Work Text:
The Batcave hummed with quiet intensity. The glow of a dozen screens bathed Bruce Wayne in a cold, sterile light, each flickering with grainy surveillance footage of Gotham’s underbelly. The images blurred together: shadowy figures exchanging goods, a scuffle in an alleyway, a fire escape shrouded in mist. The faint sound of rain echoed through the massive cavern, tapping rhythmically against the reinforced glass of the upper manor.
Bruce sat rigid in the chair at the main computer, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. Stubble shadowed his jawline, rough and unkempt, as if shaving had become an afterthought. His dark hair, usually trimmed neatly, hung longer now, falling messily across his forehead. Shadows pooled beneath his eyes, the deep grooves in his face making him look older than his years. The man who had once been called the world’s greatest detective now seemed more like a predator, ready to strike, a storm barely held in check.
His suit hung looser on his frame, his once carefully maintained physique slightly gaunt from neglected meals and relentless nights. His eyes, sharp and calculating, burned with an intensity that was both focused and fraying at the edges. Each replay of the night’s patrol revealed flaws—not in the criminals, but in himself. He’d been too brutal with a petty thief, too aggressive with an informant. His methods had always been sharp, precise, but now they bordered on something raw and unhinged, a manifestation of grief and guilt he refused to acknowledge.
This wasn’t the Batman Gotham knew. This was a man walking the razor’s edge, his pain manifesting in every clenched fist and every narrowed glare.
Alfred Pennyworth stood at a distance, observing his charge with quiet concern. The butler’s keen eyes noticed everything: the tautness in Bruce’s shoulders, the exhaustion that no amount of caffeine could mask, the haunted glint in his eyes every time the name "Robin" hovered unspoken in the air. Jason’s death still hung heavy in the cave, a phantom that neither man dared address directly.
“Perhaps,” Alfred ventured, his voice soft yet firm, “a moment’s rest might yield better clarity, sir.”
Bruce didn’t turn from the screen. “I’m fine,” he said, his tone clipped. The conversation ended as abruptly as it began.
Alfred sighed. The man was many things, but “fine” was not one of them.
Then, the alarm went off.
A shrill, insistent beep shattered the relative quiet of the cave. Bruce’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. Instinct took over as he rose fluidly from the chair, moving toward the concealed elevator that led to the manor above.
“Stay here,” he instructed Alfred, though he knew the butler was unlikely to obey if things turned dire.
The grand halls of Wayne Manor were silent, save for the faint patter of rain against the windows. Bruce’s footfalls were almost imperceptible as he moved through the darkness, his senses honed to a razor’s edge. Whoever had breached the manor’s defenses was either incredibly skilled or incredibly foolish.
When he reached the foyer, he paused in the shadows, his eyes scanning the room. A figure stood just inside the heavy oak doors, illuminated by a faint sliver of moonlight. The intruder was small—young—and soaked to the bone. Rain dripped from the edges of his too-big jacket, pooling on the pristine marble floor.
Bruce stepped forward, his movements deliberate, his presence imposing. “You have five seconds to explain why you’re here,” he said, his voice low and edged with warning.
The boy turned to face him, his eyes bright and unwavering, two sharp pinpoints of determination that seemed to cut through the dim light of the foyer. Damp strands of black hair clung to his forehead, water dripping down his pale face and onto the oversized jacket he wore. It hung awkwardly on his thin frame, a size too big and fraying at the cuffs, the kind of jacket meant for a man twice his age. His shoes, scuffed and damp, squeaked faintly on the marble floor as he shifted his weight.
Despite the rain-soaked clothes and his slight, almost wiry build, there was something striking about the boy—something defiant in the way he stood. His shoulders were squared, his back straight, his posture belied by an air of confidence far beyond his years. His hands, clenched at his sides, were shaking slightly, but it wasn’t from fear. If anything, it was adrenaline, a raw, nervous energy tightly controlled.
When he stepped forward, his gaze locked on Bruce’s, there was no flinch, no hesitation. The boy had the look of someone who had already decided this was a battle he wouldn’t back down from, no matter the odds.
“You’re Bruce Wayne,” the boy said. “And you’re Batman.”
For a moment, Bruce said nothing. His mind raced, assessing the boy’s stance, his tone, his boldness. There was no quiver in his voice, no sign of deception. The statement wasn’t a question; it was a certainty.
Bruce’s expression didn’t change. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I need to talk to you,” the boy pressed, his voice steady even as his hands clenched at his sides. “Gotham needs Robin.”
The name hit Bruce like a physical blow. His fists tightened at his sides, his mouth set in a grim line. He took a step closer, his towering frame casting a long shadow over the boy.
“Robin is gone,” Bruce said, his tone sharp and final.
“But Gotham isn’t,” the boy shot back, his voice cracking with the weight of his words. “And neither are you.”
Bruce froze. There was something in the boy’s voice—a mix of desperation and determination—that cut through his defenses. The boy stepped forward again, undeterred by Bruce’s stoic glare.
“You can’t do this alone,” he said, his words coming faster now, like a dam breaking. “I’m not here for me. I don’t want to be Robin because it’s cool or because I think it’ll be fun. I’m here because Gotham needs Batman. And Batman needs Robin.”
The room fell silent, save for the faint ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner. Bruce’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as he studied the boy. There was no fear in him, only a quiet, unshakable resolve.
“What’s your name?” Bruce finally asked, his voice a fraction softer.
“Tim. Tim Drake.”
“And how exactly did you get in here, Tim?”
Tim’s lips twitched into the faintest semblance of a smile. “It wasn’t hard. You don’t change your security codes as often as you think.”
Bruce’s brow furrowed, a flicker of something almost like amusement crossing his face before disappearing beneath his usual stoicism. “You’re bold, I’ll give you that.”
“I’m right,” Tim said simply.
Bruce said nothing, the weight of the boy’s statement pressing down on him like a vice. He turned, heading back toward the entrance to the Batcave. His footsteps echoed faintly as he walked, leaving Tim Drake standing alone in the cavernous foyer. He didn’t look back. He didn’t offer another word. The boy’s arguments, no matter how sharp, could not pierce the wall Bruce had built around his heart.
For a moment, there was silence. Then the heavy door of Wayne Manor creaked open again, only to shut with a definitive thud. Tim was outside.
The rain hadn’t let up. Sheets of icy water fell in relentless waves, striking Tim like shards of glass with each gust of wind. The storm had swallowed the night completely, the dark sky churning with restless clouds, illuminated only by the occasional flicker of lightning in the distance. The relentless downpour soaked through Tim’s jacket almost instantly, the fabric clinging to his thin frame like a second skin. His shoes squelched in the growing puddles at his feet, water pooling around the edges of the grand stone steps of Wayne Manor.
Tim’s hands trembled, his fingers stiff and red from the cold. Whether the trembling came from the chill or from nerves, he couldn’t tell. The biting wind tore through the thin layers of his clothes, chilling him to the bone, but he refused to shift or seek shelter. He tightened his fists, digging his nails into his palms, willing himself to stay rooted where he stood. His breaths came shallow, each exhale visible in the cold night air, the puff of mist vanishing as quickly as it appeared.
The storm seemed almost alive, its fury growing louder with each passing moment. The rain struck the cobblestones and the towering oak doors of the manor like drumbeats, a rhythm that matched the determination pounding in Tim’s chest. He tilted his head slightly, glancing up at the sprawling estate before him. The towering windows of the manor were dark, the interior a fortress of indifference. Somewhere behind those walls, he knew Bruce Wayne was watching—or ignoring him entirely. Either way, Tim wouldn’t leave.
The cold pressed into him, leeching away his body heat with a ruthless persistence. His wet hair stuck to his forehead, water streaming down his cheeks and mingling with the salt of his lips. He couldn’t feel his toes anymore, and his legs ached from standing still in the punishing storm. Every instinct screamed at him to find warmth, to move, to do something. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.
“You can’t leave,” Tim whispered to himself, his voice barely audible over the howling wind. The words were his anchor, grounding him against the storm and the gnawing doubt creeping into his mind. “Not until he hears you.”
Each raindrop felt heavier, sharper, but Tim’s resolve burned through the cold. He stared at the great oak doors before him, his vision blurred by rainwater. Somewhere deep inside, he knew this was reckless—knew there was no guarantee Bruce Wayne would open the door, no promise his persistence would be rewarded. But if Gotham had taught him anything, it was that the things worth fighting for didn’t come with guarantees.
A particularly vicious gust of wind slammed into him, and Tim staggered, his foot slipping on the slick stone step. He caught himself, regaining his balance, and planted his feet more firmly. His soaked jacket felt like a lead weight now, but he wouldn’t let it drag him down. His teeth began to chatter, his jaw clenched tightly against the shivering that wracked his body, but he squared his shoulders, his head held high despite the rain cascading down his face.
He was no stranger to discomfort. No stranger to standing alone when no one else believed in him. And he wouldn’t let Bruce Wayne—Batman—turn him away without at least hearing what he had to say. So he stood, unmoving, as the storm raged on, his presence a stubborn defiance against the elements and the silence of Wayne Manor.
Above, behind the grand windows of the estate, a faint shadow moved. Tim didn’t see it, but he felt it—a flicker of something watching, assessing. The rain carried on, unrelenting, but Tim’s determination was unyielding. He would wait all night if he had to. If that was what it took, he would stand in the cold until Bruce Wayne opened the door.
Inside the manor, Alfred watched the boy through a narrow slit between the curtains. Rain pelted the windows in relentless waves, but the boy didn’t move. His expression—a mixture of resolve and defiance, despite his trembling frame—spoke volumes. Alfred’s own expression shifted to one of pity, laced with quiet admiration. Few would dare confront Bruce Wayne at his strongest. Fewer still would do so when he was at his most unyielding.
Turning toward the Batcave, Alfred descended the stone staircase with purpose, his shoes clicking softly on the dampened stone. He found Bruce seated in front of his wall of computer screens, his posture as rigid as the chair he occupied. The monitors cast an eerie blue light over his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw and the hollows beneath his eyes. His fingers idly rotated the ring on his left hand—the one he had worn in Jason’s memory since the funeral.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred began, his tone firm but measured, “he’s still out there.”
Bruce didn’t respond. His gaze remained fixed on the screens, though the footage displayed seemed forgotten. Alfred stepped closer, his quiet presence filling the vast space like a steadying force.
“Perhaps you could afford him five minutes,” Alfred said pointedly, folding his hands behind his back. “It is, after all, no small thing for a child to defy the weather—or a closed door—on your behalf.”
Bruce’s hands stilled, his shoulders tightening visibly at Alfred’s words. “He’ll leave eventually,” Bruce muttered, his voice low, almost detached.
“Will he?” Alfred countered gently, arching a brow. “From what I’ve seen, I wouldn’t wager so.”
Bruce finally turned his chair slightly, just enough to glance toward Alfred with a scowl. His voice was sharper now, edged with frustration. “He doesn’t understand what he’s asking for.”
“Perhaps not,” Alfred admitted, meeting Bruce’s glare with calm resolve. “But how could he, when you refuse to tell him?”
Bruce leaned back in his chair, the tension in his jaw deepening. The silence between them stretched long enough to become a second presence in the room. Alfred waited, his years of experience telling him not to push further—yet.
After a long moment, Alfred spoke again, his voice quiet but filled with unmistakable weight.
“Sometimes the knock at midnight isn’t just a plea. It’s a test of what you’re willing to give.”
Bruce’s gaze flicked toward Alfred, the scowl softening ever so slightly. The words lingered, carving their way into the walls Bruce had built around himself. Without a response, he stood abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. He stalked toward one of the Batcave’s hidden exits and climbed the staircase leading to the manor’s main hall.
Reaching a window, Bruce pushed aside the heavy curtain just enough to see Tim. The boy was still there, standing ramrod straight in the downpour. His face was pale, his lips faintly blue from the cold, but his eyes burned with determination. Bruce’s stomach twisted at the sight, an unfamiliar pang breaking through the numbness he’d clung to since Jason’s death. He hated this feeling—the stirring of something he’d tried so hard to bury.
“This isn’t persistence,” Bruce muttered, his voice more to himself than Alfred, who had followed him to the edge of the hall. “It’s foolishness.”
“Perhaps,” Alfred said from behind him, his tone soft yet pointed. “But one could say the same about many of your endeavors, Master Bruce.”
Bruce shot him a sharp look, but Alfred’s expression remained unyielding, his quiet presence steadying as ever. With a heavy sigh, Bruce turned on his heel and strode toward the front door.
Tim straightened the moment the door opened, though his face betrayed no triumph. He looked exhausted—his hair plastered to his skull, his cheeks hollow from shivering—but his resolve remained unshaken. He met Bruce’s piercing gaze without hesitation.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” Bruce snapped, his voice low and laced with irritation. “This isn’t a game.”
Tim nodded, his expression serious. “I know it’s not.”
“No, you don’t,” Bruce said sharply, stepping onto the threshold and towering over the boy. “You think you’re ready for this? To put on that suit, to stand in the line of fire? To watch people die because you weren’t fast enough to save them?”
Tim’s eyes flickered with something—pain, maybe—but he didn’t flinch. “I know what happened to Jason,” he said, his voice steady but soft. “And I know what it did to you. But Gotham still needs someone who can do what Robin did.”
Bruce’s breath caught. The words cut deeper than he expected, not because of their content but because of the sheer audacity of the boy standing in front of him, soaked to the bone, telling him what he already knew.
“I’m not trying to replace him,” Tim added, his tone firm but not unkind. “But you’re not the only one who lost him. Gotham lost him, too. And without him… without Robin, Gotham’s losing you.”
The weight of Tim’s words hung heavy in the air. For a moment, Bruce said nothing, his expression a carefully controlled mask. But beneath it, cracks were forming. Tim wasn’t just standing there; he was knocking, again and again, on the door Bruce had tried to seal shut.
“You’re wrong,” Bruce finally said, though his voice lacked its usual conviction. “Robin was more than just a mask. He was—” His voice faltered, and he looked away, as if the admission was too much. “He was my family.”
Tim took a step closer, his voice softer now but no less insistent. “And I’m not trying to take that away from you. But Gotham still needs a Robin. Batman still needs a Robin. And if you don’t want to do it for Gotham… then do it for him.”
Bruce’s fists clenched at his sides. He turned sharply, retreating into the house without another word. But he didn’t close the door.
Tim hesitated, then followed, stepping inside the manor as the rain finally began to let up.
The storm had long passed by the time Bruce Wayne stood before Tim Drake in the cavernous depths of the Batcave, a space as imposing as the man who called it home. The faint hum of machinery echoed through the vast expanse, blending with the rhythmic drip of water from stalactites above. Shadows danced across jagged rock walls, their natural ruggedness interrupted by sleek steel platforms, glowing computer monitors, and the towering silhouettes of vehicles parked in neat rows.
Overhead, the soft, almost eerie glow of fluorescent lights barely reached the cavern’s highest points, leaving much of the ceiling cloaked in darkness. The occasional flutter of bats stirred the air, their wings brushing faint echoes through the space. The smell of damp stone and engine oil hung heavy, a mix of nature and man-made precision that defined the Batcave’s essence.
Tim stood at the edge of the central platform, where polished steel met uneven stone. His shoes left faint prints of dampness on the slick surface as he shifted his weight, his hands clenched at his sides. Behind him, the Batcomputer loomed—a monolithic setup of towering screens and intricate panels, its faint blue glow painting Tim’s face in ghostly light. The screens flickered with maps of Gotham, criminal dossiers, and surveillance feeds, the lifeblood of Bruce’s unending mission.
To Tim’s right, the Batmobile rested like a caged predator, its sleek black frame gleaming under the sparse lighting. The vehicle’s angular design, bristling with hidden weaponry and reinforced armor, seemed more alive than mechanical, exuding a quiet menace. Nearby, rows of gadgets and tools hung on meticulously organized racks, each item a testament to Batman’s obsessive preparation for any scenario.
Behind Tim, Alfred stood near the staircase that led to the mansion above, his figure partially illuminated by the glow of a glass case. Inside rested the Robin suit, its red, green, and yellow colors a stark contrast against the cold, monochrome surroundings. The suit was perfectly preserved, but it felt less like a display and more like a memorial. Jason’s absence lingered there, a weight pressing down on the atmosphere of the cave.
Alfred’s hands were folded neatly in front of him, his expression neutral but his eyes betraying a mix of quiet approval and cautious hope. His presence was a steadying force in the cave’s stark, often oppressive energy. The man who had watched over generations of Waynes now stood as an anchor between the past that haunted Bruce and the boy who represented a potential future.
Bruce himself was motionless, his dark silhouette blending into the shadows. His stance was tense, arms crossed over his chest, as if physically holding back the emotions he refused to confront. The faint whir of his cape brushing the floor was the only sign of movement.
The cave was more than a headquarters—it was a crucible, a place where the ideals of justice and vengeance clashed in a never-ending struggle. And tonight, it was a proving ground. Tim, standing small but unyielding in the vast space, seemed almost swallowed by its enormity, yet the fire in his eyes refused to be extinguished. For all its towering walls and imposing technology, the Batcave could not overshadow the boy’s resolve.
It was here, in this cold and unrelenting space, that Tim Drake would face his greatest test—a gauntlet forged in darkness and resolve. The Batcave, with its towering shadows and unyielding stone, seemed to mirror Bruce Wayne himself: imposing, relentless, and nearly impossible to break through. Yet, even the strongest walls can crack under the right kind of persistence, the kind that refuses to be ignored. Tim wasn’t here to demand; he was here to ask, to knock, to seek. And he wouldn’t leave until the door was opened.
Bruce stood before Tim, his expression carved from stone, his usual stoicism masking the faintest flicker of curiosity in his weary eyes. He crossed his arms, his gaze steady, cutting through the silence like a blade. “You made it this far,” he said flatly, his voice low and unyielding as it echoed in the vast expanse of the cave. “But this isn’t about standing in the rain or saying the right things. If you think persistence alone is enough to wear me down, you’re mistaken.”
Tim didn’t flinch. He didn’t waver. His drenched, battered appearance belied the fire burning within him, and he met Bruce’s gaze head-on. His voice was firm, steady, even defiant. “I didn’t come here to wear you down. I came here to prove I belong.”
In that moment, the cavern held its breath. The storm that had raged outside now seemed to linger in the air between them—a quiet clash of wills, one hardened by loss and the other fueled by conviction.
For the first time in a long time, Bruce felt the faintest stirrings of hope, though he wasn’t ready to admit it. Not yet. But Tim was still knocking, and Bruce knew deep down that eventually, he would have to answer.
The days that followed were grueling, each one an unrelenting assault on Tim Drake’s body, mind, and spirit. Bruce wasted no time throwing the boy into the crucible, testing every aspect of his capabilities with the precision of a man who knew exactly what it took to break someone—and exactly what it took to make them stronger. The Batcave transformed into an unforgiving proving ground, its cavernous space echoing with the sounds of exertion, critique, and determination.
Tim’s first challenge was deceptively simple in design but brutal in its execution. Bruce had him navigate an intricate obstacle course built into the Batcave itself—a deadly maze designed to push every limit of speed, strength, and agility. The course was a living thing, shifting and evolving with every misstep, every success, as if mocking Tim’s determination. Jagged rock walls loomed over narrow ledges, suspended ropes dangled just out of reach, and swinging platforms threatened to send him plummeting to the hard stone below. To make matters worse, Bruce had rigged the course with simulated hazards: collapsing beams that groaned ominously under Tim’s weight, blinding strobe lights that turned every leap into a gamble, and bursts of icy air that stole his breath.
Tim had barely begun when the first rope slipped from his grasp, his hands slick with sweat. He crashed into a platform below, the impact jarring his shoulder and knocking the air from his lungs. Above him, Bruce’s voice rang out, cold and sharp.
“You call that fast?” Bruce barked, his words slicing through the air like a blade. He loomed over the course from a raised platform, his arms crossed, his shadow stretching across the cavern floor. “If that was real, you’d already be dead.”
Tim gritted his teeth and forced himself back to his feet. His hands trembled as he grabbed the rope again, his palms already raw from the jagged edges of the obstacles. His breath came in sharp, ragged gasps, every inhale burning in his chest, but he refused to stop.
“I’ll do it again,” Tim panted, his voice hoarse but resolute.
He climbed, his fingers slipping and catching, his muscles screaming in protest. The jagged surface of the next ledge bit into his fingers, leaving faint streaks of blood that mingled with the sweat pouring down his arms. His legs ached from the constant tension of balancing on the narrow beams, and every leap to the next platform felt like an eternity suspended over the cavern floor.
“You’ve wasted five seconds,” Bruce growled as Tim hesitated before a swinging beam, calculating the timing. “In a fight, five seconds is the difference between winning and dying.”
Tim bit back a retort and jumped, his body twisting mid-air as he grabbed the beam and swung to the next platform. The impact sent a jolt through his legs, nearly toppling him, but he landed. Barely.
And he did it again. And again. Each repetition was harder than the last, his muscles screaming in agony, his vision blurring from the constant exertion. He slipped more than once, his knees scraping against the harsh stone, his knuckles raw and bleeding from missed grips. By the time he reached the final ledge, his arms ached so badly he couldn’t lift them, and his legs buckled beneath him as he collapsed onto the platform.
Still, Tim rolled onto his side, panting, and forced himself to sit up. “I’ll do it again,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Bruce didn’t answer, but the faintest flicker of approval crossed his face before he turned away.
After a brief respite—just long enough for Tim to wipe the blood from his hands and down a bottle of water—Bruce presented him with the second challenge. If Tim had thought he might get a reprieve after the brutal physical test, he was wrong. The mental challenge Bruce laid out wasn’t just difficult; it was punishing.
The table at the center of the Batcave was a chaotic sprawl of files, photos, maps, and surveillance footage. Some documents were neatly stacked and labeled with Bruce’s meticulous handwriting, while others looked as though they’d been hastily tossed aside mid-investigation. The sheer volume of information was overwhelming, but Tim couldn’t afford to be daunted. This wasn’t just a test of intellect—it was a test of focus under pressure.
“This is your next task,” Bruce said, standing a few feet away, his arms crossed. His tone was clipped, his gaze unreadable. “Six heists. All in Gotham. You have everything you need here to find the connection. Find it.”
Tim hesitated for only a moment, his fingers twitching at his sides, before he stepped forward and leaned over the table. His eyes scanned the array of papers, darting from one piece of evidence to another. There were grainy surveillance images of masked criminals mid-escape, maps with locations circled in angry red ink, and GCPD reports that chronicled their failures to intercept the culprits. At first glance, the crimes seemed entirely unrelated. The targets varied—jewelry stores, warehouses, even a small tech startup—and the methods ranged from crude smash-and-grabs to precise infiltrations.
But Tim knew Bruce didn’t deal in coincidences. If these cases had been laid out together, there had to be a thread connecting them.
“What’s the common thread between these heists?” Bruce asked, his voice cutting through the quiet. “Think.”
Tim swallowed hard, his heart pounding in his chest. His fingers moved quickly, shuffling photos and matching reports to maps. He scribbled notes on a spare piece of paper, trying to make sense of the chaos. Every second felt like an eternity, the weight of Bruce’s expectation pressing down on him like a physical force. His brain, already sluggish with exhaustion, strained to process the details.
He noticed the patterns first in the maps. Each heist was marked on a different part of Gotham, but the sequence of locations wasn’t random. He traced the route with his finger, watching as it snaked across the city, growing farther apart with each successive target. Tim’s brows furrowed as the pieces began to click into place.
“They’re testing GCPD response times,” Tim said, his voice steady despite the knot of nerves in his stomach. He pointed to the sequence of targets on the map. “Each target is farther from the last, forcing the police to spread their resources thinner. They’re using the heists to map out weak points in the city.”
He paused, his finger hovering over a warehouse on the outskirts of Gotham. “The next one will be here. It’s just beyond their current response radius. They’ll hit it tonight.”
Bruce’s eyes narrowed as he studied the map, his expression unreadable. The cavern was silent except for the faint hum of the Batcomputer and the drip of water from the cave’s ceiling. Tim’s palms were slick with sweat as he waited for Bruce’s reaction, his heart pounding harder with every passing second.
Finally, Bruce’s gaze lifted from the table to meet Tim’s. He didn’t say a word, but the faint nod he gave was enough to make Tim’s shoulders sag with relief. The tension that had been coiled in his chest loosened, though his exhaustion lingered. He’d gotten it right.
But Bruce wasn’t finished. “Why that location?” he asked, his tone still sharp. “Why now?”
Tim blinked, surprised by the follow-up, but his mind quickly went back to work. “The warehouse is isolated,” he said, scanning the map again. “It’s surrounded by industrial zones, so it won’t draw attention, and it’s near a major exit route. If they’re planning something bigger, this could be the staging ground. They’ll want to test how long it takes for the police to respond without interference.”
Bruce’s gaze lingered on Tim for a moment longer, as if searching for a flaw in his analysis. Finally, he straightened, his cape brushing the floor as he turned away. “Get some rest,” he said, his voice gruff but not unkind. “You’ll need it.”
Tim nodded, stepping back from the table. His body ached, his eyes burned, but a faint flicker of pride kept him moving. As he turned to leave, he caught a glimpse of Alfred standing in the shadows, his expression inscrutable but his eyes warm. Tim offered him a small, tired smile before trudging toward a cot near the staircase.
Behind him, Bruce lingered by the table, his gaze fixed on the map. The boy had been right—not just in his analysis but in his determination. For all his exhaustion, Tim had refused to back down. And as Bruce studied the map, his own thoughts turned to something Alfred had said earlier: Sometimes the knock at midnight isn’t just a plea. It’s a test of what you’re willing to give.
Bruce didn’t like the thought, but he couldn’t shake it. Tim wasn’t just knocking. He was breaking down the door.
Hours later, Tim awoke to the stillness of the Batcave, the kind of silence that only existed in a place carved from the earth, where the sounds of the outside world couldn’t reach. His body ached from the previous tests—his muscles were stiff, his fingers bandaged, and the exhaustion still clung to him like a second skin. But his mind was sharper now, the rest giving him a renewed sense of focus.
Bruce was waiting for him near the Batcomputer, his silhouette barely illuminated by the glow of the screens. His expression was unreadable, but the tension in his posture spoke volumes. Tim approached, his steps cautious but deliberate, until he stood beside Bruce.
“This is your final test,” Bruce said without preamble, his voice low and steady. “It’s not about strength. It’s not about strategy. This is about something more important.”
Tim frowned slightly, unsure of what to expect. Bruce gestured to the Batcomputer, where a series of video files were queued up, their labels stark and unadorned: “Robin: Training,” “Robin: Fieldwork,” “Jason: Final.”
Bruce clicked on the first video, and the screen filled with a younger Jason Todd. He was wearing the Robin suit, his movements quick and confident as he took down a group of thugs in an alleyway. Jason’s laugh echoed through the speakers, sharp and wild, as he taunted the criminals between punches.
Tim couldn’t help but notice the recklessness in Jason’s attacks—the way he seemed to court danger, to thrive in the chaos of a fight. There was a raw energy to him, a fearlessness that was both captivating and unsettling.
“Jason was fearless,” Bruce said, his tone almost wistful. “But fearlessness isn’t always enough. It can make you sloppy. It can make you vulnerable.”
The next video was quieter, the atmosphere immediately heavier. Jason was on patrol, perched on a rooftop overlooking Gotham. His shoulders were hunched, his expression guarded. The timestamp in the corner of the footage revealed this was one of his final missions. Bruce’s finger hovered over the keyboard, hesitating before playing the next clip.
“I need you to see this,” Bruce said, his voice dropping lower, almost a whisper. He clicked on the third file: “Jason: Final.”
The screen flickered to life with grainy footage of a warehouse—the Joker’s trap. The camera was shaky, as though taken from a nearby surveillance system. Jason, in his Robin suit, moved cautiously through the shadows, his usual energy replaced with something more subdued. Then came the explosion—sudden, violent, and all-consuming. The screen filled with fire and smoke, and when it cleared, the wreckage of the building lay silent. In the debris, just visible through the haze, was the faint shadow of Jason’s body.
Bruce didn’t say a word, but the weight of the silence was deafening. He didn’t need to explain what the footage meant. The images were enough.
Tim swallowed hard, his throat tight as he tore his gaze away from the screen. His heart pounded in his chest, but he forced himself to look back at Bruce, who stood with his arms crossed, his expression hard as stone.
“You’ll be a target,” Bruce said finally, his voice colder than the air of the cave. “The people we fight will come for you. They’ll use you to hurt me. And if you fail—” His voice faltered, just for a moment, before he continued. “People will die. Can you live with that?”
Tim didn’t answer right away. He let the question hang in the air, let the weight of it settle over him like a shroud. His mind raced with images of Jason, of the risks he’d taken, of the consequences of those risks. But he didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away.
“I already have,” Tim said finally, his voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling inside him.
Bruce’s eyes narrowed, studying him with an intensity that felt almost unbearable. He was looking for cracks—for hesitation, for fear, for any sign that Tim didn’t fully understand the gravity of what he was asking for. But Tim met his gaze head-on, his resolve unshakable.
“Explain,” Bruce said, his tone more of a command than a question.
Tim took a deep breath, his hands clenching at his sides. “I’ve lived in Gotham my whole life,” he said. “I’ve seen what this city does to people. I’ve watched good people get crushed by bad ones. I’ve seen my parents care more about money and status than anything else. And I’ve seen you. Batman. Robin. I’ve seen what you can do—what you’ve done for this city.”
His voice wavered slightly, but he pressed on. “When Jason died, Gotham changed. You changed. You’re still out there, still fighting, but… it’s different. The criminals feel it. They’re bolder. And the people—” He paused, his voice tightening. “They’re losing hope.”
Tim took a step closer, his eyes burning with conviction. “I’m not asking to be Robin because I want to replace Jason. I’m asking because Gotham needs Robin. You need Robin. And I can do this. I know what it means. I know the risks. And I’m not afraid.”
For a moment, the cavern was silent. The faint hum of the massive computer and the distant drip of water were the only sounds. Bruce didn’t move, his expression unreadable as he continued to study Tim.
Finally, he turned away, his cape sweeping across the floor as he walked toward the encased Robin suit. He stood there for a long moment, his back to Tim, his shoulders tense.
“You’ve got a lot to prove,” Bruce said, his voice softer now but no less firm. “But you’ve taken the first step.”
Tim exhaled, a mix of relief and determination flooding through him. He knew the road ahead would be long and brutal. But he also knew he wasn’t walking it alone. Not anymore.
The moment came quietly, without ceremony. The Batcave was shrouded in its usual dim light, the glow of the monitor wall casting faint shadows across the jagged walls. Bruce stood before Tim, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on them both. In his hands, he held the folded Robin suit, its colors vibrant even in the cave’s muted palette. The iconic “R” emblem gleamed faintly, a symbol of both hope and responsibility.
Bruce extended the suit toward Tim, his expression stoic but his eyes betraying the faintest trace of something deeper—acceptance, maybe even trust. Tim stared at the suit, his breath catching in his throat. For all his confidence, for all his persistence, the reality of what he was about to take on suddenly felt enormous. But his hands didn’t shake as he reached out and took the suit, the fabric cool and firm in his grip.
“You’ve earned this,” Bruce said, his voice steady but softer than Tim had ever heard it. “But remember, this isn’t just a symbol. It’s a responsibility. Every decision you make in that suit matters. Every mistake carries consequences—for you, for me, for Gotham. Do you understand?”
Tim nodded, his throat tight. “I understand.”
Bruce studied him for a moment longer, then stepped back, his arms crossing over his chest. He didn’t need to say more. The test was over, but the real challenge was just beginning.
That night, as Tim donned the Robin suit for the first time, the Batcave seemed to hold its breath. The suit fit him perfectly—Bruce had ensured that, though he’d never admitted it aloud. The fabric was lighter than Tim expected but imbued with a weight that had nothing to do with its physical properties. As he adjusted the cape, fastening it over his shoulders, he caught sight of his reflection in the glass of the Robin display case.
For a moment, he felt a pang of doubt. The boy in the reflection wasn’t Jason Todd. He wasn’t Dick Grayson. He wasn’t the Robins who had come before. He was just Tim Drake, standing in a suit that represented more than he’d ever thought he could carry. But then he straightened his shoulders, his eyes narrowing with quiet determination. He wasn’t here to be Jason or Dick. He was here to be Robin.
From the shadows, Alfred watched, his expression tinged with satisfaction and a hint of relief. The butler’s sharp eyes took in every detail—the way Tim moved, the set of his jaw, the light in his eyes. It was a different kind of Robin, but a Robin nonetheless.
“Persistent lad, that one,” Alfred murmured to Bruce, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Bruce, standing beside Alfred, allowed himself a small nod. “He’ll need it,” he said quietly, his gaze fixed on Tim. The cold edge that had defined Bruce since Jason’s death had softened, just slightly, replaced by something steadier. Not hope—not yet—but the faintest glimmer of it.
Fifteen minutes later, the Batmobile roared to life, its engine a low growl that echoed through the cavern. Tim climbed into the passenger seat, his movements hesitant but precise. As he adjusted his harness, Bruce glanced over at him, his expression unreadable.
“You ready?” Bruce asked.
Tim turned to meet his gaze, a small, confident smile playing at the corners of his lips. “I’ve been ready.”
Bruce didn’t respond immediately, his fingers tightening on the steering wheel. He shifted the Batmobile into gear, and the vehicle surged forward, its tires gripping the slick stone of the cave as they ascended toward the city above.
As the city’s dark skyline stretched out before them, Bruce’s gaze flicked to Tim in the passenger seat. The boy’s posture was determined, his jaw set, his hands gripping the edges of the seat. For a moment, Bruce was struck by how young he looked—barely more than a kid. The faintest memory of Jason flashed in his mind, sharp and painful, and Bruce clenched the wheel tighter.
Jason had filled this seat with fire and daring, his recklessness balanced by an infectious charm. Losing him had been like losing a piece of himself, and for a long time, Bruce had believed no one could take Jason’s place.
But Tim wasn’t Jason. He wasn’t a replacement, or a copy, or even a continuation. Tim was his own kind of Robin—relentless, calculating, and unshakably brave. The boy had stood in the rain, had pushed through every obstacle Bruce had thrown at him, had refused to give up when every sign pointed to defeat. Tim had knocked until Bruce had no choice but to answer.
Jason would have liked him, Bruce thought, the realization settling with surprising ease.
As the Batmobile sped into the Gotham night, Bruce felt something stir in his chest. It wasn’t the fiery optimism he’d once felt with Jason, nor the quiet certainty he’d felt with Dick. It was smaller, quieter, but no less important. It was hope.
And somewhere, in the back of his mind, Bruce heard Alfred’s words again: “Sometimes the knock at midnight isn’t just a plea. It’s a test of what you’re willing to give.”
Bruce hadn’t just opened the door to Tim. He’d opened it to himself.