. Disaster-adjacent friend to magical menaces.

He'd take it.

Crime Alley Bar - Later That Night

"Heard you defended my honor to the Justice League," Constantine said, sliding a whiskey across the bar to Kon.

"I defended our friendship. Your honor is indefensible."

"Fair point." Constantine raised his glass. "To disasters who keep showing up anyway."

"To disasters," Kon agreed, clinking glasses.

They drank in comfortable silence, two broken people who'd found understanding in the least likely place.

"You know," Constantine said after a while, "you're all right, doc. For a Kryptonian. For a hero. For a bloke who's too good for his own good."

"You're all right too," Kon replied. "For a magical menace who sets himself on fire regularly."

"Only sometimes. And it's usually for a good reason."

"The last time it was because you forgot which pocket had the lighter fluid."

"I said usually."

Kon laughed—genuine, unguarded laughter. The kind he'd thought he'd lost along with his universe.

Constantine grinned. "There it is. The actual human emotion. You're getting better at those."

"I'm trying."

"That's all anyone can do, mate. Try. Fail. Try again. Drink terrible whiskey with questionable company." He flagged down the bartender. "Another round. The doc's buying."

"Why am I buying?"

"Because you're rich and I'm broke."

"I'm not rich. I'm a doctor."

"You're a doctor who doesn't sleep and works constantly. You've got to have savings."

"I have savings for emergencies."

"This is an emergency. I'm parched."

Kon rolled his eyes but signaled for another round anyway.

This was his life now. League meetings and surgical rotations and dive bars with Constantine. Coffee with Clark and training with the Bats and slowly, carefully building something new.

It wasn't what he'd planned. Wasn't what he'd lost.

But it was his. And he was starting to think that was enough.

More than enough.

Actually pretty damn good, all things considered.

"To new friends," Constantine said, raising his fresh glass.

"To new friends," Kon echoed. "Even the disastrous ones."

"Especially the disastrous ones, mate. We're the most interesting."

Kon couldn't argue with that.

So he didn't.

Wayne Manor - Tim's Room - Late Night

Tim stared at his laptop screen, at the open surveillance file he absolutely should not have been looking at. Again.

It was just... research. Professional interest. Making sure Kon was safe. That Constantine wasn't getting him into dangerous situations. That was all.

The fact that the file had seventeen separate instances of Kon and Constantine at various bars across Gotham over the duration of their acquaintance was just... data. Relevant data. For safety purposes.

The fact that in most of the photos, Kon was laughing—actually laughing, the kind of open, genuine expression Tim had only seen a handful of times—was irrelevant. Not important. Didn't mean anything.

"You're doing the thing again," Dick said from the doorway.

Tim slammed the laptop shut. "What thing?"

"The thing where you obsessively monitor someone because you're worried about them. Or because you have feelings about them. Or both." Dick walked in uninvited and flopped onto Tim's bed. "Let me guess. Kon and Constantine?"

"I'm just making sure he's safe. Constantine is—"

"A disaster, yes, we've established that. The League's established that. You've personally established that at least fifteen times in the past month." Dick propped himself up on his elbows. "But that's not actually what this is about, is it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Tim. Little brother. Light of my life. You've attended exactly zero social events in the past three weeks because they all conflicted with Kon's schedule. You've memorized his shift rotations at the hospital. You've been to that coffee shop near his apartment so many times the barista knows your order."

"That's just—we're friends. Friends do that."

"Friends don't look like kicked puppies every time Constantine texts Kon during your coffee meetups."

Tim's jaw clenched. "I don't—"

"You do. You absolutely do." Dick's voice was gentle now. "It's okay, you know. To have feelings. To be jealous. To want—"

"I'm not jealous," Tim interrupted. "I'm concerned. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

Tim stood abruptly, pacing to his window. Gotham's skyline glittered in the distance. "Constantine is a bad influence. He's reckless and self-destructive and he's going to get Kon hurt."

"Or," Dick suggested, "Constantine understands something about grief and isolation that we don't. And Kon needs that right now."

"I understand grief," Tim said, his voice tight. "I've lost people too. I could—"

He stopped. Couldn't finish that sentence. Couldn't admit what he was thinking.

Dick sat up. "Tim. Are you—do you have feelings for Kon? Like, capital-F Feelings?"

"No." The answer came too fast. "No, I just—we're friends. Good friends. I care about him. As a friend. That's normal."

"Uh-huh."

"It is!"

"So the fact that you've read every article he's ever been mentioned in, watched his TED talk sixteen times, and have a folder on your desktop literally labeled 'Kon Research' is just... friendly interest?"

Tim's face heated. "That's—I'm a detective. I investigate people I care about. It's what I do."

"You have a problem."

"I have boundaries," Tim corrected. "I'm respecting his space. His choices. His right to have friends who aren't me."

"Even when those friends are magical disasters who he's known for less time than he's known you?"

"Especially then." Tim turned back to face Dick. "Because I'm not—I don't—he doesn't see me that way. He can't. I'm just Tim. Not even his Tim. Just this universe's version who's similar but not the same. I'm a reminder of what he lost, not—" He stopped again.

"Not someone he could have feelings for?" Dick finished gently.

"I’m not his Tim," Tim said quietly. "They were best friends. Brothers. Family. And then his universe ended and he lost everything. How am I supposed to compete with that? How am I supposed to be anything other than a painful echo of someone he actually loved?"

"Tim—"

"And even if—even if there was something—which there isn't—he's still processing. Still grieving. Still figuring out who he is in this universe. The last thing he needs is me complicating that with—with whatever this is."

Dick was quiet for a long moment. "So you're just going to ignore it? Pretend you don't feel whatever you're feeling?"

"I'm not feeling anything," Tim insisted. "I'm just—I'm concerned. As a friend. That's all."

"Right.”

Tim slumped against the window. "It doesn't matter anyway. Even if I was—which I'm not—Kon's made it clear he values Constantine's friendship. They have some kind of connection over shared disaster energy or whatever. I'm not going to interfere with that just because—"

"Just because you're jealous?"

"I'm not jealous!" Tim's voice rose. Then, quieter: "I'm not. I'm just... I miss him. I miss our coffee dates when he actually showed up instead of canceling because Constantine needed help with a 'magical emergency.' I miss when he'd text me randomly about interesting medical cases. I miss when I felt like—like I mattered to him."

"Tim." Dick stood and crossed to his brother. "You do matter to him. Anyone with eyes can see that."

"Then why does he spend all his time with Constantine?"

"Because Constantine doesn't look at him like you do."

Tim froze. "Like I do?"

"Like he hung the moon and stars and you're terrified he's going to disappear." Dick's voice was unbearably kind. "Constantine looks at Kon like a fellow disaster. You look at him like he's something precious you're afraid to break. That's probably really intense for someone who's still figuring out how to exist in this universe."

Tim felt something crack in his chest. "I don't know how to look at him differently. Every time I see him, I think about how he almost died in that war zone. How he was alone for years. How he still looks surprised when any of us want to spend time with him. And I just—I want to make it better. I want him to know he's not alone anymore. I want—"

"You want to take care of him," Dick said. "And that's not a bad thing. But maybe it's overwhelming when you're still learning to let people take care of you."

"So what do I do?"

"You could try talking to him. Being honest about how you feel."

"Absolutely not."

"Tim—"

"Dick, I can't. What am I supposed to say? 'Hey Kon, I know you're still processing the loss of your entire universe and the version of me you actually loved, but I might have developed feelings for you. Want to make this incredibly complicated?'" Tim laughed bitterly. "That would go great."

"It might go better than you think."

"Or it would destroy the friendship we've built. And that friendship—even if it's all I get—is too important to risk." Tim met Dick's eyes. "So no. I'm not going to say anything. I'm going to be his friend. Support him. Be happy that he's building a life here, even if that life includes spending all his time with a chain-smoking magical disaster."

"You're really committed to the denial thing, huh?"

"It's not denial if it's a tactical decision."

Dick sighed. "Fine. But Tim? For the record? I think you're underestimating how much you mean to him. And I think Constantine's friendship isn't a threat to yours. It's just different. You can both matter to him."

"Maybe." Tim didn't sound convinced.

After Dick left, Tim opened his laptop again. Stared at the surveillance photos. Kon laughing at something Constantine said.

It was fine. This was fine. Tim was fine with this.

He was absolutely, definitely not jealous.

Not even a little bit.

(He was so jealous he could barely see straight, but admitting that would mean admitting the feelings underneath, and Tim wasn't ready for that. Might never be ready for that.)

His phone buzzed. A text from Kon: Coffee tomorrow? I know I've been flaky lately. Want to make it up to you.

Tim stared at the message for a full minute before responding: Yes. Same place?

Same place. 10 AM.

Tim smiled despite himself. You got it.

See you tomorrow, Tim.

Tim set down his phone and tried to ignore the way his heart had done something complicated at those three words: "See you tomorrow."

He was not developing feelings. He was just... appreciating a friend. Being concerned about a friend. Missing a friend who'd been spending time with someone else.

That was normal. Totally normal. Not jealousy at all.

(It was absolutely jealousy, but Tim had built a career on denial and he wasn't about to stop now.)

The Next Day - Coffee Shop

Kon showed up on time, looking slightly guilty.

"I'm sorry," he said immediately, sliding into the seat across from Tim. "I know I've been kind of MIA lately. Constantine's had this string of cases and he keeps getting himself hurt and—"

"It's fine," Tim interrupted, even though it hadn't been fine. "You're allowed to have other friends."

"I know, but you're—" Kon stopped, seeming to search for words. "You're important. Our coffee dates are important. I don't want you to think I'm blowing you off."

"Are you? Blowing me off?"

"No! God, no. I just—Constantine's …a mess, but a friend.”

Tim felt that crack in his chest widen. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize—"

"Don't apologize." Kon reached across the table, his hand hovering near Tim's before settling on the surface between them. "I'm a mess too, we're disasters together. There's no pressure to be anything other than what we are."

"And with me there's pressure?" Tim asked quietly.

"With you there's—" Kon stopped, looking frustrated. "I don't know how to explain it. You matter more. So I worry more about disappointing you. About not being what you need me to be."

"I don't need you to be anything except yourself."

"I know. Logically, I know that. But feelings aren't logical." Kon pulled his hand back, wrapping it around his coffee cup. "I'm still figuring out how to be myself here. Who that even is. Constantine helps with that. But so do you. Just... differently."

Tim wanted to ask how. Wanted to know what "differently" meant. Wanted to understand why his friendship felt like pressure when Constantine's didn't.

But he didn't. Because pushing would mean revealing too much. Would mean admitting that this hurt more than it should. That he wanted to be the person Kon spent time with, laughed with, felt comfortable with.

"I'm glad you have Constantine," Tim said instead, and meant it. Mostly. "I'm glad you have someone who makes you laugh."

"You make me laugh too," Kon said. "Different laughs. But still."

"Different how?"

Kon considered. "Constantine makes me laugh at the absurdity of life. At how ridiculous everything is. You make me laugh because you're—you're clever and sharp and you notice things that make me see the world differently. Both are good. Just different."

Tim nodded, trying to process that. Trying to figure out if that was good different or just different different.

"I missed you," Kon added quietly. "These past few weeks. I missed our coffee dates."

"I missed you too."

They sat in silence for a moment, drinking their coffee, and Tim tried very hard not to think about how much he'd missed this. Missed Kon. Missed feeling like he mattered.

"So," Kon said eventually, clearly trying to lighten the mood. "Want to hear about Constantine's latest disaster? He tried to negotiate with a demon using Monopoly rules."

And just like that, they were back to normal. Or close to it. Tim listened to the story, laughed in the right places, and tried to ignore the small voice in his head that whispered: You're not just concerned. You're not just jealous. You have feelings. Capital-F Feelings. And you're absolutely terrified of what that means.

But that was a problem for future Tim.

Present Tim was just going to enjoy his coffee date with Kon and pretend everything was totally, completely, absolutely fine.

(It wasn't fine. But Tim was excellent at pretending.)

The Batcave - Late Night Patrol Debrief

Bruce watched Tim run through the patrol report with mechanical efficiency. Too efficient. Too detached. The kind of professional distance that meant Tim was actively avoiding thinking about something personal.

"Red Robin's performance was adequate tonight," Tim concluded, closing his tablet. "No major incidents. Standard patrol."

"Adequate," Bruce repeated. "You disarmed three muggers, prevented a carjacking, and stopped a break-in at a jewelry store. That's more than adequate."

Tim shrugged. "Just doing the job."

Bruce waited. One of the most useful skills Batman had learned over the years was when to simply be silent and let people fill the void. Tim lasted approximately forty-five seconds.

"There is nothing of note to report," Tim said abruptly.

“You already said that"

"Because there is not, even Constantine’s continuing visits have not—"

"Tim." Bruce's voice was gentle, which somehow made it more effective than Batman's growl. "What's really bothering you?"

"I just said—"

"You've mentioned Constantine seventeen times in the past week. Filed six separate reports on his activities. Cross-referenced every instance of him meeting with Kon." Bruce set down the file he'd been reviewing. "This isn't professional concern. This is personal."

Tim's jaw clenched. "I'm allowed to be concerned about a friend."

"You're allowed to be jealous too."

The silence that followed was deafening.

"I'm not—" Tim started.

"Tim." Bruce removed his cowl, becoming just Bruce. Father, not Batman. "I've known you since you were a child. I've watched you become one of the finest detectives in the world. I've also watched you fall for people and convince yourself it's just strategic interest or professional concern."

"I don't—"

"You do. You did it with Stephanie. With Bernard. With every person you've ever cared about in a non-platonic way. You build elaborate justifications for why your feelings are actually just tactical observations."

Tim looked away. "It's not the same."

"Isn't it? You're monitoring Kon's activities. Memorizing his schedule. Feeling territorial about his time. Getting upset when he cancels plans to spend time with someone else." Bruce's voice remained kind. "Those are all signs of having feelings for someone."

"He's grieving," Tim said quietly. "He lost everyone he loved. His entire universe. The last thing he needs is me making things complicated."

"Or," Bruce suggested, "he needs to know that people in this universe care about him too. Not as replacements. As themselves."

"I'm not his Tim. I'll never be his Tim. Every time he looks at me, he's seeing someone he lost. How is that fair to either of us?"

Bruce was quiet for a moment. "When Jason died, I was terrified of caring about another Robin. Every time I looked at you, I saw Jason. Saw the son I'd failed to save. But you weren't Jason. You were Tim. And eventually I learned to see you as yourself, not as an echo of someone I'd lost."

"That's different."

"Is it? Kon's learning to see all of us as ourselves. Not as replacements for his lost family. That includes you." Bruce stood and moved to stand beside Tim. "But he can't learn to see you clearly if you're hiding how you feel. If you're pretending your jealousy is just professional concern."

"I can't tell him," Tim said, his voice strained.

"It would be honest. And honesty might be exactly what he needs right now."

"Or it would destroy the friendship we've built. And that friendship is too important to risk."

Bruce put a hand on Tim's shoulder. "Then at least be honest with yourself. You have feelings for Kon. You're jealous of Constantine. And pretending otherwise is only making you miserable."

Tim was silent for a long moment. Then, quietly: "What if I tell him and he doesn't feel the same way? What if I'm just a painful reminder of what he lost?"

"What if you're not?" Bruce countered. "What if you're exactly what he needs—someone who understands loss, who knows how to build something new from broken pieces, who sees him as himself rather than as his powers or his past?"

"Dick said the same thing."

"Dick's been giving me pointers on emotional communication. Alfred insisted." Bruce's mouth twitched slightly. "But he's not wrong. You have value, Tim. Not as a replacement for anyone. As yourself. And Kon already sees that, even if you don't believe it yet."

Tim looked up at his mentor—his father, really, even if neither of them said it often enough. "I don't know how to do this. How to have feelings without making them a tactical problem to solve."

"You start by admitting they exist. Then you figure out what to do about them. One step at a time." Bruce squeezed his shoulder once before letting go. "And Tim? For what it's worth—I think Kon cares about you more than you realize. The way he looks at you when you're not watching... that's not how someone looks at a painful reminder."

"How do they look?"

"Like they're trying to figure out if what they're feeling is allowed." Bruce headed toward the stairs. "Get some sleep. And maybe consider that Constantine isn't your competition. He's just someone else who cares about Kon. There's room for both of you."

After Bruce left, Tim sat alone in the Cave for a long time, staring at nothing.

He had feelings for Kon. Capital-F Feelings. And pretending otherwise wasn't working.

But what was he supposed to do about that?

That was a problem that didn't have a tactical solution.

And Tim had never been good at problems that required vulnerability instead of strategy.

He'd figure it out. Eventually.

Maybe.

(Probably not. But he'd keep pretending to try.)

Smallville - Kent Farm - Two Weeks Later

Kon stood in the driveway of the Kent farmhouse, frozen in place.

"You can do this," Clark said beside him, also in civilian clothes. "They're excited to meet you."

"Jon drew costume concepts," Kon said faintly. "You showed me. There were seventeen designs."

"He's enthusiastic."

"What if I'm not what they expect? What if I'm—"

"Kon." Clark turned to face him fully. "You're family. That's all that matters to them. That's all that matters to me."

Kon took a deep breath. He'd faced war zones. Faced Superman under mind control. Faced the end of his entire universe.

He could face meeting a eleven-year-old boy and his investigative journalist mother.

(He was absolutely terrified.)

The front door opened before they reached it. Lois Lane stood in the doorway, and Kon immediately understood why she was one of the most respected journalists in the world even across universes. Her eyes were sharp, assessing, but warm.

"You must be Kon," she said, stepping forward with a smile. "I'm Lois. It's good to finally meet you."

"Mrs. Kent," Kon managed. "Thank you for—for having me."

"It's just Lois. And you don't have to thank me for welcoming family." She pulled him into a hug before he could react. It was brief but genuine, and when she pulled back, her smile was understanding. "I know this is overwhelming. But we're glad you're here."

"Mom, you're hogging him!" A blur of movement, and suddenly there was a eleven-year-old boy standing in front of Kon, vibrating with barely contained energy. Literally vibrating. "Hi! I'm Jon! I'm Superboy! Well, you used to be Superboy, but I'm Superboy now, but Dad said you don't want to be Superboy again which is cool because I really like being Superboy and I drew costume designs for you if you want a different hero name and—"

"Jon," Clark said gently. "Breathe."

Jon took an exaggerated breath. "Sorry. I'm just really excited. I've never had a brother before. Well, Damian's like a brother, but not really because we're not related. But you're actually related to Dad, which means you're actually related to me, which means we're actually brothers! That's so cool!"

Kon felt something in his chest tighten. This kid—this enthusiastic, genuine kid—wanted him as a brother. No hesitation. No competition. Just... acceptance.

"It's nice to meet you, Jon," Kon said, his voice rough. "I've heard a lot about you."

"Good things, I hope! Come on, I want to show you my room! I have all the costume designs pinned up and also I have questions about your powers because Dad said you're half-Luthor which means you're like, super smart, right? Can you help me with my math homework? I'm really bad at fractions."

"Jon," Lois interrupted with fond exasperation. "Let the man get inside first. We have time."

They moved into the farmhouse—warm, lived-in, full of the kind of comfortable clutter that meant family. Photos on the walls, Jon's drawings on the fridge, Clark's reading glasses on the coffee table.

It looked like a home. The kind Kon had thought he'd never have again.

Lois made lemonade while Jon gave Kon a tour that was approximately 80% showing off his room and his hero designs. The costumes were actually good—creative, thoughtful, each with detailed notes about symbolism and color theory.

"This one's called Apex," Jon explained, pointing to a blue and silver design. "Because you're like, the peak of what Kryptonian and human genetics can do together. And this one's Haven, because Dad said you help people find safety. And this one's Eclipse because it's cool and dramatic."

"These are really impressive," Kon said honestly. "You put a lot of thought into these."

"Well, yeah! You need a good identity if you're going to be a hero. Even if you're mostly a doctor." Jon looked up at him seriously. "Dad said you save people with medicine instead of superpowers most of the time. That's really cool. Like, different cool. But still cool."

"Thanks, Jon."

"Can I ask you something?" Jon's voice went quieter. "Is it weird? Having another Superboy when you used to be Superboy?"

Kon sat down on Jon's bed, considering the question carefully. "Honestly? Yeah, sometimes it's weird. But not bad weird. Just... different. In my universe, I was the only Superboy. Here, you are. And that's how it should be. You earned that title. It's yours."

"But you could still be a hero. With a different name."

"Maybe someday. Right now, I'm figuring out who I am here. What I want. Being a doctor feels right. Being a part-time hero when Gotham needs me feels right. I don't need a costume or a codename for that to matter."

Jon nodded slowly. "Damian said you were really brave. That you saved his dad and a bunch of people even though it meant everyone would know you had powers."

"Damian said that?"

"Yeah. He doesn't usually say people are brave. Mostly he says they're adequate or occasionally competent." Jon grinned. "Brave is really good from Damian."

Kon couldn't help but smile. "That sounds like Damian."

"Do you want to see my superhero training area? Dad set it up in the barn. I'm not allowed to use it alone yet because I still have trouble controlling my powers, but I can show you my technique!"

Before Kon could answer, Jon was already pulling him toward the door with eleven-year-old enthusiasm.

Lunch was surprisingly normal. Clark shared stories about Smallville, testing to see if Kon wanted to know about his roots. Jon talked non-stop about school and his friends and a science project about renewable energy.

It felt like family. Not the family Kon had lost. But family nonetheless.

After lunch, while Jon was distracted showing off his training forms in the barn, Lois pulled Kon aside on the porch.

"Thank you," she said quietly, "for giving Clark a chance. For giving Jon a chance. I know this can't be easy."

"It's not," Kon admitted. "But it's good. Different, but good."

"Clark told me about your universe. About what you lost. I can't imagine—" she stopped, shook her head. "I'm a journalist. I'm supposed to be good with words. But I don't have words for how sorry I am that you had to lose everything."

"Thank you."

"But I want you to know—you're not alone anymore. You're family. And the House of El doesn't abandon family." Lois's eyes were fierce. "Even if you don't want to be a full-time hero. Even if you just want to be a doctor. Even if you need space or time or distance. You're still family. That doesn't change."

She squeezed his arm. "And Kon? For what it's worth—Clark talks about you the way he talks about Jon. With pride. With affection. With hope for who you're becoming. You're not a replacement. You're not a substitution. You're just you. And that's exactly who we want."

A crash from the barn interrupted them, followed by Jon's voice: "I'm okay! The target dummy exploded but I'm fine!"

Lois sighed. "I should—"

"I've got it," Clark said, appearing from inside the house. He was already moving toward the barn, but he paused to look back at Kon. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Kon said, and meant it. "I'm good."

After Clark left, Lois and Kon sat on the porch swing, watching the Kansas sunset.

"He's a good kid," Kon said. "Jon. He's really good."

"He is. And he's so excited to have you as a brother. He's been planning this meeting for two weeks. I've never seen him this enthusiastic about something that didn't involve flying."

"I'm glad I came."

"So are we." Lois was quiet for a moment. "You know, when Clark first told me about you, about where you came from... I immediately thought about the Dr. Keres who'd declined my interview. That was you, wasn't it?"

"Yeah. I saw your name and panicked. You're too good at digging up truth."

"I would have figured it out," Lois agreed without arrogance. "But I wouldn't have published it. Not without your permission. Some stories are more important than a byline."

"Thank you. For understanding that."

"Family protects family. Even family they haven't met yet."

They sat in comfortable silence as the sun set over the farm, and Kon let himself feel it—the peace, the acceptance, the belonging.

He had a family again. Different from the one he'd lost. But real. And his.

Jon burst out of the barn, Clark chasing after him, both of them laughing about something. Jon spotted Kon on the porch and waved enthusiastically.

"Kon! Watch this!"

And then he was flying—not very high, not very fast, but flying with the kind of joy that only a eleven-year-old experiencing freedom could have.

Kon waved back, and something in his chest felt lighter than it had in years.

This was home. Or it could be, if he let it.

Maybe it was time to let it.

Later, driving back to Gotham with Clark, Kon was quiet.

"You okay?" Clark asked.

"Yeah. Just... processing." Kon looked out the window at the darkening landscape. "Jon's great. Lois is... exactly what I expected and somehow more. The farm is—"

"Home?"

"Potentially. Maybe. Eventually." Kon smiled slightly. "I'm not used to having options. For a long time, I just had survival. Now I have choices. People who want me around. That's still new."

"Get used to it," Clark said firmly. "Because you're stuck with us now. Jon's already planning your birthday party, even though he doesn't know when your birthday is."

"I don't know when my birthday is. Cadmus didn't exactly give me one."

"Then we'll pick one. Jon will insist. He takes birthdays very seriously."

Kon laughed, genuine and unforced. "Of course he does."

They drove in comfortable silence for a while. Then Clark said, quietly, "Thank you. For trying. For giving us a chance. I know it can't be easy, seeing me and knowing I'm not him."

"It's getting easier," Kon admitted. "You're different enough that I'm starting to see you as yourself. Not as my Clark. Just... Clark. Jon's dad. Lois's husband. Someone who's trying really hard to make me feel welcome."

"That's all I want. For you to feel welcome. Like you belong."

"I'm getting there," Kon said. "Slowly. But I'm getting there."

And he was. One family dinner at a time. One step at a time. One choice to stay instead of run at a time.

He was building something new. And maybe—just maybe—that was exactly what he needed.

The Watchtower - Training Room Alpha - Five Months After Revelation

The training room had been reconfigured into something resembling an obstacle course crossed with a martial arts dojo. Padded mats covered the floor, and various training equipment lined the walls—punching bags, balance beams, agility ladders, and what looked suspiciously like Batman-designed torture devices disguised as workout equipment.

Kon stood at the center wearing simple workout gear—grey sweatpants and a black tank top—and feeling profoundly weird about the whole situation. His glasses were gone (no point in the distortion field here), and his hands were wrapped in training tape even though he didn't technically need it. Force of habit from his Batman's training sessions.

Superman, Shazam, and three Green Lanterns—Hal Jordan, Jessica Cruz, and Guy Gardner—stood before him in their own training clothes, looking varying degrees of skeptical (Hal and Guy) to nervous (Jessica) to genuinely curious (Clark and Shazam). They'd all left their powers at the door, so to speak. No rings for the Lanterns, no transformations for Billy, and Clark had agreed to suppress his abilities to human-level for the training.

Wonder Woman stood beside Kon, arms crossed, wearing her own workout gear and sporting a slight smile that promised entertainment.

"Right," Kon said, trying to channel every training session his Batman had ever put him through—the firm but patient tone, the direct eye contact, the posture that said 'I know what I'm doing even if I'm terrified.' "So. The League wants everyone more prepared for situations where powers might be compromised or neutralized. Magic that blocks abilities, red sun radiation, power dampeners, or just plain getting caught off-guard. Which means hand-to-hand combat fundamentals for everyone."

"I can fight," Guy protested immediately, crossing his arms. "I was a gym teacher before I got the ring. I know how to handle myself."

"Can you fight someone with Superman's strength without your ring?" Kon challenged, meeting Guy's eyes steadily.

Guy's mouth opened, then closed. His arms uncrossed slightly.

"Can you fight someone with formal martial arts training when all you have are gym class fundamentals and street fighting instincts?" Kon continued, not unkindly. "Because that's what we're preparing for—the worst case scenarios where your ring is gone and you're facing someone who knows exactly how to exploit that."

Guy's jaw worked for a moment before he nodded grudgingly. "Point taken."

"Good." Kon gestured to the mats. "Everyone pair up. I want to see your current skill level. No powers, no tricks, just basic sparring. Show me what you've got."

"This is so weird," he muttered under his breath as they began moving into position. "I'm not used to being the teacher."

Diana's smile widened. She leaned closer, her voice pitched low enough that only his enhanced hearing would catch it. "Ah, but it's satisfying to flip them with their permission, is it not?"

Kon couldn't help but laugh. This Diana was definitely different from his—a little more vicious in her humor, more playful in her approach to combat training. His Wonder Woman had been maternal, patient, always careful with her students' feelings. This one had a competitive glint in her eye that promised she was going to thoroughly enjoy watching him throw Superman around a room.

"You're enjoying this way too much," Kon said, fighting to keep a straight face.

"I've been trying to convince Superman to take formal martial arts training for years," Diana replied, her tone light but with an undercurrent of genuine satisfaction. "He always says his powers are enough. That he can adapt to any fighting style through experience alone." Her expression was pure vindication. "Having you here to prove otherwise is delightful."

Clark, now paired with Shazam across the mat, looked over nervously. He'd clearly heard at least part of that exchange. "We're just... sparring? Regular sparring? No special rules?"

"Regular sparring," Kon confirmed, moving to the center of the mat where he could observe everyone. "No powers. Pure technique. I want to see how you move, how you think, what your instincts are when you can't rely on abilities. Show me what you've got."

What they had was... not great.

Clark fought like someone who'd learned through experience rather than training—effective against normal opponents, yes, but full of openings that any skilled fighter would exploit without hesitation. His stance was too wide, making him stable but slow to adjust. He telegraphed his punches with shoulder movements that practically announced his intentions. He relied on strength and durability that wouldn't help if he was depowered or facing someone with equivalent abilities. Every movement said 'I've never had to worry about being hurt, so I never learned to properly protect myself.'

Shazam fought like the fourteen-year-old boy he actually was—enthusiastic but sloppy, all power and no finesse. He charged straight in, left himself wide open, recovered from mistakes through sheer luck rather than skill. Billy was having fun with it, grinning even when Clark got through his guard, treating it like a game rather than training. Which made sense for a kid, but would get him killed in a real fight where he couldn't access the Wisdom of Solomon.

The Green Lanterns were a mixed bag. Hal had some boxing basics—his grandfather had been a boxer, Kon remembered from his own universe—but he depended too heavily on the ingrained habit of creating constructs. Every defensive move was half-completed before Hal seemed to remember he couldn't just make a shield appear. His offense was solid but one-dimensional.

Jessica was actually pretty good, which surprised Kon until he remembered she'd trained extensively to overcome her anxiety. Her technique was sound, if nervous. She second-guessed herself constantly, pulling punches and hesitating on counters, but the foundational skills were there. She just needed confidence.

Guy was all aggression and no strategy—street brawler mentality. He went in hard, using brute force and intimidation, but left massive openings. Against an untrained opponent he'd be overwhelming. Against anyone with real skill, he'd be on the ground in seconds.

After ten minutes of observation, during which Kon and Diana circled the sparring pairs and took mental notes, Kon called a halt.

"Okay, everyone stop. Catch your breath." He waited while they separated, most of them breathing harder than the light sparring warranted. Proof they weren't used to functioning without their powers. "Here's what I'm seeing. Clark—"

Clark straightened, attentive.

"—you telegraph every punch. Your shoulder dips before you throw. Your stance is too wide, which makes you stable but slow to adjust or defend. You're fighting like someone who's never had to worry about being hurt, which means you're not protecting your center line." Kon demonstrated, moving into a proper fighting stance. "Every opening you leave, you leave because you've never had to care about defense. What happens when you face someone who can hurt you? Someone with kryptonite, or magic, or red sun radiation? Someone who knows how to fight and has abilities equal to yours?"

Clark looked slightly offended, his jaw tightening. "I've been in thousands of fights."

"Against people who couldn't hurt you," Kon said, not unkindly. "Against people who you could afford to take hits from because your invulnerability meant those hits didn't matter. But in a real fight against an equal opponent? Those habits will get you killed." He adjusted his stance, showing the difference. "Your stance needs to be like this. Balanced. Weight on the balls of your feet. Ready to adapt in any direction. We will work with flying stances later for now let’s stay on the ground and develop good habits. You're strong—that's good. But strength isn't everything. Technique multiplies strength. Bad technique wastes it."

He turned to Shazam. Billy was still grinning but paying attention now. "You're fighting like you're playing. Like it's a game. Which makes sense—you're fourteen, and this is probably fun for you. But in a real fight where you can't access your powers, that enthusiasm will get you killed before you realize you're in danger. You need discipline. You need to think before you act."

Billy's grin faded slightly, but he nodded seriously. "So how do I fix it?"

"Practice. Repetition. Learning to think three moves ahead instead of just reacting." Kon looked at Guy. "You've got raw aggression and commitment, which is good. But you're leaving openings everywhere. You fight like someone who's used to overwhelming opponents with force. Against someone trained? You'd be taken apart."

Guy looked like he wanted to argue, but didn't.

"Jessica," Kon continued, and she straightened nervously. "Your technique is actually really good. Solid fundamentals. But you're second-guessing every move. You hesitate. Fighting requires commitment—if you're going to throw a punch, throw it. Don't pull it halfway because you're worried you're doing it wrong. Trust your training."

Jessica nodded, looking slightly encouraged.

"Hal, you've got good basics, but you keep reaching for constructs that aren't there. You need to retrain those instincts." Kon looked around at all of them. "You're all used to fighting with massive advantages. Powers, abilities, equipment that makes you nearly unstoppable. But strip that away, and you're vulnerable. This training is about making sure you survive when those advantages are gone."

He glanced at Diana. "Want to show them what actual trained combat looks like?"

Diana's smile was downright predatory. She stepped onto the mat, rolling her shoulders. "It would be my pleasure."

What followed was a master class in humiliation—though Diana delivered it with enough grace that it never quite crossed into cruelty.

She faced Hal first. "Come at me. Full speed, full commitment. Show me what you've got."

Hal, to his credit, didn't hold back. He came in fast, using his boxing fundamentals, throwing a combination that would have dropped most people.

Diana slipped inside his guard like water flowing around stone, redirected his momentum with a grip on his wrist, and had him face-down on the mat in under thirty seconds. She didn't use excessive force—didn't need to. Just perfect technique, perfect timing, perfect execution.

"Again," she said, releasing him.

They went three more rounds. Hal improved each time, started adapting, but Diana still put him down within forty-five seconds. By the fourth round, Hal was breathing hard and sporting a grudging respect in his eyes.

Guy went next. He lasted forty-five seconds on the first try, purely through stubbornness and unpredictability. But Diana adapted, reading his patterns, and by the third round she had him down in thirty seconds.

Jessica was visibly nervous facing Wonder Woman, but Diana was gentler with her—encouraging, pointing out what she was doing right even while defeating her. Still put her on the mat, but made it a teaching moment rather than a demonstration of dominance.

Billy went at it with enthusiasm, but Diana used his momentum against him, throwing him cleanly and safely. He bounced up each time with a grin, actually enjoying the learning experience.

Then it was Clark's turn.

"No powers," Diana reminded him. "Just skill against skill."

Clark nodded, settling into his stance. It was still too wide, but he was trying.

They circled each other for a moment. Then Clark moved—fast for a human, using his experience. He threw a combination, tried to use his reach advantage.

Diana was faster. She slipped his punches, got inside his guard, and suddenly Clark was airborne. He hit the mat hard—not hard enough to injure, but definitely hard enough to feel it. Two minutes, and he was down.

They went again. Clark tried a different approach, being more defensive. Diana swept his legs, used his own balance against him. Down in ninety seconds.

Third round, Clark was breathing hard, starting to get frustrated. Diana used that, feinted high, went low, and he was down in under a minute.

By the fourth round, Clark was genuinely tired—something he rarely experienced. Diana put him down in forty-five seconds.

"The point," Diana said, not even breathing hard as she helped Clark up, "is that technique beats raw power when power is equalized. Kon learned this from his Batman. I learned this from my Amazon sisters. Batman has made an entire career of proving this against opponents far stronger than him. Now you need to learn it too."

"I hate to say it," Hal groaned from where he was sprawled on the mat, "but she's absolutely right. We've been relying on the rings too much. Getting lazy with the fundamentals."

"That's what happens when you have a cosmic weapon that can create anything you imagine," Kon said, offering him a hand up. "You forget the basics because you don't need them ninety-nine percent of the time. But powers can be taken away. Equipment can be destroyed or stolen. Skills can't. Knowledge can't. Training stays with you even when everything else is gone."

"Okay," Guy said, slowly getting to his feet. "I'm convinced. So what do we do about it?"

"We train," Kon said simply. "We drill the basics until they're instinct. We practice until your body knows what to do before your brain has to think about it. We make you better."

For the next two hours, Kon and Diana put them through drills. Not flashy techniques or devastating finishing moves—just basics.

Basic stances. How to stand, how to move, how to keep your balance while staying mobile. Kon walked among them, adjusting Clark's feet, widening Jessica's stance, showing Billy how to keep his guard up.

Defensive positions. How to protect your center line, your head, your vital organs. How to deflect instead of block. How to turn aside attacks instead of tanking them.

How to fall without hurting yourself. This one was surprisingly hard for people who'd never had to worry about fall damage. Kon demonstrated the proper technique—tuck, roll, distribute impact—and made them practice until they stopped trying to catch themselves with their hands.

How to read an opponent's body language. Weight shifts that telegraphed movements. Eye movements that showed intention. The tiny tells that gave away what someone was about to do.

How to turn someone's strength against them. Redirecting momentum, using leverage, making their power work for you instead of against you. This was especially important for the Lanterns, who might face physically superior opponents without their rings.

Kon found himself falling into the rhythm of teaching—correcting Clark's posture when he started reverting to his bad habits, showing Billy for the fifth time how to properly redirect momentum instead of just trying to tank through it, working with Jessica on building confidence in her strikes without second-guessing herself.

It was satisfying in a way he hadn't expected. Different from surgery, where the satisfaction came from saving lives. This was about empowerment—giving people tools they didn't have, making them more capable, keeping them safer. His Batman had done this for him, drilled these lessons into him until they were instinct. Passing that on felt like honoring that gift.

"You're good at this," Clark said during a water break, rubbing his shoulder where Diana had thrown him particularly hard during a demonstration. "Teaching, I mean. You've got the patience for it. And you explain things clearly."

"I had a good teacher," Kon replied, taking a long drink from his own water bottle. "Batman drilled this stuff into me until I could do it in my sleep. He was relentless. Made me practice the same throw five hundred times until I could execute it perfectly in any situation. Figured I should pass it on."

"It's humbling," Clark admitted quietly. "Realizing how much I've been coasting on invulnerability. How many habits I've developed that would get me killed if I ever faced someone on my level without powers."

"That's not a criticism," Kon said quickly. "You're an incredible hero. You save people every day. You've got instincts and experience that most people will never have. This is just... insurance. For the worst-case scenarios."

"Like when I was mind-controlled."

"Like that, yeah." Kon's voice softened. "If you'd been fighting someone else, someone who actually knew how to counter Kryptonian power and wanted to hurt you or even kill that fight in the park could have gone very differently."

"But you knew how to counter me."

"Because I was trained to. Because my Batman made sure I understood that powers weren't enough. That I needed skill and strategy and discipline to back them up." Kon paused, remembering those brutal training sessions. "He was preparing me for a world where I might face other Kryptonians or similar. Ones who wanted to hurt people. Ones who wouldn't hesitate to kill me if they got the chance."

"Your world was harder than ours," Clark observed quietly.

"Yeah. It was." Kon looked across the room where Diana was patiently showing Billy a proper throw technique for the third time. "But that doesn't mean your world can't learn from it. This is good—making sure everyone has the basics. Making sure no one is helpless if their powers get taken away. You never know when you'll need it."

"Thank you," Clark said. "For helping with this. I know training people probably brings up memories—"

"It does," Kon admitted. "But good ones, mostly. My Batman was tough—actually, he was terrifying—but he cared. Everything he did was about keeping me alive. Making sure I could survive anything. Teaching you guys—it feels like honoring that. Passing on what he gave me."

Clark smiled, warm and genuine. "He'd be proud of you. What you're doing. Who you've become."

"Maybe. He'd probably also tell me my stance is getting sloppy and I'm being too easy on you all."

"Are you being too easy on us?"

Kon grinned. "Want to find out? Diana and I have been going easy so far. We could kick it up a notch if you really want."

"God, no. I'm already going to be sore for a week."

"Kryptonians don't get sore."

"We do when Wonder Woman throws us into walls repeatedly."

They both laughed, and Kon felt that familiar warmth—the one that meant belonging, that meant family, that meant he'd found his place in this universe.

By the end of the session, everyone was exhausted—genuinely, thoroughly exhausted in a way they probably hadn't experienced in years. Everyone except Kon and Diana, who'd been holding back significantly the entire time but still looked ready to go another few hours if needed.

But they'd made progress. Real, measurable progress. The Lanterns had better stances, moved more efficiently, stopped reaching for constructs that weren't there. Clark had started protecting his center line, paying attention to his telegraphing. Billy was thinking before he charged, considering his options instead of just committing to the first move that came to mind.

"Same time next week?" Diana asked as they wrapped up, everyone collecting their water bottles and towels.

A chorus of groans answered her.

"I'll take that as a yes," she said, amused. "Kon, you'll be back?"

"If you need me, yeah. This was actually fun."

"Fun for you," Guy muttered, limping slightly as he headed for the showers. "You weren't the one getting thrown around like a ragdoll."

"I've been thrown around plenty," Kon countered. "By Batman. In gravity that was set to three times normal. While wearing kryptonite suppression cuffs that reduced my powers to barely above human level. For six hours straight. You all got off easy today."

"Your Batman was terrifying," Hal said with feeling.

"He was. But he kept me alive." Kon looked around at the group—these heroes who were trying to be better, to be more prepared, to learn from their weaknesses instead of ignoring them. "And now I'm trying to keep you all alive. So yeah, I'll be back next week. Maybe work on some offensive techniques once your defensive foundations are better. Try to stretch between now and then. You're all going to be sore."

After everyone else had left, Diana lingered with Kon in the training room.

"You did well today," she said, genuine warmth in her voice. "Natural teacher. Patient but firm. Not condescending, even when correcting basic mistakes. Clark responded well to you."

"It's weird," Kon admitted, pulling on a clean shirt over his tank top. "Teaching my genetic donor how to fight. Having him actually listen to me. Respecting my experience."

"It's growth," Diana corrected gently. "For both of you. He's learning to see you as a peer, not just as a younger version of himself or a reminder of what Cadmus did in another universe. And you're learning that you have value beyond your powers. That your knowledge and experience matter. That you're not just Superboy or Dr. Keres—you're Kon. And Kon has earned respect."

"I guess."

"Kon." Diana's voice was serious now. She moved to face him directly, making him meet her eyes. "In the five months since you revealed yourself, you've done something remarkable. You've integrated into the League as an associate member. You've maintained your medical career—still saving lives every day. You've built genuine relationships with the Bat family. And now you're training some of our most powerful members, sharing knowledge that could save their lives. That's not luck. That's not just getting by. That's thriving."

"I'm still figuring things out—"

"We all are. That's what life is. Constant adjustment, constant growth, constant learning." She put a hand on his shoulder. "But you're doing it while helping others. While building something new from the pieces of what you lost. While honoring your past without being paralyzed by it. That takes strength, Kon. Real strength. Be proud of that."

Kon felt his throat tighten. "Thanks, Diana."

"You're welcome. Now go." She stepped back with a knowing smile. "I believe you have a coffee date with young Tim that you're going to be late for if you don't leave now."

"How did you—"

"I'm observant. And Batman might be gossiping." Diana's eyes twinkled with amusement. "Tim's very protective of his coffee dates with you."

"It's not like that—"

"Isn't it?" Diana's smile was knowing, almost teasing. "Go, Kon. Don't keep him waiting. Some things are more important than League training. Some relationships require tending."

As Kon flew toward Gotham, he thought about Diana's words. About thriving versus surviving. About building something new while honoring what he'd lost. About relationships that required tending.

Five months ago, he'd been terrified of being seen. Now he was teaching Superman how to fight.

Life was weird.

But it was his life. In this universe. With these people.

And that was starting to feel like enough.

More than enough.

Actually pretty damn good.

The Costume Ambush

Wayne Manor - Two Days Later

Kon should have known something was up when Alfred opened the door with that particular smile—the one that said 'I'm aware of what's about to happen and I find it amusing but I'm not going to warn you.'

"Good evening, Dr. Keres. The family is waiting for you in the Cave."

"Just Kon is fine, Alfred. And did Bruce say what this was about? He just texted 'come to the manor, important.'"

"I believe it's best experienced rather than explained, sir."

That should have been Kon's first clue to run.

His second clue should have been the way Dick's heartbeat spiked with excitement when Kon descended into the Cave.

His third clue was the fact that Jon Kent was there, vibrating with barely contained enthusiasm next to Damian, both of them huddled around something on one of the Cave's work tables.

"Oh good, you're here!" Dick bounded over with way too much energy for someone who'd been on patrol until 4 AM. "We have something to show you!"

Kon looked around the Cave. Bruce was at the computer, but there was a suspicious amount of amusement in his expression. Tim was leaning against a workbench, laptop open but clearly not actually working on it. Jason lounged in a chair, grinning like he was about to witness something hilarious.

"Okay, what's going on?"

"We made you something!" Jon announced, practically bouncing. He held up what looked like several variations of a costume. "Actually, we made you several somethings! With options!"

Kon's stomach dropped. "Oh no."

"Oh yes," Jason said, his grin widening.

"I really don't need a superhero suit," Kon tried, backing toward the stairs. "I'm fine with just—civilian clothes when I need to help. Really. It's not necessary—"

"But you're an associate member of the League now!" Jon protested. "You need an identity! And a costume! It's like, hero rules!"

"Jon's been working on designs for weeks," Damian added, and there was something almost soft in his voice. "He's actually quite talented at costume design. It would be... rude... to not at least look at them."

Kon looked at Damian's face and saw the trap. If he refused, he'd be hurting Jon's feelings. And Jon was just a Eleven-year-old kid who was excited about having a brother who was also a hero.

"Just try them on," Dick coaxed. "You don't have to keep any of them. But Jon worked really hard, and we all contributed ideas, and—"

"Fine," Kon sighed, recognizing when he was beaten. "I'll try them on. To humor you. But I'm not promising anything."

"Yes!" Jon pumped his fist in the air.

What followed was essentially a superhero fashion show that Kon was pretty sure violated several articles of the Geneva Convention.

The first costume was clearly Jon's design—optimistic, bright, lots of blue and silver. It looked like something Superboy would wear, which Kon immediately vetoed.

"Too similar to your look," he told Jon gently. "I'm not trying to be Superboy. That's your identity."

Jon nodded, looking thoughtful rather than disappointed. "That makes sense. Okay, try the next one!"

The second was clearly Damian's contribution—tactical, dark, lots of armor plating. It looked like Batman's suit had a baby with an assassin's outfit. Kon felt like he was wearing a tank.

"I can't move in this," he said, demonstrating by trying and failing to do a high kick. "And it weighs like forty pounds."

"You have super strength, and it's reinforced plating," Damian said defensively. "For protection."

"I appreciate it Damian. I don't need that much protection."

The third was Dick's design—acrobatic, flexible, lots of blue and black. It was actually pretty nice, but it had a plunging neckline that made Kon feel extremely exposed.

"Why is there so much chest showing?" Kon asked, pulling at the neckline.

"Freedom of movement!" Dick said cheerfully. "Plus it looks good."

"Next."

Jason's contribution was leather. So much leather. And buckles. "I feel like I'm going to a very specific kind of party," Kon said flatly.

"You look badass," Jason countered.

"I look like I should be carrying a whip. Next."

Tim's design was elegant—black and red, sleek lines, tactical without being bulky. Kon actually liked it until he put it on and realized it had strategic cutouts along the hips and sides.

He stepped out of the changing area—one of the Cave's side rooms that had been set up with mirrors—and immediately noticed the temperature in the room change.

Tim, who'd been typing something on his laptop, looked up. His fingers froze mid-keystroke. His face went from pale to red so fast Kon was briefly concerned about blood pressure. Tim's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. No sound came out.

"You okay there, replacement?" Jason asked, grinning like the Cheshire cat.

Tim made a sound that might have been a word in some language Kon didn't know.

"I think you broke him," Dick observed with entirely too much amusement.

Kon looked down at himself, then at the mirror. The suit was undeniably well-designed—black with red accents, form-fitting but flexible, with strategic armor plating that didn't restrict movement. But the hip cutouts were... significant. Like, 'definitely showing the top of his hip bones and possibly where his V-line started' significant.

He looked at Tim, who was now staring with the intensity of someone who'd forgotten how to blink. His face had gone from red to a color that Kon was pretty sure didn't exist in nature.

"Are the hip cutouts necessary?" Kon asked, bemused.

Tim made another sound. This one might have been an affirmative. Or a dying wheeze. It was hard to tell.

"They're for mobility," Bruce said from the computer, and Kon could hear the suppressed laughter in his voice. "And aerodynamics."

"Aerodynamics," Kon repeated flatly. "On my hips."

"It's a good design," Damian said, though he was pointedly not looking at Tim's current crisis. "Practical. The cutouts reduce weight and allow for better range of motion during aerial maneuvers."

"Uh-huh."

Jon was looking between Kon and Tim with the dawning awareness of someone who was just starting to understand that adults were weird. "Does Tim like it? He looks like he's going to fall over."

"Tim loves it," Jason said, absolutely gleeful. "Can't you tell by the way he's stopped breathing?"

Tim finally managed to close his mouth. Then immediately opened it again. "It's— I mean, the design is— structurally it's very— you look—" He stopped, took a breath, tried again. "It's practical. Very practical. Practically perfect. I mean practically practical. Practically— I need some water."

He stood up so fast his laptop nearly fell off the workbench. Then he just stood there, apparently having forgotten what he was doing.

"Water's over there, Tim," Dick said, pointing to the Cave's small kitchenette while trying valiantly not to laugh.

Tim walked in completely the wrong direction, directly into a support pillar.

"Okay, I'm changing," Kon said, starting to feel bad. "Tim's clearly having some kind of medical emergency."

"NO!" Tim practically shouted, then seemed to realize how that sounded. "I mean— no medical emergency. I'm fine. Totally fine. Very fine. You should— the suit is— just give me a minute to—" He gestured vaguely at his face, which was still the color of a fire truck.

"I'm going to go put literally anything else on," Kon decided.

"But it's perfect!" Jon protested. "You look so cool! Like a real hero!"

"I look like I'm going to get arrested for public indecency."

"The cutouts are strategic," Damian insisted.

"They're strategic something," Jason muttered, then louder: "Hey Timmy, you want me to take a picture for you? For reference? For the case files?"

Tim threw a batarang at him. It missed by a mile because Tim was still not looking at anything except Kon's general direction while simultaneously trying very hard not to look directly at him.

"Okay, that's it. I'm done." Kon retreated back to the changing area, ignoring Jon's protests and Jason's laughter.

He emerged five minutes later in his civilian clothes, holding all the costumes.

"Thank you all for this," he said diplomatically. "The effort is appreciated. The designs are all very creative. But I think I'm going to stick with civilian clothes for now. Maybe in the future—"

"You're keeping Tim's design," Jason said. It wasn't a question.

"What? No, I—"

"You're totally keeping it. For emergencies. You know, aerial maneuver emergencies that require hip aerodynamics."

"I hate all of you."

"You love us," Dick corrected cheerfully. "And admit it, you looked great in that suit."

Kon glanced over at Tim, who had finally achieved some semblance of normal coloring but was very intently studying his laptop screen and definitely not making eye contact with anyone.

"It was... well-designed," Kon admitted. "But maybe not practical for my purposes."

"Because you don't want to give Tim a heart attack every time you suit up?" Jason suggested innocently.

Tim's face went red again.

"Because I don't need a costume," Kon corrected firmly. "I'm a doctor who occasionally helps out. That's it. No costume necessary."

"But—" Jon started.

"Jon." Kon knelt down to the kid's level. "I really appreciate the work you put into these. They're amazing designs. Seriously. But I'm not Superboy anymore. I'm not trying to be a full-time hero. I'm just... me. Dr. Keres who happens to be Kryptonian. And I'm okay with that."

Jon looked disappointed but nodded. "Okay. But if you change your mind..."

"If I change my mind, you'll be the first person I call," Kon promised.

After Jon left with Clark (who'd shown up to collect his son and had clearly been briefed on the situation based on his knowing smile), and after the others had dispersed (Jason dragging a still-flustered Tim away while making comments about "aerodynamics"), Kon found himself alone in the Cave with Bruce.

"They mean well," Bruce said.

"I know. Doesn't make it less weird."

"For what it's worth, Tim's design was actually very good. Practical considerations aside."

"The hip cutouts, Bruce."

"Aerodynamics are important."

"You're all insane."

Bruce's lips twitched. "We're a family. It's the same thing." He paused. "But if you ever do want a suit for emergencies—one without strategic cutouts—let me know. I can design something practical."

"Thanks, Bruce." Kon headed toward the stairs, then stopped. "Hey, is Tim actually okay? I'm worried I broke him."

"He'll be fine. Though you might want to give him a few days to recover before your next coffee date."

"That might be a good idea”

Chapter: The Morning After

Tim's Apartment - 3:47 AM

Tim hadn't slept.

This wasn't unusual—Tim rarely slept—but tonight it wasn't case files or patrol reports keeping him awake. It was the memory of Kon in that suit. Specifically, those hip cutouts. More specifically, the way his brain had completely short-circuited at the sight.

He'd thrown a batarang at Jason. Missed. He never missed.

"Get it together, Drake," he muttered to himself, staring at his ceiling. "You're a detective. You're trained to maintain composure under any circumstances. You've faced down supervillains, survived death traps, been to actual hell dimensions. You can handle—"

His phone buzzed.

Jason: Still thinking about those hip cutouts, aren't you?

Tim grabbed his phone.

Tim: Go to sleep.

Jason: Can't. Too busy laughing at your face. I got screenshots from the Cave cameras.

Tim: You didn't.

Jason: Oh, I absolutely did. Wanna see? You look like you forgot how to person.

Tim: Delete them.

Jason: Make me. :)

Tim: I have dirt on you.

Jason: I have video of you walking into a pillar.

Damn it.

Tim: What do you want?

Jason: Admission that you've got it bad for the doc.

Tim: I don't have anything. We're friends.

Jason: Friends don't malfunction when friends wear form-fitting suits with strategic cutouts.

Tim: I was evaluating the design from a tactical standpoint.

Jason: Is that what we're calling it now?

Tim: I hate you.

Jason: You love me. Also, just talk to him. The pining is getting painful to watch.

Tim: I'm not pining.

Jason: Tim. Buddy. Pal. I've seen corpses with more life in their eyes than you have when Kon cancels coffee to bail out Constantine.

Tim stared at his phone. He wanted to deny it. Wanted to insist that his feelings were perfectly normal friend feelings and that Jason was reading into things.

But he'd walked into a pillar.

Tim: That's surprisingly insightful.

Jason: I have my moments. Now delete this conversation before I get a reputation for being emotionally intelligent.

Tim: Deal.

But Tim didn't delete the conversation. He just stared at it, thinking about Jason's words.

Maybe Kon did need to know. But how did you tell someone who'd lost everything that you were developing feelings for them? How did you explain that every time he smiled it felt like the sun coming out? That his laugh made Tim's chest do complicated things? That watching him save lives , in whichever way Kon saved lives, a sterile room in Gotham or under Gunfire is remote areas, made Tim understand why people used to worship heroes?

You didn't. That's how.

You kept it professional. You stayed friends. You didn't risk destroying the one good thing you'd both built because your heart decided to be inconvenient.

Tim's phone buzzed again.

Kon: You awake?

Tim's heart did that complicated thing again.

Tim: Yeah. Can't sleep. You?

Kon: Same. Keep thinking about tonight. Did I actually break you? You hit a pillar.

Tim: I was distracted. Evaluating the suit design.

Kon: The suit with the hip cutouts that you designed.

Tim: ...yes.

Kon: Why did you design them like that?

Tim's fingers hovered over the keyboard. Because I thought you'd look incredible in them. Because I wanted to see you in it. Because apparently I'm a masochist who designs things that will torture me later.

Tim: Aerodynamics.

Kon: Tim.

Tim: And mobility. The cutouts reduce weight and improve range of motion during flight.

Kon sent a side eye emoji.

Kon: Alright. And Tim? Thanks for the suit either way, hip cutouts aside it was a good design. I appreciate that you thought about what I'd need. That means something.

Tim stared at his phone until the screen went dark.

"I'm so screwed," he said to his empty apartment.

A few days later - Wayne Manor - Breakfast, 9:30 AM

The morning was deceptively peaceful. Sunlight streamed through the dining room windows, Alfred was making his rounds with fresh coffee, and the family was gathered around the table in various states of wakefulness.

Kon was halfway through his second cup of coffee and a plate of Alfred's exceptional pancakes, sitting between Tim and Damian. Having stayed over after Damian had decided their conversation on the nature of Evil had to run until 4 am. Dick was animated about something—probably his latest case in Blüdhaven—while Bruce read the newspaper with that particular focus that meant he was actually listening to every word being said around him.

Then Jason stumbled in.

Not the usual late-to-breakfast Jason. This was Jason still in last night's clothes, smelling like whiskey and Gotham's streets, gunpowder, and blood—not his own, Kon's enhanced senses told him. Jason moved with the careful, brittle precision of someone who was barely holding it together, each step measured like he might shatter if he moved too quickly. His eyes were hidden behind sunglasses despite being indoors, but Kon could see the way his hands trembled, could hear his heart racing—not from alcohol, but from poorly suppressed panic.

The table went quiet. This wasn't just a hangover. This was Jason on the edge.

Kon had seen this before, in his world—his Jason, after particularly bad nights when the Pit madness got too loud. And in the ER, with men and women who became overwhelmed by their situations. He knew the signs: the careful movements, the avoidance of eye contact, the way Jason's jaw was clenched so tight it had to hurt. The shame radiating off him in waves.

"Morning," Jason mumbled, the word barely audible. His voice was raw, like he'd been screaming. Or crying. Maybe both.

No one responded immediately. They were all watching, assessing, trying to figure out how to help without making it worse.

Jason reached for the empty chair across from Kon, misjudged the distance. His hand caught the edge of the orange juice pitcher instead.

Everything happened at once.

The pitcher tilted, orange juice beginning to pour. Jason lunged for it—too fast, too uncoordinated, making it worse. His knee hit the table leg. The pitcher went flying, Jason stumbled, his sunglasses falling off to reveal red-rimmed eyes that were too wide, too wild—

Kon's tactile telekinesis flared out.

The pitcher froze mid-air. The orange juice hung suspended, defying gravity. Jason's arm stopped mid-flail as Kon wrapped a gentle TTK field around him, steadying him without restricting him. Just support. Just enough to keep him from falling.

Then Kon carefully lifted the pitcher, set it on the table, and released Jason from the field.

The silence was deafening.

Jason was staring at the pitcher, then at his own hands, then at Kon. His breathing had gotten faster, heading toward hyperventilation. "I can't—fucking—I can't even—"

"Jason." Kon's voice was calm, level, the same tone he used in the ER when patients were in crisis. He stood slowly, non-threatening, keeping his movements visible and predictable. "Look at me."

Jason's eyes snapped to him, and Kon could see it—the edge of panic, the shame spiraling into something worse. Jason's hands were shaking harder now, his breathing ragged.

"I almost—I could've—fuck, I'm so fucking useless—"

"Jason." Firmer now, still calm. Kon moved around the table slowly. "You didn't break anything. Nothing spilled. Everyone's fine. You're fine."

"I'm not—I'm not fucking fine—" Jason's voice cracked. "I can't even sit at a goddamn table without—"

Kon reached him, put a hand on his shoulder. Jason flinched but didn't pull away. "You're having a panic attack. That's okay. It happens. But I need you to breathe with me. Can you do that?"

"I don't—I can't—"

"Yes, you can." Kon's voice was steady, grounding. "In through your nose, count of four. Hold for four. Out through your mouth, count of four. With me. In—two—three—four—"

Jason tried. His breath hitched, caught, but he tried.

"Good. Again. In—two—three—four—hold—two—three—four—out—two—three—four—"

Kon kept his hand on Jason's shoulder, light contact, grounding without restraining. He'd done this before—in the ER with trauma patients, in the field with civilians in shock, in his old life with his Jason after bad nights. The technique was the same: calm voice, steady presence, breathing exercises, no judgment.

"You're doing great," Kon said quietly. "Keep breathing. I've got you."

Jason's breathing was still uneven, but slowing. The wild edge in his eyes was fading slightly, replaced by exhaustion.

"That's it. You're okay. I've got you."

The rest of the table hadn't moved. They were all watching, tense, ready to help but keeping their distance for now. This was Kon's show now, and they trusted him to handle it.

"Come on," Kon said gently, keeping his hand on Jason's shoulder. "Let's get you upstairs. Water, sleep, and then we'll talk."

"Don't wanna—" Jason's voice was small, broken in a way that made Kon's chest ache. "Don't wanna be a fucking burden—"

"You're not a burden." Kon started guiding him toward the door, moving slowly, letting Jason set the pace. "You'd do the same for any of us. You have done the same for all of us."

Jason let himself be led, too exhausted to fight. As they reached the doorway, Kon glanced back at the table. The family was still frozen, watching.

"He's okay," Kon said quietly. "Just needs some time."

Then he guided Jason into the hallway, one hand still on his shoulder, the other ready to catch him if he stumbled. Jason was leaning on him now, the adrenaline crash hitting hard.

"Stupid," Jason mumbled. "So fucking stupid. Can't even handle a breakfast table—"

"You're not stupid. You're hurting. There's a difference." Kon kept his voice gentle but firm. "You had a bad night. Something triggered you. Your brain is trying to process trauma and it's coming out as panic. That's not weakness. That's just how brains work sometimes."

"You sound like a shrink."

"I'm a doctor. I've treated a lot of people in crisis. You learn things."

They reached the stairs. Jason stumbled on the first step, and Kon used just a touch of TTK—so subtle Jason probably wouldn't notice—to keep him steady.

"What the fuck was that thing with the pitcher?" Jason asked, his words slurring slightly. "Did you—did you just catch it? Without moving?"

"Tactile telekinesis," Kon said simply. "I'll explain later. When you're sober and not in the middle of a breakdown."

"M'not having a breakdown—"

"Jason, you're shaking like a leaf and you nearly had a panic attack over knocking into a pitcher of juice. That's a breakdown. It's okay. I've got you."

They made it to Jason's room. Kon helped him sit on the bed, then went to the attached bathroom to get water. When he came back, Jason had his head in his hands, shoulders shaking with silent sobs he was trying desperately to suppress.

Kon set the water down and sat beside him, not touching, just present. "It's okay to cry. You don't have to hold it together right now."

"Can't—if I start I won't—I won't stop—"

"Then don't stop. Cry until you're done. I'm not going anywhere."

Jason made a sound that might have been a laugh or a sob. "You're too good at this. 'S creepy."

"I've had practice." Kon's voice was quiet. "My Jason—the one from my universe—he had bad days too. After the Pit, after everything. We learned how to help. How to just be there."

"Your Jason," Jason repeated, something raw in his voice. "He have days where he couldn't even function? Where everything felt like too much and he wanted to just—" he stopped, didn't finish that thought.

"Yeah. He did." Kon's hand moved to Jason's back, gentle pressure. "And we got through them. One day at a time. One hour at a time. Sometimes one minute at a time. But we got through them."

Jason's breathing hitched again, and then the dam broke. He turned into Kon's shoulder and just broke, sobbing like a child, all the walls coming down at once. Kon held him—one arm around his shoulders, the other hand on the back of his head, grounding, supporting.

"I've got you," Kon murmured. "I've got you. You're safe. Let it out."

Jason cried for a long time. Kon just held him, patient, steady, not judging. When the sobs finally slowed, when Jason pulled back, Kon handed him the water.

"Drink," he ordered gently. "All of it."

Jason obeyed, his hands still shaking but steadier than before.

"Now sleep," Kon said. "I'll stay until you're out, then I'll check on you in a few hours."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to." Kon helped Jason lie down, pulled off his boots, draped a blanket over him. "Sleep. Sober up. And when you wake up and feel more human, I'll tell you about the time Lex faked a world crisis to get me a date."

Jason's eyes widened slightly. "He what?"

"Later," Kon said firmly. "Sleep first. Story later."

"That's—that's fucking insane—you can't just drop that and—"

"Sleep, Jason."

Jason's protest died as exhaustion won. His eyes were already closing. "You're gonna tell me though? 'Bout the telekinesis thing and the Lex thing?"

"I promise. After you sleep."

"'Kay." Jason's words were slurring now, sleep pulling him under. "Thanks, Kon. For not—for not making it worse."

"Anytime."

Kon waited until Jason's breathing evened out, until his heartbeat slowed to a sleeping rhythm. Then he stood, moved quietly to the door, and stepped out into the hallway.

Where the entire family was waiting.

They must have followed at a distance, heard everything through the door. Tim looked stricken. Dick's eyes were suspiciously wet. Damian's expression was carefully neutral but his hands were clenched. Bruce looked like he was holding himself together through sheer force of will.

"He's sleeping," Kon said quietly. "He'll be okay. Just needs time."

"Thank you," Bruce said, his voice rough. "For knowing—for helping—"

"I've been there," Kon said simply. "Not exactly the same, but close enough. I know what it looks like when someone's barely holding on."

"The way you handled him," Tim said. "The breathing exercises, the grounding techniques, that was textbook crisis intervention."

"It's what he needed." Kon leaned against the wall. "He was in fight-or-flight mode, shame spiral, heading toward a full breakdown. You have to interrupt the spiral, give them something to focus on, let them know they're safe. It's not complicated. Just takes practice."

"You're good at it," Dick said. "Really good."

"I'm a doctor. And I've seen people at their worst. You learn how to help or you don't last long in medicine." Kon rubbed his face. "He's going to be embarrassed when he wakes up. Try not to make a big deal of it. Just be normal. He'll process better if he doesn't feel like everyone's treating him like broken glass."

"We can do that," Bruce said.

"Good." Kon pushed off the wall. "I should go back downstairs. You all probably have questions about the—" he gestured vaguely, "—the pitcher thing."

"It can wait," Bruce said firmly.

"But—"

"It can wait," Bruce repeated. "Jason comes first. The rest can wait."

Kon felt something warm settle in his chest. "Yeah. Okay."

As they headed back downstairs, Kon heard Dick's quiet voice behind him: "Did he say Lex Luthor faked a world crisis to get him a date?"

"That's what I heard," Tim confirmed.

"I need that story. I need to know everything about that story."

"Later," Damian said. "After Todd recovers."

"Obviously after Jason recovers. But then I want details."

Kon smiled despite the heavy moment. Yeah. Later. After Jason was okay.

Some things were more important than explanations.

Some things—like making sure your broken brother knew he was loved and supported—those things came first.

The telekinesis reveal could wait. The Lex stories could wait. The questions and demonstrations and tactical applications—all of it could wait.

Right now, family came first.

And Kon was learning that sometimes, that's what made you a hero. Not the powers. Not the dramatic saves. But the quiet moments of just being there when someone needed you.

Of knowing how to help someone who was breaking apart. Of staying calm when everything felt like it was falling apart. Of choosing compassion over curiosity.

The rest could wait.

Family couldn't.

Wayne Manor - Early Afternoon

Jason woke to the sound of voices downstairs—too loud, too cheerful, too obviously forced.

He groaned, pressing his face into the pillow. His head was pounding, his mouth tasted like death, and the memories of this morning came flooding back with excruciating clarity.

The pitcher. The panic attack. Breaking down completely in front of Kon. Crying like a fucking child.

"Fuck," he muttered into the pillow.

He forced himself to sit up, immediately regretting it as the room spun slightly. There was water on his nightstand—three bottles, actually, along with more aspirin and a note in Alfred's perfect handwriting: Drink all of it. -A

Jason obeyed, downing the first bottle in one go. As the water hit his system, he became more aware of the voices downstairs. Dick's laugh—too loud. Tim saying something about case files—too animated. Even Bruce's responses sounded slightly off-pitch.

They were trying to be normal. Overcompensating. Pretending this morning hadn't happened.

It made Jason's skin crawl.

He dragged himself to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, stared at his reflection. Red-rimmed eyes. Pale skin. The face of someone who'd completely lost his shit over a juice pitcher.

"Get it together, Todd," he muttered. He showered and changed into comfortable clothes, feeling marginally more like a human and less like a basket case.

When he finally made it downstairs, the conversation stopped. Everyone looked at him with varying degrees of concern badly masked as casual interest.

"Hey!" Dick said, way too brightly. "You're up! Feeling better? We saved you some lunch—Alfred made that sandwich you like, the one with—"

"I'm fine," Jason interrupted, his voice hoarse.

"Good! That's good. So, uh, Tim was just telling us about this case he's working on—"

"Riveting stuff," Tim jumped in, also too enthusiastic. "There's this pattern of break-ins in the Diamond District that—"

"Jason," Bruce started, his tone carefully measured, "if you want to talk about—"

"I don't."

The silence was painful. Everyone was trying so hard. Too hard. Jason felt like he was suffocating under the weight of their concern.

Then Damian stood up from his seat at the dining table, his expression unreadable.

"Todd. Come with me."

"Damian, I don't think—" Dick started.

"I am not asking." Damian's voice was firm. He looked at Jason directly. "You clearly cannot tolerate the others' incompetent attempts at providing comfort. Come."

Jason blinked. "Did you just call them incompetent?"

"Yes. They are being insufferable. You are being stubborn. This is unproductive." Damian was already walking toward the door that led to the garden. "Now."

Jason looked at the others—Dick's expression was somewhere between offended and relieved, Tim looked like he wanted to protest but couldn't argue with Damian's assessment, and Bruce just nodded slightly.

"Go," Bruce said quietly. "Damian's right."

"I'm always right," Damian called back.

Jason followed, mostly because Damian was right—the forced normalcy was worse than just dealing with it. They walked through the garden in silence, past the rose bushes Alfred tended obsessively, toward the far corner where there was an old stone bench that no one ever used.

Damian sat down, patted the space beside him. Jason sat, leaving a careful distance between them.

"You are not required to explain yourself," Damian said after a moment. "Nor am I going to ask probing questions about your emotional state."

"Then why are we out here?"

"Because the others are terrible at this. Grayson becomes overly solicitous. Drake overthinks and offers solutions to problems you did not ask him to solve. Father becomes uncomfortable with displays of emotion and overcompensates with clinical distance." Damian's voice was matter-of-fact. "It is exhausting to witness. I can only imagine how much worse it is to experience."

Jason huffed a sound that might have been a laugh. "Yeah. That about covers it."

"You had a difficult night. You self-medicated poorly. You experienced a panic attack this morning. These are facts, not judgments." Damian picked up a small stone, turned it over in his fingers. "I am familiar with such nights. The Lazarus Pit's residue does not simply disappear. Some days it is louder than others."

Jason looked at him sharply. Damian rarely acknowledged his own struggles with the Pit.

"I do not require details," Damian continued. "Nor do I require you to pretend it did not happen. I simply thought you might prefer company that does not expect you to perform emotional labor while recovering."

They sat in silence for a while. Jason found himself relaxing slightly—Damian wasn't asking questions, wasn't offering solutions, wasn't trying to fix anything. He was just... there.

"You got a point," Jason finally said. "The others do suck at this."

"Indeed. Their intentions are good, but their execution is lacking." Damian threw the stone toward the pond. "Kon, however, was proficient."

"Yeah." Jason's chest tightened remembering it. "He was. How'd he know what to do?"

"He mentioned his universe’s version of you. One who also struggled with Pit-induced episodes." Damian's voice was carefully neutral. "He has experience with crisis management."

"Lucky me."

"Lucky us," Damian corrected. "Now we have someone who understands without requiring extensive explanation."

They sat for another few minutes in comfortable silence. Jason felt the tension in his shoulders start to ease. Damian was right—this was better. No forced cheer, no walking on eggshells, just acknowledgment and acceptance.

"Thank you," Jason said quietly. "For the extraction."

"You are welcome. Also, you should know—Kon mentioned something about Lex Luthor faking a world crisis to get him a date. I believe we are all owed that story once you are recovered."

Jason snorted. "Did he actually say that?"

"Yes. As you were leaving. The entire family heard it."

"That's insane."

"That is Lex Luthor, apparently." Damian stood, brushed off his pants. "Come. You should eat something. Alfred made your sandwich. If you can tolerate the others' presence, I will ensure they behave appropriately."

"You gonna threaten them?"

"I prefer the term 'provide corrective guidance.'"

"That's definitely threatening them."

"Semantics."

Jason followed Damian back inside, feeling marginally more human. When they entered the dining room, Damian gave the others a look that clearly said behave or else, and miraculously, everyone did. The conversation was normal—actually normal, not performed normalcy. They talked about cases and patrol and the upcoming Wayne Foundation gala.

No one mentioned the morning. No one asked how Jason was feeling. They just... let him be there.

It helped.

Gotham General Hospital - Later That Afternoon

Kon was in the middle of reviewing a post-op chart when his phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID: Sarah Morrison, DWB.

He answered immediately. "Sarah, good to see you."

Even through the phone, he could see her smile. "You too, Kon. How are you adjusting to being back in Gotham?"

"It's been... interesting. Lots of changes. How are things in the field?"

"Busy as always. Dr. Mallory is doing excellent work in Congo—sends her regards, by the way. The new team is settling in well."

"That's good to hear." Kon leaned back in his chair, sensing there was more to this call. "To what do I owe the call?"

There was a pause, and Kon could hear the amusement in Sarah's voice. "I have an... unusual request."

Kon's eyebrows rose. Sarah sounded like she was trying not to laugh, which immediately put him on guard. "Define unusual?"

"How do you feel about posing for this year's DWB yearly calendar?"

Kon's brain stuttered to a complete halt. "I'm sorry, what?"

"The DWB yearly calendar. We do one every year featuring our medical staff in the field. Proceeds go to funding clinic operations. It's very popular." Sarah was definitely trying not to laugh now. "And after Maya's article and your TED talk, you've become something of a... well, let's say you have a following."

"A following," Kon repeated flatly.

"The social media response to your work has been overwhelming. People are inspired by you, Kon. Young doctors, medical students, even the general public. The foundation board thought it would be excellent publicity—and fundraising—to have you featured."

"You want me to pose for a calendar."

"Not just pose. We'd photograph you in various clinical settings—doing what you do best. Helping people. Saving lives. Looking heroic while doing it." Sarah's amusement was clear now. "It would be tasteful, professional, and incredibly effective for fundraising."

"Sarah—"

"Before you say no, let me mention that last year's calendar raised over two million dollars. That's two million dollars for clinics, supplies, training programs. Think about how many lives that money could save."

Kon closed his eyes. "That's manipulative."

"That's effective fundraising." Sarah's voice softened. "I know you're private, Kon. I know this isn't your style. But you have a platform now. People respond to you. We could use that to do a lot of good."

"I'm not a model—"

"No, you're a doctor who risked his life in war zones and walked through hostile territory to save people. You're someone who inspired forty-three doctors to pursue humanitarian medicine. You're someone who operated in a bunker with a flashlight and saved a family of six." Sarah paused. "That's what the calendar would showcase. Not you as a model, but you as a doctor. As a hero."

Kon was quiet for a long moment. He could feel the trap closing—the same trap he'd walked into with the TED talk, with Maya's article. The trap of his own desire to help people combined with the undeniable fact that his story resonated with others.

"This is emotional manipulation," he said without heat.

"This is me knowing exactly what motivates you." Sarah sounded entirely too pleased with herself. "So? Will you do it?"

"I need to think about it."

"Take your time. The photo shoot wouldn't be for another month. We'd do it in the field—maybe one of the clinics, or during an actual mission if you're available. Nothing staged, nothing fake. Just you doing what you do."

"I said I need to think about it."

"That's not a no." Sarah's smile was audible. "I'll send you the details. Look them over. Talk to your family. Whatever you need to decide. But Kon? This could do a lot of good. Not just the money, but the visibility. Showing people that humanitarian medicine is needed, valued, important. You could inspire more doctors to follow your path."

"You're very good at this."

"I've been in nonprofit work for twenty years. I know how to fundraise." Sarah's tone turned more serious. "But I wouldn't ask if I didn't think it was worth it. You've already done so much for DWB. This is just asking you to do a little more."

"I'll think about it," Kon repeated.

"That's all I can ask. I'll send the details. Take care, Kon."

After she hung up, Kon sat in his office staring at his phone.

A calendar. They wanted him to pose for a calendar.

Wayne Manor - Evening

Kon returned to the manor around seven, after finishing his shift at the hospital. He'd been thinking about Jason all day, checking his phone between patients to see if anyone had texted updates. The last message from Damian had been succinct: Todd is vertical and consuming food. Adequate progress.

Alfred opened the door before Kon could knock. "Master Kon. Welcome back. The family is gathered in the living room."

"How's Jason?"

"Much improved. Master Damian's intervention proved most effective." Alfred's expression was approving. "Your assistance this morning was invaluable."

"Just did what needed doing." Kon stepped inside, shrugging off his jacket. "Is he okay with me being here? I don't want to make things awkward—"

"Master Jason specifically requested your presence. Something about a promised story?" Alfred's eyes gleamed with what might have been amusement. "I believe the exact phrase was 'if Kon doesn't get here soon to explain the Lex thing, Dick is going to vibrate out of his skin.'"

Kon groaned. "I was hoping they'd forgotten about that."

"The Bat-family forgets nothing, I'm afraid. Particularly when it involves potentially embarrassing anecdotes." Alfred gestured toward the living room. "They've been speculating for hours. Master Tim has a whiteboard."

"Of course he does."

The living room was, indeed, full of Bats in various states of anticipation. Jason was sprawled on one of the couches looking significantly more human than this morning—showered, in clean clothes, eating what appeared to be his third sandwich. Damian sat in an armchair with tea, looking supremely unbothered by the chaos around him. Dick was perched on the arm of the sofa practically vibrating with excitement, exactly as Jason had predicted. Tim had somehow procured a whiteboard and had written several theories in different colored markers, complete with probability percentages.

Bruce was nursing a scotch and trying to pretend he wasn't just as curious as his children.

"Kon!" Dick launched himself off the sofa arm. "Finally! We've been waiting for hours—"

"I have twelve working theories about how Lex Luthor could fake a world crisis, but I need more data—" Tim said, not looking up from his whiteboard.

"Please tell me those probability percentages aren't real," Kon said, staring at the board.

"They're estimates based on known variables of Luthor's resources, personality profile, and historical behavior patterns." Tim tapped his marker against the board. "Theory seven has the highest probability at 34%, but it requires assuming Luthor had access to—"

"Tim. Buddy. You made a whiteboard about this."

Tim blinked. "It's not about your personal life, it's about the tactical and logistical implications of faking a world crisis for—"

"Which resulted in a date," Dick interrupted gleefully. "Therefore, personal life. Also, hi Kon, glad you're back, how's Jason doing—yes we can see he's fine—now please tell us everything."

"Grayson, let him breathe," Damian said without looking up from his tea. "He only just arrived."

"I've been patient all day!"

"You've been theorizing all day," Jason corrected, gesturing with his sandwich. "Which is different from patience. Kon, get over here. You promised me a story, and if I have to listen to one more of Tim's theories about satellite manipulation, I'm gonna lose it."

Kon moved to sit on the other end of Jason's couch, doing a quick visual assessment. Better color, steady hands, eyes clearer. Good. "You doing okay?"

"Yeah." Jason's voice was gruff but genuine. "Thanks for this morning. For not... you know."

"Making it weird?"

"Yeah."

"Anytime." Kon accepted the beer Alfred had somehow materialized beside him. "Though for the record, Damian's extraction was perfectly timed."

"The others were being insufferable," Damian said primly. "Someone had to intervene."

"We were trying to be supportive!" Dick protested.

"You were being aggressively cheerful. There's a difference." Damian took a sip of tea. "Now, shall we allow Kon to explain the Luthor situation, or would you prefer to continue this tangent?"

Dick immediately shut up and turned to Kon with enormous puppy-dog eyes.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," Kon muttered, taking a long drink of his beer. It didn't affect him, but the ritual was comforting. "Okay. So. Context: I was nineteen, had been Superboy for about two years, and was still figuring out the whole hero thing."

"Wait," Tim interrupted, marker poised over the whiteboard. "Nineteen in your universe's timeline, or—"

"Tim. Let him tell the story," Bruce said, though his own expression suggested he was filing away every detail.

NNN

"Nineteen in my timeline," Kon confirmed. "So I'm living life, doing missions and trying to build a civilian identity, because at that point I was more Superboy than Kon-El. Meanwhile, I'm also... well, I was kind of a mess about someone. You know how it is when you're nineteen and completely gone for someone but too scared to do anything about it?"

"Oh no," Dick said, leaning forward with delight. "Teenage pining Superboy. This is going to be good."

"It was pathetic," Kon admitted. "I was so obvious about it. Everyone on the team knew. Even villains probably knew. I was doing that thing where you find excuses to be near someone, and you laugh too hard at their jokes, and you definitely stare when you think no one's looking."

"Painfully relatable," Jason muttered into his sandwich.

"So there I am, pining away like an idiot, and apparently it was bad enough that Lex noticed. From whatever evil lair he was monitoring me from. And one day, every hero on Earth gets an alert. Massive energy signature in the Pacific. Something's punching through from another dimension. Readings are off the charts. The League mobilizes, Titans are on standby, everyone's preparing for an invasion-level event."

Tim was scribbling notes on his whiteboard now, completely absorbed.

"I get deployed with my team, we pair up flying hero with a non-fling hero and we're flying toward this massive portal that's opened up over the ocean. Energy pouring out, the sky is literally tearing apart, it looks like the end of the world. Every sensor is screaming. The portal is getting bigger. And then..."

Kon paused for dramatic effect, taking another drink.

"And then?" Dick was literally on the edge of his seat.

"And then Lex calls me. Personal comm line that I didn't even know he had. Says, and I quote: 'Superboy, before you waste your time with this tedious crisis, you should know it's completely fabricated. I've arranged for you and a certain someone to be alone in a very romantic location. You're welcome. Try not to waste the opportunity.'"

There was a moment of stunned silence.

"Wait," Dick said slowly. "Lex faked an interdimensional invasion as... matchmaking?"

"Evil wingman Lex Luthor," Jason said, starting to grin. "That's actually insane."

"Oh, it gets better," Kon said. "So at this point, I realize that Lex has arranged for me and... this person... to both be routed to the same location. An abandoned observatory, middle of nowhere. Everyone else is being sent to different coordinates to 'contain the dimensional breach' but the two of us end up alone together."

"That's elaborate," Tim said, marker hovering over his whiteboard.

"That's nothing yet. So I have to explain: my Lex and I had an arrangement." Kon took another sip of beer. "I wouldn't meddle in whatever weird love-hate obsession thing he had going on with Superman—and trust me, it was complicated—and in return, he wouldn't try to recruit me to villainy. We had coffee once a month. Very civil. He was actually kind of... paternal? In his own deeply weird Lex Luthor way."

"Paternal," Bruce repeated slowly.

"Yeah. He had this whole thing about how I was 'scientifically perfect' and 'wasted potential' but in like, a proud dad way? He'd critique my tactics, send me articles about advanced physics, once gave me a lecture about proper investment strategies that lasted two hours." Kon shook his head. "Anyway, he'd been watching me pine for months. The pining was apparently visible from space."

"Oh god," someone muttered.

"Oh yes," Kon confirmed. "Lex told me later that even he—a man who regularly plots global domination—couldn't stand watching it anymore. His exact words were: 'I've toppled governments with less frustration than watching you fail to communicate basic romantic interest. It's embarrassing for both of us.'"

Jason was wheezing with laughter. "Lex Luthor got so annoyed by your pining that he faked the apocalypse. That's—that's beautiful."

"So he created a fake interdimensional crisis," Kon continued, "using a combination of satellite projection, dimensional energy simulation, and hacked monitoring systems across every major hero organization on the planet. Made it look like reality was tearing apart. Had every hero in the world mobilizing for an extinction-level event. All to trap me and this person in a romantic abandoned observatory in the middle of nowhere—structurally sound, completely isolated, conveniently atmospheric."

"That's insane," Dick said, but he was grinning. "That's the most extra wingman move I've ever heard."

"Lex doesn't do anything by half measures," Kon said dryly. "He told me the 'crisis' would resolve itself in exactly two hours, the observatory was shielded so no one could contact us or interrupt, and we should 'use the time productively.' Then he hung up."

Bruce's expression was complicated—somewhere between impressed, horrified, and professionally intrigued. "What did you do?"

"Well, we were stuck there for two hours. In a very romantic abandoned observatory. Alone." Kon's smile turned softer, more genuine. "We talked. Actually talked, for maybe the first time without the team around or a crisis happening or one of us deflecting or bleeding out. About feelings and fear and why we kept dancing around each other."

"And?" Dick prompted, completely invested.

"And by the time the two hours were up and the fake crisis 'resolved itself,' we'd figured our shit out." Kon's expression was fond, remembering. "First kiss was in that observatory, with the fake dimensional rift lighting up the sky outside like the universe's most extra mood lighting. There were a few things we didn’t figure out until later but yeah, that was the beginning of everything"

"Lex Luthor gave you apocalyptic mood lighting," Jason said, absolutely delighted. "For your first kiss. That's amazing."

"Oh, it gets better," Kon continued. "When we finally got back to the Watchtower, Superman was furious. Not at me—at Lex. Flew straight to LexCorp to confront him about 'manipulating teenagers' and 'abusing global defense systems for personal entertainment.'"

"Did you tell Superman what it was really about?" Bruce asked.

"Eventually. After I stopped him from actually fighting Lex." Kon was grinning now. "Superman was ranting about responsibility and Lex just looked at him and said, 'The boy is happy, no one was hurt, and I improved global crisis response time by forty percent. You're welcome, Clark.' Then he turned to me and asked how it went."

Dick was wheezing with laughter. "Please tell me Superman's face—"

"Purple. His face was purple. And Lex just smiled this incredibly smug smile and told me that proper relationships require 'clear communication and dramatic gestures,' and if I needed advice on either, I should call him, not Superman, because 'Clark couldn't communicate his way out of a paper bag.'"

"What did Superman say to that?" Damian asked, looking genuinely interested.

"Sputtered for about thirty seconds, then flew off without another word." Kon laughed at the memory. "Lex invited me to lunch the following week. Told me to bring my boyfriend so he could 'assess whether the boy was worthy.' We hadn’t talked about labels yet but he said yes"

"He actually did the overprotective parent thing?" Dick asked.

"Oh yeah. Full interrogation. Asked about plans for the future, education, ambitions, intentions." Kon's expression softened. "Very much like a dad meeting his son's boyfriend for the first time. It was weird but also kind of sweet? In a deeply Lex Luthor way."

"How did your boyfriend handle it?" Jason asked, curious.

"Like a champ. Didn't flinch, answered every question, even argued back when Lex made deliberately provocative statements. By the end of lunch, Lex declared him 'acceptable' and told me to 'stop wasting time with unnecessary drama.' Then he paid for our meal, gave me investment advice, and left."

"That's the weirdest father-son-mentor relationship I've ever heard of," Jason said.

"Yeah. But it worked for us." Kon's expression turned more serious. "Lex and Clark had this whole... thing. They were obsessed with each other—had this intense fascination and competition and push-pull dynamic that neither of them would acknowledge. Lex would commit crimes specifically designed to make Clark think. Clark would foil them in ways specifically designed to frustrate Lex. It was like watching two geniuses play 4D chess with each other while pretending they weren't completely fixated on each other."

"That sounds exhausting," Tim said.

"It was. But the arrangement meant Lex left me alone to be a hero, treated me like an actual person, and occasionally gave genuinely useful advice—when he wasn't being a supervillain. And in return, I didn't judge whatever weird courtship-through-combat thing he had with Superman."

"That's deeply strange," Tim said, his analytical mind clearly working through the psychological implications.

"Yeah. But it was my weird. And honestly? Having Lex be almost-paternal was better than having him be adversarial. He never tried to recruit me to villainy after we made the arrangement. Just treated me like... I don't know. A nephew he was fond of but occasionally exasperated by?" Kon shrugged. "He once sent me a care package at Titans Tower with advanced physics textbooks, gourmet coffee, and a note that said 'Stop using your heat vision so inefficiently. You're embarrassing me.'"

Jason laughed so hard he nearly fell off the couch. "He critiqued your superpowers?"

"Regularly. Along with my investment portfolio, my costume design choices, and my 'tendency toward unnecessary self-sacrifice.'" Kon was smiling despite himself. "It was weird but... I kind of appreciated it?."

"Did Superman know about the arrangement?" Bruce asked carefully.

"Yeah. He wasn't thrilled about it, but he understood. And honestly, I think Lex behaved better because of it—he had something to lose if he broke the agreement. He got to be part of my life, mentor me in his way, without the constant conflict." Kon paused. "And the monthly coffee meetings gave him an excuse to 'accidentally' run into Superman, which I think was half the point."

"So that's the story," Kon concluded. "Lex Luthor faked an interdimensional invasion, caused a global crisis response, and did it all as the most elaborate matchmaking scheme in history. It made international news once the truth came out. The UN tried to sanction him. He claimed it was a 'safety drill' and that he'd 'improved global response coordination.' Got away with a fine."

"Just a fine?" Tim looked outraged.

"He's Lex Luthor. He has lawyers that could argue their way out of the apocalypse." Kon finished his beer. "And technically, no one was hurt. It was all simulation. Expensive, elaborate, completely insane matchmaking simulation, but simulation nonetheless."

"That's the most Lex Luthor thing I've ever heard," Jason said. "Fake the end of the world because a teenager can't communicate. That takes commitment."

"The matchmaking or the world crisis?"

"Either."

"He definitely made commentary regularly." Kon smiled at the memory. "And while not world ending, he showed up at my school once to give a 'career day' presentation specifically to embarrass me in front of my friends. Superman almost had an aneurysm."

"But he truly never tried to recruit you to villainy?" Bruce asked, clearly trying to understand the dynamic.

"No. That was the arrangement—he got to be weird-uncle-Lex instead of evil-mastermind-Lex, at least where I was concerned. He still fought Superman constantly, still did supervillain stuff, but I was off-limits. And in exchange, I didn't interfere with whatever bizarre psychosexual chess game he and Clark were playing with each other."

"Psychosexual chess game," Dick repeated, delighted.

"Trust me, that's the most accurate description. They were obsessed with each other in the weirdest way. It was like watching two people court each other through combat and verbal sparring while both being in complete denial about it."

Tim was frantically writing notes on his whiteboard again. "The psychological complexity of that dynamic—"

"Is something we are NOT unpacking right now," Jason interrupted. "Because I'm already having a crisis about the fact that a supervillain was a better wingman than most people's actual friends."

"He was very effective," Kon agreed. "Weirdly supportive in his own deeply manipulative way. Like, he genuinely wanted me to be happy—as long as I was also living up to my 'scientific potential' and not 'wasting my brilliance.'"

"That's..." Dick trailed off, searching for words. "That's actually kind of sweet? In a completely deranged way?"

"That was Lex. Sweet and deranged in equal measure, at least with me." Kon's expression grew softer, more melancholy. "I miss him sometimes. My version of him, anyway. The one who sent me care packages and gave me investment advice and faked apocalypses because he couldn't stand watching me be emotionally constipated."

There was a moment of heavy silence.

Then Jason cleared his throat. "Okay, that got way too emotional for a story about Lex being a dramatic bitch. Can we go back to mocking him?"

"Please," Kon agreed gratefully.

"I have so many questions about the logistics," Tim said, already turning back to his whiteboard. "The satellite coordination alone would require—"

"Tim, buddy, I love you, but I don't actually know the technical details. I was nineteen and mostly just confused and very into someone."

"Nerd," Jason coughed into his hand.

"Says the man who reads Jane Austen for fun," Tim shot back.

"That's literature, there's a difference—"

"Children," Bruce interrupted, though his tone was fond. "Perhaps we can move past the Luthor logistics and focus on more important matters."

"Like whether Kon's going to do the DWB calendar?" Dick suggested with a grin.

Kon groaned. "How do you know about that?"

"Sarah Morrison called the manor looking for you. Alfred took a message." Dick's grin widened. "Something about 'tasteful, professional photographs' and 'showcasing humanitarian work'?"

"I'm going to kill Sarah."

"You should do it," Jason said unexpectedly. Everyone turned to look at him. "What? It's for a good cause, and it's not like you're doing anything weird. Just doctor shit. Saving lives. Looking heroic. You do that anyway."

"Jason's right," Damian added. "If the funds raised would support medical infrastructure in underserved regions, it would be illogical to refuse based solely on personal discomfort with publicity."

"Also," Dick added with a smirk, "you're objectively good-looking. Might as well use that for charity."

"Did you just—" Kon started.

"I said what I said," Dick replied, completely unrepentant.

"Is no one going to acknowledge that Grayson just basically called Kon hot?" Jason interrupted. "That's the most carefully worded thirst comment I've ever heard."

"I wasn't—I didn't mean—" Dick was turning red now. "I just meant that Kon has a face that people respond to—oh god, I'm making it worse."

Kon was laughing now, the heavier emotions from earlier fully dissipated. "Okay, so we've established I'm 'objectively good-looking' and should use that to raise money for medical supplies. Cool. Great. Love this conversation."

"You're never going to let me live that down, are you?" Dick asked miserably.

"Never," Jason confirmed cheerfully. "I'm texting the family group chat right now. 'Objectively good-looking.' That's going in the quote book."

"We don't have a quote book—"

"We do now!"

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. "This family is impossible."

"You love us," Dick said automatically.

"Unfortunately."

Kon felt something warm settle in his chest, watching them bicker and tease each other. This. This was family. Not the careful, walking-on-eggshells version from this morning, but this—the chaos and mockery and gentle ribbing. The way they could go from serious conversations about loss and grief to roasting each other about word choices in the span of minutes.

This was what he'd lost. And somehow, impossibly, what he'd found again.

Different faces. Different dynamics. Different universe.

But family nonetheless.

"So," Alfred said from the doorway, appearing as he always did at the exact right moment, "shall I set places for dinner? I've prepared Master Jason's favorites, given his difficult morning."

"You didn't have to do that, Alfred," Jason said, but his voice was soft.

"I'm aware. However, I wanted to." Alfred's expression was kind. "And Master Kon, I've prepared your usual as well. I trust you'll be staying?"

It wasn't really a question. More of a gentle command.

Kon smiled. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll stay."

"Excellent. Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes." Alfred paused. "And Master Tim? The whiteboard stays in the living room. No tactical analysis during the meal."

"But—"

"No."

"What if I have important questions about the dimensional energy simulation—"

"No."

Tim deflated. "Fine."

As they migrated toward the dining room, Dick threw an arm around Kon's shoulders. "Thanks for telling us that story. I know it probably brought up some complicated stuff."

"Yeah, but... it felt good to share it. To remember that I had people who cared about me there, too. And to know I have people who care about me here." Kon glanced at Dick. "Even if they do call me 'objectively good-looking.'"

"I hate you."

"You really don't."

"No," Dick admitted with a smile. "I really don't."

They filed into the dining room, the conversation shifting to lighter topics—patrol schedules, upcoming galas, Damian's latest art project. Normal family dinner conversation, with all the warmth and chaos that entailed.

And Kon, sitting among them, felt more at home than he had in nine years.

Different universe. Different family.

But home nonetheless.

Later, after dinner, after the dishes were cleared and most of the family had dispersed to various activities, Kon found himself alone in the kitchen with Bruce.

"Thank you," Bruce said quietly, "for this morning. For Jason."

"I just did what needed doing."

"You did more than that. You knew exactly what he needed, how to help without making him feel weak or broken. That's not just medical training. That's understanding." Bruce paused. "Your family. They were lucky to have you."

"I was lucky to have them," Kon corrected. "All of them. They taught me what family means."

And in that moment, in that quiet kitchen in a universe that wasn't his original home, Kon felt something he hadn't felt in nine years.

He felt like he belonged.

Not because he was Superboy. Not because he was Superman's clone. Not because of his powers or his potential or his genetic legacy.

But because he was Kon. Dr. Kon Keres. Friend, brother, teacher, healer.

Family.

And that was enough.

The DWB Calendar

Kon's Apartment - Gotham

Kon stared at his phone, reading Sarah Morrison's email for the third time. The details were all there—professional photographer, field location in rural Kenya, three days of shooting interspersed with actual clinic work, all proceeds going directly to expanding medical infrastructure in underserved regions.

His month's estimated contribution to fundraising: approximately $200,000 as part of the full twelve-doctor calendar.

He hated that she'd led with numbers. She knew exactly what she was doing.

"You're overthinking it," Jason said from Kon's couch. He'd stopped by after patrol, still in civilian clothes but smelling like Gotham's rooftops.

Kon looked up. "I'm not overthinking it. I'm appropriately thinking it."

"You've been staring at that email for twenty minutes. That's overthinking." Jason grabbed a beer from Kon's fridge without asking. "What's the actual problem? It's just some photos for a medical charity calendar. You've done way more public things."

Kon set his phone down. "I spent nine years trying to be invisible. Dr. Keres was supposed to be anonymous, unremarkable, someone who could just work without attention. And now Sarah wants my face on a fundraising calendar."

"You stopped being anonymous when Maya wrote that article," Jason pointed out. "And when you gave that TED talk. And when you came back to Gotham and got mobbed at the airport. You're already visible, doc. The only question is whether you use that visibility to help people or waste it trying to hide."

"That's manipulative."

"That's true." Jason's expression was serious. "Look, I get it. Being seen is terrifying. Especially when you spent so long making sure no one looked too close. But you're not hiding anymore, remember? You already chose to stop running."

Kon was quiet for a moment. "It feels different. The League, the family—that's personal. This is... public. Thousands of people seeing my face, my name, connecting me to DWB and everything I do."

"Yeah. And those thousands of people might see that calendar and decide to donate. Or become doctors themselves. Or volunteer." Jason took a swig of beer. "Plus, you're not even the only doctor on the calendar. It's twelve of you. You're representing one month. Share the spotlight."

"When did you become wise?"

"I've always been wise. You're just now noticing." Jason grinned. "Plus, I talked to Constantine last night at the bar. He said, and I quote, 'Tell the doc to stop being a coward and do the bloody calendar. It's for sick kids, for fuck's sake.'"

Kon laughed despite himself. "That sounds like him."

"He also said if you don't do it, he'll send a hex that makes you hiccup every time you try to use your heat vision, but I think that was the whiskey talking."

"With Constantine, you never know."

After Jason left, Kon picked up his phone again. Read the email one more time. Thought about the money it could raise. About the clinics, the supplies, the lives it could save.

He typed out a response before he could second-guess himself.

Sarah,

Against my better judgment and all my instincts for self-preservation, I'll do it. But I have conditions:

1. No shots that feel exploitative or performative. I want real work, real patients (with consent), real clinical settings. 2. I maintain approval on which photos of me are used. 3. Keep me informed about the other doctors participating—I'd like to know who I'm working with.

When and where?

-Kon

The response came back in less than five minutes.

Kon,

All conditions accepted. You'll be working with Dr. Marcus Webb (trauma surgeon, 15 years field experience) and Dr. Yuki Tanaka (infectious disease specialist, DWB veteran). Both excellent physicians and good people.

Kenya, two weeks from now. Pack for three days of clinic work. The photographer is Dr. Rachel Okoye—former field surgeon herself, so she understands the work.

Thank you for this. You're making a real difference.

-Sarah

Kon stared at the email, feeling that familiar mix of resignation and purpose. He was really doing this. A calendar. For DWB. With his face on it.

His phone buzzed with a text from Tim: Bruce mentioned the Wayne Foundation is partnering with DWB now. That's how Sarah got your contact info. Also, calendar sales data suggests average fundraising of $150-300k per featured doctor. Your impact could be significant.

Kon smiled, typing back to Tim: Of course you already have the data.

Different universe. Different life. But still using what he had to help people.

Some things didn't change, no matter which reality he was in.

Rural Kenya - DWB Clinic

Kon arrived at the clinic just after dawn, the Kenyan sun already warming the red earth. The facility was smaller than the Congo clinic but well-organized—three main structures, a supply depot, and a waiting area under a large canvas awning where patients were already gathering.

Two other doctors were already there, talking with the local staff. Sarah made introductions.

"Kon, meet Dr. Marcus Webb and Dr. Yuki Tanaka. Marcus, Yuki, this is Dr. Kon Keres."

Marcus was a tall Black man in his forties with steady hands and kind eyes. "The surgeon from the Atlantic article. Heard good things about your work."

Yuki was petite, sharp-eyed, probably mid-thirties. "The one who walked through a war zone. Sarah's been talking about you for months."

"Don't believe everything Sarah says," Kon replied, shaking their hands. "She has a tendency to exaggerate for fundraising purposes."

"I never exaggerate," Sarah said primly. "I strategically emphasize relevant facts."

A woman with professional camera equipment approached—Dr. Rachel Okoye, photographer and former field surgeon. "Alright, doctors. Here's how this works: you do your jobs, I document. No posing, no staging, just real medicine. I'll rotate between the three of you over the next three days. Today I'm starting with Dr. Keres, tomorrow Dr. Webb, day three Dr. Tanaka."

"Why Kon first?" Marcus asked, grinning.

"Because Sarah's been hyping him up for months and I'm curious if he lives up to it," Rachel said bluntly. "Plus, he's got that whole 'mysteriously survived a bombing' backstory. Good narrative."

"Great, I'm the narrative hook," Kon muttered.

"You're all narrative hooks," Rachel corrected. "Marcus has the 'decorated trauma surgeon who gave up private practice for field medicine' angle. Yuki has 'infectious disease specialist who helped contain three separate outbreaks.' Everyone gets their moment."

The morning started with the three doctors working together in the main clinic. It was immediately clear they had complementary skills—Kon's surgical precision, Marcus's trauma expertise, Yuki's diagnostic brilliance. They fell into an easy rhythm, consulting on complicated cases, teaching each other techniques, trading good-natured professional banter.

"Your suturing is unnaturally perfect," Marcus observed, watching Kon close a wound. "What's your secret?"

"Practice," Kon said, which was technically true. "Lots and lots of practice."

"He's being modest," Yuki said, examining a patient's infection. "I saw him do that bone stabilization earlier. That was artist-level work."

"Says the woman who diagnosed three parasitic infections in under ten minutes," Kon countered.

"Pattern recognition," Yuki said with a grin. "You see enough cases, you start seeing them in your sleep."

Rachel documented all of it—the collaboration, the teaching, the easy camaraderie between doctors who understood the work. These weren't just individual physicians; they were a team.

Then the emergency arrived.

A man in his thirties, carried in by friends. Agricultural accident. Deep laceration across his abdomen, bleeding heavily. The clinic's surgical capabilities were limited, but there wasn't time for transport.

"Operating theatre, now," Kon ordered. Marcus immediately moved to assist—trauma surgeon instincts kicking in.

"I can help," Marcus offered.

"Please. This is going to be complicated." Kon looked at Yuki. "Can you manage the clinic?"

"Go save him. I've got everything here."

Rachel started to follow, camera raised.

"No," Kon said sharply. "Not in surgery. Too distracting, too many variables. Wait outside."

Rachel nodded immediately and stepped back. "Understood. Go."

The surgery took three hours. The laceration had nicked the intestine and caused internal bleeding. Limited equipment, basic anesthesia, working in conditions that would horrify most American surgeons. But Kon had worked in worse, and Marcus was brilliant—anticipating needs, steady hands, complete focus.

"Clamp," Kon said, and Marcus had it ready before he finished speaking.

"You've done this before. A lot."

"More times than I'd like to remember," Kon admitted, carefully repairing the intestinal damage. "War zones are full of agricultural accidents. Machetes, farming equipment, shrapnel that looks almost the same."

"Your hands are incredibly steady. I've been doing trauma surgery for fifteen years and I've never seen precision like that."

Kon focused on the repair, using just a touch of TTK to ensure perfect placement. "Just focused. Can't afford mistakes out here."

When they finally closed, the patient stable and sleeping, Kon stripped off his gloves to find his hands shaking slightly from adrenaline.

Marcus clapped his shoulder. "Hell of a job, Dr. Keres. That bowel repair was textbook perfect. Better than textbook."

"You made it easier. Good to have experienced hands."

They walked out to find Rachel waiting, camera lowered respectfully. Yuki was there too, having closed up the clinic for a brief break.

"He's stable," Kon said. "Should make a full recovery."

"Dr. Omondi said he wouldn't have survived transport," Rachel said. She raised her camera. "I didn't photograph the surgery. But I'd like to photograph the three of you now, if that's alright. Just after the work."

Kon looked down at himself. Surgical scrubs splattered with blood, exhausted. Marcus was in similar condition. Yuki had clearly been working hard in the clinic—hair slightly disheveled, scrubs rumpled.

"Okay," Kon said.

Rachel took perhaps two dozen shots. The three doctors in the hallway outside the OR. Kon and Marcus's hands, still trembling slightly from the surgery. Yuki's expression as she checked on the patient—relief and satisfaction. The three of them together, exhausted but victorious.

"That's the shot," Rachel said finally. "The real one. Not glory, just the aftermath of saving a life together."

The rest of day one continued with the three of them rotating through the clinic. Marcus handled a compound fracture with casual expertise. Yuki diagnosed and treated a case of typhoid that could have spread through the entire village. Kon taught a young local nurse practitioner some advanced wound care techniques while Marcus and Yuki watched, occasionally adding their own tips.

"You're good at teaching," Yuki observed during a break. "Patient, thorough. Not everyone can explain things clearly under pressure."

"I had good teachers," Kon said, thinking of his Batman, his old team, of Dr. Mallory. "They taught me that knowledge only matters if you can share it."

"Spoken like someone who's been in the field a while," Marcus said. "Most doctors fresh out of school are too focused on proving they're the smartest person in the room."

"I got that beaten out of me pretty quick," Kon admitted. "Field medicine doesn't care about your ego."

That evening, the three visiting doctors, local staff, and Rachel shared dinner—ugali, sukuma wiki, and stories from various field assignments. The clinic team was warm and welcoming, treating the visiting doctors as colleagues rather than saviors.

"The bombing story," Marcus said carefully. "Maya's article mentioned you walked out of a war zone with her. That true?"

Kon nodded. "Two weeks through hostile territory. Not my finest moment, but we made it."

"That takes guts," Yuki said. "Most doctors who go through something like that don't come back to field work."

"Took me six months," Kon admitted. "But the work matters more than my fear."

"And now you're back doing it, getting photographed for a calendar, probably inspiring the next generation of humanitarian doctors," Marcus said. "That's not nothing."

Kon felt his cheeks warm. "We're all doing the same work."

"Yeah, but you're the one Sarah picked to lead with," Yuki pointed out. "Which means you're the face of this thing whether you like it or not. Might as well own it."

Rachel, sitting nearby and still taking occasional candid shots, smiled. "Spoken like someone who's about to end up in a lot of photos tomorrow."

"Me?" Marcus laughed. "I'm just along for the ride."

"Sure you are," Rachel said. "And Yuki's just here for fun."

"Obviously," Yuki agreed, grinning.

The easy camaraderie was already forming. These weren't just three doctors working side by side—they were becoming friends.

Days Two and Three

Mobile Clinic and Teaching Sessions

Day two started before dawn. The three doctors, Rachel, Dr. Omondi, two local nurses, and a driver piled into the mobile clinic truck—essentially a converted lorry with medical supplies and portable equipment.

"First village is two hours away," Dr. Omondi explained as they rattled down the rough road. "Maybe sixty people waiting already. Word spreads fast when doctors are coming."

Marcus sat across from Kon, reviewing supply lists. Yuki was going through her infectious disease protocols, preparing for whatever they might encounter. Rachel was checking her camera equipment, occasionally snapping candid shots of the doctors preparing for the day.

"You always this focused before clinic days?" Marcus asked Kon.

"Habit from field work. Never know what's coming, so prepare for everything." Kon was mentally cataloging the supplies, comparing them to potential scenarios. "You?"

"Same. Trauma surgery teaches you to expect the unexpected. Though I usually have better equipment than what's in this truck."

"That's the challenge, isn't it?" Yuki said, not looking up from her notes. "Not just treating patients, but treating them with whatever's available. MacGyver medicine."

"MacGyver medicine," Kon repeated with a grin. "I'm stealing that."

The first village was exactly as Dr. Omondi described—sixty people, mostly women and children, waiting under trees for the medical team. They set up quickly: Kon handling surgical consultations and wound care, Marcus on trauma and fracture assessments, Yuki managing infectious diseases and general diagnostics. The local nurses rotated between stations, translating and assisting.

Rachel documented everything, but differently than day one. Today she was capturing the mobile nature of the work—the makeshift exam areas, the doctors working in the shade of acacia trees, the lines of patients, the way the team adapted to having no walls, no sterile environments, no backup systems.

A child with a badly healed broken arm. Marcus examined it carefully, showing the mother how to do physical therapy exercises to regain mobility. "It's going to take time, but he'll get most of the function back."

An elderly woman with severe cataracts. Yuki noted it for referral to the regional hospital, but also took time to teach her family how to guide her safely at home. "She can't get surgery for at least three months. Until then, you're her eyes."

A teenager with an infection that had been festering for weeks. Kon cleaned and dressed it, started antibiotics, demonstrated proper wound care. "Come back to the clinic in one week. If you can't make it there, find Dr. Omondi in the next village. The infection needs monitoring."

Between patients, the three doctors traded observations, asked for second opinions, taught each other tricks they'd learned in different field assignments.

"How did you learn to do wound cleaning with so little water?" Yuki asked Kon during a brief break.

"War zone necessity. When clean water is scarce, you get creative. Saline, careful debridement, sometimes just meticulous technique with whatever you have." He showed her his method—efficient, thorough, using perhaps a quarter of the water she'd have used.

"That's brilliant."

"That's survival," Kon corrected. "You learn or patients die."

Marcus had been listening. "You've seen some shit, haven't you?"

"More than I'd like. Less than some." Kon accepted water from one of the nurses. "That's field medicine. You see things, you do things, you keep going because people need you."

"And then you go home and try not to think about it," Yuki added quietly.

"Until the next assignment," Marcus finished.

They shared a look—the understanding of people who'd chosen difficult work and carried the weight of it.

Rachel captured that moment. The three doctors, exhausted from the morning's work, understanding exactly what they'd each sacrificed to be here.

The second village had more patients—an outbreak of diarrheal disease that had Yuki immediately concerned.

"Waterborne," she diagnosed after examining the third patient with identical symptoms. "Probably cholera. We need to isolate cases, start aggressive rehydration, and check the water source."

The next hour was controlled chaos—Yuki directing treatment protocols, Marcus and Kon handling the rehydration setups, the local nurses educating families about hygiene and prevention. Dr. Omondi worked with village leaders to identify the contaminated water source.

By the time they'd seen everyone, started treatment, and arranged for follow-up, the sun was setting. They'd been working for twelve straight hours.

The drive back to the clinic was quiet, everyone exhausted. But it was the good kind of exhaustion—the kind that came from meaningful work done well.

"We probably saved that village from a full epidemic," Yuki said, half asleep against the truck wall.

"Team effort," Marcus replied. "Kon and I would have been lost on the infectious disease protocols."

"And I needed your trauma expertise on that fracture patient," Kon added. "This works because we're all here."

Rachel, still somehow alert and taking photos, captured them in the truck's dim interior—three exhausted doctors, satisfied smiles, the kind of camaraderie that only came from shared purpose.

Day three was back at the clinic—teaching day. Dr. Omondi had arranged for twenty-three local healthcare workers and medical students to attend a full-day workshop.

The three visiting doctors split the teaching between them: Kon on surgical techniques and wound management, Marcus on trauma and emergency response, Yuki on infectious disease identification and prevention.

But the best moments came when they taught together, combining their expertise into comprehensive lessons.

"Emergency triage," Marcus began, "is about speed and accuracy under pressure."

"But it's also about resource management," Yuki added. "What can you treat here? What needs referral? What's the most critical?"

"And surgical thinking applies even to non-surgical cases," Kon continued. "Problem identification, systematic approach, precise intervention. It's all the same framework."

The students were riveted. These weren't just doctors teaching from textbooks—these were field veterans sharing hard-won knowledge.

One student—Amara— asked a question about managing complications with limited resources.

Kon answered first, describing a technique he'd used in the Congo. Then Marcus added a trauma application. Then Yuki connected it to infectious disease protocols.

By the end, Amara was nodding with understanding, scribbling notes furiously. The confidence on her face had replaced the earlier uncertainty.

The afternoon was hands-on practice—students working with more patients from the community while the three doctors rotated through stations, offering guidance and correction.

After the final afternoon, teaching sessions complete and patients seen, Kon was in the clinic's supply room restocking materials when he heard laughter from outside.

Curious, he walked out to find Marcus and Yuki with Rachel in an open area near the clinic. Marcus was shirtless, strategically posed with medical supplies. Yuki had removed her scrub top, standing in a sports bra and scrub pants, laughing as Rachel directed her to lean against a supply truck.

Kon stopped, staring. "Why are you two stripped down?"

Both doctors turned to him with matching grins. Rachel lowered her camera, expression far too innocent.

"DWB also does a gag calendar," Rachel explained, her tone perfectly casual. "You know, like the firefighter ones? It usually raises a lot of additional funding. But Sarah assumed you wouldn't be participating in that one."

Kon looked between the three of them. Marcus was trying not to laugh. Yuki had her arms crossed, clearly enjoying his confusion. Rachel had that plotting look—the same one she'd had when she'd captured him post-surgery.

"You planned this," Kon said flatly.

Rachel's smile widened. "Maybe a little."

"The professional calendar and the gag calendar," Kon said slowly. "Two separate things."

"Two separate revenue streams," Yuki corrected cheerfully. "The professional one is very serious and respectable. The gag one is... less so. But it raises almost as much money because people have a sense of humor about hot doctors doing good work."

"We're not stripping down," Marcus added quickly. "Just doing the shirtless-hero-with-medical-supplies thing. It's tongue-in-cheek. Fun. And very effective fundraising."

"Plus," Yuki added, "we've been working together for three days. Might as well make the group shots entertaining."

Kon rubbed his face. He wore a rash guard under his scrubs—always had, born from years of super-suit habit and wanting an extra layer between his skin and potential contaminants. It was black, skin-tight, clearly visible under his usual short sleeve scrubs.

"I'm not stripping down," he said firmly.

Marcus and Yuki high-fived, clearly in on the plan.

"Keep the rash guard," Rachel said, that plotting look intensifying. "You've got the shoulder-to-waist ratio of a Dorito. People will go crazy anyway. Plus, it's practical field gear—you can sell it as 'this is what I actually wear for clinic work' which is technically true."

Kon stared at her. "You're manipulating me."

"I'm presenting you with an opportunity to raise additional funds for medical infrastructure," Rachel corrected. "While wearing something you already wear every day. Technically, this is less revealing than the post-surgery shots where your scrubs were covered in blood."

"That was different—"

"Was it?" Rachel's expression was pure innocence. "Because from where I'm standing, both involve documenting what you actually look like doing the work."

Kon looked at Marcus and Yuki. Both were grinning, clearly finding this hilarious.

"How much does the gag calendar usually raise?" Kon asked, already knowing he was going to regret this.

"Last year? About 1.8 million," Yuki said. "People like supporting good causes while also appreciating that doctors who do humanitarian work are often very fit from all the physical labor involved."

"It's all very tasteful," Marcus added. "Tongue-in-cheek but not sleazy. More 'heroic poses with medical equipment' than anything actually inappropriate."

Kon said a small prayer for his sanity and any remaining privacy he thought he had.

"Alright," he sighed, already removing his lab coat and scrub top. "Alright, I'll participate. But I'm definitely keeping the rash guard on."

"Perfect!" Rachel was already repositioning her camera. "Marcus, Yuki, you two can take a break. Let me work with Kon for a bit."

Rachel directed him through a series of poses that made him increasingly self-conscious about the form-fitting rash guard, so what if he had lived in practically nothing but skin tight full body suits when he was a hero, he was doctor right now and he was not used to it anymore. Either way Rachel had him pose alone for shots, among them:

Leaning against the supply truck, arms crossed, the black rash guard leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination about his athletic build

Carrying a heavy medical kit in one hand, looking heroically off into the distance

Standing with his back to the camera, looking over his shoulder, the setting sun creating dramatic lighting on the rash guard's fabric

Posed with a stethoscope around his neck, looking directly at the camera with that slight smile he used with nervous patients

"The lighting on the last one," Rachel said, checking her camera. "Photo seven is going to break the internet."

"Please don't say things like that," Kon muttered.

"Too late. Already planning which month you'll be."

Rachel had Marcus pose with various medical equipment, playing up the "heroic trauma surgeon" angle. Marcus, to his credit, committed fully to the absurdity:

Leaning against the supply truck, arms crossed, looking intensely into the distance while holding a trauma kit

Carrying an armload of medical supplies, muscles tensed, as if the lightweight boxes weighed significantly more than they did

Standing heroically on a slight rise with the clinic in the background, back squared, golden hour lighting making him look like an action movie poster

"This is ridiculous," Marcus said, laughing.

"This is fundraising," Rachel corrected. "Hold that pose—yes, perfect—okay, that's going to sell at least five hundred calendars by itself."

Despite being the smallest of the three doctors, Yuki brought fierce energy to her shots:

Posed with a microscope and lab equipment, somehow making infectious disease research look badass

Sitting on the supply truck tailgate, medical bag beside her, looking like she was about to deploy to save the world

Standing with arms crossed in front of a wall of medical supply boxes, serious expression but with just a hint of "I know this is silly but I'm doing it anyway"

"People are going to love these," Rachel said, reviewing the shots. "You look like you could cure an epidemic and then fight off an alien invasion."

"That's weirdly specific," Yuki said, laughing. "But I'll take it."

The real fun was the group shots.

"Alright, now for the group shots," Rachel announced. "These are going to be the real moneymakers. Three attractive doctors who work well together? That's catnip for donors."

"Catnip?" Marcus repeated.

"You know what I mean. Now, first pose: all three of you with medical supplies, looking like you're about to save the world."

They arranged themselves: Marcus in the center, Yuki on his right, Kon on his left, all holding different pieces of medical equipment. Rachel directed them to look in different directions, creating a "team of heroes" composition.

"Perfect. Now—okay, this is going to sound weird, but trust me. Yuki, sit on that supply box. Marcus, lean against the truck. Kon, stand between them with your arms crossed."

The pose looked ridiculous until Rachel showed them the result—somehow, it worked. They looked like a team, casual and confident, the kind of doctors you'd trust with your life.

"Now let's get creative," Rachel said. "Marcus, Yuki, I want you both to try to climb on Kon's back."

"What?" all three doctors said simultaneously.

"Trust me. It'll be funny, tongue-in-cheek, and show team cohesion. Plus, it'll demonstrate that despite doing humanitarian work, you're all in excellent physical condition."

"This is insane," Kon said.

"This is going to raise so much money," Rachel countered. "Come on, just try it."

Marcus, Kon and Yuki looked at each other, shrugged, and went for it. Kon redirected them to try something slightly different, having both of them on his back piggyback style would look awkward but Yuki was petite enough that if she bent her knees a bit she could comfortably hang from one of his arms like it was a monkey bar. While having Marcus perched on his shoulders was more comfortable.

His Kryptonian strength meant both doctors combined felt like maybe twenty pounds. He stood up straight easily, holding Marcus's legs steady, Yuki giggling at the absurdity of the situation

"Uh," Marcus said from his shoulders. "Kon, why are you not collapsing?"

"I work out a lot?" Kon offered weakly. "And you two aren't that heavy?"

"I'm 180 pounds," Marcus said flatly. "Yuki's at least 110. That's 290 pounds of human on your body and you're standing there like it's nothing."

"Field work," Kon said desperately. "Lots of heavy lifting. Carrying patients. Building stamina."

"He's not even breathing hard," Yuki observed from where she hung grinning easily. "This is actually impressive."

Rachel was rapidly taking photos. "Don't question it, just hold the pose—this is perfect—okay, Yuki, point heroically off into the distance. Marcus, cross your arms. Kon, just... keep doing what you're doing."

They held the pose for approximately thirty seconds before all three of them started laughing, the absurdity of the situation finally breaking through.

"This is the dumbest thing I've ever done," Marcus said, still on Kon's back.

"And it's going to raise a million dollars," Rachel said, grinning. "I can see the caption now: 'Team strength: These doctors can carry the weight of the world. And each other.'"

"That's terrible," Yuki said.

"That's perfect," Rachel corrected.

They did several more group shots after that, each more ridiculous than the last:

All three balanced on the supply truck tailgate, arranged in a pyramid with Kon at the bottom

Posed back-to-back-to-back in a circle, arms crossed, looking like a medical A-Team

Sitting casually on supply boxes sharing water bottles, mid-laugh, the most natural shot of all of them

Standing in a line, each holding a different piece of medical equipment, arranged by height with Kon in the middle despite being tallest (they'd had him crouch slightly)

"One more," Rachel said. "I want a shot that shows genuine friendship. Just the three of you, casual, real. Show me what the last three days have actually been like."

The three doctors looked at each other. Then, without discussion, moved into position: Kon in the middle, Marcus throwing an arm around his shoulders, Yuki leaning against his other side. They were smiling—real smiles, not camera smiles. The kind that came from shared work, mutual respect, and genuinely enjoying each other's company.

Rachel took the shot, then lowered her camera with a satisfied smile. "That's the one. That's the shot that makes people want to support this work."

By the time they finished, the sun had fully set. Kon pulled his scrub top back on with relief, already imagining the family's reaction when these photos inevitably got shared.

"I'm never hearing the end of this," he muttered.

"Probably not," Yuki agreed cheerfully. "But you're raising money for medical supplies in underserved regions, so really, you're a hero."

"A shirtless hero," Marcus added with a grin.

"I'm wearing a rash guard. I'm technically fully clothed."

"Tell that to everyone who sees the calendar," Rachel said, still grinning. "Especially the shot with both of them on your shoulders. That one's going viral, I guarantee it."

"Please don't say that."

"Too late. I can already see the internet losing its collective mind over three attractive doctors goofing off for charity." Rachel was reviewing shots on her camera, looking entirely too pleased with herself. "The body carry shot alone is going to be meme material."

"Meme material?" Kon repeated weakly.

"Oh yeah. 'When your team carries you' captions, 'friendship goals,' all of it." Rachel showed him the image. "Look at this. You're standing perfectly straight with 290 pounds of human on your back, grinning like it's nothing. Meanwhile Marcus looks shocked and Yuki's pointing off into the sunset like she's leading a charge. It's perfect."

Marcus leaned over to look. "We do look ridiculous. In the best way."

"I'm going to be mocked forever for this," Kon said.

"You're going to raise a million dollars for this," Yuki corrected. "There's a difference."

"Plus," Marcus added, "we all did it together. Shared humiliation is bonding."

Despite himself, Kon laughed. They were right—as embarrassing as this was, he'd had fun. The three of them had spent three days doing meaningful work, teaching, saving lives, and then capped it off by being complete goofballs for a good cause. There were worse ways to spend a week in Kenya.

That night, the three doctors and Rachel shared their final dinner with the clinic staff. Sarah called to check in, and Rachel assured her everything had gone perfectly.

"Got some great shots for both calendars," Rachel reported. "Dr. Keres was very professional about the whole thing."

"Both calendars?" Sarah's voice went sharp with interest. "Kon agreed to the gag calendar?"

"After some gentle persuasion. All three doctors participated, actually. We got some excellent group shots."

There was a pause. Then Sarah's delighted laughter. "This is going to be incredible for fundraising. How much gentle persuasion?"

"Marcus and Yuki ambushed him. He kept the rash guard on—very practical, technically work attire, looks great on camera. But the real goldmine is the group shots. We got one with both Marcus and Yuki perched on Kon's shoulders."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Like a human pyramid. Kon's holding both of them. Didn't even break a sweat. The man is apparently built like a tank under those scrubs."

Kon, listening to this conversation, made a decision. He wasn't going to tell the family about the gag calendar. Let them find out when it was released. It would only delay the inevitable teasing, but at least he'd have a few weeks of peace before they found out and made it their entire personality.

"You've made an excellent financial decision for DWB," Yuki said, noticing his expression.

"I've made a decision I'm not telling my family about it until absolutely necessary," Kon corrected.

Marcus laughed. "Smart man. Give yourself time to build up tolerance for the mockery."

"Exactly."

"Though," Yuki added thoughtfully, "the internet's probably going to find it before your family does. These things have a way of spreading."

"Don't say that."

"Just being realistic. Rachel's right—that carry shot is pure meme gold."

"I hate everything about this conversation."

"You love that it's going to fund seven new clinics," Marcus said.

"...Yes," Kon admitted. "But I'm still not telling my family until I have to."

Gotham - Two Weeks Before the Wayne Manor Discovery

The calendars had been released two weeks ago. Both of them. Kon had successfully avoided mentioning the gag calendar to anyone in the family, though he'd shown them his professional calendar month and accepted their congratulations.

What he hadn't anticipated was the internet.

He was at Gotham General, between shifts, when his phone started buzzing. Not just texts—notifications from Twitter, Instagram, mentions he didn't even know he had accounts for (he didn't, but people were tagging handles that sort of matched his name anyway).

The first text was from Constantine: Doc. You're trending on the internet. Might want to check that.

Kon frowned and opened Twitter. Sure enough, #DWBCalendar was trending. So was #HotDoctors. And, mortifyingly, #DoritoDoctor.

The top tweet had over 200k likes. It was the carry photo—him with Marcus and Yuki perched on top of him, all three of them grinning, the Kenyan sunset in the background. The caption read: "DWB just released their charity calendars and I am DECEASED. How is this man holding two full-grown adults like they weigh nothing?? Sir, we need answers. 🔥🔥🔥"

The replies were... extensive.

"That shoulder-to-waist ratio is INSANE"

"Who needs firefighter calendars when humanitarian doctors exist"

"I just donated $100 to DWB and I'm not even sorry"

"The RASH GUARD. The man is TECHNICALLY fully clothed but EFFECTIVELY—"

"Google says the guy survived a WAR ZONE and now he's out here looking like a superhero while doing humanitarian medicine??? unfair"

"My man is really out here carrying 290 pounds of human while looking like THAT and making us all feel inadequate"

Kon closed Twitter. Then his phone buzzed again—a text from Clark, clearly teasing him even through text: Lois showed me the trending topic. I'm proud of you for using your platform for good. Also, very impressed by the... physical fitness. That's clearly from dedicated work.

Then one from Diana: The internet is losing their minds over your calendar. Well done. Also, that image of you carrying your colleagues is excellent teamwork visualization 🔥🔥🔥. Followed by three fire emojis, which somehow made it worse coming from Wonder Woman.

Kon put his phone face-down on the table and tried to pretend the internet didn't exist.

It didn't work. Over the next week, the calendar went viral. Multiple news sites picked it up. BuzzFeed did a "Ranking All 12 Months Of The DWB Charity Calendars" article (Kon's professional calendar month was #3, his gag calendar month was #1, the carry shot was labeled "the clear winner of the entire year").

Social media accounts dedicated to "charitable thirst traps" shared the photos thousands of times. Medical schools started using the calendars as recruitment material. Even late-night talk shows made jokes about "the doctors who make humanitarian work look good."

The fundraising numbers went through the roof. Within a week of the viral trending, DWB had raised an additional $1.2 million beyond their initial projections.

Sarah called Kon, crying happy tears. "Do you know what this means? We can build two more clinics. We can expand operations in four countries. All because the internet lost their minds over you carrying Marcus and Yuki."

"I'm glad the money's going to good use," Kon said weakly.

"The internet is calling you the 'Hot Doctor Who Survived A War Zone' and 'Humanitarian Dorito Man,' and I've never been more grateful for viral marketing in my life."

"Please stop talking."

"Never. This is the best thing that's ever happened to DWB fundraising."

But even with the internet losing its collective mind, Kon managed to keep the family from seeing it. They didn't really follow trending topics on Twitter. Bruce was too busy with Wayne Enterprises, Dick and Jason were focused on Blüdhaven and Gotham respectively, Tim who was the one who might have been more susceptible to finding the internet loosing its mind over the whole thing was deep in a case, Damian didn't care about social media...

For two glorious weeks, Kon thought he might actually avoid the family finding out.

Then Dick found the physical calendar at a bookstore.

Wayne Manor - Late Evening

It had been going so well.

Then Dick found it.

Kon was in the manor's kitchen making coffee when he heard Dick's heartbeat and his rapid feet coming from the main entrance, clearly the man was running in from wherever he had been today, his voice was loud and delighted: "OH MY GOD."

That was never a good sign.

He walked in to find Dick holding a physical copy of the gag calendar, Jason leaning over his shoulder, both of them staring at the April page with matching expressions of glee.

"Kon," Dick said slowly, not looking up. "Kon, why are you in a second calendar?"

"And why," Jason added, voice full of barely suppressed laughter, "are you wearing basically nothing in it?"

"It's a rash guard. I'm fully clothed."

"You're fully clothed the way a wetsuit is fully clothed," Dick countered, turning the calendar to show him. "Which is to say, technically yes, but effectively—"

"It's for fundraising," Kon interrupted. "DWB does a gag calendar every year. Like firefighter calendars. It raises additional money for clinic operations."

Tim walked in, saw the calendar, and stopped dead. "Is that—did you—there's a second calendar?"

"Apparently there are two calendars," Dick said, absolutely delighted. "The professional one we all saw, and this one, which is—"

"Tasteful," Kon said firmly.

"—extremely thirst-trap adjacent," Dick finished. "How did we not know about this?"

"Because I didn't tell you."

"Why didn't you tell us?" Jason asked, though his grin suggested he knew exactly why.

"Because I wanted to delay this exact conversation for as long as possible."

Damian entered, took one look at the calendar, and raised an eyebrow. "Dr. Keres. Interesting marketing strategy."

"It raised 2.8 million dollars."

"Effective, then."

Bruce appeared in the doorway, clearly drawn by the commotion. He saw the calendar, his expression flickering through several emotions before settling on carefully neutral. "The gag calendar. Sarah mentioned it during our last Wayne Foundation meeting."

"You KNEW?" Dick whirled on him.

"The Wayne Foundation donated to both calendar productions," Bruce said calmly. "It's all for the same charitable cause."

"Did you buy this one too?" Jason asked, still grinning.

"...The foundation purchased several copies for donor appreciation gifts."

"That's a yes," Jason stage-whispered to Dick.

"I can't believe you didn't tell us about this," Dick said, turning back to Kon. "We could have been supporting your charitable endeavors this entire time!"

"You're supporting them now," Kon pointed out. "By finding the calendar and tormenting me about it."

"Wait," Tim said, pulling out his phone. "If there's a physical calendar, there's probably a digital version. With additional content. Let me check—"

"Tim, no—"

"Oh my god, there is." Tim's fingers flew across his phone screen. "Digital versions of both calendars available. Enhanced editions include bonus photos—twelve additional photos per featured doctor if you purchase both calendars together." He looked up, eyes bright with that particular intensity that meant he was about to do something impulsive. "That's twenty-four total photos per doctor. The value proposition is actually quite good considering the fundraising impact—"

"Tim, you don't need to—"

"Purchase complete," Tim announced, still staring at his phone. "Downloading now."

The room went very quiet.

"Tim," Kon said carefully. "This is really not necessary—"

But Tim had already opened the file. His phone screen lit up with the bonus gallery from the gag calendar. Twelve additional photos of Kon in various poses—the rash guard leaving very little to the imagination, the Kenyan sunset providing dramatic lighting, Rachel's professional photography making everything look far more artistic than Kon remembered.

Tim's face went through a remarkable series of changes: confusion, then recognition, then realization, then something that might have been a system crash. His cheeks flushed bright red. His eyes went wide. His mouth opened but no sound came out.

"Tim?" Dick asked, concerned.

Tim didn't respond. He was frozen, staring at his phone like it had personally betrayed him.

Jason leaned over to look at the screen. His eyebrows shot up. "Oh. Oh. Okay, yeah, those are—wow, Rachel's really good at her job."

"Tim, buddy, you okay?" Dick tried again.

"I—" Tim's voice came out strangled. "These are—the lighting is very—the composition is extremely—" He cut himself off, face now bright red. His brain seemed to have completely abandoned language processing.

Kon felt his own face heating up. "Maybe we should—"

"The shoulder definition in photo seven," Tim said faintly, still staring at his phone like he'd forgotten anyone else was in the room. "That's anatomically—the muscle structure is just—" Another strangled sound. His free hand came up to cover his face. "I need to—excuse me—"

He turned and walked directly into the doorframe with a solid thunk.

"TIM!" Dick lunged forward, but Tim had already bounced off the frame and continued walking, somehow managing to exit the room despite clearly having lost all spatial awareness.

"Is he okay?" Damian asked, for once looking genuinely concerned.

"He's fine," Jason said, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. "He's just having a moment."

"A moment?" Kon repeated weakly.

"A Tim moment," Jason clarified. "Where his brain stops working because he's seen something that contradicts his carefully maintained order."

"Thats an exaggeration—"

"It’s really not. You just... severely challenged his coping mechanisms." Jason was still looking at the calendar, grinning. "Rachel really is talented. The way she captured the lighting in these—"

"Can we please stop talking about the photos?"

"No," Dick and Jason said in unison.

Bruce cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should give Tim some space to... recover."

"Perhaps we should give Kon some space from Tim recovering," Damian suggested. "This is uncomfortable for everyone."

"I'm texting Constantine," Jason announced, pulling out his phone. "He's going to lose his mind about this."

"Please don't—"

"Too late. Sent." Jason's phone buzzed almost immediately. "He says, and I quote: 'bloody hell, the doc's got the whole package. Tell him well done on the fundraising and the aesthetics.'"

Kon dropped his face into his hands. "This is a nightmare."

"This is hilarious," Dick corrected. "Also, I'm buying the digital version. For the bonus photos. For charitable purposes."

"You're all terrible."

"We're supportive," Jason said. "Very, very supportive of your humanitarian efforts."

From somewhere upstairs, they heard a crash, followed by Tim's muffled voice: "I'm fine! Everything's fine! Just walked into a wall! Totally normal!"

"He's definitely not fine," Damian observed.

"Give him twenty minutes," Jason advised. "He'll either pull himself together or have a complete crisis. Either way, it'll be entertaining."

Kon looked at Bruce pleadingly. "Can you make them stop?"

"I bought six copies of this calendar," Bruce said. "I'm not in a position to make them stop."

"This family is impossible."

"You love us anyway," Dick said cheerfully, already scrolling through the digital photos on his own phone. "Oh wow, photo nine is really—the angle on that is just—"

"I'm leaving," Kon announced. "I'm going back to Kenya and never coming back."

"Can't," Jason said. "You love us too much. You can't escape."

Kon looked at the ceiling, as if asking for divine intervention. None came.

"For what it's worth," Bruce said quietly, "the calendars have been incredibly successful. The Wayne Foundation is very pleased with the partnership. You should be proud."

"I'm mortified."

"You can be both."

From upstairs, another crash, and Tim's voice again: "STILL FINE. EVERYTHING'S STILL FINE."

"He's absolutely not fine," Damian repeated.

"Nope," Jason agreed cheerfully. "But he will be. Eventually. After he finishes looking at all twenty-four bonus photos approximately a hundred times each."

Kon decided he needed a drink. Or several. Or to move to another universe.

Unfortunately, he'd gotten too attached to this one.

Even if everyone in it was currently tormenting him about a charitable calendar photoshoot.

Tim's Recovery (The Next Day)

Wayne Manor - Tim's Room

Tim had not, in fact, recovered.

He'd spent the entire night alternating between staring at the bonus photos and experiencing what could only be described as a full system malfunction. His carefully maintained denial about his feelings for Kon had been operating on the principle that he could keep those feelings theoretical and manageable if he just didn't think about them too hard.

The twelve bonus photos had obliterated that strategy.

Now it was morning, and Tim was sitting on his bed, laptop open, staring at the digital calendar files like they were tactical documents requiring analysis. Which they were. Sort of. If tactical documents made your brain stop working and your face heat up and your ability to form coherent thoughts completely abandon you.

A knock on his door. "Tim?" Dick's voice. "Can I come in?"

"No."

Dick came in anyway. "So. About last night."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"You walked into a doorframe."

"I was distracted."

"By photos of Kon in a rash guard."

Tim's face immediately went red again. "I was analyzing the photographic composition. The lighting was very—the technical aspects were—it's objectively good photography."

"Tim." Dick sat down next to him. "It's okay to be attracted to him."

"I'm not—I don't—it's not about attraction, it's about—" Tim gestured helplessly at his laptop. "The athletic conditioning required to maintain that physique while working in field medicine is impressive from a purely objective standpoint."

"Uh huh."

"And the way Rachel captured the muscle definition in the lighting—that's just professional photography."

"Right."

"And the fact that I've now looked at photo seven approximately forty-three times is purely for research purposes."

Dick raised an eyebrow. "Research purposes."

"I'm studying the impact of visual marketing on charitable donations," Tim said, his voice getting higher. "The gag calendar raised 2.8 million dollars. That's significant. I'm analyzing why it was effective."

"And the reason it was effective has nothing to do with the fact that Kon looks—"

"Don't finish that sentence," Tim interrupted. "Please don't finish that sentence."

Dick's expression softened. "Tim. You've been in denial about this for months. Maybe it's time to admit that you have feelings for him."

"I don't have feelings. I have professional respect and tactical interest and—"

"And you bought the digital calendars specifically to see the bonus photos."

"For charity!"

"You didn't even look at the other doctors' bonus photos."

Tim opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "...That's not relevant."

"That's extremely relevant." Dick leaned back. "Look, I'm not trying to torture you. But you've been doing this dance for months now. The coffee dates you schedule obsessively. The way you designed that suit with the hip cutouts. The complete meltdown when you saw him wear it. And now this—buying bonus calendar photos and staring at them all night."

"I did not stare at them all night."

"Jason checked on you at 3 AM. You were still awake, laptop open to photo seven."

Tim groaned and buried his face in his hands. "This is a disaster."

"This is you having normal human feelings for someone."

"I don't want normal human feelings. I want tactical objectivity and professional boundaries and the ability to look at Kon without my brain shutting down."

"Too late for that, I think."

Tim looked up, miserable. "What do I do?"

"Well, you could tell him."

"Absolutely not. That would ruin everything. We have coffee dates. We talk about medical technology and case files and—and he treats me like a friend. If I tell him I have feelings, it'll make everything weird and he'll stop wanting to spend time with me and—" Tim stopped, realizing what he'd just admitted.

Dick's expression was gentle. "So you do have feelings."

"...Yes," Tim said quietly. "Yes, I have feelings. I've had feelings for months. Since before the costume incident. Probably since Paris, watching him be himself without the pressures of our surveillance. Or since the moment I met him for real. I don't know. But telling him would be a disaster."

"Why?"

"Because he lost everyone," Tim said, voice intense. "His entire universe. The people he loved. He's still processing that grief. The last thing he needs is me dumping complicated feelings on him."

Dick sighed. "Okay. I'm not going to push. But Tim? You can't keep doing this. The denial, the obsessive analysis, the looking at calendar photos forty-three times—"

"Forty-seven now."

"—forty-seven times. At some point, you're going to have to deal with these feelings. Either by telling him or by actually moving on."

"I know." Tim closed his laptop. "I just... not yet. I need time to figure out how to do this without making everything worse."

"Fair enough." Dick stood, then paused at the door. "For what it's worth? I think he cares about you too. The way he lights up when you text him about coffee. The way he always makes time for you even when he's exhausted. The way he designed his schedule so your weekly meetings almost never get canceled now. That's not nothing."

After Dick left, Tim reopened his laptop. Stared at photo seven again—Kon in profile, sunset lighting, the rash guard doing absolutely nothing to hide the athletic build that came from years of physical labor in field medicine. Or maybe its just one of those Kryptonian perks, being overwhelmingly perfect.

He'd convinced himself for months that his interest was purely tactical. Professional. Based on Kon's skills and knowledge and the fact that he was an interesting person to study.

The calendar photos had destroyed that lie completely.

"I'm an idiot," Tim said to his empty room.

His laptop pinged. A text from Kon in their private chat: Coffee this week? I have a free afternoon Thursday if that works for you.

Tim stared at the message. Thought about saying no, about needing space to get his brain back in order.

Typed back: Thursday works. The usual place?

Perfect. Looking forward to it.

Tim closed his laptop and flopped back on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

He was completely gone for Kon. Had been for months. The calendar had just made it impossible to pretend otherwise.

And he had absolutely no idea what to do about it.

From downstairs, he heard Jason's laugh and Dick's voice, probably still discussing the calendars. Still finding the whole situation hilarious.

Tim grabbed a pillow and pressed it over his face.

This was going to be a very long recovery period.

Gotham - Two Weeks Later

Tim had managed to pull himself together enough to function. Mostly.

He'd attended the Thursday coffee date with Kon, kept the conversation firmly on safe topics (medical technology, case files, the new Wayne Foundation partnership with DWB), and only walked into one table when Kon had taken off his jacket.

Because of course Kon was wearing the rash guard under his shirt.

"It's practical for clinic work," Kon had explained, completely oblivious to Tim's renewed system malfunction. "Comfortable, easy to clean, provides sun protection. I pretty much live in these when I'm not wearing normal clothes."

Tim had nodded, made an intelligible sound of agreement, and immediately excused himself to the bathroom where he spent five minutes trying to remember how to breathe normally.

Dick and Jason, who had "coincidentally" been at a nearby table, had found the entire thing hilarious.

Now, two weeks after the calendar discovery, the family had mostly stopped the constant teasing. Mostly. Jason had the gag calendar on his safehouse wall. Dick had made it his phone background "for charitable purposes." Damian had declared the whole situation "adequate entertainment" which was high praise from him.

Bruce had quietly increased the Wayne Foundation's donation to DWB and refused to comment on how many copies of the calendar he'd purchased.

And Tim... Tim was trying very hard to function normally while knowing that twenty-four high-resolution photos of Kon existed on his laptop and he'd looked at them a combined total of—he'd stopped counting after two hundred.

He was in deep. So, so deep.

His phone buzzed. A text in the family group chat:

Constantine: [via Jason's phone] Heard about the calendar situation. Well done, doc. The bar's fundraising improved 40% after we put it up.

Kon: I'm never living this down, am I?

Jason: Absolutely not. This is the gift that keeps on giving.

Dick: Speaking of which, the Wayne Foundation gala is next month. You should wear the rash guard under your tux.

Kon: I'm blocking all of you.

Tim: The thermal properties of the rash guard material would actually be quite uncomfortable under formal wear. The moisture-wicking fabric isn't designed for—

Jason: Tim. Buddy. You're doing the thing again.

Tim: What thing?

Dick: The "analyzing Kon's clothing choices in unnecessary technical detail" thing.

Damian: Drake has been doing this with increasing frequency since the calendar discovery.

Tim: I'm being informative!

Jason: You're being obvious.

Tim closed the group chat and dropped his phone on his desk. He was being obvious. He knew he was being obvious. Everyone knew except possibly Kon, who seemed genuinely oblivious to the fact that Tim's brain stopped working every time he saw him.

A knock on his door. "Tim?" It was Kon's voice.

Tim's brain immediately short-circuited. Kon was here. At the manor. At his door.

"Uh. Yes. Come in."

Kon entered, looking slightly sheepish. "Hey. Sorry to drop by unannounced. I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd—are you okay?"

Tim realized he was still holding his laptop, which was open to—oh god—photo seven.

He slammed the laptop shut so fast he nearly broke the hinge. "Fine! I'm fine. Totally fine. Just doing research. For a case. About. Humanitarian medicine. And its impact on. Global health infrastructure."

Kon's expression suggested he didn't entirely believe that, but he was too polite to push. "Right. Well, I actually came by because I wanted to talk to you about something."

"About what?" Tim's voice came out higher than intended.

"The calendar situation." Kon sat down in Tim's desk chair, and Tim tried very hard not to notice the way his shirt—a normal, regular shirt, not even the rash guard—fit across his shoulders. "I know the family's been... enthusiastic about the whole thing. And I wanted to make sure it wasn't making you uncomfortable. You've been kind of quiet since the discovery."

"I'm not uncomfortable," Tim said too quickly. "Why would I be uncomfortable? It's for charity. Very good cause. The fundraising numbers are impressive. You raised over a million dollars personally which is—that's significant impact and—"

"Tim." Kon's voice was gentle. "You're babbling."

"I don't babble."

"You're definitely babbling." Kon leaned forward, concerned. "Seriously, are you okay? You've been acting weird since the calendar thing. If it's making you uncomfortable, I can talk to Jason and Dick, get them to ease off on the teasing—"

"It's not the teasing," Tim blurted out, then immediately regretted it.

"Then what is it?"

Tim's brain frantically searched for a plausible explanation that wasn't "I've been in love with you for months and the calendar photos broke my ability to maintain denial about it."

"I just." Deep breath. "I think it's really brave. What you did. Using your visibility for good even though you hate attention. That takes courage."

Kon blinked, clearly not expecting that answer. "Oh. Thanks."

"And the photos were really well done. Rachel's very talented. The composition and lighting were exceptional." Tim was talking faster now, unable to stop himself. "Especially photo seven, the way she captured the sunset and your profile and the—" He stopped abruptly, realizing what he'd just said.

Kon's eyebrows rose. "Photo seven specifically?"

"I—I noticed it from a technical photography standpoint. The golden hour lighting is very—it's objectively good photography." Tim could feel his face burning. "Not that I've looked at it multiple times or anything. Just. Professional observation."

"Right." Kon was smiling now, just a little. "Professional observation."

"Exactly."

They sat in silence for a moment. Tim wanted to die. Kon seemed amused but also something else—softer, maybe? It was hard to tell.

"For what it's worth," Kon said quietly, "I'm glad you think the photos turned out well. I was worried they'd be too much. Too revealing or exploitative or—I don't know. But if you think they were done tastefully, that helps."

"They were very tasteful," Tim said, perhaps too emphatically. "Extremely tasteful. Professional and artistic and definitely not—not inappropriate or anything."

Kon's smile widened. "Good to know."

Tim's phone buzzed. A text from Jason in a separate chat: Please tell me you're not currently dying of embarrassment while talking to Kon about the calendar.

Then one from Dick: I can hear you babbling from downstairs. Deep breaths, Timmy.

Tim wanted to murder both of them.

"I should let you get back to your research," Kon said, standing. "But Tim? Thanks. For being supportive about the whole thing. It means a lot."

"Of course. Always."

Kon paused at the door. "Also, for the record? Photo seven is my favorite too. Rachel captured something real in that one. Not the doctor or the hero or whatever people want to see. Just... me. Thinking about the work, the sunset, being grateful to be there." He shrugged. "Anyway. See you Thursday for coffee?"

"Yeah. Thursday. Coffee. I'll be there."

After Kon left, Tim sat in stunned silence for approximately thirty seconds before his phone exploded with messages, the vigilante group chat:

Jason: DID HE JUST SAY PHOTO SEVEN IS HIS FAVORITE TOO?!

Dick: That was the most obvious mutual pining I've ever witnessed and NEITHER OF YOU REALIZED IT.

Damian: This is painful to observe. Someone should intervene.

Bruce: Leave them alone. They'll figure it out.

Jason: Bruce they're both IDIOTS. They're not going to figure it out without help.

Dick: Agreed. Operation Get Tim And Kon Together starts now.

Tim: I can see these messages. I'm in this chat.

Jason: We know. We don't care. You're both disasters and we're helping.

Damian: Father, permission to assist in the operation?

Bruce: ...Fine. But nothing that could backfire catastrophically.

Dick: Define "catastrophically."

Bruce: Dick.

Dick: I'm just asking for clarification!

Tim closed the group chat, opened his laptop, and stared at photo seven.

Kon's favorite too.

"I'm so screwed," Tim muttered.

But maybe—just maybe—he wasn't the only one.

Three Months After Calendar Release

The numbers were in.

Professional Calendar Sales: $2.1 million

Gag Calendar Sales: $2.8 million

Digital Enhanced Editions: $1.4 million

Total Combined: $6.3 million

The Wayne Foundation had formally expanded its partnership with DWB, committing to long-term funding for sustainable clinic operations. Sarah had called Kon crying actual tears of gratitude, barely able to articulate how much the fundraising meant for their operations.

Seven new clinics were being built. Eight existing clinics were expanding. Sixty-seven medical students from underserved regions had received full scholarships. One hundred and three doctors had been recruited to humanitarian medicine, inspired by the calendar and the visibility it brought to the work.

Kon's personal contribution—as the top-selling month in both calendars—had raised over $1.04 million.

More than that, he'd received emails. Hundreds of them. From medical students saying the calendar had inspired them to pursue humanitarian work. From established doctors saying they'd been moved to volunteer. From patients in rural clinics saying they'd received care because of the new funding.

One email in particular had made Kon cry—from Dr. Amara in Kenya, the nervous student he'd mentored during the teaching session. She'd been accepted into a competitive medical program with full scholarship funding.

Your teaching gave me confidence I didn't know I had, she wrote. And seeing you use everything—your skills, your platform, even your appearance—to raise money for healthcare made me realize that being a doctor means using every tool you have to help people. Thank you for showing me what's possible.

Kon read that email multiple times, sitting in his apartment, feeling the weight of what he'd done settle into something solid and good.

The embarrassment was worth it. The teasing was worth it.

His phone buzzed. The family group chat:

Jason: Official update: Constantine says the gag calendar is the bar's best investment this year. Tips are up 35%.

Dick: I maintain we should get Kon to autograph our copies.

Kon: Absolutely not.

Tim: The secondary market value of autographed copies would actually be quite significant. From a purely economic perspective, signatures could increase value by 200-300%.

Jason: Tim's doing the analytical thing about Kon again.

Tim: I'm providing factual data!

Damian: Drake, perhaps you should simply analyze your Kon metrics internally instead of flooding the family communications.

Tim: I don't know what you're talking about.

Dick: Tim. Buddy. We all know.

Tim: Know what?

Jason: That you're desperately in love with Kon and have been staring at photo seven like it personally hangs the moon.

Bruce: Children. Please.

Kon: ...what?

There was a long pause in the chat. Kon stared at his phone, reading Jason's message again.

Then again.

Desperately in love.

Photo seven.

Tim.

Oh.

Oh.

Dick: JASON YOU IDIOT YOU WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO JUST SAY IT

Jason: TOO LATE IT'S OUT THERE NOW

Damian: This operation is going poorly.

Bruce: I specifically said nothing that could backfire catastrophically.

Jason: In my defense, Tim's been obvious about it for months. I thought Kon knew.

Kon: I didn't know.

Tim: I'm going to kill Jason.

Jason: YOU'RE WELCOME

Tim: This is not helping!

Kon: Tim, can we talk? In person?

There was another long pause.

Tim: Thursday coffee?

Kon: How about now? I'm coming over.

Dick: OH MY GOD IT'S HAPPENING

Bruce: Everyone stop texting and let them handle this privately.

Jason: But I want to know what happens!

Bruce: PRIVATELY.

Damian: Father is correct. We should allow them to communicate without an audience.

Dick: Fine. But I want a full report after.

Jason: Same.

Kon put his phone in his pocket, grabbed his jacket, and headed for the door.

Tim. Tim had feelings for him. Had been having feelings for months, apparently. The coffee dates, the costume with the hip cutouts, the walking into furniture, the obsessive analysis of photo seven—

Photo seven. Kon's favorite. The one that felt most real, most like himself rather than any persona.

Tim's favorite too.

Kon had spent six months carefully not noticing because he was still processing his grief, still learning how to accept this new family, still figuring out who he was in this universe.

But Tim. Tim with his brilliant mind and terrible self-care habits and the way he looked at Kon like he was something worth understanding. Tim who designed a costume with tactical considerations and also hip cutouts because he couldn't help himself. Tim who had weekly coffee dates and rarely canceled and always made time even when drowning in cases.

Tim, who apparently loved him.

Kon had been so focused on not repeating his past, on not trying to recreate what he'd lost, that he'd missed what was right in front of him.

Something new. Someone new. A Tim who was different from his Tim but somehow just as brilliant, just as worth knowing, just as—

Kon realized he was smiling as he got into his car. Decided to forgo it and just fly to the manor.

Maybe it was time to stop running from possibilities.

Maybe it was time to see what this universe had to offer.

Maybe it was time to find out if photo seven meant as much to Tim as it did to him.

Different universe. Different life. Different love story.

But a love story, nonetheless.

And this time, Kon wasn't going to run from it.

Final Calendar Impact:

Total Funds Raised: $6.3 million

New Clinics: 7

Expanded Clinics: 8

Scholarships Awarded: 67

Doctors Recruited: 103

Lives Changed: Immeasurable

Kon's Personal Stats:

Contribution: $1.04 million

Dignity: Recovering

Relationships: In Progress

Tim's Personal Stats:

Photo Seven Views: [REDACTED]

Furniture Walked Into: 14

Secrets Exposed By Jason: 1 (catastrophically)

Chances With Kon: TBD but promising

Jason's Personal Stats:

Ability To Keep Secrets: 0/10

Satisfaction With Chaos Caused: 11/10

Regrets: None

Marcus & Yuki's Stats:

Combined Weight: 290 lbs

Times Successfully Perched on Kon's Shoulders: 1 (viral sensation)

Friendship Level: Maximum

Likelihood of Future Calendar Participation: High

Operation Get Tim And Kon Together:

Status: Accidentally Successful

Method: Blunt Force Trauma (via group chat)

Bruce's Approval: Reluctant

Success Rate: TBD but optimistic

To be continued...