Chapter Text
Tim’s last thought before falling is absurdly mundane.
That was… not the response he expected.
Then the roof vanishes under his feet.
For a fraction of a second, his brain refuses to process what just happened — the shove, the sudden absence of gravel beneath his boots, the empty air where the rooftop had been. Red Hood is still standing at the edge above him, just a dark silhouette against the night sky, and then the distance between them is widening far too quickly.
Gravity remembers him all at once.
The alley drops open beneath him in a blur of brick and shadow. His stomach lurches up into his throat as the world tilts violently out of control, and instinct takes over before panic can fully catch up. Tim’s hand snaps to the grapnel gun at his wrist, and he fires it upward on reflex, the cable launching with a sharp metallic snap that cuts through the rush of wind.
For half a heartbeat, it almost works.
The line catches on something above him and jerks tight, and Tim’s body swings hard sideways instead of continuing straight down. The angle is wrong, the fall too sudden to correct, and the sudden change of direction slams him directly into the rusted metal frame of a fire escape. The impact drives the air violently out of his lungs. Pain explodes across his ribs with a dull cracking sensation that makes his vision flare white for a moment.
Then, the grapnel tears free.
Without the tension of the line to hold him, Tim drops the rest of the way down. The alley rushes up toward him in a dizzying blur of brick walls and dim yellow light, and there’s just enough time for a distant, detached part of his brain to realise that the fire escape probably just saved his life.
Then he hits the pavement.
The impact drives the air violently out of his lungs. His ribs flare with sharp, blinding pain as the force of the landing travels through his body, and a fraction of a second later the back of his head strikes the concrete with a dull crack.
The world jerks sideways.
For several seconds, he can’t breathe. Can’t hear. Can’t move.
The sky above him smears into two thin strips of grey before slowly sliding back into place.
For a moment, the world simply stops.
When sensation comes back, it does so unevenly. Sound first — muffled and distant, like the city has been pushed several feet away. Then light, too bright and too thin at the same time. When he blinks, the alley walls seem to lag behind his vision before settling.
There is only a blinding pressure inside his skull and the faint, distant awareness that he is lying very still on very hard ground.
Then the night slowly returns.
The smell of rain-soaked brick and old garbage drifts through the alley. Somewhere far away, a car engine growls past on the street, its sound echoing faintly between the buildings. Tim blinks up at the sky overhead, trying to make sense of the shapes above him.
The buildings lean inward for a second before straightening again. He blinks harder, waiting for the world to decide which direction is actually up.
The rooftop is too far away to see clearly now.
Tim tries to take a breath.
His ribs protest violently, sharp pain cutting through his chest and forcing the air back out again almost immediately.
Right, he thinks dimly.
That’s new.
Not ideal.
Deeply inconvenient, actually.
He lies there for several seconds, staring up at the sky between the buildings, waiting for his lungs to decide what they’re doing. The pressure in his chest slowly loosens just enough for a shallow breath to slip in. The next one hurts slightly less than the first.
That’s something.
Okay.
Assessment.
The habit clicks into place automatically, the way it always does after a bad landing. The process is familiar enough that it steadies him slightly — something structured to hold onto while the rest of his body is still trying to catch up with what just happened.
He tests his left leg first. The knee bends when he shifts it, which is good. But the moment he tries to move any weight through the ankle it rolls unpleasantly beneath him, the joint wobbling with an unstable looseness that makes him stop immediately.
Not broken.
Probably.
Sprained at best.
Which isn’t great.
His ribs are worse. Even a slightly deeper inhale sends a sharp line of pain through his side that forces the air right back out again. The sensation is precise enough that he can almost picture the damage — cracked, maybe more than one.
Because he doesn’t do thing sin halves, it seems.
Right shoulder burns when he tries to move it, but the joint still responds. Limited range, but functional.
His head is ringing faintly, the world refusing to stay quite still. The numbers help keep the alley from sliding sideways. If he looks at anything too long, the edges smear and double, and when he turns his head, the alley seems to tilt a fraction after the movement instead of with it.
He swallows carefully. There’s a faint, unpleasant roll in his stomach that wasn’t there a moment ago. But a multistory drop will do that.
Mask still on.
Thankfully.
Cracked along one edge where the fire escape caught him.
Bruce can’t be too mad if it’s only a medical hiccup and not a secret-identity one. The mask will be difficult to hide from Bruce later, but he’ll find a way.
Assuming there is a later.
Which is not a thought he’s entertaining right now.
Tim blinks slowly and turns his head.
The roofline above is still there — a dark, jagged silhouette against the cloudy night sky. For a moment, he thinks he can still see the shape of Jason standing at the edge.
Just a shadow against the light.
Waiting.
…No actually, that might just be a satellite dish.
Or, more worryingly, it might not be.
The thought settles somewhere unpleasant in the back of his mind, but Tim pushes it aside and plants one hand against the pavement.
He tries to push himself upright.
The moment his torso lifts, his ribs seize. The air blasts out of his lungs, and his arm buckles before he can stop it. He drops back onto the concrete with a dull thud that jars his shoulder hard enough to make his teeth clack.
The alley tilts sharply. The brick walls slide sideways, and the streetlamp splits into two dim yellow ghosts before dragging itself slowly back into one.
Okay.
So not like that.
Sitting up is off the table.
Tim stays where he is, staring up because that’s all there is to do while his breathing stutters its way back into something usable. Each inhale catches halfway through his chest before he lets it out again.
His stomach rolls unpleasantly.
He swallows hard.
The taste of bile creeps up the back of his throat. He clamps his jaw shut and breathes through his nose until it recedes.
Slow.
Shallow.
Dignified.
Extremely heroic.
Damp concrete, stale rainwater, and the sour reek of the bins crowd the air around him. The night settles cool against his face.
Someone will notice he dropped off the network.
Batman’s off-world. He knows that. But Dick— Dick will notice.
…Except Dick thinks Tim is at Drake Manor. In bed. Where he was very specifically told to stay. Because he’s not supposed to patrol when Batman isn’t around.
Tim stares up at the strip of sky for a moment.
Right.
So maybe nobody’s looking for him.
…Fantastic. He is going to survive the fall just to get grounded to death.
He’s going to have to call for help. Bruce is going to be thrilled about this.
Tim lifts his wrist and taps the comm. “Robin to Nightwing.”
Static answers him. He waits a few seconds, listening to the faint hiss in his earpiece.
“Nightwing?”
Nothing.
Tim exhales slowly.
Right.
Dick is probably still moving. Patrol routes. Traffic noise. Signal interference between buildings. And he’s also not expecting Robin to be out here. Bruce had been very clear before leaving. No patrols. Not while the Red Hood was still active.
Tim had nodded at the time. Acknowledged the order. Understood the logic. And then come out anyway because, apparently, poor decision-making is a cherished Robin tradition.
He lets his head rest back against the pavement again, staring up at the narrow strip of sky. He just needs to stay put. Someone will notice. Someone always does. With any luck. Which is not the most confidence-inspiring phrase he’s ever had about his own survival.
A weak yellow light spills into the alley from the streetlamp at the far end of the block. It flickers once, briefly dimming before flaring back to full brightness.
Tim watches it without really thinking about it. A few seconds later, the light flickers again. His eyes narrow slightly. That wasn’t random. He waits.
“…twelve. thirteen. fourteen.”
The lamp stutters again.
Fourteen seconds.
Tim shifts slightly on the pavement, wincing when his ribs protest the movement. If the lamp is cycling, that gives him a clock.
More importantly, it gives his brain something narrow enough to hold onto.
“…twelve. thirteen. fourteen.”
Flicker.
Fourteen seconds per cycle. Tim stares at the lamp for another flicker, doing the math automatically. Roughly four flickers a minute. Normal people probably would not be doing algebra on the pavement right now.
Tim does not know what normal people are for.
“…twelve. thirteen. fourteen.”
Flicker.
Good enough.
Flicker. One.
He lifts his wrist again. “Nightwing.” His voice comes out a little rougher this time.
Static.
Tim lowers his arm again and turns his attention back to the streetlamp.
Flicker. Two.
Dick’s probably two blocks over.
Flicker. Three.
Still fine. Probably. He tries again to sit up.
This time, he rolls carefully onto his side first, pushing slowly with his good arm. The movement sends pain lancing through his ribs, sharp enough to make his vision grey briefly at the edges, but he manages to drag himself halfway upright before the strength drains out of his arm again.
He sinks back down onto the pavement.
The concrete is cold beneath his shoulder blades.
Flicker. Four.
Okay.
That’s fine.
Someone will notice.
Flicker. Five.
They will.
Flicker. Six.
Flicker. Seven.
That’s… roughly two minutes.
Flicker. Eight.
Flicker—
Wait.
Tim blinks hard.
Was that eight or nine? Great. Now even the streetlamp is winning.
He exhales slowly and resets the count.
Tim stares up, counting quietly under his breath as he waits for the next flicker of the light.
The next few cycles of the lamp pass the same way.
Flicker. Six.
Tim keeps counting automatically, his eyes fixed on the weak yellow light at the end of the alley. The rhythm settles into his head almost immediately, the numbers slipping out under his breath while the ache in his ribs deepens into a dull, persistent pressure that spreads through his chest every time he breathes. Without it, his thoughts keep threatening to slide off in strange directions.
It’s easier to focus on the counting than on the pain, easier to let the steady rhythm give shape to the time that is passing. Numbers behave. Pain doesn’t. People, historically, also don’t.
After a while, though, something about it starts to bother him.
This is taking too long.
Flicker. Twelve.
Three minutes.
Dick should have answered by now. Even if he was moving between buildings or passing through a dead zone, even if the signal bounced wrong off the concrete and steel around them, he should have checked the channel by now. At the very least, there should have been a quick acknowledgement, a clipped copy or a burst of static that meant someone heard him.
Tim exhales slowly through his nose and lifts his wrist again, staring for a moment at the panel on his gauntlet.
There’s another option.
The emergency beacon sits just beneath the surface of the armour, one press away from broadcasting a high-priority distress signal across the entire network. If he activates it, the alert will override every channel they have. Someone will come immediately.
He studies the panel for a few seconds.
No.
That’s excessive.
This is embarrassing, not catastrophic.
Bruce had been very clear before leaving Gotham. No patrols. No unnecessary risks. Not while Red Hood was still active. Tim had acknowledged the order, nodded in all the right places, agreed that it made sense.
And then come out anyway.
If he triggers the emergency signal over something this stupid, Bruce will absolutely find out about it.
Dick would be annoyed.
Bruce would be furious.
Tim closes the panel again and lets his arm drop back against the pavement. The movement sends a brief flare of pain through his shoulder, but it fades quickly enough that he can ignore it.
He can wait a little longer.
He taps the comm instead.
Flicker. Twenty-two.
Tim lifts his wrist again.
“Nightwing.”
The word comes out quieter this time, rougher at the edges than before.
He waits.
Static fills the earpiece.
Flicker. Twenty-three.
Nothing else.
Something heavy settles slowly in the pit of his stomach. It isn’t panic yet — just a sinking, unpleasant awareness that the situation isn’t correcting itself as quickly as it should.
Tim lowers his arm again and turns his attention back to the streetlamp.
Flicker. Thirty-two.
If he counted right, he’s been lying here for almost eight minutes. Since he last lost track of the flicker that is… So that’s… Wait— how many times has he lost track now? The resets blur together after a while.
Then another sound reaches him.
At first, it barely registers — just a faint echo somewhere beyond the mouth of the alley, distant enough that it blends with the background noise of the city. But as Tim lies there listening, the sound resolves into something more distinct.
Voices.
And laughter.
The noise drifts closer, bouncing strangely between the brick walls until it becomes difficult to judge how far away it actually is. There are at least two of them. Maybe three. Male voices, loose and careless in the quiet of the street.
Tim goes completely still.
He listens carefully, trying to separate the sounds from the rest of the city noise.
The laughter comes again.
Closer now.
His stomach drops.
Okay.
Maybe this is bad.
This has potential.
Unfortunately, the potential is all terrible.
He plants his hand against the pavement and tries to push himself upright again, forcing his body to move even though every instinct is telling him it’s a bad idea. Pain detonates across his ribs the moment he shifts his weight, sharp enough to make his vision blur at the edges. His arm trembles violently under the strain and his injured ankle refuses to cooperate when he tries to pull his leg beneath him.
His body simply doesn’t move the way it’s supposed to.
The voices are definitely getting closer.
Tim freezes again, his mind automatically beginning to run through probabilities the way it always does when a situation starts deteriorating faster than he can control.
Best case: they pass the mouth of the alley without looking in.
Second best: they see him, assume he’s some idiot kid in a costume, and keep walking.
Worst case—
The laughter turns the corner.
Secret fourth option: he is hallucinating the whole thing because of the concussion.
Unlikely. Inconveniently.
Footsteps scrape against wet pavement as three men step into the dim spill of light at the far end of the alley. Their shadows stretch long across the concrete as they slow, peering down the narrow corridor between the buildings.
Then one of them spots the red and black shape on the ground.
“Well look at that,” the man says, his voice thick with amusement. “Someone beat us to it.”
The others follow his gaze.
One of them lets out a low whistle.
“Is that—?”
“Yeah,” the first man says, already starting toward him. “I think it is.”
Tim forces himself upright.
The movement is slow and clumsy, his ribs protesting violently as he drags himself into a sitting position. He braces heavily on one arm, trying to look more stable than he actually is while his injured leg lies uselessly against the pavement.
“Evening,” Tim says.
His voice sounds steadier than he feels. Apparently, his mouth is still doing its own thing.
The men stop a few feet away, looking him over with open curiosity.
“Well, well,” one of them says. “Robin.”
Tim manages a thin smile.
“Technically,” he replies lightly, “I prefer ‘critically injured vigilante.’ It’s a longer title, but I feel like it captures the moment.” A little wordy, maybe, but accuracy matters.
They laugh, and he almost wants to appreciate their high spirits.
One of them steps forward and grabs the front of Tim’s suit, hauling him upright in a single rough motion.
Pain tears through Tim’s ribs hard enough to force a shout out of him before he can stop it. The sudden movement sends nausea sloshing violently through him. For one awful second, he’s certain he’s going to throw up right there in the man’s grip.
The moment his injured leg touches the ground it buckles immediately, leaving him hanging awkwardly in the man’s grip while the alley tilts unpleasantly around the edges of his vision.
Tim lashes out instinctively with his free leg.
He misses completely. Embarrassing. Also unhelpful.
The man barely even notices, tightening his grip as another one moves in behind Tim and grabs his arm, locking it roughly against his back. The pressure on his shoulder sends another sharp line of pain down his side.
For a moment, they simply hold him there, the three of them crowding close enough that Tim can smell stale beer and cigarette smoke on their clothes.
“Well,” the first man says, giving Tim a rough shake. “Ain’t this a lucky night.”
“Seriously,” another one says, leaning closer to peer at the cracked domino mask. “That’s actually Robin.”
The third man has stopped a few steps away.
He’s watching the scene with a deep frown, his hands shoved into the pockets of a worn jacket. His eyes flick between Tim and the other two men, lingering briefly on the way Tim’s leg refuses to hold his weight.
Tim notices.
It’s the first genuinely attentive look anyone here has given him.
Then he exhales sharply.
“Nah,” he says. The word cuts through the laughter. “Man, fuck that shit.”
The other two turn toward him, irritation creeping into their expressions as the moment of amusement fractures.
“What?”
The man jerks his chin toward Tim without taking his hands out of his pockets. “You mess with Robin,” he says flatly, “you know what comes next.”
There’s a brief pause.
Then the man holding Tim snorts. “Oh, don’t be such a fucking pussy, Jared.”
Jared doesn’t move from where he’s standing. His expression tightens slightly, but he doesn’t step forward either. “I ain’t trying to start shit,” he mutters, shaking his head once. “I’m just saying.”
His gaze flicks briefly to the rooftops above the alley. “It’s your funeral, man.”
The man gripping Tim laughs again, louder this time. “Relax,” he says. “The Bat ain’t gonna come swooping down every time this little bird gets a bruise.”
He gives Tim another rough shake, clearly enjoying the way the movement forces a sharp gasp out of him. “Besides,” he adds, leaning closer, “looks like somebody already took care of that part.”
Tim’s heart is beating much faster now.
He can feel it everywhere — a heavy, uneven thud behind his ribs, the pulse hammering at the base of his skull, the faint tremor running through the arm the man still has twisted behind his back. Every breath drags sharply through his chest, shallow and careful, like his lungs are afraid of expanding too far.
Jared’s words echo uncomfortably in the back of his mind.
You mess with Robin, you know what comes next.
Normally, that would be true.
Normally, the moment someone even thought about grabbing Robin in an alley like this, the situation would already be correcting itself. A grappling line would whistle down from the rooftops. A shadow would drop between them. Someone would already be here.
But the alley stays quiet.
No grappling line cuts through the air. No sudden movement from the rooftops above them.
Just the three men crowding close around him and the narrow strip of clouded sky stretching between the buildings overhead. Except for Jared, Tim thinks he could probably forgive Jared.
The movement is careful, almost lazy, the kind of small adjustment that might look like he’s just trying to shift his weight. His fingers brush against the edge of the armour panel, feeling for the tiny recessed catch hidden beneath it.
The emergency beacon.
If he presses it—
A hand clamps down around his wrist before he can reach the control.
“Whoa,” the man behind him says, his grip tightening immediately as he twists Tim’s arm higher between his shoulder blades.
Pain spikes through Tim’s shoulder so sharply that the alley tilts sideways for a moment.
“Easy there, birdie.”
Tim’s breath catches involuntarily as the pressure forces his ribs to expand. The sudden movement drags a sharp line of pain across his chest, bright enough that he has to fight the instinct to fold forward around it.
The first man is still standing in front of him.
He grins down at Tim now, slow and satisfied, like he’s enjoying the moment far more than he should. Bit fucking weird of him, if Tim’s being honest.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “We’ll take good care of you.”
Yeah, that’s not comforting.
Behind them, Jared exhales quietly.
“Man,” he mutters, already taking a slow step back toward the mouth of the alley, “I’m telling you. This is a bad fuckin’ idea.”
The man holding Tim barely spares him a glance. “Relax,” he says, dismissively. “You’re acting like the Bat’s got a GPS tracker on the kid.”
Well—
Jared doesn’t answer. His gaze drifts upward instead, toward the rooftops above the alley. He studies the dark ledges and fire escapes like he’s expecting something to move up there.
That catches in Tim’s head immediately.
The detail settles in his stomach like a small, cold weight. Because Jared isn’t laughing anymore. He’s watching the sky.
The man behind Tim shifts his grip, twisting Tim’s arm higher between his shoulder blades. Pain shoots through his ribs and shoulder so sharply that the alley swims for a second, the brick walls tilting slightly as Tim fights to keep his balance on a leg that refuses to cooperate.
“Easy,” the man says with a smirk close to Tim’s ear. “Don’t go passing out on us.”
The smell of stale beer and cigarettes hangs heavy around them. One of them is chewing gum — sharp mint cutting through the damp smell of the alley. Somewhere farther down the block a car passes, its engine echoing faintly between the buildings, completely uninterested in what’s happening here.
The first man is still looking at Tim.
Not just looking.
Studying.
His eyes travel slowly over the armour plates, the cracked domino mask, the grapnel line still hanging uselessly from Tim’s wrist. His expression shifts slightly, something calculating settling into place behind the earlier amusement.
“Oh.” The word comes out slowly. “Hold up.”
He steps closer, squinting slightly as if the dim light isn’t giving him the whole picture. “You know what?” he says.
The man behind Tim leans forward a little. “What?”
The grin that spreads across the first man’s face is wide and sharp. “Call your guy.”
And the man behind Tim goes still. “…you mean—”
“Yes,” the first man snaps, suddenly animated. “Think about the fucking cash we could get outta this.”
The words land in Tim’s chest like a dropped weight.
No.
His brain fills in the missing pieces almost instantly, running through the possibilities faster than he can stop it. Criminal contacts. Information brokers. Someone with a grudge against the Bat. Someone who would pay to have a Robin delivered tied up and helpless in the back of a van.
The probabilities multiply unpleasantly.
No.
“No,” Tim says quickly. “That’s a really bad—”
The man holding him reacts instantly.
His arm jerks violently upward.
Pain detonates through Tim’s shoulder and ribs so hard it punches the air straight out of his lungs. The scream tears out of him before he can stop it, raw and loud in the narrow space of the alley.
The sound echoes off the brick walls.
“Jesus!” the other man snaps immediately. “Don’t—”
He lunges forward, yanking the beanie off his own head and shoving it hard between Tim’s teeth. The wool tastes like sweat and cigarette smoke as the fabric wedges roughly into his mouth, muffling the next sound that tries to escape.
The nausea spikes instantly. He clamps down on it hard, breathing through his nose because if he throws up now, he has absolutely nowhere for it to go.
“Jesus, don’t go proving Jared right,” the man mutters irritably as he pushes the beanie deeper. “You can’t have him screaming like that.”
The wool brushes the back of his throat, and his body immediately tries to gag.
Tim chokes on the reflex, breath stuttering through his nose as he fights the instinct to retch.
The pressure on Tim’s arms tightens as the man behind him locks both wrists together, holding them immobile while Tim tries instinctively to twist away. The movement only makes the pain worse.
The alley feels smaller now.
The brick walls crowd closer, the yellow streetlamp throwing long, distorted shadows across the pavement. The streetlamp buzz drills straight into his skull, sharp enough that he has to squeeze his eyes shut for a second.
The flickering light at the end of the alley pulses again.
Tim sees it out through his eyelids.
Fourteen seconds.
He’s still counting.
Even now.
The first man waves a dismissive hand. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”
He pulls a phone from his pocket and unlocks it with casual familiarity, already scrolling through his contacts.
“Just call your guy already, I don’t think I have his number. Pretty sure he wouldn’t give it to me.”
Tim can’t think why; this guy seems like a goddamn delight.
Behind them, Jared swears quietly under his breath. “Man,” he mutters, shaking his head again as he takes another slow step backwards toward the mouth of the alley. “You idiots are gonna get yourselves killed.”
Tim hears the words clearly. And for the first time since hitting the pavement, the cold weight in his stomach spreads into something sharper.
Because Jared might be right. He catches himself before he thinks: I hope—
But the alley above them stays empty.
No grappling line. No sudden shadow dropping from the rooftops. Just the quiet hum of the city and the weak buzz of the flickering streetlamp overhead.
The man behind Tim shifts his grip slightly, adjusting the hold he has on Tim’s arms. The movement grinds Tim’s shoulder painfully higher between his shoulder blades, sending another sharp line of pain through his ribs.
Then the man reaches into his pocket with his free hand.
Tim feels the motion more than sees it — the pressure against his back shifting, fabric rustling close to his ear.
A phone appears in the man’s hand. He glances down at the screen for a moment. Then, without a word, he passes it forward. The man standing in front of Tim takes it.
For a brief second, the screen turns toward the streetlamp, and Tim catches a glimpse of it through the dim yellow light.
A contact already open. No name. Just a number.
The man taps it and raises the phone to his ear.
Behind Tim, the other man makes a small gesture toward his belt.
A quick jerk of the chin.
The message is clear.
The man holding Tim reaches down and yanks the grapnel line free from where it hangs at Tim’s wrist. The cable comes loose with a sharp metallic scrape.
Tim’s stomach drops.
No.
He twists instinctively, trying to pull his arms forward before the man can get a grip on them, but the movement only earns him a violent jerk backwards. His shoulder protests immediately, white-hot pain shooting through his ribs as the man forces his wrists closer together behind his back.
The grapnel line is thin.
Stronger than it looks.
And sharp enough at the edges that Tim feels it immediately when it digs into his skin.
He makes a muffled sound around the beanie, something halfway between a protest and a warning. The man ignores it.
The line wraps once around his wrists.
Then again.
Each loop pulls tighter than the last, forcing Tim’s hands together until the metal cable bites hard against bone. The thin edges grind through the material of his gloves and into the skin beneath.
Tim’s ribs scream every time they shift him to get better leverage.
The phone continues ringing.
Another loop.
Another pull.
The man tying him off gives the line a testing yank that sends a fresh flare of pain up Tim’s arms. Satisfied, he tightens the knot.
The ringing stops.
“Oh hey,” the man with the phone says casually.
Tim freezes.
He can’t hear the other voice. Only this side of the conversation.
“Yeah, it’s me,” the man continues. “Nah, nothing like that.”
A pause stretches in the quiet alley.
Tim focuses on breathing through his nose.
The beanie is jammed so far into his mouth that every breath has to be shallow and careful. If he inhales too deeply the coarse wool brushes the back of his throat, and his stomach immediately lurches in protest.
He swallows hard and forces himself to breathe slowly.
Carefully.
But the wool keeps shifting every time he breathes, the fibres scraping lightly against the back of his tongue and the soft edge of his throat. The sensation is maddening — a constant tickle that makes his body want to gag even when he knows he absolutely cannot afford to.
His chest tightens with the effort of keeping his breathing steady.
Don’t.
Don’t.
“Listen,” the man says into the phone. “You still buying… speciality merchandise?”
Another pause.
The grapnel line tightens again as the man behind Tim adjusts the knot, hauling his wrists slightly higher to secure them. The cable grinds deeper into his skin.
Tim’s shoulders ache violently now, stretched backwards at an angle they were never meant to hold. He’s pretty sure he’s crying.
He can feel the wetness collecting beneath the edge of the domino mask, slipping slowly down the side of his face into his hair.
This went bad so fast.
One minute, Jason is throwing him off a roof for wearing his colours.
The next—
The next he’s about to be fucking trafficked.
“Yeah,” the man is saying into the phone. “I’m serious.”
Another pause.
Then a laugh.
“Nah, you’ll wanna see this one.”
The grapnel line jerks again as the man behind him gives the cable another tightening pull for good measure. The metal bites harder into Tim’s wrists, the pressure sharp enough that he can feel it through the gloves as if they weren’t even there at all.
“Red and green,” the man says. “Little bird mask.”
Another pause.
Tim’s stomach twists.
The man grins.
“Yeah,” he says into the phone. “That one.”
For a moment, the alley is quiet again.
The only sounds are Tim’s careful breathing through his nose, the distant hum of traffic somewhere beyond the buildings, and the faint electric buzz of the flickering streetlamp overhead.
Then Jared’s voice cuts through the silence. “Oh fuck.”
The words land hard in the still air.
Everyone turns.
The man with the phone lowers it slowly from his ear.
Jared isn’t looking at them.
He’s staring up at the rooftops.
Tim follows his gaze.
At first, he doesn’t see anything. Just empty roofline and the smear of clouded sky. Then the darkness moves, and his brain lags behind it for a heartbeat before the shape solidifies.
And sees the shadow step off the edge.
The impact is sudden and heavy, boots hitting the pavement with a solid thud that echoes off the brick walls. The sound carries sharply through the narrow alley, bouncing between the damp brick and metal like a dropped barbell in a concrete room. For a split second the men don’t react at all — their attention still fixed on Tim, their bodies angled the wrong way.
Then all three of them flinch at once.
Red Hood is already moving.
Tim only catches pieces of it.
A sharp grunt breaks through the alley air. The dull, hollow sound of a body slamming into the wall follows a heartbeat later, brick grinding against fabric and bone. Someone swears loudly as metal scrapes across concrete — the rough screech of something being knocked loose and skidding across the pavement.
The grip on Tim’s arm vanishes so abruptly that his shoulder jerks forward, sending another hot burst of pain through his ribs.
For a split second, he sways where he stands, unsupported, his balance wavering dangerously as his injured ankle refuses to cooperate. The alley tilts sideways around him, the weak yellow light from the streetlamp smearing across the wet pavement.
Then a gloved hand grabs the front of his armour and yanks him sideways.
Hard.
The sudden force snaps his head up.
Oh god, he’s finishing the job.
The world tilts violently as Jason drags him clear of the other men. Tim’s feet scrape uselessly across the pavement, the rubber soles of his boots skidding over damp concrete. His injured ankle gives out almost immediately, sending a jolt up through his leg that makes his teeth clench.
Jason doesn’t slow down.
Tim barely manages to keep from collapsing entirely as the ground lurches beneath him. His ribs scream in protest every time Jason jerks him forward, each step jarring the cracked bones hard enough to make his vision flash white at the edges.
This is worse, a frantic part of his mind insists.
This is worse.
The lid of a nearby dumpster slams open with a hollow metallic clang that rings sharply through the alley.
Before Tim can process what Jason is doing, a hard shove sends him up and sideways. For a split second, his boots leave the pavement entirely.
Then he lands unceremoniously inside the dumpster with a muffled crash, the pile of garbage bags beneath him collapsing and shifting under his weight. Plastic crinkles loudly as the bags compress, the sour smell of old food and damp cardboard rising immediately around him.
“Stay there,” Jason grunts.
Tim’s brain stutters on the command.
Stay?
The movement jostles Tim hard enough that the nausea he’s been holding back finally surges upward.
He barely manages to turn his head before he retches.
The beanie slips loose from his mouth as he doubles forward, his stomach convulsing weakly. Vomit splatters onto the side of a tied garbage bag with a wet sound, the plastic crinkling under the impact. The smell of sour food and damp plastic mixes horribly with the bitter acid burning the back of his throat.
His ribs protest violently with every heave, sharp bolts of pain stabbing through his chest each time his body spasms.
For several seconds, he can’t do anything but breathe through it.
Somewhere beyond the dumpster, the fight continues.
Tim can’t see it.
He only hears fragments.
A heavy thud. Someone gasping for breath. A sharp crack that might be a fist or a knee connecting with something solid. A body hitting the pavement hard enough to rattle the dumpster around him, the entire metal container shuddering under him.
Tim flinches at every impact.
Each sound hits his nerves like a live wire.
Someone’s going to die.
“Jesus—!”
Another grunt.
Someone tries to run.
Footsteps scrape frantically against wet concrete, shoes skidding as the man tries to find traction in the slick alley.
They stop very suddenly.
A strangled yell follows — cut short halfway through.
Then a different voice breaks through the chaos, frantic and high.
“Listen, man!” Jared’s voice cracks somewhere down the alley. “I said it was a bad idea! I told them!”
Another thud.
“I ain’t even touching him, man! You want his phone?” Jared continues desperately. “I can give you his phone— here, here— the fucking code’s 7-4-9—”
The rest dissolves into incoherent babbling.
Tim’s head drops forward against the cold metal wall of the dumpster. The buzzing streetlamp above them drills into his skull like a mosquito trapped inside bone. The constant electrical hum vibrates through the alley, a thin, high sound that sets his teeth on edge.
The fight sounds far away now.
Not distant exactly — just wrong somehow. The sounds reach him in uneven pieces, like they have to travel through water before they reach his ears.
Muted.
Like it’s happening at the end of a long tunnel.
Inside the dumpster, the air is thick with the sour smell of spoiled food and damp cardboard. The plastic bags beneath him shift every time he moves, the crinkling noise strangely loud inside the metal container. The walls of the dumpster trap the sounds from outside, turning every impact into a dull, echoing thud that vibrates faintly through the metal beneath his shoulder.
If Jason wins… His brain stalls on the thought. If Jason wins, then what?
Then it stops. The sudden silence is almost worse.
The alley settles into an eerie stillness. No footsteps. No shouting. Just the faint buzz of the streetlamp and the distant hum of traffic somewhere beyond the block.
Tim stays where he is, half-curled on top of the trash bags, breathing slowly through his nose while the nausea settles back into a dull, sour warmth in his stomach. The position keeps the pressure off his ribs slightly, though every breath still catches halfway through his chest.
His wrists ache where the grapnel line dug into them earlier, the skin beneath his gloves raw and throbbing. When he flexes his fingers weakly the motion sends a faint tremor through his hands that he can’t quite stop.
For a moment nothing moves.
The inside of the dumpster feels oddly small now, the metal walls crowding close on either side of him.
Then a shadow crosses the rim of the dumpster.
A red blur appears above the edge — helmet first.
Jason peers down at him.
“…ew,” he says flatly.
Tim blinks up at him.
His vision takes a moment to cooperate. The red helmet swims slightly against the strip of cloudy night sky behind it before slowly snapping into focus. The motion makes his head throb.
Jason’s helmet tilts slightly. “Where are your handlers?”
Tim stares at him for a second.
The question takes a moment longer than it should to make sense.
Handlers.
Right.
The Bat.
“Not… coming,” Tim slurs.
He doesn’t see Jason’s reaction behind the helmet.
But the silence that follows stretches long enough that Tim’s foggy brain fills in the blank anyway.
Right.
That’s fair.
The red shape above the dumpster disappears.
For a moment, Tim thinks he’s imagining the sound that follows — boots scraping against pavement, the dull metallic clatter of the dumpster lid shifting as someone leans against it.
Then a hand grabs the front of his armour.
The world lurches violently.
Tim barely has time to make a confused noise before he’s hauled out of the narrow space and thrown over a shoulder.
His heart spikes again.
Oh no.
The pressure across his ribs is immediate and catastrophic.
Pain detonates through his chest so hard the sound that comes out of him isn’t even a word — just a raw, broken cry that tears itself loose before he can stop it. His stomach compresses against Jason’s shoulder, forcing the nausea straight up his throat.
He gags helplessly.
Above him, Jason’s voice filters down through the helmet speakers, distorted and irritated. “If you puke down my back I swear to god—”
Tim chokes on another gag. Jason stops mid-step.
For a split second, nothing moves. Then Jason mutters something under his breath that sounds very much like shit.
The pressure disappears.
Tim is lifted again, but this time the movement is careful — deliberate. An arm slides beneath his knees, another bracing across his upper back while avoiding his ribs entirely.
The change is immediate.
…oh.
The crushing pain across his chest eases just enough that Tim can breathe again, though every inhale still catches sharply.
His head lolls sideways against cold armour plating.
Jason’s heartbeat is steady beneath him as he starts walking again.
Tim’s vision drifts in and out of focus.
The alley moves past in uneven fragments.
The flickering streetlamp recedes behind them, its weak yellow glow stuttering farther and farther away until it disappears around a corner.