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Tim Drake’s day began with a left hook and a pop quiz.
Not in that order, unfortunately.
The left hook belonged to Chad Something-or-Other, captain of the lacrosse team and proud owner of a jawline that looked like it had been drafted by an architecture firm. The pop quiz belonged to Mr. Nguyen, who had the uncanny ability to sense when Tim had slept less than three hours and deploy academic violence accordingly.
The hook came first.
Tim had been minding his business, which in this case meant trying to calculate how many minutes of sleep he could salvage if he skipped lunch, when Chad decided that the best way to resolve a disagreement about “personal space” was with his fist.
Tim, who had fought ninjas before breakfast, did not lose the fight.
Tim did, however, lose his chocolate milk.
It exploded across the cafeteria like a dairy-based crime scene. Everyone gasped. Tim stared at the spreading puddle with the hollow grief of a man watching his last emotional support beverage seep into tile grout.
“Dude,” Chad said, clutching his wrist, “what is wrong with you?”
Tim adjusted his glasses, which had miraculously survived. “A long list. Alphabetical. Laminated.”
He got sent to the principal’s office anyway because apparently flipping someone over your shoulder is “excessive force” even if they started it and even if you used the minimum amount of spine rearrangement necessary.
So now he had a disciplinary warning, no lunch, and a quiz on derivatives.
By fourth period his brain felt like it had been replaced with warm oatmeal. He got one question wrong because he wrote the answer in Cyrillic out of sheer sleep deprivation. The teacher circled it in red and wrote “????” which felt deeply judgmental.
Then his phone buzzed.
A group chat. His siblings. Forty-seven unread messages.
He opened it.
It was a photo of a gargoyle.
Not a helpful gargoyle. Not one of the usual perches. Just a gargoyle with googly eyes someone had clearly stuck on it.
Jason: “This is you.”
Dick: “He does sit like that.”
Tim: “I have a test.”
Jason: “You look like you’d fail it.”
Tim muted the chat and stared at the ceiling for a full ten seconds, contemplating the life choices that had led him here.
Gym class was worse. Dodgeball. Tim had the reflexes to avoid every ball, which meant the coach decided he was “not participating” and made him sit out, which meant Chad’s friends threw balls at him while he was sitting, which meant Tim caught them without looking, which meant the coach thought he was showing off.
By the end of the school day Tim had:
• A warning slip
• A failed derivative question haunting his soul
• No lunch
• A dodgeball vendetta
• Forty-seven more messages about gargoyles
He got home, opened his laptop, and remembered he had an exam the next day.
Tim studied. Tim highlighted. Tim drank coffee that tasted like regret and battery acid. Tim took the exam. Tim finished the exam.
Tim walked out of the classroom with the empty, drifting feeling of a balloon that had escaped a birthday party and was now reconsidering its purpose.
He checked the time.
Patrol night.
The first patrol night in weeks he could actually make, because exams had been devouring his schedule like a particularly academic shark.
He should have been excited.
He was excited.
He was also running on fumes, caffeine, and spite.
In the cave, he stared at his suit.
It stared back, silently, with the judgmental aura of a machine that had not been serviced in a month.
He poked the chest plate.
It did not poke back.
“Still good,” he said to nobody, which was the first red flag.
The armor had a maintenance checklist. He had ignored it. There were microfracture scans he had not run. The weave had not been recalibrated. The shock gel had probably settled into existential despair.
Tim waved at the diagnostics screen like that would fix it. “We’re fine,” he told the suit.
The suit did not argue, which Tim interpreted as agreement rather than passive resignation.
He geared up, grabbed his staff, and launched into the night.
Gotham at night usually felt like a puzzle he could solve. Tonight it felt like a pop quiz he had not studied for.
He missed his first swing and had to correct mid-air. He landed on a fire escape that complained loudly about his life choices. He nearly walked into a low-hanging sign. A cat hissed at him with the confidence of something that knew it would win.
“Great,” Tim muttered. “Even the cats.”
His comm crackled.
“Try not to die,” Jason’s voice said cheerfully.
Tim considered throwing the comm into a river.
The first hour of patrol was quiet in the worst way. No crimes, just the creeping sensation that the universe was winding up for something.
He finally spotted a mugging in progress. Three guys, one very unfortunate pedestrian.
Tim dropped in.
Normally this would be easy. Fluid. Efficient. A choreographed dance of justice and bruises.
Tonight he tripped on a trash bag.
He recovered, swept one guy’s legs, jabbed another in the ribs, disarmed the third, and tied them up with enough zip ties to qualify as modern art.
The pedestrian ran away without saying thank you, which felt rude.
Tim leaned against a wall, breathing harder than he should have been.
His chest ached.
The armor felt heavier than usual, like it had absorbed all his bad decisions and was now charging interest.
“Maintenance tomorrow,” he promised it.
The alley behind him was dark.
Too dark.
He turned.
There was a fourth guy.
Tim’s brain registered several things at once.
The stance. Wrong for a random mugger.
The knife. Too steady.
The angle. Too close.
Tim moved to block.
The armor, which had been very brave about its neglect up until this exact moment, did not perform at peak enthusiasm.
The blade slid between plates that should have overlapped.
There was a sound.
Not loud. Not dramatic. A small, wet, deeply personal sound.
Tim froze.
He looked down.
The knife was in his side.
For a moment he felt nothing except surprise. A quiet, almost academic surprise, like discovering you had brought the wrong calculator to an exam.
Then the pain arrived.
It did not arrive politely.
It kicked down the door, flipped the table, and set his nervous system on fire.
Tim gasped, which was embarrassing because he had definitely been stabbed before and had handled it with more dignity.
The attacker yanked the knife free and bolted.
Tim staggered back against the wall, hand clamped over the wound.
His first thought was not I’m hurt.
His first thought was I knew I should have run the diagnostics.
Blood soaked into the suit, warm and insistent.
His second thought was that he was going to have to explain this.
He could already hear it.
You skipped maintenance.
It was on the checklist.
You have a checklist, Tim.
He slid down the wall to a sitting position, vision fuzzing at the edges.
“Okay,” he told himself. “New rule. No more ignoring the checklist.”
His comm crackled again.
“You alive?” Jason asked.
Tim considered his options.
He was bleeding, exhausted, stabbed because he trusted armor that had been one month overdue for a tune-up, and he still had a derivative question wrong in his notebook.
“Define alive,” Tim said faintly.
There was a pause.
“Tim?”
He pressed his head back against the brick and laughed weakly, because the entire day had built to this exact, ridiculous punchline.
Fought at school.
Failed a quiz.
Got bullied by dodgeballs.
Stabbed by a guy in an alley.
He looked down at the blood and sighed.
The suit, now functioning primarily as a very expensive sponge, offered no feedback.
The comm crackled.
“Define alive, rat-face,” Jason repeated; rudely, voice sharper now.
Tim pressed his head back against the brick and did a quick internal systems check. Vision: grainy. Breathing: optional. Pain: enthusiastic. Blood loss: rude.
“Alive in the sense that I am currently having a character-building experience,” Tim said. “Not alive in the sense that you’d be proud of me.”
There was a beat of silence. Then:
“You’re bleeding.”
Tim blinked. “Wow. Incredible deduction. Did you major in forensic obviousness?”
“Location.”
Tim looked around the alley like it might suddenly produce a helpful street sign and a first aid kit. It did not. It produced a raccoon that stared at him with open judgment.
“Behind the—” he squinted at a dumpster. “—very inspirational dumpster. Smells like crime and yogurt.”
“Coordinates, Tim.”
Tim fumbled with his gauntlet, leaving a small smear of blood across the interface that the computer would absolutely complain about later. He pinged his location.
“There,” he said. “Come enjoy the ambiance.”
“Stay awake,” Jason snapped.
Tim considered that.
“Counterpoint,” he said, “sleep sounds fantastic.”
“Tim.”
“Okay, okay. Awake. So awake. Extremely awake. I’m having so many thoughts right now. Most of them are about how knives are a design flaw in society.”
He shifted, which was a mistake. The world tilted like someone had nudged it off its axis.
“Don’t move,” Jason said.
“Great plan,” Tim replied weakly. “I love not moving. Huge fan. Big supporter of stillness.”
His hand pressed harder against the wound. Warmth kept seeping through his fingers, insistent and sticky. He knew the drill. Pressure. Stay conscious. Don’t panic. Panic wastes oxygen and oxygen was currently on a budget.
He stared at the opposite wall and tried to count bricks. There were… a lot of bricks. Possibly infinite bricks. Gotham had a brick surplus.
“You’re quieter,” Jason said. “That’s bad.”
“I’m conserving energy,” Tim said. “Like a phone on low power mode. Turn off background apps. Reduce brightness. Regret life choices.”
“You got stabbed because you didn’t maintain your suit, didn’t you?”
Tim closed his eyes for a second.
“I refuse to answer on the grounds that it will be used against me in a lecture.”
“Tim.”
“Yes,” he admitted. “But in my defense, I had exams.”
“You always have exams.”
“That’s because school is a continuous event designed to ruin my life.”
Jason swore. Not creatively. Just loudly.
Tim smiled faintly at the wall. It felt nice, knowing someone was mad on his behalf. Even if that someone would also absolutely roast him later.
A distant motorcycle engine roared to life somewhere across the city.
Tim focused on the sound like it was a lighthouse and he was a very tired boat.
“Hey, Jay,” he said, voice softer. “If I pass out, tell them I died doing something cool.”
“You didn’t die,” Jason shot back. “And getting stabbed in an alley because you skipped maintenance is not cool. It’s stupid.”
“Rude,” Tim murmured. “Accurate, but rude.”
His fingers were starting to feel numb. That was new. Not great. Definitely not great.
He shifted his grip, pressing harder. His arm trembled. The suit’s internal systems were trying to compensate, pumping coagulant foam into the wound with the urgency of a machine that had just realized it was behind on homework.
“Suit’s deploying foam,” Tim reported. “It’s… trying. Gold star for effort.”
“Good. Keep pressure.”
“Still pressing,” Tim said. “Very into pressing. Pressing is my whole personality now.”
The motorcycle sound grew louder. Closer. Cutting through the night like an angry chainsaw.
Tim exhaled slowly, relief and dizziness tangling together.
“You’re taking your time,” he told Jason. “I could have bled out and reincarnated by now.”
“Shut up and stay awake.”
Tim snorted weakly. It hurt. Everything hurt.
“Tell Dick,” Tim said, “that the gargoyle with the googly eyes is still there. It’s important. For morale.”
“Tim.”
“Also tell him he still owes me coffee.”
“Tim.”
“And tell Bruce that the armor failed because of user error and not design flaws. I want that on record.”
Jason ignore that surviving statement of a dying fish and his voice came through the comm with; “I’m two blocks away.”
Tim let his head rest against the brick and tried very hard to remain a person who was conscious.
He counted bricks again. He lost count at seven because the bricks started moving. Which was concerning. Gotham architecture should not be mobile.
A sound scraped across the alley.
Tim frowned.
Raccoon, he thought hopefully. Judgmental raccoon returns to finish what society started.
The sound came again. Footsteps. Careful. Slow. Not a raccoon. Raccoons did not have that level of narrative timing. Tim’s brain took a second to load the relevant memory file: guy with knife, unresolved hostility, poor communication skills.
“Oh,” Tim murmured to nobody. “You again.”
The shadow peeled itself off the darkness at the alley mouth. Same posture. Same knife. Same deeply unnecessary commitment to the bit.
Tim attempted to sit up straighter and discovered that gravity had strong opinions about this plan.
“Okay,” he told the alley. “New development. Not ideal.”
His comm crackled. “Tim? You still with me?”
Tim swallowed, eyes fixed on the approaching figure.
“Define ‘with’,” he whispered.
The attacker stepped closer, cautious now, eyes locked on Tim with the clinical focus of someone checking if a problem had finished solving itself.
Tim lifted one hand weakly, palm out.
“Hey,” he said. “Before we continue this extremely negative interaction, I just want to say I’m having a bad day.”
The attacker did not seem moved by this.
Tim’s other hand tightened against his side, pressing harder. Warmth kept spreading. His arm trembled like a loose wire.
He glanced down the alley behind the guy.
No red helmet. No motorcycle. Just distance and poor life choices.
“Jason,” Tim said into the comm, very quietly, “if you’re not here in… like… thirty seconds, I’m going to need you to run faster.”
“What’s happening?”
“I have a repeat customer.”
The attacker lunged.
Tim moved on instinct, not strength. His staff was still clipped to his back. Getting it required coordination. Coordination required blood. Blood was currently on backorder.
He rolled instead.
The knife came down where his chest had been a second earlier, striking pavement with a spark.
Tim kicked out, sloppy but desperate, catching the attacker’s knee. It bought him half a second and a spike of white-hot pain that nearly made him black out on the spot.
“Okay,” Tim gasped. “Ow. Bad plan. Very bad plan.”
The attacker recovered fast, grabbing for Tim’s collar, hauling him up just enough to aim the knife properly this time.
Tim’s vision tunneled. His body felt distant, like it belonged to someone else who had made worse decisions.
He got one hand up between them, catching the attacker’s wrist. His grip was weak, fingers slick.
The knife edged closer. Slow. Inevitable.
“Jason,” Tim said, voice fraying. “Speed.”
“Tim, hold on!”
“I’m holding,” Tim said. “Not well. But emotionally committed.”
The blade pressed into the armor at his chest. Right over a plate that absolutely should have been reinforced during maintenance and absolutely was not.
The tip punched through with a sickening ease.
Tim made a small, shocked sound. Not a scream. More like the noise someone makes when they drop their phone and watch it bounce.
“God....!” He groans. “That’s... new.”
Pain detonated through him, bright and total. His grip failed. The attacker shoved him back against the wall and yanked the knife free.
Tim slid down again, leaving a dark smear on the bricks that he would absolutely get in trouble for later if he lived long enough for consequences.
The attacker raised the knife a third time.
A gunshot cracked through the alley.
The attacker jerked, stumbled, and went down hard.
Tim’s head lolled to the side.
At the far end of the alley, Jason stood with his gun still raised, chest heaving, helmet reflecting the streetlight like a furious red signal flare.
“You,” Jason said, voice shaking with rage, “do not get a third try.”
He crossed the distance at a run, dropping to his knees beside Tim, hands immediately pressing against the new wound, then the old one, trying to decide which catastrophe to prioritize.
Tim blinked up at him, slow and unfocused.
“Hey,” Tim said faintly. “You made it.”
Jason swore, loud and creative this time, ripping open Tim’s suit layers to get to the damage, hands already slick with blood.
“You couldn’t wait thirty seconds?” Jason demanded.
“In my defense,” Tim whispered, “he also couldn’t wait thirty seconds.”
Jason applied pressure. Tim saw stars. Entire constellations. Possibly a small galaxy.
“Stay with me,” Jason said.
Tim tried to smile. It came out crooked and distant.
“Checklist,” he murmured. “Next month. Two maintenance sessions.”
“Shut up and breathe.”
Tim obeyed for approximately three breaths.
On the fourth, the world dimmed at the edges again, folding inward like paper.
The last thing he saw was Jason leaning over him, furious and terrified in equal measure, and the alley spinning slowly above them.
Someone swung a punch and hit Gotham's most famous billionaire in the face.
(It was Tim, obviously.)
There was no graceful return to consciousness. No gentle drift upward through layers of awareness. One second he was floating in a warm, pain-free void and the next his body decided that violence was an appropriate greeting.
His fist connected with something solid.
Very solid.
There was a sharp grunt that did not belong to a criminal, a mugger, or anyone who deserved it.
Tim’s eyes snapped open to fluorescent lights and the smell of antiseptic.
He was in the cave’s medical bay.
His right arm was already being caught mid follow-through by a hand that could bench press a sedan.
Bruce.
Tim froze.
Bruce did not.
Bruce’s grip tightened just enough to stop the punch without hurting him, the kind of precise control that meant Tim was definitely in trouble but not immediate mortal danger.
“Good,” Bruce said, voice calm in the way that meant he was not calm at all. “Motor function intact.”
Tim blinked up at him, brain still buffering.
“Did I just punch you?”
“Yes.”
“…Sorry.”
Across the room Jason barked out a laugh that sounded like it had been dragged through gravel.
“You came out of anesthesia throwing hands,” Jason said. “Proud of you.”
Tim turned his head slightly.
Mistake.
Pain flooded back in, not sharp like before but deep and layered, a full-body reminder that he had recently lost a fight with several knives and his own decision-making skills.
He made a small, betrayed noise.
Alfred appeared at his side like a very polite ghost with a tray of medical supplies and disappointment.
“Master Timothy,” Alfred said, “if you intend to assault the medical staff, I must insist you schedule an appointment in advance.”
Tim swallowed. His throat felt like sandpaper.
“Water,” he croaked.
A cup appeared. A straw. Alfred held it with the patience of someone who had raised multiple vigilantes and one emotionally constipated billionaire.
Tim took a sip. It tasted like survival and mild humiliation.
He looked down.
Bandages. Lots of bandages. His torso was wrapped so thoroughly he resembled a mummy with poor life choices. There were monitors. An IV. At least one piece of equipment that beeped in a judgmental rhythm.
He processed this.
“…Did I die?” he asked.
“No,” Bruce said.
“Cool. Cool-cool-cool-cool-cool-cool..... Because I had homework.”
Jason snorted.
Bruce did not.
Bruce released his wrist slowly, but he did not step back. He stayed close, eyes scanning Tim with the same intensity he used for crime scenes and structural damage.
“You were stabbed twice,” Bruce said.
“I noticed,” Tim replied.
“Your armor failed at two points.”
Tim winced. “User error. Already documented. Please do not give me a performance review while I’m horizontal.”
Jason leaned against the wall, arms crossed, side bandaged where he’d taken the earlier hit.
“You almost died because you skipped maintenance,” Jason said. “I want that on a T-shirt.”
Tim squinted at him. “You’re bleeding.”
“Not as much as you.”
“Low bar.”
Alfred adjusted the IV line with surgical precision.
“You lost a significant amount of blood,” Alfred said. “You will refrain from witty repartee for at least twelve hours.”
Tim looked at him. Looked at Bruce. Looked at Jason.
“…No,” he said.
Jason laughed again, softer this time.
Bruce’s expression shifted, the hard edge easing just slightly.
“You called for backup,” Bruce said.
Tim frowned. “I did?”
“You kept Jason talking. You stayed conscious long enough for extraction.”
Tim blinked, trying to remember. Alley. Knife. Bricks. Gargoyle with googly eyes.
“Right,” he said. “Checklist.”
Bruce’s mouth did something subtle and complicated that might have been the beginning of relief.
“Yes,” Bruce said. “Checklist.”
Tim let his head sink back into the pillow.
His entire body felt like it had been disassembled and reassembled by someone who did not believe in instructions. But he was warm. He was alive. The cave hummed around him, familiar and solid.
“…Did we get the guy?” Tim asked.
Jason’s voice went flat. “He’s not a problem anymore.”
Tim nodded once.
“Okay,” he murmured.
Silence settled for a moment before Tim’s eyes drifted closed again.
“Hey,” he said, already half-gone. “Next month. Maintenance.”
Bruce’s hand rested briefly against his shoulder, careful of the bandages.
“Next month,” Bruce agreed.
Alfred adjusted the blanket.
Jason turned away to hide the fact that he looked like he’d aged five years.
Tim slept.
This time, nobody had to punch him to make him stop talking.