Chapter Text
This was a city that could be watched.
Tim Drake knew Gotham.
Not just from maps. Not just from statistics or police reports. He knew the city the way someone only can when they’ve spent enough time watching it in silence. He knew which streets let their lights die before dawn, and which rooftops creaked differently after rain. He knew which buildings seemed to look back at you—and which ones deliberately turned their gaze away.
He grew up here.
He learned how to watch here.
Photography wasn’t just a hobby for him. It was proof. Preservation. A way to stop time, back when everything was still where it belonged.
He loved the night. Loved the way Gotham breathed once the noise of the day finally fell quiet. Through the lens of his camera, he watched Batman and Robin—first Dick Grayson. The laughter. The lightness. The movements built on trust.
Then Jason Todd.
Jason was different. Rougher. Louder. Angrier. But he was alive. He fought. He laughed sometimes when he shouldn’t have. Tim took a lot of pictures of him—not because he was a hero, but because he was real.
And then Robin was gone.
And Batman changed.
The city noticed before Bruce Wayne ever did. The punches grew harder. The patrols longer. He send more criminal to hospital then in jail. The silence heavier. Tim saw that too. In the photographs, there was no laughter anymore. Only motion. Shadow. Too much force. and grief mixed with pain.
Tim thought logically. He always had.
If Batman needed a Robin, then he Robin.
If Bruce Wayne was breaking, then someone had to restore the balance.
He went to Nightwing first. Dick Grayson. It was the reasonable step. But...Dick said no.
So Tim became Robin himself. Even when Bruce didnt wanted him. Didnt accept him Tim stayed and made sure Bruce come home every night.
And he loved it.
Not the costume. The job. The role. The idea that he mattered. That he belonged there. That Batman wasn’t fighting alone.
But Bruce Wayne was grieving.
And grief doesn’t ask for permission.
Bruce was harder on Tim than he needed to be. Stricter. More demanding. As if Tim had to prove more simply because he wasn’t Jason. Tim understood. He didn’t resent him.
When Bruce sent him to train with Diana, Tim went.
Diana never showed up.
Lady Shiva did.
Shiva didn’t ask many questions. She didn’t explain. She just taught— the way the body learns: through pain, repetition, silence. Tim grew stronger. Faster. More precise. And eventually, he chose his weapon—one that didn’t kill, but didn’t hesitate either.
After a long training session, on a cold evening, Tim sat staring up at the stars. A fresh cut ran along his arm. Shiva stepped up beside him.
“Little bird,” she said.
She didn’t ask anything. She pulled up Tim’s sleeve, cleaned the wound, wrapped it. Her movements were practiced. Neutral—but not cruel.
They talked. About training. About plans. About the future.
Then Shiva let slip a half-sentence. About Jason. About the League.
She didn’t elaborate. Didn’t explain. She simply left the thought there, inside Tim’s head.
That night, Tim didn’t sleep.
He turned on his computer and disappeared into the data. Ones and zeros. Movements. Missing details. The explosion site. The body.
“Come on… give me something,” he muttered.
And the answer came.
Jason’s body had been swapped. A fake. Agents of Ra’s al Ghul had been on site.
Jason could be alive.
Tim didn’t feel joy. He didn’t panic. He started planning.
He had to bring Jason back to Bruce. Because Batman needed a Robin. And Bruce Wayne needed his son.
Tim knew he couldn’t save Jason. Couldn’t fix him. Couldn’t heal him.
But return him?
That, he could do.
And if that meant going to the League—then he wouldn’t go empty-handed.
Tim reviewed every piece of information Bruce had ever accessed. And the plan was born.
Lady Shiva’s training came to an end.
And Tim Drake stepped onto a path that no longer led back.